A/N: Guys, I still need a shit ton of tributes, so send them in! There's no story if there's no tributes. Ugh. Sorry. I'm just tired today and can't really form a coherent sentence. On with the chapter!

I also find the need to mention I was listening to "Fuck You (Very Much)" while writing this. Idk. Also I've never drunk before so I have no idea how accurate Perdixa is xD. SUBMIT TRIBUTES! Thank you.

Camamarie Jones is dead.

But her legacy lives on.

Oh, I'm sure she'd be devastated knowing this. Cammy didn't want to be remembered. And she certainly didn't want the creature of her nightmares, born thanks to a twisted, insane mind, to become the main mutt of the 91st Hunger Games.

But we can't all get what we want.

This is not the last time we will visit Cammy. But we have someone else to see.

Enter Perdixa Mountains, 29 year old socialite and party planner, famous for her avante-garde fashions and excellent salsa dancing. You all know a Perdixa. Sassy and whip-smart, juggling both insults and wine glasses alike and generally not giving a fuck. Extremely outspoken, politics-wise. And a magnet for…

I'm getting off track.

Wouldn't you like to meet Perdixa yourself?

I'm dizzy. There's champagne sloshing in my stomach and my heart is full with song. I fumble a few dancing steps and then opt to laugh instead, leaning against the marble table and fiddling with the pearl buttons on my sweeping scarlet gown. I hear a snort from a few paces away. I snort in response and then giggle because I sound like a pig.

"You are so, so drunk, Dixie."

I crane around and my lips quirk up into a mischievous smirk. Henri DeDiamente. This night has just gotten way more interesting. "Heyyyyyy Henri!" I purr, elongating my vowels. I read somewhere it makes you sound more seductive. Apparently Henri doesn't seem to think it's sexy, though, as his perfect button nose wrinkles and that alabaster brow furrows. Then again, Henri doesn't seem to find anything entertaining or even mildly attractive. I wonder if he's ace? Ace and without a sense of humor? He would have told me, wouldn't he? Well, maybe not. I'm not entirely sure whether he hates me or loves me, and he's not exactly going to go around revealing details like that to people he despises.

"Are you going to barf in the toilet?" He asks me dryly. I scoff. "You severely underestimate my alcohol tolerance." I say primly, and then giggle because I sound like a fucking princess and also I should design some princess gowns. Avante-garde is so old. It's just tin cans masquerading as clothes. Everyone likes princesses.

Henri groans. "You are so going to barf in the toilet." He mutters. I nod importantly. "Roger that!" I salute.

And then I rush off to the toilets to puke. Of course.

When I come back, Henri's sipping from a glass flute filled with punch. He's as far away from the champagne bottles as possible, suspicious eyes flicking from side to side as blurry people spin in glitzy gowns and sleek tuxes. I grin. "The punch is spiked, you know." I say casually. Henri gags and spits out his punch.

I tilt my head and stare at Henri quizzically as he mops up the stain on his front. There's a curious sensation ringing through me and I don't think it has anything to do with the alcohol. He catches me staring and quirks an eyebrow. And then I make a split-second decision.

"Let's dance." I say smoothly, and grab him before he has a chance to protest. We whirl into the fray and I wrap my hands around his back as his hands land on my waist. He nibbles his lip, and I can't help but note how cute it is before he begins to speak. "What are you doing?" He hisses, eyes dark. I widen my eyes innocently as candlelight waltzes with us, casting buttermilk patterns on our skin. "Can't I share a dance with a friend?" I ask. He scowls and then sighs. He looks…

I don't know.

That scares me, it really does. I've known Henri DeDiamente since we were both gawky teenagers. Our parents met at a dinner party and hit it off, instant friends. Henri and I? Instant enemies. But over the years we've developed an extremely confusing love-hate relationship. (Quite literally love-hate, seeing as we made out in a closet every Saturday for about three years and on the same days had spectacular fights over yard sales. Yard sales, for gods sake! We really are hopeless.) We're always squabbling, but we have a fierce loyalty to one another. We'll never betray each other or sell each other out in a million years. We have a hesitant truce, yes, an infinitely flawed bond, but it's better then not being in each other's lives at all. Henri is a stuck-up prat, but I have no idea what I would do without him. Actually, that's a lie. I know exactly what I'd do without him. I'd drink and whore my way throughout life but everyone bloody morning my eyes would sting with fresh tears.

Anyways, over the years I've become a master of dissecting his facial expressions. Every twist of his lips is a different emotion, and I'm the only one who can unravel the stoic man. But right now? I have no idea what emotions he's feeling. The expression on his face is completely indecipherable. It's unbalancing.

He breaks away and grabs my hand. There's a dark sort of look in his eye now, like he's gotten himself into some deep shit. My blood chills. He probably has.

"What's going on?" I ask coldly. Henri pales. He knows my facial expressions too. My pretty face must be blasting pure fury right now.

"Just…" His voice trails off. His lips pull down and his eyes glow with fear as he begins to mess with his sloppy, dirty-blond curls. "Perdixa," He says hesitantly. "Perdixa, I don't know how I ended up in this situation…"

All the blood drains out of my face. My mouth tastes like sawdust. Sweat pours down my palms.

Perdixa. He called me Perdixa. This is bad, this is really, really bad-

And suddenly his hand is vicelike around my wrist and he's pulling me out of the room and down the deserted marble hallway. We sweep past golden busts of old senators, courtesy of my mother, and into a small storage closet. The door slams shut and suddenly I'm squished up against his chest, breathing in the smell of dust and honeyed punch. I tremble.

His hand digs in his pocket for a few seconds and then I catch a glint of copper metal. I squint and study the.. thing closer. It's a copper pin, with a… flag? Wait-

My bones turn to lead, my blood to fire, and all that my mind can register is no, no no no no NO, not the Armada-

I wrench free of him and push out the door, nearly sobbing as I feel semi-fresh air hit my face. And then I'm running, running, running.

Because my best friend, the boy I've loved since forever, give or take a few years, is a terrorist.

A/N: spoopy.