stillplaying | 6th Game [video/action]

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6th Game [video/action]

[When she wakes up this morning, she knows immediately what day it is. Knows immediately what it means today, what it's meant on days past. Celebration. Repression. The agony of parents losing their children as punishment for crimes committed long ago. Happy Hunger Games, Effie would greet in her afflicted Capitol accent.

Happy Hunger Games indeed.

Today would have been that day. That day in which all those children eligible between the ages of twelve and eighteen would have gathered in front of their District's Justice Hall. Would have stood, some alert, some terrified, almost all praying that it's not their name chosen. Not their sibling. Not a friend. Not anyone they might love even in the most remote of manners.

But the calendar does not lie. No matter how much she wants it to. How much she wishes it were yesterday or tomorrow. A week, month, five years from now. Any other day.

She's slowly begun to find routines. New ways to find meaning in her existence. Hunting for food, spending time with Peeta and other people she's become slightly (and surprisingly) sociable with. Checking in on Haymitch. Maintaining that tentative treaty with Clove. Working on her plant book. Her survival guide. And trying not to remember. Not to remember the Draft that had occurred so recently. The newest nightmares that haunt her at night - nightmares of great winged men dying in the darkness of the skies.

But it's hard to will herself to move today. Especially when she makes the mistake of looking inside the journal. At the date stamped on the most recent page. But even then, she would have known once she had stepped outside the sanctuary of the house.

It's a feeling. In the air. Even if this is Luceti and not Panem, it's still there. Even if, today, the very last reaping for the Games would be held. In the Capitol. Amongst the children of government officials who had always been immune.

A bloodthirsty decision. A bloodthirsty way to end the seventy-six year tradition. But fitting. So, so very fitting. Maybe she should feels twinges of remorse. But she doesn't. There's no regret in how she voted. Absolutely no regret.]

[Peeta's not in bed with her. She can hear the shower running. Time for her to get up as well, no matter how much she wants today to be a Lost Day. Wants to hide forever in these sheets and in his arms. Hide from a decision she had made so shortly after a war to condemn more children to the fate she herself had suffered. But she can't run. Can't hide. That's not what the Mockingjay would do.

Because she knows, without a doubt, that today the new government of Panem would find a use for her. The Mockingjay would be the one to let the world know.

So as she waits for her turn in the shower, she takes out a journal and sets it to video. She studies the camera - grey eyes hard with emotion, lips pressed into a thin line. A deep breath is drawn. Then, pushing aside any temptation to mimic Effie's Capitol accent, she says loud, clear, and every bit bitter:]

Happy Hunger Games.

[She stares at the little camera for a moment longer. Almost dares anyone to ask her what these Games are. But the book is closed shortly after that. Answers to come later.

Maybe Peeta and Beetee were right. Maybe the 76th Hunger Games would be a mistake. But she can't spend so much time thinking about that. Can't spend time thinking what Luceti might think of her responses if questions are asked. For now, she lets this reminder be enough.

Opting in the end not to wait for Peeta to finish his shower, she gets dressed and braids her hair back sloppily to the side. Mourning would be easy. Hiding would be easy. Today ought to be hard.

She steps out in the morning light.]

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May the odds be ever in your favor.

[The words are even and clear. There is no fear... but there is no pride. The Career says them like anyone else would. Neutrality masking a horror at what it means. At what that date means.

She looks the part, today. What the video shows is exactly what the camera in District Two would have displayed for the Reaping: Clove has done her hair simply. Pulled it back, away from her face. Bound once near the skull and hanging down from there. Minimal make-up, but a little. Enough to draw attention to the brown of her eyes and a pale pink-ish red to her lips. Not provocative, just enough to give them a little color. And her cheeks are painted with blush to hide how pale she is today. She looks alive and alert. Not like the frightened girl she'd woken up as. She even wears the kind of clothes she would. A white shirt, perfectly clean and pressed, buttoned up fully and white pants. They're not uniform regulation, but it doesn't matter. She still looks like an Academy student, turned out for the Reaping.]

[Cato is still asleep. She thinks that he might still be disoriented enough with his arrival here to not know what day it is. Or perhaps he's trying to ignore it. Perhaps he'll even take pride in it. She doesn't think the latter will happen, but it's possible.

A girl from District Twelve who volunteered to save her sister won the Hunger Games with her district partner.
Anything is possible.

He's still asleep, and Clove doesn't want to wake him. In the bed in the apartment, he seems like he's actually asleep, not haunted by nightmares like he was at the camp. Clove won't disturb that moment of peace. She knows how hard it is to find, even here. Even away from the Arena.

She remembers what she found in the item shop, what's fueled her nightmares recently. Seeing it glittering on District Twelve's jacket as Thresh hauled her up, fingers slipping across it when, in a moment of sheer panic, she tried to find some purchase. Something to hold onto to save herself. She retrieves the gold mockingjay pin from her dresser and heads outside.

Maybe Twelve will go to the forests. The treehouses? Or somewhere deep in them, not to be found until this day is over.

Clove travels by instinct, though. She heads to the heart of the village, to where the fountain is. Because of Luceti had a Justice Hall, that is where it would be.

She is very, very conscious of how she walks. It's an even pace, and her body is drawn up straight. As if she is entirely in control and unafraid. ...Tinged, at its very edges, with the gait of one walking to her death. Every child knows that feeling. The sinking fear of Reaping Day that leaves so many hollow inside as they stand and wait for their name. And if their name isn't called, they lunge forward. They demand to go instead. They call it an honor so they don't start screaming. And when they're chosen, they toss their heads and smile. Because that's what everyone from District Two wants. They all want to go to the Games.

Everything feels so normal in Luceti, and that's almost frightening. No stage, no seals of the Capitol, no representatives, no former Victors standing, no mayor giving a speech. Luceti doesn't know what day it is.

It feels so fake. And more frightening than the Reaping.]

[Where the odds ever in her favor? She survived, not one, but two arenas. Got Peeta out of there alive, too. Damaged, but alive. And that... that's something that had never been done before, had it? Not until the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve came along. Until a spark had been ignited in her own stubbornness, desperateness not to have to go home without him. Face the crowds of people who would have hated her, despised her, if she had killed him.

She doesn't respond, though she did notice the effort Clove had made in dressing up today. As if she were going to the Justice Hall, as if the reaping really were to occur. But she'd be safe today. Every child, from every District. Finally, they'd be safe.

It does make Clove stand out, though. When she sees her near the fountain a little later that day. Unlike the girl from District Two, Katniss isn't dressed up. Her clothing is simple - a light green t-shirt and tawny trousers. Laced up boots. But it lacks the jacket she wore into the arena during those first games. And her bow here is no where as nice as the one provided by the Capitol.

She stands not too far on the other side of the fountain. Watching Clove thoughtfully as she debates whether to go over. Whether to even acknowledge the other tribute's presence. In the end, minutes later, she settles on a brief nod. Continues walking. Past Clove and past the fountain. Into the items store. It's been a while since she was last in here, looking for goods. Now might be a good time.]

[It's a fantastic idea, really, but Clove truly feels like she senses her fellow tribute before she sees her. She turns her head.

The hijacking is a memory of a dream. She can recall the highlights: being crowned beside Cato, her wedding, her daughter. Everything else is hazy, slipping between reality and pretend. She still has the photograph, hidden so Cato will never find it.

When the other girl-- she cannot be District Twelve today, but she can't ever be Katniss-- nods, Clove replies in the same fashion.

Today, it's forgiveness and understanding. No one is an enemy on Reaping Day. The class divide in District Two, which causes such resentment year-round, vanishes for a week and remains low throughout the Games.

She cannot go back to her apartment. She will not go to her camp. She doesn't know where else to go.

So she sits on the fountain edge and waits. When the other tribute reappears (following her seems wrong, like she might feel like a threat), Clove will remember to return the mockingjay pin, the token of District Twelve.]

[When Peeta gets out of the shower, Katniss is gone. So he heads to work at the bakery. When he gets back, he goes upstairs to his studio and starts to paint.

His paintings tend to be fairly literal. He doesn't paint his feelings so much as puzzle pieces. But this painting is different. It tells a story.

Effie Trinket, faceless and surrounded by a glaring halo as if he'd been staring at her too long, overlapping herself at three different distances. It's as if the viewer is coming closer to her as they watch.]

[She finds him eventually. Not at the bakery or in the common room of their house, but upstairs. It's a place she knows to look for him by now. His studio has become her favorite room in the house. There's something almost reassuring in watching him work, here or in the bakery. A reminder. A reminder that all the sacrifices were worth it. That he's still here. Still alive and still so utterly Peeta. She can sit there quietly for hours, just watching him.

It's like that when she strays upstairs, sometime later in the day. She's quiet as she slips into the studio barehanded. Bow and parcel of goods had been left downstairs. Rather than taking a seat, she leans against the wall and continues to watch. Of all the things to paint, on today of all days, maybe it's not surprising to see this. To see her. Someone so intertwined with the reapings in District Twelve. It almost brings a smile to her face. How fitting.]

Hunger Games?

[She looks at the screen for a moment or two, trying to place the girl's age. Too young, she thinks, much too young to have been subjected to the Hunger Games as anything more than an observer. There was no age too young for that. Not by the Capitol's standards. Maybe Paylor will be different for these last Hunger Games. Maybe she'll not make it as mandatory to view as Snow once did.

A second or two later, she does nod. The girl is young. She wants to spare her the harsh details.] They were an annual competition in my country.

Hunger Games? [Well doesn't that sound pleasant.] What are those?

[This girl looks and sounds about her age. Someone whom, were they back in Panem, would have probably known a Tribute. Lost someone to the Games over the years. Or, if the uprisings had never occurred, might have been celebrating her very last year in which she would have been eligible.

It's still a little strange, encountering all these people who don't know.]

The highest form of entertainment in the Capitol. [The words are judging, scornful.] Children fighting to the death every year in honor of the original uprisings.

[Hermione inhales sharply at the last sentence, clearly unnerved.]

Children? I don't think anyone should fight to the death, but allowing children to do that sort of thing counts as entertainment in your world?

[The reaction isn't surprising anymore. She's been here for months now, hasn't she? The people here, they're not like the people of Panem. Not like the people of District Twelve. They don't understand. Or maybe, as she considers the words the girl said, they understand all too well.

Unfortunately, nods don't translate well when the journal's set to voice. She has to remind herself to speak.] Yes. It did.

[And then force herself to speak more.] Two tributes are chosen from each District. A boy and a girl, between the ages twelve and eighteen. The last tribute alive in the arena is declared victor.

I'll be over directly with a box of Pop Tarts. You've got to try them, darling Katniss: not quite pop, not quite tart. All fabulous.

[It's certainly not a response she's expecting. From him, from anybody really. But since the draft, her opinion of the strange man has changed a little. He's not the cowardly drunk he makes himself out to be. She knows that now.

And it's why she actually listens to him. And doesn't dismiss this as stupidity as is her first instinct.]

Popped tarts?

Where are you? And do you prefer cinnamon or strawberries? Or both?

[Jack, for his part, likes Katniss. Likes her quite a bit. He likes dangerous women as a rule, and he likes her quiet ways, and he likes a fellow sharpshooter. Staking out the building with her on the draft reaffirmed those feelings for him.]

I don't know.

[It's in response to the preference question. Strawberries or cinnamon in these popped tarts. She'll eat either in a normal tart, one that Peeta bakes. But she'll eat anything he makes, especially when he's baking just for her.]

Either? [And then she remembers that first question.] I'm at the library.

Be right there!

[And when he does show up, it is with two identical paper bags. In each bag, there is a different-flavored poptart. Jack locates Katniss and, instead of his usual greeting, holds out a bag in each hand.]

Right. Let's play.

[She looks at the bags, then up to the grinning face. It's no surprise that he found her. The library isn't necessarily all that big. And she does tend to drift towards the same table whenever working on her plant book.

But it's the bags themselves that confuse her. What he presents is certainly unlike any game she's ever played.]

How?

You choose a bag. You choose one of the bags and get the tart that fate gifts you with.

[It's a game. A Hungry Person Game.]

[A Hungry Person Game. At the very least, it sounds safer than the Hunger Games. And easier, too. All she has to do is pick a bag.

She picks the one on the left.]

Cinnamon. Bugger. [He offers her the bag, which contains a package of two cinnamon pop tarts.] That leaves me with.....blueberry, I think.

[She takes the bag from him and opens it up to see the rectangles. They don't look like anything she recalls Peeta ever baking. For that matter, she's not certain if they look all that edible.

One of the rectangles are removed for further inspection. Out of the bag, they don't necessarily look more appealing.] This is a popped tart?

That's it. Cheers, lass. [He lifts his blueberry tart to perform a tart-slapping toast with her cinnamon one.] They're much more better toasted. With butter.

[She doesn't do much more than hold up her own tart when he slaps his own to it. Is this a part of the game? She doesn't know. But she won't argue. She'll just inspect the tart further.]

Where would you put the butter?

[There's already icing on it!]

All over the top of it, of course.

[Because this is normal. :| ]

Go 'head. Have a bite. You won the hungry people game. And just for winning, darling, I've brought you another surprise.

Edited 2012-07-21 01:45 (UTC)

[Before taking a bite, her lips press into a line and she gives him an agitated look. Winning a game isn't this easy. It shouldn't be.

But the tart itself brings a slight smile to her lips. It's not as good as Peeta's creations, but it's not bad, either. She's about to tell him so when the rest of his words hit her. Another surprise?]

What? Why?

[Instead of directly answering that, Jack reaches into a crinkling pocket and pulls out a bag of]

Cheesey-doodlies. You said you were hungry.

[The nuclear-orange puffed-corn snacks beckon, Katniss. They beckon. And they have no nutritional value whatsoever.]

[At least this she recognizes. That strange bright orange crunchy food the boy in the grocery had had her try. So that, at least, doesn't get as confused an expression as the popped tarts received.

It's his words that earn the curious head tilt instead.] No, I didn't.

Aye, you did. "Happy Hunger Games," you said. So. I'm filling you up.

Perhaps later we could rob the bakery together.

--yourself, Mockingjay.

[ Whatever he might have said prior to that has been cut off, a delayed start in recording, and now the sound of ripe vomiting takes over. It subsides before long, followed by an undefined silence.

His journal remains open as he lies out on the floor, knife in hand, half-bottled by sleep. He'd prefer the day to slip away and remain unbothered. His own mind is enough of a task to quiet and for that he requires no assistance. Yet, this particular year, he can't help but feel a dull twinge of pride.

They can have their final Reaping without him. It was something agreed upon and he highly doubts that much would delay the decision. Those who choose can wallow and moan until their gushing hearts run dry. Of the living and dead here in Luceti, he has no desire for the company of either. They each know the burden and how to carry it.

An eye for an eye. One set of privileged lives for so many others. One last hurrah for a dying spectacle. ]

[Today's supposed to be hard, isn't it? Anything but a day of peace, a day of hiding. She's already done too much, been too alert and too active for today to be any kind of a Lost Day.

Eyes roll as she closes the journal and makes her way to Haymitch's residence. It'd be easier to go find Peeta and get his help. She's tempted. So very tempted. In so many ways, Haymitch is as much his responsibility as he is hers. Here, trapped in another game, they have to look out for each other. She and Peeta, them with Haymitch. He's as much of a game piece as they are now.

Eventually, she knocks on the door of his residence. She doubts he's anywhere else. Not with that sound of vomiting she had heard in the background of his response.]

[ The knocking is perfectly, if not painfully, audible. Comprehension and consent, however, are much slower to come. His head will only throb worse if the visitor proves to be persistent and, if possible, he's willing to make an impression to deter any passersby in the future.

When he finally does open the door, it is pulled with reasonable force. Though most of his teetering body serves as a blockade to the interior, it's the knife held out shakily in his hand that demonstrates his true intentions.

When he sees the stone face of the girl, his expression resembles something of disappointment. The knife lowers, but he remains slouched in the door frame determined to keep her on the porch. In a dragging manner, he wipes his nose along the back of his hand, squinting his bloodshot eyes against the sudden influx of sunlight. ]

And to what do I owe the pleasure?

[Slowly, she looks him over. The way he wipes his nose. The blood staining his eyes. The way he can't seem to hold the knife steady and the look of his clothing. It's so very much typical Haymitch. She shouldn't be surprised. But hadn't she stressed to him how much this is another game? That they're trapped here for the sake of their new Gamemakers, the Malnosso? And their experiments and battles and -- everything?

So she scowls when she sees him. The disappointment in his expression is mirrored back in her own. How could he be so stupid as to drink like this? it has to be like they were back when the Quarter Quell was announced. Ready for anything. Ready to be back in that arena.

Stupid, stupid Haymitch.]

Making sure you're still alive.

[ He coughs out a laugh. There is that outdated sense of duty she has while still being perfectly sour about it. No, maybe just sheer stubbornness. The trait knows no bounds apparently, even here. ]

Guess you have your answer.

[ Damn light. Once he has had enough of squinting into it, he turns and hobbles back into the residence to take a seat at the table. The door is left to fall on its own accord, not quite heavy enough to fully shut itself. She's free to leave with that answer, but he has not directly turned her away. She's one of the few he can tolerate, at least for a few moments. A shaky bout of trust that he can still uphold.

It may also spare him another headache should she have started knocking again. ]

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6th Game [video/action]

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