'you know, most people talk about the games like they were just unlucky. wrong place, wrong time. they flinch when someone says the word ‘kill.’ you don’t. you never flinch,' he doesn’t look at her as he speaks. just nurses a drink he didn’t bother diluting. 'they call you the siren. can’t tell if it’s because you lure people to their deaths or because they want to drown in you. probably both,' haymitch exhales a dry laugh, but there’s no humor in it. 'you’re good at what you do. i’ll give you that. better than most. you don’t just win sponsors — you own them. hell, half of the capitol would sell their mother’s estate for a glimpse of your smile on a victory tour.'
he finally glances at her now, glass halfway raised. 'does it ever get to you? the weight of it. the eyes. the dying. or do you just sketch blueprints until it all looks clean again?' a pause. 'i don't trust anyone who walks into the arena and walks out proud. but you — i dunno. sometimes i wonder if all've you made it out,' he finishes his glass and sets it down on the table beside him, clearing his throat. 'anyway. they’ll want us on stage again tomorrow. smile for the cameras. raise the kids’ hands and pretend this shit isn’t built on bones,' he stands, then adds, 'try not to haunt the whole room, niamh. leave something for the rest of us,' @serenaid.
