thecapitol | Nothing's Changed [Open]

Who| Eva and open
What| Eva plays chess in the park.
Where| Park in the Capitol
When| Week 7
Warnings/Notes| Description of cuts.

The bruises have faded into the sick yellow of urine. The cuts haven't healed yet, and wearing the bandages and stitches - old-fashioned medicine, less than what a Panem Victor could usually expect - is something of a scarlet letter. No one's forgotten that she was cavorting with a would-be assassin, but the Capitol's seen fit to remind them anyway, and unless she spends the next few months indoors Eva's damned to carry the message on her face.

She somewhat appreciates that the hook-shaped slash on her upper lip has pulled her mouth into something of a perpetual sneer. It fits her mood, lately. The cuts along her arms and cheek are a little less thematically appropriate.

The sunlight wafts down to her like steam. Her palm rests on a book in the park, her eyes strolling lazily over the words of a poem she's read a hundred times before. The other hand rests in her lap, on the demure grey fabric of a dress that could blend into any background. Eva doesn't need to accessorize; here, the white bandage around her upper arms and the patch of gauze on her cheek are eye-catching enough.

A chess set sits on the small marble table in front of her. The pieces are arranged up perfectly, each slit in the bishop's hat forming a perfect line. She looks out at the park, relatively unoccupied for a Sunday afternoon what with people watching the final week of the Games, and waits for someone, anyone to come challenge her.

She loves chess. It's just yet another game where no one has to win.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sigma stares at the board quite awhile before he makes his move. Eight pawns and a master per side... though he hasn't played chess in nearly a half-century, he's waged similar wars in the past. He sends another pawn forward, wishing to dispose of the lot first. Only once the pawns were wiped out did the real game begin, in his opinion. But then again, he's never been good at chess.

"I did not protect her," he denies, this time not lifting his eye. "I was too late. If I hadn't hesitated, she would still be alive. Forgive me." That was the problem with time magic, it guaranteed that somewhere, sometime, a version of himself came out empty-handed. There always had to be a man who failed, and it seemed that this was the very body that fate had damned, for he was never there when he needed to be, not to save Eponine nor the Earth.

Eva loosens up the board by sending one of her own pawns out. The orderly rows have given way to jagged edges and scattered forces. This, she thinks, is more like how a war begins. There are no best-laid plans to go afoul in war, only scrapped-together schemes held together by faith and hope and deluded confidence.

"She'll be more grateful that you even tried than angry that you failed. As I am." Eva's lashes are heavy, weighed down by both gravity and her anhedonistic state. It always takes her a little longer to open her eyes than to close them, with every blink an extra half-second added on.

"Eponine doesn't ask for much. I'm trying to change that, but she's not my Tribute, and the Capitol in general works against me in that regard."

Her criticism was fair, and Sigma accepted her gratitude with an acknowledging nod. He thought it was kind of Eva to watch out for Eponine, and understood that all she did was not only for her Tributes in particular, but the lot of them. Sigma sighs heavily and sends a pawn he's already used forward into the fray.

"She came to me not long ago," he confides, "apologizing that I got involved. Apologizing to me! She told me she does not wish to live much longer. I worry I have only made things worse." He puts his fingers to his lips in thought, and looked away from the board and into the trees.

"I am trying to get her to understand, to see things how they see it, but she is stubborn. Something must be done before she breaks. Perhaps she will have to win." He realized how foolish he must sound, as setting up Eponine to become Victor would be like sending a beloved pet into the wild and hoping it came out again. But the Doctor was nothing if not foolishly optimistic. "I do not know. Outside of the Games, I'm not good for much." He smiled at Eva without facing her.

Eva moves another piece around, tucking her tongue right behind her teeth as she thinks her words over. Her eyes cross ever so slightly as she dips back, just for a second, into a well she stopped drinking from twenty-five years ago.

"Stubbornness is one of the hardest things to see in them, isn't it?" Their charges. Their protegees, their children. "Stiffness lends to breaking. You never break a muscle, only bone."

Though muscle can rend and tear like anything else, she knows. She's done some of that herself.

"Perhaps we can convince her that her brokenness is what they want. She's spiteful enough it may fuel her."

Sigma visibly hesitated before moving his next piece. He wondered how much pressure Eponine could take, if encouragement for her to stay broken would only do her worse - but he had faith Eva's motherly intuition. "I fear she may sell her act too well and begin to believe it herself." He lifted his eye and it was cold, filled with the same determination that had lead him to kill his own son to save strangers. "But I trust you."

At last he moved a pawn to take one of Eva's pieces, leaving the other side wide open. He believed this risk might lure Eva's stronger pieces towards him, where perhaps he could catch a glimpse of her strategy.

"I wouldn't," she says gruffly. "But if she can find empowerment in playing to an act, it's better than finding no strength at all. The girl needs to feel wanted, and if the fact that they keep bringing her back isn't enough to do it..."

Eva taps her lip with her fingernail, chipped at the edges where she's been chewing it. She snakes a bishop on the white squares between his pawns on the black, giving the false pretense of aggression. It isn't as if Eva can't be aggressive, but she's also patient. A mad dog pulls at its chain and howls its warnings; a crocodile simply waits in the shallow end, only its eyes and nose visible.

Consoling Eponine wasn't enough, either, it seemed. In a seemingly uncharacteristic gesture Sigma placed an elbow on the outskirts of the chess table and rested a cheek in his palm, as if sulking, though his expression never changed. He'd long feigned the part of a sophisticate, but with the discomfort of wearing inherited clothes: it had never suited him the way he'd liked and after so many years the holes were starting to show through. Deep in frustration, he almost missed Eva's move. He's also too preoccupied to concentrate on his own and sends a knight forward towards the bishop thoughtlessly, finally beginning to empty the squares around his royalty.

"As long as such a strategy will work, I will do it," he confirms, but adds, "so consider this one under my care. For now, you should give yourself some time to recover." He means to alleviate her burden if only a little. Though he takes no pride in it, he never considered his bleeding heart - even for near strangers - a weakness.

"Recover?"

She lifts her eyebrows slightly, as if it takes a moment to connect that sentence with the bruises that contour her face like daubs of paint. "I've suffered worse than this, Dr. Klim. I think maybe it's you who should take time to recover."

The memories of what happened after her Arena aren't as fresh as they were yesterday, but they still sneak up on her sometimes, make the back of her hands tense, catch her breath and steal it.

Sigma's hard stare relaxes into a smirk. "Me? I am much the same..."

He straightens up and folds his hands on his lap again. "No doubt they showed it on the television. Time magic..." Subconsciously, he rubs his left arm, always left uncovered, as if in pain. The invisible scars hurt him more than a lost eye or arm, and he's sure it's no different for her. He wonders if the rest of the victors are like her, or if they are so arrogant to pretend theirs do not exist. "I have lived my own death many times over already. I will be fine..." At least as fine as she will be.

"And you suppose that it toughens your skin, rather than wearing you down?" She folds her hands, entwines her fingers, rests her chin on them. Her eyes trace a line from square to square, until the words crawl up over the edge of her lip. "Check, dear."

Nothing's Changed [Open]

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