Author's note: Well, here's the next part of Wiress' story. And I have a Very Special Person to thank. To my partner in crime, Stu, RP-partner extraordinaire and the Beetee to my Wiress, who actually got me to read The Hunger Games in the first place, you have gotten me back writing, and for that, I am eternally thankful.

I lose time a lot these days.

"Dad, why aren't you eating?"

"Can't eat. There are cameras in the food."

So he goes out for a time, comes back into our clean house in the Victor Village with the stink of garbage on him and the smell of rats.

I retreat into the workroom I've set up for myself in the library, start tinkering again, and hide there till he's gone to sleep. I can't stand the smell of rats anymore.

I dream of them now, wake up with bile in my throat.

Dad looks at me now. He never used to see me before, but he sees me now. I know what he's seeing.

And it's not my face.

It's blood and hell and falling trees and knives and traps.

Not my face.

The streets are bare but for a dusting of snow, winter in District 3, gray as any other season, with no plants and no trees. People know me on sight now, and so my clothing is nondescript, shapeless. My coat is a long, hooded grey cloak that covers me completely. I keep my head down. Walk in shadows.

People frighten me. More to the point, their thoughts frighten me.

I never go downstairs now, only upstairs. Geiger's mother and siblings still live there, working, living. I bring things sometimes between Parcel Days. Geiger's mother chats with me, doesn't expect me to speak.

Sometimes, I bring the littler kids mechanical toys I've made. It makes me...feel a little more alive to do it. But I can't stay for long. The questions start forming in their minds, and I can't answer those questions. Not now.

Maybe not ever.

And so I walk back home. Though sometimes I end up in the basement, before I remember.

One day, Dad leaves.

"Can't stay here. I can't see your face anymore." It's covered in too much blood.

And then he's just gone, with me watching as he leaves.

I can't cry. I don't cry. I don't feel much of anything, really. Not anymore. I go back inside and put the finishing touches on another tiny mechanical creature. I'm using brass now. I can afford it, after all.

I'm alone now, and I'm finding that I don't mind it much. I keep contemplating going to visit Beetee, but I'm hesitant. I worry that he won't want to see me. I'm living next door as promised, but things have been strange with me these past months.

I still don't quite know who I am anymore.

The nights are too quiet. I can hear my thoughts too well.

And I think there might be rats. I don't sleep much.

It's one of the coldest days in the year when I finally go over to Beetee's house. I'd been worried about something since Dad left me several days...or weeks...ago. I've lost time again, and I don't remember.

I leave the house without putting on my coat. I just don't think of it. Being warm doesn't matter as much as getting an answer to my question. I tramp through the snow, and stand on Beetee's porch, and knock nervously till the door opens.

He looks at me, bewildered. "Wiress?" Almost as if he can't believe I'm standing on his doorstep. Well, it's been...some time. Maybe I've changed.

I force out the questions before they get lost in my brain. "Am I still human? Do I still have a face?" My voice sounds desperate and it cracks on the last word.

Beetee sighs and reaches for my hand. "Come inside, Wiress. You'll catch your death."

Oddly enough, I didn't realize that it is snowing outside until Beetee is brushing it off of my clothing. "For heaven's sake, why didn't you put on a coat...?" he mutters.

"Please." I swallow and try to regain my calm. Rationality has already gone out of the window. My hands shake. "Please, just answer me."

He frowns and pushes his glasses up onto his face, and sighs again. "Of course you're still human..."

Something, like...a key, turns in my heart. There's relief, but now I really feel cold, and start shivering.

Beetee looks at me in concern, and pushes my hair off of my forehead. "Oh sparks-" He reached over for his coat—it is long, and hooded, and looks quite a bit like mine—and wraps it around me.

I don't know why he looks so worried, so I start babbling. "I don't have a face, do I? Dad said I did-didn't, maybe I don't..."

"Sssh, Wiress. You're feverish. Come on." He takes me by the shoulders, leading me through the house. He puts me on the sofa and I curl up on my side. As an afterthought, he unplugs and brings over a toaster, setting it on the small table in front of me. The side is shiny. "There, see. You have a face."

I lie there, staring at myself, blinking at my own reflection. And now I see that my cheeks are flushed

and my eyes are too, too bright.

Beetee comes back with a few white pills, which he gives to me with orange juice. He moves the toaster and sits down on the small table. "Who is taking care of you?"

I just shrug, retreat into myself, staring into the glass. Beetee leans down and tilts my chin up till I look at him.

"Dad left. Said I didn't have a face anymore." I close my eyes, but it's too dark, and so I open them again.

He sighs again. "Well. He was definitely wrong about that." He pushes his hand through his slightly curly dark hair. "Stay here until you're better. You shouldn't be fending for yourself while you're ill." He pulls the quilt off of the back of the sofa, putting it around me. "Come on...I've got a guest bedroom. It's never been used so it should be clean..." Though he did sound rather uncertain about that.

I get up shakily, and he looks at me and puts one arm around me, guiding me up the stairs. I feel dazed, exhausted. His arm around me is keeping me upright. The room he brings me to is warm and quiet, with only the quiet tick-tock of a clock in the corner as noise. I find the sound soothing.

"I can get you a shirt to sleep in," he says, leading me gently to sit down on the bed. "One moment."

Even though I haven't been here long, I can tell that Beetee didn't decorate this room. Or live in it. For one thing, there were no tools, and there were tools all over the house, tools and bits of wire and small electrical components.

But I'd like to think he was responsible for that clock. It's the only thing in here that seems to belong.

Beetee came back moments later with a nightshirt for me to wear. "It's...not much, but it's clean."

"Thank you." It's nice of him to let me stay. The house has been so quiet and empty. The nightshirt is soft. It's his too, but yes, it's clean.

I wonder if he does his own laundry.

Beetee puts his hand on my shoulder, startling me out of my thoughts. "Get into bed," he says gently. "I'll check in on you in a few minutes."

I nod and when he leaves me I change into the nightshirt and crawl into bed, pulling the covers up around my nose. The gentle sound of the clock on the wall begins to lull me away from here, and though I fight sleep as long as I may, eventually I'm pulled down into the inescapable hell of my dreams.