Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
layers on layers. senna, a ghost moving through the void, docking to a ship adrift and dying in an area far too close to her own inherited cultural shame for comfort - what will she find? crew dead? crew gone? crew changed, and something terrible left behind after their metamorphosis? she knows how to protect herself from the null, the suggestion, the cleaving (not as in cut. as in... simply fall away from yourself, decohering as the sweet, inaudible waves - music - become all you could want, all you could ever dream of. not that there's a 'you' left to want, anyway)
and yes, there are corpses. some have the usual RCL marks, some with less standard injuries. there is also nearly a corpse, slumped over the pilot's interface, fingers barely cupped around the controls and breath so shallow as to barely stir the curls tumbling over the stranger's face.
are they a stranger, though? more importantly: that jacket. it's littered with patches and flash, locations ranging far and wide, a document and exultation of vagrancy - but the fabric, the color, the shape, which is a bit too big on this person's frame - a woman, now that senna can see the broken shape of them - she knows the jacket. in a rising wave of violent fear, she knows the person, too. she sees a young man in her mind's eye, grinning somewhat slyly at her from the side, blonde curls cut awkwardly short as he leans forward towards a ship's chemical balancing system. the jacket, unadorned, hangs a little loose on him, too, the sleeves shoved up around freckled, wire-corded forearms as he works.
this is not him. but she's... too big. too old. too... senna's disaster response works faster than emotion, a skill honed over more than two decades. she removes the woman (the girl, a missing front tooth with tongue poking through in a cheeky smile, lingers in her mind) from the console, moves her back through the nearly-zero g, pulls her so close so she can brush the hair from her face - a bloody, bruised mirror looks back at her. not the same mirror as senna's twin, lost to her now for over a decade, but a mirror that blooms hard vacuum in her chest all the same.
the jacket belongs, belonged to her love, also lost (or left behind, a sharp part of her reminds). but it seems like it has changed hands to its newest owner, who's bleeding out in her arms past the hastily-applied plast that's beeping urgent medical messages to no one. past the deep, gaping fissure on the front of her skull from which bubbling low-g rivulets of blood float - evidence of some horrible trauma that senna has no context for.
the experience kicks in. hand to side pack, stop the flow, apply pressure, remove bioplast, clear factory settings, apply to visible wound, allow for seal and feedback, clean area- it's routine. it's so practiced as to happen without thought. the freshly-applied bioplast exterior on the woman's chest is wet, suddenly, and it's not blood - distantly, senna realizes she's sobbing, glittering planets of tears congealing around her face and floating away to collide with everything around her.
another bioplast to the skull, the medical alert system going off like a geiger as it grapples with the finer details of brain hemorrhaging. the bleeding is extensive, but the low gravity and some other factor that the system cannot determine has kept most damage at bay. most. senna's body continues basic medical care; her mind is far away, viewing her actions through a dark tunnel. she cannot lose control, now. back to her ship. both of them. the thrust gravity will help the bleeding. then to the nearest station. now. move, now.
her body obeys, hands under the other woman's armpits, effortless movement through the float. the ship is too far gone, but... she will vent it, stow it, mark the location. it may be valuable, later, for someone. the weight of her new patient is nearly nothing as senna tugs her along, and the memory of a life she surrendered rises like bile to her throat. a foot on a bulkhead, and she sails through the duralock tunnel allowing the two ships to share atmosphere. airlock, closed, cycled. woman strapped into the awkward, cupped shape of the medical chair, and senna back to the controls. she has no time to spare, and lets the caravan software form a micronetwork to vent, hide, and mark the dead ship, accepting whatever synchronicity risk comes with her decision.
the other ship dealt with, she pulls away and starts the computer with the navigation to the closest station, then eases into full thrust. anxious, she returns to the medical chair, checks the plast readouts as the patient's blood pressure modifies to the new environs - too low. she needs more. senna sits, inserts a blood cleaner needle into her arm and adds one to her patient's, watches the rich red flow out of her veins and transfer over to the medical chair. the tears fall, now, subject to full gravity, and senna leans forward to sob into her unconscious daughter's bloody chest.
wyn's slack face now so poorly resembles the soft, sleeping look and round cheeks of childhood she had the night senna stepped out the door for the last time - distress and regret and a thousand other colors of loss and longing spill out into the white noise hum of ship systems and regular intervals of the plast beeping as it monitors vitals and the steady transfer of blood. her fingers comb through wyn's bloody curls, and senna leans in again to whisper a solemn promise into wyn's ear - not that she would remember. if she even survives.
after a time, senna pulls herself up and away, removes the needle from her arm. her body continues necessary tasks, mind subsuming to muscle memory. the ship speeds up, pushing the advisable medical boundaries to their limits. but wyn will make it. she must. there is no world senna will live in where her daughter dies before her - she's already lost her once.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Sabine Weber Model at Nick’s, a West Village New York club, looks on in a red wool scoop-neck dress with leopard belt from P.M. as guitarist Eddie Condon strums - Vogue August 1943
