By the time I've exchanged a wary handshake with Whisper and Remus Atwood, the District Nine Escort, Gloria has scribbled down a handful of lines for me to deliver to the waiting cameras. She lets them jabber at me for what feels like an hour, though realistically is more like ten minutes, fielding any questions that I start to flounder on herself.

With a new level of assertiveness beyond anything I'd seen from her in the past, she cuts off any further discussion when she spots Portia standing beside one of the junior Gamemakers—the one that questioned myself and Beetee the night of the interviews about our tributes' anti-Capitol attitudes, I realize with a sudden jolt.

The young man is smiling when we reach him though, and assures me that Antimony is in good hands. As always, several medical experts were on-hand at the arena site to ensure our newest victor wouldn't take any further harm in transit. The vehicle graveyard was built relatively close to the Capitol, and even as we're speaking he receives a call on his portable comm-unit that their hovercraft is in sight of the city.

"Where's Beetee," Gloria asks suddenly, and I glance around, realizing my dear mentor isn't nearby. Thinking back, I remember that I saw him briefly just before Axel's unsuccessful attempt to kill Antimony. He'd been up half the night working with the camera developers and had been heading up to his room for a brief nap. The televisions in our Training Center rooms activate automatically for mandatory viewing, but if he was tired enough it's entirely possible that he slept through the broadcasts. Gloria hurries off to check and promises to get him out and talking so that I can check up on Antimony's condition in person.

I scurry after Gamemaker Seneca as he leads the way to the lifts, leaning subtly on Portia when I catch my heel with my other foot and nearly tumble. She grins up at me as she helps me steady, her face flushed with excitement. I think back to her father Lorcan's original intent of bringing her closer to the Games—to show her the unpleasant reality and subtly push her away. Somehow I don't think it's working.

Seneca continues to talk at me as we make our way to the hospital facility, deep in the basement below the Training Center gymnasium. He seems content that Antimony's actions were sufficiently compliant during the Games, and that, with careful editing, no-one will remember anything much about her outspoken district partner. As a physically unimpressive and not overly popular victor, I guess the Capitol media machine is already trying to decide what spin to put on Antimony. On the short journey into the uncomfortably white-walled depths, he suggests several make-over shows and various historic rags-to-riches heroes to compare her to.

I just want to see that she is ok. As ok as you can be coming out of the arena alive. It doesn't take us long to track down a doctor who seems to know a little more about her condition, and he directs us to a side-room. Dragging his eyes up from the electronic tablet, the doctor spots twelve-year-old Portia standing silently behind my chair and raises a questioning eyebrow.

"I'm here to support the District Three mentor," she answers glibly before I can speak. The doctor glances at me, and when I nod, goes back to studying his notes.

"The damage to her head was severe," he starts bluntly, and I see the young Gamemaker beside me frown and lean forward, though the doctor forestalls his question with a raised hand. "She is lucky that the Games ended so soon after it was sustained. We should be able to minimize the damage. As it is, we won't be able to fully gauge the extent until she is awake and able to participate in various cognitive tests."

He sighs and rubs his forehead. "Honestly, with injuries like this, it really is impossible to predict. I've had a similar case end up fully recovered within a month. Another never regained consciousness and we were forced to pull the plug. The fact that she did recover, albeit briefly is a positive sign. My colleagues are running further scans now. We'll know more in an hour, even more in a day or two when she wakes."

The young Gamemaker sits back in frustration, rapping his right-hand fingers against the table while his other hand strokes his artfully curled beard.

"Estimated recovery time?" he asks finally, and the doctor furrows his brow and shrugs in reply.

"Injuries to the head are always tricky; from our preliminary scan, we know her skull was fractured in two places and we have to leave time for the swelling to reduce before we can see more. Many of the rapid healing methods we use are limited when it comes to the brain. I would say a minimum of seven days, more likely ten to fourteen."

Seneca frowns some more and mutters something about being unhelpful. The doctor shrugs again and reminds him that there's a small chance she won't wake at all, which the Gamemaker declares as "simply unacceptable".

I interrupt their bickering to ask about her other wounds and wince as the doctor starts listing them off: Probable blindness of some measure in her right eye. Possible loss of some mobility and strength in her badly cut left hand, though he's more hopeful here as the damage was only minutes old when treatment began. A number of infected cuts and scrapes, already being treated with a cocktail of antibiotics, and she is currently being measured by the plastic surgeons who will provide the customary full body polish once she has regained enough strength. While she's out, they also plan to bring a dentist in to replace nearly all of her teeth; Axel's blows damaged or outright destroyed several and the rest were in no great shape from her rough living prior to the Games.

Apparently two of the surgeons have already suggested various cosmetic alterations. I catch Seneca's look as the doctor makes a quip about turning our ugly duckling into some sort of swan, and I realize with a sinking feeling how he is planning on filling the unknown time between the victory trumpets and the crowning ceremony. And unless the blows to her head have caused a massive change in personality I know that our little victor will hate every moment of it once she wakes

~xXx~

While Antimony sleeps, the Capitol starts planning out her new life and new look. I dodge the worst of it by spending most of my waking hours fulfilling my sponsor debts, and most of the rest sitting by Antimony's bedside, waiting for her to recover. Beetee also delves heavily into our sponsor work to avoid the cameras; he admitted to me sheepishly that he was wakened by Gloria's energetic shaking to learn that he would have a new neighbour in the Victors Village. I do get dragged onto an evening panel show on the second night, alongside several other victors who have some experience in the various makeover options available.

Annie Blake, a normally reticent older victor from District Ten is patched in from her home to discuss her own facial alterations—her face has that odd plastic quality often seen on Capitol citizens who have gone under the knife a few too many times. Cecelia Gerchell and Topaz Courdan are the clothing and accoutrements experts, while last year's victor Sarnia speaks animatedly about her own transition from poor, ugly district girl to acceptably polished victor. I keep quiet at the far end of the table, nodding at the appropriate moments and stammering answers the two brief questions the show's host throws in my direction about the latest advances in laser tattoos and programmable wardrobes.

I watch appreciatively as Cecelia deliberately leads the discussion towards acknowledging that no style will ever be complete without incorporating the inner character of the wearer. She openly encourages everyone to have an opinion, so that Antimony can have a variety of choices available to her when she recovers, and can build her 'new self' up with the aid of the Capitol's finest artistic minds. It won't stop Antimony from being flooded with a hundred different recommendations, but the general sentiment seems to have shifted to letting our new victor make the final choice.

In-between these fashionable interludes, we get a few glimpses of home. Antimony's immediate family get a few segments of camera time, primarily focusing on her older siblings Zircon, Mercury and Cobalt. Her younger brother Wolfram appears briefly on camera, a blackened eye not quite covered by the presumably hastily-applied make-up as he extols his sister's virtues. I can only assume that the crack-down on the lower district has continued, quite possibly under our Mayor's direction as a way of venting his disgust at his newest victor.

Gowan himself makes a blunt appearance, gritting his teeth as he unenthusiastically announces a welcome home party. This will of course be held in the north end of town and I have no doubt our charming mayor will go out of his way to exclude every poorer citizen of Three that he can. Antimony's oldest brother Zircon seizes the opportunity in his next appearance to suggest that all of their family will have to be present. I think back to Antimony's comment on the train ride here about how half the poor end of town were cousins of some sort and groan when I realize what her brother is planning. Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, or the opportunity to stick it to our loathsome toady of a mayor, but I know him well enough to anticipate his likely reaction. And subsequent retaliation.

Antimony finally wakes around noon of the sixth day after she was pulled from the arena. I put aside my notes for Dirkin Clell, Plutarch's chief materials scientist as soon as I see her eyes flutter open. I know from Beetee that when I first appeared to wake, I remained non-responsive for nearly ten hours before coming around to reality. Before I can wonder if my tribute—no, victor now—will be the same, Antimony starts snarling and struggling, her hands clawing against the restrictive sheets holding her firmly to the bed.

Keeping a safe distance for both our sakes, I try to move into her vision, hoping that a familiar face might bring her around. She goes very still when she sees me moving, though I'm not sure if she's thinking 'predator' or 'prey'. Then she frowns and raises her hands up in front of her face, blinking frantically. I wonder again if she is emulating my own first response, examining her killer's hands, but then she waves her hand in front of one eye, then then other, and back again.

Belatedly I recall the doctor's comments about some residual damage to her right eye, possibly resulting in partial blindness. Finally she seems to recognize me, though it takes her a few tries to get any words out. I hurry around to the other side of the bed and pass over the waiting glass of water. It takes Antimony a few tries to grip it—her left hand clearly isn't recovered—and when she brings it to her lips, she inadvertently inhales a large gulp. I lean forward slightly to support the base of the cup while she coughs the mouthful back up, trying not to get too close so that she doesn't feel threatened.

She takes a few deep breaths, coughing again and hawking a glob of spit onto the pristine sheets. Her eyes follow the line of my hand supporting her cup up my arm and to my face and she repeats an incoherent mumble several times before I realize what she is asking:

"Alive?"

I nod, smiling in what I hope is a supportive way.

I get another unarticulated grunt with a slight tone of surprise and help her take a proper drink before the medical staff make their hurried entrance. I retreat to the chair in the corner, watching and nodding encouragingly whenever she glances in my direction, as they put her through a series of tests to gauge the extent of her remaining injuries. I can see her starting to droop again before they are through, and she drops back asleep almost as soon as the head doctor declares he has sufficient data.

I follow him out into the hall after a final glance to confirm that Antimony is once again sleeping. The doctor clears his throat pointedly and leads me down the hall to an office.

"We will be putting her back under for a few minor procedures," he informs me as he waves me into a seat. "She'll be out for another twelve hours now that we are content it is safe to do so. There's a form for you to sign here somewhere," he pauses to rummage through his clipboard of papers and notes, and shrugs when he can't find it immediately.

"No matter. Now as to her injuries." He pauses again and I realize I've leaned forward, my knuckles turning pale where I'm gripping the edge of the table, and flashes me a brief smile that helps me relax a little.

"She appears to be about as well as I anticipated. You probably noticed that there is residual damage to her right eye, though it does appear to be partial. I doubt we can do much to reverse it and there is a very high risk to such procedures. She may have to live with it. She is otherwise physiologically responsive, if a little delayed and her vocal responses were mildly affected, though nothing like the extent that you suffer. I am hopeful that this will improve with time and treatment.

She appears to have lost some coordination in her left hand. This should also improve as the cut tendons finish healing, though some of the effect is likely due to the head injury—you are aware that there's a cross-over in the cerebral cortex?"

I nod vaguely—I've read up a bit on the brain trying to deal with my own issues, though it was a good few years back. The doctor nods and continues, "As to Miss Newen's psychological state, well, I'll leave full judgement to the experts in that field. From my brief observations, she appears to be quite disconnected from the world and will do well to see a psychiatrist to help re-engage. This isn't uncommon for non-volunteer victors, as you may be aware. I can recommend some names if you like?"

I nod, though if I don't like the look of any of them I will probably go back to Damia, who I still get annual check-ups with to receive my prescriptions for the medication I use to manage my own lingering arena damage. I continue to nod as the doctor reels off a list of antibiotics and nutrient replenishers that are being fed through the tube in Antimony's arm alongside the anaesthetic. The multitude of cuts, scabs and bruises are all healed with no lingering signs of infections. The fractures in her skull will heal on their own in time now that the swelling has decreased, and she will be provided with painkiller tablets to deal with the anticipated headaches that will likely linger for at least a few weeks. The dental work is done, the surgeon who suggested D-cup implants to enhance her figure has been chased off and her appendix (identified by one of the surgeons as being partially inflamed and likely to be an issue in a few months) will be removed this afternoon alongside the completion of her full body polish.

I sign off on the paperwork as Antimony's legal guardian and stop by for one more glance at the sleeping victor before heading out to find the rest of our District Three team to plan out the coming days.

~xXx~

The victory ceremony takes place nine days after the Games ended, though if I or the doctors had any say, we would have stretched it longer. We film the official mentor team reunion shot that morning, with Antimony wobbling her way down the corridor and into the waiting room to Gloria's enthusiastic applause and Lorcan's encouraging grin. Our young victor still seems dazed and disoriented, taking a few seconds to respond to any sort of stimulus, and she huddles defensively in her chair, clenching and unclenching her damaged left hand as Gloria natters on about parties and dresses and the extensive make-over options that will soon be presented.

When she does speak, her words are soft, hesitant and very slightly slurred, though they at least appear to be forming complete sentences. Her first question is whether her family are ok, and Lorcan quickly reassures her that her parents and all of her siblings were on screen just that morning, making preparations for her welcome-home party. Her second question is a bit more worrying: she asks what happened to her friend and ally Axel.

The three of us glance at one another and Gloria opens her mouth to remind the poor, broken girl that the boy she thought was her friend tried to kill her and that she killed him in return. Lorcan cuts our Escort off with a sharp gesture and suggests that we need to get started on some dress fittings, and we can continue the conversation upstairs just as easily.

Antimony looks confused, but lethargically agrees and trails obediently behind us as we make our way to the elevator. It's only a short ride in the clear tube overlooking the city, but even the momentary flash of sunlight off one of the neighbouring buildings makes Antimony flinch and huddle tighter into the corner.

We let her drift over to the lounge and curl up in the corner against the armrest while Lorcan calls his daughter and starts listing off instructions and Gloria bustles over to the waiting Avox with the doctor's meal instructions. I take a seat on the nearest armchair and wait for Antimony to re-focus and look at me.

"It's going to be hard…to…to…talk about…"

My words get stuck, but she nods slowly, apparently following.

"What do you...remember? At the…the end?"

She winces, rubbing the damaged right side of her head, and thinks for a minute before answering.

"I remember the other girl. She tried to kill me, but she was stupid. Thought she'd won before the fight was over."

She frowns thoughtfully, and adds, "I remember her before, she was always with that boy. Did I kill him too?"

"No," I can honestly assure her. "She killed him."

Antimony shrugs listlessly. "I thought they were friends." Another frown as she rubs the crease in her forehead. She takes a few deep breaths, then looks up at me with those dark victors' eyes.

"I killed him, didn't I. Axel. I killed my friend too."

Behind her I can see Gloria has returned from her organizing and is ready to join the conversation. I make another sharp gesture and our Escort thankfully takes the hint and keeps quiet.

"Antimony…." I make sure I have her full attention before continuing. "He attacked you. He tried to…to kill you. You fought. You won."

She shakes her head slowly, bowing it and biting her lip as she tries to deny what she now knows she remembers as true. I sit back as she draws her knees up under her chin, clamping them in place with her still-scrawny arms and watch as her shoulders heave with the weight of her sobs. After a few minutes she looks up again, and I see her face is streaked damp but her eyes are clearer than they have been since she shoved a crude dart through the ribs of her former ally.

"I thought it was a dream," she whispers, turning her head to wipe her nose against her arm. Gloria pointedly clears her throat and holds out a frilly white handkerchief, which Antimony warily takes and scrubs her cheeks with.

I give our Escort another warning look, earning two raised eyebrows and some pursed lips, but ultimately keeping the lecture quiet for now.

"It all seems like a dream. A bad one, mostly. I couldn't wake up." The frilly lace in her hand dances over her trembling fingers. "And now I have to live it again."

I nod. Unfortunately there's no getting out of it. Tonight she will relive her nightmare at least one more time.

Lorcan returns from his call, walking heavily around the end of the couch so that he doesn't startle her and offers Antimony a hand.

"Let's get you cleaned up. I've programmed your wardrobe to give you something comfortable for the next few hours. You'll feel better after a wash and some food."

Antimony picks at the frayed orange jumpsuit (they like to film the reunion shot in a close facsimile of the arena clothing so that they can cut it into a single shot with the victory moment in post-production), then nods and warily accepts the extended arm. Lorcan lays his other arm gently around her back and supports her to her room.

Gloria has the decency to wait until we hear the door snick closed before she launches into a stream of worried questions about Antimony's mental state. I dig out the list of psychiatrists from my notebook and let her do the research while I clear my own head by watching the city from the balcony.

Lorcan joins me there briefly once he's sure Antimony will manage to get clean and dressed on her own, and seems content to sit in silence for a few minutes letting the rumble of cars, the shouts of playing children and the general bustle of the Captiol fill the air.

Antimony wasn't hugely popular, so the pack of reporters camped on the steps of the Training Center is barely a dozen strong. Compared to any of the Career victors, who may see fifty or more media plus dozens of fans, it's practically an empty street below.

Lorcan squeezes my shoulder briefly as he rises to go rally his troops. The gleaming wall-clock only reads eleven twenty, so I take my own opportunity to clean up and join a well-scrubbed Antimony for lunch. She's on a strict diet of stomach-friendly foods and, remembering my own discontent at watching Beetee eating a mouth-watering stew in front of me, I join her in her plate of barely-flavored rice and half of an apple.

My stomach is still growling after, though she seems to struggle with even the meagre amount and leaves several forkfuls in the bottom of the bowl. It's the least District Three thing I've seen her do in all the time I've known her. She continues to huddle in on herself when she's not otherwise occupied, one hand picking at the plain, silky shirt from her wardrobe, the other rubbing her right brow. Without a word I stand and hunt down her painkiller tablets. She gives me a weak half-smile—one side of her face is still less responsive—and takes them without argument.

Her apathy continues when her prep team arrive, shrill and overbearing in their excitement. Juliette, now an old hand at dressing a victor, manages to keep the other two mostly in order. They pull Antimony away for a second shower, a heavy moisturising scrub and to do something fancy with her hair.

I discover that Lorcan hasn't been idle in these last few days. He—with Dido's subtle and unofficial assistance—has been compiling the best of the many suggestions about our new victor's new style, and has decided to bow to general public sentiment. Rather than theme her outfit on her arena, her Games, Antimony will become the embodiment of an old fairy-tale: the ugly duckling who became a swan.

Her dress for the victory ceremony is sewn with hundreds of real feathers, starting at a gray-brown around her neck and torso, and drifting into a long, beautiful silvery white around her sleeves and shins. Her short hair is swept back from her face and pinned above each ear with diamond-studded silver feathers, leaving the dome bare for the crown she will be wearing by the time the night is out. The tips of her black hair have also been dyed, I realize as she turns and the silvery-white shine catches in the light.

It's a mark of how detached she is from the world that she doesn't fidget with the hairpieces or complain about the feathers that must be tickling her skin. She doesn't even object to the poking and prodding of the four-person style team who circle her to ensure every feather and dyed hair is in its proper place. It's not until Beetee ducks back in to wish us luck, and to change from his stained shirt to a suit jacket that she shows any overt reaction.

She doesn't acknowledge his brief greeting on his way in, but two seconds after he steps into Antimony's vision while fixing his buttons the girl shrieks and throws her hands protectively over her face dropping to a huddled crouch and knocking the silver-feathered hairpins askew.

Her prep team converges on her, shrilly admonishing her until Lorcan shoos them away and kneels beside her, gently touching her chin and nudging her face up to look at him. Antimony takes a few deep breaths, glances at Beetee and flinches again with another small yip.

My mentor remains still and calm, still in her line of vision and waits for her to regain control. Shakily, staring at Lorcan's lightly stubbled chin, Antimony regains her composure somewhat, though her knuckles are still clenched white. She whispers something that only her stylist can hear and he nods, reaching forward to rest a gentle hand on her shoulder before helping her up and leading her back to her room. The prep team trail after them, heels clicking in time with their worried glances.

"Cicely," I hear Beetee mutter, shaking his head as he finishes buttoning his shirt. It takes me a minute to place the name; one of the Careers he killed with his electric trap. The girl that one of his prep team members apparently looked enough like that Beetee stabbed her with a nail file.

I run my mind over the other tributes who died during these Games, trying to picture who Antimony might have imagined seeing, but none of them are really close in appearance to my mentor. Which means she must be generalizing a great deal and be….

Axel. Her ally who betrayed her and she was forced to kill. The resemblance is minimal; both are dark-haired, dark-eyed and male, though Axel had a good four inches on Beetee in height and a layer of rangy muscle that is almost unheard of in District Three. If every male who vaguely resembles her deceased ally sets her off like this, she is going to have a hell of a time when she returns home. I close my eyes, picturing her older brothers who have been prominently featured on-screen back home. Both Zircon and Mercury Newen are similar in size and stature to Beetee, though with leaner faces and no glasses, making it an even closer in resemblance to the dead boy from Six. I don't doubt for a second that Antimony fell into the trap of thinking of her ally with a similarly brotherly affection. And trust.

I hope for her sake that it's just a temporary after-effect of her time in the Hunger Games, or her return and recovery are going to be extremely difficult.