“Too bad I’m the bet that you lost in the reaping, Now what will you do, when I go to my grave?”

You’re ushered off stage and you’re left a mess, of unusually sweaty hands, and trembling fingers. It’s a miracle you didn’t strike the wrong note on the guitar. You swallow as you look around at all the tributes who had done their ‘interview’; it was everyone apart from Jessup.

You chew your lip and fiddle with a loose thread on your skirt, as thoughts of a burnt, battered and unconscious Coriolanus slip into your mind treacherously. Your mind has been overstepping recently, letting you think a little too much about a certain blond haired, Capitol student who happens to be your mentor! You try mentally scolding at your heart, but it flutters still, when you thinks about him.

Was he alright? Was he moving? Was he alive? Unanswered questions send chills down your spine, mixed with shouts of protest, your hands make their way around your waist, to warm yourself as the tributes and yourself are basically hauled into a trailer back to the zoo.

When you arrive back at the zoo, dim lights and the same rocks, untouched leaves and the remnants of glass from that district 10 girl, Brenda? Brandy. She’d killed her mentor. Bold, bold move.

Everyone goes to sleep, and you’ve all established an understanding that you won’t kill each other until you’re all in the Games. It isn’t until a while later this at you hear a rustling and someone whisper your name. Not someone. Coriolanus. You stand and quickly make your way to the bars, glancing over your shoulder each step to make sure no one wakes. When you get there you manage a wobbly smile. “Hi.” You breathe out.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.” He whispers, relieved. You two have a moment before he takes out a small silver compact. You refuse, “Oh no, I can’t take that it’s too fine.”

“It’s not a gift.” He keeps his voice low as he whispers. “Now do not touch this, let alone I inhale it. Small amounts can be deadly.” He pauses and cups your cheek. “We are gonna win this, Songbird.”