Being the Capitol felt like walking through a graveyard. The Games had held a certain horror to him, but it had been made into something far, far worse after being forced to mentor his own son just to watch him die in the arena. It's tainted everything further, leaving a new layer of fucked-up in it's wake. He's always hated the Capitol, hate the Games -- None of that is new. But being here after the loss he and Clementine are still reeling from, a wound everyone in this godforsaken place loves to reopen just so they can feel like they're being sympathetic? It's filled him with a new sense of a rage, one he hasn't felt since he was inside of the arena fighting for his life.

It's a relief, once they can get back to their apartment. Weight lifts off his shoulders with each passing floor on the elevator, though it's replaced by melancholy the second he walks in. No matter the mix of emotions he keeps choking on, now that they're no longer in front of an audience, he doesn't have to bite his tongue. “Are you out of your fucking mind, Clementine?" Foster wastes no time in questioning the woman in front of him, the second the door shuts behind him. She'll know exactly what he's referencing -- The loud commentary Clem had been making from the moment they stepped foot in the Capitol. Without Alba and their prep team, or the tributes in the same room, he felt as if he could let out the breath he was holding. This was between him and Clementine, no one else. He hates how often they fight now, how quickly things always seem to come back to this. The Rebellion.

Clem's vocalness about her hate for the Capitol has never been something Foster understood. He agreed with her, but didn't see the point in shouting it from the rooftops. Rebellion was a hopeful idea, one he liked in theory, but the last time Victors attempted something like it, it blew up in their faces. Both literally, and figuratively. The Capitol had already taken so much from them, he didn't want to lose anything else. Because the last thing he has is standing in front of him, practically drawing a target on her back every chance she gets. "Do you want to get yourself killed?" He questions her, unable to stop the emotion in his voice at the word. It comes with something unspoken: Haven't we suffered enough? "I’m starting to think you do.”