Entrance Thread [
For only the first tag-in Taken ]
Peeta is in a pair sleep pants.
They are not even entirely great sleep pants.
They are flecked with still drying paint, as is most of his upper body. If it weren't for the paintbrush in his hand the shade of red dappling him here and there all over he might actually look like he actually was bleeding. Profusely. Deep slashes of brilliant scarlet, and the darker, rusty shades dried in dots and smears on his skin everywhere. The sheet wrinkles from a restless night already fled.
He doesn't have a clue if it's morning now. He had just finished. (He'd had to finish. He's had to finish. He'd had to finish.
) Finally been able to breathe and stagger off his pained knee from hours over the canvas. He had been going for a glass of water. But this was not the kitchen. This was not anything like his house.
Leaving him there, torn between the disjointed confusion of whether this was another waking nightmare dream or another trick by the Capital. In only his sleep pants. With a paintbrush. Well. He's had to start with less than that before, right?
Main Threads [ Everyone after the 1st & Sickbay]
Peeta is no longer in sleep pants.
He's in basic enough pants, shirt and shoes.
Generic. Grey and black. Expected normality for the Capitol.
Which is what this place looks and feels like, even if they keep telling him it's not called that. He doesn't believe them, but belief was never required to begin with. Only abject obedience. He doesn't know what this game is, but at least now he has paint free clothes, shoes which cover his artificial foot, and he's clean, his ash blonde waves curling at the ends from the force of the 'sonic shower.'
Cleaned, clothed, and back in a Quarantine. Familiar as second nature.
He needs to remember how they got him here, and figure out where Katniss is.