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
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.