I remember a conversation Cinna and I once had.

It was before the Quarter Quell, before the warning he gave me. He had told me to come to his apartment to plan Katniss and Peeta's outfits for the upcoming Games. Apparently, all that consisted of doing was sitting in front of the fireplace and watching it for hours.

We had been sitting there for a very long time already, so that every time I blinked an image of the coals remained imprinted on my eyelids. Cinna sighed deeply and shifted in his chair.

"Why do they do it, Portia?" he asked quietly. He seemed to realize that this needed some elaboration, so he said, "The Games, I mean."

"You know why," I said. "To show the districts that they don't have any power."

"I know why," he said, the exasperation in his voice not directed at me. "But why?"

He was looking at me, desperate for answers. The firelight turned his eyes gold. I could only shake my head.

"Do you ever wish," he said slowly, hesitating, "that you could change things? Make them better?"

"You shouldn't be saying that," I said automatically. I had spent the years since moving to the Capitol trying to block out any thought that might be considered even slightly rebellious.

"But doesn't it make you angry?" Cinna asked, his voice rising in frustration. I rarely saw him this passionate about anything. "This injustice! It has to stop. The Capitol is using us as pawns; manipulating us in their games."

"Cinna!" I said, surprised. "What's wrong with you? You can't just go around saying those kinds of things."

He snorted derisively and went back to staring into the fireplace. "You're one of them now, too, are you?"

"I'm not just a piece in their games," I said forcefully. "But you have to be careful."

He didn't reply, and a silence fell that was not broken for the rest of the night.

It was only a moment, but I remember it now, seconds from death. Cinna was right. For a while, I did become one of them; doing whatever they told me to do with my head bowed.

"I'm sorry, Cinna," I whisper, although he's already gone. "I failed you."

The guns fire.

The darkness engulfs me and I'm drowning. I want to cry out, but I can't. All I want is for it to end.

Then a hand touches mine and the pain disappears. I look up and see a pair of familiar green eyes and a warm, welcoming smile.

He pulls me out of the darkness, and says, "You never failed."

The End.