California, rest in peace; [Arrival + OTA]

[tarnishing]

WHO: Taylor Baum
WHERE: Fountain and Inn
WHEN: Late afternoon, then evening
OPEN TO: Jax Teller & YOU
WARNINGS: Possible narrative mention of drug abuse
STATUS: Closed to new threads

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fountain, for jax;

When Taylor jolts awake, it isn't the water that's the biggest shock; it's the cold.

One moment sunk into the warm, bubbly depths of a much-needed bath, the next her body has seized, the drop in temperature a vise across her chest that jerks her legs and arms inward and leaves her floating for a moment, embryonic and quaking in the cold, shimmering depths of the pool. Instinct and Mrs. Lennon's kindergarten swimming class kicks in, butterfly kicking her up and up until she surfaces, coughing, grasping against rough concrete, trying to haul herself free and failing. Her fingers have gone rigid and her muscles don't want to work, skinny elbows wavering when she makes a second attempt, mind already racing at the flood of unexpected information, finally flopping over the lip and curling into a ball on the hard ground with a throat-tearing, "FUCK!"

What has happened, what has happened, what has happened?

Bunched on the ground, her eyes are wide, blinking against the cold, and this is nowhere she has ever been, nowhere she has ever seen, she's sure of it.

"What, what, what, what," she whispers, the words shuddered out as she watches the sun dip past the tops of the line of fir trees, and she knows she has to move, but isn't certain she can.


inn, later that evening, ota;

If this is a dream, or a coma, or a drug-fueled hallucination, it is an impressive one.

It's been hours since Taylor changed into clean, dry, clothes, but still she's huddled beneath a blanket and parked in front of the wide hearth in what everyone is calling the "inn." It makes her wonder, dimly, if that name really applies if nobody's paying to be there.

She's not such a SoCal girl that she can't handle a little cold; she's been to Big Bear and Tahoe enough times. She owns a pair of skis, for fuck's sake, along with several super cute sets of stylish-yet-practical leggings for hitting the slopes or showing off her yoga butt at the coffee shop at Sundance. But this weirdness wasn't a gradual cooling; it was like a hard slap that reverberated down to her bones. She can't seem to get warm.

The sun has fully set and she probably needs to be more practical than this, probably needs to figure out where the hell she's sleeping tonight, but right now she's pretty sure could pass out right here and be okay with it.

Comments

[71st_victor]

"Maybe you just haven't pissed off the right people enough yet," she says, with the sort of hopeful encouragement that says if Taylor really starts trying, she can make enough enemies to end up getting in an arena herself, if they aren't already in one. She knows they're not being made to fight, but the more time she spends in here, the more she has to wonder if it isn't a prison and they've just been unlucky enough to get stuck in its bars.

"Sometimes, I think the people who watch don't even register that they're actual kids dying anymore," she says bitterly. "We're just playthings."

[tarnishing]

At length, Taylor swallows against a throat gone dry with disappointment and looks back to the wavering flames of the fire. "Probably not," she allows, because she actually knows a little bit about this, has spent more than her fair share of time watching convoluted spectacle be manufactured while she wondered what the fuck it said about humans as a species that our favorite pastime is beautiful violence.

"It's always been that way." All the way back to the Romans and probably before, tossing people to the lions while the roar of the crowd drowned out the screams. "There's a disconnect. Death and pain never seem like that big a deal as long as it's happening to strangers."

[71st_victor]

Johanna grabs her bag and slings the strap over her shoulder, letting it dangle a little as she looks at the other woman. "If we're lucky, then we're just trapped here," she says, even though she doesn't trust it to be that simple. The honest truth is that Johanna's just waiting for things to go south, for her to pick up the axe and have to fight her way out. Whether or not she has allies at that point will depend (probably on how successful Finnick is at convincing her around).

"So which one have you experienced?" she asks, as she starts to pick up a few things to eat and drink on the way. "The death or the pain?"

[tarnishing]

Whether intended or not, the question feels accusatory, Taylor's own deeply-seated sense of guilt leaping up to briefly close up her throat and remind her that she's been a lucky one on nearly every imaginable count. More than once Tim had asked her to stop carrying burdens on his behalf.

"Not me," she admits at length. "My brother. He was in an accident. He'll never walk again."

Saying it aloud is still a wrench despite all the time passed. Some part of her wants to believe that someday maybe, just maybe, a miracle will swoop down out of nowhere. She of all people should know better than to believe that kind of Hollywood bullshit.

[71st_victor]

Sympathy isn't really a thing that Johanna does. She's sure other people do it all the time, she's seen it all the time, but as far as she's concerned, that's pretty fucking normal. At least he's alive, not like Johanna's siblings, but then, they had the misfortune of being related to a victor who didn't like to give up control.

"He's alive," she says, evenly. "Get him some wheels, a few prosthetic. Where I come from, if you're rich enough, they'll fix it like it never happened. New legs, new parts. California not like that?"