A/N: I'm probably going to disappoint some people as I accelerate through the "training" chapters, but they're not really…relevant…in context. Heh, particularly where our protagonist is going.

Training passes all too quickly and I get to spend precious few hours with Wren and Aston. Between Nero dragging me off to events at night and Selene and Omaha taking me along to round up sponsorships during the day, it's a miracle I even remember the tributes.

It's a good thing I'm kept busy: I have a feeling that I'd worry myself to death looking after my two kids. Neither Wren nor Aston masters any specific weapon and while both prove capable in activities and skills such as tying knots and starting fires, I know they'll have to find a way to fight if they want to win. I did; every victor does.

Of more concern is their inability to make friends. I keep myself up half the night on the second day of training after Wren tearfully admits that no other tribute wants to talk to her. From what she says, two camps are forming: Alecto's gathered Districts 1 and 2 together, along with District 4's girl, Cormorant. Unsurprisingly, Triton Odair's not playing by the rules: Wren tells me that Finnick's son has instead gone around to the most capable non-volunteers in training, looking to establish his own force to fight against Alecto's.

I can't tell if the boy's brilliant or a fool. Teaming up against volunteers worked for me...but that doesn't mean it'll work every time.

Of course, Triton's training score of an 11 won't hurt him in the eyes of sponsors. That's as much as Wren's five and Aston's six combined.

I pace around the ninth floor of the Training Center on the last night before the Games, one hand running through my hair nervously. I haven't had enough time to plan; haven't been able to strategize – I'm hardly even on the same page as Selene and Omaha. Raucous crowd noise and bright lights shine in through the floor-to-ceiling window, illuminating our somber floor with an orange glow. Selene pours herself another drink and slumps down onto a couch across from Omaha as I stare out the window, wondering what I'll be thinking – and feeling – in less than a day.

"Well," Selene holds the glass up against her forehead, crossing one leg over the other slumping forward onto her elbows. "This is the part where the fun begins."

"Speak for yourself," I mutter. My "fun" has been going on for a while, thanks to the President.

"That's the only person I can speak for," she replies sarcastically. "Y'know, it's really a bummer that they're making us stay for the entire Games, rather than letting us go home as soon as our district's out. Those were better times. I'm not lookin' forward to slumming around the Capitol until this charade is over."

"What d'you mean?" I ask.

An uncomfortable silence descends over the room. Selene sighs and puts down her drink, glancing up at the ceiling awkwardly as Omaha stares off into the wall. Realization slowly sinks into my head: Neither of my mentors thinks Wren or Aston has a chance.

"You think they're going to die," I say slowly, turning around and staring at my fellow victors with accusing eyes. "You don't think they can win."

"Skye," Omaha tries to calm me down. "Of course we – "

"No," Selene cuts him off. "I don't think they can. You want some facts? A 12 year-old's never won the Games. 13 year-old kids have won twice – and those two allied with someone from either District 1 or 4 and turned on them to win. Wren? She doesn't have a friend or ally besides Aston. I don't think District 2's gonna welcome her with open arms, and if you think for a minute Finnick's son will – "

"Why don't we go down to the fourth floor right now and push Finnick and Annie to get Triton to accept her, then?"

"Are you brain-dead, Skye? You think those two are pulling for Wren? Or are they pulling for their son? They're not going to give half a hump what you think. So when I say that the odds aren't exactly in Wren and Aston's favor, that's why. Either of them winning would almost certainly be unprecedented, and when it comes to the Games…well, they're games of probabilities, not miracles."

I fold my arms and stick out my lower jaw, seething with anger at Selene. How can she be so…so callous? So dismissive? Wren and Aston's lives are in our hands, and she's just willing to throw them away like that? All because she doesn't like the odds?

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," I fume. After days - months - of keeping my cool and acting like an obedient little victor, I lose my temper and lash out. "This is pathetic. I can just imagine you last year – 'Skye doesn't have a chance. She's just a girl among all these other killers.' Omaha, were you like this too?"

"Look, don't – "

I don't give him a chance to finish: "This is why we didn't have any victors between when you two won and when I did. Nobody gave them a chance. Nobody believed in them."

"Because you've done such a great job mentoring so far?" Selene stands up, anger trickling across her face. "It's easy to stand on your pedestal and judge when all you have to do is show up in front of the television cameras and look cute. Maybe when you stop playing Capitol celebrity and start pulling your weight, I'll listen to what you 'believe.' Right now, your beliefs matter about as much to me as the President's do."

"I think that's about all they've ever meant to you," I retort. "But fine. Next year if the Capitol stops pulling me around like a puppet, why don't you two stay home, and I'll actually put my faith behind our two tributes? Maybe that'll give them a chance for once."

I turn and stomp out of the room before she has a chance to reply. I'm done arguing with them. If this is how they treated my chances last year – chances that were good enough to get me safely out of the arena (albeit with the Capitol's help) – why should any of our tributes ever feel confident and ready going into the Games? It's not as if Cicero and Magritte are good role models, either.

Omaha chides Selene as I turn down the hall: "Selene, if you keep arguing with her, you'll just make the situation worse. She's not wrong, you know. We need someone who cares about what the kids are feeling, and she's a lot better at that than I am. If you and she are going to be the future District 9 mentors, you have to get along."

"I don't care," my other mentor snaps at him. "Beliefs? Faith? Those kind of things get people killed, Omaha. If that's what she wants to put her bets on, she'll do no better as a mentor than either of us have done – except the pressure and guilt will tear her down far more than it's hurt us."

I lean against the wall in the darkened hall, pressing my fists together behind my back and staring up at the ceiling. What's gotten into us? Into me? I was terrified of the Games last year, but at least I kept myself together – mostly. Now Selene, Omaha, and I are fracturing like we're at war, and I feel like I can't do enough to keep my two kids alive. I couldn't keep my cool after the Reaping; I've barely handled Nero's constant interruptions, and now I can't even see eye-to-eye with the people I'm supposed to be working with. Is this how it's going to be for the rest of my life? Stressing, worrying, and fighting as I try my hardest to save my tributes?

At what point does the trial of saving another's life destroy my own?

A soft sigh from down the hall jolts me from my thoughts. I tiptoe towards the bedroom doors, listening in to Wren's room. A quiet sniffle and rustling bed sheets greet me – she's still awake.

"Wren, sweetie?" I say gently, my voice almost whisper. "Are you okay?"

I open the door and poke my head in after receiving no answer. Sheets and pillows are everywhere; it's like a bomb went off in the room. A table lamp lies on its side on the floor; water trickling out from the bathroom into the bedroom. Wren's curled up on the far side of her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in the arms of her loose-fitting pajamas.

"Hey," I step towards her slowly, bending down to her level and taking a seat beside her. "Hey, Wren – it's alright."

She shakes her head, grabbing her hair and pressing it into her face. The lilac dress she wore to the interviews with Corinth earlier tonight lies in tatters nearby.

"Not okay," she sniffs.

"It's alright," I repeat, placing an arm around her and pulling her against my shoulder. "I know it's not easy. I kinda did the same thing last year…sat in the shower with all my clothes on and refused to come out until Selene got me."

"She's right," Wren mumbles into her arm. "What she said. We don't really have a chance."

Dammit Selene! I think, biting my lip angrily. Sometimes you should just keep your opinions to yourself.

"No, no, sweetie," I say. "Don't listen to her. You'll be fine. You learned things during training, and I'll be watching you and doing whatever I can to help you in the arena. You'll be fine. You'll come out a victor; just like me. I'll even make Selene or Omaha come to the Capitol with me next year so you don't have to come back. Don't you worry."

"No," Wren shakes her head again. She doesn't believe my words of comfort, no matter how sincere I sound. "I haven't learned anything. I can't kill anybody. I don't even have anybody with me besides Aston. How am I supposed to win, Skye? What am I supposed to do?"

"You just do what feels right," I tell her, rubbing my hand over her shoulder. "I didn't know anything going into the Games either, Wren. But if someone like me can win, then you can, too. Believe in yourself. You're stronger than you know. Stronger than others know. Shrike knows it. I know it; and we and all of District 9 know you can do this. Don't cry, Wren. It's scary now, but it's going to be fine in the end."

I pick her off the floor as she slumps into my arms. She's light – too light; I should have had her eat more during training, should have…have done something more than I did. I lay her in bed, shut off the water from the bathroom and salvage what sheets and blankets I can as I tuck her in.

"I'll see you in your dreams, Wren," I pat her hand and smile. "I won't be able to see you tomorrow – I have to go where all the mentors go – but I believe in you. I won't stop until I get you safely home."

"Skye?" she peeps up sleepily. "If…if something happens…"

"It won't, sweetie."

"If it does…don't let what happens to me hurt you or my sister. I don't want to hurt anybody."

"When you come home," I reply, my finger hovering over the light switch. "We'll talk about what can happen. I'll see you when all this is over, Wren."

I switch off the lights as she curls up in her blankets, letting my eyes linger on her for a moment too long. Fear creeps back into my gut as I watch her: Is she ready? Am I ready? I can't get my disgust with Selene and Omaha out of my head. I fear they haven't done enough to prepare Wren for the horrors that surely await her in the arena.

Most of all, however, I fear I haven't done enough.

I close the door behind me, leaning against the wall and exhaling hard. My fear twists, morphs, contorts into anger: Red, hot, roiling anger. Wren shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be facing death, shouldn't have to kill to survive. She shouldn't have to suffer through all of this, and I shouldn't have to be worrying about whether or not I can keep her alive.

It's disgusting. It's sadistic. It's wrong.

This isn't like me. This mentoring business…this responsibility for others' lives; it's turning me into a girl I've never seen before. This girl isn't the Skye I used to know. This girl's one who will fight her battles – and maybe some battles that aren't hers. This girl would have horrified the old Skye…but I'm slowly realizing that the fight feels good. Shedding the helplessness, the powerlessness, the depression I've felt as I've been twisted and played like a marionette by Nero and the Capitol is all I have left.

"Skye?" Selene looks down the hall from back in the den, her face softening. "Look, I'm - "

I'm done listening to her. I pick up a vase from a table in the hall, hurling the ornament like a grenade at Selene's head. She sidesteps the vase easily, but the ornament explodes into a thousand pieces with a satisfying bang! against the far wall.

"You're not sorry," I point my finger at her, snarling and taking a step forward. "Maybe if your prediction's right and she dies, then you can be sorry. Then we'll see how much sorry means. Then we'll see just how little what you believe matters to me."

I wheel around and storm off to my room, losing myself in a hurricane of emotions. The fear and anger that Scipio told me about? Damn if they don't feel good.