Thank you so much to Swimming Trees, ForeverTeamEdward13, LunaWolfSunTigeress15, EarlGreyTea, jafcbutterfly, Randommmfanatic, Mely-the-Mockingjay, Martapt, Dipper, vampluver19, EclipseOfTheHeartAndSoul, Ro-Lee, theotherpianist and my lovely guest reviewer.

Twenty-One:

Alasdar's rancid breath fills my lungs as his face hovers over mine. "Just us. Just you and me. Forever."

No! I think frantically. No! Stop! My lips feel like they've been sealed shut. I can't even scream as he starts to rip my clothes. Don't! Please!

I hear Cedric calling for me. No, Ced, stop. Don't see me like this.

Alasdar is laughing. "We'll kill him. We'll kill Haymitch. He'll never come between us again."

NO!

My eyes fly open to the sounds of a familiar voice murmuring, "Ember. Ember, it's okay. It's just a dream."

I turn and look up at Cato, who's sitting beside me, rubbing my arm. "Just a dream," I echo.

"He can't hurt you. Not while I'm here."

I believe him. I sigh and curl closer to him. Then I notice that Cedric's sleeping bag is empty. "Where's Ced?"

"Bathroom. Vidal's with him."

I twist my fingers with Cato's. As I open my mouth to ask a question, we hear a distant commotion, and what might be Vidal yelling.

"Shit," Cato curses. We both leap to our feet and start running. I grab my blowgun from beside my sleeping bag. Una and Araceli, the other two on watch, are also racing toward the source of the noise. As we run through camp, Cato barks for the others to wake up. Marvel and Clove are the first to react, reaching for their weapons as Cato and I follow Una and Araceli.

Vidal lies on the ground, clutching his head. "Crazy old fucker moves like a goddamn demon," he growls, sitting up. He waves Araceli away when she tries to look at his head. "I'm fine."

"Cedric?" I call. "Cedric?" My brother is nowhere to be seen.

"Ember." Cato shines his flashlight at something on the ground. A small red sphere. Several yards ahead is a yellow one, and beyond that, a green one.

I don't pause to wonder what the little balls are. I just follow them, Cato and the two girls on my heels. The trail leads us toward the river, and as we run closer, I hear splashing and Alasdar rambling like the madman he is. The sound of Alasdar's voice makes my heart temporarily seize up—but fear for my brother wins out and spurs me forward.

We burst onto the scene. Alasdar is kneeling next to the river, holding Ced's head underwater. His frenzied mutterings fill the air, so intent on my brother that he only notices us arriving when it's too late. Without even thinking, I raise my blowgun to my lips and shoot. The dart hits Alasdar in the neck, and he collapses.

"Cedric!" I run to my brother's side and haul him out of the water. He isn't moving. I try to check for a pulse, but my hands are shaking too much. "Cedric, no, please, no—" CPR. He needs CPR. Mrs. Everdeen taught me, but I've never actually done it. My hands hover above him uncertainly.

"Move." Una pushes me aside, quickly checks for his breathing and his pulse, and begins to perform CPR. She presses down on his chest repeatedly and blows air into his mouth with all the expertise you would expect from a citizen of District 4.

Ced still isn't moving.

"Oh God, oh God…" Just a twitch, Ced. Anything at all. Please.

"Ember." Cato takes my face in his hands. "Breathe. Una's got this, okay?"

Does she? Does she really? We don't know how long Ced was underwater before we got here. And—God, is his face turning blue? "He can't die, Cato, he can't, he can't, I don't know what I'll do if—"

"Breathe, Ember."

I take a shaky breath. "Tell me he's going to be okay."

He hesitates. "Ember, I…"

Cato is saved from having to make me a potentially empty promise when Cedric suddenly coughs up water and shudders, gasping. "Cedric!" I throw myself at him, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around him, knowing the last thing he needs is for me to suffocate him.

My brother looks lost and dazed as he grabs my arm and leans into me. "Em…"

"Are you okay, Ced?"

"I-I-I think so."

I am gently nudged aside by Finch, who with a few others arrived sometime during my freak-out. Her even tone and the lack of overt concern in her face as she examines Ced assures me that he'll be fine.

I turn around, and Cato is there waiting for me. I hold out my hand. He takes it. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to make a promise that wasn't in your power to keep," I say quietly.

"Don't worry about it." He squeezes my hand. "I just don't want to have to lie to you, Ember."

I nod. Still holding his hand, I look at the girl from Four who saved my brother's life. "Thank you, Una." She quietly acknowledges my thanks.

Then, bracing myself, I turn to face Alasdar.

Marvel is crouching beside his prone body. "Still alive. I think you used a stun dart, Ember."

Still alive. Not dead. Now what? I step closer, heart hammering so hard it might be bruising my ribcage. Seeing Alasdar like this, unconscious, defenseless—because of my actions—with Marvel's spear at his throat, causes me no fear. On the contrary, I feel a grim sense of satisfaction. But nothing that could be mistaken for triumph or joy. I'm too weary for that.

"Ember." My eyes flicker to Cato. "What do you want to do?"

"Me?"

"You of all people have the most say over what we do with him."

Do I? I suppose I do. I stare at Alasdar again, feeling strangely numb. "It's not what I want to do," I say softly. "It's what we have to do. We can't let him go. We can't take him with us in a cage or something." I swallow. "So we have to kill him. Right?" When I look around, no one disagrees. "We have to kill him," I repeat. It's not murdering a defenseless man, I tell myself. It's executing an insane would-be rapist and murderer.

"Then that's what we'll do," Cato confirms.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I can't do it," I whisper. It won't bring me closure or pleasure to perform the act. It might even give me more nightmares. I don't think I even want to watch when it happens.

"You don't have to," Cato promises. "Someone else will."

The scene plays in my head. Maybe Cato will do it—but what if from now on, when I look at him, all I see is him using that sword of his to cut off Alasdar's head? An irrational worry, most likely, but one that won't leave my mind. I just don't want to risk anything of Alasdar contaminating anything of Cato. Then I imagine Clove doing it—it would be painful, drawn-out. And noisy. I don't care if Alasdar suffers or not, just as long as it is done, but I definitely don't want his screams to add to my nightmares. Best that it be done by someone who won't make a scene of it, but also won't let Alasdar off the hook so easily. Someone who truly understands how horrible his acts were. I look around. "Glimmer?"

She meets my eyes and nods. I don't have to voice my request.

I reach for my brother. "I think...I think Ced and I will go back to camp now."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Cato asks.

"It's okay. You can stay, and tell me when it's over. I'll know it's real if I hear it from you." One last squeeze, then I let go of Cato's hand. As Ced and I leave with Finch and some of the others, I spare no last glance at Alasdar. He doesn't deserve it. Not my pity. Not my scorn. Not my hatred. Nothing from me. I'm just glad it's almost over, and maybe, with him dead, I'll be able to sleep again.

They wait for the sedative to wear off. They've bound Alasdar tightly to a tree, far from caring about his comfort. Cato grips his sword, even though he won't be using it. He's not entirely certain why Ember asked Glimmer to deal the final blow. He gets that the two girls have bonded this past day, but he's unaware of the details. Cato admits that part of him wanted to be the one to kill Alasdar, but honestly, as long as somebody kills the bastard, he'll be satisfied in the end.

Still, he would've liked a shot at him.

Glimmer is quiet as she stares at the available assortment of weapons, considering which one she wants to use. Marvel sits on the ground, periodically prodding an unreactive Alasdar with his spear. Cato is pacing.

"So," Clove begins, twirling a knife, "how much fun can we have before Glimmer kills him?"

Cato recalls his previous fantasies of torturous deaths for Alasdar. And he thinks about how Ember probably doesn't want any of those imaginings fulfilled. If she did, she would have asked Clove to kill him. "Just remember we're not putting on a show. No cameras here, no arena here, no Games here."

They're dealing justice, not entertainment. But since was killing children any more "fun" than a grown man?

Still, Clove seems inclined to at least entertain herself, and she begins to throw daggers into the tree, around an unresponsive Alasdar's head. She's just about completed a semicircle framing his head when the last one hits home as Alasdar begins to stir.

The older man immediately realizes the shitshow he's in and struggles against his bindings, but he quickly realizes it's futile. He also doesn't waste his breath begging or threatening them, just glowers at them all, muttering oaths of vengeance under his breath. Clove waltzes over to retrieve her knives, and when he tries to lash out at her, she simply kicks him in the gut, winding him, before plucking her blades out of the bark and walking back.

Alasdar's eyes dart between them all, a vein throbbing in his forehead. He bares his yellowed teeth at them. "What's this, four on one? You Career scum were always too afraid to wander around alone. Untie me, I dare you. It's just little old me, isn't it? No way I could beat all of you in a fair fight. Don't you all want a piece of me, huh?"

Yes, Cato does want a piece of him. A bloody, mangled piece of him. But Cato isn't going to let him go when he's completely at their mercy. In fact, Cato wants Clove's knives to pin Alasdar's flesh to the tree as Cato slowly, methodically removes the madman's most extraneous body parts, until Alasdar is crying and begging for mercy, for what he did to Ember. After all, Clove isn't the only one who can draw out death. She's just the ones who's most obvious about her skill at it.

The thing is, looking into Alasdar's crazed eyes, Cato isn't sure if this will be more akin to executing a criminal or to putting down a rabid dog. If the latter, then things will be far less...satisfying.

Cato ambles forward, grabbing Alasdar's attention. "So. Why were you trying to drown Cedric?" Judging by the dull look in his eyes, the name doesn't register. Cato recalls what he managed to hear of Alasdar's mumblings as he held Cedric underwater, so he says simply, "Haymitch."

At the sound of the Abernathy patriarch's name, the crazy man howls and strains against the ropes. A rabid dog, then. "Haymitch! Where are you, you treacherous fuck! Come and face me like a man! Made friendly with the Careers, didn't you? Hmm?" Then a sickly pleased smile stretches across his haggard face. "No, no, no. I killed him. Killed him. I got my payback. How did you like being drowned, you little shit. Heh. That's what you get for taking her from me. Maysilee is mine. Mine. Mine. Fuck Snow, she's mine."

Cato clenches his jaw. Ember has yet to completely disclose everything that went down between her and Alasdar, but he's able to piece together enough from her, and from Alasdar, to cobble up the story. Alasdar sees Ember as a Maysilee stand-in, and Cedric as Haymitch's. The madman is obsessed with Maysilee, and he has an undying hatred of Haymitch. The bare bones of what is probably a dramatic and unbelievable tale. "You crazy old fuck. I know you're far too off the deep end to really understand what I'm about to say, but I want to tell you anyway before you die. That girl you attacked, that girl you tried to rape, her name is Ember. She is not yours. She does not belong to you. She never will. That boy you tried to kill, his name is Cedric. And you failed. He's alive. You will never kill him. And the real Haymitch and Maysilee Abernathy? They're alive. They're well. They're in love and have a whole litter of children. You mattered so little to them, so little to Maysilee, that she didn't give a single shit about you during the last two decades. You mean nothing. If she could see you now, if she knew what you'd done to her children, she would be happy to slit your throat herself. When we tell her that you're dead, she'll celebrate. No one will mourn you when you're gone, least of all Maysilee Abernathy. She will rejoice with her husband, for whom she deeply cares, and that is not, has never been, will not ever be you, but Haymitch Abernathy."

That is the moment Alasdar loses every last thread of sanity. He screams insensibly, spittle flying everywhere, and struggles so hard against his restraints that they can see him starting to bleed from the chafing. "NOOOOOO! NO! NO! NO! MAYSILEE, RUN! RUN!"

This, Cato thinks, is what used to be the Victor who won the Games the year before his father's. This is what the Hunger Games does to you. Or was Alasdar already mad before he went into the arena? They'll never know.

When Alasdar's voice gives out, Glimmer starts forward. Cato stops her, and she narrows her eyes. "Ember asked me to do this," she says quietly.

"I know. And you'll deal the killing blow, I promise."

Understanding fills Glimmer's eyes. She looks at the other three of them and waves her hand vaguely. "Make sure to leave enough for me."

By the time Glimmer saunters forward with an arrow in her hand, Alasdar is in more than one piece and quite a bit of his insides are on his outsides. But he is still alive. Cato, Marvel, and Clove have ensured that he is very cognizant for his demise.

"Remember me?"

Alasdar doesn't respond. He no longer has the ability.

"I stopped you from raping Ember. I told you to leave her alone, or I would put an arrow through your throat. Do you remember that? Well, the funny thing is, I'm not that great an archer. I probably wouldn't have been able to shoot an arrow that accurately, unless it was a lucky shot. It was a bluff. And you fell for it."

He gapes at her. At least, as well as he can with only half a face.

"But here's the other thing. Like I told you, I'm a Career. And I can still put an arrow through your throat." Without ceremony, Glimmer swings her hand forward, and the arrow she's holding pierces Alasdar's neck.

Her choice of target is not arbitrary. With the way she's punctured his throat, Alasdar will choke to death on his own blood slowly, painfully, and very aware that he's dying. Glimmer steps back in line with the rest of them, and they watch silently as Alasdar gags, blood frothing in his mouth. Time trickles past, and his twitching grows weaker and weaker, until eventually it stops altogether.

Marvel checks for a pulse. "Dead."

Cato releases a huge breath. It feels as if a long nightmare is finally over.

"What do we do with the body?" Clove queries.

It's not worth burying. They can't toss it into the river; the water finally became clean enough for them to drink again. Maybe they could burn it, but that would be a waste of gasoline and firewood. "Just leave it here. But keep the rope. No point wasting it."

The four of them soon return to camp, leaving behind them the corpse of Alasdar Greenburn, whose funeral will only be attended by scavengers.

While we've been waiting for Cato and the others to come back, Thresh has been working some kind of preservative that he found among our supplies into Blackberry's pelt. It was the middle of the night when we all woke up, but no one has been able to fall asleep again, not until the Careers return. So Thresh has occupied his hands with the bear pelt.

As soon as Clove steps into camp, he throws the giant skin at the petite Career. Clove catches it without a problem, looking delighted. "I told you it could be done!"

Thresh does not deign that with an answer, and he shakes his head when Clove starts to wear the fur like an oversized cape that trails at least a yard behind her.

I look up from where I'm helping Ced fix Rue's necklace. None of the four Careers seems particularly emotional, one way or another, except for Clove (which I think may be due more to her new trophy than anything). Marvel is uncharacteristically silent as he goes to get a drink of water. Glimmer nods curtly at me on her way to the well, to wash what looks like a blood splatter off her shirt.

Cato's hands are in his pockets as he walks toward me. I stand up to greet him. His gaze holds mine evenly. "It's done."

All the air gushes out of my lungs. When I take a deep breath, the oxygen feels cleaner and fresher than it did before. "Finally." I hug him, and we just stand there like that for several peaceful moments. We break apart when I hear Ced's hacking cough. Finch said his lungs might temporarily (or permanently, even, although we certainly hope that won't be the case) be less than stellar as a result of his near-drowning.

"You okay there, nerd?" Cato asks him.

"Yeah," Ced says miserably.

I tousle his hair. "First food poisoning, now this. I think you deserve a bit of hot cocoa—if your stomach agrees to it."

Cedric fervently declares that it does agree.

I dig up one of the hot cocoa packets, buried beneath the canned vegetables along with the other sweets among our supplies, while Cato roves around camp to see what's going on. He rejoins me as I wait for a small pot of water to boil. "Any problems?" I ask.

"Nah. At least, I don't think there is."

"What do you mean?"

He looks at me carefully. "How would you feel if we stayed here an extra day?"

I grimace. This neck of the woods is going to hold horrible memories for me for the rest of my life, and I won't be sad to say goodbye. "Why would we need to stay?"

"We've all been up half the night. I think we may benefit from one day of catching up on our sleep, without worrying about a madman in the forest. But we can get by without it."

I think we could benefit from more rest, too. It'll put us even more off-schedule, but we're already behind as it is. I suppress any personal misgivings. "We should stay."

"Are you sure?"

"Cato, don't make decisions concerning the whole group based on me alone. I appreciate it, but there's more than just me to think about." I give him a small smile. "I'm a big girl. Don't worry about me."

He leans in and kisses my forehead. "I always worry." Then he looks away and frowns. "Clove, stop that!" He stalks off to where she's terrorizing a few of the younger kids with Blackberry's pelt.

I finish making the hot cocoa and bring it to Ced, who begins to greedily slurp it down, mindless of the heat. Then he pauses, stares at the rich brown depths, and calls out, "Rue, do you want some?" She skips over happily, and I try not to grin. Maybe my little brother isn't so hopeless.

Seeing that no one seems to be in need of anything, I walk toward my sleeping bag to follow the example of the few who have already passed out from exhaustion and excitement. But as I lie there, listening to how the camp grows ever quieter as more people go to bed, I'm too tense to fall asleep. The thought of another nightmare makes me apprehensive of closing my eyes.

I hear the sound of something being dragged across the grass. I turn to see Cato placing his sleeping bag beside mine. He says nothing as he lies down, just extends his hand across the space between us. I entwine our fingers, and I shut my eyes, feeling more prepared for any dreams that may or may not come.

Seneca is pretty sure the Capitol has beautification laws, so he's uncertain how this atrocious neighborhood has avoided being razed yet. Here, the cracked pavement is littered with cigarette butts, dried gum, broken glass, and puddles of questionable substances. Most of the outdated, graffitied buildings have cracked or barred windows, and from those that are open, he can hear the sounds of drunken laughter, lechery, and general hedonism.

Then again, there's plenty of drunken laughter, lechery, and general hedonism in the posher places of the Capitol. The difference is where he's from, it's all fluffed up with wealth and extravagance.

The last time Seneca visited an area of the Capitol of this unimpressive caliber, he was looking for Rain. It was years ago, before they got together, and he went searching for her for a multitude of reasons, including concern for her safety in a place like that, and sheer curiosity why she was there. All of which he soon discovered. It's a memory that he usually leaves undisturbed, more for Rain's sake than his own.

"It should be on this street," Cinna says, drawing Seneca out of his thoughts. As they walk down the sidewalk, Seneca keeps his eyes peeled for the place they're looking for, while remaining alert for potential pickpockets or muggers. Petty crime isn't a problem in the Capitol at large, but this neighborhood is probably an exception.

At last, they spot the sign they're looking for. Aqua Vitae. The Water of Life. As Seneca appraises the bar critically, he thinks that whatever drinks this establishment has to offer is more likely to bring death via some ungodly filth-borne disease than anything life-giving.

Cinna pushes open the door, and Seneca follows. The air reeks of alcohol, sweat, smoke, and desperation, and the floor doesn't look like it's been swept since before the Quarter Quell. (Debatable whether it was the First or Second one.) The bartender is messily chewing something as he pours an ominously green liquid into a smudged glass. Perched upon a stool on a small stage that looks like it might collapse at any second, a lavender-skinned woman in a dress that looks painted on croons into an uncooperative microphone, with a voice that would be pleasant had it not been damaged by what sounds like years of heavy cigarette usage. The establishment is moderately crowded, so Seneca has to focus both on not being recognized by anyone and on searching for Cressida.

"I see her," Cinna murmurs.

Seneca does, too. The TV director sits in the rear of the room, her back against the wall. Cressida spots them at the same time and motions for them to join her. They draw closer, and Seneca can see that Cressida shares a table with two men. One, who appears to be rather fond of facial piercings, he doesn't recognize. The other, even though his hair is now dyed silver instead of gold, he unfortunately does recognize. And judging by the second man's grimace upon seeing Seneca, the recognition is mutual.

The Hunger Games camera director nods at them. "Cinna. Seneca. Please sit." Once they do, Cressida makes the introductions. "This is my assistant, Messalla." The pierced man raises a hand. "And this is my associate—"

"Don't worry, Cress, they know who I am," the other man interrupts around the cigarette sticking out of his mouth. Caligula Sunsworth's eyes—now artificially enhanced to be silver, like his hair—swerve toward Seneca and Cinna. "Long time no see, Cinna. Look at you, Mr. Bigshot Hunger Games Stylist. All that doodling paid off, huh? Fine work you did this year. Especially the girl, that interview dress got her loads of sponsors in my circle of acquaintances—sleazebags, all of 'em, weren't interested in sponsoring at all until they saw Little Miss Abernathy had grown up. But you had a lot to work with, didn't you, Cin? Very pretty girl, just like her sister." On that note, Cal's attention turns to Seneca. "As for you, Mr. Head Gamemaker, quite surprised to see you in these parts. Never thought the man who stole Rain from me would condescend to visit this watering hole." He plucks his cigarette from his mouth and, not unintentionally, blows a cloud of smoke Seneca's way.

Charming. "No, not the man who stole Rain from you. The man for whom Rain left you."

"Ha! Still a posh little smartass, aren't you?" Cal fiercely grounds out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table.

"As I was saying," Cressida interjects, shooting Cal a sharp look, "this is my associate, Cal. I invited him and Messalla here to participate in our discussion of important matters."

Seneca tries to ignore the unpleasant entity that is Rain's ex-boyfriend. "Is this the best place to be talking about such things?"

"Snow and his cronies have no interest in this neighborhood," Cressida answers him. "Besides, we have such wonderful background noise and distractions here."

"Speaking of Snow's cronies," Cal drawls, "are you sure it's such a good idea to disclose what I think you're about to disclose to the Head Gamemaker, a.k.a. Snow's personal lapdog?"

Cressida looks at Seneca. "Cal has a tendency to run his mouth, but he has a point. The two of us might be colleagues, Seneca, and Rain adores you. But as far as I'm aware, we have some...ideological differences. You and Cinna were vague in your earlier communication to me—as you should be—but you conveyed that you wanted certain information about my contacts, which I'm not comfortable disclosing to just anyone. Frankly, Seneca, I don't know if I can trust you."

Seneca and Cressida started working on the Hunger Games around the same time. It was only in the last few years, when he was promoted to Head Gamemaker and she to director of camera operations, that they came into more frequent communication. While his relationship with Cressida has remained professional, Rain, on the other hand, struck up a friendship with the other woman. During the last few weeks, as Seneca picked apart his knowledge of Rain's life to try to understand her actions, he reflected upon everything he knew about her friends in the Capitol who might be able to give him answers. There were Cinna and Portia, of course. But Cressida—and the political conversations between her and Rain that Seneca had overheard, in the privacy of their home—almost as quickly came to mind. In the last few days, as Seneca wracked his brain for what he could do to help Rain, he realized that it was not out of the question for Cressida, despite being a Capitolite in a position of influence and affluence, to be involved to some extent with the rebellion or Thirteen, like Plutarch Heavensbee. Cinna, whose own involvement was kept minimal by Rain, long believed that Cressida knew more than she seemed, and agreed with Seneca's desire to contact her. A few vague hints, and Cressida consented to meet with them, to get a better read on them before revealing anything.

It's a very petty thing to think of at the moment, but part of Seneca is hurt that Rain chose to share such deep, dark, crucial secrets with Cressida but not himself. Then again, Cinna—and Portia, for that matter—appears to know only marginally more than Seneca. Such behavior, Seneca muses, does fit in line with Rain's tendency to protect those closest to her by contrarily pushing them away. He forgot about this proclivity of hers to shield her loved ones with ignorance, in the chaotic wake of her acts of treason.

"You're friends with Rain, aren't you, Cressida?" Seneca asks. The director nods. "Then you know...you know she is the love of my life."

Cal snorts into his glass. "Goodness, Mr. Head Gamemaker, that was so sweet, I can feel cavities forming."

"Cal," Cinna says, before Seneca can snap. "It's been three years. For Rain's sake, can you please set aside whatever differences you have with Seneca?"

"Ah, yes. For Rain's sake. Of course that's why we're all here today." Cal refills his glass with the bottle on the table. "Do tell us, gentlemen, what they do with Gamemakers who commit treason."

Seneca forces himself to ignore Cal and returns to Cressida. "Rain is currently imprisoned, unharmed as far as I can tell. But I fear the president is running out of patience for a response from her parents and the rebellion. I can't stand for her to be locked up any longer. She has to get to safety."

Cressida rests her chin on her hands. "Seneca, I believe that you care for Rain very deeply. I believe that you love her. However, call me a cynic, but that isn't enough for me. Besides appearing the paragon of a Capitol citizen, you have always seemed to me to be a practical man, governed by reality rather than emotion. How am I supposed to believe that your affection for Rain is sufficient to turn you against everything you've ever known?"

It galls Seneca that Cressida, who has clearly seen in the past the extent of his adoration for Rain, remains unconvinced of his loyalty to his fiancee. And yet, wasn't it not even a week ago that he himself was doubting the sincerity of his and Rain's entire relationship? "You saw that broadcast, same as everyone else. You know she's pregnant. Even though it's obvious there's no use trying to convince you that my love for Rain supersedes any civil loyalty toward the Capitol or Snow, you must believe there is no way I will allow my unborn daughter to remain in danger if I can help it. In this, my position as Gamemaker should count for me, not against me, because I can guarantee that I know too well the unspeakable things that the Capitol is capable of committing against children of all ages. Call me a hypocrite, call me a sentimental fool, but do not call me a coward who would turn his back on his own child."

Cressida stares at him, her expression unreadable. Then, she stands up. "I find myself suddenly in need of fresh air. Messalla, walk with me. Cal, stay here with these two gentlemen—and behave."

"Any questions for me, Cressida?" Cinna asks lightly.

"You and Rain go very far back, Cinna, and your position in society is vastly different than Seneca's. It was Seneca I needed to be sure of, not you," Cressida replies unabashedly. "We'll be back momentarily."

She and her assistant leave Seneca and Cinna alone with one of Seneca's least favorite people in the world. Seneca is content to leave Cinna to strike up conversation. "Cal, do you still pilot hovercrafts?" the stylist inquires.

"Yup," Cal answers, popping the last syllable. "Got my own craft now and everything. Not the largest, but very fast. Very...undetectable."

Seneca isn't surprised to hear that Cal Sunsworth got involved with smuggling. He never had a high opinion of Cal's career prospects.

"How do you know Cressida?" Cinna queries. In other words, How are you involved with Thirteen?

"Oh, people of like mind always have a way of finding each other somehow. In our case, we met through our mutual heavenly, apian friend."

Plutarch Heavensbee. Seneca wonders just how high up the rebellion hierarchy the ex-Gamemaker is. And, as he does every time he thinks about his former colleague, he tamps down the spurt of anger he feels as he mildly curses Plutarch for leaving Rain behind in Snow's clutches.

"So," Cal continues, "a girl, is it? The baby?"

Seneca quickly realizes Cal is talking to him. "Yes. A girl."

"Got any names?" the pilot asks, almost politely.

"We have a favorite." It was Rain who suggested naming their daughter Priscilla, after his deceased mother, who had adored Rain the moment they'd met, before he and Rain even began dating.

"That's nice, I suppose." Cal lights a new cigarette. "For the record, I really want to punch you right now."

Seneca just raises his eyebrows as he waits for an explanation. Not that Cal ever needed a reason to be angry.

"Look where she is right now: thrown in a cell, marked a traitor, at the top of Snow's list of enemies. What have you been doing all this time, hm? Sitting on your ass and kissing up to our dear old president?"

"Are you saying it's my fault for not stopping her from doing something I had no idea she was planning?"

"Must be a reason she didn't trust you."

Seneca wants to punch him in the face. "You haven't seen or spoken to her in three years. What do you know?"

"I know that Rain Abernathy is someone who should be worshiped like a fucking queen. You had the fortune of having her attention for three years, but now that she needs you, you can't even protect or help her. You need us to come to her rescue. And really, you shouldn't speak on her behalf regarding whom she has and hasn't seen the last few years. After all, Rain and I are both the...underground, sort of people. For all you know, we have seen each other in the past three years. And for all you know, the kid she's carrying isn't a Crane but a Sunsworth."

A surprisingly strong Cinna forcibly restrains Seneca in his chair. "That comment was very unnecessary, Cal," the stylist coolly tells the other man.

"You couldn't even keep Rain interested for three months," Seneca hisses at the smuggler-pilot. "Try something more believable next time."

"I dunno, you had a pretty visceral reaction to something you supposedly don't believe."

"What is going on?" Cressida demands sharply, sensing the heavy tension as she and Messalla return. "Cal, I told you to behave." Cal lowers his eyes to his drink. Cressida shakes her head and looks at Seneca. "Come with me for a little fresh air, won't you?"

Seneca gladly departs from the table. He follows her outside through the back door, into an alley occupied only by trash cans and a mangy cat, which disappears when they arrive.

Cressida checks their surroundings before handing him an earpiece. "Your former colleague is on the line."

He dons the earpiece. "Seneca," a familiar voice says. Plutarch. "I'm glad to hear you're joining us."

Plutarch leaving Rain behind aside, Seneca has always rather liked the other man. Perhaps a touch too cunning, but Plutarch knows not to pry, and he never talks excessively. Essential qualities of a good acquaintance. "I want her safe. That's all I care about."

"Yes, there are some here who share your sentiments." Rain's parents, Seneca thinks. "Unfortunately, not everyone in a position of power here was as willing to expend resources before. But," Plutarch continues hurriedly, before Seneca can bite back a response, "we do have a plan to get her out, and we're willing to enact it now. You won't be able to expect backup or any physical aid from us, but we can offer technological and other remote support, and there are some others in the Capitol who can help. The plan has a good probability of success."

Seneca frowns. "Then why didn't you do it earlier?"

Plutarch hesitates. "Some didn't think it...worthwhile. I wanted to come to her aid soon after I arrived here," he assures Seneca rapidly, "but I was overruled."

"What's changed to make you all willing to do it now?"

"You," Plutarch says frankly. "I didn't want this, Seneca, but my peers will only agree to this plan on one condition."

Rain is daydreaming when her cell door opens. Jolted out of her thoughts, she sits up straight on her bed, watching apprehensively as two Peacekeepers march inside. One of them reaches for her arm, and she instinctively shies away. "What are you doing?" He doesn't respond, just seizes her elbow and forces her up. "Don't touch me!"

"Gentlemen, if Miss Abernathy continues to struggle, you have my permission to beat her in the stomach."

She freezes at that, allowing the Peacekeepers to flank her. "Sir," she says coolly.

Snow looks back at her with equal coldness. "Lorraine. I appreciate your cooperation. If you would come with me."

As if she has a choice. Rain squares her shoulders and, with the two human pillars on either side, she follows the president down the hall. As if sensing her unease, her baby moves nervously in her belly.

They enter a room at the other end of the corridor, all stainless steel and smelling of disinfectant. Rain suppresses her rising panic when she sees that the primary furnishing in the room is a surgical table, and beside it is a tray of prepared implements and a man in a surgical gown and mask.

"Please lie down, Lorraine."

She stares at Snow. "What are you doing?"

"I shall inform you momentarily. Now, Lorraine, are you going to lie down, or will I have to force you?"

The discomfort in her womb makes her choice for her. Slowly, Rain eases herself on the surgical table, trying not to flinch when the Peacekeepers strap her arms and legs down. Snow dismisses them, leaving just the two of them and the surgeon in the operating room.

Snow clasps his hands behind his back and looks down at her. "I must say, Lorraine, you have held up surprisingly well these last few weeks, especially after that tragic bit of news about your siblings."

Her heart wrenches. "You don't seem very torn up about it, sir."

"Believe me, the event brought me no joy. I would not have ordered their deaths if it weren't necessary. You see, Lorraine, it seems that your parents weren't taking concerns about your safety seriously. They sent no messages regarding any exchange or bargain for you, even though I have been informed that they have the means to do so. They simply didn't take my threats seriously. As such, I had to make it clear to them and the other rebels that I show no mercy to those who continue to defy me. Young Ember and Cedric were sacrificed for your parents' defiance."

Poison. Poison is Snow's way. His words are poison. Heed nothing he says.

"I have given your parents more than ample time since your sister and brother's deaths to respond to my new offers," Snow continues. "They have continued to fail to answer. It astounds me how callous Maysilee and Haymitch Abernathy have turned out in regards to their own children. And so, Lorraine, you are here today to send them one last message before it's too late for them to change their minds."

Her mouth is dry. "What makes you think they'll be likelier respond to this message than to the previous ones?"

"Because, Lorraine, this good doctor here is going to remove something from you."

No. No, please no, anything else… Her voice trembles as she strains against her restraints, though she knows it's futile. "Don't—not my baby—"

"That is entirely up to you. I am going to give you something that I offer to few people, Lorraine: options. You have two choices as to what shall be removed from your person. One is, as you said, your unborn child."

Her daughter turns anxiously. "Not my baby," Rain answers, with more conviction than she's ever felt about anything.

Snow arches an eyebrow. "You haven't heard the other choice."

"Not my baby," she repeats. He could threaten to tear out her heart, and she would still choose it. Not her daughter.

"If you're so sure, then very well." Snow nods at the surgeon. "You know what to do." The surgeon picks up a syringe, and Snow looks back at Rain. "I'm sure a curious mind like yours will want to know what's going on during the procedure. The doctor will administer a type of anesthesia that will numb your body, but allow you to remain awake. Don't worry, it won't harm your child."

The needle spears Rain's arm, and she feels its numbing effects quickly manifesting. The angle of the surgical table allows her to see which implement the surgeon selects, and as he approaches her, she's glad that she's lost the ability to scream.

Oh look, another cliffhanger. *dodges rotten tomatoes*

Yup, the Rain/Seneca story arc is back! But perhaps not an entirely happy occasion… As for the Alasdar arc, it is officially over. There may be aftereffects and consequences because of the pack's encounter with him, but he is well and truly dead. He will not turn into a zombie and come back to haunt them.

As usual, if you review within a week of the latest update, I'll send you a preview!