Chapter Text
Saturday, 10 November 1962 — Seven years, three months, and fourteen days into Operation Strix. Also, six days after "Operation Scarlet Salmon"—an unofficial mission by Anya Forger that involved her intentional arrest & torture to distract the SSS (not that Twilight had the slightest clue that's what actually happened)
"How was your date?"
Loid didn't need to ask that. Anya's smile told him everything he needed to know as Damian held the door to their apartment open for her.
"Amazing! I couldn't believe it when Bondma–"
"Shh!" Damian put a finger over her lips. "Part of the deal with bribing them to show the new movie to us early was that you wouldn't leak anything!" he hissed.
"Right. Sorry, Sy-on."
Plan B is going swimmin–Shut the hell up about Plan B!
"Did you get dinner while you're out or would you like to join us, Damian?"
Anya spoke before Damian had a chance. "You think I'd let him miss a chance at your Hamburg steak?"
"How'd you know we were going to have it tonight?"
"Checked the fridge."
Of course. Ever the investigator, my Anya.
Damian awkwardly ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, uh, if it wouldn't be a burden–"
"You're never a burden, you're family!" Yor exclaimed.
Damian's face immediately burned red.
"You know you're going to have to feed me, right?" Anya held up her hands, showing off the splints on all ten of her fingers.
If it was possible, Damian blushed even harder.
Despite the many years of acquaintanceship and friendship between Damian and his daughter, Twilight hadn't had many chances to witness the two in a casual situation—as opposed to at an elite event they were both attending against their will.
The two were remarkably close, despite their past animosity. Within a single day of dating, they seemed to have already surpassed the need for verbal communication, having entire conversations through nothing but glances at one another. It reminded Twilight of how easily he and Yor could communicate as well—but even that took years of cohabitation to develop.
Yor had even managed to talk Damian (and Professor Henderson over the phone) into staying the night, rather than trying to go back to Eden in the rain which had began to pour merciless while they ate.
"Say ahhh–hey!" Damian was interrupted as Anya bit down on the fork before he was ready. "Did your parents never teach you manners?"
"I did," Loid sighed. "She chose to ignore me."
"Manners are a social construct, my silly Sy-on." Anya punctuated her statement by pressing her nose against his with a giggle. Damian's face burned once more.
Watching the two, Loid smiled to himself. Although he was well aware of the 'shotgun dad' stereotype (Byron Blackbell being a prime example with his frequent promises to send a battalion of tanks after any boy who tried to date Becky), Loid didn't understand it in the slightest. Thanks to Damian, Anya was smiling in spite of her injuries; that was all anyone could ask for after the absolute hell she'd been put through the last week.
And now, Twilight needed to put her through hell again. He didn't look forward to it, but one glance to Anya's head told him it was a necessary evil.
"Anya?"
"Papa," she responded from the couch where Damian was draping a blanket over her.
"Before you get too cozy, I think you should take a shower. You haven't washed your hair in a week and a half."
"Papa!" Anya's brow furrowed in minor offense at her hygiene being called out in front of her boyfriend. "I can't exactly do it when my fingers are all broken." She crossed her bandaged arms in front of her with a pout.
And that's the problem. Anya doesn't let anyone wash her hair. Never has. Not me, not Yor, not Becky. She does it herself.
Yor looked up from the dishes she was washing. "Would you like help from me or Loid?"
Anya flinched, her eyes widened in what was unmistakably fear. "No! Nope, no thank you, not at all–"
I've always assumed her stubborn hair-washing independence was an attempt to hide her scars, the way she never let anyone look at her scalp. But I've referenced her surgery to her before! She knows that I know!
"It'll be a month or two before you can use your fingers again," Loid said in exasperation. "I sincerely hope you're not planning on letting your hair go two months without a wash?"
Anya began to hyperventilate, her entire body shaking. Before long, tears started to form in her eyes, something Twilight was immensely weak to. "But– I... uhm, uh– I..." She looked around in a panic, her eyes landing on Damian. "C–Can Damian do it?"
"Huh?! What? Me?" Damian gestured to himself, his hand shaking and his face rapidly heating up. "You want me to give you a shower? Anya, are you crazy? We've been together for like, one day!"
She's more comfortable letting him through her hair than me? I don't understand teenagers.
"P–P–P–Pl–Please? I–" Words failed her and Anya began bawling.
Just like Twilight, Damian found himself immensely weak to Anya's tears. "Well, I, uh– if it's okay with Pops and all–"
Loid and Yor shared a glance, and nodded. "Just keep the door open."
Anya let out a sigh of relief.
"Alright, Stubby. Let's get that hair of yours washed."
Twilight's hands shook as he dried the dishes Yor had just finished washing, the sink's running water accompanied by that of the shower.
What the hell was that? Anya freaked out over the idea of her parents washing her hair, even more than she did about getting surgery last Sunday! That is utterly illogical. She knows that I know she had brain surgery—that's not what she's hiding. It doesn't make any sense. I suppose she might not even be hiding anything, and it's just a trauma response to other people touching her head—but she'll let Damian do it? Anya... what happened to you?
"What was that about?" Yor's question—exactly what was on Twilight's mind—was filled with concern for her daughter.
I don't know. I don't know a damn thing.
Twilight looked at his hands. He looked at the towel he was holding. He looked up, taking in the sight of his apartment. He looked at the window, rain streaking down the glass. He looked at where his daughter and her boyfriend were taking a shower. He turned to his left and looked at his wife.
"Loid?"
"I don't know, Yor. I don't know why she's scared of needles, or hospitals, or doctors, or haircuts. I have my suspicions, of course, but I just don't know. And it hurts. I want to help my daughter but I can't. She doesn't trust me enough to tell me what happened to her."
"You don't know? But I thought you said–"
"I lied, Yor." The truth left his lips before he could stop it. "She's adopted."
Yor's eyes widened. "Sh–She is?"
"Thursday, July 28th," Twilight provided. "1955."
Yor gasped. "But that's–"
"Six days before we met you, yes."
"But Ashe–"
"Was probably a wonderful woman. I never had the pleasure of meeting her."
Five seconds of tense silence passed.
"Why didn't–" Yor's voice cracked, "–you tell me?"
"What was I supposed to tell you? When was I supposed to tell you?" Twilight rambled. "I wasn't going to say so in the tailor shop—I wasn't willing to risk it getting out that Anya is adopted; it would crush any chance at a future she might have. Once I knew we could trust you, I couldn't tell you without bringing up the question of why I didn't say it sooner." Twilight took one of her hands in his. "I'm so sorry, Yor. I should've have lied–"
"You were doing it for Anya?" Yor asked, with hope in her voice.
"Uhm, yes?"
"Then don't apologize. I've done far worse things for Anya's sake."
Highly unlikely it's anything worse than what I've done for Operation Strix.
"But…" Yor sighed. "I'd like to at least know the truth. Why did you adopt her?"
As a part of my mission? No. That's not why. I could've infiltrate Eden as a teacher, rather than a parent. On only the second day of the mission I was going to send her back to alleviate my guilt from using her. But I didn't, because…
"…because she needed a father."
Yor smiled at him. A sweet, innocent smile utterly undeserving of all the lies he'd told her. All the lies he was going to tell her. "I think you're doing an amazing job, Loid."
"I try." Twilight's head hung low. "But I just don't know how to help her with hospitals."
"She won't tell you?"
Twilight shook his head. "I have my theory; I think she had brain cancer. It explains why she never gets her hair cut, why she's immunocompromised, why there's metal in her skull, and why she's scared of needles—she thinks they'll make her feel horrible like the chemotherapy drugs did. On top of that, I've seen the surgery scars under her hair, but based off her reactions I'm almost positive she was a victim of horrific malpractice. I think they did the surgery while she was awake, didn't numb her at all, and claimed it was anesthesia."
Yor gasped.
"But again, I just don't know. I've tried to breach the subject with her and she shuts me down every time. I have no idea why she freaked out about the idea of someone else washing her hair, and I have no idea why she's okay with Damian doing it. I don't know what Anya went through, I don't know why she gets nosebleeds as often as she does, I don't know how she ended up in that godforsaken orphanage, I don't even know how Ashe died!" Twilight ranted. "Ignorance isn't bliss."
Yor's jaw fell. "Everything you've said about Ashe–"
"Was something I heard secondhand from either her daughter or her mother."
"So Sylvia actually is–"
"Anya's grandmother, yes."
I think Handler would call me crazy if I asked her and was wrong, but I have a suspicion. That she's actually Anya's grandmother—biologically. The resemblance is uncanny, there's the fact that Anya opens up to Handler and Handler alone about her mother, and the fact that Handler had a five year old daughter who went missing at the start of the war—the same age Anya's mother would have been.
"But all either of us know about what happened to Ashe is that she disappeared at the start of the war, and her daughter appeared in an orphanage twenty-one years later. I'm not about to reignite Anya's trauma by asking what happened in between just to sate my own curiosity."
Twilight suddenly found himself enveloped in a bone-breakingly tight hug.
"I know you don't think so, but you're a really good father for her. The best she's ever had."
"That's not a very high bar, Yor."
"It's not?"
Twilight scoffed. "It means I'm better than Wyatt Williams, Louis Levski, Richard Roche, and Kevin Klein—all of whom sent her back to the orphanage within a month."
Yor opened her mouth to say something but he continued.
"It means I'm better than her biological father, who I can only assume to be the one to dump her in the first place—her orphanage records were so sparse, it was as if she was placed there illegally by someone looking to get rid of her."
"Get rid of–"
"It's clear that Anya has memories of her mother's death, which leaves me to believe it was her father. I don't–" Twilight clenched his fist. "I don't know why anyone would want to get rid of her; all I can think of is that he didn't want to deal with a sick daughter, so he just… left her."
"I'll kill him."
Twilight flinched; whether from his wife's bloodlust or the thunder that shook the apartment at that moment, he didn't know. Likely the latter, given he couldn't help but share her sentiment.
The storm outside had picked up significantly, thunder shaking the apartment a few times a minute, and with it Loid realized another thing about his daughter.
She was terrified of lightning. He couldn't see her, but the whimpers that followed each strike were audible through her bedroom wall (where she had retreated and dragged Damian with her to hide out the storm). Twilight already knew about her fear—he'd witnessed Anya flinching around lightning before—but with his mind already on the topic of Anya's trauma, he couldn't help but wonder why.
I understand children being afraid of thunder, but she's a teenager. I'm not sure where this fear comes from—I can't think of any remotely medical reason for this—but I can't exactly blame her. Sounds too similar to mortar blasts for my liking.
His thoughts were interrutped when the door to the apartment opened, revealing a certain scruffy-headed individual with a grocery bag in his hand.
"Hey, Anya, I got–" Franky's greeting was cut off when he found himself in a very tight hug. "Ow! Hey, Yor, that–"
"Thank you so much, Franky…"
"Uh, Yor?"
"You… you forged Anya's adoption papers, didn't you?"
"No– uh– a friend of– ow– mine did it– that hurts– you can– thank the Quill for– doing it– ow!–unhand me already–"
"Sorry!"
Yor took a step back as Franky realized the implications of what she'd said. "Hold on, Loid finally coughed up the truth? I knew he had it in him! I'm proud of you, man." He slapped Loid on the back with his free hand.
Wait. Yor knows that Franky has the capabilities to forge things–
"Franky, you told Yor that–"
"I'm an informant, yeah. It came up the other day."
Well I'll be damned.
"I think all three of us know what it's like to work tough jobs like that. And yeah, I've pulled a lot of strings for Anya's sake. Kid deserves it, with all she's been through. Speaking of, that's why I'm here. I got a gift for her." Franky set the bag he was holding on the counter. "For all the bullshit she went through the other day."
You can say that again.
"Anya's in her room with Damian, but they might be asleep by now. I hope," Loid grumbled. "You know how she is with storms. I'm not really sure why she's so scared of them—I'm not sure about a lot of things with her, actually."
"Ah, yeah," Franky sighed. "Real enigma, your Anya." He turned to Yor. "I mean, 'course I did all sorts of digging when Loid here adopted the lil squirt, but there wasn't anything! I know Anya mysteriously appeared in an orphanage on June 19th, 1954. She got passed around like a hot potato between four families and two more orphanages before Loid picked her up a year later. That's it. Don't even know her birthday, although I'm reasonably sure it's sometime in the spring of 1950."
"1950–" Yor gasped. "So she's twelve and a half?"
I had a feeling that was true… "Explains why she's so small for her 'age'." Loid muttered. "I guess she really was just so desperate for a family that she was willing to lie about her age to make herself seem more appealing to adopters…" He sighed. "Now I feel like shit for forcing her through a tough school a grade ahead of where she should be."
"Don't feel too bad, Loidy-Boy. Don't forget she's at the top of her class in raw Stellas."
"Out of her one hundred and thirty-four Stellas, an entire twelve of them were academic. Not even nine percent," Twilight stated.
"Yeah, but she didn't flunk out!" Franky chuckled. "Means she's one smart cookie."
"If she gets two more bolts, she wi–" Loid stopped himself when he looked at Yor, who was frowning as if wanting to say something but unsure how to word it. "Yor?"
"Why'd you want to get Anya into Eden? You said it was her mother's dying wish, but that's, uh…"
Crap. "Yeah, I, uh, might've been lying about that…"
"To tug on your heartstrings and manipulate your sympathy, y'know?" Franky added oh-so-helpfully. "In all seriousness, It was Loid's wish. Not Ashe's."
WISE's wish, actually. "I only attended public schooling for four years before I lost my mother and my home." So much would be different. "I know how much of a difference education makes, so I wanted Anya to have the best she possibly could. I– I wanted to give Anya everything I couldn't have."
Yor smiled.
"Couldn't have said it better myself! Hell, that's why Mister Emotionless over here adopted in the first place!" Franky spitballed. "He was yapping about the effects of the war on the foster system, how there wasn't even room in the orphanages for him, so he ended up on the streets. And he was talkin' about how even though the war ended ages ago, the orphanages still have more kids than there are people willing to adopt. And I asked him why he didn't do anything about it. Y'know what he said, Yor?"
"What'd he say?"
"'I'm just one man, Franky. What could I possibly do?'"
Huh? I never said that!
"And I told him, he could save one orphan from the circumstances that turned him into the sort of emotionless loser he is today."
"Hey!"
"Okay, yeah, no, I didn't say that." Franky laughed. "I told him 'you could give one child a father.' So the next day, he did. Went to the most run down orphanage he could find and adopted the kid who was getting the least love. Forged himself a family made of orphans. Fitting of the name, isn't it?" He chuckled.
Handler thought she was being hilarious.
"Anyway, I can't stay too long, so I guess I can give the gift I was gonna give her to you and you can pass it on to her in the morning." Franky reached into the bag on the counter and pulled out a picture frame. It was twenty-one centimeters across and thirty centimeters tall, mostly made of silver, with the exception of the the many butterflies carved into the frame's edges; their wings were made of rose gold instead. Franky handed it to the couple.
Both gasped.
"Ashe Sherwood, circa 1952." Franky made eye contact with Twilight and mouthed, "Ashe Talton, actually. Daughter of Anna Talton, A.K.A. Sylvia Sherwood."
Holy shit.
It was a photograph taken at sunrise of a young woman with pink hair and green eyes, standing in a garden. The grass around her was spattered with dandelions and violets. She was smiling at the two-year-old girl in her arms, whose hair and eyes—transfixed on a yellow-and-black spotted butterfly on her finger—matched perfectly with her own. Both mother and daughter wore white hospital gowns, and had their hair pinned up in twin buns.
As Twilight analyzed the picture in his mind, he realized what he was looking at.
That's not a photograph. It's an illustration. An incredibly lifelike illustration.
Yor turned the frame over in her hands. A poem was inscribed on the back in intricate cursive.
Star light, star bright,
First star I see tonight;
I wish you may, I wish you might
Have the wish you wish tonight.
— Ag
"Real impressive, isn't it?" Franky smiled. "Felicity finished it up in just two days, with nothing but a tiny black and white photo to go off of. She did it for free, too—said she had a debt to repay to Anya."
"There's… a photo?" Yor mumbled. "A photo of Anya's mother?"
"Yep," Franky nodded. "The only one taken, to my knowledge."
A photo. So Ashe did spend a lot of time in a medical setting…
"How did you– how did you find it?" Yor asked, amazed.
"It's a long story," Franky chuckled, "and not mine to share."
Twilight frowned. "You know what happened to Anya's family?"
"I sure do."
Both parents' eyes widened.
"She'll tell you when she's ready," Franky told the couple. "Just give her time."
