(A/N) Hey guys, we're back with our Tuesday update, as Deep and Storm return with a chapter for you all! Gonna keep this short and sweet, because I believe this chapter speaks for itself, and needs no further introduction. Just please, if you enjoyed it as much as I did, leave a review to let us know - it's what we poor writers live for, after all!

sailorraven34: We are indeed going to visit almost every tribute during their stay in the Capitol – we'll miss one or two, as their writers have dropped out, but there's still plenty to come!

Enjoy!

Chapter Twenty – Damaged Goods

Evening Day One

Ororo Munroe of District Eleven

Written by InDeepDarkWood

"Always remember that the crowd that applauds your coronation is the same crowd that will applaud your beheading. People like a show."

— Terry Pratchett

"What did I specifically say, Ororo? What did I say?"

"Don't yell at her, Sam, take it easy."

"Stay out of this, Ross, you don't know shit. What were you supposed to do, Ororo?"

It was easy to forget that Sam was only a couple of years older than Chord when he rounded towards her, his eyes narrowed, and despite setting her jaw and crossing her arms, Ororo found herself taking a small step back from her mentor.

He had been ranting at her – or, at least, in her general direction – since they had been eating dinner in the kitchen, and had continued the tirade as they moved into the ridiculously padded room that held the television and book cases. She had thought her movement might have appeased the man, brought him out of his clouds and back to the reality of the situation, but when it was clear that was not the case, and he spewed out yet more rhetorical questions, the young girl began to find it more difficult to cling onto the little island in her head.

"How could you be so stupid, Ororo? Do you realise what you've done? What this –"

"What else was I supposed to do?" she blurted out in a yell, glaring at the victor and cutting across him. "Just keep hiding? I already know how to hide, thank you very much."

"Yes! You hide and you don't draw attention to yourself!" Sam's hands slammed against the table in front of the couch and he stood back up, resuming his pacing. Perched on the arm of the corner chair, T'Challa drew his legs in to make a path for the older man, remaining quietly thoughtful as opposed to the quietly seething Ororo had been.

"And do what, Falcon? Get a knife through the chest a minute after the start? You have to have hiding spots to hide, Sam! I've seen the Games – I saw that Seven hit the dirt in the bloodbath last year. I know what's coming, so the least you could do is let me have a tiny chance to bring someone down before it happens!" Ororo's voice rose in pitch, making up in noise what she couldn't do in height, the island in her head forgotten. She would not apologise for what happened earlier. Her hands curled into fists against her chest, staring stonily at the elder.

She knew Sam had told her to stay out of the limelight, to stick to the rafters and avoid interacting with anyone except T'Challa. But after her brief encounter with that Twelve girl, and knowing her partner already had the rafters covered, she lost interest in hiding. Hiding was something to be done when outsmarting an orchard Sentinel – who knew about as much as a pig about which apples were what – and avoiding those that wanted to kill her.

Well, she had had plenty of experience in that regard. She suppressed a shudder, recalling howling dogs and violent looking guns, and feeling like she was going to die. A little like now, she thought, shaking her head and looking around the training area. In this instance, however, she had the opportunity to defend herself. After all, even if some of the tributes did look gigantic and mature, they were still just teenagers like she was.

The boy at the hand-to-hand section certainly looked mature, although gigantic would not be an apt word to describe him. She had seen the Seven tribute speak with a few of the others – although, 'speak' was perhaps an exaggeration – and he seemed alright, for someone who was going to try and kill her in a few days. Certainly not someone who would watch her struggle with the stances Rand told her to take and make a note of what an easy target she was. She hoped, at least, that her view of the tribute was right, her gaze flicking over at him as he seemingly effortlessly moved into the sequence the trainer was demonstrating.

"Eleven, concentrate," Rand stated sharply, and she flinched and completely lost whatever grace she had, staggering on one foot. Righting herself, she shot the trainer a dark look, though her good eye was obscured with her hair, so she didn't think he noticed.

She tried the close combat movement again as he turned to watch her, holding out his hand for her to kick. Three times she tried to reach the unreachable height of the towering trainer, and each time she failed, the island in her head slipping further out of reach and her face growing hot as the Seven stopped and watched, his arms crossed.

"You're too tall," she complained eventually.

"So adapt," Rand said with a shrug.

"What, make some stilts mid-fight?" she snapped, turning towards Seven, who'd let out what she thought was some attempt of laughter at her words. Closer inspection made her think it was more of a grunt of acknowledgement, and she gave him a small frown.

"I'll show you a better way," the tribute grumbled, as though it physically pained him to say so.

"Look, I know you're not tree height, but you're still bigger than me," she pointed out, gesturing towards herself.

"Just...Just watch, kid." Ororo crossed her arms, the frown deepening at the term, reminding her of her family back home, as Seven went through a slow-motion altered version of what Rand had shown her. It took greater effort, involving launching himself off the ground and twisting to avoid losing stability, but the trainer gave an approving nod and then a pointed eyebrow raise towards the girl.

The boy went through the motion again, quicker this time, and she thought she could bring in familial fighting experience to put the sequence in action. "Now, you, kid."

"My name is Ororo," she muttered, putting her fists up in a fighting stance and taking a breath, one eye fixed on Rand's face as she tried to remember his foot pattern. One, two, up, up! Her body twisted and she couldn't help the little grin break out as the ball of her foot brushed against the trainer's hand. The ground rushed up to meet her body and her arms flew out, catching herself on all fours.

"Good. Try with Seven and work on the landing. No face." Rand took a step back as Ororo turned to the boy. Close combat with larger individuals was a new experience for her, but working out ways to incorporate falling on the ground was definitely in her repertoire. He held out his hand, and Ororo took a breath before launching through the motions, her foot connecting with his palm and then dropping to the mat. "Again."

"Bring your legs under you, kid," Seven muttered. The girl hid her smile from the lumberjack, and went back to the original position. She took another breath, her island floating tantalisingly close to her mind, and pounced at the boy again, cracking his palm. This time, as she felt herself falling, she saw his other arm reach out to steady her.

Silly, Forge, she thought, forgetting herself and latching onto his arm, using the leverage like a tree-monkey and swinging onto his back, her limbs wrapping around his throat. Then she remembered that it was not Forge she was messing with, but the grumpily helpful tribute, and she gave a small smile.

"If I had a knife, you'd be dead, James," she said in a low voice. She had seen his Reaping, she'd heard his name, and she liked him enough not to call him a number.

"Good thing you don't have a knife," he countered, as her arms were snatched away from him and she was bodily lifted into the air by a Sentinel. She writhed in the officer's grasp, surprise more than anything causing her to holler loudly, though she quickly quietened down as the Sentinel squeezed. Once she was silent, the man dropped her to the ground.

She let out a cough, her eye snapping around the place as her shout drew the attention of the nearby tributes. She glanced up at the rafters, and picked out the shadowy form of T'Challa, their eyes meeting, barely hearing the afterthought words from her sparring acquaintance. "Oh, and just call me Logan."

"You already know how to fight, Ororo," Sam yelled right back, jerking the girl out of her daydream and back into the reality of the situation. "Don't think I never saw you and your little Lost Boys around the Victor's Village."

Ororo gulped at the words, wondering if he had seen them take his things as well, waste or otherwise.

"Not well. The trainers here can help me. They're helping that Twelve girl hone her styles. T'Challa, tell him what you saw. Tell him about Kate and –"

"Yet another thing you were doing wrong. Smerdyakov said he saw you two talking." Ororo shot a glare in her district partner's direction as he remained outside the argument. Of course the camouflage man would notice.

"Yes, I was seeing about allies, something my brother told me to do."

"You are not allying with Kate," Sam said, shaking his head and bringing his voice down to an indoor pitch. He continued to pace.

"Why not? She's nice, she's good, she can shoot long range and I'd rather have someone like that on my side for a little while than have to keep an eye on the height." Finally, she breathed in her head, as T'Challa gave a small, slow nod at the words, seemingly agreeing with her.

"She also just painted a big fat target on her back, and be damned if you're going to have the Career pack on your tail on Day One. So no, and that's final." Their mentor had ceased pacing, standing squarely opposite her, a mixed and unreadable look on his face, possibly a mirror of Ororo's own features.

"Oh, what do you know! It's not like you've saved anyone since you started. You sent them all out there with your stupid advice, and you couldn't even try saving any of them. Bet you said the same thing to them. Bet you said that to Eric too, and he listened and that's why he's dead!"

"Wormy, chill out," Ross stated, as she watched Wilson's face crumple into murky emotions.

"Do not call her Wormy," T'Challa responded, his voice even and reasonable, and entirely out of place with Ororo's feelings at that moment. She couldn't look at them anymore, and she turned, sprinting out of the room and down the hall, past the bedrooms, and didn't breathe until the elevator had arrived and the doors had closed.

Ororo had never been very good with small spaces. The first time they had rode up the elevator, she had clung to T'Challa's arm and left indents in his skin, glad that only the district's people could see her. Everett had told her that she wasn't allowed be that way with other occupants though, since it would ruin their image and it wasn't like she wanted the world to know that the little Eleven had never been in an elevator before, right? He'd been nice about it though, and shown her the little button that made one wall transparent to look out on the Capitol.

She pressed it now, the wall shifting and showing off the bright lights and towering buildings. Turning her back on the door, she flattened her hands against the wall, nose squashed up to examine the tiny ant-like people in the world below her. District Eleven's floor was high. It took a long time for the people to take real shape, longer still as the elevator stopped on a few floors to let the occasional person on.

She glanced behind each time the doors opened, giving a long look at each person as she stood in the corner, her face still skewed in the angry expression she'd used against Sam. The boy from Nine gave a little pause before he stepped on, making his way to the other corner, giving her a small nod which she didn't return. She'd watched him in training, carefully, admiring his grace with a sword that she hadn't expected from the outliers; his district partner hadn't shared the same grace. He seemed nice, but she wasn't about to let a nice person stab her because she'd been sucked in with his act.

Eight revealed the girl tribute, the one with the odd hair that made Ororo want to stick her tongue out. All she had was a measly little streak, which was a poor way of trying to copy Ororo's. Not that just anyone can get hair like mine, she thought, turning away from the two as they struck up a stilted sort of conversation and scrunched up her face against the wall. You can't just copy my hair.

The door opened at Seven, but no one was there, seemingly vanishing when the elevator arrived.

The mezzanine she was heading for was not on the ground floor, but just below the one that held District Three. She could understand that, she supposed, since despite the Capitol's love for their tributes, there would always be a couple of fanatics who perhaps loved certain ones a little too much; a ground floor congregation was a mass murder about to happen.

And it wouldn't do to carry out the mass murder before the cameras were switched on, she thought, a little smile forming on her face, the words successfully bringing her calm island close enough that her mind could sit on it, and allow her breathing to slow and her heart rate return to normal. She even managed a smile towards the two other tributes' general direction, since they were on her bad side, so she couldn't see their exact location as she was leaving.

If Eight wanted to really copy her look, she thought that she would be happy to poke her eye out for her.

The mezzanine was pretty busy, which surprised her more than a little. She didn't think that all of the tributes present had had an argument with their mentors, but she had figured they would remain in their rooms, away from the pretence and watching eyes of their opponents. She hugged the walls as she made her way from the elevator, trying to remember faces and who had seemed friendly in their first training.

That gigantic, hulking man from Four was sitting with his district partner, who had the look of an aggressive Rottweiler, and although the teenager had seemed nice enough, giving the boy from Twelve a bone-crushing hug and smiling, he was a Career, and even if the pack Sam talked about didn't form, he was too dangerous to even interact with.

No talking to Careers, she thought to herself, grudgingly repeating Sam's words and agreeing with them. If there was even a hint of recognition on Four – no, Thor, his name is Thor, remember that – when they launched, he'd know she was small and weak. She shot the two Careers a sneering look as their backs were to her, disliking the smiling, seemingly good-natured boy who had his brother to look out for.

Then there was that red-head, Red Skull's bastard daughter, who looked like she'd stick a stiletto in Ororo's other eye given half the chance. She didn't know how lucky she had it, that Sixer. At least she was able to see her father's face, even from a distance, even if it had disappointment on it – Ororo was never going to have that opportunity, although she knew her father would have the disappointed look if he had ever seen her in Nanny's care.

Adapt, she echoed what Rand said in her head. She'd had to adapt when they died. They weren't taken like Tom's father to the Capitol, they'd just died and she'd had to grow up, like when Eric died.

She hadn't realised she'd reached the chessboard until she almost collided with the seated boy, backpedalling hastily a few paces. As it was, the table rattled slightly, disrupting a pawn on the edge of the board and the piece fell towards the ground. She snapped her arm out, catching the little figurine before it cracked against the hard floor, and straightened as the boy looked up and offered out his hand, gesturing with a small smile. She couldn't remember if he was from Three or from Eight, but he was waiting for the piece, and she handed it back while she thought about it.

"Sorry for wrecking your game," she said.

"Don't worry about it, Patch," he replied with a shrug, the girl twitching a little at the odd name. "Just waiting for my opponent to arrive."

"Is that an invitation?" she asked, watching his eyebrow raise as he elicited a small snort.

"No, the rafters kid from Eight's gone to get a snack. I'm simply trying to figure out the best way to move these pieces to my advantage without him noticing the difference." He paused, Ororo nodding as she definitively diagnosed the boy as a Three. "More difficult than it looks, Patch. By the way, big fan of the whole 'not letting the Cap' fix my eye' approach."

She sniffed at the words, wondering if her rafter-watching had been wrong, and she should go to the girl from Three instead. All these nicknames, she thought, but since she wasn't able to remember his name anyway, she let the word slide.

"Big enough fan to help me out?" she asked, leaning against the wall and sliding slightly down until she was eye level with the older boy.

"I don't deal with biology, Patch. I'm good but I'm not that...well, if I thought about it enough, I would be that good." Three leaned back and looked at her cloudy eye. "We could try out some biomechanics with it, like a robotic attach–"

"Not the eye, Three," she cut across him, before he could do what Forge always did and go off on some electronic tangent. "My Nanny says it's a gift from the Gods –" She shot him a glare as he gave another snort. "– and that's the line we're sticking with." Ross had said it would be a good way to try and get sponsors; Capitolites did always love a good tragedy. "Tomorrow, at training, I was wondering if you'd help me out at the electrics, with setting up currents and mid-line switches and re-routers. Getting a connection and all that."

"And why's a midget from District Eleven knowing any of those words? Basics, of course, I don't think you'd understand any of it if you went into det–"

"I know a boy," she interrupted him again, adjusting her face so it was smiling sweetly in his direction. "And I'll pinky promise not to use anything you teach me to kill you later on. How's that?" The boy from Three seemed to genuinely think over the words, rubbing his smooth cheek like the older men from home did with their beards.

"Please, Patch, did you ever think for a second that I'd show you anything I won't have an off switch for?" He held out his hand again, and she took it after a moment, squeezing firmly. "Look at that," he added, glancing down at their hands. "We're just like the currents I'll show you. We're connected." He gave a little 'heh', Ororo smiling back at the words, before withdrawing his hand, glancing over her shoulder.

"My victim approaches," he said with a nod as the Eight boy appeared from the elevator. "I expect this connection to run both ways, Patch; I'll show you routers and switches, and you tell me which food to eat when we're out there. Don't worry, I pinky promise not to poison you with any of them." She gave a wide smile at his words, nodding and backing away as the Eight boy arrived, staring suspiciously down at the chessboard.

"Thought you were going to mess with my head, Stark."

"Maybe I'm just lulling you into false security, Peter."

Stark. Remember that one too. She was feeling a little better now that she had that sorted out. Even though it was most likely that any useful electronics would be in the middle of the Tesseract, and therefore completely out of her reach, she still needed to learn a bit more, just in case. Like Stark learning about the poisons, it was just covering all basics. Along with feeling better about knowledge came the feeling of guilt over what she had said to Sam, and she searched for some other distraction, wishing she hadn't barged off on her own.

T'Challa was a stranger, but at least he was a stranger from home. He'd be diplomatic, handle meeting the new people with the maturity that befitted T'Chaka's son. Not the little Lost Girl who had forgotten to take the stolen fruit from her pillowcase on Reaping Day. Misty's probably eaten them all, she thought mournfully, resuming her wall clinging away from the chess game. The fruit at the Capitol was the same as Eleven, but somehow when it was just handed to her, it lost a little bit of flavour. There was nothing like theft to season food.

In the corner, it was the noise that caught her attention. There was a small group of tributes on a set of couches. Their conversation had grown louder as they started to relax around each other and forget about what was to come. Ororo recognised two by name, the ones from Five that had shared their elevator after the chariots – T'Challa had looked ridiculous in his outfit, and she had felt the same, but the former had complimented hers. She thought the boy sitting next to them was from District Six, but the rest were a blank.

She was sure, however, that there were no Careers from One or Two; even if a pack didn't form, the Careers didn't mix. She watched the group pass cards around, wondering whether they were playing for fun or for tactics. Don't be so cynical, she told herself sharply. They could just be playing, like her family. Although, she thought with a little smile, it seemed a little less hectic than she remembered. Nobody had tried to jump over the table to accuse a cheater.

She stood like that for a little while, safely floating on her calm island all alone, quietly watching the groups of tributes, until the boy from Five noticed her and waved her over. She shook her head at the gesture and after a few moments he spoke to his district partner and stood up, edging out of the group and approaching her. She stopped mid-headshake as he gave a small shrug and leaned against the wall beside her, his arms folded as he glanced down.

"Go back to your card game, Steve," she said, not looking at the older boy. "I'm fine over here, don't worry."

"Nah, I don't really understand it anyway, some new game Bruce thought up," he responded, shrugging again. "Besides, you look like you need someone to talk to. Where's T'Challa?" Her lips twitched as he remembered her partner's name, attributing it to the unusual word, and their unusual skin. She tilted her head at the game that was ongoing, and then after a moment leaned up towards Five.

"It looks like a twist on Lives," she said, then pointed at his two down-facing cards. "I think you were winning, you know." Steve followed her pointed finger and seemed genuinely surprised at the news, which Ororo instantly was suspicious of; Eric used to look surprised at things she told him, only to use it against her at a later date. "And T'Challa is upstairs," she continued, before her memories could snatch her island away from her and work up a storm inside. "There was a bit of a..."

"Argument? Shouting match? Food fight?" he suggested, rather helpfully, and gave a smile as she heaved a sigh and a nod. "Thought so. That was an interesting stunt you pulled at training, though I can't for the life of me think why you did it." The younger shot him a look, huffing slightly and crossing her arms to match his casual stance.

"I didn't pull any stunt. Wasn't trying to do anything! That's what they can't see, that's why they're yelling at me," she said, dropping her voice as she noticed Carol glance up from the cards. "I just...I just forgot where I was. I just...forgot I wasn't playing with my...my brother." She looked away, down at her shoes that were so much comfier than the ones she had at home; she hated them. Steve was silent beside her, in both voice and action, barely making any movements as he took in her words.

"It's easy to forget," he told her quietly, only a little more audible than the surrounding chatter. "You think you know what you're doing, you think that you'll always be thinking about what's going to happen to us and that you can never relax around anyone. But, you forget, and you think you're back in your district with your best friend..."

"That's that...umm...boy you volunteered for, right?" she asked, recalling the Reapings video she had watched on the train with Sam and T'Challa. "That was really brave, you know. We don't get a lot of volunteers in Eleven...well, none actually."

"He'd have done the same for me," he answered, his voice steady and filled with conviction.

"My best friend said they'd volunteer for me if I was Reaped. But, he's a boy, so that was a slight problem." Steve gave an unexpected chuckle, and she started a little switching her gaze back to him. He seemed so steadfast and unwavering, and she wished she could do the same thing, instead of having to squash down the sudden urges to vomit that came over her in waves. He reminded her of T'Challa, with his little smiles and his genuine nature.

"Maybe he could have worn a dress, and come here in disguise?" She jumped again as he spoke, narrowing her eyes as he echoed her earlier comments. Nodding slowly at his own statement, he added, "That'd be something to see. A big mistake on Director Fury's part...but I don't think he's one for mistakes." Ororo gave a nod of her own, returning to examining her shoes. The one-eyed man was frequently seen on the television in the weeks leading up to the Reaping. "Seems like a good man, your best friend. Like mine."

"Forge," she said to the ground. "His name is Forge and even though my family call him ghost-gum and spit on his shoes, he still comes – came – around to meet me and he is a good man." She held up her wrist to the older boy, feeling the weight of the bracelet slink down her forearm and catch at the larger size.

"Vibranium?" Steve asked after examining it for a moment. "We use it in the power plant walls back home as sound protection."

"It belongs to District Eleven," she snapped, "and it's not just for vibration absorption. It's strong too, and light and tough like...like..."

"Like you?" he finished, and she snatched her arm away, feeling heat rush through her body, her head full of pent-up emotions and obscuring her island.

"That's what Forge told me. That's why he's a good man," she said quietly, and though he didn't strike her as the type who would pull her into a hug like Forge, she took a step away from him, just in case his oh-so-virtuous volunteering action would extend to an oh-so-righteous hug. "You're a good man too, Steve, I think. I just hope you're not too good to fight for your freedom, even when you know the cost." She gave him a little smile, pushing off the wall and waiting for him to do the same, his stance relaxed and easy, like T'Challa always looked.

"I better go; I got some apologising to do."

"I'm sure you didn't do anything too bad," he said, sounding painstakingly reasonable. Her smile widened slightly

"Oh, it was pretty bad." She paused, sliding around him back towards the elevator. "But don't worry, you wouldn't call it 'mainly supervillain' bad, so you can still talk to me, good man." The door of the elevator opened with a low ping, and Ororo stepped backwards into it, giving the boy from Five a little wave as the doors closed, cutting her off from the noise of the mezzanine. She pressed the button for her floor and backed away from the door, to the same spot she had used on the way down, sinking to the ground and watching the lights flash up as she past each level.

She had been doing so well. She had thought going downstairs would have helped her with everything, and it had, for a time, until Steve had acted all nice to her and gone and ruined it. That urge to vomit was back, but it wasn't anything to do with the Games, just the feeling of guilt crashing down on her that she had upset Sam and, by default, T'Challa. Everything seemed to remind her of home, of the people she had left behind and the people she'd watch die. Even stupid Logan is like stupid Eric, she thought fiercely, clinging to her knees alone in the corner. Eric used to call her 'kid'; what right did Logan have to do the same? And that ghost-gum Steve, being white-T'Challa – it's not fair!

She stood up on shaky knees at the elevator approached District Ten's floor, frowning at herself in the enclosed space, her face set like that as she reached her own level and the doors opened. She stepped back onto the carpeted floor, pulling off her shoes and dumping them to one side, her toes curling at the luxurious feeling underneath them; it wasn't as good as grass, but it was a pretty alright alternative. Moving quietly through the floor, she paused at their escort's room, peeking in to see Everett laughing with a woman on a wide screen, raising a glass towards her full of the wine from Eleven's fruit.

"Yes, you saw our little darling," Ross sang, as the woman gave a nod of agreement. "Such a brave young thing, and so excited to get started for the Games. And you know, she's wearing raw umber – it's the latest skin tone, and going to be all the rage in the Capitol. Now, Ms. Labelle –"

"– Oh Evvie, you naughty boy, please, it's Sparkles –" Ororo shot past the room at the words, shuddering inwardly and recalling Chord's sappy words to Miyami, her frowning deepening as she continued towards the sitting room. Raw umber? she thought, glancing down at her skin. It wasn't what she would call her skin colour, at least. Everett had always been a little off though, and she supposed that it could just be a Capitolite quirk. Still, it didn't really sound as powerful as ebony like T'Challa, or tawny like Sam. And she couldn't recall them ever using it to describe Rhodey.

The sitting room was empty when she reached it, someone having helpfully straightened out the adjoining kitchen, though when she looked around she could find no sign of the entrances the Inhumans used as they went about their business. There were none she recognised on her floor, but she hadn't thought there would be; still, she had kept her eyes peeled for any signs of David's father, just to put to rest the wager she and Tom had made when they'd found him. Currently, although the Capitol was a big place and he could have been in a personal household, Ororo's execution theory was winning.

She made her way down the hall towards her own bedroom and her district partner's, hesitating at his partially closed door, her good eye catching his seated frame with a book in hand. She wasn't sure how busy someone was when reading, but she didn't want to disturb him if he wanted peace. While she struggled with the decision, T'Challa made it for her, glancing up at his door and spotting her peeking head. He gestured with his hand, and after another moment of hesitation she stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

"Sam around?" she asked, her foot grinding an imprint into the carpet as she stood awkwardly. T'Challa shook his head. "Oh. I...umm...I guess I need to say sorry. Was he...umm, mad?"

"I am not sure mad is the correct word for it," the elder said carefully, "though you struck a very tender spot. He is not coming back until morning, but he says to get your sleep."

"Let's hope he doesn't stab me in bed," she muttered, crossing her arms. T'Challa swung his legs off the bed, his feet touching the carpet, and he patted the section beside him. "Not sure why he's bothering with advice," she continued, accepting his invitation and hopping up beside him, her toes barely brushing the carpet from the height. "You're a much better candidate for Eleven. T'Chaka might even convince them to sponsor you."

"My father would never corrupt his power in that way," the boy answered evenly. "And Sam definitely does not want to stab you, Ororo –"

"I told you, T'Challa, it's okay if you call me Wormy," she interrupted.

"That is not your name, and before you say something about nicknames, that is not an appropriate one for a citizen of Eleven." He paused as she glanced up at him, giving the careful smile he pulled off so effortlessly. "You are a person, Ororo, not an animal. Certainly not a worm."

"What, so only the wealthy folk get an animal name, Black Panther?" she asked, her lip curling up into a small sneer. "Or what the ghost gums in the Capitol decide to call us, like Falcon?"

"That is different," he said as she gave a snort. "That is the totem of my family. We are the Black Panther."

"Well, I don't have a totem, because my parents are dead, but if you think of a better one than a stupid worm, I'm all ears and one eye."

"My mother is also no longer with us, Ororo." He fell quiet, Ororo listening to his breathing and trying to match its calm nature with her own, and expel the worries that clouded her head, along with the memories of before. It helped a little, for a time, until her mind grew full again and she felt too pent up inside, and her breaths became shallow.

"T'Challa...I'm scared," she whispered eventually. "I don't want to die. I don't want you to die." The clicks and whistles of the language were like the songbirds from the orchards at home. "They're all bigger than me down there, and I know I'm fast but fast only gets you so far and those tributes, they're just too big." They spilled out of her like a torrential waterfall, her breathing growing wilder, her palms feeling as clammy as back home in the heat.

"You are my people, Ororo," T'Challa whistled back, "and it is okay to be afraid." Slowly, he brought his arm around the younger, and when she didn't resist, squeezed her gently against his side. "I will keep you safe and watch over you. You are Eleven, Ororo Munroe. You are strong in mind and our people and ancestors will be proud of you."

The tears she had been unable to shed when saying goodbye to her family welled up inside her and spilled out, running down her cheeks and sticking to her silver hair. T'Challa's grip around her tightened, and she leaned into him, remembering how Eric would hug her just as fiercely and causing more tears to overwhelm her. She was going to die. She was never going to see Forge again, or Nanny, or Chord or even Jericho's Brother in the stupid mirror. T'Challa rocked her slowly as she wondered if Eric had thought about them too, when he'd been sleeping in the room her district partner called his own for the time being. She cried some more.

She cried until there was no more water left inside her, and the storm in her head cleared, and then fell asleep in T'Challa's arms.