Peeta was at school when the Avox arrived.

Of course, his mother had been talking about its arrival for weeks and what it meant for their family. Or more to the point, to her career. The honor. The prestige. The faith in their political loyalty. Peeta had tuned most of it out. Frankly, he tuned out most of what his mother said. But he still knew that the new arrival was coming today; he just wasn't sure how he felt about it.

Of course, he'd seen Avoxes before. Like most people in the Capitol, he'd observed them in the shopping centres and entertainment complexes, trailing behind their masters, burdened with packages and doing their bidding. And whenever his parents had hosted a dinner party, they'd rented them, eager for the prestige the ghostly red servers granted.

But he'd never actually spoken to one until the moment he arrived home and found himself face-to-face with the pale, trembling Avox who'd been bound in perpetuity to the Mellark family for crimes against the Capitol.

The apartment was empty. His mother was at her administrative job in the justice service. She was a press liaison, scheduling executions and public punishments like floggings for broadcast. His father was rarely home these days. It took time and effort to remain as perpetually addicted as he did. And his brothers were both at work: Rye at the gamemaker's complex, gleefully devising new tortures for the next hapless round of competitors and his brother Bran at the Peacekeeper's training facility, where he was two years into his three years of service training.

The Avox was standing, motionless, by the apartment's floor to ceiling windows, her eyes fixed with unnatural intensity on the marble tile of the living room and so he was able to study her in detail. She was tiny, and the boxy red garments that identified her as a traitor hung on her near skeletal frame. Clearly, her retraining had not been an easy one. She was also younger than he'd expected. Not that he'd ever seen an old Avox – they didn't tend to have a long lifespan, not with the treatment that most of their owners meted out – but those he had seen were usually older than him. In their twenties, at least. But this girl didn't look much older than him, although she was so thin, and her features so pinched, it was hard to be sure. Fifteen maybe, sixteen, if he was forced to guess. Definitely younger than eighteen. It surprised him though. What could someone so young have done to deserve such a fate?

He moved slowly towards her, his hands open, trying to seem unthreatening. Closer, he could see a fine network of scars marking her face and neck, travelling beneath the wide red collar that marked her as an enemy of Panem. She was pale, with dark bruised circles beneath her eyes, but despite this, he could see that her skin was darker than his own, with hints of an olive complexion beneath her unnatural pallor. Her short hair was dark and chopped unflatteringly close to her skull, standing up in myriad directions.

She held herself stiffly, as though prepared for an attack launched from any quarter but her hands, clenched tightly, betrayed her terror. They trembled, making her red cuffs quiver and he felt a dart of pity steal over him, before it was chased away by an overwhelming sense of shame. Wasn't his mother always berating him for his softness?

This girl was a traitor. He had no business feeling sorry for her, not matter how small or how pitiable she appeared. He could almost hear his mother's voice, haranguing him, and he felt his shoulders tighten. He had to force himself to breath.

He wasn't his mother. He wasn't his mother. Her views weren't his.

God, if only that were true!

"Hello," he said at last, when the silence had gotten too oppressive for him to bear. "I'm Peeta." He paused awkwardly, wondering what else he could say to reassure her that he meant no harm. She didn't respond, didn't lift her eyes from the floor,

"Can you hear me?" He felt dumb even asking but if she couldn't hear, how would she be able to serve their family? He knew they couldn't speak, of course. But he'd never met an Avox who was deaf. "Can you…?"

One swift jerk of her chin, up and down, interrupted his questioning.

OK, that answered that question. She's not deaf.

"Has my mother explained your duties? Do you know what's expected of you? Has she shown your sleeping quarters?"

Yes¸her chin replied jerkily. Yes. No.

"Would you…would you like me to show you? I won't…I won't hurt you."

A pause, her eyes fixed intently on her hands. Yes.

Carefully, as though any sudden movements might startle her into flight, Peeta led her through the apartment, down the hall, towards the tiny space where she would rest. It wasn't a room. In fact, before the Avox had been assigned to them, it had been a closet where his mother had stored her off-season fashions. She'd complained mightily about the inconvenience but the allure of their very own slave had finally convinced her to make the sacrifice. Now, there was just enough room for a single mattress, and a hook for the red clothes. No shelves. No books. No pictures. The single bare bulb cast an unrelenting light over the unwelcoming space and Peeta was momentarily ashamed. His room was ten times as large, with every comfort imaginable. How could anyone sleep in such a dreary, oppressive cell?

But the Avox didn't seem to share his discomfort. She crouched down and pressed her hand against the thin pad, seemingly content with its meagre support. She swung the door back and forth, clearly testing its sturdiness.

"Is this OK?"

At his soft-spoken question, the Avox looked up. And finally, she looked at him.

Peeta felt his heart give a weird, frantic lurch when her eyes met his and for a moment, he wondered if was having some sort of an attack. Asthma or panic or something. He felt odd, light-headed even, but the Avox just continued to look at him.

Assessing him.

Considering him.

As though he were the servant and she was the one with all the control.

Her eyes were gray. Wide, clear and so expressive that Peeta would swear he could almost hear her thoughts. Her face revealed nothing. It was a blank, like an empty holovid screen. But her eyes were something else entirely. As he gazed into her eyes, so many emotions swirled within them, he wasn't sure he could identify them all. Fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of him. Fear for her life. Anger. A roiling, bone-deep anger that nearly made him 'd wondered earlier what such a young girl could have done to have earned the enmity of the administration. But looking into her eyes, he no longer wondered. These were the eyes of someone who would dare anything. Do anything. But worse of all, was the grief. A grief so profound, so all encompassing, it nearly took his breath away. His life was safe, sheltered and if he had any unhappiness, they were petty and transitory. But this girl's grief was beyond his comprehension. She had lost something so precious to her, so intrinsic to her sense of self, it was a miracle her heart was still beating.

And without thinking, acting on the impulse that so often got him in trouble, he reached out and touched her dry, papery skin, cradling her cheek and running his thumb across the pale network of scars as though his touch could erase them.

"My god, what have they done to you?"