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— THERE WASN'T MUCH TO DISTRICT FIVE. Not the rolling grain fields like District Nine, or the captivating wood in Twelve, the restless waves in Four.
No, there was nothing in District Five Quinten cared for. Nothing besides the people.
"Quinn! Quinn!"
He sighed at the sound of his sister's worried voice, looking at his reflection in the glass bottle in his hand. Even through the bending refraction of light, he could see the dark purple underneath his eyes.
"Uncle Quinten! Uncle Quinten, Momma is calling for you."
He found himself smiling as his nephew hurried up to him, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he did so.
"Is that right, Benji?"
"Yeah, Mom's not happy about—"
"Quinten Killian, if you don't get your ass inside my wife is going to combust." Jordan Rosemary was scolding him, almost like his mother used to, a threatening glare on her face as she pressed both her hands to her hips.
"Hm." Quinn shook his head with a small chuckle, bringing the nearly empty bottle to his lips, the taste of rubbing alcohol invading his senses. "Did I fall asleep out here, Rosemary?"
Jordan sighed, kissing her son lightly on the forehead before ushering him back to the house. She looked down as Quinn with a small glare, her beautiful features pulled into a look of disdain.
"You know you did."
"I didn't."
"You did."
"I was tired of waking him."
Quinn didn't need to meet her eyes to know the pitiful look, he dreaded the pity. In all honesty, he preferred the praises from the lunatics in the Capitol, the cheers and the screaming opposed to the look sane people would give him.
He didn't deserve pity, no one who had left the arena deserved pity. Not even Ridley Winston, who at the exact moment was returning to the house with a new toy for Benji. Despite the kindness, even the most innocent doe eyed humans were capable of unspeakable acts.
Were capable of a lot of things, none of which took away the lives they had sacrificed for their own preservation.
Some, like Quinn, were brutal and unforgiving, while others, Ridley, were patient and let the others off themselves, with not but one spec of blood on his hands by the end of it.
Maybe, you got lucky like Ophelia Killian and just happened to be skilled enough at holding your breath that you outlive the others, or maybe lucky in the way Jordan was when she was the smartest one in the arena.
Quinn didn't know, not really, if the odds were ever truly in someone's favor. He figured, surely, if the odds favored someone they wouldn't even be in the godforsaken arena to begin with.
