BURNING HILL

regardless of restrictions of materials and goods, there always seems to be more layers to be thrown onto haymitch abernathy. and no matter, he's always cold. the girl's ma says it's normal, but he doesn't believe it. but it's neither here nor there ; he dually wants to always argue nowadays while also doesn't have the energy anymore. so he floats like an aged phantom, but with none of the privacy of one. but for someone who hates being corraled and told what to do, the man from twelve sure does follow his sleeved schedule like an obedient mutt. which is why he's in the training center, and currently observing the girl.

he used to see her daddy in her often. in appearance, it's significantly more striking. but sometimes in softness, she can match. the girl's ma said she used to be more of a temperament for sweetness. it's hard for haymitch to picture. in fact, the unprompted information caused an eye roll. the mentor and mentee are a pair of shadows, and it's hard to picture her like primrose or their daddy. same as he cannot remember the living being of haymitch abernathy that existed before the second quarter quell.

arms remains crossed his chest, but ears perk up as the girl speaks to him. he all but huffs, in the gruffness that he exerts. " just ponderin' where all this was when ya were trainin' for ya'r games. " it's a lie. but words are easier than talking about something deeper like her before the loss of her daddy ; it's easier than acknowledging the guilt of seeing a seam kid turn into a killing machine. ( bury that, the mockingjay being practical on the field is better for the rebellion after all ! ) " that's all mason thoug' right ? i can recognize that technique. ya got a longs'ways to go thoug'. "

the exhaustion that took over her for the first week or so has dulled just enough that she can feel her limbs when she goes to bed at nights — and, to some level, it has allowed her to note she's getting better. maybe she should feel some pride on that, but all she feels is that being prepared can bring her one step closer to be ready when the time comes, when she can see the light go out of snow's eyes herself (he's hers; she's been promised that so long ago; for rue, for cinna, for twelve, for peeta).

sweat drips against the sides of her face when she finally stops; the water bottle (one of the perks those training are afforded) stops half-way through her mouth when she catches the staring. katniss has never cared for people looking at her, and it ain't any different when the one stalking is haymitch (nevermind there's been some progress between them, enough for her to almost regret the scars across his face). "y'd told me to not show then. 's on ye." of course, she doesn't mention that, then, there was no way she could have shown any close combat prowess; defeat was natural whenever she thought that she would be doomed if it ever came to that. no one's here is trying to kill her (that she can be sure).

Wars are not won only on a battlefield. They are won by obtaining information, by boosting moral, and most importantly, they are won by women who keep things running while the men go off and throw their temper tantrums. Livia is determined to do just this — her parties have not ceased, the champagne that flows through her veins has yet to stop flowing, and there is no sense in letting the petty happenings in the districts affect the life she's sure to continue living once this all gets settled. They must keep going on as usual, which calls for sufficient preparation. "Domitila," Livia's beckoning comes in the form of a flittering, high-pitched call as she moves around her dressing room, tossing garment after garment here and there. "This is all just putrid. It's going to make me look paunchy. Or like I'm being lowered into a crypt. For heaven's sake, I'm in my sixties, not dead!"

(Livia Snow is eighty-three years old. Should anyone remind her of that fact, they'll be found guilty of treason.)

"Fix it, will you?" Domitila will, of course. To deny Livia would be asking for a certain death, and even the most noble people in the Capitol can't escape that — and Livia knows that Domitila is just barely noble, so of course she'll use that information to her advantage if she must. It'd be a shame to have to stoop so very low, though. "We've got to put something together that shows everything is fine, because everything is! Don't you think so?"

so she must convince herself that livia's energy is better, and that giving way to any other kind of thought is the last thing she must do. even if the harpy of a woman is calling things she has designed putrid! domitila breathes deeply, walking in the dressing room and picking up a discarded blouse — relief courses through her veins and her features as she realizes it is not one of her making. "whoever you have commissioned part of that wardrobe of yours is just ill-tasted, madam. maroon is not your color! it is something out of a dowager's closet!" nevermind that livia is something of the sort, even with a living husband (the woman has been an icon for all of domitila's life time, more people have become full of dust in lesser time).

the first lady's query, something not at all unusual if it didn't carry a biting tone domitila is familiar with, makes the stylist pause. "in general, yes." a smile, half-hearted, is given. "i have found it difficult nowadays to get some tones and types of fabric. because of… eight, you see. though i believe any possible shortage shall be rectified soon — and your husband, our dear president, has told me not to cut corners in dressing our most precious people." just a week or so ago, that had been the victors, as seemingly most necessary keys to fight back. one must wonder what they shall do now. "are you hosting anything in special, madam?"

She pauses in the doorway of the studio, watching as Domi flicks on lights and moves to a table. A design is put on display before the younger woman moves across the room, wanting a better look at the design. She watches quietly as Domi makes quick changes to the design, disappearing the skirt and changing the color. She catches the stylist judging her legs. "I can wear shorts." She's quick to assert. She may not be statuesque, but she was quiet pleased with all portions of her body, thank you very much.

Xiomara turns her attention back to the design on display. "Really I just don't want some flooffy, rufflely, monstrosity that swallows me up. I'm obviously not the tallest person in Panem." Not even close.

caesar flickerman, the name alone makes a bitter taste appear on cresta's tongue. she'd seen others be shuffled his way. of course, the revelations occurred after the fact. peeta and cecelia were both frazzled. amara and thea seemed numb after theirs. they were all instances where she had first assumed they'd been sent off to their designated torture chambers. instead, snow continued to puppeteer everyone and not allowing for even a moment of peace. " i was never all that good on camera, " she interjects, there's a soft chuckle in an attempt to make it more lighthearted but everything feels pained nowadays. " people are gonna think what they want whether or not i comment on it, " annie adds, something that still picks at her skin. she'd long stood back and hid in her reputation, even at times when she desperately wanted to exclaim that she wasn't crazy. ( even if every passing day makes her feel less and less sane these days. ) of course, she hadn't seen sarah kline's interview. she won't until the night of her rescue, when tender feelings will be splintered. maybe annie cresta would want to comment to defend those she holds nearest and dearest if she had already seen it. but then again - who would believe the passionate ramblings of the supposed mad girl.

domitila has nothing to say of the sudden shyness of the victor. bodies are bodies, nothing worth to note in a professional setting (it's the one thing she's always been strict on with her apprentices or seamstresses — ogling children, even those in their last year of reaping or those that have won the games after her time, is just a line that should not be crossed). yet, she follows the girl down the hallway. "i won't enter with you," assurance is offered, though gaze still holds meddlesome curiosity about the matters they are speaking. "go on, try them on. just speak loudly." she waves the girl off with both hands, pressing her back to the wall as she awaits. teeth finds her bottom lip at the victor's words, almost finding them taunting — that annie cresta had the opportunity to see thea and domitila didn't? something must be very wrong!

"you see, i also thought of something like that! she looked hideous last i saw her. her hair is going to turn all gray at this point, wouldn't it be just awful?" almost a criminal offense, in her world, is to purposefully keep someone away from beauty products. "i should like to ask for her to see caesar more often, but the president has been organizing the appearances on the show."

But in the end, she had been convinced by Domi and her mother to do the interview. Her mother had been horrified when Calista had told her that she wanted to decline, and her father had gotten on the phone and told her that she needed to do it. She tried to play it off like she was nervous about the crowd, but really she was afraid of something bad happening to her. Cinna had been executed on tv, and then Peeta's interview had shaken her. Thea's interview had shaken her. But Domi had said that it would be good for her to do it, something light in all of the terrible things happening, and she trusted Domi. So she said yes.

But now that she was there, she was nervous again. She was wearing a beautiful dress that Domi had designed, and she felt pretty, but she couldn't shake her nerves. Calista kept getting up and pacing the room, and she was just about to pace again when Domi spoke. "I did," she nodded her head. "She knows that I'm the last one that goes on tonight, she's really excited." At the suggestion that they call her, she shook her head emphatically. "I would rather not if that's okay." Her cheeks turned pink, embarrassment on her features. "I just...I mean...." she trailed off and sighed, sinking into the chair that she was sitting in. "I don't want to talk to her," she finally admitted. At Domi's suggestion, she eat something she felt her stomach turn. "I don't think I can eat...I'm sorry. I'm just...I'm really nervous. I know...it's dumb."

confusion peeks through features in a way that is almost unbecoming — domitila has just had a shot of something that should freeze her features to stop more wrinkles, so she shouldn't be frowning now. "it is okay." at last, the stylist says, following the girl to sit on the arm of the chair, just next to calista. "i am not so fond of talking to my mother before important things, too. leaves me all fizzy — not in the good way." laughter escapes strong painted lips, and domitila tries to remind herself not to react, else it shall ruin the effect of the botox. "there are high stakes here." another time, maybe she would say that it is dumb, that there is no reason to be nervous, that calista needs to brighten up! but the words remain trapped on the tip of her tongue. "speak, if it helps. you won't be able to do it with anyone else." a gentle warning, perhaps — what calista shall tell caesar soon enough should not be any gloomy material (best for domitila to handle it than the entirety of panem).

Calista didn't protest when Domi took hold of her arm and started to steer her elsewhere. She furrowed her brow briefly at Domi's words. They didn't quite sound like the Domi that she had met that night, and her mind went to Cinna again. Had Domi and Cinna been friends? They were both stylists, after all. But Calista would never dream of bringing that up with Domi. She had already learned that some things you didn't talk about in the Capitol. "You have been really busy," she agreed. Underneath all of the makeup, she could see that Domi looked tired. Calista's stomach dropped at the implication in Domi's voice. Her mother had been telling her to find someone nice in the Capitol that would marry her, but Calista had no intention of finding 'someone nice'. "It's okay, I'm ready to go home too. It's been a long day."

"lovely, darling. so we shall go," the stylist easily leads the girl to the exit, offering smiles but not much else to whom they meet on the way. "but you mustn't let me keep you away from your friends. have you been making any of them around the city?" capitols are so fond of new trinkets from the districts that calista must have been bound to find someone wishing to keep her. "i have been quite busy, but i am grateful the president deems me worthy of so much work." beaming smile still flashes through her words, truth still ringing through them.

@gifhungergames hunger games appreciation week: day 4 - favorite character ↳ katniss everdeen @usergif new year, new fonts: day 4 - three typefaces ↳ fonts:

She had always been careful with whom she shared personal information - especially concerning the origin of her handicap. But these were trying times and Mags knew she could be strategic with information she possessed. They needed their girl on fire in order to succeed and injustice seemed to light it - especially when it happened to those Katniss cared for. Mags didn't want to scale herself into that category but if anything she herself considered them to be on good terms.

Where: District 12,

Who: Cressida and Katniss ( @incaensio )

Cressida hadn't thought it would be this bad. She supposed she should have known better. She'd spent the past however many years learning about how bad the Capitol really was. And yet, she was continually surprised. District 8 had been bad, but this was even worse. She had been trying to contain her shock, her upset. She wasn't from here. She wasn't seeing her home bombed to ruins. Cressida didn't think it was right for her to be upset. But the loss of innocent life would always be upsetting to her. It was why she was so determined to be involved with the rebellion, with the movement to end the games. That desire didn't make it any easier today though. As they'd moved around, Cressida had briefly wondered if she'd regretted joining the mission, wondering if she should have delegated it to someone else on the team.

It was those thoughts that had drawn her to Katniss when they were having a short period of down time. She didn't really know what to say. What did one say when someone was walking around the ruins of their home, seeing the bodies, and the tatters of what remained of District 12. It had all almost made her feel guilty for recording it all on camera. She didn't know what to say, not wanting to make things worse for the younger woman in front of her.

"Tell us when it's enough...." She knew there was an agenda here. That Coin wanted the footage. But right now Cressida didn't give too much care to that. The mental well-being of those she was filming was more important. "We can stop. We have enough footage." Cressida was good at what she did. She was good at producing films. If Gale, Cael and Katniss wanted to stop right now, she would make the footage they'd done so far work. "I can handle the flack from Coin. Your well-being is more important to me." Even if it wasn't too everyone else. And even then, she supposed well-being was a long shot. Cressida didn't know how what they were seeing right now could not affect anyone's well-being. But she was trying.

it doesn't diminish that most of the population of twelve will never be safe and sound — no, they are half-burned, half-mangled, everywhere they go. watch your step, she tells herself, bearing the brunt of imagining every single corpse as someone she had known, dearly or in passing. she lifts her head to look towards cressida, only now reminding herself of her presence. the capitolite is usually quiet — onus of the profession, one thing katniss can understand about the woman — and in times like this, when they're outside, even if it is among the ashes, katniss can pretend there's no one else around.

She had been punished for daring to step outside the box that President Snow wanted for her. It was a painful realization that she had had many times in that cell block, hours that had only been interrupted by trying to comfort Peeta or trying to distract herself with Annie. There had been long conversations about their kids, and it had helped some, knowing that Annie was missing her son as much as she was missing her own children. Would Cecelia ever feel normal again? Would she ever smile again the way that she had before? It destroyed her, the way that President Snow had been able to take something from her this time. She had endured fourteen years and in the end, he had managed to break her. Woof and Claudia visited her in her nightmares, reminding her of the way that she had failed. If she had told them that she was done with Sterling would Claudia and her parents still be here? Or would the ending have still been the ending? Was there any way that Claudia could have walked away from that room? Did she walk away from that room? Cecelia still didn't know if what she had seen was real. Some of it had been real.

The Katniss Everdeen standing in front of her is different from the woman that she had met in the mentor's lounge. That day felt like it had been years ago, even though it had been less than three months ago. How was that possible? Looking at Katniss made her think of Peeta. She had tried so hard to help Peeta but there had been nothing that she could have done. "I'm surprised they let her have her cat," she mused. "Are you moving far?" It was still hard for her to see how large Thirteen was, or how small it was. She had barely been out of her quarters and the medical ward. At Katniss's question, she tried to smile but it was forced. "I'm okay. I'm happy to be with my family." That part wasn't a lie. But was she okay? No. "How are you?"

the question ushers her to pull out the paper with the number of her new compartment — it would be a trek from the families' and the couples' wings, far from a happiness she would neither benefit from or impose her own misery upon, and that is what mattered. "some more levels." katniss responds, at last, returning her gaze to the other victor. "'s a big place, so everythin' seems far." she shrugs.

The nights are more difficult than anything, most likely because she's forced to sleep by morphling and wakes in a drug-induced haze. More often than not her screams cease when she sees Ezra beside her, alive and breathing and safe despite what she might have once seen with her own eyes. Even if Thea has a hard time trusting her reality, she forces herself to accept it when he's there. But this time he isn't — this time the seat next to her bed is empty, the room she's been put in is cold and quiet and it feels as though her worst fear has been confirmed: everything's that's happened the last few days was simply a dream, Ezra is dead and she will remain in this torturous loop of Capitol hell until they finally allow her to die, but it will never be on her own terms.

so she stays, the hand that was extended to offer warmth moving downwards with a nimble expertise — she's made and unmade knots until her fingers bled over the past week, and the experience allows her to undo the straps that tie thea down swiftly. there is something to say about her carelessness then, when she has just barely recovered from the last assault, but if that one hadn't killed her, maybe she would be gladdened if this alleged one did. her face twists, a ghost of a smile that goes by too quickly, at the better sight — thea is by no means whole, but at least she no longer seems like a tied down animal.