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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If the winter continues to be harsh on their normal hunting ground? Yes. The trail I followed set them through the more sparsely populated segment of the woods- there was very little for them to hunt, and it was not that much farther to some of the houses. It would be unwise to leave them wandering and hungry for much longer.

[It would be. The town here doesn't have the fence that surrounded District 12. There's very little form of protection for the citizens. Very little at all. She hates that ever point he makes is valid. Hates that she can't disagree, that she's practically sentenced these wild dogs to death.]

I'll come with you. [Said quietly, not looking at him. Fear, she has to show fear.] I'll help. And... and I promise, Zevran, I won't freeze again.

No. They are not so fierce as I could not manage them on my own. You need to recover. Dying is not something one forgets so easily.

[It was easier to ferry prey into traps when you are the only one herding them along.]

Besides. You and I have work to do before I take you hunting with me for anything, let alone dogs. Training.

[No, it isn't. It's made it harder for her to fall asleep at night and to stay asleep through out the entire night. She's tried. Maybe it'll be easier now that she's home, now that there's at least the scent of Peeta to comfort her.

Maybe.

But his following words quickly snap her out of her thoughts. She scowls at Zevran and shakes her head.] Training? I don't need training.

Memory or fear or not, you allowed wild dogs to kill you.

[His tone is light, chiding, almost teasing to take the macabre edge off of the statement.]

You are far better than that, even if you wished to die at the time. So either you are getting soft or you need more practice. Either way I think it would do you some good to learn how to work a blade in close range. Targets are not always quite so far as that your skill with a bow might save you.

[While Clove's knives and Finnick's trident had made sense in the arena, in a place where hand to hand combat could often make the difference between life and death, she found little practical use for them outside of the Hunger Games. She had been raised to be a hunter. Becoming a soldier, a killer, had been a matter of unfortunate circumstances in which the odds were truly not in her favor.

She had no desire, no interest in learning another weapon. Especially something that seemed so very impractical in hunting as a blade.

The suggestion, therefore, is met with anger and a look most often saved for Haymitch.]

I survived the Hunger Games twice using my bow.

And what is it you do when you are held close, mm? When you are cornered and out of arrows, or when there is no shot to take, or no bow to be had? What is it you do then to keep yourself safe, Katniss?

I have hands. [Her brows knit together and her eyes narrow. She gives him a pointed, angry stare. She doesn't need training.] And feet.

[But then she remembers a time where even hands and feet didn't work. When she was in the arena during the 74th Hunger Games and Clove had tackled her to the ground. Put a knife to her throat just as she had done here. And Katniss had fought. Fought for her own life, fought to live not just for herself but for the promise she had made to Rue. To Prim. To Peeta, whom she had drugged in order to sneak out to fetch the medicine he needed.

If it hadn't been for Thresh...]

I can fight.

I have seen you shoot and I have seen you hunt. I have not seen you fight otherwise. After you have rested I would see for myself what it is you might do to keep yourself safe- and impart whatever knowledge and skills I think would best suit you for your continued survival. You may never need to know- and I would much rather you didn't.

[He meets that glare with quiet sincerity, more than he's offered anyone save the Warden.]

But the things I have heard of the draft. Of the missions. Of the Third party making their way into this place and attempting to slaughter their inhabitants. I would have you know to keep yourself alive by any means.

[She's heard it, too. Remembers the refugees that came here after their own enclosure had been attacked by the Third Party. Been on the draft and seen the damage they could do up close. She had played the sniper then, hiding in heights to rain arrows down on the unsuspecting soldiers. It had been the safer choice.

But she might not always have that safer choice. Grudgingly, she had to admit that he was right. And she hated that. Stupid boys, stupid men. Always looking out for her well being. Trying to keep her alive for reasons Katniss didn't understand.

The defeat is written in her eyes. But there's something else there, too. Some kind of doubt.] Why do you care so much?

Why would you care so little? Living is a very wonderful thing, Katniss. Death is boring.

I know. [She whispers the words. Oh, how she knows now. Weeks of nothing she can remember. Just... nothing. Life might not have been completely wonderful. It might have been filled with far too much pain. But it was life. It was something.

Something she usually clung to with every last breath of fight left in her. She then... then the pain had felt too much. Nothing, something boring had sounded preferable. Something to take her away from being their game piece. Something that might just get her sent home.]

And I don't. Not anymore. I don't want to die again. You don't have to care so much for me.

Edited 2012-12-03 22:31 (UTC)

Oh I tried that once- not caring quite so much. And then you were left alone and then you allowed yourself to die. [Despite his confusion and lingering frustration on that last fact it's said lightly. Far too soon to joke about it- so of course he does. Make jests at the expense of sincerity. Humor was ever a solid shield for him.]

So I think I will be caring just a little more than before. Not much, I assure you. Just enough. [His smile is thin, a knife's edge for a moment before it smooths into something full. Despite himself he reaches over to smooth her hair back with a calloused palm.] I'll not let you alone again, Solano.

[Peeta's hands had never been so calloused. At least, not like Zevran's were. His were those of a baker's hands, hard from years of work but still surprisingly soft. Hands she very, very much missed.

She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, trying just in that moment to pretend. Pretend the warmth coming from the skin was that of another man's, pretend that he had never left. But Peeta had never called her Solano. Never spoke with that accent of Zevran's. And in listening to him talk, the illusion fell away.

The response, though, isn't much different from one that she'd give Peeta.] I'm not worth it.

Katniss you are not allowed to tell me whether or not I find you worth it or not. Protest as much as you like- I see you how I see you.

[He rubs a light line along her cheek, echoing the mark tattooed onto his own before he drops his hand. He wants her safe, he wants her ready- but he does not wish to make a mirror of her.]

You are worth more than you think.

[Again, she doesn't flinch or attempt to move away. She just lets herself enjoy the sensation of being touched and cared for. It might not be a feeling she thinks she deserves but it's one she wants regardless. And without Peeta here, she doubted there would be anyone wanting, or willing, to reassure her in such a way. She'll cling to it, cling to what she can get.

Eventually, though, she does shake her head at his words. His hand is gone. There's little to push away now. She wants to tell him that she's a killer. That people like her are selfish, don't do much to make the world a better place. Not purposely. But he, like her, is a killer, too. It's an argument she knows she won't win.

So she scoffs at his words instead, a dry laugh.] You sound like Peeta.

Perhaps because he had some idea of what it was he spoke of when it comes to you.

[Honestly Katniss it's not worth arguing the point. His mind was made up. He does, however, slide off the bed without further declarations of her worth.]

You are in need of rest. I will fix dinner, something simple. Sleep, Solano.

[She opens her mouth to protest. To tell him that she doesn't need anyone to cook her dinner. That she's more than capable. But she knows how little there is in her fridge. Knows that she probably won't even bother later this evening. It was part of the reason Greasy Sae hung around when she returned to District 12 after her trial. Without the woman, would she had even bothered attempting a single bite?

In the end, she feels too tired to argue anymore. So her mouth closes and she settles her head against Peeta's pillow, legs curling up in a fetal position as she rests on her side. Sleep.

Maybe. She'll try, anyway.]

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10th Game [video]

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