(a/n): *jazz hands* it's been a while! Life has been a doozy, but I've never forgotten this story. And after reading some really, really heartwarming reviews, I got the muse to return! So, here it is! The next chapter of my chaotic little story. Last we left off, Finnick and Ceres had a shared moment, which got muddled by their baggage and what's about to happen. Cashmere may or may not make an Alliance between Tributes. And a whole lot else. Lots to happen in this chapter, lots of new characters. ^^ I am so excited to jump back in!

CHAPTER NINE

boil in your hate

"Did you remember to bring a Token?"

I barely hear my brother through the thick haze of my thoughts, but he repeats himself twice and I find my gaze lifting to meet his. It's not the type of question I was expecting out of him, honestly; it seems too sentimental. Too out of the moment. Averting my attentions from the fire we'd been working on, I eye my brother quizzically. He's looking at me with genuine curiosity, as if we're having a nice, light conversation on the beach back home; watching the sunset, preparing to cook a fish I just got. It's not the type of conversation necessary while we're training ourselves for the Games - frankly, it seems like a really bad topic. He should be asking me about the fire we're building and when, where, and why we shouldn't be building one. We could also be studying the various poisonous berries and herbs to avoid while we're in the Games. There is so much for us to prepare for, that the idea of a Token just seems ridiculous. But he has that ridiculously charming smile on his face and I have half a mind to smack him for it.

I really should tell him to focus. After all, Liber is really bad at starting fires, and he's even worse at maintaining them. This is what we should be focusing on. Right. Focus. Then again, that's something I've been struggling to keep up. I wonder why. It certainly couldn't have anything to do with how Finnick handled me the other night -

"Ceres...you alive in there?"

"No," I say, pausing. "I mean, yeah, I'm alive. No, I didn't bring a Token." I take a stick, demonstrating once again the proper hand position; rolling it between my palms, up and down, until there's a semblance of a spark. "Okay, see? Now you try it."

"Why didn't you?"

"What would I have even brought with me?" I hand said stick to him, gently prodding his arm with it. "We both know I'm not sentimental."

Liber takes the stick, holding it carefully in his hands. Much like me, his expression is far away. His mind is elsewhere. I have to wonder where he is, if he exists in that plains of terror where some of these Tributes most definitely reside, or if he's found solace in the possibility of his own death. I won't be letting that happen, of course. Liber is typically an open book, but he's been tricky to read since the Games. I hear him cry sometimes, when his door is ajar, but then he's smiling when daylight comes. I've considered breaching the topic, but we've never been particularly close. Sure, he's my brother, and I'd kill for him - as proven by my choice to Volunteer - but we're sometimes shadows to each other; faceless, unknowing beings. I'd disappear onto the beach and he'd be God knows where.

It's a thought that sits poorly with me now, just how little I actually know Liber. I know he's confident and he can be protective, but who was he before the Games? While I was on the beach, fishing with dad or Neleus or even Finnick, where was he? He never liked the water, he's always preferred dry land. But what would he do? What life did he even have? I feel like I should ask him all of these questions, yet it feels wrong to openly admit that Liber is a stranger to me, when the Games is so close. It would have to be discouraging, wouldn't it? To have your sister approach you and confess to scarcely know you...to have scarcely cared. Guilt, a reoccurring being, settles back into my chest. If I hadn't leaned so hard into my goals to join the Games, if I'd paid more attention to what was around me, I wonder what else I could have learned.

Maybe I am sentimental.

I think about what Finnick said, about not carrying extra baggage with you into the Games. I know he's right. It's the smart thing to do. But it's hard to think about that, when that memory bleeds right into what happened afterwards; his lips on mine, his hands on my body. I shudder, recalling how a voice that wasn't his filled my ear. Let me show you what I'm capable of. That wasn't my Finnick -

Fuck.

My Finnick.

I clench my teeth and break one of the extra sticks in half. It doesn't feel half as good as I'd hoped it would.

Liber glances at my hands then back to my face. "Well, uh..." he trails. "Maybe not. But I figured mom or dad would give you something."

I snort. "Oh, yeah, mom did. A verbal lashing," I say, watching as a tiny thread of smoke plumes upwards from Liber's rapidly moving hands. "Okay, good, now slow down a little. Up and down, remember? Yes, there it is." I smile as a tiny flame erupts. "Now give it air. Not too much."

Liber does as I say. I internally sigh with relief. Good. He'll be competent in some areas.

"Did you bring anything with you, as a Token?" I wonder.

Liber nods. "Yeah, I did. Mom gave me a pufferfish skeleton."

For the first time in a very long time, I burst into laughter. I quickly muffle the sound with my hand, clenching my teeth to keep it quiet; but it comes out as a feral sounding whistle instead. I note a few of the Tributes' eyes on us, some of them in mockery and others with wariness. Damn it, I think, but I can't help it. A pufferfish. Mom saw my brother off and she gave him the skeleton of a pufferfish? I close my eyes, finding the will to calm myself back down. But when I meet my brother's eyes again, I can't help but to feel it arise again. His eyes are so wide, so utterly perplexed by me, and his mouth is ajar.

"And where...does mom think you'll be able to carry a pufferfish skeleton around during the Games?" I manage out. "Where did mom even get it...?"

My brother's cheeks darken. "If you must know, mom bought it. She said that it reminded her of me," he says, quickly lifting a finger when he sees my shoulders start to shake. "Hey, before you laugh at me again, she had a valid reason. People underestimate pufferfish. They're oddly shaped, panic under pressure...but they're highly poisonous. Mom thought it'd help me feel braver."

"Venomous."

"What?"

I shake my head. "Pufferfish are venomous, not poisonous."

"Yeah, whatever, just let me work on this fire."

"You do that."

As Liber is preoccupied maintaining and rising the flame, I allow my gaze to move across the gymnasium, to look upon the Tributes that could be our foes or Allies. Tilda had mentioned that we would be potentially Allied with the kids from District 1, but we haven't heard or seen any progress on that one yet. Truthfully, it's not an unrealistic Alliance. Often in the Games, it's common to see Tributes from 1, 2, 3, and 4 Ally together; as they are the Career Districts. Districts 1 and 2 are specifically trained and are remarkably brutal. There is a reason that they win almost annually. I recall watching the Games when I was eleven, in which two girls from District 1 and 4 had Allied with each other, and had done quite well given the circumstances. But the girl from District 4 fell asleep and the girl from District 1 bashed her head in with a large rock. She robbed the gear and supplies off of the girl, then fled off into the midmorning. As far as I could recall, the girl from 1 only lasted two days after that ordeal.

Logically it makes sense to Ally with the Careers, especially the ones of such high caliber. Frankly, the girl and the boy from District 1 are ideal. But I can't help but to think of that girl's restful expression just moments before a giant rock slammed against her head countless times, rendering it a hollow cavern of blood, brains, and debris of skull. I'd like to think I'm above killing someone in their sleep. I've never liked kills that have gone down that way. They feel wrong. Maybe that's because I've always been afraid of it. It's a vulnerable position to be, laid out and unaware of your surroundings; anything could happen at any time. Granted, some Tributes enjoyed the violence of it. They liked having their victims awake, to fight back or to scream. But some like the quicker, easier ways to win.

Beside me, Liber grunts in annoyance as the fire goes out. I have to seriously consider my morals. Whenever I'd pictured myself in the Games, it was always idyllic. I knew how to swim and I knew how to spear fish. I'd just applied those skills to my fantasies, and those Tributes that I would have killed to work my way to victory were always faceless shadows of kids who had already died before in previous Games. Now that I'm looking at these living, breathing, individuals, I'm faced with the truth that I am going to have to kill some of them. Maybe in their sleep, too.

My gaze settles on the boy from District 1. He's definitely the biggest Tribute here. He stands roughly at 6'1", despite only being eighteen years old; with an array of rippling muscles which flex beneath his training attire. He has an unusually and, in my opinion, unnaturally thick neck which contrasts with his square head. He has a mop of dark brown hair which he keeps slicked back. His eyes are a sharp shade of blue, but not like my brother's; they're cooler, like ice, with a greyish hint. They are cold eyes. His name is Jason, I believe. He reminds me of a shark, because sharks are always moving to survive, and Jason is always moving. He's always training, whether it's sparring or working on physical strength. Even when he stands still, his heaving breaths cause his muscles to flex.

Currently he is wielding a machete, and is hacking at a synthetic body; decapitating it in two swipes. He keeps to himself, as far as I can tell. It's very rare that I seem him interact with his fellow Tribute, Lamia. She is his opposite, at least in physicality. She's fairly petite, likely on account of being fairly young for a Career - just fifteen years old - and her stature is a head shorter than Jason's. She has chestnut curls which fall to her shoulders and a heart shaped face. With a button nose and deep brown eyes, she almost has an innocent, girly appearance. But such comparisons fall away when she's in her element. She's acrobatic, able to flip and leap over incredible heights, and dive quickly. She doesn't need to disarm her opponents or to run. She need only move quickly, then find a way to latch onto their backs, and cut their throats.

It's quite the pair that Tilda and Ren want for us.

I wonder what dad thinks about it. Liber and I haven't seen him much, as he's been drowning his woes with Haymitch Abernathy, who has essentially given up on his Tributes, as far as I can tell. They're only kids, and this paired with their statuses as District 12 will basically mutilate their chances of survival.

Add that to the list of things I never assumed about the Games.

Lamia does a backflip over one of the trainers, grabbing one of the arrows lying in a quiver, and aims it towards his throat. Harpee sputters on blood. I feel my heartbeat start to quicken again and I have to look away. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Tilda suggested that I should use a bow and arrow a few times, at least during a training; to neutralize that part of my brain, desensitize it to the memory. I've used it a couple of times, but using it is different than seeing it. But she's right, it's going to get me killed if I dwell on it. Finnick said the same thing...but then again, Finnick hasn't said a word to me since that night. It's been days, and I'd consider being spiteful about it if we were still in District 4. Under normal circumstances, I probably would've cut one of his nets or thrown him off of one of our little boats. But we aren't in 4 anymore and we may never be again, at least not together. There's no room to be petty, not here.

Distance is good. It's less to carry with me into the Games.

I just wish it hadn't felt good to be held by him. His lips were rough against mine, reminding me of the day we kissed each other for the first time. I was his first kiss, I had to be, because he was so awkward and sloppy. He tasted like sand and sea salt. He still tasted like the sea, but there was something else this time. Sugar seemed to coat his lips in an unusually sweet flavor. His mouth was far more experienced, for reasons that I try not to think about - for my own sake. I'm experienced, too, more or less. I've kissed a couple of boys since we were fourteen. Nothing serious, more idle curiosities. But none of it compared to that night.

I hate that. I hate how natural it felt. I wonder if he hated it, too.

I make a small clucking noise with my tongue as I push myself to my feet. "Go train in swords. They'll be expecting us to be specialized in only tridents and spears," I tell him, glancing over the other Tributes. District 1 wasn't our only option. Ren encouraged me to make friends. Just go up to who feels natural, he'd told me. It felt wrong at the time, but I know it's a necessary evil.

Liber doesn't fight me on it. He drifts away, rubbing his hands together as he approaches the sword master. Meanwhile, I look over our options. There are physically powerful Tributes, ones that are clearly skilled with weaponry...but I also have to recognize who I am, too. I am the daughter of a Victor and my little display at the Reaping was a bit noteworthy, but my father is still Rheon Rythe. He's the man who had the boring Games and who lost an eye; he's done nothing memorable since then, either. Now, in an alternate reality where my father was Gloss from District 1, then no doubt I would have eyes on me and Tributes eager to Ally themselves to me. But I'm going to have to make a name for myself here, especially since my father is doing no favors reputation wise.

I've heard the snickers. He's getting drunk and lost into the fathomless depths of his misery with Haymitch. Remarkable father.

I take a deep breath and press forward. I weigh my options. I could spar with Lamia, who is currently outmatching her opponent, or I could seek Jason out, but I don't want to put all of my fish into that net; I need to be realistic. I consider District 2, as the girl and boy are quite toned and are competent - again, as Careers - but I don't like the cold, calculating looks in their eyes. They would, no doubt, not even wait until I was asleep before they bashed my head in. I stray further into the heart of everything, until my eyes settle on the boy from District 7. He's about my height and my age, but he's well-built, and he seems able-bodied. I've also seen him offer some assistance to the kids from District 12, so he can't be entirely self-preserving.

He's currently adjusting a javelin in his hands, twisting it until he finds the right balance, then he hurtles it towards the faux body; it pieces the lower abdomen of the figure; causing it to jostle in place with a slink sound. It's off-center, but certainly a plunge of that magnitude would be enough to kill someone; at least cripple them.

Worth a shot.

I whistle. "Nice."

He turns, looking a bit surprised. "Thanks," he says. He has a round face and a crooked nose, but his eyes aren't cold like others are, nor condescending; but neither are they enveloped by warmth. This could work. "You're District 4, right?" He makes a throwing motion. "You use Tridents."

"Spears, too," I say, taking this as consent to approach. I fold my arms and lean onto my heel comfortably, conveying a more casual stance which, to my surprise, the boy mirrors. "That was impressive. Do you use a javelin in District 7?"

"My Mentor suggested I pick it up, actually. So far so good." He turns, approaching the body and pulling the javelin from it. The body straightens back up; blank face pointed in our direction, similar to the Tributes I used to fantasize about. He gets back into position, but nothing in his body language conveys I should go, so I stay put. "Any tips?"

I consider him. "Maybe I have your name before I give tips?"

It seems too personal to learn the names of someone I could potentially be put into a position to kill, but this can't be all savagery. There has to be something to it. Something. And, besides, if we're going to be making Allies, we need a sort of connection in order to maintain the Alliance, at least to satiate any chances of being backstabbed for a time.

To my surprise, he doesn't hesitate. "It's Birch Indica," he says. "I know who you are. You're Sierra Rythe."

Wow. I snort. "Ceresea. But I prefer Ceres," I say.

"Sorry," Birch says. "Any tips, then, Ceres?"

"Throw it again."

Birch does so. I watch as he leans back onto his heel, leaning back slightly, and his right arm reeling backwards before he launches it forward. The javelin pierces the center of the abdomen this time.

"Not bad. But your footing is off," I say. "Your legs should be further apart to steady your stance and keep you grounded. You also hesitated a second too long before you threw it. You can't doubt yourself like that. And take a breath before you throw it. Holding my breath keeps me steady when I'm fishing with a spear."

Birch looks at the javelin and then back to me, appearing thoughtful before a broad smile spreads across his face. "As helpful as that all sounds, I'm also going to take it with a grain of salt. For all I know, you could've just seized the opportunity to disable the competition with bad advise," he says.

I snort. "Fair. But then why ask?"

"Was curious what you'd have to say," Birch admits.

"Also fair," I say. "How about I give it a shot?"

"Go for it."

I retrieve the javelin in question. I steady my position, spreading my legs apart and tightening my calf muscles, keeping my feet firmly in place. I grip the javelin tightly, trying to find the proper balance; it's off from what I'm used to. It's proportions are relatively the same, as is its design, but it still feels different. It's pure metal and thick, versus the wooden spears I'm used to back home. It's heavier. But I take my time until I find a comfortable grip. With the cold metal in my hand, I reel my hand back. I look at my target, and I try to imagine it as a person. I don't want to, but it's a necessary evil.

Okay, person.

I can't think of anyone I immediately hate or want dead, so the person's face I conjure in my head is something altogether generic; maybe someone I've seen in District 4 before, in passing. It's enough, though. With a grunt, I hurtle the javelin outward. It doesn't hit the chest, where I had been aiming, but rather falls lower; striking the dummy square in the genitals. I hear Birch hiss beside me, an unintentional reaction that draws an amused grin from me. I look back at him, pretending I meant to do that.

"Do me a favor. If it comes down to you and me, just kill me," Birch muses.

It's odd to hear a joke about the Games like that. I'm uncertain whether to be endeared or to be uncomfortable, so I opt for a noncommittal shrug. "Wouldn't be an issue if we're Allies," I say, as smoothly as I can.

Birch appears visibly taken aback by this, staring at me with wide dark brown eyes. His hands go to rest on his hips as he spends a good few seconds genuinely studying me, gaze flickering from my face to my body language. Maybe I was too forward, but with the Games drawing closer minute by minute, we need to be prepared. District 7 isn't by any means a lesser District, but it does reside in the middle. A bit vainly, I consider that District 7 would be thrilled to receive an offer from a Career District. It seems like a fair option, especially given that the person in question -

"No."

I blink. "What?"

"No," Birch repeats. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I've got an Alliance already."

Huh. "With who?"

"District 12."

Birch gestures towards the twelve year old girl and thirteen year old boy, who are currently very clumsily trying to spar with each other; neither are holding their dulled blades properly, and their thin arms seem to be struggling to bear the weight. They are very skinny kids, especially for their ages; I remember being taller at twelve, as well as sturdier. The boy is knocked over, having lost his balance, and the girl is quick to help him to his feet. She drops her own blade in the process with a small clatter to the ground. Dead, I think instantly, and I hate myself for those thoughts being so quick and nonchalant. When I was younger, I would sit and watch the Tributes during the Parade and then during the Interviews, and I would evaluate who would be the quickest to live and to die. It was like its own game for me. My parents and brother never really participated, of course, so I would make my own notes.

I was a pretty good judge of character and of physicality. I could usually spot the fan-favorites and the weak links, then make notes for myself on how I could utilize the skills of great Tributes and Victors and how it could apply to my eventual success. Maybe my notebook should've been my Token. Fuck, why hadn't I thought to bring it with me? If anything, it could benefit Liber.

That's beside the point. The kids that I am seeing right now, helping each other up and barely able to hold up dulled swords will not be the kids who survive the Games. They'll die in the initial bloodbath, if my years of practical thinking and theorizing has taught me anything. And even if they survive, no one will Sponsor them. Maybe one or two "goodhearted" members of the Capitol will take pity on them and send table scraps, but it wouldn't be enough. They're dead. I can already see their little bodies mangled and blood pooling out of their mouths, dead before they could even make a sound, much less plead for their lives.

"His name is Rust Underhorn and she's Daisy Plaindrop."

I keep my eyes on them. They must feel it, because Daisy looks in our direction and visibly winces, poking at Rust's arm. He also appears uncomfortable but he tries to puff his chest up, and then looks back to the sword in her hands. He nods urgently, and they go back to "sparring." I hear Birch sigh.

"So you're helping them?" I ask.

"My District partner refuses," he says. "She thinks they're a lost cause, same way you do."

I open my mouth to protest, but he lifts his hand.

"We all know it. Least I can do is buy them a chance, you know?"

I think for a moment that he's an idiot, but, then again, I Volunteered for the Games for the sole purpose of keeping my brother alive. I knew that if anyone else had been Reaped or had Volunteered, they wouldn't give two shits about him in the end. It had to be me, knowing full well that I'll have to die to keep him alive in the end. I suppose we're both idiots, then; Birch and I. "I understand," I say, instead. "We could still Ally, you know."

Tilda and Ren would no doubt be upset with me for opening the offer out like this. To Ally with Birch alone (and with his partner) was a smart thing to do, but to add in the two kids from District 12 was another thing in entirely. They'd be a hindrance, I knew. They would weigh us down and dismantle our chances. But, then again, wouldn't it be better to be paired with someone with similar motives to mine? It seemed less of a gamble than District 1, or even the other Career Districts.

Birch considers my offer for a long moment, raking a hand over his head and a loud sigh parting from him. When he does look back at me, he looks skeptical. "And if our numbers went far enough down, you could try to kill them," he says. "First you'd kill me."

"That'd be a smart move, but I'm not interested in killing you or those kids," I say, and he rolls his eyes. "I mean, killing one another is inevitable, but killing each other doesn't have to be. We both have the same goals in mind. You're going to protect those kids and my brother and I are going to keep each other safe." Birch doesn't need to know I'm doing the brunt of that protecting. "It could be beneficial."

Birch peers behind me, eyes settling on something before he makes a low sound. "I'll consider it, but it seems like your brother is making Allies of his own. Excuse me."

He turns, then, walking towards the kids. I watch briefly as he helps the kids adjust their stances and their holds on the weapons, but just as quickly I am looking over my shoulder. My eyes widen instantly. Liber is standing alongside Lamia. She's balancing on her fingertips on some elevated box, so they're almost eye to eye. She flips over him and my body instantly stiffens. I have to fight the urge to rush towards him to protect him, because we're not in the Games yet, and I know he's technically safe. She lands behind him. He nods appreciatively, and within moments he is trying to balance on his hands. Lamia is smiling at him, those long eyelashes of hers fluttering as he stumbles over himself, only to get back up and try again.

What the fuck?

"So for our exclusive showings, I wonder how Sponsors will feel. I mean, we're showing off our greatest assets. That's got to be complicated, right?" Liber is saying, though I can't bring myself to pay attention. "I bet some of them already have picked out favorites, like the Careers. That's what Tilda says. I doubt we'll stand chances at changing their minds, but maybe a couple of others haven't made up their minds yet. I can show off my skills with the fire that you taught me, maybe even when we practiced swords the other day...I hope I at least get an eight..."

Or show off what Lamia taught you, I think to myself. I can't explain that bone-chilling sensation I felt when I watched my brother and the girl from District 1 training together, but it's been reoccurring since then. It's an unsettling image at that, to see a girl so small and petite, yet proven herself so deathly efficient, be so patient with my brother. They had trained together for about an hour before they parted ways so she could train with Jason, then Liber had strayed off to practice swords on his own. Which I had instructed him to do to begin with. I know that Tilda said to befriend Jason and Lamia, but there's something off-putting about how natural Liber fell into it. I can't say that I trust it. I specifically don't trust her. For all we know, she could be using him. A deception tactic to lower his defenses when the Games commenced. I've seen Tributes do it before.

Why didn't I bring that damn book?

I want to think that it'll be for the best, that my brother having some influence from a Career girl from a higher District will benefit him not just in his training, but when we perform for our scores. Perform being the key word here. I recall being a child and fantasizing about that day, when I could show off my various skillsets (very exaggerated in my imaginations), and receiving an ample score. I used to dream about that magnificent score of 12. But that's all fantasy now. All of it has been.

Even an eight seems generous.

"Are you nervous?" Liber asks me.

Liber has been effectively making most of the conversation since we left training, now making our way back to the rooms. Several other Tributes are filing out, as well, paired with their respective fellow Tribute. The whole area is patrolled by servants and guards, but there is some comfort in the openness of the space. Like a bigger sized birdcage.

"No," I say. "We'll just practice more."

"Yeah, I figured. I mean, I saw you practicing with the guy from District 7. That's a good catch for an Ally, he seems strong," Liber says.

I don't have the heart to tell him that the offer had been all but denied, at least not yet. "Hopefully," I say.

"We have Lamia, at least," he says.

My gaze flicks sharply to him, jaw almost dropping. I shouldn't be surprised, because the way they had interacted off of each other seemed oddly light and casual, and yet for it to have transpired so quickly is legitimately jarring. Immediately? Not only had Liber immediately wooed the girl from District 1, but he had also convinced her to join our Alliance? I want to be angry, demand that he should have waited for me to have that conversation with her, but I realize all too bitterly that it's jealousy talking. I try to staunch it, because jealousy will get us no where, and it will only get us killed in the long run. But I can't quell it. It flourishes loudly within me, like the uproar of a wave rising so high it blocks the sun, then colliding harshly to the surface of the ocean. A riptide against the beach follows.

"You should've waited to have that conversation with me."

Liber blinks. "Tilda said-"

"I don't care. We're a team. And District 1 can be dangerous."

"Lamia is nice." Liber blushes darkly.

"Nice, huh?"

"Shut up. At least I got an actual Ally and not just a maybe," Liber huffs. "Besides, the more we learn from our peers, the better off we'll be for our solo performances."

I hate to admit it, but he's right. As proven by my talk with Birch, in our exchange regarding the javelin, it was good to gain that knowledge between peers, as well as experience. To make Allies, not friends, was a necessity; some connections had to be forged, one way or another, and it was to the benefit of everyone. Not just inside the Arena, when all bets were off, but also in the training arena, when we have the chances to analyze each other, in our advantages, disadvantages, and possible secrets. Liber is my disadvantage, whereas I am his advantage. At the very least, as poor as his fighting and survival instincts might be, he has charisma. That should win him some favor during the Interviews and with making Alliances.

Tilda will be pleased, so will Ren.

Still, I can't help but to glare ahead of me. I might have stayed lost in my petty thoughts, but there are murmurs and the sounds of a door opening with a soft hiss off to the side. Curiosity arises within me and I turn to look, expecting some guards or even some trainers to be passing through. I'm sort of right, as there are two servants on either side of a distinguished looking gentleman clad in a red and black suit; designed with an array of fancy spiral patterns. For a moment, the man is a stranger to me, but then his head turns and our eyes lock. They are a bright pair of large blue eyes, framed in a heart shaped face, with slicked black hair and an easy smile. The Gamemaker's nephew, I recount. I had not seen him since the Tribute Parade, when he and his uncle had perused the various Tributes as one peruses a marketplace.

His demeanor is the same; well and composed, his expression is as thoughtful as it was that day; as if he is pondering something great and extraordinary. His thoughts must be so loud if he is constantly mulling over them. I half-expect the man to carry on with whatever business he has, but he pauses in his stride. His gaze is leveled to us, even as we continue to walk towards the elevator. Our eyes remain attached for a moment too long, until it is too difficult to peer over my shoulder comfortably. I settle my gaze forward again, feeling both unsettled and curious. Liber appears the former.

"I wonder what the Gamemaker's nephew is doing here," he says.

I spare a quick glance over my shoulder. Seneca Crane has walked on with his entourage, heading towards the doors of the training arena. I look forward again. "Maybe interviewing the trainers. His uncle is Gamemaker, so maybe he wants a preview of what he's working with," I offer.

"Yeah, maybe. Wonder what he was staring at, though."

"I wonder."

"Lamia said she would Ally with us," Liber says, as soon as Ren walks into the room.

Ren's eyes widen, appearing a bit bewildered at the prospect, but then he sighs loudly. "Oh, thank God," he says, reaching out to squeeze Liber's shoulder. "Good job, kid. Having Lamia on your team will be a good thing. I've seen her train, she's fast and surprisingly strong."

"I approached her while she was training, and she seemed receptive. I wonder if Cashmere talked to her."

"Probably." Ren levels his gaze to me. I'm currently sitting on the couch, feet tucked under me, and holding a pillow to my chest; sore from sparring, but too foggy-minded to really care about the pain. "How about you? Any luck?"

I think about Birch Indica. He was absolutely a candidate for an Ally. He would have been fantastic. He, too, was strong and able bodied and potentially fast, but he had the disability of adopting those kids from District 12. I can't lie and say that I find his decision to be wrong, as ethically it is a very good decision. But it is also a hindrance by way of him risking his own life, also by damaging any possible Alliances with everyone else. Still, he hasn't ruled me out entirely. Maybe I can talk to him later, when the dust settles and he has time to consider his options. Still, with that Alliance being undecided, at best, I feel apprehensive to share it with one of my Mentors. But it also doesn't feel right that Liber is the only one who did some good today.

"Birch Indica from District 7. He said he'd think about it."

Ren appears satisfied by this, nodding to himself. He rounds the coffee table and goes to sit in one of the chairs. He leans back until his head falls backwards, staring at the ceiling for a moment before throwing himself forward. "This is good. These are good candidates for an Alliance," he says.

I open my mouth to reply, to add that Birch has another Alliance that could add to ours - and word it to the best of my ability, so it doesn't sound completely insane - but footsteps echo from the hallway behind us, and soon enough there is a new presence in the room. I look over the couch, feeling my stomach drop as Finnick enters the room. He is wearing a sweater over a pair of nice pants. His feet are bare, leading me to wonder if he had kicked off his practical, nice Capitol shoes at the door. His eyes find mine briefly, but I'm the first to look away. I don't need the pain of him averting his gaze from me again, because he's been doing it constantly. He crosses the threshold of the room, looking towards Ren.

"What are we talking about?"

"Our Tributes made friends," Ren says.

"Hmm."

Finnick looks between Liber and I, with a gaze that is keenly that of a Mentor's. He is considering us thoughtfully, no doubt steeling himself to whatever good or bad decisions his little Tributes had made. At the very least, Finnick has the decency to give us equal eye contact.

Ren opens his hands. "Liber convinced Lamia Lowvale to Ally with them," he says. "And then Ceres convinced the boy from 7."

"He's thinking about it," I correct, deciding against sharing Birch's current Alliances for the time being. Finnick casts me a somewhat disappointed stare and I can't help but to glare back at him, half-compelled to stick my tongue out or call him seaweed brain. But we're not in District 4, our lives are on the line. Things are different. Very different. "I'll work on him."

Finnick's brow arches slightly.

Ren carries on. "This is good. Making Allies before your solo training is good," he says, glancing up at Finnick. "Cashmere must've talked to Lamia. Whatever you did, did wonders, Finnick."

Finnick's eyes finally move off of me, looking towards his fellow Victor. "I have a way with women," he says, with the hint of a smirk.

Discomfort coils itself into my stomach and I push the pillow off of me, then I'm on my feet. That familiar wave of nausea hits like a riptide inside of me, tearing everything apart and pulling it away into the great unknown. When Finnick was fourteen and telling me about how he had changed his mind with President Snow, to the night we kissed again, and he had spoken to me like those Capitol women. He hadn't meant it, I know he didn't mean it, but I couldn't shake the implications there. He's trained himself so sharply to intimacy...as a survival technique, no doubt, which I well sympathize with, but to have it be attached to me was like swallowing seawater. The kiss we shared in his room was a far cry from the kiss we shared on the beach. That was the real him that day, not this new version of him; molded like bloodied clay to befit the expectations of the buyer.

I ignore the quizzical glances and queries as to where I was going as I march out of the living room and towards my bedroom. I shut the door behind me. When I'm in the isolating quiet, I let it overwhelm me. I slide down the door, sitting with my feet tucked underneath me, and staring off into the dimly lit space; so artificial. Neutral colors with metallic furniture, in sharp contrast to the open and airy wooden spaces of our beach houses, where everything was bright and colorful, and the world smelled sweet. I close my eyes, imagining it to the best of my ability. I'm in my room, sand between my toes, and my skin tingling because of sunburn.

I think of my mother boiling a crustacean my father and I would have caught that day, listening to it banging itself against the pot. In hindsight, how very similar it was to the Games; boiling something alive, listening to it die. That was wrong, wasn't it? Yet we do it to survive, because we need the meat on the crab, and we can't kill it beforehand; that'll contaminate the meat. But what about the kids who go into the Arena? Are they any different? Are we just piles of meat feeding the Capitol...?

Maybe not the dead ones, but certainly the living. Finnick certainly feeds them. But who else? I close my eyes, thinking about the attractive Victors. Some of them are married, have kids; live simple lives, as far as I can tell. Others are loners, flirtatious. Shit. Cashmere and Gloss are certainly attractive and come from the wealthiest District in Panem, so they're likely apart of it. My dad...no, definitely not. At least, I don't...

I don't think. The fact I can't answer that with certainty makes me feel ill all over again.

I press my face into my hands, inhaling and exhaling slowly until that nausea subsides, and I feel well enough to stand. I pad across my room towards my bed, taking a seat upon it. Only a moment of silence goes by before there's a knock on my door. With dread, I consider that it might be Finnick, but I know that it's not him. Definitely not Liber, who knows better than to follow after me when I need space.

"Go away, Ren. I need to be alone," I call.

The door opens anyway, but it's not Ren standing there. Rheon steps in, looking surprisingly sober. There are dark circles wedged beneath his eyes, hanging thickly like bags. His cheeks appear more sunken, as well. His hair is a mess, though, at the very least, it looks as though he's recently showered. He looks almost like himself; the father I left behind in District 4, who was always tired, and yet always focused. Yet here, the focus is different. I can see it in his one true eye; the other one a mere blank slate.

We stare at each other for a moment, both seemingly surprised. I haven't seen him directly in a while, so to have him in my room now, looking as he does, is a bit jarring. But as to where his surprise comes from, I can't say. It's one of the many misfortunes of being unable to read one's mind. Then again, maybe that's a gift.

Slowly, I straighten my back out. I consider standing to greet him, but I really don't care.

Rheon swallows, straightening himself out, too. "It's been a while."

"Yeah, no kidding," I say. "Ren and Tilda have been picking up a lot of parental slack."

"Ceresea."

"What?"

His tone is scolding, but it's not sharp enough to convey anger; well, it is there, but it's mostly quiet. It's too tired to truly flourish out of him; like a gentle flame, waiting for life to be breathed into it. He rakes a hand over his shaggy hair, teeth audibly grinding together for a split second, before he is walking towards me. I half expect him to point a finger in my face and scold me, for one reason or another, but instead Rheon sits beside me. I can small the alcohol buried deep under layers of shampoo and possible perfume, but at least it's subdued. At least he's sober.

We sit there in a long lapse of silence that is far too uncomfortable. My father and I are used to silence, generally speaking; we would often spend hours without any words shared between us on his boat. The seagulls above us and the water below was more than enough. Occasionally there were words between us, but it was never needed. The silence was never deafening nor horrible. It had been a language of our own, so to speak. But as we sit here now, never have I felt so suffocated. There's nothing else to fill the air. There are no seagulls or waves or fish jumping out of the water. There's only mind-numbing artificial silence. Not even voices or noises beyond the door.

I can't take it, so I break it. "What do you want, dad?"

"I haven't forgotten about you or Liber. I've been trying to find you Sponsors," Rheon says.

In the bar. "I know."

"You understand this is hard, right? I never imagined that both my son and my daughter would be here," he says, looking down at his hands. "I always knew that one of you could be Reaped, but you were so close to eluding it, and Liber was just a few years off, too...now look at you. I watch you train through the cameras, you and Liber. You're right where I never wanted you to be."

"But where I always wanted to be," I say, mirthlessly.

Rheon shakes his head. "I never wanted this for you, Ceres," he says, his voice strained. "But you're here. You could die...Liber could die..."

"Liber convinced the Career from District 1 to Ally with us," I say, feeling myself shudder over my father' swords. "That's a good thing, dad. Ren said so."

But my dad isn't paying attention. His gaze is gone now, far away; distant. I watch him as his face contorts into an expression I have never seen before, something akin to absolute terror. "I could lose you both in the Games. We're doing all we can, Ceres, we are," he says.

"D-dad." I try to think quickly, to pull him out of it. "I threw a javelin and it landed on the dummy's genitals."

That seems to stir him out of funk, blinking himself out of that haze. It is a long moment before he is looking at me, brow furrowed together with a look of mild horror. "What?"

"Yeah. I was training and I threw a javelin at a dummy. I was aiming for the chest, but I got the crotch instead. I think I scared one of the Tributes."

Rheon is quiet for a moment and I sit there worried that he shall fall back into that state again, but, thankfully, he smiles at me. A small laugh even frees itself from his clenched lips. "Of course...of course you would have that aim," he says. "That'll be useful in the Games, you know. You'd be surprised how you can dismantle your opponent by going for their lesser known weak spots."

"For sure, dad," I say. "Maybe I can show you when we're training together?" I reach slowly out for his hand, squeezing it. "I know it's hard, dad. Watching us like that. But it's hard for us too, especially without our dad being there. You don't even have to be our dad in that scenario, just be our Mentor. Please. We need you. Liber needs you."

Rheon lowers his eyes, a shameful gleam residing there. We fall into another lapse of silence, this one, at least, a little lest uncomfortable. He's weighing my words carefully in his head, I can tell by how his brow scrunches and how his lips purse, a usual expression of rare deep pondering from my father. I focus on him, waiting in the slow paced air, until he finally lifts his head and nods. "Alright. Alright...I'll try."

"Do it or don't, dad. No try," I say, firmly.

He swallows. "Alright. Alright. I promise..."

I almost wish someone would make conversation. We're sitting in this steel chamber with rows of metal seating - a windowless space with artificial lights hung over us. The time which passes feels like an eternity, only weighed further down upon by the clock which ticks idly and annoyingly by upon the wall. I don't look up to see what time it is, because it doesn't matter; time won't change in accordance to my wills. It will go as it pleases; like the tide, it takes as much as it gives. With that thought, Neleus' face briefly flickers across my vision; his bronze hair and tanned skin, with his sea-green eyes. It's funny, the years having passed it's so easy to pinpoint the similarities between Finnick and his dead father. But the memories of Neleus are slowly fading, to the man who had taken me on as his apprentice when his son had been Reaped for the Games. I had known him all of my life, and yet what an irritating man...yet I had looked up to him, had tried to impress him despite myself.

Now I am going to have to impress some finely dressed men with my abilities. I wish I could say I wasn't worried, but this was more critical than I had given it credit for. My time spent in that room would be the deciding factor as to how many Sponsors I would manage to obtain; the higher the Score, the higher the chances of Sponsors were. It would be nice to admit that I cared little about what these men thought of me, but it doesn't work that way. Because even the strongest and most able of the Tributes are tapping their foots anxiously in their seats and eyeing the clock. It won't just be sparring with fellow Tributes or trainers. We would be alone, with only our nerves as our companions.

District 1 and 2 had already gone and the boy from District 3. The girl from District 3 was in the room currently, meaning that it would be on us any moment now. I didn't know whose name would be called, but, either way, I didn't like this waiting. Liber appears anxious beside me, his fingers intertwining with each other, massaging his knuckles, and even chewing on his own nails. I consider stopping him, but I understand that he is trying to focus himself, and I can't bring myself to interrupt. After all, my own thoughts are loud; more akin to endless screams than a coherent narrative. It has been a fairly simple last two days; my father had stayed true to his word and participated in our training sessions, albeit in small doses. But it was enough. Ren and Tilda mostly stuck to us. Finnick was still distant. A part of me was grateful for that, but the other half was angry. If it weren't for the glances when he thinks I'm not looking, I'd think he'd completely detached from me. I wish he would. It'd make this process easier, yet on the other hand, I'm glad I'm in his thoughts.

But thoughts are dangerous. They bleed truths, which contaminate reality.

I lean forward, peering off handedly to the side where I see Birch mouthing something to the kids from 12. They appear nervous, but whatever he mouthed to them seems to console them. I hope they have a chance, at least, I think. Birch glances my way, our eyes briefly locking. He offers me a friendly smile, which I tensely return.

Proper stance, he mouths.

I almost snort. Aim for the genitals, I mouth back, with a subtle bit of miming.

It's a welcomed bit of levity, because seconds after there is a crackle in the speaker overhead. "Ceresea Rythe."

I feel my stomach roll all over again.

Liber takes my hand and squeezes it. "Good luck."

As I walk towards the doors, I think to myself about when I was first learning to tie a net. I had practiced day and night in my room and had managed to make a fairly good net; nothing remarkable, but it was sizable enough to catch a small bit of fish. But when my father had told me to make another one, I froze. Being four, I had struggled under his watchful gaze. I made mistakes, I fumbled, I hesitated. And when he had scoffed and taken the rope from me, I felt angry. I had been spiteful enough to make a net twice the size of my other one the next day. The idea of having eyes upon me, evaluating me as I performed, sent chills down my spine. I try not to think about it, but as I walk into the large open space, I see them looming over me. They're atop an elevated level, looming over me with servants surrounding them, and food and drinks readily available.

I take a quick moment to evaluate them. They are all well-dressed in fine suits of various colors and designs. Some of them have color coordinated hair colors; such as man with a sunflower suit and bright yellow hair and twirly mustache. He is holding an orange cocktail drink of some kind, and is whispering to a man wearing a purple suit with dark brown hair. Their eyes are leveled upon me, murmuring amongst themselves; not loud enough for me to hear, but just loud enough for me to understand. My eyes then find Lucius Crane in the crowd, clad in a deep purple suit with silver designs, and a drink in his hand. Beside him is Seneca, clad in red and his own eyes upon me. He smiles when our eyes lock, but I look away. I neutralize my gaze to the center of the stage.

"Ceresea Rythe. District 4," I say.

Lucius Crane nods, gesturing with a silver cuffed hand for me to proceed.

Focus, focus, focus, I tell myself. I look at the weapons available to me. There are axes, bows, knives, a scythe, trident, spear, javelin...numerous things, as well as some dummies and circular targets for me to utilize. There is no holding back, not like when I'm surrounded by my peers. I draw in a steadying breath. Focus. I think about flying fish. Sometimes my dad and I would sit in our boat and we'd see flying fish leaping out of the air. Sometimes they soared high into the air, other times they were swift and disappeared as quickly as they came. Flying fish were rare and a delicacy and sold well to buyers like Neleus Odair. But they were tricky to catch; not so inclined to bait. My father had taught me to use slender knives; a quick hand for a quick fish, because a hair's breath too short, and the knife and fish were lost to the depths. I spot some discs laid on the table, as well as some slender, slightly curved, daggers.

It's not a bad start, but it might raise some eyebrows. Worth a shot. I take the disc with my right hand and then take the dagger with my left. A couple of chuckles resound above me, but I try to ignore them. Focus, focus, focus, I repeat. I clench my teeth. In a fluid motion, I throw the disc into the air. I wait for it to start to fall before I swiftly swap the dagger from my left hand to my right. I throw it fast; it strikes the disc in its center, dagger wedging itself into the thin material. I'm fast enough to grab a second dagger and throw it, too. The force of the second thrust causes the disc to collide against the wall; both daggers imbedded into it. I hear murmurs above me.

But it's not enough.

I weigh my options over the spear, javelin, and trident. I've never been particularly comfortable with tridents before, although it has become a symbol of District 4 thanks to Finnick. I remember one or two years after Finnick won, a kid from District 4 had been gifted a trident by his Sponsor, in an effort to replicate the magic of Finnick's games. But the kid had wound up accidentally impaling himself on the trident a day later. No. A trident was Finnick's thing.

I opt for the spear. I take it in my hands, weighing it carefully in my palms. I've become used to these metal designs by comparison to the wooden ones at home, but it still does not feel natural to me. Nevertheless, I glance towards a dummy about twenty feet away from me. I adjust the spear in my hand and hurtle it towards it; it lodges itself into the neck. And so I carry on, testing out weapons I feel confident in, imagining my targets as being fish versus adversaries. I avoid weapons I am uncertain to, though I do try my hands at the bow and arrow. It goes as well as one could expect; I don't hit the target, but I do hit close to the rim.

It's enough.

But as my time is running out, I decide to make a statement, thinking about my encounter with Birch earlier. I take the javelin from off of its rack. It's too late to turn back now, so I take my position and I hurtle it towards a dummy. Whether or not I was aiming for the chest or for the genitals, I won't say. It does strike perfectly between the dummy's legs, earning an array of startled sounds. From there, I bow, and I depart. I try to breathe as I step through those metal doors, leading me through a long, barren corridor.

Let Liber do well. Let Liber do well.

"How did you do?"

Liber hesitates, looking down at his hands. "I think I did alright," he admits. He's sitting frigidly upon the couch, trying very desperately to not appear as nervous as he no doubt felt. I reach out to squeeze his shoulder, grateful when he doesn't flinch away. Physical affection - or affection in general - has been nonexistent in this family, so it is quite a testament to his nerves in how he responds to it. "I showed my strengths, just like I was told to do..."

"Then you did enough," Ren says, from his position beside Liber. "Announcements should be up soon. With any luck, you'll both be holding impressive Scores." He glances to Liber's Stylist, who is nodding supportively.

Galeria, who is currently holding a wine glass, seated curiously upon the coffee table, offers Ren a small smirk. "We both know that Liber and Ceres are without compare," she says, directing her gaze towards me. "I've been hearing nothing but good things, you know. Your reputations are spreading around. Ever since the Parade, Panem is curious about the Rythe children."

I feel my cheeks darken slightly. "I'm just grateful we have some friends here," I admit.

Galeria's smirk shifts into a fond smile. "You're surrounded by friends, Ceres."

I smile at her, my eyes then skimming across the room. My father is pacing slightly, watching the blank screen for any change whatsoever, scarcely paying us any mind. Ren is doing a fair job at consoling my nerve-wrecked brother, as well as Liber's Stylist, Mycho. Mags is seated beside Liber, as well, gently squeezing his hand. But neither Tilda nor Finnick were present. This was only mildly concerning. Though I am aware of what the answers could be, I feel inclined to ask, anyway. For all I knew, they could be seeking out Sponsors or stuck in some irksome conversation.

"Where are Finnick and Tilda?" I ask.

"Clients," Ren answers, too casually.

My stomach clenches. "Right."

Liber hunches forward, making a low groaning noise. Ren returns to consoling him and I go to retrieve him some water from off of the table in the dining chamber. I pad towards the room, where a lone Avox stands oddly stiffly, watching me intently. Her hands are clenched in front of her. I try to ignore the girl clad all in red with those unnerving near black lips. As I reach for the glass of water, the Avox moves with sudden swiftness, and clasps ahold of my wrist. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but any sound dies in my throat when she lifts a finger to her lips. Her hand then slowly unfolds, revealing what had been a nicely folded piece of paper, but was now crumpled.

I look at her, uncertain. "Is this for me?" I whisper.

She nods urgently, gesturing for me to take it. There is such fear in her eyes that it is as if the parchment is searing a hole through her palm. I hesitate, but I take the parchment from her. She scuffles off, then, disappearing around a corner. I hesitate to open the parchment, wondering what sort of horrors could reside within it. Maybe it's a message from Birch? But that wouldn't make sense, would it?

Then again, we couldn't very well discuss Alliance plans while we were waiting, could we? And God only knows when we'll be able to speak to each other again...

"Ceres! Hurry, it's starting!" Ren calls.

I glance up. "Coming!"

But I stay firmly where I am, summoning the courage to unravel the bit of parchment. Within its folds resides a simple message.

Come to the rooftop tonight.

(a/n): WOO-WHEE! It feels really good to be back on the writing train! I truly forgot how much I missed these characters. Guys, I have so much planned for Chapter Eleven. I actually cut stuff from this chapter because it was getting too long that can go into the next one, so expect Chapter Eleven semi-soon! If my schoolwork and job is forgiving lmfao. But thank you to everyone who has read my story and for your reviews, your favorites, and your follows! It means the world! Now, I hope you guys enjoyed my little cliffhanger. Any theories? ^

Fancasts:

Birch: Jordan Calloway

Daisy: Rowan Blanchard

Rust: Dakota Goyo

Review replies

Boxtroll: Haha! I'm sorry that Seneca makes you sad...because he will have a pretty large roll in this story. But don't worry, it's not all fun and games. Hehe. But thank you so much fo all of your kind reviews! I can assure you, there will be more Finnick/Ceres coming soon.

Sadie: Here's your update! :D

Radio Gaga: Yes, they finally kissed haha! And sadness is what gives me life, so...*feeds off of sad kisses*

Guest: Aw, thank you so much! That legitimately warms my heart. ^^

scars from the sun: You are so sweet! I'm sorry I took so long to update, but I hope it was worth the wait! Honestly, I'm a victim of sexual abuse myself, and I have always gravitated towards Finnick as a character. Having that sort of damage and for it to be exploited is absolutely traumatizing and damaging, so I really try to capture that in Finnick, in his POV chapter and in subtle mannerisms with Ceres' POV. Ceres is gonna cause quite a storm during the Games, lemme tell you! The Interview will come next chapter, and it will be a ~doozy~. Also I'm really glad you thought Ceres was annoying, because that was my goal. ^^ Ceres was a bratty child, and I really wanted to portray her growth from one really narrow minded perspective, to something else entirely. I hope you enjoy what's to come! Thank you again!

.seed: wow, thank you for all of your wonderful reviews! My heart is so warm right now! I truly appreciate every kind thing you said and it genuinely just made my day. Also reading your reviews really helped spur me back into writing, so thank you for that! ^^ I can promise you that we will be seeing more Finnick/Ceres to come, but Seneca is gonna be playing a bigger roll very soon. Perhaps, say, next chapter. Hehe. Thank you again for all of your kind words, and I hope you enjoy this chapter and the chapters to come! 3