Anya Did


abby_icon.gif anya_icon.gif cat_icon.gif elisabeth_icon.gif felix_icon.gif teo_icon.gif

Scene Title Anya Did
Synopsis Team Charlie interviews the Company's latest medical guest on such subjects as are you in pain?, why did you help us?, and can you un-petrify Abby now?
Date December 20, 2009

A Company medical facility in Ryazan, Russia

The room has no windows and no clocks, making it impossible for its sole occupant to determine the time of day. That wasn't quite the first question that came to Anya Orlova's mind, anyway. She can feel the bandaging on her face, cannot see out of her right eye — if there even is an eye still there. Under the painkillers, the woman isn't entirely sure, and she hasn't dared to test. She lays in the hospital bed instead, drifting in and out of true awareness; sometimes Anya knows there are spots on the ceiling tiles to be counted, and sometimes it all just blurs together into the vaguest sense of time passing. Or maybe she falls asleep.

The room itself is Spartan, medical equipment first and foremost; there are a couple of stools, a counter along one wall, a small endtable by the head of Anya's bed. Almost everything is colored either institiutional white or shiny steel, where it isn't black or off-white plastic; and the tang of antiseptic is pervasive.

Abigail knows that the others, Francois in particular, likely Cat, want to know when Anya is coherent, not just awake. Abigail has her own hopeful reasons for the woman being lucid and making it through and that's because her foot, inside the wool sock that's been slide over it to muffle the sound when she walks, is still solid stone. The upside is that while her ankle is still broken and no one can tell how bad, it's at least not hurting.

Perched on one of those sterile black stools, Abigail sits, elbow bent and supporting her head against the end table as she fiddles with a cup of pudding. Face turned shades of green, purple and edges of yellow, her eyes flick now and then to the Russian woman while she keeps watch over her and over vitals.

A shift of Anya's head lets her see a slightly different angle of the room, including some part of the young woman idle at her bedside. She remains in that position for some moments, only a small part of her face not covered by bandages — but enough is exposed for her expression to be interpretable. Thought, albeit with wavering focus; those moments of silence are all needed for parsing person and how to react to. "«You—»" Although perhaps the second phase didn't make it quite as far as it needed to.

A raise of blonde brows and swivel of blue eyes, the former healer looks over at the sound from the previously silent woman. She said something in Russian which prompts Abby to lift a finger, forefinger up in a gesture that seems universal. Wait.

Up from the stool Abby lifts, heading for the door with the scuffle and thump. Out her head goes rattling off in English that Anya's awake at the moment. The door closes after that, which heralds the return of Abby. "Thirsty?" She mimics holding a cup and drinking from it since so far she hasn't heard Anya speak any English and she herself doesn't know mostly any Russian except hello and goodbye.

Given the gesture, Anya doesn't try to speak again; she leans back into the pillow, watching the young woman until she leaves Anya's limited field of view. It's too much work to try and watch where she goes, so the opening of the door is recognized only by the sound it makes, percolating slowly through impaired faculties. Abby's return focuses the patient's attention again, her gesture interpreted rather more quickly; water is much more in the forefront of Anya's mind, and so she replies with an abbreviated nod.

A pitcher of cold water divulges it's contents into a cup, a straw grabbed not long after. She's done this before for others and it comes easily to Abby to bring the cup close while fingers align the straw to Anya's lips so that she can drink. There's no malice in her features, certainly not for Anya who helped them escape. "Drink."

She looks up at the girl for a brief moment before drinking from the proffered straw; not in suspicion, but in simple consideration. When Anya has finished, she nods to Abby, then turns her head sideways in some attempt to glimpse the door. Not a very strenuous attempt, as she doesn't try to look around Abby — who, in the way, makes for a very poor window. Her good eye closes a moment, then refocuses on the young woman. "Abigail."

Skinny minny's are still solid. Nor are they very transparent. When the Vanguardian — or possibly former vanguardian — has had her fill, the cup and straw are pulled away and set aside with a nod. "Abigail Beauchamp. You are Anya Orlova." Not that the other woman didn't know that they already knew her name. Some things had to be assumed. "Pain?" She asks, following up with more bad acting skills are she imitates being in pain. Scrunched up nose, clamped closed eyes, one can imagine that the audience is already giving her a fail. No quitting a day job to act.

Anya peers up at Abby for a second before nodding slightly; yes, she knows who she is. Goes back to peering while the younger woman attempts to pantomime pain; it takes her a little while to find a likely match for the grimace in her mental catalog of expected questions. That one was actually not so very high up. In response, Anya shakes her head, speaks a single word: "Nyet." Not precisely true, but at the moment some semblance of lucidity is better than a complete lack of pain. The Russian draws in a breath, lifts her hands with fingers splayed; folds in three for a count of seven. Pointing at Abby, she folds in one more; then points at herself and lowers a second, leaving five. Then palm-up to indicate a question.

Nyet means no. She knows that. Success. See, there can be language barriers crossed. What she asks after, well, that takes a lot of staring, brows still down. What is she asking? Abby lifts her arm, scratching at her elbow running over in her mind what Anya might be asking before realization dawns on her face. How people made it? Abigail points to herself, two fingers, then adding all the other fingers from her other hand. "Elisabeth, Felix, Teodoro, Francois, Cat," giving the other survivors' names.

She watches the younger woman closely as Abby puzzles through the attempt at communication. The comprehension brings a slight, small smile; and a nod as the litany of names is given, each one marked off against her own mental tally. Anya leans back, then, apparently satisfied with that; she closes her one good eye.

There's a clopping, rough knuckles on the flat of the door on the other side. Teo's eye gaps into view, swiveling to and fro once or twice before he realizes that that sort of negates the fact that he'd— knocked. Request for ingress turns into ingress seized. He makes a slight face at himself, clears his throat, once, half self-conscious and half to be polite. "Afternoon," he says, in English before switching tracks. "«Afternoon. May I come in?»" The tonal lift at the end of the inquiry makes it difficult to misparse, even for the woman who has no access of her own to Russian.

"Anya." A hand comes to the woman's shoulder, fingers gripping through thin hospital Johnny cotton. This is what Teo is greeted with when he enters, Abigail standing beside the bed, frowning down at the Russian woman prone on the bed. "Teo, she was just awake." Her voice hushed and commensurate with the location that they are in.

She hadn't really noticed Teo's presumptive entrance; only the knock and the query. "Da," Anya answers, albeit quietly; her eye is closed, but that's not the same as having fallen asleep. Cracking the lid open again, she looks up at Abby, then over towards Teo. "«Easier if you do, I would think.»"

Teo shoulders in. Looks, for a moment, too big for the room— more because of the way he's holding himself than because he's actually particularly large, as men go. Uncomfortable within his own skin. It's either that or parkouring around rubbled cars with a half-faced Russian terrorist bleeding out on his shoulder, anyway. "«Glad you're awake.» She looks pretty stable. Fuckin' Skoll, I guess." He turns his eyes at one woman then the other, steps forward into the room, tucking hands into the pockets of his jeans, each movement laboring under some ginger self-consciousness. "«Do you believe you'll be able to discuss your situation soon?

"«I'm sorry to press, but some of these matters are time-sensitive. Sooner the better. You know how it is.»" It's a weirdly Matryoshka-esque progression of chopping blocks they're on. How many things ride on any and all available Vanguard intelligence. The world human population, Ryazan, the Company facility in which they currently reside, Anya Orlova herself, anyone whom she regards as a dependent, each of their fates enclosed by the previous.

Not asleep, just resting. There's a flush of embarrassment that crawls across Abby's face, unfurling beneath the bruises as she lets go of Anya's shoulder and with the scuff/thump that comes when she walks, it's back to the stool for her since there's someone who can actually speak Russian in the room. There's a scowl in response to 'Skoll'. "Who's Skoll?"

That green gaze remains directed towards Teo as he speaks; there is a hint of recognition at the invocation of Skoll, but his lapse into English keeps Anya from volunteering even a question. She nods as he finishes speaking, letting her eye close again. "Da. «I expected no different. Though not —»" A flick of fingers towards the bandages which cover more than half of her face. Anya doesn't ask such things like how bad is it. "«Of course you have questions.»"

"Skoll's Kozlow. Cat found out; he's the one who shot our unexpected ally, here, and confronted Wagner over Hugin and Munin's coordinates back in the day." Teo measures a long step over to the bedside, and what would have been a squeeze to her shoulder aborts instead with a fond flick of a forefinger through the dark of her hair. He tries not to loom— casts about for a chair, before locating one to drag over from the wall. He sits himself in it. The glance he shifts over the hidden half of her face is neutral, a crease in his brow.

He doesn't know. Feels a little badly, but, Teodoro Laudani being Teodoro Laudani, is often wont to feel a little badly. "«Why you helped us, what you would like us to do. For you, or whatever other objectives hold priority.»" From there, he fantastically imagines— they'll find out what else she has to offer. Not that giving her face wasn't enough. "«Though I thank you for our liberty for liberty's sake, I figured you would prefer we did something useful with it. So here we are.»" A half-beat.

"I'm asking her what she wants," he adds, for Abby's benefit.

Oh. She had heard Kozlow, just hadn't known he was Skoll. Just some turncoat. That bothered her and Abigail falls silent after the flicking, reaching for her spoon to twirl in the pudding cup and scrape the lid while listening into the conversation whether she understands it or not.

Elisabeth is just stepping quietly through the room's door as people start the conversation about Skoll, and she stands quietly there, cradling her arm a bit. It's healed, but it's still a bit on the sore side. At least she's no longer battling withdrawal symptoms. Company medical center = Xanax! At least for now. "Hey," she greets the room at large from the door, her eyes looking at Anya with a neutral expression. "How's the patient?"

There's another person in the area, a brunette of five feet and eight inches who stops in the doorway and observes silently a short distance behind the drug-craving detective. Cat lets her eyes wander over the persons assembled within for some moments before stepping further forward and meandering toward where Anya's chart would perhaps be kept.

Nothing comes from her which might interrupt existing conversation.

Anya turns her head to glimpse Elisabeth as the woman speaks; and Cat behind her, whose approach holds the patient's attention for a little longer. In the end, though, it's only Teo who asked a question she can answer; and Teo to whom her one-eyed gaze returns. "«I am tired,»" the woman replies simply; her inflection implies some subject other than sleep; it isn't an attempt to dodge the queries but intended as their answer. However obscure its meaning may be. Anya looks away, then, gazing into the distance of a blankly painted wall. "«If anything — I would say leave, but it would be foolish to expect.»" There is no rancor in the statement, only a muted acceptance.

The Fed is still moving like he's a tin toy with half its joints rusted out. Not just the leg now. But he's mobile, breathing, and not going septic. Merry Feebmas to you. He's almost literally hiding behind Liz, like Felix doesn't particularly feel like pretending to be a civil human being.

Good answer. Simple answer.

Somewhat— confusing answer. Teodoro shifts his eyes at Abigail, and he stems the urge to translate for her. There isn't much there to work with. He doesn't lift his gaze to mark those coming in, appreciates their being unobtrusive though the increasing crowd adds a line of tension to the shape of his shoulders. Finally, quietly, he says, "«I'll see what I can do.»" The pause that wedges itself in between sentences could cover a variety of connective words. 'Still.' 'But.' 'So.'

"«Why did you help us?»"

Silence remains the rule for Cat, she only briefly looking at the patient. If a chart is found, she picks up and reads it without reacting.

Refocusing on Teo, only half of her former field of view available for use, Anya doesn't see Felix hovering behind Liz. Her working eye closes again, a quiet sigh breathed out. "«I could not leave. But I am tired. Tired of — every day, of so many such as Kozlow, of living no life but Vanguard.»" She pauses, taking several moments to do no more than breathe; her eyes remain closed. "«They have had half my years, the whole of my strength; what is left, however little it is, I would see given to Anya. There, that can never be.»"

Felix peers around Liz. He's got no comment at the moment, squinting like working on his vision will make up for temporary loss of hearing.

And as with Kozlow, Teo's suspicion is immediate, practical carefully-concealed, but ugly to look at underneath all that. History has always depicted passions and obsessions worth killing for grow with time, not wither. Hana Gitelman, Felix Ivanov. Abigail Beauchamp.

Still, he merely nods once, pulls himself up out of his chair with a subtle straightening of his left arm to proffer Cat the seat. She's got the chart, the carefully catalogued memory for details, and it's about time Anya is shot of the nettling insistence of the good cop, anyway. "«All right; that's all I've got. Thank you for your time.»"

Abigail's remained silent, slowly finishing the pudding she was consuming before Anya woke. The short words, no length to them from Teo compared to what Anya had replied has her looking to the others in the room. "Does she need more water? Anything for the pain?"

"She just wants to leave," Teo answers, before subsiding. His voice carries the faintest inkling of irony, nowhere elaborated.

A nod is given to Teo as Cat settles into the seat, silently thanking him for its yield, then her attention shifts to Abby. "She's getting painkillers," is shared. "I'll ask if she thirsts." Then there's another nod to Teo, and finally attention settles onto the patient. "Spasibo," she begins. "«I'm Cat. Are you thirsty?»"

Dark eyes show a hint of curiosity as she observes, listening and waiting for reply.

Anya watches as Teo and Felix leave, inasmuch as her restricted vision allows without additional contortion. When Abby speaks up, her focus redirects; and again to Cat, at the other end of the bed. The patient shakes her head. "«I am well, for the moment,»" she answers Cat.

A turn of her head goes to Abby, Cat then translating the answer. "She's well, for the moment." Thoughts are collected over the following moments, before she faces Anya and speaks again. Both languages are used so Abby can have the benefit of hearing each. "You want to retire. Where would you like to retire to?"

"We still have some work to do, so you and many others can still have a decent world to retire in."

Closing her eyes, the woman on the bed shakes her head slightly; mystified, for that was not a question she expected. "«I did not think of it that way,»" Anya admits quietly. "«I… do not know,»" she finally concludes, a frown beneath the bandages, her expression thoughtful. Here, apparently, her planning is lacking.

A slight smile appears, while Cat isn't sure the Russian branch of the Company will ever let this woman go, she doesn't have to say as much. "«There are a number of places. Have you ever seen New York City? If you have money, you can perhaps travel the world, go wherever a mood takes you, when it takes you.»"

After speaking that thought, she settles eyes on Abby and her ankle. First comes the translation of what Anya said, and her own words, then the English language question "Would you like her to restore your ankle to flesh now so it can be tended to, or later so you can operate without hobbling?"

Her ankle. Abby wasn't going to bother the woman about it while she was recovering. Not right now. But Cat is bringing the topic up and there's a glance to her unmoving digits and the petrified flesh below the wool sock. "If she has the energy. If she doesn't it's okay, it can wait. Doesn't hurt right now." But it will, if Anya reverts it. "Only if she has the energy."

The woman on the bed shakes her head a bit. "«No,»" she disagrees. "«Russia is still my home.»" And she, too, knows that her chances of leaving, of living that life on her own, are slim. As Cat and Abby speak amongst themselves in a language she doesn't know, Anya merely watches them; or rather she starts out watching, and after a bit lets her eyes slide closed again, now with gathering fatigue.

Anya's fatigue is observed, and the issue of Abby's ankle weighed against it. Russian is the language of choice now, her eyes moving toward the injured limb as she speaks. This time the words aren't spoken in English along with the Russian, Cat chooses to let the way she looked at the stoned segment and back to Anya carry the impression she's asking "«Do you feel up to restoring her ankle? If not, it's okay. We can let you sleep and come talk later.»"

Anya looks up at Cat, then shifts to regard Abby. "«I have not — I do not think it will work, now,»" she replies, one hand waving vaguely in the direction of her own head. Her gaze drifts back to the taller woman. "«But I can try — if you trust me to touch her,»" Anya concludes with a hint of a thin, lopsided, and largely humorless smile.

Turning toward Abby, Cat relays the stonemaker's words. "She thinks her injuries might interfere with the ability, but will try if you trust her to touch you." The decision is left in Abby's court thus, Cat turns back to Anya and replies in a single word.


Abigail's brows furrow a bit, weighing the odds in her mind. What harm would there be in trying versus waiting. Waiting means the woman might not ever be able to do it. Doing it now… worst is she can't? One hand grips the edge of the stool she's sitting on as she uses her feet to roll the chair forwards til she's beside Cat. Her palm is offered out then, with a hopeful smile. "Try."

Anya waits as Cat passes on her reply and Abby considers the options; nods once as the young woman extends a hand, demonstrating her decision clearly enough to bypass any language barriers. Her depth perception isn't what it used to be, the Russian learns quickly, as she reaches out to meet Abby and is forced to correct for it. Closing her eyes, a line draws itself on Anya's brow, albeit barely disernable around the bandages; for Abby, there is nothing at first, and for several moments after. It's the pain that makes itself known initially, the damaged joint unfreezing and regaining the characteristics of flesh. That she can feel ankle and foot now as part of her leg — that's a more subtle thing.

Anya's grip on Abby's fingers loosens, her hand slipping free; her eye remains closed, perhaps not in sleep but not far from its threshold either.

Cat can tell when it works, not because the skin around her ankle above the sock returns back to its original flesh tone, but more from the blood that drains out of Abby's face as she pales and the pain makes itself greatly known.

"Thank you. Spasibo." She hopes the last word means thank you as she loosens her hand from Anya's lest she crush it with her own. "Sweet merciful lord…" Breathing turns shallow and through her nose as she closes her eyes. "She did it, Cat."

As Abby gives her hand to Anya, Cat lowers her eyes to the affected area and observes. Likely she can't see the transformation through clothing over it, but she still pays it brief attention. When she sees the disconnection of hands, her focus lifts again to the stonemaker and her condition.

"Spasibo," she offers again quietly. "«Sleep well.»"

Once again Abby is left to guess at the meaning of those Russian words, Cat perhaps believing the sight of Anya close to nodding off and Cat rising as if to depart will translate by itself.

Once on her feet, she reaches for Abby's arm with the intent of draping it over the appropriate shoulder and giving support on the way to get medical attention for the broken bone. "Yes," she agrees, "Anya did."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License