annebonny: (downcast)
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.
annebonny: (i cannot believe)
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.
annebonny: (FIGHT)
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.
annebonny: (majestic)
26 December, 2019

There is an idea Anne's been turning over and over in her head for a long while now. Nearly two months. It took time to form and longer to grow into the sort of thing she was inclined to consider, but she's patient. Of course, in all that time she never quite manages to feel certain about it, which means she leaves it down to the last.

It's the day after Christmas that she ventures out into the snow and awful cold to Greta's cottage. She regrets it for the better part of the journey, her gloved hands stuffed beneath her armpits, but she is stubborn, and she continues forward. Jack's gone out, and she don't know when he'll be back, though knowing him it'll be a while. Everything was goddamn closed for Christmas; the whole world stopped running. It was fucking strange. And Jack was curious about it all, like he always is, but he was also just as nettled he couldn't go to the library.

So Anne figures she has some time. She reaches Greta's door and extricates one of her hands, teeth chattering faintly as she knocks.

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Anne Bonny

October 2021

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