The juxtaposition of the two of them is almost comical; Porrim is tall, dark, statuesque, while Temple is small enough that her feet can't hope to touch the ground when she sits on the bar stool, even with her platform heels. They seem like an illustration of variation more than anything else.

But their purpose here is the same: to drink and fuck their problems into a booze-soaked sweaty oblivion, to banish heartache and exhaustion with the wand of wealth and privilege. So in a way, they're sisters here.

"Of course!" Temple paws around her clutch (she's already a drink or two in) and retrieves an ivory pen and slides it over to Porrim. "What are you writing? I hope you don't mind me being nosy, I promise I'm not trying to get an edge over your Tributes."