#distict 1

The capitol wasn’t all that different from district one. It was more modern, more luxurious, but not by much. Sylke thought back to the reaping. This year was a strange one. For some reason, none of the training female career tributes volunteered, either too young or not ready. She was only fourteen, never once had she wanted the life of a career. And yet her name had been the one drawn. Standing on that stage next to a man much older who’s trained his whole life for this, she felt more out of place than ever before. The train ride was not long, less than a day, but Sylke found it hard to relax, and time seemed to pass at a snail's pace. She had decided the moment her name was called and no one volunteered, that this was the end of her life. It wasn't even a question in her mind. Normally she would try to maintain a certain amount of optimism, but as she pondered on the train it became evident that such hope was almost always applied to someone not herself. Undying optimism was reserved for everyone else, while a more calculating hope was held for herself. In this case, the odds were not in her favour. The best she could do was enjoy the little bit of life she has left. And she did. Regardless of its strange and bloody traditions, the capitol was beautiful. The gifts she had been offered, the world she got to see from the train window, so much of it was bright and wonderful. And with the little time she had left, she resolved to appreciate it.

The other tribute from 1, Cesare, didn’t seem to like her much. He was cold, offered only backhanded advice, and made a lousy excuse for her only companion. Their mentor, Victoria, was sweet, convinced that Sylke could survive with some allies and sponsors. Their escort, Misty, agreed, and was already assembling a list of rich possible benefactors she planned to meet with. When they arrived in the capitol, Sylke was desperate for a new face, a friendly one. There was one person around her age, the tribute from four. She saw him at the tribute parade, dressed glamourously in blue and green. When they met, she tried to be as friendly and genuine as possible. That was his first instinct as well, to simply be kind, to make a friend, but when the conversation was over, he was swiftly pulled aside and reminded that she wouldn’t make a good ally, that he should put energy into connections with other, more fit tributes. As he tried to talk to Cesare, a broad-shouldered athlete who clearly had an advantage at the game, Finnick couldn’t keep himself from looking in her direction, from thinking about her and what she must be feeling. There was a churning anxiety, an uncertainty, that raged like a storm in the high seas within his core, one deeply tied to being so young in a place full or intimidating older kids. She was probably in the same boat, and he was drawn to that. No one else was that young in this Game, and in a different world, perhaps they even would have been friends. That is what kept him lingering in her mind as well. That they could have been friends. Only to her, they still could be even if only for a short while. It was the only friend she might be able to find in this place.

There was a gala that night, a chance to meet people, network, get sponsors. Sylke’s stylist put her in a long, heavy gown, white and gold with little pearls and jewels, to appeal to sponsors from one as her stylist put it. Something about portraying luxury. As much as she disliked the performance of it all, it had been a while since she’d been in a gown like this, with the heavy silks that draped off her body like water flowing gently over time-smoothed rocks. Something about it felt authentic, the daintiness and femininity. If she looked in a mirror she looked like herself. There had been a few times like that in her life, all of them before or during dance performances. The mirror that hung on the wall backstage was where she would check her costume before going up. She was grateful each time that her character wouldn’t be be frowning. She wouldn’t have to act. It would make her smile like nothing else, to see the dress she was wearing, because the person looking back at her was the girl she would see in her dreams, the princess she always wanted to be. And she would smile, a real smile, and she would go on stage with that smile, and everyone watching would know it’s real. The gala was different. People were closer, meaner, there was a tension in the air that never truly went away. The other tributes were there, closer to her than she’d ever seen them before. They were all so strong, so ruthless, merciless. It became clear to her that she didn’t stand a chance. They all looked out of place in fragile evening wear, like they belonged in a suit of armor on the battlefield. They could kill her in an instant, rip her apart like silk. This was the way she was going to die. She had a week or so until then, a week that she wanted to enjoy. But how would she enjoy what was essentially her deathbed? She would need to look at the little things, just the details could perhaps keep her happy for a week. She would need to distract herself, take comfort in all the things around her that weren’t awful. Those details weren’t as rare as she had thought, not if she looked in the right places. The gala was certainly not the stage, but it wasn’t that different. Those similarities were what she took comfort in that night. The dress, the lights, the few faces in the crowds that were truly friendly. Her dress didn’t flutter like a tutu, it didn’t spin the same, but it still made her happy, she looked liked herself in every glass, every reflective surface, she would see the dress, the jewels, and in a matter of seconds, her smile. She met all sorts of sponsors that night, they loved her. After all, there was no point in trying to appeal to them, and thus she could just be herself. Perhaps they made plans to help her in the arena now that she’d met them, but it didn’t matter. All that she could do was enjoy her night. Bask in the luxury and make some friends. The sponsors weren’t really friends. They weren’t her equals, they weren’t fearing for their lives. Only twenty-three others were like her. One of them was standing alone, at the edge of the dance floor. The boy from four that she had yet to learn the name of. He wore bronze to match his hair and tanned skin, a fairly simple ensemble akin to any other tuxedo or suit. The part that caught attention was the brocade. Just like Sylke’s jewels, they glittered in the light, adorning his chest and shoulders. There was a heavy patterned fabric that was draped off his shoulder like an asymmetrical cape fit for a prince. It hung still as he leaned against the wall, but Sylke pictured it fluttering with every movement and step he took. He was alone, as though waiting for company of some kind. So she walked up to him, the fabric of her dress swaying with each step.

“Hey. I’m Sylke. ”

“Finnick. You’re from one?”

The question was awkward, like he didn’t know what else to say.

“Mhm. And you’re from four, right?”

“Yup.”

There was a silence. She wanted to ask how he was enjoying the night, if he liked galas like this, if he’d ever been to one before, in fact she was about to when-

“But you’re not a career?”

There it was.

“I’m not. Just a regular tribute, like you.”

“Actually I’m not. I trained for this.”

“But you’re fourteen, don’t you wait until eighteen?”

“Yeah, usually.”

His answer was short, clearly a sore subject. She wanted to ask why, but as she looked at his face it became obvious that he didn’t know. So she didn’t push.

“Do you feel ready?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

His mentor, and kind woman named Mags, had told him not to show weakness, to portray confidence, never let the image slip, but it still did when he was talking to her. He let it slip, for some reason that he couldn’t yet identify. Something in him just wanted to tell her everything, every thought, every feeling, every doubt that floated through his head. Or rather he wanted to tell the world, but the world could not be trusted and so he looked to trustworthy individuals. Something told him she was most certainly one of them. Of course he didn’t say everything, but his performance was still weakened by her presence. Mostly by that smile. So genuine it made him want to smile too. They spent most of the night seated at a table in the corner of the room, occasionally beckoned by a mentor or escort, but always returning to the conversation. That conversation began with talks of the games, but it took little time to expand. Finnick told her about his life back home, and Sylke did the same. They talked about almost everything, from the birds that Sylke kept and trained in her garden to the rigorous dental hygiene Finnick was instructed to keep when he was a boy due to his sweet tooth. He was shocked to learn that she’d never eaten fish. On special occasion shellfish, but never proper fish. Soon after, Mags called him to meet a sponsor, and he returned a bit later with a plate of some of the fish being served that night.

“Here. I found some at the table, you should try it. It’s not like I catch at home, but it’s good.”

“Is there a certain way I’m supposed to eat it?”

He laughed, putting the plate on the table and sitting beside her.

“A fork and knife will do”

She laughed with undeniably genuine cadence before taking a bite. It was certainly new, but still familiar. Like a heightened version of the shrimp her family would get for celebrations, something meant only for the most celebratory of occasions. It was rich and just salty enough, and perfectly seasoned. Perhaps fitting for the celebration of one’s life, a good last meal. She made a decision to request this as her final meal before going into the arena.

“So… do you like it?”

She turned to him, swallowing before smiling, with the edges of her lips pulled high and making crescent moons of her eyes.

“It’s really good! If I had that as my last meal, I think I’d die happy.”

“Yeah? Wait until you try mine. No seasoning or capitol kitchen can make up for freshness--catching, cooking, and eating it right there on the sand.”

He spoke with confidence, almost arrogance dripping from his voice, with a pearly white grin to go with it.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They continued to talk and to laugh, exchanging stories and jokes like old friends catching up after too long apart. At some point she had reveled in the dress she was wearing, how the luxury and flow reminded her of costumes she would wear, how she felt more like herself wearing these than any time before. She spoke with a beaming smile, eyes flitting from his to the fabric to the jewels to the glittering room and then back to him. He said little as she did this, simply watching the joy pour from her every word. It was that genuine joy the pulled him to her, that made his performance slip, that made him content to let it.

“You glow when you talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“About the things you like, the things that make you smile.”

She laughed.

A minute or two later, the music switched to a new song, and Sylke perked up.

“I know this song!” She stood up and took his hand. “Come on, get up!”

“Wait, to dance?”

“Yeah! What, they never taught you how to dance?”

“Only a little,”

She pulled him to the dance floor and took both his hands in hers. “It’s a waltz, do you know how to do that?”

He shook his head.

“That’s alright,”

She brought one of his hands to her waist with her own on his shoulder. It felt nice to have someone so close, someone to trust. They didn’t move.

“It’s slow, do you wanna look at my feet and I can teach you?”

He pulled her a little closer, practically speaking directly into her ear. It hadn't been long since he felt the warmth of another human, just a few days ago he was hugging his family goodbye. But the capitol was so cold, so glamourously sterile, that this closeness with Sylke felt like a moment of fresh air after a month of factory smog. The rest of the capitol felt sickly cold in comparison to this. This comforting, trusting warmth. Neither of them wanted to leave.

“Maybe later. Let’s just sway for now”

“Okay.”

They swayed in silence, trying to savor this moment of trust. Gold, ivory, and bronze melded together as they moved, these clothes must have been made to dance together. The music was soft, a subtle background for their movement. The night was coming to a close, the dance floor had few people left on it. It didn’t take long for Sylke and Finnick to be pulled away for final goodbyes, the last chance of the night to get sponsors before they went back to the apartments.

They spent the rest of the week training. Sylke spent most of that time learning about plants. The training centre offered plants from multiple different biomes, and Sylke did try to learn about all of them, but she couldn't help but favour the jungle plants. Something about the vibrant colours striking shapes was absolutely fascinating to her, especially because she grew up in an urban area that held only artificial, staged cactus and succulent terrariums. She learned quickly what was poison, what was edible, and what was medicinal. Often, she learned, something poisonous because helpful when delivered in the right dose. There was a tree near her home in district one, planted in a concrete box in a public square. From midsummer to the first cold breeze, the blossoms would hang from its branches like white handkerchiefs dipped in rosy dye at the bottom. The tree was lovely and admired by Sylke as well as many of her neighbors, but everyone who lived nearby to admire from a distance. Adults told her when she was very young that every part of that tree was dangerous, not to be touched, and deceptively beautiful. The man at the medicinal plants station told her however, that the leaves, once cooked, make for a powerful pain reliever. Still to be ingested with caution, as with any other narcotic, but helpful when taken prudently. Sylke was simply fascinated by such topics. She didn’t care much for violence, which most of the training room was dedicated to. She also learned how to use a friction bow, but that was mostly out of boredom. Her favourite part of the training was most certainly the medicinal plants. She took comfort in knowing that with this knowledge she could perhaps help someone stay alive, and that if she taught someone else they could as well. Perhaps if things were different, if she hadn't been reaped, if for whatever reason she couldn't pursue dancing, perhaps she would have become a healer. Sometimes she would catch a glance of Finnick, throwing his trident and hitting his mark each time. He was so assured in his ability, a security that would certainly serve him well in the arena. He trained for this after all, his confidence was justified. His kills would be swift and painless, and she had no doubt that was how he liked them to be. He never seemed the type to torture something like that, something about him, the kindness that he offered to many (though not all) was too great for such cruelty.

The evaluations came too quickly. The game was approaching too fast. Cesare was first, then she would be up. When she entered the room, a small pile of stalks and leaves sat on a table in the corner of the room. In her fifteen minutes, she separated them into three piles. One she burned, another she ate, and the last she sorted into their different uses. She gave a curtsy before walking out.

She was sitting on a couch in the apartment that night, all eyes staring intently at the screen. The man next to her had gotten ten out of twelve. She got a four. No one was surprised by that. Finnick got an eleven. She hoped he would win. A part of her was sure that he would.

After that was the final show with Caesar Flickerman. Everything was just like back home, just a little more glamorous. There was a mirror just before the entrance to the stage, and in it she fluffed up her skirt before looking at herself in full. She had a tiara too, adorned with little gilded doves. She had once mentioned to a sponsor that doves were her favourite bird, a symbol of peace. Not only that, but the tiara was made to look like branches, with green jewels like olives ready to be harvested. In fact, all of the jewels she was wearing were green, to match the olives and complement the dress as her stylist had put it. And the dress. They had her in a rosy pink ball gown this time. It spun better than a tutu, with even more layers or tulle. It was perfect, everything the little girl inside of her could ever dream of. They were really leaning into the princess thing, and it made her happy beyond belief. The smile on her face was genuine, and everyone in the crowd knew it. She walked out from the steel doors, stage lights beaming from every direction as she took a seat. Caesar introduced her to the crowd, but all she could think of was music. She could hear it in her head, like she was sitting upstage while the principals danced. Like clockwork, he’d back straightened and her hands folded in her lap. She only caught the last bit of Caesar’s words.

“You really do look like royalty, sitting so poised like that. Do you know what people have been calling you?”

“What have they been calling me?”

“The smiling princess.”

He looked out to the crowd.

“Now folks, can you think of anything more fitting? Here she is in her royal gown, with a crown on her head, and the prettiest smile in the world. I can’t think of a better name for such a lovely young girl.”

“Thank you Caesar. I really do feel so lucky to be here and to have been received so kindly. My heart is truly warmed by the kindness you show me.”

“And look at that, such impeccable manners!”

His galavanting smile and raucous laugh shifted quickly to something of a pout as the crowd quieted and he took a more serious tone.

“Now of course, manners and sweetness are all gone in the arena.”

“That’s true. I will be completely out of my element.”

The crowd went quiet as Sylke formed her next words. She wondered if she should tell the audience the certainty of her death, how little hope she had for herself. But she decided against it. Instead, she focused on what she knew, the morals that she upheld and took comfort in.

”You know, I’ve been taught that the way to live a good life is to be kind, to have mercy, and to offer grace. I know not how that will apply in the arena but I have no intention of abandoning my morals.”

“Such wisdom at such a young age.”

He took her hands in his and looked her in the eyes.

“We all know that the arena is deadly. Unfortunately, other tributes are not as kind as you are. But we wish you the best of luck. May the odds be ever in your favour.”

The skirt rippled with her as she stood, walking of the stage with cheers sounding behind her. Misty was by her side immediately.

“That was good, you did good. A lot of sponsors are really loving the princess image, and that kindness, mercy, and grace speech really turned some heads.”

Sylke watched the rest of the show from backstage. Tributes came and went, each leaning into distinct personalities crafted by mentors, escorts, and stylists. She wondered how many were real. How many were total fabrication? And how many were what she imagined most of them were, exaggerations and oversimplifications, initially based on truth, but dramatised and amplified to make a good show. That’s what Finnick’s was. When he came on the stage, he had a big plastic smile. He acted arrogant, confident, but in a peacock sort of way. He had confidence in his own ability and his odds in the arena, and in the interview he missed no opportunity to flaunt it. And that was mostly based in truth. He did carry himself with confidence, and he did come off as arrogant when she first met him at the parade. But he was also compassionate, and that same confidence and security in himself allowed him to be wonderful at helping others, caring for the people around him that he trusted. It meant that he wasn’t afraid to step up and protect someone. And Sylke was sorely disappointed when she didn’t see that on the screen in front of her. That wasn’t Finnick, not all of him. But the audience loved it. They had no idea who he really was, and they didn’t care. They cheered and screamed with every toothy grin he flashed. They loved him. If he won they’d love him even more. He’d be their golden boy.

“You know they love him almost as much as they love you.”

She looked up and back to see the speaker. It was Cesare.

“What?”

“You hear the cheering? It’s almost as loud as when you were up there. Looks like the capitol found their prince.”

He slinked away again, with a smirk, like all he came up to do was tease her. But he was right. She wondered what would become of it all. She would die, and hopefully he would live. The capitol would lose their smiling princess. Would they mourn? What about him? If he died would they mourn him too? Her thoughts were interrupted by footsteps coming backstage.

“Hey! They loved you out there!”

“They loved you too, princess.”

They began to walk together, with no defined direction, just aimless, something to do with their bodies as they chatted. Finnick noted how regal her dress was, prompting her to revel similarly to the night of the gala at the way she felt wearing the dress. And again, he watched. She spun, the skirt flying up and revealing layer upon layer of fluffy tulle, and he felt a pang of desire to be the one spinning her, the knight in shining armor to her princess. And then he wondered if it was an act. If even around him she was playing up the princess thing, like he would with his playboy image for the cameras and other tributes. But he didn’t do that with her. Did she?

“Are you really like this?”

“Hmm? Like what?”

“When you’re on stage you’re essentially no different than how you are now. Is this just who you are?”

“I-I guess. I never really thought about it.”

They walked without words for a moment. He began to wonder if he made her uncomfortable.

“I try to be honest with everyone. I know my team likes to have a certain image, but when I get to talk I like to just be me. I’d like to think I’m always like this.”

Always a princess he thought. That’s just who she is.

“You’re not like that though. You were acting different on stage, I could tell. Did they tell you to do that?”

“Yeah. Apparently I’m becoming a capitol heartthrob.”

He rolled his eyes, drawling though his words with palpable disgust.

“My escort said I’ll get more sponsors if I do all that flirty stuff.”

She nodded, waiting for him to say more. There was a question she hadn’t the courage to ask, but he knew it, and answered before she asked.

“It’s not totally fake. But it’s icky, like they’re whittling me down into… it’s not something I’m not, but…”

“It’s not all of you.”

“Yeah.”

Stylists and escorts were moving about, organising the tributes to go into the stage for the finale. As Sylke was summoned to line up, Finnick pulled her close just as he had at the gala and whispered in her ear.

“I wanna come to your room tonight. Will they be asleep by midnight?”

Victoria would likely pass out the moment they returned to the apartment, and Misty always took a sleeping pill at eleven. Cesare would be asleep too, getting a good nights rest before the game in the morning.

“Yes.”

She was pulled away, and soon after so was he.

That night, she asked for fish as her supper. It was similar to what was served at the gala, tender and perfectly seasoned with a certain luxurious richness that she adored. The meal was quiet. They were always awkward, but usually Victoria, or failing that Misty, would try to make conversation. The table was quiet this time. Cesare was eating with vigor, trying to get as much down as possible before the game. Sylke was eating slowly, simply trying to enjoy all of it. Victoria had said all there was to say, now it was just a waiting game. As the night progressed everyone but Sylke went to bed early. She didn’t enjoy silence. Much more pleasant was to have something to listen to. Sometimes that would be bird songs and wind making melodies in the rustling flora, other times it was an orchestra unpacking and tuning as the crowd settled in. Whatever it was, she always preferred noise over silence. And so when all was quiet and everyone was asleep, she closed her bedroom door and found music to play. It was on the vanity, a turntable next to a selection screen. She chose something soft, classical, to remind her of home. She closed her eyes and for a moment she was back home. All was well, all she needed to worry about was the crowd, the choreography, that was it. Music had a power over her, to bring her anywhere in the world so long as she could hear it. Her feet moved across the floor, gliding and stepping with the music she knew so well. The piece was short and coming to an end. Her eyes came open a long time ago, but they didn’t actually look anywhere until the final note, when she would smile and bow to the audience. But of course, the roaring applause wasn’t there, and she was back in reality, back in the cold and grey apartment room. But she had enjoyed her escape, short as it was. A quick glance at the clock showed the midnight was nearing. She made her way to the door and kept an eye peering out the peephole. Right on time, she saw him walking, turning to check behind nearly every step. She laughed to herself at his caution, knowing full well that if she were in his place, she likely wouldn’t look back once. He approached the door and gestured to knock before stopping. He stood pondering a quieter method for perhaps a second before she opened the door. They tried not to make noise until she had closed the bedroom door again.

“You're playing music?”

“Yeah.”

They didn’t say much for a moment. In the end it was Sylke that spoke first, voicing the question that had stayed at the front of her mind for hours.

“Why did you want to meet tonight?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to see you again before tomorrow.”

She nodded, understanding and reciprocating his sentiment entirely. Another song faded out, and a lively waltz took its place.

“I never actually got to teach you to dance.”

“I’m still interested.”

She stood up come her place seated on the edge of the bed and placed her hands behind her back.

“Watch my feet. You know how a waltz goes 1, 2, 3…”

He nodded and stood next to her, mimicking her every movement. She took two steps and he did the same. She brushed her leg forward and he followed. With each step she counted, one, brush, turn, two, step, three, step. It took him a moment to pick it up, but with time he was able to find the rhythm and it became easier with each turn.

“Great. Face me,”

They kept their hands behind their backs, not wanting to complicate with arms yet.

“Just waltz, and I’ll be going backwards to match you.”

He nodded again and hesitated before stepping forward. She stepped backwards. When he brushed his leg forward she moved hers back. When they turned it switched. Once again, it slowly began to make sense to him.

“That’s great! Do you want to try arms?”

“Sounds good.”

They assumed a familiar position, with his arm on her waist, and hers on his shoulder. Only this time there was significantly more distance between them. Finnick was too focused on his feet to notice, but to Sylke took note of it, how as much as she loved to waltz with him, she did miss being closer. As the moved clumsily about the floor, she smiled and giggled both when he struggled and when he succeeded, finding joy in anything and everything he did. He almost didn’t hear her laugh with his laser focus on taking the right steps. At some point it seemed to get easier for him, but he still kept his gaze fixed on the ground. Upon seeing this, she lifted her hand from his shoulder and gently took hold of his chin to turn his face to hers.

“Look at me. Or to the audience, but we don’t have one of those.”

Just as he was told, he didn’t take his eyes off her. His steps were a bit messier as a result, but they smoothed over in time. Looking into his eyes, she found herself smiling even more, something he mimicked with a grin of his own. It wasn’t the plastic one from the stage earlier, it was different. Genuine. They could hear the song getting closer to its end. Finnick took the hand that was clasped with hers and placed it on her waist as the final phrase played.

“Dip?”

She smiled again, and that was all they needed for a response. He lowered her, with one hand at her waist and the other moving to support her back, keeping his head by hers and his eyes never leaving. The music went quiet before transitioning into something softer, slower, clearly in 4/4 as well. Neither of them moved once again. Her smile had gone slightly, now just doe-eyed and looking at him.

“Can I kiss you?”

She nodded. Sweet and slow, they moved closer until their lips met. The kiss was tender, slow and yet fleeting as they pulled apart. With foreheads pressed together, both of them donned massive smiles, eyes thinner than crescent moons. Finnick brought them back upright but kept them close. He didn’t want to let her go, perhaps not ever. He didn't want to think either. The future was too dangerous to consider right now. They mostly stayed cuddled on the bed for the rest of the hours they spent together, talking softly because they were too afraid to fall asleep. The conversation was not nearly as lighthearted as other ones. The game was tomorrow, and it weighed heavily on both of their minds. They talked about what it meant to take a life. Sylke didn’t like to think about it, but with the game so near, she could not pluck the thoughts from her mind. To kill someone, to rob them of their life.

“Have you ever…”

“No. No, never. I don’t think I want to either. I can, I know I can, but… I don’t know. It’s that or die.”

She admired his drive to live. It was amazing, an extension of that security in himself she figured. She was choosing to die, but she couldn’t blame him for choosing to kill instead.

“I don’t think I could. It takes so much, so much that I don’t have. I envy you Finnick. You’re strong and capable and-“

“Hey. Don’t do that.”

“What, am I wrong?”

“I-no, but… don’t whittle it down like that. You’re not wrong, I have skills that serve me in the arena. And with those particular skills you’re not as strong. But that’s not the whole story. Sylke, I’ve only known you for a week or two but I’ve seen how incredible you are. I’ve seen your kindness and your optimism and your care for the world around you. Those are skills too, even if they don’t serve you in the arena.”

By the end or his little speech, there were tears making their way down her face. There was quiet between them once more, but not out of awkwardness or lack of things to say. She moved closer and rested her head on his chest. His hand almost automatically moved to her head to play with her hair, something of an unconscious attempt at comforting her. The flow of tears came to an end. He tilted her chin to look up at him. Her face was still wet, with doe eyes and little trace of a smile. He’d never seen her look so sad before, and he promised himself to do everything in his power to keep that beautiful smile of hers around.

“You’re wonderful.”

He pressed his lips to hers, this time quicker, more passionate. Time seemed to fall away, and for just a moment so did the music. When they pulled apart she nuzzled into his neck, taking comfort in his arms securely around her. She felt safe here, like the danger of tomorrow could never reach her here. Some amount of time that neither of them bothered to note passed, and the glare of the clock seemed increasingly present. They were tired but still too afraid to fall asleep. Not here, not like this.

“I should go.”

“You need to go.”

Nothing moved.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

For a moment, all was still. Slowly, they rose, making their way to the apartment door. Before she could reach for the door, he took her hands in his and made a point to look square in her eyes.

“There’s gonna be a bloodbath at the cornucopia tomorrow. You should run, but don’t go far. I’ll find you once I get some weapons. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She didn’t need to ask anything more, all was understood. He knew her odds, he knew of her intention to die quickly, this was it. He would kill her in the morning, quickly, painlessly, end her suffering before things could get worse. She opened the door and gave him a melancholy smile. As he began to walk away she spoke quietly, just loud enough for him to hear.