Some days, he didn't understand the fuss. Hadn't he killed his first man at an age younger than Katniss's? Sharpe could still remember the crack of his enemy's skull on the slick flagstones, and Maggie Joyce's insistent whisper in his ear that he flee St. Giles and make for the north. He'd been thirteen, a common street thief, and unusually small for his age.

And here he was -- tall, strong, and an officer. Scarred, perhaps, but successful. So, sometimes, when he heard Katniss get down on herself or witnessed others turn up their noses at the thought of children willing to kill just to survive? He'd begun to wonder if it somehow invalidated how far he'd come.

But he did know that he should act as though their Games offended him. And they did, to a point, but not because of the children. Nor even the competition. It was the conscription that rankled.

"You've truly nothing else? No holidays? No feast days?" Perhaps, he thought, their Capitol celebrated more than the Districts.