Katniss Everdeen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stillplaying) wrote2012-07-16 12:19 pm
stillplaying) wrote2012-07-16 12:19 pm
Entry tags:
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.]
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.]
action
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.]