Jabberjays do not often make nests, but the anomalies in the species that do construct their abodes solely out of synthetic materials. They will find scraps of paper, bits of plastic, even iron rods to support the conical structures. When completed, jabberjay nests are a jarring faux simulacrum, a shockingly colorful perversion of nature.

When I look around my lab, I sometimes feel a small pang of relief that my fellow Victors chose to call me 'Volts' and not 'Jabberjay.'

I adapted this room beneath the Training Center as my lab shortly after my birthday. The Capitol allowed it as long as the inventions and improvements I designed benefited them. The walls are covered in screens displaying everything from the latest news updates from Panem National Information Services to graphs showing the yearly rainfall averages in District 9. My computers are assembled in a semi-circle facing the door. For more hands-on work I have three work stations all equipped for everything from soldering to plastic molds to lockpicking. My desks are overflowing with papers, my portable whiteboards are covered in diagrams and mathematical equations, and the little independent cleaning units whistle merrily as they scrub the floor and dust what open spaces they can find.

My own little jabberjay nest. The closest thing I have to 'home' here in the Capitol.

Before the Quell, before the war, I would have had Wiress here too. She would glide around the desks and workbenches, never saying more than a couple words, squeezing my shoulder in delight as she produced some new wonder that would greatly improve the lot of the district workers and therefore would never be approved by Snow's administration. Her absence, even after two years, makes the room feel cold and bare and empty.

I remove my glasses and rub my eyes. I need to stop letting myself be distracted by emotional stimuli.

One of my whiteboards is covered with photographs of the same naked corpse taken from every angle. The assassin who tried to kill Katniss Everdeen at Annie's garden party stares up at me with lifeless black eyes. I frown. I'm no closer to determining the identity of the killer than I was back in 4. 'A bungler, but a well prepared one' was how Haymitch described him. Other than that, I have nothing.

"ED:341," I say.

"Yes Beetee?" comes the artificial female voice. "How may I be of service? My existence is solely to cater to your whims."

I rub my eyes again. Wiress used to tease me that my analysis drone had developed a crush on me over three decades. Edie's pleasant voice makes the ache for my old district partner throb unbearably.

"Run the analysis again," I say. I've heard it a hundred times already, but I tune out every distraction and concentrate.

"Of course, Beetee. It is a delight to serve you."

I growl with impatience and Edie seems to get the hint.

Speciman is a human male. Height, five feet nine inches. Weight, one hundred seventy-four pounds. Black hair, black eyes. Melanin levels, Fitzpatrick Type IV, seventeen on the von Luschan, commonly called 'olive.' Stomach contents primarily fish and seaweed, common to District Four. Subject had a twenty-seven percent chance of skin cancer and was slightly nearsighted. Bone structure indicates that subject suffered from malnutrition during formative years. One long scar along calf muscle, another above the right eye, bisecting right eyebrow. No other distinctive markings other than avian shaped tattoo on subject's back, four inches below the neck and two inches above and to the right of entry wound. Tattoo is formed of an unknown dye, possible natural. Residual scarring indicates that it was done by hand."

"That's enough," I say. "Anything further on records?"

"I'm sorry, Beetee, truly. But I have found no DNA or fingerprint match in any available records."

"Thank you Edie," I say, and the drone mutters some fawning remark before shutting down.

I sit down and lean back, rubbing the ache in my neck. No new flash of inspiration comes to me. Not that I expected it.

No one else has made any breakthroughs in the case either. The newly formed Civil Forces, the replacement of the Peacekeepers, has made a big show of analyzing every available piece of evidence and coming to no conclusions. No one is entirely sure how the man made it to District 4 or when he arrived. The catering staff claims he came to them looking for work two days before the party and they hired him as temporary labor. No family, no friends in the district. Nothing to indicate a motive, or whether he was working alone or for an employer.

Katniss and Peeta have returned to District 12. Paylor sent an extra security detail to watch over the young Victors. They're as safe there as anywhere. Only one train line goes into 12 once a week, and it's much harder for an unfamiliar face to gain access. Nevertheless, all persons entering the district are being put through extra clearance measures.

The corpse stares back at me. His coloring is typical of several districts. 12, 11, 10, 8, 6, 2, he could come from any one of these. Or perhaps he's not from the districts at all. The fact that his DNA and fingerprints aren't on record indicate the reaver clans from the wilderness. The Capitol had every district citizen's fingerprints on record for the reapings, and even though much of it was lost during the war, something should have come up. Seutonius Baker, the new chief of the Civil Forces, has named the reaver clans as the top suspects for this reason.

Logically, it makes sense. As Occam's Razor suggests, the most obvious solution is usually the correct one. But something in my gut tells me it's not so simple. The reaver clans have had little to do with us for fifteen years or so. They had less to do with the Mockingjay Rebellion. Most of them have probably never even heard of Katniss. There's no motive that I can see.

And the infiltration of a heavily populated and wealthy district isn't something that an outsider to Panem could do easily without training. A clansman so adept at infiltration wouldn't have bungled the job at the very end.

It's times like this that I miss Wiress's innate intuition. She would have picked up on the missing pieces instantly, connecting the threads in ways I missed.

The data sloshes through my head like briny water. The weight bows my head down to my chest.

I won't sleep. Just rest a bit. Think on it. Take a break.

As I close my eyes, I wonder briefly why Wiress hasn't draped a blanket over my shoulders like she always does when I run myself ragged.

A soft, rich laugh in an exclusive restaurant. Champagne glasses clink together. The seductive look comes easy, but beneath is a fierce intelligence so well hidden. A soft hand reaches out and touches mine. Golden hair, thrown back, the laugh again-

"Mr. Latier!"

I jerk up, staring around the room, sure for a moment that I'm sitting at that private table again. There's a young man, Capitol by the look of him, standing by the open door of the lab. He looks at me awkwardly.

"What? Sorry I drifted…yes?"

"Mr. Latier? You might want to come outside for a moment. There's someone on the Remake Center. They're saying it's a Victor."

I blink in confusion. "I'm sorry, a Victor? On the Remake Center? What on earth are they doing there?"

"Well sir, I think they're going to jump."

I stare at the boy for all of two seconds before I leap up and rush out of the lab. The boy follows in my wake, trying to apologize for upsetting me. I ignore him. Already I feel the aches and pains in my knees and back that confine me to a wheelchair for days at a time, but I don't stop.

The streets of the Capitol are busy in the crisp autumn air. The Capitolians are out and about, their fashions mercifully subdued since the war, although they're still a stark contrast to the district citizens in the crowd.

A throng of people have gathered around the old Remake Center at the other end of the City Circle. They're mostly silent, some pointing to the roof of the building. Occasionally a voice cries out in fear, or an admonishment to not do it. There's a tiny figure standing below the spire, hanging on the wrong side of the railing. One step will send him or her plunging to a gruesome death.

I press a small button on my glasses and instantly my vision is magnified five times. I take a long, hard look at the figure balancing precariously on the ledge, hoping that I'm not going to see another one of my friends die. And then I clench my fists and growl.

"I am going to kill her myself."

The figure steps forward and plunges off the roof. Screams fill the air.

For one, two seconds she plummets towards the ground in a free-fall. Then there's a blossom of color at her back, like a flower blooming, and she's gliding down towards the crowd. She raises her hand in triumph as the throng of spectators burst into wild cheers. I push my way to the front as she detaches the parachute from her back. She sees me and grins.

"Well look who it is. Didn't expect to see you here, Volts! Have you seen Connor around? He owes me a hundred sesterces, told me I'd break a hip again if I tried. That should show him, young kid thinks I'm one foot in the grave already."

I pride myself in being a soft-spoken, reasonable man, but the anger tinges my voice. "Of all the Snow-damned, idiotic, foolish stunts, Bovina Martinez! You nearly gave me heart-failure."

The tiny old woman grins up at me. "Did I ask for your views, young man? I was mentoring tributes when you were still being weaned, don't you forget it."

I take her by the hand and pull her through the crowd of staring Capitolians. "Are you hurt?"

"Of course not. And don't you lecture me, young man. I'm an old woman and I've earned my little diversions. Ah, what a rush! My assistant better repack the parachute, there's a mountain-face in District Two I've been dying to try-"

"It's the dying I'm worried about," I say as I lead her across the City Circle. I don't talk until we're back in the lab and I have a cup of very strong tea in my hands. My bones ache. I lower myself into my chair with a groan.

"What were you thinking, Bovina? You can't be pulling stunts like that. You can't just-"

The last living District 10 Victor freezes me with a glare, which would look comical coming from an eighty year old woman in a polyester jumpsuit under any other circumstances. "I thought we already established that you're not in any position to tell me what I can and cannot do, Beetee Latier."

I feel a punch of grief in my gut, not for Wiress but for Mags. Bovina's best friend and partner in crime for more than sixty years. For a moment she's staring out of those dark eyes back at me.

"Bovina. There are, at most, nineteen Victors left alive, and almost certainly less. You are the last living Victor in the first twenty-five years of the Games. Losing you would be-"

"Nothing," she says with a wave of her hand. "This is a post-Victors world we're living in, young man. You might as well get used to it. Maybe have some fun yourself. An occasional smile won't shatter your cheekbones, you know."

"Losing you would be losing another friend," I say. "And I don't think I could bear it."

Her face softens and she comes over and gives me a tight hug with her bony and spotted hands.

"I'm sorry for scaring you," she says. "I promise, if I try any more jumps, I'll make sure not to tell you about them."

"Thanks," I say, but Bovina has already released me. She's looking around the lab.

"I've never actually been in here, although Gates used to tell me about it. Do you always keep such morbid décor?" she asks, gesturing towards the pictures of the assassin's corpse.

I rub my sore shoulders. "It's nothing. Just a side project."

Bovina steps closer to them, and then walks with a surprising speed to the whiteboard. She stares at the pictures for long seconds, touching one taken of the man's back. When she speaks, her voice has lost its humor.

"Beetee Latier. Why is this man here in your lab, and why is he dead?"

I choose my words carefully. "It's nothing. A minor investigation in which Civil Forces asked for my input."

She glares at me. "Pig balls. Tell me the truth, Mr. Latier."

"Do you know something, Bovina?"

"You don't get nothing until you tell me what's going on."

I hesitate. The assassination attempt on Katniss is a highly classified subject. Each one of us is prohibited from revealing information to non-essential individuals. On the other hand, Bovina has proven her trustworthiness for sixty years, was dedicated to the Mockingjay, and is one of my trusted friends. The logical option is obvious.

"Several weeks ago, this man attempted to kill Katniss Everdeen in District Four. We don't know why, we don't know if he was working alone or for someone else. We don't know if there are more assassins out there. We don't even know where he came from."

"Well, you do now," says Bovina. "He's from Ten. This tattoo? It's a thunderbird. One of the symbols of the Anasazi."

I look at her in shock. "Why would one of the Anasazi try to kill Katniss? They loved Katniss!"

Bovina gives me a hard look. "Well that's what we're going to find out, isn't it?"

I look back at the pictures. "If he's from the districts, I don't understand why we didn't find any records of him."

"The thunderbird is one of the sacred symbols of the mountain clans. They were tagged for the reaping like everyone else, but the reaping records were all destroyed, I understand. Without that, I'm not surprised this one slipped under the radar."

I nod. "Well that certainly narrows it down. But it could still be any one of these 'mountain clans' and-"

"Actually, no. The thunderbird is a pretty common motif, but I've seen this particular design before. Elena Perez had one on her arm. She's from the mountain tribes as well. I'd bet my Victor's salary that this man came from her tribe, or one very near it."

I stand up and open the door. "Come on, Bovina. There's someone we need to talk to."

An hour later, a former Avox opens the mahogany door in the presidential mansion and ushers us inside. President Paylor is sitting behind her desk, staring at a computer screen with several portfolios spread out before her. She fixes us with sharp green eyes as we enter and indicates two leather chairs opposite her. I shiver as I sit, old memories sliding through my mind, even though the woman sitting behind that desk is nothing like her predecessor.

"I understand you've made a breakthrough in the Everdeen case," she says without preamble.

I nod and give a brief explanation. Bovina adds relevant details.

Paylor frowns. "But why would the Anasazi want Katniss dead? They were our allies during the war."

Bovina and I exchange a glance. "I think we need to assume that the assassin had an employer, one who could offer him enough to overcome his people's loyalties. There's nothing to indicate a personal motive."

Paylor sighs. "Great. More questions. Still, we're further than we were this morning. You're both to be commended. I'll send a team from Civil Forces to Ten tomorrow morning to see what they can dig up."

Bovina grunts. "They won't find anything. The mountain Anasazi can see outsiders coming from a mile away. They'll melt away into the mountains and Special Forces will never see a toenail, let alone a village."

Paylor blinks. "I can't do nothing."

Bovina rolls her eyes. "Of course you can do something. It's obvious. Send me."

The president of the nation frowns. "You? Forgive me, Ms. Martinez, but you're…well…"

"Old. Go ahead and say it. Yes, I'm eighty-three years old. I also just jumped off a building, I'm healthy as a Career, and even the most secluded Anasazi tribe practically worshipped me as a goddess in human form for sixty years. So go on and waste my time with objections, get it over with, and then put me on the train."

I struggle not to laugh as the president blinks. President Paylor has earned her reputation as a fierce opponent and fiercer ally. District 8 suffered higher casualties than any other district during the war other than 12. Paylor is the only reason they weren't wiped out. Despite losing one of her dear friends during the Quell and half her family being killed in the bombing raids, Paylor rallied the district and drove back seven waves of Capitol forces. Her ragtag militia hurt the Capitol so badly that several districts encountered half the resistance they would have otherwise. She's a hero who saved tens of thousands of lives, is the head of state for the entire nation, and under Bovina's glare she looks like a tribute being scolded for wanting to charge the Cornucopia.

"Alright," she finally says. "I'll trust you on this one, Ms. Martinez. But there's no way I'm sending you up there unprotected. You'll be accompanied by a squad of Civil Forces officers, at least to the mountains."

I shake my head this time. "I don't think that's wise, Ms. President. If the assassin was indeed under someone else's employ, we don't want to tip them off on how much we know. I'll accompany Bovina. Two Victors traveling together will hardly seem suspicious. I'll stop by the genetic labs as well. It'll make a good cover, and I've always wanted to see them."

"No one doubts your capabilities, Mr. Latier, but you are hardly a bodyguard. You'll be accompanied by one of my agents. I have one in mind. She's here in the Capitol, so she can board the train with you tomorrow. And that's my final word on the matter."

I nod. "Thank you, Ms. President." I turn to Bovina. "Looks like we're going on vacation, 'Vina."

The train leaves the station at half past ten. Bovina is packed and boarded in minutes. She's dressed in the traditional garb of the Anasazi, beaded leather and an old woolen shawl with bright red leather boots. She has two bags that she hands over to the porters before she boards. I, on the other hand, am more of a struggle. I'm taking along some of my computers, as well as Edie. I have three times as much luggage as Bovina and some of it I don't trust the porters to handle.

I'm struggling with a particularly cumbersome bag when slim, dark hands slide around me and take one end.

"Careful Latier. Wouldn't want to drop that on your foot."

I nearly drop the bag when I see the gleaming eyes and pointed canines.

"What are you doing here?" I blurt out.

Enobaria Malachite's smile has no humor. "Didn't Paylor tell you? I'm your babysitter. I mean, bodyguard. Now let go of the bag. I'm not going to let you pull your back out before we even get out of the Capitol."

She takes the bag from me and boards the train. I follow.

"Where have you been, Enobaria? Are you really one of Paylor's agents?"

"When she needs me to be. And never mind where I've been. I thought you would've been glad for a little protection in the wild wastes of Ten."

I frown. "I admit I'm hesitant to trust my life to a woman who stuck a knife in my back two years ago."

Her face grows hard. "We're still Victors, no? I thought we don't hold what happens in the Games against each other."

She marches off without waiting for an answer. I rub my shoulders and go out for the next bag.

I fear that dinner will be an awkward affair, but fortunately Bovina does most of the talking. The train isn't as luxurious as the old tribute trains, but the service is still good. There are other passengers aboard, but we Victors are given a private dinner in a small compartment. Dinner is cream of snail and leek soup with sweet salad and chicken. Enobaria sticks to the salad and her glasses of tomato juice. Bovina gives us a history of her district, telling us about the long war between the ancient Anasazi tribes and the Settlers who arrived two hundred years before the Dark Days. I'm familiar with most of it, but Enobaria actually looks interested. She listens avidly and asks intelligent questions. I'm grateful. I'm not really in a chatting mood.

We make stops in 5 and 9 before heading south to District 10. I watch the stars above the great plains of the grain district as I look over my plans for a new drone I'm designing. I retire early, eager for a long night's sleep before we reach the district tomorrow.

The rain falls through the tall pine trees. I run, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Behind me I hear the whoops of the pack. They're hunting me. Like an animal.

I dodge between two trees. The narrow path is the only clear way back to the little hollow in the tree where I've kept my battery. Thunder echoes through the valley.

I crawl through the mud down to where the battery is stashed. The wires are dry. Good. I sob in fear, making sure it's loud and carrying.

I wait until I hear the shouts of shock and the hack of blades before I pull the switch. The shouts change to screams of pain, horrible pain. The sickly sweet scent of burning flesh drifts through the forest and fills my nostrils. The screams go on and on and on and-

I jerk up in my bed, thrashing, trying to escape the tight clutches of the silk sheets. The screams are mine. I'm covered in sweat, gasping for breath.

A dream. Just a dream. I tell myself to relax, to breathe, to let it flow out of me.

It doesn't. Instead, a dark hand grips my stomach and heart, clenching. The fear and horror fill my lungs until I can't breathe. The taste of vomit is in the back of my throat. My brain is screaming, hormones washing away all rational thought.

It's coming. It's coming. It's coming.

Enobaria bursts into the cabin just as I retch into the rubbish bin by my bed. She looks at me in trepidation, her hand gripping a knife with a practiced stance.

"Beetee? I heard screaming."

"Dream," I mutter. "Nightmare."

I want her to go away. She doesn't. Instead, she walks around me and sits on the far side of the bed.

"Which one?"

"My first."

Enobaria pulls her legs up and rests her knees on her chin. She looks much younger than she is. While most of the Victors have age lines and grey hairs to mark their traumas, Enobaria has somehow softened. She's gained a bit of weight too, nothing drastic, but she looks like a trim young woman rather than a walking advertisement for fitness classes.

"I still get them too. Both arenas. Sometimes together. Was it bad?"

I don't look at her. "I'm sure you remember my Games, Enobaria."

She gets a look on her face, and suddenly I can imagine her as a young girl in the place they called 'Murder High,' the institution where District 2 trained their child-killers. I see her in a red tunic, looking up at an instructor, rattling off the facts she learned by heart while other young girls were giggling over their first kisses.

"Beetee Latier. Victor of the Thirty-Fifth Hunger Games. Reaped at the age of fourteen, crowned Victor thirteen days into the Games and three days after his fifteenth birthday. Hid until only the Careers were left. Lured them into a spiderweb of copper wire strung between trees. Used a handmade battery to electrocute the Pack as they tried to hack their way out. Youngest Victor until Finnick Odair, and only tribute to ever kill all six Careers.

"I could smell them." I say. "I smelled them burning."

Enobaria doesn't reply. I suddenly feel an acute sense of embarrassment. I remember the grip of fear, the hiss in my brain before she came.

"Are you familiar with Victor premonitions, Enobaria?"

She looks at me with a blank look before shaking her head.

"I thought not. I've never known a Career Victor to experience one. They're a strange phenomenon, not entirely understood. You see, the brain works on several levels. There's the conscious level, the one that you are most aware of, the one that examines stimuli and makes decisions. And then there are more subconscious levels. For you, it's the part of your brain that allows you to block a sword strike or pluck a knife out of midair without having to think about it. It's what warns you of danger before you register the sensory stimulus."

Enobaria nods even though I'm not sure she fully understands. I continue.

"For some Victors, particularly those who did not prepare for the Games, the subconscious brain functions would react when exposed to external stimuli. Particularly, those stimuli that were similar to the conditions in which they were chosen for and survived the Games. This reaction often came in the form of a deep feeling of dread or foreboding, as if warning of future danger. Sometimes it meant nothing, and sometimes it was frighteningly accurate. I know that Mags, Song, Blight and Cecelia, among others, experienced this phenomenon at one point. Wiress even predicted the Quarter Quell, the night before it was announced."

Enobaria looks startled at this revelation. "Is that what happened to you? A Victor premonition?"

I shake my head. "I don't know. If it was, it would be my first. I haven't dreamed of my arena for many years, not even after the Quell. And the sickness…well it could be. I have no one to ask however. They're all dead."

Enobaria shakes her hair behind her shoulder. "I don't know much about premonitions or brain functions. But I do know about nightmares. If you want to talk about it…"

Suddenly I'm very tired. "I'd rather just sleep, Enobaria. Thank you for your concern, but you can leave now."

She gives me a sharp look, almost hurt, before getting of the bed and walking out of the room. I suddenly realize that she might have wanted to stay for herself as well as me. There are only a few Victors left after all, and perhaps she considered sharing nightmares to be some sort of bonding experience.

Mags always insisted that there was a human being under the vicious Victor of the Sixty-Second Games. I suppose I never truly believed it.

But considering what happened during her Games, I recognize that I am somewhat prejudiced on the matter.

We pull into 10 early in the morning. The porters unload our luggage onto a truck that goes ahead to the inn we'll be staying at. In the meantime, Bovina and a representative of the district council give us a tour. I haven't been to 10 since Wiress's victory tour, but it's just as I remember; red, hot, and dusty. We pass through Settlement 2, bombed out beyond recognition and left untouched as a memorial to the fallen. The genetic labs are cool and clean and I'm fascinated with the genetic shaping technology. Bovina has to almost drag me out. I promise the head of research that I'll return soon.

Another truck drives us down the long dirt road to the Anasazi village where we'll be staying. The ranches and pastures are kept right up to the foot of the red mountains on the district's western border. We reach the inn and settle into our rooms before meeting together in the common room.

"Now I know you came for the investigation, and I know you're here to 'protect me," says Bovina as she nods to us. "But this part of the journey is one I take alone."

Both of us raise our voices in protest and she waves us off. "Don't argue. Both of you would be a liability up there. I've made plenty of trips into the mountains, and they know me. Set up your computers here, Beetee. Enobaria, you keep an eye on him. If you don't hear from me in a week, make sure my wake has plenty of ale." She winks, even though I'm not sure she's joking.

And so we watch as Bovina begins the long trek up the pass into the mountains as the sun sets behind them. She rides a donkey, loaded up with enough supplies to last two weeks. She's visible for an hour, a bright speck on the purple stone until she turns a corner and disappears.

Three days pass. I work on my drone designs. Enobaria throws knives behind the inn. Before long she has a dedicated audience of enthralled children. I grin as she storms into the common room, frustration on her face. Enobaria has never exactly been the maternal sort.

The Anasazi are generous, lively hosts. Victors are revered in this part of the district, I knew, but it's another to have women ask you to bless their children or their homes or offer to wash the dust off your feet. They serve us good, hearty food heavy on the meat products. Enobaria ignores these in favor of bread and milk and cheese, but they don't seem to take offense. I take the opportunity to try grilled rattlesnake with fire sauce, and cause a spectacle when I leap up and down a pitcher of water in three gulps.

The rooms are plain and sparse, but comfortable. The nightmares don't return until the fourth night.

She laughs, her golden hair falling across her shoulders.

"Have I surprised you, Beetee?" she asks as she sips her champagne. "There's no law that only one person in this city can be plotting at one time, you know."

I blush. "I didn't mean-"

"Of course you did. You see what I mean for you to see. You make judgments on the evidence provided. You're very difficult to outsmart, but very easy to deceive."

She leans forward. " So I know, and you know that I know. Now, what are we going to do about it?"

The sun glints down on the beach, glaring off the golden Cornucopia. A sigh, a flash of blood. The hiss of an arrow. An ax flies out of nowhere.

It hits its mark. She falls, golden hair drenched in her blood and that of her brother. I scream. No one pays any attention.

"Wake up Beetee. Wake up."

Enobaria is standing over my bed, looking down at me.

"Another dream," I mutter. "Go back to sleep, Enobaria."

"You need to come down to the common room. Bovina's back. And she's brought company."

"Oh. Well. Why didn't you say so? Could you pass me my robe?"

Enobaria rolls her eyes but hands me the dressing robe hanging on the closet door.

"You were screaming."

"It was a nightmare."

"You were screaming Cashmere's name."

A blush creeps up my neck. I fumble with the sash of my robe. "It's not what you're thinking."

"I'm not thinking anything. Just commenting. I didn't know you knew her that well."

"I didn't," I say. "Not well. But I'd rather not talk about this right now."

She shrugs. "No difference to me, old man. We all have our secrets. See you in the common room."

She leaves. I let out a deep breath.

"Not well enough," I whisper.

The common room is almost empty when I arrive. It's a brightly lit, cozy space with bright carpets on the floor and thick beams above us. There's a bar in the corner, with an old wizened barkeep standing sentinel and a young barmaid washing the tables. Bovina and Enobaria are sitting at a corner table with three men. All three are older than I, with weathered brown skin under their brightly woven clothes. Bovina gives me an exhausted smile as I approach.

"Didn't I say not to tell me what I can and can't do, Volts?"

I give a nod. "You never cease to amaze, Bovina. Who are our guests?"

She gestures to the oldest man. "This is Jamie Crowfeather. These are his brothers, Jakob and Jye. They say they have information."

I frown. "Couldn't they have given it at the village? Why did you need to bring them here?"

She grimaces. "Because nothing is free, Beetee. You should know that."

The old man nods. "Beer," he says. "Bring beer. Good beer for Crowfeather brothers!"

Bovina nods to the barkeep. "A round for all of our friends. And a cask of your finest ale for them to take back home."

The men grin as the barmaid sets down horns of beer.

"You say you know the man we're looking for?" Bovina asks. "The man in the pictures?"

Jamie shows his four teeth. "We know, yes. Cayne, his name is. Wife die. Son die young. No family. No ties."

"He was from your tribe?"

"Yes. He was from Crowfeather's tribe. Crowfeather brothers know him, but not well."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Two moons. Him leave. Him and others."

"Others? How many others?"

Jamie frowns. "Hard to remember. Jamie old and forgetful."

Bovina gives a sigh of exasperation. "What would help you remember, good Crowfeather?"

He points at my wrist. "Nice watch. Jamie will have."

I finger the watch. "I designed this."

Bovina glares at me. "I'll pay you back, Beetee. Just hand it over."

I unclasp the watch and pass it to the old man. He smirks as he fastens it around his own bony wrist. "Good watch. Looks good on Jamie."

Bovina leans forward. "That wasn't part of the deal, brother. Now, you tell us all you know. All."

The man looks at his brothers. One nods. He turns back to us.

"Strange man comes two moons ago. He find us. Even though we watch pass, he finds scout, scout brings him to us. He gathers men. Tells them, much riches if they come with him. Good reward, important duty."

"What did he look like?" asks Enobaria. "Did he have a name?"

"No name. Strange man. Tall. Kept face hidden. Strange accent, like Capitol people, but deep."

I frown. "And he took away how many men?"

"Fifteen go with man. None return yet."

Bovina throws her hand up. "And you never saw his face. Well, that's a dead end and a half. Except we know that there could be more out there. None of them sent letters? Nothing?"

The youngest of the men shuffles. "One of the men is my cousin. He sent back money. To his wife and children."

"So they were paid. But that doesn't give us a clue to who he might be."

"Not necessarily," I say. "Do you have any of this money? The actual bills?"

The men look at each other. Finally, Jamie reaches into his belt and pulls out a wad of sesterces.

"May I see one?"

He gaps at me. "Jamie's money! Not Victor's!"

"We'll give you something for it," says Bovina. "Just one bill."

Jamie grins and points to the platinum chain around Enobaria's neck. "Pretty necklace," he says. "Pretty lady."

"Touch this and you lose an eye," says Enobaria with a smile. Jamie nearly falls off his chair, spilling his beer.

"Another beer," calls Bovina. "Beetee, is this necessary?"

I shrug. "It's my best option at the moment."

"Fine," she says. She unclasps her own necklace and puts it on the table. "This is jade. From District One. A gift from Maria."

The word 'Maria' seems to have an effect. The men nod solemnly. Jamie hands me three bills from his wad.

"I need my computers," I say. "Join me?"

"It's late cousins, and you're tired," says Bovina. "Let's rest for now. Talk more tomorrow."

The old men nod and Bovina buys a final round. We retreat from the common room and return to my room where I pull up my small personal data center. The bills lie on my lap.

"What's this about, Beetee?" asks Bovina. "It's too much to hope that fingerprints are left on the bills after more than a month."

"Not fingerprints," I say as I call up several programs at once. "But each bill has an identification number. I can access the government treasury and run the ID through the system. If these bills passed through a government fund at any time, I can find out which one it is. It may give an indication of whose hands these bills have passed through.

Enobaria frowns. "You can access the government treasury? From here?"

"Yes. I mean, it's not technically legal, but not entirely difficult either."

She gives that fearsome smile. "I like you more every day, old man."

I don't respond. The official logs of the government of Panem are displayed across my screen. I pass firewall after firewall, breaking through the encoding that protects the secrets of the government. Minutes tick by. To their credit, neither Bovina nor Enobaria complain.

Finally, a green bar loads. I type in the ID numbers from the bills Jamie gave me. The screen tells me it's searching records.

"Now we wait," I say.

A file comes up. The seal of Panem heads it. Figures dating back decades fill the screen. I look at the name of the fund.

My heart drops.

"That can't be," I whisper. "It's not possible."

"What is it?" asks Bovina. "Beetee, what's wrong?"

"It's PanemTT665."

Enobaria shrugs. "And that is…"

I turn and face them both. "PanemTT665 is the Victor's fund. The money came from a Victor's salary."

Bovina pales in the dim light. "Are you saying that-"

I nod. "The blood money on Katniss's head was paid by a Victor. It's one of us."

AN: I didn't actually focus on Beetee's Games because we already know how he won and who he was before the Quell. Hopefully you enjoyed his POV.