#digit.

There’s no reprieve after the wedding, after the Rebels’ announcement. Training continues as usual; Twig watches the doors close behind Harbor again. Today, though his hand is wrapped. When he makes a fist, he can still feel the sting, the bite of broken glass. In the light of day, he finds it difficult to meet anyone’s eye. While he can hope that the evening’s dramatic finish overshadowed his own dramatic display, he knows that Cyprian Stack, at least, won’t forget.

When the doors close, Digit is outside of the training room as well. Truthfully, she isn’t a Victor that he’s had much cause to cross paths with over the years. If he were to take a younger Victor under his wing, it was those who came out of the Games like he did: held up, beloved, swept into the whirl of the Capitol. Digit wasn’t that. And so Twig just—didn’t engage. If he needed something from Three, there was Silver, who Twig held in much higher esteem.

But maybe he could stand to learn a little bit more about being hated.

“Strange how everything just—goes on. No matter how hungover you are.” It’s a poor joke. He can’t cover how he’s feeling for shit, and he hasn’t been able to for some time. The train, last night’s announcement. It seems like nothing stops the Games. No matter how much you need it to.