Filling her sister's bearings in the 74th Hunger Games, trekking into the arena and (conceivably) kicking the bucket at sixteen was a fate she deemed to be the most horrid.

A (rumored) drunkard for a mentor was a belated insertion to her list of concerns. What wasn't considered, though, was Effie's hapless draw of your name out of thousands of candidates.

To converse with you wasn't squarely on par in terms of "bad." Realization of being a lone victor did.

Solitary triumph meant sending her fellow tribute, fellow competitor, and previous lover to eternal rest. To send a part of herself, of the memories she built with you, along with it.

A pang that sent to her heart, dooming her lungs to cram. Suffocated the admission that she still cares. So, she settled on a casual starter, "...How have things been for you?" and seized the topic as her lifeline.

Your lashes plummet in such a scurry the haste pressed your lids' heightened shock to normality. "...Good," your throat strangled out like a fish caught in a net. "What about you?"

"Things are...were well. You know, before things escalated to this." This being their rumps coerced to repose on the navy fluff of chairs.

So rich, so plush it absorbed every bodily jitter once brainwork spared a thought to the train's endpoint. The Capitol; a literal beeline to their demise.

Impossible not to timidly nod at that, to which Katniss projected an equally fragile grin. Edges strained, stiff cheeks atop. A courteous visage bred to duel the urge of addressing the elephants in the room.

Death and shared history neither forms craved to breach. So, the faux fronts ebbed when mutual interest were situated to the window's blurred greenery. Then, they lapsed into the inevitable silence.

Thick and oppressive.

"Do you think he'd be any good?" was her final trial at keeping this thread afloat. When you whirl your vision to her, she elaborated, "our mentor."

"I've heard..." her lips trimmed, as though it'd deaden the judgment. "He's a cynical mess."