TEXT

[itase]

Okay. Survey time. Am I seriously the only person here who's not from a world filled with people trying to murder me?

I mean. I had the one. But that was more incidental. I am the definition of collateral damage on that one. But some of you all take it to the next level. Or all the way up to 11, in some cases.

Comments

[hungover]

When I was younger than you, even.

[Ah, to be seventeen again and not have the deaths of nearly a hundred children on your hands...]

[itase]

So. Toddler. Ish?

[Yes. Alcohol is officially not helping with the 'be more sensitive' oath she mentally swore earlier in the evening.]

[hungover]

[He snorts.]

Seventeen. Typical seam girl -- dark hair, eyes like coal dust.

[He's wistful, for a moment, before the dark look crosses his face again.]

'course, the last time I saw her she was seeing a little more red.

[itase]

[don't say it, don't say it don'tsayitdon'tsayit]

What happened?

[damn]

[hungover]

Oh, you know. Politics.

[That's -- pretty vague, really.]

[itase]

[And she will take that. So hard.]

Say no more. Please. I don't want to know how badly dystopian mental imagery mixes with vodka dream.

[hungover]

[She's learning quickly, that's -- good. Less things for Haymitch to have to gruffly brush off.]

I think I can manage that.

[itase]

Mm. Good. I'm... having slightly more difficulty. With the talking thing- do you have blankets?

[it is a good, fine table. And she needs to finish that bottle with him.]

[hungover]

[Blankets. Why is she -- oh. Right. Not everyone has his tolerance.

He swaggers up and out of the living room and to his bedroom, and comes back with a blanket. It doesn't even reek like anything yet!]

Here.

[And he thrusts it sort of half-awkwardly toward her.]