Undertow \\ [Kire]

The stranger walks up beside me and stops there, not talking, not moving, just staring at the open expanse of cityscape as the night rolls by, overwhelmingly noisy but peaceful all the same.

I turn my head to get a better look at the person and find that it's a girl, all blonde hair and light eyes, standing maybe a foot shorter than me so I have to look down at her face. Now I wonder again.. are tributes allowed out of their rooms, this late at night? Not that it matters, I guess – I suppose they could confine her to her floor at night as a form of punishment, but what's the point of an unlocked door if they don't care if people wander around, especially if they're about to face imminent death?

For a second, I wonder if I should say something. Should I do anything at all, or just turn around and leave the girl to her peace? Standing there awkwardly, I sorta lean forward and look down at the Capitolites strolling around below, faint hints of laughter reaching all the way up here, regardless of all the other noise.

After a silent minute, I speak up, gazing down at the streets below to avoid looking this stranger in the eyes.

”Are you a tribute?” I ask, hands clasped around the railing built in to keep people from falling.

”Yes,” she says, staring up at me. I know she's looking at my face, I can see it out of the corner of my eye, but still I fix my gaze on the streets below. Of course she's a tribute – she doesn't look or sound like a Capitolite, and there's a helplessness behind her voice that's unmistakable.

”Are you?”

It's only a sentence, but the words completely floor me. My jaw drops open for a second as I rush to figure out what the answer is, but I shut it again before I look like a fool. The truth is, I was a tribute. A year ago, I stepped up onto the platform in District Nine, proclaimed myself a killer, and faced my fate without hesitation.

I told myself on that first day that I would be a victor, and here I am.

(It turns out I was really volunteering to be a killer, and I was oh so willing, even from the start.)

It doesn't feel right, saying that the Games are all behind me. I'm in the Capitol just like the rest of 'em, shoving down memories like I'm trying to keep myself from retching, and I'm not separated from those experiences. I am a tribute as I am a victor; it's always going to be a part of me.

The silence stretches on as I consider an answer, and when I finally land on something that sounds right I turn towards her, sorta looking her in the face and sorta gazing up at the starless Capitol sky.

”I am,” I say, trying to stop myself from looking down at my toes. ”Er, I was, I should say. Not anymore, but still.. kind of,” I laugh nervously, fidgeting with the sleeve of my sweater. Ever since I won, the opportunity to talk about the reality of my situation hasn't really presented itself, 'cause people are always making assumptions before I can even say otherwise, congratulating me on my victory, celebrating my bravery, thanking me for the short-lived wealth I provided to my District. You'd think I'm a hero after all that, but I sure as hell don't feel like one.

When I speak again, I'm more mumbling to myself than anything.

”It's not .. not really a title you can leave behind, once you've lived it.”

”Colgate O'Leary? The one they call 'Soap'?”

I nod, and a shadow falls across my face.

As far as nicknames go, I know people have called me worse. Who knows why, really - I guess I was just the one they chose to pick on, the unlucky guy who looked enough like a victim that they figured I wouldn't do anything about it. What's worse is that I didn't do anything about it; the working class of District Nine harassed me for months, years, ever since I started putting in hours to pick up the slack for my family, and I didn't defend myself.

I just sorta accepted it, you know? Like I could never believe that I was worth something. They called me ugly and stupid and a whole host of bad things, but now.. now I look in the mirror and I'm confused about what was wrong in the first place. My nose is a little big, but it's not outlandish, the Capitol fixed my crooked teeth and made them all nice and white, and my face is just normal. Yeah, okay, I'm not the brightest person that ever lived, but.. I don't know, there are worse things to be.

Like a murderer.

Lost in thought, I don't realize that the silence has stretched on for too long, but the girl speaks before I can even think up a reply. "Did you have to leave anyone behind?"

While I'm an idiot about a lot of things, even I can tell that she's asking for her own sake. I wonder: who did she leave at home when the Capitol whisked her away?

Clasping my hands against the railing, I turn my head towards her and nod. ”Yeah, I left my family back home, when I became a tribute. That was hard to do, but.. they gave me a reason to fight.”

I pause, turning my back against the city and leaning up against the railing. ”Who did they take you from?”

Suddenly I decide that I don't want to stand anymore.

It's probably for the best anyways, 'cause she's craning her head to look at me and that can't be comfortable at all. Wobbling a little, I bend my knees and lean up against the wall, flopping onto the ground, staring back at the training center door.

I put my elbows on my knees and lean back. This girl probably thinks I'm a weirdo for acting so strangely, but honestly? I'm beyond caring. I reach into my pocket and pull out the bottle of bubble mix – the same one I took into the Arena with me – and start blowing bubbles into the air. They drift gently upward as the light from below reflects over the bubbles in turn, illuminating each in their own outline.

”I've got three brothers,” I say, watching the bubbles float higher and higher. ”And two sisters, and both my parents. Lotta mouths to feed.”

What can I say to a stranger? It feels too personal, talking about stuff like this to someone who I don't really know. I feel like I'm saying too much, so I try to turn the conversation around.

”What's your name? I guess I forgot to ask.”

The thing about names is that once you know what someone's called, you can't go back to thinking that they're a stranger. You can't pretend like you don't know them, because that's false – if you know a person's name, you know more about them than most people in the entire world ever will, 'cause there are a lot of people and not nearly enough of them give a shit.

Or maybe I just think names are special 'cause I've spent so much of my life avoiding mine.

”Siren Baitwell,” I repeat, testing out the words, staring straight ahead. ”I guess I should say it's nice to meet you,” I smile a little, just for a second, pausing to look at her, ”despite the circumstances.” My smile falls, because in truth it's not nice to meet her – if the world were gentler, I would never have met this girl or learned her name, 'cause she'd be back in District Four, swimming in the ocean and digging her toes into the sand, safe and sound.

I remember what the ocean looks like, from my visit to Four. I wish I could have spent more time there on my tour, but it was the winter and the water was freezing and all I could really do was stare out at the great expanse of it, looking on for ages and ages as the waves crashed against the shore.

I felt small.

As the silence stretches on again – less uncomfortable now, more like we're both contemplating everything – I find myself wondering if this girl's got a chance in hell of winning the Games. Not that I can really tell from looking at her, though – it's too dark, and appearances can be more than deceiving.

This time I turn towards her and blow bubbles around her face. ”Do you think you can win, Siren Baitwell?”

Do you think you can win?

It's the one big question for a tribute, I guess, but I always sorta knew the answer for myself. I wonder, though – what if I hadn't been confident? What if I wasn't willing to kill? The hardest thing to think about is that there are tributes out there who know from the start that they're going to die. I mean, I guess having your name called is a death sentence unless you're proven otherwise, and there's no telling what will happen until then.

For a second, I worry that I'm asking something too personal of someone I've just met. The Games have a way of doing that, I suppose – all of a sudden the tributes are plucked out of their home Districts and forcibly thrown into the toughest situation of their very short lives, so what does it matter that my questions feel too private? When all is said and done, Siren Baitwell may never remember that we even had this conversation, victor or otherwise.

"I don't know. I keep thinking about all the reasons I could, and all the reasons I couldn't. I just worry about my brothers so much, they always get into trouble and now I'm here and too far away to help them. But I think I have a chance, yes."

She turns to lean up against the railing next to me, and I decide it's getting a little weird, avoiding her gaze like I am. This is something I've gotta force myself to do, or else I'll go on without even being able to recognize her face when she's in the Games. How did I kill six people when I can't even look a girl in the eyes without feeling embarrassed? So I do – I raise my head up and smile just a little bit and turn to look at her.

”You've got your brothers,” I say, my smile widening. ”That's one big reason why you can win – if you've got them, you've got something to fight for. Don't worry about all that other stuff – just you. Just your brothers. If you do that, you'll get through it.”

There's truth behind the words, I know. When you think about the Games in black and white like that – ignoring all the consequences, all the death, focusing on the stuff you've got to live for – it's almost heroic.