"Your friends?" Of all Enjolras' words, those are the only ones that catch Cecil's attention. He's been watching the Hunger Games for more than thirty years - he thinks he knows how to pick a favorite Tribute by now! And he's not here to talk about himself. Gosh, how ridiculous would that be, managing to swing a one-on-one conversation with a Victor and making it all about him?

He pulls his tablet closer, switching it to a room-by-room view of the Arena with a few expert sweeps of his fingers and flicking swiftly past the deserted-but-for-corpses parking garage. It's positioned so that Enjolras can see it clearly as he flips between rooms. "Well-- with things quieting down in there, they shouldn't be too hard to find! I'm sure at least one of them made it out of the..."

His voice falters. His fingers falter. His heart falters.

He zooms in on the face that has caught his attention - the face of a new and unfamiliar Tribute, difficult to make out at first in the dim light of the cafeteria, where he is hard at work raiding a box of pastries. He has tied his shirt into a makeshift bag. His hair is dark and long enough to curl. His face is intent. Everything about him, Cecil realizes, as the seconds continue not to reveal a single flaw, is perfect. He must be new. He has not seen this Tribute before. He would have remembered.

It takes him too many seconds to remember how his tongue functions. He intends to turn back to Enjolras, to apologize for breaking off so abruptly, but all that he can make come out of his mouth as he stares at the screen is a low, disbelieving, almost reverent, "...Who is that?"