Kicking Rocks {Katelyn + Cricket}

[charade]

The promise she’d made Maya Fel was already in danger of being broken.

Katelyn rubbed at her temples and tried to keep herself from slamming her fist down on the table. Finding sponsors had never been this hard before. But then, the game-makers had never gone out of their way to let people know that there was a veritable treasure trove of items hidden around the arena. Nearly everyone she’d spoken to was happy to wait and see what the tributes would stumble upon; it added an air of mystery that was keeping the populace guessing. It was stressful and was giving Katelyn a headache. Thus far, the only item she’d been able to procure was a set of matching jet packs.

Jet. Packs.

God only knew what the arena’s landscape was going to be when mechanical backpacks that allowed people to fly were the hot ticket item that had Capitolites falling over each other to purchase for the tributes or districts that they were fans of. Katelyn fumed to herself and stared down into her third cup of coffee. This was Cricket Antoinette’s doing; Katelyn could sense those double-jointed hands at work in this. Like the hell that had seen fifty-one tributes perish in a mirrored arena, all signs were pointing to this year’s battleground being something equally unique and twisted.

Jet packs. Honestly.

In short order, she drained what was left in her cup and headed into the training center. It had been several years since she’d picked up a throwing axe, or a weapon of any kind. But perhaps it was time to get a little more hands on with her tributes. Hopefully the extra attention to combat would make a difference. However, all her thoughts went out the window when she spied the very woman she’d been fuming over standing by the fire-making station.

Typical. she thought in disgust as she watched the older victor lazily breathing fire in the direction of one of the trainers. Abusing your power and those beneath your station. Thank you for proving me right. There was something roiling in Katelyn’s chest, a kind of pressure that she could feel behind her eyes. The injustice was grating on her, but knowing that one of their own, someone who should know better was willingly compliant with everything made it so much worse. Before she knew it, her footsteps had brought her close to the other woman.

Fire and fury was dancing on the tip of her tongue, a hundred scathing insults fighting for domination.

“Cricket,” she stated flatly, crossing her arms and getting the other victors attention. “Enjoying yourself? It must be easy to without morals or a soul.” She couldn’t pin her infuriation down to  any one particular thing. She just knew that there was pressure building in her head and it needed to be let out. None of the victors, not even the rest of careers had ever stooped this low. “How much did it cost them to buy?”

[L△LIA]

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Double-jointed, triple threat
I'm not some method actress

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"Miss Antoi—"

"Madame Gamemaker," she corrects the trainer with a dismissive flick of her wrist while running her other hand over the firemaking station's supplies, inspecting what this year's tributes were being provided to work with and finding it lacking.

"Madame Gamemaker," he hastily corrected, tripping over the syllables and nearly biting his own tongue, nerves getting the better of him, "it's not —" This too doesn't sound like the way he ought to speak to his superior. She cuts him off.

"It's not what, Gustave?" Turning to the purse she had casually set on the table upon arrival, she unfastens the latch and begins pulling a length of chain from within, leveling her gaze at the man beside her with an intimidating glare.

"It's," there's a pause as he attempts to consider his words more carefully than before, "unusual for a gamemaker to evaluate the training center from the floor." Each word is softer than the last as he loses confidence in himself, stuttering with an ever-growing sense of regret.

"Tell me, Gustave," Cricket says while checking over the bundle of wicking material fastened to the end of the chain in her hands, "am I one of the usual gamemakers?" Shaking his head with a panicked twitch, she gives him a small, pitying smile while swinging the poi through an oh-so-basic campfire that had been kindled before she arrived. The fireball sways back and forth between them for a moment before she effortlessly whips it in a circle, the heat of the flames nipping at the trainer's cheek. "Of course not. Tell me something else," up up up the fire soars into figure eights above their heads before she tugs it down and into a complex star pattern, twirling in a circle and humming lightly with the layered movements. "Do you believe in witches?" She laughs to herself as if she's telling an incredibly amusing joke. "The woman who taught me everything I know about fire said that fire dances are often performed to ward off witches." Cricket laughs at this because the laughter itself had been part of that very lesson.

Pulling herself onto her toes, she shifts her weight to her left foot and kicks out with her right, taking aim at a bottle of lighter fluid on the table. With a graceful whip of her arm she catches the bottle and takes a swig from within her ring of fire, spitting an incredible breath of flames as her next turn brings her face to face with the man who dared to question her methods. He barely scrambles backward in time to avoid the scorching blaze. Mumbling something about a lunch break he heads for the door as quickly as his stumbling feet will move.

"Cricket," a new voice of judgement comes from behind her and she turns to face the newcomer as if the movement had always been part of her dance, "enjoying yourself?" Katelyn Persimmon. Despite the venomous tone of the other woman's voice, the gamemaker greets her with a smile that is all bright teeth and easy hellos. "It must be easy to without morals or a soul." The fury of the question is as obvious as Cricket's lack of offense over the petty attempt at a dig, her expression maintaining its poise without a flicker of evidence that the attack has done even the smallest bit of harm. "How much did it cost them to buy?"

Twirling the fire upwards to circle the air above them, as if outlining the very ring Katelyn seems to be in the mood to fight in, Cricket meets her eyes without flinching. "Funny," the rough alto of her voice doesn't break or crackle, despite the remnants of fresh fuel burning against the old wounds within her throat, "I was just talking about witches. Have you come to join my coven? I'm sure you think a soul like yours must be worth twice as much as mine. I hope you won't be too disappointed to be proven wrong." Licking a droplet of stray lighter fluid from her top lip, she coyly kisses the air in Katelyn's direction. Lovely to see you again.

5 out of 6 dessa

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[charade]

The other woman twirls the fire expertly, and were the situation different, Katelyn might even be impressed with the skills Cricket learned at the circus. But the casual dismissal of her ire is a bucket of cold water to the face, reminding her that Cricket is in control of her tribute’s fates. This is not the smart thing to do, though she feels it is the right thing. Katelyn is not afraid of those in power, and it has gotten her into trouble more times than she can count.

She doubts the woman has ever had anyone tell her no. For a moment she thinks of Lorelai Bigsby and wonders if that girl will one day be as haughty as the woman in front of her. Katelyn has never thought that she is worth more than other people. But she is well aware that there are plenty who consider others to be worth less.

For a moment, she is confounded, floundering as her tongue twists over how to respond. After a few tense seconds, Katelyn nods. She has been too kind in approaching Cricket as a fellow victor, as though the dark-haired woman would understand. She does not bother trying to continue her train of thought about blackness and corruption. It has been derailed, and now Katelyn knows that she must talk to her the way she would to any other Capitolite.

“Ah, that’s right. This is all a game to you. How could I forget?” her tone is still frosty, but more subdued than when she’d been stalking towards the former career. She crosses her arms, slipping from fury into annoyance and disgust. How could Cricket forget what it was like in the arena?

Or perhaps she'd enjoyed every second. She'd gone solo after all. Cricket was not one for forming attachments. “The greatest show!” she crows, her tone biting. “Wonderful fun for all the girls and boys watching all the dazzling displays someone so– creative has come up with.”

She examines the empty cup still in her hand and then puts it down. “I wonder if the kids in the arena will be able to appreciate your flair as they die painful, miserable deaths. I wonder if Arbor will appreciate watching his son wander through whatever hellscape you’ve devised this year.” Katelyn shakes her head, struck by the unnaturalness of the situation. Of Cricket’s gall. She is anathema to her sense of honor, of justice and so different from the victors she’s befriended in the past.

What kind of life creates such a person? Katelyn wonders if Cricket has ever cared about anyone other than Cricket. She’d say she almost pities her, but she doubts that the other victor would understand why. Instead, she gathers the seething mess in the back of her head and funnels it towards trying to match Cricket’s pettiness. She has had practice playing this game during her years in the Capitol.

“You should read the history books more often,” she says, casually knocking the bottle of lighter fluid off its perch when her hand brushes against it, the way a cat might push over a vase. “Witches shouldn’t play with fire,” she continues, propping her elbows up where it was.

“They have a tendency to get burned.”

[L△LIA]

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Trying to see my descent
You're gonna have to play the tape backwards

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Katelyn fumbles, mouth twitching at the unexpected response. Maybe she expected the woman she just declared to be soulless to burst into tearful apologies over the unprompted verbal abuse. Perhaps she thought implying that Cricket is less than human, little more than a shell with a hollow center, would cause her to repent and ask for guidance away from this path of wickedness. The gamemaker could have dropped to her knees, head bowed to beg for whatever crumbs of goodness Saint Persimmon might deign to offer such a lowly and unworthy demon. Or she could have unhinged her jaw like the snake she obviously is and swallowed the canister of gasoline whole, attempting to drown or poison herself in a fit of revelation over what a horrible thing she is. Anything is possible... supposedly.

Watching the tongue-tied proselytizer of virtue and righteousness pause and contemplate what, exactly, she was hoping for is certainly as entertaining as anything else Cricket had planned for her afternoon. Clearly Katelyn had confused her own contempt for kindness. "Ah, that's right. This is all a game to you. How could I forget?" Although her tone is pulled in, her voice drawn close around them like something of a secret, her intention doesn't feel any different. Crossing her arms, she directs her disgust at Cricket without any hint of regret for her own aggression. It's not unfamiliar.

What a pity — the way she aims to wound for fun instead of opting for a clean kill, Katelyn would have made an incredible Career.

"The greatest show!" She crows and if Cricket closed her eyes right now, this could be the voice of any of the petty children from her youth in the training centers back in District Two. You don't belong here. You're not normal. No one wants you here. Leave, freak. Instead, Cricket refuses to so much as blink. She laughs, bright and accommodating, coloring the idea in Katelyn's mind with a rainbow of confirmation. The greatest, she mouths in silent response. If there were glitter at hand, she would fill the air with it. Better still if she'd had warning enough to prepare a button she could press so that two dozen corde lisse acrobats would drop from the rafters on cue, twirling above the smoking gun of Cricket's existence. "Wonderful fun for all the girls and boys watching all the dazzling displays someone so— creative has come up with." Her smile leaves room for each and every accusation to tuck itself between her teeth, welcoming the words as if she had asked for them.

"I wonder if the kids in the arena will be able to appreciate your flair as they die painful, miserable deaths." A horrible cliche, Katelyn is the worst kind of victor: so fixated on things she can't change that she wastes an entire lifetime never thinking about what she could do. If the solution she wants isn't an option, she's unwilling to imagine an alternative. There's no escape for someone who secretly loves the excuse of being trapped. "I wonder if Arbor will appreciate watching his son wander through whatever hellscape you've devised this year." After all, it's obviously true that one of them revels in the pain of others.

Thanks to the smile, her teeth are already bared.

Katelyn shakes her head, some bizarre expression of disbelief crossing her face. Perhaps she's contemplating how she's the one personally teaching a pair of strangers all the best ways she knows to kill her friend's son or how she's using the impending death of a kid without a prayer for survival as a cheap barb for her taunts. Maybe she's realizing that Cricket spends her days picking out the appropriate amount of sheen for metal paneling, testing snowfall functionality, and yelling more pillows in the residential area! What don't you understand about the word residence? at incompetent interns. Maybe she's experiencing a moment of true enlightenment about her misconceptions, just the same way Cricket surely realized the extensive error of her ways only a few insults earlier.

"You should read the history books more often," doubling down, she knocks the bottle of lighter fluid off the table out of casual spite. "Witches shouldn't play with fire." Staring each other down, for a split-second she wonders just how crazy it would make Katelyn if Cricket simply... walked away. Ignored her. Silently declared all of this too childish to take seriously... "They have a tendency to get burned." But the thing is —

Whipping the fireball circling her head downward as she backflips out of reach of the puddle of lighter fluid, it smacks the now-deadly ground with a WHOOSH of flames. A splatter of sparks fly toward the smug blonde, crackling in the air and setting anything too close and too flammable ablaze without warning. Every face in the center turns their way, gasping at the scene. Without missing a beat, Cricket spins a grand finale of loop-de-loops and swirling halos before dramatically releasing the poi, its heavy chain lashing at the air before landing in a nearby bucket of water with a sizzle. She twirls on tiptoes, curtsying for their audience as confusion turns to applause for such a daring dance of fire and fearlessness. "Oh!" She artfully touches her fingertips to her chest, tilting her head with thinly-feigned modesty. "You're all too much!" Catching Katelyn's eye, her sharpened smile refuses to falter. "This was nothing! Really now. Just wait until I'm warmed up."

— this is how she was taught to ward off bitches.

"Oh dear," turning to her fellow victor, she leans over the dying blaze between them with an expression of perfect concern, "you didn't get burned, now did you, Katelyn?"

5 out of 6 dessa

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[charade]

She can tell she has touched a nerve, though she’s not sure exactly which one it is. It’s people like this that grate on her. People that think that they are better than everyone else. People that cloak themselves in what they know they are capable of. It would appear that Cricket defines her morality as what she likes and dislikes. What is right for her is what feels good. What is wrong is other people when they take issue with it. Katelyn has met people like that before.

Those who revel in themselves.

Because they think it makes them tough. Or intelligent. Or because they look down on those who cling to what they consider to be outdated ideals. Such people are rarely happy when no one is looking.

Margaret Dubois was right. Too much heart has always been her downfall.

But every time she’s fallen down, Katelyn has gotten back up.

She remembers Chaske Parks barking and screeching and reveling in his misery in order to ignore his unhappiness. But she also remembers him whimpering as he died. She held his hand. Katelyn wonders if Cricket is the same. Katelyn has been buffeted by a tornado ever since the day she was reaped. It has made her stronger. She wears her heart on her sleeve. And for a moment, the quickest instant, there was a flicker of something in Cricket’s eyes.

When the circus girl starts to put on a show, she starts to wonder if she has bitten off more than she can chew. It is impressive. She won’t pretend it isn’t. She manages to keep the surprise off of her face. She even joins in the clapping.

It’s a shame. If Cricket cared about anyone other than herself, she’d be great with children.

Cricket is tittering, teetering; but it will take more than one puffed up peacock to reduce Katelyn to tatters.

“Don't worry about me, she responds, matching the playfulness of Cricket’s concern with a fake grin of her own. “Ice has always been my element. You’ll need to turn up the heat if you want me to sweat.” She leans, in ready to say something about her shit-poor mentoring skills, but the absurdity of it strikes her. She realizes that she went into this half-cocked and Cricket will continue to run circles around her.

There’s not much that she can do about it. But she will not give the ringmaster the satisfaction of saying it, even if Cricket can smell the blood in the water. It is likely that she can. People like her like having the power in the situation. If she’s the type of person that Katelyn thinks she is.

If.

The false grin slides off of her face to be replaced with an annoyed grimace as she leans back. Cricket has been in control of the situation since the moment she stomped over.

Playing her like a fiddle.

Katelyn Persimmon is no one’s toy.


“This is childish of us, isn’t it?” she says, the side of her mouth quirking up in a sardonic smile.

Cricket is not one of them. The victor family. Nor does she want to be. Her world view is not something Katelyn can fully grasp. But she can comprehend enough to know that Cricket will never apologize for being herself.

As much at Katelyn hates to, she agrees with the sentiment. She hates it, because if that makes Cricket a bitch in her eyes, then it means that she is one too. She agrees with it, because she knows that people have always considered strong-willed women to be such. She cannot speak for Cricket’s experiences, but she can speak for her own; they have pushed her to help people, because she does not want to see anyone go through the things she has.

It is her suspicion that similar things have pushed Cricket to help herself, and to hell with anyone in her way.

Katelyn can be a firecracker, but she knows when to dial it back. She has to remind herself that Cricket is in control of the arena. And after one or both or her tributes die, she will take the kid gloves off.

But not just yet.

She grits her teeth, and swallows her pride; her anger at an unjust situation.

“I don’t know you,” she says after a moment. “How much does anyone know about a performer other than what’s on the stage? I doubt anyone knows who you are when the curtain falls.” She knows that there are very few people who know all there is about Katelyn Persimmon. It’s no different with any other victor. Or so she thinks.

The smile that Cricket wears is so razor thin she could cut a finger on it. But something Katelyn said got her to react this strongly. An inkling tickles the back of her mind, but she isn’t sure. It is a gamble, but also a risk she is willing to take. She does not think Cricket cares about her tributes, or there would have been another victor from two by now. Nor does she think that Cricket cares about the children whose lives are in her hands.

Maybe most of them, anyway.

Katelyn shrugs, locking eyes with the other woman. The annoyance still simmers, but she tries to push it back in order to understand. Was there ever a time when Arbor was friend's with her?  An eyebrow quirks up questioningly. 

“That being said, who would have guessed you have a soft spot for Cedar Halt?”

[L△LIA]

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Standing on my staircase
All you are is a fire hazard

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"Dats uh beeeeeg kitty!"

It was the largest party the Capitol had ever thrown and the tiny screech of joy and awe still cut through the crowd as if it were nothing. Arbor Halt had no tributes that year and he was there to enjoy himself in a way he hadn't been allowed since... ever. The flailing five-year-old in his arms tugged wildly at his shirt sleeve and finally resorted to attempting to hoist himself onto his father's shoulder in order to get a better look at the six hundred pound kitty investigating a silver platter of roast boar on a nearby table. "Kitty! The child continued to screech, pointing and waving and tugging at his father's ear because his little mind was absolutely blown that no one else around him seemed to appreciate how unusually large that kittycat was. "Here, kitty! Here, kitty, kitty!" In fact, the only person paying him any attention was a woman sitting casually on the table beside the platter, nose crinkling with a beat of laughter as she locked eyes with the tiny human thinking that he might be able to lure a gluttonous tiger away from a celebratory buffet table with nothing more than a small offering of his instant, starry-eyed love.

A few of the trainers' assistants begin dousing the various fires as the applause dies down. The attention fades and the pair of victors are given a wide berth, be it due to intimidation or simple good sense. "Don't worry about me," Katelyn replies, trading in her expressions of rage and judgement for a forced grin. "Ice has always been my element. You'll need to turn up the heat if you want me to sweat." For a moment she leans forward, something unspoken dancing on her lips. Walking the line of wildfire that had burned so brightly between them only moments ago, Cricket pulls herself up onto the tabletop beside the other woman. Folding her ankles in to sit criss-cross, perhaps she should look childlike — small and undignified — but the set of her shoulders alone is enough to defy expectation. One of the first things Cricket Antoinette ever taught herself was how to make her height irrelevant, how to turn her stature into something formidable regardless of differences in sightlines or assumptions. The hushed pause of Katelyn's tacit consideration doesn't intimidate her.

Circe Lyon. Elya Johnwayne. Olivia Revenue. Orion Hammerfell. Cricket had twice as many tributes that year and it was exasperating. Two of them tugged at old memories, for better and for worse, recalling one of the most crass and repulsive tributes she'd ever been assigned while the other was all puppy dog eyes and bashful hesitance, just like his brother the year before. The Lyon girl had potential but was too lovesick for her district partner to focus on training and —

It didn't matter. By the time any given career makes it into a Games, their weaknesses are as irreversibly trained into them as their strengths. Whatever lackluster coaches they've been working with for years upon years have already assured them they know everything they need to and Cricket telling them they're not ready after it's too late for them to take a step back and allow someone else to fight in their place here doesn't accomplish anything. Besides, she can't teach someone the only thing that actually matters. She can't teach someone to want to win, even if she's one of the few victors who refuses to profess shame and denial for that feeling. Double the odds for a crown and she already knew she and Julian would be taking the train home alone.

Artfully dancing away from yet another wandering set of hands, Cricket brazenly stared down the hunger of countless eyes making assumptions that she was twice as likely to finally give them something more than temptation in exchange for a flourish of wealth. Seven years in the Capitol and still no one had managed to bribe her for more than the faintest kiss on the cheek, despite an endless arsenal of sheer everything, chainmail gowns, and scandalous lingerie constantly promising otherwise. Every conversation with her allowed for easy assumptions of silent maybes, each touch so accidental and unexpected as to make it impossible for a mind not to wander, but then —

"This is childish of us, isn't it?" Katelyn asks in a way that leaves the question out. The forced niceties in her expression take a turn into outright sarcasm. There's a sense that Cricket is being sized up, viewed as a small collection of parts and ideas to be measured and found wanting. Propping an elbow on her knee, she rests her chin in her hand as she leans in so her fellow victor can have a better look at just what, exactly, might be hiding beneath the lipstick and mascara. What else is she faking... Suspicion shadows the blonde's face and every small shift of her eyes. "I don't know you," she finally admits and while it's the obvious it's also more than most people are ever willing to concede. "How much does anyone know about a performer other than what's on the stage? I doubt anyone knows who you are when the curtain falls."

Wraith-quick, she floats away like hers is a body made of smoke and imagination. A waking dream, lost down an impossible corridor; twisting up a staircase; flickering around a corner; she hid herself in plain sight by moving on before anyone could get too close. She has never been worried about the money. The less of herself she gives them, the more they pay in an attempt to convince her to reconsider. None of it meant anything and yet her refusal to play anyone's games except her own has given her a reputation for being one of the most profitable victors in history. It's a reputation that continuously feeds the cycle, reaching new records each year.

The next shamelessly oggling face to fixate its attention on her had wide hazel eyes and a missing front tooth. Cricket puffed her cheeks up and crossed her eyes, winning a giggle of amusement from the tiny child who seemed to have slipped away from his distracted father. Scrunching his face up with the effort of attempting to touch his tongue to his nose — and very nearly succeeding — he won a fluttering laugh of his own. Crouching down to his height, into a world hidden from a crowd of expectations and the endless effort of careful manipulation, time slipped away as the pair pulled faces at each other in a contest of who could contort their features best. For the first time in memory, Cedar Halt gave her an actual run for her money.

There is a moment, just a small collection of seconds, where the muscles in Cricket's shoulders relax without her consciously instructing them to. The curve of her back isn't calculated and the exact angles of her fingers aren't positioned to perfectly portray her as a vision of unbristled confidence. She just is. For this moment she watches Katelyn watch her and wonders if perhaps the other woman's ire has been sated, if it's her turn to contemplate walking away from this confrontation. If whatever this is, all of it, if it's worth it? She seems to look all of her questions directly in the eye and merely shrugs.

Cricket takes a breath and considers the possibilities of various answers she could give. Something scripted, about how the show is all there is. When the spotlight goes out she disappears right along with it. She is only alive when she is suspended thirty feet in the air, bent backwards until her toes touch her cheekbones while exhaling fire and spinning daredevil death-defiant through a flurry of knives. Those are the moments — she could explain, but genuinely — when she feels her heart as if it's the only thing she is: hands, stomach, the backs of her knees. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Or maybe she could point out the simplest thing, the thing that she's never understood people being so unable to comprehend. When the curtain falls, she falls into the arms of everyone who has ever truly loved her. There are people, believe it or not, who love her after her feet leave that stage, who tease her about how they remember the days when she couldn't land a handspring and she teases them back about the days before they could roll a frying pan up with their bare hands. There are people who kiss her with the hope that she won't just kiss them back, but that they could share other things after that. A cup of tea. A blanket and a good book. A lifetime — if she could just stay for once. There is someone who feels nothing when he burns his hand on the stove and everything when he looks at her from the far side of a room. There are people who use the stale popcorn at the end of the night like afterparty confetti, people who suspend themselves from the ceiling by nothing more than a few hooks through their own skin and who smile when Cricket takes them by the hand and declares them beautiful for it. There is a world that exists, despite so few people being willing to acknowledge it.

There's also an empty house, she could say, that I was given the same way you were. I don't live there. The walls are slashed and burned with my impatience to leave — I use it as a practice space sometimes, you see — and there are boxes full of things I never unpacked because I don't care so much about things. The kitchen is full of rotten food that I forgot to eat the last time I visited and there's a blanket on the floor in one of the rooms that I sleep on when I'm homeless, when I've been gone too long and all of the lights in the tents scattered around the bigtop have been turned off for the evening. I go there when I get the better of myself and wonder if I've finally become too much, the way everyone here says. When I wonder if I've left too many times to be welcomed back.

Happily riding on Cricket's shoulders, the relief on Arbor's face when the crowd parted to reveal that someone had found his missing son was almost as palpable as the shock and baffled gratitude that took over his expression when she casually offered to continue keeping an eye on the wriggling child so that Arbor could enjoy the party. It was a win-win as the District Twelve victor guiltlessly raised his glass of scotch in thanks and even the most intoxicated of Cricket's wannabe-suitors did a double take at her new companion and thought better of attempting to press their mouths to her ear with whatever desperate plea they'd spent the past hour turning over in their minds.

"Beeg kitty!" Cedar yelled as they made their way past the buffet table the tiger had curled up on top of for a post-dinner nap, using a bowl of salad for the only thing it was good for — being a pillow. Tiny, excited hands drummed on the top of her head in a request for attention and she tilted her face up to comply. Pressing his hands to her cheeks in order to make certain someone finally understood exactly how important this question was, he breathlessly asked, "do you see the beeg kitty?"

"Of course I see the big kitty," she said and never in all of the faces they'd made at one another had his eyes gone so wide. "That's my big kitty." Mouth dropping all the way open, he made a show of having to use his own hand to close it again. "Do you want to meet the big kitty, Cedar?" Wrapping his tiny arms around her head, he pressed his cheek to her forehead and hugged her with alllllll of his might. More than anything in his whole life, yes! Of course he wanted to meet the beeg kitty!

The moment passes, like a shiver. It's as if the chill of it shakes something in Katelyn, her eyebrow quirking with a sudden eureka! of clarity. Automatically Cricket instructs her shoulders to stay relaxed and the curve of her back to remain just so. She tilts her head as if signaling that she's ready for whatever childish accusation is coming her way next — she's unconcerned. Unshakable. "That being said," the woman across from her breaks the fleeting silence before an unexpected admission of honesty can and perhaps that's for the best, "who would have guessed you have a soft spot for Cedar Halt?"

Rousing the tiger from its nap had been far more challenging than convincing him to allow Cedar to take a joyride on his back. With the nonstop pets and ear scratches he received in appreciation of each step taken around the room, not to mention all of the cuddle-hugs and criss-cross my heart promises that they were gonna be the bestest of friends forever and ever, the only difficult thing about any of it was separating the two of them at the end of the night.

"This is a magic kitty," Cricket tried to explain the importance of not telling one Arbor about the other, "only some people can see him, like you and me. Other people only see his teeth and get scared because they think they've seen a monster."

"Arbor's not a monster!" Cedar objected, throwing his hands up defiantly at the very idea of it.

"Of course he isn't a monster," she agreed, ruffling the boy's curls with a smile, "there's no such thing as monsters, but sometimes that's hard for people to believe. So that's why you need to keep this a secret. Arbor feels sad when people call him bad names."

Glassy-eyed, Cedar tucked his head against the tiger's, hoping — not for the last time — that maybe being extra nice could make up for other people being mean. "I know you're not bad," he whispered as reassuringly as his tiny voice could manage, tracing a black stripe with the palm of his hand.

"Shhhhhh," Cricket murmured comfortingly, touching her finger to the tip of Cedar's nose, "secret."

"Shhhhhh," Cedar echoed back, reaching out to touch his own small finger to Cricket's nose with the most serious expression he could muster, "secret."

It was never a secret that Cricket played the role of babysitter from time to time during the few fleeting years that Arbor Halt's son made the trip to the Capitol, it's just that it was such an easy thing for everyone to forget. Even her. They hadn't been seen together since the Seventy-Fourth, back when something about Cricket's face was still trustworthy enough. There had been five years of the tiger playing party pony pretend and the three of them running around in elaborate rounds of hide and seek from all of the games patrons Cricket wanted an excuse to get away from. There had been five years of believing in magic in a place that had always made promises, but never lived up to them before.

Yes, she thinks of the little boy who didn't believe in monsters, she has a soft spot for Cedar Halt.

"Tell me, Katelyn," she mimics the other woman's sardonic smile, "what game are you trying to play?" Throwing her hands up theatrically, she tilts her chin so her face catches the light like a good little performer. "First I'm soulless and now you're confusing me with someone who has a heart!" Softly clapping as if all of this is quite the show indeed, she sighs in appreciation of such artistry. "And you called me creative."

5 out of 6 dessa

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[charade]

“I can be very creative,” Katelyn says, flashing her a dazzling smile. “Have I mentioned that I haven’t killed a tiger in thirteen years and I’ve been needing a new rug?” After a moment, the veneer of the mask slips off and she lets it fall, refuses to put it back on. Keeping up the facade is a hard thing for her. It is not her, though she has had several occasions where she felt it needed to be.

“I can play the game when I need to. Doesn’t mean I like it.” She draws an invisible design on the table with her finger, feeling like a school girl again. It has been a long time since she has felt unsure about how to proceed with someone. The games gave her courage to go with the scars. But they have not prepared her for someone as different as Cricket.

Katelyn Persimmon has seen the worst humanity has to offer.

“All I need is hate,” She manages to catch his glaive on the corner of her throwing axe, but a moment later he tears a huge wound into her leg. He keeps talking, but all she can she hear is Chaske laughing as he and Prism cut her last friend to pieces.

“Learn this as your baptism, children.” Celia Mortuus goes to work, desecrating the bodies of the children in front of her. Katelyn vomits into the trash can because this action is the stuff of nightmares. Even the Capitol switches to another group of tributes after a few disgusting moments.

Harold grins with teeth that are too white. She slumps in the chair defeated, bile and water leaking from the corner of her mouth. “I think that’s enough for today. We do have to give you time to recover. Don’t want you to die on us.”

She has also seen the best.

Vasco stands in the middle of her bakery. Though he is recovering from his ordeal, love animates his motions, sets them alight. “My Emma, she’s simply incredible, Katelyn. Someone who’s heart is so big, that cares about all of us, who’s so smart…

Opal Shore eyes shine with earnestness, with a desire to know that there is something better.

“Do you think you’re ever going to stop caring?”

"No,” Katelyn responds, No, I can’t see that happening.” Later, she will take the time to clean up Potato's headstone.

Later still, Opal is there to lean on when her heels are killing her and the stress of the gameshow has drained her emotionally. She smells like strawberries. And she has repaid Katelyn's kindness with kindness of her own.

“Don’t think I’m playing you, Persimmon. I’ve stood where you’re standing.” Arbor’s eyebrows are knit in concern as he tries to convince her that it would be better for Kirito, for her, to let Harbinger die instead of sending him anymore aid. She responds with a wry smile.

“No offense meant, Mr. Halt, but if I wind up where you are fifteen years from now, it’ll be because I stopped trying.”

She is almost there anyway, and she wonders when it was that everything went wrong.

She has seen the worst, and she has seen the best.

Cricket Antoinette is neither.

And she feels very foolish for flying off the handle with no direct provocation.

“I don’t like you,” she says, her tone clipped. “I don’t like anyone that goes along with this sort of thing because they want to. It offends me, and while I know that means nil to you, I felt compelled to do something about it.”

“Jet packs and knick-knacks,” she mumbles, flourishing a hand the way Cricket has before.

“People hate and fear what they don’t understand. But you know that, don’t you?”

She is eleven years old. Cricket Antoinette moves like a human slinky as she avoids the colorful carnivorous swarm looking to devour her. A man in the square remarks that the career is a freak of nature. Someone else shushes him, admonishing him for being unkind. Katelyn thinks to herself that the girl must be lonely without any allies. What she needs is someone to send her a cupcake.

In her district, people care about community. No one gets left out in the cold. Not if there is something someone can do about it. Everyone means something to someone else. You remember that, and you do the best you can. One good turn deserves another. She has grown up with platitudes, with honest, simple folk making the best of a terrible situation.

She is thirty years old. She wonders when exactly her kindness was edged towards cruelty. When it was that she began to jump to conclusions about people. When started letting emotional outbursts rule her actions. When her heart started ruling her head. Sometime after getting back from the Capitol, she assumes. After every tragedy it gets harder to think about things with a clear mind. It is easier to see the world in black and white.

Grey? She does not know what to do with grey.

Katelyn Persimmon is many things, but she has always been honest.

“I don’t fear you—“

“But maybe I don’t hate you either. Only what you stand for.”

Katelyn shrugs, wishing she had been more collected when she saw Cricket blowing fire at the trainer.

“I walked over here wanting to chew you out for being a victor and being a part of this. It’s easy to direct anger at someone who’s used to being the villain.” She cannot think of the last time she heard someone say something nice about the victor from two. She also cannot think of a time she heard about Cricket refuting anything. If she wore glasses, she would be looking over the top of them.

“I still don’t like you. But if you’re the acrobat in this circus, then I’ve done a good job of being the clown.”

She offers a hesitant handshake for affirmation, it is the closest thing to an apology she is willing to give.

“Sorry.” It slips out, because she is. It is rare that she meets someone as uncompromising in their beliefs as she is. Somehow, being faced with someone who does not need nor want her help has done more to help her see clearly than a hundred people suffering in silence.

Katelyn has always given people more than she needs to.

Perhaps there are some things she needs to re-learn to keep to herself.