Your Own Kind

by Seta Suzume

What comes after. Mags as a mentor; Mags as a victor. [sequel to Save Yourself]

10. Part II, Chapter V

I watch the family interviews spread throughout recut footage of each remaining tribute- recaps of the potential winners, I suppose- even though I know it's only going to hurt me. The only ones I should be paying attention to are the ones concerning Salvador. As far as I can tell, the interviews never hurt anyone. They can only help. It makes me think about Jack. It's stories. These are main components of the Games: killing and stories. …Though Jack hasn't seemed nearly as interesting in building up narratives about his tributes as I would've expected, now that I pause to consider it. Not for the girl he just lost or the boy he's still got. …Can he not do it for other people, despite having and being able to articulate the concept? …am I just not understanding his process? It's hard to say.

Even as I watch the tributes' parents and siblings and friends in the districts speak, I try to let them blur together (and succeed, or do I fail?). "Mica is the bravest person I know," says a brown-eyed girl in 2, the sister of Hector's tribute.

"I can't wait for my son to come back home and run the shop alongside me again," says Mr. Eastman, the father of Coy from 5.

"She is my baby," the mother of the girl from 3 gets a bit choked up, "She's always been my favorite." ("Mom!" the girl's brother gasps with annoyance or surprise- will that be more awkward now if she wins or if she dies?)

9's Tim Hazel has a pretty scary-looking dad (it's his eyes? his huge, muscular arms and crazy side whiskers? the combination) and school friends to speak for him. The dad applauds his turning on his partner girl, which isn't going to win either of them any more friends back home, I think, but it's not something for me to waste much concern lingering on.

Neither the 2 boy or the 8 girl have any family members, but the Dorm Mother from the home where the girl lives speaks to her sweet and gentle nature (the reporter talking to her seems kind of bemused) and some of the girls who live and work with her talk about how she's clever and good with her hands and because she was so tiny she'd have to go under the machines sometimes to fix things (they remind me of Pal's sisters- maybe there's something of this to all the factory girls in 8- and, if I see her and think of girls I never knew, how does she make Pal feel? No wonder he is working so thoroughly (and desperately?) for her).

A teacher speaks glowingly about the boy from 2 and friends cheer for him, "Just like everyone does when we play 'Rockwall Ball.'" It looks like a pretty fun game from their demonstration.

…I am too easy of a sell. I like everyone (well, I have mixed feelings about the boys from 1 and 9, but I still don't want to see them killed). I hate the Games.

Salvador's mother talks about what a determined boy her Salvador is. How he works hard around the house. What a good son he is. How proud she is that he's made it his far. Then, she turns the knife as far as I'm concerned. She tells how he idolized me since my win. How happy he was that I let him and some of the other interested kids come and spend time around my fancy new house and hang out with me. How she trusts me to bring her son home. "I believe in both of them. In Salvador and Mags," she clasps her hands and stares earnestly into the camera.

His grandmother, fortunately, isn't as painful for me to hear. It's more of a generic agony. I think of Mayor Current, his wife, his son- all of whom would've been there to speak about Shaya if she had made it this far, but instead had to see her die within the Games' first few minutes. The only possible upside to that outcome could be that the suspense didn't last long. They could move fast from fear into grief.

Che and Rodrigo seem pleased to be on camera, just as they were before at the beginning of my Victory Tour. Che does an impromptu re-enactment of Salvador receiving the Crispco crackers. "Se bueno!" Che and Rodrigo exclaim in unison and laugh. They really are good to be able to stifle their concern for their close friend so much.

"It means, uh, 'that's great,'" Rodrigo explains to the reporter. "There's a lot of extra-English slang Down-District." The term 'Down-District' is just as new to the purple-haired reporter, but it's just a generalized way of indicating the more southwestern part of 4 as opposed to 'Up-District,' the northeastern section (the main town, in the middle, is the dividing point), so it's not too hard for her understand.

"Are you 'Up-District' then?" this prompts Shy, also watching while keeping one eye on her still-sleeping tribute.

"No," I shake my head, "I'm from the main town. …There aren't really all that many people who are 'Up-District.' That's glades and stuff mostly."

The mentoring room is quiet and only getting quieter. Mentors still 'in the running' as it were are taking turns heading out for final eight-related interviews about their tributes. Most of the victors, like Kayta, who have stuck around in a 'just watching' capacity aren't here with us yet (and nothing's happening, so they might as well sleep- the only tribute who's even awake is the 9 boy and he's just sharpening a stick against a rock).

Hector has just returned from his interview, swapping off with Gerik, to watch theirs, the final district pair, alone until his partner gets back. Jack is still gone and a listless Capitol woman with smudged eye makeup is sitting at his station flipping through a fashion magazine while his tribute sleeps in a tree with his mouth open. No one else spends half as much time away from their tributes as Jack.

So, right now, there's Hector, Shy, Luna, Beto, Pal, Jack's Capitol speller, and me. Pal, as usual, is talking quietly into his headset. Shy has taken off her shoes- they're yellow, I notice, and sitting underneath her chair.

"I was thinking of calling for coffee," Hector stands up and speaks so as to attract all of our attention, "So if you want anything, now's probably a good time."

"Coffee'll do," Luna says. I feel like I haven't heard her speak in days. She's not much for extraneous comments.

"Thank you, Hector," Shy favors him with a cute smile, "I will have lemon tea and a croissant sandwich."

"Picky, picky," he jots down her order.

I have a feeling it would be good to prevail upon Hector's generosity. "I'll have a glass of milk." I don't think I can stand anymore coffee, at least not for several hours. I'm not used to drinking so much of it. It turns my stomach.

"I am already appropriately outfitted," Beto gestures to whatever food or drink he already has at his station but I can't see from this angle. "…Thank you anyway," he appends after a pause.

There's a long silence.

"Paaaaaal?" Hector queries.

"I don't think I can eat," he murmurs.

"Oooh-kay," Hector takes that as a no and steps aside to ring an Avox attendant.

I check briefly on Salvador- still sleeping although a light drizzle has started- then get up on my knees on my chair to look over the top of the partitions and address Pal. "You don't look so good. Have you been up a long time?"

"As far as I can tell, he's been here all night," Gerik answers, reentering the room. "You're up, Bet'," he signals the victor from 3.

As if Pal hasn't already been operating on a minimum of rest since the Games began. This can't be good for him. "Have you really?" I query, brow creasing.

"I can't sleep under these circumstances anyway," he gives a sorry little shrug and his coat slips down one shoulder.

"You could…at least lay down?" I struggle. "Close your eyes for a while?"

"Oh," he whispers, "But she…"

"We'll call in your speller," Shy joins in, "You've got them for a reason, you know? You're going to have to go interview about that girl of yours soon so you'll have to tear yourself away from your screen for a little while anyway."

"Okay," Pal relents. "A few minutes on the couch." He goes and lays on the couch with his back turned to us, but he keeps his headset on until the designated speller arrives to take over for him. I doubt he sleeps, but it's better than nothing.

The pair of Avoxes who bring up the food we ordered (I can't help but like the straw in my glass of milk) are soon followed by Beto, returning. "Mags," he pushes up his glasses and makes a polite motion toward the door.

"…where do I…?" I start.

"With me," Jack pokes his head in.

"Ha!" I burst out, surprised.

"Don't worry, he's been walking back and forth with everybody," Hector assures me, "He's not here to specifically mess with you."

Like Beto, I don't feel I'll be gone so long as to need to call in Aulie to take over for me. If the amount of time Hector, Gerik, and Beto each left is any indication, anything that happens that fast there's nothing I can do about anyway.

"Good morning." Jack walks along just about half a step ahead of me.

"Hi." I yawn. It's a bit awkward.

"Doing all right?"

"Well, good," I decide, "All things considered."

"That's good," he says. "I think you're doing well too."

The filming setup for interviewing mentors isn't far away. So we don't have to leave for long, I suppose. We probably wouldn't take very well to having to go all the way to the studio or something. …I realize that the coherency of any potential argument I am trying to make is quite low. Four days and the Games are wearing on me.

"Just talk about your tribute," the man directing the mentor spots prompts me, "Say whatever you'd like. We'll handle the matter of cutting it together into something good. Anyway, in your case, we already know you work out well on TV."

"Uh, thank you," I accept the compliment.

Jack sits down on a stool behind the director (I don't think it's the director's, since don't they usually have chairs with their names on them?) and holds up his hands, extending his pointer fingers and thumbs to frame me with them in a clichéd portrayal of some film person.

"My remaining tribute is Salvador Chavez," I begin. I tell that how he is fun to be around- how he was always a lively part of my post-victory group back home, how he considered volunteering but didn't end up needing to protect anyone that way (I won't say how I think he wouldn't have done it anyway), how much he admires Aulie. I figure a liking for a Capitol citizen could never go wrong in the eyes of the most instrumental part of our viewership- if it makes people back home unhappy, well, they're not the ones who have the potential to sell him the tools of survival- they can complain to me when I bring him home alive.

"Say how great it would be if he won because there's never been back-to-back same district victors," Jack interrupts a moment of thought on my part, "Say 'Let's make District Four the first.'"

Can I be blamed for finding this strange? "Do you want that?" I ask. "You say it."

I can't do that," he answers, not that it's not what he wants.

"If the two of you sold a tribute together, that kid would win," the cameraman speaks his mind.

"Mentor pairs are nice, huh?" the lighting woman sighs.

The director forces us all back on track. I can't bring myself to push the angle Jack suggested, even though it's good. It's just…I don't feel right having not thought of it myself. It isn't like Apple or Aulie told me to do it either. Jack still has his own stake in these Games.

I head back to send Shy in for her turn. Jack follows along with me. "I like your t-shirt," he says.

It has a smiling cartoon fish on it. "Apple bought it for me. Thanks."

"It suits you."

I get the feeling he wants to say more. I suppose Salvador is doing all right at the moment. I wait.

"I'm sorry. I know that I haven't been, um, at my best lately."

"I-it's okay." What's he getting at? "The Games aren't good for any of us, Jack."

"No matter then," he looks down at me intently, "No matter how I seem during the Games- you and I will still be friends, right?"

One of his tributes killed one of mine. And he's still my friend. What could he do related to the Games that could sabotage the odd bond that's developed between us? "Jack," I aim for the utmost sincerity, "I don't think I could stop being friends with you now if I tried."

He raises two fists over his heads in some sort of weird cheer and his smile reasserts itself along with them, "Oh, then, victory!" He pauses and brings his hands back down. "…I hope that however things turns out, you can be this happy too."

"I think to be that happy I've gotta bring my tribute home," I counter, only half-joking.

"If that's what it takes," he replies.

No tributes die on the fifth day, though the pair from 2 engage in a rousing battle with a really creepy two-headed snake mutt that is probably going to recur in my nightmares sooner or later. The boy is injured slightly, but the two of them are well supplied enough that they manage a makeshift bandage without difficulty. He wasn't bitten anyway, just took a bad fall in the midst of the fray, so there are no worries about poison.

They decide to take it easy for the rest of the day, assuming no one stumbles upon them, and the girl tells a story about her sister. I find this side of her rather affecting.

Salvador spends a lot of time in a tree eating crackers. At one point the girl from 8 passes through his field of view and he definitely does see her, but he doesn't pursue her. Both of them were similarly shaken, I think, by the single kill to their names.

Pal sent her a strange camouflage blanket while I was away speaking about Salvador and she walks about with it over her head and sleeps.

There's definitely a boost of interest for the 2s, as the only allied tributes remaining. Having someone to talk to makes you more interesting. They're also able to split their supplies. Sure, this might make the food go faster, but they seem to get along well and their two mentors can work together, which Hector and Gerik are good at it.

When Aulie comes back to swap places with me, he shows me (and Shy, butting in as has come to feel pretty much usual) a video clip of people on the street being asked their opinions about the various tributes. Popularity for the 2s is quite high at the moment, though it leans toward the girl (if they split, I am sure it is with her that most allegiances will go). The boy is benefitting from his alliance with her outside the arena as much or more than he is inside it.

Salvador is dubbed, "cute," and "not as funny as Mags." However, a young man picks him out as the tribute he could most imagine being friends with and I can't help but think that Salvador would probably like to be friends with someone like him too- back home he had lots of friends.

The girls from 2 and 8 are ranked the most popular. For reasons of stirring up fan agitation, I think the commentators purposely chose not to set one above the other, judging them "too closely ranked to tell." It's probably also that they're drawing different kinds of attention.

The girl from 3 and the boy from 5 trail everyone else at the bottom of the list. The odds for 3's girl are particularly poor, I think, because she doesn't have a single kill to her name. My non-aggressive endgame was weak enough. The Gamemakers aren't going to give a default out to this girl in the tree if they can help it. Sunny's default at least came with one earlier kill and the terror-fascination of her absolute breakdown. The girl in the tree is too good at survival and not good enough at…unfortunately, playing the game.

Fan fervor for Salvador falls into the middle, slightly higher than Jack and Luna's male tributes, but slightly lower than the 2 boy. It's good enough.

About noon on the sixth day there's a massive- well, as much as I want to call it a snag, this is the kind of thing that the Gamemakers like to see and the deaths are going to have to come somewhere, eventually.

The boy from 5 suddenly leaps clear from a hiding place in some reeds upon seeing the boy from 9 pass by. The 2s, thinking strategically, have continued their tactic of always retreating back to remain on higher ground when they don't have any goal in the lower reaches of the arena. From here they can see the ruckus, though I don't think they know exactly what's happening. …But why would that matter for them? Other tributes are fighting and have revealed their locations to them. It's a fine idea, really. Let those two fight, whoever they are, then swoop in and finish off the winner while he or she is distracted and winded, if not out and out weakened and wounded.

The 2s split apart. The girl heads one way; the boy another. A cautious sort of pincer movement.

Salvador is attempting to sharp his hatchet on a rock. Sparks fly up and make him nervous. I can't blame him. Fire would attract attention and as dry as it seems, just think how that arena would burn.

…Of course, fire could be a weapon too, albeit a wild and unwieldy one.

I look back up as the boy from 2 trips, making enough noise to alert his opponents to his imminent arrival. They don't exactly make up and decide to double team the bigger boy- Shy's boy has suffered a stab that has him bleeding all over his careful camouflage and gasping for air- they do pause in their combat to see who's coming. The boy from 9, Tim, wrenches the bow from the 5 boy's hand and kicks him to the ground, where he struggles to rise again, getting only as far as his knees. The arrows from the 5 boy's quiver are spread throughout the reeds and reddish dirt. Tim picks up an arrow, aims at the boy from 2, and hits him square in the shoulder.

"Ouch!" Salvador draws my gaze back to its more proper place. He's cut his finger. He puts it in his mouth and sucks on it. The cut didn't appear too deep, but fingers are sensitive. I don't doubt that it hurts.

Tim Hazel's second arrow goes wide.

He startles at a cry from the 2 girl as she arrives from her more careful trek around the other side and his third shot takes the 2 boy in the foot. "Looking for this, lawnmower?!" the 2 girl advances with scythe blade in hand, having not forgotten Tim's boast that a scythe would be the best weapon for him to take down the competition.

"You can keep it," Tim growls and spits blood. He turns and runs. The 2 girl starts to take chase, then thinks better of it. Her partner may not be dying, but he's injured and doubled over in pain.

The boy from 5- Coy, that's right- kneels between them, but doesn't manage to stay on his knees for long. He collapses onto his side. My stomach turns at the sight of the blood he coughs up. He raises one weak hand and gestures at the girl from 2 with two fingers. She steps over him and doesn't lean close enough to put her face or neck within striking range from a last ditch attack ("Cancel it!" Shy is snapping into her headpiece at some unfortunate operator, "I said 'cancel it!' It's too late now! He's done for, imbecile!"), but she listens.

Coy says something. I can't hear it. There's too much interference. The main screen is still turned down too low.

"What'd he say?!" he ask.

"'Poison,'" Shy leans back to tell me. Her headphones are ajar. Her tribute is on the verge of death and she's given up. "The arrows are poisoned."

That must be why Coy's face is turning red instead of pale even as he loses all that blood. Sweat runs down his brow. The boy from 2 has crumpled to his knees. The girl from 2 looks back and forth frantically between them. "You heard him," she implores the sky- 2's mentors, "He needs an antidote."

"Well, it also has to be the right one, girly," Shy mutters at her, "Give the men a minute."

"Sore loser," Kayta quips at her from that same old spot on the couch.

The 2 girl sits her district partner down and gets him to try and breathe calmly with his head between his knees. The boy from 5's face is turning a hideous purplish hue. Tears are mixing with his sweat. "What a mess," the 2 girl sighs. She picks up the discarded bow and one bent arrow. It won't have to fly far. "Don't look," she tells Coy. "Close your eyes."

I stop looking too, my stomach twisted into knots. There's a thunk as the arrow hits home. The firing of the cannon echoes it.

"That's it," Shy takes off her headphones, "I'm done. I'm gone. I'm out." She stops along the way to pat Hector on the shoulder and whisper something to him as 2's girl, Hector's tribute, jumps up into the air to speed the arrival of the poison's antidote to her partner. For all the time Shy's spent interacting with me, at least from the outside it seems like she's throwing her allegiance to District 2. I'm not exactly offended, but I don't understand it.

The look she fixes on Luna before she goes though- that doesn't surprise me at all. I don't even think Luna notices though. She's got one rough and gutsy boy out there in Tim. When he stops running and takes cover, she sends him a bandage and an ointment to disinfect the cuts he received. He wasn't hurt by any of the arrows, I assume, since he doesn't seem to be suffering an ill effects from the poison.

Hector's girl rushes to read the instructions accompanying the antidote and inject it into her partner. He looks very pained and throws up the remains of his lunch. The girl holds his hand. "Come on," she says softly, over and over, "Come on, come on, work."

Apparently it's not a sure thing.

Salvador isn't interested in trying to sharpen his hatchet blade anymore after his finger has stopped bleeding.

Whenever the screen above shows the tributes from 2 again, I don't get the sense that the boy has gotten any better.

Salvador finishes his crackers while he watches the sun go down. The boy from 1 eats cold beans and then kicks the empty can around for a while like he's playing a ball game all by himself. Pal's girl works some tangles out of her hair. Beto's girl goes on hiding. She's uncomfortable with hunger. She tries chewing on a piece of bark.

The boy from 2 shakes and shivers. His partner covers him up the best she can and tries to warm him. She tries to get him to drink some water. She re-bandages the injury on his foot. Eventually she just sits down with him and waits.

He dies in time to make that night's grouping of the fallen. Just two. The boy from 2, the boy from 5. When Gerik gets up after the anthem, Jack rises as well and shakes his hand. "See you again in the morning," he tells us. 2's not out of this yet. The girl cries silent, weary tears over her partner. She stands back to let the hovercraft take him. "You didn't volunteer to die like that," she says.

In a way, I feel like that could've been me.

The seventh day of mentoring begins, for me, balancing a bowl of cereal in my lap as I watch Salvador do stretches. "Oooh," he groans, "I'm so tired of sleeping on the ground."

Two tributes appear to be actively on the hunt after getting themselves set for the morning- the girl from 2, who hacks aggressively at tall grass and reeds with her scythe as she goes, as if there were any doubt of which tribute in particular she's hoping to find, and the boy from 1 who has caught on to the fact that some of the other tributes are probably hiding- because he's not seeing anyone, and how big can the arena be anyway?- and is peering into whatever crevices or copses he thinks would make a good place to stay out of sight. He inspects the area of thorn bushes Salvador cut into early on, but it doesn't give him any hints at to where he's gone at this point.

Tim Hazel from 9 and Pal's girl, like Salvador, seem to move about simply as a way to deal with their ongoing uncertainty.

They're all tired. Salvador shuffles his feet through the dry dirt, raising bits of dust and sand. He shouldn't have done it. Though he tries to stifle the sound, it gives him a sneezing fit.

I think about Mr. Zimmer asking me to comment on my tribute getting himself killed because he has sensitive sinuses. …I must be tired too to be sidetracked into these sorts of negative fantasies.

The sneezing does it though. Tim Hazel and Salvador Chavez, face to face. Though I hardly have time to worry. It's kind of amazing. I'm not sure if I should be happy or horrified. Did I ever handle myself this well in the arena? Somehow I doubt it.

"To the victory!" Salvador shouts, swinging his axe. It nips at Tim's arm, tearing into his flesh and sending blood spraying.

He and Tim Hazel seem equals now in fearless disregard. They're so close to that victory. On my tongue, victory in the arena has the taste of iron and salt- blood and the sea. Salvador avoids Tim's main strike, though he takes damage to his back on the return stroke. It rattles him and shakes free some of the result of his nasal difficulties. Blood soaks into the back of his shirt and he coughs up a hunk of phlegm onto his opponent. "Ugh!"

Salvador brings the axe down into Tim's skull.

And the even more horrible-amazing part is that he doesn't just leave it there. He is trembling, but not enough to stop him from pulling his weapon free- not so easy, as is sticks.

Tim falls down, yelling, twitching, hands raised to his hideous wound. Now the breaking point is reached. It's too much for Salvador. "Victory…" he murmurs, chiding himself, I think for his previous cheer. He staggers backward several steps- not from his injury, which failing poison or infection, I can't see felling him- but from fear and dizziness and sickness with himself and what he sees.

He starts mumbling to himself in what's, to me, a barely intelligible mix of phrases and fragments embroidered with an overabundance of Down-District Extra-English (his grandmother, I think, can almost still speak it as its own language). He moves away from his felled fellow tribute, though not quickly, and he can't stop looking back at the violence that he's wrought.

He must have a better sense of where he is in the arena than I do, because he heads back to the Cornucopia, which I think it what he means to do. He is probably hoping to swim again, to cleanse himself of at least the outward signs of killing, but there's not a whole lots of water left. Not enough to swim in. He rolls his pants up to the knees and bares his weary feet. He drops his axe into the mud and wades anxiously about in the water.

When the cannon fires, he winces.

Whatever response Luna has to this moment is restrained to her small mentoring space. I don't hear or see anything. She remains in place.

I know I need to send Salvador something. I have to reassure him that I'm still here for him- that there are still people thinking about him- that, no matter what the arena pushes him to do, he has to stay in touch with himself. It should be something from back home.

…It also wouldn't hurt him to have some kind of bandage to at least cover up that cut in his back.

"We're here. Be strong," is the message I send him with some nice Capitol-made bandage he can stick on, which is good, I figure, for an injury he can only turn and partially see, and a modest meal- an orange and a piece of dried fish.

He tears up over them, but brings himself back from the edge, exhorting himself, "Don't cry, don't cry. Don't waste water."

Salvador eats his airdropped meal. It wasn't paid for in Tim's blood and suddenly I wish I had indicated that to him somehow. I can't say the funds I drew from were entirely related to killing, but this was paid for from the money Jack gave and Papa and other small donations pooled together from our district's Capitol fan club and the Chavez family and friends back home.

For a long time after eating, Salvador just sits, thinking his own thoughts. But eventually he begins to hum the tune of an old fishing boat song. He does the best he can to clean his injury, grimacing as his fingers brush against it- it hurts a lot more now that the adrenaline from the fight has run its course. He slaps on the bandage. "Hold yourself together a little longer my pathetic, beat up body!" he commands himself.

I'm glad to see him smile.

He washes up further. His face, his dirty feet, his axe. "You can do this, Salvador," he tells himself.

The searching of the boy from 1 yields results. The girl from 3 makes his fourth kill.

Beto takes off his glasses and rubs his hands all over his glum, tired face. "I'm so sorry," I tell him, "It was a good plan."

"A girl from Three has to return to us. It will not make things right, but there is no other way to pay my debt. I can't bring them back to life. Even the Capitol cannot do that."

"Esme Edison," he takes a serious-looking binder out of his bag and shows me a picture of the girl who just died. It looks like a school picture. She's smiling. Her hair is curled like tiny springs.

"Now I have mentored eight tributes who died. Presumably the average life expectancy of a victor will prove greater than that of the average district citizen. …In which case I can expect to carry on mentoring for…how many years? I am twenty-one years old, so, sixty more years, perhaps? In even the best case scenario, how many victors can District Three bring home?"

"…And even when there are other victors from my district," I follow his line of thinking- if it is what I think it is, I agree with it, "How can I think of making anyone take my place?"

Beto nods. He puts his glasses back on. "I'm still glad that I'm alive though," he adds.

"I feel the same."

He stays through the anthem and presentation of the fallen. "And so to component materials," he says to Esme Edison's image. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?

"Good night," Beto bids me nicely after packing up all his things.

Luna leaves at about the same time without a word that I'm aware of to anyone.

Aulie rings me up. "Same time, same place?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess I'm ready."

"Sal did really great today."

"I can tell that you're proud of him." It's obvious in Aulie's tone.

"He's a good kid. …Almost as good as you," he teases.

"Aulus Strong, you go down there and relieve our dear victor so she can get her rest or we're not going to have anyone left to be proud of," Apple nags him, her voice rising shrill enough for even me to hear it over the phone.

"I'll be right there. …Apple bought you a cake to celebrate Final Four. …You don't mind if I cut myself the first place to take down here with me?"

"…I don't mind." Of course I don't mind. It feels tacky having to discuss it.

"I told you she wouldn't mind," Aulie turns the words back around to Apple. He laughs a bit. "I'll see you in a minute."

It turns out to be a coconut cake, white and covered in little shaved flakes.

"What?" Hector addresses me when he sees it, "Celebrating already? I think that's kind of premature, Miss Mags!"

"My escort picked it out," I fuss, getting embarrassed at the idea that I might be seen to be acting in bad taste. I like the other victors. I want to stay on friendly terms with as many of them as I can. "It's not supposed to be premature. It's a 'Happy Final Four' cake."

"Oh," Hector makes a face that reassures me that he's more just joking around (to relieve tension?) than he is offended by this affair, "So, how do I get some of this cake? Because I also have a tribute in the Final Four."

"I'll bring you some," I promise. While Aulie looked willing to take on the task, I'd rather walk about and play waitress myself. I look around the room. I'm not sure extending the offer of cake to Shy or Kayta would go over all that well, considering their tributes have all been dead for at least a day, even if the cake is something they'd enjoy under other circumstances.

Jack is gone and that Capitol woman has taken his place. I don't know how long he's been away or when he might come back. …If I'm sharing cake, I wish I could give a piece to him.

"Pal," I walk around for a rare visit to the other set of mentoring station, "Would you like to have some cake? I'm bringing it down here. It's coconut."

"Hmm, oh? What?" he shakes himself from sort of dazed stupor, "Yes, thank you." I see three empty cups at his station, all stained with coffee. Another mug, with a spoon and teabag in it, has been drunk just halfway. There are plastic containers with bits of greasy-looking noodles in them. Pal has dark circles around his eyes and the tan, patched coat hanging over his shoulders looks very wrinkled. There are several bandages on his hands. Here Apple is, insisting that Aulie take over for the sake of my health, while Pal frets at his station day and night, a complete mess. Who is his speller? His escort? It doesn't look seem like anyone is looking out for him.

My brow furrows. "Pal, are you okay?"

"Well, I'm tired as all that, but if I weren't tired, I wouldn't be doing my job, would I?" he attempts some gentle humor.

"Aren't you willing to take a break? If you don't trust the appointed Capitol person to watch your girl, maybe one of us could do it for a while?" I suggest.

"My girl," he echoes me, "My girl. …Her name is Silk."

"Yeah, I'm not that worn out," I press on, "After I bring back that cake I could watch her for a while and you could take a nap on the couch again. O-or," I alter my tack, realizing that since Salvador is still in the game as well I might not be seen as able to be impartial enough, "We could ask Kayta or someone to do it. I bet Kayta or Shy would do it."

"I don't know," Pal hesitates. "I don't… I'll think about it."

A four-way split screen displays the boy from 1 already sleeping and the other three tributes appraising various locations to settle down. Silk yawns.

"I'll go get that cake," I say.

When Apple seems disappointed with me for taking two substantial slices away for Hector and Pal, I just ask if she were really planning on spoiling her attractive figure by eating so much herself and she immediately changes her tune. "Can you handle all the doors while you're carrying those, dear?"

"Don't worry, I'll manage." It's not as if they're heavy and the elevator will let me in and out at the push of a button.

The grin on Hector's face when I return is rather rewarding. "This is what everyone likes you for, isn't it?" he jokes around, "Feeding them, Mags?"

Feeding the people was part of it, I know. The old God stories Papa told (he doesn't tell them as much anymore, though I doubt they're ever off his mind). I don't know why it comes to me now. I'm feeding people right now who aren't lacking for nourishment. It's a mundane gesture. Apple bought a cake too big for the three of us- Apple, Aulie, and me- and I am sharing it with my friends. …But the evil of a government that won't feed all its people is equally mundane.

"Your win must've fed people too," I reply.

"Even in District Two, we were still starving then," Hector agrees. He takes a big bite. "This is very good cake."

"It is," Pal agrees, "Thank you."

"…About the substitute?" I remind him.

"For a little while," he agrees. Compared to Hector's grasping gulps, even the bites Pal takes seem sweet and dainty. "…But only if Sunny will do it. I think she'll watch most like I would," he explains.

"How do I call the District Six floor?" I go around and ask Aulie.

"Watch me work magic," he grins and taps in some unknown sequence of numbers, "Hello, have I reached the District Six Training Center Headquarters?" he practically purrs, raising his eyebrows in what I take to be a 'look at what a hotshot I am' expression. "Oh, good. Thank you. Yes, this Aulus Strong calling on behalf of Mags Gaudet. Is Ms. Lightfoot available to come to the phone?"

He passes the headset over to me. "Here you are. Tasha's getting her."

"Um, hello, Mags?" Sunny speaks to me.

"Hi, Sunny. Umm," my level of confidence is equally shaky, "How are you tonight? Are you busy? I was wondering if you could come down here and sit in for Pal for a little while. I, uh, know it's not entirely orthodox, but he'd rather you do it than his speller."

"Oh, uh, really? Gee," she sounds surprised, "Well, I'll do it, but first I've got to change clothes… Tell him I'm coming."

Pal's glad to hear it.

I wait for Sunny's arrival before heading back to Apple. "If Jack shows up, should I tell him you have cake for him?" Hector quizzes me at the last moment.

"Uh, I guess you can."

I eat with Apple and our meal does consist of slightly more than coconut cake. Part of me keeps wondering if Jack will show up- I set aside the last piece of cake for him just in case- but he never does.

There are more interviews with friends, family, and mentors on the eighth day of the Games. No one fights. No one dies. All four tributes are, I think, conserving their strength.

Pal's girl- Silk- sunbathes, exposing much of her too thin body, but is never completely unprotected with knives in her hands.

The prices of all the items having risen bit by bit this entire time, I have to spend a pretty painful amount of get Salvador more water, but I figure I'm running out of time and places to spend it and it's a necessity to keep him going through the final stretch of the Games.

"I heard something about cake?" Jack whispers in my ear during yet another lull on my end, taking me completely by surprise and causing me to spit a considerable mouthful of some mixed fruit drink Aulie's gotten me hooked on all over my desk and control screen.

"Wh-what are you-?!" I sputter, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth, "G-go back and babysit your tribute, Jack!"

The peanut gallery- currently comprised of Kayta, Shy, and Teejay- chuckle rather uproariously. Gerik, taking his turn managing things for District 2, raises his hand politely, like he wants to be called on by a teacher, making it visible over the partitions between us. "Mica may've been Hector's specifically, but my district's still in the running and I would be willing to accept that coconut cake in Jack's place."

"You'd give it to him before me?"

"Well," I awkwardly dab at the sticky mess with the edge of my t-shirt, "He is doing his job. You're just making it more difficult for me to do mine."

"I'll split it, Jack," Gerik compromises.

On a certain level, I appreciate the levity. I ring Apple and ask her to bring down the cake, as well as something for me to wipe up the wasted juice with.

Jack and Gerik make Shy, an "impartial party," cut the slice of cake in half for them. Apple squints at Salvador on my screen and implores him to, "Do something big while they're not looking!"

Salvador doesn't manage to magically hear and carry out Apple's wishes.

The fact that Pal takes two separate naps that day says it all. The eighth day will be the last calm before the storm, I imagine.

In my own Games it was different. This time around, I have avoided learning the names (which worked, to a point - Ada, Petey, Sparrow, Haakon, Juna, Daisy, Beanpole, et cetera runs a sturdy counterpart of and counterpoint to my internal litany of sea saints). But things are down to the wire now. This is the Final Four. One of these people I will get to meet afterward (or meet anew). I'll get to know him or her. For a long time, maybe. They could be my friend. They will be my colleague.

Two boys, two girls. …and one is mine.

Three of the four of them are sleeping now. Salvador is still stuffed up from the dust and grunts a bit in his sleep. He's not too afraid of what he has to do. He's come this far. But-

While they sleep (and the 2 girl bites her nails), Mr. Bronze and Mr. Zimmer and a groggy-looking Jack run some additional Final Four commentary on the main screen. The family interviews are already done. This is probably the last night they'll give them. Come sunup, they're going to have to run, to kill, to die. Tomorrow might not be the last day, but the end will begin then, like the Gamemakers in mine gradually turning up the rising of the water. Faster and higher, until there was barely any ground left to stand (they left enough though when they could have drowned the whole arena- that was their only mercy- they wanted to have a victor).

The girl from 2 is Mica Saffron. She is sixteen. There are ropes in her pack and a scythe and a hammer. She's been scavenging. She is Hector's tribute (and Gerik's by proxy now that the boy is dead). According to Hector, she wants to be an architect. Back home she was a masonry student. She has a younger sister. She has four kills to her name.

The girl from 8 is Silk Sachet. She is fourteen. She looks like a nymph come out of the sea. She has rope too and a camouflaged blanket, which is covering her from view as she sleeps. She is Pal's tribute (and there is a rumor running that he never planned on doing anything for the boy from the moment he set eyes on her, but I can't help but think Pal is far too kind for that (while I know and never forget that he was not too kind to kill)). He has bought her the blanket. He has bought her other things too. No one has spent nearly as much on their tribute (no one else, I think, has it to spend). There are knives hidden under her clothes and they look sharp. She has only killed once. But the commentators, aside from Mr. Bronze, seem rather enthused by her anyway. If a fourteen-year-old can win the Games, it could be her.

The boy from 1 is Indiana Gold. He is eighteen. He's the reason that Jack Umber looks so miserable right now, I guess. He plays it rather loose and easy while here in 'Mentor Central,' and has been called on more than anyone else to comment and be on camera, but as far actually switching places with a speller he takes the smallest breaks watching over Indiana that he can. I assume he doesn't trust anyone else to do the job properly- that half of his attention is better than that of a Capitol citizen, which is hard to make sense of with his flightiness, pacing around the room and such.

The mentors' headquarters has grown quieter and quieter as the Games have worn on. Whenever he's there when I stand up from my station to switch with Aulie, Jack raises his head and looks at me over the top of his carrel. On television he makes himself perfectly clear and understandable, but in person I find him a curious read. I don't know what he's thinking when he looks at me at those times. Indiana is a grappling type. Good with his hands, good with his body. He has a tiny switchblade. Other than that, he's used more natural things as his weapons. Rocks, the terrain, a nasty mace he cut himself from a branch, his body. Four kills to his name.

It's weird, because for all the attention that Jack gives him and all the efforts Jack has made overall to draw attention to the cause of District 1 and sell his tributes, I can't completely say I'm sure that Jack wants him to win. I mean, I think he preferred Samantha- Sammy- the girl, but wouldn't he want it for Indiana in her stead? Really, I get this strange feeling about it. But it's not my business. I want the win. I'm not going to question it now.

The fourth is Salvador Chavez. Mine. Sleeping with his hatchet. Sleeping despite the two kids he's killed. I'm glad that he can though (he'll need it if he's going to have a chance to win).

I lift my head to look around the room. Jack isn't here- he's onscreen talking about his boy. Hector is snoring in a chair. Gerik is watching Mica sleep onscreen, stirring the dregs of his coffee around over and over. Maybe the motion is what's keeping him awake. I know the quiet, both here and in the arena, makes me drowsy, after this many days caught up in the maelstrom and watching the melee.

Pal Fields is here too, looking, well, kind of freaky to tell the truth. Sunny may have managed to clean up his station the other night while he took a break, but he still hasn't wracked up nearly enough sleep to make up for the way he's been treating himself throughout the Games. If mentor dedication can save a tribute, that girl is going to win the Thirteenth Hunger Games. Who knows how he's wracked up so much money to put towards her, but he has no problem spending it.

It's not that the rest of us remaining aren't dedicated, but it's hard to match the somewhat unhinged intensity Pal seems to have reached. There are empty mugs building back up around him already and junk food wrappers. He has a patchwork blanket wrapped over his shoulders. I am seriously considering the possibility that his wakefulness is powered at least in part by drugs. …and even though his tribute is only sleeping, I have a feeling that he'd still be mad if I approached him now.

I ring for Aulie. "Can we swap?" I ask. "I think they're going to give them a good six hours at least."

"Oh, anytime, sweetie," Aulie assures me.

He's there in about five minutes with traces of some kind of overnight skin treatment left like shaving cream on the corners of his face. I thank him and tell him to call me when Salvador wakes up (or, at his discretion, if anything else occurs of note). Hopefully Salvador and I will both make out with a decent amount of sleep.

I drift off without bothering to shower. I only manage to halfheartedly brush my teeth. I can save that for the morning.

Aulie's call wakes me four and half hours later. "Mags," he sounds nervous, "Mica's up and hunting."

I splash some water on my face, rush down in the same clothes I was wearing the other day, and come running into the control room in time to see Mica bearing down on Salvador's location. The arena is still dark. I'm led to assume she probably barely slept. Those nerves (that nail-biting) got to her and she decided not to wait any longer.

I have to do something. I have to wake Salvador up. Mica is too strong, too well equipped, too unhesitating. Asleep he is a goner.

I punch through to the sponsorship hotline while Aulie frets behind him.

They tend to drop the items gently near the tributes, but I need something that will wake him. Something, hopefully, not too obvious though, to bring Mica down on him if she hasn't found him already, before he has a chance to get a move on.

It has to make noise when it hits the ground. And he's exhausted, so I don't know how deeply he's sleeping. It has to make enough noise to wake him up.

"I want to send my tribute a maraca!" I tell the woman on the other end of the line.

"A what?" she sounds beyond confused. Aulie's puzzled noise from over my shoulder helps to cue me in. It's too localized. In the Capitol you'd have to be a music specialist or something to know it.

"Can you send him a can full of rocks?" I am getting frantic. Looking back and forth between the two screens (mine and the large one above), I can see Mica drawing nearer and nearer to the unknowing Salvador.

The woman sounds like she thinks I'm nuts, but she says that she can and names the price. It's too weird to be a high list item, so our funds can easily cover it, but I feel like she couldn't possibly put the request through any sooner. Someone's going to have to put those rocks in that can! It's going to have to be dropped into the arena! How far away is the arena from the item depot? Salvador doesn't have time to waste!

"Is there any message?" she asks.

A message?! A message at a time like this?! I'm not allowed to pass him information about any of the other tributes anyway.

"'Rise and shine!'" I shrill out, almost wishing I could snap the phone in two with my bare hands.

"And…sent," the woman confirms, seemingly unperturbed by my frustrations.

Aulie gasps.

Mica is using her scythe to slit Salvador's throat as the can full of rocks hits the ground.

The noise makes her jump, but only succeeds in causing her to make her cut sloppier. "No!" I pound my fists against the console/desk as Salvador chokes and sputters in his own blood as he dies. "No!"

Aulie puts his hands on my shoulders.

When Mica is sure- when the cannon fires- she picks up the can and reads the note attached to the outside. The large screen shows it zoomed in enough for the typed message to be read. "Someone needed a better alarm clock," Mica shakes her head.

She opens the can, wondering, no doubt, what amazing thing was sent to save Salvador, and pours a handful of round pebbles onto the ground. She shakes her head again. She doesn't get it. She's probably thinking something about crazy District 4.

"Good show, Four," Hector Auric raises his hand over the top of his carrel and gives me a little salute.

I can't muster more than a grunt in response.

I leave the good-byes to Aulie as we head back to our quarters. Jack Umber passes us quickly, almost without noticing us, on his way in. His tribute could be next.

I cry in the shower and then go back to bed.

I sleep for four more hours, then reluctantly get dressed. I lay on the couch watching the Thirteenth Hunger Games go on. No one else died in the night. Between Mica, Indiana, and Silk, there's a cautious tension, a sort of cat and mouse game, where everyone is simultaneously a cat and a mouse.

My stupor is broken when Kayta Hiro calls. "Sorry 'bout your tribute," he says, "Salvador. …Do you want to have lunch?"

I'm sad to say that this makes me feel a little better. I haven't eaten any breakfast and Kayta sounds so sympathetic.

"Sunny and Shy will be there too."

"Okay," I agree, "I'll come."

Kayta and all are very nice to me, but I am lost in a daze. Salvador came so far…

Aulie takes me down to the deepest basement level I have encountered in the Games complex to a room like a freezer. Shaya and Salvador have been embalmed and touched up for burial. It's unreal. It feels like I'm crying so much, but what difference does it make?

Eventually I find myself back watching with fellow victors. Apple thinks it would be best for me, so I allow her to steer me here. "Look after her," she stage-whispers to Sunny, who she continues to consider trustworthy and "good."

It takes two more days for it to come down to Silk and Indiana. I see Indiana take out Mica while watching the Games for a while with Apple, but none of it really sinks in.

I wake up more to the reality of it in Sunny and Kayta's company.

Jack and Pal are both glued to their screens. Some of the rest of us have stuck around (I don't think anyone is allowed to go home before the Games end, but some of them are holed up in their district quarters) and keep coming back to watch them. "Was it like this at the end of my Games?" I ask my company on the sidelines.

"Nah," says Kayta, "Not even for me. Your buddy Aulus was all worked up, but it wasn't as if there was anything we could do for you. The room wasn't set up this way either all broken up and like. It was just the monster screen. What they'd do is the big screen started out broken up into twelve sections, split screened like your district screen is now when you've got two tributes, and as tributes got knocked out of the competition, the screenspace given over to the remaining ones would increase.

"It wasn't as if there was anything we could do about it earlier on either, but by the time it was you, Beanpole, Haakon, and Meridew we victors were all pretty much just sitting here silently watching the water rise. Before sponsorships, the Games felt much more…fatalistic? I mean, victors and stuff, we felt as helpless as the people back home." He runs his hand through his longish hair, "I'm not sure if this is better or worse now."

I don't have experience as a mentor who advised and presented tributes to the best of their ability and then had to just hope for the best and let them go, but I do think I understand what he means.

I am still concerned about what I should've done for my tributes in the arena. What should I have done differently? What could I have done better? If I had just been a bit faster, could I have saved Salvador? Could it be Salvador up there now, playing cat and mouse with, well, whichever of the other two would be left, Indiana or Silk?

"Did you feel guiltier about them this year then?" I wonder, "Then you did in the years before?"

"Not really," Shy shrugs.

"Maybe a little," Kayta says, "But I know that there wasn't much I could do for these ones even in the best of circumstances. …You know they told me they were in love."

"Oh. Gosh," I sigh. That's got to be a tough situation. We all play out the worst scenarios in our daydreams, I know, even when every scenario is already a worst case one after all. With our ability to directly intercede through sponsorships, the possibilities become even worse. Choosing between your tributes can truly happen now. I don't know if on that first day, Pal had nothing he could send to his boy to help him (or at least ease his suffering) or, one hates to think it but, he chose not to send him anything. …Because no tribute has received as many bits of material assistance as Silk Sachet. The 2s may have seemed to have many items available to them, but they were secured as much by staking them out at the Cornucopia and fighting off all comers as they were through the airdrop efforts of Gerik and Hector.

Jack watches Indiana and doesn't breathe a word to anyone for hours, finally seeming to have switched into completely and absolute focus. Mostly, I think, I just want to know what happens. I want to see this torturous thing out to the end. I don't think most of us whose districts are out of the running have a strong preference for one or the other of the last two, but on some level I do feel caught between these two mentors who are my friends.

…But me, being me, perhaps it's inevitable I have a leaning toward the girl from 8. From now to the end of the Games (the end of time? the end of my life?) this may be my deep-seated preference. A little girl goes out there and fights for her life. My heart goes out to her.

As opposed to Jack's silence, Pal keeps on talking and talking into his headset. His voice is a harsh whisper from heavy use.

The endless undertones of his voice are like a spell. He is weaving a victory out of words for her.

They are like a spell, but in a loose sense, they are definitely a prayer. I am tempted to join in with my favored spiritual mantra. I mouth the names to myself: Peter, Zeno, Elmo, Brendan, Nicolas.

With all the effort Pal has expended, I can't help but feel some concern about what will happen to him if that girl dies now. …To what lengths can a mentor go for a tribute? To what extent can a tribute affect a mentor?

After we've (Kayta, Sunny, Shy, myself) finished eating lunch, the victors from 2 return to join us. They're not both going to fit on the couch so they sit on the floor. "We already ate," Hector assures us when Sunny tries to find something good left to give to them.

"Sorry about Mica," I address Hector and Gerik.

"I am not looking forward to going home and seeing the sister," Hector admits. "She is really going to give it to me."

"She lives in the same town as us," Gerik elaborates, "So he can't duck out of it all that easily. It's not like we really knew them, but we saw both girls a lot long before the reaping. You couldn't help noticing, since they were very pretty girls, but always out playing rough."

"I'm gonna owe the sister," Hector frowns and taps his fingers rapidly against his knee, "Least I'm going to feel like I do. Don't know how I'm going to make it up to her."

"You know her name, Hector," Gerik prods him.

"Yeah, well, I feel even worse when I put names to them," he grumbles. "Mica was really good. …they were both really good this year. Mica wasn't even a volunteer."

"I have higher hopes for next year," Gerik says. I wonder at that. Such confidence. Of course, 2 has fielded many impressive tributes and their wins are receding somewhat into the past, so maybe their odds are up again? Maybe they'll be better at working sponsors next year. I suppose we should all be (I hate to suggest that some of our group may never improve, but is that such a bad thing to say if I'm not sure some are trying?).

We watch Indiana stalking through the bramble-filled fields.

"…think you'll have a volunteer next year?" Hector asks me.

Is that a weird question? I'm not sure. My idea of normal is warped beyond belief anyway, so I'm not sure there's even a point in asking myself that. "Because of Salvador?"

"He was almost a volunteer, wasn't he? …He was with you before the Games when your home was on TV. …Or am I remembering the wrong kid?"

"No," I assure him, "You're right. He was there."

We're quiet again for a while.

"…he didn't volunteer though," I say at last, "He told me he was thinking about it, but he didn't get the chance. …I don't think he would've volunteered. He had more sense than that. He was scared."

"Weren't we all," Gerik snorts. He's not making fun of Salvador. It's probably the absolute truth. The most universal truth of the Hunger Games: I was scared. We were all scared.

"The friend is gonna volunteer," Gerik guesses, "The boy with the dark, well, they all have dark hair. The camera-happy one."

Rodrigo, he means. Rodrigo, probably. "I don't know," I shake my head.

"Gerik's got a feeling for this kind of thing," Hector adds.

"Chatty peanut gallery today!" Jack calls to us, speaking for the first time in what feels like ages.

"You mad?" Hector grins.

"Nah, but don't bug Pal."

Pal doesn't respond to the jibe. I don't think he's even hearing a thing we're saying.

"I don't want volunteers," Shy says quietly, "I don't want anyone to expect that much of me."

"Volunteers expect it of themselves, Shy," Gerik tries to explain his point of view to her, but either Shy doesn't understand or she doesn't care. …I know she worked for her tributes this year, the boy, Coy, especially, and for Laurie last year, but I don't think I would want to be in Shy's hands. And not just her. There's a lot of off the cuff sort of mentoring that worries me. …though for all I know, I make the others just as nervous. I was useless to Shaya from the beginning. I was useless to Salvador in the end. The odds are against every tribute and every mentor.

The mentor versus mentor feeling amplifies with just two tributes remaining.

"Let's just get this over with," Kayta mutters at the screen.

Indiana and Silk. When will they meet?

The sun is drooping low in the sky when Pal sends Silk what I assume will be his final gift to her. She eats the food and combs her fingers through her hair, then begins striking one of her knives against a rock until she makes a spark.

She doesn't get a blaze going on the first try, but she doesn't have to. When the dry arena takes fire, it fast becomes a conflagration. Silk wets a piece of cloth (ripped from her clothes?) and ties it over her mouth and nose and moves away from the flames as they dance up against the dark.

The fire saves time. It brings Indiana to her.

Fire is risky, but it's obviously what she wants. It makes for quite a show. That's what Jack is smiling at, I suppose. I can see the bottom half of his face reflecting off his screen from where I'm sitting. His teeth are fixed firm in a determined grin.

Indiana enters the scene with that short-handled scythe Mica favored in his right hand and a whole parcel of other weapons under this arm. "As if it needed to get any hotter out here," he grumbles. He's limping a bit. I suppose I didn't realize what ragged condition Jack's tribute had been left in by his battle- I don't think it's unfair to describe it as such- with Mica Saffron.

"Let's make this easy, pipsqueak," he calls to her and slashes at the air.

"Come and get me if you want me so badly!" she replies, though her words are muffled by the flimsy protection over her mouth and nose.

Well, she won't come any nearer to her foe, so he is obliged to come and get her. "She's toast," Shy whispers her quiet assessment of the situation. …And I can't say I think Shy will be wrong if Indiana gets his hands on her, but…

Letting the boy from District 1 lay so much as a finger on her is clearly not Silk's strategy. He grows frustrated as she continues to withdraw and takes a few wild shots, throwing several pieces of his equipment at her. None of them hit their mark.

More and more of the arena is going up in flames. I don't know how long it will take for smoke inhalation to wreck any severe damage on either of them.

It suddenly seems very quiet in the mentoring room. No one is making any smart remarks. Pal has stopped his near-constant chattering into his headset.

A parachute shimmers above the flames.

Silk holds her tiny hand high above her head- if her prize escapes her, it may blow into the fire and that will be that. Even her reaching seems to take an eternity.

She grasps it. An over-sized rubber band. She rips it free from the parachute, which she feeds to the flames.

It turns out that she has two shots to do this- because she's not using rocks or some kind of flaming debris for projectiles- she loops the rubber band over her left hand and loads up a knife.

She has all the aim that Indiana lacked. The knife goes straight into his neck. He lurches into the nearest patch of fire. Silk closes her eyes and raises her hands to cover her face.

"…Did you know she had that shot in her?" Hector asks, well, Pal, presumably, though Pal is still the furthest in the room from us.

But, even if Pal realizes he's been asked a question, he doesn't say anything until the official announcement is made.

"The victor of the Thirteenth Hunger Games!"

"I…gotta go, you guys," Pal staggers to his feet, "Silk, she- she needs me."

The District 8 escort bursts in screeching with excitement. Pal collapses in a heap at her feet.

All of us scramble around trying to help, though there's not exactly enough work available for everyone to do anything worthwhile. Shy takes to this best and hangs back, trying to convince the 8-associated woman that she's not likely to lose one victor in exchange for another (like it's a fairy story and that pretty young girl is sucking the life from Pal?).

Jack carries Pal to the lobby, where he is taken from us by the paramedics.

The moment lingers. Gerik, Hector, and Kayta disperse to their own business.

"…How are you feeling?" I ask Jack. He, Sunny, and I are left alone in a pool of darkness, seeping in through the glass front doors.

"Not half as bad as Pal," he answers.

I wonder if he's feeling sort of numb.

The "admirable" mentor is first interviewed about his great success from a hospital bed. He gave his all for Silk Sachet and it shows.

"Makes the rest of us look like a bunch of yahoos," Kayta complains over lunch in the District 5 quarters.

"I don't care if Capitol people think I'm a yahoo," Shy disagrees in her own off manner.

"It could hurt sponsorship opportunities," Sunny posits.

Teejay holds up his glass to the light and peers at it oddly. "…What's in this lemonade, Sunny?"

"Nothing other than what's usually in lemonade, to my knowledge," she smiles and shakes her head.

Onscreen, Pal chats amiably with the pink-haired reporter. "…But you know I would be lying if I didn't say that I was supported indirectly by my fellow victors. We're mostly kind of all there for one another."

Direct help would be against the rules, right?

"What type of help?" the reporter carries on sweetly.

"Well, when I wasn't sleeping, some of them convinced me to take a nap. And Sunny, you know, from Six, got me cleaned back up and organized when I was surrounded by trash. Mags gave some cake toward the end of it."

Just before the woman poses her next question, Pal pre-empts her. "You want to know what kind of cake it was, right?" his dark eyes twinkle, "It was coconut."

Silk's injuries aren't all that extensive. I hear that she will be properly fixed up for her crowning ceremony to be held in just three or four days. There's some joking about Pal being in about the same shape as his tribute, minus the smoke inhalation.

I try to visit him at the hospital, but he's gone up to sit with Silk and I'm not allowed to see her.

In the meantime I wait around. I prefer not to be alone since it gives me too much time to reflect on the bad things, of which there are many. I accept an invitation from Jack to come and record a congratulatory message for Pal, Silk, and District 8. I don't know who else he made the offer to, but Gerik and Hector also accepted. Pal is pretty well liked, but it's probably inevitable that some of the other victors are feeling too bitter or depressed over their losses to want to get in on this. And no matter their personal feelings, some might not want to go on television fussing over the success of another district.

I run into the hairstylist whose dog was named for me again and find out that Sunny and Beto were both turned down by the producers as not camera-friendly enough. I don't really see why it matters. …I also don't see what's not camera-friendly about Sunny. She's pretty and well spoken. She doesn't have a heavy accent. I'm inclined to think it's really some PR thing.

At the studio I receive and accept another invitation, to eat out at some Capitol restaurant ("a low-key kind of place; don't worry, no one will hassle us there') with Hector and Gerik. They get Jack to come along too.

It takes a while for the four of us to warm to conversation, but Hector offers to split a beer with me and I want to know if I can get a lime to go with it and gradually our smalltalk draws the more reserved Gerik in. Jack is gregarious, but only in a shallow sort of way.

I work up to a more serious topic I'm interested in hearing their thoughts on, though I'm fearful of spoiling the mood with it. "Skilled tributes would make a better show, wouldn't they?" I half-ask, half-suggest, to the three men. "I mean," I pick out Gerik, since I get the feeling he's most likely to agree with me, and look him straight in the eye, "You'd rather not all the concluding fights end up like mine, right?"

"Y-yeah," Gerik agrees. I know, I was pretty bad. I can see it in his expression.

"That Haakon guy was okay though," Hector shrugs.

"But he could have been better," Gerik answers the idea.

"And I could, obviously, have been much better," I nod vigorously.

But it's too late to make any difference for the Thirteenth Games. They are already done, but I can't imagine none of the other victors have been thinking ahead. I can't imagine that no one else hasn't at least thought about trying what I'm toying with.

"You trained yours," Gerik realizes. He looks at me with newfound respect.

"Yeah, to weave baskets, maybe," Hector raises an eyebrow. I assume he's remembering whatever they broadcast about my basket-weaving talent. How even boys came to see or learn it. Maybe even how Salvador was one of them? Salvador did talk about it. And I did too, on camera, though I don't know if they played it.

"Yes," I agree. Because at the moment, that's all it. Teaching most of the things that you need to do to survive in the arena would be illegal- even if I could do them well enough to teach them.

"And they picked up a few tricks on the side," Gerik surmises.

"And yours could too," I say. I wouldn't be surprised if he told me that once or twice they had. There have been other 2s who fought like Gerik. He might not trust me enough to say that though. I'm the one here with the biggest mouth.

"…Do you know what I did before my Games, Mags? I don't think anyone mentions it these days," Gerik scratches his chin. It's clear that I picked the right man to discuss this with. There's some wry amusement in his gray eyes.

"Uh-uh." I don't.

"I was in training to be a Peacekeeper."

Oh. Well. I reel a little. That makes sense. It makes a lot of sense. The tributes who fought like Gerik were probably also Peacekeeper trainees. Jack chuckles at my easily read expression. I've been getting the feeling that Jack purposely enjoys letting me learn things he already knows from other people just so he can see the look on my face. I should find this trait more annoying than I have thus far.

"See, the thing is though, just because you're in Peacekeeper training and know some stuff about fighting doesn't make you want to volunteer. You want to live and serve by being a Peacekeeper." The topic is clearly important to him. His voice starts to rise with irritation. "And I still want to be a Peacekeeper, not some crummy Hunger Games coach! I want to carry a gun and wear a uniform and remind people to follow the rules and be careful and be a hero who protects people- not that guy with the metal leg who killed five bitty kids. They say that if you're the victor you'll be happy and get to do what you want, but if money doesn't buy what you want, that's a complete lie." He lets out a snort, dispersing some of his anger into the air.

The waitress headed towards us stops short and stays a cautious distance from our table. Who knows what victors do when they get worked up? Maybe we'll get violent. When Gerik notices her, he waves her over and orders a drink.

The Games are bad enough as it is, but when you stop and consider it, there's a special unfairness in them for 2. At least the rest of our districts rebelled. At least there's something to want vengeance for. Gerik Rinsai would've been happy to play ball with the Capitol before his Games. Now his participation is reluctant.

"You care a lot about fairness, huh?" Hector observes. Just like Gerik, he seems to be looking on me as more of an equal than before.

"Hmm." I'm not sure. Maybe? Not as much as I should. There's not as much room for fairness in this world as there should be.

"Let the best man win and all that," Gerik heaves a sigh.

"Someone's gotta want it," Jack says.

"…and if they don't want it on their own, you've gotta convince them to," Hector concludes. "Like they do here."

"I'm terrible at that," Gerik says. There's a crackling in his voice, like he wants to cry or laugh. I can't decide which. He holds out his hands, palms up, to encircle the rest of us. "…but you guys…"

"I'll work on it," Hector promises.

"Hector, what did you do before your Games?" I want to know now. "I remember," I say, to let him know that I'm not completely oblivious. Memory has meaning. "You said you broke rocks."

He squints a little (his eyes are blue, a beautiful blue) and drops a look toward Gerik, like to make sure that he heard that. "Had to drop out of school and go to work in the mines. So you remember right. …And you, girlie, were busy with your schoolbooks, weren'tcha?" he makes a small motion, pulling at the air with his hand, which I think implies something about kids in school and pulling hair. Here together as victors we make up some kind of set. Like a seashell collection. We're different types. We're different colors. We came from different places. We don't match, but we've all been battered by the same sea. If we'd all been together as kids (if we were all about the same age), well, there might have been nothing but Hector pulling my hair from the desk behind me.

"Obvious?" I wonder.

"But it's nothing to be ashamed of," Hector answers, sure.

Gerik looks at Jack, but Jack makes no offers. He doesn't like to talk about himself outside the superficial. And everything that came before his Games counts as superficial.

"Another beer maybe?" Hector smiles at me.

"Okay, if you're still splitting it with me."

"Jack?" he offers.

"I'll pass."

Hector raises a hand to block his mouth as he stage-whispers to me, "Jack only came along in the first place because we told him you'd be here with us."

A strange ringing sound startles two-thirds of our group before I can reply. "Sorry," Jack removes the offending device, a envelope thin phone or something, from his shirt pocket, "It's from Mr. Zimmer. I've got to go."

"Oh, uh, bye, Jack," we manage in various tones.

The waitress brings us our latest order.

"…You know, I get the impression Jack was a little relieved your kid didn't make it," at length Hector speaks again to share this questionable news with me, "…Though he was probably okay with losing his for the same reason."

"And why's that?" the words spill our sharply. I feel cross at the suggestion, though whether because I believe it or not is harder to determine.

"You'd be busy with a new victor," Gerik supplies.

"…But he-" I'm not sure I should say it, "He sponsored Salvador himself."

"We're not saying he purposely did anything that would hurt either of your chances," Hector shrugs, "Just that he was a little more at peace with the outcome of the Final Four scenario than we would've expected."

"Then again," Gerik twirls his shot glass around between his fingers, "Jack's strange. We probably shouldn't have brought it up- Hector. We've just gotten to like you and all, so it seemed like something to keep in mind."

They're well meaning. We ride back to the Training Center together. Apple gets kind of bent out of shape over the whiff of beer she catches from me, but Aulie steps in and calms her down, saying that I'm not drunk and how could I get any safer than going out with fellow victors and I'm old enough to do that sort of thing anyway the last part of which gets Apple kind of worked up all over again but this time about the notion that I won't always be so young.

"Victors grow up," Aulie takes and strokes her hand, "They stay a bunch of cute kids for you to fuss over forever."

But there'll be new victors for that. The newest one, getting such a young start, will stay a cute young kid longer than most.

I excuse myself to shower and go to bed.

I have a variation on a nightmare I've had before, but not for months. The one where Jack Umber is a dentist armed with all sorts of overelaborate torture devices for ostensibly "fixing" my teeth. Shaya and Salvador assure me my appointment will go wonderfully. They love their new smiles from the Capitol. I don't understand. Their teeth are the same as ever. …they mean their slashed throats.

I wake up in the early morning, sweating and tangled in my sheets.

I'm afraid to go back to sleep after that. I mindlessly watch television for two and a half hours before it seems like a reasonable time to get dressed and eat breakfast.

I eat slowly and by myself. My cereal gets soggy.

"The recap and crowning will be tonight," Apple informs me when she joins me. "And you are, of course, invited to the Victory Banquet afterward at the president's mansion, so you should pick out something nice to wear."

"Nothing assigned to me?"

Apple's smile is sweet, but sad, "Oh, you're all but nobody tonight, dear. There's no need for Erinne and her girls to get caught up doing everything."

"What she means is, she assumes you won't wear rolled up jeans and a t-shirt," Aulie chimes in as he arrives with coffee, "Even though this arrived for you via Victor Affairs," he tosses something soft and green toward me, which I fumble, luckily not so that it ends up in my breakfast, but, rather, unfurls over the top of my head.

It's a t-shirt. More precisely, it's Jack's t-shirt. Not the exact one he's been wearing- it's too small- but the same design. "First Annual Hunger Games." The silhouette on the back has been signed: "Jack Umber." "Oh, Jack said something about giving me one, I think. …I'm not sure I ever exactly accepted the offer though."

"He's like that," Apple reflects.

"Did Jack not stay little and cute long enough for you?" Aulie teases her.

"Oh, shush," Apple brushes him off.

I chose to wear the one fancy garment I packed- my own blue victory dress. I like it. When Apple sees me in it she wonders whether wearing it is in good taste and even calls up Erinne over the etiquette of the matter, but finally concludes that there's no rule against it and lets it go.

I mix an element I liked from another prior ensemble into my look for the night- the stars-in-a-net veil from the end of my Victory Tour. I think it and the dress go well together, though I get the feeling Apple believes she's merely humoring my strange costuming sense.

Apple and Aulie aren't invited to the Victory Banquet, but they do have seats to watch the recap along with me. It's not a required thing for all the victors, but I don't know, it makes sense to me to go. The only ones I can pick out in the crowd when I get there are Sunny and Shy, but that doesn't mean everyone else passed on it.

Jack is onstage for the proceedings like he was last year, but he doesn't talk as much. I'm not sure if this says something about Jack's interest in me or if it's because Silk has a victor-mentor to do the talking to and about her instead.

Silk is dainty and delicate, dressed in what starts out on top as an ordinary green sundress and blossoms below as some kind of translucent hot house flower in various translucent layers of green, pink and yellow. My eye is drawn somehow to her emerald green flats- she has such tiny, tiny feet. Her makeup is light and natural in style.

Pal wears typical Pal-ish clothes, dressing in browns and tans and off-whites. His shirt is embroidered with deep blue flowers in what I'd take for a traditional District 8 style. Knowing Pal, he might have done the embroidery himself. Some stylist has left his hair artfully tousled. He wears his patchwork coat over his shoulders like a cloak.

Silk is dressed to stand out and Pal to fade away into the background. Still, they look pretty together. Silk smiles a lot.

I don't expect to be surprised by what I see in the recap, but I didn't actually watch too much of the Games footage in its edited for broadcast format anyway and this cut has reshaped it a step further, so-

Shaya is less than a footnote as a death in the bloodbath.

Salvador strikes only a distant counterpoint.

For the sake of my not suffering an extended fit of crying during the event, it's probably for the best, but even without my tributes' trials and state-sanctioned murder to tug at my feelings, something catches my attention.

It's the way the camera looks- looked- at Silk. I felt awkward during the Games at her extended nudity, but that scene was only one small part of a whole.

Her dress now starts to look less innocent. I feel uncomfortably aware of how much of her scrawny legs I can make out through that diaphanous fabric.

She is only a little girl. It shouldn't be any different just because she's a little girl who was forced to kill.

Jack doesn't look at her like that, or Pal, or Mr. Bronze, or Mr. Zimmer, but the camera did and still does. I feel sort of relieved when the recap is through and the president steps up to present her with her crown. It isn't gold like mine, but riffs partially on that same ancient idea of a laurel crown. A circlet of shining green leaves doesn't meet neatly in the middle, but shoots upward toward the left side of Silk's brow, the upward section marked by seven pointed shapes of shimmering metal. Seven stars. The Seven Sisters.

There's so much clapping and cheering it makes my ears ring.

Mr. Zimmer puts a bunch of flowers into her hands.

"There aren't any red roses," Silk examines the bouquet that Mr. Zimmer has given her. There are roses in pink and yellow and white and daisies in red and pink and white and yellow too, highlighted with little sprigs of greenery, curlicued leaves and bits of fern.

It's a typical post-victory comment, I gather. She's all here, but without the normal (proper?) priorities. It's like she's in a walking dream.

…Yes, that's really what it seems like watching her and that's how it was for me.

"Well, red roses are for lovers, Silk," Mr. Zimmer laughs.

"Flower language?" Mr. Bronze scoffs, "Is that still around?"

"In some circles."

"She just likes roses," Pal interjects, trying to skirt the idea. He puts his arm protectively around Silk's scrawny, almost-bare shoulders. She is tiny, so tiny, even beside Pal, who isn't all that big himself. Even though we all saw it just days ago, it's hard to reconcile this daintiness with the fact that she's killed two people. She is the youngest victor ever. She is fourteen years old- well, fifteen, just barely (They like the sound of fourteen, but she spoke up to mention she turned fifteen the day Pal sent her the cherry- that was what the cherry was, a birthday gift). An orphan girl from the factories of 8.

Her mother died in a factory fire. The same one that killed so many of the people close to Pal, though neither of them has mentioned this for the audience.

Silk keeps her eyes on the flowers. She keeps on stroking the large rose petals. "Thank you," she says, "Thank you for the flowers."

The missing red roses are made up for that night. I watch as she and Pal arrive at the party and person after person rushes up to present some to her. She receives dozens.

Something about my demeanor at the party must not come off very well. "You look like you could use a drink," Hector laughs, steering me toward a waiter with a tray of brightly colored fluted glasses. He picks a glass off the tray for each of us.

"I might need more than one," I admit, but Hector just finds this funny.

I mingle with the attending public and suffer some Crispco cracker jokes and recognition of my clothes ("Though they weren't previously in this combination, I think"). Shy offers me the ultimatum of hearing more of this same stuff or dancing with her, so, of course, I give in. She has a new dress for the occasion: "Not that anyone will notice, but, well, that means the next time I wear it, people will think it's new then too."

I try some unidentifiable appetizers, none of which are bad, but none of which really suit me either. I find myself another drink. I am only halfway through it when the floor shifts a bit beneath my feet- or, well, not really, but it feels that way to me. I reappraise the turquoise-colored drink in my hand. Maybe I have had enough. Am I a little drunk? I am pretty sure I've had enough. I set my drink down on the nearest table with no intent to reclaim it.

Unlike my last Capitol party, this time I am, fortunately, far from the center of attention. Silk is the newest victor of the Hunger Games. Everyone wants to talk to her, to look at her, to dance with her. But there's something about the way so many of them look at her. Something about Silk makes a lot of people look at her- in a way that makes me nervous. …Did they look at me like that and I just never noticed? Do they still?

I shuffle out of the way so I can lean against the wall. Teejay is sitting on the ground nearby, his chin propped up on his knees, as he watches the other guests mill around and talk and dance. I wonder momentarily if he's a bit drunk too, but decide that this is probably just another day for Teejay and his morphling addiction. …And even if it's not, what's the difference?

I'm not above sitting on the floor either. I slide down beside him. The world seems much steadier that way anyway. "Are you having fun, Teejay?" I ask him.

"This place is beautiful," he sighs, "The people are so beautiful too. All the colors…"

Well, if you like to see colors in unnatural combinations and brightnesses, I imagine a Capitol party can't be beat. "Yeah," I agree, "Yeah, it is."

"I like your stars," he reaches a slowly wavering hand out to touch them.

"Thank you. So do I."

"Are the two of you making friends now?" Jack Umber asks us out of the blue. I mean, I knew he was here somewhere- Apple told me that all of the other victors would be (she was still pretty disappointed that she wasn't included anymore now that I was old news when she dropped me off), but I hadn't seen him yet. And, usually, when he's in my vicinity, I manage to notice Jack Umber.

"I think today we're on the same page," I venture, although I'm not honestly not sure that Teejay even knows who I am and that he's met me a couple of times before.

"That's good, that's good. That's your victor solidarity movement at work, right, Mags?" Jack teases. "Beer with Hector and Gerik, then observing everyone's shoes along with Teejay?"

"Oh, shut up," I swing a lazy fist out and knock my knuckles against his leg.

"Come on," Jack leans over and solidly grasps my upper arm, "I'm sure Teejay is already your friend for life; let's go spread some of that solidarity movement to the masses."

"Ah, Jack, not now," I groan as he tugs me to my feet. I don't put enough effort into holding myself in place and sway against his side.

"Mags loves you, Jack." Why does Teejay find it within himself to speak up now when he usually stays inside his head? And to say something like that, of all things?

"Yes, I know," Jack laughs it off, "Everyone loves me, Teejay! But, the problem confronting us right now is the fact that, at this very moment, they love Silk even more."

He's right, I realize. The looks they give Silk. The things they ask her. All the sponsors she received. It wasn't just Pal working the crowd. It was a very pretty girl from District 8 innocently washing out her bloody shirt in the lake. When I felt uncomfortable watching before, I already knew, but I didn't allow myself to believe it. But once it's been said I can't ignore it.

I look across the room. She is standing with the president right now. Even he looks at Silk like he wants something from her. Does he want to cut her open? Does he want to eat her up? All the horrible things that can be done to a (relatively) innocent young girl overlap in my mind.

What luck was it that kept that girl from being me? Maybe I have the fact that I'm not very pretty to thank. Maybe the difference is in the sponsorships.

It's too late, I think. The damage has been done. She is adorable, desirable. Someone more interesting than me or Pal or Beto or Emmy Pollack. …Someone a bit like Jack, it hits me. I have some questions for later for Jack if I can ask and he can (and will) answer.

I can only think of one thing to do for her, and it will only be temporary. But it's the best I can do. "Let's make a scene," I suggest to Jack.

"What's that now?" he asks. I'm not sure if he was distracted or if I was unclear.

"You're not afraid of attention, Jack," I sort of ask and sort of say, reassuring myself of the truth of the statement, because even if Jack isn't afraid of attention, in a way, I am.

"How do you want to do that?" he wonders, clearly open to hearing my plan at least, "Are we going to start a fight or something? …Because I don't really want to have to hit you, Mags-"

I grab his shirt and stand up on my toes, taking advantage of the fact that as he talks to me he is already leaning down a bit, and, right then and there (I think I really am a little drunk), I kiss Jack Umber, the victor of the 1st Hunger Games.

Kayta Hiro, distinctly from District 7 tonight with his long, leaf-patterned sash, is so surprised by what he's seeing he accidentally spins the Capitol woman he's dancing with into the table, where her ridiculous transparent hoop dress knocks the punch bowl and several trays of appetizers onto the floor. And, well. Everyone is definitely looking at us now.

Victor solidarity (not that he intended it). Thanks, Kayta.

Jack's eyes are so very green. I stumble a bit as I drop back onto the flats of my feet. Jack moves forward a step with me.

Within just seconds, a man in a gray suit inserts himself sharply between us, though his presence doesn't serve to disconnect my hand from Jack's arm. "The president has requested that you come and sit with him," this stern man with an elaborately curled short beard says to me.

"I don't think I want to," I answer, which may not be the best of ideas, but it is sincere. I am finding this man's being here makes me incredibly more embarrassed than it does nervous, when usually anything involving the president would strike a note of terror. But he did say "request," after all. Jack looks around nervously, but doesn't step away or make me let go of his arm.

"You have to," the man corrects himself.

"Fishsticks," I grumble, which sets Jack to laughing. And apparently I'm the only one they want, because the man takes my arm in a gentle sort of way, not like he intends to drag me there, but like he wants to make sure I don't fall over and make an even bigger scene than I've already made.

"Bye-bye, Fishsticks. It was nice knowing you," Kayta bestows an impromptu nickname upon me as I pass him by. The woman he was dancing with is getting pretty frustrated as he ignores her while she smacks his arm with her plastic folding fan.

"Is everyone in District Four that into public displays of affection?" Pal asks as I step onto the dais where the president's table sits. Pal takes me from the bearded Capitol man, who appears happy to be rid of me. The feeling is mutual. The man heads directly to the president once he leaves me, probably to report that the matter of breaking up the drunk and disorderly victors has been accomplished.

I hope that the president doesn't want to actually talk to me. For all my idiotic bravado and the alcohol in me, he still makes me nervous. And, anyway, what is he going to tell me that I don't already know? Margaret Gaudet, you're a real idiot.

Pal sets me down in a reddish colored chair beside the table. "Be good," he chides me like an older brother, even though we're basically the same age. It's Pal's personality, or that in combination with some victor seniority thing. He's already about to drift away though. He gives me one last command before stepping away: "Sober up."

The chair to my left is empty. To my right, in a flowing dress of various see-through layers, is the newly crowned victor of the 13th Hunger Games, Silk Sachet. Not only is she just fourteen, but she's small. Why can't I get past that part? I smile at her, because what else am I going to do? Did she see what I just did? Should I be embarrassed?

"You're Mags from District Four, right?" Silk says. She seems interested in me. Would she have been this curious before I made an enormous fool of myself in front of the entire party (and via camera, probably most of the Capitol by the time the celebrity gossip programs air, if not all of Panem)?

"Yes, I am," I inform her. I instigated that idiocy with Jack because I wanted to help her somehow, but now that we're sitting together, I find I'm not sure what else I want to say. 'Stop being so cute?' 'Don't take off your top on camera again?' I'm getting tired of realizing how stupid and short-sighted I am.

"What happened to Faline Beaumont?"

She remembers the Reaping Day the year before hers. She remembers that I wasn't reaped. That I volunteered. And not only that, she remembers Faline by name. It's official. I really, really like Silk Sachet. How on earth could I not?

"She's great," I say, which is true, even if it's a sort of awkward answer.

"That's good. I mean, I bet she was almost more relieved when you won than you were, Mags. I think it might be kind of hard to deal with if someone volunteered in your place and ended up dying."

It was something that occurred to me in the arena (yet another of the many things I realized sort of belatedly), so I know what she's talking about.

"I suppose there are a bunch of people who had to deal with that though," she muses, "I mean, there have been other volunteers, but you're the only one so far who ended up a victor."

Well, Silk is already one of the victors, isn't she? Nice and morbid. She fits in fine.

I see the president talking to Jack. Even with both of them smiling, it worries me. Maybe more because both of them are smiling. "The president really likes Jack," Silk follows my gaze, "Jack's his favorite victor. He said so. He said that I might make him change his mind though. Though, as long as I don't get in trouble, it doesn't really matter to me either way."

"I'm really scared of the-" President, I'm about to say, but the man himself has turned around to head back toward us.

"Are you familiar with the notion 'what comes around, goes around,' Miss Gaudet?" he greets me.

"Yes, sir," I answer. Who isn't? Though I can't say I believe in it. …That, or it takes an incredibly long time for some things to come around, case in point, that you yourself are standing here before me today, Mr. President.

"In light of that sentiment then, I suggest that you and Mr. Umber take a moment to keep in mind how your actions will effect many people beyond yourselves and, however you chose to proceed, you do so thoughtfully."

Although I'm sure it's rude, I can't keep my eyes on the president for longer than a few words at a time. I'm just too uncomfortable. My gaze darts in search of oases of safety to Silk, who stills wears her even smile; to Pal, who has come up nearer to us with an expression that reflects my discomfort; to Nar, from Victor Affairs, whose smile is even less comforting than Pal's slight frown.

"Mr. Lycius," the president sees me looking at the man who sort of counts as my handler and beckons him over. He remands me into Nar's custody. Pal tells me to take care as I am ushered away from the party's focal point and her the nearest planets in her orbit. Silk waves goodbye and voices her quite honest desire that the two of us meet again. The president just watches.

"Am I in trouble?" I ask.

"Maybe with Ms. Smitt," Nar smirks, "I don't think Mr. Strong or your father are likely to voice any objections regarding your choice of affections."

He's teasing me. Does it mean my concerns of official trouble are unfounded or is this just a smokescreen? "No, I mean real trouble. With you. With the president. With Victor Affairs."

"Well, our president is rather attached to Mr. Umber," Nar carries on with mischief in his eyes, as glinting as the green and gold glitter in his eyeshadow, "So he might have an objection or two to your horning in on his territory, but he's hardly done anything to curb the extent of your interaction thus far, which makes me think he'll let it pass." Nar winks. I am awed at the strange jokeyness of his into pausing.

Nar rolls his eyes and tugs at my long veil to get me moving again. Apparently we're not where he wants us to be yet, even if that place is just further away from Silk and the president. "Trust me, if you'd done something that merited punishment, I wouldn't be joking."

The steel in his voice is more steadying to me than cutting. I'm glad to know it's there and I don't have to distinguish the cold truth from the fog of his sarcasm.

"That's not to say there won't be consequences to your little show here. You have to realize that everything you do in the Capitol will be on display- and some of what you do back in your district too. As a victor, people are watching you. Just because there's a newer, more adorable victor onstage now doesn't mean people stop paying attention to you. Associating further with someone like Mr. Umber will only serve to keep you in the limelight longer. Now," he allows me to stop beside one of the tables of refreshments, "I can't say I have a problem with that. I'd like to see you continue to be out there catching the public's eye, but I would also much prefer if you thought beforehand about how you wanted to do that instead of acting out impulsively."

"Oh." I lean a bit against the table. "…Oh."

"It's not just me, you know," he laughs and picks up a glass of something pink with cherries at the bottom, "Everyone in Victor Affairs would think more or less the same. We're supposed to be managing you victors! We like to spin you our own way- or at least assist you in spinning yourselves."

It's true that I was trying to create a stir, but the actual meaning of that commotion wasn't my focus- certainly not more than what I wanted to distract from (and managed for all of thirty seconds).

I notice Emmy dancing with Ferdinand. There are shiny pink streamers in her hair. Her dress is pink too and almost seems to be made entirely of sequins. She looks so happy. Ferdinand is smiling down at her too. His hair and mustache are waxed extra perfectly for the occasion.

Nar downs about half the drink in one swig and chokes for a moment on a cherry. He coughs and recovers. "…Now, all of that is my way of saying that I'd appreciate it if you'd inform me about any public designs on Mr. Umber. The fellow managing him would probably appreciate it too, though, frankly, taking care of Diluc isn't high on my list of priorities."

"Uh," I say, stupidly, "With Jack, I." Well, I would have to talk with Jack, wouldn't I? But for my part… "I imagine things will stay as they have."

"You were caught up in the whole celebratory air weren't you, then?" Nar tries out a possible way of framing it. He cocks his head and looks me over, then tests another idea, "You hadn't realized how strong the drinks in the Capitol can be and the alcohol went straight to your head."

I don't know what to say, though if they mention the drinks, I will be sure that I never give the Capitol a single chance more to paint me as a drunk. I look down at my gold-colored shoes and sway with that same wobbliness remaining in my system.

A very tall, thin man wearing neon blue rimmed glasses hurries as quickly around as the dance floor as I imagine can still be considered fashionable headed straight toward Nar. "There's Diluc now," he informs me and lets out a low whistle, before spattering his words with a bit more chuckling. "It might be for the best if you let the two of us work this out on our own. He's not exactly enamored of how much flirting Jack does with you."

So, it is flirting then? Is that Nar's opinion, or does he know that? He turns toward Diluc to shield my exit from his view. Blocked on one side by Nar, another by the table, and unwilling to head back toward the president, I squeeze myself into the midst of a thicket of dancing bodies.

When I pass through safely to the other side, I'm met by my reflection in a pair of thick glasses. Beto looks back down and taps something onto the glowing screen of a tiny electronic device that fits in his palm. "Live from the scene!" he even manages a mock-Capitol accent, which I would have thought too much at odds with his own manner of speaking. He holds the screen up to me, showing me a slightly off-center clip that plays over and over, captured in time.

I can see now from this few minutes' retrospect that in that moment, Jack looked happy.

Jack comes up behind Beto now to join us. "Excellent response time," Beto compliments him and takes his miniature screen back out of my hand.

"Thanks, Beto," Jack flashes him a quick thumbs-up.

Beto shrugs, though he's smiling slightly, "You know the state of affairs with favors." They have something worked out, I take it. Both for Beto's sending him a message about me and what he'll do in return. I can't say I know what kind of relationship the two of them have.

"We danced once before," Jack looks down at me with those lively green eyes of his alight, "Will you dance with me again?"

"Not like that," I gesture back to the tightly writhing bodies I just brushed through. I mean, not even all the Capitol citizens are dancing like that, but it's best to be clear. …I should be especially clear to make up for any murkiness in my behavior earlier.

"No, not like that," he confirms, "More like before."

"Okay."

Beto is holding up his tech device and, I don't know, photographing us? "Could you be a little less blatant about that, paparazzo-in-training?" Jack suggests.

"I'm good," Beto slips the device into his pocket and, uh, tips his glasses at us (is that a thing people do?) before backing away.

Jack holds his hand out to me and I place my palm in his.

The veil of stars floats around me as we turn gently around the dance floor.