ten_fwd | Wishing you were somehow here again... [OPEN]

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Wishing you were somehow here again... [OPEN]

((OOC: Figure she's going through this routine every night this month. Feel free to forward-date or back-date tag-ins.))

Growing up among the Cainites of the Order, Fatima had picked up on mechanisms for coping with stress from all across the world and across time. But not a single one of them was making it easier for her to deal with the emptiness of the space next to her in her bed. She'd been stuck on this flying Hilton for months now. But sleep still didn't come easily. After knowing what it was like to hear someone breathing beside her on the pillow, Fatima was having more than a little difficulty letting go.

Fortunately, growing up among the Cainites of the Order had also provided Fatima with a few extra outlets she could use.

It was usually after midnight when she would slip into the leotard Beverly had given her. The halls were quieter at night. Fewer people. Fewer judgmental crew members staring after her like the invader that she was. And the training facility was usually empty.

First, she'd start with a few yoga stretches. Some aggressive chin-ups. Knuckle push-ups. And then the real work would begin.

Somehow, her iPod had managed to survive her ordeal in Zelien. Fatima had doubted very much that she'd ever be able to coax any music out of it, but it was working now. All of her songs were there. Well, they weren't exactly her songs. The classical music was from Liam. The rock-and-roll was from Denise. And the oldies were from Auntie Diana. Didn't matter though. She always listened to the same song anyway. Survivor's Eye of the Tiger on repeat, the earbuds shoved deep into her ears, like she wanted to block out the rest of the world.

The punches she threw against the punching bag were precise and powerful. Fatima had fused the martial arts styles she'd studied with street boxing. And despite the work-out clothes, she always trained in her high-heeled boots. As she used to argue to Arty, you never knew what you were going to be wearing when someone attacked you. Better to be prepared for anything.

If only her loneliness could be punched in the bag.

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Normally, Annie wouldn't be up this late at night. Or rather, she wouldn't be out of her quarters. She's had issues with insomnia for years, even before her games, but back home, there are either things to do or she knows the area. She could go down to the victors' private beach and look at the stars, and be perfectly safe. Here? It's predictable until it's not, and she doesn't like that.

Except that tonight, she can't sleep. She needs to move, to do things, to be distracted, to distract her mind before it turns on her and rips her to shreds. Normally, she'd go and see if Finnick's awake, but he's in one of his own moods. The kind of mood where, back home, they'd skulk back to their own mansions, which isn't really an option here.

So Annie's taking a chance, and wandered down to the gym. Not to pick up a staff again and whirl it, that just seems to attract people wanting to spar with her, but to look at the treadmills.

She misses running. Doesn't trust the holodecks, not when it feels like there are ants crawling on the inside of her skull, but she misses just running. And quiet, after midnight, seems as good a time as any to try those machines. She's not dressed as she would be for running back home, but her clothes are loose, sensible, and her long red hair is braided.

But she catches sight of Fatima, and stops to watch. She'd seen the woman around, and of course it's always useful to watch how people fight. Not so much tips - she can't fight, and she knows it - but techniques, experience, things to report back to Finnick as their pool what they've found out about the others on this ship.

Mostly, though, she's watching the other woman's legs and wondering how in the world she's keeping her balance in those shoes.

Edited 2015-08-22 10:57 (UTC)

A lifetime of living with Cainites, coupled with a year and a half in Zelien had taught Fatima to be keenly aware of her surroundings. And even through her red rage and through Eye of the Tiger, she knew that she wasn't alone. She kept going at the bag, but her peripherals became preoccupied, trying to decide if there was some kind of threat.

Her Cainite radar didn't go off. That was a good thing. And she was able to organically shift with each punch until she was able to see her guest. Human, she was guessing. Also a good thing, although she had to admit her prejudices had become less hardened in light of her experiences.

She slowed down, coming to a stopping point. With one hand, she steadied the bag. With the other, she took out her earbuds. Her entire body was taut, arms gleaming with sweat. Fatima didn't sweat like the girls in the movies. She wasn't 'glowing.' No, it was a real sweat. A dripping sweat.

But she wasn't out of breath.

"Did you want to use the bag?" she asked politely.

She's a short woman, is Annie. Barely five foot in height, although she's not particularly slender. She stands with her feet apart, for balance, and the way her eyes followed Fatima's movements spoke of her actually following the movements, trying to predict the next move.

"Oh, no, I was just-"

Staring. Again. She's been doing that too much lately, things catching her attention enough that she stops and watches without trying to hide it. Stupid of her.

But fighting with boots is unusual.

"Gonna go runnin', but. How, why are you practicin' in boots?"

Her accent, if one has a good ear for them, is a heavier version of Finnick's, and there's a ring on her left hand, dark and non-metallic.

The accent immediately struck Fatima as familiar, although she couldn't place it outright. She didn't have the musical ear that the York sisters had. Auntie Diana had forced her to take piano lessons, but she'd lost interest in it pretty quickly. It always managed to ruin her manicure.

She smiled politely, then turned to glance at the boots. "Old habit," she admitted, with a little laugh. "Helps with balance though. You suddenly become keenly aware of the fact that you could topple over at any minute, if you're not careful."

And the pressure of a woman's weight on a single stiletto was enough to decapitate a vampire.

She'd learned that one from experience.

"Guess I can see that."

She can, a little. She thinks. But then, Annie learnt her balance on the Pacific Ocean and the rolling decks of fishing boats, a place where heels would lead to more broken ankles than people already get.

But it'd be useful for the Capitol. Being able to fight in heels, if needed. Being able to run.

She wonders if Cashmere taught herself.

She remembers Cashmere is dead, and so she can never ask her.

Rather than let the though settle, Annie blurts out the next thing she thinks off.

"When you take 'em off, is it hard to adjust back to wearing normal shoes? I mean. For fighting."

Edited 2015-08-23 00:02 (UTC)

It was a question Fatima had never really considered before. And it took her only a few seconds to realize why.

"I don't really wear normal shoes," she admitted. "I like the height that heels give me." Which wasn't to say that Fatima was short. She was really quite average in that department. But feeling tall made her feel...what? Like she could sit at the big kids table.

A feeling she desperately needed when the 'big kids' were all immortals.

"They used to make us wear gym shoes when I was in school," she said. "I hated it."

From the sudden little smile, liking the height is a sentiment Annie can understand and fully support. Heels can be fun, and not just because it makes kissing her fiancé a little bit easier. (Although, there is that as well. Finnick isn't a tall man by the standards of this ship, it seems, but he's still got eleven inches on her.)

On the other hand, they make her feet ache. That could just be the last time she had to wear heels a lot it'd been in the Capitol, and wearing heels for weeks had made everything hurt, but she doesn't enjoy the perspective difference enough to wear those shoes often.

"Gym shoes? Like, uh....running shoes?"

"Yeah. Like running shoes. The way I see it, any shoes you run in are running shoes."

Spoken as someone who was frequently running for her life without warning.

Fatima dipped her head politely. "Manners. They are a thing." She offered her hand to the other girl. "My name is Fatima. Fatima Merali. I'm from Los Angeles, 2009. If that means anything to you."

She figured there was a fifty-fifty shot.

Annie has running shoes. Had, maybe, it's been months since she's been home. But she's one of the wealthiest people in her district and can avoid them. As a child, and even a teenager, while there were different types of shoes and boots, they were for more important things than just 'school'. School meant sandals, or boots in winter, if you even wore shoes at all.

(Frequently, Annie didn't, although in her case it was mostly because she opted not to.)

"I, uh. I'm always forgettin' here, it's okay. Annie Cresta," she says, stepping forward and shaking Fatima's hand. Her time here has made her callouses fade, but there's strength in her wrist which speaks of years of manual labour. "And, it, it, doesn't, really. But I'm from the future of most people here, the ones from Earth. So, District Four, Panem. It used to be North America."

Fatima's handshake was firm. She'd been taught that no one respected a person with a weak handshake, especially Cainites. And secretly, it always gave her a little comfort to shake someone's hand hard enough to feel a pulse in their veins. A kind of reassurance that they were alive.

She started to smile again, but that smile quickly faded. "Panem? You mean where Prim's from?"

It was a thoughtless thing to say, she supposed. Just because two people were from the same place, that didn't mean they knew each other, of course.

But then again, the Enterprise was a confining space, at least for them. If they didn't know each other before, they probably did now.

Everyone in Panem knows who Prim Everdeen is, although Fatima's right: until here, the two had never crossed paths.

"- yes," Annie says, her own smile fading. "Same country. Different districts."

Never mind that in a lot of ways, the districts are so different from each other to be their own countries, culturally speaking. Related countries, but different. It's the same country.

Annie has no idea what Prim's said about it, though. Judging from Fatima's expression, nothing good. Not that she can strictly blame her, but the scrutiny isn't something Annie likes.

Prim had told Fatima quite a lot about Panem. None of it good, really. It was hard for her to reconcile the idea of a world where children did battle to the death. Which was saying something, considering the things that she and the Order had had to deal with.

The difference was largely in the fact that monsters had committed those evils. In Prim's world, there were only humans.

She nodded slightly, her expression softening. "Then I should give you the same advice I gave Prim about the replicators," she said. "Order a 'danju pear next time you get the chance."

Annie's reaction is...wary. Still smiling, a little, it darts across her face like ripples across a pool, but her green eyes have narrowed a little. Cautious. Wary. Faintly suspicious. It's the reaction of someone who is used to people laughing at her. Playing tricks.

Not a reaction, really, that's limited to Panem, for all it was uniquely Panem causes that started it in Annie's case.

"Is...that a euphemism or an actual pear?" she asks, carefully.

Fatima shook her head, smiling slightly. "No," she promised. "It's just the best kind of pear. Wetter than water. I gave one to Prim and I don't think I've ever seen anyone so happy. It's just the right balance between sweet and sour. And if you get a really good one, the juice just flows down your chin."

The one thing Fatima would never get tired of, living on this floating Hilton, was the unending supply of pears. She still carried one or two around in her purse, most days.

Like she was afraid of losing them...

"Oh."

She looks a little embarrassed, but that's mostly at being caught being so suspicious. Someone else might have been able to think up something clever to cover it, but Annie's never been good at on the spot wit.

"I'll, uh. Certainly try it. Although, I, I can't imagine the replicators here not givin' out a good one."

It reminds her so much of the Capitol.

So much ease, so much material comfort. So many things had a press of a button. The morals are different, but some things just make her wary.

"Unless you can...program the damn things for some variety."

Fatima detected her embarrassment, but for the life of her, she couldn't quite nail down where it was coming from. Which meant she wasn't entirely sure how to smooth it out.

Auntie Diana would know.

But Auntie Diana wasn't here. She was probably dead.

She shook her head slightly. "I'm not much of a tech person," she admitted. The fact that she could even turn on a computer and open a web browser was considered impressive, among the Cainites. But the fact of the matter was that she was just an average girl who happened to grow up during the iEra. "I'm just grateful we have them at all. Last place I was, the people in charge were slowly starving us to death so..."

Annie's gaze is rarely a steady thing: it drifts away from people as she talks, darts here and there. She's been accused of seeing things that aren't there, and sometimes that's true. But mostly, she's just...looking. Observing. Unable to fully concentrate.

But as Fatima says, slowly starving us, her dark green eyes flick back to the other young woman's face and stay there.

"On...purpose?"

It's an ineffective way of killing people. A decent way of maintaining order, as long as as you keep the balance right between not enough food to get comfortable and not too little so significant parts of the population grow too desperate to care. There are better ways, though.

Not that Annie would say as much, to a stranger.

The change in Annie's gaze was palpable, but Fatima couldn't exactly describe the way it felt. She didn't know the other girl well enough. All she knew was that something had shifted.

She didn't know what that meant.

Still, she set her jaw, nodding slightly. "On purpose." Probably as punishment, given the way that the prisoners had been trying to rally against COMPASS for a second time.

"The people who ran Zelien were conducting experiments on us," she continued. "Experiments in fear." She tried to sound as blase as possible about the horror. It helped her feel more in control.

"I understand."

She does, too.

Not the methods, although she's not asking. Not after what Beverly had said, and because it's not relevant and because she's not going to cause herself one of her fits if it's not relevant. But being studied, critiqued, pushed, pushed, pushed and broken by horrors?

Yes. She understands that. She's studied it. She's lived it. She's trained for it. She's been broken by it.

"If Prim's mentioned the Hunger Games to you, then. Similar things go on. In them."

What makes someone nearly an adult kill a child. What makes kids turn on each other. When do they turn on each other. How many deaths before they snap. How much starvation, how much dehydration. How much poison. How many monsters. How much ignorance about survival before someone gives up or tries to kill everyone else just to get out-

What are the buttons to press to make someone insane.

"Beverly explained a bit, about Zelion. Um. For what it's worth, I'm. Sorry that happened to you."

Annie doesn't sound sorry, doesn't look it. But what she looks, and sounds like, is flat. Controlled. A little clinical, because it's a familiar mindset, that of a Career. It's safer.

But her eyes are haunted.

Edited 2015-08-27 01:00 (UTC)

Prim had indeed explained the Hunger Games to Fatima. She'd even mistaken Fatima for a Victor at first, for reasons Fatima couldn't quite comprehend, at the time.

After that initial talk, Fatima had been very careful to avoid the topic in subsequent conversations. It seemed just a little too difficult for someone as delicate.

Annie seemed to be proof of that, somehow.

But Fatima knew when not to press. Instead, she nodded slightly, the lines of her face softening at the mention of Beverly. "Yeah, I met Beverly there. I'm glad you know her. She's...something special."

"She's a good friend."

Annie trusts her, as much as she trusts anyone here who isn't Finnick. It's an odd trust, she'd be the first to admit, and she's still pushing the woman occasionally. Testing. Seeing where the limits of goodness and concern and friendship lie.

But.

A friend.

Annie's stance eases, a bit. She'd much rather talk about Beverly then the games.

As it happened, Fatima was more comfortable talking about Beverly too. The fact of the matter was that Beverly was her anchor to sanity in this place. Living proof that she hadn't imagined the horrors she'd been through. And, more importantly, living proof that somehow, the human race managed to get its act together in some kind of future where love and compassion still managed to exist.

The prospect seemed outrageous, coming from a place like Fatima's world.

"Have you ever seen her dance?"

Annie has a darker view of the Federation. The ease of their technology reminds her of the Capitol, and elements of the Prime Directive remind her of the Games - we will only pay attention to you once you've survived. She knows it's not the directive's intent, and she hasn't said a word about it, but she thinks it. And yet...

So many people here are decent. Not afraid. Trying to help strangers, rather just their own. If Beverly was the first one she really trusts the goodness of, it's also because of what Beverly said about Zelion. The woman's been tested and still remains kind. Compassionate. Annie can't say that for anyone else. She doesn't know, and so she can't quite trust.

But she feels a bit better around Fatima now. A little bit better, because she's shy and nervous and for good reason, but there are reasons why she prefers the company of victors. People a bit like herself.

So the smile she gives Fatima is a surer thing than it otherwise would have been, although still small. But it's smallness lends a touch of impishness to her face.

"No. Is this a...she's very good, or very bad?"

Fatima pressed a hand to her mouth for a second, to keep herself in control. "She's very good," she said, between her fingers. "And I hear from some gossip around the sickbay that she used to dance competitively. Won some awards. Gained some notoriety as 'The Dancing Doctor.'"

Of course, Fatima hadn't garnered up the courage to call Beverly that to her face, but the idea amused her. Maybe because it was so incongruous to every context in which she'd known Beverly.

On the other hand, the idea of being able to dance in the face of such adversity wasn't funny at all. It felt necessary.

The impishness fades, and Annie narrows her eyes. Not in disapproval, as such, but as if she's trying to keep Fatima in focus. Which metaphorically she is: nothing wrong with her vision, Annie is just confused. A little cautious.

"I, um. I think I'm missin' the cultural reference there."

It doesn't seem like a funny nickname to her, which would normally just leave her feeling bemused. But gossip and notoriety aren't good words as far as Annie Cresta is concerned.

(Crazy Annie, Crazy Cresta, Mad Victor-)

"Is dancing not, uh. Good thing, here?"

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