stillplaying | Appointment Post!

It'd be easier if they told us the rules. The objective.

[In the Arena, there was only one rule: Stay alive.

But every tribute knew it. They understood what they had to do.

Here, there was no such reassurance. She didn't know what the Malnosso wanted of them, how to respond to what they did, what the driving purpose was. Everything the Gamemakers did had a point-- one survivor.

Or two.

But she won't let her mind go back there, back to false memories.

Her voice wavers ever so slightly as she mutters:] They could at least take them away. The memories. After they're done.

[It would be. But this isn't the first game she played without any rules. In rebellion, it turned out that even if they did exist, no rule mattered.]

It wouldn't be as entertaining if they did.

[The words are almost sneered. She's angry. Not at Clove, but at the Malnosso. Their new keepers and Gamemakers. Is this entertainment for them? Watching the villagers react to these hijacks and changes? It makes more sense to her than any kind of experimentation might.]

[Clove nodded once. Slowly-- very, very slowly-- she eased her knife back into its sheath and moved from her crouch back to sitting on the ground, looking out at the lake.

The other girl was ever in her peripheral vision. She didn't really let her out of her sight. But she was deemed less of a threat now. Neither of them were in the mood to die, she felt sure.

At least her memories of her "life" here felt like a dream. They conjured up a few feelings in her, feelings of trust and companionship, but those were thoughts created by a dream. Her memories of being a Victor were much clearer, much sharper, much more painful. ...Maybe because she realised how close she'd been to having it.]

[She watches the knife return to its sheath. Watches Clove take a seat on the ground. She's no threat. Not today. Death would be too easy. A solution to the dramas that plague them. Not a punishment in any way.

The bow is completely loosened. The arrow put away. And quietly, oh so quietly, she takes a seat on the ground next to the other tribute. Arms wrap around her legs as she stares into the water. It's quiet today. Peaceful. There's a reason why she likes this lake so much. It's further away. Less people tend to come.

Her other self had thought much the same thing. Though she had truly liked the other people in Luceti, had been at home there, she liked her peaceful retreats. Hunting. Fishing in the water. Alone. Only surrounded by the nature she held so dear.]

[Clove sits with her knees up as well but spread, her arms rested on them, not curled about. It's a more open posture, but it's one of defense all the same. Defence with a tendency to flee, if necessary, rather than to curl up to protect herself. She wants to run, but there's nowhere to run and no one to run to. She has no allies here, not really.

She looks out at the lake, studying the surface of the water. So placid, yet... so much under the surface. The bugs, the frogs, the fish. Everything in a cycle of life and death, predator and prey... Nothing disrupted it.]

[It's odd. Sitting here, not too far from the Career. Though her bow is on the ground in front of her and knives and arrows are easily obtainable, she almost feels defenseless. There's some level of trust here, right now. Trust that neither will strike. Trust that shouldn't exist.

But it does. And it's not so difficult, either. Not when both of them are trapped in mutual thoughts. Memories. Regrets.]

[Trust that shouldn't exist.

But it does.

This is a girl, Clove must admit, who understands. They come from vastly different worlds, even if it's in the same world. Yet they understand, at least, about the Games. People here... they disapprove. She's yet to meet anyone who didn't express immediate disapproval. But they don't understand. Even if she and District Twelve saw the Game differently then... they lived it. They felt it.

And then the Malnosso made them friends. Close friends. Friends who had no secrets. She hadn't even had a friend like that in the Academy. Some of that lingers, and Clove knows it. Just like she can see the face of the daughter who never existed if she closes her eyes. A beautiful, healthy baby girl...

Her voice is very quiet when she speaks, distant yet... reaching, in its own way. Reaching out. Not for comfort. But to someone who understands.]

They left proof. Of their hijacking.

[It's something a friend would do. Show this. They aren't friends, but she wants Twelve to see it. Maybe to prove to herself that it's real, not just a figment of her imagination.

She picks up the framed "family portrait" the Malnosso left her with, the young married couple and their newborn daughter, and offers it to the girl beside her. Because Clove needs to know that this picture really exists.]

[She takes the portrait from Clove, still quiet. It's hard to keep emotions at bay this time. But the girl sitting next to her isn't just anyone. She's someone who Katniss can never, ever let know her own weaknesses. And that includes her guilt. Especially her guilt. The guilt she feels now as she stares at the picture. At the little girl who'll never exist.

The happy Career couple. The pair from District Two she saw die. Killed one of them herself. Didn't stop the other from dying. Not that she probably could, not against Thresh. Would they really have had this happy ending if she and Peeta had died in their stead? Marriage, a daughter? No Capitol, no Snow breathing down their necks?

She realizes how vastly unfair it all is. Not just that Clove and Cato were denied a life. That she never got this option. That she had to be the spark, that Snow had to hate her so much. She never got to have a chance at life with Peeta or with Gale. Never.

And then come along these new Gamemakers. With these new games. She gently puts the picture down on the grass and pulls out a folded photograph from her own pocket to pass over. Of a happy bride and groom, and their closest friends.]

[The couple in the photograph looks happy. They are happy, clove knows. But afraid. So very afraid.

A public proposal during the victor interview, a large Capitol wedding performed by President Snow. The whirlwind romance that sprang from the spark and rose from the ashes of the passion between District Twelve's star-crossed lovers. A new love story, new hope for the romantics. New darlings for the Capitol. silent conversations confirming they were only safe as long as Panem was in love with them as a pair. Quiet sobbing over fights-- for every couple fought00 she couldn't tell anyone about. The threat that a child of theirs would be eligible for Reaping in eleven years.

But she would tell Twelve nothing about that, would pretend she wasn't sick with fear and dread for a future that never happened.

She takes the offered picture. The picture of their lives-that-weren't in Luceti Valley.]

I remember this. I... shouldn't, but these pictures shouldn't exist either, I guess.

[Why exactly she smiles, she can't say. Somehow, it seems right to smile at Katniss. As if they're still the girls in that photograph.]

That cake. I can't imagine how many hours that took him.

[She can remember. It's starting to fade again, but she can remember. How Peeta wouldn't let her near the bakery at all for the weeks preceding their wedding. Worked so, so hard to make the cake perfect. To make the wedding perfect. Absolutely memorable. A day she would never, ever forget.

And she doesn't want to forget, either. She might not know if she loves Peeta like she loved him in that hijacking, but it felt good. To love like that. There was never any question in her mind that Peeta felt that way about her, loved her more than anything else, both then and now.

It's only her. Always her with the doubts.

Doubts she can't shake even now. Even as she crookedly returns the smile, however small it is.]

They didn't do this last time. Leave reminders.

[She has to ask.

Looking at the picture of her husband and daughter, Clove knows she has to ask. She will scream when District Twelve tells her. Or, worse, cry. What never happpened makes her sick. Four tributes-- battered by rain-- dueled to the death on top of the slick Cornucopia, giant dog muttations trying to leap up to drag any of them down by the ankle.

Between District Twelve's arrows and Lover Boy's temporary gain of his sword... Cato had almost been killed.

So she has to know. She needs to hear it from District Twelve. The kid was dead before it happened, and Clove wouldn't let Lover Boy tell her even if he tried. It has to be District Twelve, the eleven, the girl on fire. Only her voice will be accepted as the truth.

She needs to know.]

How did Cato die?

[It was a question she was expecting. Eventually. She looks down at the photograph in her hand, the happy wedding. Peeta, looking proud and in love, arms wrapped tightly around her pretty white dress. Herself, happier than she can ever remember being. Clove and Rue laughing. Other friends in the background. Even the crease in the middle doesn't take away from the joy the image emits.

There's no sign that Cato ever existed in that photo. No sign that there was ever any kind of murder and death between them. No Games.

The question was to be expected. Maybe even now, especially now, with Clove's own photograph. With the altered memories still clinging.]

There were muttations. [Said quietly. She hates this. Hates remembering this.] Big dog-like creatures with human eyes. Cato fell and... it was my arrow. My arrow or the mutts.

[It's what their lives are. The were tributes. Blood and death would always be in their minds.

The picture Katniss-- District Twelve holds is a bold, blatant lie. It hurts less. Running through these woods, hunting or playing. Swimming in this lake, splashing each other. Laughing. They had all been happy; they'd never killed or almost been killed. It is all such a fantasy that losing it doesn't hurt.

But Cato. Cato, who curled around her in bed and kissed her when she secretly wept over the past, present, or for no reason at all. Her husband and co-victor. Cato, who she could still feel and half see cradling her and pleading. "C'mon, Clove. Just stay with me. We're going home. Clove. Stay with me."

Did he hear her? Did she even speak? She thought she told him she was fine. That she expected him to win. That...]

Three tributes left. [She knows the heartless Games.] It wasn't the mutts.

[The control in her voice is, perhaps, remarkable. especially considering the few tears streaking her cheeks.]

[She nods. Maybe she could expand on the story. On that climax of entertainment, the night that must have kept the Capitol's viewers on the edge of their seats. That night that would have been the highlight of the 74th Annual Hunger Games if not for her accidental rebellion. If not for the berries and the spark.

How there nearly were only two tributes left. Two tributes that would not have been allowed to go home together. That would have been named the lone Victor, that person who stuck first. Cato nearly killed Peeta. Held him as a shield and nearly strangled him. That it had been her and Peeta together that had knocked the District Two tribute off the Cornucopia. And how they had sat there for the most of the night, her and Peeta, listening to Cato's moans and pleas.

How even in killing Cato, she nearly took Peeta's life. The arrow that had been used as a tourniquet to his leg. The last arrow she had left.

But there's really not much more to say. Just a nod and:]

I killed him.

The nature of the Games.

[She can't hate District Twelve for it. Because she or Cato would have done the same, positions reversed. She can remember doing the same.

Besides, it happens every year. And... with the promise of two tributes getting to go home together. With being that close. She'd have thought the girl an idiot if she hadn't killed Cato.

There are still tears. Wiping them away would just call more attention to them, and... Well. She was used to District Two. Where the kind thing to do, if someone was crying, was to pretend you didn't notice. She actually thinks District Twelve will understand that. Will know to just not say anything about it.]

[The nature of the Games. To survive. To kill or be killed. They're very simple games all things considered. The rules are basic, very easy to follow. But it's the consequences that are hard. Living with the results of your actions.

Only a Victor really knows what that can be like. How you can cope, but how difficult it really is. You find an activity to lose yourself in but even though, sometimes she wonders if it's enough.

There's a quick glance in Clove's direction. She sees the tears but stays quiet. Loses herself in her own thoughts once again. Now, she knows without a doubt that she would cry for Peeta. But then? After the first Games? Would she have cried?

She doesn't know.

But she is aware that the photo she still holds in her hands isn't real. Just her memories, her emotions, being manipulated again. And slowly, she rips the photograph along the fold. Then rips the pieces again.]

When Katniss rips the photo, clove wipes her eyes.

It would be best, she knows, to destroy her own false memory, but she can't. It's too precious, what it represents. Both hope-- the thought of the husband and family her own arrogance had cheated her out of-- and fear-- always waiting for President Snow's revenge for two Victors escaping him.

And they had not even been as bold as District Twelve and her berries. It gives Clove a far sharper pang of sympathy for the lives of the seventy-fourth victors.

[The picture is all but shredded now. Tiny little pieces sit in her hand. She looks down at them, looks at the forest surrounding them. Looks at the lake. And then quietly, she rises. In a show of trust, the bow stays on the ground where she had previously sat. But if Clove does try anything, she has other weapons on her.

She stands by the water's edge, looking at the ripples. Then she opens her fist and lets the wind catch the pieces of photos. The first land on the water's surface and slowly sink under.]

[Gone. Torn and discarded. And now what? Was it as if it had never happened?

No. Because it did. They spent a few days as close friends.

But they could refuse to acknowledge it.]

I wonder how they do it. The wings or the tracker [the creatures are muttations, the tattooed barcodes are trackers; no one will convince her otherwise] probably.

[Then:]

Someone was surprised. Confused, too. When I suggested we might be here for their-- the Malnosso's-- entertainment.

[The tracker. She knows exactly what the career is referring to. Similar thoughts had crossed her own mind. At the mention of the word, fingers slip under the short sleeve of her tunic. Rub at the scar where Johanna had dug out another tracker months earlier. But she doesn't think that's how they do it. Not with what she knows of hijacking.

She's quiet though. As Clove talks. Watches the pieces of photo float away. She won't forget. But it doesn't mean she wants to remember. Not a happier life.

The only time she glances back is at the very end. When the girl mentions confusion and Katniss has to frown.]

I've had that, too. They don't understand what games can be like.

[For Clove, Capitol hijackings were whispered stories in the night. No one knew how or even who. Someone's cousin's sister's friend met someone who had endured it or knew someone who had. A lot of people waved them off as nonsense.

Clove had always regarded the tales with a healthy dose of skepticism. But her "life" as a Victor was fresh in her mind. She remembered President Snow, the quiet and serene malevolence in his eyes as he'd conducted the traditional District Two wedding ceremony done with all due Capitol pomp. She remembered the words of relief, congratulations, and caution whispered in her ears by other Victors. Emerging from the games in the throes of triumph and romance, evading the grasp that would have displayed her like one of his white roses. She could only be thankful they'd won together. Cato might never have submitted to Snow as a lone Victor, or he might have been broken completely.

Facing him together had saved them. And she could believe every horror story about hijacking now.]

It's weird. We... grow up with it, and they just... have no idea.

But... well. They talk about things I don't get, too.

[She nods as she walks back to where the other girl sits.

There's a lot that she's seen here in which she had never encountered before. Words, objects, animals, and actions. Especially actions. People here are nice. Helpful. Too nice, too helpful. She's not used to it. And not at all fond of it either.

In some ways, it's harder to accept than the hijacking. At least there's some basis in the reality she's grown up with for hijacking. She's seen it, witnessed first hand the ill effects it had on Peeta. But every time someone's overly nice to her, she grows suspicious. Slinks away. Tries to be more unlikable than she already is.

And tries to hide her surprise when it doesn't work.]

[And Clove views every kindness as an investment. Someone's nice to her? They'll want something for it later. It's all part of the alliance of a pack, and every single one of them will fight to the death for themselves the moment the tension's too high.

That's the world she knows. That's what she expects.

And it's with District Twelve that she's actually comfortable. Because they understand. They know that if this truce they have dissolves, there will be no hesitation and no mercy. They aren't pretending anything, and they know the other girl isn't either. They don't like each other...

...And that's why the can stand each other.]

[She sits again. Maybe she should move on, continue her trek into the woods. Away from Peeta and Rue and any other lingering memories of recent events. Away from Clove, too. Clove who had been her best friend. Like Gale but yet, not.

Still, she sits instead of leaves. Sits and stares at the lake again. The pieces are no longer visible. They've sunk to the bottom of the lake, or have been eaten by curious fish. Gone. Good riddance. And again she thinks that she should go, too. But she still remains sitting. Staring. Thinking.]

There are a lot of worlds here. Lots of people. And they all seem okay with this. Being pieces in a game.

[Clove is quiet for a few moments, considering the words, the implication of being pieces in a game.]

Maybe they see it as their only way to get by, to survive.

[Because, really, that is how a Career lives. They devote themselves to playing the Game. Life or death. They claim honor and pride. But, really? It's a way to survive. It's an excuse.

Learn how to act, what to say, put on a good show... and maybe you'll live to see the next day.]

Not everyone has nightlock.

[She remembers what District Twelve told her that first day.]

Or the guts to use it.

Appointment Post!

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