shenevermisses | 15th Throw

15th Throw - [ written ]

[It's a question that's been on Clove's mind.

Okay, she's had a lot of questions lately. Valentine's Day and that whole week... It wasn't unkind, but it made her think too much. There were too many uncertainies. The ones with Cato... She didn't feel like thinking about.

But Katniss. She can talk about some of that.]

What do you all do for a living, where you're from? Or what were you going to do? Does everyone in your area do it?

In Panem... your district says a lot about what your job will be. Not always, but probably. Like me... If I hadn't gone to the Games? I'd probably have been the foreman in a factory. Or an overseer of a quarry.

And what you do... When did you learn to do it? And from who?

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The men of the Forlorn Hope are the first men into a breach. A deadly mission: very few survive. They volunteer for it, lass, because although death ain't certain, promotion is. It's a good way for a solider to get ahead when being a soldier is all he's got.

Sounds about right.

[Her voice is low and quiet. This man... understands. At least somewhat. Someone who's seen war knows about violence and survival. Not the Games, not how she and Cato were raised. But he understands something about it, and that's more than she gets from most sources here.]

I don't know how to be anything else. I don't even know if I want to be anything else.

We are what we are, Clove. We lie in our beds without complaint. It affords us a little honour. And a little has to be enough.

[And... for that... there's a bit of the girl. Something a little more human than the arena.]

You seem like the only person who thinks that. Everyone else? Thinks I should be doing other stuff or making friends or trusting people or... everything I'm not. Everything I don't do.

[She actually chuckles a little bit. To find humor in the aggravation.]

They don't like it when I tell them to mind their own business.

They're only jealous, en't they? We know what we are.

[ once, he met a slim spanish lass who had glared at him with such hatred over his reluctance to take a frenchman's life. and he'd stood -- stunned -- as she slit the man's throat before him. after that day, teresa had always met him with the traditional question: how many frenchman have you killed since we last met? no matter what his answer, her verdict was always the same. not enough.

he tries to imagine one of these lucetians telling teresa to do other things. to make friends. to trust people. and he laughs. she, too, would tell them to mind their own business.

all the same, he doesn't like these games. they aren't like the partisan's war. but he doesn't blame clove; he blames those bloody politicians. ]

...Bastards.

[ clove isn't bad people. he knows that. however, the next time he speaks with her things might be a little different, considering what he learns about katniss's death between now and then. ]

Are they jealous? I just figured they didn't get it.

[But, in a way, it's nice to think that. To assign a sort of malice, rather than ignorance. Makes it easier to be angry, and anger is the one thing she can hold onto here.

There's always someone to be angry with. Some fight to be had.]

Certainly, they don't get it. But folks like them also see us who can look after ourselves, and we make'em feel vulnerable.

[ and so they should. ]

They won't know what to do if the Malnosso stop supplying us.

[And, when she came here, she wouldn't really have either. But she knew from the Arena not to count on food being delivered.

Here, she's learned to survive. Not just kill.]

Panic. Make demands. Come to us, perhaps even beg.

They think they deserve it. All the stuff the Malnosso give us. That just by being here, they deserve to have everything handed to them.

[She frowns a bit.]

Reminds me of the people in the Capitol, sort of.

Aye. I've heard of your Capitol. Reminds me of them, and of certain circles back home. Officers who bring their whole bloody parlour with them on the march. Silver candlesticks and all.

Silver candlesticks? [Her voice is almost disbelieving.]

Sticks. Fer candles. Made of silver. [ he answered, thinking for a moment that the girl might not understand. ]

Yeah, got that. [But her tone's light enough.]

I mean. They actually -- bring those?

How else do you hold fancy parties on the backs of men who are bleeding to death, eh?

Sounds like the Capitol, alright.

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15th Throw - [ written ]

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