Barbara tipped her tumbler of water to Finnick, lips pulling up into a lopsided smile. "Is that better or worse for us or for them?" She lets the question sound playful, though with her eyes being pulled back toward the center of the room, it might not be as much of a joke as it seemed. There's no clear divide anymore, not between what it meant to be alive, or to die, or what it once meant to survive the Games and be called a Victor when you were usually little more than the survivor who held on the longest.

She supposes Survival Games doesn't have quite the same contrasting flavor as Hunger Games. Particularly not for the voyeurs, or the ones forced to watch them. "You see less and less of them in the Districts these days."