stillplaying | 19th Game [written/action]

[How long has it been since she last opened the journal not to peer at the other entries but to make one herself? It feels much longer than the couple of months that somehow managed to move by so quickly. Forever, perhaps. And yet, in that short time, so much has changed. People have left. More importantly, people have arrived. Rue, Johanna, Peeta... And none of them have yet disappeared.

Two months of knowing Peeta's so close. A trip across town to his apartment. Walking by the bakery. His memory is no longer a ghost that haunts her. Instead, he's something real. Something entirely too real. Two months and she hasn't yet figured out if she's relieved to have him back. Or if she's more frightened of losing him. There's limits to the filial magic, as she's starting to discover. And those limits worry her. Will she lose him all over again? Lose Prim or Rue or Richard or Teddy?

If there's one thing that hasn't changed in these two months, it's her growing weariness of the disappearances in Luceti. Even Sokka, Sokka who had been here for four or more years, was now gone.

Who was next?

It's a nightmare that wakes her. A nightmare of losing everyone she loves. Watching them die at the hands of lizard mutts, necks ripped out by wild dog-like creatures with the eyes of lost children, others murdered in drafts against the Third Party. She wakes with a start, skin covered in a sheen of sweat, eyes wide and frantic. Her throat is soar from screaming in her sleep and she gasps. When her senses return, she turns on a lamp and reaches for her journal.

She can't lose anyone. Not even to something like returning home. But she takes the coward's way out and she pens her thoughts rather than admit to them aloud:]

There was someone here once who asked if it was possible to bring people here from home. Has anyone ever tried the opposite? Tried to keep people here instead?

action;

[That done, she throws on a leather jacket and boots over her sleeping clothing. She can't go back to sleep. Not right now. And she can't be in here either, not wanting to disturb her housemates any more than she already might have. Her bow is slung over a shoulder with her quiver, just in case.

It's cold out there but she doesn't care. There's something comforting about being alone in the night, no longer surrounded by oppressing walls. The nightmares don't seem so bad now, away from her bed. She can almost pretend things will be okay, regardless of whatever responses she might have to her inquiry when she gets back.]

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If you doubt your ability to achieve something, you have already lost your battle.

I'm tired of fighting battles.

[Isn't that all she's been doing the past few years of her life? Ever since that faithful reaping when Prim's name was called? Even before, after her father died, when her fight was to survive. That's all she was anyway. A survivor, not a soldier.

But the world seemed to think otherwise.]

Everything is a battle, Katniss. [Or a game, his preferred way of thinking.] Survival is bought with victory.

[Battle, games, they were all the same. And she was sick and tired of every single one. She just wants a chance to rest. To sleep without nightmares, to make it through an encounter without worrying that she might never see that person again.

She's good at surviving. But she's growing tired of it.

Wearily, she scowls.] What if you refuse to fight anymore? Or to play?

Then the black hole eventually swallows you entirely.

[This makes her pause. She purses her lips together as she thinks it over. In context, she thinks the words make sense. Still:]

Black hole?

That which will consume you utterly.

Sometimes it is but a figure of speech.

...but a true one.

[Something she's felt more often than not. How easily did she give into despair, let it overwhelm her? Fall in to one of these black holes?

Far, far too many times. Especially recently. Finding out about the Quell. The time spent classified as mentally disoriented. When she had lost Prim during the Uprising. Losing Peeta here.

She gave in far, far too easily.]

And death at the kiss of a black hole is not restful. We both know that, yes?

Yes.

[Unfortunately. She wishes that she didn't. She wishes that her life had been nothing but normal. But wishes are futile. That she knows, too.]

So what shall you do, lady?

[She doesn't know. She wishes that she knew, but she doesn't. Because she's so tired of trying to figure everything out. She's so tired of being strong. And at the rate everyone is leaving, at the rate that she's losing everyone she cares for... it's getting harder. Much harder.]

I don't want to keep fighting.

Then drift where fate will take you. May you have better luck than I ever knew.

[She doubts that she'll have any luck. Odds aren't on her side. They've never been. It would be a delusion to think otherwise. Ever. But the sentiment is appreciated. Even if it's untrue.]

Thank you.

19th Game [written/action]

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