Old trinket. Disposable.
Good, Annie thinks. Invisible girls shouldn't stay around so many people desperate to be seen.
(It's going to be a long Game. Maybe.)
The early morning sun calls, an ugly omen of days to come. Orange-red fangs bite through cloud cover, and blinding rays glint off of surrounding buildings. Sleep still drenches bones, but not enough to ignore the contemptuous roll of eyes when Annie says, "Good luck."
She had been woken by shifting bedsheets. His groggy apologies rolled out, unneeded, brushed off with ease. She had settled back to sleep, curled the blankets in fisted hands and watched Finnick get ready. He didn't turn to say goodbye, before heading out. The boy (too little, too polite, too many sobs came from his room these past three nights) had been scheduled to leave already, but Annie hasn't seen Finnick since, not even in passing.
"We've got a busy day tomorrow," he had commented. She thinks he might have thought he was thinking, not saying. Words spilled out anyway, and she had nodded in understanding.
He had joked, about the cameras needing something pleasant to look at and listen to. It wasn't funny, but Annie gave her best almost-smile, and that had made Finnick chuckle more sincerely.
He didn't mind when she curled up under the blankets of his bed. Comments and words were thrown around, each morning. About your condition, and how inappropriate. Mags in silent judgment passed glances from Golden Boy to Mad girl, but hadn't said a word against their sleeping arrangement. What was the difference, between all in the same house, and all in the same bed? Conserving body heat, Annie had reasoned, and she is certain mama will be proud.
Would be.
No. Stop, concentrate. Mama's not the point.
Delete, fast-forward, rewind.
Two steps forward, ten steps back.
Annie refuses to sleep in that room. It's meant to be hers, but she rejects it. Smells like freshly laundered cloth (something Victors are supposed to know better than Annie does). Perfumed candles have been lit and extinguished, so the aroma is not musk and sex and alcohol and blood, as it had last time they stayed here. Still, nauseous hit when she had tried to look at the bed. She had tried, the first night they got here, sleeping in it. Ended up screaming and trying to claw at her wrists, tried to untie them from invisible restraints.
He came in before everyone else had. He got her hot chocolate, and antibacterial gel and bandages. Stayed up with her, telling silly stories. She had wanted to apologize, but the words haven't come out quite right. He didn't say that he didn't mind. He hardly said anything about it, just let her in, slid under the covers at the end of the day together.
She has taken that as him not minding.
She didn't mind that he has taken the pills they say he has to take. He groans, an hour after they hit bloodstream, as the medicine leads him up-up-up. Makes him irritable, and sometimes hyper, desperate to get to the bathroom alone. Has to excuse himself, a lot, cries sometimes but doesn't want her to know. Annie doesn't mind that he hasn't really fallen asleep, from what she can tell. He had been on the bed, but watching the animated screen and not the television. It plays a feed from District Five's outlook, the one that spies the landscape from atop the hydropower dam. All trees, and a river, but no ocean. Just enough water.
Not enough to suffocate the world, yet.
No gulls or surf or foghorns. Annie thinks this might have been for her benefit, rather than his own. She thinks he wants to see home. Only, the river doesn't have the flow towards the camera, the threat of a flood spilling clear through the screen to drown her in her memories.
Their tributes had tucked themselves away early last night, after the interviews. The stylist and escort had left. It was Mags, Finnick, and Annie, and a bottle of something sickly-sweet and colored maroon. They had drank and Finnick told a story about a man with lash-extensions so long that they got caught in the elevator door, had to be cut, and it's suddenly the biggest fashion trend. Annie laughs, because it's silly. Even lashes had been a hallmark of her stylist's intent last year.
Or, she thinks.
But the jokes don't run full-time, and late last night, perfectly sculpted brow turned to a furrow.
Finnick had berated Mags, because their older girl (Mags' tribute, really, more than Annie's) had her own district partner. The girl made him sound relatively pathetic. Not hard, since the boy is thirteen. The boy had done his best, in response, made the audience chuckle with his fresh-faced charm, but Annie's head still screamed (/screams/will scream forever). It's dangerous, now, for District Four boys to seem too cocky. Finnick Odair taught other Districts a lesson. Ron hadn't been so extraverted, been more unassuming; but even he had to fight off the pack early on. Everyone thinks, now, to target any pretty boys around the age of fourteen or so before the Bloodbath has finished.
He's going to die, he's going to die, he's going to—
"Time, cheri."
Mags' voice carries with surprising authority, cutting through Annie's thoughts. The mantra comes to mind, red skies at dawn, sailors take warn. Despite the relative warmth of the air, Annie shudders. Strange, on a cold, windy roof. The girl (Nady? Nancy?) proudly makes her way to the hovercraft, head high, shoulders back. She wears a confidence that would be impressive, if it weren't bound to be broken in the next few days. She's eighteen, a year older than Annie; reminded them all every chance she had gotten.
Annie tried to dissuade from joining the Careers. Girl didn't listen. Annie wonders how loudly she'll scream, or if she'll sabotage them and take off. That would be smart. But 'strongs' and 'smarts' aren't always an easy thing to mesh.
Finnick did, Annie muses.
The craft takes flight, displaced air rocketing, screeching in wave that make Annie slam palms over ears, block the sounds out. The craft disappears off to the west somewhere.
Towards District Three, Annie thinks.
"Hush," Mags says.
A worn hand takes Annie's own, gently pats it before they both head back to the elevator.
"I should know her name," Annie realizes, abruptly. She should know, to root for her, or to promote her.
Mags doesn't respond, and Annie wonders what lingers unsaid in her silence. Ultimately, it doesn't matter.
Finnick knows his tribute's name, though.
Finicky can talk to his sponsors about his tribute.
Maybe he even remembers ours.
But you're not Finnick.
Mags says she wants Annie to observe, not to try and take over all at once.
Did say, Annie, did say, isn't saying, was said, not says now present current ongoing.
Concluded.
Head muddles over terminologies and forgets to think about strategies.
When they arrive back on Floor Four, a feast is set up in the dining room. The smell of coffee and eggs, and hundreds of millions of other things makes Annie queasy. She falters, but perseveres. They'll have their food, then be brought over to the Concourse, where sponsors will make their appearances. Place their bets. Annie curls her arms around herself, wanting to go away at the thought.
They didn't come with the needles, yet, and it's frightening, because they haven't come much except for right before she was supposed to sit down in the audience to be conversational fodder.
Mags sits down at the table and begins to dig in. Finding her appetite sparse, Annie settles for sliding her food around on her plate. A few minutes. A few, and then twenty. Mags is continuing to gorge herself. Annie is looking around, wondering where Finnick is.
The clock chimes, and the elevator doors should be opening. Finnick should be back by now. An hour to go, now, before the Games will start. An hour, and then… then it starts. Annie squeezes her eyes shut, hands gripping the tablecloth.
"Annie," sounds from next to her, and warm, scratchy skin meets hers. "Pran yon douch. Sati come soon."
"Who?" Annie frowns.
Mags merely gives a gap-toothed smile, before waving for her to go.
Annie knows a command when she sees it. She pushes her chair back, heading through the hallway to room she is sharing with Finnick. The Avoxes have been good, about leaving her clothes out. It has not mattered, for her, what to wear. Mags and Finnick have taken care of speaking with preliminary analysts, down in the foyer and on the phone. They have gone to the other mentors on different floors, to discuss potential alliances. The others haven't come here. Annie thinks Mags and Finnick are trying to keep her from the others. Or, perhaps they have asked for her to stay cooped up here.
Mostly, the Mad Girl's company has been undesired.
No one wants to see her here. Or rather, they only want her in select moments. Annie had only really needed to dress up for the Interviews, last night. That was only to be a butt of their jokes, apparently.
Reminders cloud her view, with the laughter, the cameras zeroing in on her (along with eyes eyes eyes) as the Head Gamemaker promises, 'not to have another Cresta situation.' Everyone had tittered giggled laughed as if it were the funniest thing. As if she chose to be… mad. Annie had stared at the floor and eventually pushed herself to her beach, to her pretty little piece of sunshine.
"Ignore it," Finnick had murmured. They had been backstage, as they waited for their tributes. Mags gave her hand a squeeze, neither of them letting Annie out of their sight. "Go away, if you have to."
Comments still flitted in and out. Annie is still working on tuning them out. It's harder than it seems, and harder still to find a better place to tune in to.
The door to the room is partially opened, the muffled sounds of the viewing screen projecting the streets of the Capitol. A dress hangs, sparkling and lowcut. It's a wonder they don't just have Victors walk around naked. Arms reach up, rub at her neck a time before she moves past, into the toilet.
The warmth of the shower soothes her, some, gives her time to lean against a tile wall, pressing hands firmly there to convince herself that maybe perhaps possibly nightmares could stay to the nighttime.
Maybe.
Only the stylist comes in and cuts her hair, a full foot of it so it only reaches her shoulders, and a sedative makes her head swirl by the time they are in the elevator, heading to the car. Annie grips Mags' hand tightly, afraid everything will slip and slide into nothingness.
"Where's Finnick?" she asks, finding it hard to keep her eyes from seeing double. Zeroing in on a wall in front of her is fine, makes it settle, until it moves or she has to move or they're car doors and they need to be opened, after all.
Mags never does answer her question. She lets go of her hand, when they get to the Concourse, and following dutifully, Annie's panic is only assuaged by avoiding eye contact and staring in favor of the tile floor, not the people.
Most of the potential sponsors hardly do more than greet her, reach out to touch a shoulder and then engage Mags in conversation. Mags has a few 'regulars,' she says, but that's only from her being around for so long. Annie is a novelty, something that is likely to be forgotten by next year or after that.
Old trinket. Disposable.
Good, Annie thinks. Invisible girls shouldn't stay around so many people desperate to be seen.
She sits at a secluded table, off to the side of the Concourse's bar. Mags steps away a few times, leaves Annie with hands tightly gripped around a chilled, sweating glass. She's stepped away, across the hall, to a spot she pointed to but Annie cannot look. There are too many people between here, and there, and Mags has been gone for nearly— oh, time is confusing, it might have only been a minute but it feels like far longer—
"The nannies finally let you alone, huh?"
The sound, so abrupt and so near makes Annie jump. Sea-green eyes flick up, staring at the young woman speaking. Her approach had been silent. Or, at least, tuned out from Annie's ears. The brunette wears a bored expression, jaw tightly clenched, hair done up, tightly pulled back in a Capitol style that makes her cheekbones look sharp enough to slice flesh.
And that does it, there, because the axe the blood the cold cackling laugh the screams.
(The grabbing Annie's breast and hissing lewd implications.)
Annie squeezes her eyes shut, hands clamping over as she tries to push it out of her thoughts. A harsh punch to the shoulder, and Annie yelps. Eyes open, staring in concentration at the metal tabletop. A chair is pulled back, next to her own. Johanna Mason sits down next to her. The young woman says things that don't get through, since Annie's ears are plugged with her fingers, but nails take hold of Annie's wrist, wrestle it away from her ears. A panic builds, tightening chest and making the shadows begin to lick at the edges.
"Don't!" she wrests her hand away, cradling it in her other hand, expecting it to be torn to shreds. It's not, but the blood splatters cover from stained fingers and batting lashes try to blink away the image appearing than disappearing on the tabletop.
Dom's head, Dom's body.
Dom, I'm so sorry
Please, please pleasepleaseplease-
"Jesus, Crazy." A hand smacks against the back of Annie's skull, as Johanna scoffs. "What, they didn't give you your meds today?"
"Did, I..." Annie gulps heavily, before chancing a look at the other woman. "Think they're trying to pretend I don't exist." Annie waits a beat, before frowning to herself. "They're not doing a very good job."
Johanna smirks at this. She reaches over, grabs at Annie's drink. The brunette throws back the dregs, licking her lips. Annie's eyes narrow, but she doesn't bother to say anything.
"What is this?" Johanna grimaces. "Tastes like piss."
"Mags." the reply is hardly sufficient.
Johanna rolls her eyes. "Of course."
Annie's hands slowly settle in her lap, but fingers still fiddle with the skirt of the dress. Johanna keeps making comments, but all Annie can do is tell her to go away.
She doesn't.
She doesn't, until Annie tells her to shut up.
It ears her an approving smile.
"Maybe you're not half brainless, after all." Johanna proceeds to order them shots.
It feels nice, the drinking. Until the Bloodbath.
That's when Annie throws up, and runs to the (not so secure) security of a coat closet.
It's going to be a long Game.
firstly, I just want to apologize, I've been really hectic at work and in life, and having focus issues (and ehem quality issues), so thank you for being patient with me, and for continuing to read if you've been doing so. thank you so much, and I hope this isn't disappointing at all! as always, any comments/ crit. /whatevers are always appreciated xoxo