A/N: Has it been a month already? D: I know how much it sucks to wait forever for an update. Next one will be MUCH faster, I promise, so please don't give up on me! This is the first of two transition chapters and Mags is about 50. Hope y'all have an awesome Easter/ spring break

The young man flinches in surprise at the sound of books hitting his desk. He spins around with a theatrical gasp and his eyes flit nervously around the room before settling on me.

"I forgot you were coming," he admits, more relaxed now. He grabs the stack of books and pulls them against the purple suit that hugs his plump body.

"I'm not mentoring this year. It's easier for me to leave without being noticed," I respond.

"And no one saw you carrying these around, right?"

"Of course not," I frown. "I thought you would trust me with this by now."

"I know, I know," he sighs. "But this is my life on the line. Only a few people in all of Panem know about these books. If someone found out I was lending them out…" He shudders at the thought.

"Plutarch, we're on the same team here. There's a reason these histories are locked up. They're scared what will happen if the public is educated. We can't change things without understanding what failed in the past," I say.

I look over the man in front of me. He's pretty young, probably in his twenties, and he's dressed in the flashy clothes of the average Capitolite. He might look just like the rest of them, but our brief exchanges over the years have revealed that he sees the world much differently. His version of an ideal Panem is very similar to the vision I've been chasing for the past twenty years.

Twenty years. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. Twenty years since the time when I thought I couldn't make it through another day. I felt the time passing as I struggled to rebuild my life and put purpose in my actions, but it still amazes me how the years have added up. The resentment is still there, because time can't fix everything, yet I've managed to survive the worst life could possibly throw at me. That has to count for something, right?

I'm so engulfed in these thoughts that it takes me a minute to realize Plutarch is speaking. "…and I have to say, that book was my favorite. It was mostly about the forming of Panem, but I did enjoy the chapter about the old countries. Can you imagine if each district could vote to decide things? Oh, and did you see the part about the other continents? It makes me wonder if there are still other civilizations out there," he babbles, his eyes taking on a particular glint of excitement.

"It wouldn't surprise me if they are out there and Snow chooses not to tell us." I don't add that I would feel better if there weren't any other people besides citizens of Panem. Acknowledging that there are others out there means acknowledging that humankind doesn't have enough compassion to help those being oppressed. Unless they are even worse off, that is.

"I'm not too worried about that. I'm getting older and I just want to see change here before I go," I add.

It's quiet for a minute. "Do you think it could happen?" Plutarch asks. "It's one thing to read about it and another to make it happen. Sometimes I think that if I didn't grow up as the bookkeeper's son, I would have turned out just like the rest of the people here. People can be swayed, but is what we're doing even going to make a difference?"

"For my own sanity, I have to tell myself it will," I say decisively.

He looks at me curiously, but I offer no explanation. I can't describe how this mission is the only thing that kept me from giving up on life. I can't put into words how I feel it's the only way to make up for what has happened in the past. Even if I haven't accomplished much, I have to believe that every little bit of research is building towards the greater goal.

I clear my throat in nervous discomfort and pull a folded piece of paper out of my pocket. "I have word that there was a book written indirectly about President Snow. Do you think it would be here?" I ask. My fingers smooth over the creases in the paper before giving it to Plutarch. Printed on it is the name of the book.

"Hmm, I've never heard of a book called Shadow of Influence," Plutarch says, "but if Snow knows about it and doesn't want anyone else to read it, I'm sure it's here."

Without another word, he rises from the desk and I follow him down a set of stairs hidden behind a bookcase. They lead to a messy little living area. I pause and wait patiently as Plutarch retrieves a key and opens a door to a room that contains secrets hidden from the rest of the world. I can't help but think how his family must be held in high esteem to be placed in charge of something so private. I wonder briefly if his parents share his opinions, or if they even looked at the books at all.

Once I'm on that train of thought, it occurs to me that Plutarch would have been born within a few years of Destan. I can find no sign of resemblance between the two, but just the thought is enough to get me picturing what it would have been like to have an adult son.

It happens all the time when I have to mentor. No matter how hard I try not to, I always end up drawing connections between the male tributes and how Destan might have been at their age.

It makes it hard not to get attached.

Hard as it is, I have to resist. I'm free to gamble with my own safety, but I know better than to put any of the shell-shocked kids at risk when they still have so much to lose.

I look around the living room, noting all the areas of disarray. The air is heavy with dust that brushes against my nose and makes me feel like sneezing. I can't stop myself from making little efforts to tidy it up as I wait. It's not that I'm such a neat freak I can't stand being in the room; it just feels natural.

I'm fine being the me that I am. I know that trying to make a difference is better than being passive. It's something I've always believed in. I was okay with adopting this identity to pull myself out of my darkest times because it has always been part of who I am.

The social activist thoughts and idealistic visions of how things should be are part of me, but it's only a portion. A bigger part of me is the me who wants to take care of people. The me who is better suited for putting a comforting hand on someone's shoulders and promising to always look out for them. The me who wants to share bits and pieces of advice I've gathered from trying to untangle this big mess that is life. I'm fine with the me I am, but it's not the me I really wish to be.

Even doing something as small as picking up clothes off the floor makes me feel connected with the other side of who I am. It's something I miss doing when I'm alone in that big, spotless house.

It takes about twenty minutes for Plutarch to reemerge from the private room. "Sure enough, it was there," he announces, holding up the dull red book. "That must mean there's good information in it. Look, it was written by someone named G. Snow. It could have been a brother or father."

"Thank you so much!" I say with a genuine smile after he hands me the book.

"It's no problem. What are you hoping to find in it?" the large young man asks.

"I'm sure there are some secrets in here that would make Snow vulnerable. I'm not looking to sympathize with Snow- I don't think I ever can- but I am interested in his backstory. I guess it's just morbid curiosity," I say.

"I'd like to read it when you bring it back," he says. He glances around the room, probably noticing that it's a little straighter than he left it, but he doesn't comment on it.

"I can't wait to read it. Thanks again," I say, ready to make my exit.

"See you next time," he says, turning his attention elsewhere.

Once I'm out in the sunlight, I tuck the book into my bag and take a deep breath. No one's around, so I'm not worried about anyone seeing me.

"We're getting there, Alec. Today we're one step closer," I whisper into the empty air.

I curl up on the left side of my bed and lift the paperback book off the nightstand. I have to hold it several inches from my face for the words to come into focus, courtesy of the inevitable effects aging has on eyesight.

There's no telling what lies in the pages of this book. All I know is that it was written by a family member of the president, and that it may or may not contain valuable information on what actions led to an eighteen year old securing the highest title of power in Panem.

What must have gone wrong in the course of his life to turn him into the cold, manipulative man I've encountered? No one is born like that. All children have roughly the same traits: innocence, blind trust, imagination, a view that the world is a place full of goodness and wonder.

Something had to crush that innocence. Saying that I'm not curious to know what made him capable of such cruelty would be a blatant lie. No matter the circumstances, I don't think I can ever pity him. I'll never think of him as the poor victim, the one who has goodness radiating beneath the layer of dusk. Just the reminder of what he's done to me and countless others will silence any empathy.

I only hope that I find information that will help serve my purposes. With that in mind, I open the book to the first page. My eyes begin slowly scanning over the page, taking time to process each word.

My father always said that the true mark of a successful life is having the world know your name. He always spoke these words with a bitter tone. We all knew that Father was once a man of great power, but he lost it at the hands of a rival, and that was not a mistake he would ever allow his sons to make.

When I was very young, my family lived in a penthouse apartment just north of City Circle. My father was President Burns' political advisor, though at times he seemed more like a servant. See, Father was never one to hold his tongue when he felt like he was being wronged. For a long time, he and Burns were on the same social tier, and it was a toss-up between who would take the role of President.

Father claimed it was blackmail that made him lose to his rival. Whenever anything went wrong around the house, even if it was something as simple as a canceled television program, it was blamed on Burns. I thought it was just a running joke for a long time, but Father was always eerily serious. It was this barely concealed hostility that got him severely demoted and forced my family to move to a middle class neighborhood.

From then on, Father was different. There used to be times when he could put away work and politics and be the dad I needed. I still have faint memories of him taking me to the park and sitting me on his shoulders to watch the monthly firework shows. That all ended after the demotion. Now he forced textbooks and old histories upon my brother and I, making us study for hours on end while the other children got to play outside.

I despised him for this. Nothing I did could ever be good enough in his eyes. I was nothing but a blank slate that he could mold to correct his past mistakes, and he was disappointed when I couldn't act in accordance to his expectations. All that mattered to him was that I become President one day to make up for what he never had. Anything less than this achievement would be failure.

I wanted nothing to do with it. I pretended to be sick and snuck out my window when it came time for our sessions. I ate in my room so I wouldn't have to talk to him. I could never conform because I missed the old Father. I remembered a time when life was carefree and I could have a normal childhood.

My younger brother Coriolanus didn't have that luxury. He was just a toddler when we moved out of the penthouse. He didn't know how Father had been before and he thought the lessons were just a normal part of life. One thing he did see, however, was that Father paid more attention to me. I was supposed to be the one destined for great things.

Coriolanus was just another variable in the plan; never the main focus. It was only becoming that the eldest son should bring honor to his father's name. Of course, my brother couldn't understand this. All he saw was that Father ignored him. Coro threw himself into the books and studied day and night just for a chance to impress Father with his knowledge.

It took a few years for him to take note of his youngest son's efforts. By this time, he was just about fed up with me. I remember one day when I was sixteen, I tried to escape and take on a new identity so I could start a life outside of his shadow. I foolishly thought I could make it on my own as a famous writer. Needless to say, it was not a good day for me when I got caught. I was too embarrassed to leave home and explain my black eye, but I didn't want to face my family, either. I think that was the point when Father started to give up on me and put more hope into my brother.

I would put money on the claim that Coro was something of a prodigy. Sometimes I was jealous of him, but then I would remember that I actually had a childhood, and that's something he was robbed of. I don't remember him ever having a single friend over. When I would go to parties during the annual Hunger Games, he sat in front the TV and took notes. Father was never happy with Coro's weak physical stature, but he did see potential in his intellect. Every time he would throw him a bone by saying he was proud, it only fueled my brother's will.

Just when I thought Father was done nagging me, he took it upon himself to secure me my first job. I was only seventeen, yet I had been given the impressive title of Gamemaker. I still don't know what strings he had to pull to make that happen, but I remember clearly the look of disdain on his face at my less than enthusiastic reaction to the news.

It was safer for me to go just along with his plans. While the other gamemakers discussed maps and plans for the arena, I sat by idly and wrote stories on scraps of paper. The only real contribution I had that year was something I had stolen from Coro. One night he had suggested the idea of putting a sole water source right in the middle of the arena so tributes would be forced to approach it, and, by extension, each other.

I pause from reading and close my eyes lightly as I visualize a distant memory. Some experiences stay glued in your memory longer than others. Time has not taken away the image of the endless grass field interrupted only by a lake. I swam in that lake. I walked on the hard-packed barren soil that surrounded it.

It's hard to wrap my mind around the fact that Snow was able to impact my life even back then, when he was only a child. I try to call to mind the gamemakers who watched me during my training session, but that's a detail my brain hasn't held on to.

I decide it's best for me to remain emotionally unattached to anything I've read. It's shockingly easy to do.

With one hand, I flip through the pages of the book like it's a deck of cards. Maybe somewhere hidden in here is the lucky card that will explain what happened in the weeks following Burns' death, when all of Snow's political rivals mysteriously dropped dead. Maybe that's just wishful thinking.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand to find that it is just past twelve. Today is one of the rare days where I'm expecting company. There isn't much I have to do to get ready, but I pull myself off the bed and slip into some comfortable day clothes.

It's only Hallie's family coming over, something I might not have been overly excited about years ago. After she got married, her and her husband moved about an hour away before starting their own family. Now they are back in town to visit her elderly parents.

I've only seen her kids a handful of times over the years, so I'm happy that they will be staying at my house for the next few days. To them I'm just a distant relative that they don't know. The kind of relative who will embarrass them with accounts on how much they've grown and things I remember them doing as babies.

I smile fondly at the memory of those stranger relatives my parents made me talk to when I was a teen. Now I can understand where they were coming from.

It's a while before I hear a ring at the doorbell. I undo the locks and tell them to come on it. As always, Hallie looks at me with concern for a second, checking for any trace of the woman who had a life threatening breakdown years ago. She always does her best to cover it up by smiling widely a second later.

"Mags! It's so great to see you again! Are you sure it's okay for us to stay here? We can always crash at my sister's instead," she says as she pulls me into a hug.

"Of course you can stay here! What's the use in having this huge house if the rooms aren't used every once in a while?" I answer.

"Whoa, they weren't kidding when they said victor houses were big," a voice says. I turn around immediately to see Hallie's son and daughter looking around the house in awe.

"Oh my goodness…when did they grow up?" I say before I can stop myself. I knew they would be much bigger than the last time I saw them, but I was mentally expecting children rather than teenagers. Both of them are taller than me now.

Hallie laughs beside me. "I keep asking myself the same thing. Kai, Berri, do you two remember my cousin Mags?"

"Sorta," Kai says with a shrug. He must be about sixteen or seventeen now, and I can see some resemblance between him and the uncle he was named after.

Berrimilla just shakes her head slightly. She's around thirteen and is tall but spindly, as many girls her age are. The way she brushes back her honey colored hair and stands hidden behind her brother makes her look shy, but from what Hallie has told me, she's very talkative around people she knows.

"You guys can go put your bags in the room down the hall. I have some food in the oven right now," I say.

We eat dinner together a few hours later before Hallie brings them to visit the grandparents they so rarely see. It's late by the time they get back and the kids sleep in the next morning.

I sit at the table with my book in hand as Hallie hurriedly gets her things together. "I told my dad we would be there at ten and I would take them to the little fishing shop in town. The kids should already be up and now we're going to be late," she complains.

I just grin and shake my head. "Hallie, if there's anything I've learned about teenagers from all those years of mentoring, it's that they value their sleep. Might as well just let them wake up on their own time and they can meet you later."

It's quiet as I think about all the times I've had to pull tributes out of bed by their feet just to have them sit at the breakfast table with their arms folded as if the world is out to get them. Hallie must be thinking about her own experiences at home because it isn't long before she agrees.

When she's gone, I pick the book back up and carefully flip through pages until I hear groggy voices and footsteps coming down the hall. Kai and Berri look around, confused.

"Have you seen our mom?" Kai asks with a yawn.

"She went into town with your grandparents. Why don't you two eat some breakfast, and then you can catch up with them later. I can bring you or I can call your Aunt Marilla."

"I think we're old enough to handle getting there by ourselves," Kai says, and for a second, all I can hear is the cousin I lost a long time ago.

Berri shoots him a look. "Sorry, he didn't mean to be rude, Aunt…um, Mrs. Mags."

"Technically we're cousins but you can call me aunt if you'd like," I say warmly as I push the basket of seaweed-tinted rolls across the table to them.

They both reach forward to grab a roll. "Hmm, I wonder if that makes us second cousins or third cousins, or something about once or twice removed…" Berri muses as she eats.

"I don't get why it has to be so complicated," Kai comments.

"Well I just wanted to know so I have something to tell Fisk. You know how he's always bragging that his uncle won the Hunger Games. He should know he isn't the only one with a victor relative."

I had been trying to focus on my reading, but my eyes keep rescanning the same passage, my thoughts distracted by the conversation I'm hearing. "You said one of your friends at school has an uncle who's a victor? Which victor is it?" I ask.

"I don't know his uncle's name, but I'm not really friends with Odair. He's too full of himself," Kai says.

"Yeah, you're in the perfect position to judge," his sister says sarcastically. Then she looks back at me with wide blue eyes that run in the family. "I can't remember. I think he told us, but I'm not sure."

"Odair sounds familiar," I say, half to them and half to myself. I think, no, I'm positive I've heard that name before. It must be the name of one of the younger victors, but for some reason I can't bring a face to mind.

The young ones launch into a conversation about the Odair boy while I try my best to remember where I've heard it. It's going to drive me crazy if I can't.

The battle with my memory continues after the kids leave to go meet Hallie. There's a little rhyme that children learn at school to memorize the names of the twelve people who have won for District Four. I should know them better than anyone since I was there for nearly every win, yet I still find myself going through the verses to recall the last names.

There are no male victors with the last name Odair. It takes a second for me to realize that the boy's uncle was probably on his mother's side, so he wouldn't have the same last name anyway. Yes, whichever victor is the uncle must have a sister, or maybe even a half or step sibling.

Something clicks. Half-sibling, half-sibling. I go to retrieve something that has been in this house longer than I have.

In the back room, I keep a curio cabinet of things that I could never part with no matter how hard they are to see at times. The middle shelf is full of family pictures.

There's one of me at my old house that was taken on my eighteenth birthday. I'm making a face at the camera and Alec is laughing behind me. Next to it is a framed wedding photo, and beyond it lies a compilation of pictures taken in the years after. These moments frozen in time tell the story of the best years of my life. I'm tempted to go through them for the thousandth time, but there's one in particular that I'm looking for.

I reach past a picture of Destan as a toddler and grab the only photo that was here before I even met Alec. His family. I run my fingers over the textured frame around it and examine the picture, just as I did what seems like a lifetime ago.

It was taken not long before Alec was reaped for the ninth Hunger Games at age sixteen. He stands next to his mother, who had the same sea green eyes as my son. She holds a small child in her lap; her youngest son, only two or three years old. Alec's half-brother, Thomas.

Both were gone from Alec's life a year later, but death only claimed one of their lives. Little Tom moved across the district with his father. He was raised as an ordinary kid with no connection to his half-brother or the Hunger Games.

I didn't understand it at the time, how Alec could allow the only family he had left on this planet to be stripped away from him. How is it fair that his only relative should grow up not knowing his own brother? I didn't get it then, but I see now that it was safer that way.

You can never be safe when you are related to a victor. Every action, every mistake is punished by targeting family, because that's the blow that hurts the most.

We never talked about his brother much because it was such a touchy subject. I would only bring it up when I was upset with something the Capitol had done and wanted to remind Alec why he should be upset with them, too. I was young and naïve then. I didn't understand that it was insensitive.

There were two or three times, though, that we got a letter in the mail from a name I didn't recognize. I remember leaning against Alec and reading over his shoulder as he filled out a name on an envelope and tucked some money inside. I can remember what he said when I asked him about it.

My stepfather sent that letter. He was a little short on money this year. I'm sending him some so he'll be able to support Tommy.

And that was that. We didn't dwell on it then, but now, all these years later, it's significant. I watched him as he spelled out his stepfather's last name on those envelopes.

The name was Odair. His brother's name was Thomas Odair.

If Alec's long lost younger brother had a son, it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume he would be around the same age as Hallie's kids.

This could be just a coincidence. There could be tons of other Odair's who live on the other end of District Four. I just have to take a minute to consider the possibility that the uncle the kid was talking about was my husband. In another world, if a thousand things had played out differently, this Odair boy could have been my nephew.

If all of this is connected, that would mean little Tom did know his brother was a victor, and that was something he was never supposed to find out. It's hopeless to try to figure out the how's and why's. No matter how hard I've tried, I've never been able to figure out why life plays out the way it does.

But now I have to consider, if the boy my cousin's children were talking about is my late husband's nephew, does it really change anything? I never went find Tom because he wasn't part of this life or the mess I had gotten myself into. What reason would I have to try to assimilate them into my life now?

I can't think of any logical reason to do so. I have no right to interfere with their lives. But I don't think I can sit here and chase the thought from my head without knowing for sure whether the Odair family is related to the ones I have lost.

It won't change anything about my life. My job is to continue researching and laying foundations for revolution, and that's what I will keep doing.

I just need to know so I can dowse these flames of curiosity.