"places like this always have their fair share of regulars and passersby." she recognizes a few of the patrons. some of them she's even slept with. a couple have purchased paintings from her. they help substantiate the fiction of molly fouller. they give credence to her life here, drawing her further and further away from the woman she once was (and still, undeniably, is). 

when corinth blows the rest of the band out of the water, anya smiles. she raises her martini glass to elisa's and the clink chimes neatly, hanging suspended until the pianist dominates the room once again.

"a pleasure, elisa. so then," she says, stirring her bar cherry around, "what do your enemies call you?"

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

she laughs. it's a musical sound. her lips find the rim of the glass and she waits for the crescendo on stage to reach its apex and then fall to a more mutable sound, low enough for conversation, before she speaks again. 

"darling, did i say i was doing that for you?" her smile is playful - a light lilt to her lips - but it does not reach her eyes. those are startlingly blue and just as startlingly empty. hypnotic, some men have said - because who wouldn't want to bed the devil herself? 

"i don't pander to the defenseless," she says. her lips leave a sticky red print on the rim. the whiskey runs warmth down her throat, over her skin, and she runs her tongue along her teeth. 

"i do, however, enjoy remarkable company, when it makes itself known. but ah, it looks like corinth is vying for her solo." the celloist's bow dips and a low, forlorn note smothers everything around it. the rest of the band shifts to complement her and she takes the opportunity with a flick of her wrist.

the long, drawn look on her face hushes the remainder of sideways conversations. anya crosses her ankles and delicately holds her drink under her nose, tasting the bouquet while she watches. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

it's a haunt she shouldn't frequent as much as she should. it's the same haunt where the ghost of her past self, shy only a few months now, mind you, met the man who offered her salacious salvation. though that would be giving him too much credit. her empty cat's eyes had drawn him in and snapped him up - taken him, as much as he'd taken her. 

there is an odd sentimentality she feels now, especially now that he is working more. especially now that their joint project is complete. especially now that she is not convinced she's no longer enough of an asset for him.

another sip of her manhattan and the jazz moves slower. the bassist is playing just for her and he is pleading with the curve of his bow for her to spread her legs, to turn her head so her hair falls just right over her cheeks. and yet the alcohol-tinged blush upon those cheeks is still no more than that - a blush. a touch of something. 

her gaze wanders. the pianist takes over the lead and she turns away from the stage. cool eyes wander, and stop, on another woman.

"another, marcus," she says when silence lapses. in that moment right before the crowd starts their clapping and their reveling - until the music starts again. with her bartender busy with her drink, she plucks up her clutch and moseys her way to the woman. 

next to her is a man with a sideways grin, one hand on his knee, the other marveling at what the woman's skin might feel under his fingertips. anya touches his knee, his hand, and snares his startled gaze. ruby lips purse and he opens his own, wanting. 

"i believe you took my seat," she says and he blinks. looks as though to argue, but then marcus is on the opposite side of the bar, sliding her manhattan over and saying, "here you go, molly."

she steps aside and he gets up and his confusion tickles her. she's still smirking when she raises her drink to her lips and cocks a brow at her companion. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli
(mentions of FERNANDO SILPH )

☉

poipole attempts to wriggle, but its strength is feeble, nothing compared to that which holds it. anya looks upward, in awe, at the nonchalant display of power, while poipole spits and hisses and thrums with its alien anger. 

she raises a hand to her heart and there is a sadness in her cold, blue eyes. 

"the creator calls me anya. the people call me molly. but my dear, my son, my love, i am your rose."

rosalie monet, she thinks and with it are the echoes of memories long since shunted away. 'daddy's little rose.' soft, tender hands and ashen eyes a millennia older than her youth, smothered by wrongs and evils that should plague no one. the desert is hot on her tongue and she looks away.

"i will be here, always, when you need me."

FERNANDO SILPH

☉

oh, how desperately she desires to test their connection, to know how delicate the extraction must be (if possible, if even possible). but sharing in fernando's strength is a safety in itself, something that she would dare not remove from it now. 

poipole makes a popping sound with its mouth and anya feels the weight of gravity come back around her. her feet touch the ground and she holds a hand out against her bike to steady herself. 

"and when you tire of purpose, when you seek to ask questions instead of searching for answers, know that i will be here to embrace you with open arms, my darling."

FERNANDO SILPH

☉

it is the one voice now, without its echo, that pervades her mind. she is silent after its answer, still floating inches above the ground. poipole tugs at her hair as though to turn her, to join it in its rolling in the air. but she is bound, held taut, and the realization that she is being restrained makes the hair on the back of her neck rise.

doors snap closed and memories try their locks.

"you are the last contingency, but the living and breathing are not infallible. you are no machine and neither am i. you may be pokemon, but you are human too, and with it comes hubris. selfishness. desire." 

she looks softly upon the being. "his pride will be his undoing. do not let it become yours."

FERNANDO SILPH

☉

the sudden vertigo makes her eyes widen. poipole squeals happily and floats closer to anya, turning over itself while the woman rises just a few inches off the ground. she spreads her arms out at her sides, instinct telling her she needs to balance, but mewtwo's psychic grip holds her steady. 

"take all you need, my dear. what's mine is yours."

she pauses. "are you pleased with your purpose?"

FERNANDO SILPH

☉

she shrugs her shoulders. the assignment was given in the early stages of blackwell's fall. people came and went while rocket struggled to keep some modicum of organization among its ranks. she still has case files and studies from her time working with the creature, but the thing itself has long since been shuffled around. she has no idea where it's gone. 

her shrug is answer enough to his question. she'd promised him this work, this job. knowledge is a powerful thing; the more breadcrumbs she leaves for him, the less likely he is to turn on her by the time they're finished.

"useless?" she repeats with a scoff. she flicks the vial in hand; the shimmering purple liquid glints. 

she eyes the kabutops. the creatures are known for their aggressive dispositions. and for the deadly sickles it has for arms. she would have preferred something less pointy. still, it doesn't matter. they won't be trying anything on it anytime soon. 

"you're familiar with mega evolution," she says dryly. she hands a syringe and collection tube to gavin. the pokemon would probably respond better to its blood being drawn by its trainer. 

"and the devolution that comes after it; we embrace reversal. we work backwards. unless, of course, you have an ultra beast fresh from space at your disposal."

Cillian Quinn

☉

"curious indeed," she says as she ties her hair up as best she can. a few red locks escape her short ponytail and curl against her cheeks. the materials she requires all lay before her, compounds and tools alike all procured at her demand. she'd given amounts, all ending in 0's and 5's. no sense giving away all of her tricks. 

and with her, only her coat, of which hangs on a hook. no notes or recordings. nothing of the like. 

when gavin finishes washing his hands, she takes her turn. warm water runs down her arms, through her fingers, and she pats them dry before donning gloves of her own. 

at his question, she smiles. so most of our corruption had taken. 

"evolution," she says simply. "my predecessor (@desmond) asked me to look into the artificial creature - what was it? ah, type:null - because of my publications. and of course, as most things do, my work diverged - more hands were needed to study the ultra beasts." in fact, the serum comes from the beasts themselves. she withdraws a vial from her back pocket; it glints purple. 

extracted from FERNANDO SILPH's poipole.

she stretches her gloved palms across the sterile countertop, head tilted, looking at gavin. 

"you've brought a test subject, i presume?"

Cillian Quinn

☉

the fragmented echoes give her a headache, one that she shrugs aside, thoughts sinking fangs into every word. dissecting. disassembling. rearranging.

"my purpose?" she repeats. "to serve your other half. to serve you, as a mother should. to give you everything so that you might succeed."

and this creature, this thing that must exist beyond them, that must truly, in every sense of the word, become their god, has no room for emotion. no room for love or hatred or any of its ilk. 

"i wish...to know you," she says, hand raising again, fingers reaching. 

FERNANDO SILPH

☉

the infantile way they react gives the poipole some more caution. the ultra beast stops in its tracks and floats just out of arm's reach, turning around in circles while it observes the pokemon's tantrum. anya draws her hand back, fingers curling. 

there are not many who have looked beneath her and called her human. most regard her with affront, with horror, likening her to monster. 

although isn't she the most human of them all? capable of horrors unconstrained by weak-minded peers. 

we do not share. 

then you are very much like him, in that regard. 

"the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, child. does it not matter that i would bleed for you? that i find myself distracted, thinking of you, hoping that you're safe?" as a mother should. as a mother does. "that it pains me when he ripped you from me before i could say goodbye?" 

FERNANDO SILPH

☉

she had been made privy to the plans surrounded rocket's submarine, but back then it had been schematics - nothing more than 'something we'll get to eventually.' she expects to feel apprehension as she descends the craft's interior; even her liepard is spooked. but rather, she feels an eerie sort of calm befall her. 

"yes, it is," she says with a sideways, almost curious glance at him. the need for a welcome is unnecessary. their relationship has a line in the sand and they don't need to cross it with pleasantries. 

other than the case of FERNANDO SILPH, she does not mix her business with pleasure. 

her cold gaze regards the dusty machine with something lacking of a woman's whose life's work sits before her, forgotten and unused. she rubs the side of it and then shrugs out of her coat, finding the nearest hook. 

"are you scientifically inclined yourself, merlino?" she asks as her liepard curls up in a corner. 

Cillian Quinn

☉

her analytical eye has already deduced much of its behavioral patterns. she frowns at its perplexed anxieties and the skin prickling at the back of her neck, she elects to ignore. this creature before her has wounded her - has instilled in her a sense of humanness that might swallow her whole. 

and the poipole moves ever closer, curiosity getting the better of it. 

"what do you think creates?" she breathes. "the matriarch, darling. you are of fernando's ilk, share his body and his blood, but you were shaped by my hands." with sweat and blood and a life's worth of cutthroat knowledge.

"you know me," she whispers, delicate fingers stretching towards them. 

FERNANDO SILPH

☉