Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "final four" poll if you haven't already. On that note, while I realize that there may be one tribute in particular you want to see as the victor, these polls are most helpful to me when voters select four tributes for the final four, eight tributes for the final eight, etc. (Not that it's really likely to change anything at this point, as my plans for the final four are one of the few things that haven't changed since the Games began. But it bugs me when the numbers don't add up.)

Day Four
Slaves to Our Histories

Misha Brimmer
District Four Mentor

He wished there was something he could do.

Misha drummed his fingers on the table. Barclay was getting worse, but, ever since the fight in the garden, all the sponsors had gone dead silent. Barclay and Kinley had seemed so promising at first, but now, in the final twelve, no one wanted to sponsor a tribute who hadn't proven that they would fight.

Especially when there were other options. Better options. Of the twelve remaining tributes, seven had made at least one kill. Four had made more than one. Of the five who hadn't, three – Alasdair, Mercury, and Barclay – were sitting together in that garden, not likely to do so anytime soon. They were the biggest remaining alliance, yes, but that was really all they had going for them.

And it wasn't enough.

"They'll figure it out eventually."

Misha looked up as Sabine slid into the seat next to him. "Figure what out?" he asked. "That we can't help them?"

Sabine actually smiled a little. "Well, that, too, I suppose, but that's not what I meant. Sooner or later, they'll have to figure out whether or not they really want to live."

"You don't think they do?"

Sabine shrugged. "I didn't. That's why I volunteered, you know."

He hadn't known. "You … wanted to die?"

"Yeah. Or, at least, I thought I did. Didn't have much of a life back in District Five, and the nobler, selfless part of me figured that if I was going to kill myself, I might as well save someone else's life in the process. No point in killing myself and then letting some poor kid get reaped for the Games, right? Might as well kill two tributes with one stone, so to speak."

Misha blinked. He never would have guessed. "So what changed?"

"I did. The Games, Misha … they change everybody. Some people change for the worse, but some of us … some of us actually come out better. But the point is, for a long time in the Games, I didn't actually know whether I wanted to make it out or not." She shook her head. "And I don't think they know, either."

"Barclay—"

"Threw himself in front of Mercury without a second thought. Why do you think no one will sponsor him, Misha? It's not because he hasn't killed; it's because he'd rather save his allies than himself. He'd rather die a hero than come out of the Games like … well, like you."

Like him. Maybe Sabine was right. Hell, maybe Barclay was right for not wanting to end up like him, for thinking that maybe dying in the Games was a better option, a kinder option. Maybe it was.

"So how do we know?"

"Know?"

"When they decide – whether they want to live or not."

Sabine shrugged. "Trust me; you'll know. And so will the sponsors."

"And until then? Is there anything we can do to help them?"

Sabine shook her head. "Not a thing."

Misha sighed. That's what he'd been afraid she'd say. And she was right. Sponsor gifts and helpful hints were all well and good, but they could only help them for so long. Sooner or later, the tributes would have to make a choice.

Sooner or later, they would have to help themselves.

Mercury Helix, 15
District Five

She wished there was something she could do.

Mercury nearly jumped as the cannon sounded and the lights flickered off, but, to her surprise, Barclay and Alasdair continued to sleep soundly. Mercury clenched her fists. Barclay wasn't getting any better. If anything, he seemed to be getting worse. Why didn't their mentors do something?

Why hadn't she done something?

Mercury swallowed hard. There was something she could do, of course. She could go back to the cornucopia. She could try to find some medicine.

Mercury glanced at Barclay. They hadn't been back to the cornucopia since the bloodbath. There was no way of knowing who, if anyone, was there now. There had been twenty-four cannons. Twelve of them were left.

And three of them were here.

Asteria was probably still alive. That made four. Four tributes she could account for. Eight unknowns. Going back to the cornucopia was a risk. Here, they had food. They had water. She and Alasdair could last a while here, as long as nothing happened.

But how long would Barclay last?

Twelve of them left. Mercury chose an apple from the pile of fruit and turned it over in her hands. With only twelve of them left … Was that a risk she was willing to take? For someone who would have to die, anyway, if she was going to go home? She couldn't imagine killing Barclay, but would it be better – kinder – to let him die now? If she saved him now, she was simply buying him a little more time. A few days, maybe more.

Were those few days worth the risk?

But if she didn't – if he died – then it would just be her and Alasdair. How long would they last without him? They would certainly fare better in a fight if all three of them were healthy. And, if nothing else, Barclay had proven that he was willing to fight to protect her.

Willing to die to protect her.

Mercury looked away. Was that the real reason – the real reason for the nagging feeling that she should go back to the cornucopia? Did she owe it to him to try? He'd risked his life to save her. Didn't she owe him the same in return?

Did she?

Mercury squeezed the fruit in her hands. She hadn't asked Barclay to save her. She never would have asked him to dive in front of her and take that blow. But he had. No hesitation, no doubts. He hadn't thought twice.

So why was she?

Maybe she did owe it to him. But, now that it came down to it, as terrible as it felt, she didn't want to do the same for him. She didn't want to risk her life. She didn't want to die. Her debt to Barclay wasn't a good enough reason to go back.

But maybe there was another one.

Another reason. Something she hadn't thought of at first. Maybe there was a reason their mentors hadn't sent anything for Barclay. Maybe they were waiting for her to act first. Maybe they were testing her. Their alliance had passed the first test – they'd killed the mutt – but she hadn't really had a hand in that. They'd failed the second test – that much was clear. Was this the third test? Were they giving her another chance to prove herself? Mercury clenched her fists, her mind finally made up.

She wasn't going to fail again.

Dewan Rutledge, 15
District Two

He couldn't stop staring.

Dewan gripped the pack of supplies tightly, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the girl had stood. Where she had died. Only a small pile of ashes lay there now, all that remained of the girl the Gamemakers had wanted dead.

Because that was the only explanation. The only reason the mutts would have taken his side, the reason they'd herded her back here instead of letting the mutts tear her to shreds, the reason they'd trapped her and killed her themselves rather than letting him finish the job quickly. They'd planned this specifically for her. He'd simply been their instrument. Their tool. Their pawn.

They'd used him.

But part of him didn't care. Because that meant he was still alive. He was still here.

He couldn't count on their help again, of course – not now that the girl was gone. The mutts had disappeared into the shadows. They'd served their purpose, and so had he. From now on, he'd have to fight his own battles. The Gamemakers had gotten what they wanted.

But so had he. Slowly, Dewan tore his eyes from the ashes in front of him and opened the pack. As he'd hoped, there was food and water – enough for a few days, at least. More, if he was careful. Dewan sank down onto the floor and tried to eat a little. This was what he had come for. This was all he'd wanted. He hadn't wanted…

What? Hadn't wanted them to die? Hadn't wanted to kill one of the girls? Hadn't wanted to see the other one burned alive right in front of them? Maybe he hadn't wanted them dead, but, in the end, they had to die. If he wanted to go home, they all had to die. So why not now?

No, it wasn't the fact that they were dead. He'd killed his own allies, after all. Why should these two mean any more to him? Dewan glanced at the body of the girl who'd been waiting for him by the door. She'd attacked him. It had been his life or hers.

Just like Luke. Just like Natasha.

No, that wasn't the problem. He didn't feel good about killing her, but he could live with it.

Anyone can kill when their life is on the line. You won't enjoy it, but I think you have it in you to be able to live with yourself afterwards.

Dewan shook his head. How long had it been? It seemed like ages since he had heard those words, since Mortimer had taken him aside on the train and told him that he'd chosen him, rather than Adrian and Simone. Mortimer had picked him because he believed he had what it took to get out alive and live with it afterwards.

He'd occasionally doubted the first part – the part about getting out alive. He was one of thirty-six, after all. But now he was one of ... well, certainly less than that. Making it out alive was starting to seem like more and more of a possibility.

But living with it…

Luke. He could live with that. Luke had attacked him, too. Luke had been ready to kill him. Natasha had abandoned him when he'd needed her. Maybe he would have done the same thing, but he couldn't quite bring himself to feel sorry for pushing her out of that train car – not when he knew she would have done the same, given the chance. And the girl he had killed, the one who had attacked him – he'd needed those supplies. And she had struck first.

And he'd made it quick. She hadn't suffered. He'd done it because it was necessary, not because he was cruel or sadistic. He wasn't proud of that, but he could live with it.

But the other girl…

Dewan clenched his fists. He hadn't done that. The Gamemakers had. He'd just happened to be in the right place to see it happen. If he hadn't been, they would simply have chosen someone else. They would have used someone else.

He wished they had.

Blythe Ayers, 14
District Twelve

Who are you?

Blythe watched the hallways pass by outside the train car. It seemed so long ago that she and Brennan had sat together on a very different train, and Silas had asked them such a seemingly innocent question. She hadn't been sure then. She was even less sure now – about herself, and about Brennan.

They certainly weren't who they had been – either of them. The Blythe she had been and the Brennan she had met – they never would have left Grace. Never would have let a friend sacrifice herself so that they could live a little longer. They wouldn't even have thought of it.

But that was the way they had to think now. Because that was the only way they were going to survive. Elaine was dead. Grace was probably dead. But they were still alive. They had to focus on that.

Maybe who they were now didn't matter – as long as that person was still breathing.

Because only twelve of them could say that now. Twelve tributes left. Just twelve.

And she was one of them.

And so was Brennan. Brennan, whom she had been certain she could trust, had just let two of their allies die. He'd chosen Elaine to guard the door by herself. He'd let Grace go back on her own. Maybe neither of them was his fault. Elaine had wanted to be chosen. Grace had run back on her own. But he hadn't done anything to stop them. He hadn't even tried.

How long before she was next?

She didn't want to believe it. Didn't want to consider the possibility that Brennan might leave her to die, just as he had left the other two. But what was the difference, really, between her and Elaine? Or between her and Grace? Yes, she and Brennan were from the same district. But, at this point, did that really mean anything? Or was she just another ally he would abandon to save his own skin?

Blythe clenched her fists. Maybe she wasn't being fair. After all, she'd done the same thing. She could have volunteered to guard the door instead of Elaine, but she hadn't. She could have insisted on going back for Grace, but she hadn't. What made her any different from Brennan? Was he thinking the same thing, wondering if some vague concept of district loyalty would stop her from abandoning him when the time came?

And would it?

Could she do it – leave him, if it meant saving her life? That was easier to imagine than the alternative – that she might eventually have to kill him. Maybe they could part ways before that could happen.

Then someone else could kill him.

Blythe choked back tears. A few hours ago, she wouldn't have had the heart to imagine him dying – whether at her hands or another's. But she would have said the same about Elaine and Grace. Now they were both gone.

How long before Brennan was next?

Blythe looked away. There were no good scenarios. No possibilities that turned out well. Either they could leave each other, or they could stay together until one of them died. Or one of them could kill the other.

She didn't want to kill him. She didn't want him to die at all. But she hadn't wanted Elaine and Grace to die, either. That hadn't stopped it from happening.

And, more than anything else, she didn't want to be the one to die.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was unfair. Maybe it was cruel or cowardly, but, for a moment, all she felt was relieved. Relieved that it hadn't been her. It had been Elaine. It had been Grace. Maybe in a little while, it would be Brennan. But it wouldn't be her. It wouldn't be.

Not if she could help it.

Brennan Aldaine, 15
District Twelve

You can't protect her forever.

Brennan watched Blythe curiously as a look came over her face. A hard look. Determined. Almost fierce.

Maybe she was thinking the same thing he was. Maybe she'd realized it, too – how lucky they really were. Yes, Elaine was dead. Grace was dead. But it could have been worse.

It could have been him.

Because, in the end, only one of them could make it out alive. And, if he was being honest, he'd never wanted it to be Elaine, or Grace, or even Blythe.

He wanted it to be him.

He'd known, of course, that he didn't want to die. No one did. But maybe that wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to just not want to die. Wasn't enough to simply run away from death. There was more. And he hadn't realized, until this moment, just how much he wanted to live.

Not just another few minutes. Not just another hour or another day in the arena. He didn't want to live here. He wanted to go home – home to District Twelve – and live a long, long life.

He would fight for that chance.

He would kill for that chance.

He'd killed, yes. But only because they'd needed food. Because, without it, they would all have starved to death. Both him and his allies. But this wasn't about them anymore. There was no 'them.' Alliances didn't win the Games. Tributes did.

"Brennan?" Blythe's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "How do you think we get it to stop?"

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the train car. He hadn't even thought about that. Hadn't wanted to think about it. As long as they were in here, they were safe – at least for a little while. As soon as they stepped out of those doors, the Games would begin again.

But maybe that was good. Because, in order for the Games to end, they had to keep going. They had to keep moving forward – no matter what. There was no going back. Not any more. There was only another day. Another death. Another cannon.

How long before the next cannon was Blythe's?

There were only twelve of them left, after all. Only twelve tributes. Sooner or later, he and Blythe would have to part ways. Or one of them would die. Or…

No. No, he couldn't think about that yet. Not when Elaine and Grace had just died. He couldn't think about the same thing happening to Blythe.

About doing the same thing to Blythe.

Because it had been his decision – his decision to tell Elaine to guard the door. His decision not to go back for Grace. Maybe he hadn't killed them himself, but he certainly hadn't done anything to stop them from dying. He had just run.

And so had Blythe. But he knew now that, if she hadn't, he would have left her, too. Take care of her, Grace had told him. But he already knew that was a promise he couldn't keep. Not forever. Not if he wanted to win.

Not if he wanted to live.

Suddenly, the train car screeched to a halt. The door slid open. In the dim lights coming from the car, Brennan thought he saw someone. Another tribute. Running the other way.

To his surprise, he didn't just feel relieved that the other person had run, that he wouldn't have to fight them. He felt … powerful. Someone was afraid – of him. Someone was running away from him and Blythe instead of the other way around.

Of course, whoever it was had no way of knowing who was in the train car. No way of knowing it was him and Blythe. But if they had … Would they still have run?

A part of him – a part of him that was starting to scare himself – hoped they would have.

Asteria Cordey, 16
District Nine

There was no telling who was in the train car.

Asteria gripped her piece of piping as she kept running down the hall, away from whoever – or whatever – might be coming after her. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe there wasn't anyone. The Gamemakers hadn't stopped her from running. Did that mean there hadn't been anything to run from?

Or were they hoping that, if she kept running, she would find someone else?

Asteria slowed down and turned down another hallway. If anyone was, in fact, following her, she had probably lost them by now. It was probably safe to rest for a while.

But only for a little while.

She couldn't rest too long. She needed to keep moving. She needed to find food, water, somewhere safer to rest – and not necessarily in that order. No, not in that order at all, in fact. Water had to come first. That's what they had been looking for, after all, when they'd found Dennar and his allies. There had been water there. A whole fountain of it.

But she didn't want to go back there.

Eventually, of course, she might not have a choice. But, while she did, she would rather go somewhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere where she might not run into her allies.

Former allies. She had run. She had left them. The alliance was off. Even if they might take her back, it would only mean leaving them again later. She didn't want to do that.

Once was enough.

But if that wasn't an option, then she needed to find another source of water – and soon. But where? The garden was the other way. The cornucopia was the other way. And there was no telling who was there now. No way of knowing whether there would be anyone there or not, if she tried to go back.

Maybe she should head back – back to the odd train car, at least. If there were tributes there, maybe they had supplies. Maybe there was something she could steal.

But if they had supplies, then they might be armed. There might be more than one of them. Could she take on more than one? Did she want to try?

Not when there was another option.

But was there?

She wished she could just ask – ask Crispin where, if anywhere, there was water nearby. But they'd tried that once, and it had nearly gotten them all killed.

No. Not 'them.' There was no 'them' – not anymore. Asking for water had nearly gotten her killed. The rest of what had happened … maybe it didn't matter. It wasn't a risk she wanted to take again.

But it had led them to water.

And she didn't really have any better ideas.

Asteria gripped her pipe, hoping that this wasn't a huge mistake. "I want to find water."

Lights. Dim brown lights, pointing the way. Hesitantly, Asteria followed. One step. Then another. The lights were leading to a room. Cautiously, Asteria took a step inside.

Something – someone – jumped up on the other side of the room, startled. Another tribute. Asteria raised her piece of pipe, but she could already see that the other tribute was armed with some sort of dagger. But she looked afraid – almost as afraid as Asteria.

"What do you want?" a voice demanded. A girl's voice.

Asteria mustered her courage. "I was looking for food. And water. Give me what you have, and I'll let you live." She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

To her surprise, the other girl laughed – a light, bitter laugh. "I don't have anything to give you. No food. No water. I don't have anything for you to steal." She took a step closer.

"But I know who does."

Corvo Arion, 17
District Ten

Something was wrong.

Corvo could tell that much the moment the shape entered the room. The girl again – that much was obvious. But she wasn't trying to hide. Wasn't even making an attempt at being subtle.

She must have known he'd be watching for her. He'd known she would be desperate, but he hadn't realized she'd be desperate enough to attack so openly. Maybe it was a show of confidence – for the audience, for the sponsors. She must be desperate for sponsors by now, if she was resorting to this.

But it still felt off. As she stepped into the room, her confidence seemed genuine, unforced. Corvo gripped his piece of piping. Maybe it didn't matter.

Maybe, at the moment, all that mattered was that she was charging.

The girl swung, but he avoided the blow easily. She circled around and swung again. Again he dodged. He caught the next blow on his pipe, and the next, turning towards his opponent, towards the center of the room. She swung again – almost lazily. Almost as if she wasn't trying to hit him. Almost as if…

Pain shot through Corvo's back as something sliced into his skin – something from behind. Corvo turned in surprise to see another girl, a knife in her hand. The knife was dripping red with blood. His blood.

He didn't have time to think. The girl with the dagger struck again, this time with all her force behind the blow. The blade sliced deep into Corvo's shoulder before he had time to react. He swung blindly with his pipe. This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

This wasn't how he was supposed to die.

He was supposed to avenge them. His parents. Bakaari. He was supposed to see that justice was done.

He swung again, but the girl was ready. She dodged the blow and brought her dagger down with all her might. Corvo cried out as pain coursed through his right wrist. His right hand.

No, what used to be his right hand.

Corvo stared in shock as the pipe clattered to the floor, his fingers still wrapped around the end. He sank to his knees, blood gushing from his wrist. The girl with the dagger pounced, sending him sprawling onto his back. Soon, she was on top of him. The dagger came down towards his chest, but he managed to catch her wrist in his left hand. But the other girl – the girl with the knife – had picked up the piece of pipe.

He couldn't stop them both.

The pipe struck his head, and everything started to go dark. With his left hand, he reached for the girl's throat. If he had to die, maybe he could take her with him. Maybe…

But the moment he let go of her wrist, the dagger plunged into his chest. The weight left his chest as the girl scrambled off, pulling the dagger out, her hands coated in blood. Corvo closed his eyes, every beat of his heart pumping life out of his body. The last thing he heard was one of the girls' icy voices.

"I suppose it's our turn."

Simone Lorance, 18
District Two

It was never going to be a lengthy alliance.

Simone took a few steps back. "I suppose it's our turn." Her voice was cold and – she hoped – more confident than she felt. She and her temporary ally eyed each other. She didn't even know the girl's name. She hadn't asked. Neither of them had. Neither of them had said it, but there had been an unspoken understanding between the two of them: As soon as the boy from Ten was gone – as soon as the supplies were no longer guarded – the alliance was over.

The only question now was whether to fight or grab what she could and flee.

The other girl was probably wondering the same thing. Wondering which of them would win a fight – and what it would cost. They could split up the supplies. Go their separate ways. They owed each other nothing, but, by the same token, they had no reason to fight.

No reason except the fact that the number of tributes was dwindling. Sooner or later, this girl would have to die. Why not now? They were both a bit winded from the fight, but neither had been seriously hurt. The girl was about her size. They were on relatively equal footing, which was probably the best she could hope for in a fight. And the audience…

The audience would want them to fight. Fight each other or continue to fight as allies. The latter had never been an option – not really. They had fought together, but there was no way they could trust each other for long.

And there was no third option. No walking away. Not if she wanted to keep up the image the audience had of her by now. The image she hoped they had. She'd run before, but only from a stronger opponent. And now she had three kills. She'd taken three steps closer to going home.

Now was as good a time as any for number four.

The boy's cannon sounded, and Simone charged. The girl, of course, wasn't a fool. She'd been expecting the attack, and raised the piece of piping she'd taken from the boy. Dagger struck pipe, and Simone swung again – harder.

She could see the other girl eyeing the door. But Simone knew she wouldn't run. She'd come for supplies. She wouldn't leave without them. Neither of them would. Neither of them could.

So one of them wouldn't leave at all.

Simone swung again, but she knew they were both tiring. Neither of them was used to this. Neither of them had trained for this. Neither of them really had any idea what they were doing. She'd tried to play at being a Career, but now, there was nowhere to hide her lack of skill. Her blows were growing clumsy, her arms getting heavy. But the other girl was just as tired. Just as unprepared.

She just had to last a little longer. Just a little longer than the other girl. She just had to swing one more time than the girl could block it. Just had to say yes one more time than the other girl could say no.

Simone heaved another breath and swung as hard as she could. With the boy, she'd had an ace up her sleeve. She'd simply had to draw him into Asteria's path. But now there was no secret, no advantage, nothing she could use against her opponent.

Except what they had just done.

Simone circled around and swung, driving the girl backwards. Back towards the boy's body. Back to where the blood covered the floor, wet and warm.

And slippery.

Simone lunged, and the other girl took a step backwards, losing her balance and nearly falling. That moment was all Simone needed. She struck where the girl wouldn't be expecting, plunging her dagger deep into her opponent's leg.

But, even as she did, the other girl grabbed Simone's arm, pulling her to the floor along with her. The other girl cried out in pain but didn't let go. Simone could feel her arm twisting as they fell, her hand still gripping the dagger even as the weight of the girl's body landed on it, pinning her arm.

Leaving her defenseless.

The pipe swung, striking her head hard, and Simone could feel her grip on the dagger loosening against her will. One more blow, and she let go completely. The pipe swung again, sending a splintering pain through her skull. Her head was spinning. Everything was starting to blur.

She barely saw the dagger coming down towards her chest.

Alasdair Bryant, 12
District Three

Barclay still hadn't woken up.

Alasdair sat quietly as Mercury continued to pace around the fountain. "That's two," she muttered quietly. "One more. Maybe I can make it there before then."

Alasdair looked up. "Make it where? Before what?"

Mercury turned, startled. Maybe she hadn't realized she'd said it aloud. "To the cornucopia – while it's still dark. The lights go on and off with every three cannons. So we've got one more until they come back on. If I can get there while it's still dark, I'll have a better chance of not being seen."

What?

She was planning on going back?

It made some sense, now that he thought about it. Barclay was getting worse. There might be something at the cornucopia that could help him. But, then again, there might not be. She could be risking her life for nothing.

But who was he to tell her not to?

He was the newcomer to the alliance, after all. She and Barclay were friends. They were close. Of course she would want to try to save him. Alasdair swallowed hard, working up his courage. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Mercury stared, clearly surprised he would even offer. After thinking it over for a moment, however, she shook her head. "No. No, we can't leave him here alone. Not like this. You should stay. Take care of him."

Alasdair nodded, wondering what, exactly, she was expecting him to be able to do if something happened. Did she really think he would be able to protect Barclay if another tribute attacked, or if the mutts returned? Or did she simply not want him along? Did she think he would be a burden? That one person alone would have a better chance of not being seen?

Or was she trying to protect him?

Alasdair studied Mercury's face as well as he could in the odd blue glow of the fountain. But her expression was impossible to read. She was worried – that much was plain – but beyond that … nothing. She was a mystery.

"All right," Alasdair said at last. "Be careful."

Empty words, and she knew it as well as he did. There was no 'careful' in the Games – certainly not at this point. There were only ten of them left. Any number of tributes could be at the cornucopia, waiting for her. There was a chance – maybe even a good chance – that she wouldn't be coming back.

But, all the same, he understood why she had to try.

Barclay had saved her life, just as Dennar had saved his. If he was in her position – if Dennar was alive and were the one in need of help – he would do the same thing.

Wouldn't he?

As he watched Mercury slip off into the shadows, Alasdair couldn't help wondering if that was true. Not so long ago, it would have been. He'd been willing – determined – to sacrifice himself to save someone else. To make his death mean something. Not he wasn't so sure.

What if he wanted to be the one to live?

Vester Pierce
District Two Mentor

This was why he had stopped mentoring.

Vester finished his drink, trying to ignore Mortimer, who was sitting next to him, watching the screen intently. It was only a matter of time before he said it. Before he said what they both knew he wanted to.

"All right," Vester sighed. "Spit it out."

Mortimer didn't need to be told twice. "This is why we have the Career system."

Vester nodded along. "To save people like Simone?"

To Vester's surprise, however, Mortimer shook his head. "No. To train people like Simone. She thought like a Career, right up until the very end. Backing Asteria into a slippery spot on the floor – that was clever. Very clever. But she didn't have the faintest idea how Asteria would react to that, or what to do afterwards, or how to avoid being tripped up herself. Only experience can teach you that – and that's what we give tributes."

"You turn them into killers."

"She did that herself. She turned herself into a killer. Because that's what you have to be to win the Games. That drive, that ambition, that lethality – it can't be taught. That came from her. Imagine what she could have done if she'd had the skills to back it up."

Vester turned his attention back to his drink. On some level, of course, Mortimer wasn't wrong. The Career system had flourished so quickly for a single reason: It worked. There was no denying that. Careers were stronger, more ruthless, more prepared. They always had a better chance.

But that didn't outweigh the cost. Didn't outweigh the fact that hundreds of teenagers were being brainwashed, trained to kill without mercy or remorse, lied to about the reality of the Games – and life after the Games. They were fed a lie – a lie about honor and glory for the rest of their lives, at the cost of the lives of twenty-three others.

Most didn't even think about the cost – the real cost – until it was too late. Didn't realize that the real cost was their humanity, their conscience, their dignity. And he was as bad as the rest of them – maybe worse – but even he hadn't chosen the Games. He hadn't chosen to be there any more than Simone had.

Vester waved to Alistern for another drink, which the bartender quickly supplied. Maybe it didn't matter anymore – who was right, who was wrong. Simone was dead. And he was done. Not just for this year, but forever. He was done mentoring. He had enough blood on his hands – the blood of those he had killed, and the blood of those he hadn't been able to save.

She would be the last.

"We are all slaves to our histories. If there is to be a … bright future, we must learn to break those chains."