Clove (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shenevermisses) wrote2012-05-15 11:52 pm
shenevermisses) wrote2012-05-15 11:52 pm
2nd Throw - [ action ]
[A party on Friday constituted a shopping trip on Wednesday. Normally, Clove was not keen on social functions. She avoided the main core during things like that at the Academy. Here, though, she took it to be part of the show. As a "New Feather," she had to try and forge alliances. She had a few prospects, she felt.
The Roman-- Roan, but that was close enough for Clove-- theme called for an effort to find her Tribute Parade costume.
For three hours that morning, Clove browsed the clothing store. When she found something she liked and that looked like it would fit, she put it in the canvas bag she carried. She needed a bit more of a wardrobe, after all. It was sort of fun, looking through everything.
Finally, she found it. The black pants and the layered gold shirt. Sleeveless and close-fitted, tailored to show her off, accent the delicate feminine frame next to the tall and broad figure Cato presented.
Clove took it quietly. Unlike everything else, this outfit did not go into her bag. She carried it to a changing stall and shut herself in. She stripped, put on the pants, shirt, and her boots. She even tied her hair up in a poor imitation of her parade style and stepped out to inspect herself in the mirror, smiling faintly with anticipation.
Her smile faded almost instantly. There was a small gap between her waistband and her skin, and the pants were almost too long. Her shirt hung loose, rather than hugging her chest. She reached up, under the shirt, and felt her side. They weren't horribly prominent, but she could feel her ribs. Not surprising-- she'd had little to eat that last run in the Arena. Of course she'd lost weight.
Clove looked at her reflection. She was a shadow of the girl who had ridden in a chariot with Cato. She felt near her temple, trying to find the dent in her skull. It wasn't there. Maybe she'd feel better if it was. Maybe a physical reminder of that injury would make her feel like everything was real again.
She touched the loose ends of the shirt, felt the layers of fabric. Her eyes stung. Something wet fell down her cheeks. ...She was crying. For the first time in a long, long time, she was crying. Clove drew herself up, willing the tears to stop. Then she bent over... sank down into a crouch as her chest shuddered with a painful sob.]
The Roman-- Roan, but that was close enough for Clove-- theme called for an effort to find her Tribute Parade costume.
For three hours that morning, Clove browsed the clothing store. When she found something she liked and that looked like it would fit, she put it in the canvas bag she carried. She needed a bit more of a wardrobe, after all. It was sort of fun, looking through everything.
Finally, she found it. The black pants and the layered gold shirt. Sleeveless and close-fitted, tailored to show her off, accent the delicate feminine frame next to the tall and broad figure Cato presented.
Clove took it quietly. Unlike everything else, this outfit did not go into her bag. She carried it to a changing stall and shut herself in. She stripped, put on the pants, shirt, and her boots. She even tied her hair up in a poor imitation of her parade style and stepped out to inspect herself in the mirror, smiling faintly with anticipation.
Her smile faded almost instantly. There was a small gap between her waistband and her skin, and the pants were almost too long. Her shirt hung loose, rather than hugging her chest. She reached up, under the shirt, and felt her side. They weren't horribly prominent, but she could feel her ribs. Not surprising-- she'd had little to eat that last run in the Arena. Of course she'd lost weight.
Clove looked at her reflection. She was a shadow of the girl who had ridden in a chariot with Cato. She felt near her temple, trying to find the dent in her skull. It wasn't there. Maybe she'd feel better if it was. Maybe a physical reminder of that injury would make her feel like everything was real again.
She touched the loose ends of the shirt, felt the layers of fabric. Her eyes stung. Something wet fell down her cheeks. ...She was crying. For the first time in a long, long time, she was crying. Clove drew herself up, willing the tears to stop. Then she bent over... sank down into a crouch as her chest shuddered with a painful sob.]
[action]
[Clove shook her head. She swallowed hard to find the words.]
No. He...
I found out he died when I came here. Someone else who knew him told me. And that... wasn't very long ago. I... didn't know.
[She wouldn't come out and say that it had shaken her... But she was fighting tears again.]
[action]
Damn. Sorry, kid. That's a shitty way to find out.
["What happened to the school?"
"Well… it was a tragedy, really. Lots of students died. The Principal, the Mayor…"]
You, uh...
[she shifts her burdens into one arm so she can run a hand through her hair, trying to shake the discomfort]
You got anyone here?
[action]
[There's something about this woman. Maybe she's just used to that distant, awkward kind of "help." It's what most people she personally knows would do if they found her or someone like her upset.
It's appreciated, at least.
And maybe this comment will get laughed at. A lot of the people she's met here so far would probably laugh. They don't seem like the type to believe a girl her age could have these.]
All enemies.
[Perhaps too strong a word, but... alone and without allies and an alliance of three against her if she makes a wrong move or they just decide to, that's what they feel like.]
[action]
...Guess that's a going trend, then.
[action]
And the pack mentality starts to stir. Ever so slightly, still cautious. She needs more information, but maybe...]
You have them, too? Here?
[action]
Buffy had been her enemy. Willow too. Or, more truthfully, she'd been theirs. Now, they weren't friends. They weren't allies. But she honestly didn't know what they were.
She frowns, conflict warring in her eyes as she tries to place it]
Maybe.
[after a pause, she shrugs] They're not exactly welcoming me in with hugs and kittens. But whatever. Guess it's this place's idea of a joke.
[action]
[Because even a "maybe" is better than she's gotten most of the time. It's something that isn't "we need each other to survive" or the like.
It feels more real, to have someone who seems to understand, at least, the precarious situation.
She's wary, of course. There can't be too much trust placed. But this isn't a secret. Really, the more people who know about it, the safer they all are. It keeps them in line, having others knowing the truce's terms.]
...But with three against one, if they decide they don't like those terms...
[action]