ten_fwd | Gym

Current Location: Deck 12, Gymnasium

Entry tags:

Gym - OTA

There was a time when Annie was in a gym at least six days out of seven. Ages eleven to sixteen, during her time at the Career Academy (a slightly grandiose name for quite a glorified school club, but it wasn't until Annie was a victor herself that she recognized the self-depreciating humour in the name). Before school and after school, training and training and training. After that, when she was washed out, no gyms, but she kept up the physical activity - and exceeded it, fishing being what it is. As a victor, she ran most mornings, or swum. Worked out. Sparred with Finnick. She'd noticed if she didn't, her mind got worse, her fits of hysteria (anxiety attacks, Beverly had called them) more frequent.

But it's been six months since she's done anything properly physical regularly. When her mood's been stable, she's turned the holodeck into a running track, but that hasn't been nearly anything like five or six days out of seven.

She's twitchy, which goes a way to explain how she winds up in the gymnasium, trailing her fingers over the bo staffs in their rack. She'd been good at spears in the Academy, and although the idea of stabbing now makes her uneasy, she's still good at wielding a staff. She can get her fiancé (tall, built, twice her size and lethal) on his back.

Annie picks up one of the staffs and hefts it, giving it an experimental twirl. It's well-balanced, and she smiles, quiet and shy and delighted.

But despite that delight, and how practically she's already dressed (boots, trousers, simple blouse under her loose jacket, hair braided), she doesn't make any further movements towards any of the practice mats.

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Annie flushes, her eyes dropping sharply and fingers tightening around the staff. Not in a threat, just as part of a sudden desire to make her already fairly small person seem smaller. Not there.

"So-sorry, I just got, got distracted..."

This, at least, is more normal, and her shoulders start to tense up.

But, even with that, she shoots him a brief look of disagreement. The last actual fight she'd been in had been five and a half years ago. She's just been sparring with Finnick ever since. Which is different.

Obviously.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says. Because the way she makes herself smaller: it seems, to him, like she's bracing for violence. Verbal or physical. He moves a little closer, but his body language is casual and comfortable, not tense. "You were interested in what I was doing. Yes?"

People, in Annie's experience, don't always know when they are hurting her. It's just a joke, we're just teasing you, didn't mean anything by it-

But his body-language is casual, so either he means what he says, or he's a talented enough actor to lure her in. But no one knows who she is, here. Not beyond just another one of the Displaced, or whatever the crew is calling them now.

Doesn't know her reputation at all. Just how she acts.

"I was," Annie says after a pause, still guarded. "It was...beautiful. That's different from, uh. Where I'm from."

"Then," he says - "I won't put too fine a point on it, but is it really more ways of hurting people that you're interested in watching? Or doing." It's possible she just hasn't thought of alternatives, he thinks. If you grow up in a place where fighting, and fighting styles, are ubiquitous, art may well have fallen by the wayside.

"No!" The denial is more instinctive than automatic - she's a victor, no one would be surprised at her being interested in hurting people. But she's not good at it. Not any more. Not from even before her games.

And in any case, the moves he was showing are too fancy to be useful in Panem. They show years of dedication, of training: no, not for the games. A couple moves to get through a brawl are okay, but there has to be lines. Has to have a nod towards the rules.

"It wasn't, wasn't that," Annie tries again, although her ribs feeling tight and sharp. In her boots, her toes are curled, trying to keep grip on the ground and politeness. "It was just. You knew what you were doing and I-"

It was nice to see.

But she's not sure how to put it without sounding strange, and the flush deepens.

He holds up a hand, to let her know she doesn't have to say anymore. "Just about what I thought," he says, like a theory's been confirmed. For a moment, he considers not getting involved. She's not his responsibility; she's not part of the crew of Voyager. He doesn't have any official duties here, his request to Counselor Troi aside. But she doesn't belong on this ship. And she's in pain.

He lets out a breath. "Well," he says, "I'd been considering picking up ballroom and such again anyhow. Ballet isn't really the thing for someone my age, hm? Go on, put the stick down, we're going to the holodeck."

She doesn't say anything for a moment, nor does she move. She's not frozen - her muscles aren't locked, although they are tense - just watching him. Thinking. Calculating.

She doesn't know him.

She can't read him. Can't predict him. He moves better than she does, and if he wanted to hurt her-

But she's so tired of thinking like that. Always. Constantly. No one has offered her any real violence since the 70th Hunger Games, and she can't turn it off. She assesses, and then she runs, and the latter is something she's even more sick of.

And.

Finnick would come looking for her. The holodeck is where she goes, sometimes. It's on a list.

(And she can scream loudly. When she wants to. Sometimes even when she doesn't.)

"I'll take the stick. For now," she says. "What did you have in mind?"

Hypervigilance. Doesn't matter what he says; every person, to her, looks like a threat. (Though, of course, he has to admit, an older man with combat training and such a brusque manner, protestations of nonviolent intent or not, could look like a threat anyway.)

"As you like," he tells her. He is genuinely unconcerned. He's pretty sure she wouldn't try anything, and if she does, well, aforementioned training. "I had in mind a few basic dance steps - which, incidentally, is where that gracefulness comes from."

"I can see that, I think," she says, slowly and thoughtfully as she starts to walk towards the door. Her walk is balanced, but otherwise, fairly normal. It's been too long since she was on the seas nearly every day to keep her deckhand's rolling gait, and the Academy never wanted them to move like they were lethal. Then she stops, turns - and turns with her feet, rather than twisting her ankle first.

"Are you just bored? Or after somethin' else?"

The question actually makes him grimace.

"You're probably less than half my age," he tells her, "and I'm currently attached." What a bloody joke it is, though: no one tells you, in Starfleet Academy, that you might be stranded on a ship fifteen years in the past with a lover who isn't your lover yet. "If you're asking whether I'm after sex, the answer is decidedly no."

Half my age gets a pair of arched eyebrows: when, exactly, has that ever stopped anyone? She's not as obscenely beautiful as her fiancé, but she's cute enough. He wouldn't be the first, or the last.

"It was a possibility. But. There are others. So. Why? You don't know me."

She's still tense, with an edge of fight-or-flight. But her eyes are sharp and her voice is at least even. Curious.

She's asking.

Whatever else is going on in her head (and it's a lot, rational and not), and even if this all winds up awful, at least later, she can tell herself that she kept her voice even.

(Not that 'bored' is a bad reason, although she doesn't say that. Doesn't want to lead or offer something if it's all a play for....something else.)

Edited 2015-07-17 11:05 (UTC)

He crosses his arms. Well, out with it, then.

"All right, you'd like a better reason?" he asks. "How about the fact that you're obviously suffering from emotional trauma. Your body literally cannot convince itself that there is no danger, and because of that, you are constantly aware, constantly afraid, even if and even when your mind thinks there's no reason to be. Add to that the fact that you're on an unknown ship in an unknown universe, and that paranoia literally cannot turn off. You are compromised emotionally, and my choosing to take advantage of you under those circumstances would not simply be irresponsible - as it would with your age - but actually, morally wrong."

His voice is low - he's not broadcasting this to the four corners of the gym - but it's targeted and accurate, absolutely precise.

"Some folk don't care about right and wrong," she points out. It's not the first thing she thought about saying. That had been a snapped I'm trying in the face of all his observations. But she swallowed it. It'd have sounded defensive. It is defensive.

But not inaccurate.

She is trying.

It just doesn't work very well.

He has his own charisma, does this man. It a certain extent, she's inoculated against it thanks to Finnick, but only to a certain extent. What she's left with is that he is sincere (or can play it well, but she doesn't think so). Sincere, righteous. Far too perceptive, but she's never really been subtle.

"All right."

Annie glances away, frowning as she thinks, and then she looks back. He never actually said why he wants to help, just listed what was wrong. She's starting to think it wouldn't occur to him to explain what is obvious to him.

"You want to...help. Yeah? I, uh. Heard about doctors. For the mind. You one of them? A counsellor?"

Beverly had told her about them, after her panic attack.

Edited 2015-07-18 12:30 (UTC)

"I care about right and wrong," says Cambridge, firmly. "And, I wasn't going to be so formal about it, but yes, I am a counselor. Or, rather, I was, before I was grabbed by a godlike being and placed a decade and a half in the past, on a ship where I never wanted to serve, in a situation I find both extremely uncomfortable and extremely boring."

This may all be said a little harshly, but it's not at her, it's at the situation itself. He hates it here.

He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "My apologies," he says. "It's not your fault. So, yes, I would help, and, to be honest, I'd like something to do."

Her gaze had dropped sometime during his brief...not quite rant, but something like it, and it still doesn't quite return. Partly, it's just a shy woman's response to someone else's frustration, but partly, it's simply that she has a hard time meeting people's eyes for long. She has to look at other things, or gets too uncomfortable that she might be staring.

"It's all right," she says, although she's still frowning, a little. "I wasn't, um. Asking because of anything formal."

(She needs help. She knows she does. She's tired of being crazy, but not asking yet. Not without researching and double-checking what she finds.)

"I'm just. Here's very different from home. The... Contexts of everything. References. Attitudes. Motivations. So. It makes sense."

For a moment, Annie is tempted to add, and don't worry, I could give you plenty to do, but she probably couldn't do it as a joke and it's not very funny because it's true. Instead she laughs, the sound small and breathless.

"Okay. Well. Holodeck, you said?"

By way of confirmation, he gestures for her to precede him through the door.

"You didn't say your name," he remarks, once they're out in the hallway. It's not actually pushing for her to give it. Could be that she doesn't like going by a name, or that names work differently where she comes from. He's seen alien races that separate the human concept of names out into designations and indications - ways to refer to the person, and ways for that person to refer to themselves, for instance.

Annie doesn't particularly like walking in front of people she doesn't know, not outside crowds, but it's a social politeness, even in her world, and she's used to just rolling with it.

As soon as she's through the door, she stops and waits for him, and as they walk, she keeps parallel with him. Or, sometimes, a step or so behind.

"I. It's Annie Cresta," she says, debating if she should explain further. "Forget to introduce myself sometimes. Um, though."

There's something that could be a smile.

"You didn't say your name, either."

It's a gentle poke, curiosity more than anything else, both as it the name and if he'd supply a reason for not giving it.

"Hugh Cambridge." He lets her fall into a position she's comfortable with. If it means he's leading the way, very well. His stride is confident and maybe a little quick; he's not particularly worried about her keeping up. "Though, in my case, I fail to introduce myself because I think little pleasantries are an enormous waste of time, and it's a genuine possibility that I'd find any given acquaintance too boring to bother."

There does come a point, however, when knowing someone's name is quite handy. It's a way of filing all of his observations together in his mind. Almost a trigger word.

"Do they have dance, in your world?"

She keeps up, and doesn't particularly seem like she's working hard to.

"Oh. I see."

She does, too. That attitude requires confidence, intelligence, and enough security in his station in life that offending people doesn't really factor in. Her mind supplies rich, connected, talented as reasons, and arrogance. It could be misplaced, but it might not, too.

Not that Annie says any of that. She just thinks it, and uses their journey to give herself time to settle. Try to settle. The staff in her hand helps, giving as it does something else for her to focus on (the weight of it, the feel of the wood against her skin, and the security of a weapon even though she knows she's probably never going to use it as such). She might be walking at a brisk pace, but she makes sure she takes enough air in, enough air out.

It helps. A little. She still feels like her nerves are scratching at the underside of her skin, but the skittishness has died down to a low simmer.

"We do. Got a few kinds, actually. Depends which district you're from. Balls are a bit fancy, though. If that's where 'ballroom' is from."

It might not be. Language, she's finding, does some funny things.

"Mm? Ah, yes, it is. English, then." Not a universal translator situation. "So you're human. An Earth-variant, or something else?" It's half asked to himself, half to her, and he doesn't really pause to let her answer before he launches into the explanation.

"Yes," he says, "but here I'm referring to ballroom in a more general sense, as a category of dance involving two people as partners. Usually there's an element of formal dance to it, but it can contain many different styles. You'd be shocked at the profusion that it can contain, in fact, given that the last two centuries have expanded the category by adding what aliens can do."

"Earth-" she starts, but lets it go as he keeps talking. She doesn't really feel like getting into what happened to her Earth, about why she's from District Four instead of Mexico.

"I know how to dance with a partner," she says then. A few ways, too, a lot of them involving a ruffled skirt and boots that click sharply against the floorboards. But not every woman wears a skirt, even to dances, and there are variations for those without.

"Aliens dance, too?"

"Not all of them." Aliens being a very large category. "Are you curious about alien races?" He's really asking. He wouldn't really blame anyone in a vast and new situation wanting to shut down, especially at first. He, personally, would be ravenously curious, but then, that's why he joined Starfleet. It's just a part of who he is.

"Yes."

An easy answer. Or maybe not so much, because then she seems to add something, then stops.

"I haven't... We've mostly read about them, here. My fiance and I? Since we got here. It seemed... Important, to know what was going on."

A nicer way of saying that Annie and Finnick are paranoid, and distrusting, and needed a couple months just to believe that the people they saw weren't Capitol fashionistas, but people who weren't human at all. Once they accepted that, learning about those they ran into here seemed prudent.

"But it's not like, well." Annie stops to try and rephrase. "A lot of the differences are cultural. So, it's kind of the same with the human folks from this universe, too. It's all different."

"Hmm," he says. A sound of slightly increased interest. "I'm actually a bit impressed. It takes some people a long time to realize understanding a culture's point of view is the first step to understanding an individual's, and that most alien cultures can be compared and understood with a bit of empathy." He's not stating with precision what he really means, which is a concept that doesn't translate well into words. Cultural understanding starts with a sort of initial burst of comprehension, a realization that they are like me, only different. It's how someone learns to reach outside of their own culture, their skin, their life.

At last, someone who uses empathy in a way she understands: not a power, but a concept and a feeling. It makes her feel a little bit warmer towards the man.

A little bit.

She's still not entirely sure what she thinks as a whole.

"I guess," Annie says, slowly. "It seemed logical to me. But." She doesn't want to explain her world. She doesn't. She's sick of it. But this, at least, is nothing to do with horror. "My, my country is made up of a number of different districts. And then the Capitol. We all have a bit of our own culture. If you just extrapolate from that, and..."

This time, her expression is wry.

"Things are very different here. Culturally. So. Again, you extrapolate. Maybe most people just don't have to try and understand, so they don't."

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