stillplaying | 7th Game [action/voice]

[Action]

[The bakery is a mess. She never meant for it to end up that way. It just sort of happened. Flour covering hair and body, the smell of something burning from the kitchen, flecks of pink frosting teasing her cheeks. Peeta's normally presentable window displays are less than ideal; a poor attempt at recreating the alluring cakes that always caught her attention back in District Twelve. The frosting's melted from the summer heat on one that's sat out since Friday. Another is poorly covered with a grey color -- an attempt at mixing food dyes gone horribly wrong.

Ingredients for various baked goods have somehow escaped the kitchen, piled up on the counters, half covering the note cards Peeta had left for her. Cookbooks borrowed from the library lie open elsewhere, pages now far from pristine. Half baked pretzels stock the shelves along with burnt chocolate chip cookies. Deformed cheese breads and crumbled brownie bites still in their trays sit nearby. Even Buttercup, easily pleased by any free food, ignores the easy pickings.

She tried. She had tried so hard. Peeta had left her recipes. Had tried to teach her how to bake on lazy days when she was more content to spend time with him in the bakery than go about her own thing. It seems that every lesson has been forgotten. Any skill she might have had in the kitchen, utterly gone.

The rain pours outside as she plucks at the rock hard shortbread cookies she's recently retrieved from the oven, trying her best to peel them from the tray. It's a halfhearted effort as she leans her head against her hand and stares out the window. She'd rather be hunting. But it's been raining ever since Peeta left for his mission, raining so hard, all she's been able to do is check a couple of the traps in the river behind their house. And she had promised, hadn't she? Promised she'd look after the bakery?

Look how miserably she failed, the worry making it hard to breathe, harder to concentrate. Shouldn't he be back by now? Shouldn't he?

Every few minutes, she checks the journal for signs of life. Ignores Buttercup begging for real food. Glances at the door to see if Peeta's finally return. No luck. No luck at all. He's supposed to be back today. Why isn't he back yet?]

[Voice]

Why do you bother? [The words aren't meant to be recorded in the journal, but they are, anyway. It barely processes to Katniss that she's left it laying open, close enough to pick up any mutterings.] Going on these missions? Being a piece in their games?

It's stupid. This is all stupid.

[ooc: timed to after mission is over, when people start arriving home. but if you want to tag during -- feel free to have katniss in the bakery making a mess from friday on!

also, edit for warning of sexual content in the Peeta thread.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Blood. Guts. Something else entirely. The kind of mess the man describes flashes through her mind too quickly. Too many memories. Too much ruined clothing.

All she can do in that moment is freeze. Drop the water bucket in the sink and squeeze her eyes shut tight. Too many memories. Too many.]

[That wasn't a reaction he expected- and despite himself he finds his feet moving him across to her side, one hand on her shoulder, the other curling in hers. Whatever life this girl has lived it seemed to align with his own far too much for his peace of mind.]

Breathe, Solano. Just breathe.

[It's been a while since she's felt like this. Her Lost Days have become fewer and fewer with the time spent in Luceti. As much as she hates it here, hates knowing she's another pawn in another game, it's also given her something to live for. Reasons to wake up each morning. Doctor Aurelius had been right about her needing that.

But when the memories hit, even breathing becomes difficult. More often, it's at night and Peeta's there to wrap his arms around her and hold her close. Nothing more. Nothing more is needed. But he's not here right now. He's on that mission and what if he never comes home?

Breathe. She hears Zevran's voice and manages to keep herself from doing more than flinching at his touch. It's meant to be reassuring. Breathe.]

I'm - I'm breathing.

[There was something horribly familiar in this- a younger woman, with paler hair and eyes. She hadn't lasted much longer in the Crows. The remorseful never do. As he did then, he did now. Steps in close and lifts the hand he held to rest it against his chest, his own steady heartbeat. Breathed deep and even and kept his eyes on her face.]

Breathe- and thing of something else. Focus on what brings you joy. Ignore the pain, ignore the blood. That is over, that does not matter anymore. Think only of something bright and peaceful. The forest in the early morning- the sound of a river. Laughter of someone that you love.

Focus on that to the exclusion of all else. And breathe.

[His heartbeat was soothing, steady. But not like Peeta's heartbeat. Peeta, who knew how to soothe her better than almost anyone else. Better than Gale or Finnick or even Prim. Maybe because he had been there, witnessed the horrors that only the arena could bring. Maybe that's what made him so good at keeping the nightmares at bay.

But he's not here now. She doesn't know when he'll be home. And that lack of knowledge threatens to overwhelm her. She tries to still her thoughts, tries to focus on what Zevran's saying. Think only of something bright and peaceful. The forest. Laughter. A dandelion in the spring? That sign of rebirth and hope, that life could be good again. The color of Peeta's wings, that same shade as the dandelion. His smile and kind blue eyes. The same blue eyes and golden hair her sister had, somehow succeeding in evading that notable look of the Seam - the dark hair, olive skin, and grey eyes Katniss had inherited from their father. And Prim's laugh. Better than any song.

Her sister, now dead. Never to laugh again.]

I'm okay. [The words are hollow and weak, not all that convincing. But she pulls away from Zevran's grasp. She can't meet his eyes.] I'm okay.

...you are a terrible liar, Katniss.

[He sighed and took a half step back, giving her room to breathe all the same. There was much he did not know, and much he felt was not his place to ask. All he can do is extend a hand and wait should she reach out again.]

It never gets easier. You either become accustomed to it, or you do not.

[The space is appreciated. She wraps her arms around her chest in another attempt to reassure herself. She's okay. Okay. Nightmares, memories - they can't hurt her. They can't hurt her at all.

She finally looks up at him, grey eyes still haunted but not nearly as overwhelmed as they had been a few minutes prior. A small frown crosses her face as she looks him over.]

How many have you killed?

Mm. That is hard to say.

[He lifts a shoulder and for the first time in a long while, avoids the gaze of who was asking. Wynne had asked. Alistair had asked. And he'd played it off as a joke, their lives were terribly bleak after all. Humor was needed and they never had to think much of him...but Katniss. He could not bring himself to be less than mostly honest with her.]

I lost track by the time I was fourteen.

[Fourteen. She hadn't started that young. Squirrels and birds in the woods didn't count. It wasn't until she reached sixteen that she took her first human life.

Glimmer. She won't ever forget. It might have been indirect, dropping the tracker jacker hive on the pack of Careers that waited below her tree. But it killed the girl nonetheless.

She couldn't forget any of them.]

I can't. [She's still quiet, unable now to meet his gaze.] I can't forget any of them.

Then you are a far better person than I, Solano.

[Regret, guilt- he'd been trained out of that. Did not spare the thought for it. Of all that he's killed or indirectly seen dead there is a handful he may regret, and only one in truth.]

You were not raised to murder. And as unsettling as it has no doubt been for you to cope- I am glad for it.

[She frowns, almost glaring at him. It's clear that she doesn't agree. She's not glad for it. She hates the memories and hates the nightmares. If she had her way, she wouldn't ever remember. Everything of the past two years, they'd be gone.

But she doesn't deserve that happiness. Murderers like her do not deserve peace.

Her hands grip the edge of the sink.] I'm not. I'm not a better person.

[She'll never be that better person.]

You regret what you've done. You do not look forward to having to do it again in the future. You wish to forget, but find yourself unable to do so. You are a huntress, yes, but not an assassin. You fought because you must, and one day may have to again.

[It's a strange thing to be glad for, he knows. Especially when it's left her so-miserable and conflicted. He could walk her through ways of forgetting, ways of rationalizing- train her to stop feeling so guilty, teach her not to feel regret.

And that would in some subtle way destroy the girl he's come to wish to protect. She would sleep easier if he did- and be someone entirely different as well.]