sixthiterationlogs | let the games begin

Entry tags:

let the games begin

WHO: Annie Cresta
WHERE: Fountain (other locations added as needed)
WHEN: Afternoon, 2nd September - All threads take place before Finnick's
OPEN TO: Everyone!
WARNINGS: Anxiety, panic attack
STATUS: Open

Annie doesn't stop to think until she's burst through the surface.

She's been tossed into water before - yes, even fast asleep - and she's from District Four, water is as natural to her as the land. She doesn't waste time on what, where, how, she just swims up. Gasps. Ducks underneath the surface again.

Now she thinks.

She's in a... Pool? No, a fountain, if she swims down and looks up, she can see the central pillar. But how? She knows all the fountains in City One. And that's where she'd been, she'd been in City One, District Four, but she'd been wearing a skirt, a waistcoat, light shoes. Now, Annie twists around in the water and she can see white. White trousers, white shirt. Brown boots. Black straps of a backpack.

It looks like a uniform. A tribute's uniform.

Annie doesn't leave the fountain. Not yet. She takes what breathes she needs, and then swims back down. She's safe in water. She knows how to swim, and this pool is, what, thirty feet across. She can swim and she needs to think.

But thinking doesn't help. Is this the Quarter Quell? Is it? Uniform, a strange entry, but she doesn't remember anything and when she looked out, briefly, it's just a park. There's no Cornucopia. No bloodbath. No screams no weapons no fighting, it's peaceful. But is that part of it? Not Snow's style, she doesn't think, and not Heavensbee. It makes no sense to change everything up, not when the bloodbath is so fucking useful.

But what else is it?

It's then that Annie notices her joints locking up, her chest feeling compressed. P a n i c setting in because no, no, no, no, oh no, she can't do this again, she can't she can't she can't. She can't be in an arena she can't be in the Games she just can't.

Her breath starting to choke her, Annie comes up to the surface again, but she doesn't get out. She doesn't trust herself to run. Instead, she backs up, all the way up against the stone spout in the centre of the fountain. There, she clings to it, and stares out, and tries not to scream.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Finnick knows the value of intelligence. There is no one single way to survive in the arena, but knowing what is happening is very rarely a waste of effort. Not that he's going back into town: no, he has a couple of knives stashed in his backpack, taken from the kitchen of one of the abandoned and run-down houses and now he's watching the edges of the town along one of the paths. There are people here, certainly, but he's seen no evidence of how many of them there are, so he's watching to see if any of them come out to the forest.

Finnick's vantage point is up a sturdy tree, with a good view of the houses in the distance and the approach to the wild. Soon, he'll have to keep walking, move out into the woods to find a spot to stay for the night, but there's still plenty of daylight left.

He wants to make sure he's not setting up on a thoroughfare first.

He's not looking for anyone he knows; so far, there have been no other victors he's seen here in this strange arena, despite Snow's announcement. But when he sees the figure running along the path, headed straight for the woods, his heart seems to stop. His breath does stop. No. No no no no no.

This had been what he'd been terrified of when Snow made his announcement. What he'd cried to Mags about. What he'd wanted, above all else, to avoid. He doesn't know the bright white clothing, but he knows the head of flaming red hair. He knows the compact stance, the direct way of moving. He knows her.

"Annie!"

Finnick slips down the trunk, moves out onto a branch, and holds himself out until he can drop, jumping down from the tree.

"Annie, stop!"

If there is one thing in this world which can cut through her panic, it's this voice. This voice, spoken by this man. If she's capable if hearing anything, of comprehending through panic and hysterical fit, it's the voice of Finnick Odair saying her name.

She doesn't stop, she can't stop, not until she's off the path (which'd been a risk, a calculated risk, a path means she can move faster even as it's a set up for ambush for being followed for being spotted), in the thick foliage, and then only then only then can she sway, come to a stop, put her hand against a tree.

"Finnick?"

There, there he is. In red. Red pants, mostly-white undershirt, and part of her wants to giggle because wow, he'd hate that colour combination, wouldn't he?

But mostly, she's so torn between wanting to throw herself at him and scream that all she can do is stare, shake her head, clutch her hair because no, no, oh no.

"Why, why are you here you shouldn't be here, you should be safe."

This is a nightmare. Everything that had gone snap in his mind when he'd heard Snow's words, that had made him slip out of the moment of reality as surely as Annie sometimes does, a fixed shocked stare into the distance while Annie had broken into hysterics. It hadn't been himself he'd been scared for. It had been Annie. Annie who can't fight, who'd survived through a combination of skill and incredible luck at what had happened to her arena.

He'd known, as soon as he'd thought about the implications, that he'd wind up in the Quarter Quell arena, either reaped or volunteered, because someone would have to protect Katniss. But there's no sign of Katniss, no other victor, and he'd hoped, he'd hoped, that meant none of his friends were here with him.

This is so much worse. He could have handled anything but Annie.

It only takes a moment for the reflection of his own thoughts to cloud over Annie's face as she stares at him. He can see it, see that terrible fear that he knows so well even before she gives it voice.

"Shh, shh, shh." He hurries through the undergrowth to where she's standing, and he's shaking his head, too, trying to tell her not to worry, not to be afraid, but of course he can't say anything to her, can't kiss her hair and tell her it will all be all right, because he can't be her lover here. They're being watched: whatever else is different from their expectations, that's never going to be changed.

That's what the Games are about.

So he can't kiss her. He can, though, wrap an arm around her like he'd done so many times in public on her victory tour. He can be her friend, her protector.

That's what they'll all expect, out there.

"Can't," she gasps, "I can't, I can't do this, I'm sorry, but I can't do this I can't and I'll just get you killed and I can't, I can't, Finnick-" but he's hugging her anyway. Pulling her close, wrapping one of his arms around her, murmuring gently to her.

He doesn't kiss her head.

Even as she cries and tries not to scream, she recognizes that. That he doesn't kiss her head.

For a moment, she's confused. Then-

Yes.

It's an arena.

An arena.

Cameras and public and he can't be in love with her, they aren't lovers, they aren't promised to each other as much as any married couple here.

"You're my best friend," Annie whispers, between the tears. To show she understands. To clarify to the viewers. To say whatever she can to the love of her life, through the accepted words.

"Yes," he tells her. "Yes you can. You did it before, I knew you could then and I know you can now."

Don't let them think too much about what they saw in her Games. Don't let them think that they'd all dismissed her, written her off as dead because they'd seen her break. He'd persuaded her sponsors to believe in her, to put money behind that belief, and he's going to do it again, even if he doesn't understand what's happening, how they're here, why they're here when the last thing he remembers is weeks from the Quell.

He can chance tightening his arm around her, his fingers pressing into her side, wishing he could do more. He can never stand to see her cry, but worst of all is her panic, when she can't think straight, when sometimes even he can't reach through to her. He hopes he can now, because there are so many things he can't do. He can't kiss her, he can't tell her that he loves her, he can't do anything that might show he's her lover.

He's hoping she'll remember that through her fear, and when she whispers that he's her best friend, it's a reassurance. She will. And she'll understand. Understand, and know that there's so much more he's wishing he could tell her.

"We're going to do this together."

She can't she can't she can't it nearly destroyed her last time she can't she can't she can't can't can't can't can't!

But he's using that voice on her. The one where he lines up all his charisma and conviction and blasts it at someone, and even though she's known him since they were tiny dock brats, it still works on her. Particularly when she's like this, grasping for a lifeline, any lifeline.

She still wants to scream, though. Scream and let go, or at least sit down and sob.

But she's a Career. She's survived. She's got enough training to cling to what he's giving her, at least for now.

"All right. We'd better. We'd better going, then. Kinda lingered here for a bit."

Near the fountain. Near the other people.

And she just wants to get away.

Edited 2016-09-07 09:40 (UTC)

It doesn't always work, trying to reassure her out of her fears. It depends how badly she's panicking, how much attention she can pay to him, how much of what he's saying she can actually let herself believe. But she's got him with her this time, not just watching and desperately trying to get her money for gifts. This time, they can strategize together, they can talk through all this strangeness, they can stand with each other and he can physically protect her. He's here, he's here, and an ally seems a hopelessly insufficient word for what he'd do to support and protect her, but it's the only word the Games allows for it.

And it's with her protection in mind that when she starts to speak again, he nods, turning his head to look back past them towards the path and the village.

"Okay." He gestures off to one side of the path.

"I explored out past one of the other paths earlier. There's a river that runs past the village. If we head north, we can probably find somewhere upstream to set up camp for the night."

He pulls back enough to give Annie some space, some sense of independence.

"What do you think?"

The rest of their situation, they can sort out on the way. It's getting late for them to still be here if they want to make much progress into the woods.

They'd both wound up alone in their games. Finnick by choice, by strategy, Annie by circumstance and breakdown and flight. But they are Careers-trained and allies by choice, and they work well together. Different talents complementing each other and similar talents enhancing.

She doesn't want him to die.

She doesn't. She couldn't stand it. But there's only one victo-

(Except for the 74th Hunger Games, and that's an idea, she'll need to think, she'll need to, she knows the games, not many people know the games like she does, she'll get this. She will.)

"It's a sound idea. We should go."

He knows her, he knows not to take offence the times she's short, when she's just trying to hang on and politeness is hard.

And it's a good idea. Upstream, but not too close to the river or any water source.

It's a good thing they are both active people, built for endurance, really.

It's working, at least a little, his attempt to speak to the cool practicality that's never too far behind the surface of Annie's storms of emotion. It's working enough to team up, like they'd been trained to do, even if they were never going to be in the Games together because it's the oldest Careers who go and he's older than her by nearly a year. It's the same training, the same analytics, that slip them into the same mode of thinking.

And so Finnick leads, staring up at the sun for a few moments to get a sense of the direction, and starts off through the edges of the woods, never too far from the village on his right, but far enough away to be out of the danger of so many people.

"What did you get in your backpack?" he asks, softly, once they're far enough from the path they'd left to be safe talking. "Any supplies?"

The questions are both practical and pointed: the longer she stays focused on strategy, the better, as far as he can guess. Not that he's ever seen Annie in an arena situation since the dam broke and all Panem said she went crazy. But he's working on what he knows, and he knows Annie, in all her glass-delicate steel-strong beauty.

It's hard keeping her awareness to the right level. Not concentrating on the little things like left foot right left right or avoiding roots in the ground, not spiralling out past the foliage to what mutts might be in this arena, what did the red-garbed man mean back at the fountain, I'm in an arena I'm in an arena I'm in an arena. It's hard and it's exhausting, and she's trying so hard to be aware that she doesn't notice Finnick's question at first.

Oh.

Right.

They can maybe talk, now.

"I didn't look. Just ran."

He's leading, so he can't look at her, but she lifts her head anyway.

"It feels heavy, something's there. What did you get?"

The stress shows less obviously in Finnick. He takes the lead as they skirt around the edge of the village, moving deep enough into the woods to be safe before he checks the sun and then swings around to the north-east. But as they progress, he reaches around to his backpack and retrieves a knife, one of the spoils of his raid on the village.

He holds it tight in his hand, ready to fight, and that's the most apparent sign of his fear. The way his body tenses is less visible, though Annie might see it in the way he holds himself if she weren't trying so hard to hold herself together.

He glances back over his shoulder at her for a moment, flashes a brief smile.

"It's okay." He pauses as he shifts his attention back to their way through the scrub ahead of them. "Not much. Spare clothes."

It's a stupid sort of thing to give someone, just like he'd thought when he'd seen the skirt and blouse Kate Kelly had been wearing. "I got a container for water and some knives from the village, though."

"Clothes," Annie repeats, a little disbelievingly. She tries, though. Tries to see a reason for it. As if for some reason, some strange unfathomable reason, Finnick hasn't said, cold-weather clothes. Or rain-proof clothes. Or any other reason why they might require a change.

"What... kind of clothes?"

Her lover - but, no, she can't think of him like that, it's all Friend and Ally - at least is making sense. He's the only thing or person that is. Water container. Knives.

Knives make her feel sick, but they'll need something. They will.

He doesn't understand the clothes, not most of them. The coat, the warm underwear, yes, and that's a hint that the weather here is going to get nastier, perhaps with freezing cold nights. (The only warning tributes get about what their arena will be like comes from the clothes they're given, and the combination of heavy boots and a coat isn't promising.)

The other stuff, though, that was just strange.

"Overalls, underwear and socks, a hat. Winter coat, thick socks and long underwear, so I guess we're in for some cold nights."

There's a hint of a question in his voice, and he shrugs before chancing another look at her. Good. She looks more thoughtful than panicky, and that's what they need right now. He could use her perspective on this, because nothing is making sense to him.

This is fine. This is familiar. She can pretend they are just... They are just going for walk. Inland. Just ignore that the humidity isn't the same, that the trees are wrong, that the smells and tastes aren't right. It's fine.

One step, another step. Left foot and right. Left foot and right, or did she have it the other way before?

"Enough clothing for snow?" she asks then, thinking of the games in the tundra. Thinking of arenas and their weather surprises.

This forest would look so pretty, dusted with snow. That is relevant, when thinking about the Gamemakers.

"With these clothes?" he asks, his voice a little dubious. "I don't think so."

It's a good question. Finnick's never the one who gets to see the clothes the tributes are put in before their grand unveiling in the arena. He's not the one who has to make these guesses with nothing else to rely on. That's the stylists. By the time he's seen the tributes' uniforms, something of the arena is obvious.

"Unless they plan on trying to freeze us out."

He continues on without speaking for a few steps, until he has to stop because his path is blocked by some sort of heavy brush.

"What do you think?" he asks. "Even with long underwear I don't think a coat's enough to make these clothes work in snow."

He doesn't sound certain, though.

It looked a peaceful death, on the screen. Freezing to death. Just... go to sleep. Never wake up. As far as deaths in the arena go, anyway, which is why she can simply shrug, contemplate it, muse a little while there's hysteria still bubbling in her veins.

"It's an idea, anyway," is what Annie actually says. "There are the houses. And other tributes. Drive us together, fight over shelter and resources.

Snow doesn't have to last long, either. But.

He said that they were living there. The others. The man I met at the fountain."

No, it doesn't take long for a sharp change in the weather to do what the Gamemakers want it to. Freeze or drown or dehydrate the weakest of the tributes, drive the others to whatever resources is most needed: shelter, dry land, water supplies. It's one of the simplest pieces of analysis taught to the Careers: learn when you're being manipulated.

"They wouldn't give it to us for no reason."

It's what they'll tell themselves, for now. The tributes' uniforms are usually adapted to the environment of the arena, and with such a plain, uninformative uniform, they need to take whatever hints they have.

"Expect us to be doing a lot of walking, too."

That is, though, just talking for the sake of talking, really: surely Annie's already drawn the same conclusion about their boots. What she says next, though, is the interesting thing.

Finnick frowns in thought as he starts to edge around the tangled undergrowth that had blocked the approximate path he'd been taking.

"Explains why there were so many people around in the village."

The path continues, and Finnick glances up to check the direction against the sun before he sets off along it again, gesturing for Annie to follow him.

"They don't seem very worried about leaving themselves open to attack."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

let the games begin

AFTER EVERYONE ELSE

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject