I didn't expect this. Maybe if I'd bothered to think about such a minor thing as who she'd greet first, I'd have foreseen this, but as it was I'd had other concerns to worry about. And because I wasn't thinking about such a little thing, I'm surprised. She had turned, seen us, the mellow stylist, the insane, although normal by Capitol standards, escort, and me, and not hesitated. Well, if it had been between Effie and I, I wouldn't have been surprised that she leapt into my arms first, but with Cinna present, I was sure she'd run to him. Crying how she'd missed him, thanking him. Well, maybe not the latter. She was rather selfish in that sense. But still, even if she didn't verbalize her feelings, he had been the one who'd made her a favorite, upped her chances to survive, given her a name, the Girl on Fire. Him, and the boy. But she'd ignored him. And I'm surprised. She's gripping me, fiercer than I could have imagined from her present state, running into the arms of the old alcoholic whom we both know she has a certain loathing for. Maybe it's not just that, maybe it's her strength, the way her arms are thin and frail, but grasp me with an unexpected furiousness. I didn't expect that from a scarred, hunted animal. Maybe, that's why I'm surprised, because if I think about the other reason why I might be, I feel like I don't have the right to be.

Maybe I don't. Cinna gave her a name, but I did more. Her mentor. For the first time in a long time, I saw tributes that had fight in them, who tore the wine from my hand and plunged knives into tables several centimeters away from my fingers, and I actually tried. Maybe I'd abandoned the others, but that was irrelevant now. To Katniss, I'd been a mentor. And more, a tribute. I think something can be said for the comfort found in someone who's been in your shoes before. I have. I know what it's like to fear for your life, for others'. To become both the hunter and the hunted. I've even experienced the poverty of living in the Seam, barely scraping by, signing up for tessera just to feed my family, going to bed at night with my stomach growling. And the coal dust. Everywhere. Being covered in it, head to toe, even a merchant could claim that much. Even if these similarities hadn't already existed, anyone and everyone who comes to mind who doesn't live in the Capitol or Districts 1,2, or 4, is in constant fear, knowing the anticipation broiling in their stomachs one day of every yea, at least. Even someone who's never reaped lives under this fear. And for those who are reaped… well. The tributes that weren't victors were usually the luckiest.

And however unique Cinna may be, even as a far shot from the average sadistic, oblivious, freakish Capitol citizen, he still doesn't live in fear like we do. I'm not saying it's his fault, he can't help where he was born anymore than we can, but it does change him. Whether we chose it or not, we've lived in constant fear and poverty, hoping against hope it wasn't our names, dreading when we discovered it was. Cinna will never know that feeling, the specific way in which your stomach roils in knots, whether from hunger or terror. And there comes a certain point when a desire for understanding, for someone who knows what you're going through, is what a person really needs, more than anything else. And at the moment, that's what I am for Katniss. A fellow from District 12, but more importantly, a victor.

There's not too many people who know the exact feeling of being thrown into the arena to kill or be killed, but there are even fewer who know how it feels to come go in and come out alive. Only seventy five people in all of Panem, and most of them are dead now, anyway. And it's worse. Out of all of them, it's best for those who die in the bloodbath, only seconds after the gong rings, I decided a long time ago. That's because the most haunting aspect of the Games isn't when you're hunted, in danger of being slaughtered. A terrible feeling, one I'll never forget, yes, but it doesn't seem as bad if you compare it to when you're the hunter. If I think hypothetically, it doesn't make sense. If you have to kill them, and you know how it feels to be hunted, relative to hunting, wouldn't you think that what you're going through, killing them, is saving them from having to kill you? Doing them a favor? If one supposes that being killed is less painful than killing another, than shouldn't you be fine knowing that you're putting your victim through less pain? So the ones murdered only a few seconds in, who haven't a chance to harm anyone else, have it easy, right? But whenever I think along these lines, I fall into a hopeless circle. All this philosophical crap, it doesn't work that way. It doesn't ease my conscience at all, maybe because it might just be an excuse to convince myself I didn't do anything wrong. It doesn't work. It's not true, because you can tell the tributes aren't thinking that they're lucky when you see the terror in their eyes, their last thoughts as you end their lives. I doubt anyone else thinks in this 'circular logic' I've derived, "Wow, I'm helping this person by killing them!" or "I'm lucky this person's going to end my life so I don't have to live with the guilt of ending theirs! Thanks pal!" That's just not how it works. I guess it's just another pathetic testament to show I've had way too much time to myself to think.

I don't know about Careers, don't know what runs through their heads, but I know most the victors have had way too much time to think as well. Many of them try not to let it show. Chaff, Johanna, me. Cover it up with snarky comments, or, in my case, booze. But it's there. The victors are the ones who hate the Capitol together, who are bound together because of their similarities, the common knowledge of guilt, of murdering, hunting and being hunted in turn, the comfort of knowing someone else is experiencing it with you. Many throughout the Districts resent the Capitol too, for slaughtering their children and letting the poorer Districts starve. But they don't have the same right to unadulterated loathing of them as we do. Watching the Games every year is a horrible ordeal that leaves everyone haunted. But experiencing the Games is hell. And living through them. Dead or alive, you never win. And at least dead, you don't have to live with their blood for the rest of your life.

But there's something else, too. I can tell when I look down at the girl in my arms that it's more than just victor to victor. Maybe it's mentor to tribute, on a more individual level. Maybe it was the way we had unexpectedly been able to communicate while she was in the arena and I was out here. How the sponsors' gifts became massages and signs that we knew the other understood, leaving Peeta oblivious and out of the loop. And maybe what the boy had said was true. I shudder thinking about it, Peeta saying Katniss and I are alike. I'd never admit it, but maybe he's right. Both from the Seam, both victors, both with a temper. And fire. I knew how dangerous of a teenager I'd been, my stunt with the force field was proof of that. The girl in front of me has a similar determination, a will to live that might surpass the one I used to have. We're similar to some extent, that much at least is true. There's certainly hell of a lot she doesn't know about my past, we haven't known each other long after all, but something still can be said. Alcohol and a lifetime of nightmares have left me resigned to my fate. But the girl is youthful, her will to live, to keep those she loves alive, is adamantine. Her own stunt with the nightlock proved that. And while I admire her for her fight, I wish it weren't there. Because I know the Capitol, and they'll never let something like that go unpunished. They'll break Katniss Everdeen, and I won't be surprised. But even if it is going to make her life a hell, this tribute, with her will to survive, and her determination, undermined the Capitol. Foiled her smug would-be killers. She, and to a lesser extent, the boy, had showed the Capitol they weren't just pieces in their Games, even more strongly than I did. I'm not glad she did, but I'm still impressed. So when I whisper, "Nice job, sweetheart," I hope it doesn't sound too sarcastic.

They're alive. Both my tributes. This has never happened, needless to say, I never would have foreseen this. They're alive, for now, at least. But I fear for the boy's life. If they're to make this girl suffer, he, her sister, her 'cousin' I recently learned of, won't be around much longer. Because of Katniss' streak, no matter how admirable, they'll break her. They already broke me. My mother, my brother, my girl. All dead, and they'll do the same to Kantiss' family.

But then, there's the act. Or at least, what I think is an act, the boy and I set it up, anyway. "The Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12". I'd known she didn't love him, really, she'd caused quite a scene with the vase after he professed his love for her on national television. Yeah, that little occurrence with the vase certainly wasn't exactly the most romantic thing in the world. His, I knew was real, his I could see. But hers was an act, a method of survival, that's what she was all about. I don't know why the boy loved her, but he did, maybe he admired her fight even more than everyone else. But she still didn't deserve him. She didn't love him. At least, that's what I'd thought. But now… the berries… I'm not so sure. But really, it doesn't matter what is really between them, if the Capitol believes that it's real, then it might as well be. It was meant as a ruse to begin with, well, excluding the boy, at least, so it won't be any different now. And if it is real… all the better, it will be even easier to convince them if it's genuine. Either way, we have to convince the Capitol the act of the berries was that of a desperate, love-sick girl who wanted to get her boyfriend home, not a rebellious girl attempting to undermine the Capitol's power. Whichever one it really is, they have to think it's the former. Katniss, Peeta, and I. Victors. They're the only family I have left. I can't, I won't let them be extinguished like my dear old mother, my little brother, my girl. Maysilee Donner, and so many others. Two slaughtered children every reaping for twenty three years. My old family's gone. Maybe, hopefully, my new family won't leave. Maybe.