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@incaensio
multi muse account written by mina ( she / her; 21+ ) for @eventiderpg
— katniss everdeen, co-victor of the 74th hunger games the mockingjay.
➶ intro / dossier / background / timeline / replies / headcanons / pinterest / playlist.
— domitila, stylist for district two.
➵ intro / dossier / background / timeline / replies / headcanons / archive blog.
@incaensio sent: “ why are you looking at me like that? ” katniss + haymitch
regardless of restrictions of materials and goods, there always seems to be more layers to be thrown onto haymitch abernathy. and no matter, he's always cold. the girl's ma says it's normal, but he doesn't believe it. but it's neither here nor there ; he dually wants to always argue nowadays while also doesn't have the energy anymore. so he floats like an aged phantom, but with none of the privacy of one. but for someone who hates being corraled and told what to do, the man from twelve sure does follow his sleeved schedule like an obedient mutt. which is why he's in the training center, and currently observing the girl.
he used to see her daddy in her often. in appearance, it's significantly more striking. but sometimes in softness, she can match. the girl's ma said she used to be more of a temperament for sweetness. it's hard for haymitch to picture. in fact, the unprompted information caused an eye roll. the mentor and mentee are a pair of shadows, and it's hard to picture her like primrose or their daddy. same as he cannot remember the living being of haymitch abernathy that existed before the second quarter quell.
arms remains crossed his chest, but ears perk up as the girl speaks to him. he all but huffs, in the gruffness that he exerts. " just ponderin' where all this was when ya were trainin' for ya'r games. " it's a lie. but words are easier than talking about something deeper like her before the loss of her daddy ; it's easier than acknowledging the guilt of seeing a seam kid turn into a killing machine. ( bury that, the mockingjay being practical on the field is better for the rebellion after all ! ) " that's all mason thoug' right ? i can recognize that technique. ya got a longs'ways to go thoug'. "
once upon a time, she thought herself fit — she was most definitely fitter than the other kids from the seam, stick and bones, all the work out they knew was that from school and then in the mines. none of them could climb trees, run across the woods, swim up at the lake. compared to the dozen kids that died from twelve before her, she had some shot. the idea was made ridiculed when she met her competitors for her games, seeing them up close in the area and, it seems, now. someone made a joke these days (it may have been finnick; she has often struggled getting jokes before, and the sentiment has worsened now) that they are training like careers even this underground. maybe that's some right to that.
the exhaustion that took over her for the first week or so has dulled just enough that she can feel her limbs when she goes to bed at nights — and, to some level, it has allowed her to note she's getting better. maybe she should feel some pride on that, but all she feels is that being prepared can bring her one step closer to be ready when the time comes, when she can see the light go out of snow's eyes herself (he's hers; she's been promised that so long ago; for rue, for cinna, for twelve, for peeta).
sweat drips against the sides of her face when she finally stops; the water bottle (one of the perks those training are afforded) stops half-way through her mouth when she catches the staring. katniss has never cared for people looking at her, and it ain't any different when the one stalking is haymitch (nevermind there's been some progress between them, enough for her to almost regret the scars across his face). "y'd told me to not show then. 's on ye." of course, she doesn't mention that, then, there was no way she could have shown any close combat prowess; defeat was natural whenever she thought that she would be doomed if it ever came to that. no one's here is trying to kill her (that she can be sure).
"this is johanna," arm is lifted; still bony, the t-shirt provided for training is not snug enough to hide the purple against brown skin, the result of being grabbed and thrown around by the woman from seven. "y'all talkin' 'bout me? quit it. she's also said i'm still shit." her very words, without the light coddling from haymitch, it seems. two encouraging people; between the three of them, you couldn't make a likable person if you tried (and the capitol had). "you can do any better?"
Katniss: [Coin] The rescue mission has proven successful. Our valiant soldiers rescued many, including someone rather dear to you. There must be some relief that comes with that, wouldn't you say? The right time had been chosen, sooner may have caused less than ideal outcomes.
they're trying to curb her in military training now — katniss concedes at times, others she's happier to do the extra laps until her legs feel like jelly — but it's easy for her to realize that they can't really chain in her temper, even when she knows she should save it for someone especial, whose death belongs to her and her alone. but this woman... what the fuck could be less than ideal outcomes? her husband alive, safe, sound of mind, not trying to fucking kill her at sight? cinna not shot in a live broadcast for all to see?
katniss glares at the president, noticing how easy coin maintains her cool — she must not be human, for her to think of everyone just as poorly. "is this what yer fuckin' conscience tells ya?" the mockingjay stands up and turns to leave the control room, feeling the small grasp she has on herself about to slip — and coin is not the subject of her fury, not yet, not even when she is so fucking obtuse.
where / the snow mansion with / @incaensio
Wars are not won only on a battlefield. They are won by obtaining information, by boosting moral, and most importantly, they are won by women who keep things running while the men go off and throw their temper tantrums. Livia is determined to do just this — her parties have not ceased, the champagne that flows through her veins has yet to stop flowing, and there is no sense in letting the petty happenings in the districts affect the life she's sure to continue living once this all gets settled. They must keep going on as usual, which calls for sufficient preparation. "Domitila," Livia's beckoning comes in the form of a flittering, high-pitched call as she moves around her dressing room, tossing garment after garment here and there. "This is all just putrid. It's going to make me look paunchy. Or like I'm being lowered into a crypt. For heaven's sake, I'm in my sixties, not dead!"
(Livia Snow is eighty-three years old. Should anyone remind her of that fact, they'll be found guilty of treason.)
"Fix it, will you?" Domitila will, of course. To deny Livia would be asking for a certain death, and even the most noble people in the Capitol can't escape that — and Livia knows that Domitila is just barely noble, so of course she'll use that information to her advantage if she must. It'd be a shame to have to stoop so very low, though. "We've got to put something together that shows everything is fine, because everything is! Don't you think so?"
to be called to the presidential mansion has always been an honor on itself, domitila well knows that. every instance she's received that glorious invitation, she's done so eagerly, swearing to move heaven and earth to assure her clients shall be content. it is no different now, truly, or it shouldn't be. after two months of keeping her atelier's doors closed, focusing only on dolling up victors and officials, it's certainly something else entirely to be back catering to capitolites with actual opinions on what they wear. in a way, it's a relief — she so dreaded having to put on all the effort while those tortured souls just waited for their turn in caesar's chair.
so she must convince herself that livia's energy is better, and that giving way to any other kind of thought is the last thing she must do. even if the harpy of a woman is calling things she has designed putrid! domitila breathes deeply, walking in the dressing room and picking up a discarded blouse — relief courses through her veins and her features as she realizes it is not one of her making. "whoever you have commissioned part of that wardrobe of yours is just ill-tasted, madam. maroon is not your color! it is something out of a dowager's closet!" nevermind that livia is something of the sort, even with a living husband (the woman has been an icon for all of domitila's life time, more people have become full of dust in lesser time).
the first lady's query, something not at all unusual if it didn't carry a biting tone domitila is familiar with, makes the stylist pause. "in general, yes." a smile, half-hearted, is given. "i have found it difficult nowadays to get some tones and types of fabric. because of… eight, you see. though i believe any possible shortage shall be rectified soon — and your husband, our dear president, has told me not to cut corners in dressing our most precious people." just a week or so ago, that had been the victors, as seemingly most necessary keys to fight back. one must wonder what they shall do now. "are you hosting anything in special, madam?"
Xiomara is sure she doesn't have much option but to follow Domi. If she didn't, she'd be left to sit in the woman's living room and quite possibly put in some flouncy disaster of crinolines and chiffon. She'd rather appear on stage in nothing but her lingerie than in some cupcake of a dress. So, out of the necessity, she pushes herself up from the chair and follows Domi. "I didn't know red and black were known rebel colors." Her tone is sarcastic as she moves through Domi's house. Black was classic, simple, timeless. It matches everything. And well... she's just gotten her nails redone. Oh well, she'll just have to go again once she knows what color Domi's going with.
She pauses in the doorway of the studio, watching as Domi flicks on lights and moves to a table. A design is put on display before the younger woman moves across the room, wanting a better look at the design. She watches quietly as Domi makes quick changes to the design, disappearing the skirt and changing the color. She catches the stylist judging her legs. "I can wear shorts." She's quick to assert. She may not be statuesque, but she was quiet pleased with all portions of her body, thank you very much.
Xiomara turns her attention back to the design on display. "Really I just don't want some flooffy, rufflely, monstrosity that swallows me up. I'm obviously not the tallest person in Panem." Not even close.
oh, this girl. for all the promise that two raises fighters, soldiers, people willing to compromise for glory, sometimes they bring people with tongues bigger than their mouths — domitila openly glares at this one now. "don't be stupid. i'd never put you in anything similar to what a rebel may wear. i'm not fucking cinna," for someone who knows how to reign in profanities, she speaks them well when she has to, when her nerves are spiked as they are now. "have you not seen thea's interview? everything speaks something, even when one is quiet, xiomara. whatever would it mean if you wore black to a happy interview? it may not be your strength, but think!"
outburst is contained swiftly, however. domitila so loathes to lose her cool, especially with people beneath her around her, people she's always put on a face with (well, sort of everyone. it's not as if she has many people she's ever felt entirely comfortable with sharing things, and she doubts that the peña girl would change that). "there are ways to change that, you know. i know of someone who has a wonderful doctor — they sprouted up some three or four inches!" instead of fury, she goes on nonsense instead even if she swears it is all true. there is a pause. "i know you don't trust me, girl, but you should know that i don't make any monstrosities. comfort may be a stretch, but you won't look hideous. and i'm offering you input, which is more than some others are getting right now." the ones apparently stuck on the tribute center.
" makes sense, with everything go on. " it's something, knowledge she hadn't been privy to before now. what does that mean for four ? whispers of eight have hit the cellblock but not much else. the rebels have a grip of sorts. of what ? annie isn't entirely sure. she's heard the same screams as thea ellis. but she's also seen the execution of twenty people she'd gotten to know over the past five years. finn apparently has been involved with the resistance. ( and she trusts him more than anyone ! ) but his screams have mingled with the others she'd heard in thea's moments of torment. everything makes sense but feels jumbled at the same time.
caesar flickerman, the name alone makes a bitter taste appear on cresta's tongue. she'd seen others be shuffled his way. of course, the revelations occurred after the fact. peeta and cecelia were both frazzled. amara and thea seemed numb after theirs. they were all instances where she had first assumed they'd been sent off to their designated torture chambers. instead, snow continued to puppeteer everyone and not allowing for even a moment of peace. " i was never all that good on camera, " she interjects, there's a soft chuckle in an attempt to make it more lighthearted but everything feels pained nowadays. " people are gonna think what they want whether or not i comment on it, " annie adds, something that still picks at her skin. she'd long stood back and hid in her reputation, even at times when she desperately wanted to exclaim that she wasn't crazy. ( even if every passing day makes her feel less and less sane these days. ) of course, she hadn't seen sarah kline's interview. she won't until the night of her rescue, when tender feelings will be splintered. maybe annie cresta would want to comment to defend those she holds nearest and dearest if she had already seen it. but then again - who would believe the passionate ramblings of the supposed mad girl.
" you're right, " she curtly agrees to the frostiness. but even with everything, she still finds a validity in domitila. annie doesn't blame her for her blatant distain. the capitol had a way of pulling out her own self loathing, long before annie cresta was ever imprisoned. she's getting up from the plush couch with bagged dresses in hand, about to head to the restroom. annie has so little privacy nowadays, she's gonna take it where she can have it. she's almost to the hall once the stylist speaks again. the victor turns to be polite before answering. " i see her fairly often, " almost everyday within the cells. " i'm surprised you haven't had more opportunities to. " does that mean they aren't forcing thea to do more interviews at the moment nor is she meeting with capitolites ? it's a bare minimum reprieve, but it's something annie supposes.
laughter accompanies cresta's own words, and domitila has no qualms to exhale out a scoff. "that's a way of putting it." if there had been any promise with the tribute from district four on the seventieth hundred games, because she had the looks, it all vanished when attention was properly on her — it only got worse after the games. one could have almost wished for no winner that year, but that would be more troublesome than just having people suffering through boring annie cresta's two minutes on the interview seat. the thing is — boring annie cresta actually is sitting on something that isn't so boring! domitila feels prickled at the thought of having such a golden mine of a gossip, only for the girl to zip up at that. "perhaps i shall like to hear what your comments on it are?" that would be a first, the stylist well knows that (and does not care for the hypocrisy of it all).
domitila has nothing to say of the sudden shyness of the victor. bodies are bodies, nothing worth to note in a professional setting (it's the one thing she's always been strict on with her apprentices or seamstresses — ogling children, even those in their last year of reaping or those that have won the games after her time, is just a line that should not be crossed). yet, she follows the girl down the hallway. "i won't enter with you," assurance is offered, though gaze still holds meddlesome curiosity about the matters they are speaking. "go on, try them on. just speak loudly." she waves the girl off with both hands, pressing her back to the wall as she awaits. teeth finds her bottom lip at the victor's words, almost finding them taunting — that annie cresta had the opportunity to see thea and domitila didn't? something must be very wrong!
"you see, i also thought of something like that! she looked hideous last i saw her. her hair is going to turn all gray at this point, wouldn't it be just awful?" almost a criminal offense, in her world, is to purposefully keep someone away from beauty products. "i should like to ask for her to see caesar more often, but the president has been organizing the appearances on the show."
When Calista had received the invitation to appear on Caesar Flickerman's show, she had wanted to say no. She didn't like the attention, and even though she and Domi hadn't talked much about the work that she was doing, Calista wasn't dumb. She heard enough around Domi's apartment and studio to know that something was happening with the victors that they kept parading on that stage. She had watched the way that Peeta seemed to become more unhinged by the interview, the way that Thea Ellis had completely broken, and Cecelia Whitvale no longer had the sparkle about her that she had before the rebellion. Calista had noticed the way that Domi seemed different lately, too. She was trying to hide it, but Calista had always been observant. She wanted to ask Domi what was happening, but she knew better. And truthfully? Calista wasn't so sure that she wanted to know what was happening. If she could go back to being ignorant to it all she would in a heartbeat.
But in the end, she had been convinced by Domi and her mother to do the interview. Her mother had been horrified when Calista had told her that she wanted to decline, and her father had gotten on the phone and told her that she needed to do it. She tried to play it off like she was nervous about the crowd, but really she was afraid of something bad happening to her. Cinna had been executed on tv, and then Peeta's interview had shaken her. Thea's interview had shaken her. But Domi had said that it would be good for her to do it, something light in all of the terrible things happening, and she trusted Domi. So she said yes.
But now that she was there, she was nervous again. She was wearing a beautiful dress that Domi had designed, and she felt pretty, but she couldn't shake her nerves. Calista kept getting up and pacing the room, and she was just about to pace again when Domi spoke. "I did," she nodded her head. "She knows that I'm the last one that goes on tonight, she's really excited." At the suggestion that they call her, she shook her head emphatically. "I would rather not if that's okay." Her cheeks turned pink, embarrassment on her features. "I just...I mean...." she trailed off and sighed, sinking into the chair that she was sitting in. "I don't want to talk to her," she finally admitted. At Domi's suggestion, she eat something she felt her stomach turn. "I don't think I can eat...I'm sorry. I'm just...I'm really nervous. I know...it's dumb."
nerves seem mirrored between the two woman, something that has slowly become the norm and that domitila is not at all fond of — it doesn't matter that her own anxiety is always so energetic and franctic, all that it matters is that neither of their true feelings (whatever are calista's) must be apparent when the cameras turn on and the lights are bright. "ah, yes. her daughter is rather the chosen one — two children having such an honor, too." it is mindless talk, even if belief is insistent on that truth of hers: cato had his moment to shine (pity it did not last) and calista is having hers. this is all they should be focusing on.
confusion peeks through features in a way that is almost unbecoming — domitila has just had a shot of something that should freeze her features to stop more wrinkles, so she shouldn't be frowning now. "it is okay." at last, the stylist says, following the girl to sit on the arm of the chair, just next to calista. "i am not so fond of talking to my mother before important things, too. leaves me all fizzy — not in the good way." laughter escapes strong painted lips, and domitila tries to remind herself not to react, else it shall ruin the effect of the botox. "there are high stakes here." another time, maybe she would say that it is dumb, that there is no reason to be nervous, that calista needs to brighten up! but the words remain trapped on the tip of her tongue. "speak, if it helps. you won't be able to do it with anyone else." a gentle warning, perhaps — what calista shall tell caesar soon enough should not be any gloomy material (best for domitila to handle it than the entirety of panem).
If there was something that she had grown to like about Domi it was the way that she didn't push her to open up about what she was feeling. She would accept Calista's words at face value and. that somehow seemed more important now than when they had first met. She had never imagined that she would be standing here that day when they met in front of Cato's armor in the museum. Her stomach sank at the thought of her brother. She hadn't thought about him nearly as much as she had before and she was flooded by the guilt. At Domi's question, she shook her head. "It's a nice party but I feel like the one we went to last week was nicer," she told Domi, her voice hushed, hoping nobody would overhear.
Calista didn't protest when Domi took hold of her arm and started to steer her elsewhere. She furrowed her brow briefly at Domi's words. They didn't quite sound like the Domi that she had met that night, and her mind went to Cinna again. Had Domi and Cinna been friends? They were both stylists, after all. But Calista would never dream of bringing that up with Domi. She had already learned that some things you didn't talk about in the Capitol. "You have been really busy," she agreed. Underneath all of the makeup, she could see that Domi looked tired. Calista's stomach dropped at the implication in Domi's voice. Her mother had been telling her to find someone nice in the Capitol that would marry her, but Calista had no intention of finding 'someone nice'. "It's okay, I'm ready to go home too. It's been a long day."
the confession would be salacious at another point, earning wide eyes and rushed whispers of gossip but now, domitila has to suppress a sigh, lips tight together as she glances around. "i shall agree with you. the parties of the past do seem all better, in comparison," still, the stylist is mindful to respond — not a lie, too. at each week that passes, the less things that are normal and delicious turn into items of luxury, and the host at this party can only get so many of them. "i should hope you will still be here when the season picks up again." whenever that is, when the war is won and the rebels cease their nagging. it has to be soon, right? domitila can't fathom how much more horrors these people must inflict on them, and see, to get it together.
"lovely, darling. so we shall go," the stylist easily leads the girl to the exit, offering smiles but not much else to whom they meet on the way. "but you mustn't let me keep you away from your friends. have you been making any of them around the city?" capitols are so fond of new trinkets from the districts that calista must have been bound to find someone wishing to keep her. "i have been quite busy, but i am grateful the president deems me worthy of so much work." beaming smile still flashes through her words, truth still ringing through them.
débora nascimento on instagram
@gifhungergames hunger games appreciation week: day 4 - favorite character ↳ katniss everdeen @usergif new year, new fonts: day 4 - three typefaces ↳ fonts:
it's rotten work. especially to me especially if it's you. I'll fucking do it but christ alive.
haymitch to katniss
@fatefought
Ocean Vuong, from “To My Father / To My Future Son”, Night Sky with Exit Wounds
setting : new shared dorm, on day 67 after the arena breakout. with : johanna mason @exarbore
unlike every other petty request, when she had requested to move for a couple's room, there had been no pushback. bewilderment shone on her face for a second or two, until realization settled that this was something desired — for all of the hassle peeta had given thirteen until then, he was a key element of her performance and, thus, his presence next to her would only better her parade. something necessary to her affords concessions, like that of buttercup's presence — the comparison, combined with coin's pleasantness, would have been enough for katniss to wish to go against it herself, but she's learning to choose her battles. however coin decides to spin this, resuming the star-crossed lovers act, none of this would matter. she would, indeed, behave in all ways better as soon as she could hold his hand for support once more.
the ridiculous fantasy she had become giddy with the thought of crumbled easily, collapsing entirely as her throat almost had. she can not move to a couples' room if her husband wishes to kill her, and she can not bear to stay with her mother and sister so she files new boring documents, barely paying mind to all the little boxes. the only thing she requests is: no people from twelve, no people from thirteen. a victor? is added, after minutes of contemplation. there is only so much pick of those, and some of them do not care for her, while a lesser number of them will try to coddle her yet, there would be no one better than someone who went through the arena and the capitol to understand the situation. they may not understand her personally, but they'd understand the screams of terror during the worst nightmares, as she would understand theirs — hopefully both parties would learn to bear it with silence and distance. she can no longer be held and she does not care for sweet words.
not wishing for yet another attachment, moving during the day, when people still obeyed the schedules in their arms, had been purposeful. it is to her luck that it seems to fall right in the middle of the spare time on her new roommate's day. "johanna." just her fucking luck, ain't it? if there is someone who would offer her no kindness, that would be johanna mason so maybe her wishes have been fulfilled. yay. "thought no one would be here." a lackluster offer of her inner thoughts. "d'ya mind?" a last opportunity for the mentor from seven to kick her out before katniss unpacks her one box.
Mags decided to ignore the first response coming from Katniss, knowing fully well what she meant by it. Gathering, collecting, finding - it were concepts that did not belong within the walls of District 13. Everything was manufactured, even the things that were supposed to be natural. Nothing tasted or felt like home. It was similar to the Capitol in that way. Only the Capitol actually knew how to improve quality when it came to certain things. District 13 was more primal in that sense. Fabrics were harsh, food only nutrient - furthermore bland and lets not even speak of the mattresses. But perhaps Mags was also a bit spoiled having lived in Victor's Village for the majority of her life, which was far more privileged than what most had to live with.
She had always been careful with whom she shared personal information - especially concerning the origin of her handicap. But these were trying times and Mags knew she could be strategic with information she possessed. They needed their girl on fire in order to succeed and injustice seemed to light it - especially when it happened to those Katniss cared for. Mags didn't want to scale herself into that category but if anything she herself considered them to be on good terms.
"It was very painful at first - and you try everything you can think of." she admitted, her featured matching the casual way the audio voiced her. It was a long time ago. Mags had found peace with it. "Then when the wound was healed, I got a very dry throat. Quite uncomfortable. Now I steam - usually before I go to bed. But it's also a good home-remedy for sore vocal cords. Chamomile adds something soothing." She placed the bags down on a nearby table and invited herself to sit. "Do you want me to show you how to do it?"
she listens to the eletronic voice attentively. it's a curious object — probably fashioned by beetee or one of his fellow big-headed people from three — and it's no surprise that she has never seen something of the sort, nor that the elderly hasn't gotten one of those from the beginning; there's always a reason, after all. maybe it had been a taste of autonomy, of rebellion, for mags or, the pessimistic (and thus, preferred for katniss) route of a purposeful choice by snow, wishing to silence the oldest victor alive, someone who must have held as many secrets as her protegee (the way finnick exposed himself and the capitol to all of panem some weeks ago had made her stomach turn, horrified of her ignorance and for all of that her now closest friend had had to endure, only to receive the judgment for it). "d'y'like this thing?" she means the communication device.
katniss appreciates mags' words beyond what she can convey with her own. too often she had resigned herself to silence, but it had been a choice of her own mingled with an ability to represent herself properly, but there had been a choice. not for mags, yet the old woman tends to her. for a moment too short, katniss wonders if this is yet another part of the rebels' attempt to placate her, exploit her, but the resolve dies before it can be rooted. sometimes, a person's kindness can be just that. "was it long ago?" it's an ill curiosity, but an unrestrained one. "we just used the tea for other things. headaches, nerves." there was never any lack of herbs in the everdeen house, not while heath was alive and not six months later, when his fourteen year old daughter got up her feet and started collecting anything from dandelions to katniss roots. "won't we need hot water for that?" it's just a logical concern. she's not going to deny the woman an opportunity for kindness — not mags', not for now.
When: Day 47
Where: District 12,
Who: Cressida and Katniss ( @incaensio )
Cressida hadn't thought it would be this bad. She supposed she should have known better. She'd spent the past however many years learning about how bad the Capitol really was. And yet, she was continually surprised. District 8 had been bad, but this was even worse. She had been trying to contain her shock, her upset. She wasn't from here. She wasn't seeing her home bombed to ruins. Cressida didn't think it was right for her to be upset. But the loss of innocent life would always be upsetting to her. It was why she was so determined to be involved with the rebellion, with the movement to end the games. That desire didn't make it any easier today though. As they'd moved around, Cressida had briefly wondered if she'd regretted joining the mission, wondering if she should have delegated it to someone else on the team.
It was those thoughts that had drawn her to Katniss when they were having a short period of down time. She didn't really know what to say. What did one say when someone was walking around the ruins of their home, seeing the bodies, and the tatters of what remained of District 12. It had all almost made her feel guilty for recording it all on camera. She didn't know what to say, not wanting to make things worse for the younger woman in front of her.
"Tell us when it's enough...." She knew there was an agenda here. That Coin wanted the footage. But right now Cressida didn't give too much care to that. The mental well-being of those she was filming was more important. "We can stop. We have enough footage." Cressida was good at what she did. She was good at producing films. If Gale, Cael and Katniss wanted to stop right now, she would make the footage they'd done so far work. "I can handle the flack from Coin. Your well-being is more important to me." Even if it wasn't too everyone else. And even then, she supposed well-being was a long shot. Cressida didn't know how what they were seeing right now could not affect anyone's well-being. But she was trying.
the first time was devastating, but at least then she had been allowed privacy, some minimal autonomy in the choice of where to roam about — she had been given solitude and, with it, the opportunity to cry and crawl and run away. it's different with the cameras. they expect the drama of it all, the exposure of pain even if they need to poke a wound to get good material and katniss has always been too proud to give into that. but she had been the one to suggest, insistently so, for this visit, hadn't she? she's the one purposefully doing the jabbing now, willingly self-inflicting this pain while holding on to the thought of the sweet salve of peeta's presence, one day — they shall mend themselves together one day, it's all that matters. any pain she feels that precedes this will be worth it when she is able to have him safe and sound by her side.
it doesn't diminish that most of the population of twelve will never be safe and sound — no, they are half-burned, half-mangled, everywhere they go. watch your step, she tells herself, bearing the brunt of imagining every single corpse as someone she had known, dearly or in passing. she lifts her head to look towards cressida, only now reminding herself of her presence. the capitolite is usually quiet — onus of the profession, one thing katniss can understand about the woman — and in times like this, when they're outside, even if it is among the ashes, katniss can pretend there's no one else around.
"'m fine." a well-practiced lie, like a shrug of the shoulder. maybe cressida claims that she cares for her well-being, but katniss bordelines in not buying it, and not giving two fucks about herself. that's not what's important, else she wouldn't have stepped up for her sister over a year ago, nor would she have been strung along in every step of the way until today. "path's gonna clear up soon." the city is ruins of buildings and people, the roads are littered with bodies, her meadow has been ruined, but the forest is said to have remained intact, too far to ever be touched by snow's bombs. "there's a freshwater lake where we're goin'. you can wash the misery off your face and watch the boys spill theirs 'stead. can y'handle the walk?"
Cecelia wanted nothing more than to lock her family in their quarters and never let them out of her sight again. Each time the kids went off to school and Juliet to the nursery, every time Sterling walked out the door she was hit with the crushing anxiety that she would never see them again. Cecelia should have never left that day. She should have been able to read through Sterling's words. She had tortured herself over it for days, the way that she had been so oblivious to what her husband had tried to tell her. She couldn't even take relief in knowing that she hadn't been able to give the Capitol any information while they tortured her. Once they realized she knew nothing the torture had just been for sport. Torture to punish her when she had only ever done everything that President Snow had asked except for falling in love and creating a family.
She had been punished for daring to step outside the box that President Snow wanted for her. It was a painful realization that she had had many times in that cell block, hours that had only been interrupted by trying to comfort Peeta or trying to distract herself with Annie. There had been long conversations about their kids, and it had helped some, knowing that Annie was missing her son as much as she was missing her own children. Would Cecelia ever feel normal again? Would she ever smile again the way that she had before? It destroyed her, the way that President Snow had been able to take something from her this time. She had endured fourteen years and in the end, he had managed to break her. Woof and Claudia visited her in her nightmares, reminding her of the way that she had failed. If she had told them that she was done with Sterling would Claudia and her parents still be here? Or would the ending have still been the ending? Was there any way that Claudia could have walked away from that room? Did she walk away from that room? Cecelia still didn't know if what she had seen was real. Some of it had been real.
The Katniss Everdeen standing in front of her is different from the woman that she had met in the mentor's lounge. That day felt like it had been years ago, even though it had been less than three months ago. How was that possible? Looking at Katniss made her think of Peeta. She had tried so hard to help Peeta but there had been nothing that she could have done. "I'm surprised they let her have her cat," she mused. "Are you moving far?" It was still hard for her to see how large Thirteen was, or how small it was. She had barely been out of her quarters and the medical ward. At Katniss's question, she tried to smile but it was forced. "I'm okay. I'm happy to be with my family." That part wasn't a lie. But was she okay? No. "How are you?"
the mention of buttercup is no new thing. for over sixty years, there have been no pets in thirteen, and now they've been introduced to the concept with no one less than an ugly-faced cat; it was a novelty that some enjoyed, others were disgusted by. katniss was beyond caring about that, the only opinion that mattered was prim's, and she would forever love that bag of fleas. "i asked for it. no mockingjay otherwise." she thinks it must sound silly, entitled, but the cat had been a vital part of negotiations for her role, necessary even if minimal. "your kids like him." all children did, and, somehow, buttercup endured their attention with a care he does not extend towards katniss — she's even heard him purr during some rests between crazy cat in the bunker, when the children fought to be the one to scratch behind his deformed ear.
the question ushers her to pull out the paper with the number of her new compartment — it would be a trek from the families' and the couples' wings, far from a happiness she would neither benefit from or impose her own misery upon, and that is what mattered. "some more levels." katniss responds, at last, returning her gaze to the other victor. "'s a big place, so everythin' seems far." she shrugs.
"they waited long for you." there should be some sort of apologies from her part there — though the delay in the rescue was entirely fashioned by the true higher-ups, she doesn't think she can ever shake off the guilt that festers every corner of her life, spreading like an illness and picking at unimportant and unrelated bits only to add to the unsurmountable sentiment. "'m alive." so no, she is not okay, but it doesn't matter. “you?”
Accepting the reality of what's happened hasn't been easy for Thea by any means. She's still trying to put the pieces together days after her rescue and her mind continues to betray her, telling her she's dead or still in her cell or a myriad of other things until Ezra finds a way to placate her. It's terrifying — her confusion often leaves her exhausted and afraid, begging for mercy from captors that aren't here anymore. She'd seen so many people die at the hands of the rebels, had heard so many of them being tortured as well that even if she's told she's safe in Thirteen, it's almost impossible to truly believe it.
The nights are more difficult than anything, most likely because she's forced to sleep by morphling and wakes in a drug-induced haze. More often than not her screams cease when she sees Ezra beside her, alive and breathing and safe despite what she might have once seen with her own eyes. Even if Thea has a hard time trusting her reality, she forces herself to accept it when he's there. But this time he isn't — this time the seat next to her bed is empty, the room she's been put in is cold and quiet and it feels as though her worst fear has been confirmed: everything's that's happened the last few days was simply a dream, Ezra is dead and she will remain in this torturous loop of Capitol hell until they finally allow her to die, but it will never be on her own terms.
Her panic is clear and wild as she thrashes against her restraints, voice breaking after every cry for help. Thea doubts anyone will hear her, though, and if they do she very much doubts they'll care. Just as she's resigned herself to her fate a figure appears in the doorway, and even if Thea's sure it must be one of her torturers, she's almost relieved to not be left alone. And then the figure comes closer, and if she wasn't confused before, Katniss Everdeen's presence is enough to completely disorient her. "What are you — you're not here. You're not supposed to be here." Thea tries to explain what's happening in her mind to the best of her ability — Katniss Everdeen is the face of District Thirteen, she knows, and Thea has been in the Capitol — but the words come out broken and scrambled, and it's only the mention of Ezra that forces her back on track. "He was here," she tries to explain, eyes darting back and forth as she tries to remember why she'd been so upset in the first place. "Where is he? He was here." Ezra was here, with her, and it was real. Thea has to believe it was real, because the alternative is too painful. "Please don't take him again. Please."
what an irony it is that her presence is, once again, recognized with denial of it — katniss is altogether in agreement that she should not be here, either that here is thea's room or even alive. not for the first nor the last time, she wishes snow's gift had been successful in its purpose; at least, then, she would not have to cope with this horrible aftermath, nor have to be a witness to anyone else's suffering. to see thea, in all of their unfamiliarity with one another, still wounds her, and katniss is so distraught that, for a minute, she can do nothing but watch. flight is her usual choice for moments like this, but her feet work too slow.
so she stays, the hand that was extended to offer warmth moving downwards with a nimble expertise — she's made and unmade knots until her fingers bled over the past week, and the experience allows her to undo the straps that tie thea down swiftly. there is something to say about her carelessness then, when she has just barely recovered from the last assault, but if that one hadn't killed her, maybe she would be gladdened if this alleged one did. her face twists, a ghost of a smile that goes by too quickly, at the better sight — thea is by no means whole, but at least she no longer seems like a tied down animal.
"he went for a piss." comes the shattered voice, in all of its misery. "i'm same as you, down the hall." she tries to explain, but it seems poorly. had it been thea, she would attempt to run away right now, knock her captor and search for her lover. are you? are you? the dark haired closes her eyes for a moment, wishing away the damned song; she brings her hands for herself, trying to prove she means no harm. she's no hangman. "he ain't leavin' you 'gain, thea. you safe."
