Cassian Andor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
candor1) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-02-16 10:35 am
candor1) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-02-16 10:35 am
La paz llegará, el amor siempre vivirá—No me ames, mas quedate otro dia
WHO: Jyn Erso, Cassian Andor, Bodhi Rook, Finnick Odair (independent threads)
WHERE: Cabin 56, the woods, the spring, wherever else happens
WHEN: Feb 6 through now. "Ten days in the [new] life".
OPEN TO: Jyn, Cassian, Bodhi and Finnick
Quick apology for what a first-love middleschooler I've been being IC and OOC, with me neglecting and Cassian unable to gear shift at all away from Jyn! (Turns out we're super OTP, quelle surprise) Thanks for forebearance, and sorry, guys…!
This might help with moving back into the rest of the game from that first obsessed flush of her arrival. Mainly prompts forkestreldawn and I to multithread several CR developments in a single post, rather than a slew of logs.
WARNINGS: PTSD (both helping and triggering one another—and worrying about that), exchanging war/life/traumatic stories, issues they haven't thought about in decades resurfacing 'cause this is so new and everything's getting unlocked, smut (though surprisingly happy/healthy), treating physical injury (possible self-harm convo), reproductive choices, panic attacks
STATUS: Open
1. the next moment (Jyn and Cassian in their cabin)
2. that night (same)
3. in the next few days (Finnick and Cassian at the spring)
4. in days following (Bodhi, Jyn and Cassian TBD)
5. today (Jyn and Cassian, cabin and forest)
WHERE: Cabin 56, the woods, the spring, wherever else happens
WHEN: Feb 6 through now. "Ten days in the [new] life".
OPEN TO: Jyn, Cassian, Bodhi and Finnick
Quick apology for what a first-love middleschooler I've been being IC and OOC, with me neglecting and Cassian unable to gear shift at all away from Jyn! (Turns out we're super OTP, quelle surprise) Thanks for forebearance, and sorry, guys…!
This might help with moving back into the rest of the game from that first obsessed flush of her arrival. Mainly prompts for
kestreldawn and I to multithread several CR developments in a single post, rather than a slew of logs.WARNINGS: PTSD (both helping and triggering one another—and worrying about that), exchanging war/life/traumatic stories, issues they haven't thought about in decades resurfacing 'cause this is so new and everything's getting unlocked, smut (though surprisingly happy/healthy), treating physical injury (possible self-harm convo), reproductive choices, panic attacks
STATUS: Open
1. the next moment (Jyn and Cassian in their cabin)
2. that night (same)
3. in the next few days (Finnick and Cassian at the spring)
4. in days following (Bodhi, Jyn and Cassian TBD)
5. today (Jyn and Cassian, cabin and forest)
no subject
"There always is," said Cassian. "Maybe the only freedom we ever get is if we get to choose which one we play. We weren't given a choice in being brought here. But for me—given what it's the alternative to—I choose to use it as a gift. Unless and until I find sufficient reason…"
He shook his head again, resting his eyes again on Finnick. Knowing he's quoting himself, what he'd said to Jyn, but it's easier to get out now if he uses the passage already cleared. "I've done terrible things. Everything I've done, I did for a cause I believed in. The only promise to myself I never broke, never betrayed, was that I would only give all my actions and life to a cause that was worth it. Right now… the cause that seems worth it… is to try at life. With Jyn."
He gestured slightly, formlessly. "It's not my business, of course. But it sounds like the place you and Annie came from was so terrible… this might actually be an improvement. An opportunity. When the alternatives are no better, I choose taking my chances until the chances are spent." (That time quoting Jyn.) "And I'm not going to waste what I've been given because it might be taken away. Then I might as well not have had it at all. Then I'd never have had anything. —Which I know is why we both, probably, never had much. Not to get others hurt. Not to have to lose them ourselves. This situation seems designed to force that issue. Could be reward or torture. Not knowing the intent of those who provided it… we can't rule out the possibility that what they're looking for is how we'll choose. Which of those possibilities we'll create for ourselves. With everything else beyond our own control, I'll make my choice for as long as I can."
Shaking his head one more time, in amusement or something more judgmental at how like a fanatic of some stripe or other he sounded, Cassian said, "Maybe that's just me." Shrugged in some apology. Cupped his good hand in the water to drink again and splash his face. Preparing to leave.
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It's bitter, envious, because what Cassian is describing sounds as impossible as if he'd started talking about flapping their arms and flying out of the canyon. It takes all Finnick's skill to even try to maintain neutrality in his expression, and he knows he won't succeed, so he drops his gaze, his face turning down, a futile attempt to hide the sudden tension in his mouth as he fights to stop his lips pressing into a moue.
He clenches the hand under the water into a tight fist around the bracelet. What he'd have given to be able to live with the principles Cassian is swearing by. That life doesn't exist in Panem. Anyone who tried to live in the name of a cause they believe in would find themselves an Avox, at best, and more likely, a public execution in the name of the unity and stability of the nation.
Having this conversation is dangerous. Knowing Cassian is dangerous, and not just in the way that had been obvious when they'd first met.
When he looks up again, his eyes are still stormier than they've been, yet, to a man who knows what to look for. He's forced his jaw to relax, but those eyes are still shining too bright. But there's nothing he can say. Nothing out in the open, and he has to be careful how he plays this.
So he stares, for a few long, long moments, at Cassian. His eyes narrow, turn a little softer, but it's a ploy, the act he's put on so many times in the Capitol. It's an excuse to duck back down under the water and start swimming, back towards Cassian, to resurface near him, where it's not far to walk a little out of the water and approach him, closely.
Close enough, if Cassian will let him, to whisper to him.
"You're assuming we get to choose the game."
/sobs/ I'm sorry!
He'll help him.
"Yes," Cassian murmured in response. "And you made your choice so quickly, you've surrendered finding out whether you had to. You gave up what they would have taken without them having to fire a shot."
He'd recognized Finnick's seduction technique from the first. This time, he's not vulnerable.
Choose which games we play
With equal ease, Cassian turns fully to Finnick, not touching but closely parallel, chest to chest. He cranes his neck, in almost a cat's bodily entwining embrace; to whisper in turn in Finnick's ear: "I think you brought your own game with you."
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"I gave them nothing. I had nothing for them to take. You're gambling that the people who would kidnap us and put us in an arena mean us anything other than harm."
That's a lie, too, but there's some truth in it: he didn't give the Gamemakers here anything, because the choice Cassian's talking about is one he never had. The only thing that matters is Annie, and he's never going to admit that to a man like Cassian, who already knows so much about him and who could probably guess as much without Finnick saying anything about her.
Finnick had approached closely so that he could whisper, face turned away from cameras, voice low enough to go unheard, the choreography setting it up as another flirtation, but this time, not for Cassian's benefit, but for the benefit of their observing Gamemakers. Cassian understands the play, and he turns his body closer to Finnick's, so close that an involuntary tension freezes Finnick's muscles for a moment, because this is all but an embrace, the returning whisper hot against his neck, and he has to fight himself not to panic, not to back away in fear.
It's a familiar fight, so well-known that it's practiced, the way he forces himself to relax, drops his head a fraction away from Cassian's towards his shoulder, blinks, dragging his mind back from the way it had slipped at the feel of Cassian's breath on his skin.
Lifts his head again to hiss another whisper at Cassian, where cameras won't see his lips, because not responding to that would be an even greater show of weakness.
"It's not my game."
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"And until you're dead, there's always something to take. Even if it's only—" His good hand comes up. Not playing. Not seductive. Reaching for the real Finnick, through all this terrible playing, looking for a place where his angrily burning compassion might truly get through. "—out of you." …and his hand brushes Finnick's elbow.
no subject
He'd disagree with Cassian, if he could. There's nothing left in him for this place to take that his patrons haven't already taken piece by piece over so many years. But the repeat of the whisper, so close it would be barely a breath to turn from whisper to kiss, so close to this man who's already asked for him once, feels like a sudden trap, and this time, he can't haul his mind back when something in it slips. This time, he tenses against the brush of Cassian's hand, and he can't refocus quickly enough to stop himself.
no subject
…not training, that required willing participation, and Finnick hadn't signed up for anything;
…almost recruitment, but to what cause…?
…maybe a rescue mission.
Trickier when the prison one needed rescuing from was of Chirrut's coined variety. Offering rehabilitation from trauma was not typically Cassian's line, since it required some period of being outside the traumatizing circumstances…
…but of course, he had done some of that, because not everyone got to get away from those circumstances. But still had to function. Whether to keep working or just be kept alive.
And yes, there was the selfish aspect of Cassian not wanting to leave Finnick and Annie unaddressed at his back where they could, if they decided, turn into a threat. He and Jyn were both seasoned fighters, it could be an even match… but he didn't want a match at all.
He felt they were circling in on whatever this was really about for Finnick… it was easy to get fixed in on what mattered most to Cassian—but they weren't quite landing for Finnick… even if they had, they were existential, and effect hooked into more immediate, personal…
Cassian had chosen to match rather than deescalate when Finnick started using his primary weapon; but it wasn't until Finnick so tensed at Cassian's touch…
Without moving his body or head, Cassian's eyes flickered down to take measure of Finnick. Respiration, pulse at throat, stance, pupil dilation, anything else…
Finnick wasn't tensing for fight but resisting flight.
Which was not to say he wouldn't strike out if provoked.
Cassian had three options:
1. back off
2. push for breaking point
3. wait and see if Finnick decided first
He rejected 1. That, again, was leaving something knowable unknown. And, given all they'd been discussing about unknowable unknowns, kark that.
But given that Finnick seemed fearful of Cassian himself… he wasn't sure he wanted to opt for 2. Was it necessary? Was it cruel? What it worth testing…?
So for now, he opted for 3. Leaving everything else motionless, Cassian brought his eyes back to Finnick and raised an eyebrow.
Finnick had given him an opening. Cassian wasn't taking it. He was giving the next move back.
cw: trauma from sexual abuse/assault
But that was the truth, wasn't it? All his beautiful seductions and pretty words and teasing looks, and it was all driven by fear. So often, he could bury the fear so deep inside that it just simmered there, under everything, the prickling fear of a victor overlaid with the terror of what his patrons would do to him, of losing more and more of his self until all that was left was a battered fragment crying in the depths of his heart, surrounded by a body that moved on biological reaction alone.
He'd come so close to letting Cassian do that to him, that first time they'd met, and now his whole body is aware of the closeness of bare skin to bare skin, of the fact that a thin layer of underwear is all that's between the two of them. That, and Finnick's knowledge of Jyn and Cassian's of Annie. But Annie had never been able to stand between him and a patron, and though Cassian's not a patron, Finnick knows well enough how easily the man's knowledge could be used to coerce him.
Worst of all, Cassian can surely see the fear. Even as he tries to lock away his reaction, Finnick can see Cassian studying him, the way his eyes rest on throat, eyes, legs, then go back up to meet Finnick's gaze again.
That raised eyebrow is a question Finnick doesn't have an answer to. He hadn't been intending to provoke more flirtation, not to get to this point of trembling proximity. It had been cover, nothing more. He has plenty of ways to close off, to disengage, most of them designed to strike back at the people who would try to take him.
Not that any of his attacks would hurt Cassian. The man didn't think he was in love with Finnick, whatever he wanted from him.
Probably, he should push back, try to win back some control, but when had he ever been allowed it? No, all he can do is back down.
(Submit.)
Drop his gaze, his head, knowing that leaves him vulnerable, answer Cassian's unasked question by retreating back into himself. Men with power know what to do with that as an answer.
no subject
Stupid stupid stupid.
Finnick's body language—something in the angle of his neck, tensed ever so slightly away even when he had been on the aggressive; then his submission… the undertone in his words—the words themselves—and the shard in his eyes…
Fighter, seducer, sure, were there, but weren't the key. The element Finnick and Cassian did not share—
He'd seen it on the broadscale on Jelucan, on Varadan; and in individuals… everywhere…
…former slave.
…rape survivor.
Cassian instantly stepped back.
He'd thought Finnick's use of seduction technique was his main weapon. No. It was… not even a defense. Just a reality he'd had to master.
Cassian… couldn't wield it better than Finnick did. Definitely not. He had the training but it had never been his strong suit. What Cassian had over Finnick was that he could control it. Choose when and whether to employ it. Finnick had never been granted control of it. So of course he wasn't quite in charge of it even now. That was how Cassian was a threat… not a superior ability with this particular weapon, but his more intact sense of choice about it.
The difference is internalization.
Cassian's heart thudded enough he was sure Finnick would be able to see it.
He's done terrible things. Never that.
He too dropped his gaze, staring a moment at both their feet.
…
All right. …All right.
The only good news… was that Cassian now knew better how to proceed.
Cassian's voice, when it came, was calm. "Can I ask a favor?"
cw: from here assume references to sexual assault, victim blaming, trauma, underage prostitution
It's never been perfect. The one time he'd given in to the urge to defend himself had gotten his parents killed. And sometimes, his act would slip and he'd show the fear. The patrons it happened to usually enjoyed that fear. And he'd learned to keep even those slips subtle, unable to be read from across a room, by other guests at a party.
Still, he knows he should know better. He shouldn't have shown that weakness to Cassian. Fear can be exploited, and Cassian already knows so much about his vulnerabilities.
It's slow, forcing himself to relax into apparent submission, willing the tension to drain out of his muscles. It will never disappear from his chest, his stomach, the hyperawareness of his skin, but it can be less. Less obvious, and therefore less telling.
When he looks up, though, it's to see that Cassian has stepped away, wordless, an expression of sudden realization on his face, colored with something ... dismay? Regret? Hard to tell, in the moment before Cassian's gaze drops. But the immediate pressure is relieved, Cassian's deliberate choice to place more distance between them the only real gesture that could uncoil that knot of fear.
Finnick swallows, lets his grip on the bracelet in his hand shift, so he can run his thumb over and over the knotted cord surface.
He nods. "You can ask."
no subject
Being half-dead and disoriented and on the verge of hypothermia hadn't been enough their first meeting—but it had been involuntary. This offering was self-aware.
Cassian held out his injured hand.
"Will you help me re-bandage this? It's less effective, doing it myself. …After I get dressed. I'm freezing."
no subject
The word comes back to mind, because it goes with the question. Not that it means it's what Cassian's asking him for, though he wanted it and wants it and has been trying to persuade Finnick to see the value in his allegiance. In the arena, it's not the sort of thing you do for anyone but your ally.
Most of you will die of natural causes. 10% from infection... He knows the statistics, he's been over them time and again, strategizing and planning and studying, as Career and tribute and mentor.
In the arena, you want the others to die. But he's already stepped away from that, hasn't he? He'd ... not cared for, but helped Cassian when he'd arrived. He'd brought him Jyn. He's linked to the man whether he wants it or not. And ...
He's a Career, and he'd expected to be back in the arena for the Quarter Quell, having to kill people he knows, for the revolution that's running an undercurrent through the center of the Games. But he doesn't have the same unthinking cockiness about death that he did when he was fourteen. He's not going to kill without provocation here, not unless the village's alliance breaks.
His eyes flick to Cassian's hand, open and empty of weapons, and he nods.
"I have medical supplies in my backpack. I'll get it."
When he heads back for his clothes and backpack, he swims, both for the warmth and the feel of the water over his skin, washing away that prickling sensation of fear. Back on the other side, he dries himself off with a spare shirt, then pulls his shirt and the pants and green sweater Jess had given him, slips on socks and boots, then shoulders the pack to head back to Cassian.
Already, the panic has subsided.
no subject
Taking the time on his own, Cassian finishes drying what the air hasn't yet and is all-but dressed, minus jacket and boots, by the time Finnick returns.
no subject
It's a small gesture, but it's important that he be able to make this small stand in the face of a man against whom he's been so completely incapable of any sort of self-assertion.
It's also a chance to recover. To get some soothing water and some distance between them for long enough to repair the walls Cassian is so good at breaking down. By the time he's made it back around the pool, Finnick's expression is as impassive as it had ever been. It's easier, with something practical to focus on.
When he makes it back to Cassian, Finnick unslings his pack and sets it on the ground, before he digs in it to pull out one of the little clear plastic cases he and Annie had split their most basic medical supplies into. Bandage. Dressing. Antiseptic. He doesn't have any of the near-magical medicine the Capitol sells to mentors, but it's far better than nothing.
Finnick tilts his chin towards Cassian's hand.
"Hold out your hand."
no subject
Rory had done an excellent job stitching up his hand. But even so, and freshly cleaned, it's still something of a sight. Like it's been smashed repeatedly under (or into) a rock.
no subject
That could be a genuine attempt to offer Finnick the advantage in a mark of good faith, or it could be Cassian trying to manipulate him and gambling his own skills are superior. He's seen enough to believe the man to be capable of either, and to disbelieve that a signal so obvious could be unintentional.
But if Cassian has faith in his own abilities, so does Finnick. He's bigger than Cassian, and physicality is a large part of his skill.
So he approaches, sets his backpack down, and crouches in front of Cassian. That makes him more vulnerable, but ... he's giving Cassian the benefit of this much trust, at least.
"Did a good job on that," he comments as he glances at the wound. He's hardly a doctor, or a healer of any sort; the only abilities he has are those granted by the combination of his supplies and so many years of seeing what does and doesn't work played out on the television screens from the arena. But his touch is gentle enough as he sets about dressing the wound.
"Lucky if you don't have to worry about infection."
no subject
And just as with Rory, Cassian proves an excellent patient: never wincing or pulling away from Finnick; staying incredibly still.
They proceed a while in silence.
Until Cassian breaks it, voice mild, with: "Tell me more about being a 'victor of the Hunger Games'?"
Not only Finnick's exact words but practically his inflection. (That eidetic memory.)
no subject
At least, unless they're victors, who can, on their trips to the Capitol, seek out the assistance of a discreet medical clinic.
Finnick had never been someone with the sort of knowledge to be a healer, but he can be gentle enough when he needs to be, and for all his uncertainty about Cassian, his touch is kind enough.
He doesn't even falter when Cassian asks the question, just keeps working for a few moments. That Cassian even echoes the way Finnick had spoken, as best as possible with his accent so much heavier, reinforces that he has to be careful around this man. Those slips from their first meeting will be remembered, he's sure. The question is what Cassian will do with them.
"You know," he says, though he suspects Cassian doesn't, actually. "Fame, fortune, glory, freedom from the Reaping for the rest of your life."
Being watched every moment because you're the Capitol's property. Teaching children to go out and die. Being whored out at the President's desire to his allies.
There's so much he doesn't say, and he's careful to give no sign of the thoughts.
His eyes are still focused on Cassian's hand, but a sharp smile flashes onto his face. "Or so they said. That last one turns out not to have been true."
no subject
It's not putting something artificial on, it's taking the artifice off—forcing himself not to hide when hiding's become automatic—just because he's mastered making things look easy doesn't mean they truly are. Cassian lets his expression reflect the momentary effort of recalling previous words.
"…'a tribute paid to the Capitol by' your 'district as punishment for its part in the Rebellion.' Those are all words I know by definition but not necessarily in full context of this usage. …And I have no idea what this use of 'Reaping' means. I'd like to know, if you're willing. But we'd have to start from the beginning. What exactly is the 'Capitol', and what was the Rebellion?"
no subject
There's something about Cassian that makes it hard to believe he's lying now, though. Not because he couldn't or wouldn't lie, but because he'd clearly be so very capable of it, but now is speaking so gently.
Finnick takes in a deep breath, pauses to open a new bandage packet, and start wrapping the dressing he's places on Cassian's hand.
"The Capitol is the capital city of Panem. District Thirteen led the other districts in an uprising against the Capitol's rule. The rebellion started a war across the whole country. We ... call it the Dark Days."
The horrors of that war, particularly the horrors committed by the rebels against the Capitol, are a daily staple in Panem's classrooms. Even a victor who'd left school at 14 knows the story: sabotage, massacres, cities and districts firebombed, cells betrayed, animals mutated and manipulated to use as weapons.
A district obliterated, or so they'd said.
Finnick's voice is carefully flat as he continues speaking, and some of his words have a quality of rote learning to them, like they're phrases he's heard over and over again. (In school, and every year since as the history of Panem is recited for the Reaping while he sits on stage, pretending not to hate himself for the part he plays in enabling all this to continue.)
"The rebels were defeated. District Thirteen was destroyed. The Capitol and the other twelve districts signed the Treaty of Treason. The treaty re-established Panem, and established the Hunger Games. Each year, a boy and girl from each district are selected at a public Reaping to be sent to the Capitol as tribute for the Games."
no subject
He hadn't asked that of the others here who use place names as if everyone should know them (New York, Seattle, several others). Usually, it makes no difference. And is an answer in of itself. Anyone from a spacefaring civilization simply wouldn't use a name that way. It's a mark of living on a smaller scale, to be able to assume. There's nothing wrong with it—it's very helpful in gauging bases of reference and best levels of information sharing. There is no such thing as a unified level of technology. Not in the universe, not within a solar system, not even within a single city in a country on a planet. There's no such thing as time travel (or there isn't for beings of his level; possibly there is for their captor/host "Observers") but traveling in space, from one society to another, can amount to the same thing.
In this case, it does make a difference that Cassian wants to know about.
It makes a difference in terms of power.
What level is required for how much territory. What natural, geological or cosmic, forces do or don't require overcoming to consolidate it. And how invasively and intensively it can be applied.
The Empire seeks to dominate galaxies. They can do much, so much damage.
But they could never pull off a trick like this on someone who's been outside a planetary atmosphere. And, much as they'd try, even with Force-users of myth, they could never have the all-seeing eyes Finnick and Annie seem to feel still on the backs of their necks.
Based on Finnick's stated (and obvious) continued feelings of dread and violation, Cassian suspects Panem is no more than a country.
There… that situation was suddenly, horribly possible.
That had been unthinkable to Cassian initially. Sometimes having the wider view, living on the broader scale, is not an advantage. It blinds one to what can be happening to the individuals in the communities on the planets you merely flit on and off again.
But they're the ones you're supposed to work for.
So Cassian has managed to remind himself not to dismiss.
And is very slowly, faintly, grimly, starting to get the idea of Finnick's actual hell.
…But possibly also a way to help Finnick see something outside of it…? if Cassian could actually achieve it…
No. Don't form conclusions or assumptions. Too early still.
Low-voiced, clearly honoring the gravity of what Finnick's telling him—and keeping any outrage from building (not yet), Cassian slowly nods and says what's required next. "And what exactly comprises the Games?"
no subject
Everyone knows. Everyone alive has grown up with the Games, except the very oldest, and even Mags and the very oldest of the fisherfolk were the children whose names were in the very first Reapings.
"The tributes are chosen randomly, or volunteer. They're sent to the Capitol for a week of training and preparation. Treated to luxury they've never seen before in their lives. They work with a mentor and a stylist to prepare them for a public parade of the tributes, then they get three days to learn the skills that are going to keep them alive. They do a public interview on the last night before the Games, to properly introduce them to the nation so sponsors can pick who to support."
Finnick's voice is far too calm for what he's describing, but he's spent years being expected to talk about the Games, and never to speak out against them. He's not like Johanna, entertaining for her fury, or Haymitch or so many of the others, too drunk or high or wasted to be worth interviewing. He's a star, uncomfortably aware of just how much a part of the whole lie he is. Volunteer, and win, and you could be like Finnick Odair: rich, famous, he could date anyone he wanted.
They'd said that, within District Four, when they were selling the profits of victory to the trainee Careers.
He's careful to keep looking at his work rather than Cassian, because he suspects there's a bitter anger burning deep in his eyes.
"The tributes are taken to a secret location where an artificial environment has been set up. The arena can be anything: a forest, a desert, a ruined city. Mine was a savanna."
Another deep breath.
"The tributes are all placed in the same area to start. They can't take anything in with them except a small token from their home. Anything they want, they have to find, make, or get as a sponsor gift. There's a big pile of supplies and weapons for them if they're ready to fight to get to them, but so many of them die fighting there that a lot of them don't bother.
"Basically, the tributes fight to be the last one left alive. It's all televised, so there's a lot of strategy in trying to win over sponsors, because they can donate money that the mentors can use to send food or medical supplies or weapons. Some tributes just try to last it out, but a lot die just from the arena. Most of the victors are the ones who fight."
no subject
Grimly. But… not surprised.
Gladiation.
And the "Capitol"'s overall tactics…
…are…
…classic.
The best way for a minority to retain power over a majority is to turn them against each other. If they unified there would be no contest. But there are devastatingly effective ways to make unifying unimaginable, or actually unfeasible.
Doing so with overt rather than unrealized/underlying competition… it's audacious… risky… but if effective: obscenely elegant.
What Cassian hates that he knows:
In one-on-one violence as well as political or social control, step one is the psychological capture.[*]
Make people afraid. Make them feel helpless, frozen, in danger of their lives. That's what renders them less capable of defense or escape.
Superior strength or force or violence of course will win regardless. It's by no means up to the victim to determine the outcome. Too often, there's nothing they could do.
But also surprisingly often, escapes could be made, fighting back could be more effective, if the intended victim could circumvent psychological capture. In order to react in an unexpected way. Lower their assailant's guard to create an opportunity and/or have an element of surprise. …Since most assailants, as much as their intended victims, rely on that involuntary moment too. It takes a level of training (if not abnormal immunity) to overcome expectation in either direction.
It's hard-coded into nearly all biological sentients. Even many technological life forms. Those who lack it… demonstrate why it is in fact a survival mechanism by tending to die young.
But it's indiscriminate. It wasn't meant…
…no. Nothing's meant. There is no design.
Too few are taught that. Too few are taught to control their own functions—that it's possible let alone how—rather than be controlled by them.
But even if it's just as few, it's too many who are taught to control the functions of others.
"And the victor, the last alive," murmured Cassian, "no doubt wins something for their district, too? Some benefit or protection?"
(Because that's the way to keep them invested in considering the other districts rivals or enemies.
Because negatives are less powerful than positives.
Fear of punishment isn't enough to keep such a system so powerful.
It's love, loyalty, wanting to help and serve and maintain—hijacking and redirecting those. Making them part of the process. Is what makes it a perfect trap.
Force people to uphold the system themselves to try to help and save their loved ones.
…Classic.
If he could, he would have gone to Finnick's Panem and Capitol and assassinated every one of the Games's architects and implementers and maintainers.
Not that it would be possible even if parts of it were. And doesn't even necessarily work.
Nor would he necessarily find it a palatable, let alone satisfying, prospect if he actually could and it would.
But while sitting here with Finnick, Cassian can think it.)
no subject
It's a simple answer, and Finnick risks a flick of eyes up, then down again, to see if he can read anything in Cassian's face about the man's thought processes, what he's thinking and learning as he asks these questions. Nothing obvious, beyond the stern set of his mouth.
"A year's worth of extra supplies for everyone in the district."
In some ways, it's more complicated than that. They get to have one of their children back, instead of two coffins. They get the glory, which matters more to districts like One and Two that are closer to the Capitol. They get the Harvest Feast paid for and laid on for the entire district by the Capitol, and get their celebrations to be the most spectacular of any of the districts.
The thing that really matters, though, is the food. Food means fewer people starving, fewer children taking out tesserae to support their families. Food means that everyone can live just that little bit easier for a whole year. Food makes the victor, literally, the savior of some parts of their district. Even in Four, where most people in the fisheries can manage to fend for themselves at least a little, it makes a difference.
It makes enough of a difference that it's what the Careers believe in. They know why they do what they do: to protect the other children in the district from the Reaping, and because they have a better chance of winning that year's worth of food.
Finnick had other reasons for volunteering when he did, so audaciously young that his opponents would write him off as a non-threat. He'd had a family he wanted to help, who could benefit from the money he'd get for winning. He'd wanted fame, glory, a chance to be something more than just a fisherman's son. But he'd also known that if he won, life would be better for everyone in the district for a year.
"The districts don't have much, most years."
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The way Finnick spoke about Panem, a country as if it were the whole world, Cassian was leaning toward the second. A planet that had experienced a sudden change. Near-apocalyptic to its inhabitants. Other countries than Panem most likely existed but they may as well not as far as Finnick or his fellows were concerned because all pockets of population would be utterly isolated from one another.
He wished he could learn the name of the planet. Then reminded himself it wouldn't matter either way. Finnick's name for it might not be its designation on any map Cassian had seen. And given the even broader scale they were now on, that was to Cassian's perception as his own was to Finnick's—adding not just space but dimensions—probably not even a map Cassian could have seen.
He kept it perfectly contained; no outward sign; but there was a flash in his throat and mind of blazing conflict. All the insubstantiable, useless, but inevitable feelings and theories about the Observers and this place and the intent of any of it, ranging from Thank you to Damn you. And feeling once again the echoing chill of possibly being now outside dimension, time, and space. That difficult to resist notion of 'afterlife'.
But we get to be here together, and that's the point for me.
And why he wanted to follow these thoughts through for Finnick.
Because as little as Cassian may have believed them himself, scorned them even, he knew too many stories from too many worlds about the concepts that boiled down to "heaven" or "hell". And a surprising number of them had the same conclusion: they were the same place. Which aspect it assumed, the experience one had of them, was not inherent to the place, nor handed down by external judgment; but created by the person.
Finnick hadn't asked Cassian to try and "save" him. But Cassian's life had been about trying to combat Hell in life and salvage some hope of giving anybody a better chance of achieving something closer to Heaven. Why would his afterlife be any different?
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cw: non-con mindset, ptsd
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