Anne Bonny

July 28th, 2020

It's late, but not so late Anne's begun to worry. She keeps her own odd hours, and when she knows Jack's gone to visit Eliot, she expects a bit of unpredictability. Jack coming home late, or in some particular mood. Perhaps not coming home at all. An outcome she can imagine, wouldn't even mind, and still has room to doubt. She knows Jack, but she still doesn't know how well he can see himself, if he understands the reasons he does things or the motions of it all. She wishes she were better at laying it out herself. Between the two of them, she thinks, they might make a whole person: someone who watches and can explain what they see.

She's settled on the floor when he finally does arrive home, her back propped against the couch, patiently sharpening one of her blades in the light of a single lamp. She looks up, some of her hair falling across her eyes, and gives him a studious glance. There's some agitation about him, but she can't tell what kind yet. Not that she needs to suss it out herself. He'll tell her.

"Evening," she says, setting her work aside and hoisting herself up onto the couch. She pats the cushion beside her in wry invitation. "Had a nice time?"

July 10th, 2020 (late)

Well, that went to shit. Anne's not entirely sure why she's so angry, and a part of her already regrets departing like that, especially knowing Jack has nothing to do but pace and work himself up. She'd have liked to rest, to let Jack finish tending to her, but she can't find the words to argue back and she don't want to sit there in bitter silence. So stubbornness drives her onward, gritting her teeth against the soreness in her muscles and the weariness in her bones as she presses ahead to the only other place she can think to go at a time like this.

It's late — perhaps too late, and guilt mixes into frustration as she nears Greta's cottage, picks her way up to the front door. Feels pathetic to go running to her right now. Feels like she's forgetting herself. She shouldn't need anything from anyone — shouldn't need anyone at all, apart from Jack. But time and again she finds herself here, and Greta hasn't turned her away yet. She is tired, and she can't imagine going back now. She just needs to rest, even for a little while. So she knocks, gingerly, her head tipped down as if in shame.

April 5th, 2020

The air is still too cold for Anne's liking, but it ain't so bad in the sun. Walking helps, enough that she can stand to have her hands outside her pockets. Not much of a victory, but it's one she'll take.

She don't have a fucking clue where she's going, but she walks with purpose anyway, eyes forward, steps even. If she looks lost, lingers too long to stare at anything, people try to talk to her. It's been months and she still stands out. She's made little effort to blend, but it ain't just her clothes and she knows it. It is in everything, all around her: she don't belong here, never did, never will. There is nowhere she can go where she won't be lost and vulnerable, where she won't need help from all these prying strangers. There is nothing for her to do here. It ain't enough anymore to follow Jack around, not when her purpose has become so uncertain. Jack don't see it that way; she knows that. But there are days she can't just stand at his side and watch. She needs to keep looking, even with nothing to find.

It surprises her some when she realizes she has followed a known path, in the end. She supposes it shouldn't. She'd expected to just walk until she decided to turn back, but there was no promise she'd find her same steps again. So she followed a path she remembers. One she's taken before. And she realizes there is one place, at least, that doesn't amount to strange terrain; one place where she doesn't feel lost, at least not in the same way.

Greta is outside her house, kneeling in the dirt, tending to her garden. Anne stands there a moment, close enough to make her presence known, but not sure how to start. She isn't expected. She has some dim sense that ain't polite. But Greta's never seemed to mind before.

Words are not forthcoming, so she ends up clearing her throat, softly so as not to startle, and lets her footsteps crunch a little heavier as she draws near.

July 7th, 2020

As the days grow almost warm enough to seem familiar, Anne finds herself more and more returning to the shore where she and Jack washed up so many months ago. It is a difficult thing, looking out over a horizon that once represented freedom and finding only the wall of a cage. She had thought it might get easier at some point, after so much time, but it hasn't.

The other difficulty is that the beaches have become crowded in ways she's never seen before. To these people, the sea is little more than an afternoon's diversion. A few times she's stalked the perimeter, just watching, all of it seeming so foreign to her: everyone in ridiculous little clothes, basking like animals in the sun, children shrieking with delight, scampering through the sand and splashing in the surf. It isn't that she doesn't recognize the appeal, especially when so much of the year here is spent bitter fucking cold; it's just that it's a world apart, a place where she doesn't fit. There's no room for her among all those happy people. In the end she always wanders further down the beach.

She's found a fairly reliable spot, at least, rockier and thus less appealing to those looking for fun. She hunkers down, half-hidden in a little outcropping, and sets her eyes on the impossible edge of the world. She stares at the line between ocean and sky for a long time, trying to empty herself. Too many thoughts lately, too little action to occupy her attention. Jack and Eliot, and the growing sense of being here as something interminable, all the things they left behind, the unfinished business and unspoken words. Max, still, and Greta.

Anne grunts softly as if to reject all that, and turns her eyes from the water, focusing instead on picking through the little lunch she packed herself, unaware for the moment how incautious she's become; too caught up in the small task and her own head to notice the approach of someone else.

Anne's not sure where the idea came from or how it took such sharp hold, but by the first light of dawn it's come to her and she's decided: she's going to check on the baker. Last night had presented the greatest and most familiar sort of danger they've faced in this city, which is ridiculous twice over, both because the danger itself was remote, and the familiarity was only in that it could be solved with drawn blood. Beyond that, it was like nothing they'd encountered, and all very stupid besides. But there had been danger, of a sort, and the idea of Greta facing it is something that don't sit right. Most of the town had been out that night, and there's no reason why she shouldn't be one of them. She might turn up at Eliot's whatever-he-calls-it. 'Brunch.' But Anne don't like the idea of going there and waiting and hoping. So, without saying why or where she's going or how long she'll be, Anne leaves the apartment early. Jack doesn't question it, only says he'll meet her there, at the brunch.

She hadn't really said whether or not she wanted to go. But Jack's going, so she's going. Something about that don't sit right, either; something about Jack and how easy he's let Eliot into their world and how much that's become their world gnaws at her, and though it's been well over a month now she still hasn't taken the time to figure it out. Easier not to when it'll sort itself in time. It always does, with them.

She picks her way across town to Greta's home outside the city. She still remembers where; it's about the only place here, other than their apartment, that she's been to more than once. She keeps her hands on her swords as she goes, searching for any remaining signs of the creatures. They'd killed so many last night, and some of the dead are still strewn about here and there, though there's some kind of clean-up effort happening. All seems even stranger in daylight, and she keeps her goal at the fore, not wanting to dwell on any of it too heavily.

When she finally reaches Greta's cottage, all seems quiet at first, and there's sign of movement inside. Her first sense is of relief, and that surprises her enough that she stops short as if to take stock of herself. And before she can, her eyes fall to the thing on the porch. She hadn't seen it at first, partially hidden by the rail and easily passed over by how still it is, but as she looks closer, she can see it's one of those things, and it is still alive, twitching in its slow, stupid way toward Greta's door.

She doesn't even think. She just acts. She lunges up onto the porch, blades drawn, and comes down on top of the thing with a burst of speed and fury she hadn't even known she was storing. These things aren't fast, but they are strong and durable, and just as there's only one of it, there's only one of her. She can't afford to hesitate and she's not taking any chances that it'll survive her onslaught. Without Eliot's magic, it ain't so quick. So with an unrestrained growl of effort, she thrusts her blades into its horrible stinking body, yanks them back out and stabs again, ignoring the blood as it spurts fresh across her face and coat.

23 October, 2019

Anne returns to the white clean rooms called theirs carrying the pineapple she bought at the grocery store, and finds the place empty and quiet. She and Jack went out separate, the only form of plan or arrangement being a return before dark. She knows he can handle himself, and she knows more than ever this city's dangers aren't the sort to which they're accustomed. Whether that means he's more or less likely to fall into some trouble she can't really say, but it don't serve her in particular to worry over it. Never been like this before, where being apart at all felt so unsteady. But with everything else gone, they're all they've got.

She remembers the little device they'd each been given—'phone,' they call it—and how it's supposed to let them communicate across distances, just like that. Most of the contents of her welcome packet are strewn across the little table in the kitchen, and she fishes through it for the phone, holding it up and poking at it a bit. She hates it, the smallness of the images and the words, the way it produces its own light, the colors. It don't feel right, feels like something that shouldn't exist. She sets it back down. She'll wait for Jack like normal.

She clears some of the mess up, taking her time gathering the papers into a neat pile which she can set aside. She sets the pineapple in the center of the table, and after staring at it for a moment, goes to fetch herself some water. Feels strange, just always having it run freely from this faucet. She still feels certain it'll run out eventually. And she ain't used to the taste. But being out all morning's taken its toll, so she fills a glass and sets it on the table as well. Then she sits.

She waits like that, occasionally sipping her water, for what feels like a long time, and probably isn't. When the door finally opens, she looks up quickly and then gets to her feet.