aeons_crackshot: (Shock)
The Annabelle Newfield that stumbles into Milliways is not the Annabelle the patrons are used to. This Annabelle is 18 years old and has just, barely, survived having her brain highjacked by a no good bastard of a psychic in Cuba.

Calling her psyche a mess at this point is an understatement. Metaphysically speaking, she's crisscrossed with open, bleeding wounds. (That tends to happen when you battle mind to mind with a psychic employing brute force to puppeteer your body that doesn't particularly care if you're even alive after they're finished with you.)

But this is not the main problem. The REAL problem is that Milliways does not allow two versions of the same person to exist in the Bar at the same time. Reality shuffles itself like a deck of cards and the 'new' Annabelle gets slammed with a whole different set of 28 years worth of memories as the 'old' Annabelle ceases to exist.

Memories that don't settle properly thanks to the mess her psyche is at the moment. Oh, they're probably in there to be found.....somewhere, eventually.......maybe. Damn it.

Annabelle looks around the Bar, too shocked and disoriented to even swear for the moment.
aeons_crackshot: (Talking)
Lucan Valerious was MOST pleased to get his shiny, gold, good luck charm back. (Camilla is, understandably, far more interested in Einar than in Ann.) Even after splitting the reward with Einar, she's got enough septims on hand to resupply properly!

A good set of leather armor, a set of clothes, camping and survival gear, food supplies, a steel dagger and a steel sword, arrows, and the ingredients for a few simple potions put her back where she was with regard to kit before that damn Argonian betrayed her.

Feeling much better about the world now that she's properly prepared to face it, Ann whistles cheerfully as they set out toward Whiterun.

The trip to Whiterun is mostly uneventful, although there is an odd sense of....nervousness in many of the folks they pass on the road. The War, maybe? Ann certainly couldn't say.

The Walls of Whiterun stand high and proud, but even though it's daylight the gates are shut. That's....not right. The two are stopped by a pair of guards wearing the colors of the Hold. "Sorry, but the Jarl isn't allowing just anyone into the city right now. The Dragon attacks have made people very nervous and he doesn't want to start a real panic."

Ann stares at the guard as if he's just announced the sky is red. "I'm sorry, but did you just say DRAGON attacks?!"
aeons_crackshot: (Ha Ha No.)
There have been many bad days in the course of Ann Abel's (usually parsed by non Khajiit as Annabelle) life.

The day when she came home from trapping rabbits at age 12 to find her entire family murdered by bandits, the days not too many moons later when she nearly died in the badlands of Elsweyr before she was found and adopted by a band of Khajiit.

Today....today is shaping up to be in a high position on that list of bad days. Her "partner" of these many months, someone she truly believed was trustworthy, proved otherwise. Why else would he drug her, strip her of literally everything that she had to her name, and leave her in a Divines damned CRYPT? She is NEVER working with an Argonian again! Even the worst sugar-tooth among the Khajitt would have had the decency to slit her throat rather than leaving her here to die of deprivation or being eaten alive by the crypt's inhabitants.

Bastard's probably well on his way to Cyrodiil by now.

But she's never been the kind to give in to despair, even if she is naked and unarmed in the midst of the enemy. Well, she WAS unarmed. Turns out you can, with difficulty, bludgeon a draugr to death with a funeral urn. That kill netted her a bow and a quiver full of arrows. The clothes on the draugr, alas, fell to pieces as soon as she tried to get them off. (Fabric doesn't hold up too well over the centuries, it seems.)

She'd experiment with spider webs as clothing, but they might cause a fatal delay in her reactions thank to their stickiness....
aeons_crackshot: (Talking)
3 years, 2 months and 10 days.

That's how long it's been since Annabelle came home to find the ruins of her family's caravan and her mother's body.

Long years, hard years, but she's managed to survive. She's running low on ammunition and lower still on food, which is why she's hunting geckos in the fading light of the evening.

Her trusty cowboy repeater is aimed at a very nice specimen. If it just comes a little closer......
aeons_crackshot: (Concerned)
Annabelle will firmly deny that she's been anxious since she and Tanya parted.

(Trying not to think about losing Tanya. Losing her best friend. Trying not to think of all the ways that things could go horribly, horribly wrong.)


It's gotten bad enough that she's been pacing the floor of her room for the last hour like an animal trapped in a cage.....
aeons_crackshot: (Talking)
Who would have guessed that infiltrating the White Gloves Society would involve old world dress clothes?

Annabelle eyes the garment she's already wearing. "Right, I think I'm ready for the dress now."

Beep Whir Beep BEEP Bip.

Annabelle glanced at the Eye-Bot. "What do you mean this IS the dress?"

Beep beep Whir Whir whir.

"I'm just saying that I don't think you were programmed with data on pre-war fashion, ED-E."

BEEP WHIR BEEEEEEP.

Annabelle sighed, glancing around the her room in the Lucky 38. Arcade was down at the Fort, and Cass....well, Cass was probably entertaining herself with that greeter from the TOPS. That left Boone as her only backup in this argument.

Annabelle leaned most of the way out of her door. "Boone! Will you tell ED-E that this is not a dress? Please?"
aeons_crackshot: (Default)
Annabelle is making a valiant attempt at organization, if only for distraction's sake. Connor's been gone and, well, she misses him a LOT.

Her closet had turned up with weird stuff in it again, but it is at least stuff she's mostly familiar with this time. She's going through the pile when she sees a familiar pair of worn bamboo canes. "Heh. I haven't thought of these in years," she says with a chuckle.

Once upon a time, the Æon Society found a culture that appeared to be based on the Amazons from ancient mythology. As you might expect, Annabelle got on with the female warriors quite well indeed.

She starts moving through the motions her body still remembers of one of their sword dances, the short bamboo sticks serving in place of swords.
aeons_crackshot: (Talking)
Anybody who's done much cleaning has experienced a moment of 'Where the hell did that come from?' when excavating a closet, attic, or trunk. An item whose provenance is unknown and seems to have appeared there as if by magic. (Possibly, they come from the same dimension that socks lost in the wash go to.)

Annabelle is staring at such an item right now. She knows she didn't buy it and she's 99.999% certain Connor didn't either.

It is a mystery.
aeons_crackshot: (OOC)
Normal Difficulty, Wild Wasteland, Small Frame 2nd level

Strength 4
Perception 5
Endurance 7
Agility 8
Intelligence 6
Charisma 5
Luck 6

Action Points 89
Carry weight 190
Critical 6%
Hit Points 240
Melee damage 2
Unarmed dmg 2

Barter 15
Energy Weapons 15
Explosives 20
Guns 36 TAG
Lockpick 15
Medicine 17
Melee 28 TAG 30 with Vault Jumpsuit
Repair 20
Science 17
Sneak 21
Speech 20 22 with Vault Jumpsuit
Survival 34 TAG
Unarmed 19

Perks: Intensive Training: Perception

Equipment: Vault 21 Jumpsuit, 9mm pistol, varmint rifle (silencer, extended mag, night scope).
aeons_crackshot: (Concerned)
Her hands are going through the motions of taking apart and cleaning a Vickers Martini Mk. 1 Target Rifle when the dream begins.

She hasn't used one since she was 14, but dream logic can be strange.

"I should have known I'd find you working on a gun," says a very familiar voice, tinged with laughter. Annabelle's head snaps up in shock, face going pale as her eyes confirm who's talking to her.

"Mom?" she asks quietly, voice cracking. The pain and loss of an orphaned child is in her voice even now.

"Were you expecting the Easter Bunny?" her mother replies with a raised eyebrow. Her tone is dry, but there is laughter sparkling in her eyes.

Annabelle's mind is reeling so much that she actually says the first thing that crosses her mind, "But you're so small!"

Marie Lee Newfield laughs at that. "Oh my sweet, silly girl," she says with a shake of her head. "You've just gotten taller, that's all."

Annabelle doesn't remember crossing the intervening space, just wrapping her mother in a nearly bone crushing hug. "I've missed you so much, she says with a sniffle, head buried in her mother's shoulder.

"I've missed you too, sweetheart. So very, very much. I've missed so much of your life...."

Annabelle can't quite manage to speak around the lump in her throat, so she just nods.

"But I've taken advantage of a certain loophole, tonight," she says with a mischievous grin, holding her daughter tight. "So I want to hear about all the things I've missed..."

"Loophole?" Annabelle asks, confused.

"All Hallow's Eve," Marie explains. The walls between the living and the dead are a bit more...permeable than usual, tonight."

There is time enough for the telling of tales. Tales of her life as a hero, her death, her loves and her losses. Her new life and love at the Bar at the End of The Universe. At the end of the tale, her mother hugs her even tighter, and whispers, "I'm so proud of you, Annabelle. Prouder than I could ever say."

If they both cry a little then, well, there's no one to see. Both of them can feel the loophole closing, feel the sand slipping through the hourglass. "I can't stay," Annabelle says to her mother. "Not yet."

Marie nods. "No, not yet. You've got too much living left to do," she says with a fond smile. She reaches for something in her hip pocket, and presses it into Annabelle's hand. "Your Connor had best get around to making an honest woman of you, if he knows what's good for him," she says with a grin.

"MOM!!!"

"What? I'm not allowed to want grandchildren?" Marie teases. She hugs Annabelle tightly one last time, kissing her on the forehead. "Be happy, Annabelle. That's all I've ever wanted for you."

Annabelle wakes, then, curled up next to Connor in bed. There's something in her hand....

She unclenches her fist and looks at what lies within. It's not, monetarily speaking, terribly valuable. The brooch is only a thin layer of gold over brass, with a blue agate mosaic of forget-me-nots. The gold has worn off around the edges, and a few of the stones are chipped or missing. That sort of thing tends to happen to jewelry after it's been worn for a generation or two.

Her grandmother's brooch, the one that served as Grandma's wedding ring, and, later, Marie's. She doesn't know what to make of this evidence of a dream that wasn't a dream. Not yet.
aeons_crackshot: (Concerned)
There is no housekeeping like Loompa housekeeping. Everything that Alice may have touched, other than the weapons, has been replaced or thoroughly cleaned.

Annabelle and Connor have made their way up to the room, bypassing the chaos of the Bar below. Eventually, they'll have to find out what Alice got up to and fix any problems, but not tonight.

Warehouse

Jul. 19th, 2010 07:37 pm
aeons_crackshot: (Neutral)
As they step through the door, Annabelle sees the Warehouse for the first time.

It looks....like a warehouse, which is a bit disappointing. At least, it does until you get a look at the motley collection of brick a brack on the shelves.

From somewhere not too far in the distance is a whirring whine of a large vacuum cleaner...

Trapped

Jul. 18th, 2010 03:34 pm
aeons_crackshot: (Concerned)
There's no way to tell time, here. Hours, days? She can't even hear the beat of her own heart to mark the time.

There is nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to smell, or touch, or taste. She's hurled herself against the glass of the inside of the Mirror, for, well, she's not sure how long. She should be spattered in her own blood, would be, if she was anywhere but here.

The human mind doesn't cope well with prolonged sensory deprivation. People hallucinate, become anxious and paranoid. That's why Annabelle's not sure if the whispers and the things at the edges of her vision are real or not. That doesn't bring back pleasant memories.

Things are pretty bad when you can't trust your own mind.

She can feel something cold, hungry, and malevolent poking at her psychic shields. Stalking around the edges of them like a starving predator. It hasn't broken through....yet.

She's completely and utterly alone. There is no life here. But those we love are always with us, in a way. There are many people who are close to her heart. Friends, and more than friends, but all precious.

Those memories are her anchor, holding her up against the terrible tide of fear and despair. She will hold fast. She must.

This will not last forever. Someone will notice that thing wearing her body, and she will be rescued. She won't allow herself to believe otherwise....
aeons_crackshot: (bedroom eyes)
Annabelle and Connor are lying in bed, comfortable, relaxed and sharing secrets and moments of their lives in low voices. For the past half hour or so, they've been discussing Annabelle's rather...unusual and sometimes complicated relationship with Tanya.
aeons_crackshot: (portrait)
It's been a very long day by the time Annabelle finally makes it back to Room 1938.

She's bone weary and still aching faintly as the Stimpaks finish the work on her ribs. Not to mention that she reeks of gunpowder, Brahmin, blood, and other things. The armor on one side is barely holding itself together as she makes her way toward the table where she usually cleans her weapons.

There are small noises as guns are taken apart and cleaned by Annabelle, still in her armor.
aeons_crackshot: (portrait)
Annabelle comes back upstairs after yet another trip to Ellen's world.

At least she's not completely coated in blood this time? The armor, sans helmet is rather thoroughly spattered with things best left unmentioned though. That tends to happen, especially when your targets' heads explode.

She's not expecting company, thanks to a lifetime of being largely...unattached.
aeons_crackshot: (bedroom eyes)
OOC: Takes place after this.

Empathy and telepathy can be a very useful combination when neither of you has a good idea of what you're doing. Things were figured out eventually, and last night was good, very good.

At the moment, Annabelle is lying next to Connor, sleepy, sated, and faintly smug.

Aftermath

Jan. 25th, 2010 12:30 pm
aeons_crackshot: (Concerned)
She'd been too drunk to dream the night they came in, but there's no alcohol to drown out the memory tonight.

The earth shakes, and the world is full of the terrible sound of buildings being ripped apart and the air screaming as if in agony.

The wall of white fire chases them, hunting down its prey, and Annabelle knows that no matter how hard they try, they cannot run fast enough....
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