sixthiterationlogs | ψ see the vultures circling, dark clouds

WHO: Finnick Odair
WHERE: House 57
WHEN: 17 December
OPEN TO: Locked to Annie Cresta-Odair
WARNINGS: References to sexual assault. Probable mentions of anxiety, depression, coercion, repressive dictatorial nonsense

The letter is still sitting accusingly where they'd left it. Hidden it, really, but they both know it's there, and it's hung over them in the days since it arrived. There's been no sign of vengeance from the Gamemakers, despite Annie's insistence that she can't, won't, do what she's been ordered. She still refuses to hurt Finnick, the only person he knows she has the confidence to fight, and that leaves him unable to persuade her to act, and that means openly disobeying their captors.

It makes Finnick's sense of danger itch at his back, like he's being watched from across a room and doesn't know by whom. He'd taken up with the rebellion, he'd chosen Annie for a lover, he'd stolen some of the most valuable information in all of Panem, but he'd done it all in secret, kept his truths confined to his mind while his lies did exactly as he was told. He's broken the rules of that old life, but he and Annie have done their best to comply with what they can work out about the rules of this place. It's built-in in Panem, the fear of breaking the Capitol's rules, and it's ground into the victors over and over again by personal attention.

It's made Annie worried, too, more prone to her lapses of concentration, sometimes working hard on cleaning the house until she can't let herself think, sometimes sitting out with the birds and letting them keep her company. That's what she's doing now, Finnick guesses as he approaches from the village; there's no sign of the birds and no Annie, and that usually means she's taken them out for their walk and they'll be down by the river.

He heads for the kitchen for some water, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a chair in the living room as he passes through. He's about to start undoing his scarf when he sees the letter.

At first, he thinks it's the one he's already seen, brought out by Annie for some reason. Either that, or her nerves had frayed enough to drive her to destruction, to tear the thing up or throw it in the fire, and it's been replaced, just like Beverly Crusher's had been.

When he gets closer, though, he can see it's his name on the envelope, and his skin crawls, the way it does at the smell of roses or the touch of a clammy too-eager hand on his naked skin. But his hand remains perfectly steady as he picks up the letter and breaks the seal.

It says exactly the same thing Annie's had, just with his name replacing hers, and he glares at it, lips pressed tight together as he folds the letter back into its envelope.

They shouldn't be surprised.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It'd been a jittery Annie who left to walk the birds. Jittery, jumpy, but stubborn: she had, actually, gone out when all she wanted to do was curl in a ball and shake. The Annie who walks back in is different. She'd startled so much on her walk that her nerves have entirely given up. She's afraid, she's so afraid and so tired that currently, she doesn't feel anything at all.

She quite likes this state, really. It means she can think. The cost is awful, but she's not thinking about it.

It means that when she sees Finnick, and Finnick frowning and upset, she just tilts her head a little. She cares, of course she does, she loves him. But emotions have been frayed into nothing and all that is left is a calculating logic.

"Did... did you get a letter, too?" she asks. "Or, or has something else happened?"

This changes things, changes the balance of their calculations of risks and benefits, things they'd talked about based on the letter going to Annie. Finnick doesn't have the same disjoint between his training and action that Annie does. He'd been prepared to fight for Katniss Everdeen in the Quarter Quell, and he'd long ago decided that if he had to, he'd kill for Annie. He'd been prepared to do just that, here, if he'd had to. But if he does what the Gamemakers want and she doesn't, that leaves him in their favor and her out of it, and he can't stand that thought.

He hasn't even decided if he wants to tell her about the letter, and there she is, accompanied by the sounds of the geese settling back in outside. He hasn't noticed, until now, when she's here and it's too late to hide the letter or compose his features.

At least she doesn't look upset, though disconnected is hardly much better.

He can't really hide the truth from her now, though, so he nods.

"A letter. Just like yours."

She's not sure if she expected this or not. She'd thought about the possibility, of course. It'd be a play with some interesting and expected fallout, for the Gamemakers and any audience. Same choice, but with a bit of a weight of what to do with your arena partner. Spouse, in this case, which would be so delicious wouldn't it. On the other hand, putting her, the weaker of the two, in danger while leaving Finnick, the stronger without a letter could be interesting, too. Let him twist and swing as they try and work out what they should, could, would do. Which is still the same question now. Just...

Different situation now. Fuck the Gamemakers, honestly.

"Well, shit," is her helpful comment, and she walks over to perch herself on the kitchen table. She's not sure if she wants to touch Finnick or not, but she's in reach now if he wants to.

"What do you want to do?"

"I could do it."

Easy enough to say, but his confidence isn't pure bravado. He's been making assessments on the other people here since he arrived, which of them he could take on if it came to a fight, which ones might have an edge on him, how it might play out if the truce between them all dissolved. He hasn't been training much here, but he's still as fit as he was, and that many years of muscle memory takes a long time to fade.

But in the scenarios he'd come up with, it had always been to protect Annie, because the situation here had broken down. He'd told himself he wouldn't be the one to break the truce, and that's what they're asking. More than that, though, so much more. They're asking him to leave Annie to danger and protect himself, after years of selling his body to keep her safe from Snow's punishments.

His head tilts to one side a little, his gaze distant, disconnected in a way that's more common with Annie than Finnick.

"Do what they want myself when you won't."

That stings, a little. Dully. It would have stung, if her emotions were operating as normal. But they aren't, so all that's left is the awareness that his statement would have hurt, could be seen as a dig against her stubbornness. Stubbornness, cowardice, because currently the thought of how the village might turn on her terrifies her more than the Gamemakers. Because Finnick comes back from the Capitol a mess that she has to put back together, and she's the whip they use to keep him in line.

"If you're that concerned maybe we could have a drawn out screaming match," Annie offers, a sharp edge to her voice. Maybe an emotional hurt would cover it and boy oh boy, could they tear each other to pieces when they get into it.

Which isn't good for arenas, although it'd make the spectators laugh.

"Beverly said nothing happened to her, right? And anyway, Clint offered to be hurt. You could punch him, or take a stick to him. Though not his hands," she adds after a pause. "He's a good archer, that's useful."

"I thought you didn't want to hurt me."

She'd fired up at the mere mention of it, I won't, I won't, repeated like some sort of personal code -- which he supposes it is. Except he's hurt himself to protect her every time he goes to the Capitol, hurt himself in far worse ways than anything she could do to him physically, with all her training. He has the advantage in brute strength and size over her, and he knows it, not because he gives any thought to trying to fight her, but because they train together, because he's the one who takes the responsiibility for protecting the two of them, and not just because she doesn't like hurting people anymore.

She'd do worse damage to him with words than with her body. Injuries heal. The things they could say to each other in the sort of fight she's talking about might not.

"You think I should go after him, do what they want for myself and gamble you on Beverly's experience."

His voice is controlled, the way it is when he wants to keep his feelings out of sight. It's not difficult to tell, though, that he doesn't like the idea: Annie knows him well enough to recognize the way he chooses his words so neutrally.

To an outsider, it would appear as if she ignores him. She doesn't reply, just moves from perching on the table to sitting at a chair, all proper. She's thinking. She's trying to think, although part of her wishes that she could just have a nap and deal with this and Finnick later. When she has the energy and can predict her own reactions better.

But that'd be too much, that'd let them both simmer, and she knows from bitter experience that is bad for both of them.

"I want to know what happens if I say no," Annie says, finally. "If someone says no. We don't have a good understanding here of what the rules are. Or the consequences. I, if... If we're to be afraid, if we're to do awful things. I want to know why.

And I think you... You should do what makes you feel safer."

Finnick doesn't entirely consider it an awful thing that the Gamemakers are asking. It's less than would be asked of him in a real arena, and there aren't children here, not many at least, though a few might be at the upper age of the tributes. He'd done worse as a child, signed up to do worse for the rebellion, though everyone here is a victim of what's been done to them, as far as he can tell, which means none of them deserve it, but it's not about what they deserve. Not when it comes down to survival.

"Is it safer to act and risk damaging the truce, or to leave it and let them do what they want."

Finnick's voice has that same controlled tone, and though it really is a question, he says it more as a statement of fact, repeating back to Annie the message he's getting from her words.

He does want to know her answer, though. He can be impetuous in the heat of action, formulating tactics on the spot, but there's a part of him that wants to think things through, try to see the potential dangers, because that's the only way he's had of protecting himself against the Capitol. His only insurance.

"I couldn't stand it if something happened to you," he says, more to Annie's shoulder to her face. "Because you didn't want to hurt me."

ψ see the vultures circling, dark clouds | CLOSED

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