Ricochet

Chapter 15: From the same mold

Author: Carla, aka cali-chan
Rating: Most likely PG-13. Nothing worse than what's in the books.
Genre: Adventure/suspense/drama/romance... again, pretty much what's in the books.
Pairings: Peeta/Katniss, Rory/Prim... and probably others. You'll see soon.
Canon/timeline: Same-context AU- this fic still happens in the same world as THG, but the actual events in the books never happened. I'm adding about five years to the characters from the age they were at the beginning of The Hunger Games. Katniss is 21.
Disclaimer: Yeah, just let me go get my transfer laser and switch bodies with Suzanne Collins. Until I find it in the mess that is my room, anything you can recognize belongs to her.

Note: I've never really tried this before (and I'm sure it will eventually come back and bite me in the behind), but each chapter will be from the PoV of a different character. You should be able to tell whose PoV it is fairly easily, though.

Summary: "Primrose Everdeen." This can't be happening, Katniss thought. She desperately pushed through the crowd. I volunteer!, she wanted to scream. I volunteer as tribute! But she couldn't, because she wasn't eligible for the reaping anymore. There was nothing she could do.

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Despite Effie's assurances that the train had every commodity to ensure a relaxing trip to the Capitol, Prim thought it had been more tense and awkward than anything else.

Her fellow tribute, KJ Nevin, was a rowdy fourteen-year-old from the Seam. Prim didn't know him personally, but she knew of him, because he was in Vick's grade in school. He lived with his mother and father. He didn't have any siblings. His father was a miner, while his mother mostly took care of the home, she did have a small garden where she grew herbs she sometimes traded at the Hob.

KJ was a quiet, withdrawn kid, but he had a very quick temper. More than once he'd gotten in trouble at school for fighting with other boys, usually from higher grades. According to Vick, he was very defensive and distrustful, to the point where most other kids, even those from the Seam, preferred staying away from him. Sometimes he'd come to school covered in bruises, Vick had told her in a grave whisper a couple of years back, but nobody could figure out who he'd gotten in a fight with.

It didn't take the other kids long to figure out that his father probably beat him. It was well known in the Seam that Keegan Nevin Sr. was a drinker. He had a decent income from the mines, which would allow his family, which was relatively small, to live more comfortably than the rest of the Seam. Yet his wife and son looked permanently emaciated; Rory suspected he spent most of his money on liquor, instead of feeding his family. The money KJ's mother made from her garden was enough for a meal every once in a while, but no more than that. KJ himself had gotten caught stealing from merchants more than once. Thankfully, no one in the district fancied watching a fourteen-year-old be executed, so the Peacekeepers were never called to intervene.

Maybe that's why KJ reacted so strongly to Haymitch, she realized now. The boy was already in a bad mood from the Reaping, and he grew steadily more and more annoyed because Effie kept calling him "Keegan," which he apparently didn't like. When Haymitch made his way into the dining compartment, stumbling with every step and apparently singing a song (which he curiously couldn't remember doing five minutes later), KJ's dark glare pretty much said everything.

After Haymitch's third or fourth refusal to give them anything in the way of useful survival information, the boy exploded. He wrestled the glass Haymitch was holding out of his hand and threw it forcefully against one of the walls, scotch and shards of glass flying everywhere, much to Effie's horror. Haymitch obviously didn't like this, and soon enough the whole thing had devolved into a fist fight. It only lasted a couple minutes but it was tense, and only ended when Haymitch finally managed to pin KJ down on the floor with his feet. Everybody was surprised (KJ most of all), but now that she thought about it without the anxiety taking over, well... Haymitch was a victor after all. Even if he was drunk, he was dangerous.

She didn't know if that made her feel better or worse that he was her mentor.

After that, KJ stormed off somewhere, nursing a bleeding lip and an eye that was starting to bruise, while Haymitch went off to his room, ignoring all of Effie's exasperated attempts to berate him. When she went back to her room to change, the door to his room was open and she thought she heard the sounds of him retching in his bathroom. The healer in her wanted to go in and offer him a glass of water with cider vinegar, but she figured he'd be the type to drink more alcohol to stave off the hangover.

She didn't see either of them for the rest of the day. She had dinner with Effie. In between eating all the succulent morsels that were laid out for them, Effie explained the process they would have to follow before getting to the actual Games. She tried to pay close attention, despite the occasional self-absorbed comments their escort interspersed here and there. Especially to the parts that weren't usually aired on TV. Effie may have tried to make it all sound like a very exciting and glamorous affair, which she knew it wasn't, but the woman knew more about the logistics behind the scenes than anybody else in that train did. One never knew when her knowledge might come in handy, and at this point, she needed all the help she could get.

That first night on the train was hard, because her sleep was plagued with nightmares of indistinct shapes surrounding her, almost suffocating her. But then she would wake up to find the shapes surrounding her even in her waking hours; she was in a strange room and not used to the furniture and ornaments in it, nor the shadows they projected onto the walls. More than once she woke up agitated, and looking for Katniss, only to break down when she realized her sister wasn't there. When she remembered she might never see her again. Eventually she cried herself to sleep, but Effie was knocking at her door what seemed like mere minutes later.

Haymitch made his appearance for breakfast the next morning, wearing the same clothes he was wearing the previous night (although now covered in vomit stains), and looking like the mere act of breathing, let alone moving, caused him pain. Thankfully Effie wasn't around, because neither of them was in the mood for one of her rants. He sat across the table from her and moved to pour himself half a cup of tea. Then he pulled a flask out of the pocket of his pants (...of course) and filled the rest of his cup with its contents.

Prim grimaced at him. "It's nine in the morning," she pointed out. He blissfully ignored her as he chugged down his spiked tea. She sighed in resignation. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

He finished downing his drink and put the cup down, fixing her with an annoyed glare. "Well, that's a waste of a wish," he replied snidely. "'Specially if you want me to mentor you," the emphasis he placed on the word showcased exactly how highly he thought of this whole "mentoring" business. "I get my best ideas when I'm all good and boozed up."

"Alright, then drink. I don't mind," she conceded, hoping there was a way to reach a compromise with the man. "But try to help us."

"In case you haven't noticed, blondie," he said, leaning forward to pick up a crème pastry from one of the trays that were laid out on the table, "'trying' is probably not gonna work." He leaned back in his chair and dropped the whole pastry into his mouth, vanilla cream dripping from the corners of his mouth as he chewed.

She looked at him as he ate, wondering if this is what twenty-eight years of having children die on his watch did to a person. She could see how that would make someone jaded, but that didn't mean he had to just give up. "That's okay," she tried again. "If you teach us what to do, and we still die, it's not your fault. But if you don't even try to help us, we're doomed already."

He narrowed his eyes at her, almost like he was measuring her up. She hadn't spoken much the previous day, and perhaps he had thought she didn't care about mentoring one way or the other. But she did. "Been working on that one since yesterday, haven't you?" he muttered, almost a snort.

As he moved to take another pastry off the tray, she took advantage and laid a hand on top of his wrist. "Please?" she asked, looking straight at him. He had those typical gray Seam eyes, which reminded her so much of Katniss, Rory, Gale and so many of her friends back home. Surely he couldn't be that bad.

He impudently used his free hand to take hers off his arm. He picked up the pastry he'd been going for and leaned back in his chair again as he took a bite. "Tell you what," he began through a mouth full of baked goods. "If you can get the brat to lay off me so that I can get a drink in every once in a while, I'll teach you both what you want to know."

That was a step up as far as she was concerned and after agreeing, she got up from the table. She left, intent on finding KJ, but not without reminding Haymitch that having lots of water was the wisest thing to do if he was going to start drinking this early. He probably didn't even hear her suggestion.

KJ was not as easy to convince. She was welcomed with a dark glare when she knocked on the door to his room, and it only got even darker when she told him Haymitch had agreed to have a mentoring session with them at lunch. He went off on a rant about how Haymitch couldn't even walk a straight line let alone teach them anything useful and he laughed at her when she mentioned he could help them get sponsors, form alliances, and the like.

He scoffed. "Yeah, right. And who'd want to be allies with me? You?" He rolled his eyes and shook his head, like she was stupid for even bringing it up.

"Why not? I wouldn't mind. You don't seem like a bad kid, KJ, and you're strong. If it helps our chances..." And she wasn't just telling him what she thought he wanted to hear. KJ wasn't as tall as Rory or Gale, nor imposing, and he didn't have much muscle mass because of his malnourishment, but he knew how to fight (with his bare hands, but it was still better than anything she could pull off), and a couple of weeks of eating Capitol food would probably do wonders for his resilience. She could forage for food and, depending on the resources available, she could take care of him if he got wounded. She rather thought they'd make a good team... until they could be a team no longer, at least.

He glared at her again. "It'd be better for your chances if I die. One less person trying to kill you," he muttered bitterly. She almost took a step back, scared by his tone. She'd spent the whole time since she left Twelve thinking of ways to survive the arena itself, but she hadn't even come to terms with the idea that at some point she would be actively hunted by her fellow tributes. And here he was, bringing it up so easily. It shook her. "Besides, it's not like anybody would miss me..."

"Don't say that," she said in a small voice. If KJ, whose odds of winning might not be great but were certainly better than hers, was already giving up, what hope was there for her? "I don't want you to die. And I'm sure there's someone back home waiting for you. Your mother, or a friend..." She sighed. "Look, just give it a shot. If after talking to Haymitch you still feel like he's not helping at all, then I'll stop bothering you about this." She shrugged. "It's just a conversation. And you have to eat at some point, anyway."

He grudgingly agreed to show up for lunch if she could get Haymitch to stop drinking around them. Which, of course, she couldn't, and wouldn't as she'd already told the older man she wouldn't mind if he "had a drink every once in a while." But if Haymitch poured half a bottle of liquor into his juice glass before her fellow tribute arrived at the dining compartment, well, what KJ didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

By the time they made it down for lunch, Haymitch was marginally less wasted, which worked for her but wasn't good enough for KJ. So, needless to say, their mentoring session didn't quite start off on the right foot. Still, they managed to get through the basics of survival in the arena, their respective strengths and weaknesses and how much of them to show the other tributes during training.

After learning she was a healer, Haymitch recommended certain stations in the training center, and told her to stick to those. Mostly it was the survival skills package, for example: climbing, fires, knots, shelters, and the like. She was to stay away from any stations where her knowledge of plants, chemicals or first-aid could be recognized. He also told her to stay away from weapons training; she wouldn't learn anything valuable in only two weeks, and her strategy for the arena was more on the side of staying away from everybody else. It seemed Haymitch was very much on the same page with Gale, who had given her similar advice before she left Twelve.

KJ, for his part, was instructed to stick with agility stations like the Gauntlet, climbing, the rope course, and such. He could spend some time at the survival skills stations, but by no means should he try the boxing, hand-to-hand combat or wrestling stations. Haymitch also immediately shot down the boy's suggestion that he should train with a weapon, which immediately put KJ on the defensive again.

"There's no point to it. It's not your strength, and you probably won't have a weapon in the arena," their mentor sentenced, taking a big gulp of his (laced) orange juice.

"There'll be weapons at the Cornucopia," KJ retorted, frowning at him.

"Which you'll be staying away from," Haymitch intervened with a dismissive roll of his eyes. KJ tensed, his hand fisting tightly around the handle of the fork he was holding. Funny that they were arguing over weapons, because he was certainly glaring daggers at the older man. "Unless you want to get killed by a Career, that is."

KJ let out a frustrated groan and stood up abruptly, his chair actually toppling over as he pushed it back inadvertently. The fork caused a large "clank" as he dropped it on top of his almost-empty plate. "I can take them!" he exclaimed, leaning forward, leveling his weight on his arms against the table, as he glowered at the man across from him.

Her first instinct was to try and smooth things out before things escalated. Again. "I don't think that's a good-"

Unfortunately, her weak attempt at mediation got cut short when Haymitch interrupted her. "Sure, maybe you can drown them in rain from that dark cloud that's always hanging over your head," he spat out, his words dripping contempt.

Almost growling, the boy pulled back and the moment his hands moved off the table, Prim found herself ducking away; she was sure he was about to take another swing at their mentor and instinctively tried not to wind up in the middle of it. He didn't, though. Instead he stomped away from the dining compartment, kicking his fallen chair to the side to get it out of his way, not without screaming "I told you he'd be like this!" right in her face as he passed her by.

It wasn't until the compartment door closed behind him, and her and Haymitch were left in tense silence, that she felt the need to say something. "You should give him a break, you know," she started, feeling discouraged about everything. "I think he just doesn't trust adults. It would be easier if you weren't so hard on him."

"He's reckless," came Haymitch's reply. He wasn't looking at her; instead he was moving the tip of one finger over the circumference of his glass, making Prim wonder if he was thinking, or maybe remembering. "Smart, and seems to have good instincts, but he's reckless. That's not good. Reminds me of someone I used to know."

"One of your previous tributes?" she asked, curious.

"No."

She watched him as he picked up his glass and took another big gulp of its contents. He seemed bothered by something; she'd never seen him look so serious before. "Can I ask you something?" she questioned, once again breaking the silence.

"If I say no, will that stop you?" he retorted, tilting his glass from side to side slightly, so as to mix its contents. He was almost done with his drink, but of course, there was no shortage of liquor on the train if he wanted to get more. According to Effie, there was an entire bar compartment.

She decided to ignore his clearly sarcastic response and formulated her question anyway. "Your Games... you won the second Quarter Quell, right?" He didn't say anything, barely even acknowledged that she was addressing him, but she kept on. "How did you win?"

He kept quiet for over a minute, and she was beginning to think he wasn't going to answer her at all. But eventually he did. "When I was in the Games, they had double the amount of tributes than usual." She nodded; she was too young to have seen his Games, but she had heard about it from other people.

There was always a twist to the rules in a Quarter Quell. For the 75th Hunger Games, in order to remind them that "even those who think they're safe can still pay the price," the tributes' age range had been expanded five years up, and five years down. A seven-year-old boy was reaped in District Five; he'd barely managed to run away from the bloodbath in tears when he was scared by a snake mutt that came out of nowhere and fell off a cliff. It was one of the most horrifying, sickening moments she'd ever had to witness in the Games.

Haymitch had continued speaking as she thought back on it. "There were too many tributes, so I tried to stay at the edges of the arena, where less people could find me." He tipped his glass back and gulped down the rest of his drink quickly. "Guess it made my odds better."

"But you must've come across at least some of them along the way," she tried to get him to tell her more. She knew the arena she'd be stepping into wouldn't be the same as his was, nor would the other tributes be similar, but if there was one thing she could learn from his experience, it was what the Gamemakers wanted to see happen. Why they did the things they did. But she could only know that if he told her. "I mean... you must have." She had heard of at least one tribute who had won without killing anyone, but somehow she doubted Haymitch fit that description.

He didn't confirm nor deny her affirmation, but she took it as a yes anyway. "We can't avoid them forever," she stated. "So wouldn't it be a good idea to learn some fighting techniques or weapons? Maybe it could help when I get to that point."

"It's a gamble," he explained. "You don't want to show them your strengths, but you also don't want to show them your weaknesses." He finally put his glass down on the table and, leaning back, crossed his arms over his chest. "If they see you bumbling with a sword or a bow, they'll either think you're faking it and target you for it, or they'll think you're weak and target you for it. It's a big risk to take."

Now she understood that logic a little better, and she felt a little more confident with the "stay away as long as possible" plan, but it still terrified her that, were she to ever fortuitously come across her competition, she'd be completely at their mercy. "But what if I need to defend myself from another tribute? What do I do then?"

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, quiet. Then he spoke again. "There's only one thing you need to know about defending yourself. One thing only." He leaned forward, pushing his glass slightly to the side so he could lean his forearms against the table. "Everyone, everything, has a weak point. A chink in the armor. You just have to look for it." He nodded at her, as if emphasizing the point. "And when it jumps out at you, you hit it with everything you've got."

Those last words had stayed with her. She didn't get much sleep that night either, and since they arrived at the Capitol at around midnight, rest was even harder to come, despite the luxurious, extra-comfortable bed she had been assigned when they arrived at the Remake Center.

One last bit of advice Haymitch had given them was to trust their stylists implicitly. And so here she was, ready to put herself in her stylist's hands. She met with her stylist, Cinna, a little before dinner.

So far, her stay at the Remake Center had consisted of a lot of washing, scrubbing, moisturizing, various methods of body hair removal, and the like, until she reached a state her prep team called "beauty base zero." Her prep team was... okay. They pitter-pattered around her all excited, repeatedly congratulating her and talking about how happy she must've been to be able to leave those dreadful living conditions in her district.

It bothered her that they thought this way, but she couldn't fault them for it; this was simply the way people thought in the Capitol, the way their children were raised. It was sad that they were so shallow and self-centered, but it was obvious they didn't do it out of maliciousness or arrogance. At least they were nice about it. Octavia kept telling her how pretty her hair was (even if it was "just" blond).

She hadn't known what to expect of the Capitol's "fashion genius." Cinna and his fellow co-stylist, Portia, had been styling the District Twelve tributes for the past five years, and they had been some of the most memorable Games for the district. Not enough to get their tributes in the top half- style could only take you so far in the arena- but they'd managed to score a few Capitol sponsors, something that was generally unheard of in Twelve.

Compared to the silly costumes other districts were usually put in, Prim had to admit Cinna and Portia's designs were masterpieces. Completely new and different each year, never predictable, and always making a lasting impression. As much as she admired his designs, though, she'd been a little worried about meeting the man in person. For some reason she had imagined someone with such artistic genius would be stuck-up or mean.

Thankfully, he was anything but. For starters, he didn't look anything like the rest of the people from the Capitol did: his clothes were simple, neutral in color, the only sign of anything sparkly on him being a thin line of gold eyeliner drawn above his lashes. His voice was soft, muted, everything about him very understated and nothing like she had imagined he would be.

She liked Cinna very much. He never once congratulated her on the "honor" of being chosen as a tribute, and instead offered any form of help he could give her. His presence was calming and he sounded so very wise. He didn't put on a show of pretending she had a chance of winning the Games, like some of her other handlers, such as Effie Trinket, had- that lie she would never believe- but still made her feel like he believed in her, like her giving her best was good enough for him. She really appreciated that.

Now it was her second day at the Remake Center, and he hadn't made his appearance yet. She hoped nothing unexpected had happened. Prim looked down at her nails as she waited; she didn't think she'd ever seen her nails so clean. Not that she wasn't a clean person; as a healer she knew more than anyone the value of personal hygiene. Still, things could only get so clean in the Seam, because of all the coal dust.

Right away she shook her head. She shouldn't start thinking of the Seam, because it would only remind her of Rory, and Katniss, and home, and everybody, and she'd end up crying again. The only problem was, there wasn't much else she could think about here. The room she was in was almost scarily empty, just four gray walls with nothing in it but the examination table she was sitting on. The table itself was really tall; she'd had to make an effort to sit on it, and every few minutes she found herself swinging her legs back and forth like a little kid would, just to have something to do.

She wondered why Cinna was running late. Maybe him and Portia were finishing up last-minute details. Waiting was a little scary- it gave her time to think about everything that was happening to her, and that probably wasn't a good idea, especially not just a few minutes before being presented to Capitol audiences on a live broadcast. Now was not the time to psych herself out. She wondered how her fellow tribute was faring right now. Knowing KJ, he was probably feeling angry at the moment.

Less than five minutes later, Cinna walked into the room, carrying a black garment bag with him and apologizing for the delay. Him and Portia were making last-minute adjustments to their designs, and time had run away from them in the creative process. She was simply glad he was there; just his presence was enough to quell her anxiety, even if just a little.

He seemed to notice this, and he looked at her with a concerned expression, like somehow he knew exactly what she was feeling. She knew he couldn't, not really; a Capitol man like him would have never gone through anything even remotely similar to this. But it still made her feel better, just a little. Like she wasn't completely alone. "How are you doing?" he asked her.

She took a deep breath, then exhaled in a sigh. "I'm okay," she admitted. As okay as she could be, at least. "I was just thinking that I really don't like this room," she said remembering her ponderings from a few minutes back. She looked around again, taking in the grey walls and the cold environment. "It feels so... sterile."

He smiled slightly. "I like to think they made these rooms this way so that you would stand out," he told her. He almost sounded like a teacher, there was a very wise quality to his tone. "Our job is to style you so that you can make the best possible impression. That means we have to really know what we're working with. The more I can appreciate you, the easier it is for me to make you unforgettable." His smile widened, warmly.

She tried to give him a smile back, to show her appreciation. She knew what he was saying wasn't really true; in all likelihood, the Capitol had made these rooms this way as a reminder for the tributes of how bleak their future was, to show them that all the commodities they had at the moment were nothing but temporary, as they were basically on death row. But even so, she liked Cinna's version better. "It doesn't matter," she said, with a small shrug. "At least it's better than the other room I was in. That one made me feel like I was about to have surgery."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a horrible thought crossed her head: Could they put her through surgery? They could force any kind of drug on her and she wouldn't even know. If they wanted to modify her appearance more drastically, there was nothing she could do to stop them. The idea of being forced into the outrageous body-modification fashion trends she'd seen on some Capitol people scared her senseless.

Cinna must've seen her eyes widen and understood her fear by her expression alone. "They'll ask, but I'm sure we can come to a compromise. Don't worry, I won't let them do anything permanent to you." He patted one of her hands lightly, trying to be comforting. She gave him a small smile. "Alright, then. Let's talk about what you'll be wearing tonight." He sat down beside her on the examination table. "As you know, we have to dress you in something representative of your district."

"We're not going to be coal miners, are we?" she asked, a little wary. When she was younger, the tributes from Twelve would always be dressed as coal miners. It was straightforward and there was nothing impressive about it. When Cinna and Portia became the District Twelve stylists, they changed things. Prim hoped this wouldn't be the year they decided to go back to the old costumes- mainly because they were tacky, but also because... well, her father's life had ended in a miner's uniform. She didn't want her life to end the same way.

He laughed, apparently finding her apprehension charming. "No, that's not what we had in mind. Tell me, do you know what anthracite is?"

She nodded. They had learned about it in school. "It's a type of coal. It has the highest luster, highest carbon count, and lowest amount of impurities," she recited, almost mechanically. "It accounts for about one percent of all coal production in the district." Everything about coal had been ingrained into her mind at school- even if she was never going to need it, it was all they were taught.

Not being able to hear the gloomy turn her thoughts had taken, Cinna leaned in, almost like he meant to tell her a secret. "It's also the hardest to burn," he pointed out, then signaled for her to wait a second as he picked up the garment bag and pulled it open to reveal the main piece of his design.

She peeked in and took a good look at the black unitard that was inside. She stretched her hand to touch the fabric. It was stretchy but didn't feel confining, it was soft to the touch, and the light reflected on it when it moved, the shine creating patterns on the walls like a kaleidoscope. It was simple, but absolutely breathtaking. And a world apart from anything she had ever worn in her entire life.

"You're not afraid of fire, are you?" Cinna asked as she ran her hand over the cloth. Seeing her eyes widen almost comically, he laughed again. "Don't worry, we're not going to set you on fire." She was about to let out a sigh of relief when he added: "Can't say the same for your chariot, though."

She stared at him, trying to figure out if he was joking. He noticed. "Don't worry, it's perfectly safe." He zipped up the garment bag and left it hanging from a hook on the wall as he turned back to her. "Haymitch told me about what happened with your sister at the Reaping," he commented as he stood up.

She felt a pang in her heart, as she always did whenever someone mentioned her sister. She missed her so much. How was she coping? Had she been punished for what she did? "She shouldn't have done that," she whispered, her tone betraying her fears. She just hoped Katniss was okay.

"I thought it was very brave of her," Cinna said, lightly tugging at her hand so that she would stand up from the table as well. He lifted her face up with a finger on her chin, so she could look up at him. "And I can see you have some of that in you as well."

She shook her head. "I only wish I could be as strong as her. But I'm not."

"You are," he assured her, settling his hands on her shoulders supportively. "You may not see it yourself, but I think you're both cut from the same mold. You're strong. And tonight, all of Panem is going to see that." He smiled at her. "Tonight, you're going to show everybody that coal can also shine."

She tried to give him a smile; her bravest smile. "Now come on, it's time for make-up." She nodded and, taking a deep breath to shake off the uneasiness, followed him out of the room.

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Author's notes!-

So Prim gets to be the Girl On Fire... sort of. Hmm, I wonder what OTHER title of her sister's she's going to take...? ;3 -whistles innocently- Nerdy note of the day: as our girl explained up there, anthracite is a type of coal that is shinier than regular coal, and burns with a blue, smokeless flame. Nothing you'd make a necklace out of, but I think it's really interesting, so I wanted to make an analogy out of it. Google it if you can!

Guys, this chapter is so full of foreshadowing, I'm practically choking on it. =X Oh, and I should warn you, in case you haven't noticed yet, that now that the plot is rolling, the chapters will be getting a little longer. Not terribly long (thank God!), but where I was averaging 8-ish pages, now I'm averaging around 11. There's just so much happening! I hope that doesn't bother you- I personally prefer reading longer chapters, but that may just be me.

Be sure to let me know what you thought of the chapter, particularly KJ and how Prim's coping with this whole thing! I'm curious. =)