sixthiterationlogs | ψ don't you dare look out your window

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ψ don't you dare look out your window

WHO: Finnick Odair
WHERE: In the woods, then house #57, The Windemere
WHEN: September 28 - 30
OPEN TO: Annie Cresta
WARNINGS: References to anxiety likely
STATUS: Ongoing

At first, it's just rain. It's just rain, and Finnick and Annie huddle together under the woven-grass roof of the shelter in their current camp and try their best to keep dry. The lean-to they'd constructed out of grass mats, branches, and the vines that are the best they currently have for rope keeps out the sun, and Finnick had thought it would keep out the worst of rain. But he's wrong. What had looked waterproof proves not to stand up to the constant pelting downpour, and after several hours of some of the heaviest rain Finnick's ever seen, it's leaking.

On the second day, the rain tears a hole in their roof, and visibility's so poor that Finnick doesn't dare go far to find grass to patch it with. He tries to use some broad leaves, but with no way to fix them to the roof, there's little he can do but watch his attempts at repairs being washed away.

Everything they have that's not in their thankfully waterproof backpacks is soon soaked through, and as night falls, so does the temperature until they're both shivering, huddled together under their coats, which seem to have collected so much water they're twice or three times their usual weight.

The morning of the third day brings a little warmth, but it's also brought water into the clearing they're camped in. It must have flowed down from the canyon walls, Finnick thinks, but wherever it's come from, the water is now running past their campsite, shallow but fast, and not looking likely to abate any time soon.

When they hear the low sound of something crashing down the canyon walls in the distance, their situation is obvious: they can't stay where they are. It's hard even to talk with the rain pelting down so loudly, but there's not really much to discuss. It feels like another Gamemaker's trick, designed to drive the tributes together, away from the canyon walls and the river, and that means only one thing.

Driving them into the village.

Even if it is a trap, though, it's hard to see what else they can do. Face the threat from the village or the threat of the elements. So the two soaked and wretched victors pack up the few belongings they have in this place into their backpacks and head out for their perimeter of traps. There's little left to salvage, with some of their traps now under the shallow stream making its way down towards the river. It's hard to see well enough to recover their nets and snares, but they manage a couple before they give up and strike off to the north, towards the village.

It's late in the afternoon by the time they reach the outskirts of the settlement, where a few straggling houses cling to the southwestern path.

Finnick brushes a hand across his cheek. He's wearing his hat to keep the rain out of his eyes, but it's only helping a little.

"What do you think?"

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She feels bruised from the force of the rain. It's not an unknown sensation, she's lived for nearly five years on the coast of the Gulf of Panem, but wet season is warm, hot. This is cold and her cold skin feels brittle, almost as if it'll shatter under the force of the raindrops pelting down on her like small rocks. The only part of her which feels protected is the back of her neck, where her (mattered, tangled) hair is thick enough to shield.

The only upside, not including Finnick's company, is that her joints aren't hurting. Normally, with this kind of weather, she'd be in mild agony. Normally.

She's been thinking about that, while she's been too cold and sore to sleep.

By the third day, though, she's tired like she hasn't been since she was eighteen and in the middle of fishing season, and all she wants to do is sleep. She's dangerously tired. She's going to start making stupid mistakes. She's going to start hallucinating, and that's all they fucking need right now.

So the choice to leave, no matter driven by the promptings of the Gamemakers, is welcome. Shelter ahead, there's more than enough houses. The trick is finding an isolated one not already occupied, because the towners are strange. Some clumping some spreading out. Some with good vantage points, she's noticed through their spying.

It takes a moment to work out that Finnick's said something, another two to filter back to what, exactly, it was.

"Not this side," Annie manages to get out. "They know our last few camps have been on this side. Circle 'round, see what's on the other side?"

He has, of course, been thinking of Annie during all this. Annie, who's small and slender and whose joints hurt when they get cold from the damage she did to them by swimming until she was the last one floating during her Games. He's tried everything he can think of to keep the warm, especially to keep her warm, but he hasn't been able to, because they can't stay dry.

He's been more worried about her than himself since he got here.

Finnick's squinting through the sheets of rain so thick it almost looks solid as he waits for her to speak. He's about to ask again, not sure if she'd heard him or been too distracted, when she replies.

"Right," he says, raising his voice a little now, and nods. "Check out the roads to the north? There's some houses pretty far along there. If we can stay isolated there's less chance of them finding out where we've gone."

"There's another idea!" Annie says, bright as a lighthouse in a storm. "Could always go into one of the houses with smoke comin' out of the chimney and take 'em hostage until we warm up."

She's kidding.

Mostly.

She's just sick of being so cold and wet.

"The roads are a good idea. I think the ones to the north-east seemed more isolated?" If her memory is correct, anyway. It can be a tricky, unreliable thing, her mind.

"But there's enough undergrowth and all of that we should remain hidden."

"Ambush from out of the rain," he agrees, with a thoughtful tone like it's actually genuinely considering what she'd said. Even after the downpour, even shivering in the cold, her voice is as bright as a welcome home when he'd come in from a day helping out with the fishing and she's glad to see him. So he flashes her a grin just as brilliant, like she's come up with an incredible idea, even though he knows it's just a tease drawn out of cold and frustration and exhaustion.

"They won't expect that."

The important part, though, is what she then goes on to say. Finnick swipes again at the water pouring down the side of his face where it's running into his eyes.

"Think so. Don't think there are many people in that part of the settlement yet either."

That part is just as important.

"We should be able to keep just past the treeline until we're closer."

Friends, friends, they are just friends, and so long On Camera means she's tired of trying to find the line between friendship and love, tired of reacting accordingly. But she can grin back at him, right?

Right.

Well.

She's going to, anyway.

There. Done.

They make their steady way around the little settlement, not moving fast enough to make mistakes but not moving slow, either. They need to get in out of the rain, start to dry off. Make sure they aren't slow enough to get caught.

Any other rainy place, and it'd be easy to tell which houses were occupied. There'd be a glow from candle, or lamp, or fireplace, but apparently there are no lights here and the rain makes it nearly impossible to see smoke from chimneys. Still, there are hints of habitation, particularly after she and Finnick have spied on them for so long. A certain neatness of curtain and door, foliage trimmed just a bit. Paths beginning to be broken in. The occasional woof of a dog.

But the houses out where Finnick and Annie are aiming for, those are quiet, dark, cold.

The question is, which one do they pick?

Finnick's spent so long being in the public eye, always on camera, always in his polished persona of the Capitol's darling and plaything, that he's been able to slip into it here, force himself to think of Annie as a friend, an ally, nothing more. But he misses the time he spent with her back in the Victors' Village, where they knew they were being bugged but also knew if they were discreet in public they could cling to each other in private. He misses that. He misses it so much, and he's used to missing Annie, but not used to being with her and missing her all at the same time.

Here, there's no escape from the public eye, no tenuous unspoken agreement that they're allowed to be together so long as it's only where only the surveillance of the Capitol can see. In the arena, they're being watched wherever they are, even if they don't know where the cameras are. Shelter won't make any difference there, but at least they're together.

The trees provide them with some cover, the rain with even more. The occasional missteps that come from decreased visibility are compensated and camouflaged by the sound of the rain hitting all around them. It helps, too, when they're forced to move from the treeline closer in to the north-east path. They still keep as best they can to the undergrowth, but the closer they get to their target, the more exposed they become.

They pause when they get close enough to see the isolated little group of houses they've been making for. All of them look as empty as Finnick remembered, with no sign of repairs to battered wood, damaged roofs or unruly yards.

Finnick glances across at Annie, but there's no easily discernible preference to see on her face, just thought. The day is starting to grow colder now as the afternoon draws on, and that's not a good sign.

"What do you think of the closest one?" he asks, gesturing towards the building furthest along the path from the village, a two-storey blue-and-white place.

"It's the closest," comes the prompt reply. It's the closest and the chill is starting to settle into her bones. This is bad: they've been days out in the chilly rain, and the latter, dangerous stages of hypothermia are real possibilities.

But she needs to show that she can still think, if only to herself, so Annie continues.

"Two stories means we have additional vantage points, as well as more escape routes. More places to hide. Two chimneys." Two potential sources of warmth, if ever they risk a fire.

She tilts her head, and then walks around, shifting to see a different perspective.

"There, you see? Back window's broken. We can get in without breaking the door."

Muddy tracks are another problem, but they can deal with that.

He'd asked her so she could have a chance to express her opinions. It's often easy for Finnick to make decisions without asking her, but he does his best not to do that, because it's too easy. Too easy to tread on Annie's independence when it's so easy for her to stay silent.

Besides, he values her opinions. She's had the same strategic training as him, and always had a more analytical way of thinking. She sees flaws he misses: he knows it from the observations she makes each year after the Games.

"Weather like this, there shouldn't be anyone else around much. But it's isolated, so if there is, should be able to stop anyone noticing we're here."

There is more at stake than just the strategic, though. Annie's comment that it's the closest draws attention to just how cold she looks, with the water weighing down her hair and making her scrubs cling to her now-too-thin shoulders.

Finnick follows her to her new position, and nods when he sees the dark, broken patch on the window.

"I should be able to reach the lock," he says. "Assuming it's one you can open from the inside."

He peers out through the rain, turning his head to get as full a field of view as he can. It all looks deserted; anyone with any sense should be inside the houses they've already claimed after days of this weather.

"Cover for me while I go in?"

She doesn't dignify it with a response. She knows why he's asking: polite, checking in, for the cameras. But she's cold and miserable and so indulges in a brief moment of brattery. She looks at him, and huffs.

Where else would she be? What else would she be doing?

So she keeps watch: of the surroundings, of the house and the windows and the roof, of her lover (friend, friend, friend, remember friend) carefully unlocking the door and she tries to concentrate on here and now. Visualising some trap coming down and slicing off his arm, mangling him, biting him, killing him, isn't...

It just isn't helpful.

Once the door is open, she pads over, still keeping watch, knocks the mud off her boots as much as she can and joins him inside.

So far, no one's dead.

Edited 2016-10-13 04:06 (UTC)

They're playing allies. It's what allies do. They have to pretend to be allies, unused to working together, not habitual and opposite halves of each other's strategies. They don't live together, don't work together, don't understand each other so well that he knows when he goes out there she'll be watching, waiting behind him, ready to scream if there's any danger he doesn't see.

So he ignores the way she looks at him and creeps out into the rain, once again mentally cursing whatever idiot decided that red was a good color for him. He makes it, though, and under the shelter of the front porch there is at least some relief from the downpour. Water, though, is still running down his clothes, dripping into his face, pooling wherever he puts his feet as he creeps up to the door.

He does study it for traps, of course, though so many of the other inhabitants of the village seem to have taken up residence without encountering any traps.

Complacency, though, kills tributes every year.

There isn't a trap, beyond the fact that he has to take off his backpack and retrieve his coat to protect the bare skin of his arm from the edges of the broken glass in the window. It takes a bit of fiddling, but eventually he finds how to unlatch the door from the inside, and after a brief signal to Annie he slips in through the door, going first once again to fend off any traps.

Again, there aren't any. There isn't any light, either, except what's fighting through the clouds and the curtains to creep in through the windows and door. They are, though, both of them familiar with how to move about in the dark when a light could be a deadly locational beacon.

At least the daylight outside hadn't been so bright that their eyes are dazzled. Dim as it is, it doesn't take long for him to be able to make out enough shapes to start moving further in.

"Come on, let's get away from the door."

Another thing they know: how to spread out and explore without ever leaving their ally alone.

They're in a kitchen, that much is clear. A sturdy kitchen, not Capitol-fancy but not like she imagines the kitchens are in Districts Eleven or Twelve, either. There's a kitchen range, even. More immediately interesting are the three doors she can see. The first she tries, on her left, seems to open into a dining room, complete with furniture. It also has a window, and no traps when she cautiously looks through. Still, she lets the door shut and glancing over at Finnick, standing by the door on the right, near the third door directly in front of them.

Stairs, he's opened the door to. Stairs leading down, down, down.

"Cellar?" she asks.

Could be a trap. Could be sanctuary.

"Think so," he agrees. They're from District Four: they know about storm cellars and storage cellars, and basements. There's a dank smell rising up the stairs, a hint of damp added to the shut-in smell of the rest of the house.

"Could be worth seeing if it's defensible."

If they need to take shelter somewhere nobody will know they are, they could do much worse than a cellar. It's darker than the ground floor, and he can't make anything out down there, not without letting his eyes adjust, and none of the things they brought with them will be of any use in lighting a torch.

He takes a few steps down into the darkness, then pauses to let his eyes accustom themselves to the dark. A few more steps, cautiously taken in case of traps, and he's starting to be able to see better.

"Looks like a storage cellar."

She can see him go down, see the door slam shut behind him. She can almost hear him screaming as something attacks him, but, no. He's fine. She doesn't need to cry yet.

Instead, Annie lets out a breath and walks over to him. She can stop the door shutting, if nothing else. She can -

"I can keep watch," Annie says. "Anything else down there?"

Supplies.

Traps.

Food.

Death.

Anything.

He trusts Annie. Trusts her and nobody else in this place and precious few back in his life before he wound up here, and it's not the fragile fair-weather trust of an arena ally, there until his use has expired and he's ripe for the killing. It's the trust forged of having each other and little else, the two of them against the world, and that trust in itself a deadly secret.

He knows she has his back. He knows that even if she's scared, she'll do whatever she can for him because she's Annie. So he's content to let her watch the stairs while he explores the cellar, what little there is of it. There's nothing useful there, some old sacks and boxes but no supplies left in them.

Mostly, it's empty shelves.

He calls back up to her that it seems empty, hard as it is to be certain in the dark. It could be a useful place to hide and defend themselves, if they need one in the future.

They continue in the same manner, Finnick stepping into the newly-discovered rooms and Annie, alert with tension, guarding him. Living room, dining room, kitchen, and upstairs are three bedrooms, bathroom, spacious closets, with basic furnishings, linens, kitchenware, but no personal hint of whoever used to live here, if there ever really was anyone here, if this village was ever actually inhabited.

"We could hide in here," he says, as he steps into one of the large, mostly-empty closets. "Nobody would even know."

"A closet," Annie mutters. It is not as if the games and arenas are made with comfort and dignity in mind, but somehow, the presence of houses makes it worse. Not ruined houses, but apparently functional ones.

This is what she and Finnick are reduced to: hiding in a closet to sleep.

Maybe, she's just tired. Tired and wanting to go back home, where things were normal.

Except that things hadn't been normal back home, for months. Since the announcement of the Quarter Quell. Since the revolts. Since Katniss Everdeen defied the Capitol.

"It's a good idea, we could-"

No. No. They aren't together. They can't be, although she's losing her patience with that. Fear of retribution dying underneath the weight of needing comfort and love here and now, before she dies in this arena.

But, now, she still has to pretend.

"If. You didn't mind. We could keep on sharing what warmth we have. Steal some of the blankets from the bedrooms, build a nest."

She's not happy. He doesn't miss the tone of that little mutter, and he knows the others here would probably say that he's being paranoid, but he's still waiting for the moment when they turn on each other. They've moved their camp every time someone found them in the woods, and there's danger in settling in one place for too long, danger he's just trying to mitigate.

So far, they've been spending nights curled together under their shelter, their coats draped over them and their bodies tantalizingly warm together. They can be close, at least, and there's comfort in that, if only a little.

"No, that sounds like a good idea," he agrees. "There's enough space in here for us and our backpacks. If we're careful we should be able to keep anyone from finding out we're here. Avoid light and smoke, make sure nobody follows us."

They're simple enough safety procedures that every Career knows, so he doesn't really need to tell her any of the rest.

They both know what they need to do.

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ψ don't you dare look out your window

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