A gift for Clover.

He hates that term, Careers. His Career wasn't slaughtering other kids no matter how much training he had. His career was busting rocks, not skulls. Regardless of what they think, he was supposed to be cutting quarries, not slitting throats.

He knows what they say about him, him and every one of the other kids who comes out of the privileged districts. They're larger than life, personified nightmares, chomping at the bit to win.

Some of them are, certainly. His district partner with her gleaming smile, and feral eyes relished the kill in a way he would never. He isn't sure anymore which one of them is defective.

All he knows is that he would give anything to be one of the other kids. One with parents who held them close, teary-eyed, dreading the plain box they'll be shipped home in.

He sits out training, approaches some of the weakest candidates and gives out pointers. He tries to help the girl from Eight adjust her aim with a throwing knife, and she flinches so visibly under his touch that he swore the blade went through his heart before hitting the far wall.

Somehow it still comes as a shock to his district partner when he turns down being part of The Alliance. "Where's your sense of self-preservation, freak?"

"It lasted longer than yours," he tells her, and he's certain she doesn't understand at all.