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MAYBE CELESTINE ZABELLE WASN'T A KILLER.
Scratching and clawing for breath, barely hanging onto life, and coping . . . ( almost ), she's basically a hundred percent sure she was not assembled to be a Capital pawn; a smooth black chess piece fiddled with and ferociously shoved around for the Games. Not for her fierce independence and disobedience of civil construct, but for the fact she couldn't have brought herself to kill back then. She didn't appear to be a monster at any moment in her life back then. She did not ravage, hunt, or snarl at peril, nor rejoice at spilled blood on delicate glass floors back then. She was not a tiger stalking its prey with a glint in its rapacious eyes -- she did not exult in slaughter, for there was no elation in death for her.
At least, back then.
Maybe she could've gone by without blinking an eye, spending the rest of her life in the bleak factories of District Six, assembling pieces and parts of hovercrafts and vehicles until her fingers turned black with tedious work and withered away like dust.
Maybe.
Maybe, became almost, then became oh so damn close!, when her brother, Kade, is chosen for the 65th Hunger Games, only to return to his family as a punctured corpse, struck with the heavy freight of murder and lifelessness.
