"Oh, I'm aware," Hawkeye interrupts. His gaze snaps back to Rat's face because it seemed more proper, or because he was finally too worked up to mumble to a piece of metal. He'd just been called a liar, and it would only sting more if his nerves weren't already dulled from the past beatings he'd received. "All the people who come at me all too happy to behead me just because they can't bear to disappoint their hoards of screaming fans back in Panem have made that perfectly clear." And he'd start speaking with harsher words, maybe, because nobody understood the difference between sincerity and stupidity in this place. "So have the kids scared out of their wits who think impaling another kid is going to grant them some sort of mercy."

And what could he say next? Something about how there were bigger people out there to target, something about how small all their minds were if they thought their lives meant anything at all when men in suits played chess and chatted in an air-conditioned room. Something about how triage was all about letting the boys bleed to death if they were going to do so without giving them a second glance or thought. Honestly, Hawkeye had worked Rat's final comment to near extinction before the boy had ever said it. War meant he had no control. He did what he had to. That meant some boys died worse deaths than they would have had they never fallen to his table.

There was nothing to do but not think about it.

But Jesus Christ, he wasn't the delusional one. He shouldn't be the target for the hate. And all Hawkeye does is school his temper and sway on his feet and repeat, "I help whoever I can. That doesn't mean everybody. And just because you're an actor doesn't mean you should always think you're a hero." But no venom on Hawkeye's end. He'd spit it at Snow.