(a/n): I was on such a writing roll when I wrote Chapter Nine that I actually had to cut some stuff because it was getting too lengthy. That makes writing this chapter so much easier lmfao. A lot goes down in this chapter. Who sent Ceres that note and why? Liber and Lamia's Alliance comes into play. The tensions and hostility between Finnick and Ceres will certainly come into play here. And now, here we go...ENJOY! ^^

CHAPTER TEN

your skin is silk

Come to the rooftop tonight.

What the fuck.

I stare down at the crinkled bit of parchment in my hand, rereading it several times over, as if there's some sort of hidden code or message lying in there. I flip the paper over, but the other side is blank. Yet I raise it towards the light, anyway; nothing, just the outlines of Come to the rooftop tonight on the other side. I flip it back over, brow knitting. The handwriting is simplistic, nothing overtly fancy or even clumsy; perfectly, unrecognizably, generic. Then again, I don't exactly know of anyone's handwriting in this place. This handwriting could belong to anyone, leaving no suspects. The closest I can come to is Birch, but why would he send a message like this? It seems dangerous for Tributes to share notes this way, but it also doesn't seem implausible. There are a great deal of layers between the Tributes which limit our interactions and communications, for good reason, so I expect that said Tributes over the years have found ways around it. Maybe to forge Alliances or even send threats.

This is neither. Very much like the handwriting in question, the message is simple and answers no questions. The rooftop. I've heard of Tributes going to the roof before to think. My father once told me about a Tribute or his who had hid up there almost all night, trying to figure out how to bypass the force field surrounding the Training Center. The force field kept people out, but, more importantly, it kept us in. It also kept us from doing things that would hinder the Games, like finding ways out of the massacre. I could find my way up there, seemingly, without drawing too much attention. But I can't shake the chilling feeling as I reread the note. Why not leave a name or even initials? A simple B at the end of the note would have sufficed. But if the note had been confiscated, then narrowing down suspects could be straight forward enough. After all, the cameras in the Gymnasium no doubt caught our conversation. And as far as I can remember, no other Tribute has a name that starts with B. Still, he could have left some semblance of a clue. That is, if the note even came from him.

If I were sending notes, I think that I would be smart enough to leave my name or my District out of the equation, just in case it was caught by someone higher up. It's not as though someone could do anything about it. What would they do to punish us? Execute us? They're going to do that, anyway. But I suppose they could make the Games harder for us, in their own ways. Damn.

It's too complicated.

I want to believe without a shadow of a doubt that Birch sent this note and assumed that I would pick up on it. After all, we'd discussed an Alliance, so maybe now that our Scores are being settled, he feels inclined to give me a solid answer. To do so in private seems interesting, by comparison to discussing the matter in the Gymnasium. Then again, less eyes on us. If he wants to discuss strategy, it would make sense to do so in private, especially since he's decided to take on Daisy and Rust as his Allies.

A solid theory, but I'm still not confident.

I fold the paper in my hands, sliding it into my sleeve. It's solid, but I can't help but to wonder, why would the Avox be so terrified as to be sharing a piece of paper between Tributes? Were the dangers so high for her? Birch doesn't seem like a frightening guy. But how could he have gotten the paper to her, if she's an Avox for our floor? Maybe he'd passed it to one on his, and she'd passed it along from there. Quite a network of communications, I muse. I wonder if I can utilize it, once I have answers on this matter. But those will have to wait, at least for now, because I can hear Caesar's voice resounding on the screen in the other room. I should be getting back.

With a deep breath, I reach out and take the glass of water from the table, and return back to my team. As I cross the threshold, I see Liber's face across the screen, staring impassively at nothing; expression almost stern. I hear my brother seize a sharp intake of breath. My feet freeze in place, my gaze firmly set upon Caesar's face as he looks down at a card in his hand, then his eyes lifting up; a slight glint there. A twinkle, so to speak. "Liber Rythe," he says. "With a score of nine."

Gasps follow after. Liber releases a loud breath and leaps to his feet, hands thrust high over his head as he proceeds to howl in absolute delight. I feel the nerves slither off of me, then, in a brief moment of relief. Nine is a fantastic score, really fantastic. It would catch the attention of the Sponsors, as it proved that Liber was capable already, but also has the potential for something higher. My brother is laughing hysterically now. Our father rises to his feet, as well, reaching out to bring Liber into his arms. This is a surprising sight, to say the least, as Rheon is hardly an affectionate man. I think I can count on one hand how many times he has embraced me in the past, and I don't think I've ever seen him hold Liber before. It's odd, to say the least, but I don't think too much on it. Liber deserves it. He needs it.

When my father has releases his hold of Liber, Mags is to her feet, proceeding to embrace Liber, as well. She is a significantly shorter woman of older stature, so Liber has to lean down in order to meet her arms. Ren is nodding in approval, though he doesn't bother to stand.

"Well done, Liber," he says. "We can use that."

Galeria glances towards me, then back towards the screen. "Everyone hush," she says, gesturing forward as my own face appears on the screen.

Now this is odd. I used to watch the Scores back home in our Victor house, huddled in front of our screen, watching the various Tributes come and go, and taking notes on their Scores - guessing who would last and who wouldn't. The faces were never things I truly paid attention to, for I think I had unknowingly detached myself from humanizing an affair that rendered its unwilling participants into monsters. I had never really thought much about how I would look on the screen, behind Caesar's head, but rather how wonderful my score of twelve would look. Needless to say, looking at my face staring off into the distance, beyond what resides on the screen, I find myself a little unnerved. My expression is oddly serene, my blue eyes accentuated against my bronze skin, and my hair having a subtler curl than what I can usually find in it. Pretty. I look pretty.

Liber had looked so stern faced, while I look pleasant. I retrace my thoughts back to the few other Tributes who had appeared on the screen before us. Jason had looked quite intimidating, with his chiseled jaw clenched. Lamia had had a catlike gleam in her eyes, as if her very face held a secret. The boy and girl from District 2 had seemed fairly neutral, as did the Tributes from District 3...had I just missed something? I'll pay attention to the rest, I console myself.

The attentions that had been fixated on Liber suddenly redirect to me, as the suspense in the air hangs thickly. I feel the eyes of my father flicker from me to the false me on the screen, with Liber audibly clenching his jaw in anticipation. Caesar finally meets our eyes through the screen.

"Ceresea Rythe," he says, "with a score of ten."

"Holy shit," I say.

"Holy shit!" Liber echoes. In a flash, my brother has his arms around me, and is crushing me to his chest. I gasp in surprise, for a split second uncertain whether to embrace him back or to stand there awkwardly. My brother and I have never exactly hugged - as proven obvious, our family is not exactly the most physically affectionate bunch - so I am, quite frankly, jarred. But it is pleasant, so I tentatively wrap my arms around Liber in return. He squeezes more. "Ten! You got a ten - holy shit, that's amazing!"

"Yeah, yeah, it is," I say.

I feel another set of arms around me, as Rheon embraces us both at once. It's so strange, almost too strange. If Demetra were here, no doubt she would be horrified by this display. I know that I am. Still, it's a welcomed bit of levity in these horrifying times. So I close my eye sand try to enjoy it. Soon enough, their arms are dispatched from me, but I am quickly being held by Mags, who holds my face and lowers me down so she can kiss both of my cheeks.

Her eyes, the shade of seafoam reflected by sunlight, glitter. "I am so proud of you, Ceresea."

"We all are," Galeria adds, standing. I'm grateful she doesn't embrace me, but rather reaches to squeeze my shoulder. "A ten. It looks like I'm going to have to be working a little extra hard on your Interview dress now."

"Implying you weren't working hard to begin with?" I tease, still a little out of breath from my shock.

Galeria shrugs. "Maybe," she admits, with a subtle smirk. "You know, I guess you really took my advise when it came to your presentation."

I smile back at her. "Yeah...I showed them my chaos."

We spend the better part of the afternoon celebrating, and the rest of it is dedicated to private training. Tilda and Finnick are still gone, off with some Clients, I imagine - or maybe trying to wrangle some Sponsors, or both. Ren has left to meet with a few Mentors to negotiate some Alliances, now that we have the security of District 1 at our sides, so this leaves Rheon and Mags as our Mentors. Dad has become much more attentive since our conversations, as hard as it might be for him. There are moments where I catch him lapsing out of reality, a glaze manifesting in his good eye as he watches either of us train. Sometimes he has to leave early, for obvious reasons. But I try not to fault him for it nowadays, not when Liber's morale is higher than it was before.

Rheon has taken Liber aside to work with him on hand-to-hand combat. I technically was supposed to work with dad today, as it was my turn, but there were things still resting on my mind that I didn't want to involve him in. Besides, Liber needed more training than I did, and it was good for both of them. It goes without saying that, at Mags' age, we're not exactly sparring. So we take on a more practical form of practice and training, which entails Mags teaching me how to survive. How to salvage water from cacti or trees, as well as how to purify river or lake water, then how to remove the saline from saltwater. Most of these are things I already know, but it doesn't hurt to be reminded. She also goes on to show me a couple of different knots to use when it comes to hunting, not just fishing. There's a strong likelihood that our Arena won't even have water, saltwater or freshwater. I know how to fish, but hunting on dry land is less my style. Certainly there are those in District 4 who do hunt our land wildlife for sustenance, but it's not exactly as prolific as our ocean stock.

In hindsight, for all of my talk of how I'd easily survive and win the Games, I really should have stretched beyond my comfort zone when it came to outsourcing from not just the ocean.

Luckily, Mags is a very good teacher, and very patient. Even as I hesitate with my knots to catch rabbits and squirrels and other critters, she carries on with her peaceful demeanor. Her expression is so calm and her eyes so kind, that I have to wonder what she is thinking. Is she as terrified as we are? She lived through the Games as a girl. Surely her nerves are a little riled for our sakes, yet given her expression and how she has been carrying herself this whole time, one would never guess. Make no mistake, Mags cares. She cares about us in ways that is impossible to find in other humans. Mags is the true epitome of empathy.

I never had grandparents growing up. My dad's parents died when he was a kid, leaving him under the care of a fisherman who brought him up in the field. My mom's parents had allegedly renounced her when she had married a Victor, as her parents saw it as bad luck, but I can't verify that either way. Because my dad had spent his entire life being a Victor and Mentor, he had grown up beside Mags, who had become a friendly face in my life. She was always so kind to me. I remember visiting her house to help her cook fish, and she'd taught me how to properly cut and prep raw fish before. It tasted funny, but it'd been pleasant enough. (It would certainly be a useful technique in the Games if fish are available, since building fires is a gamble.)

But most importantly, Mags took care of Finnick. When Neleus died, I remember Mags often going to Finnick's large and lonely house, spending endless hours there, sometimes overnight, or Finnick going to her. During those initial months when I was absent, by my father's behest, Mags had been there for him. She still is now, too. I see how she gently pats his back when his eyes go distant, or how they exchange secret smiles between each other. I never knew Finnick's mother, nor do I know if he had grandparents of his own, but I'm glad he has Mags.

He needs that ceaseless warmth, all without an ulterior motive.

I arguably need it now, too. As we have been working on these knots, I keep thinking back to that note, which I currently have tucked high up in my sleeve, its papery edges stabbing against my skin occasionally. An endless reminder. Rooftop. It'd be easy to get up there, would cause no attentions and demand no questions; just a Tribute reflecting life, possibly exchanging conversation with another fellow Tribute. But what if it isn't Birch? That thought unnerves me. It's not as though someone could kill me, as there were cameras everywhere, and no doubt guards ready to leap into action at any sign of trouble. After all, the Capitol would never risk its Tributes. But it could be someone who wants to threaten me, for whatever the reason.

As far as I knew, I had no enemies. But that's another issue. I don't know. The uncertainty is killing me.

I clear my throat, slowly lowering the rabbit snare onto the table. We're on the other side of the room from where my brother and father are sparring. They couldn't hear us, nor be paying us any mind in their state. With Mags' curious eyes upon me, I reach up my sleeve and hand her the slip of paper. She takes it without hesitation, opening it up to read its contents. As she reads, her grey brow starts to furrow, and I can see apprehension manifesting itself into her wrinkles.

"An Avox gave that to me," I say.

Mags meets my gaze. "I see." She folds the paper and hands it back to me. "Do you know who it's from?"

"No, but I have theories." I lean forward. "The boy from District 7, Birch, said he'd consider Allying with us. It could be he's thought it over and wants to discuss it. See, he's Allied with the kids from 12 - to protect them, I think - so he was apprehensive to accept the offer."

Mags nods. "That is possible. Who else?"

"I don't know. I haven't really made many friends," I admit. "Do you think I should go?"

It takes a moment for Mags to reply. She lowers her eyes from my own down to the table, inhaling loudly and exhaling through her nose. I watch her as she sits across from me, pondering over my predicament. She's a wise woman, she has to be given all she has survived, so I trust whatever judgment she comes to. But even if she comes to a conclusion, one way or the other, I doubt I'll be fully satisfied. I need to know who this person is, but I also don't trust the situation.

"This message was only for you?" she asks.

I nod. "The Avox gave it to me when we were alone, so it must be. She seemed nervous, too."

"As she should be. Passing notes can be dangerous for someone in her position," Mags says, shifting. "What do you think?"

"I think it could be promising, if it is Birch. But if it's not him, then I'm not worried. There's a force field around the Center and there are cameras anywhere, so no one could try to hurt me here," I say.

A shadow grazes the surface of the aged Mentor's face. "You would be surprised."

I shudder.

"I don't think you should go," she says. "Not alone, at least. You should take your brother with you, or even Finnick."

Funny thing about that, Mags...Finnick and I kissed and we haven't really spoken since then. Being alone with him right now sounds like something extra that I'll be carrying with me into the Arena. No thanks. "I think you're right. I'll just leave well enough alone," I say, though that's not exactly the truth. "It's shady...better to avoid it, right?"

"You certainly gave up easily."

Ah, shit. "I'd go alone," I admit, and Mags smiles at me. "I'd be fine, Mags. You know I would be. Maybe I go, and I'm not back to our apartment in an hour, then you come retrieve me-"

"You know I'd send Finnick. He cares about you."

He certainly does. My eyes lower, recounting again the feel of his mouth on mine, and how he had backed me against the wall. He was significantly taller than I was, but I didn't feel vulnerable sandwiched between the wall and his body; I felt safe. His body was so warm against me, like a fire on a cold night. His calloused hands brushing over my skin felt like home. The smell of him, artificial as it could be, was the sea. Kissing Finnick was dangerous, I knew it in that moment. It was so natural how our bodies molded together and how his lips moved against my own. Even when we'd pulled away, his breath trailing across my jaw and to my neck, I had been so close to fully accepting what could happen; just let myself be caught in the undertow. If I could lay back and let the water drag me away, if not for a moment, then I could find myself someplace new. Let me show you what I'm capable of, he'd whispered in my ear. The voice wasn't his, nor the inflection of his tone. It was all wrong.

That was the Capitol Darling, not my Finnick. I had snapped myself out of that moment so quickly. I pulled myself out of the undertow and swam to shore, gripping the sands beneath me, and unable to look back to the waters which beckoned me back. Even now, I struggle to avoid its temptation. The desire that was held between us in that moment was real for me, as surprising as it was in the moment. But I can't say the same for Finnick. I know that there has to be something. We've known each other our whole lives, have fought and bickered and competed against each other throughout our childhoods and into our young adulthood. He had even come to me to be his first kiss when he'd rethought President Snow's offer. He could have asked any other girl in District 4 and they would have said yes. He chose me.

He chose to kiss me in his room, too. That was my Finnick, it had to be. But when it escalated, he defaulted into his Capitol persona. That desire which was his calloused hands laid upon me, as well as his breath against my skin, could be fake for all I know. Any authentic and untainted intimacy we could've known died when Finnick was Reaped, when he came back to be a broken boy.

It gets harder and harder to distinguish which is the real Finnick and which is the Finnick he's built for himself in order to survive. I can't fault him for it, but, damn it, I miss the boy I used to dunk into the ocean when he annoyed me. Our laughter had been so innocent back then. Surely Mags can see how things have changed between us, in more ways than one.

I wonder if Finnick confides in her. I'm torn between horror and acceptance to the notion of him sharing the details of our kiss with Mags.

"I know he does," I say. That much I know to be for certain. I could never, ever doubt it. "But I wouldn't want him to."

Mags reaches for my hand, which I allow, and she squeezes it. "I understand. You should know by now, actions have consequences, and every decision that we make is an action, therefore has a reaction. Are you certain it's wise to go to the rooftop to meet with a stranger?"

"Definitely not," I say. "But it could be Birch. It could be someone else." Mags opens her mouth. Whether she means to protest or not, I don't know, because I cut her off quickly. "But if it makes you feel any better, you could come with me, maybe wait by the entrance. Or let me be gone for an hour, at most, and then you can send Finnick after me. I'd prefer my dad, but I think you'd trust Finnick more."

"When it comes to you? Undoubtedly," she says. "Rheon is finally on his feet. I wouldn't want to rile him up again with something like this."

"So you won't tell him?"

"For now, no," she says, head shaking. "I suppose I could go with you. I have been to the roof several times before, whether on my own or with one of my Tributes to console them. I can take you there, when the others sleep."

"Sounds fair," I say, exhaling. "It'd be a huge relief to have you protecting me."

"Undoubtedly, Cersea. Undoubtedly." Mags squeezes my hand again then pulls back. "Alright, now let's test these snares out..."

I stare at myself in the mirror of my room, counting back from fifty as I try to retrieve my courage and my resolve. It's a comfort to know that Mags is going to be standing firmly beside me during this, if things unrealistically go awry; better than being alone, or, worse, her sending my father of Finnick out to retrieve me. I'm wearing casual garbs, with a pair of loose black pants and a fine grey shirt, with a long sweater robe dangling around my knees; casual, indeed. Perfectly acceptable nightwear and all too practical for a pleasant evening of contemplation, as my Mentor takes me to the roof to think. Ren and Rheon have already gone to bed, both exhausted from a day of training and scavenging together Sponsors. Liber has retreated to his room, as well, but I know he's awake; too restless and worried about the impending Interviews. We have tailoring with our Stylists soon, and I know Tilda wants to help us prepare for any and all questions Caesar will be asking - as generic as how we're doing and as complex as our intentions.

In regards to Tilda, she came back to the apartments a few hours after we returned from training. She had been wearing a pretty teal dress that complimented her rich red curls. Theoretically she looked very pretty, but there was a sunken quality to her features that made her look ten years older than she was. She paid us no words, merely went into her chambers, and there she has stayed. Mags says that it's hard for all the Victors; sometimes it's easy to bear, other days you have to fall apart.

I used to idolize Tilda when I was a kid. Her Games were before my time, but I've seen the archives; she was sixteen, freckle faced and with mischief in her eye. She won the Games by outwitting her opponent and electrocuting him in a body of water. I'd never seen a body fry before. I remember Demetra turned the screen off when it got to that part, arguing I was too young. In hindsight, Tilda was too young to have lived that horror, of watching a boy a year younger than her spasm as electric bolts surged through his body, cooking him from the inside out.

Now this is her life.

I glance out the window of my room, which fills up the entirety of the wall. It's dark, the city lights reflecting in the distance, golden and neon and silver and fantastical to behold. It's so different from back home, where our lights are like fireflies. Birch is waiting, I think to myself. I hope it's Birch. I adjust my robe around myself, knotting it at the center, and I depart from my room. My slipper clad feet pad across the apartment towards the exit, where I will wait for Mags, but I stop in my tracks as the doors open to reveal Finnick. He's wearing a loose and translucent white blouse, which dips low down his chest, exposing the outlines of his tanned muscles. I notice distinct scratches across his torso and along his neck, where hickeys currently reside; a subtle print of pink just behind his ear.

His black leather pants are tight and unnatural upon his body. They fit him well and accentuate his figure, but that's the entire purpose of them, isn't it? To accentuate an already attractive figure? Those bronze curls are also tussled and misplaced. Looking upon him now, I don't see the Capitol Darling, who smirks into the camera and winks at pretty girls. I see blank sea green eyes staring through me, and a body that has been speared.

He blinks, and suddenly it is as though he sees me. A small look of surprise settles in his features, and he reaches to adjust the neckline of his blouse. "Ceres," he greets.

"Hey, seaweed brain," I say. "I'm glad you're back."

Finnick hesitates. "Right. Me too," he says. "Where is everyone?"

"Tilda's in her room, and Ren went to bed. Rheon and Liber did, too," I say. "Mags is, uh...she's taking me to the roof. I'm feeling a little...just..." I try to think of a word I am genuinely feeling, but nothing proper comes to mind; everything and nothing fits, all at once. I sigh, yielding to that fact. "I need a quiet place."

"Yeah, I do," Finnick says, nodding. "Mags used to take me to the roof, too. Nice spot. I, uh...I remember I kissed a girl up there, from 8, I think-"

"Kissed?" I cut him off. "I thought...you asked me to kiss you on the beach, I thought..."

Finnick evaluates me for a moment, visibly confused, just as much as I feel. Then a smile slowly draws across his lips, though it looks more ghostlike than anything else. He reaches to tussle my hair, which I allow albeit with a begrudging glare. "You thought you were my first kiss. Cute," he says.

Wasn't I? I pull back, smacking his hand lightly. "I believed that for years," I admit, relieved when he chuckles. I hope this stupid little factoid offers him some comfort, as he stands there, wearing the physical remnants of tonight's assaults. Let it be something. Then again, we're recollecting a kiss he shared with a girl who is most definitely dead, on a roof where I am about to go to meet with another Tribute (potentially). What a twist of fate.

"We figured we'd both die, so might as well," he says.

"I think I might get drunk before the Games," I offer. "You know, never done it before...might as well, before everything."

Finnick looks unsure whether to lecture me or to laugh. "That so?"

"Yeah," I say, mostly for his sake. "Get shit-faced. Maybe throw up everywhere...let the Capitolians clean it up. That could be a tactic, right? Projectile vomit over my opponents."

He chuckles again. "Right," he says, and for a long moment he pauses. His sea green eyes are staring deeply, too deeply, into mine. I watch as the gears in his head turn rapidly, as he bites the insides of his cheeks and twists his jaw slightly. Finally, he opens his mouth. "We should talk about the other night, Ceres."

"Seaweed brain..."

"The way I talked to you..."

"Wasn't your fault," I say, gently. "I'm not mad, Finnick. I understand, as best as I can, anyway."

"You don't. You really don't," Finnick says, taking a step closer. I can smell the foul odor of rosy perfume upon his body and I instinctually step back. For a split second, Finnick looks like a wounded animal, but within a blink, his expression is composed. His back slowly straightens. "Later...we can talk later."

I swallow. "Yeah, I agree," I say, slowly. I can hear Mags shuffling in behind us. "Later."

Finnick nods, walking passed me. I watch from the corner of my eye as Mags gently squeezes his arm, causing him to pause for a moment before he storms forward, presumably towards the washroom. I bring my eyes forward, taking a steadying breath. Damn it, Finnick. Mags glances at me and I nod. Gratefully, she asks me no questions as we ride the elevator upward towards the rooftop, the both of us settling together in silence. I can see a pained gleam in her eyes. No doubt she's going to see Finnick after this...he'll need her, as he's always needed her. My own eyes are out the elevator, watching the city shrink as we rise higher and higher. I think about that boyish Finnick standing outside my door, telling me his father was dead. I remember, with a weight upon my heart, as we didn't see each other for months. My dad thought it would be safer that way.

Finnick had refused President Snow and he paid the consequences. Snow had taken the person closest to him and had mutilated the man. My father feared the same fate for anyone else close to Finnick, which included me. In hindsight, I understand his motives. But I wish I had fought harder against them, because I can't imagine the measure of isolation Finnick endured in that new house where his father was found dead. Even with Mags visiting frequently, and Finnick sleeping over at her house, it's a wonder he has managed to maintain sanity in Victor's Village. I should have been there for him.

My hands squeeze against the bars against the elevator's walls. This time I will be.

It's not long before we reach the rooftops and step outwards. I'm alarmed that the air is warm, despite the higher altitude, and I can't help but to wonder if this is artificial, too. Maybe the force field keeps the heat in, also preventing Tributes from freezing to death if the nights were to get chilly.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Mags asks me.

I nod. "I'll be back," I say, watching her as she leans against the wall to the entrance.

I turn, walking outward across the rooftop. To my surprise, it's a large and open garden, alarmingly beautiful; arrays of flowers greet me, all kissed by moonlight in a variety of colors. Incredible green vinery extend against the stone, stretching across the floor of the roof, then upwards across the trees residing here; towering over me. I reach out and touch the petals of some lilacs, admiring now the silver of moonlight trickles against the purply-blue petals. And beyond the gardens resides the Capitol. The city lights glitter well below me. Even from here, I can hear the cries of the people down below; people cheering, calling out some semblances of names; they're blurred so far up. Peering over, I can see rolls of crowds encircling the Training Center. And beyond, I can see, in the large windows of equally large buildings, a few people have held up little flags which escribe the names of Tributes and their Districts. Sponsors, no doubt, advocating for their favorites.

It doesn't feel right to admit that the city is beautiful. It's like watching a shark prowl beneath you in a boat. Certainly it is magnificent, as its fin crests the surface of the water, its large grey body glittering like diamonds in the sunlight, but then the teeth flash into view, and those blank, lifeless eyes fade to white blood reaches its senses. It is scarcely a beautiful thing when it is tearing apart fish or seals or anything of that variety. This is the Capitol. This is Panem.

We're going to feed the beast.

I turn. "Birch?" I call, stepping further across the rooftop, and peering around trees. "Birch, where are you? I got your message." When there's no reply, I sigh. "This is so stupid. Birch?"

From the shadows ahead of me, I hear something shuffle. My gaze lifts, watching as something pushes off of a tree drenched in darkness, and advancing towards me. The outline is most definitely male, but right away I know that he is not Birch; he's taller, as Birch is closer to my height. I squint, arms folding over myself in a partially defensive position. Too short to be Jason, I add internally. My eyes then widen as the figure comes into view. The man in question is wearing a fine dark red coat with black trim, overtop a black shirt and black trousers. He's respectable in appearance, with fair skin and a fine jaw, with a pair of piercing blue eyes; clear and blue, like an afternoon sky. At once, my eyes widen into that of saucers. I'm gaping at the man in question, who is smiling pleasantly at me.

"Seneca Crane," I say, bewildered. He appears pleased that I know his name.

"Ceresea Rythe. Good to see you again," Seneca says.

"Ceres," I correct, by default. I clear my throat. "You weren't who I was expecting."

Seneca adjusts his jacket, brushing a few stray leaves and twigs off of his shoulders, no doubt present from leaning back against the tree for God knows how long. But he doesn't appear displeased by it. If anything, his expression is utterly calm and cheery, whereas mine is no doubt wide-eyed and befuddled. "I could tell," he admits. "You assumed the note was from Birch Indica. I thought you would come to that conclusion, given your discussion of Alliances."

Uneasiness swells within my chest. As the Gamemaker's nephew, no doubt he has access to things the public does not; our skillsets, our backgrounds, and so on. But the idea of him being aware of my discussion with Birch is unsettling. I rack my brain, thinking if anyone had been close when we were talking, a Tribute or a trainer or anyone along those lines. Then again, maybe not just cameras were laced across the building, but some audio tracker, as well. Feeling violated and wary, I straighten my back in an effort to appear taller, and unfold my arms.

Although the Gamemaker's nephew is portraying himself pleasantly, I know better than to trust him. "Was I that obvious?"

"Not at all," Seneca consoles. "I was made aware during my visitation to the Center, when I reviewed the training footage. I already told you during the Parade that I'm still thinking over my choices on who to Sponsor. Given my position, I have to be careful who I favor, because people often follow after someone in a position of power."

That sounds about right.

"Course." I clear my throat. "Why not include an initial?"

Seneca laughs softly. "If I'd included Seneca Crane or S.C. into my letter, that could've raised some brows if the note had been received by someone other than you. Besides, if you had known it was me, would you have come?"

Would I have willingly come to a rooftop with the nephew of the Gamemaker, to meet over God knows what? I'd like to think it would have taken a great deal of pondering, but this is a fantastical opportunity. My brother has Lamia from District 1 and Jason by proxy. If Seneca wants to meet with me, a member of District 4, then surely he's leaning towards us. But why the secrecy? I try to give him the benefit of the doubt, that maybe he's avoiding being public with his support because of his position, until he's absolutely certain. But it's hard to find comfort in that, when he is a man of such power, and one who was aware of where my thought process would go.

I feel naked, because he knows a step I took in coming here, and I don't know anything about him. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the Gamemakers and their kin.

When I don't reply, mostly because I'm fumbling in my own thoughts, Seneca resumes. "I apologize for the secrecy. You see, I've been watching the Tributes train and have been studying the public reaction for a while now, right since the Reaping of each District," he starts, daring to take a step closer. I hold my ground. "Certainly, some are remarkably impressive. Helios and Sonya from District 3 are impressively strong. Jason and Lamia are equally powerful and with their own advantages. But I don't want strictly prowess and power. I want something else. Humanity, because during the Games, we gravitate towards people who we feel for," he says, with such passion and conviction. "There is a story behind District 4. You Volunteered for your brother, for what? To keep him safe, or to honor your father, a Victor before you. It's compelling, though I wish your father's Games had been more memorable, as then the Capitol's attentions would then truly be enraptured."

"He lost his eye," I say. "Seems captivating enough."

Seneca licks his lips, appearing thoughtful. "I suppose," he says. "In any case, your brother and you have left an impression. I've watched you both train. That is compelling, how you help him, and your consideration to Ally with someone in a similar cause to your own. It'd broadcast emotions."

"So you're saying you want to Sponsor us?" I ask, hoping to get to the point. As thrilling as it is to listen to Seneca drone on about the logistics of the Gamemaker layout, I still feel so exposed, and want very badly to gain some sort of upper hand here. If this is what he's getting at, then maybe it's an opportunity to be seized. After all, having the favor to someone in a Gamemaker family could benefit us in the long run. Water, lots of water.

"Straight to the point." Seneca chuckles. "To put simply, Ceres, yes. I would like to Sponsor your District. I have utmost faith in your abilities and your prowess in the Arena," he says.

My abilities and my prowess. "What about Liber?"

His brow arches. "Only one can come out of the Arena alive," he states, as if I've forgotten.

"I know that. You'd be Sponsoring both of us, right?"

"As I said, District 4," he says. "Unless you'd specifically like me to Sponsor you?"

I shake my head. "No, no. I want us both Sponsored," I say. "Liber has incredible talents, which we've been keeping out of the gym. I think he'd surprise you when you see him in the Arena, especially since he's Allied with District 1." He more than likely already knows this, as his expression and demeanor don't even flinch at the mention of this Alliance. "He's...he's strong, really."

I'm sounding desperate, maybe because I am. This is an impressive opportunity, as unsettling as it is. Seneca is looking down at me with a quirked brow, observing me in a way that can only be compared to a cat taking in a cornered mouse. I'm just a girl all but pleading for my brother to be given a chance, too. My abilities and my prowess. It's deliberate emphasis and my hands suddenly feel very sweaty. I look away, swallowing that thick bobble in my throat. Liber might have disadvantages and would surely die without me in the Arena, but I know he's strong...I know that I can see him through to the end, if I only secure our chances. The Mentors will secure our Sponsors and the popularity of Victors who came before us will surely seize that, too. But what's a position higher than a man who can influence the Arena in our favor?

Seneca knows the power he has over me right now. Surely, he has to. He could easily lean over and whisper into the ear of Lucius Crane, requesting an ocean in the Arena or a flood or a flock of fish for my brother and I to hunt and to eat. It makes sense why the Victors do what they do, to protect their Tributes; lie, smile, and make pretend with those who can buy their Tributes extra days or even a whole life. I want Liber to make it out of this. He needs to.

Harpee deserved to live. I should have Volunteered when Mara was Reaped. Maybe then, Liber would be spared this fate. Things would be different. I never even had to kill Finnick...all I could have done was step off of the podium.

I swallow again.

"I'm...honored," I say, clearing my voice. I try to smile, but it still feels weird. "I never imagined we'd catch the eye of someone like you. I'm sorry, I'm just a little baffled."

Seneca's cheeks pinken a little. "I understand. This is a little unorthodox, what I'm doing. I'm breaking rules being here."

"And I'm honored," I repeat. "I wonder why you're telling me like this, instead of telling my Mentors first."

"I intend to, after the Interviews," Seneca says. "I'm confident in my decision, but I want to be sure in what is the final step before the Games. I'm sure you understand." He offers me a warm smile. "I just wanted you to know that you have someone in high power supporting you. If you ever have any doubts, know that you've impressed me. Certainly in your little performance...I think you startled all of us. A showstopper."

The vision of that javelin piercing the crotch of that dummy causes me to smile a little. "Right."

"We've taken to calling you the spearhead, because of it."

I snort. "Spearhead," I say. "Maybe I'll use my showstopper during the Games. Really live up to my name."

"It would certainly be to your benefit," Seneca says. "Now, as your Sponsor, I would ensure that you and your brother were well-tended for in the Arena. To the best of my ability, I would provide food, medicine as needed, and weaponry if it came to it."

It's too good to be true. Way too good. "And if either of us fall? Will you continue to support the other?"

Seneca nods. "To ensure your success, yes."

"And Liber's? For my sake?" I wonder, forcing myself to stare into his eyes.

There is a small lapse of hesitation that settles like a boulder in the pit of my stomach. I don't like this. I don't like any of this. This is exactly the kind of conversation that Tributes dream about, to have caught the eye of someone in such a position of authority. A future Gamemaker, no less. As a girl, fantasizing about my place in the Games, this is something that had seemed impossible, yet perfect. It would secure my success, keep me safe. When all I had to care about was myself during the Games and my status as the greatest Victor of them all, it had been so simple. But now I have my brother, I have Finnick hanging over my head, and I have my own life that I am willing to forfeit to keep Liber's. Clearly, Seneca doesn't care about Liber.

I'm not stupid enough to think that Seneca is interested in my abilities and prowess alone. I think back to him pausing in front of us before the Parade, or how he watched me from up above during my show-stopping performance. Although his expression is soft and his eyes seemingly kind, I can't help but to feel myself playing an even more dangerous game. My life doesn't matter in the Arena, but Seneca clearly thinks it does. If I could just stay alive, long enough for Liber to make it to the end...then I can secure his future. I can keep Liber alive. I can keep him safe.

I can play along.

"I would," Seneca says.

My stomach rolls. "To have you as a Sponsor, Seneca...it would be an honor," I say, reaching out to touch his arm. "I promise, we'll make you proud during the Interviews. Do you want me to tell Liber about this, or keep it our secret?"

He seems pleased, glancing down at my hand then back at my face. "Our secret," he says.

"And...this is so generous. I...you've saved our lives. Is there anything I can do to repay you?"

Seneca seems to consider this and in this moment I feel as though I am about to drown. I am standing on the edge of a cliff, taking a gamble as I am about to dive down. I will either hit the water and plummet deep into its abyss, or my body shall collide with the rocks down below and shatter like glass; my bones to splinters, my skin torn like paper. I stand in cold anticipation as Seneca's eyes flicker across my face. He reaches out a smooth hand, which rests upon my cheek. He leans forward. My eyes shut slowly, feeling a tremble deep in my nerves as I wait for his lips to find mine. Instead, he kisses my forehead.

"No," he says, gently. "You should go now."

I pull my hand away from him, backing a few steps before I whirl around and walk as carefully as I can until I am out of his sight, to which I proceed to walk briskly back towards Mags, who is still leaning against the entrance. She looks upon me with wide eyes as I approach, a concerned gleam in her eyes.

"God, Ceres, are you alright?" she asks, reaching out to me.

I clear my throat. "Bird scared me," I lie. "Birch wasn't here...he must've left already. I'll talk to him later..."

Mags doesn't seem convinced to my lie, watching me as I move towards the elevator, settling against the wall. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Heights," I fib. "I've never been this high before. Waiting was kind of...it overwhelmed me."

Mags doesn't pry for further answers. We return to our apartments and I retreat to my room, into that solar of silence. I lean against teh wall and process what just happened, how I practically sold my soul...it happened so quickly, and my heart is still hammering. I feel sick. I rush to my attached bathroom and upchuck my dinner, afterwards dry heaving for so long I start to get dizzy. Eventually I steady my breaths and I press my cheek against the cold tile wall. It soothes me, but I wish for home. I long for it. I want the time before things fell apart...fuck, who am I kidding? Everything was falling apart even before I realized it. I idolized the Games and its patrons and as far as I was concerned, my life would amount to this moment. I would be successful and loved and coveted. Now I wish I was back home, floating on my back in the ocean as fish swim around me, and Finnick dunking me unexpectedly into the water.

Finnick. Shit...Finnick. I feel my eyes water a little at the thought of him. I wonder if this is how he felt when he was just fourteen years old, marching into Snow's office to accept his offer, or meeting his first client. Seneca did nothing to me. He didn't even touch me until I touched him first. But he made it clear that it was me who his focus was on, not my brother. Imagine his surprise when, in the end, it's me lying on the ground of the Arena, and my brother standing tall as the Victor. He could go home, try to live a simple life. He could go fishing with dad and help mom make nets. I'd be a ghost, but at least he'd be living, bleeding, and breathing.

I push myself off of the wall and sniff. I hate you, I think, for no one in particular. Maybe me, maybe Seneca, maybe my dad or Finnick or Snow or the Capitol.

Slowly, I bring myself back to my feet. I can't stay here like this. I can't hide in this room, behind closed doors. With a hesitant breath, I go to the sink to rinse my mouth out, then I retreat from my room and out into the corridor. Mags has gone to bed, leaving the apartments dark and lonely, yet I walk through the shadows with my head as high as I am able. Eventually, I reach Finnick's door. Outside of it I hesitate, gripping the front of my sweater. For a moment, I think about turning around, but before I can, my fist raises to knock. I expect silence, and I receive it.

"It's me," I say, softly.

The silence carries. But then there's a rustle.

"Can I come in?" I ask.

I hear the rustle again and the door clicks open. Finnick is standing there, clad in a pair of long and loose pants and his chest bare. Even in the shadows, I see the scratch marks so much clearer, having now prominently reddened and ripened over the small gap of time. The hickeys have darkened, as well, but they tread more territory than just his neck. His shoulders are adorned with such marks, as well as various small bruises upon his torso. I feel that nausea inside of me again. The Finnick standing in this doorway wears the same expression of the Finnick who stood in my doorway the day his father died. It was the day I should have gone with him, but I let the door close between us.

Not again. Not again.

"Can I come in?" I repeat.

"Yeah."

He steps aside and I enter his room. It feels very much the same since last time I was here, but the air is thicker and more solemn. When I look back at him, I see the marks of nails having raked down his shoulders, the redness of the back of his neck, too. When he turns, it's clear he's uncertain, and thus treading carefully. I certainly don't blame him.

"Why're you here?" he asks.

I consider telling him about Seneca Crane, how he had kissed my forehead and promised to keep me and Liber safe - my abilities and my prowess - and how I had played along, how I had tried flirting, and how I understood, in the most minimalist way I possibly could, how he felt. I want to tell him I'm sorry for not being there when Neleus died.

Instead, all I can manage is this. "I don't want to be alone. I feel like you don't either."

Finnick watches me for a long moment. I wait for him to cast me out, or for the silence to become so deafening that it becomes clear he doesn't want me here, so I'd see myself out. Our eyes find each other, sea green against dark blue, and suddenly he steps forward. I expect him to embrace me, like he did the last time I was here, but instead he walks passed me and goes to sit on the bed. He hunches forward, hands clenching over his lap. I take this as an invitation and tentatively sit beside him. Slowly, I reach out and gently touch his cheek.

"I can stay until you fall asleep," I say, softly.

Finnick swallows. "Not going to kill me in my sleep?" he asks, voice cracking.

"Maybe I will. Only one way to find out."

No more words are spoken this night. We sit in that comfortable silence for a time, me stroking Finnick's hair gently, eventually smoothing my palm over his back; up and down. He's stiff at first, teeth gritting together, but soon enough he relaxes beneath my touch. His eyes close. He lays back against the bed. True to my word, I sit there with me until I am fully confident he is asleep. His chest rises and falls steadily, little snores rumbling from his throat. I make a mental note to tease him about it later. I decide to stay a little while after, too. I listen to the sound of Finnick breathing. When it gets rapid, I reach to touch his hair again, smoothing it out until he's softened again. It feels like it's been minutes, but it must have been hours. When my back starts to throb from staying in my sitting position, legs folded underneath me, I know it's time to go. I leave Finnick's room and advance to my own. I can't sleep. I won't sleep.

All I can do is lay in bed and wonder how the hell I'd ever wanted this.

"I've always wanted to do a dress like this."

I glance down, watching as Galeria adjusts the skirt of my dress. She has a concentrative look on her face, but she looks overwhelmingly proud of herself; as she should. The dress which currently adorns my body is truly outstanding. With careful layers of fine teal and sea green tulle along the skirt, it fades into white along its hem to mirror that of seafoam; the colors fade together so naturally, that when I sway it is as if the dress itself has become the ocean. Upon my torso is a fair sea green corset, adorned with various laces and coral flowers to resemble the reefs back home, as well as lacy patterns resembling that of seashells and starfish; subtle designs interwoven into the corset. Straps above my shoulders are what keep it up, yet, despite the bareness of my arms, I feel quite modest. It does well to cover my chest, though it laces in the back, leaving a slight V-shape where white ribbon crisscrosses.

My long dark hair has been masterfully wound into waves, which fall down the center of my back. Galeria has woven strings of pearls into my hair as well, in shades of coral pink and fair blue; of which compliment the dress, as well as my eyes. The dress is truly beautiful, replicating my District finely. But it reminds me of home, of true home.

"It's beautiful," I say, as I sway a little in front of the mirror. The layers of skirts rustle, catching the light. I smile. "It's different from my Parade dress."

"I wanted them to feel your pull your first day. They have now," Galeria says. "Now I want them to see the ocean for what it is; beautiful, but dangerous. That's what you are, right? Dangerous?"

I snort. "I'd like to think so," I say, touching a starfish imbedded into the upper part of my dress, just over my heart. Its crusty surface is too artificial, but it looks real enough. "What about Liber?"

"You're the sea and he's a shark," Galeria says. "Although your brother asked to be a pufferfish instead."

"Of course he did," I sigh, exasperatedly. "And he was told no...?"

"Very much," replies my Stylist, adjusting the draping of my skirt. She pushes herself up. Today she is clad in a pair of bright yellow shoes with a remarkably terrifying heel, as well as lavender leather pants and a golden toga which compliments her array of tattoos. Her eyeliner is hot pink, giving her a crazed eye, though her expression is far from such; it is one of the sincerest faces in this place. "I think this is an outfit fitting for a ten."

I look at my reflection, head tilted. "Right," I say.

A soft heel catches my attention. Tilda, wearing a sea green tunic which shows off her white legs, steps into the room. "You look beautiful, Ceres," she compliments. "Do you need to go over your answers again?" Before I can reply, she asks, "What's your favorite part of the Capitol?"

"The people," I reply, without missing a beat. "I've never felt so loved. They inspire me...to go the distance."

"Don't pause," Tilda says. "Again."

"The people, I've never felt so loved. They inspire me to go the distance."

"Good. What do you keep under your bed?"

I shake my head, scoffing. "That's stupid."

"You'd be surprised the stupid shit they ask. You have to be ready for it. What do you keep under your bed?"

"My notebook, where I document my thoughts, and a small box containing an array of pretty seashells I've collected over the years," I say. "So, please, someone please find my notebook and publish it should I die-"

"You're fine," Tilda says, looking at Galeria. "I'm going out into the stands. Make sure she remembers to breathe." She turns back to me. "Pretend you're talking to one of us, okay, Ceres? Me, Finnick, Ren, Mags. Okay?"

"You got it," I say.

Once she's gone, Galeria reaches a hand to squeeze my arm. "You'll be fine," she says, looking at my reflection. "Just be yourself. Be likable."

"Which one? I can't be both." I step off of the small podium, mindful of the heels which I am still not quite acquainted with. I lift my skirt slightly, as to avoid accidentally stepping on and then tearing the fabric. "I've been dreaming of this moment since I was a kid, you know. Growing up with a Victor for a dad, I just...I idolized him. I saw the love the Victors received, being able to leave their Districts and see other parts of the world, and to have crowds cheering their name...I wanted it. I'd watch every Game and take notes, thorough notes - I'd theorize which Tributes would die first. I got good at it. Imagine, getting good at..." I trail away, sighing. "But so much has changed the last few years. The fact that I am where I always dreamed of being...and I want to go home. I want Liber there with me."

Galeria's eyes soften. She steps forward, reaching out to place a tender hand upon my shoulder, which is adorned with teal and silver glitter (which is also speckled as highlighter across my cheekbones). "I know. But I have to tell you, I'm proud of you. You chose this, to keep your brother safe. You could've just let him go alone, but you came with him. That has to count for something."

"He should never have been Reaped to begin with," I say. "Someone should have Volunteered for him, like when Finnick was Reaped."

"I know." Galeria squeezes my shoulder. "But they didn't."

They didn't.

"I should have Volunteered when Mara was Reaped, not let Harpee go," I add.

"Maybe," Galeria says. "But dwelling won't change anything, Ceres. You did what you had to, and I'm proud of you for it. You know that? I really am. Not just me, everyone."

I nudge her gently. "Alright. Sentiment received," I say. Beyond the walls of my dressing room, I hear applause. "Do you know if Liber is nervous?"

"I'm sure he is," she says. "Aren't you?"

"I've been rehearsing every possible speech in my head since I was seven...I'm terrified."

"You look terrified."

"Thanks."

I'm standing in line with my brother, watching the screen over our heads which depict the Interviews transpiring. Liber is standing behind me, looking over my head as Jason walks across the stage towards Caesar, whose head is fiery red, and whose glittering red suit with an array of yellow detailing create quite an eyesore. Jason is wearing a luxurious golden suit which is looks remarkably peculiar against his burly, square-like frame. The Interview goes half as well as one would expect. Caesar is his usual bubbly personality, inquiring to Jason about his overview of the competition (worded as fellow Tributes), as well as his expectations for how the Games will go. Jason replies with generally one or two words - maybe the use of two syllables - but his quietness deters Caesar slightly and the Interview doesn't even last its supposed three full minutes. Soon enough, Lamia is gliding prettily across the stage. Jason was clad in gold and Lamia is clad in silver, in a long, glittering dress embedded by countless diamonds. Her long hair bounces in ringlets around her shoulders.

I hear Liber make a small sound behind me; almost akin to a throaty squeak. I close my eyes, counting back from five, before I dare to peer over my shoulder. "Don't even think about it."

"Think about what?"

Caesar laughs over something Lamia says and I look back up.

"What a cheeky jewel you are!" Caesar says.

"That's the thing about jewels, Caesar..." Lamia leans closer, grinning. "They're sharp."

Liber chuckles behind me.

You've got to be joking me.

I'm grateful when Lamia skips off of the stage, and the Tributes pass from one to the other. "You feel confident for your Interview?" I ask.

Liber snorts. "No. Do you?"

"You should. You really, really should," I say. "Potential Sponsors are in the crowd."

Seneca Crane, too.

"Mags, Finnick, Tilda, and Ren have been working hard to get us Sponsors," Liber protests. "I'm not worried."

I clench my jaw, thinking about Finnick laying in bed, the marks across his body illuminated by the trickles of moonlight, and how raggedly he had breathed when he slept. "We have to do some of the work, too, Liber," I hiss between my teeth, peering over my shoulder. I just barely hear how the boy from District 3 mentions something about favoring the high ground. "They're doing more than just convincing people who to Sponsor."

Liber goes quiet and the line moves forward.

"Try...try to understand this isn't easy for them, either, Liber. They're doing what they can to keep us alive," I say. "The least you can do is put some effort in-"

Suddenly a hand is upon my arm. I look up, realizing no one stands in front of me now, leaving me next, and a man in a black suit gently gripping me. There is not even a moment to react before he is whisking me away. I lift my skirt enough so that my heels won't snag the fabric accidentally, as the guard and I walk briskly towards the stage. Flashing lights and roaring cheers greet me.

"And now, let's see if a daughter of a Victor can prove to be victorious herself...CERESEA RYTHE!"

(a/n): ...now, this story is Finnick/OC, with mild Seneca/OC. So we all knew that Seneca would wiggle his way into Ceres' narrative. Admittedly, it's so much fun writing Seneca, because he is drastically different from Finnick, and I enjoy writing his dynamic with Ceres. It's just a sharp contrast to how Finnick and Ceres are together. What are you guys thinking? Do we have any shippers out there? Lmfao. I also hope you guys enjoyed some *soft* Finnick and Ceres. Hehe. ALSO! INTERVIEW, YES! WE'RE FINALLY HERE! Also, this chapter was a BEAST! This is comparable to Finnick's POV chapter, oi.

In case anyone was wondering, Ceres' Interview dress: https: ( originals/b0/67/3c/b0673cd7d7f914c51c2b62c72373c425) .png

Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Please, please review!

Review replies

scars from the sun: haha, thank you! XD I was a little uncertain to include it, but...ya know. I had to. A silly joke now, surely could make a comeback later. ^^ I hope you enjoyed the name Ceres got! And next chapter...next chapter is the Interview. And oh boy it's gonna be a doozy. I have it halfway written currently and THE TEA IS SCALDING. It's gonna be a lot. Mwahaha!