sixthiterationlogs | Dust moths

WHO: Stephanie Brown
WHERE: Just outside of town
WHEN: Nov 10th, evening
OPEN TO: (additional spectators on request)
WARNINGS: None anticipated

Steph stood in the midst of a few trees which seemed in the distance to accumulate into a forest trying to remember what she was doing. It seemed like it was something important. Or maybe it was because she had forgotten so completely that it was mildly alarming. She frowned at the ground, the darkening sky, and to either side in the hopes that something would trigger a memory. Nope... nothing. Finally she shrugged. Whatever she was doing, the memory was gone. So what now?

She turned to survey her surroundings. There was a town of some kind a little ways behind her. That seemed interesting. She wondered why she didn't know it was there already. In fact, how had she gotten to where she was in the first place? Where had she been before? She thought about this for a moment, a little concerned. She ought to have remembered something, right? Her memories couldn't all be gone.

She stood there like that for quite a while, frowning vaguely in the direction of the village and trying to remember a single detail of her life.

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Those who had been in the villages a while got used to the ever-present possibility of encountering disoriented strangers. There was a look some of them had, a little stunned, a little confused, often distant, the shock of dislocation presenting a disconnect between current circumstances and what people understood. He hadn't felt that way when he'd arrived, because he'd thought he knew what was happening. But it was a reaction he could understand, especially among people who weren't victors, weren't Careers, hadn't spent years preparing to be thrown into an arena.

He wasn't used to those confused and blank expressions from the people who'd been in the villages for a while. And though Finnick didn't really know Steph, he knew she'd been here far too long to look that perplexed by the sight of the village, and he also knew she looked young enough to be a tribute. He still couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility that brought.

His walk slowed as he approached, and Finnick held up a hand in a half-wave of greeting.

"You all right?"

"Hmm?" Steph blinked at the stranger, startled out of her reverie. Then she smiled. What a nice person, to be concerned about her.

"Yeah, I'm fine. How are you?"

"I'm okay," he said, keeping his voice gentler than usual, without the vaguely self-amused tone that often tinged his conversations with people he didn't know well.

He smiled back, hoping that it would give the idea that he wanted to help, and that he could be trusted. (In many circumstances, he couldn't, but here and now, he could. When he was determined to help someone, he'd see it through, or do his best to.)

"You just looked a little lost."

She didn’t see any reason not to trust a strange man who sought her out in a field. (What is Gotham? Was Steph pretty? Could she even be overpowered? She didn’t know.) She hummed thoughtfully as she considered the concept of being lost.

“Well, I’m not sure where I am, but I wasn’t trying to go anywhere specific that I know of. Does that count as lost?”

Of course, none of them were really sure where they were, or if they were, nobody had shared that information with the village at large. Finnick didn't think that was really what she meant, though; once people had been here long enough, where they were became an existential sort of question rather than an immediate one.

"Nobody's sure where this is, if that helps," he said with a faint shrug. "But you seemed like you weren't sure what you were doing."

He didn't want that to seem like a criticism, so he kept smiling and changed tack slightly. "I'm Finnick. We haven't met."

“Oh, cool.” At least she wasn’t supposed to know where she was. That’d just be embarrassing.

“I don’t think I was doing anything, really?” She shrugged. That was the conclusion she’d come to, and she figured if it was important it would come up again later. She was really feeling pretty relaxed about the whole three minute ordeal.

“I’m-“ She drew a blank. Her smile faltered. She waited a moment, expecting the knowledge to rise out of her clearly frazzled mind. She began to frown.

“I don’t... know who I am, actually. That’s weird, right? That seems kinda weird.”

Finnick knew that sometimes this place did strange things to people's memories. People had reappeared here after months away with no memory of ever having been here, as Peeta and Katniss had. And most of the others from Panem had arrived here with memories that seemed in advance of Finnick's. It was cruel to mess with their memories like that, but it was exactly the sort of cruel that their Gamemakers here seemed to enjoy so much.

It was definitely weird that she couldn't remember her name, and it was unfortunate that Finnick hadn't learned it in the past to be able to remind her. He didn't know much about medicine or memory, or what the best thing might be to do, so he decided to go for reassuring.

"You're probably just having some temporary forgetfulness."

After all, most of the weird things that the Gamemakers did to people to mess with them were temporary.

"What was the last thing you remember?"

"Maybe," she doubtfully agreed. It was a little concerning how complete the blankness in her mind was.

"I remember standing here, and I was wondering what I'd been doing, then I started wondering where I was and why I don't remember. We answered the one question, and I figure if I was doing something important I'd figure it out sooner or later. So the question now is why don't I remember, and where can I get a bite to eat?"

Finnick sounded more optimistic than he felt. He'd been a mentor for years; he knew the balance that had to be struck between encouragement and blunt realism. He didn't know what could be causing this, or how to fix it, but outright saying as much could worry her, while now she seemed mostly unsure and uneasy.

"Strange things happen here sometimes, but they usually wear off." Usually, and he wasn't going to discount the possibility of this being more serious. But taking her to the Inn was probably a smart move, and she was asking where she could get something to eat. He pointed back towards the village.

"There's an Inn in the village, they serve lunch and they usually have something left over. I'll show you."

"Sweet," Steph enthused, then chuckled to herself. "Or savory. Either sounds great to me. Wonder when I ate last."

She headed off in the direction he indicated, not bothering to wait for him to lead. There was a definite bounce to her step. Her memories were gone, maybe forever, but without remembering anything about them she couldn't really say that was a bad thing. Getting food, on the other hand, was definitely good.

"Hey, do you think it's normal for someone to forget everything, but still remember big words like 'temporary' and 'forgetfulness'? How does that work, do you think?"

"Not sure I can help with that one," Finnick agreed, keeping his tone light to match the brightness in her step and the laughter in her words. That seemed a more helpful sort of attitude than the paranoia and suspicion that would have been his reaction. So he fell into step behind her; she seemed content enough to head for the village without any further instructions yet; Finnick would keep watch, his habitual response to any uncertainty.

He considered her question as they walked. He knew very little about medicine, and not a lot about memory, but he did know a little about the tricks that the mind could play.

"I think memory's complicated. Remembering facts and words and remembering things that happened are different."

She shrugged and shoved her hands in her pocket.

"It was mostly rhetorical. I'm hungry." Her mood wasn't dampened, but as she walked she thought hard. She didn't try to remember, she'd already tried that. She considered possibilities and options. The smoothest path would be to start totally fresh, but was that really feasible? She would need help, and as nice as Finnick was she couldn't put that pressure on him.

"That makes sense," she answered, only a little distractedly. "Probably." Apparently medical facts weren't included in her vocabulary memories.

Dust moths

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