"Draco Malfoy. Blonde guy. Think he's dead for good now." Howard saw him die on the screen this Arena and should have felt something, like he did in the replays of people he likes dying, in the replays of his own murder of Draco back in the ice Arena. He should have felt guilt, maybe. Or glee. But instead the most he could feel was some intellectual satisfaction, like a description of an image with no illustration. I am glad he is dead because I hate him and he deserves it. All words, no bile.

The screen shows two people Howard doesn't know again, though the ticker at the bottom of the screen tells him that they're named Albert Wesker and Maximus Something-Obscured-By-Fancy-Hat. His gaze again goes glassy, the disinterest of being able to detach from the people of the screen now that he doesn't know them seeping back into his face.

He wrenches away from Tim's hand, suddenly all angles and static shocks, the tipsiness being cast aside in favor of the agitated, startled aura of a buck at the sound of a cocking trigger. It takes a second for him to relax, and he realizes that he's shored up all his breath in his lungs, barricaded it in for a few moments. He exhales. "Whoa, hey, don't. Don't. Don't touch."

It doesn't matter that his brain can figure out that Tim was just trying to be reassuring and private; Howard's reflexes are still in the Arena. It always feels like that, as if he's only partially extracted from the Games. Parts of him are clearly here in the Capitol but pieces of his brain are still there fighting for his life.

Possibly, someday, literally pieces of his brain. That's an upsetting thought.

"Sorry, I just. I'm jumpy, okay? And you're taller than me."