Anya doesn't remember much.

Or, anything, really. Anything that took place before the day she awoke with numb limbs and a pounding head in that medic bed is a scrambled mess of… fog.

They found her in the near-frozen banks of the river, right at the edge of a tiny logging town. Half dead. Barely worth saving, but the loggers who found her still carried her to safety, carried her to the town's finest healer, a woman who happened to run the orphanage. The woman, old and worn, with deep lines drawn into her face, was ill equipped to deal with her. She had more experience with logging injuries, simple colds and fevers.

The hypothermic girl on her table seemed like a lost cause, her recovery something too far out of reach. Still, she tried. Kept her warm, kept her fed. Kept the confused girl from succumbing to the violent shivers that plagued her body for so long. And she asked– she kept asking if anyone knew her, if anyone could claim the sickly girl and nurse her back to health. But no one did.

Maybe she used too much of her resources on the girl, or spent too much unfounded kindness on her. But she took pity on the girl without an identity. Nursed her into some semblance of recovery.

Anya recalls awaking in the warmth of a cabin, a fire flickering in the hearth and snow on the windows. Recalls the woman asking her name, of her family, of her past. She couldn't tell her. Beyond the moment she awoke from the days-long slumber, there was… nothing.

Maybe nothing is an overstatement.

There are flashes. Images. Feelings.

But those aren't near enough to piece anything of substance together. Not even a name. So the woman gave her the name she found in the book tucked away so carefully in her backpack.

Anya A.

A girl with no past, with no family, nothing to her name but a snow covered beanie and a worn down children's book. All the townspeople could think to do with Anya was to tuck her away in the orphanage, wait until someone comes to claim her. Or wait until she ages out, settles into a life in District Seven. The woman who nursed her back to health was glad enough to take her, feeling some responsibility for her.

Anya sticks out like something of a sore thumb in that village. Her hair, bright red like flames that float around her head. Her hands, soft and hardly used. Her skin, pale as though she hasn't spent any time out labouring in the sun. No one could make any sense of it– least of all Anya.

Still. She's a mouth to feed, so she earns her keep. She works, and she keeps to herself. Not that anyone seeks her out. She thinks that any of the kindness that District Seven had to offer her was spent by the overworked woman who'd spent so much of her time helping her recover. No one else in the orphanage wastes any breath on her, but Anya supposes that's favourable to them seeking her out, and trying intentionally to make her feel Othered.

The younger children fear her, whispering about the strange girl who appeared in the banks one day, half alive. They say she's still a ghost, that's why she's so pale, why she seems to float around the orphanage. A wisp of someone that used to be alive. An echo. The older children know better, know it's as simple as the fact she's not… all there. Still, they don't see the need to like her, to make her feel welcome.

The thing is, even as Anya lives and works in District Seven, she knows she wasn't always here.

Which doesn't make sense, really. No one leaves their own District, and moving between them is forbidden. She can't have been anywhere but District Seven for her whole life, and yet she feels as though she only got here three years ago, maybe just a little bit before she washed up in the frozen banks.

Maybe that's just… part of the fog. A trick her fractured memory likes to play on her to confuse her more.

Can her memory do that? Taunt her?

She feels like it does. The flashes, the foggy fragments of a past beyond the snow. They feel like taunts, like dangling a carrot in front of her face but never letting her reach it. Why does she remember sensations so vividly if her brain won't allow her to piece it together?

Maybe there's nothing to piece together.

It has crossed her mind that it's gone forever, knocked from her head to wash down the river, lost to her, to anyone. But… she does know that before this, she was determined. She fought. She knows that. So she's not willing to accept that possibility.

Why would her memories taunt her with the vivid smell of peppermint, the melody of a softly crooned lullaby, if there's nothing to tie it back to?

Sometimes, Anya thinks that the little ones at the orphanage may be right. She feels like a ghost, floating, without a past, without even a name of her own. She… doesn't know who she'll be after tomorrow. After the next reaping. They won't allow her to keep her lodging in the orphanage past that.

She has no idea where she'll go. She makes a meagre coin from logging, not nearly enough to afford housing. Barely enough to eat.

She feels like it hasn't always been that way.

But… that's the way it is now. The way it's been for three years. So she goes on, a wisp of a girl searching for who she was.

The reaping looms overhead, the promise of an unsure future to match an unsure past. Anya sits quietly inside the orphanage's run down kitchen, lost once more in the fragmented recesses of her mind. She hears footsteps near, stepping into the kitchen, but doesn't acknowledge them until a throat is cleared. She looks up, cloudy blue eyes finding Madame Clavell's stern face turned to her, her arms folded over her chest.

It had been Clavell Firwood to nurse Anya back to help. To give her the name she bears but doesn't quite feel is entirely her own. She's a tired woman, strict and firm, but because she has to be. Anya doesn't dislike her. She does owe her her life, after all.

Clavell gives the girl a tiny smile. She's not a woman who smiles often. It's an expression that deepens the worn lines in her face, but ultimately succeeds in making her look younger. Less world weary.

"Are you packed?" She asks, voice low and worn, like there's years of sawdust caught in her tonsils… maybe there is. Anya expects she'll grow to be the same, if she survives the next winter.

Anya nods, blinking the haze from her head just enough to focus on the woman before her. Her bag is packed, has been for some time. It's not as though she has much to bring.

"Good." Clavell nods, concern evident in her brown eyes as she watches Anya stand before her.

Anya knows Clavell does her best not to get attached to any of the kids that pass through her care. So many of them don't thrive, so many never find a place to settle if they age out. But Anya… she yanked the strange girl back from the jaws of certain death, who can blame her for getting the slightest bit attached?

"I was thinking," Clavell speaks again, voice quiet, hesitant. Like she's saying something she shouldn't be. "You have your work. And you're decent enough at it, you keep your head down. You'll be able to take up longer hours now you're an adult. I may be able to… pull strings, to get you a place to stay. Somewhere you can afford"

Anya blinks, brows knitting together. She takes a long moment before speaking, "Why would you do that?"

Madame Clavell purses her lips, chewing on her words. "Spent too much on bringing you back to life to let you die on your first winter alone, Anya."

The two watch each other in tense silence for a moment.

"You could always keep me," says Anya, the tiniest hint of mirth creeping into her tone.

Clavell manages a tiny laugh, a dry chuckle. But in the end, she shakes her head, "You know the rules, Anya. There are children who may need your bed."

Anya nods. She knows, but it had been worth a try. She feels like once, a place to sleep was an assured thing. Maybe, before the snow, she had a bed of her own. Not a borrowed space that she's expected to vacate come tomorrow.

"If you want to help, then go for it. But don't go out of your way."

Anya doesn't really believe in her own words. She craves every bit of generosity and care that Clavell gives her, but she knows she's already given her so much.

"It won't be much. It'll be the offer of hospitality, it's up to you to earn your keep."

So, the current arrangement then. Anya doesn't say anything, the tiniest bit frightened of answering wrong. She's found that if she stays silent, she doesn't betray her intentions, no one can read her words wrong, or read them right if she tries to be dishonest. Most people find silence disquieting. Clavell generally isn't one of them, but still, she answers for Anya this time.

"I'll find them before the reaping, when we get into town tomorrow. You can meet them after, they'll surely be happy to have you."

A tiny whisper tickles the back of her mind, telling her not to be so assured of making it past the reaping. She knows there's a chance, but the orphanage doesn't require any of the kids to take out tesserae, not if they don't want to. It gets a little complicated with the familial situations within the home, anyway. And Anya works- for dirt pay, but still, she works. She can afford to avoid the temptation of extra rations.

What's a few slips in tens of thousands anyway?

She'll get past the reaping just fine. She needs to spend more time worrying about what comes after, rather than spending all her energy on a remote possibility.

"Okay," she says. "Thank you, Madame Clavell."

Clavell offers her one last smile, and a nod, "You're welcome."

She moves to leave, but she pauses in her footsteps.

"You're a good kid, Anya. A fighter. I know you'll figure this out."

Anya answers her once more with silence, and Clavell leaves, throwing a stern instruction to finish up the dishes over her shoulder as she goes. Anya turns toward the sink, unable to shake the haze of all her potential fates from her head.

Town isn't much different from the village Anya lives in. The buildings are taller, and it stretches out further, but at its core it looks much the same. The same wood panelled buildings, surrounded by towering firs– although the forest here isn't as thick as around the village. And the buildings in town have relatively fresh coats of paint whereas the village's paint is chipping and ancient. Probably older than Anya, maybe even older than Madame Clavell.

She's only been into town twice that she remembers, for the last two reapings. She supposes after this, she'll only return for the same reason. The trip in on the rickety old bus is too expensive on any other day, but there's a discount on Reaping Day. It's not free – Anya learned quickly enough that nothing is free in District Seven – but it's enough for her to avoid going broke for the day. Still, after this she won't be able to afford it… at least next time she's here, she might have the chance to find something to drink, she can be miserable about everything else and won't need to worry so much about her own mortality.

That is, of course, if she makes it through this reaping, and the bitter winter to come.

The town square is bustling with activity, but not excitement. Anya can vaguely recall that big gatherings like this once meant merriment, something to excite people and a place to have fun. But not here, not in Seven. Well, maybe during the harvest festival in Autumn, but not here. Not today. The bustling is resigned, brimming with dread. And Anya is shoulder to shoulder with the other girls her age, packed into their roped off section with flimsy rope. Easily broken, but no one dares consider it. The girls at the edge of their tightly packed group keep a few inches berth from the flimsy walls of their pen, like it would electrocute them to touch. Anya thinks if she were stood there, she would be taking any opportunity to step away from the hoard of girls– it's so hot and humid, the clouds hang so heavy over the square that Anya feels as though she could reach up on her toes and swat them away.

But she's stuck in the centre, feeling her hand-me-down shirt stick to her skin. It darkens the dull green fabric with unfortunate stains of perspiration, and she knows she doesn't look as put together as she had when she got onto the bus this morning. Other girls around her sweat in the heat too, but they don't seem to mind it so much. After all, they'd been dealing with Seven's strange climate all their lives, Anya only…

Her thoughts pause. She has been dealing with Seven's mercurial weather all her life. That's how it works. You're born in your district, you never leave, and you die there too.

Why isn't she used to the climate then?

She blinks up at the grey sky, trying to put the pieces together in her mind but only finding a jigsaw with the connecting notches torn off. Her gaze falls back to the stage in front of the justice building, cloudy eyes following a thin stream of smoke down to the end of a cigarette.

Holding the cigarette is District Seven's most recent victor, Canyon Archer. A handsome, rugged man, maybe in his early forties, looking incredibly tired as he sits beside the mayor. Anya sees the mayor whisper to him, a little frantically, gesturing to the cigarette. She sees Canyon roll his eyes and mumble a response, but not put the smoke out. In fact, he seems to make a point of taking a long drag of it and blowing the smoke back out. Anya's too far to read his lips (and she can't read lips anyhow) but she has a decent guess at what Canyon told the stern woman sitting beside him, about where she can shove it. A smile pulls at her lips, amusement sneaking in to replace her hazy confusion for a moment.

It's a brief reprieve. When the escort, a lithe and pale looking figure named Leto Aeneas, teeters out onto the stage Anya is struck by that haze again. She thinks there's something hiding behind the haze this time. No– she's certain. Something about Leto wrenches such such a vivid memory to the forefront of her mind, but it's trapped behind a door that won't open, a door that doesn't even have a knob or a keyhole to peek through.

She's felt that feeling each time she looked at the escort who she sees only once a year. Familiarity, so sharp it makes her head pound. But she doesn't know Leto. Maybe it's not familiarity, but disgust and confusion at their gaudy fashions. She doesn't know, she feels like she never knows anything.

Except for how disgustingly humid it is right now.

Leto takes their seat, sitting upright and pristine, tucking some of their pin straight blonde hair over their shoulder as the mayor stands, moving toward the microphone. She taps it awkwardly, and the dull murmur of conversation that had been buzzing throughout the square stops all at once.

The mayor, a willowy woman in her mid fifties, begins to run through Panem's history with a clipped, shrill tone. Her voice is akin to nails on a chalkboard, and her inflection makes the microphone screech every so often. If she notices, she doesn't try to adjust her tone at any point. It's a unique brand of torture the entire district suffers through until her speech finally peters off into silence and steps away with little fanfare.

As Leto Aeneas floats forward, the District holds their breath. In fear, for the most part. Though, some probably in hope of wagers being filled.

Leto seems to move agonisingly slow toward the bowl containing the male names, floating like a wisp toward it and diving a pale hand into the paper. Anya thinks that if they were to get a papercut, they might disappear into mist.

They clear their throat as they lean into the microphone, pausing – perhaps for dramatics – before reading the name of the poor boy destined to be shipped off to the Capitol for slaughter.

"Dimitri Gleb!"

There's a muted murmur that passes through the crowd in the square like a foamy wave passes over Seven's rocky shorelines. Anya hears some of the girls around her whisper frantically to each other.

"Gleb?!" "-rigged it!" "-swear it's him!"

Whoever this boy is, his name and whatever notoriety he's garnered evidently hasn't reached the quiet confines of Anya's village. Anya presses up onto her toes to see over the crowd as someone emerges from the pen full of seventeen year old boys. The other boys part for him to give him way, and he steps out into the path with a face set in stone.

He's not a particularly large boy, nor a well fed one. But it's clear that he's been working for some time, has enough muscle on him to make him appear a formidable threat– and if he's at all scared he isn't showing it. Anya doesn't recognise him at all, but she feels a memory pounding on a knob-less door in her head again when she catches sight of the fire burning in his eyes.

He walks up to the stage with a blank, almost angry expression, and the heavy cloud cover overhead parts for just a moment as the horrible grey void moves across the sky, bathing Dimitri's brown skin in golden light.

In this light, Anya's certain that it's anger on his face. And as he ascends the steps of the justice building and she catches sight of his fists, shaking as they clench by his side, she can't help but wonder what about this game of chance has made him so mad? How can he feel wronged when his name being drawn was random?

Maybe he had taken out a lot of tesserae, where Anya didn't have to. Maybe he was angry that the odds weren't in his favour. Maybe… they had rigged it. Who was this boy? Why was he so infamous? Was he infamous enough to rig the reaping bowl so that his name would be picked out of thousands?

Anya tries not to linger on it. Once the other name is drawn she can move on, worry about what comes next. Only, as Leto hurries over to draw the female tribute's name, she feels her stomach twist. She's tried so hard to push away the worry of the reaping, it's such a minute possibility. And yet, as Leto clears their throat, she holds her breath and-

Oh.

"Anya A!"

The crowd doesn't murmur this time. There's hardly a sound– none of the girls around Anya even move. They don't know who she is. Anya's struck dumb, standing there, until she feels a gentle nudge on her arm and turns.

Her wide blue eyes meet a brown pair that she vaguely recognises from the orphanage. She sees her speak an encouragement to go, but she doesn't hear it over the blood rushing in her ears. The other girls seem to catch on, and part to let Anya through. Her feet carry her forward before she tells them to. She feels the ground beneath her beat up shoes, sees the stage in front of her, but it's like her will has taken the passenger seat. She's moving without her brain telling her to.

By the time she comes back to her body, her hand is clasping Dimitri's. He shakes her hand firmly, but Anya blinks at him, noticing that the righteous fire in his gaze has shifted to confusion. An odd sense of familiarity, like Anya feels when she looks at Leto.

Dimitri drops her hand, glancing over at her as they're led inside and into seperate rooms for their goodbyes. Anya glances back over her shoulder to see Dimitri doing the very same. Their eyes meet again, and Dimitri's thick eyebrows knit together just as the door closes behind him.

Anya's left alone in the justice building, shaking her head as she tries to regain complete control of her body. This is supposed to be when her friends and family come to say goodbye, but she doesn't have any. She doesn't know why they don't just take her directly to the train and save everyone a half hour.

Only, as she takes a seat on the velvet chaise in the room, the room clicks open and a peacekeeper informs her visitor that she has one minute.

Madame Clavell stands before her, the bag that she was supposed to return to her after the reaping clutched in her hands. Anya blinks in surprise. She hadn't expected Clavell to spare her the time, but here she is, rummaging through the bag and pulling a book from it.

Crimson Winter.

Anya's only possession from her life before. She's pored over it a thousand times since she awoke in the orphanage, searching for answers but finding nothing at all. She's trailed her hands longingly over the words Anya A. scribbled inside the cover, wishing it would tell her who wrote it. It's only ever provided her with wordless whispers, the promise of something more, the promise of an answer she can't grasp.

"They let you take something from home. Take this," says Clavell, holding the children's book out to her. Anya takes it in her hands before she thinks about it, fingers trailing over the picture printed on the cover as they've done so many times before.

"I'm sorry," Anya murmurs, but she doesn't know why.

"Don't be sorry. Be brave."

Anya looks up to meet stern brown eyes.

"You've faced death once before, Anya. Tell it no again. I told you you're a fighter. Don't prove me wrong."

Anya tucks the book to her chest, hugging it with both hands. "I'll try."

And she will, she'll try. But… she knows what she is. She may not know who she is, but the what is certain. She's a wisp, a frighteningly weak girl who can't possibly stand a chance when placed into an arena full of kids willing to kill to get back home.

"You'll do," says Clavell, firm in that way she gets when she's telling a kid off. "Good luck, Anya."

"Thank you." Anya's voice is barely a whisper. Clavell leaves right as the peacekeeper opens the door to tell them her time is up. Anya stays sitting on that plush sofa, her eyes finding the windows just as it begins to rain outside.

Some part of her feels… interested by all this. The fact she'll be going to the Capitol makes something strange spark inside her. A lighter clicking, trying to ignite the thick smoke in her mind and almost succeeding. Something feels like it's shifted, like she's heading in the right direction.

She spends the drive to the train station with a thumping heart, all of this– the fancy car, the station, and the shiny train that they're led onto, it all seems so familiar. She has no memories of ever being on a train, not in her head. But her body remembers. Her body isn't startled by the feeling of the train taking off, or the opulent cart she's standing in with Dimitri and Leto. It knows it must have done this before. Which is ridiculous, of course.

Regardless, she stands still and watches as the dense forests of Seven pass them by in an increasingly fast blur, seeming far away until she hears a voice murmuring through the proverbial cotton in her ears. She turns, looking startled as Dimitri speaks to her. He stares at her in expectancy for a moment before he sighs and speaks again.

Leto has left the room, Anya doesn't know when, but it's just the two tributes standing there now.

"I said I'm Dimitri," he says, sounding like he's repeating himself. He doesn't seem particularly exasperated, like he understands why Anya's so spaced out. Anya figures he's assuming it's the reaping which– yes, it is, but it's also everything else.

"I know," she says. "I'm Anya."

"I know," he repeats back, a small smile pulling at his lips. "What's the A stand for?"

"What?"

"In Anya A."

"Oh. Nothing, I guess."

Dimitri narrows his eyes ever so slightly. "Huh," he says, failing to hide his skepticism. Anya doesn't blame him, she doesn't believe it herself. "Alright."

Anya looks at him for a moment, eyes blinking slowly. Something about him is so strikingly familiar. And the way he looks at her, she wonders if he feels the same.

Dimitri opens his mouth to speak again as the door to the carriage slides open. They both look over to see Canyon Archer enter, and Anya immediately catches the scent of the cigarette he's no doubt just finished.

He makes his way over to the two teenagers without a word, making a series of near-imperceptible facial expressions as he looks them over. Though he seems a bit abrasive and world-weary, he does seem like one of the more favourable mentors to have on their side. She knows other districts have to suffer through drunkards and morphling addicts that would rather be anywhere else– and, well, Canyon does look like he'd rather be anywhere else, but at least his vice is one that doesn't affect his mind and cognition. Smoking just makes him smell bad, and it's probably rotting his lungs, but at least he's sober. And… he's kind of handsome, too. For an angry middle aged man, he does manage to make his rugged bitterness work for him.

"I've had worse," Canyon eventually says, breathing a heavy sigh. He beckons them back toward the door he'd come through. "Did Leto not tell you where do go?"

"No," says Dimitri. "They sort of just wandered off to find you."

Canyon huffs a short laugh as he leads them through to another carriage, this one evidently for leisure. Anya looks around as she follows his lead, eyes lingering on the opulent chandeliers that don't even swing as the train bolts through District Seven.

"Of course. They're a bit of a spacehead, but they're essentially harmless. Just be good to them, they'll take care of you."

"And you?" says Anya.

"Not my job to take care of you. It's my job to keep you alive."

"Is there a difference?" questions Dimitri.

"Huge," is the only answer Canyon offers as he takes them into a dining carriage, taking a heavy seat at the table and gesturing for them both to join him.

Anya doesn't need to ask that same question. She's spent three strange years being kept alive at the orphanage, but not being cared for. It seems like there's a thin line between the two, but it's actually roughly the size of a ravine.

"Sit."

They sit. Anya's eyes fall upon the food on the table, but she doesn't feel as amazed by it as Dimitri seems to be. It's mainly snacks. Fruit and nuts, cold cuts and cheeses, things to graze on, but Dimitri looks upon it with such anger.

"How can they–" He scoffs softly, reaching forward to pick up a strawberry and examine it. "This is disgusting."

"It's just a strawberry," says Anya, watching him sniff at the berry with confusion.

"It's not the strawberry," he says. "It's all of it. All this food, this- this decadence, while we're all starving in Seven? It's sickening."

"Spare us the preaching, kid," mutters Canyon, a warning in his tone and worry in his gaze. "Not gonna change what's happened to you. I'm sorry it did, I know it sucks, but this is your lot."

Dimitri scowls and throws the strawberry back onto the table, slouching in his chair. Canyon watches the boy with contemplation for a moment before looking to Anya.

"You both work?"

Anya nods, Dimitri grunts his affirmative.

"In the forests? Please don't tell me you do clerical work."

"No," Dimitri grumbles. "Logging."

"I work in a sawmill," says Anya. "I process stuff into timber."

Canyon nods, reaching forward to grab himself a cube of cheese. He pushes a stray piece of curly dark hair from his forehead, humming in thought as he places the cheese in his mouth.

"You're from the outskirts, Anya? It's not all automated?"

"We don't have power tools, if that's what you mean."

"Good, this is good. You're not useless."

Anya frowns, wondering how he can be so detached from two young lives, at least one of which is destined to die. But then it connects in her head that this man is middle aged, and he won his games as a teenager. He's been doing this for decades… he must've sent so many kids to that fate– and not one of them has returned. Like Madame Clavell, he's detached so he can sleep at night. But judging by the dark circles under his eyes, he doesn't really manage to do that regardless.

"I think you'll work. So long as you–" he points sharply to Dimitri, "–keep your mouth shut about the Capitol's over-indulgence. I know, we all know. All that's gonna do is make them kill you harder. And you–" he turns to Anya, but pauses. "I'm not sure yet. You're not much of a talker, are you?"

"I don't know. I could be. I don't know you."

A tiny grin pulls at Canyon's mouth.

"That's funny. Be funny. You're… striking to look at." Anya can't tell if it's meant to be a compliment. "That helps. Keep being funny, it'll make for a good show."

Leto returns as they talk, seeming surprised to see them in the dining car even though they hadn't directed them there. Canyon releases them both, promising to begin training them at dinner, and Leto shows them to their rooms.

Anya's bedroom takes up an entire carriage, and she thinks she ought to be amazed by it, but it doesn't feel like something new. She trails her fingers along the soft surfaces of the bed as she passes it, the gentle embrace of the fabric feeling so natural. She can only consciously remember the scratchy, worn sheets she had at the orphanage, though, so why isn't it as marvellous as it should be to touch such a high thread-count? What even is a thread-count?

She opens a drawer experimentally, finding it filled with clothes. She's glad for the opportunity to get out of these awful, worn-down clothes that have been sticking to her for hours. She showers, and changes into a soft green top and the most comfortable pants she can find, before venturing out toward the dining cart for dinner.

As she's about to enter, though, she hears a hushed conversation from the other side of the door, her ears tuning into the whispered words as a panicked voice is whispering– Dimitri.

"–they must have! I don't believe that it was a coincidence."

Anya hears Canyon sigh softly. "Let's think of this from another perspective, kid. If they wanted you dead, they wouldn't have waited three years to pull your name. You're bigger now, stronger. Angrier."

"So?"

"So, if they wanted you gone, they'd have fixed the reaping when you were a weedy, grieving fourteen year old. It's just a coincidence, Dimitri. A shitty, awful coincidence, but that's all it is. I'm sorry, kid."

Dimitri seems to take in his words, contemplating the new perspective. He must nod, or make some sort of gesture that he agrees, because they seem to move on from the topic.

"And… what about her?"

"What about who?"

"Anya!"

There's another pause, and Anya leans in closer to listen.

What about me?

"Isn't there something… off about her?"

"You can't be mad at the poor girl for being a little spaced out, she'll probably be dead by next week."

"No- it's not that. There's something… familiar."

Another pause.

"I can't say I've ever seen anyone with hair like that in District Seven, so, I think I'd remember her if I saw her."

Dimitri huffs in frustration, and the conversation moves on to the menu. After giving it a good thirty seconds or so, Anya decides to step inside. They both look over at her as if they hadn't been discussing her, and Canyon beckons her over as Leto enters from the other side. While the three residents of District Seven have dressed down for dinner, Leto Aeneas is as made-up as they'd been at the reaping, a gaudy three piece suit donned on their lithe form. They sit at the head of the table, smoothing down their hair from the roots with both palms. Anya isn't sure why, because not a single platinum blonde strand is out of place. Maybe it's just a habitual tick.

"You both are so cute," says Leto suddenly as they're served an incredible smelling stew. Their voice is disquieting, airy and distant, affected so strangely by that signature Capitol lilt. "Such a unique look about you, Anya… beautiful. Do you realise how many of my colleagues would kill for hair like yours?"

"I can imagine," Anya mutters. Canyon snorts, and Dimitri grins down at his stew. Leto only blinks at her, the icy blue of their eyes seeming to bore into Anya. But she doesn't shrink.

"Perhaps it'll catch on," Leto eventually says, looking down at their own meal. "If you live long enough."

Anya raises her eyebrows. She thinks she should be offended, but she's more amused than anything. Perhaps Leto isn't completely on another planet. Perhaps they even have a sense of humour hidden beneath their pasty white skin.

"I knew of someone once, with hairs like yours… I don't remember who."

"Pops up a lot in Three, I've heard," says Canyon, and Anya doesn't miss the way Dimitri stiffens a bit, looking as though he might get an answer. "Probably saw it in the games."

"Hmm, yes. I suppose so. I don't keep a good track of tributes from other districts, since I'm not allowed to place bets."

"Bets?" spits Dimitri. "You take bets on the lives of childr–"

"Let's talk parade strategies," Canyon's gravelly voice cuts through Dimitri's indignant disgust. "What's going to suit you both? You don't have to be allies, but I want you matching energies out there. Trust me, it looks ridiculous if one of you is waving and the other is just standing there."

"I don't want to wave," says Anya, setting down her fork. "I don't want to look desperate."

"And I don't want to look like I'm happy to see them," Dimitri concurs, seeming disgruntled at being interrupted.

"Okay, easy." Canyon nods, sitting back in his chair. "That's settled. You're gonna look as tough as you can manage. Which probably isn't very much, but I've done more with less."

Canyon coaches them throughout their several course dinner, and Leto chimes in every so often with pieces of advice from their own perspective as someone who was once a spectator. It's… not terrible advice. Anya thinks that maybe Leto's spacey persona is an intentional act and hiding beneath the ghostly pale surface is someone incredibly clever.

It's that, or they're on a carefully controlled dose of morphling that keeps them feeling at ease but still cognizant of their surroundings. It could go either way. Leto also keeps offhandedly mentioning that Anya reminds them of someone, but they can't seem to place it. Every time, Canyon dismisses it in favour of keeping on topic. And every time, Dimitri eyes her suspiciously.

"Do you want to be allies?" Canyon eventually asks, sitting back as he lights a cigarette, ignoring Leto's grumbles of complaint.

Anya and Dimitri look at each other, eyes meeting as they both contemplate. Anya hasn't even considered it, really. Most of her hasn't even processed the fact she'll be thrust into a deadly arena by the week's end. She doesn't know her answer, so she settles into her tactic of not speaking, not wanting to betray how lost and out of it she feels.

"No," Dimitri eventually decides, not unkindly. He turns his gaze back to Canyon. "No offence, Anya. But if… we're allies in there, and we have to betray one another to win, whoever survives will come home hated."

Anya's still watching Dimitri, watching the way it seems like he's speaking from experience.

Why had the crowd known about him? What was he so infamous for? Why does he think the reaping was rigged? Anya would ask if she didn't have any manners.

Unfortunately, she does. So she just stares at him, wondering if the locked door that is Dimitri Gleb might serve her better than the blank slates of metaphorical wood that are the metaphorical doors in her brain. Like she's willing his secrets to come to the surface just from his body language and his vague words. Even that conversation Anya was never meant to hear doesn't really tell her much, except that like Leto, Dimitri seems to recognise her.

That's starting to get to her too. Why do they keep saying that? No one has ever said that before,

Canyon grunts softly.

"Okay." He doesn't seem particularly thrilled by the answer. He doesn't ask Anya's opinion on the matter, but Anya supposes he doesn't have to. If one person in the pairing doesn't want to ally, then the other person doesn't really get much choice. Alliances generally aren't one sided. "I'll coach you separately starting tomorrow evening, then."