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_fwd2015-01-22 08:56 pm
treadswater) wrote in ten_fwd2015-01-22 08:56 pm
Entry tags:
entrance
[Personal Log:
“For those of you just tuning in, shocking revelations about Capitol hearthrob Finnick Odair...”
Some dialogue + scenes taken from Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins. CW: Panic/anxiety attacks, non-consensual drug use, brief violence, references to violent televised death and forced prostitution]
There is a flash of light and a young woman appears. Small, with a face more interesting than pretty (despite the artful, occasionally artistic make-up), wearing a knee-length blue-and-green dress with a crinoline; visually, the only thing eye-catching about her is her hair. Her hair – long, thick and very red – has has been pulled up into a square knot on the top of her head with loose ringlets falling this way and that. She's clutching something in her left hand, something that occasionally catches the light, but it's not easily seen.
No, to the casual viewer, what would be strange about the woman is that apart from a brief, startled giggle, she doesn't look terribly concerned at all to being transported to a strange place.
From the woman's point of view, her arrival is a bit different.
for hours, but the current has shifted.
It's tugging her, clouding her vision until everything is dark, blurry, strange halos around things. Objects.
Not her kitchen. Not her house. She doesn't think. Too many legs. Tables, chairs; people, she guesses. But she can't focus. She's awash with not feeling afraid. She feels
w o n d e r fulandherheartgoes
until she's nothing
n o t h i n g
but her heart. Not even the almost-post-sex glow any more (brief, so brief, that'd been so brief and odd, odd, odd even in the cloudy water that is reality), she's just her thudding heart and an absence of caring.
It's....nice.
Annie's dimly aware of her fingers starting to shake, of the blood moving fast-too-fast and irritation is beginning to spiral through her mind like the poisonous tendrils of a jelly-fish. If she could just focus. Just a little bit. Toes-in-the-sand levels of focus, leaving the rest of her to drift.
Peacekeepers in her house. And reporters. Have to watch them, like you watch all predators.
But she can't see them.
[ooc: locked tofishermansweater and asklepian: she'll have an open post soon, but feel free to have your character notice this one!]
Some dialogue + scenes taken from Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins. CW: Panic/anxiety attacks, non-consensual drug use, brief violence, references to violent televised death and forced prostitution]
There is a flash of light and a young woman appears. Small, with a face more interesting than pretty (despite the artful, occasionally artistic make-up), wearing a knee-length blue-and-green dress with a crinoline; visually, the only thing eye-catching about her is her hair. Her hair – long, thick and very red – has has been pulled up into a square knot on the top of her head with loose ringlets falling this way and that. She's clutching something in her left hand, something that occasionally catches the light, but it's not easily seen.
No, to the casual viewer, what would be strange about the woman is that apart from a brief, startled giggle, she doesn't look terribly concerned at all to being transported to a strange place.
From the woman's point of view, her arrival is a bit different.
Annie's been feeling as if she's underwater,
It's tugging her, clouding her vision until everything is dark, blurry, strange halos around things. Objects.
Not her kitchen. Not her house. She doesn't think. Too many legs. Tables, chairs; people, she guesses. But she can't focus. She's awash with not feeling afraid. She feels
thud-thud, thud-thud
n o t h i n g
but her heart. Not even the almost-post-sex glow any more (brief, so brief, that'd been so brief and odd, odd, odd even in the cloudy water that is reality), she's just her thudding heart and an absence of caring.
It's....nice.
(She thinks.)
Annie's dimly aware of her fingers starting to shake, of the blood moving fast-too-fast and irritation is beginning to spiral through her mind like the poisonous tendrils of a jelly-fish. If she could just focus. Just a little bit. Toes-in-the-sand levels of focus, leaving the rest of her to drift.
But she can't see them.
“Oops,” Annie says, and bites her bottom lip.
[ooc: locked to
fishermansweater and asklepian: she'll have an open post soon, but feel free to have your character notice this one!]
no subject
makeitstopmakeitstopmakeit
s t o p
pleseplesepleaseplease
it
stop
Annie breathes.
In.
Out.
(Hold.)
In.
Out.
(Hold.)
She breathes and opens her eyes. Her gaze still isn't as clear as normal, but given how close Finnick is standing, he'd be able to see the dark circles that Clodia's (now slightly ruined with tears) artistry. Annie hasn't slept in days, and it shows.
Carefully, she lowers her hands, twisting her free one around to tangle her fingers with Finnick. Even sober, calm, she's not going to let him go.
"I..."
Annie clears her throat, eyes darting from Finnick to the doctor to around the room before back to Finnick and then the floor.
"I need to sit down," she mutters, walking back a few steps to the nearest bed and collapsing on it far more heavily than her initial delicate appearance would suggest. Less weight (although her small frame supports a body used to a life time of manual labour) and more complete exhaustion.
"Finnick, this ain't my house."
no subject
It's only once the doctor's stepped away that Finnick's gaze goes back to Annie. The moments seem to drag, one into another and another and another, with Finnick's hands on Annie's, Annie's breath fast and shallow, Annie looking like she's about to collapse.
Finally, finally, her breathing slows, and she breathes deeply, holds, breathes again, and opens her eyes. The makeup around them is smudged, but they look more focused now, more like he's used to, less like she's floating on morphling.
He watches her, his eyes fixed on her face, his hands on hers. When she drops her hands from her ears, Finnick drops his, too, drops them, but not far. Close enough that it only takes a moment for Annie's fingers to twist with his, and he clutches at her hand again, too tight with his strong grip, but it's a lifeline between them, and that's what matters.
She's here. She's here, and he has her hand in his.
He follows her over to the bed, perching on the edge of it beside her, his legs stretched a little in front of him.
"No," he agrees with her, softly. "It's not." It's not the arena, either.
Because he's not sure, yet, what it is, what he can and can't believe, he doesn't want to say much more in front of Doctor Bashir. But he knows how to choose his words so they give little away and yet still convey his meaning to those who need to know it.
It's a skill, one he's honed to razor sharpness since his victory.
"I found myself here instead of the arena, and Doctor Bashir took out my tracker and treated my injuries."
That's what he knows, for sure. He's ... inclined to believe that Doctor Bashir means well, but he's not going to make Annie any promises. Still, that much is more than he'd expect from a Capitol doctor if this was some trick of the Games.
no subject
He does come slightly closer, though all that's in his hands is a tricorder, and he offers no sort of threat, just a concerned look. "How are you feeling, any better?"
For a given measure of it. The two of them both are showing obvious signs of some kind of trauma--Julian wonders if Annie had been put through the same violence he had, and almost shudders at the idea of it.
"The important thing to know is that you're safe, I suppose." Any Starfleet officer isn't going to let any harm come to their guests.
no subject
He's the unknown variable here.
He's also the one who is making no damn sense, and Annie's inability to comprehend anything Julian has said about where the hell she is writes it plainly across her face.
Simple things, that she can do.
He asks how she is. She can answer that.
"Like I've been keelhauled," Annie says, after a moment. "Is there...um. Could, could I have anything to drink? W-water?"
She doesn't ask if she can sleep, even though she badly needs to. She doesn't even lean in against Finnick, because the temptation to just drop her head against his shoulder and fall asleep is too high.
The important thing to know is that you're safe, the doctor adds, and she scoffs.
She can't help it.
The last time she was safe in any real meaning of the word, she was eleven.
The leader of her country wants to kill her. And the man sitting next to her, who for nearly all intents and purposes is her husband.
Mags already died in agony.
Annie's not afraid, her emotions are too bruised and sedated for that, but her scoff turns into a soft, bitter laugh.
Safe in what sense? she wants to say.
She settles for: "Oh. Okay."
no subject
He can't reassure her about their safety. He doesn't know it himself; this place is either a Capitol trick or so far beyond anything he's ever known that the waters are uncharted to him. He wants to be able to tell her what's happening, to offer her advice, to be able to tell her that yes, they're safe. He wants it to be true. But he won't lie to her.
"Nobody's tried to kill me since I got here," he says in a low voice.
It has the same twist of bitterness in it that Annie's laugh did. It's no way to have to judge safety, but it's their lives. Finnick walks constantly on the edge between valuable and dead, and he dragged Annie there with him when he fell in love with her.
There's more to what he's said, though. The immediate threat of death is one thing, but it says nothing about more insidious dangers that he and Annie know all too well: surveillance, threats, the sudden appearance of a white rose that says I'm watching. Constant control over who he is and what he shows to the world: that's what Snow has done.
no subject
He hears Finnick's remark, clear as day--his hearing is better than the man might expect, Julian thinks. But he pretends as if he didn't, and files it away to gnaw at his heart because everything they say is terrible and it isn't right. He always was an empathic sort, even if he sometimes pretended not to be. No one should have to go through the sort of things these two obviously had.
"Of course." Julian excuses himself to go to the replicator in the wall, clearly requesting a glass of water and making sure that he's not blocking their angle so they can see it appear--shimmering into existence, like everything does from the replicator. He then picks it up and goes back over, holding out the glass for Annie to take.
no subject
"Thank you," Annie manages, taking the glass carefully and trying not to gulp it down. Small sips, no matter how much she wants all of it. Small sips. Careful sips.
"Um. Is there...is there anythin' else you gotta do?"
Does she have to sign in? Get a room except no, she doesn't care about propriety, she's too tired, she just wants to find wherever Finnick's been staying and fall asleep for days.
no subject
He's sure Annie's thinking what he had: how very like the accommodations in the Training Centre it is. (He, of course, has a wider range of experience of Capitol technology.)
His fingers wrap around hers, because there's so little of reassurance he can offer, except this: that he's here, that she's here too, that whatever happens, he's not in the arena and she's not watching him there. Not anymore.
"You have to do the ... scan, right? Like you did with me?"
no subject
"Honestly, I'd like you to consider just getting it out of the way now. It won't be more than a few more minutes." He doesn't need to run any extended tests on her or anything.
no subject
"N-now?"
Everyone else just makes her think of the crowds in District Four. There's an awful lot of people once you corral them all together.
Still, she glances at Finnick, uncertain. "Now, I think?" she offers.
no subject
Bashir had made him the same offer, and he'd accepted it, preferring to get out of the sickbay as soon as he could. He'd been wary of the machines, wary of the medication, too, but he's also sat through enough medical procedures before and after the Games to know that even in the Capitol, they're not all sinister.
When Annie's wide eyes look over at him, he gives a single jerky nod.
"Then you won't have to come back. It's not much."
no subject
He picks up a tricorder, deliberately telegraphing his movements so he doesn't catch either of them off-guard. True to his word, the scan is over in a few moments. She's exhausted, dehydrated, but there's no recent injuries to speak of. Not like Finnick had.
Then it's just two hyposprays and Julian's backing away. All told, he's done in about five minutes--he's gotten a lot of practice on the procedure lately.
"Done. Best thing now is food and rest, I'd say. The replicators are free for you to use, they'll make just about anything you request. If you think of something that isn't in the system, come find me--you can ask the computer where I am. I'll get Engineering to program it for you."
no subject
As he scans her, as he presses those hyposprays against her arm, she watches him. Despite the exhaustion, her gaze isn't just wary, but trained in risk assessment.
And yet, despite her caution, she keeps steadily sipping her water through the whole process.
"Th-thank you," Annie says again, even though his words don't make immediate sense. Ask the computer?
(Her eyes flick up to the ceiling, scan the joints and corners. The cameras are well-hidden, she'll give them that.)
"I think. I think, um. Sleep?" She can't finish the sentence, but the way she looks at Finnick is easy enough to read: please can I go to sleep now?
no subject
"You can come to my room," he assures her, softly. He's been told it's only temporary, that eventually he'll be given more lasting quarters, but temporary is all they need. She needs a bed and rest and food and safety, and if he can't guarantee the last, he can at least provide some of the rest.
Whatever safety he can provide her, he'll give her.
When he stands, he doesn't let go of Annie's hand. It's a comfort, but it's also a support, because sometimes she's not sure she can move on her own, and if this is one of those times, he'll support her, unquestioningly.
If, when she's standing, his arm slips immediately around her waist, that's maybe more comfort than support.
He thanks the doctor as they leave, but after that, Finnick's attention is on one thing, and one thing only.
Annie. By his side, tired but uninjured. Annie. Safe, or as safe as this place can be, and for the first time in days, it feels like he can breathe again.