Annie Cresta | Victor of the 70th Hunger Games (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
treadswater) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ten_fwd2015-07-05 09:58 pm
treadswater) wrote in ten_fwd2015-07-05 09:58 pm
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.
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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She tugs at at the end of her braid, glances down at it. Red, red, red. A bit darker than normal, given she's not in the sea and sun to bleach some strands to gold.
"Never heard that nickname for it."
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Amy herself has wild copper locks that fall below her shoulders, but the Doctor is a plain old brunette.
"Where you from?" she adds a moment later.
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"I'll, uh. Keep that in mind. And I'm from District Four, Panem."
Annie pauses.
"A version of Mexico on Earth?"
She thinks, anyway.
"Who's the Doctor?"
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He'd be pouting and turning in circles now if he were here, which might account for the smirk Amy just tried to smother.
"Mexico, eh? They don't use ginger there?" she asks with a frown.
"I'm Amy Pond, the Doctor is my best friend, we travel the universe together in 'is TARDIS, and he's currently lost my husband," she adds, holding out her hand.
That about covers all big points.
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Anyway, the woman is talking about far more interesting things, even if the speed is a little bewildering.
At least Finnick's given her practice at dealing with the ridiculously charismatic and confident.
"Oh, um, do you want your husband found?" she asks, shaking her hand.
Practice does not, exactly, always make perfect.
"And, and. Annie Cresta, this is my first time...off planet. Fiance currently not lost."
Just...just stating it. Because it's reassuring. He's here.
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Her question about Rory just makes Amy laugh more.
"He's all right," she shrugs (but there's unending affection in her eyes that betrays her true feelings).
"Nice to meet you, Annie Cresta. Good job keeping your fiancée close. Which one is he? Assumin' he's here," she asks, looking around the room.
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It must be nice, not being worried sick.
"Thank you," she says, and means it. "He's not, actually. But, you might have seen him around. Tall, bronze hair, green eyes, kinda golden-brown skin? Stupidly pretty."
There's no boast in her voice, no real pride, either. She's fond of the man, and that shows, but when someone's that attractive, it becomes simply fact.
Still, she adds, "He can be a peacock," to soften.
(And he is)
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He's the Last Centurion. The Guard of the Pandorica, and the soldier who waited almost two millennia. He'll always make it back to her.
"Stupidly pretty?" Amy repeats, turning a bit more reserved; "Yeah, well, Rory is, uh - more classically ... cute."
She ends the sentence like she's not sure that's the word she wanted. No, yeah. Cute. He's cute!
"I think all men are peacocks, though," she adds a bit later, smiling again.
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But her smile comes back, tentative. "Nothin' wrong with cute," she says, and means it. Cute is nice.
(She'll admit to being cute herself, although not really anything more.)
The smile widens.
"Probably."
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Amy's more than happy with her husband, just the way he is. It doesn't mean she can't look at stupidly beautiful people, though. When he isn't with her, that is. ... And sometimes when he is. Shut up, he knows she loves him.
(And she'll pay you mind to not say that out loud, Ms. Annie Cresta. You're a ginger torch, that means you're hot hot hot!)
"Well then enough about them," she says, waving her hand; "were you plannin' on using that thing, or could you go for some tea and biscuits?"
It's a bit out of the blue, but Amy is bored and lacks a proper filter at the best of times. She's not going to meet new people just sitting around.
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But at least her fiancé completely agrees with Amy here.)
"Not planning on using it," Annie admits, and turns to put it back. "Just kinda...looking. To see what's around? So, um.
Tea would be nice."
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She nods over her shoulder.
"Come on, then. You can tell me what your stupidly pretty husband did to win you over," she teases. "Or, you know, what Panem's like and what you do."
She tilts from side to side as she says that last bit, putting on an exaggerated tone.
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Then she giggles. Bright, surprised, and no one has ever asked her that before. Mostly, she admits, because people knowing about her and Finnick were thin on the ground, but even then...
No, she always thought of it as being the other way around.
(And there's another reason for that giggle: husband. She likes the sound of that.)
"I, I think it was mutual," but there's a blush to her cheeks which suggests there's more to it than that.
"Um, Panem's...future from a lot of folks here. North America. And I'm, I'm pretty boring. Particularly if you've been travelin' over the universe."
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For the love of Pete, somebody give her some gossip. Please. On a ship with over a thousand people milling about, you would think there'd be more of it!
"I've travelled enough places to know that nobody's really boring," she says, before she stops herself in her tracks.
"Well, some are just unbearably dull, but the Doctor would say that every single person matters, every one. And he's right, you know."
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Boathouses get involved.
The wickedness fades, however, as Amy keeps talking. In its place is almost confusion and the kind of wonder that is the gentler side of disbelief.
She's never heard anyone say such an idea. And to a woman from the districts, it's almost more strange than the ship they are in.
"He is?"
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Amy smiles, wide and brilliant.
"You're not goin' to leave me hanging, are you?" she asks, once she sees the spark starting to fade.
Come on, now - she'll tell you hers if you tell her yours.
But she is sensing a more important topic unfurling, and boredom isn't strong enough to make her ignore that.
"Course he is," she says, holding open a door for Annie even though this whole ship is automated enough to do it itself; it's the thought that counts. "At least when it comes to people. Nobody knows when a baby is goin' to grow up to be the next Churchill, but even if he lives an ordinary life, he's still touchin' all the people around him, isn't he? You take one person out of the equation, just one, an' it changes everything."
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But, well.
Boathouse.
Annie nods and smiles a thanks at Amy for the door - automated, but, yes, it's the thought, and she likes the thought - then her expression turns a bit more serious.
"That's..."
She stops. Fiddles a bit with her engagement ring as she thinks, but more as just something to fiddle with than because of any association.
"I've never heard of anyone thinkin' like that."
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Her motives may not be entirely pure, mind. But girl talk is sacred, and held in the strictest confidence.
(Besides, boathouse is just too juicy to let be.)
"You haven't?" she asks, a little quieter now.
She's picking up on Annie's small cues, enough that she knows there's something deeper to it. She just doesn't know what it is.
"You said you were from Mexico? Panem, you called it?" she asks, frowning in thought at the path ahead.
She swings a look back at Annie. "Don't you 'ave philosophers and scientists where you're from? Or really good history teachers?"
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"The districts are the body of Panem. The Capitol is the head. We work for the Capitol and the betterment of all, and the Capitol loves and guides us, and... We ain't exactly taught much history. Least not the kind that I've been readin' on the computers here."
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For some reason, it sounds like she's describing some sort of evil octopus. Definitely not a utopian society.
"Do you like it that way?" she asks a second later.
It seems like an important question to get out of the way.