(a/n): HERE WE ARE, READERS! A chapter from the perspective of Seneca Crane! ^^ There has already been a chapter dedicated to Finnick, and I hesitated to write a chapter from Seneca's perspective, because I do see him as a character shrouded in mystery. But then I remembered a quote from George R.R. Martin, who obviously as several POV for his book series. He said something along the lines of, "One character will be standing outside a door and have no idea what's being said inside, but then another character is inside, aware of what's going on, but oblivious to the other character." I'm mad paraphrasing here. But the conclusion I came to is, Ceres knows jack shit about Seneca, which is a huge disadvantage. So with we the audience being aware of who he is, we have an advantage over our MC. Basically, I concluded that Seneca being a POV is a necessity. Whether or not he'll have more POV chapters, we shall see. *evil cackles*

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

gamemaker's vision

Seneca

The Borage House was one of the most, if not the most, elite restaurants in the Capitol. Founded by the Boraginaceae family roughly fifty years ago, it has stood the test of time as a popular sight for romantic getaways, business meetings, and a wide array of other affairs, as well as serving as a location where President Snow occasionally takes his granddaughter for rare familial public outings. And after all, if President Snow deems it an exceptional spot for affectionate grandfatherly affairs, then surely the Capitolians can find their own purposes for it.

The Borage House is composed of glass and glossy white metal. It is a greenhouse in every available sense, so its structure is precisely that; it stands tall with a curved roof, in which sunlight naturally pours through across an extraordinary garden. There is a diamond shape in the center the gardens, which divides into four separate pathways, and between these pathways resides the most exquisite of flowers, in a variety of colors even rainbows would be envy of. There is space large enough for benches to be situated, where young lovers might sit to admire roses as they bloom, or where a mother and her children can enjoy the quiet as birds freely fly and chirp throughout the very large space. Remarkable trees also grow tall, blooming with rich flowers, and even a wide array of fruits. In the center of the diamond resides a most extravagant fountain sits, where children often throw coins to make wishes. I have often heard of Capitolians coming here to wish for their respective Tributes to win.

There are also little stone bird fountains placed meticulously across the Borage House, where the birds who reside in the building might rest and enjoy their little luxuries. Just as there are a wide array of flowers, so, too, are there birds; from robins, to sparrows, to canaries which sing the prettiest songs.

Now looming above the diamond shape in the center of the gardens was an equally diamond shaped structure that ascended above the gardens, attached by four points which shadowed the pathways, and could be accessible by elevators provided by the entry points.

A fine glass fence trails the structure, adorned with remarkable designs of green vinery, so one might safely peer over its edge; but there is a force field, as well, to prevent unwanted accidents. Tables are arranged within this formation, with the tea shop resting in the center of it, where one could watch their pastries or tea be made. The Borage House grows its own flowers, herbs, and fruits, used for the tea and treats.

Alas, the Borage House has become a luxury I can scarcely afford nowadays. My work has become quite time consuming, particularly now that the Games have begun, and my uncle has been requesting more and more of my time. As an apprentice Gamemaker, it is my duty to help my uncle oversee the Games, provide him insight, and also to ensure that there are no oversights; a most critical task for what shall eventually be a most critical promotion once I take my uncle's place.

Nevertheless, there are some mornings where my uncle can spare me, and I do not need to spend hours upon hours in his offices, tending to his affairs. Hence, upon this fair midmorning, I have arranged a meeting of my own.

"Good morning, Mr. Crane," says the server, a young girl with a painted white face and elaborate rosy cheeks and lips, as well as long pink eyelashes that are designed to resemble orchid petals. She is clad in a pastel orange dress which trails to her knees, and fades in an ombre pattern into a rich shade of magenta at the base of her frilly dress. She is also wearing a pastel orange wig, which hangs in ringlets to her chin. "Shall I fetch you your usual?"

"In a moment," I reply. "I'm waiting for my guest. I'd hate to get started without him."

"Him, Mr. Crane?" she says, appearing curious. "Are you having a meeting with one of the Gamemakers?"

I laugh. "No, I'm afraid one of my own associates," I say, though I can hardly call the object of my meeting an associate, as I have only met him personally on about two other occasions. "Though it does have to do with the Games."

"That sounds very important," she replies. "Well, I'll return in a bit, then."

My wait, as it were, is not long.

Minutes after, I see him step out of one of the elevators. Finnick Odair, the Capitol darling, approaches with a swarthy and almost careless stride, of which captures the attentions of several women and men, whose eyes flicker dangerously, and then murmur amongst themselves. He is clad in a black long sleeved shirt with an impressive V-neck that extends down to his naval, exposing the better part of his cleanshaven chest. He wears a necklace with what I can only imagine are shark teeth around his neck. Upon his legs are tight steely grey leather trousers, and a pair of fine black boots upon his feet. The highly coveted Victor wears a most winning smirk which flickers in a pair of sea green eyes I do not trust nor favor. I have never had a particular interest in the Victors; they were winners and their value to the Capitol was infinite, but I scarcely deal with them unless it is for matters such as these. As a future Gamemaker, I cannot afford the luxury of biases and favoritism, so I tend to keep Victors at arms' length unless I approach first.

Still, the Capitol darling is a special case.

The first time I had ever met Finnick Odair was at a celebratory gala during his Victory Tour, when he had returned to the Capitol, at President Snow's mansion. I felt I had played an intricate role in Finnick Odair's Games. I had been apprenticing under my uncle since I was sixteen, so by the time Finnick was Reaped, I was twenty, with four years of experience beneath me. The Games in question had been a forest, with specific bodies of water that were deep yet clean, but dangerous to approach. It made the Games all the more interesting, particularly for those who favored District 4, and were able to watch the boy with the trident. My uncle had congratulated me for my efforts, and had secured me a place during the gala. It was my second gala at the President's mansion, with the first one being when I was sixteen, just having started my apprenticeship.

I recall meeting Finnick Odair for the first time quite clearly. I was twenty at the time, with him at the humbled age of fourteen, standing as the youngest Victor in Panem history. It had been a slightly strange thing to firmly shake hands with a boy who had already accomplished so much in such little time. I had almost felt inclined to be jealous of him, for I had always aspired to be the youngest Gamemaker in history. But being twenty-five currently, with my contemporary, Finnick Odair, being still but nineteen, it goes without saying that his accomplishments have far outweighed mine. The youngest Gamemaker had been twenty-six, and my uncle has made it very clear that he has no intention of retiring come next year.

But it is a trifle to be envious against someone such as the Capitol darling. In many respects, he has earned his attentions, for he proved himself quite savvy during the Games, and had survived at such a young age. Yet the manner in which he so arrogantly struts, as if he owns everything surrounding him, leaves a distaste in my mouth. Still, surely he was entitled to his praises and to his popularity. Yet, even still, it is a sting to the ego that I had secured certain aspects of his memorable moments during the Games with my ideas, yet none shall ever consider the Gamemaker's hand in such matters; least of all when it wasn't even a Gamemaker's decision, but the Head Gamemaker's apprentice.

I have countless memorable moments under my belt, yet none shall never truly be claimed as mine, not until I have my uncle's position. God only knows when that will be, as he means to keep it until he feels he can end his Games on a good note; a final hurray, where history shall reflect upon him with permanent admiration. These are high ambitions, but I can't deny that he is undeserving to them. When I am Head Gamemaker, I expect that I, too, shall end my Career on a memorable note.

Regardless, my mind has drifted away with me again, and I must focus on the task at hand.

I consider standing to greet Finnick, but then I remember that I am his superior, on a number of accounts. So, rather, I gesture for him to take his seat across from me. "Mr. Odair. Thank you for meeting with me."

"Thank you for having me," Finnick replies, flashing me one of his careless smirks that I so often see plastered across interviews and pictures and a variance of other things which cause girls' hearts to swoon. He pulls his chair and sits back in it, one leg lazily resting over the other. "So, how can I be of service to you, Mr. Crane? Your message to meet was fairly vague."

I clear my throat. "With respect, Mr. Odair, I am not here for your services," I say, watching as his seductive smirk shifted into sheer amusement. Now there is a curiosity in his eyes, which I am prepared to satisfy with an explanation, when our waitress returns to tend to us.

Even behind her white face paint, I can see her whole face reddening at the sight of Finnick Odair.

"Mr. Crane. Mr. Odair," she says, giggling a little at the Victor's name. "Are we prepared to order?"

"Indeed," I say. "Black cherry tea, as per usual, and a honey scone."

Finnick meets the girl's gaze and smiles charmingly, his sea-green eyes clearly taking her in from top to bottom, slow enough for it to be obvious, and to fluster the poor girl. "Coffee, for me, and bring a whole bowl of sugar cubes if you can," he says, "oh, and...pastry of your choice. Surprise me." He winks at her, and the poor girl shuffles off, looking as though she'll fall over. He levels his sea like gaze to me. "So I take it this is business before pleasure."

"Yes, it is," I say, straightening. "I am inclined to Sponsor your Tributes."

Finnick's brow arches at that, appearing quite pleased by the prospect, yet, all the same, ever still curious. His head tilts slightly, lifting a hand to hold his chin as he watches me. "Generally, Sponsorship detailing is handled by Mags," he says. "I think you know where my expertise is."

"I contacted your Escort, Mr. Odair. Mr. Greenscape informed me that Ms. Flanagan was otherwise preoccupied with an array of other meetings, and you were the only available Victor to meet with me. I wished to settle this matter as quickly as possible, now that the Games have commenced. But if you are inept to the task, perhaps I'm inclined to wait for Ms. Flanagan's time to open."

Something sparks in the Capitol darling's sea-green eyes; a brief flicker of something, like when a crackle of lightning jolts through a cloudy sky; so quick that if you were to blink it would go unseen. Yet just as quickly it has passed, replaced by a broad smirk followed by a low chuckle. "I like you, Mr. Crane," he says, almost purring. "I think I could handle some Sponsorship talk. Besides, to have any member of the Crane family want to support my District is a definite honor."

Finnick leans back in his chair, just as the waitress returns with our food and beverages. Her hands are practically shaking as she places the coffee and bowl of sugar cubes in front of Finnick, as well as a fruit tart with an elaborate floral design, adorned with cut strawberries, blackberries, some kiwi, and a delicate apricot glaze. She then hands me my own tea and pastry. But her eyes are fixated upon the Victor, who looks up at her approvingly.

"Sweet, like you. You read my mind, honey," Finnick says, deliberately watching her as she walks away. And I watch as he then glances across the food in front of him, seemingly lost to himself for a moment; a thoughtful expression upon his face. I imagine he is carefully evaluating this immeasurable gift I have laid at his feet; a Sponsorship from a member of the Crane family, with strong ties to the Gamemakers. It is too great an offer to rebuke. Finally, his eyes lift. He reaches to the bowl and pops a sugar cube into his mouth. "Would you be Sponsoring both of my Tributes, then? Ceres and Liber?"

I find myself smiling, despite myself.

I think to the rooftop where I had met with Ceresea Rythe in secret, where she had looked at me with a pair of rich sapphire like eyes, and inquired the very same thing. How pleasant it is to come across Tributes who are so loyal to their own. In my experience being surrounded by Sponsors my whole life, as well as having been Sponsoring my own Tributes since I was sixteen, I have watched countless Tributes greedily latch to every opportunity for an advantage, even if it meant casting their fellow Tribute aside. For some, it was a sport.

"You remind me very much of your Tribute, Mr. Odair," I say, with a small chuckle.

Finnick scoffs, though his expression conveys amusement. "Which one?"

"Ms. Rythe."

I raise my tea to my lips, though I pause when I notice how Finnick's eyes seem to shift; narrow green gaze wrought with something I don't entirely recognize, and ultimately find unnerving. I set my glass down, a little uncertain over the Victor's sudden mood change. The casual, almost disrespectful, demeanor he had entered our meeting with has seemed to fall away, replaced instead by something far more tense.

Finnick clears his throat. "In what way do I remind you of her?"

Realizing that it is utterly ridiculous to be intimidated by a Victor in my own Capitol, I lift my tea to my lips and draw a slow sip from it. The eruption of black cherries mingled with an array of sweetened herbs dances across my tongue, and I hum contently as I set my cup back down gently. Finnick has leaned forward, one arm balanced on the table. A part of me considers keeping my rather rule-breaking encounter with Ceresea a secret, yet I see no harm in it now. After all, Gamemakers and their associates have access to the Training Center. And to speak to a Tribute, to whom I meant to Sponsor, could hardly be a criminal offence in the eyes of a Mentor whose occupation is to keep said Tribute alive. "Well, when I informed her I planned on Sponsoring District 4, she made certain to ask if I would be Sponsoring her and her brother," I say. "She's fiercely loyal."

The Capitol darling takes a moment, eyeing me carefully, before he takes his cup of coffee and drinks from it. His eyes are closed, though I note the furrow in his brow. Once he sets the glass down, he seems significantly more composed. "You spoke with Ceres?" Finnick inquires, his tone resolving itself, yet I can see the veins beginning to protrude from his neck, as if he is physically forcing himself to remain still. I see his hand clenching atop the table.

"I am certain you can forgive my unorthodox methods, Mr. Odair, but I did meet with Ms. Rythe. I sent her a letter requesting we meet on the rooftops of the Training Center. Our meeting couldn't have lasted for more than five minutes," I say. To say I am puzzled would be an understatement. Finnick's demeanor has become so stiff, his eyes lowering to look down at the untouched pastry. Yet all at once, it occurs to me. How foolish I was to overlook the root of Finnick's concerns. I clear my throat. "Mr. Odair, I assure you my intentions were entirely pure. I never laid a hand to Ms. Rythe, nor do I mean to do so. I simply wanted to talk with her, and talk we did."

Yet she had laid a hand to me, innocent as it was. It had certainly taken me off guard when Ceresea had stepped closer, near closing a distance I had maintained in order to secure her comfort, and had laid her hand upon my arm. Her hands were small, yet they were the hands of a worker; calloused with various scratches upon her skin. I had felt rather foolish, admittedly, when I had pressed a kiss to her forehead, yet it was innocent; all of it was. What I did, I did to serve a point. It sealed my promise to her to protect herself and her brother, which I meant to do. I doubt her brother shall last long during the Games - frankly, I am baffled he even survived the initial bloodbath - but Ceresea has a chance.

It is easy to imagine her standing at the end of it in my uncle's Games. I imagine the cave ceilings opening up, revealing the clear blue sky and sunlight, as she is retrieved and brought back; alive, victorious. I imagine her in a pretty dress, like the one she wore during the Tribute Parade when she first caught my attention, or even during her Interview, and being crowned by President Snow as the Victor of the 68th Annual Hunger Games. And I imagine taking her here, to the Borage House.

But that is neither here, nor there. She must first win the Games before any such fantastical thoughts can overtake me. And I mean to secure her chances, even with her Mentor being utterly difficult about it.

Finnick appears less than pleased by my answer. "Why not meet with me, or Mags?" he asks. "It seems a little unprofessional to approach a young Tribute without first consulting her Mentors, Mr. Crane."

That tone again. I feel myself start to bristle. "Ms. Rythe said the same thing, albeit with decorum," I say, opting to fold my hands over the table. "Mr. Odair, I understand that my actions were unorthodox, but, as I have said, I did them with the purest of intentions. I truly mean no harm. I want to Sponsor your Tributes. But if you think that the influence and financial support of a Head Gamemaker's nephew is beneath you and the lives of your Tributes, perhaps you should reevaluate your strategy, as well as the weight of your Tributes' lives."

It is then I see that spark in Finnick's eyes again, this time sharper. Angrier. His expression remains the same, though I note the subtle way his nostrils flare. I have vexed the Victor, it seems, though I cannot bring myself to feel distraught over the matter. I have offered to meet with him to discuss a Sponsorship, yet he has met me with nothing but aggravation and disrespect. Perhaps it would have been better if I had met with Mags Flanagan, for she is older and seems to have her head more gathered together; years of Mentoring and handling these matters has seasoned her well. Meanwhile, Finnick is precisely what I would imagine the Capitol darling to be; spoiled, and easily provoked. As well as easily distracted by pretty girls, as proven by our waitress.

Still, I won't allow Finnick Odair's hard-headedness to intervene in my attempts to save the lives of the Tributes from District 4, though I have a primary priority in one. For her sake, I shall keep them both alive as long as I am able, but if Liber is to die, then my efforts shall be placed double in the girl who wore moonlight and has eyes like clear water.

"Shall we try again, Mr. Odair?" I offer, coolly. "Or shall I take my business elsewhere?"

Finnick looks upon me coldly, before a tight smile forms on his lips. "By all means, let's talk business, Mr. Crane."

I open my mouth to retort, when someone makes a loud gasping sound. I glance up towards the screen, playing against one of the glass walls in the Borage House. There are four in total, on each wall; placed high above and wide-spread so that everyone at every angle could watch the Games as they progressed. My gaze fixates to my uncle's expertly designed cave, to see that Ceresea and the boy from District 7 are paired against two Careers, by the black lake. My lips twitch a little, feeling my chest swell with amusement and with pride. There it is, I think. What lurks below.

My uncle had been mapping out the Arena for over eight months, carefully forging a mazelike structure where one could easily become lost in, along with pools of water, yet it had been I who had suggested the black water, as well as placing something within it. I had even designed the tunnels, myself. I have even had the luxury of seeing the Muttations firsthand, albeit nonactive.

"What do you think of those odds, Mr. Odair?" I wonder, watching as the fight breaks out between them.

Finnick doesn't reply, gaze fixated on the screen.

There is a clash of weaponry and expert evasive maneuvers, yet I find myself utterly impressed by Ceresea's ferocity as she manages to bring down the girl from District 3, from the way she slit the back of her heel open, to impaling her spine. I straighten a little when Ceresea kicks the body of the girl from District 3 into the water, her bloodied figure disappearing beneath the depths. It is not long before the Muttation leaps out of the water, causing several screams to resound across the Borage House. I feel a swell of pride within me near burst to such a reaction, as my design leaps out of the water and lands upon the surface, its red maw open wide and releasing a hiss-like roar. My gaze flickers around me, absorbing how everyone has stopped what they are doing to watch. Even the Tributes have frozen in place.

And then the girl from District 2 is running and the Muttation seizes her. From the angle that captures the attack, I can see that when the Muttation's jaw closes, her bones crunch and pierce through her skin, blood pooling out of her mouth even as she tries to scream, drowning in it. The cannon goes off moments later, but my stomach drops slightly when I notice the grimmer detail; the Muttation's tail had swiped Ceresea off her feet and into the water. But as the girl from District 4, I have no fear of her drowning. Even when the monster sinks back into the water, I sit in anticipation, waiting for her to emerge. I know she will.

I have utmost faith in her.

Sure enough, she pops out of the obsidian liquid, with the boy from 7 reaching for her. He pulls her fast out of the water, just as the Muttation leaps out. Its maw is open wide, near claiming her legs. But it sinks back into the water without prey, and Ceresea and the boy lay against the ground, taking in the sight of my majestic creation. I straighten a little, relieved, yet also impressed; in myself and in the girl from District 4.

"Impressive," I say.

Finnick is completely still, his jaw clenched and his knuckle clenched so tightly upon the table I can see it shaking.

I look back to the screen.

Ceresea is looking up now, pointing out the rocks above them. What transpires next is a most clever display of utilization of the Arena, in which Ceresea and the boy from District 7 manage to lure my Muttation out of the water, antagonizing it as it swings its body every which way, until it creates enough chaos that it has its head smashed in by the rocks overhead. The pride within me settles into mild disappointment, to know that my creature had been easily slaughtered. Yet I cannot deny, to see Ceresea standing there, looking down upon the dead Muttation she had so clever executed, is a remarkable thing.

I have no doubt she shall be capable in facing the other creations my uncle and I have co-created together.

"I like her odds," I say, seriously. "Now, Mr. Odair. I would very much like to Sponsor them both. If you would like to be difficult about it, then-"

"No, no. We have the same interests, keeping my Tributes alive," Finnick says, straightening in his seat. He glances around, looking across the patrons surrounding us who are cheering for District 4, crying out Ceresea's name having vanquished the creature, and having gained a small victory alongside the boy from District 7. No doubt she has also earned an array of Sponsors this day, but none shall compare to me. That much is certain. Finnick must surely recognize that, for he levels his gaze to me sternly. "Where should we begin?"

"Ah, Seneca. You're late."

I bristle a little under the scrutinizing gaze of Lucius Crane, whose sharp blue eyes look levelly upon me. I adjust my blazer accordingly, opting to feign complete indifference. After all, a Head Gamemaker must keep his head, as well as maintain composure beneath sharpened scrutiny, even if it is justified. For my uncle is correct, I am approximately five minutes late to be meeting with him, though I cannot exactly call my time spent with Finnick Odair as wasteful. After all, arrangements for my Sponsorship had been made. Anything the Mentors desired for their Tributes, they would have without question or delay. I had it embedded into my tablet to alert me to any possible update regarding the Tributes, as well as to any alerts from the Mentors as to the things I could obtain for them. Finnick Odair had been grateful, in the end, if not a little impudent.

"I am sorry, Uncle," I say. "I was conducting a meeting with Finnick Odair-"

"A personal meeting. You need to learn to balance your time better, Seneca," Lucius scolds. He turns his back on me, then, leaning forward to press his hand upon the rails which overlook the Gamemakers hard at work. Across the wall are dozens upon dozens of screens, depicting the Games as they transpire.

I inhale, properly and irritably chastised by my uncle, yet I distract myself by regarding the screens in question. A few bodies litter the cave structure, having yet to be picked up. Jason Ironjaw, the boy from District 1, is standing at the heart of the now abandoned Cornucopia, where he is accompanied by Lamia Lowvale, also from District 1, and Liber Rythe, of all people. The three of them have set up base in the Cornucopia, with Jason having fortified the area by piling rocks and boxes carrying supplies on top of each other, a wall-like structure securing the Cornucopia's entrance. Food, weapons, and all other supplies are theirs, and it appears they are content to be so.

I look to another screen. The girl from District 7 is with the boy from District 5 and the two Tributes from District 9. It appears that they have holed up to examine their supplies, though their eyes regard each other with distrust; this Alliance shall not last long, I expect, particularly noting how District 5's fingers seem to be twitching towards the backpack when no eyes are upon him. Not long at all.

Although my uncle is displeased with me at the moment, I go to stand beside him. He spares me no glance.

I inhale slowly, steadying my resolve. "I notice how you've already tried to kill my favorite Tribute," I say. On a smaller screen, I take in the sight of Ceresea and her oddball Alliance walking warily together, having recovered from their encounter with the Muttation, and seemingly on guard because of it. Good, very good. That is to their benefit, particularly hers.

"Remind me who you've chosen to Sponsor again," Lucius says.

"The girl from District 4, Ceresea Rythe," I say. One of the Gamemakers must overhear me, because she enlarges one of the screens showing Ceresea, which causes my uncle to scoff.

"She killed your creature," he says.

"There are plenty of Muttations in the Arena, Uncle. We made them ourselves, remember?" I say. "Besides, you should have seen the reaction in garnered in the Borage House. People were screaming in horror when it jumped out, they were invested and engaged in what I - in what we made. When she killed it, they were cheering her name. I imagine after today, she'll have an array of Sponsors. She's clever."

"Too clever," Lucius asserts. "She's utilized the Arena for her purpose."

I don't like my uncle's tone at all. A little unsettled by it, I decide to seize reason as my own ally. "I seem to recall the boy from District 1 using your Arena for his purpose when he impaled his fellow Tributes against the rocks," I remind my uncle, sternly. "He is also now using your rock formations as a barrier between other Tributes and the Cornucopia."

"Ah, Seneca. It's different," Lucius says. "He was using it for our benefit. Ms. Rythe was using it against one of our creations, one of my prouder Muttations, I might add. I had hoped to utilize that Muttation throughout the Games, given that underground tunnel system you orchestrated."

"There are plenty of other crocodiles in the Arena, uncle. Just as vicious," I say, trying to hold back my frustrations, as well as my quieted anger to his statement. My prouder Muttations. It had been me who had suggested the crocodile Muttations, as well as its design and the black water it would reside in; with the tunnel system that Tributes could easily find themselves lost in, with various monsters awaiting them on either side. "The Games have only just begun and they are already successful."

Lucius grunts, waving his hand, and ordering the Gamemakers to focus on a fight going on between the girl and boy from District 8, in which they partake in a fairly aggressive scuffle between each other. I grit my teeth, watching as the two of them hurtle each other around, bodies slamming against the walls, and the boy trying to push the girl against some rocks. But she's successful in pushing him off, attempting to run, but he grabs ahold of her ankle and drags her back. He reaches out blindly, grabbing his scythe and attempting to bring it down over her. But she knees him, and manages to pull from his grasp; not before he slices at her side, which she holds tightly as she runs, leaving behind her own weapons and backpack, which he proudly claims.

The Capitolians do love betrayal between Tributes. It is a delicious type of drama that stirs their excitement and often their pockets. I have seen Capitolians deliberately antagonize Allied Tributes from the same District by simply Sponsoring and favoring one over the other, for the sole purpose of watching them kill each other. I have never partaken in this before, at least not deliberately, but I do suppose I understand the appeal; from a thematic standpoint. But I do wonder if this shall transpire between Ceresea and her brother, who are currently separated, and have been since the start of the bloodbath.

I mean to keep my oath, regardless, but I wonder if the other Capitolians will notice. They had sworn during their Interviews to keep one another safe and protected. Thus far, Ceresea has been the only one actively trying to find him, whilst her brother has found contentment with the Careers of District 1. It's a promising Alliance, until they decide to gut him.

My eyes flicker to my uncle. Or until my uncle decides to gut her.

His knuckles are clenched and I can tell he is severely irritated, for his Arena to have been used in such a way so soon within the Games, and for the Muttation's weakness to have been exposed so soon, as well. I admit, that I had hoped to draw it out, for the Tributes to try countless ways of trying to kill it - if they even could - but I also cannot ignore how vastly clever Ceresea was for her ingenuity in that moment, while her Alliance mate in District 7 had been panicking.

I clear my throat. "Are you going to kill her?" I ask.

Lucius scoffs. "As Head Gamemaker, it is not my job to kill the Tributes. It is my duty to create an environment where one can thrive or perish, depending on how they utilize their skillsets. However, occasionally, my influence is required to spur certain motions into action, as well as keep order when my Arena is threatened or compromised," he says.

I scoff in return. "I hardly think a Tribute causing rocks to fall on one Muttation is a threat."

At that, my uncle turns to fully face me, his ice blue eyes unblinking upon my own. "Do you recall the 50th Quarter Quell, Seneca?"

I sigh, exasperatedly. "Of course."

"Did you know that the Head Gamemaker for the Quarter Quell was executed? Because of that little stunt Haymitch Abernathy pulled, proving the Arena could be used to the benefit of the Tribute - a backwater, less than nothing boy from District 12, no less - thus compromising our work, our authority, and our power. And she was executed for it, because of the rebellious, unforeseen actions of one foolish boy."

"Edel Silvervale. I remember her."

"Then came her successor," my uncle continues, causing me to clench my teeth and bristle unpleasantly. "Do you know who Edel Silvervale's successor was, Seneca?"

I feel myself becoming progressively angrier, though I still it as quickly as it rises. I force my calm, maintaining direct eye contact with Lucius even as he stares coldly upon me; our gazes measured only by our contempt for each other, yet also the necessity residing in each others' company. I open my mouth with a small click. "Cicero Crane," I reply. "My father."

"Yes, Cicero. My brother," Lucius goes on, nearly spitting the word. "How long was Cicero's career as Head Gamemaker?" When I don't reply, my uncle moves closer, lowering his voice, yet I can feel the volume of his coldness. "Say it."

"Five years."

"Five years," Lucius echoes. "Your father couldn't take the pressure of Head Gamemaker."

As much as I am loathe to admit it, it's true. During the 55th Hunger Games, my father had cracked. I recalled everything in vivid detail, as the Games seemed to unravel. It had not been unsuccessful, but the Arena my father had built had been fairly unpopular. It had been a mountain landscape, but the mountains were so treacherous that Tributes were dying on their own, usually losing balancing and rolling down the side of it, necks snapping or bones cracking so severely they would lay broken for hours or even days until they died, or until a fellow Tribute showed them mercy.

The Victor of the 55th Hunger Games had been Ren Ambrose, from District 4, who had survived his Games by finding a waterfall and hiding behind it, periodically killing off his fellow Tributes when they drew near and stealing their weapons. Ren had been liked well-enough, and the Games had been moderately successful because of it, yet no one praised the Arena, nor the deaths, nor anything factor of it. According to my mother, President Snow had met with my father less than an hour after the Games' conclusion to berate him for how many casualties transpired well before the Games had even begun. By day two, three quarters of the Tributes were dead, and the rest could scarcely find steady ground to kill each other.

My father had respectably retired a week after, maintaining what dignity he could. And my uncle took his place immediately after.

Now my father lives as quiet of a life as he can in the Capitol, with my mother; in an apartment that is not the finest for someone of his former station, though they are comfortable enough. My mother calls it a simple life, though I understand the meaning behind it. At least my father hadn't been killed.

"Regardless, uncle," I say, "Ceresea Rythe is not Haymitch Abernathy, nor are you my father or Ebel Silvervale."

Lucius turns away from me, facing the screens again.

I swallow, summoning every ounce of reason that could possibly pierce through my stubborn uncle's shell. "You're angry now, but you should have seen the cheers in Borage House. I imagine it was spread across Panem, too. She's the daughter of a Victor, Uncle, in the Games against her own brother. And she just killed a Muttation." I pause, allowing him to process my words. "She'll be a favorite."

His eyes move towards me, critical. "You must really want to sleep with her, Seneca."

My face floods red and I look forward. "Throw challenges her way. Hinder her, if you have to," I say, "but don't kill her."

Several long moments pass, as my uncle goes from standing quietly to giving orders to the Gamemakers down below us. But I can see his temper gradually cooling, as he comes to the reason I have laid out before him. He has one of his assistants pull out his tablet, so he can examine the numbers. Once he does, I can see that I have won. With a clenched jaw, he waves his assistant away.

"Hinder her, you say," he says. "How?"

"I can think of a few things," I suggest, smiling.

Hours have passed. My uncle and I have spent these hours meticulously mapping out the Games, where to place our creatures, and to whom they would target. I understand that sacrifices are necessary for my gains to be met, though I still dislike the concept of bats being used as an assault against Ceresea and her Alliance members - though I don't particularly care, either way, for their sake. I do, however, guarantee that the Muttation of the crocodile in the blackwater is temporarily nullified, as I am aware that they shall be chased through that corridor and through that entrance, with the bats being stopped by the fireflies.

What transpires next is Ceresea's efforts to save the life of the girl from District 12, followed by the boy from District 8, who had lost his backpack in a scuffle with the girl from District 7, attempting to kill them. I had leaned forward against the railings during this ordeal, watching tensely as the boy grabbed her by her hair. But she was faster, deadlier. Even with the boy from District 7 temporarily disabled on account of the black water still in his lungs, she was capable. What a sight it had been, too, to see her launch the spear towards him, in the move we, the Gamemakers, had dubbed spearhead, and to slit his throat. She had survived, as my uncle promised, yet she was also cut up from the bats in question.

We were both equally satisfied.

My uncle had excused me for an hour or two to get some rest. Generally, as his apprentice, I would spent most of the hours of everyday with him, aiding in the overseeing of the Games, while also doing my uncle's dirtier work. Yet occasionally, I would be gifted some hours to myself. These hours I would sometimes spend sleeping at a desk, or drowning in coffee. Today, my plans are different.

For how I choose to use my time is spending it in the parlor of my parents' apartment. I seldom visit them, least of all during the Hunger Games season when my work is at its highest and most demanding, but my mother often reminds me of how melancholic my father is during these times. She claims my presence comforts him, and I know it's true, but it is difficult to see a man whose legacy was staunched before it could ever have begun.

Yet even still, she greets me with a kiss to my cheeks, and leads me to their parlor to watch the Games. My father is sitting upon a red velvet divan. He is an older man, with once black hair that has now been peppered with variants of silver, which extend to a broadly silver beard that covers a fine, square jaw that mirrors my own. His eyes are a darker shade of green, which meet mine with affection. His attire consists of a silk robe over his shirt and trousers, and a pair of fine slippers upon his feet. Even with his feet covered, I can tell that his gout has started to progress. Nevertheless, he rises to greet me, ignoring the cane beside him, and wraps his arms around me.

"Seneca," he says. "It's been too long. Sit, sit. I see Lucius finally gave you a moment's peace."

My mother rounds the corner. She is a shorter woman of plump stature, with a set of high cheekbones properly framed by curled honey blonde hair, and a set of light blue eyes that could illuminate any room. My mother's smile is often described as contagious, though my uncle has referred to it as vexing. "We've been watching the Games since yesterday, Seneca. Which was your doing?"

"The crocodile Muttation, for one," I state, with a measure of pride.

Cicero smiles, slowly sinking back onto the divan. "I knew it. Clever, Seneca, so very clever of you. It was horrifying," he compliments. "Please, sit."

I take a seat upon the equally velvet couch beside my father. "There'll be more to come," I say. "But I can't stay long, just for a short while."

"Of course, Seneca," Helvia replies, smiling fondly. "I'll make tea for us."

I avert my attention to the Games on screen, watching as Jason Ironjaw has appeared - though I note how Ceresea and her companions are in worst shape than last I had seen them. I wonder what has transpired between the time I left to the time I came here, though I have little focus upon that now, for Jason is discussing taking the back to his camp, when suddenly the cave starts to crumble. I lean forward, eyes narrowing slightly, as the Tributes in question rush through the entrance, the cave falling apart around them. My eyes flicker quickly across the screen, hands clenching on my knees as this occurs. My breath is held, waiting on every movement, heart stopping every time a rock collides to the ground, smashing against the earth.

It is not until the Tributes have stumbled to safety on the other edge of the cave that I finally release my breath. Yet even still, I sit tensely, watching on as they recover. I notice Ceresea swaying slightly, appearing out of breath and disorientated - justifiably so, yet I cannot help but to find myself slowly rising out of my seat. My knuckles are clenched.

"Seneca?" my father's concerned voice protrudes through my thoughts. "Are you alright?"

I ignore him.

Ceresea's hand touches the back of her head, pulling it away to reveal a closeup of blood. "I'm bleeding," she says, quietly at first. Then louder she says, "My head..."

There is little time to dwell upon it, for suddenly an aracorpian - a design made by my uncle - is skittering across the ceiling. Ironically, it had been my suggest that it would be drawn to the smell of blood, just as the crocodile had been. Anger fumes within me as it directs its multiple eyes towards her, yet without missing a beat, she meets its threat with equal measure. She lifts her spear and hurtles it towards the aracorpian, only managing to hit one of its legs, which becomes decapitated. the creature hisses in pain, landing on top of her. She falls backwards, already reaching for the rapala that had been given to her (a separate Sponsor from myself), but Birch has already moved forward, using his machete to hack into the creature's back. It hisses again, and its tail rises and pierces into the Tribute's back.

It is done so weakly, for I know the creature has the power to pierce directly through his skin, even his spine, but all it does is lightly puncture him; enough to spread the venom, of course, but that is another matter entirely. Jason intervenes then, using his axe to cut the tail clean off the body, then using his brute force to kick the aracorpian off of her. She crawls backwards, clearly in a daze as she must have struck her head again on the way down, and she tries pushing herself to her feet only to stumble onto her hands. She's gasping something out, of which I can only barely make out.

"B-Birch...your...back..." she says.

Meanwhile, Jason uses his axe to hack at the aracorpian multiple times, until nothing is left but a twitching pile of white mush.

Birch staggers a little, hissing in pain, but managing to stand tall. The aracorpian venom is not fast-acting, I saw to that. It certainly could vary depending on who it assaulted, but a man of Birch Indicia's size and stature, I imagine it shall be some time before the venom fully spreads through his body, and as to what shall transpire when it does, results may also vary. Nevertheless, Birch manages to gather his wits.

I watch intently as Jason and the boy from District 7 seem to exchange a glance, as the latter goes to stand in front of the two children. It is truly a noble effort, I must give him credit. While he is by no means overtly popular, I imagine that Birch Indica could have done well for himself in the Games had he prioritized himself, or stayed fighting alongside Nellie Baumbauch. Perhaps if he had Allied with the correct people, he could have ensured his safety, if only for a little while longer. But by placing such an infinite gamble upon a pair of children from a backwater District of little regard, he is sealing his own doom. As Gamemaker, I suppose that I would feel inclined to assist him in some areas, if only for a sympathetic angle to play itself out; it would make it all the more tragic, therefore engaging, when the end piqued for this particular trio.

Jason takes a step forward and Birch seems to brace himself, preparing for an attack against this brute of a man. I had watched the Tributes sparring through my own personal cameras, having studied them at my uncle's insistence, as I was not allowed to directly overview them in the Training Center yet. Once I inherit my uncle's position, then that shall surely change.

To my surprise, Jason does not advance to kill Birch, nor the two children from District 12. Rather, he leans down onto one knee and reaches out for Ceresea, who swats him away and tries standing. She manages to do so, though her legs are swaying beneath her. Those sharp blue eyes of hers are cutting deeply into the boy from District 1, her lips pressed together in a firm, reddened line.

"I'm fine," she manages, though I see her hands are shaking. "Take me...take me t...to my brother."

"She's in no condition to walk," Jason says to Birch, calmly. "I'm going to carry her."

"Don't you dare try," she hisses, taking a step back. "I'll lean on...lean on Birch."

"He's in no condition to be leaned on, either," Jason replies, rationally. "If I wanted to kill you - any of you - I would have done so already." He looks to Birch, then, with a firm gaze. "I'm going to carry her and you'll walk behind me. If I'm a threat, you can still run, right?"

"If you're a threat, you could hurt her," Birch says, hesitating.

"We're Allies," Jason says. To Ceresea, he coldly says, "Now lean on me."

Ceresea and Birch exchange glances, clearly neither of them happy, but both equally damaged at the present time. She shakes her head, and visibly winces to the gesture. She hisses in pain, her hand instinctually reaching to touch the back of her head. But she pauses, hands trembling as droplets of blood trickle down her dark hair. Jason's eyes are upon her, as if waiting for her to yield, yet she gestures for him to walk. So he does, with Ceresea and Birch trailing behind him.

"He could kill us," Birch whispers to her.

Ceresea's hands are trembling at her side and she can't seem to walk straight, yet her eyes are sharp upon Jason's back. Her determination, her prowess, is strong. "If he tries, run," she says. "I'll han...handle our friend."

"That girl has spirit," Cicero says, finally pulling me back.

I look at him, anger towards my uncle swelling within me, and yet also pride for my Tribute, as well. "I'm Sponsoring District 4 this year," I say. I reach for the tablet I kept on the glass coffee table. For a head wound, she shall certainly be needing a variety of aid. Who better to provide this than a most loyal and most important Sponsor? I brush my fingers across from it, type something rapidly, and then set it aside with a feeling of immeasurable satisfaction. I had just made a most sizable donation to District 4, for a proper medical kit to ensure that my Tribute would be well taken care of.

Once that was settled, I hear Helvia enter the parlor.

"Did I hear you were Sponsoring District 4 this year?" she inquires.

"Yes, mother," I reply.

"I always liked District 4," she says, pleasantly, as she pours our tea. "I hope one of them wins."

"So do I," I say, glancing back to the screen. If I have it my way, Ceresea Rythe shall be the Victor of the 68th Annual Hunger Games...and from there, to the Borage House.

(a/n): I based the restaurant that Seneca and Finnick dine together at off of the National Art Center in Tokyo. Its design is so unique and truly has a Capitolian style, but I decided to add my own twist to it by placing it in essentially an oversized green house, for...reasons. So to put simply, picture the National Art Center restaurant in Tokyo inside of the Royal Botanical Gardens' Temperate House!

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! It was honestly the most challenging chapter I've written so far. Voices like Ceres and Finnick are easy to write, but Seneca is a vastly different person altogether. Whereas Finnick and Ceres are people who were damaged and are currently damaged by the Capitol, and see through its faults, Seneca is someone who has damage but sees it entirely differently. I also found it strange writing a relatively domestic family dynamic with Seneca's parents, versus the dynamics with Ceres with Rheon and Demetra, and then Finnick with Neleus. But it was super fun, and I hope you guys enjoyed the behind the scenes look into the Games! ^^ Lots of stuff gonna go down, lemme tell you.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, and please review!

FANCASTS:

Helvia Crane: Sarah Brightman

Cicero Crane: Chris Sarandon

TRIBUTES OF THE 68TH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES

DISTRICT 1

- Jason Ironjaw (18)

- Lamia Lowvale (15)

DISTRICT 2

- Unnamed Boy (age unknown): DECEASED

- Unnamed Girl (age unknown): DECEASED

DISTRICT 3

- Unnamed Boy (age unknown): DECEASED

- Mecha Duskway (18): DECEASED

DISTRICT 4

- Ceresea Rythe (18)

- Liber Rythe (15)

DISTRICT 5

- Unnamed Boy (age unknown)

- Unnamed Girl (age unknown): DECEASED

DISTRICT 6

- Unnamed Boy (age unknown): DECEASED

- Unnamed Girl (age unknown)

DISTRICT 7

- Birch Indica (17)

- Unnamed Girl (age unknown)

DISTRICT 8

- Unnamed Boy (age unknown)

- Unnamed Girl (age unknown): DECEASED

DISTRICT 9

- Unnamed Boy (age unknown)

- Unnamed Girl (age unknown)

DISTRICT 10

- Unnamed Boy (age unknown)

- Unnamed Girl (age unknown)

DISTRICT 11

- Unnamed Boy (age unknown)

- Unnamed Girl (age unknown): DECEASED

DISTRICT 12

- Rust Underhorn (13)

- Daisy Plaindrop (12)