Prision Pickup

Five years. It could have been more- it honestly ought to have been more- but it feels like an eternity all the same. Five years of trying to pin down what went wrong, of stalking behind bars, of attempting and failing good behaviour for a shortened sentence. Of enduring her father's condescension and odd entreaty to come back into the fold, as though he had power enough to make all of this go away if she'd agree to be his pretty little project again. Maybe she ought to have taken the deal but pride is, as ever, a demanding mistress.

Not so much that she can't make a call. It's ask for help from home (if anyone's even left, Luther might still be around but she can't be sure) or walk. Seeing as she was arrested in clothing not conducive to walking home (A sheer tux, stilettos), calling is the best option. Whoever comes for the pickup, whoever cares enough to bother? WIll find her loitering outside, arms crossed, glaring out at the horizon.


Didn't you miss me?

It's such fun being home- though things are, to no one's surprise, different. More faces, more furniture, Mother behaving, well. More human. Hela makes a point of wandering down every hall, checking every room, securing every window out of ground-in habit before helping herself to whatever's in the kitchen. She could wait for an assigned mealtime but food, real food? Not common in jail. Odds are she's stolen some casual clothing during her walkabout the house- someone's sweatpants, someone else's hoodie, all lean angles and irate grumbling as she rummages about for cold chicken and pickles in the fridge.

Strange as it is to be home- it's stranger still to know that their father is dead- and she missed it. She lingers where the portrait used to be (why it's gone, she doesn't know, but gone it is) and in the courtyard where there was (allegedly) a funeral, smoking. Glowering. Didn't even have an opportunity to get in the last word. Shame, really.


Booze for Breakfast

"Wait." That- it doesn't quite make sense, what she's hearing- but that could be the half empty bottle of vodka and violently green margarita she's sipping on, draped over the sofa as she takes in whatever she's heard, categorizes it and tries to make drunken sense of it all. "Father died. There were- time-traveling assassins. Five's actually in his fifties. And Vanya, gentle, patient, harmless Vanya...caused the apocalypse? And you undid it all. While I was in prison."

A beat.

"I don't know what's more surprising, that it happened or that it took Vanya this long to snap." They all treated her- well. Not the best. Considering they lived by their father's horrid example. "That's a shame, I would've liked to have seen that."