Tim sees her from thirty yards away and doesn't move, at first, staying crouched in sparse grass that the animals haven't mowed down yet. Adult female. Well-armed. He can't place her name, but he knows that this isn't her first Arena. No one lives this long in an Arena without luck or skill, and Tim doesn't want to meet an unknown with either - or worse, both.

At twenty yards, his hands tighten and twist on the crude staff. He's starting to feel like the hunted, when he should be the hunter. Stalker, he mentally corrects himself. Panem has taken the lingo that once was so comfortable and twisted it back towards its original meaning.

The scythe doesn't worry him. They're unwieldy, and he's been doing better this Arena in terms of supplies. He's lost weight, but Tim has been doing better in terms of food. There's some dehydration; careful, obsessive rationing keeps it from overwhelming him.

That crossbow is another issue. Does she know how to use it? If yes, is she a decent shot? He's still not too concerned, having sparred against Speedy enough to feel much safer facing another archer shooting to kill than he did the first time it happened.

Twenty yards. Tim straight up with the bo held in front of him, at ease but ready. "I think you should keep your distance, miss." Polite and firm. He wouldn't say no to an allegiance with someone that he knew a little, but not a stranger this late in the Arena. With the dwindling numbers, who can tell when someone chop off your head the second you put your guard down?