This nightmare would never end. It seemed like a good enough blanket description of the Games and this new life away from Maine and Korea and everything he had thought endless and sordid and senseless before. But even when he had been torn from his stupid little mission at the blood bath, when he had found a way to make his legs move again in the right direction, when he had convinced himself poorly that leaving wouldn't mean he was turning his back on his profession, Hawkeye had gone so far as to think he'd now be safe. But he had tried the door to one of the staircases and found with a sinking heart that it was locked shut. He had been forced to shuffle into an elevator, thinking his lungs would burst, pressing the button to the second floor. He could deal with elevators just fine, most of the time. Riding in them was an every day thing at the Tribute Center in the Capitol.

But Christ, not after the cornucopia.

Not after having been released to his death and having had to come face to face with those gray walls, closing in although they weren't.

He had paced and groaned and hopped until the little bell sounded and the ride eased to an end, and he wasn't stupid, honest. He knew full well that there might be someone ready to kill him when the doors slid open. There wasn't. Hawkeye headed out, pulling the red bathrobe closed. Apart from it and his skivvies, he was downright nude. Hearing himself trudge along silently, he remembered his dog tags and wondered about where the hell he had last left them, the damned things.

Funny, the things he thinks about when he's feeling he's going to die. This floor was quiet. This floor was decorated. This floor had a little more air, and Hawkeye sucked in a loud breath. And stopped dead in his tracks.

And because he's him, his hands went instinctively to cover his privates, though they were covered with fabric twice over. He wanted to whine. No way he could have run into a killer already-- and searching the other man-- so he had armor and knives stuffed in boots and Hawkeye just. And a bow. The man had a bow. His heart sank for maybe the twentieth time this past hour. "This wasn't part of the contract," he starts, his voice higher than normal, rushing his words a little more than he'd like. Blame the nerves. "I never signed for this!" That's it. That's all. There wasn't even a place in the hall he could dive for safety. And because he refuses to step closer or farther away, he says, "Don't do what you're thinking of doing, fella. Please."

Actually dying would be a terribly lousy way to start a lousy day.