Chapter 17: Rowan Palmer

Tax Bacchus peered out over the massive floor of his empire: Rolling Dreams, the largest – and so far, only, though he had no doubt that would change before long - casino here in the Capitol.

It had taken over four years of construction, and a year before that to draw up the blueprints and hire out the architect and subcontractors, but Tax had done it. Finally achieved his dream and added gambling to the Capitol's list of the finer pleasures in life, once Ravinstill had gotten off his high horse and realized that there was money to be made from betting on the come with tribute's lives. When the President had first been elected, Tax, then a young University student, had thought him too much of a stuffed shirt. Ravinstill had clung to the religion of his parents, which stressed that gambling of any sort was a moral sin. It had taken over a decade for the black market industry of gambling, once reduced to operating within the underbelly of the city, to convince the President that there was no harm in letting them cash in on the biggest prize – who would live in the arena, and who would die.

Money had changed hands informally for the first decade of the Games or so. Gambling in those years had been a somewhat risky venture, even more so for people who didn't know who to talk to. Who was in the know. Tax and his associates had always needed to be on the lookout for Peacekeeper raids on their dens as well as their offshore accounts. Before the anti-gambling law's recent repeal, the act of betting on the Games had incurred not so insignificant jail time, topped off by offenders also having to pay a penalty.

Now, however, Rolling Dreams was open for business, out in the light and air and without fear of repercussions from the feds. Best of all, the recent ribbon cutting meant there was a central base of operations for laying down wagers, which for Tax was a huge relief. No longer would he have to operate in the shadows. Having everything centralized – and legal – would make things much easier.

The world of Games gambling as an official, government-sanctioned industry was still in its nascent stages, but three-quarters of the way through the second decade of this pageant, was starting to get its sea legs, as some friends he knew out in Four might say. Competitors, rival casinos would rise in the months and years ahead; Tax predicted that by the twenty-fifth anniversary of this death match, he would be jockeying for business with a handful of other dealers. Diana Vipsania came to mind. And Nero the Bruce (who some of his employees derisively nicknamed Nero the Brute).

Down below where he stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking his kingdom, Tax breathed in how the gambling floor was awash in color and sound. Bells and whistles tooted amidst the pulls of the slot machines. He could hear the rolls of the dice. Nearly ever high-stakes table was crowded to the gills. A beautiful woman, who was a patron and frequent visitor but whose name briefly escaped him, caught his eye from down on the floor and waved up to him. Tax grinned, pointing at her in a silent shout-out.

There was never a time like Games season, especially now that everything was above-board, but even before then, the pageantry of killing had allowed for everyone to potentially make a killing. Have something to bet on. Nearly every aspect of the process that had finally come into its own could bring about a wager: first death. First tribute to get their hands on a weapon. (Those two stipulations were usually related, though not always). Which tribute would get the most sponsors? As the procedures had gradually refined themselves, more wagers were set that always needed an answer. The Final Eight, for instance – now viewed by even officials in the Capitol more and more as an official Games milestone. These days, the Final Eight line-up was usually one of the first bets wagered, before the Games even started when twenty-four contenders were still alive. Monetary risks went higher and higher as you tried to fill that roster – a gambler could slate as many names as he wished into the Final Eight. You could bet on only one name getting in, or go all the way and try to name all eight. For the latter, Tax Bacchus had only known one person to name an entire Final Eight clean – the payout had been more than some of Ravinstill's Cabinet secretaries probably made in a year, and that in itself was an incredible windfall.

Still more bets came to mind. The Final Four was becoming a thing, as was the Top Two. And of course, betting on the ultimate Victor. Tax recalled when Guernsey Hyde won, a dozen years ago now. Everyone had expected him to lose against that Train kid from Six in a Top Two fight, and when he didn't, many of Tax's biggest investors had suddenly found themselves out of nearly all their money. He laughed about it now. He'd even gotten a facie with Guernsey Hyde, the summer before last, that Victor from 9 always his shadow. Thick as thieves, they were.

On the flatscreen TVs overhead, the Games played constantly. They were getting to the endgame now – people had received their payouts for the Final Eight over a week ago, the biggest winner getting five out of the eight tributes right. The Final Four had been set two nights before last.

Tax could hear the high stakes tables being spun as he made his way down the grand staircase and onto the floor, straightening the boutonniere in his lapel. Glancing to his left, on one screen he could see the faces of all twenty-four tributes, all but two of which were now in sepia. With any Top Two, the act of laying money down always reached a fever pitch. This year, it was between the badass boy from 1, and – surprise, surprise indeed! – the boy from 7, who hadn't seen a Victor since the lovely Acacia Ivy fifteen years ago.

"All right, all right! Place your bets! Now, place your bets as to who that benefits! Place your bets!" The dealers running the tables called out. "We've got either District 1 or District 7 who can claim a Victor! 50 sesterces it's Penz Luncan from 1! Do I hear 50 sesterces?"

"50!" A debonair gentleman with jewels inlaid into his jawline hollered out.

"50! Do I hear 100 sesterces on District 1?"

"I'll raise ya! District 1 for the Crown!"

"100 on Penz Luncan from District 1….."

Tax smiled. The atmosphere of a casino could take all manner of forms: it could create the feel of an auction, a billiards parlor, a carnival, or all that rolled into one. That was what he loved about it. Gambling…. Everything about it was unpredictable, and thus, exciting. It drew you in. Set your nerves on edge and afire the way that no one else did.

Tax had found that, in this business, everyone had particular tastes when it came to betting. It was as wide a variety as encountering people from all walks of life who might have a dizzying array of sexual preferences. Some stayed loyal to a particular district. The Sixatrons were a prime example. They bet on the District 6 tributes, every time, despite there having never been a Victor from the Transportation District… and thus, always lost their investments. The same crowd always came back for more though, year after year. They were dogged, Tax had to give them that much.

Other high rollers might be fair-weather friends, who might bet on a District based on their fortunes in more recent years. Just three short seasons ago, no one except the very rabid had ever thought to bet on District 3. Now, after Xander Chip's win two summers prior, everyone was betting on Three. Never mind that this year, Xander's tributes had both been taken out by the end of the first day. Fads like that were cyclical, like the tides – a couple more years without nabbing another Victor, and 3's favors would fall again.

District 7's fortunes, for instance, had been in the toilet for at least a decade or more, and even then, Acacia Ivy's method of winning had made many folks laugh… but only after forking over coin grudgingly. Only a few districts were starting to be taken seriously, year after year. And unfortunately for Acacia's boy, the firm but by no means huge 17-year-old Rowan Palmer, his odds still currently stood at only 9 to 1 against the truly massive Penz Luncan of 1. The Career's odds were 2 to 1 to win it all – as close to certain as you could get.

Being a professional, Tax Bacchus had hedged his bets this time around. The boy from District 7's showing had surprised everyone so far. He might be average size, but he was muscular and wicked with an axe. And most importantly, clearly ain't afraid of no Career. He had taken down the girl from 4 himself, denying her a slot in the Final Eight by bludgeoning her in the darkened corners of the desert caves. Tax had more dough out on Penz, of course, the heavy favorite… but he had also taken out a small stipend on Rowan, once the Final Four had been set, just for a lark. At this point, with the Top Two ready, Tax stood to gain either way. He'd inevitably lose somewhere – the only question now was to what degree. He'd incur heavier losses without the hope of a recoup should Penz, by some fluke, fall, but Tax was fine with that. He had money to burn.

And besides, Penz Luncan wasn't going to lose. He would be Victor of the 17th Hunger Games – Tax Bacchus and surely half the people now throwing down cash in his casino were certain of it.

Screams and cheers suddenly split the air as the TV screens split the picture: Penz and Rowan had found each other on top of a mesa above the desert caves, inside of which ancestors of the ancient Native American Pueblos had carved entire natural towns thousands of years ago.

"Go for him, Seven! I got 50 drachma on you!" a gentleman hollered up at the screens. Tax had to wrestle down a shocked laugh. A single drachma alone was worth 10,000 sesterces. Multiply that by fifty, and…. well, it was just slightly above Tax's own paygrade.

A woman at 50-drachma gentleman's side, presumably his girlfriend, gawked at him. "You bet on this?"

"What? Is that wrong?" The guy just shrugged.

Excited yells split the air again, and Tax turned back to the screens. Slot machines were going frantically as people threw down last minute bets. One last roll of the dice.

Penz and Rowan seemed to lunge at each other in slow motion, samurai sword bearing down to meet axe, which was flying in a blur. There was a single CLANG of metal meeting metal, followed by another, then –

The tearing of flesh. Tax's eyes went huge and reaching for an abandoned wineglass, he took a conservative sip along its rim from around his smirk. Well, well, well. Looks like he was out of some money, but into some money too. You win some, you lose some.

Back in Control Central, where the mentors waited out the Games, Acacia Ivy wasn't just terrified that the best tribute she'd had in years would lose.

She was equally as terrified that her tribute might actually win.

She'd made a wager of her own, you see. A flirtatious kind of bet, with Dell Fonio, who also had yet to see a tribute of his own take the Crown. When he wasn't working, the man from 9 often engaged in witty banter with her. She and Dell had been friends for years, enjoyed being around each other. And Acacia had always suspected that Dell had a thing for her. He had started proposing to her about five years ago, when Woof Rayon came out of the arena, at first in what she thought was in jest. But over the years, he had persisted, until finally, she had laughed and said to him, "Dell, the day either one of us mentors a Victor is the day you'll get me to marry you!"

To her shock, Dell had smirked. "I'll take that bet. If either 7 or 9 wins this year, you and I say, 'I Do.' Any other district wins, I stop asking. I'm too much in love with you to just be friends."

Acacia had tried and failed to hide a blush at this, even as she eyed him hard. "Just 7 or 9. Guernsey's tributes don't count because the State knows you mentor them too."

Dell shrugged. "Fine by me."

She probably should have seen the possibility of it – of becoming her colleague's wife – around the time of the Final Eight, when all but one of her and Dell's tributes made it in the elite slots. She'd lost her girl at the Cornucopia, but Dell's kids had given 9 its best showing since Dell himself won.

Now, Rowan was facing off against the last Career, with a real shot at coming home. Despite the fact that it was both his life and her maidenhood on the line, Acacia still reached for Dell's hand and felt him squeeze it in support. She wasn't sure what she wanted the outcome to be, as she'd never felt herself cut out for marriage, but…

The blades flashed sooner than she'd expected them to, and a scream got stuck in her throat. Two CLANGS and then the tearing of flesh. Gargling sounds, followed by the splashing of blood.

The blood wasn't Rowan's, who now stood over his final dispatched opponent triumphantly.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Victor of the 17th Hunger Games: Rowan Palmer of District 7!"

Bedlam in Control Central, except from Amber Fairsmith, who looked thoroughly disappointed at being robbed of a third Victor. Even Vulcan Bronzedrop looked a little put out, despite his undying lack of enthusiasm for the whole event.

Next to her, Dell turned to Acacia, smiling. But then he said: "Kind of a silly bet, on the whole. If you want, I can release you from it."

Acacia eyed him pointedly, teeth bared in a growl. "Yeah? Well, I don't." And launching herself at him, she yanked his face close and kissed him hard. Dell immediately tugged her into his lap so they could properly make out.

The roars from their colleagues had been snuffed out for the briefest of instances, before the cheers started up again. Dell and Acacia just ignored them, the latter closing her eyes and letting herself sink into the kiss.

When the couple finally, dreamily broke apart, Acacia giggled at how her… fiancé looked thunderstruck, and so very much in love.

"Next wager better be if 9 ever wins again, you're having a baby."

Acacia threw back her head and laughed, nuzzling her nose against his. "One thing at a time. We've got a wedding to plan." And petaling her lips open, she kissed him again deeply.

That night, back in Dell's rooms on the 9th Floor of the Citadel Hotel, involved much awkward laughing and giggling, followed by moans as Dell and Acacia spent hours upon hours making love.

When the beautiful District 7 woman finally rolled off her colleague from where she had been straddling him, utterly spent, her brown eyes were huge.

"…. Wow," she breathed. "For someone who has very little use of their legs…."

Dell just chuckled. "I don't need my legs to fuck you, dear. Just my hips."

They lay side by side for a moment, allowing their heart rates to return to normal.

"Never did think I would get married," Acacia mumbled as she swung her legs around to sit up on the edge of the bed and draw a bathrobe around herself. She was after all, in her thirties; Dell had just turned 30, in fact.

She felt Dell dip his lips into the curve of her sweaty neck, causing her to gasp. "Better late than never."

She turned to him, suddenly afraid.

"Can we make this work? We live in different districts, it's not like we can sleep together every night. Heck, where can we even have a ceremony?"

"You pick," Dell suggested.

Acacia worried her bottom lip. Then her face lit up as an idea came to her. "We'd have to do it here in the Capitol, before Rowan's final interviews. I hear Rolling Dreams casino has a nice little chapel."

"OK," Dell assented, though he looked a little disappointed.

She tilted her head and smiled at him. "What?"

"I was just hoping we could make it traditional. Like walk through fields of barley." He blushed. "That's our custom back home."

"Awww….." she cooed. A pause, and then: "But seriously, where are we going to find a wheat field in this city?"

"We could ask Woof," Dell cracked. "His arena was full of them. Maybe the old site is close by."

Acacia laughed. "Doubt it. But at least your marriage custom's better than ours. In Seven, we have to jump over a fallen log."

Dell grinned. "I know. I looked it up."

Smiling radiantly, Acacia leaned in and softly kissed him. "I think I'm going to enjoy being married to you. I…. I love you."

"Love you too."

They kissed again, letting the silence reign for a moment as they enjoyed being together.

Then:

"So should we just head over to that chapel in Rolling Dreams?"

"Sure, Acacia, love. Whatever you want."