Elyse Rakhimova. District Four.

Scylla hadn't shown up to the Reapings after all. Elyse isn't sure why she's surprised. Scylla, no doubt, has more important things to do in the Capitol, instructions so sacred that Adrien hadn't told anyone else about. And, knowing the current political tensions in Four, it may be unwise for an acolyte to return to the District.

Elyse isn't upset. She hasn't been upset in a very, very long time. She just… isn't certain what to do now. Alone, carted away towards a gilded city, stuck in a velvet and diamond train, the colors so bright they hurt her eyes, with only a Career boy for company.

Speaking of her District Partner, Apex is currently having a glass of wine in the living room of the compartment, humming to himself without a care in the world. He's one of those island boys, no doubt about it - those rich flâneurs born with pearls in their hair, training off of their daddy's money. The fundamental opposite to Elyse's hard work, her crumbling fishing huts… he's never had to shed blood for his goals. She's sure of it.

Apex catches her looking at him, and flashes her a smile. Suns. His teeth are so white and straight-lined, it almost circles back to laughable.

Elyse, though, smiles back from across the room. She doesn't need to make herself an enemy so early on.

Unfortunately, Apex seems to take that as an invitation as he starts making his way towards her, dainty hands clinging to his wine cup.

"Hello."

"Hi."

A beat. Wow, they're really getting along like a house on fire.

"I suppose I'll cut to the chase," Apex chuckles, and Elyse is impressed by his capability to sound sheepish without sounding awkward. "You're from the same group as the… our previous Victor, yes?"

Elyse raises an eyebrow, face not betraying an expression. "Yes. And you're from the Academy, no? Trained the traditional way?"

Apex glances around, as if looking for some hidden listener. It's rapid, almost imperceptible, but Elyse knows how much can be hidden in microexpressions. Strange.

"Yes. That I am." He grins again, reminding Elyse of those Capitol movie stars she's heard of in passing. "You stole the spot of my Partner, you know that?" He leans in, and with a playful tone, says, "but between me and you, I'm glad it's you - she was a total bitch."

Elyse laughs once he stops talking - indicating that it's now socially acceptable for her to do so - and uses the momentum to take a casual step away from him. She's sure there's nothing foul about the boy, but she doesn't like how familiar he's getting already.

"Well, I live to serve," Elyse jokes back.

The awkward silence settles back into the room like a blanket. Then, Apex speaks up again: "I hope this isn't… too personal, and it's perfectly alright if this is a private thing, a religious thing, you know, but… how do you know you're a Chosen?"

Something flashes in Elyse's chest. Is it a warning? A warning to stay away from too-curious men and their prying eyes, that her holiness isn't something anyone should have access to?

(That's what will happen to her if - when she wins. The Capitol will swarm her, a school of hungry, prismatic fish, trying to pry any shred of knowledge from her.)

(She soon won't have any private life. She accepted that when she accepted her sainthood. It's a small price to pay for earning the Sun's love.)

She might as well get used to the feeling now.

Elyse makes her way to the living room couch, some abominably plush thing that Adrien would've scoffed at - this amount of indulgence rots the soul, he would've said - gesturing for Apex to sit next to her. He complies, setting down his cup of wine on the coffee table in front, crossing his legs in an expert manner. He's evidently no stranger to this sort of luxury.

"It's a simple process, really," she begins, careful. She doesn't know how much she's supposed to tell her District Partner. The Academy trainees were the opposite of what the Sun represented - inheriting success off the back of their family trees, indulging in pleasures with no self-control. They are, evidently, the enemy. But Adrien also told his followers to preach the words of the Sun, and what greater victory than converting a sinner like Apex? "It's not unlike that Academy of yours. We train hard. In all ways possible, to maximize the capabilities of the human body. The hardest worker is selected with the honor of Volunteering."

"And that's you, I'm guessing?" Apex asks with a sly smile.

"Of course. We are, technically, on equal footing here."

Apex straightens in his seat. "That's good. No doubt you're more skilled than the girl my Academy chose."

No doubt she is. Elyse had to claw her way to this position, digging her feet into the sand and stomaching blows and storms. She wonders, briefly, how long Apex would've lasted under Adrien's teachings. Or if he'd be a Chosen at all - Adrien could sniff the weakness in him like a shark with blood.

A small moment passes, the slight hum of the train against the tracks filling the silence, both of them rocked as it takes a bumpy turn.

"And… well, this may be a stupid question," Apex disclaims with a laugh, "but… are you all women? Or are there… male Chosen…?"

Elyse snorts, sharply. A common misconception ever since Elyse's volunteering. Elyse heard some rumors flying about while she filed into the Justice Building, theories that the Chosens were all women due to their leader's perversion. Laughable. Absolutely laughable, what people will do to pass judgement on unfamiliar things.

"Yes, of course there are. My successor, I think, might be male, in fact," Elyse replies, erasing any condescension out of her voice. It makes sense for a nonbeliever to ask ridiculous questions. A blind man would be questioning the color of the sky if he were to suddenly acquire sight. "Really, you volunteered just in time."

The slightest twitch in his eye. "Well, lucky me! And, will you be joining the Pack this year? I know your predecessor didn't, but that didn't stop her from winning in the slightest." He laughs, taking a sip from his cup, casual and light. He hides his tension well. Elyse can hardly tell it's there - if she wasn't so accustomed to pushing down feelings to project a polished image, she wouldn't be able to detect that dark undercurrent in each of his words. "I must say, I'd be more reassured if you were on our side."

The question, though, is this: is he nervous because of the Games, because of the uncertainty that her volunteering brings, or is it something else? Something he might be hiding?

(Adrien told her to never trust an island Career. They lie through their pearly white teeth.)

Elyse smiles with ease. "Ah, well, Scylla tried to enter the Pack but they refused to let her in. Something about her District Partner being angry that she stole the spot of his friend. They regretted that in the end, so yes, I'm assuming that they'll let me in this year." And if they don't, they'll just regret it once more.

Still, she doesn't see why she'd be turned away. She is, after all, just as much of a Career as the rest of them. Sure, her training process may have been atypical, and maybe the whole zealous aspect throws them off, but those differences don't matter in the end. She's here to kill and win. So are they. That's all it comes down to.

"Good." Apex grins back. "I have the sneaking suspicion you're not someone I'd like to have as an enemy."

"Speaking of our potential allies," Elyse continues, "have you watched the Recaps yet?"

"Yes, of course."

"How do you feel about the rest of them?" she asks, her tone casual. She doesn't want him to think that she's already sowing seeds of discord between them. It's in no way her strategy - she's not Zhan Liu. Elyse just thinks it'd be best to remain wary of… well, everyone. Especially in her position, so clearly a black sheep, an outsider.

Apex shrugs, and his carelessness feels more genuine this time. He doesn't seem to have given it much thought. Self-centered, or simply absent-minded? Elyse wonders. "Dunno. I think the One boy - Darling, yes? - had quite a presence to him. Such fashion, too. He would've been well liked back on the training island."

Not as flattering as Apex thinks it is, but Elyse lets it slide.

"I liked the girl from Two," she says instead. "Something about her energy."

"She remind you of yourself?" Apex asks, wry, and Elyse can tell he thinks he's said something deeply intelligent. Perceptive. She doesn't like men like that, who walk around confident that they've understood more about the world than anybody before.

Every rich boy who came down to the Sun Tide was like that. They never lasted under Adrien's whip.

(If you have something to lose, you're quick to withdraw from discomfort.)

(There's a reason Scylla and Elyse both come from nothing.)

Admittedly, though, there is something about Aia's determination that Elyse liked. Her set jaw, cold gaze, fixed forward - toward the future. She'd be lying if she said that she hadn't felt a breath of solidarity.

"Maybe so," Elyse replies. "Maybe so."

Evelyn Vasseur. District Nine.

"So…" Sacha starts, the words bouncing off the train walls, "are you two, like, boyfriend and girlfriend…?"

Evelyn doesn't have the heart for snark, so she only manages out a simple: "...what did you just call it?"

Oren glances at her, shifting nervously in their seat. He mouths something, very subtly, and Evelyn thinks he's saying 'get me out of here.' Or something like that. All she can offer him is an apologetic scrunch of her eyebrows - she's as little in control of the situation as him right now.

"Oh." Sacha looks down, sheepish. "Sorry. I assumed because you guys are, um, holding hands."

Oren, flushing red, slides his hand away from Eve's. "N- no." He'd gone for it instinctively, while they'd boarded the train, pale with uncertainty. Eve had gladly taken it.

"Well, kind of," Evelyn adds, reaching for their hand again. He's so skittish, frightened. She doesn't want to scare him away, but they don't want to let him go a second time. Not now, not when fate decided to finally let her keep someone.

Oren glances up at her, a silent question in their eyes. Should we…?

Eve smiles at him, encouraging. Oren turns a deeper shade of red, just like when they'd flirted with him at the tavern, but reaches back to join Eve's hand. She wraps her fingers around theirs, providing tight, reassuring pressure. She's not letting go of him now. She won't let that happen, no matter how hard the world tries to take them apart - she's watched as people in their life disappeared from view, the flickering flame of a candle going dark, for eighteen whole years now. It's time for them to start fighting back.

(Though she knows that the Games will rip him away from them, this time with deadly finality, it doesn't mean she won't hold onto him with all her might.)

Sacha looks at Oren, Eve, back at Oren, gears in his brain visibly turning. Finally, he says, "...okay, well, whatever you are, it's none of my business. The important part is - are you two allies?"

"Yes." Oren responds almost immediately, surprising Eve. She feels them returning her gentle squeeze on their connected hands, and he turns to look at her. "Right?"

Eve doesn't hesitate either. "Absolutely."

If there's anything she learnt from that evening at the bar, it's that they work best together, finishing each other's sentences and completing the other. If he could bring Eve's inspiration back, then he's certainly capable of bringing out the best in her. The decisive Evelyn, filled with fire and lust for life, who won't give up on the idea of being known, being everything. Being that version of herself is so easy when she's with them.

(And, if at least one of them isn't coming back, they'd rather remember him as a friend, maybe even a lover - something good, something tender.)

(She knows no one stays by her side eternally. It's a given, now, something she must prepare herself for. They won't spend the precious time they have left treating him as the enemy.)

Sacha nods, this time less uncomfortable. "Okay, good. I'm glad we have that figured out. I guess I'll… leave you to it?" He starts rising from his seat, opposite to his tributes, and making his way out of the train compartment.

"Wait. Hang on," Eve calls out. "That's it? Do you have no advice to give us?"

Like anyone in Nine, Eve knows that their victors have rarely been the most prolific, knows that they were just frightened, trembling, very lucky children. They don't expect Sacha to be able to train them like a Career mentor, or to even be able to look at the Games and remain unaffected, but… still. Surely he has something to give them? Right?

Sacha looks back at the both of them, hand lingering on the doorknob. He opens his mouth, struggling for words. Finally, he deflates. "I… I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Eve asks, and her voice is sharply brutal. She doesn't mean to be, but the absurdity of her situation is like a weight on her back, making her snap too easily. She forces herself to relax, to become that girl behind the bar again, the one strangers trust without a second thought, the one who you can whisper your secrets to. "Sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I just… you survived, didn't you? Can't you tell us something? Something that helped you live?"

"I survived, yeah," Sacha says. "Out of sheer luck, and at the cost of a whole limb. I… wish I could tell you anything useful, really. I'm sorry you don't have a better mentor."

His voice is so thick with regret that Eve feels a stab of pity for him. She's heard many tragic stories across her career, usually from men ordering their strongest drink and staring at the bottom of their glass. They always made for a good story, a good song to sing and tug at guests' heartstrings past midnight, but never once has she had to look directly at the result of a life wasted by the Capitol. Is there anything poetic left in that?

"I'm sorry," they whisper, looking down. She knows it doesn't suffice, but it's a start.

"Ah, it's okay," Sacha chuckles nervously. "I get it. You're both in a terrible situation and… well, of course you're looking for help. I'm sorry I can't be the one to give it to you." He begins turning the doorknob, but pauses. "I will say, though… whatever the two of you have going on? Don't take it for granted. It's rare to go into the Games with someone you can trust. Don't lose sight of that."

And with that, he's gone, the door softly shut behind him with a click. The only sound remaining is the rhythmic clinging of the train wheels on the tracks, and the slight sound of Oren's breathing.

There's a pause, neither of them quite knowing what to say, but not letting go of each other either.

Then, Eve speaks. "Well. We meet again, huh?"

"I'm so sorry," Oren blurts out as soon as she's done speaking. "I - I tried, or - well, I wanted to go see you again, I promise. I wasn't lying. I just…"

"Hey, it's fine," Eve shushes him. "Things happen."

Because, though it had broken Evelyn's heart, to pace around in the inn past closing hour, after spending an hour on her hair like an idiot, and for him to never show up, she doesn't blame them. No one can stay in one place for too long in Nine. Life catches up to you, knocks you off course and you have to drift, astray. They shouldn't have expected anything different from Oren.

(And yet, here he is. Drifted right back to them.)

"Well -" Oren seems to be on the verge of contradicting her, but then stops midway. "Yeah. I guess you're right. It's just… you know, my brothers?"

"Yeah, of course. Forsyth and Frazier." She remembered everything they told them.

"They'd gotten into some trouble in town, Peacekeepers got involved and stuff. We had to pack up. There was… nothing I could do."

Eve's gaze softens. Of course it had been his brothers. Oren had sacrificed so much for those two already. It's no wonder he prioritized their safety over going to see her for… what, a date? Something even more futile?

"Oh," she says. "I'm really sorry that happened. Are they safe now?"

Oren nods. "Yeah, yeah, they're fine. They'll be fine."

The unspoken part lingered around them, heavy in the air: I don't know if I'll be fine.

Eve squeezes his hand again, and he smiles, ever so slightly, grateful for her support.

"Listen… we're allies right?" she asks, just to make sure.

"Yeah, of course. Absolutely."

"Cool." Eve grins. "I'm glad I've got you by my side."

A hint of rose stains Oren's cheeks at that, and their eyes shine, a little marble in the sun. She wishes she could immortalize them like this, in a song, in any form of art known to the world.

"I'm really glad you're here too," he admits. "I don't know what I'd be doing without you right now."

"I'm sure you'd be doing just fine," she assures him with a little elbow nudge. He laughs, just the trace of one, but a laugh nonetheless. No matter how frightened, he's still the Oren they remember.

"Anyway…," Eve continues, growing more serious. "I think we should spend our time training with weapons. We both know how to survive on our own, that part is less urgent. If we want to survive, we need to be able to fight."

Warfare is an art in and of itself, no? With a little luck, and maybe a lot of drive to see another sunrise, she could find her inspiration there.

(Is she really ready to start painting with blood and flesh? Are they really willing to cut other lives short so theirs can be a worthy one?)

Oren nods, listening intently, at everything they say.

"And then… we'll have to figure out if it'll be just the two of us or if other people are worth allying with."

She pauses, looks back at him. They're looking at her expectantly, brown eyes wide, almost enraptured by her every word. Many guests have looked at her that way, hypnotized by her stories, but there's something more intimate about Oren's expression. He's not just some audience member, gone by the next sunrise - he's someone who will stay by their side.

(And that's all that Eve's ever wanted, isn't it?)

"But if one thing is for sure," she tells him, "it's that we're in this together."

Theon Kovacs. District Ten.

There's something odd about his District Partner. She does a great job of hiding it, offering him a shy smile and asking him for a contribution in every conversation, noticing how silent he is - but not good enough to escape Theon's eyes.

He's not quite sure how to describe it. She'd seemed very tense at the Reapings, though who isn't? Theon had very nearly fainted, collecting himself only when he remembered how much it'd lessen his chances if he did, and how he needs to have good chances if he wants to return to Carl.

She hadn't seemed frightened per se. Maybe almost bothered by the turn of events. That part was fine, too. He doesn't know what kind of life she's been living. Theon knows his upbringing is on the luckier end, that jaded District kids are about as common as farmhouses in his neighborhood.

No, what's really bothering Theon is her demeanor. She's clearly forcing herself to be thoughtful, and not out of politeness. There's something strange about the way she stands, too, a toy soldier wound up too tight, shoulders like stiff metal bars. It's an odd combination with her (staged) shyness. It's unnatural.

In any other context, Theon would be hungry to find out more about her. Does she have some hidden, tragic past for him to uncover? Is she to be the villain behind a mystery for him to elucidate? But, even as frivolous as Theon can be, he knows that now is not the time to view people as stories. He's in the story now, an actual variable, and his life depends on people's actions. He can't look at them with his habitual cool detachment.

(He swore he'd come back. To his parents, in tears; to his sister, who he's never seen so shattered, all the fire snuffed out of her; to Carl, the only one who made him believe in himself.)

(He needs to stave off his curiosity, lest he become the proverbial cat. And he knows it.)

Their mentor, at least, is being pretty clear - she doesn't care about them. The only advice Noelle gave them was that it's 'not actually that hard', and then retreated to her private compartment with some joint - just weed, Theon supposes. She's too calm to do anything harder.

He guesses that for her, it really doesn't seem that difficult. She did have a pretty easy time in the arena, Theon remembers. Just waltzing around and picking people off. It's a bit self-obsessed, though, to assume that every victory goes so effortlessly. Then again, she killed a bunch of people. Willingly. Self-obsession is probably her least concerning trait.

"Got anyone to come back to?"

Theon lifts his head from the table he was resting on to look at Mahra. She has her mouth turned downwards in some odd smile - almost like she's apologizing for talking to him. At least she can tell he doesn't like small talk.

"Um. Yeah. You?" he mutters, because he seriously doubts his family, let alone Carl, is any of her business. Lord only knows what she's planning, and what she'd be capable of with emotional leverage… not that Theon is the type to fall for that, but listen, he's being cautious.

"Yes." There. An instant where that formal, stuffy side of her comes out, slips through. She looks away, a good simulation of awkwardness, no doubt realizing her stumble. Can she tell that he sees right through her, though?

"My parents. You?"

A small silence passes, before Theon decides to answer anyway. It's not like he's planning to ally with her. "Parents, my sister." He hesitates. "My… best friend, too."

"Oh. I see." Mahra nods slowly, and he swears there are gears turning in her brain. It's kind of embarrassing for her really, to spend so much effort crafting a spider web around a guy who is not going to ally with her. A bad bounce on her end, to have for District Partner someone so incompatible with her strategy. Not that he feels bad. "Are you from the central city?"

"No," Theon scoffs. He wishes he was. Maybe then, his only options wouldn't be giving up on love for a job, or vice versa. Maybe then, he wouldn't have to pry into others' lives looking for a distraction, some form of entertainment that could make his brain less dull with boredom. "I'm in the middle lands. The suburbs, you know?"

He hopes it paints a good enough picture of his life - mundane grass lawns, white picket fences, the whole shebang, with the added spice of Ten's farmhouses.

"Oh. Yes." Mahra smiles at that, and he can tell it's not something she does often from how unnaturally the creases of her mouth sit on her face. "That's really nice. Must be peaceful… quiet."

You don't say.

"Where are you from, then?" He asks, not without some hostility. Normally, he'd do anything to prevent a conversation from getting any longer, but if she's going to keep grilling him like this? Well, he might as well snatch some information from her too. Two can play the game, or whatever it is they say.

Mahra doesn't react to the edge in his voice. "I'm from the central city, actually," she admits. "Well, I used to live on the outskirts with my family. We used to own a ranch, you see. But then we moved to the city."

She seems to be telling the truth, strangely enough. He guesses whatever bush she's beating around is the part she doesn't want to tell. He might as well press for it.

"Why'd you move? Ranch fall out of business or something?"

She flicks her gaze downward, and he can tell he's hit the right spot. Briefly, he wonders if she killed someone and they ran away to escape prosecution. Or, moreso, the thought worms its way into his brain, unwelcome. But he shoves the idea away - he's being ridiculous. He can't theorize like this anymore, can't play around like one of the detectives in his books. He has to keep both feet on the ground, stay rational. There's nothing funny about murder anymore.

"Career choices," is all she says.

Huh. Not the answer he was expecting. A bit lackluster, honestly. Unless… unless what she means by career is… illegal activity? He slaps that thought away, too, locking it up in the same part of his brain as the last one. Even if Mahra's the leading drug lord in Ten, it's none of Theon's business now. He needs to focus on staying alive, and keeping her at arm's length.

"Cool," he says. He waits for a moment, makes sure she isn't about to pursue her delightful interview, before standing up from his seat. "Gonna head to the rooms."

He opens the door that leads out of the living room compartment and into the hall, where three doors lead into his mentor's, Mahra's and his bedroom respectively.

He slips into the hallway, then into his bedroom without another word. The door slams shut behind him, automatic. Good. The last thing he needs is for her to feel invited to follow along.

It's a nice room, no doubt about it. The kind that Theon would daydream about having, in his fantasies where he leaves to the city and gathers fame and riches - all satin and golden embroidery, deep dark glossy wood and silk white sheets. It doesn't thrill him at all, now that it's all within reach of him.

Maybe it's because he didn't work for it. The bedroom and its luxury has nothing to do with Theon's efforts, or his social standing. His life hasn't improved in the slightest, nor has he made any efforts to do so. If anything, the room's a consolation prize, a little bonus given to an injured employee so they don't file a lawsuit. It tells him, you're going to die, so you might as well have this.

Well, fuck that.

Theon isn't planning on dying anytime soon. And even though he knows it won't be easy, no matter what Noelle's tried telling them, he isn't going to give up now.

All his life, he's waited for an opportunity to prove himself, to fly out of his chrysalis and become someone important, someone of value. A way to build a better life for himself, a better home for his family. A better home for him and Carl to live in.

Looking at his current situation, he could get down on himself, chide himself for his fairytale thinking - how dare he hope that anything goes his way under the Capitol's dominion? He was tempted to do that when he'd first stepped on the train, with only a pit of dread in his stomach to keep him company.

But now that he thinks about it, the more he realizes that this might be the opportunity he dreamt of. It might have a touch of irony, some karmic twist to remind him to be careful of what he wishes for, but it came nonetheless. He's not going to curl up in a ball and give up now. Not when Carl believes in him, not when his family needs him to come back. Not when he's been given his one chance to change everything.

Yes, winning the Games is going to be an arduous process, one Theon won't come out of unchanged. But, after all that, after blood sweat and tears have been shed and he's still standing, he'll have earned his prize. It'll be a victory he fought for.

It'll be a victory he deserves.

Sofian Nav. District Five.

He never knew fear could be so painful.

His head hurts like a bitch. It's like his body doesn't want all that stress making a nest inside his joints, so it's trying to push it all out. All it does, though, is create a big-ass roadblock in his skull. Considering how little he thinks things through, this isn't gonna improve him at all.

On top of his belly gurgling like an angry toddler every few minutes, tossing and turning some acid brimmed with anxiety and all its sour taste, the scars on his finger stubs have started aching again. To be fair, it's not the first time it does that. Sometimes Sofian would wake up with them throbbing, his nerves having forgotten the memo that he's already healed. Or (his biology teacher said) it's because the skin is stretched too thin there, but whatever. Same difference.

Anyway, his point is that having all three pains at once is really, really annoying.

He honestly wasn't even scared when his name got called! Sure, time stopped all around him, he lost his hearing in one ear, and he almost shit himself, but he wasn't… scared. Just a little shocked, you know, but who wouldn't be.

It was when the goodbyes came around, and Azra was in tears, hands clutching around his wrist and not wanting him to leave. It was his father apologizing for not being around enough and his mom promising they'd have all the time in the Capitol if he wins.

They'd never been like that. Nobody'd ever pretended to be too worried about Sofian Nav. Anything bad that happened to him was a joke, or something cool to brag about surviving, or maybe even something to tease him about. That's how it went, usually.

Seeing them so… shattered cut deep into him, and the frigid fingers of fear followed shortly after. It wasn't natural.

If Azra couldn't even stomach pretending to hate him, then… well, how worse could things really get, from that point on?

God, all of this sucks so bad. The worst part is he still doesn't know what he's done to end up here. He's just not the kind of kid who gets Reaped - those who do are either fighters, or scared little kids. Not much of an in-between like he is. It's just downright illogical! Who in their right mind would've thought he'd make a good protagonist for a reality show?

Well, he mostly agrees. He'd steal the spotlight, in fact, with his shit eating grin and sly remarks, in some shitty no-budget spinoff of Real Housewives of Panem. But… in the Games? Where everything is so dark and bleak? It's no place for him.

Suddenly, a knock at his bedroom door startles him.

"Uhhh…" is all he says at first, like some idiot. Then, he remembers there's only his District Partner on the train, and that's someone he needs to be making a good impression on. If that's even a thing he can do. He straightens up in his bed, which he's been laying on, in outside clothes and all. "Come in!"

Selah peeks her head in, checking that he hasn't magically become indecent in the split second between his approval and her arrival, then steps inside carefully.

"Hey," she says.

"Sup."

He hopes that makes him sound relaxed. Detached. The kind of dude who really doesn't care about being sent to a death pageant, the guy for whom it's just another Tuesday. The kind of guy you want to ally with.

The thing with Selah is that she's super cool. She's built like a track athlete, strong muscles in her legs and a lean figure meant for adrenaline. But she's also got a stance that would scare off any of Sofian's high school bullies, a look in her eyes as hard as her jaw. She's the kind of cool that you just don't see in Sofian's small corner of Five. Which means he hardly amounts to anything next to her. Still, it doesn't hurt to try.

Selah glances down at his bed, and she doesn't react to his dirty shoes on the mattress. Which is good. She's not a rich girl, then, and he has no reason to feel silly about wanting to impress her. She steps towards him, lingering for a second, and Sofian wonders if she's going to sit next to him, play the comforting older sister. Then, she probably realizes how awkward that'd be, and stays suspended in motion right next to him instead.

"How are you holding up?" She asks.

He hesitates. He's not sure everything's fully sunk in yet, and he's pretty sure he has a migraine, but… well, he's not freaking out right now. "Fine," he says. Then, he adds, "what about you?"

As if they're possibly on equal footing here.

Selah shrugs. "Fine. I guess." She glances down. "I, uh, saw my little sister at the goodbyes."

Oh. Probably why she had the instinct to reach out to Sofian, then. Maybe that's a good place to start relating to her?

"I have a sister too," he says, almost hurriedly. "Guess we have that in common."

Selah looks back up at him, and instead of grinning at the cute coincidence, she bites her lip, clearly troubled. "Ah."

The syllable drops dead between them, and Sofian's stomach sinks. Somehow, even when trying his goddamned best, he's managed to say something wrong. He'd liked to tell himself that the boys at school didn't like him because they were dumb, too much brain damage from their football games. That they were wrong - that he's not a sewer rat, he's just a cool loner, out of their league.

But in the face of incoming death, Sofian doesn't have the heart to lie to himself anymore. He's a fucking loser. Selah isn't.

(Does that mean Selah is more likely to win? Does that mean she gets to see her sister again, and he doesn't?)

(It'd make sense. Strong, loyal, motivated girls win. Gangly teenage boys don't. Unless you're that boy from Twelve, and Sofian at least has the honor to never do what he did.)

There's a moment of silence, and Sofian realizes Selah's come to the same conclusion as him - only one of them gets to go back home, build a new life for that sister of theirs. And it most likely won't be Sofian.

Fuck.

So much for impressing her. So much for gaining an ally.

(For making a friend.)

Selah clears her throat, shifts her weight and rolls a shoulder back, all in a swift movement. That hint of regret in her eyes disappears as quickly as it came. "That's nice, then," she says with a tight smile. Then, it softens, as if remembering that she's talking to a child. "I hope you get to see her again."

It's startlingly sincere, and Sofian blinks at her. "Oh. Thanks. You too."

"Thanks."

He waits for her to leave, but she still stands there, waiting for something. From the awkward look on her face, he guesses she doesn't know what it is she's waiting for either. It's an absurd situation, really, to be shipped off to death with a stranger. To know you're both in this together, until you're not, until they're the last person standing between you and survival.

Finally, Sofian decides to speak up again. Now that she's decided to be nicer to him, he might as well try to make small talk. With a huge bit of luck, she might even find him tolerable and want to keep him around. Unfortunately, though, all he finds to say is, "how did you get so fit?"

Selah lifts an eyebrow and barks a short laugh. "You can tell?"

Sofian glances down at himself, clumsy sack of bones and fucked up fingers, then back up at Selah. "Yeah."

Selah follows his gaze towards his fingers, and her mouth twitches into a smile. "Fair enough," she laughs again. Wow. Twice in a row. Maybe Sofian's making some progress after all? "Well, I guess I might as well tell you… I fought in the rings back in Five. You know about the fighting rings, right?"

Admittedly, Sofian absolutely does not. Though the Navs are by no means rich, they're still the tax bracket that was allowed clean water, and Azra would never let him get a whiff of that sort of place - she'd probably laugh at him, say he'd try fighting on a whim and end up with a broken spine. Always a killjoy, that one, but maybe not without reason… the idea is pretty tempting. Maybe he could've found a hidden talent in hand to hand combat? The great Sofian Nav…

"Oh man, that's so fucking cool…" he breathes, eyes wide. "And it explains a lot."

Clearing his brain of visions of him in some run-down bar surrounded by cheering crowds and his fists bloodied, he focuses back on the present moment.

Selah tilts her head at him, now looking interested in the conversation. "Well, now that you've asked… how did you lose those fingers?"

"Alligator attack," he replies almost immediately.

A pause.

"What?"

"Nah, I'm kidding," he guffaws. "Radioactivity fucked them up, I had to slice them off."

At that, Selah's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. She seems almost… impressed. Man, he would've started doing surgical operations on himself a long time ago if he'd known how many social points it'd earn him.

"Well…" She trails off, pensive. "That's pretty cool, Sofian. Don't let them underestimate you, yeah?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," Sofian nods, in a rush to agree. "...Listen, if you feel that way, whaddaya say we… ally?"

All of the levity in Selah's face dies off, candle blown out by his words. She sets her jaw again, and something steely returns to her eyes.

"No. I'm sorry, Sofian. But I have to build an ideal team, and there's… well, there's better options this year. Doesn't mean you can't make it - but I gotta maximize my chances." Though Selah's returned to her unbudging self, it's clear she's embarrassed about what she's saying, no longer daring to meet his eyes. "Sorry."

(Right. Of course. Why him, when someone else is better? A tale as old as time.)

"Nah," he shrugs. "It's all cool, I get it." It's true. He does get it. He's heard it all his life. He's just a little too different, a little too weak, a little too annoying to stand. It's whatever. Being misunderstood, abandoned, has a pretty nice ring to it anyway.

"Kay. I'll leave you to it, then," Selah whispers, and slips out of his room. She's awfully quiet when she wants to be, lithe footsteps on wood.

He watches her go, the pain behind his eyes throbbing again. Ugh. Surely there's got to be some aspirin in this super special Capitol train.

It's fine. He's not sure what he expected. For him to suddenly become likeable, for it to be a hidden survival instinct yet untapped? For someone with high chances, someone people will notice, to lower themselves to his presence?

It's fine. He was just being stupid.

Sofian's probably not meant to live long anyhow. There's no way he's been supposed to mature and become a whole adult. That's why he got Reaped. Just following the natural flow of things. It checks out. Doesn't mean he won't go out without a fight, doesn't mean he won't fuck things up for anyone who tries to mess with him.

(Doesn't mean he won't try, if only to forget the sight of Azra's tears, of his mother's face deformed with desperation.)

(He'll still try, if only so his family can forgive him.)

And, maybe, deep down, he'll try for himself too. Can't he prove them all wrong? Can't he find a way to survive, the unkillable roach that he is? Can't he… win…?

(...)

Whatever. His head hurts. He should be going to sleep.