Day 4: Night
Gamemaker Centre

Quill Daemeon
Head Gamemaker

The iridescent blue lights were starting to give him a wicked headache, held at bay only by copious amounts of coffee and stimulants. There weren't nearly enough of them to run this, while giving dozens of remote interviews, running the polls, analyzing and tweaking the narrative at every turn. They weren't gods, but were expected to behave like ones. Gods stuck in their own personal arena of screens, sharp corners and artificial lights.

But as much as the entire team needed a break, the milestone that they've reached now was always one to reinvigorate them with the energy that they needed to get to the end. Sixteen tributes. Sixteen potential stories to be intrinsically woven into the fabric of Panem.

Mr. Daemeon flickered his wrist towards the screen, enlarging the tribute vitals and statistics. The recent deaths had certainly lathered the Capitolite crowds into a frenzy, with the betrayal, the scheming and the aesthetic action shots where Milo had quite frankly outdone himself. As he looked his way, the cleanshaven young man looked back timidly, his frown turning into the smallest of smiles.

His attention back to the large screen at the front, Mr. Daemeon projects the latest victim of the Games, whose skewered body had been collected mere hours ago. Mr. Daemeon frowns, as Logan Arteficavitch smiles down at him shyly, his blue eyes wide and hopeful.

It was no time to feel guilt or anything at all. The boy would have died from organ failure through poisoning, anyways. Miss Mona Tillery had correctly identified the Amanita phalloides simulacrum variety during her short little adventure in the woods, and she certainly had not been frugal with the dose.

Yes, that was quite right, Mr. Daemeon nods along to the monotonous sounds coming off the vast array of machines, computers and holopads surrounding his team.

That's why they credited his kill partially to miss Tillery. While the kill shot had been undeniably mister Szeto's, the head Gamemaker does not believe for a second that a tribute like the District 7 male would have fallen so easily. If not for the poison, he is convinced the boy would have reached deep within himself for those hidden pockets of energy and sheer power that these kinds of tributes always have stowed away. Still would have lost, though.

Mr. Daemeon flips quickly through his datapad, surveying the many injuries, internal and otherwise, of the tribute. Yes, no point in doubting it, they were certainly correct to allow partial kill points for both tributes involved in the demise of the District 7 tribute. They both deserved the recognition, after all, despite what others might think.

Miss Tillery has been quite the troublemaker, whether she knew it or not. Just her presence in the Games seemed to polarize the crowds. Some were baying for her blood, eager to see the little girl pay for her supposedly heinous crimes… others were sympathetic to her plight, responding with enthusiasm as she fought back against a system that was designed to snuff her out like a burning candle in a chamber deprived of oxygen.

As though poisoning two boys almost-three years her senior was somehow worse than what older tributes such as mister Linden have done.

It was an uncomfortable thought, when he bore too deeply into the specifics. A child…merely thirteen years old. Simply put, her mere presence in the Games combined with what was perceived as excessive displays of violence on her part made people uncomfortable.

A little shit stirrer with no common decency to lie down and die when it's sensible to do so, as Cyrellia eloquently put it. And yet… Mr. Daemeon was not of that opinion. Neither was Milo, and a small handful of Gamemakers.

Regardless, miss Tillery was certainly gathering quite the cult fanbase.

And it seems she has been smart enough to stay out of danger. It did not seem fair to send their monstrosity to finish her off, since no one else had succeeded thus far, no matter how much Cyrellia wanted it.

Mr. Daemeon thoughtfully strokes the protruding controls at the center of the room. No one to observe its movements, the creature stirs restlessly in the woods, hidden from sight.

Assessing lethality of attack…

Negative, no tributes in vicinity.

Enter location?

The creature was truly a feat of bioengineering and genetic manipulation. The perfect marriage between animalistic tendencies, synthesized microchip-induced obedience and unbridled rage which, once released, would find no match. No end in sight to its violence, until the press of a button.

The power that is his to take in this very room is almost too potent, intoxicating. He can feel its tendrils wrap around his heart, as though the mutating arena's flora had come to claim him for itself too. And yet, Mr. Daemeon is nothing without his self-restraint. That is why he was chosen for this position after all. He did not have the luxury to indulge in delusions of grandeur.

…Awaiting location.

The creature growls, the guttural undertones resonating through the screen.

Negative. Attack unfavorable.

For what feels like the twentieth time today, Mr. Daemeon thinks of Pax back at their apartment and wonders how his fiancé would feel if he had a peek into his twisted mind. The man, could he truly see his tainted rotten soul and still smile at him without a care in the world? Or perhaps he understood the dichotomy of his struggle, the urge to seize any power within his grasp due to his inability to control anything else in his life. Perhaps he sympathized on some level, without ever inquiring about it.

Cyrellia comes up behind him.

"I want you to know that I still fully disagree with how you handled that situation," she whispers none too quietly, shuffling her feet uncharacteristically. Referring to miss Tillery, no doubt about it.

All Mr. Daemeon can do is nod. Either his friend has fostered some deep inexplicable resentment for the girl, or this is simply the physical manifestation of her separation anxiety from her newborn, but regardless, she is out for blood. He acknowledges her opinion, but in his heart of hearts he knows that it is too early to release the beast.

Milo's creation will come into play at the perfect moment, and not a second earlier.

Jasmyn Abioye Deslongcourt
Victor of the 6th Hunger Games, District 1

These moments were nice.

Despite not ever admitting to it out loud, Jasmyn enjoyed these times with the other victors.

They were so interesting to observe, the lot of them. So different, in their ways of expressing their anxiety, their excitement, their defeat.

Sujax, sitting impassively and stoic as a statue. He notices her staring as he turns his head, and salutes her. Jasmyn mockingly salutes back, but her smile is genuine. Of all people, she does like Sujax.

To his right, Athena, vibrating with energy, contradictory anger and aggressive care for her tributes.

And then, busy bee Mags, running from monitor to monitor, trying to salvage what she can to help the tributes without mentors. Her own tributes died early in the Games, and yet she's still around, rather than sitting back and enjoying what the Capitol has to offer.

The young District 3 Victor was currently jamming her fingers insistently into the District 6 computer, typing out some kind of message to non-existent sponsors. Her free hand running nervously through her wavy hair.

So caring. So optimistic about helping people who would never have the opportunity to thank her for her selflessness.

Funny thing it was, to be selfless. Not something one would typically associate with their merry group of murderers. And yet, so many of them were oozing with it, like leaky faucets that simply couldn't stop, no matter how much they wanted to.

A by-product of guilt perhaps? Jasmyn wonders. God knows so many of them are filled to the brim with corrupting grief for their previous losses, shouldering those regrets and carrying them over to this year.

Jasmyn looks longingly at Vintage, whose deep cruel blue eyes bore into hers.

But not them. Never them.

Whether their tributes died or not mattered, strictly speaking, but Jasmyn has had her fair share of worries during Vintage's games. Everything else paled in comparison. Anyone who made it was a wonderful bonus that she would be proud of. She would build an empire, of that she was confident. Whether it took longer or not did not matter to her, particularly. It didn't matter, because she had Vintage.

Her long beautiful dark legs drape languorously over her husband's broad shoulders, as she arches her back seductively, out of habit. Some crowd she's out here to impress…The lot of them are dressed in sweatpants and coffee-stained T-shirts. Most haven't showered since the start of the Games, glued to their computers… but old habits die hard.

As Vintage playfully kisses her ankles, she can't help but giggle.

"Mmph…Get a room," Eli grumbles disapprovingly, her eyes glued to her own screen, and Jasmyn plumps her lips at the fiery victor, almost challenging.

"If he starts sucking on her toes, I swear-" the redhead starts, but Jasmyn tunes her out.

Some people were prudes, as simple as that. While Jasmyn held a huge amount of respect for the older victor for her wits and ruthlessness, she would never claim to understand her.

Maybe that was a Three thing. Maybe not.

Jasmyn brings her attention back to her screen, where Cira and Ambrose are hauling large cannisters of drinkable water back to their camp. Talking amicably, smiling. Four days in, and things seemed to be going according to plan.

She trained them well, and they presented a unified front as District 1's darlings. The cracks hadn't appeared yet, although Jasmyn was certain they would. Cira was… she was something, although Jasmyn couldn't quite put her finger on what exactly she was.

Whether she was going to fall quietly or shed the protective layers she has carefully built and unleash whatever had taken over her at the training center all these months ago, Jasmyn did not know. The Victor had seen that spark of madness in her tribute, which reigned free as a raging wildfire within Vintage now. Cira was different, of course, but it was the way her shoulders squared whenever a threat of a fight came along. Like a band stretched too taut.

Ambrox was the dependable one and if Jasmyn were to disclose her preference, she would pick him as her Victor of choice. He would make a competent mentor alongside her. Maybe even a friend, down the line, if Vintage didn't decide to make him his plaything and throw him out once he got bored.

Of course, she would also love to smugly rub it into Athena's face, by graciously complimenting her on having outdone herself this year. How Jasmyn would emphasize that she simply knew she had it in her to finally get a tribute out next year, knowing full well the Victor would mull over her words, the tiniest inflections in her tone, and fixate over them for hours on end.

But beyond that, Jasmyn truly believed her tributes were the best out there this year. Unfortunately, it was too early to start speculating.

Vintage nudges her, looking at her inquisitively.

"Hmm?" she asks, taken out of her rêverie. "D' you say something?"

He flashes her a signature smile, all teeth and no shame.

"Miriam from PanemTV wanted a few words on record. You gonna take it?"

It wasn't so much a question as it was an assumption. Of course, she was going to take it. Hell would freeze over before she would let Vintage deal with the media. He'd eat them alive, maybe literally if he was having a particularly nasty day.

Jasmyn smirks at the thought. She was just exaggerating…wasn't she?

Regardless, Jasmyn wasn't one to like walking on a razor's edge, not for things like this, and it did not cost her anything to run down to meet with Miriam and whatever other brainless Capitolite that desired to hear the most up-to-date insider information on her tributes. If that was the cost of establishing her empire, the cost of bringing back someone else who could help her out in the long run, it was well worth it.

"Love you babe," Vintage calls out to her, as she disentangles herself, missing the warmth of his touch almost immediately. She'd be back in a moment's notice.

She glances over quickly to the monitor, watching her two tributes join their allies around their campfire. Her eyes travel around the room, spotting Triss hunched over, while Glenn chats quietly with Sundhit who swirls a caramel-colored drink in her elegant, tattooed hand. Her fourth in the last hour, Jasmyn remarks, as empty glasses litter the District 7 Victor's vicinity.

Apart from those three, the other mentors stare at her unabashedly, or from the corners of their eyes.

For effect, Jasmyn blows a kiss at Vintage who mimics catching it and spinning around from the momentum, his eyes already searching for someone to antagonize. Not that anyone in here couldn't handle it.

For a moment, Jasmyn's heart seizes with a dull ache and uncertainty. She would really love to share this with someone who understood the burden. Not like Vintage. He is her everything, but she isn't delusional enough to think that they are equals in that regard. Logically, she would have invested more of her strength in someone like Ambrox, who could bear the weight of the glorious duty of a mentor. Someone who would come down with her to face the lion's den of reporters, vicious as they were, ready to tear her apart at any misstep.

But love isn't logical, it's the blood coursing through your veins like scalding lava. It's this complicated thing, explosive and destructive and somewhat contradictorily tender, if you take a few shots of tequila and squint at it in the dark.

So, overtaken by a sudden passion and a deep inexplicable loneliness, Jasmyn saunters back to Vintage, and kisses him deeply. Her husband isn't even surprised. Doesn't melt into it like she does, and it almost breaks her heart.

But she deepens the kiss and leaves only after she feels herself come back to her senses. Everything she achieves from here on out is a bonus. She is Jasmyn the lioness, the apex predator, the queen of the arena.

Imagining the Threes' disgusted faces behind her back makes it even better.

Glenn Duncan
Victor of the 3rd Hunger Games, District 10

Ten years down the line, and he's still not used to not-seeing whatever was happening to the right of his face. It wasn't so bad in District 10, where he felt safe without the constant triggers roaming in his peripheral vision, but here… it was innerving, as simple as that.

Factor in a few sleepless nights, and there you had it: the perfect recipe for a jumpy mentor. His one eye felt like it was going to fall out of its socket after he'd spent so long staring at Valentino walk aimlessly around with his ally. He remembered those moments in his own Games, moments that stretched on seemingly forever before they were abruptly severed by a surprise attack, by an ally's betrayal or by a horde of mutts. Those moments were the ones he came back to, as though they were an anchor to any normalcy that could have existed in his own personal hell.

His head was pounding, the fatigue starting to settle in the marrow of his bones. Oh, how he wished to be home, in Raella's arms. Cuddling their daughter together as they pretended like the world around them didn't exist.

As much as he wishes for a full night's sleep, he cannot abandon his only tribute left. He nods at Casmir from across the room, who smiles tightly. His girl is still out there, fighting it out too. Half-running, half-crawling through the tunnels. Surviving all alone, against all odds.

Glenn doesn't think for a second that Addie would have liked the underground.

That's got him thinking… how her parents have been coping. If they'd been absolutely destroyed by their daughter's death or if they were quietly preparing to receive her ashes, as was the custom in District 10, only to hide them in some far hidden corner of a dusty closet, never to be mentioned again.

Of all people, he knew how unpredictable the Games could be and after all these years it still hurt losing his tributes like that. And gods, he was aware of how grief reared its ugly head and festered in the hearts of parents that lost their child. He knew he would have to deal with it, when he got home.

But he'd mourn Addie properly once the Games were over. Once he could come home and release everything he had to keep under tight wraps here.

Addie was a good kid, and she didn't deserve it, and her parents didn't deserve it either.

After all, he couldn't imagine going through that, with Raella. Losing his only daughter was the worst thing he could possibly conjure in the most retched parts of his mind. He didn't know whether his wife could see the other side of that, but he certainly wouldn't. He'd rather go through a thousand more Games than have that happen. He wonders if Addie's father would have gone through the Games if it meant his daughter was spared.

Glenn shakes his head. There is really no use to these speculations.

He turns towards Sunhdit who had fallen silent, their previous conversation evaporating into the thick musky air of the mentoring room. Even a few years ago, the drink in her hand would have tempted him.

Now, all he can muster is quiet pity for the Victor next to him. She hadn't had an easy go at it. None of them did.

"Your girl is doing great," he remarks quietly, trying not to bother the others.

"So is your boy," the younger Victor replies, her eyes on the swirling drink.

"Crazy how we go through this loop over and over again. The same 'your boy's great, your girl's fighting like a tiger'. Doesn't mean shit in the end, doesn't it?"

"It really doesn't," Glenn agrees, crossing his hands on his lap. "All we can do is provide them comfort and hope for the best."

"Yeah, big comfort I'll offer Logan's family," she snorts, but she seems too tired to even pretend to feel anything about it. Glenn couldn't blame her. "I fucking trained her for this. He's dead because of it."

"You sorta looked like him, ya know?" she muses, slurring her words slightly and Glenn tries not to wince. "The whole eye thing, before he went? Reckon, in another world he woulda' made it. Maybe even gott'n an eyepatch like you. But that would mean Morgana wouldn't and that's a fucking waste of an investment on my part."

Now, there weren't many rules among mentors, but a few unspoken ones kept them all from throwing in the towel. One of them was to never, ever, talk about dead tributes, especially when the news was so fresh. Hell, Glenn would probably punch anyone who would have tried to bring Addie up in a more than a superficial way.

"What do you think of the arena?" Glenn changes the subject quickly instead of mulling over Sunhdit's words, not wanting to upset his fellow victor. And besides, he is genuinely curious. He'd had this speculation-filled discussion with Eli too, when they were considering what to send their tributes together.

They couldn't for the life of them figure out what the Gamemakers had planned. Probably a threat coming from the forest. The growls and terrified screams of the now-deceased Seven and Eight boys were enough of a ham-fisted foreshadowing to know nothing good would come out of that.

What he didn't understand was what the hell was going on in the underground levels. Jessamine was the only one in the arena privy to these more subtle changes, and the girl from District 6 had noticed it too, what with the overactive fungi starting to grow everywhere in the Western sector of the arena, yet she hadn't done much about it. It was keeping everyone in the mentoring room on edge.

All these things happening simultaneously...It didn't sit well with Glenn at all. He knew it only meant trouble for Valentino. All he could hope for was that Eli's girl would figure a way to keep them both on the outskirts of whatever happened when shit hit the fan.

Besides, Eli was sure it would take a few days before the Gamemakers started restricting water and food supply even further, pushing tributes together. In her mind, that was the main threat they had to be prepared for. And when Eli was sure of something… well… she was rarely, if ever, wrong. She didn't seem overly concerned about the other stuff, and that was enough to keep Glenn from driving himself up the fucking wall.

But Sunhdit doesn't seem to have given it nearly as much thought, as she arches her eyebrows, frowning a little.

"Who knows, man. Could be that they went nuts in the floral department and they're in for a malfunction like in the 9th. The whole arena collapsing because of one … one overzealous crackhead gardener from the Capitol. Maybe wipe out a few, to save us the trouble…"

She waves nonchalantly at Jessamine's screen, and Glenn notices Casmir's shoulders tighten.

He had to act quick; a few more misplaced comments here and there, and Sundhit would start railing against the Capitol, and that wouldn't do. Not now, of all times, when they still had tributes in the Games.

"C'mon Sunny," he tries, offering her his hand. "You gotta get some sleep. You're saying stuff again, which means you're tired. C'mon…It's nighttime, Morgana isn't going anywhere tonight."

"Jeez, buy me a beer first," she drawls, finishing her drink in one gulp, grimacing and shaking her head to rid herself of the bitter aftertaste of alcohol. She takes his hand though, leaning on him for support as her feet stumble slightly, before catching herself.

"I'm married," he reminds her jokingly, gently walking her to the elevators.

"So was I," she reminds him. The dark bags underneath her eyes look almost swollen, as she looks up at him, her dark hair framing her face. The killer lurking beneath the surface, chained down in a deep corner of her mind. "Didn't stop me from wrecking my life, and pushing her and my son away. Life keeps going, man."

They somehow make it to her room, and he has to stop her from tripping over her own feet in her quest to get to her gigantic bed.

"Goodnight Sunny."

"Glenn, can you please stay?"

He turns back, exhaustion and a longing for Raella hitting him square in the heart for the second time in the past hour.

He's got Valentino to care for, even if it's just by sending out silent prayers into the universe so that his boy somehow, miraculously, comes out of this unscathed and alive.

He looks at his fellow Victor, sitting in bed and looking at him expectantly with her large brown eyes, as though his presence alone will save her from whatever demons are tearing at her mind. For fuck's sake…They're not even that close, barely friends as far as Victors go.

But, Sundhit has no one.

"Of course," he slowly and painfully drags a chair towards her bed and plops down, as though to read her a story. Suhndit had looked glorious in her games, the epitome of pure strength and raw femininity, yet here she melts into the bed looking like a tiny skeletal doll.

"I don't know what I'm gonna do if she doesn't come back."

Her voice sounds so broken.

"It's okay Sunny," he comforts her, leaning closer and patting her on the shoulder, self-conscious of how silly this all must look to whatever poor Capitol asshole who was assigned on Victor bedroom-watching duty tonight. That's what they get for being a creep paid by the government.

A ridiculous sight indeed… him putting her into bed like a child, like a sad drunk child that is going to have the world's worst hangover tomorrow. But, Sujax never complained about doing the same thing for him, in the beginning, and he wasn't going to start whining about it.

"No, you don't - you don't understand," she stammers, and he wants to tell her that he does, but he lets her finish.

"I want to go back to being the real me," she continues, sounding so defeated, so scared and fucking damnit, sounding so much like Addie did the night before she left for the Games and got her brains bashed in.

"None of this fake bullshit. This isn't me. I'm not this. I can't be. She has to come back for that."

"You know, my tribute told me the same thing. That she just wanted to remember how it felt to be the real her," Glenn starts, breaking his only goddamn rule for discussion topics that fall under the goddamn umbrella of absolutely-no-discussion-under-no-condition-until-the-victory-trumpets-ring.

"And I'll tell you the same thing that I told her… I'm staying here for as long as you need me. I know I'm not District 7… I'm not home-home," Glenn stops, unsure of how to convey what he'll say next. "But, I'm here for you. All of us Victors, actually. We're not just allies, you know. We're here forever basically."

He chuckles a little, darkly. "Unless I missed some fine print where I didn't sign away my whole existence to mentorship in exchange for staying alive."

"I just can't imagine another year of this," she whispers, adamant. He doesn't say anything more, shifting only to hold the Victor protectively, his hand against Sunhdit's bicep that is speckled with beautiful swirling white patterns, flowers and intricate leaves trailing up and down.

Sunhdit's lips move, but no sound escapes as she stares at the ceiling. A silent prayer for Morgana, Glenn thinks.

The younger Victor eventually falls asleep, breathing heavily into her pillow. Almost falling asleep himself, Glenn snaps out of it, staggering back groggily to the small coffee dispenser before heading back into the room that he resolved to call home until the end of the games. As long as Valentino keeps surviving, Glenn will be here until the end, for better of for worse.

Fucking ten years of this shit, and no end in sight. No wonder Sunhdit is losing it.

As Glenn passes by her, Eli turns her gaze at him, eyeing him quizzically. "Is Sunny okay?"

The sound that comes out of him does not convince her.

She shakes her head, before turning back to her monitor. She knows, of course, because nothing escapes Eli goddamn Meisel.

Not that he's witnessed this first-hand before, not like Eli, who was much closer with Sundhit than he ever was. But, that's how it was every year with the District 7 Victor.

This year's particularly bad, though. He doesn't know whether it's the fact that she's finally gotten a taste of what it's like to have an actually competent tribute, or whether she's got the expectation of finally having someone to lean back on from District 7. Or maybe, it's because she's actually developed a soft spot for Morgana. Either way, something's gotta give.

Glenn just hopes she can pull herself out of the sinkhole no matter the outcome, like he had done.

Mags Lyons
Victor of the 10th Hunger Games, District 4

Your request for assistance has been denied.

"GOD FREAKING DAMN IT," Mags whispers so loudly that Philostrates himself must here it from the Capitol stage he is most certainly prancing on, like the peacock that he is.

"What about…" she taps her pen on her bottom lip, trying to do the calculations in her head. "What about some skin healing cream. They can't block some cheap healing cream."

She types in the necessary purchase code, the healing cream popping up almost immediately from a vast array of items. 300 credits.

Mags approves all expenses, and in the comment section, she types out expertly a flowery and too-good-to-be-true promise about how the would-be District 6 victor Daisy Jackson will become a lifetime advocate for the company, for a 200-credit discount on the item, effective immediately.

She presses enter, waiting anxiously as her request is processed.

Your request for assistance has been denied.

"I'm not asking for assistance, I'm asking for you to bloody send the sponsor gift!"

She jabs the button to duplicate the request, with all her might, as though that might convince the software to do her bidding.

Your request for assistance has been denied. Spamming detected; any further attempts to spam will result in a permanent revocation and nullification of sponsor gift managing rights for DISTRICT 6.

Fuck. They're not letting her do anything.

Mags brings her hands up to her face, slowly, shakily, breathing deeply before stepping away from the screen. On the District 6 screen, both Daisy and Sparkle lie on the deck of their pirate ship. They're not talking, just looking up at the sky with empty hopeless eyes. Their lips are parched and blistered, their skin riddled with bruises and scratches that will start getting infected if Mags doesn't do something in the next day or two. Not like there's anyone else to take care of them.

Their vital signs are far from perfect, showing a spiking and sputtering heart rate, obvious signs of prolonged dehydration and mild starvation.

Who knows… she's no medical expert herself, but from the way things were progressing, it looks like Daisy was maybe a day away from organ failure.

In absolute and abject disgust, the young Victor turns away from the monitor. She was so goddamn tired of this happening year and year again, and it's as though… no one cared? The Victors, they were the ones at the top with the privilege and opportunity to make this awful process somewhat better or fairer… and yet no one even lifted a finger at the blatant discrimination and favouritism going on.

She has to do something. She can't keep sitting idly on the sidelines.

She has to show them all.

Fuming, Mags parks herself right in front of Triss, obstructing his view of the screen until he looks at her exasperated.

"How are you like… not completely losing your shit right now?"

"I'm guessing that's a rhetorical question?" he fires back almost automatically, and Mags wants to snatch the stupid pen he's holding in his hand and throw it across the room.

From the looks of it, he has just sent his tribute some therapeutic healing concoction, which his girl was in the process of diligently applying to the gnarly-looking wounds on the District 12 male's back. The District 5 girl herself seemed in relatively good shape, with only a few scrapes and bruises from their encounter with the Three/Ten alliance.

Only 30 credits left on the account for Mara Griffith. Things were really not looking too good. Not looking good at all.

"I need a break and you look like you do too," she says as Triss gestures politely towards the door, and she can hear him pushing himself behind her as she soon as she starts walking away. She could offer to help him, but she knows he'd just refuse. Especially in front of the other Victors.

Glenn shuffles back into the room and Mags slips quietly by him, holding the door open for Triss. After the boy clears the doorframe, Mags slams the door behind her, almost immediately backing up against the wall and sliding down in defeat.

The words tumble out of her before she can stop them.

"Wanna start like… I don't know, a sign-up for outer-district mentors?"

"Gosh, feels like I'm in high-school all over again, being recruited to run for student council or something," Triss jokes, but judging from the unamused expression on Mags' face he backtracks almost immediately.

"Sorry, you mean you're serious?"

"Yeah, of course I'm serious, I've never been more bloody serious," Mags says quietly, wringing her hands together. "This isn't fair. You have eyes, you see how the ones without mentors are playing at an unfair disadvantage."

The boy's handsome features take on a surprised expression momentarily, before he rearranges it back to a neutral appearance. But Mags can see the wheels turning in her friend's brain. She can almost hear him weighing the pros and cons before he answers.

"We won, with an unfair disadvantage," he remarks, first and she rolls her eyes.

"But wouldn't it be better if we didn't have to? Wouldn't you have liked to have someone to help you? This, winning and being alone to deal with this crap on a daily basis...this isn't an initiation ritual, this is a matter of life and death. Families destroyed. The works," she counters.

"Mags, I … I get it, but we gotta think about our own districts. This is a fight we can't win, so we gotta take it easy and try our best with our own people, you know," Triss explains calmly after a few seconds of deliberation, clearly not wanting to agitate her further.

"Okay, but I saw you helping that boy from Twelve with my own two eyes, with your District's amassed funds, not his, so you can't pretend like you don't care," she shoots back, ever the defiant girl that had raised her fist up in righteous fury at the sky as they announced her victory. "You know this is wrong."

Triss knew she was right, Mags could see it in his torn expression.

"We don't have to start right away, just…once these Games are done," Mags compromises. "I need to know someone will support me on this when I bring it up with… with someone higher up."

Triss frowns. "I'll have to think about it."

"What is there to think about? Both my tributes died and yet I'm still here, breaking my back to keep the others from suffering as much as I can!"

She is acutely aware of the fact that her voice has taken on a shrill desperate edge which she tries to keep under control.

"No one is asking you!" he retorts, and it hurts, but Mags presses on.

"No one is asking me, but I'm doing what's right! I've been given the opportunity to keep living my life, and I'm … I know we can't beat this…this system and I am really not trying to," her voice falls an octave lower, "I am just trying to make sure everyone gets a chance at this."

She thinks she sees something like respect flash in Triss' eyes, and Mags knows she's onto something. She might not be the nicest or prettiest girl of District 4, nor the strongest or most skilled among the fishermen at the docks, but her reputation as a bullheaded and stubborn daredevil preceded her, and she knew when the seeds were planted. She'd let them grow, and she knew Triss would support her when the time came. Eventually.

They sit together, in comfortable silence, with muted conversation trickling through the walls of the mentoring room.

"How much longer do you think the Games will go on?" Triss asks, suddenly.

"I honestly have no idea this year," Mags admits, arching her neck backwards and bumping her head. "I mean, I want them to be over as quickly as possible, but then I think about how I'll have to talk to Orla's parents and Scout's mom and it just…"

She trails off, because she can't explain it to Triss. He'll just have to experience it this year with at least one family. Maybe even two. Mags remembers the rude awakening in her first year, sitting in horror on the way back home with two coffins on either side of her. No one, not even the District 4 escort that year, could make her budge when she entered that train compartment and laid eyes on the two simple wooden boxes.

"How bad is it?" Triss asks anyways, looking suddenly so much younger and scared. She hadn't seen that expression on his face since they brought him out of the arena a year ago.

"My least favorite part, honestly," she admits, her head hitting the wall again. A few more hits like that, and she's guaranteed to sport a bruise.

"Maybe Jasmyn and Sujax are onto something then," Triss ponders, his hands shaking slightly, as he inspects his nails. Trying to reign in his emotions at the thought of losing both his tributes.

And yeah… maybe Jasmyn and Sujax are onto something. She will consider it later down the line.

Right now though, all she wants is to not have to run like a headless chicken around the mentoring room, shouldering the responsibility of helping four mentorless districts on top of her own.

At least when her tributes died, she was right there with them, mourning them from the other side of the screen.

If she didn't do something, those kids from District 6, District 8, District 9 and District 12 would just keep dying, slaughtered or succumbing to the elements, without any kind of guidance and support.

Maybe when she succeeded in changing this small seemingly insignificant thing, the future might not look so bleak. Then, she could focus on her own tributes without feeling the guilt of leaving behind children who were as worthy of her time and effort, and simply had the misfortune of being reaped in a district without a mentor.

Maybe then, she could concentrate on training someone who would willingly sacrifice their well-being and life in service of their district. It was cruel, and she wouldn't do tell them it was for the glory. It would be to save any more Scouts from being reaped at random.

But that was something way down the line.

Notes: Hello, my friends! I am back with an update, albeit one that is slightly shorter than my usual chapters! I still hope you enjoy it, since there's a few machinations behind the scenes that might clue you in on what happens next. I already started the next chapter which will be back to featuring our favorite group of remaining tributes, so I am hoping to get a chapter out by my birthday in late May.

Hope all's well with you, stay safe, healthy and sane.

Peace and love.