Kicking Rocks {Katelyn + Cricket}

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.”

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?”