She shrugs it off, as if it's no big deal. Her words before had been the slip up, the anomaly. The thing about Katniss is that she might be screaming on the inside, but her face is a mask. Emotionless. After all these years, it has a couple of cracks.

"I don't care how I look, anyways. Those things are stupid," it's deeper than that. The scars are a visible reminder etched on her skin - that's what this is about. The ugliness of them doesn't bother a girl who never considered herself pretty in the first place.

But Katniss would rather talk about anything else right now. So she roots around inside of that empty head of hers, trying to figure it out.

"...Who's Fred Astaire?"