ᴅᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɴɪɢʜᴛ [ᴅɪsᴛʀɪᴄᴛ sᴇᴠᴇɴ]

So it's the first day of the rest of your life. And that latter figure has now just dropped from decades to weeks, unless you find yourself incredibly lucky and lower yourself to murdering other kids in gladiatorial combat. Then you got to say goodbye to Mama, Mark, and the twins for perhaps the last time, and then the only girl that's ever been in your position and lived without claiming a victory decided to stop by as well.

So all things considered, you think you're handling the circumstances quite well.

In other circumstances, the quartet taking up the train car more opulent than every ounce of wealth you'd ever seen in your life would have been something straight out of a comedy book. A gaudy Capitolite woman who's chosen which of you were to die for longer than you can remember, a harried Victor from four years ago with not a single success story to his name thus far (though you're not sure if that's to be commended or shamed, given rumors about horror stories from Eleven and Twelve), an icy-haired pale ass boy who volunteered himself into the fray (and okay, maybe you're a little salty that of course it would be the unfortunate boy whose name was pulled from the bowl who had a savior to thank and not yourself), and then you. Sapphire DeCaria, apprentice lumberjack who had nothing special to speak of aside from her name and less than orthodox origin.

For some reason, the awkward silence is filled with a memory from your fourteen year, the year that the bearded man sitting across from you claimed his victory. A memory of a parade, or perhaps an interview, where the very man, then a boy, had generated more than a single tear from the more shallow of your peers. "Why is it always the hot ones that have to die?" was one quote in particular that stuck out.

At the time, you'd giggled and laughed, ignoring the shitty feeling in your gut that you were engaging in superficial discussion about a boy destined to die. But for better or worse, he'd won - killed enough kids, outlasted the rest - and now he was the one shot, the one advantage you had going into the rest of your life, for better or for worse.

Mackenzie Pryce, for his part, still had the rugged natural looks that had made himself popular with your classmates during his time as a contender. But today, he looked like he could use about three days of a nonstop beauty sleep and the removal of the weight of the world from his shoulders. Somewhere behind his dark eyes lay the persona of a boy who had killed four to keep the privilege of oxygen in his lungs, the knowledge of a tactician that had navigated three of his charges to the final third of the Games, the regrets of a mentor who had found a consolation, if not a success, on his first try, and then deep, bitter failure across the next two.

A look is shared with the Capitolite woman whose name I really cannot be assed to remember, then a few words, and then suddenly she's departed into another train car and his attention is on you and the boy across from you.

"I, um..." For all of the time you've seen this very person on your television screen and on the main stage of, you'd think you'd have a better idea of what to expect from him. But for all you know, you're about to get a lecture, or you're about to hear about his desire for a drink.

The odds seem pretty split either way, so you tilt your head one side in curiosity, waiting to see what was to come.

The lecture, it turned out, won.

"First thing's first: shed your morals." No "Hi, I'm Mackenzie!" No "Welcome to your imminent and utter doom!" No "So tell me a little about yourself!" Just all business and straight to the point, and you're not sure if you should feel annoyed or if you should respect him more for it.

The advice, to his credit, was battle-hardened and sound, or at least gave the impression that it was and that he knew what he was doing. Lex Lionel's words from the Justice building echo through your head - "About 80% of Mom's advice — Mackenzie's — is good, so try not to tune him out too much." and so you decide to oblige, taking each and every word into account - even if you're not about to call what is currently a total stranger "Mom". "If you want to play up a character in the Capitol, that's great. I'll work with you on that more in-depth later. If people like you it makes it easier to get sponsorship. But on the inside, you can't be good. Not now. You have to be selfish. You have to choose yourself every time. I almost died anytime I tried to choose differently."

And you remember, in flashes - a girl from One who took the initiative after they teamed up to end another. A boy from Three who capitalized on his hesitation to steal a kill, a kill that in a different world could very well have been him. And not that you were planning on ignoring him even before you'd been advised otherwise, because let's be real, you want to go home as much as anybody save probably Icehair.

There's a pause, and then suddenly he's looking you straight in the eye, an unreadable expression behind his own dark orbs but something powerful evident regardless. "You," he said, and he points a finger at you as if about to accuse you of something. "You look rich. You come from money?"

Well. Not totally off the mark.

And you can't help but snort, because wow, you've totally never heard that one before. But sarcasm can only dispel a solemn determination for a second, and as the name Jacinta Salazar, the only other living victor in recent memory drops from his tongue, you realize that this battle-hardened victor is probably the only living person you've ever met that actually has talked to someone from your father's home.

Icehair is labeled as a threat, before he glances back to you and compromises that you both could be threats. Which hey, you'll take that - if you can start out this whole shitfest one foot ahead of the others because of that very viewpoint, then so be it.

...being shy at the parade, no throwing the private training session, no disrespectful interview, no crying. Got it?" It's blunt and wrapped in splinters instead of silk, but the point hits you nevertheless. And already you're looking over this tall ass tired young man in a new light - sure, he might have a script and a routine, but goddamned if he still isn't putting forth effort.

And given what your situation was when you were first eligible for the Captiol's death games? Hell, it's sure of a hell lot better than nothing.

Of course, if one thing hasn't changed, it's your genuine inability to toss aside sass for more than three minutes at a time. "So hello, welcome to your imminent death, you look rich, oh and don't cry because you can't look weak, any questions?" you reply casually, as if commenting on the weather. "Did I get that all correctly?"

But then you realize that not everyone understands your version of sarcasm even after years of practice, and you suppose that the last thing anyone here needs is a misunderstanding. So hardly a beat passes before you soften your features and tone alike. "Got it."

A second passes, than another, before you decide that Icehair used up any priority tips when he voluntarily signed up for this thing that you never asked for, and Ripred forbid if you at least don't get your first shot at getting personalized advise.

"And for the record, my family is perfectly middle class, thank you very much." Dammit, DeCaria, tone down the rough edges, you inwardly curse yourself. "But yes, my dad - well, biological father, anyway - was a Keeper. Mom said he came from One. Figured if anyone could make the connection, it'd be you, since, well..."

Shit, he killed the girl from One, didn't he? Nice going.

"Sorry." Heat builds up in your cheeks and you break eye contact as shame threatens to overwhelm you. But just as quickly you fight it back, and turn your head in his general direction, even if this time you can't focus on anything above the hairs on his chin. "Moving on, yeah." You manage to lift your gaze a bit higher, this time focusing on his nose. This situation sucks ass, and I didn't ask for any of this-" and you debate shooting Icehair a pointed look before deciding against it "-but point is, I'm not going to give up so easily."

Finally, you manage eye contact again, and just the tiniest spark of humor catches light. "So, going for the threatening approach, eh? Threatening as in stomp all big and mean like the Twos do, or threatening as in chop the heads off of every Avox I lay eyes upon?"

The look in Mackenzie's eyes is enough to elicit a sound not unlike a giggle. "Kidding, of course." Then once again, back to solemn. "But for real - I'll take any advice you're willing to give and commit it to memory."

Because if anyone thinks I'm just going to roll over and die just because I didn't choose this life, they've got another damn thing coming.