A/N:

Sugar cubes to sissymac for your amazing review!

I told you it was a good thing when the chapters become easy to write, didn't I? Two chapters in two days! You can thank the foot of snow outside my house. Yay to snow days!

Plutarch explains to us that the announcement to our "secret engagement" will be announced at the Quarter Quell ball. It makes me groan a little, because I'm sure if it weren't for the plan I might have been able to convince the Capitol not to make me go. But I guess I should have seen this coming. I might as well get used to the attention now, because once the word spreads, the cameras aren't going to leave me alone.

The Quarter Quell ball is another punishment to the districts. Like the name implies, it takes place before every Quarter Quell, consisting of all the previous victors to the Games. And, because it is a Capitol event, it's beyond extravagant. There has never been one during my lifetime, but there was just a year before my mother conceived me. From what I've heard, it's the event of the year for Capitol citizens. They pay enough money to feed half the districts to get in.

But the part that truly makes it a punishment to the districts is the broadcasting. Just like the Hunger Games, it is broadcasted live to all the districts of Panem, and they are forced to watch it. It's almost as sick as the Games themselves. Forcing the families of fallen tributes to watch as the people that killed their children celebrate their victories, celebrate the deaths they caused. I despise the idea of it, and I'm attending.

"After the party is over," explains Plutarch, "You will each go home to your separate districts. I will most likely have a meeting with President Snow on what to do about this the next day. Depending on how long it takes to convince him will decide things."

"How will we know when you've convinced him?" I ask.

"Because then the interview will start being authorized," he says, "And President Snow will likely address Panem on the wedding, since no one has ever done anything like this before."

"He'll want to show that the victors are special," Sam mutters, thinking. "That they belong to the Capitol."

"But in doing this, you'll show that your loyalties are with the districts." Finnick grins as he says it. "Plutarch, you are a genius."

"But none of this will work if you two don't pull it off," he repeats, looking from me to Sam and back, "If you don't convince President Snow that you are without a doubt in love, this will be for nothing. Can you do that?"

Good question. Can I do that? I'm great at putting on an act—God knows I've done it often enough—but can I really pretend to be in love with my enemy? The guy whose face I pictured on the side of the house for years while throwing knives? The guy I just tried to kill?

"We can do it," Sam says confidently, answering for the both of us. I want to give him a glare out of principle, but that wouldn't exactly convince them.

"Of course we can," I say with a snort, as if it's the most ridiculous question I can fathom, "I just can't wait to see the look on the president's face when he finds out."

Though I can't ignore the fact that Sam is looking at me curiously, I try to act like I don't notice. The features in Plutarch's face relax, but only slightly. I still haven't entirely convinced him.

"It's important that we do this right," he says, "It's not just you Snow will go after if he feels reason to."

"I know that," I reply with an edge of coldness to my voice. I knew what was at stake when I agreed to the plan. Snow is a killer. He wouldn't just kill me, because that would be too easy. He goes after the people you love. He would go after Mima.

I would never let that happen. Mima might not be much, compared to the number of people other people love, but she is all I have. After Cory died, she was the only one there for me. My mother died when I was still a baby, and my father left after I got reaped for the Hunger Games. I am all Mima has and vice versa. I would never let Snow hurt her.

Plutarch discusses other minor details for a while, and I endure it with tired endurance. Most of the things he is telling us are things I already know. My prep team will come and prepare my hair and makeup, I'll be escorted to a train with the other victors, and I'll be taken to the party. But there was one thing I didn't plan for.

"While you three are at the party," Plutarch is saying, "Try and make friends with Katniss Everdeen." There is something about the way he says it that I don't like. As if we're doing it on precaution, in case something were too happen. His eyes hold secrets, bleak future events that I can't yet see.

"Why?" I ask, hoping to snap him out of it, or if not, get information out of him.

"Just in case," he murmurs, and before I can ask what he means by that, he stands to his feet.

"Well," he says, "you should all be going, before suspicions are raised."

I'm not completely satisfied with his response, but I don't argue. It's been a long day, and since it's getting closer to winter, the sky is already darkening. Right now, all I really want is the comforting solitude at home, the one place where I don't have to pretend. It's exhausting keeping up an act for so long.

Sam stands up as well, though I'm not sure why, since we're still in District 5. He follows me out of the room with that strange, unreadable expression that seems to be permanently on his face around me.

"It was nice to meet you, Waverly Mongelle," he says, which sounds incredibly ridiculous since we're supposedly engaged now.

"Yeah, well, I wish I could say the same." I brush him off coldly as I continue to walk toward the front of the hovercraft.

He is unfazed, even laughing. "You're just like he said you were."

I freeze, slowly looking him in the eyes.

"Cory, I mean," Sam clarifies, though he really doesn't need to. Of course I know who he meant. A serious look has cast itself over his face. I feel the anger start to creep over me.

"What do you know about my brother?" I demand darkly, leaving no room for a response. Because he doesn't know anything about him.

Sam makes room anyway, replying, "I know that he was a good man…a caring brother. I know that he should have won the Games instead of me." He digs into his pocket, pulling out a long gold chain.

I can't believe my eyes.

Sam offers the necklace to me, but when he sees that my numb hands are unable to take it, he picks up my hand and clasps it inside for me.

"He told me to give that to you if I won," he says simply, laughing again. "I don't know how he knew… But I've been keeping it for years." He gives me a genuine smile, squeezing my stiff shoulder before leaving.

He just gave me my brother's token in the Hunger Games.

I open the door to my house softly, in an effort not to wake Mima. I had left the hovercraft a while ago, but had afterwards wandered around the deserted streets, trying but not succeeding in trying to fathom what had just taken place.

My efforts were wasted. The door had barely closed behind me when the small frame of my grandmother sped into view from the living room. Her hair is matted and unkempt; she is ringing her hands nervously. She was clearly waiting for hours for my return.

"There you are!" she exclaims in relief. "I've been waiting for hours! I was worried something had happened, and you never go off without saying anything, and—"

"I'm sorry, Mima," I barely squeak out. Already I can feel the shattered fragments of my mask dissolving into nothingness. Any attempt at an excuse I was going to attempt to make vanished as soon as I saw her face.

Mima is surprised. She doesn't even scold me for saying "sorry" to her. I don't blame her. She never hears me sound so vulnerable and weak, except maybe when I cry out in my sleep. But when I'm awake, I never show any emotion. It's what keeps me together.

"Waverly," Mima says, resting her gentle, bony hand upon my face. "Waverly, is everything alright?"

That's when I lose it.

"Mima!" I sob, throwing my arms around her. She jolts a little at my touch, and once again I don't blame her. I've never been a hugger, and after the Games I barely touch anyone if I can avoid it.

The Games. It's always about the Games. I sob even more.

"I'm sorry, Mima!" I weep, "I'm sorry!"

"Darling, what is wrong?" Mima asks, leading me over to the couch. I barely have the energy to allow her to set me down, and I never let go of her. I can't, or I'll shatter. The most I can do to respond is a slight shake of my head, saying I don't want to talk about it.

"Sweetheart, what's…?" She trails off mid-sentence when she sees the necklace I'm clinging to desperately in my hands. "Wave," she whispers, barely daring to believe what her eyes are telling her, "Is that…?"

"Y-yes," I can barely stammer out through my tears. Mima looks into my eyes, unasked questions trailing on the edge of her lips. But one look at my pain-filled face changes her mind, and she resolves to leave them for another time. Instead she pulls me back into her embrace, and I sob even more, because it's such a loving gesture that only Mima could accomplish. Only she knows me; she knows me more than I know myself.

I want to say it. Three little words keep reaching up out of my throat, only to be dragged back down. I'm trying so hard to express them, to let her know, but it's as if my body just won't let me. The three words that Mima deserves to hear more than anyone.

I love… I…

I can't even think the words, which makes me cry even harder. Instead I stick to much easier words to say, which also cannot be said enough to my grandmother.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry, Mima." I'm sorry that you deserve so much better.

"I'm sorry…" I'm sorry that you're stuck with me.

"I'm sorry…" I'm sorry that I can't even tell you what just happened.

"I'm sorry…" I'm sorry that it was me that won the Hunger Games, not Cory.

"I'm sorry, Mima…" I'm sorry that I need you.

Eventually I trail off into shuddering breaths. Mima says nothing, just rocking me back and forth. She doesn't say what she wants to say, because I already know. You don't need to apologize, Waverly. Except she's wrong. I couldn't possibly apologize enough to her.

"You should get some rest," she says after a while, peeling my selfish hands from her fragile body. As she pulls back, I see that there are tears in her eyes. They make me want to cry even more, but I've lost all the energy to.

I'm sorry for that, too, Mima.

I finally just nod, numbly standing to my feet to head to my bedroom. Mima doesn't follow, because she knows I want to be alone, where I can put the mask back on. It's easier when I'm alone. In front of Mima, I can't help but let my emotions flood. By myself, I can at least pretend.

Pretending. My life is just a game of pretending.

I lay down in my bed, drowning in blankets, and wrestle with sleep as I try desperately to allow it to overtake me. My hands clutch tightly to the necklace that I haven't set down since it was given to me. I wait impatiently for sleep, but it's hard to find comfort in escaping one nightmare when you know you'll just find another.

A/N:

That…was a really sad chapter for me to write. That seems to happen to me a lot. But don't worry, next chapter will be much less depressing, I promise. Pleeeease review. Or don't. (Just kidding. DO.)