every voice that cries inside my head
Kitty has no clothes, just the silver star of David in her hand. She balls the hand into a fist, feels the warmth extend from her palm as the metal finds its rest in the meaty part of her hand. One of the points has prickled her skin and the blood begins to flow. Kitty stays silent, she times the throbbing in her fist to the throbbing in her heart. Frantic.

"Now!" the cry leaves her, forced through the clenched jaw, and her knees buckle. She's almost on her hands and knees when her call echoes ahead of her, the last reverberation reaching her dulled senses as she rushes for the cover of the dark thick of pine trees. Kitty bounds over terrain, her limbs are on fire, fast and free, her muscles burn. She runs, faster, faster still, she jumps. Her body has remembered the bliss of flight. She laughs, descending into night. The engine of a starship reverberates in the distance...

...Anya lays her head on the edge of the bar, her eyes blurring as she peels back the label on the vodka bottle with a painted nail. She brings her hand up to the light. There is a scar there and she screws her eyes up tight, tries to will away the constellations, the galaxy that whizzes past her behind her dark lashes. Her hand fumbles for her phone. It's still dead. "Don't get used to this, Kitty," the name is like poison on her lips. Anya groans as she senses someone pull up a chair next to her.

"Space is: cold. Empty. Space is where you go to clear your head. It's where you go to appreciate your insignificance. Space is where you scream. Where you come to terms with your failures. Space is where you belong and where no one can look for you. Space is where you go when you lose your way. Space is home,"

"Very poetic, Kitty," comes the sleepy reply from Anya. "Do you think you could have used the word 'space' more times?" she is nursing a bottle of stoli and she is running out of patience. This split personality thing isn't cute. If she can just ride this out like last time, then things will be back to normal and she can get on with her life. It seems like wishful thinking. It always is.

"This isn't for you. It's for me. To remember," Kitty snaps, the pen is stiff in her hand as she writes tiny words on the napkin. She is at the end of her tether too, but she's got business here and she's not about to give up her position that easily.

"That you're crazy? You don't need to write that down, just take a look in the mirror," Anya laughs, the sound pushes up from her throat and out her nose. It's really a snort and she half-chokes on it.

"We," Kitty corrects, with the arch of a thick brow, pressing the back of the pen to her bottom lip, thinking. "The sooner you get used to this..."

"There's no we, psycho. There's me, and you and that thing... trying to kidnap my consciousness," Anya picks up the shot glass, motions toward the purple dragon by the girl's arm. Lockheed snarls back at her, then settles back against Kitty's side, closing his eyes to sleep. He snores. Loudly.

"I told you, we're all stronger if we work together," Kitty's eyes are wide, sincere and almost convincing. Almost. She draws a map. Then a small spaceship.

"No way, no how and no thanks. I have a life. I have a boyfriend!" Anya refills the shot glass, but doesn't meet Kitty's eyes as she watches the alcohol spill out.

"No, you don't," it's Kitty's turn to laugh, crossing her arms over her chest. "That was over a long time ago,"

"Oh yeah, I heard. You took a bullet for him, right?" Anya is vehement, absolute, downing another shot of the hot liquor, until it bubbles in her stomach like a caldera. "It's very romantic," she hiccups.

Kitty snarls. "I did. And if you're going to pull that card, I'm the one with the fianceeé," There's no ring on her finger, but Peter's proposal hadn't been exactly traditional.

"Oh, yeah, right. Scarface," Anya's nose scrunches up, her tongue lolling from her mouth as though she's about to be sick.

"Starlord!" Kitty corrects, breaking her veneer of cool, calm indifference to Anya's stubbornness. "You know him as Will,"

"Is that why you made me kiss him?" Anya's reply is punctuated by a burp. Neither quiet or lady-like. It makes her giggle. "Thanks for making me look like an idiot, by the way. Look. You and Piotr..."

"I don't want to hear that name,"

"What the hell is your problem? You're so fucking self-righteous! Haven't you ever made a mistake or are you always so fucking perfect? Newsflash, catnip! Nothing is perfect! Not life, not love, not anything. Whatever romance you think you're living --"

"Oh, you're an authority on romance now?" Kitty takes on an air that reads far too much like an agony aunt.

"I don't believe in romance," Anya grumbles and pours another shot and snatches the napkin away. She's running out of vodka.

"That's sad, Anya. And a lie," her voice is kind, but unwelcome to her host, who swats at the empty air in front of her.

"Don't patronise me, mind-melder! Just, get out!" she slams the bottle down against the kitchen counter angrily. Once, twice, three times. Bang. Bang. Bang.

"You're drunk," Kitty says matter-of-factly. Like a teacher's pet. Anya hates her so much.

"Of course I am!" Anya slurs, her cheeks are pink, are puffed out. The drink settles in her belly. Her whole body feels warm as her eyes dance over the scribbles on the napkin in front of her.

Kitty remarks casually. "I should take over,"

But Anya won't surrender. "Like hell you should!" she picks up the napkin, waving it in front of her face. Kitty sees a white flag.

"Go to sleep, Anya," Kitty's voice is soothing, like a balm. It has a hypnotic quality that makes Anya sway. Anya lets go of the bottle.

"Kitty, so help me --"

Kitty smiles and takes the napkin back. "до свидания, Anya,"