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[anathemic]

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untraceable text

[maskormods]

\\

h-s•-n-i
o-n-’
t-o-t-s
t-s•-h
s•-s•-r-:-n-t•
d•-v-i-e-o-l
i-t-t-g-a
e-h-s•

PRIVATE |

[privatepurchases]

[Gabriel did research post apocanot. He's actually really good at it despite what people may think which was how he found out about Agnes, and how he found out about Anathema, and how he learned about human beings basically putting him out of a job.

He's not mad. Well no he's furious, but he can decide and so Anathema gets-]

I sent this to Aziraphale as well. I saw you were working together.

\\

h-s•-n-i
o-n-’
t-o-t-s
t-s•-h
s•-s•-r-:-n-t•
d•-v-i-e-o-l
i-t-t-g-a
e-h-s•

[anathemic]

[ Anathema actually brightens when the message comes in and she sees it. Aw, look at you, Gabriel. You're helping. ]

Hm. So far, there's some possible correlation: that's the same one I got.

You feel like joining us to bend your head over a puzzle, too? [ She's not actually sure where the two angels stand with each other, but the fact that he'd also sent it to Aziraphale means their dynamic can't be the worst, right? ]

[privatepurchases]

I appreciate the offer but Uriel solves cryptic letters. I just apply Her law and interpret what they mean.

I am considering seeing out those places that keep books. It's not a shop like Aziraphale has. The material objects are kept there and people can look at them and then leave them there or take them home and return them?

text

[the_horror]

Anathema, this is Ben.

I know you hired my brother Klaus not too long ago. You wouldn't happen to have seen him recently? I've been trying to find him.

[anathemic]

[ When she came in this morning to open the shop after the weekend, she'd been faced with an ethereal blue ghost curled up on the sofa reading a book, looking more solid and tangible than she's ever seen Mary. And Anathema, being Anathema, simply registered it with a bemused: Huh. The women wound up spending the day in amiable companionability, reading their respective books, or settling in for a game of rummy together, even as Anathema keeps glancing at the front door. As the hours grow longer and Klaus still doesn't show, though, her frown deepens. By the time Ben's message comes through— ]

Good timing, I was actually just about to text you. He didn't show up for his shift today. He's been pretty diligent about it, hospitalization aside, so I was wondering.

Is he alright? When did you last hear from him?

[ As she fires off the message, she heads into the back room to double-check that he isn't lying dead in the closet or something. She highly doubts he's there, but just in case... ]

[the_horror]

[With Klaus' luck he wont be dead for long if he is laying dead in the back somewhere. but oh, Ben is glad to see words on the screen, then frowns as they aren't what he hoped for.]

I don't know if he's alright or not. He might just be avoiding me, but he has no reason to avoid work. Okay, so it's "work" and he might want to avoid that but, that aside, I haven't seen him since Halloween.

11/19 → video

[thecacophony]

[Look, she's only doing this once, and finally landing on the other side of an apocalypse is a fair enough exception. The camera is angled, very purposefully, away from the scar on her cheek; and that's fine, but the dirt and monster blood are smeared all over anyway, making the whole effort moot.]

[The crowds of Jeopardy are packed in tight, but she's holding on to her personal space pretty fucking admirably. Coffee cup in her other hand, she waves it in a weak attempt to fend off the...Party people? Whatever.]

Hey, you doing alright?

[There's movement, some girlish squeals, it's kind of chaotic. When the camera cuts back, Sal sighs.]

Fuck it, of course you are.

[A maybe slightly worried smile? And she cuts the video. Never again.]

[anathemic]

[ The merry little ping! of her communicator catches her off-guard first, even while the alerts are going off all around her. The network hasn't been working for... days? however long they've been trapped in there, it's been hard to tell — so it's an unexpected delight when this connection does go through. When Anathema's video answers, it's unsteady because she keeps being jostled by the rest of the crowd. Clearly they've all been dumped into the same spot.

Mostly she's dusty, her face orange-streaked, her dark hair pale with sand and sticking up at odd ends. ]

Missed my taxi in there, but I'm alright. Good to see you weren't swallowed up by a death goddess, or anything.

Were you stuck in the storm too?

11/19

[privatepurchases]

I've checked in with Crowley and

I was in Jeopardy and the storm.

[sent ten minutes later]

Are you all right/

please let me know.

[anathemic]

[ ping ping ping and everybody's alerts are going off throughout the crowd, as loved ones reach out, as people check in, as the straining network flickers back to life. Anathema wanders between people until she can seat herself on a toppled newspaper stand, to give herself a little peace to look through the messages. Seeing one from Gabriel is a pleasant surprise. ]

Absolutely alright. Or, I mean, tired as hell, but otherwise physically fine. How about you?



Wait, that's a stupid question, you're an archangel

[ It's hard to conceive of something physically hurting him, but she'd found herself asking anyway. ]

[iminthebook]

[ On the evening of the 15th, a simple white envelope appears at the front door. Inside is a small card, with the following written on it. ]

You are formally invited to this year's small gathering of Winterfest, located at Harry's Dresden's residence on the 21st of this December. The doors will be open from 8 pm, but the true celebration takes place around 10 pm to midnight. Come any time, and stay or go as you like.

-Harry Dresden.

[anathemic]

[ Because Anathema is a sucker for the old-fashioned and the ornamental and ceremonial, her response comes via creamy stationery rather than a simple network message, his address written in florid gothic copperplate handwriting. ]

Dear Mr. Dre∫den,

I would be honored to accepte, and greatly look forward to the occasion. Thank you for opening up your home.

I'll bring wine(!)

Best,
Anathema Device

text;

[thecacophony]

So, how are those New Year's resolutions holding up?

[anathemic]

Who says I made any? Maybe I'm perfect as I am.

[ Anathema, she of the meticulous lists and planning for the future. Of course she made resolutions. ]

2/14 → Delivery

[thecacophony]

[A letter arrives to Anathema's residence on a very particular day. Foremost, one can tell that the sender was busy doing...something dangerous or unwise, and perhaps the envelope was dropped, misplaced, or otherwise abused. Regardless, the name and address are intact enough to have made it to its proper destination. Unfortunately, the inside has suffered the same damage, so only fragments of the intended letter can be easily read.

It's a puzzle but unintentionally so, for even though there are a number of telltale signs indicating the sender, what's left of the writing is obviously from the hand of a mysterious third party. And even though the letter arrives on a very specific day, it's hard to tell, even from the remains of the words, what the intention is.

In other words, it's a chaotic disaster.]

M[ ] Falls, PA, February 14th Dear Anathema, I hope this [ ] finds you well on this [ ] day.  [ ], this holiday seems like [ ] people who pass through our [ ].There's [ ] from one of my favorite operas that [ ]. 'A thousand people may you find like a thousand flowers, a thousand [ ] the wind— here, savored, and gone.' It's not [ ], right? Your [ ] comes to mind. Like [ ] of a story, you were [ ] dangerous [ ]. A deadly [ ] full of enemies, and without [ ] to help guide you through to [ ]. And yet [ ] you endured all of that to [ ].To some, returning here may be a [ ]. Perhaps even to you, at times, it seems to be [ ] as the circumstances you have survived to [ ]. You are not, nor never shall be, [ ]. Because in spite [ ], we might [ ] and some [ ] as well in these passing moments. Maybe [ ] are the barter we're asked to pay for [ ], as knowing you has [ ] to believe [ ] the fight. May your [ ] filled with [ ] Your[ ], Sa[ ]ca ki [ ]il

text.

[anathemic]

[ Anathema loves the tactility of paper and actual analog handwriting. It's more personal, more intimate. She still has a pile of creamy stationery that she needs to use up here, but this letter, whatever it is, on this day in particular, feels like maybe it requires a more timely response. Particularly when she's not even sure... what it is, although the words between the splotches and smudges and smears make her heart lurch in her chest. ]

Hi.

text to action?

[iminthebook]

[ Harry is grinning as he taps out a text. ]

Anathema, I was wondering if I could invite you to lunch. We can talk about magic, memories we wish we did not have, and about an invitation I wish to give you.

👍

[anathemic]

[ It's been long enough since their return that Anathema's started to settle back in, to pick up the threads of her life again, to not be quite so time-disjointed as she was in February. Still, though, the message from Harry is welcome. ]

Of course, Harry, I'd love to. Do you have any favorite lunch spots?

Between this and your winterfest, you know, it seems you're pretty good at hosting things.

[ Of course, she doesn't know that it's a particularly special invitation, this time— ]

text;

[detail]

[ Maybe she's noticed that he's been working a lot lately. From the shop to the mechanic job he took up down the street, the lack of sleep. Maybe this isn't a surprise to her. ]

I think I need to take a day off.

[anathemic]

[ Workaholicism. It's the way she tends to deal with problems too, so there are familiar signs if one knows to look for it (and Anathema does, though she also bites her tongue, uncertain of crossing boundaries or stepping into topics that aren't her place). It's been a few weeks of getting accustomed to each others' rhythms, hoping she hasn't made a horrible mistake in hiring her housemate, blurring the lines between home and work — but it's turned out okay, and revealed that Adam Parrish is more like Anathema herself than her previous colleague, Klaus Hargreeves. Studious, hard-working, attentive. Nose to the grindstone.

Maybe a little too hard-working. ]

Of course, that's fine.

[ A slight pause. Wondering if it's over-stepping, and if she shouldn't bring it up. But in the end: ]

You do remember that we're not rocket scientists or surgeons either, yeah? It's okay if we just close up shop entirely a day here and there.

text;

[thecacophony]

Say, Anathema.

You wouldn't mind helping out with that wealth of local knowledge of yours, would you? Seems like I'm at a fucking loss here again.

When's the right time for a couple to take a vacation together, do you think? Shit, outside of running from explosions or running toward some other disaster, I guess I don't really have any experience in it myself.

[anathemic]

As if I do, either.

[ wry. it's not like she's had much experience in capital R, Relationships™ either; Anathema's distractions in the past had always been short and fleeting, with an apocalypse looming over her head like the Sword of Damocles. ]

Do you mean 'right time' as in the time of year, or amount of time into their being a couple?

❤️💙

[thecacophony]

To Sal’s credit, she doesn’t immediately start a fistfight with the first person she can see. Not like the first time she ported to this military base, at least. Chalk up this particular bout of generosity to waking up with a sudden rush of lost memories returning to her — months spent fighting her own doubts and fears for even the smallest shreds of hope and peace. An entirely new life she started building; or it was, at least, before she was ripped away.

New friends, comrades to rush to her side during a fight, and a home of Sal’s very own.

And her.

That’s the galling part of it all, isn’t it? Losing what’s important. Whatever she finds to hold dear, it’s never safe and never rightly hers to keep. You can understand, then, why she might have the urge to punch at least someone out.

If only she wasn’t in such a hurry. Taking the communicator they give her, folding up the stupid piece of paper with her powers written on it and stuffing it in her jacket, she makes an immediate run for the exit. Pushing past soldiers and even vaulting over some dumb fuck kneeling down and taking up half the hallway, Sal doesn’t have time for anything but one single, solitary focus.

All of these months that have gone by for her, all of the fighting and the heists and the damn stinking airships with their damn shitty, secret cargo — they can all go right up a Scrath’s ass. She shoves her way through the doors and out into the street. Unlike the snow-covered lands around Terassus, it’s perfectly balmy here in Cape Canaveral.

No wars that she can see. No Revolution airships clouding up the peaceful, blue sky and trying to bomb the shit out of Imperium mages, or whoever else is caught in their unfortunate crosshairs. As Sal herself can tell you, war and death hardly discriminate.

But there’s nothing like that here. Just normal, happy people going along with their daily lives. So accustomed to the coming and goings of imPorts that they can’t even be bothered to seem shocked or horrified. A little girl with an ice cream cone waves at Sal from across the street. Again, like before, the reality of this place hits her like a slap to the face.

But unlike that first port-in, she doesn’t concern herself with her magic, wasting away hours reveling in flight. After a long time spent away, off in some distant and war-torn land, it would be natural for anyone to have the urge to come rushing back home.

So Sal does.

So she contacts Anathema.

Her grip is firm when pointing her gun and ferocious when she swings her sword; so why is it that, while holding up this tiny little talking device, she has to struggle with the sudden quake of her hands? Her thoughts scatter around like marbles, leaving Sal to struggle to find the words she needs to send. The questions she needs to ask.

The sun is high in the sky and offers nothing but warmth, but for a moment she’s right back on the floor of that tomb. Weakened, bloody, holding out a hand for someone to come and help her.

It’s the icy, gripping fear of being left alone. Abandoned. Forgotten by those you —

Where are you? Can I see you?

It’s all she can think to say. There’s too much to process. How long has she been away? How much has changed? Not so long and not so much that Anathema would...everything in her chest feels like fire and she tries with no success to ignore it. To drown out the doubts in her mind.

Sal barely has a grip on the communicator, so she fights off a shiver, holding it tightly against her chest and waiting for a reply.

[anathemic]

Anathema drops her communicator.

It's not graceful or elegant at all. She'd long-ago set Sal's message notification to be its own unique sound effect, so she'd stop lurching for it in desperate hope every time anyone under the sun messaged her, so she'd know not to let her heart scrabble its way into her throat. This time, that sound makes her scramble for the communicator, trying to unlock it, instead dropping it, swearing up a storm, hoping she hasn't cracked the goddamn screen, before she's finally able to seize it and type out a response as quickly as she can:

I'm at home. Where are you? Are you okay? Are you back?


Do you remember me?