Chapter 2: Lots of rules and no mercy

Claudius slips out from his room early the next morning, holding his breath and glad that the Capitol doors don't creak or make noise as they slide open. Lyme told him last night that everything depends on secrecy and speed; if Nero figures out what he's doing, if he's come to the same idea, if he can somehow get Nikita to enact it first, then everything is for nothing. Claudius has to get downstairs to the training room before everyone else, and he can't be seen doing it.

Lyme is awake and up at the breakfast table when Claudius sits down; he's already dressed in his training uniform, and Lyme nods in approval. And it's not the right time for this, not when he'll likely be dead in a few weeks, but Claudius can't help it; seeing that she's pleased with him, even for something dumb like getting up on time, erases some of the weight from his shoulders. Claudius lets himself bask in it for about three seconds before he shoves it back; he can deal with his attachment issues later.

He tugs his plate toward him and eats everything in front of him, quickly and methodically. He's heard of the typical Capitol bounty provided for the tributes in the other floors, but Careers don't have the time to waste stuffing themselves full of stew and cakes and airy pastries or whatever else it is that the others gorge themselves on. Now more than ever Claudius has to be careful; he needs to build up his weight, fuel himself and store as much energy as he can while he has the wherewithal to do it. He doesn't complain that the food in front of him is plain and boring; he eats it as fast as he can without making himself sick, then rises from the table.

Lyme nods at him and gestures to the door; Claudius nods back and slips out. She will spend the day with the sponsors and those laying the odds, doing her best to generate interest despite what seems like a clear-cut outcome; meanwhile it's up to Claudius to start planting the seeds right now.

His heart hammers as he leaves the Two floor and the Peacekeepers flank him, taking him to the training room. It's all happening now, and his breakfast sits a little uneasily in his stomach but not enough to worry him. For the meat - especially this year, it's not as though strategy is going to help them - the Games don't really start until the countdown reaches zero. For Claudius, it starts right now.

He is the first to make it to the training room, and Claudius very carefully holds back his sigh of relief. Good. Only a handful of Gamemakers are present in the box, and they're eating breakfast and chatting with each other instead of paying attention, but that's fine. One of them glances at Claudius as he walks in, but Claudius doesn't acknowledge him; better for him to pretend he isn't aware of them, or at least has forgotten they exist. In order for this to work he needs to be as natural as possible.

It's completely different to how he was trained, when he was to appear as media-savvy as he could, plenty of knowing glances and arranging himself for the camera. All of that is out the window now; Claudius needs to separate himself from the rest of the Careers, and one of the best ways to do that is to ensure that their best show ends up looking artificial and posed.

Claudius walks right past the weapons station and toward the agility equipment. He's always been fast, and his lack of bulk means he's much more flexible than the other Two males. He's never thought to put it to much use - it's not exactly in keeping with the usual image - but now it's exactly what he needs. Claudius rubs the chalk on his hands, dusts off the excess on his pants, and rolls up his sleeves. His actions leave white powder all over his uniform - it's not sloppy, but it is careless, and that will set him apart from the others right away. He runs a hand through his hair, lets out a breath, and jumps up onto the steady rings, ignoring the ring grips helpfully laid out for the tributes, and swings himself into a routine.

The rings have absolutely no combat application, no use at all other than to showcase upper body strength, but it's something Claudius used to do back when he was younger to pass the time. He might not have the sheer weight of the others, but thanks to sneaking in to practice weapons training with the bigger kids from the age of eight onward, Claudius has managed to build his shoulders and arms to impressive levels even if they don't look it. He used to practice the rings during free time just because almost no one else ever bothered, and he liked being able to work out without having to posture and fight for use of a machine.

He goes through the moves by rote, enjoying the burn in his muscles, until he hears the other tributes start to trickle in. The twelve-year-olds are almost all silent, some of them already sniffling, but Claudius continues until he hears the first burst of brash laughter. The Careers are here. He lets himself drop into the resting position, ostensibly to give himself a count of five to catch his breath, and he marks the Pack, for now the predictable other five members. No point in trying to ally with anyone else unless one of the twelves turns out to be a secret master of stealth techniques or something.

They stop when they notice him, and Claudius is grimly pleased to see Nikita fold her arms over her chest, her expression stormy to cover her surprise. Good. Whatever she and Nero worked out, she didn't expect him to be there this far ahead of her, and without access to her mentor until dinner, she won't be able to work out a new plan in time. After a second she moves her gaze away from him, leaning in to the girl from Four and whispering something in her ear.

They aren't a set. Claudius has made that clear to anyone watching already, and it's left Nikita on edge. Nobody likes to be the odd Career out in the Pack, and Claudius has already struck the first blow by putting her off balance. Whether the others decide to accept her, ostracizing him, or to use his gesture as an opening to cut her out too, only time will tell, but Claudius expects to see results by the end of the day.

It's not enough, though. Twos usually work in pairs until the alliance breaks, but not always; for one to ignore his district partner is not unprecedented, especially during an unusual year like this. The Gamemakers won't mark this as interesting enough to pass it on to the sponsors and bookies just yet, not on this alone. Claudius has to do more than that.

He lets go of the rings and drops down onto the mats. The Pack stands in the centre of the room, monopolizing the space, and normally Claudius would be right there with them, mocking the meat for their incompetence and trying to psych them out by staring. He swallows. This is it. They're between him and the edible plants station, where one of the twelves is standing with a broken, lost expression on his face, and this is the moment.

More Gamemakers have arrived, and they're watching the tributes with at least cursory interest. Claudius swallows, lets out a breath, and then walks right past the Pack on his way to the edible plants. He makes sure to knock hard against the shoulder of the One boy on his way by, and when the One bares his teeth and asks "What's your problem, man?" Claudius just gives him a cold look over his shoulder and keeps on walking.

The first Gamemaker stops talking and turns to look. Claudius keeps his expression still, but inwardly he pumps his fist. First point to him.

Now or never. Claudius parks his hip against the table and looks down at the twelve, who jumps and stares up at him with panicked red-rimmed eyes. "So what district are you from?" Claudius asks. He keeps his voice neutral, the sort of curious that only happens because he's bored, not because he's deeply invested. It's a fine line to walk. Either way he pretends not to notice the district number on the kid's uniform, patches on each sleeve and one just above the middle of his shoulder blades. Not the point.

"Seven," says the boy in a quiet voice, and he shies away from Claudius but isn't running. The trainer in charge of the station gives Claudius a look, warning him that if this is some kind of trick so he can stab the boy and run, it won't be appreciated.

"Huh," Claudius says. He picks up one of the plants, a spiky thing with dark leaves that he can't remember the name of but knows he should only eat if he plans on squatting over a hole for the next three days. "So did you know Johanna Mason?"

It does suck for Seven. Outliers almost never win twice in a row, and last year's victor's trick of playing up the sobbing, terrified weakling means that strategy is out for anyone else. Oh well.

But then Seven gives Claudius a look, exasperated and almost annoyed, before he remembers where he is and who he's glaring at and everything turns back into panic. Claudius raises his eyebrows. "What's that for?" he grins, and it's still his scary-as-shit smile but it's not his I'm-gonna-gut-you one, so there's that. "No fighting before the Arena, so go ahead and say it."

Seven chews on his lip, then finally in a burst of bravery he says, "Seven is a big district! We don't all know each other but everybody thinks we do!"

Claudius actually laughs, legitimately, and he has to catch himself before that goes too far. "My bad," he says, snickering. "Well, you learn something new every day." He drops the plant and brushes off his hands. "Say that at your interview. It'll make them laugh."

Seven frowns. "Why would you tell me that?"

Because letting them see me tell you means I might actually get to live. "Free sample," Claudius says. The uniforms have no pockets, but he hooks his fingers in the belt loops and saunters off.

The Pack watches him with crossed arms and narrowed eyes, and their body language is all angled toward each other. Good.

"There are two ways this could go," Lyme warned him last night. "They could panic and splinter off into their own pairs, or they could band together even tighter because you're breaking the pattern and that's what they know. We can deal with the first if it happens, but the second will be easier. The closer they are, the more you'll stand out. If you play it right, by the time they get it, it's too late."

Four curls his lip. "So, what, you're a meat-lover now?" he calls out. At least three of the twelves flinch.

Claudius holds his gaze, his stare impassive, until he's sure the Gamemakers are watching, and then he yawns deliberately and rubs at his eye with his middle finger extended. Four hisses, the veins in his neck standing out, and Claudius turns his back. Seven lets out a shocked, semi-hysterical giggle and immediately claps his hands over his mouth, eyes wide and horrified. Claudius makes sure the Gamemakers can see it when he winks.

Lyme shuts the door behind them. She fixes him with a long, measuring look, and Claudius stands still at attention, his hands shaking from the sheer force of trying to will them not to ball into fists. "You did it," she says at last. "They 'leaked' footage of you in training to some of the sponsors and bookmakers. You did good."

Claudius sags, just a little, but he swallows instead of letting himself relax. It's harder than he would've thought to keep the desperation off his face; ever since he was little, the other kids always made fun of him for lighting up whenever a trainer gave him even the slightest praise. "So what do we do now?"

"Now we play your angle." Lyme's eyes flick over his face, and when her gaze hardens a little Claudius knows she saw it, the need and desire and the wanting and he composes himself but it's too late. She saw it. "You need to tell me why you're here."

Claudius licks his lips. He can do the speech as well as any of them; he's been able to rattle off the whole spiel about honour and glory and pride for his district, the Capitol, the President and Panem, but he senses that isn't what she wants. Still, he's not sure that what she wants is an abandoned kid's oaths, hissed into a tear-soaked pillow, either. "Is this a trick question?"

"I've got your file," Lyme tells him. "They tried to send you home every chance they could, but you wouldn't take it. Any time they sent you away, you ran right back and you made them take you. Tell me why."

Claudius looks down. He has paint under his fingernails from the camouflage station, and he stares at that, the smudges of green and grey ground into his calluses. Well. She's asked him now, and what's the worst thing that can happen? She'll decide he's a fraud and a weakling and let him die anyway, and he'll just bite the dust for sure instead of having a one in six chance of walking out alive?

"Nobody ever wanted me," he says, and he doesn't look up. He can't. He has to say it and then he can look at her and see the judgement on her face. "You've got my file, you saw it. Even the families who thought they did, I was too mean, too angry, not cute enough, whatever. But if I win, I get a mentor and the Village and I'll be with people who understand me. Forever. If I don't get that, it doesn't matter if I'm in the Arena or in some shitty apartment in Careertown. Either way I'm dead." He laughs, and he's not crying but he does dig a knuckle between his eyes. "Don't think we can put that one on TV, but you did ask."

Lyme says nothing for a long time, and when Claudius finally gets up the courage to look at her, her expression is blank in the way that means it's because she's forcing it to be that way. "We can use that," she says, slowly, carefully. "But you need to be all right with it, and what it means for you." She folds her arms. "It means the Pack will hunt you. You put yourself out there as vulnerable, someone who actually wants something beyond the usual line, and that's blood in the water. They'll try to take you down before you even get in, make you look like a joke. You'll have to be prepared."

Absurdly, Claudius remembers being ten or so, around when the kids were playing the 'which mentor would you want' game, and drawing a picture in his free time. It was the typical thing he'd seen other kids do in the orphanages during his short stints there, the house with the flowers and the kid and the imaginary parent, and some of them saw him and laughed at him but they didn't notice that both the kid and the mom in Claudius' picture had swords at their waists and a line of black around one wrist.

"If you think it will help," he says, and raises his head. Lyme smiles at him, and it's just a little one, tense and tight, but it's real and it hits Claudius right in the gut, and yeah, he's in trouble, but it's too late now.

Lyme walks with him to training the next day, and mentors aren't allowed in the room with the tributes so she stops outside the door, their Peacekeeper escorts behind her. They waited a little longer this morning; the Careers are already there, and about half of the others, and while they pretend not to, Claudius knows everyone is looking.

"Give 'em hell," Lyme says, and and she grips Claudius by the back of the neck and gives him a small shake. Her fingers slide through his hair on the way out, and she warned him she would do it and he knows it's for show but it isn't, quite, and Claudius smiles at her before he can pull it back.

"Yes ma'am," he says, sharp and smart and just a little cheeky, and he tosses off a salute that's all three but definitely more of the third. Lyme snorts, and Claudius heads into the training room, his heart thumping. If any of that footage makes it out, people will be falling off their seats; Two mentors and their tributes have historically been very professional and very, very private. Affection is for the ones who die.

Judging by the look the Pack gives him as he walks in, this wasn't lost on them.

"Well that was cute," drawls District One, Male. "Did she tuck you in at night, too?"

"Just because yours is using you as a stepladder for their career doesn't mean mine is," Claudius shoots back, and he hums to himself and heads for the weapons. He spent all day yesterday avoiding them; now it's time to show everyone that he didn't do that because he doesn't know how to use them.

"Hey," calls out Seven as Claudius passes, and it's a quick, brave burst, like he wasn't sure whether to do it but finally decided to hell with it.

"Morning," Claudius says, and tosses off a casual wave. "Try the ropes." He doesn't look to see if the kid follows his advice - Claudius can't set himself up as the best friend or anything, not when he's going to be sticking knives into the little ones next week - but it doesn't matter, he's done his job. Now to remind them how he got here.

Whether a Career picks a specialty and sticks with it depends on their image, and Lyme told Claudius he can't do that. He has to play against the mould, and that means not letting them pin him down and attribute characteristics to his chosen weapon. That's fine; they could never find one to hold him to in training, either, and the Centre tended to err on the side of versatile unless there was something extremely iconic.

He does the rounds instead. He picks up a few swords, tests their weight before choosing the one that fits best, and he works over the training dummies in a smooth, almost perfunctory way; he doesn't bother scowling at them or smirking or anything to make it clear these are people analogues. That's the kind of game for later, if he plays it at all; Claudius just goes through the moves with all his skill and none of the acting, and when he finishes he slides the sword into place on the rack and moves on to the staffs.

Claudius doesn't skip a single weapon, even the ones like the bow and arrow that he's less proficient at; normally he would be ordered to stay away from those to avoid breaking the myth of Career-omnipotence, but they need to humanize him. That includes him wrinkling his nose at the bola and tossing it completely off the mark before shrugging and nailing the bulls-eye with a spear ten seconds later.

By the time he finishes, the Pack is watching him, and all of them have expressions contorted into anger and hatred. They don't know what game he's playing but they know they don't like it. "Impressive," says the One girl, rolling her eyes. "You gonna suck their dicks next or what?"

"Hey, they're not gonna sponsor me because I'm pretty," Claudius retorts, and she flushes because everyone knows why the girls from her district get their money and it's not because they can gut a man with a sword and not spill a drop of blood on their clothes if they don't want to.

The group's body language tightens again, them putting up a united front against this outsider, this Pack-traitor, the one peeling back the veneer just enough and saying the things that no one ever says out loud. "They're going to think you're suicidal," Lyme had said. "They'll be happy to help you out if you give them the chance." Looking at them now, Claudius believes her.

He spends the rest of the day going through the stations, alternately antagonizing - and thus further ostracizing himself from - the Pack and chatting with the kids. The others saw him talking with Seven, and while none of them are that brave, Claudius notes that they do start aligning themselves so that he's between them and the Pack. Claudius doesn't acknowledge or encourage it - again, he's not their protector, and they'll remember that soon enough - but it's good for the others to see it happening even if he pretends not to himself.

At one point near the end of the afternoon, they all line up to wait for their turn on the climbing rig, a combination of ropes, bars, and rings over a fifteen-foot drop.. The boy from Nine is ahead of Claudius, and he's too short to see over the Careers in front of her to watch what's going on, so he turns and glances nervously at Claudius instead. They're standing near the area where the Gamemakers are taking their afternoon snack, and Claudius knows they'll be able to hear the conversation without much effort. Good.

"Saw your Reaping," Claudius says, and the boy flinches but doesn't run. "You didn't cry. Good for you."

His eyes dart away. "Too scared to cry."

"Everybody's scared," Claudius says, and he doesn't exclude himself or the Pack from this and knows they'll note that. "Lots of people cry anyway. That's good. Shows you're strong."

Nine snorts, and he fingers the sleeves of his training uniform. "Not like it's gonna help me," he says, almost defiant, his broad outlying vowels twanging. "I wouldn't die any faster if I cried."

Claudius has a split second to wonder what it must be like to be the meat and go in not knowing it's going to be you, not have the preparation and the training, and he might have thrown up the first time he drove a dagger up beneath a man's jaw and into his skull when he was fourteen years old but he'd take that over being this kid any day.

"Still," Claudius says with a shrug. "You got family?"

Nine isn't eager to play nice like Seven. His expression shutters off, and he folds his arms across his skinny chest. "Yeah," he says, almost challenging. "Two brothers."

"Reaping age?"

"Fifteen and seventeen." Nine hunches a little, but he's mad now, Claudius can see it, mad at everything, and he clenches his jaw.

"Huh." Claudius presses his lips together and shakes his head, and if he's done this right then they'll be able to use that moment later. All in good time, though. Plus it's Nine's turn, and the kid moves up to the rig only to get stuck halfway across, arms too shaking to let him move forward, but too stubborn or frozen to let go.

The trainer clucks her tongue and starts to go after him, but then she stops and glances back instead. "You think you can get him down?" she asks, one hand on her hip, and she looks right at Claudius.

Claudius wonders if Lyme bribed her, or if she's been instructed to play this up a bit to create interest. They have to do something. "Sure," he says, rolling his shoulders.

In another year, Claudius might have thrown something at him to startle him and make him let go, or climbed out on the bars and pried his fingers loose, letting him drop. This year, he knows what he has to do. Claudius scales the ropes, works his way across the rings, and comes up short next to Nine. He hooks one arm over the bar and holds out his arm. "C'mon," he says. "Grab my arm, I'll bring you back."

Nine gives him a suspicious look and even glances down like he's measuring how much it would hurt him to fall. "Right, so you can throw me down?"

Claudius rolls his eyes. "Yeah, exactly, because I need to toss twelve-year-olds off the obstacle course to feel tough. Seriously, I can do this without your help if I have to but it'll take twice as long and I'll be pissed. It's easier if you hold on."

Nine stares at him for a while longer, but eventually he nods. "I can't make my fingers loosen," he says in a near whisper. "They're really stuck."

"It happens." Claudius grabs the kid around the waist and pulls him hard enough to force his fingers free; the sudden weight dump jars him hard enough that his shoulder socket burns, but Claudius ignores it. He convinces Nine to get his arms around Claudius' neck, and he makes his way over to the far side of the course without any problems. "Down," he says when they reach the end, and Nine finally lets go and drops the last few feet to the mats.

The Pack watches him like they wish they could poison him to death with their eyes, and Claudius acts like he doesn't notice.

Right before the end of the day's session, as they're all finishing up at their final stations, Claudius catches the way District Four, Male, tenses right before he throws the harpoon he's been practicing with. Claudius throws himself into a roll even before Four pretends to lose his footing, twists and sends the weapon right at him; it wouldn't have skewered him to death or anything, but one good injury could put Claudius out of the running anyway. He dives to avoid the harpoon, but it brings him down hard on the shoulder he wrenched on the climbing course, and Claudius sucks in his breath in a sharp hiss of pain.

"No fighting!" yells the trainer.

"Sorry," Four calls out in a singsong. "Guess I didn't see you down there with the meat."

Claudius narrows his eyes and bares his teeth, just a little - he might be playing the outsider but that doesn't mean he's the pushover - and he knows the effect, when combined with his decidedly un-pretty face, is one to see. Four doesn't flinch, but he doesn't try it again, either, not yet, though Claudius isn't stupid enough to think this is over. It's just the beginning, and the longer it goes the worse it will get.

Lyme is waiting for him when the training session ends. "How'd it go?" she asks, and claps him on the injured shoulder.

Claudius allows himself a wince and another intake of breath through his teeth, but he pretends to brush it off regardless. There are cameras in the halls, too, and just because nobody's there in person doesn't mean no one is watching. "Good," he says, shifting to rub at his arm.

"What's that?" Lyme asks, her gaze zeroing in on the way he holds himself.

"Nothing much. I'll walk it off."

Lyme gives him a look. "Ignoring an injury when you don't have to isn't strong, it's stupid, especially right now. Let's get back and we'll ice it."

"Yes ma'am," Claudius says, and he steps a little closer into her space as they walk.

Instead of taking him back through the labyrinth of tunnels and corridors back to the living complex, Lyme leads Claudius outside. Claudius has a second to wonder what she's doing before he hears it, the chatter and low, murmuring roar of a crowd, the snap of flashbulbs and shouted questions. It's reporters, standing outside the complex and waiting for any tribute to show their faces.

"Follow my lead," Lyme says in a low voice, and Claudius nods.

"Always," he says, and she shoots him a quick smile.

The crowds press in close when they come outside, though nobody is suicidal enough to try to touch him. They all shout at once, and Claudius pretends to scan them, deciding who to call on, but really he watches Lyme to get the cue from her. Finally she narrows her eyes a fraction and points with her chin at a woman whose hair looks like a sheep went through a mid-life crisis and fell in a tank of cerulean glitter. Claudius makes eye contact with the woman, which is all she needs to push forward and thrust a microphone in his face.

"District Two! We've seen you and your district partner in the promo footage a few times, and I have to say, we've noticed a bit of chill between the two. You certainly don't seem to be spending a lot of time together. Is there anything you'd like to say about that?"

"Not really." Claudius shrugs. "Some years district partners have more in common than others."

"He's dead weight, I think, is what he means," calls Nikita from behind him, her voice easy and mocking, and she draws up beside him. She's bristling and dripping with disdain, and behind her stands Nero, silent and monolithic. "I'm not going to make an alliance with anyone who's going to drag me down. So I guess there is something we don't have in common."

"Ooh, it looks like we have a bit of a rivalry this year," says the woman, and she's zeroed in on the disgust in Nikita's expression, like a hawk folding in its wings and plummeting down toward a rabbit on the ground.

"I think that's a bit of an exaggeration," Nikita laughs, and tosses her braids over her shoulder. "Both parties need to be on the same level for it to be a rivalry. I'm not sure what word I would use, but I'm sure you guys can think of something when you write it up later."

Claudius rolls his eyes instead of baring his teeth at her, and he watches with a frisson of fear and satisfaction as something ugly passes over Nikita's face. The reporters catch it, too, and the woman with the microphone waits to see if either of them plans to elaborate before moving on. "So tell me, what was going through your head on the morning of the Reaping? Why did you volunteer?"

She says this to Claudius but she doesn't refer to him by name. Claudius would be very surprised to learn she actually knew it. "I have my reasons," Claudius says, and he lets his expression go hard and faraway. "There's something I want, and only winning the Games will get it for me. That's all I'm going to say right now."

Lyme surprises him then by letting a hand fall on his good shoulder, and she rubs her thumb, comforting, against the line of muscle in his upper arm. It's a gesture of solidarity, and it says more in those few seconds than an entire speech: Claudius might not have his district partner, but he's not alone. The reporters actually falter, and the cameras nearly explode in their haste to capture the moment. Two mentors don't touch their tributes. Ever. Claudius looks up at her, and she gives him a half-smile, reassuring and private, and Claudius smiles back, pleased and open, before he remembers that this isn't private, this is in fact the absolute furthest thing from private. But Lyme wouldn't have forgotten; she wouldn't have done this if she didn't want them to see.

They ask Nikita the same question, and she gives a perfect answer, practiced and trained and drilled into her since she was sixteen years old: bringing pride to her district and honour for the country, dedication and glory to the Capitol. Claudius glances at the crowd, sees that some of them aren't even writing down her words, but they are watching him and Lyme. Another flick of his gaze and he sees Nero, stone-silent and still but with a muscle in his jaw working.

"Anyway," Nikita ends up, and she sees it too but she's too good to let it throw her. She just ploughs on, but Claudius is suddenly very glad that his bedroom door has a lock on it. "I think it's pretty clear just from looking at us which one should be the favourite." She laughs again and winks.

"Oh, well, now, let's not get personal just yet," chuckles the woman, and Claudius lets his jaw go taut. It's the prep team all over again, and let them think that it gets under his skin. Let them think that he's sensitive about his looks. Lyme's fingers tighten on his shoulder, and they see that, too.

"It's true," Claudius says, and he doesn't send his voice right to airy and casual like Nikita; he allows just a bit of an edge underneath it. "They say I have a face only a mentor could love." He pauses a second, waits to make sure they heard the play on the common phrase, and then he looks at Lyme again and grins. "Right, Lyme?"

Tributes don't acknowledge their mentors, either. Nero still doesn't move, but the lines around his eyes multiply as his muscles do their best to stop his eyes from widening. The entire crowd goes silent for a few precious seconds, shocked stupid, and that's when Lyme laughs. "Yeah, yeah," she says, and she punches him in the arm. "C'mon, time to go."

"Yes ma'am." Claudius turns back to the reporters. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get going."

The reporter tries one last-ditch effort to stop him. "When can we see you next?"

"I have it on good authority I'll be on every television in the country next week, so I guess you could tune in if there's nothing better on," Claudius jokes, and he winks at her before Lyme cuffs him on the back of the head, light and good-natured. "Okay, okay, I'm coming - sorry guys, the boss calls, but it's been a pleasure."

Lyme tugs him through the door and leans against it, bracing herself against the metal. He can't read her expression, but he thinks she looks like she wants to sigh in relief but doesn't dare. "What's done is done," she says. "You did good, kid. Time to ice that shoulder."

She tends to his shoulder with the sort of quiet competence that only comes from years of putting broken kids back together, efficient and quick, and it's not nurturing by any means but Claudius still wishes it would last longer. He's never really thought of himself as touch-starved until Lyme's hands leave his arm, and then Claudius nearly pulls his shoulder out again in his haste to get his shirt back on just so he won't feel cold.

It's nothing creepy. He's not interested in Lyme like that, it's not like he wants her hands on him in any weird sexual kind of way, but it makes him think about after, when he would hypothetically have far worse wounds to heal and whether she would be allowed to be more indulgent then. But there's no time for that. Claudius pushes it away.

"All right, here's the thing," Lyme says, and Claudius sits back against the pillows and draws his feet up. "We've laid the groundwork down. From now on what I want you to do is just keep up with the plan, and not try to think too far ahead. That's not your job, that's mine. If we both do ours, there's a chance it will work, all right?"

Claudius nods. He's always over-thought things, always tried to get ahead by making suggestions and trying to pull the strings behind everything, but he knows he can't. In the Arena you can't think. Thinking is for the meat; thinking gets you dead, because while you're thinking things are happening and by the time you're done thinking about them they've probably killed you. It's something they drill into them at the Centre as soon as they pass their exams at thirteen; you don't ever think. You let the mentors do the thinking, and you obey.

"It's looking better," Lyme says. "Your support is rising. What you did today will give people a reason to root for you. You're letting them see a little bit behind the Career mask and that's enough to keep them interested. It's not enough, but it's a start."

And who knew all they had to do was sell out the most sacred bond in all of District Two. Claudius does feel a little bit like he tried to wash his face from a mud puddle, but he trusts his mentor. Plus it's nice to pretend that they're actually friends, that they have this secret connection.

Lyme watches him, eyes narrowed, and finally she squares her shoulders like she's making a decision. "Okay. Cards on the table. If we're going to sell you as the kid who's in it for a family, then we need to sell this, us. That means we can't just pull it all out of our asses."

Claudius stills. "What do you mean?"

Lyme smiles at him, and it's not huge and wide and open but it's also not the tight, restrained for-cameras smile she's been giving him. "Do you know why I wanted you?"

Claudius sucks in a breath. "Well I know it's not because I'm pretty," he jokes, but it slides underneath him and he can't quite get a good hold on it.

"It's because you needed me," Lyme says, just like that, and Claudius' eyes go wide. "I saw your file. I saw you. I saw a kid who's fought harder and clawed his way through more than any candidate I've ever seen. You survived a ton of shit and you kept on going. They gave you chance after chance to turn back, with no penalty or repercussion, and promises of a good steady job, but you wouldn't."

She looks down at her hands. "I saw what you went through. All the placements that didn't work, all the people telling you they didn't want you. You could've turned too mean even for the Centre to use, it happens. But you're the plant growing in the middle of an abandoned city and nobody can figure out how you got there or how you managed. You're a survivor where anyone else would've given up." Lyme still doesn't look at him, and Claudius is glad because he doesn't think he'll be able to keep it together if she does. "Most of the kids who come through here, they don't know what they want. They're here because we made them, and it's my job to do everything I can so that's not in vain. But you - you made yourself, and you've always known what you want. If nothing else, I knew I could give you that."

Claudius twists his fingers in the fabric of his pants. "Even if it's just until I die?"

"Kid, I'm gonna tell you a secret." Lyme finally meets his gaze, and Claudius can't move. "It's always until you die. You make it out of here and Two has your back forever."

Claudius digs the heel of his hand against his eye socket. "What if I'm only alive for another two weeks?"

"Then there's no reason for me to hold back, is there," Lyme says, and Claudius wants to argue that of course there is but he can't.

"Okay," Claudius says, and he covers his face with his hands. His chest aches and he swallows hard. "Okay, can you just, I'm gonna need a minute here. And this was a really good talk and I don't want it to be for nothing because you lose respect for me, so -"

"I'll read my book," Lyme says. She doesn't have a book.

Claudius counts off three hundred seconds in his head. He gives himself those five minutes to press his forehead against his knees and cry: for the years of curling up alone in a bed too big for him; for grasping for every scrap of praise and affection the trainers ever gave him; for dreaming of hands stroking his hair and telling him he's loved, only to wake and set fire to his bed the next morning because at least if they're calling him a monster they're not ignoring him; for finally getting a taste of the deep, dark need twisting in his gut just in time for him to bleed out in a ditch.

Three hundred seconds, and Claudius sits up, drags a hand down his face, and clenches his jaw. "Now what?"

"We have two days before the interview," Lyme says, and she doesn't comment on the fact that Claudius just burst into tears in front of her, that he never mastered the art of looking pretty when he cried but instead turns into something out of a book of horror stories. "This is what you need to do."