Eva Salazar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vissernone) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-07-30 11:48 pm
vissernone) wrote in thecapitol2013-07-30 11:48 pm
Entry tags:
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.
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.
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A long, rather awkward pause, though his tone darkened.
"It was hardly miscommunication. She was just too busy drinking to give a damn. She admitted it herself to me."
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"How much has she been drinking?"
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There was a sudden, real darkness in Jack's voice as he looked down at the chess pieces. For all of his bravado, for all of his swagger, there was that damnable part of him that had to care. He often wondered why he bothered caring about anyone else other than himself in any way whatsoever. It would certainly make things much easier if he didn't.
Yet, he still did. Why was why he had been so angry. Still was.
"She's drunken herself to sickness the several times I've seen it. The time on the communicator hadn't been the only time. She'd been drinking at the Director's party as well, and after that, she went off to drink more. I don't know where she went, but wherever it was, it certainly wasn't the Training Center."
Which was where he'd directed the man taking her to go. What was wrong with him? Couldn't he tell she was in no condition to do further damage to herself?
"The next time I saw her, it was after I had returned from 8. She was making those cuff doily things for some of the Tributes, and acted as if nothing was wrong."
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"Checkmate," she says to Jack, folding her hands. "Maybe that's a signal to you not to question my judgment."
The bruises on her face say otherwise.
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Finally, though, he looked up at Eva, his eyes narrowed as her words sunk in.
"Are you sure about that?"
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"Don't worry, Jack. It's not that embarrassing to lose to a drunken old lady."