She snorts at the idea of her being a normal girl. Maybe if she'd never set foot in the Games, whatever fierce inkling of violence that ran through her blood would never have been set afire, but she has no way of knowing that. "If you touch me like that again, I hope you'll be able to hold your baby without your pinkies," she warns calmly, inhaling before taking back the strong liquor, feeling like this has to be some kind of mentor tradition by now.

"You've always been more normal than me," she accuses, like it's a bad thing. "You fell in love."