stillplaying | 10th Game [video]

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10th Game [video]

[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.

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[For a moment there, he reminds her of Rick. It's been a long time since anyone reminded her of her first real friend here. A soldier who, like this man, also couldn't cook all that well.

She nearly giggles. But she can't exactly bring herself to do that yet. Instead, there's a soft smile and a nod.]

I can stick with game.

For now, at least. Until an old dog learns a few more tricks. Eh?

[ a beat. ] You likely don't need it with a wicked thing like that on your arm -- [ he points at the bow ] -- so I won't offer to escort you back to the village. But would her ladyship consider escorting a poor, tired soldier instead?

[ he, of course, didn't need it either. he simply liked to see the girl smile. ]

[She glances down to the hare in his hand and then to the one she now grips. Something makes her think that this poor, tired soldier doesn't exactly need the escort that he claims to need. But he doesn't try to belittle her, doesn't try to insist that he escort her back to the village.

So she holds up the hare and nods, grinning just a little] I have dinner now. I can do that.

And likely whoever's also waiting on your dinner is missing you, too.

[ more cheery than he needs to be. he knows not what he says. ]

[She had begun to walk, a few steps in the direction of the village. But at his words, so kindly meant, she freezes. Falls short in her step and watches soundlessly as the rabbit slips from her hand. Everything she tried so hard to come to terms with these past couple of days comes crashing down on her. The realization is almost like drowning. No one. She has no one to bring dinner home to.

Not anymore.

Because Haymitch doesn't count, never counted in that way. She and Peeta would keep him well supplied, yes. But he wasn't someone she brought dinner home to. Not like it had been with Rue. Or Peeta.

Slowly, she shakes her head. Maybe, if the odds are in her favor, he won't see the tears.] There's no one.

[ he swore gently under his breath and came 'round to a stop of his own. ] Lass?

[ but the look on her face! no -- he isn't quite close enough to see the tears but he respects her emotional privacy enough to not need to see them. he falls to one knee and busies himself in reclaiming the rabbit's limp, soft-furred body. his fingers wrap 'round its neck and...

poor girl. sharpe breathes deep and pushes back up to his not inconsiderable six feet of height, offering the rabbit all over again.

and keeping his eyes averted. ]

That's a bloody shame, Miss Everdeen. [ he's not certain what else he could say, except: ] You're welcome to cook for me whenever you like. I won't complain. Ain't got no one here, either. Not from home. Nor anyone I...

Not yet, at least.

[Maybe the odds were in her favor today. Maybe, just maybe. He hasn't mentioned her tears yet, the tears she angrily wipes away before taking the rabbit back from him. Her grip the string tightly enough that her nails begin to dig into her skin. Physical pain in an attempt to block the emotional.

She takes a breath. And another breath and another.

Don't think of Peeta. Don't think of Peeta.

Finally, she steels a quick glance in his direction and nods. That could be nice. Good. Give more purpose to her hunts.]

Will you eat squirrel stew?

[ sharpe laughs because he doesn't know what else to do. he hasn't spent much time among girls -- young women, really. not since he was young himself. and he'd always suspected he'd be a rubbish sort of person around children of any age.

she seems so young. younger still as she cuffs at her eyes and he swallows hard. he looks away, again. he preserves her privacy. and -- in an odd twist that he hadn't expected -- he think of his little antonia. much littler, of course. but no less accessible.

he laughs once more. ]

I've eaten my fair share of squirrel, Miss Everdeen. But never in a stew. I look forward to it.

[The laughing startles her a bit and she looks up at him, almost a little confused. But he's not so much laughing at her, is he? It's just general amusement. Fatherly in a way. And that's nice. The sort of warmth she never felt from Haymitch, for all she knew he did care about her and Peeta.

Maybe, she could learn to trust this man. Maybe she could even like him. She'll keep to the promise of trade however long she can. And make certain to bring him a container of stew before the following week is through.

The laughter is returned with a shy smile. It's times like this she wishes she was more like Peeta. Better at trusting and befriending others.]

It's easy to make. My- my father would make it sometimes. If we had caught and gathered enough to have a quick meal by the lake.

[ fathers, eh? sharpe gives an acknowledging grunt, although there isn't much he can contribute on the matter. he had no father to make or teach him anything. nor no replacement father neither -- or none that he cared for. he'd slit jem hocking's throat down to his spine. ]

Is he who taught you to hunt, lass?

[She gives a quick nod, stealing a glance up at him. Her own father had been the center of her world for years and years. No matter how bleak and depressing life in the Same seemed, she had had him. She had had his beautiful voice to sing her and Prim to sleep at night. She had his strength and knowledge to rely on every weekend they spent out in the woods together.

And then he had died. Stolen from her far too early in her life. She had only been eleven when the accident had occurred, that explosion in the mines. Too young to lose him. Younger still to take on the burden of supporting their family.]

[ just talk to her, richard. don't get soppy. just talk.

talking, however, doesn't come naturally to the tall and taciturn major. but he's always had a soft-spot for the young and the downtrodden. so, with great will: ] I was a late learner, myself. Not much hunting to be had where I grew up. None at all. And once you join the army...

[ a low whistle. he'd hunted men, of course. he'd fought and killed. but that wasn't quite decent to talk about. ]

Nah, it weren't until I joined the 95th foot. And not until the men warmed up to me and offered to share their skills. Christ, lass -- one of them was once the sneakiest poacher that ever did hunt on crown lands. A wicked shot. I'll never be so good as him -- but he was kind enough to show me a trick or two.

[It was something they had in common then. Not being much of a talker or really knowing the words to say. That's why lunches with Madge had been so nice. There had been every sense of companionship without the cumbersome need for words.

She looks up when he begins to talk then. It's a lot more than the short sentences from before. A story, almost. Of his time hunting as a soldier. Something she never did during her brief time as a soldier in District 13. Unless hunting President Snow counted.

As they walk, she pays close attention to his every word. Tries to picture him younger, about her age, being taught how to use his gun. What really catches her attention, though, is discussion of marksmanship.]

How good are you?

...Very good.

[ with a mischievious glint in his eye, he parroted back the very words she'd used not a few minutes earlier. ]

But never so good as Hagman, our once poacher. But you must be very good to join the 95th Rifles, Miss Everdeen. This company in particular. For they are Chosen Men. [ they who wear the white cord of courage. assembled even before sharpe was ever assigned to them as an officer. he never chose them but he soon came to love them like brothers. ]

No, it were the traps and snares what Hagman had to teach me -- for I came to them as a crack shot. [ and as an upstart from the ranks. one of them, raised high by circumstance and luck. bad luck, really. ] But I was only to eager to learn. You can't survive Portugal and Spain on army rations alone, I'm afraid.

[ his voice is only now limbering up -- finding its flow and overcoming its halting uncertainty. quiet or not, he doesn't mind providing a tale for the girl. she looks as though she needs it. ]

[Portugal and Spain. Funny names to accompany a funny accent. Though it is, she realizes, not all that strange. A bit like the Capitol trill but not nearly as obnoxious. Something similar to Draco's, she thinks. And it's nice. Very nice to listen to.

She'd almost rather listen to him continue than ask questions. Especially when his story is one so similar to her own. She had been the crack shot. Gale, the older boy both intelligent and patient enough to work snares far better than the few she could manage at age twelve. Like her, he had been left to support his family when his father died in the same mining accident that claimed her own father's life. They had made a good team. A very good team.

And then, all those years later, her sister died in an explosion of fire. A snare, the perfect snare. The sort of snare only Gale could develop.

With the time that's passed, it's gotten easier to talk about her old best friend. But this close to having come back from the dead, everything feels too raw. Too painful. She doesn't want to talk about snares and traps.

So she stops walking. Pulls out her bow and an arrow, takes a handful of seconds to aim at one of the pine cones on a nearby conifer. The arrow flies and lands center of the cone.

A grin on her face, she looks up at Sharpe.] Just how good a crack shot?

[ a challenge! he, too, grins. and takes a moment to check the flintlock before drawing back the rifle's hammer with a click. the cocking of the gun is a smooth, thrilling kind of sound to a man like him. his blood boils pleasantly though a learned response. ]

Cover yer ears, lass.

[ he lifts the gun to his shoulder. ]

[She remembers the guns the Peacekeepers had, the ones the soldiers had during the uprising. More than that, she remembers that one particular Peacekeeper in District Two. One of the ones that had been trapped inside the Nut. The one who had shot her.

That particular gun had seemed so very, very loud.

So she does exactly what he does and covers her ears with her hands. And then waits, curious to see if his shot could match her own.]

[ inhale. exhale. crack. the initial shudder and shout rumbles into a cough of smoke, drifting in the air. sharpe drops his rifle until the butt hits the ground. ]

It's damned unseeable business, being a rifleman. [ he explains -- a little at loss. but soon the air clears and the arrow-notched cone is...

missing. or, well, not missing so much as fallen -- tossed back a handful of feet and its fletching standing up amongst the moss. its outer, hard petals smashed and ravaged; its core remained, held together by katniss's arrow. ]

And messy. It's messy work. [ he explains again -- almost sheepish. ]

[She doesn't want to flinch. She doesn't want to be seen as weak by this man. She doesn't want to be seen as weak by anyone so soon after giving up as she had. After she had been weak enough to stop struggling against Clove. Maybe, eventually, the memory won't be so vivid or painful. But she'll never not forgive herself for finally giving in to that suicidal depression that first hit her after Prim's death.

She flinches regardless. Even with her hands over her ears, even knowing that the shot was coming, it's loud. Loud and a reminder of all the shots fired during the war. This rifle works differently from the ones she remembers. She's never remembered all this smoke before.

Katniss coughs and waves it away from her face. She walks away from Sharpe to pick up her arrow and pine cone. And then turns back and smiles at him.] Not bad.

...Accurate up to three -- maybe four -- hundred yards. Longer, in Hagman's hands.

[ he reaches into his ammo pouch and pulls out a powder horn and a cartridge. his hands know this routine well. the care and ritual of reloading. ] Not so...elegant as yours, I'm afraid.

[She nods, pulling out her arrow and letting the remainder of the pine cone drop to the floor. She won't argue with that. Judging from the way he has to refill the rifle - something else she's never seen done by any of the Peacekeepers or soldiers - her own bow makes for a much quicker weapon to reload, too.]

Guns don't work like that in Panem. I don't know how they work, but I do know that you don't have to put in the ammunition like that.

...I've seen fancy guns from the future, lass. And they all hold more bullets than my rifle's lonely one. More efficient? Aye. But not the same.

[ he wraps the ball in leather and rams it down the barrel. ]

[She nods in agreement. Perhaps the Peacekeepers' guns are more efficient. But she's always been more fond of her bow and arrows, even after she had the opportunity to use otherwise. Beetee's custom Mockingjay bow had, perhaps, been the fanciest she had ever used. But in the end, it was still just a bow.]

It's better to stick with what you know.

[ task done, he resumes their gentle walking pace. ]

And you must've known your bow a long while, unless you're a shooting prodigy...

[Maybe it's a little bit of both. She's never met anyone as good as her at a bow. Not yet, anyway. But it did help that her father started teaching her at such an early age. She had been using a bow since age seven. Since she had been old enough to properly grip the child's sized one her father had made her.]

Since I was little. It's not this bow, but the principles are still the same.

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