(a/n): I was so excited to write this chapter for so many reasons! You guys get to meet Ceres' Stylist here and I've had this character mapped out for three years, so it's wonderful to finally have 'em introduced here. ;) There's more to say, but I'll save it for the bottom! Anyway, thank you guys for all your reviews, favorites, and follows! It means the world to me!

CHAPTER SEVEN

moonlight

I'd always dreamed on being on the train leading to the Capitol, smiling at my father and the other Victors, and sizing up my fellow Tribute. It seemed a straightforward dream, but what is straightforward anymore? Even in my most dramatic of daydreams, I could never have pictured being on this train with my brother. It's funny how that all changed, isn't it?

The train itself is surprisingly swift, gliding across its rails as the landscape around us passes by. If things were different, I might have stopped to appreciate the new sights. District 4 is luxurious in its own right, with its elegant dunes and broad ocean, but there is minimal greenery, and not many trees to speak of. The world outside the windows could offer these new views in abundance, but as I sit on a white velvet sofa, attached to the walls of the train and extending down the length of the room until it curves into a hook shape, I find that my eyes can't leave the Victors sitting around me. Liber is beside me, his legs propped up on a glass table in front of us (although Ivoree has tried dearly to deter that behavior), and he's watching the Victors just as closely. Our father is seated at a table, holding his jaw tightly. He hasn't looked at us fully since we entered the train, and he's remained oddly still since then. Across from him is Ren MacKaw, who leans back with his legs crossed. His light green eyes takes us both in, his gaze more so focused on Liber; there's a scrutiny in his gaze I can't fully read. Mags' eyes are soft as she hovers over my father, as if to catch him if he falls. Meanwhile, Finnick and Tilda are both standing, arms folded.

It feels odd to be watched so intently by them. This is something I have wanted for years, but now that their gaze settle on me, I feel as if I don't belong in my skin. Glancing at Liber from the corner of my eye, I try to console myself that it would be different if he weren't here, if I were with someone else. That is to say, if I ever could have had the opportunity to Volunteer otherwise, given my father's stern bargain.

Ren makes a clucking noise. "You two have an advantage over the other Tributes already," he says, "with your father being a past Victor. The Capitol is going to eat that story up-"

"Rheon is one of the least liked Victors," Tilda says, and I glance at Rheon to see if he reacts. He doesn't. "It's not the same with what happened to Gloss and Cashmere. These two are going to have to work extra hard to get proper attention."

Mags lets out a breath, head shaking. "Perhaps it would be best if we discussed this without-"

She is ignored, because Ren's hand cuts through the air and he speaks over her. "It's the story that matters. Two children of a Victor," he starts, altering his voice to a tone akin to Caesar Flickerman, "one is Reaped, the other Volunteers to stand by his side...it's a good story. It's useful." He sizes me and Liber up again. "That being said, only one of you can survive, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Do either of you have any combat experience? I doubt Rheon let either of you be trained." He doesn't let us reply. He continues on after a second of breath. "Predictably, the Capitol and the other Tributes will expect your talents to be water-based, so we should work on some new skills to overshadow expectations. If we give them another Finnick, they'll be disappointed. And when the Capitol is disappointed, you become expendable." Ren opens his hands, celery green eyes scanning the faces of everyone else in the room, before nodding. With a hum, he leans back. "You know I'm right."

Tilda shrugs. "It's a good idea," she says, looking back at us. "What are your skillsets? Rheon probably never taught any of you how to fight."

Finnick answers for us. "He didn't," he says, "but he taught Ceres how to fish. I've seen her with a spear, she's capable."

I wish I could smile over the memory of Finnick holding my spear which had pierced through our fish, waving it around all silly like, but I can't.

Mags extends her hand to touch Rheon's arm, consolingly, before she speaks again. "I think we are all aware of Ceres' previous ambitions and her advantage," she says, though not unkindly. "She's capable. Now, Liber, do you have any particular skillsets we could..." She hesitates, clearly uneasy to word it as usable, but it doesn't exactly matter, does it? We all know what she means, even as she falters. "What are your talents, dear?"

Liber shakes his head. "I can fish well enough, but I preferred going down to town to help in the market with my mom, or read with her."

Ren scoffs loudly.

Mags takes a softer approach. "You're kindhearted, dear. Kindness can provide sympathy."

I close my eyes, counting to five. I've seen him interact with girls in the market and they are generally interested in him, as my brother is conventionally attractive and tall, and he has entertained these flirtations before. Likable, he's likable, I try to reason. I rub my hands together slowly, flexing my fingers and cracking my knuckles. The motion does well to calm me, even as I can see tensions rise around us.

Tilda sighs. "If we take the approach of-"

"THESE ARE MY CHILDREN!" Rheon roars. He grabs ahold of the table and tries to flip it, but it must be bolted to the ground because all it does is screech horridly. When it does not move, he slams his fist against its wooden surface, and the thud that echoes throughout the room is deafening. Ren jumps out of the chair across from him. Tilda and Finnick both remain standing, though I notice Tilda's brow furrow with noticeable concern. Finnick is stoic as ever. "Twenty-four enter the arena and only one comes out. One." His lips curl. "And you expect me to watch them die?"

Tilda takes a step forward. "Of course not, Rheon. But we have to be realistic."

"Realistic? Realistic?!" Rheon thunders. "You expect-"

Liber stands. "Enough!" he calls. Although his roar is not nearly as powerful as dad's, it is enough to get the Mentors' attentions. His hands are raised, too, in a peaceful defeat. "Enough, please...we don't know what's going to come from this, but...I'm glad Ceres is with me. Any other Tribute would kill me right away, but she and I can protect each other. I promise, dad. We'll be okay as long as we can. And if it gets ugly, close your eyes."

"Just..." Rheon shakes his head. "Close my eyes, just...were that it so fucking simple."

He storms away, then, leaving us all frozen in surprise. Liber and I watch as he departs, as the door shuts behind him. The silence that follows is beyond deafening and it feels as if we've been submerged in water; that feeling where your ears are muffled, slightly ringing, and there's an ache in your head. I suppose that is the closest comparison I can muster, though it feels tenfold that, honestly. I blink slowly, processing my father's anger, as well as Ren and Tilda's exceptional calm and collectedness. Mags rakes her hand over her face an chases after our father. On the other hand, Finnick has scarcely spoken and I wish he would say more, but judging by how tightly screwed his jaw is and how his eyes are downcast, I expect no words from him.

Ren, meanwhile, appears to have an abundant more to say. "Your father will calm down eventually. A few rounds with Haymitch and he'll be good as new," he says. "Now, we really should be discussing..."

Haymitch Abernathy was the Victor from District 12. My father doesn't talk about the Victors from the other Districts but, from my understanding through Ren and Tilda, Haymitch is a drunken fool whose Tributes are always destined for the slaughter. It's the thought of my father with someone so hopeless, lamenting, in a manner that Ren has seemingly described as consistent, causes my cheeks to flush "It's comforting to know my dad can be happy when he's at least drunk," I say, pushing myself to my feet. Liber goes to reach for my hand to stop me, but I pull it away. "We can talk later."

"Ceres, please-" he starts, but I cut him off by leaving the room.

I storm the opposite way as my father, towards the dorms. But I am not the only one, as I hear rapid footsteps behind me. I know immediately who it is and stop, whirling around to face Finnick. He looks less than pleased, but, honestly, so am I. I expect him to scold me for bursting out like that, for a million things, honestly.

"You promised your father you wouldn't Volunteer," he says instead.

"I did," I say. "But my brother was Reaped. I had to protect him." I'm tired of repeating myself and my reasons, so I glare sternly at him. "It's that simple. You can't exactly turn the train around and pick somebody else up."

Finnick's jaw clenches in frustration. "We could have protected him, Ceres."

"Sure, but not in the Arena." I throw my hands out, desperate for him to understand. "You can train him and get him Sponsors and dress him up all you want, but at the end of it, he's going to be alone in that Arena, and there's no one else I can trust with him. Do you think anyone else in 4 would have bothered prioritizing keeping him safe? He can barely swim or fish, let alone fight-"

"That's why we'll train him," Finnick says, fiercely. "I'll train him myself. You can't trust me with your brother?"

I open my mouth to retaliate, but close it just as quickly. I don't trust him with my brother. I know that technically Finnick and the others can teach Liber better than I can, because I've lost patience with Liber in the past, but when it comes to the Arena, who better to have on his side? I can protect him, one way or another. I know how to survive, I've studied the Gamemakers of the past and present, and I've physically taxed myself in preparation for something like this. It was me who was supposed to be in this situation, not him. But when his name was called, what else could I do?

I know that only one person can leave the Arena, the rest will be bodies sent to their respective homes, I think. I can't imagine seeing Liber cremated and throwing his ashes out to sea. I doubt I'd forgive myself or the others if it had come to that, with me sitting in District 4 waiting.

"If he died and I could have done something, I'd never forgive myself," I say. "And I don't think I could have stopped blaming myself or any of you if he died. Harpee...she didn't have to die. I could have Volunteered for Mara, and Harpee would still be alive."

Finnick is quiet for a moment, taking me in. He is still visibly frustrated, as his eyes are narrowed and his shoulders tense, but I see in his eyes that he is truly trying to process what I've said. He swallows audibly. "You...are the most..." he shakes his head, raising his hands as if to grasp the words that elude them, but instead he reaches and holds my face firmly. He's taller than I am, has been for a while, and my chin is tilted up to meet his green eyes. "Do you think that if it gets ugly, I'll just be able to close my eyes?"

I put my hands over his and pry myself from his grip. "You'll have to," I say, internally cursing when I see the subtle wince in his shoulders. "Do you remember when I kissed you? You asked me to, but...do you ever think about it? That day?"

He exhales. "Sometimes."

"I closed my eyes when you left, I had to. I still do. If I keep looking I'll go insane. So you have to do the same."

Finnick studies my face for a moment before scoffing. "All Victors are insane, Ceres. You just never let yourself see it."

"I have to protect him out there, Finnick. I can tell him the truth of what'll happen after he wins, and how he can protect himself. I know he'll be safe with all of you. Frankly, I always thought that I'd be the Rythe to win, but if I have to choose now, it needs to be him."

"You don't learn do you?" Finnick turns, leaving me in the hallway.

I guess I don't.

Funny enough, in the years I spent studying the Games and the necessary strategies to survive and memorizing certain Gamemakers and watching Interviews, I never could have anticipated the waxing.

There was no time to bask in the attentive glory of cheering Capitolians at the train station, or the mountains that surrounded the Capitol itself. Maybe there was, but my heart was hammering too fast to focus on anything else than its maddening thrum. All the more, my nerves were riled when I was separated from everyone else. It felt awful, in a way that was like a heavy rock in my stomach. I felt the way fish presumably do when tugged out of the sea. Still, I tried to find that deeper part of myself that always wanted this, to be led away, to be fawned over and treated with superiority. I'd imagined a great deal of things when I'd pictured this moment, but my body being thoroughly and agonizingly waxed was not one of those things, nor my eyebrows plucked, my hair brushed, my body sprayed off, process repeated...at the very least, the unexpectedness and relentless nature of my body being so thoroughly preened meant that my mind couldn't venture to other places. I tried keeping my eyes closed, but one of the stylists insisted they stay open. You have such pretty eyelashes, one of them said, so natural and long.

To soften the embarrassment of the rather invasive procedure, as well as to place my mind someplace else, I try to imagine it as no different than scaling a fish. But then my mind forces me to imagine Harpee on this table, splayed out like I am. Was she embarrassed and in pain too? My heart tightens. Try as I might, I can't put away the memory of her walking onto that stage with Finnick years ago. It should have been me.

Strip by strip, them murmuring above me, I feel stupid and vulnerable, and I damn that stupid little girl with her stupid daydreams that this experience would have been luxurious. By the time they're all but carving my nails to perfection and trying to scrub some softness into my calloused hands and feet, I've all but detached from my body and from my mind, and let myself float away. Problem is, the higher I go, the easier it is not to breathe.

Eventually they stop their assault on my body, and I'm left alone in a dark, windowless room where I sit in a dressing gown waiting for my Stylist. I've always imagined this moment, too, as District 4 Stylists are usually more creative and inspired than, say, the Stylists who covered District 12 Tributes' naked bodies in soot and called it a day. It's an advantage above the other Districts I recognize, though I still sit quite tensely. My fingers clutch onto the metal table beneath me. Liber is in a room like this right now, I expect. Maybe he was also thoroughly waxed and groomed, sitting in mild ache as he waits for his own Stylist. He was so calm on the train. I wonder if, now that no eyes are on him, if fear is gripping his features. He should be afraid. I can't imagine him being alone and level-headed, not while I'm sitting here chewing on my lip and thinking about how angry Finnick was, or how hateful my father's gaze was, or how trusting Liber was when he looked at me.

It's a damn mess.

I'm not left alone to my thoughts for much longer, because the doors click open with a soft hiss, and I'm greeted by the click of heels and the shadow of a new figure. When my Stylist enters, I try to take her in quickly, but her appearance is so odd that I have to take things in slowly. Her face is long, with an equally long nose that has a slight hook at its tip. Her lips are full and painted the same shade of green as her eye shadow, which is painted upward to a perfectly plucked black brow; so finely arched they almost look sharp. Her skin is like porcelain, though that is just her face. What she is wearing is a black leather shirt which is raised up to her chin, so I can't see her neck, but her arms are totally bare. The skin of her arms are just as fair as her face, but they are encircled by strange golden tattoos. I can't make out a pattern, as there are swirls and curves which overtake her whole arm to her fingers, but the tattoos themselves are quite a sight to behold. So richly gold against white skin, they almost appear to glow.

Her hair is neon blue, with sea green and silver fading down to her tips. The length falls to the middle of her back, hung mostly freely, except for multiple little pieces on the left side of her head braided and coiling over the top of her head and fading out into the loose strands on the right side of her head. Her appearance alone is outlandish, but her clothes are surprisingly simple. Her shirt is black leather, clinging to her neck and leaving her arms bare, and seems to connect to black leather trousers which cling equally as tightly to her lower body. Over her abdomen is a large neon pink belt with a golden buckle, multiple studs across its surface, and I notice that her shoes, heeled as they are, are also pink and studded.

And When she steps closer, I see that her eyes are a striking shade of grey, the type of grey that tints the outlines of storm clouds just before lightning strikes. While her eyeshadow is as bright and glittery as emeralds, her eyes are lined with a soft pastel pink, which extends outward into a cat eye.

She leans back onto her heel, her hand under her chin as she studies me. I contemplate breaking the silence but decide against it, choosing instead to narrow my eyes and take her in, as well. This woman is going to be single handedly responsible for my impressions. If I've learned anything in m time watching the Games, it's that the Capitol loves their clothes, and the better their Tributes are decorated, the better chance they have for Sponsors.

Eventually, she smiles a big toothy grin, and I notice her canines are particularly sharp and gold. "I'm Galeria Lovecraft," she introduces. Her accent is not as pronounced as Ivoree's, who is lofty and robust; hers is a quieter tone, one I smile in return to. To my surprise, she extends her hand to me. Though it's a strange gesture from what the Capitol had previously greeted me with, I take it anyway. Her grip is firm and her palms are silky. "I'm an admirer of your District."

Ever since Finnick's victory, District 4 has become a landmark of sorts. Although I do not ask much about Finnick's affairs, to him or to the other Victors, I am aware of his status as Capitol darling, and I'd also have to be a fool to be unaware of how, once in a while, trains will come in from the Capitol with strange cargo delivered to Finnick's house. It's both an easy and a hard thing not to think about. Still, I can't exactly express this to my Stylist, so I smile politely and nod. "Finnick has left an impression."

"Not that kind of admiration." Galeria grabs a steel chair and pulls it closer to me, sitting. Her smile turns thoughtful as she examines my face. "I have a unique opportunity, thanks to you."

I have no doubt she does. I'm the daughter to a Victor and I Volunteered right after my brother was Reaped. As Ren said on the train, it's quite a story. "I imagine you do," I say. Children of Victors are commonly Reaped. Like Tilda mentioned earlier, there were the siblings Gloss and Cashmere, whose victories were back to back. None of this is necessarily unheard of, but our particular predicament is an unusual one, and I hope it can play a role in gaining Sponsors. "My father is Rheon Rythe-"

"What you did for your brother was powerful. It reminded me of your District."

I blink. "Oh?"

Galeria reads my confusion and smiles broadly. "What's District 4?"

"The fishing district."

"And where do your fish come from?"

Are Stylists normally this ominous? I clear my throat. "The sea."

For a split second, I am mortified by the idea of Liber and I dressed like fish and our naked bodies adorned by scales, sprayed with sea water...

"That's the word. The sea." Galeria is beaming now, practically glowing. "Are you aware of gravitational pull?" When I don't reply, she goes on. "My father was a painter - did one of President Snow's portrait, actually - and he loved to paint the moon, particularly when it's full. He said that the moon had an ability unlike any other, in that it could control the push and pull of the ocean; a gentle tide over the shore, or a towering wave. He'd read about it in some old documents, and it always stuck with me. Imagine having that kind of control."

In a world governed by annual sacrifices, I really can't, but I indulge her by smiling. "Sounds grand. But what does this have to do with...any of this?"

Galeria leans forward. "The moon pushes and pulls the sea, it makes it peaceful or ruthless." She lifts her finger. "Fish live in that chaos, but, for them, that's home. That's nature. When I look at you, I see someone in control of her chaos. Why else would you Volunteer for your brother? I'd like everyone else to see that, too."

"You want them to see my chaos?"

"I want them to feel the pull."

I used to dream about stepping out into the Tribute Parade in my gorgeous gown, beside my fellow Tribute, and basking in the glow of affection from the Capitol. Even as I walk beside Galeria out to where our chariot awaits, I can still see that younger, more naïve girl smirking back at me, the way I had wanted to smirk to Finnick, and I wonder how she would have taken to what I know now, and how she would have found herself where I am in just a few years. Admittedly, there is a flutter in my chest as, through the walls, I can hear the rumble of people from outside. There is a thrill to it I can't quite explain, particularly as eyes fall on me as I am led away. Galeria is beaming with pride beside me, and rightfully so. Her work is without dispute.

I wish I could say I felt beautiful, because the dress Galeria made for me is, without a doubt, perfection. The dress clings around my neck, though my arms are left bare, and exposes a majority of my back, but my torso is covered fully, and below my waist the dress billows elegantly. A silver corset adorns my abdomen, lined with extravagant silver and ocean like detailing; when the light catches it, it glows brilliantly. The fabric around my bosom is also lined by silver, but the fabric itself is a clear blue that shifts colors depending on how the light hits it, sometimes blue and sometimes green, but always glittering, as is the fabric of the skirt around me. Every movement I make is as if the waves are encircling my legs, with starlight twinkling across its surface. Attached on either side of my waist and extending behind me in a soft train is a rough tool that is white and resembles sea foam, which is attached to my dress via large pink pearls. Similarly, there is pearl beading draped over my arms. And atop my head is a silver crown, with a large crescent moon at the center, and accompanied by bejeweled designs of starfish and lined by pearls.

It was as Galeria said, I could feel the pull of eyes on me. But as I step into the sights of the other Tributes and Mentors I feel like - pardon my analogy - a fish out of water. This was a moment I had dreamed of for years. I would prance around, giddy in my fancy outfit, and lavish kisses and waves onto the Capitol. Now, I feel out of place and disembodied. The confidence I should have feels as if it has fled from me. I muster a deep breath, which is a trying thing in a corset, I realize. I smile sweetly. My back is straight and my chin is slightly raised, presenting myself with pride. I'm thankful for Galeria at my side, holding my arm, though she releases it once we find our Chariot, which is, like the others, a glistening ebony in shade, and attached to equally black, very large horses. There are horses in District 4, but they are reserved for the rich and working classes.

It's pretty, I think. It is just as I imagined.

My father and Tilda are standing by our chariot. My father is wearing a sea green suit and Tilda is clad in an elegant pearl white, with a shade of pink, dress; it contrasts with her bright red hair, but she looks pretty, all the same. Mags is clad in a simple white dress with a blue shawl, but she is currently standing with, I assume, a Mentor for District 8, talking; about what, I don't know. Scanning further, I find Finnick and Ren nowhere to be seen. They ought to be here, shouldn't they? This is a grand event, this is critical...maybe they're out finding Sponsors, but it feels too soon. Still, when my eyes settle on Liber, I relax. Liber's own Stylist, Vitius - a flamboyantly dressed man with glistening flaxen hair and a magenta suit - did well. My brother is wearing sea-green armor which adorns his whole body, richly lined with gold and the armor plated by sea green scales that glitter with silver and purple and pink, but he holds himself so proudly, with his shaggy hair swept back, that he appears more warrior than fisherman - not that he was ever a fisherman to begin with. Looking at him now, it's easy to forget that he's bookish and lanky. To his credit, the armor provides some bulk to his figure, and his height does well to make him appear stronger than he is. Meanwhile, I'm embodied elegance. How reversed, I think.

"You look nice," I say.

"So do you," Liber says, fidgeting. He leans forward, whispering, "These shoes are pinching my toes."

I look down. He's wearing pointed shoes with a slight heel, to provide more height, I expect. I smile. "This corset is pinching my organs."

We share a soft laugh between us, which is met by a cool stare from Rheon. With a low grunt, he steps towards us. He hade made a point to avoid us throughout our journey, scarcely emerging to so much as feed himself. Often, Mags would visit him in his room, and sometimes there would be yelling and another hour there would be silence. Even when we arrived to the Capitol, he made certain to apply a level of distance between us. His scathing glares had become tired by that point, though he seems well-rested now and his anger scarcely subdued. Liber eyes him uncertainly, likely still recalling the interaction shared before. Like me, my brother holds grudges, though his are of the silent and watchful type.

With a visibly and audibly hard swallow, our father addresses us ."It's straightforward what they expect out there. The Chariots do the work. All you have to do is wave and smile." Rheon's voice is so strained, I wonder if he is being strangled by his collar. "Do you understand?"

I nod. "The costumes alone don't give off a good impression. We have to give off an impression, too," I say. Tilda smiles approvingly. "We have to be likable and memorable."

"Oh, you will be." Galeria is smirking, and exchanges a wink with Vitius.

"Hey, where's Finnick and Ren?" asks Liber.

Tilda shrugs. "They'll be back before the Chariots begin, I assure you. Their clients are aware of their limited time."

Clients. My father's gaze is locked on me as I shudder, and I try very hard to avert my eyes from his, and to refocus on something else entirely. Luckily, a distraction presents itself. There's a bawdy laugh far behind me, so I delightfully turn myself from my father's scrutinizing gaze to find the culprit. Beside District 2's chariot, there is a tall, bald, and stocky looking man making conversation with, who I can assume to be, the Mentors, as the Tributes are already situated in their chariot. From behind, I can see he's wearing a royal blue jacket with a lighter blue trim, with a pair of black trousers and glistening black shoes; quite sensible, actually. I can assume, based on the obvious prestige of his attire, that he's not from one of the Districts. Even from here, I can read his demeanor, and all but smell the Capitol perfume from here. Another that catches the eye is a man beside him, this one a more slender figure, who, although I can't see his front, based on his body language I can tell is speaking theatrically with his hands. They're both talking to one of the Mentors, even chatting up the Tributes as they stand in their Chariot, both smiling over the attention.

The burlier man touches the arm of one of the Mentors and the Mentor beams, seeming to exchange a promising look with one of his Tributes.

Oh. "I didn't think Sponsors were allowed to interact with Tributes like this," I say to Tilda, and glance around to see if any other Capitolians are around us.

Tilda follows my line of sight, frowning. "Oh, that man isn't a Sponsor," she says. "That's Lucius Crane, the-"

"Gamemaker. He's been Gamemaker for thirteen years."

"Fourteen, actually," Tilda says, though she looks impressed. "Your father wasn't lying when he said you knew about these things. But, in any case, he comes down every year before the Parade to take in the Tributes, you know, before they're presented formally or before the Interviews. He analyzes them, I think, to pre-plan his Arenas. It's a special deal with President Snow, I expect, since I don't think Gamemakers were allowed that intimacy before. But Lucius is not allowed to Sponsor the Tributes himself, so, therefore, cannot act biasedly. That is to say, publicly biased."

I hum, thinking about a Tribute from a few years ago who had been exceptionally good at climbing, and had won due to the advantage of there being more rocky and taller surfaces, where he could otherwise tower over his adversaries and handle them from high grounds. "Not biased at all," I say.

Tilda shrugs. "He's decent, I suppose, and interesting - great conversationalist, but poor with his hands."

I ignore her last comment. "And who's with him?"

She tilts her head. "His nephew, Seneca, I expect. He's grooming him to be the next Gamemaker."

Lucius Crane walks away from District 2, and from the front I see that he is a man of sharp and pointed features, yet with a firm jaw. As his head is bald, so his face is perfectly clean shaven, and, as of such, his ice blue eyes are all the more visible even from a distance. He smiles charmingly and shakes hands with the Mentors for District 3. I can't hear what he's saying, but he is not the main target of my focus. At his side, I can see his nephew clearly. Unlike his uncle, Seneca has a full head of hair; raven black and slicked back, not a strand out of place. His face is also clean shaven and, like his father, his eyes are a pale blue. He's also dressed luxuriously, though his suit is black and lined with emerald, with pristine white trousers; more practical and less outlandish than other Capitolian suits I've seen, mirroring his father's simplicity.

I watch the back and forth of the Gamemaker with his nephew to the Mentors of District 3, though I cannot hear what they are saying. I notice that one of the Tributes are smirking and whispering something to his partner. She visibly giggles. It would seem that the Gamemaker does well to charm his friends. The Mentors must feel the pressure now, to in some way impress and catch the eye of the man behind the Arena, to find a way to sway them, one way or another. Imagine that power he wields, most likely fully aware of it.

As Lucius speaks, the Mentors hang on his every word. Even from a distance, I'm watching him, and then my gaze flickers to his son, who also appears invested.

But quite unexpectedly, Seneca's head turns towards our chariot, and his eyes scan among us before settling on me. Our gazes lock, and there's that moment that passes where I wonder who will look away first. Seneca glances over my dress, taking me in with a bizarrely open expression; clear interest, fascination. Unlike most who seem to keep their faces so guarded, his is clear. After briefly looking across me, his eyes raise to find mine again. Feeling uncertain but also remembering the years I've spent imprinting various means of survival to memory, I encourage myself to smile. So, I do. To my surprise, he smiles back.

Lucius shakes hands with the Mentors and Seneca looks away. I let myself breathe.

Tilda notices this quickly, leaning closer so that her words hover solely over my ear. "Gamemakers can't have biases, but their families can," she whispers.

I open my mouth to reply, but there are footsteps approaching, and Liber is nudging me in the ribs.

The Gamemaker and his nephew approach our chariot.

Lucius' hands are open and welcoming, his focus set primarily to Rheon and Tilda. He shakes hands with both of them and kisses Tilda's cheeks with a familiarity that I try very dearly not to overthink, particularly since Liber is standing obliviously beside me. He doesn't know what I know, even about Finnick - or if he does, it does not bother him as fiercely as it bothers me.

"Always a pleasure," Lucius says, charmingly. "What an eventful Games I expect we'll be having, Mr. Rythe, for both of your children to be in participation. For one to have Volunteered, no less." He smiles at me. Although his smile is charming, I'm aware of how cold his eyes are, even as he extends his hand to shake mine and Liber's. "Lucius Crane, Gamemaker. It is a pleasure to be hosting your Games. And this is my nephew and successor, Seneca."

"It's an honor," Seneca says, shaking Liber's hand and then mine. His hands are smooth. He's probably never worked a day of labor in his life.

Lucius continues. "Naturally, the Capitol has high expectations for District 4 this year," he says, looking at Tilda. "As it were, my nephew is Sponsoring again. Last year he chose to Sponsor the boy from District 2, and that was quite an exceptional choice..." he's trailing off, engaging Rheon and Tilda with a back and forth friendliness that almost feels as if this is a meeting of old friends, rather than what it is. Liber's gaze is fixated on him, and I can tell that he's trying to learn about the Gamemaker, to maybe appear invested enough to catch attention. It's a good strategy, but just standing there mutely won't do him any good.

I look at Seneca. "Who are you Sponsoring this year?"

He smiles. "It wouldn't be professional if I shared that information with you, Ms. Rythe. Besides, I haven't made up my mind."

I think about the type of influence a Gamemaker's kin could have, and I try very dearly to think about how to obtain it. If we were to be Sponsored by a Crane, our odds would be higher - and Liber would have a stronger chance. Perhaps I could talk to one of the Mentors and have them put in a good word for Liber or myself. They are seasoned in this field. Still, Lucius seems to act friendly with all of them, which could be a game, or, unlikely, sincerity. Could he favor 4 over the other Districts in the Arena? And could his nephew lean food, water, and medicine our way?

"Careers are always a practical choice," Seneca says, gesturing to Districts 1 and 2, ahead of us.

"Maybe so," I say. "But they're the predictable choice."

Seneca chuckles. "I am above predictability, I hope, as future Gamemaker," he says. "Excuse my saying so, but your father's Games weren't memorable, so expectations aren't too high for his children."

In a flash, my vision is briefly shadowed by my father as a young man during the Games, screaming as he kneels by the body of a boy whose head is bashed in, and as he clutches over the socket where his eye used to be, as blood spewed out between his fingers. When I blink, it's gone, and I see Seneca's smiling face again. His expression isn't cruel, I note. What he said he wasn't meant to hurt me, but rather was expressing facts; the same as commenting on a warm day. I adjust my smile so it is more coy, at least I hope it appears so. "We'll see, Mr. Crane," I say. "We might surprise you."

Before Seneca can reply, Lucius is shaking hands with Rheon and Tilda again. "I must be moving along now. How very good to see you again," he says, regarding me and Liber only briefly before he sweeps away.

"Best of luck to you," Seneca says to me, and me specifically. He doesn't even look at Liber as he walks away after his father.

Once out of sight, I exhale.

My father huffs. "Look how he boasts his-"

"Shh," Tilda hisses. "Shut up, Rheon. You - oh, there you are."

I look up, finding Finnick and Ren having returned. Despite the imaginations painted in my head as to what had become of them, they both look remarkably well-dressed and put together, their attire not rustled and their skin seemingly unscathed. I try to eradicate those thoughts looming over my head, even as I notice that Finnick is wearing a sweater that reveals most of his chest, and he wears that cocky smile. Meanwhile, Ren is clad far more simply, for, I imagine his popularity is not as high as Finnick's. Popularity. I feel sick that I used that word. Discreetly, I reach for Liber's wrist and squeeze it. Although confused, he squeezes mine back, and I feel a little better. I ignore his questioning stare.

"You look tired, Finnick," Rheon says. "Have you eaten today?"

"In a manner of speaking," Finnick replies dryly.

I shudder.

Ren reaches into his pocket and pulls something out; a small circular box of sorts, which he opens to reveal a red type candy. It's small and round and he pops it into his mouth. "Mr. Crane doing his usual roundabout?" he inquires, to no one in particular. When Tilda confirms this, he nods. "He's a complicated man, but I think that he could be convinced to turn the Arena to your favor."

"Like flood the Arena?" Liber asks, frowning.

"Can you swim?" Ren asks.

"Well enough to stay afloat and I can hold my breath, but I don't think I could fight someone in the water."

"Ah, well, we'll work on that. On you go, now."

I sigh internally.

Finnick steps forward, closer to me. He's wearing that smile that doesn't belong fully to him, though his eyes are softer than they were the last time we spoke. "You look nice, Ceres. Being a Tribute becomes you," he says quietly, in the tone he would use to antagonize me as children.

I feel my chest ache as I realize how deeply I have missed that tone and the banter that would follow after it. If we were home, I would have shoved him, but I can't very well do that here, so, instead, I smirk. "I wear it better," I say, though not with the same emphasis I would use before. It's softer, almost hesitant, but the words themselves are natural. Finnick chuckles and I chuckle in return. "Although a corset would suit you fine."

"I'm sure, Sea-Sea."

"Alright, let's go," Galeria interrupts, offering her hand to me.

I take it, allowing her to help me onto the Chariot. She adjusts my skirt so that I am not stepping on anything and so that it will flow naturally behind me once we are moving. Once satisfied, she smiles and steps away. Beside me, Liber's breathing pattern has quickened, and I can see the nerves playing across his face.

"You'll be fine," Galeria assures. "Hold hands once you're to the halfway point."

I nod, then look over to my brother. "This is easy. Smile and wave."

"Smile and wave convincingly," Liber amends.

I smile. "That, too."

Liber relaxes.

The music from outside is thundering and the uproar of applause as the chariots start to move nearly blows my eardrums, but I keep my hands steady and so does Liber. One by one the chariots break through the entombed shadows and into the blinding sunlight. When we break through, the applause is without compare. The Tributes ahead of us are waving. They are Careers, trained in special academies for this singular right; if I could see their faces now, there would be pride there. Liber and I are both smiling, aware of the thousands of eyes on us all at once. Without a swallow, he raises his hand and confidently waves to the crowd, and I do the same. I scan the array of outlandish colors adorned across the Capitolians, watching as they cheer and roar, as they throw roses and jewels and bags full of money. I remember seeing this on the holographs when I would watch the Games and being absolutely green with envy.

My hesitation seems to melt away, at least for now, as my chest is engulfed by warmth and by pride. If even for a moment, I am back in that fantasy. I wave and blow kisses and Liber does the same, until we reach the halfway point of the long stretch before us. Without hesitation, I take Liber's hand and I raise it high above us. All at once, the crowd is all but lost to a frenzy of cries of adoration, of awe. My beautiful dress glows brightly and silvery, the wave patterns coming alive. Liber's armor glitters radiantly, as if a fish has leaped from the sea and its scales are touched by the sun. But more so than that, there is the illusion of water across the surface of his armor. There is a sound of the waves between him and I. And, more so, the waves that dance across my dress perfectly mirror the water across his; as if moving in union.

Liber's smile is so great I expect it will break his face in half. Meanwhile, I feel unusually warm, and I let myself bask in the glory I used to dream of, if only for a moment. I blow my kisses and I wave, just as my brother does, and, if not for a moment, I am smirking.

"This is remarkable," Liber says breathlessly. "No wonder you always wanted this..."

I almost frown. That perfect sanctuary of bliss seems to rumble, for my mind drifts someplace else for a moment; to watching Ren and Finnick return to the chariots, to my father's anger. I keep smiling, God, I cannot stop smiling for both of our sakes, but the warmth is long since departed. I feel cold now, and the kisses I blow taste bitter.

And as our chariot glides through the delighted cheers and rainfall of roses and jewels, my hand tightens on Liber's. He squeezes back in return. He is still smiling.

Today we are beautiful, but tomorrow we will be covered in bruises from training, and more eyes will be on us. From there, I will keep Liber in the spotlight, one way or another.

(a/n): Here it is! I was so excited to write this chapter for so many reasons. I'm really happy to finally write out Galeria, since she's a character I've loved for a while and I can't wait for you guys to see more of her. And, a bit more dramatically, we got our introduction to Seneca! As the description says, this is Finnick/OC and mild Seneca/OC. As to what that'll mean, you'll have to see, but I am very excited to get the ball rolling on the Games. You guys can imagine the frustration for the Victors who have to deal with all this drama, and for poor Finnick who's watching Ceres go through the same shit he did. I have loads planned for the story and I hope you guys keep enjoying it!

Fun fact: I was originally going to have a purely ocean and fish theme for Ceres and Liber for their costumes, but I remembered in Avatar: The Last Airbender how the Ocean and Moon spirit were one and worked together, so I decided to introduce that idea here!

Also some more fancasts for this chapter!

Ren: Joe Manganiello

Tilda: Bridget Regan

Mags: Lynn Cohen

Galeria: Natasha Lillipore

Seneca: Wes Bentley

Lucius: Dean Norris

Review replies.

Radio Gaga: Haha, indeed, Finnick is not happy! It was really interesting tackling Finnick's reaction. Honestly, I've considered writing a chapter from Finnick's POV, but I like things being from Ceres' head. Still, I've considered it, if people are interested. Also...as far as kisses go...you will see. ;) I almost had them kiss this chapter but it didn't feel right, so, unfortunately, ya gotta wait, haha! ;)

Boxtroll: Goodness, your reviews warmed my heart and you wrote so much! I don't even know where to begin, but I do promise you that we're going to get a lot more drama, more tension, and some really (hopefully) interesting family interactions! I hope you keep enjoying!

Sparky She-Demon: Thank you so much! I hope you love this one too!

Tuna Casserole: Right? I don't know what went wrong with the website but it looks like the admins kind of fixed it. Fingers crossed! Anyway, thank you so much for your sweet review! I hope you enjoy it as it continues!