[It's a simple answer, but it doesn't come easy. Because her past never comes easy. It's uncomfortable for her, seeing herself like this when it feels so long ago and so recent at the same time. A little more than five years since then
A few moments later the door swings open, and there's a girl there, around Ava's age, clearly helping take out the trash as she hollers something back inside. She's dark complexioned; the lines of her face a particularly attractive blend of East-European and Hispanic. Wavy black hair and brown eyes darker than Ava's. She's tall, long limbs and with a strength to how she moves.
Ava calculates where she can go, but there's nowhere. The fire escape is too close to the girl and the open door blocks her path out of the alley. So she just presses her back a little more against the brick wall, pulls her bag in tighter against her chest and tries to melt further into the shadows next to the dumpster, tension written on her face. One hand slips into the bag she holds, grabbing for something to protect herself with as she tries to will herself to disappear. Normally she's better at it than this, but she's so tired and hungry.
Maybe it's not surprising it doesn't work. The girl tosses the bag into the dumpster, but as she's turning back to the door she catches a glimpse of Ava, of that red hair from the way the light from inside reflects on the pools of rainwater.]
Hey, are you okay?
[Ava shifts like a cornered animal, like she'd back up more if there was anywhere for her to go. Sana tries to get her to talk, offers her name, asks if she's hungry, if she wants to go inside, all while Ava holds onto the hilt of a knife. But the knife is fear, it's self-defense, not aggression. And Ava never uses it, because even here, terrified and a little bit feral in a strange sort of way, she can see the lines. Sana is never a threat.
Ava finally snarls leave me alone in Russian, and the girl just half-laughs, a hand on her hips and answers in the same tongue: I would if it didn't look like the rats were going to eat you, Myshka. Mouse. Ava looks shocked, half-suspicious, half-cautious. There's a pause. And then slowly, with an awkward sort of belligerence: I'm not a mouse. It's said with the formative traces of a name that will never die.
Sana slowly talks her inside, step by step, like Ava's a wild thing that fears captivity. She finds a coat about three sizes too big for her, and Ava refuses to let go of her duffle bag when she finally steps into the soup kitchen.]
no subject
[It's a simple answer, but it doesn't come easy. Because her past never comes easy. It's uncomfortable for her, seeing herself like this when it feels so long ago and so recent at the same time. A little more than five years since then
A few moments later the door swings open, and there's a girl there, around Ava's age, clearly helping take out the trash as she hollers something back inside. She's dark complexioned; the lines of her face a particularly attractive blend of East-European and Hispanic. Wavy black hair and brown eyes darker than Ava's. She's tall, long limbs and with a strength to how she moves.
Ava calculates where she can go, but there's nowhere. The fire escape is too close to the girl and the open door blocks her path out of the alley. So she just presses her back a little more against the brick wall, pulls her bag in tighter against her chest and tries to melt further into the shadows next to the dumpster, tension written on her face. One hand slips into the bag she holds, grabbing for something to protect herself with as she tries to will herself to disappear. Normally she's better at it than this, but she's so tired and hungry.
Maybe it's not surprising it doesn't work. The girl tosses the bag into the dumpster, but as she's turning back to the door she catches a glimpse of Ava, of that red hair from the way the light from inside reflects on the pools of rainwater.]
Hey, are you okay?
[Ava shifts like a cornered animal, like she'd back up more if there was anywhere for her to go. Sana tries to get her to talk, offers her name, asks if she's hungry, if she wants to go inside, all while Ava holds onto the hilt of a knife. But the knife is fear, it's self-defense, not aggression. And Ava never uses it, because even here, terrified and a little bit feral in a strange sort of way, she can see the lines. Sana is never a threat.
Ava finally snarls leave me alone in Russian, and the girl just half-laughs, a hand on her hips and answers in the same tongue: I would if it didn't look like the rats were going to eat you, Myshka. Mouse. Ava looks shocked, half-suspicious, half-cautious. There's a pause. And then slowly, with an awkward sort of belligerence: I'm not a mouse. It's said with the formative traces of a name that will never die.
Sana slowly talks her inside, step by step, like Ava's a wild thing that fears captivity. She finds a coat about three sizes too big for her, and Ava refuses to let go of her duffle bag when she finally steps into the soup kitchen.]
I wasn't particularly good with people.