trinkett | Fourth Dispatch: It's Not What You Think. Voice.

[Effie doesn't answer. She's thick in a memory that makes her legs feel as though they are stuck in treacle. A bullet whines close to her and strikes the wall just behind, but she barely notices. She's listening to the tromping booted feet, coming closer.

"It was for the good of us all," her father insists, putting down the phone and folding his arms, a grim smile on his face. Her mother pats Effie on the head.

"Good job, darling. Always Report. You've clearly been listening in school."

In the apartment next door, the baby is crying again, but this time, instead of soothing it, its parents are rushing about and calling to each other in sharp, low voices. There is a thump. The baby cries more loudly.

"Always Report is one of the first things they're taught in fifth form," her mother goes on, proudly informing her father. "Effie, what's the other Big Lesson?"

Effie doesn't answer. Why don't they pick up that baby? It's wailing, now.

And then there is the sound of Peacekeepers' booted feet, tromping up the stairs. Kicking down a door. Even her parents quiet down at that sound: the not-so-secret Police.

Next door, she can hear a woman begging and a man crying. There is shouting, a commotion, and the man's crying stops even as the baby's continues.

"Look, Effie," her mother says in a no-arguments tone. "Fashion Police is on! It's the new episode." Her parents turn to the TV and tune the rest of the world out.

But Effie can't. She watches the stylists and their models walk the runways, but she can only hear a dragging sound in the hallway outside the apartment. Booted feet, still tromping. A baby, still crying in an otherwise-empty apartment, even as the sound of the marching boots fades away.

Will someone get that baby?

Her father turns up the volume; crowds cheer on the television as new fashions are revealed in sparkling pyrotechnics.

The next morning, the baby isn't crying anymore.]

Edited 2013-06-26 17:21 (UTC)

[There's a few more arrows loosed, a few more fallen soldiers. Not a bullet will touch her, not a solider will reach her, even if it wasn't a simulation. But how many people has he seen in his own world using people like this? Seeing people, normal people, as toys and things less than human. Entertainment. Things to be used and discarded.

And that feeling, that is one that he knows very well.

He glances back at her, the wide eyes and shaking and unseeing expression and sighs, the blind anger bleeding out of him as he stops the sim and the soldiers and buildings fade away into bare walls.]

It's over.

[There is the space of six heartbeats of silence. Six heartbeats for the echoes of those last bullets to stop in Effie's ears. She comes back to herself and realizes how hard she's breathing -- out of control, really -- lungs pumping and lips parted as though she's just run for her life while standing perfectly still. An emotion she is used to crushing -- CRUSHING, as a confused child; CRUSHING, as a frightened teenager; CRUSHING, as an ambitious adult -- for survival, crushing it down and quashing it and putting it away -- boils up in her chest.

Pure rage. It needs an outlet, and it needs one now.

She rushes Clint, little fists balled up to flail at him nonfighting-lady-style. Her wig is askew. The irises flutter to the ground.]

I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!

[She's quick, he'll grant her that, but the blows get barely more than a wince from him, falling against his chest and arms and he just lets them continue until she's burnt herself out.]

That's fine. Never asked for you to like me. You aren't the first, you won't be the last.

I'll have you arrested! I'll -- I'll have you -- there shall be an inquiry!

[There was always an inquiry. They were required. She is still smashing her fists into him, though she's starting to get tired. And her knuckles are getting sore. Mostly, though, she is focusing on blathering at him so she won't cry.

Don't cry, Effie! The inner voice that chides her is as harsh as the one she uses to berate Haymitch Abernathy. Stop being so weak! The Malnosso don't want anyone who is weak!]

If they're watching, I'll NEVER forgive you! NEVER!

Right, because I'm so terrified of the law. If the Malnosso didn't give a damn when I tried a real assassination against a god, they really don't care about me scaring one ignorant woman.

[He doesn't move away, but he does grab her hands, checking them over with more care than she deserves. Punching and hitting hurts like hell when you aren't used to it.]

Sweetheart, I've made enemies worse than you just drinking my morning coffee. It's what I do. But that fear? That's what you've put people, children, through in these games of yours, but those are real, not some simulation.

I was kind. Won't always be that way and thank whatever higher power you believe in that it was me and not Tasha doing this. I'm more merciful than she is.

[She can't look at him. She can only breathe and try to calm that racing heart. But Effie cannot stop shaking. What if they've SEEN? What if they've heard her? What will the penalty be?

She won't think of the children. She cannot. Won't. Not since the fireworks on a fashion extravaganza had drowned out the weakening wails of an infant.]

Merciful.

[She echoes that quite hollowly. Mercy does not exist in the Capitol. It is bereft of mercy on all levels. She doesn't trust it.]

[He gives a bitter, twisted little smile at that and inclines his head slightly.]

I didn't let it continue. I didn't make you fight. I didn't make you stab someone and feel their blood on your hands, or smash their head in with a rock and feel their skull split. Didn't make you look into someone's eyes and see the terror as they die.

Or maybe you'd have enjoyed it. It's just entertainment after all.

You don't know what I enjoy. [She mutters this in a low voice, afraid to pitch it louder. So far, she's done very well at keeping the sobs from exploding out. She's been trained so well, in her own way. Beautifully.]

So stop judging.

You made it pretty clear, that post, those replies. I know what goes on in your world. You send children to kill and die and call it entertainment and enjoyment.

Heh, like you've never judged anyone before. Pretty sure you spent our whole meeting judging me. What did you come up with?

I think Katniss was wrong. She thought you'd kill me.

I don't think you'll kill me.

[Killers don't usually look after the bruising, bloodied-up knuckles of a rage-filled Trinket.]

Thought about it. [Let's get that straight right now.] Thought about doing worse honestly. It would be easy.

But everyone deserves a chance to learn from something. You're not the problem, you're just a product of a system and no-one's ever shown you there's another way to be. I know what that's like.

[I thought about it. About doing worse. What would be worse? The words chill her. She tries to pull back in order to wrap her arms around herself.]

I have to go home. [She mumbles that. Babbles, even. How does one even get out of this place.] They'll be wanting dinner. I make dinner for them sometimes.

[She has no intention of making dinner. She only wants to lock herself in her room and dream about what kind of dog she is going to get. A big one. A big, loyal one.]

Edited 2013-06-27 23:04 (UTC)

[He lets her go easily enough and gives a soft sigh.]

You need to put some ice on those hands. It'll take down some of the swelling.

[He heads over to where he'd dumped his bag and roots around in it before pulling out a tube of cream then holds it out to her.]

Put this on your knuckles too. You're gonna be pretty bruised tomorrow.

[What if there is poison in that tube? He said he was an assassin; what if the cream is worse than death? What if it hurts or burns all her skin off?]

What...what's in there?

[She starts backing away toward what she hopes is the exit. She's heard of Snow using poison, before. Most of the political class did. Almost casually, really. And not all of them were the kind you ingest.]

It's a painkiller. I use it when I'm training sometimes. Even professionals get hurt sometimes.

[He watches her back away with a raised eyebrow.]

Do I need to demonstrate?

I've never been Sequestered. I've avoided every Reprimand, my whole life. Every Inquisitor. I'm sure we can make some kind of deal.

[She speaks quickly even as she finds her back against a wall. There's no handy doorknob digging into it. Damn. There had to be something.]

[Clint gives her a bemused look for a moment, not entirely sure what he's said to make her babble like this.]

I really have no idea what you're talking about. I was just gonna show you that the cream isn't poison.

Trust me, I don't need to hurt anyone else to prove how frequently professionals get hurt. [He had enough obvious scars.]

[Now she feels like a total idiot, on top of everything else. Great. Some of her sturdy, bubbly personality surges back to the surface.]

Are you friends? You and Katniss?

[That could be the deciding factor.]

[Now there's a 180 if he's ever seen one. He smiles a little and gives a short nod.]

Yeah, we are. She's a good kid. Seen too much that someone her age should never have to. Got that in common.

And she's a hell of an archer. I like people who can compete with me in that.

[There. She relaxes. Any friend of Katniss is unlikely to torture her with acid posing as painrelieving cream. Probably. Her high and mighty tone returns.]

Then I accept the use of your pain killer. Though you probably want to use some first, I suppose.

[You know. After all that punching she did to you. She's fairly impressed with herself, really.]

[Clint blinks at her slowly and tosses the cream over.]

Me? I'm fine. I finished with my workout ages ago.

[Yeah, sorry. Some things he is pretty oblivious to.]

[..............Right.

She catches the tube very awkwardly, trapping it against her chest, before unscrewing the cap and squirting some -- rather too much -- on top of her left hand. To cover up any embarrassment at that, she tries to smoothly change the subject. Get herself back. Come on back, Effie.]

She's mentioned me, of course.

Edited 2013-06-28 00:04 (UTC)

I dunno. She might have mentioned you once. We usually talk about other stuff.

Ah.

[Her face falls slightly. But of course, why would Katniss ever mention her to this well-trained murderer from some godforsaken underworld? She mattered to Katniss.

Effie hurriedly rubs the cream into her knuckles, ignoring the steady throb under the broken skin. He's definitely right about one thing: they're going to hurt in the morning.]

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