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]
If everything's alright, maybe I should go.
[Action]
It'll happen eventually.
For now, though...]
I'm fine, yeah. Thanks.
[Especially for not acknowledging the crying more than you did.]
[Action]
[Action]
[Asking for help isn't something that comes easily to Clove, and she is inclined to view all offers with some suspicion.
Everything comes with a price. Every "favor" would cost something eventually.
Still, she does her best to sound sweet.]
Thank you.
[Action]
It's no small wonder that she keeps herself guarded, though the helpfulness is sincere.]
It's not really much.
[Action]
[More than she's used to, certainly.
She doesn't trust the offer, but that it was even made says something. Whether it's about the girl's cunning or her genuineness... Clove can't make that call yet. But it's an offer to be remembered.]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
Could it be you'd rather stay here yourself?
[Action]
[There's no shame in that. In why? A little. But not in the fact that she has no real choice but to want to stay here, now.]
[Action]
Anyway, regardless of reasons, it'd be best if people could choose to stay here or return. I wouldn't want to force either.
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
Those children who attend the village schools will be miners or other such less prestigious jobs.
If chosen, students in the athletic program will stand as tribute for the Hunger Games, or they will compete for the honor. There, they will live or die, according to their performance.
There's no real choice, not unless one chooses to be a coward.
...But people here are proving rather odd, so.]
I suppose not.
[Action]
Actually, back home, I became a doctor. That's why I work at the clinic here, too. It was my dream growing up.
[Action]
[The topic of dreams and ambitions was a shaky one, at the best.
She's lived her dream, her sole purpose in lfe. She had stoof as tribute for District Two, gone to the Hunger Games with Cato.
But the question was in the back of her mind here: What now?
What came after the death she'd always been meant to die? Why was she alive with nothing to live for?]
[Action]
When she finally gave the final blow of that most important battle... it had shaken everything loose. She'd come back to herself, with a weapon in her hand and the body of her best and only and most beloved friend crumpled on the ground in front of her.
She knows what comes next if it's really all about battle.
And she knows what comes next when it isn't. She became a doctor. She repaired her friendships. She went to school, even studied abroad. She had a life.]
I'd like to think they are. They're needed by everyone, all the time, everywhere. That's why I want to be one, too, aside from Mama hoping for it.
[Action]
A doctor-- anyone who knew about medicines-- could prove a useful ally. Quiet, too, which could be dangerous for many reasons. Either because she was smart enough to know how to look harmless or because she was a coward.
She might be neither, but those were the dangerous possibilities.]
It's a good thing to want to do.
[Action]
But that backbone hides well behind the quiet genius, behind the kind girl who's always helpful and willing to offer a quiet word of encouragement and a small smile. She's known as the always-gentle Ami-chan and the kind-hearted soldier for a reason.]
What about you? What do you want to do?
[Action]
It's a strange question for Clove. She was raised with one purpose, and she had fulfilled it. She had stood tribute for District Two. She had died in the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games. What else was there to do?]
Here? Be useful.
['Give me something to do. Give me something to be.'
That's all she can ask of this place.]
[Action]
[Though it's more about being needed than being useful; but in the end it's one and the same.]
[Action]
[To be useful. To contribute something.]
[Action]
[Action]
But I plan to help our hosts with their war.
[Action]
[Action]
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[Action]