The odds.
Paul Matthews is so fed up of hearing about the odds.
The odds are what have landed him here, filming some absurd promo with Dr Perkins, talking stiltedly about whatever skin product they're supposed to be promoting.
The odds are what meant he lived, and 23 others died, and now he is here wasting away a life he doesn't want.
"And that's why I trust Pearl-E with my skin health." He drones. His cheeks hurt from smiling at the camera, and his face drops as soon as they shut off. He just wants to get out here as fast as he can, but he doesn't exactly have any other choice but to stay here and get this over with. President Snow has seen to that.
Dr Jane Perkins crosses the studio without looking his way, fussing over the papers she has been holding looking clever, leaving him stranded by himself. A petite brown haired girl flits to his side and starts combing through his hair. She is only doing her job but he flinches back, then blushes at his knee jerk response.
"Sorry." The girl pulls away. "Just got the impression you wanted to be out of here, so I thought I'd fix you up quick before the next take."
Paul hesitates. Beneath her curled updo and sparkly dress, she seems different to everyone else here in the Capitol. He normally can't stand being here, the unwitting centre of attention in a room full of attention seekers. Even Dr Perkins' lab coat is glittery, and he's fairly sure she can't wear this much makeup to whatever lab she supposedly works in.
"It's alright." He reassures the girl as she returns to fixing his makeup.
She gives him a look that suggests his voice sounds as dead as he feels.
"Don't tell anyone this," She whispers, leaning in and glancing over at the doctor. "But she's not even a dermatologist. She does psychiatry mostly."
Paul blinks. "Seriously?"
"Yeah, President Snow's got some issues apparently. Not that she'd ever tell me about it. I'm only her little sister."
Too much to process. "You're Dr Perkins' sister?" He gapes. It's a good job he didn't let slip how much he hates this whole charade; it could have gotten back to the President.
"I'm Emma, and unfortunately yes, I happen to be related to that walking encyclopaedia." She smirks, clearly not really meaning the insult.
He shifts, eyeing the director giving orders over her shoulder. "I'm Paul." He says dumbly.
"Yes, I know. And so does all of Panem by now. I watched your Game myself." She says it differently do everyone else; not in a tone of pride, and excitement, but with almost regret in her voice.
"Of course, sorry." Paul tugs on his sleeves, the gauzy fabric itching. "I forget sometimes. It's weird - strangers knowing me."
"Well I couldn't claim to know you. Your name maybe, but hardly any more than that." She straightens his collar and turns to go. On impulse, he reaches out and catches her sleeve.
"Are you around all day?" He asks her.
She nods. "Helping Jane out with whatever she needs."
"Do you think you could convince her it's time for a break soon? I could do with getting out for a bit."
She eyes him up and down. "Sure." She says eventually. "I'll see what I can do. I'll have to redo all this after though." She gestures at his head.
"You will?" He huffs, even though he knows it full well.
"Sorry." She shrugs, and moves quickly out of shot as Dr Perkins returns and the director lines everyone up for the next take.
Emma must have some authority around here, because half an hour later they do get a break, and he practically runs for the door, out into the elaborate walled garden outside the studio.
He's never been one for flowers, as such, but he finds the nature comforting now, in this world of artificiality, as carefully curated as they are.
He can breathe with the eyes off of him for five minutes, although he doesn't love being alone either - his mind wanders, drifts so easily these days.
The flowers make him think of Alice, which he doesn't mind so much - he misses her and Bill, back home in District 3. His nightmares have been worse these past few weeks though, and he's glad not to have been bothering them with it all.
The obnoxious pink of everything here takes him even further back, to things he'd rather not remember: to the arena - to Melissa.
Rubbing absently his chest, he perches on the neon edge of a planter to catch his breath. Even a decade on he can hear her voice, only a year older than him at 16 and taunting him with her hunting knife as she smears herself with his blood.
Stop it, he scolds his brain. I am Paul Matthews. I am 28 years old. Melissa tried to kill me. Melissa is dead. I survived the Hunger Games. That isn't enough this time. He keeps going. I live in the Victor's Village in District 3. My neighbours are Ted and Charlotte and Bill and Solomon. I am safe.
Except that last part isn't quite right. Because he isn't safe in the Capitol, or anywhere the President can see him. He tries again. I am alive.
Better.
It isn't nearly as long as he'd like before the stillness is interrupted. His mind is wandering to thoughts of home, to district 3, when a voice pulls him from his memories.
"Hey champ, I hate to say it but it's time to head in again."
He blinks and the girl from before, Emma, is in front of him, eyebrows creased in concern. He bristles at the notion that she could be worried about him.
"I'm not a kid. I was just coming." He lies, stepping away.
"Alright, jeez." She raises her hands, her polished nails glinting in the sunlight. "I didn't mean anything by it."
"Yeah, nobody ever does." He misses Emma's face softening for a moment as he spins to face back the way he came.
"Don't assume I'm like them." She says, voice hard.
"Who?" He starts walking despite his surprise and hears her footsteps shadowing his.
"All the others. Just because you hate the Capitol doesn't mean nobody else can too."
He does stop then, but only for a moment but he continues at double the pace.
Emma carries right on. "We have to do things that we don't like sometimes, all of us."
He snaps. "You have no idea what that is like! You have all the freedom in the world, you haven't been... condemned!"
"Hey! I already told you I don't know you, alright? I just need you to finish your goddamn pity party, and do your job."
Paul's final burst of fire fizzles out as soon as it ignited. The sun has gone in now anyway, and he strides the rest of the distance to the studio alone, leaving Emma and her curly hair and her sparkly dress in his wake.