XXXIX: The Capitol - Training Center.

Ambrose Clarion, 16
District One Male

It seems quite realistic that no one knows what to say to him.

If nothing else it's fitting, because Ambrose hasn't figured out what to say either. He feels like a mute. Might as well be one, too, because despite what the doctors told him, the supposed work they did, they're not sure his voice will ever go back to normal.

So they've told him to keep quiet, to let it rest and recover like the rest of him. It's easy, because every time he speaks it's an almost out of body experience, hearing his own voice when he knows he should be in a coffin back in One. He had more than accepted his own death—Ambrose had wanted it when it finally came. He hadn't asked to be brought back.

So what would he do now? Off himself?

He knew he couldn't.

All he's really aware of the following morning is how badly he itches to get out of that ward, all but forcing someone to get him a fresh pair of clothes and someone else to take him back upstairs. It was difficult to get anyone to do things for you when you hardly had a voice, but his desperation was easily sensed. They had explained everything they could, patched him back up as well as they could. There was nothing left for him in that hospital bed.

Half of him is annoyed, but in the end he's grateful that they make him wait for Dimara to come and collect him. Ambrose has never needed a babysitter before, but having her there offers at least some comfort. She's familiar, kind, helpful. Dimara tried to keep him alive in that arena even when he didn't think it possible.

He can't help but wonder what would have happened had he gone and died to the mutt in the first place, just like Varrik did. Varrik, who is alive now too, probably acting like nothing ever happened. Would he be more well-adjusted if he had more time? That will come, surely. Once the shock wears off Ambrose will be able to start working back towards how things were before.

Except it won't, he reminds himself. Maybe not ever. No voice, no grand success, nothing to spur him on. He's just tired.

Judging by her eyes as she watches him, Dimara knows it too. The elevator seems to be moving at a snail's pace as it crawls from the bowels far below the earth just to the first floor; how deep could they possibly have been? Deep enough that he might as well have been buried anyway?

The Peacekeeper eyes him warily as he turns towards her, still careful not to strain himself. "What?"

"No talking," she reminds him. "Going to get you a damn notebook for a few days if you keep at it."

To think he had already forgotten. As if the dull pain will let him. He may just have to take her up on that offer; if it helps him in the long run, he'll consider it.

Reminded that she didn't answer his question, Ambrose stares at her until her eyebrows pinch together, a nervous worry in her eyes. "You need to go back to sleep."

He nods blearily. There are a million other things he'd rather do, things that his body won't currently allow. When the elevator doors slide open he tries not to let the grandness of the room overwhelm him all over again. It's all made worse by the cruel fact that he shouldn't be here; Ambrose should have never set eyes on this place again, and yet here he is.

Dimara gives him a gentle nudge out of the elevator. "Off-duty now. Thanks for the escort."

Once the Peacekeeper is spirited away once again with the descending elevator, Ambrose feels an ounce of peace. It's just him and Dimara and this same old floor that he spent a few days living on. The projector is still on. The windows still let in a gentle amount of morning sunlight, though it makes sitting at the table for breakfast nearly unbearable. All of these little memories float back in on the gentlest of breezes. He's not home, not even close, but it's better than the arena. No blood, no fire, no grotesque monster of a creature to threaten his life.

Ambrose shudders at the thought, closing his eyes only for a brief second, but when he opens them a figure is standing in front of one of the many windows, backlit by the sun. They are merely a shadow, but he knows them.

He had seen a flicker of her last night, too, but only that. Apparently Ambrose panicking on the floor next to a gurney was not providing any ample opportunity for him to have visitors. No, they had dragged Oksana away before she could get any closer.

But here she stands now, as familiar as ever. She looks much more whole than he does. No one told him what happened to her and Ambrose finds he doesn't really want to know, not ever. Knowing her like this is all he could ask for, especially because she smiles just enough for it to mean something. It's sad, he knows. He can't stop her from feeling pity.

"Hi," she says quietly. Neither of them should be here. He remembers the grief he had felt upon seeing her face in the sky, so sudden and so unwarranted. He didn't even know her. Ambrose had no right to grieve her, not after pushing her away and acting like he didn't want the help. Hindsight is everything. Maybe if he had gone with her from the beginning, he would have died so much sooner. Maybe he would have been better off for it now.

Ambrose doesn't say anything—Dimara's rules. When Oksana steps forward, hesitant, he finds himself closing the distance before he can think twice about it. He still has no right, no reason for it, but Oksana was already heading in that direction. Right now, Ambrose can do nothing to stop himself.

She's so small. Smaller than anyone has any right to be as she wraps her arms around his back, tucked perfectly into his own. "Hi," she says again, this time muffled into his shoulder. "I'm glad you're awake."

And he still doesn't deserve it.

Ambrose doesn't answer, not with the threat of Dimara and her warnings hovering over his shoulder. She's just trying to help him, so it's best not to fight her on it. Besides, Oksana knows. Her eyes are understanding, but all he can fixate on is the small scar that's blemished her right cheek, the more jagged one that peeks out over the top collar of her shirt—

"You're going to sleep," Dimara reminds him. "And I'm going to track down something you can write on. Try not to get up to anything while I'm gone."

"Right, sleep," Oksana says. "You… you need that, yeah. If you need anything just let me know, alright? I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

He nods, and she does too, and when Dimara steps away from them Ambrose forces himself to let go of her arms, taking a few steps towards the direction of his room. It's his again, somehow, even after all of this.

Oksana doesn't follow him, but he feels her eyes on his back all the way until he closes the door behind them. Ambrose doesn't bother changing into something more comfortable, staying far away from the mirror as he shuffles to the edge of the bed. He's not sure when he'll be able to handle the state of himself in the mirror.

He lies down on top of the too plush blankets; he's never been cold since waking. In fact he's warm, almost too warm, as if the renewed life thrumming through his veins is somehow stronger than before.

A part of Ambrose wants to cry. Another wants to scream. Most of all he wants to ask why him, why all of them?

He's out before he gets the chance to think about much else.

Devan Del Rio, 18
District Four Female

She's starting to really hate this whole being alive deal.

And God is she starting to sound like Varrik. That can't be good.

He is the reason she's down here, anyway. They haven't been able to shed themselves of that blind loyalty to each other—he never had, she doesn't think. Devan had been the one with that decision when their lives were on the line, and it had only seemed natural that she chose Varrik.

It was still that way now. That's why she was on the floor outside of Shoah's office, just waiting for him to get out. She wasn't talking to the counselor herself, no chance in hell thank you very much, but Varrik didn't have much of a break. When you snapped and chainsawed someone to death Devan didn't think you should.

It had only been a few days but Devan had long since lost count of how many times Shoah had requested to talk to him. She wants to talk to Devan, of course.

If only Devan would let her.

She taps her foot against the carpeted hall, looking up at the clock. Varrik should have been out ten minutes ago… then again, there's no one out here waiting to go in after him. Maybe it doesn't matter, then. Devan is counting her lucky stars that she hasn't yet been the victim in having to hear an outburst from inside that room; poor Shoah wouldn't stand a chance.

Devan jolts when the door down the hall opens, feeling her eyes widen when someone comes strutting down the hall toward her. Well, towards the cushy little waiting room just past her, but it's all the same. She doesn't pull her legs back toward her chest, instead making Lex step over them as she bypasses Devan without so much as a look, sitting in a chair that ensures they're not looking at one another.

Frankly, she's lucky Devan didn't trip her.

Now, there's a reason they've been kept mostly to their own floors, not allowed to co-mingle unless there was no animosity. It's because of things like this. If there wasn't a camera in the hall above them, Devan is sure Lex would claw her throat out right here, right now, and then probably try it on Varrik too. Shoah wouldn't be able to stop her.

There's a reason they haven't seen Veles. There's a reason she hasn't seen Ambrose.

Nobody trusts them around each other.

The first time she saw the Seven's it was on that stage, their resurrections revealed to the world in one, awkward moment. Even then there were a dozen people between them, at least. Now it's just her and Lex, and Devan may or may not have helped kill her. Wasn't her weapon, sure, but the deed was done all the same.

"You're talking to her?" Devan asks, not attempting to hide her surprise. Lex doesn't seem like the over-sharing type, you see. Devan would bet her life on that.

She sort of already did.

"Not willingly."

Ah, that explains it. The fact that she even got a response is astounding enough. Dare she say that Lex is growing as a person, first letting someone talk her into coming down here to talk to someone about her feelings, and then affording little old Devan a response? Apparently death does some good after all, even if all Lex likely wants is to get the hell out of here. She's not the only one.

Devan can't help but wonder how long it will be before someone, almost inevitably Rory, talks her somehow into coming down here to talk to Shoah. The woman's got enough things to deal with without adding Devan's problems to the list—she doesn't even have that many problems, okay? She'll consider herself relatively less traumatized than the majority of the kids that have come down here for one reason or another, and frankly she's happy with it.

When the door beside her opens she jumps, admittedly, same as when Lex appeared. If anything, the arena made her more jumpy, but that's not a crime.

She looks at Lex again just before Varrik appears, not that Devan expects her to turn around. She helped kill that girl. The person that put a rapier in Lex's chest killed her just as quick, just as suddenly. Ambrose was running before she even hit the ground dead, she remembers that much. Worse, still, was watching the footage of Varrik finding her. She didn't think anything could be worse than dying itself.

… maybe she should talk to Shoah after all.

"Hey," Varrik says, nudging her in the hip. "Let's get out of here."

"And go where?" Devan huffs, though allows his hand to pull her up from the floor. "We're on house arrest. Or at least you are."

"House arrest, shmouse arrest. We'll figure it out."

No, they really won't. Devan doesn't bother telling him that; as disgusting as it is, she has to be the responsible one here. Letting him gallivant around in his state of mind is just asking for trouble, and as much as Devan loves a good bit of trouble, she'd rather not be blamed for it. All she can do is stand up, and though she tries to turn Varrik around before he can notice, the moment he realizes Lex is sitting there just feet away is all too obvious.

He goes still, though he doesn't say anything. That's a fucking first if she ever did see one. Lex has turned to stone; Devan doesn't even think she's breathing. She's not going to until they get out of here, just like Varrik said.

"'C'mon," Devan says harshly, because that's the only thing that seems to work these days. "Go."

"But—"

"No buts." She hates being the rational one, she really does. "Move it."

His eyes linger on Lex's back. Of course he wants to say something, and how can Devan fault him for that? If Devan could know what the outcome would be, maybe she'd allow it. A little bit of chaos here and there isn't a bad thing, but more bloodshed? Well, she doesn't really want that right now, and it seems like them talking would only inevitably lead there.

A certain handful of doctors worked so hard to bring them back. It would be a real shame if someone were to get murdered anyway.

Varrik looks down at her, finally. Not today, she mouths. It's better than saying anything else. It's a promise that it can happen one day, if they try hard enough. It's not silencing him forever.

Not that anyone could.

Even though Devan has accomplished nothing today she feels a bit of pride when Varrik finally agrees to walk off with her. He doesn't speak again. He doesn't even turn around to look at Lex as they depart, as they hear her rise to her feet to enter the office. That in itself is practically a miracle; in her eyes, at least, it says a lot about the fact that Varrik is trying.

They can call him insane all they want. Her too, if lumping her in makes everyone feel better about themselves.

At least they have each-other.

Licia Asteron, 12
District Twelve Female

There are only so many times she can push, so many times she can ask.

Licia wakes up in the morning with only one goal in mind: she's going to get information on her brothers, no matter what it takes. Someone is going to tell her. Whether it be someone she knows or someone she doesn't, someone out there has something to tell her.

She pushes the hysteria and spectacle of last night far from her mind, the details of being paraded around like some undead model still all too fresh. Licia didn't like it before, and she still didn't like it now. It's like they expected it to be better—at least she had Cal, right, who hated the entire thing just as much as she did?

Well, they were wrong. She hadn't enjoyed the object shock on Ilaria's face anymore than the rest of them. For the first time in a long time regarding most people, Licia wanted to apologize to her. It wasn't Licia's fault, of course, but some things were… she left her with Velcra, after all. Not willingly, but it had still happened. Really, there were many things they should apologize to Ilaria about, even if none of them were at fault for it.

Apologizing wasn't really her thing, per say, but Licia would make sure to do it.

Once she found out about her brothers, after all.

Luckily for her, it's early enough that Nadir is still at the table finishing up her breakfast. No matter when, every time she sees Licia or Oriol it's as if she's watching a ghost walk into the room—Licia supposes she's not wrong on that front, really. She doesn't bother pouring herself a glass of anything, doesn't fill a bowl with breakfast or even grab some fruit.

She fixes Nadir with a look. "So?"

"Still nothing."

"How can you not know anything?"

"I told you, I haven't lived in Twelve in a long time—none of my family, either. We've sent someone to check on your brothers but we haven't heard back yet. As soon as I do, you'll know. I promise you."

Trusting honesty from someone who lied to her in the first place is harder than Licia thought anything could be. Nadir knew what the plan was all along—every single mentor did, and yet it was kept a secret. And for what? Licia still would have fought just as hard. Being the victor was better than being killed any day of the week.

"Promise," Licia says firmly. "I need to know they're okay."

"Swear on my life."

And hopefully not theirs, she can't help but think. Her brothers have to be okay. Even though she didn't win they're going to be taken care of, now—no white-picket fence inside a cordoned off village, perhaps, but still a nice house that will ultimately be far, far away from their mother and her wrath. If she even laid a hand on either of them while Licia is gone there will be hell to pay. She knows that hurting someone back is just furthering a vicious cycle, but she has no care for what's right and wrong.

No one really does, apparently.

"And when can I go home?" she asks, refusing to allow her hands to tense into fists. Licia already knows the answer; asking for it to change is like wishing for pigs to fly.

"As soon as Shoah clears you to."

"And that will be…?"

"If I had to guess, a group of you will be cleared as soon as possible, all at once. They'll want to make a show of sending you off."

Of course they will. The Capitol and their damn shows—when will they just let it go? When the vast majority of the population that remembers the final Games is dead and gone, buried in the ground? Even after that?

Hopefully sooner.

"You two are allowed to hate it," Nadir says. "Believe me, I do too."

She glances back towards Oriol's open door. Licia hadn't pegged him as much of an early riser, but these days he's been up and mostly absent. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs."

A good place to ruminate if she's ever heard one. Licia hasn't been up to the terrace herself, but if she had to guess that's where Oriol has been taking his leave. It's an easy escape, far from wandering eyes and probing questions. If he wasn't already up there she would have no hesitation in taking the spot for herself.

Unless…

It seems like an odd thing to do. They're not friends. Licia isn't sure they ever will be. To put it frankly he comes up with too much nonsense to keep up with, and Oriol hasn't been able to stand her attitude, whatever that means, since day one. She scuffs her foot along the carpet for a moment before she makes her decision, and by that point she steers clear from Nadir's eyes, lest she get asked another question.

Licia doesn't care about Oriol. Let's get that straight, here. But it seems… easy, almost, to ascend the stairs to the terrace in relative silence. He's been alone since they brought him back. Licia woke up before him, even—she saw how small he looked in that hospital bed, so many broken bones they weren't sure what to do with him at first. At least since then she's had Cal, someone to relate to and conversate with when things got particularly rough.

He's had no one. His unusual despondence almost reminds her of her brothers.

There's only one regard in which Licia could be considered a bleeding heart.

He's spread out on his back in the sun when she arrives, eyes closed until he whips around to look at her. Licia waits for him to settle on his own terms before she sits down next to him, the concrete so hot she almost jumps right back to her feet. Oriol's used to it, so she can get there. Call it the stubbornness in her.

Licia keeps her eyes in her lap, refusing to look out at the city. Too many odd memories. "This shit is awful, isn't it?"

Oriol lets out a surprised snort. "Sure is."

And that's it. Just a bit of fragile conversation, but it's somehow bonded them. He knows he's not alone, now, and Licia feels like she's done something. It feels good. She's no longer broken and useless and dead—Licia is here to reclaim herself, first and foremost. If they won't let her go home that's really all there is to do.

She's not happy about it, but for now it's good enough.

Hosea Valdez, 18
District Ten Male

"Have you talked to him?" Inara asks, keeping her voice down.

She doesn't spend a lot of time down on Five, he's realizing. She's always here. Lisse is almost always nearly bouncing around somewhere, too, which leaves him feeling like he's babysitting two teenagers.

Not that Lisse will accept it. Not that Inara needs it.

"Not yet," he admits. "Kelsea said they're letting him out of the ward today—no use in overwhelming him."

Micah's next on his checklist of people he definitely does need to talk to, and soon. There's no animosity, no bad blood. Considering Hosea got him the hell out of dodge and technically saved his life, at least for a bit longer, he's not sure how there could be. Unless Micah somehow resents him for that, for the fact that he got wounded and abandoned and infected, left to rot with the closest thing to a Career they had in that arena. And he did it willingly, of all things. If Hosea hadn't spent a few days with him previous to know otherwise, he'd think Micah was certifiably insane.

Maybe he is. Maybe they all are, now. Hosea gave up his life, after all, to save people he hardly knew. Sure he didn't know at the time that he was destined for death, but he thinks he would do it all over again, if given the chance.

Or maybe that's only because Hosea knows he'd be alive again.

"I'm scared to," Inara reveals. "To… to talk to him."

"He asked you to."

"Right, and I killed him. I don't care if he asked me to."

"Pretty sure he's not capable of resentment on any level," Hosea tells her. "I mean, you saw him with Two. Could've killed the guy and instead saved his life. Even I'm not that good."

Inara sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. Neither of them are, and she knows it. If Inara was going to kill anyone and get immediate forgiveness for it, it was Micah. Hosea could be a gambler in another life instead of a drinker, and he would put all of his money down on Micah comforting her, giving her a tight hug and reminding her that it was the right thing to do.

That he was dying anyway.

The same, he knows, cannot be said for Oriol.

Coming back together with Inara has been seamless, as easy as breathing. As far as he knows neither of them have even considered breaching the topic of Oriol—Inara hasn't had the time, really, and Hosea has been too busy trying to see what's at the bottom of the flask he definitely didn't take from the bar downstairs. If they hadn't taken the escort's from him, he wouldn't have had to.

At least he hasn't started drinking today. Granted it's early as all hell and Inara has kept him occupied, but he hasn't.

That's a win, isn't it?

"Alright, how about this?" he offers, nudging her with his foot. "Once he's settled, maybe tomorrow, we'll go and talk to him. Together. How's that sound?"

"Good, I think."

"I'll come get you after dinner."

She huffs. "Thanks, chaperone. Sounds like a plan."

"And then…"

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say," he insists, sitting up some. Hosea doesn't have much of a demanding aura about himself when he's laid out like this, her upright form at the other end of the couch practically towering over him. Judging by Inara's narrowed eyes, she perhaps does know.

He flops back down, throwing an arm over his eyes. "So that's it? You never talk to him again? We pack up, go home, and that's it?"

"I already have Oriol's death on my conscience, thanks. I don't need his complete and total lack of forgiveness on it too."

This is going to be on Hosea, isn't it? He's going to have to reach out to Oriol—he has to. As insufferable as the kid was, Hosea never really minded him. When he pried that elevator shaft open he had no idea what was about to happen. Deep down he knows Ori won't forgive him either. He stayed with Inara. He's still with her now.

But he has to say something, doesn't he? No matter how ineloquent it may end up being.

"If you change your mind…"

"Unlikely," Inara cuts in.

"If you do. You know where to find me."

Inara digs her toes harshly into his leg until his thigh begins to ache. "Yeah, I do."

He's grateful for her. Hosea has never really been the desperate type—he's always done what he needed to, sure, but never in his life did he think he would be pleading for someone to wake up. Lisse was exuberant, sure, a bright present in an otherwise very dull, comically lifeless world, but she wasn't what he knew.

Oriol was a topic that had yet to be breached. Inara and Micah were so simultaneous, so close together, that he had to wait longer than most.

But Hosea isn't alone anymore. Something turned out right.

That, at least, he's grateful for.

Penelope Priestly, 17
District Eight Female

Penny waits for a while, as patiently as she can.

Unsurprisingly she is not a very patient person.

When Micah steps out of the bathroom, freshly clothed, hair brushed for the first time in a while, he freezes. Penny forces all of her energy back down into her body instead of rushing to her feet, trying not to startle him.

He's still a bit gimpy because of his leg, or so Vance said. Not that he used that word, but gimpy all the same. Making him fall over wouldn't be very productive.

"Long time no see, partner." She grins. "How are 'ya?"

Micah is still frozen in place, watching her with wide eyes. After a moment he shuffles forward, carefully, placing his neatly folded clothes on the edge of the bed. Of course he folded them. Why wouldn't he? He's still operating in that same kind way, only now it's overshadowed with hesitance. Fear. He's still getting used to everything.

She can't really blame him.

"I'm… okay," he settles on. "I think."

It's a lie, that much Penny can tell immediately. She chooses not to comment for both of their sakes. Him growing another head would be more likely than him being just fine after all of this. Penny nods to make him feel better; there weren't nearly as many people around to make her feel like that, in the early days.

Micah inches around her, careful, like touching her is going to burn. Penny keeps quiet as he tracks down the shoes one of the nurses must have given him, except they look more like slippers. Right. He's only going upstairs. Doesn't need real shoes for that.

"So," she starts. "You certainly had a time, didn't you? Are you and Two best friends now?"

"I wouldn't say that," he murmurs, though Penny notices how Micah glances around, as if Two is going to appear out of thin air. It wouldn't be unlike him, she thinks, if they weren't keeping him so severely locked down. Frankly she's sort of grateful that there's minimal chance of him making an appearance; clearly they have enough to deal with at the moment.

Once he's finished with his not-quite shoes he studies the floor between his feet, rubbing anxiously at his arms. His weight is still held more onto one side than the other, giving his previously injured leg as much of a break as he can.

"Ready to head upstairs?" she asks, straightening herself. "You don't have to walk very far."

"Why are you here, Penny?"

"To… bring you upstairs?"

"No, I mean," Micah says quickly, punctuated with a sigh. "I mean why are you. Here."

She blinks. Oh. Penny isn't usually the type of person to get dumbfounded so easily, but she didn't really think beyond getting him upstairs. She thought he would just do it—you know, easy agreeable Micah who does things without questions, who just listens.

That was the Micah before the Games, though. Who knows what she's looking at now.

"Vance was going to," she admits. "I asked if I could instead."

"Why? I mean we're not exactly friends… are we?"

Friends, no. Allies, definitely not. If anything they were acquaintances, people who got along and liked each other well enough but who weren't exactly compatible in terms of a death match. So she thought, anyway. Micah made it a hell of a lot further than she did, after all, even if it wasn't always using the most conventional methods. Entrapping himself, befriending a Career, going through a literal inferno just to ask for death anyway.

Penny would have never done that. She would have died kicking and screaming if she got that far—no one would take such a close chance at victory away from her no matter what condition she was in. She could be infected, bleeding from every limb, incapable of walking, and you wouldn't have been able to stop her. The only person that could have killed her would have had to chase her down first.

Instead she died at the mercy of two more practical Careers, the liar of a Two girl and the hulking one from Eleven. They're down here right now.

As much as she hates it, her skin practically crawls with the thought of seeing them.

Penny is not scared of anything, you see.

Or at least she was.

"You're right," she tells him. "We're not friends. Making friends before the Games isn't exactly the most practical thing to do."

"But we both did it anyway."

"Sure did. And I know we weren't really friends but we're alive now, aren't we? I think we're going to be that way for the foreseeable future. If that's the case I'd rather be friends with you than not."

Micah smiles. It's small, but it's real and most of all genuine. After having spent so many days, both down here and in the tower, being unable to tell what was real and what wasn't, knowing that she can trust exactly what he's showing her now means more than he'll ever know.

"I'd like that," he says quietly.

Penny huffs out a laugh. "Good. It's not like I was giving you a choice."

He shakes his head, only slightly bemused. It's better than the misery it looks as if he's been living with since the exact moment he opened his eyes. They're still slightly red, his face puffy from the sobbing Vance said he was an active participant in.

"Let's go, then," she offers. Penny wraps an arm tight around his shoulders, though she resists the urge to jostle him as she knows she would have before. There will be time for that at a later date.

For now all they can really do is… well, what? Relax? Heal? Tell each other the details that they never want to reveal to anyone? Penny has no idea, really. At least now, far from her father and his controlling hands, she's not alone in her sense of loss and confusion.

Not alone at all.

Donatella Fontes, 17
District Two Female

The sooner she can get out of this ward, the better.

At this point though, it has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the girl laying in the bed before her. The only tribute out of twenty-four that remains still with their eyes closed.

It's not just a tribute to her, though. This girl in front of her now means more to Tella than she thought any one person could mean. Armina was an exception to the rule, of course—siblings often were. It would have been impossible not to love her sister, but Tella believed her capabilities ended there. She herself was not worthy of love, so why would she see so fit to hand it out readily?

Until Casi, anyway. Not that she thinks it's love, or is even really willing to think about it, but it's the possibility alone that frightens her.

The girl from Eleven had always been so vibrant, feisty and prepared with a quick comeback to prove her worth no matter the situation. The state of her now is a far cry from what she knew then—Casi looks frighteningly small in a hospital bed, shadows cast on her face, so limp and lifeless that she might as well be dead. After what happened to her it's only logical of course that she's still out, but that doesn't mean Tella was quite prepared to be a witness to it all.

She's seen the tapes. She has Casi's screaming as she fell from that rooftop ingrained in her memory. The doctor's have gone over the charts many times—both legs broken in multiple places, five vertebrae, many of her ribs, her right wrist. It's a practical miracle that she was still in one piece when the hovercraft came to collect her, no matter how many splintered bones poked out of her skin, so many of them pulverized to near dust. But the reconstruction went well, supposedly. All of the surgeries went smoothly.

All they can do is wait, and Donatella has done more than her fair share of it. She's practically taken up residence inside this little room.

It was just easier to be down here. Now that Milo has exposed her dirty little secret to the world, staying far away from the public eye was the best thing she could do for everyone around her. Sooner or later she would have to confront it, but until then…

Well, until then she was just going to sit down here. Where she belonged.

Hearing him was easy, though—try as he may, Hale was never the most subtle of people when he arrived down here. It was worse now with the quiet, the burgeoning solitude. There was nothing to hide his approach whenever he joined her at Casi's beside, though she had gotten used to even that. Having some warning was, in fact, a blessing.

It's awkward, of course. Beyond awkward. Neither of them were particularly sociable to begin with, so when you put the two of them in a room together there was a lot of silence to go around. Pair that with a massive lie, all the footage they've both now watched, and Casi's lifeless form between them all while Tella had their fingers laced together… well, it was nearly painful.

But there he is again, pulling the curtain aside. He lingers at the end of the bed for a moment before he retreats to go find a chair of his own, dragging it behind him with a grating shriek. Not that there's anyone in here to disturb anymore.

"No change?" he asks, turning the chair around backwards to fold his forearms over the back of it. She knows he's memorized each of the monitors with the same efficiency as hers—that means he knows the answer, too.

Nothing has changed. It's just more days of the same.

At least nothing has gotten worse.

"What about Milo?" he continues, though his eyes are carefully averted. They trace over the bumpy lines of Casi's heartbeat on the monitor instead, easy avoidance.

"They're letting him out tomorrow, last I heard. Under… explicit supervision."

"Good."

"I don't think he's going to hurt anyone."

"Funny that you say that of all people," he mutters under his breath, not too kindly. Hale's right, though—it is rich of her to think Milo isn't going after anyone anytime soon when he kicked this all off by going after her. Her and then everyone else. But she believes it, somehow. The Games are over. Besides, Milo is going to have enough problems once Casi wakes up. If he's not on the receiving end of at least a few rather poor punches she will be mighty surprised.

"What are you going to do?" Hale questions. "Talk to him?"

"I can't avoid it forever."

She avoids things. That's her forte. But where has it gotten her in the past besides good and dead, sitting by the bedside of a girl who she deeply cares about? It landed her at her sister's funeral, living a lie. It landed her in the Hunger Games. Milo isn't going to talk to her, she's fairly certain, but she's not going to let him run. She thinks her killer deserves to be stuck in a room with her for once and not the other way around.

"It'll be fine," she murmurs, though Hale doesn't look convinced. Casi's hand is cold in hers, the room holding onto a chill that it refuses to be rid of no matter who breathes life into it. It doesn't matter how many of them remain down here; it's already been filled with so much death. So many dead bodies. There's no coming back from it.

So she needs to get out of here, is all. Her and Casi and Hale and yes, Milo too. They need to get out of here and start over.

If it's even possible.

Reaching that point where I'm really at a loss for A/N's so uhhh hope you're all doing well, love you lots, enjoy.

Until next time.