Fatima Merali (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dust_of_life) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ten_fwd2015-08-20 09:08 pm
dust_of_life) wrote in ten_fwd2015-08-20 09:08 pm
Entry tags:
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.
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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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.
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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...
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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."
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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..."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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The prospect seemed outrageous, coming from a place like Fatima's world.
"Have you ever seen her dance?"
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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?"
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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.
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"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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It was true.
She frowned a little, trying to regroup and explain her amusement without sounding insulting or disrespectful. She respected Beverly.
She loved Beverly.
Clearing her throat, she started again. "There's a specific kind of dancing called 'tap dancing.' It takes a lot of skill, a lot of talent. But it also looks a little bit silly. It's about tapping out certain rhythms on the floor with your feet." She demonstrated with a quick shuffle and tap. Nobody could live in the same household as Auntie Diana without picking up a few performance-related tricks. "Like that, only faster and more elaborate."
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Maybe.
None of which is helping her wish to defend Beverly at all.
Easier to concentrate on the dancing, before she gets upset.
(crazy, crazy Cresta...)
"That...looks fun," Annie offers. "Some of it a bit like the footwork of our dances, back home."
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She'd work on it.
"Do you like to dance?" she asked instead.
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On the other hand, it's that very anonymity that's allowed Annie to be as comfortable as she has been in talking to people.
Pros and cons, as it were.
"I, I do, yes. Haven't had the chance for a while, though."
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In a way, it hadn't been real dancing. Fatima thought of dancing as freeing her spirit somehow. That night had only burdened it.
"Beverly and I were talking about throwing a party," she said. And she wondered, in that moment, what kind of dancing she would end up doing. "You should come."
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"I...should?"
She's honestly not used to being invited to things any more. Not as herself, as just Annie. Annie Cresta the Victor, yes, but only official things and then most of the time the invitation is issued with the understanding that it's all a formality, that she'll turn it down.
But, Beverly.
"What, um. What kind of party?"
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"Well...actually, there's this tradition from earth. It's called a New Orleans funeral. It's...a wild party. Sort of. Dancing. Laughing. Lots of music. In New Orleans, they like to send the dead off in style and..."
She paused, scowling. "Okay, I know this is going to sound really weird but...Beverly and I...we kinda went through something. Something really, really terrible. And we thought it would be a good idea to sort of...get over it by metaphorically burying it. Having a funeral to say it was over, you know?"
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She thinks of Mags.
She thinks of watching, helpless, for days, as two of the people she loves most were tortured by the Capitol's gamemakers.
But not too deeply. Too deeply, and she'll start to cry. Just...just enough.
"I like that," Annie says, softly. "It's. It's a good idea. Um, is. Can I bring my fiancé, too?"
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Well, there was nothing to be done about that.
"Of course," she said, nodding. "Bring anyone you want. A party needs loved ones."
If only she had more of her own.
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All she has in the world is Finnick, and he's lost more than her in many ways. In ways that a funeral party might ease things, even if a little.
And, Annie thinks to herself with a trace of amusement, it's not as if they've ever really gone to parties as themselves. One or two here, but not explicit invitation. Not together.
"If...If you need any help in setting things up, too, I'd be happy to help."
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Still. No wonder Fatima was drawn to her.
That was what happened when you were raised by Malkavians.
"Yeah," she said with a smile. "I'm sure Beverly and I will need some help. Neither of us has exactly done anything like this before."
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She's good with numbers, and numbers keep her busy. They, the other victors, found that out after her games, and then repeated it after her tour. Tossed her to Naia to keep her busy with the accounts and paperwork that came with running the Academy.
It helped her mind start to help from the fractures the games, and then herself, had put in it.
"It...helps to write things down. So you can check them off, and then, um. Remind yourself what you're missin'. And. You might be surprised how many folks turn up, if you have an open invite."
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