He's nearly been here a sweep. Nearly two years. In a way what all might be strange to anyone what wasn't his kind, the Games made him steady. They gave him ground to stand on. All the murder, the pain, for all he didn't engage it so much no more, it was familiar, and familiar was something what he could understand.

But then was that different, rarer kind of familiar what hurt and confused. He's stopped just at the entrance to the alley-- he's always got a sharp eye for what's around-- staring at this new Tribute, for surely, there's no chance he'd be a Capitolite. Not doing this.

It's the sort of delicate kindness what he's spent sweeps being told doesn't exist, and where it does, it ought to and most surely will be crushed. Puerile is it to be, and it stokes that unfortunate fondness what does him so ill so very motherfucking often.

Taking care to step as quietly as possible, so as not to scare the cats off, he approaches. When he thinks he's close enough the Tribute might hear, but not enough so to scare off the cats, rather than speak and align himself as what the cats might perceive human, thus worth running from, right up in his chitinous windpipe, he lets fall a series of soft insectile clicks.