10th Game [video]

[stillplaying]

[Wild dogs.

She had seen the excuse the Career had come up with. That they had been hunting together, that a pack of wild dogs had appeared and caused them to split. They had chosen to pursue Katniss instead. Had they seen the flicker of fear in her eye? The way she looked at them and saw not the animals they were but muttations, the huge and monstrous doglike beasts with the eyes of lost children. Had she stood there then, overcome by the memories and nightmares in the wake of her loss?

She can almost see it, almost picture it clearly. It's not a bad excuse as far as excuses go. Had they been there, had they been in that arena and seen the mutts with the human eyes, they'd believe it. Believe how easy it is to be overcome by any canine like animal after that. Especially when the memories are still so vivid, especially on the heels of losing the person who helped her survive that night. She almost believes it herself. Almost.

Mostly, Katniss is surprised that Clove had said anything at all.

It's been a few days since she woke up in the treehouse, that peaceful nothing suddenly gone. She had been angry. She had grieved. Ranted and railed to the ghosts haunting her memories, alone in the treehouse, safe. Dying didn't get her sent back to District 12. Dying had accomplished little at all. It hadn't lasted. She hadn't thought it would, not in this place, not where the dead already walk among her.

She had wanted to return home so badly.

It's been a few days and by now, most of the emotions are exhausted. She's numb again, but in a different way than before. Tired. Just tired.

She returns to the village around mid-morning, unlocks the house and crawls into the bed she used to share with Peeta. The pillows and sheets still smell like him, a scent that comforts her. Remembering. Remembering Peeta. The boy with the bread, the boy that would sacrifice anything for her. The boy that had stopped her from committing suicide after Coin's assassination. The boy that hadn't been here to stop her this time. She hugs the pillow tighter to her and closes her eyes, willing herself to remember the positive. Those good memories that did exist deep inside of her.

And not to remember, oh not to remember, that this week was the week that Prim had died all of a year ago.

When she awakes, she finally remembers the journal she had brought back from the forest with her. She flips open the pages until she finds the little video screen and begins to record:]

Where I come from, we had Games. The annual Hunger Games, where every year a boy and a girl were chosen as Tributes to represent their District in a fight to the death. There would only be one winner, one survivor who would be crowned Victor and be honored by the Capitol. President Snow's way of giving the Districts a spark of hope, of showing the kindness that the Capitol was capable of even as they took our children away year after year to die while we were forced to watch and celebrate.

I was sixteen the year of the 74th Hunger Games. My sister, Prim, was twelve. It was her first year in the Reaping. Unlike me, her name had only been submitted once. She was never supposed to be chosen for the Games. But she was. I went in her place. I went and lit an entirely different spark. A spark of rebellion. That year, there were two Victors. I couldn't let Peeta die. He loved me, even then. Me? I was just playing a game. But I refused to carry the guilt of killing this boy.

The spark of rebellion grew into an inferno. The girl who was on fire lit the whole country ablaze. There are no more Hunger Games in Panem. Because I had been selfish. Because I didn't want Peeta's death on my conscience. Peeta was just... good. A good boy who refused to be changed by their Games. Who only wanted to die as himself. If anyone deserved to live, it was him.

He's gone back to Panem now. Lived, but at a great cost. He'll be tortured because of me. Hijacked. Given false memories and sent back to try and kill me. It doesn't work. Because it took a pack of wild dogs to accomplish what tributes and soldiers and even presidents could not do. I... I froze. At the memory of dog-like muttations with children's eyes ripping a boy to pieces while I watched and waited for his death to come in the night. It never did. Not until I took my last arrow, cost Peeta his leg, and sent it flying into the other boy's brain.

I'm only really good at a few things. Singing, surviving. Killing. And now it seems like I'm only really good at that last one. I can't sing anymore. I've tried since coming back but I can't. I can't and I don't know why.

[She takes a deep breath. The girl on the camera doesn't look all that upset. Confused mostly. Very confused. There's a crease between her brows, grey eyes lost in contemplation. This is a lot, the most she's spoken since arriving here. Perhaps the most she's spoken since filming one of District 13's propos. But the Mockingjay refuses to lose her voice again. There are stories that have to be told, that need to be remembered.

She thinks Peeta would be proud of her. Dr. Aurelian, too.]

I guess the point of all this is that this week, I came back to life. I died, but it didn't last. And - and I'm sorry if I worried anyone. I know what it's like to lose the people you love. A year ago, this week, despite everything I did to protect her, Prim died.

Comments

[ action ]

[greenjacketed]

[ the tall major wrestles with his great coat, hauling it more tightly around his solid frame. a gun dangles on one shoulder -- a long arm with a rich brown stock that matches his wings. if the man carries a sword as well, it's hidden by his jacket.

he's far off the path, a brace of hares swinging from his hand. a hunter, clearly. and any good hunter can hear another long before visual contact is ever made. sensing someone else in the area, sharpe freezes.

he watches the wilderness around him. patient. curious. ]

[ action ]

[stillplaying]

[Despite the tired ache in her heart and bones, she's quiet as she makes her way through the woods. More her old self than she's felt in a while. She'll never be that girl she was before the Hunger Games, that old Katniss. But she's aware now, aware of how that girl is still in there. Somewhere.

She follows old instincts as she slowly makes her way back to the village. Treading lightly, paying attention to even the slightest sound or flicker of movement around her. Habits that are hard to kill, even if she has no intention to hunt today. That would be too much of a welcomed distraction, too easy to escape the pain that she knows is waiting for her once she returns to the house. Tired and numb but stubborn. Oh so stubborn. But they're still habits that could, possibly, save her life.

It's those same habits and instincts that alert her to the presence of another close by. Her head darts up and she looks around. Cato? Clove? Would one or both of the Careers be following her? She doesn't know. But she's already died once. She won't die again so soon.

In one fell swoop, she pulls an arrow from the quiver and notches it in her bow. Better to be prepared. Always better. That done, she resumes her trek in the woods. Quieter though, more carefully than she had been walking moments earlier.]

[ action ]

[greenjacketed]

[ a low, cautionary whistle. something close-to-but-not-quite a bird's call. it's a little sound he shares with patrick harper when they're out and skulking in the spanish foothills. a way to know they're nearby. a comfort, more than anything.

and -- now? a way to let this stranger know that he means no harm. he doesn't care to be a shadow. he doesn't mind his presence known. ]

[Video]

[all7seas]

Oh, darling....

[Video]

[stillplaying]

[She stares at the journal a long time. She's been here long enough to know that there would be responses to her words, to know that there are people here who, for some reason she still does not understand, like her. Care about her. Responses like this - the words and the way they're spoken and that look on his face - they shouldn't surprise her. But they do. For some reason, they still do.

Her lips press together in a frown and she shakes her head. Not sad, still not sad. Confused. Confused as to why anyone would even care. They didn't know Prim. How much has she really let them know her?

And yet...]

I killed the woman responsible.

[Video]

[all7seas]

[Jack hadn't even known she'd been dead -- there had been the draft to contend with, after all, and his own problems. And he is not at all certain whether she means she killed the woman responsible for killing HER or for this sister, Prim. Jack has no sisters or brothers.

Buffy does, though. He knows that Dawn is, in her own words, her "everything." And he can imagine how she would react to a similar sister-murder.]

Here? Or back home?

[video]

[theoniongirl]

[she doesn't know Katniss well, but she knows her well enough. The girl who watched the stars and hunted in the forest and had nightmares at night.

The girl who'd already lost her best friend.

They weren't close...but that didn't matter now.

Her voice is gentle when she turns on the video function of her journal, not wanting to be a disembodied voice for this conversation]

It's a...well...a death penalty. People come back to life, but there's a cost. Which, I guess, is usually the case with magic or science.

But it's not permanent. There's someone who can remove them after a certain amount of time, I think.

[Jack had been so secretive when he'd died, not wanting to confess his penalty, and while she'd liked Giles they'd never been close enough for her to know all the details of how the reversal worked. But she knew it was possible.]

[video]

[stillplaying]

[She remembers the girl. It's been some time, a long time, since they last talked. But she still remembers her. The girl who had been watching the stars, who had been in that bunk with her during the draft. The artist whose paintings are nearly as good as Peeta's.

She remembers her. She had been nice enough. Kind. Not at all like Katniss in any kind of way.

At first, she's surprised the girl replied at all. But as she listens, that surprise gives way to a sort of resigned disbelief. A cost. Of course there's a cost. Isn't that a lesson she's learned time and time again? Nothing's ever free. Everything comes with a price or a debt.

The truth hurts more than she cares to admit. They had taken something valuable from her, something she didn't realize she'd even miss.

She looks away from the screen for a long moment.] At least I don't owe them anything then.

[video]

[theoniongirl]

[which is an oddly comforting thought, in a completely disturbing situation]

No. You don't.

...Would you like any company?

[shenevermisses]

[Why?

She wanted to start screaming it over the Journal. She wanted to hunt down Kat-- Twelve. Wanted to shove hear into a wall. Wanted to make so much noise someone had to hear her. So that Twelve had to answer her.

Why did you stop fighting?
Why did you tell them about Cato?
Why did you lie for me?
Why did you live?

Why?

But she was too afraid. She didn't want the answers.

So, early the next morning, Clove goes into the forest, pawing through the leaves to find her hunting knife. It takes some work, but she gets it back. The blood is mostly gone, and she's burned the clothes she wore.

It's so quiet here now. She hates it. No animals... no battles. It's not the Arena, and it's not the draft, and it's not a mission. She wants to be back in it.

She hates this place. She hates this quiet.]

[stillplaying]

[The fridge is empty. Not so surprising, not really. They had never really kept a well stocked fridge during the best of times and after Peeta got sick, she had stopped caring all together. Even if he's not hear any longer, she still is. She still needs to eat, to maintain strength for whatever new obstacles the Gamemakers throw her way. She won't let killing be the only thing she's still good at.

And it gives her a chance, the first real chance she's had in a long time, to go out and hunt. To gather her equipment, her bag, her bow, and trek into the autumn woods to hunt. To check on her snares and traps and repair whatever damage the storm had done. If they were still even there. She could catch a couple of hares or squirrels and maybe even have the time to add new information to her family's plant book.

It's a lot. Ambitious. But less than an hour into her morning, ambitions fail her. Her strength, physical and mental, isn't what it ought to be yet. Too ambitious. And not for the first time since waking up in the treehouse, she finds herself wandering towards the Career camp.

Towards the place she died.

Today, though, she's surprised to see that she's not alone. Maybe she should have expected it. To see Clove here. Surely the other girl must have seen the journal entry yesterday. Is this in reaction to what Katniss had said? Or is it something else? Something else entirely. She doesn't know. Doesn't even know how to ask. Instead, she makes her way into the clearing, purposely stepping on a twig to make her presence known.]

[Voice]

[fierybluebird]

[He's more touched than he ever wants to let on. More shook up than he ever wants to let on. His brother's death who died protecting another brother, his father who died protecting all of them. It's like finally something clicks a little with her confession. And he has to speak up, however hard it is. Because maybe it won't mean anything. They're strangers and all. But then, maybe it will. He has to try.]

Death is inevitable. Here. Home. In the future, sooner or later, it's going to come. You can give it your all, you can fight every foe, and the whole world, but you can't fight death for everyone forever.

It's not about how you die. When or how.

It's about how you live. Who you shared those days with. Who'll drink on in memory when they're gone.

If you'd like, if she'd like, I'll drink a toast to her. Or whatever other tradition your world has.

[Maybe it means nothing. A lost voice in pain surrounded by more of it. But maybe it does reach after all. Who can say.]

[Video]

[stillplaying]

[Maybe even more than Jack's response, more than the artist's, it's this one that surprises her. She doesn't recognize the voice or the face in the photo. Doesn't know this boy at all. He might be new, he might have been here for a long, long time. She's never paid enough attention to really know. Never really cared all that much about the general population of Luceti. And, in response, never really expected them to care about her.

She listens to it twice through before replying. The words are supposed to mean something, that much she knows. They mean something to the boy saying them. And in some ways, they hit some chord inside of Katniss. A reminder of things Dr. Aurelius has said, or Peeta. The daffodil in the spring, the reminder that life could be good again. Things she had forgotten in the blinding grief she had felt upon losing Peeta.

Things she's slowly being reminded of now.

Taking a deep breath, she turns the video back on. He's right. Death is inevitable. All she did to protect Prim and death still caught up with her sister.]

We don't really have any traditions for the dead in District 12. They die, we bury them so the animals can't eat the bodies.

[action]

[antivanleather]

Since the day word was given of Katniss' death, Zev had doubted the cause. Katniss was strong, was sure, a huntress- wild dogs did not kill someone so sleek and efficiently ruthless. Huntresses did not choke or falter in their aim. He didn't believe it. Can't believe it- even as he combs the forest for any sign of her, a moment of struggle, a paw print in the undergrowth. Something black and bitter and furious drove him to comb the woods day after day. He hunted a pack that he could not find, searched for a girl he could not save. He hadn't even known she'd needed saving. Had thought her capable enough to watch her own back, to care, and that was his failure. She'd lost someone she cared for keenly and he knew. He knew better than anyone else what that could drive someone to.

That foolishness, that blithe neglect made him just as guilty as whatever beast or blade that cut down his vibrant, burning girl. He slept in snatches, here and there. Perched in a tree or in some cavern he'd found while hunting. Checked over the journals every day for some sign, some word.

One morning word came while he was in the middle of following what looked to be the only pack that might be large enough to do a grown woman harm. After he'd spent days waiting for some sound of that voice, he couldn't miss it. Dropped the hunt entirely and ran for her home because that is where she had to be. Sprinted with her voice as a lilting counterpoint to his harsh breathing and the blood pounding in his ears.

Zevran made no attempt at stealth when he finally arrived at her house, sweaty, flushed, scraped here and there from branches he hadn't spared the time to bat aside. His gear he dumped at the door after he locked it, boots kicked off just by the stairs, gloves and armor and his coat followed until he was down to a thin shirt and leather breeches from his own world when he reached her bedroom. For a long moment he stood in the door, staring at the shape of her. Alive. Breathing. He'd heard and seen cases of it but never from someone he cared for. He could think that now and not rail. He cared for Katniss, as much as it left him terrified.

"...what happened." His voice was rough, weary, without any edge of humor that it ever held. Before he could let himself hold her, before he could smile or joke he needed to know.

[action]

[stillplaying]

-week, despite everything I did to protect her, Prim died.

[The words had continued to flow. So many words. So many things to say, things that perhaps she should have said long ago, things that she can't help but say now. She's kept so much bottled up inside of her, hidden even from Peeta and now, now had seemed like the time to let go. She can't explain it, not entirely. It's almost like a compulsion, a way to make up for her silenced singing. As if by talking, she can regain her voice entirely. Regain song.

But she does stop, stops as soon as hears the front door slam open. The front door she stupidly left unlocked upon returning to the house. The front door anyone could enter. Prim's death is announced. She meant to continue, to tell Panem how killed the woman responsible for Prim being in the midst of the battle. How the beautiful snare, the trap that her best friend had developed once had been twisted, perverted to kill too many children. How she wonders sometimes how he's doing even if she still doubts she could ever look at him the same way again. He had been a boy she might have once fallen in love with had Peeta's goodness not stolen her heart.

None of it's said though, not even given the thought it was due. No, as soon as she heard the door, the journal was shut, forgotten. She reaches across the bed instead to find the knife she had kept hidden in the drawer of the bedside table. Fingers brush by other objects, reminders of Peeta, but she ignores them in face of the looming threat.

She's on her feet as soon as Zevran bursts into the room painted to resemble the forests of 12. Her grip on the knife loosens a little when she recognizes him. But still, she frowns. He couldn't have answered over the journal like everyone else? He had to come running in here, scaring her?

Eyes narrow.] I just said.

[Voice]

[voidseeing]

Why do you sing?

[Katniss' story strikes a familiar chord in him; it reminds him both of himself and of Inori. He'd taught Inori to sing, told her to use it as a way to express her feelings. Maybe it's the same in this case too.]

[Voice]

[stillplaying]

[Why does she sing? When she was younger, it was never something she questioned. Her father sang, her father hunted. Therefore, Katniss sang and hunted. She learned everything her father had to taught her, emulated him in every way possible. And it was fun. It was oh so much fun to sing and watch everyone admire the otherwise invisible girl.

She had stopped when her father died. There was no more time for frivolities. The memories had become unwanted. Sometimes she'd sing at night, a lullaby to Prim when her sister needed it. But it wasn't until in the Games again, until Rue had wanted her to sing as the girl had laid dying, that she really began to value her voice again.

And now that was gone.

Why?]

I don't know.

[voice]

[theogre]

[Sakura has heard of the Hunger Games. Katniss can thank Clove for that, because Sakura listens to everything Katniss has to say. And then she replays it before replying.]

You participated in the games as well. [She doesn't realize what a poor choice of words those are. Is Sakura supposed to apologize? Tell this stranger that no one should have to go through such a thing? That isn't right. Is she supposed to relate it to her own experiences, being forced to kill another student in order to graduate the school? She never gave into the temptation, but she came from a world of despair, of mutual killing, too. That didn't seem fair, either, and a part of her wishes she hadn't replied at all.

Even without knowing Katniss's name, Sakura can make one conclusion.]

Clove told me about you.

[video]

[stillplaying]

[No. No apologies. No pity, no sympathies. She wouldn't know what to do with any of them. With anything that would make her as much a victim as anyone else that had been in the arena. She knew what she had been getting into when she had volunteered. Every child of Panem knew the cost of being a tribute in the Hunger Games.

But understanding, understanding is different. Understanding is, maybe, what she's seeking. An understanding for both herself and the others she's trapped with here. So they know where she came from, so she knows where she came from.

It should make sense that some of her audience has heard this before. She hasn't stayed entirely quiet on the Hunger Games. She's not the only tribute that's been here. But still, the words catch her off guard. And instantly put her back on her guard.

Clove told me about you.

Clove talks about her?]

What did she say?

[ written 50% filter ]

[fortherefreshments]

Sorry doesn't cover up stupidity.

[video 50% filter]

[stillplaying]

[It was only a matter of time before she heard from him. Even if she couldn't find a response to Clove's message in the journals, she knew he would see it. Knew he'd be angry. For all their disagreements, he's still her mentor. He still, in his own way, looks out for her. Cares.

Of all the people she owes an apology to, perhaps she owes it to him most of all. But she doesn't know how to say that. Not to Haymitch.

Her face remains stony. But for a second, a look of true regret flashes across her features.]

I'll be more careful next time.

[Voice]

[markofthewise]

[Losing a sister. Sokka can't imagine it. What would he be like if he'd lost Katara?

He couldn't quite imagine it. Nor did he want to.]

Katniss. What happened?

[Video]

[stillplaying]

[Where does she even begin to answer that question? He knows what happened, had sought her out after she had announced it on the journal. Peeta had left. That's what had happened. Peeta had left and her whole world had come crashing down around her.

But she doesn't say that now. Because she suspects that that's not the answer he's seeking.

She shrugs a little.] I let the memories get the better of me.

[voice]

[halfnhalf]

[The Hunger Games. That was why Katniss' name sounded so familiar. Teddy had never read the books himself, figuring that they were just another teen series that kids were getting into just because of the whole Twilight fad. Maybe he should try, though, if he ever finds a book on that here, or when he goes home.

It sounds awful, just... her life in general. And it's no wonder she was so hesitant around him, seemed distrustful in general. He was sure she came from a warlike world as a response, but this was... kind of worse than he thought.

And he certainly knows what it's like to lose the people you love.]

Welcome back.

[video]

[stillplaying]

[It is, perhaps, the easiest response she's received thus far. No questions, no words of sympathy. Just a simple "welcome back" from a boy she remembers once having an interesting, even entertaining, conversation with. She can appreciate it. Even smile just a little.

This is the kind of response that makes it easy to pretend recent events never happened. That Peeta never left and that she never died.]

Thanks. Did I miss much?