.glass ceiling! {katie/themba VS. storm/heron}

As her brain grappled sluggishly and reluctantly with two voices in the not-so-distant distance, Katie wondered in the back of her mind if she'd ever felt safe. Not just in the Arena; that would have been an easy question to answer. But...but...all those other times. Seventeen years was a long stretch of time. She had a loving family (well, they loved her, anyhow) and friends and work and Gage (sort of). All of those things equated with safety, did they not? It wasn't as if her life had been comprised of life-threatening situations, disregarding the past few days. (Throwing out casual mental references to the Games' deadliness made it much easier for Katie to handle.) So why did she always feel so scared?
With a human-shaped (sort of - what's that other thing sticking out? Is that another...?) figure encroaching upon the unintentional duo through the woody half-light, Katie pushed herself to finish answering her self-directed question on safety. The irony was not lost on her, and for a fraction of a second the girl's face eagerly assumed a smile, a once-familiar action that she seemed to have left behind in District Three. Unfortunately, that moment was fleeting as the girl scrambled to riffle through years of pushed-aside and abandoned memories in search of a time when she wasn't so damn afraid. Finally, the answer presented itself to her (hidden behind uncomfortably neglected memory-files about her parents' divorce that she continued to shun): back when Katie's parents had still been happily married and "in love" (don't think about it don't think about it shun shun shun this is not the time) the girl had been blissfully safe. Still unsure that this was possible - fear was just so comfortable, so usual by now that a lack of it seemed odd - the girl considered interactions with everyone she'd known from that time in her childhood.
Confirmation: cheerily social and sweet, Katie had never hesitated to meet or interact with anyone back then. And slowly (need to think faster faster they're still coming and that tall guy is backing up is he scared too?) epiphanies began to hit Katie, one after the other, and things began to make sense for the first time in about ten years.
Katie Morven growing up had not just liked people in the curious way that many young children like people; she'd craved them, surrounded herself with them for comfort and happiness, glowed in the contentment of the fact that people had the capacity to love. Then when whatever happened that led to the divorce - resolutely the girl still refused to touch those memories, knowing (correctly) that she could not handle them - had taught the young girl, with all the delicate gentleness of a crashing hovercraft - that friendship did not equate to love, that people could lie to themselves and their children and still walk away happily.
Is...is that why I'm so afraid when I'm around other people? When all they do is talk to me or brush against me? ...Is that not normal?
I don't think it is.

Wide eyes filming over with tears (how awful that she was so desperate for water that tears had become a life-threatening waste of it), Katie Morven began to walk forward listlessly, switchblade-case held out in front of her in a pose that would have looked threatening had the girl not looked so totally defeated. Never able to mask any of her sentiments, Katie's face was twisted in dejection and something that terribly resembled horror. Solving the problem that had tainted her for so many years brought the girl no feelings of satisfaction or gladness. Instead, she was empty, a hollow-hearted child soldier fighting all the wrong battles. And somehow, for reasons that would never make sense, given all the wrong weapons. Like a switchblade.
Numbly acknowledging the male tribute's advice and subsequent warning, Katie nodded (wincing immediately, regretfully, after as a fresh rush of blood pushed from between the cracks in the giant scab on the side of her neck) and fumbled for the button, trying to wrap her mind around both her recent epiphany - it really had to be dealt with at some point, just maybe not now - and the problem posed by the switchblade. At the moment that the two unfamiliar tributes (and there were indeed two, with one carrying the other and where are her legs? oh my god) arrived within striking distance, Katie located the button and managed to push awkwardly, four fingers wrapped tenuously around the weapon while her thumb bent in a strange way to press the button since use of her right hand was not really an option. A click sounded and, terrified that she would act too late and send the knife in herself that would be just like you, you idiot girl, to do something like that wouldn't it? swung her left arm away from her body violently.

Thankfully, mercifully, the knife cleaved the air harmlessly. Still, though, perhaps something had to be done to deal with the fact that there were two new people here (one of them, the one with his legs attached, looked in pretty good condition) who did not look altogether amicable. This thought occurred slowly, much too slowly, to the girl's mind. Perhaps it could be dealt with later. Yet was that not the height of naivete? Horrified, knowing that they would surely come after her, Katie began to back up wildly, until even the man-boy she'd fought with the other day was closer to the new enemies (Katie forced herself to think that word, even as it caused her to cringe) than she was.

Unfortunately for Katie, realization of the fear that had plagued her all her life did not mean neutralization of the fear. It still existed, and Katie knew this because the only effect that fighting with the tall tribute boy was having on her was that she was absolutely terrified of him. Gratefulness would have been more appropriate, or even grudging appreciation; perhaps a feeling of encouragement, since they'd defeated those giant lizard-things together. But the girl could not find it within herself to be any of those things. Only afraid.
How could I not be? Warily surveying the tall young man who she should have trusted by that point, Katie trembled in the knowledge that she had knowingly lashed out at someone then backed out of their range in hopes that they would attack the person she was supposed to be allying with. He would kill her for that. Wouldn't he? Granted, he hadn't chosen to slit her throat when he found her asleep in the woods, but she hadn't directly provoked him. This...this was too far. Katie had succumbed to her fear too much and would now pay for it. There was no way to communicate with him because at this point just breathing sent fiery lines running up and down her trachea. Sign language or communication through touches and gestures were also impossible, as the teenage girl had no desire to go within ten feet of the seven-foot-tall threat.

In an instant that she hoped would change everything - oh phew he's attacking them and not me does that mean he's not going to kill me yet? - Katie's wish twisted into something awful. With his enormous crowbar, the male tribute advanced upon their two 'targets' and attacked the one with no legs.
No. No. Nononononono.
The action he had committed (nevermind that she almost had, too) was so abominable, so morally just wrong that it was barely comprehensible to the gaping seventeen-year-old girl. Moments later, the all-too-common paralyzing fear returned: if he would attack a girl with no legs, what would he do to Katie? Did this young man's actions have no sane boundaries? He was clearly a psycho, a sociopathic maniac. She needed to get away, needed to run and just go. But, with a slight start, the girl realized that she was leaning against a tree heavily with no idea how she'd gotten there. Standing independently was successful, albeit with no small amount of pain in her neck and arms, but her attempt at turning to leave was met with crippling vertigo. Reeling from the sudden onset of dizziness and disorientation, Katie released hopes of escape and turned back toward the fight. Confronted with the sight of her fighting-partner, the healthy boy, and the cripple, Katie Morven only saw one option.
She'd worked against the towering tribute before when she backed behind him, leaving him vulnerable to attack; another affront like that and the maniac would surely kill her with no hesitation. Encapsulated in her panic and unwilling unable to think of another way with her mind and body both in such poor condition, Katie pushed herself from the tree she'd leaned on and thrust her left hand - the one still gripping the switchblade - forward, hoping it would hit the healthier boy. Unfortunately, the combination of using her non-dominant hand and her inability to think or walk (much less aim) straight caused Katie to lash out at the wrong person. The cripple. The one that the seventeen-year-old District Three resident would later despise herself for hurting, even if it was technically an accident. She was afraid, so afraid...this was no time for accidents. They were not an option. Yet there was nothing Katie could do to stop herself from committing one, the same way that she was unable to rewire her brain out of learned fear.