(a/n): This chapter has a lot. I wound up having to divide this chapter up from my original plan, but...ya know what, more said down at the bottom. XD Read on and enjoy, my friends! *heart*

CHAPTER NINETEEN

fishmonger's son

Finnick, twelve years ago

Sitting at the water's edge, the little waves curling against my ankles, I decide that today is officially the most boring day of my life. The sand around me is moist, seeping into my pants, and the seagulls flying well above me seem to be having more fun than I am. I wish I could fly off with them, just by flapping my arms fast enough. It would certainly be better than having to sit here with a bucket next to me, reeking of fish, and a tangled net on my lap. I can still hear a few flopping around, banging against the metal surface. My dad is standing out waist deep in the water, holding his trident. His bronze hair is tied back out of his face, though a few strands still fall across his bearded face. He's watching the water intently. He hasn't even moved for about five minutes, though it feels as though it's been five hours - wait, no, five years. Because I really feel like I've aged five years just sitting there.

Where I want to be is back home. Our little house is located on the shoreline a few miles from here, an old shade of teal that's washed up over the years. It's kept elevated on account of residing near the water, so it doesn't flood when the tide comes on. The stairs leading to the house are white and also dulled. They make rickety noises sometimes, and a few of the stairs feel loose. Our house sits in between a row of other houses just like ours, ranging from shades of dulled corals and yellows. To reach it, you have to descend down stone steps that lead from town and trail across hilly surfaces to reach the beach. This little nest of old, worn houses standing side by side together, without windows and wooden surfaces constantly braving the elements, is called the Hatchery. Its shorter name is simply the Hatch. It's the poorest sector in District 4. It is also where the fishmongers live.

I don't like that word.

There's something oddly indignant about it. The fishmongers from the Hatch usually spend every waking hour out on the water, whether it's in a boat or physically placing themselves in the element. Then, when the catching is done, they take their fish into town to sell. It's a humble man's trade, or at least that's what my dad says, but I can't help but notice that the net weavers live higher atop the hills, out of the risk of raging waves, and their houses seem more well-fit. The same can be said for the carpenters who live further away from our sector, closer to the forests; they harvest wood for our boats, which sell for lofty coins.

I don't even hear names called for them. No one would ever refer a net weaver as a netmonger or a carpenter to a woodmonger. I don't like it at all, though my dad doesn't seem to. Because that's what I am, Finn, he'd say to me, without sparing me even a second glance. Mom thinks it's funny, especially because she knows that's what I'll be, too. Like father, like son, I will inherit my father's trident and stand out in the water as he is now, fishing until I'm too old to stand, and then weaving nets until my hands break off.

I set my net aside. "Why don't we just buy a net?" he says.

"We can't afford to buy them, Finnick," my dad scolds, never taking his eyes off of the water, "not with your mother being ill. What we need are nice firm nets to catch fish, which we can then sell. Now keep weaving."

"Mom will be fine," I say, glaring at my dad again.

But how can I resign myself to this life? Staring at my dad, I can't help but to feel annoyed. His expression is unreadable as he stands there, the waves gently lapping around his waist, and his hand still raised above the water. Aside from his head occasionally turning, he isn't moving. His eyes track the water. I kick my legs against a wave that brushes a little further towards my knees. The fish inside the bucket have finally quieted down.

"This is boring, dad," I call out.

I can tell from my dad's tone that he's amused, though I can't see his face properly from here. "Is it?" he says. "What's so boring about it, Finnick?"

"It takes so long."

"As all things in life do," my dad replies without missing a beat.

I throw my hands out, then push myself onto my feet. This time, he turns to look at me. "But not this long. This is boring. There aren't any fish, and this rope is too thick to knot," I say. "I just want to go back home."

At that, my dad finally turns around to face me. Even from the small bit of distance dividing us, I can tell by his expression that he is less than pleased. Although I feel myself shrinking a little beneath his stare, I meet it back with the best of my ability. My dad pushes against the tide as he proceeds to walk towards me, plunging his trident into the sands before he settles beside me. His expression is surprisingly thoughtful now, though I know a lecture is coming. I brace myself for it. "I wish I were home, too, Finnick. But we don't have much of a choice here," he says. "Your mother is very sick."

"I know, dad," I say, "which is why I should be with her."

"No. It's exactly why you should be here with me," my dad pushes. "We need fish to sell, so that we have money. Then from money we can buy medicine from your mother. With medicine, she can heal. Do you understand?"

Fishmongers don't make much of a profit in the Hatch. We live in our humble homes and live at the base of town, where we must climb to reach them and sell our fish, crustaceans, mussels, and other types to. If you asked me, we should be located high up on the sunny hills where the net weavers live; their homes aren't in peril against the elements or storms, and they don't smell constantly like fish. They dress nicely, too. Although their hands are, indeed, calloused and worn from the work of net weaving, they're the ones wearing fine pearls around their necks.

I remember my dad telling me that my mom had to sell what jewels she had when she went with him to the Hatch. She had lived in the upper sectors, with her father having been a boat builder. But she had opted out of the humble life by the trees and ventured toward the shore's edge when she met my dad. From what she's told me, he saved her from drowning when she had gone swimming with friends...and the rest came to here, where she's now sick in bed, and my dad and I are sitting on the beach catching fish. If mom weren't sick, however, she would be here, too. She'd be helping me with my net weaving (though she isn't very good at it), and then she would help my dad gut the fish and scale them properly.

But she hasn't been on the beach in a really, really long time.

My eyes fall downcast, staring down at my hands, which are calloused and a little chafed from having been wrestling with the rope. I flex them, noting how stiff they are.

My dad sees this, as well, and releases a low sigh. "And with money, we can also buy you a new pair of pants," my dad offers, with the barest trace of a smile.

The pants I'm wearing are so old and so worn that the pockets have gaping hopes in them. They used to be my dad's pants. When my mom had given birth to me, my dad had taken as many of his old clothes as he could, and had opted to use them on me. Their age certainly showed, but what showed most was their use. He had fished in these clothes, too, and the water, sun, and, likely, angry fish had had their fair shot at beating at the fabric.

Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever had anything new in my life. But that's not really what I care about, because clothes fade away with time, and I know I'll be outgrowing them soon.

"Mom will be fine," I say again.

My dad reaches out to touch the back of my head gently. "I want to believe that, Finnick," he says. "But even if she goes, she'll be with the sea. The sea takes as much as it gives, son. It's cruel, but it's the truth. From it we can draw life, by harvesting its fish and its resources - like that pearl I gave your mother, do you remember? The coral one. But it can also take from us."

"Like when that storm tore down some houses?" I ask.

My dad nods. "Yes, son," he says. "We can't always predict the storm, but we must brace for it."

I don't want to brace for my mom going, though. "I won't ever let mom die," I say, stubbornly. "I'll keep her alive myself."

"Love alone doesn't save someone's life," my dad says, and I see something shadow his face. "If it could...the world would be a very different place."

"She's still alive," I snap, pushing myself to my feet. "Stop talking like she's already dead."

My dad sighs, visibly frustrated. "Someday, Finnick, you'll know what it is to love someone, and you'll know the fear of losing them."

"But we're not losing her! I'm not!"

In a gust of absolute rage, I take off down the edge of the beach. My father reaches out quickly to grab at me, but he lands against the sands, instead. I ignore his calls for me to come back as I keep running, my little legs carrying me with surprising speed. Without sparing any glances over my shoulder, I proceed to scale across the tall dunes, and scamper over the grassy patches. My eyes are welling with tears and the sounds of my dad are getting thinner and thinner. It looks like he's not chasing after me, which I'm actually okay with.

Once there's a fair bit of distance between me and him, I finally stop. I'm out of breath so I lean my hands against my knees, hunched forward as I catch it. The seagulls are cawing over my head again and the waves are moving slowly against the shoreside. It's all very nice sounding, though it does nothing to appease my mood. I'm just so angry. So I lean down, grab a rock, and proceed to hurtle it as hard and as fast as I can towards the ocean. It lands with an audible and visible plunk into the water, but it also serves to catch my attention elsewhere. Across the water, outlined by the sunlight, is a boat.

The boat in question is floating away from shore, and something very small standing in the center of it. I squint through the sunlight, keeping my hand up to shadow my eyes. It's definitely a person, I conclude, whose small arms are clinging to the side of the boat. I can't make out the details distinctly, but I know instantly that the ship is sailing further away from shore, and whoever in it needs help. I glance from where I'd come, knowing that I wouldn't be able to reach my dad and then come back here in time. The risk of the boat floating too far out of reach was just too much of a chance.

Still, I cup my hands over my mouth and shout as loudly as I possibly can. "Dad, dad! Come quick!"

But my dad isn't coming fast enough - I don't even know if he can hear me - so I do the most sensible thing I can think of. I take matters into my own hands. I charge into the water, fighting against the tide. Luckily, having grown up in the Hatch my whole life, I was practically born and raised in the water. This is my element, and I push through it with barely any issues. My arms paddle me as fast as they're able to. I push against the tide, using the breathing techniques that my dad taught me. My legs are kicking fluidly, propelling me forward. Swim now, my Finn, my mom's voice says gently in my ear. Show me how fast you are.

By the time I reach the boat, my whole body is aching. I reach out of the water and latch onto its smooth side, taking in a couple of gulps of air before I take in the castaway. I see a little girl clinging to its side, looking about my age. She stares at me, wide eyed, like a scared animal. She has these big eyes, too, that rest in a bronze heart shaped face and framed by damp dark hair. She doesn't look like the type who should be in a boat, especially when I notice she's wearing a fine blue sundress with white lacing. It's a proper dress, the kind that I see commonly in the richer sectors. She is definitely not the type of girl to be found anywhere near a boat on land, much less stranded in the ocean on one.

She inches further away from me, until she reaches the end of the boat. I notice that there's only one oar at the bottom of the fishing boat, too, with nothing else; no food, water, bait, or otherwise. That is to say, not that I would assume a girl of this clear type of station would be out here fishing, but it also doesn't answer any questions as to what she's doing here. In any case, I can tell she's really scared, so I try to soften the mood with introductions.

"I'm Finnick," I say, right away. My mom's always told me that the fastest and easiest way into any conversation is to introduce yourself first. Even though the girl is still staring at me like I'm some feral fish, at least she knows my name now. "You look stuck."

The girl gapes at me, then proceeds to scoff. "Well if course I'm stuck," she says. "If I weren't stuck, I wouldn't be out here, would I?"

I rest my chin on the boat's edge, my arms folded over it, too. "I didn't think so," I say. "Can you swim?"

She's still gaping at me.

"Can you swim?" I ask again. "As in, be able to not drown - ?"

"Of course I can swim," she says loftily.

"Then why haven't you swum back to shore?"

Her cheeks darken. "I...dropped one of the oars into the water," she admits, looking partially mortified.

I can't say that I'm surprised by this news. I had assumed as much when I saw there was only one oar in the boat, but I can also tell by the girl's hands that she's never known a day of labor in her life. Her hands are smooth, even though her nails are a little cracked and crooked, and nothing about her demeanor conveys she knows what she's doing. She looks, oddly enough, like a fish out of water. I do amuse myself to the idea that she's trying to run away from home, which seems like the only logical solution. But if she were running away from home, wouldn't she try harder to have supplies? Maybe she dropped those, too. She seems clumsy enough.

"You can swim out with me to shore, then," I say, smiling. "We can just leave the boat."

"It's my dad's," she says. "I can't leave it. He'd kill me."

It's a very nice boat, I realize. It's not like the old, aged boats that we find here in the Hatch, but rather is polished and rather clean looking. It's a boat commonly found by one of the higher sectors; the wealthy sorts. I eye her, wondering who her important father could be, to afford such a nice boat. I decide not to pry, for now, because she's still in distress and the water is pulling the boat further away from shore.

It's my executive decision that her father would be much happier with an alive daughter instead of a lost boat. Besides, she looks well off enough. More than likely her dad can afford another one. "It'll be fine. Give me your hand," I say. "I'll help you to shore."

"I don't need your help!" she says, glaring now. "I just...I just need - "

"You're going to get stuck out here and die," I say, rolling my eyes. Girls were so ridiculous.

As I am very seriously considering just turning back around and leaving this stubborn girl to drift far out of sight, until she's swallowed by some sharks or discovered by Peacekeepers - whichever is worse, honestly - when I hear my father's voice resounding from the beach. I turn to peer over my shoulder, watching him as he throws down his trident and runs towards the water. He moves way faster than I did, and he paddles through the waves as if they were nothing. I look back at the girl, who looks all the more nervous. She looks between us.

"That's my dad," I tell her.

When my dad reaches us, he looks less than impressed. But there is no time to give me a lecture, because he is in survival mode in this instance, as he looks between me and the little girl. He takes in the boat, too, and looks mildly irritated. "I can't bring this back to shore. It's too big," he says, mostly to himself. "Now get out of the boat, girl. I'll take you to shore."

The little girl opens her mouth to argue, but she stops herself. She looks a little more than intimidated, which makes sense. My dad is a very tall and well built guy, and he has quite the reputation for his prowess in the water down at the Hatch. I doubt the girl would know anything about that. Regardless, my dad's sea-green eyes are intense, and she slowly yields to them. She hesitantly climbs out of the boat, with my dad taking his hands and asserting them under her arms. He hoists her out and helps her take hold of his neck from his back. Once she seems secure enough, my dad and I paddle back to shore. I'm sure that I'll be receiving a huge lecture for having not waited for him, which, honestly, I'll accept.

I wish I had waited for him, because those few short moments with that girl were absolutely irritating.

When we reach shore, my dad sets the girl onto her feet. She looks like a drowned cat, with sharp eyes taking us both in. He kneels down in front of her, taking her in critically. I can tell that he is as horrified by these circumstances as I am, though it looks like he has more common sense than to berate her for it, which is disappointing - my dad is great at berating people. I've seen him tear into new blood fishmongers before. It's almost cool.

"My name is Neleus Odair, this is my son Finnick," my dad says. "What's your name?"

"I'm Ceres Rythe," she says.

She says her name as if it has some merit of importance, which, I suppose, it does. The name sounds familiar, though I don't exactly know why. My mom used to take me to town sometimes, for fun, and my dad takes me there for fish work, but I've never really interacted with many families outside of merchants. I'm aware of the mayor, of course, and how important he and his family are. I am also aware of a couple of important people, but the name Rythe, though familiar, doesn't stir any direct memories.

My dad looks up at me, noting my puzzled expression, and looks back to the girl with a raised brow. "As in, Rheon Rythe?" my dad asks.

She nods.

My dad sighs deeply. He stands up, pulling me aside. Once we're a little out of earshot from the girl, who is still watching us intently, he speaks. "I'll take her to Victor's Village," he says to me.

"Victor's Village...?" I frown. "But that's where Victors live. And she is way too young to be a Victor."

"Well, Victors, unfortunately, have families," my dad says. "Her father is Rheon Rythe. I'll return her home. With any luck, he'll give us a reward for our troubles."

I couldn't care less if she was the daughter to some Victor. If she had emerged out of the ocean with a pair of fins instead of legs, claiming to be the princess to some mermaid kingdom, I still would let her sail away at this point. "Whatever it is, just get her out of here," I say, leaning closer. "She's really annoying."

"She is," my dad agrees, nodding. "Go home now, Finnick."

"Can I take your trident back?"

"No," he replies. "I'll sell the fish and mussels while I'm in town, and the trident stays with me. Now go home, Finnick."

I watch as my father leads the girl away. She peers over her shoulder at me and glares, to which I glare back. I watch them until they're out of sight, almost pitying my father for having to deal with some highborn Victor's daughter. I've never really paid much attention to the Games or to its Victors before. Victor's Village is so far from the Hatch that they're scarcely even a ripple in our pond. The only Victor I really know about is Mags Flanagan, but that's just because my mother used to work for her, in what had been an impressive position before she had committed to the humble life of a fishmonger's wife.

Turning on my heel, I follow the shoreline back home. It's not long before the sun is starting to go down and the houses located in the Hatch are illuminating with golden lanterns. A few of the fishmongers have returned from the hightide, walking home visibly tired, whilst others are carrying their buckets full of rich goods and preparing to go into town. Others are laid out on the beach, too exhausted to move. Some women and children have already started to gut and scale the fish, which most prefer to do outside on the steps of their houses, so the smell doesn't totally cling to the interior.

Mom liked to gut the fish by the water's edge, then she'd throw the guts out for the seagulls to eat. Most fishmonger's wives hated that, because seagulls were pests and annoying, but my mom pitied them. She thought everyone, even the birds, deserved full bellies.

When I return home, there are some crabs dawdling by our stairs. I shoo them away and proceed to cross through the threshold. The interior of our home is about as nice as the exterior. The old wood is painted a muted shade of lavender, with a couple of fancy seashells and decorative pieces hung along the wall. There are pictures, too, such as my mother and father on their wedding day, then my mom holding me. She looks so happy in the pictures, with her face full and beaming. There's another one, as well, of my father, much younger than he is now, wielding his trident.

The floor is also made of wood, often dusted over with sand. There is a couch made up of itchy materials, along with a small handmade table and chairs, with our little kitchen across from it. Against the wall resides two doors, and beside that is a ladder leading up to a shallow loft, which is where I sleep. Our little house has two small rooms, but the other room has become my dad's work station, where he works on his baits, his various fishing materials, and netting. It's a small sacrifice, his work in exchange for my comfort, but I understand. He can't exactly work up in a loft of that size.

Regardless, I push across the threshold and knock on the door that I know leads to my parents' bedroom. I expect that she might be asleep, but I'm grateful when I hear her melodic voice reply, "Come in."

I push the door open. It creaks loudly against the hinges, which are still loose - something my dad needs to fix, but hasn't had time to. My mom is still laying in bed, with an old quilt laid across her figure, but she's awake now. She's holding a book that my dad found for her in the market a few weeks ago, depicting old stories about mermaids and other sea creatures that she used to tell me stories about, to help me fall asleep. My dad thought the book would cheer her up, since she can't live bed much, anymore.

Her cheeks, which had once been full and rosy, have become sunken; resting over her bones like dried leather. But her eyes are the same, a shade of sea-green that are lighter than my dad's. Her long dark blonde hair rests in waves, framing her thinning face. "Hello, my Finn," Salacia says, reaching out for me. I approach her and climb into bed. She presses her hand to my cheek. Although her fingers feel bonier than they had some weeks ago, her palm is still warm and soft. "How was fishing?"

"Boring," I reply.

She grins. "Boring, huh?" she chuckles. "Not all of it, I'm sure. What did you catch?"

"Dad caught some fish and mussels," I say, nose crinkling. "He made me weave a net."

My mom reaches out to take my hands, examining my palms. "You're chafed," she says. "We'll have to put a little ointment on there for you, my love. Does it hurt?"

We don't have ointment, I think. We'd run out a few days ago, but I decide not to tell her that. "No. Not really," I say. "It just wasn't fun."

"Work seldom is," she says. "But surely something good happened today, not all of it can be so terrible. Remember what I say, Finn. Hope is like the sun. If you only believe it when you see it you'll never make it through the night."

I roll my eyes, though it's not towards my mom. "There was this girl dad and I saved. She was just drifting off to sea in a boat. She dropped her oar, mom, her oar. She had no business being out in the water, and she was wearing this fancy sundress, too, she looked ridiculous," I go on, as my mom listens with a broad grin. "Me and dad managed to get her back to shore, but I swam out first to try to get her to swim back herself. She didn't. She said her dad lives in Victor's Village, so dad took her back to, maybe, get a reward out of them."

"Victor's Village, huh?" she says, brows raising.

"Dad says she's the daughter to Rheon Rythe," I say.

Familiarity washes across mom's face, which in turn softens in her eyes. There's a strange kind of fondness reflected across her vision, which causes me some level of confusing. She seems to notice this. "I used to know Rheon's wife. Demetra Doyle. We were friends sometime ago in school," she says. "I haven't thought of her in years...my, how funny it is that you met her daughter, isn't it? What is she like?"

"Annoying," I repeat. "She was annoyed that we rescued her."

"Well, regardless, I am very impressed with you, my Finn," she says, tussling my hair. "You went into the water to help her. That was very noble of you, as well as very brave."

My cheeks flush. "Yeah, well, in hindsight I should've just let her sail away," I say. "She looked at me like I was some lowly fishmonger..."

"Unfortunately for us, Finnick, we are lowly fishmongers," she says, "but those in the higher sectors would starve without us."

"Then they should show us some respect," I say.

"Hush, now," she says. "Tell me more about your fishing trip..."

It's a few hours later before my dad comes home. I've been sitting in bed with mom, mostly, though I've gotten up to get her some water and some of the food we have stored away. We had some bread that was borderline stale, but I was able to put some jam on it as a special treat for her. It's apricot, which makes her smile widely. When my dad does come home, I hear him hanging his trident up on the wall, and he pads across the threshold and into the bedroom. He's wearing a shirt now, but his red hair is still sandy, and he has a small trace of sunburn on his nose and what's visible of his neck.

My mom sits up, smiling. "Finnick told me about your little adventure. How was the girl?"

"She's home now," my dad replies, moving across the room and taking a seat on the bed's edge.

"Did you get anything from the Victor?" I ask him, curiously.

"Yes, I did."

My dad reaches into his pocket and pulls out some money, which he sets on the bedside table. My eyes widen as I take in the wonderful pile, already imagining all that we could afford with it. The pile alone is almost a week's worth of fish. Maybe if we were lucky, this girl would get stranded out to sea more often, and we'd have to save her again and again. Well, better still if her mouth was sewn shut or if she lost her voice altogether.

"We're also to begin trading together," my dad says.

"Trading with a Victor?" my mom asks, sounding impressed.

"Yes. It turns out the man fishes. I also advised him to teach the girl how to fish and sail properly, since she's so determined to learn," my dad says. "Since he'll be teaching her, I imagine we'll be seeing more of her out on the water."

"Maybe I should've just let her sail away," I mumble, angrily.

"Finnick," my mom scolds. "You know, you could use a new friend. Maybe this little girl could be just that."

"But she's so annoying, mom."

"You say that now. But it's funny how the annoying ones grow on you."

"I doubt it," I say, huffily.

My dad reaches out and tussles my hair. "Enough of that," he says. "Go wash up, Finnick. I'll get supper ready."

I swat at his hand and jump off of the bed. I depart from their room and go to the kitchen sink, where I wash off my hands and my hair. To say that I'm angry about my dad agreeing to trade with Rheon Rythe is an understatement. I've never met the man before, but I can only imagine what he's like compared to his daughter. I really hope that she loses interest in fishing and that her dad yields to her demands to stop it. God even knows why she even thought she could fish with a stolen boat and with no equipment. She was completely and stupidly hopeless. I'll have to tell my dad as much.

Once I'm properly freshened up, I go to my ladder to climb upstairs, when I hear my parents talking in soft voices. My dad's voice is oddly gentle, which I usually don't hear from him. His tone is normally cooled. This piques my curiosity, as I go to peer out the corner of the open door. My dad is still sitting on the bed, but he's reached into his pocket to pull something out. I can't make it out fully, but he extends his palm out to my mom.

"For you," he says.

My mom takes whatever is in his hand, holding it in her own. "Neleus, this is too precious," she says, sounding awed. "You should sell it - "

"It was luck that I cracked open that particular oyster, Salacia," my dad replies. "If it had been cracked open by anyone else, it would be sold to the Capitol. Keep it."

He reaches out to close my mother's fingers over what I can only presume to be a pearl. Pearls are certainly a rare thing in District 4, and, typically, they're meant to be shipped off to the Capitol. But particularly wealthy women in District 4 wore them, too; an ultimate status symbol. For my mom to own one, it's really something.

"It's beautiful, Neleus," she says, sniffing. "I love you."

My dad leans forward to kiss her forehead. "I know," he says.

two years ago

When the house is too quiet, or overcome by wandering ghosts that live in my head, I like to go night swimming. The house is too loud and too empty sounding. None of the hinges on the doors creak or hiss when they're opened, nor do the wooden floors protest with every passing step. It's a well built and sturdy house, though even it jostles during the heavier storms. Yet there is no fear of the glass shattering, nor the walls themselves peeling away. The Capitol had built these houses to last, as a spectacle. I consider these houses to be like hollow corpses, like husks. The fine marble counters of a luxurious white, shiny kitchen, with a bathroom with a large quartz bathtub able to fit more than one person, and then a balcony overlooking the ocean...all of these luxuries can never truly make a cage feel like anything more than what it is. Even a Capitolian can refine a bird's little cell.

Sleeping in it feels the same, anyway, particularly when strangers cross the threshold. I still find my whole body rippling with contempt as I recall this week's latest Capitolian visitor to my District. It's an incredibly rare thing for a Capitolian to have access to the Districts beyond the safety of their little walls. But it isn't unheard of. For special cases, for special Clients, they can afford usually one or two days with their respective Victors. Cashmere from District 1 often tells me about how she frequently has visitors. It's restricted, though. Typically access is only permitted to the higher placed Districts, rather than the lower ones. I can only imagine the displeasure a Capitolian would face in having to spend more than five minutes in the haze of District 12, at risk of having coal on their fine clothes. Even in District 4, the smell is pungent, and lingers even away from the beach.

But a fair few Capitolians deem it as a fine place, for the sole purpose of my company. Yesterday I had entertained a forty year old woman, whose husband had decided to treat her to a lovely birthday getaway. It was only for a day, but that meant I had more to do. I had smirked and winked at her as she left, yet when I came back home, I had scrubbed my skin raw. I'd burned my sheets in the firepit outside of my house, had watched them all burn. Even after they had turned to ashes, I still kept watching. It was rare for the Capitolians to visit me, but when they did, I felt my house go darker.

Even after I am well out of its shadowy reach, now treading across the tall grassy dunes overlooking the sea, I feel as if it is still looking at me. No doubt Snow is very pleased by it, to have that house violated again and again. Whenever I leave for the Games and return home, a new chandelier has been installed. I always have it taken down, but it's always replaced. It's an endless cycle, an endless dance, that I have with President Snow. But that is the one thing I refuse to budge with. That seems to amuse him all the more.

When I start to descend down the dune, I notice something golden in the distance. It's a little fire, which takes me off guard. I consider turning around to find a different section of the beach, but something about this particular fire entices me forward; there's a familiarity, which is well-warranted. When I get closer, I find Ceres is laying flat back on the sand, a fire crackling beside her, and staring up at the starlit sky.

She's wearing a pair of shorts that show off her toned legs, which my treacherous mind starts to weave certain images with. I snuff them out to the best of my ability, because I'm not sure how fully those thoughts are mine and how they are trained. It also feels wrong, on account of how, a day ago, I had had to purr sweet nothings into an older woman's ear, as she giggled against my skin.

I almost turn around, but Ceres notices me. Slowly, she sits up. We stare at each other for a moment before she smiles.

"Sorry, but this is my claimed corner of the beach. Go find your own," she says, playfully.

"Damn," I reply. "I don't suppose I could bribe you for it."

"Nope," she says. "It's mine. See?" She leans forward and proceeds to write her name in the sand. "Claimed."

I kick some sand towards her, which causes her name to become smudged.

"Not anymore," I say.

Ceres throws me an amused look. "Alright, alright," she says. "Why're you out here?"

I don't reply, which says more than it needs to. Without missing a beat, Ceres gestures the empty spot beside her. Without any inclination towards hesitation, I release a low sigh and approach her, flopping down next to her. The sand feels cold beneath me, but the fire warms my face. It crackles pleasantly, creating a nice, harmonious tune with the idle waves and the distant sounds of seagulls off in the distance.

We sit there in that quiet for a while. I watch the dark waves curl in on themselves and wash up as foam on the shore. The moon is full tonight, so it is relatively well lit. Its silvery beams create a dance of colors against the surface of the water. The sky itself doesn't even seem entirely black. As a whole, the night is peaceful, and I wish that I could get lost in it. If I were lucky, it would be night like this forever, and I could just sit here as the world passes me by, until I disappear into the tide.

But Ceres' voice draws me back.

"You can't refuse those special guests, can you?" she wonders.

Ceres doesn't usually ask me about those affairs. There's always a three day's notice for their arrival, in which I prepare my household and myself to the best of my ability - I distance myself from everyone, from everything. And when I greet my respective guests, I try my damnedest not to look at the Rythe house across from mine. Ceres seems to understand this sentiment, in her own way, because she usually disappears on the beach during this time. I never see her. When all is said and done, nothing is said on the matter. There are no queries, no wayward glances. We merely press forward.

Still, in the moments where she does ask, I feel that I owe it to her to reply. "Not without endangering the people I care about," I say, which is usually the answer I have for everything.

The list I have is a short one, but it's there. Both of my parents are gone now. My mother faded away to her illness less than a year after my father had given her that coral pearl, and my father had been killed the day I returned home from the Capitol. Their ghosts are among the few that don't haunt me, which is some relief. But their lives are no longer ones that Snow can use against me, which I am sickeningly grateful for. But there are a few others who stand out as a means of leverage. When I had fallen into the lifestyle Snow presented me, Cashmere and even Tilda had instructed me to cut everything off. To let go of what I cared about, because it would only get me killed.

I'd thought about it, but that selfish part of me needed something to hold on to. If I had nothing, then why would I keep playing these games for the Capitol? I'd already won for them, yet I was still entertaining them. I was their favorite toy, their Capitol darling. It was a role I had to become comfortable and acquainted with. Because the truth of the matter was, the alternative was returning home one day and finding Ceres dead. How often had I imagined her, having "drowned" in the ocean after a fishing accident? I'd also considered her name being Reaped and no one Volunteering for her. All of her pomp and talk surrounding the Games had quieted since I'd won. I knew she no longer longed for that "victory." But I wouldn't put it passed Snow to place her in there, anyway, for any mistake of mine.

She was, after all, my closest friend.

But by that nature, she was also my closest liability.

She didn't need to know that, though.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

I exhale through my nose slowly. "I'm thinking about that time you almost sailed away," I lie.

She blinks. "Sailed away...?"

"When we were six," I say. "You were in your father's boat and floating out towards the water. I swam up and rescued you." I see the memory of it flash across her face. She cringes visibly and her eyes squeeze shut in horror. I take in the sight with a broad, amused grin. "Sometimes I wish I'd just let you."

She elbows me. "Probably for the best," she says. "I was young and stupid. I thought I could just learn how to sail a boat all on my own."

"You dropped one of the oars."

"I remember," she says. "I wasn't exactly a survivor type back then."

"I'd argue you still aren't," I say. "But your fishing and your boating have both improved."

"Have they?" Ceres is smirking now, looking out across the water. "In that case, how about we sail away? What'd you say, Finn? You and me, we could take a boat and sail off for a few days - maybe weeks. Nobody would miss us. And if any guests show up, we'll leave a note saying that you've gone fishing. Perfectly reasonable excuse, you know, since you'll be providing for your District. So...sail away with me, seaweed brain?"

I follow her gaze across the water, staring out as far across the sea as I'm able to. It's tempting, so very tempting. The idea of disappearing beyond that horizon, until District 4 becomes nothing but a blurry haze, and the waves sweeping us someplace far away, sounds wonderful. But it wouldn't be long before the Peacekeepers came after us, not just them, either. Snow would extend his claw like hands outward towards us. I know that Ceres is asking this playfully, but I also know that it is still dangerous to even think about.

For me to even consider it, in the darkest pits of my own mind, feels like a trigger for Snow to react to.

I swallow. "I think if we were stuck out there together, we'd have to kill each other," I say, with only moderate seriousness.

"That'd be half the fun," she says.

"What would be the other half?"

She looks at me, then. "You being free, even if it's just for a day."

I'm never free. I never will be again. I smile back at her. "That's a cute sentiment, Sea-Sea," I say. "But, no, I won't sail away with you, in part because I know you'll drop an oar and we'll die out there - "

"Oh, shut up."

I chuckle. We fall back into that silence of staring out across the water, warmed by the fire. Watching the waves come and go, I think about all those instances where my dad took me fishing. I was always so bored as a kid. I'd complain to my mom every time I came home, as she was treating my hands to the best of her ability. But after she died, our little house became quiet. We often fished in silence, save for when we made trades in town or with Rheon Rythe or other respectable men. We seldom said more than five words to each other within those walls, and even less out on the water. But looking out across the waves now, I realize that I would give everything if it meant having one day with my dad again, even if it meant fishing for endless hours, and my hands bleeding from knotting thick ropes.

Despite myself, I feel like I'm getting pulled into the water, further and further away from shore. It's a nice feeling, though, as I feel myself become more loose, I realize the same is applying to my mind and my tongue. "My dad gave my mom this little coral pearl. He found it in an oyster. It was the most precious and expensive thing he ever owned and he gave it to her," I say, startling myself.

Ceres looks at me curiously, though I can see something shift in her eyes. Concern, I realize with dread. I hate when she looks at me like that, especially when I know I'm drifting away. I wish that she would look at me like she normally would, even if it was in contempt. That pity, that sympathy...I can't bear it. Not from her.

Thankfully, she averts her gaze back to the water. "I think that's romantic," she says.

"Yeah, it was. He had it in his pocket when he died," I go on. "I still have it now, too. I keep it in my house...it's hard to look at sometimes, but...it was theirs. My mom was sick and we were scavenging to keep her alive, and my dad chose to give her a rich, rare pearl, instead of selling it."

"Then it sounds like the most precious thing he ever had wasn't the pearl, Finnick," Ceres says.

I look at her, brow knitting. "I guess so."

Ceres is smiling at me. "I like the color coral, you know," she says. "I like seeing it in seashells, in those reefs, and...sometimes in the sky, during those vibrant sunrises and sunsets. It's just a beautiful color. When I see it, it makes me happy. So I imagine when your mom looked at that pearl, it made her happy, too. And it reminded her how much your dad loved her."

She tilts her head up and stares up at the moonlit sky. It is a beautiful full moon tonight, but I'm not looking at it. I'm looking at her. Minutes seem to pass, frozen in the throes of time, before she finally turns to meet my gaze. Her brow furrows together and she reaches to press her index finger between my eyes. My cheeks flush red.

"Why are you smiling at me like that?" she asks.

"Nothing. It's just weird hearing you be sentimental about color," I say.

She throws her head back and laughs. "Okay, fine. And what, seaweed brain, is your favorite color?"

"Blue," I reply, without pause.

She snorts loudly, eyes rolling back into her head. "Blue. That's a pretty cliched response from a sea-dwelling fishmonger, you know," she says. "

When she looks at me with those large, blue doe eyes, I just smirk back at her. "I guess it is."

three days ago

I jerk awake.

At first, all is quiet, except for the thrumming of my heart, and then I realize the time.

I hadn't meant to sleep for this long - I shouldn't have slept for this long. As a Mentor, it was a luxury I couldn't afford, least of all now when the stakes are so dire. The Arena had just been flooded and Ceres had survived being underground, albeit not without scares of her own. My heart had hammered madly as I'd watched her swim through the black water to find tunnels, only to encounter not one, but two, Mutts. She had survived. She had made it. Raking a hand through my bronze hair, I slowly push myself forward. For a second, my coherency as to my location is dulled. It's too loud to be my quarters back on the fourth floor of the Tribute Center, yet I'm most definitely not in one of my Client's rooms.

As it were, I have fallen asleep in the Mentor's Lounge. It is a large, open space located in the Tribute Center, whose name conveys exactly what it is. Across one of the walls is nothing but windows, from ceiling to floor, showing off the Capitol down below. The floors and walls themselves are pristine white, with fine neutral colors adorned across the furniture and walls. There is a bar, as well as available seating, across the area, and an Avox at almost every corner to attend to us. And on every wall is a screen depicting the events of the Games.

I must have fallen asleep watching the Games. Stupid, I think, though when I lift my gaze I see Ren standing by the bar, his gaze keen upon the screen, and a tablet in hand. At least he is monitoring our now separated Tributes. The pager attached to my hip hasn't gone off, because it sends a jolt through me when I am being summoned - or when Ivoree needs to meet with me to arrange something - so it seems I've been afforded a genuine quiet moment that was entirely my own. A shame I slept through it. But, then again, I can't remember the last time I slept since the Games started. Mags was right, I did need to keep my head in order. If I wasn't sleeping, then I would be tired, and therefore be sloppy with Clients and with myself. I needed everything to be straight, at least until everything ended.

However it ends.

I sigh loudly, raking my gaze across the Lounge. Gloss is standing by the bar close by to Ren, with that usual angry look on his hard chiseled face. Beetee Latier, from District 3, is sitting at one of the tables by the window, leaning over a tablet which he is rapidly typing over. His Tributes are dead, so I can only imagine what sort of business he's conducting. He has water beside him, so at least he's keeping himself straight. Rubbing my hand over my eyes, I start to push myself to my feet when I suddenly feel a hand clamp over my shoulder. Instinct almost compels me to grab ahold of the hand in question and throw it over my shoulder, but I've long since learned to tame these instinctual responses; at least, for the most part.

It would look rather bad for the Capitol darling to be throwing people over his shoulder and breaking their arms. Rather, I look over my shoulder with a casual air to be met with the foul smell of bourbon, and the sight of an exhausted looking Haymitch. His hair is oily and he looks unkempt, which is par for the course for District 12's singular Victor. He looks almost twice his age, and twice as worse. He's staring down at me blankly, as if he had a thought but then lost it entirely.

"How are you doing, pretty boy?" he asks, and walks around the couch to plop down to the one beside me.

"As well as can be expected," I say. "What did I miss?"

"You were asleep for a while, for one," Haymitch replies, raising his glass to his lips. "My Tributes were separated in the flood."

"They're alive," I say.

Haymitch grunts. "The girl's still with District 7," he says, gesturing loosely towards Blight Thicket, who is standing by the window with his hand pressed to his mouth, watching the screen tensely. "His boy's not looking too good. Venom's going to kill him soon. Then the boy from District 1 killed the one from District 9, I think. And your girl's with her little Alliance again."

I look towards the screen, watching as Ceres kneels by Birch's body. God. He looks worse than the last time I saw him. His whole body has swollen up with plump boils, a hunchback forming along his spine of what I can only imagine to be blood and pus. It is a miracle that he is not dead already, but I imagine that he has the spirit that Ceres' does; unrelenting, fathomless. I spare a look towards Blight, who is still watching the screens tensely. He glances towards me, as well, but our gazes doesn't stay locked for long. He looks back to the screen again. I watch him inhale, then exhale.

Back to the screen, I watch as Ceres talks with Daisy and Birch. Their circumstances are less than ideal, but I have confidence in them. I have to. I need to.

"There's something else you should know," Haymitch says.

"What's that?"

"Your boy's sided with the girl from District 1," Haymitch says.

I look to the drunken Victor, feeling my body go stiff. At once, my eyes narrow and I feel half compelled to leave him sitting there in his drunken stupor, but something compels me to listen to him. "What makes you think that?"

"While you were in dreamland, pretty boy, Liber and his little girlfriend have been planning on taking out the competition," he says. "If you don't believe me, you should go ask your friend." He gestures to Ren, who is looking incredibly nervous now that I look at him with more attentions. Gloss, meanwhile, is smirking. "Hard to believe, I know. But sibling rivalry - "

"Liber wouldn't betray Ceres," I say, firmly.

"What makes you think that?" Haymitch downs the rest of his drink. "Shame how fast these things go..."

"Because he's her brother."

Haymitch scoffs. "If you want to ignore it, by all means ignore it," he says, looking up towards the screen.

Daisy, carrying a flask, walks towards the water's edge. She's saying something but I can't bring myself to fully focus on it. How long had I been asleep...? No, it was impossible. Although I didn't know Liber anywhere near to the capacity that I knew Ceres, I could almost certainly trust that he wouldn't betray her in the Games. Rheon himself had stated in his confidence that his children would protect each other in the Games, that Ceres would keep her end of the promise by keeping him alive. But the longer I stare at the screen, the harder I feel my heart pumping.

It can't be real. If he was so inclined to betray her, he would have done so already when she and the others had arrived at the Cornucopia. It would have been an ideal time. Jason, a boy thrice the size of everyone else in the Arena, could have easily killed anyone who wasn't a Career, and then Liber, if he had wanted to betray her, could have done so during that bloodbath. Yet they had lived peacefully amongst each other, so much so that the Gamemakers had stirred violence by causing the flood - as a result, separating the Tributes. During that time, surely nothing would have changed.

Ren is still tapping his tablet. He'll know. My fellow Mentor will know more than whatever this drunk has to say. With a deep breath, I go to walk towards him by the bar, but a loud gasp in the Mentor Lounge causes my eyes to flash back to the screen. Daisy has fallen forward into the water, a knife embedded into the back of her head. And before I even know what is happening, blood is being spilled. First it is Daisy's, then it is Birch's as he tries to charge towards Lamia as she enters the cave. But Liber throws his trident, which only grazes his side. But it is enough to cause the blisters to implode into acidic pus.

Then it only leaves the three of them, surrounded by blood and carnage.

Haymitch makes a low, unsurprising sound. He pushes himself off of his chair and goes to find the bar, for yet another drink. Blight has his face buried in his hand, now leaning against the glass. He looks so torn. And then there's me, frozen in place as my Tributes stand across from each other. My ears are ringing. Somewhere in the haze, Ceres threw the knife she gained from the girl she killed before, which lands in Lamia's shoulder. Her eyes glow with fury and her lips curl. But the smell of blood entices something more than just anger.

When a white, translucent crocodile leaps out of the water, its pink mouth wide open in a hissing roar, I turn fast on my heel and storm towards a very horrified looking Ren. The man almost doesn't notice me, but when he does it's too late. I grab ahold of the front of his shirt, causing his dark grey eyes to widen.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" I snarl. "Why haven't we done something about this?!"

Ren grabs ahold of my wrist and squeezes, attempting to shove me off of him, but I don't budge. My grip only tightens. "Rheon is at the Gamemaker Quarters, as we speak," he says, his eyes sharpening as they meet mine. There is equal ferocity in his tone. "I suggest you let me go."

"Tell me why we haven't done anything," I snarl again. "Tell me why - "

Gloss makes a sound behind me, one I have never heard from him before; surprise. I slacken my grip on Ren's shirt so that I can peer around and stare at the screen, which depicts the image of Liber piercing Lamia's neck with his trident. She staggers forward, blood pooling out of the wound. It fills her mouth, which is parted in equal measure of surprise as her Mentor. But it doesn't last long, because the crocodile has emerged out of the water and claimed its prize. It drags her back down, a bloody cloud forming beneath the surface.

Gloss releases a furious sound, shoving himself from the bar. "Deceptive little Tribute you have there," he says to me and Ren.

Ren manages to shove me off of him, now turning so he's half-facing the Victor from District 1. "As if your Tributes weren't planning on backstabbing the rest, Gloss," he says, sharply. "I suggest you get over yourself." He turns from the visibly furious Victor and looks at me, whose sea-green eyes are ablaze. "Finnick, I suggest you calm down. We should go back to the fourth floor. Mags might be back from her meeting - "

"We need to fix this now."

"Finnick, there's nothing we can do," he says.

I move closer, face shadowing.

Ren is a few inches taller than me, but by no means stronger. He opens his mouth to say something to me - the wideness in his eyes gives away how bloodshot they are, but also fear; raw, pure fear. I grab ahold of him and shove him with as much force as I'm able to. He falls back against the bar, causing glasses to clatter and for the bartender to startle; the wind briefly knocked out of him, but I don't care. I can't care right now. I can feel the eyes of the other Victors on me now, but I don't care.

When I look at the screen, I feel time stop, and freeze over. On the screen, I watch as Liber and Ceres are wrestling with one another. The warped, mangled body of Birch Indicia rests on the ground a few feet from them, the acidic blisters popping and melting more of his skin and bones. There is a separate patch of blood, as well, on the ground. But in the clear water there is a fine layer of blood; it's thick and red, with little ripples across the surface, stirred by the Mutt down below.

Disbelief is all that I feel, my eyes flying back towards the screen. I watch as they wrestle across the ground, as fists and kicks are thrown between them. I can see the contorted anger in Liber's face, though I can also see moisture pooling in his eyes. Meanwhile, Ceres' expression is composed of horrible shock. With every blow shared between them, I know that she is holding back. I've wrestled with Ceres before, I know that when she fights she does not hesitate. Although I am physically stronger than her and can usually overpower her in the rare instances where we did fight (mostly as stupid children), she always left me with bruises.

"We need to do something!" I shout at Ren, who has recovered himself. I feel my vision start to blur. My body is trembling and I need it to stop, because I need to control this - I need to get her out, now. I need my buzzer to go off so I can meet with a Client to discuss a Sponsorship, I need to send her a parachute, I need to dive down there myself and kill that Mutt and get her out.

"Odair!" I hear a new voice speak.

I whirl around, suddenly meeting Blight's gaze. His dark green eyes are staring intently into my own and his hands have reached out to latch onto my shoulders.

"There's nothing we can do."

I jerk myself out of his grasp. "There's always something we can do," I hiss back.

There's suddenly a cloud of blood, which fills the entirety of the water, dulling the view of the Mutt; a mixture of red and black fusing together to create the most horrendous of shades. But no cannon resounds, then I see Ceres' form pushing herself out of the blood, though there's a trail of it pooling out of her.

Ceres throws herself out of the water, using her momentum and, presumably, adrenaline, to kick herself out. She staggers across the ground until she collides against the wall, where she steadies herself. Her breathing is rapid and to say she looks exhausted would be an understatement. But I don't have any relief watching her, alive and above shore, because all I can see is a bloodied stump where her arm used to be; chunks of skin hanging off of her shoulder, with the whiteness of a bone visible through the blood just pumping out of her.

"We need to do something," I say, to Ren. "Medical kit, gauze, tourniquet, something!"

She's going to die. She's going to die.

"Shit," a new voice says.

I watch as Nellie, the girl from District 7, rushes into the cave and towards Ceres' fading being. I feel my chest tighten, an urge to leap through the screen and protect her growing stronger second by second. This Tribute is going to kill her, or steal her things and leave her die bleeding out like an animal.

But Nellie doesn't do any of these things. Rather she leans down, pulling off her jacket. She uses it as a makeshift tourniquet to bind across Ceres' shoulders. Then, very carefully, Nellie uses Ceres' only arm to hoist her up, and support her with. She has to practically drag Ceres' body, as she stirs in and out of consciousness.

"Sponsors, they're flooding in," a still disgruntled Ren says, looking at his tablet.

"Then use them!" I snap.

They wind up settling in a burrowed section of the cave, an alcove tucked away from immediate sight. It isn't long before the bells of parachutes resounds. Nellie is quick to seize the silver parachute, evident relief upon her features that, when she has it open, it reveals an array of expensive medical supplies. Even I am a little blown away by it, as that happens to be the most expensive medical kit available.

"I need you not to die, okay?" Nellie says, as she starts to clean the area. Ceres does not stir, causing Nellie to look a little panicked, and yet the girl continues on without any delay or hesitation. Her hands are coated in blood throughout the process, though the flow of it has slowed down.

When the wound is stitched and bound, Nellie leans away.

"For the record," she says to Ceres' still unconscious body, "the fact that you're even alive is kind of scaring me. What the hell do they have in District 4, anyway? Super crocodiles? Was that just a walk in the park for you, because you literally walked out of the water like it was nothing." She laughs mirthlessly, albeit quietly. "I'm so stupid. I really should have just let you bleed out, you know. But...I don't know. You kept Birch alive. That counts for something, right? And he was my friend, so...I owe you."

Blight reaches for my shoulder again. This time I don't shake it off. "You see, Finnick? Our Tributes are taking care of each other," he says, lowly.

I don't reply. All I can do is stare at Ceres' unconscious body, coldly realizing her eyes might never open again.

When another parachute flies in, revealing itself to contain clean water and some bread with cheese, Nellie looks over to Ceres' unconscious body with a bashful smile. "Hope you don't mind, Four. Not a lot of Sponsors and resources. Besides, it'll go bad by the time you wake up - if you wake up." As she's eating, she adds, "I think I'll stick around for a day or two. For your sake, of course. So don't worry, Four. I won't leave you just yet."

Blight has somehow managed to guide me back towards the seating area, where I collapse against the couch, feeling my breathing become labored. I grip tightly at my hair as I fall forward. I'm drowning. This has to be what drowning is.

"Calm down, Odair," Blight says. "She's safe."

I want to laugh.

She'll never be safe again.

present

I haven't slept since Ceres' attack. I refuse to sleep.

It's been almost two days since she fell unconscious from the sheer amount of blood loss, as well as from her betrayal, and she hasn't budged since. The girl from District 7, Nellie, has stayed true to her word and keeps close to Ceres' body, only straying away when more parachutes arrive. An impressive pile has already started to accumulate within their little alcove, tucked away from the rest of the Tributes. The boy from District 1 went back to the Cornucopia to gather supplies but had ventured out to seek out the others, armed to the teeth thanks to his bloodthirsty Sponsors. But he has managed to get himself stuck into a pit in the cave, the very spot where Ceres, Birch, and the Tributes from District 12 had first met. He chips away at the wall with his axe, and is sustained thanks to the various parachutes filled with food and weapons.

The boy from District 12 has managed to survive, no thanks to the aid of his Mentor. Rust is his name, and he deserves ample credit for his survival. Despite the fact he has received no Sponsors, he has been surviving off of the clearwater, which he drinks from cautiously (justifiably so), and even being able to catch and kill a couple of rats. He carefully makes a fire to cook and eat them, but also staunches it out afterwards. He's always moving. He never dawdles. And he keeps to the high ground.

Meanwhile, Liber has wandered to the farthest ends of the cave, until he found himself tucked into a section of the cave we hadn't seen before. It's covered in moss and the hole gaping above the ceiling pours with sunlight. He settles there, hidden from everyone else. He keeps alive by eating the food stored in the backpack he and Lamia had kept together. Sometimes I also see him pull out a pufferfish skeleton, which had been his Token. It had been hardened and its bones sealed together, with a glossy finish. He turns it over in his fingers and studies it. He hasn't spoken since the attack on his sister. So whatever he is thinking remains in his head. And he usually tucks the skeleton back into his pocket and stares up towards the ceiling.

Almost two days of this quiet has passed, and I'm worrying that the Gamemakers will have itchy trigger fingers again. I work harder than before to keep my Tributes alive. Most of our Sponsors aren't interested in Liber anymore. They gravitate towards Ceres, even though she is without her arm now. There are still a handful of Capitolian citizens still keen to Sponsor Liber. They are enthralled by the betrayal, finding it completely captivating, and eager to develop that story.

When I am not with my Clients, I am in the Mentor's Lounge. I can't go back to my apartments, not since my encounter with Ren. The man refuses to speak with me and has since holed himself up in his room, opting to help Mags instead directly associating with the other Mentors. I can't say I blame him. My outburst had been exceptionally notable, though it hadn't been seen by the Capitolians, and my image was never smothered. In the Mentor's Lounge, all that transpired there stayed between Peers. It was the safest place where we could scream, cheer, and even brawl (when it came down to it). But still, it was ever under the watchful eyes of our esteemed President Snow, and I know I need to be more careful.

Even Mags had given me a rightful lecture about my temper.

The Mentor's Lounge now, seated at the bar. The Sponsorships are certainly generous, but I would have to be a fool to turn a blind eye to the most generous benefactor of them all being Seneca Crane. I'm no fool. I know without explanation why Rheon went to the Gamemaker Quarters. Perhaps that's also why I haven't really returned to our apartments, save to shower and change clothes in between Clients. I can't bear to meet his eyes now.

Not when I know what he just sold.

But just as I am ignoring my fellow Mentors from District 4, so, too, are my fellow Mentors from other Districts ignoring me. I don't blame them. After my outburst, I would ignore me, too.

Some one or two hours after my arrival, Ceres had finally woken up. She'd eaten and regained some of her strength, and was able to walk out of the alcove with Nellie, albeit with a subtle sway that causes me to grip my drink tightly. Yet her head is still high and she maintains a firm grip upon that absurdly fancy spear that she had been gifted. My wariness towards Nellie seems to shift a little, as she genuinely does help Ceres along the way - even pausing when she needs a breather. But that's when the boy from District 12 drops off of the ledge to attack, but the matter is settled as quickly as it transpires, and soon the three of them are off together to find Jason, who has conveniently trapped himself; a perfect snare.

And as they walk together, I try very hard to ignore the idea of Ceres agreeing with Nellie to sacrifice herself for Rust's victory. I need a clear head. I need to keep her alive.

It is when they are debating how to kill Jason, from atop their perch, that my solitude is disturbed. I turn to find Blight taking a seat beside me. He looks tired, with his long, thick black shaggy hair pulled behind his ears. His beard looks recently trimmed. Overall, he looks well put together, though I can tell that his eyes are saddened.

Given how his Tribute had just died, I can't fault him for that, either.

"Sorry for earlier," I say. "Shoving you and all."

"None taken, Odair," Blight says. "I would have done the same." He flags down the bartender, ordering some variety of wine. "About your Tributes, I am s - "

"Don't be." I shake my head. "I'm sorry about your Tribute. Birch was a good man."

Blight looks off a little distantly, dark green eyes seemingly fading off before he seems to collect himself again. "He made it clear day three that he was going to protect those kids," he says. "When I told Haymitch, he said Birch would betray them in the end. He was wrong."

"Where is Haymitch?"

"Drunk in his apartments, I presume," he replies. "You know, it's nice to see our Tributes working well with each other. Maybe we should Ally more often."

"Let's see how this goes first."

I lean back. Upon the screen, I watch as the three of them debate how to kill Jason, and how Nellie opts to cut her hand in order to spill blood into the water. When the droplets strike the surface, the Mutt emerges, but it takes Jason mere moments to slaughter it. Several strikes upon the head with Jason's hammer do well to kill it, all without cracking its skull. Blight draws a long drink from his glass to the sight of it, but I can't turn my eyes away.

"Nellie's impressive," I say.

"She's going to get herself killed, same way Birch did," Blight retorts. "Still...I suppose it's better than - " He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "At least they're Allied together, eh? And seem to be bringing down the beast well enough."

Sure enough, Ceres has withdrawn the jellyfish venom from the pouch of her belt. She uses it to carefully coat Nellie's arrow tips, then applies a little to her spearhead. Good, I think. Even if she isn't able to hit anything vital, at the very least she'll have the certainty of death. Nellie takes the arrows and proceeds to plunge them into Jason, who, in retaliation, hurtles an axe at them. It just hits above the entrance of the cave, but I can still feel the blood pumping in my ears again. And realizing that my hold on my glass drink has become too tight, I quickly set it down.

But the success doesn't last long, because soon the cave is rattling. It starts to tumble in on itself, forcing our Tributes to hightail it. With several arrows already having lodged their poison into Jason, death is certain. But now their own lives hang on the line. Ceres and Rust are able to make it out the other side, but Nellie is trapped. The cave crumbles before her and she's forced to stagger to the edge of the entrance, as the rocks continue to rustle around her. She turns sharply, looking down towards Jason as he sways in place. His lips are curled into a vicious sneer.

"So this is what it comes to," he bites. "I won't be killed by a pathetic, little bitch from District 7."

Nellie's hazel eyes narrow. "I'm not pathetic," she says, as the entirety of the cave begins to shake. "But I am the bitch who's going to kill you."

She unlatches the little axe attached to her belt, taking it firmly in her hand. Her eyes are intent upon Jason, who refuses to fall even as the venom courses through his veins. She steadies her breathing with what time she has, holding it as she then hurtles the axe outward in a long thrust. It flies through the air. Jason, disorientated, no doubt, has no time to dodge it. The axe embeds itself right between his eyes, effectively splitting open his skull. Blood pools instantly from the attack and he falls to his knees, then forward. A cannon resounds. Nellie smirks down at the body, but the ledge beneath her is crumbling, and there's nothing to back into.

Nellie glances around, leaning as far back as she's able. The cave above her is starting to shatter, as well. With a deep breath, she manages a solitary murmur. "Don't let them be alone, Jo."

When the cave crumbles in on itself, another cannon calls.

Blight sets his drink down. "Well. That's that, then," he says, lowly.

"I'm sorry," I say, sincerely.

"Maybe you are, but higher chance for your Tributes," Blight says, pushing himself away from the bar. "Best of luck to your Tributes, Odair. I hope we have an Alliance again."

Blight leaves the Mentor's Lounge quietly, with his head high. I'm loathe to admit it, but he's right. And for that thought, I feel sick.

The hours go by. Victors come and go throughout the Lounge, watching on in anticipation as the final showdown between the last three Tributes advances. I've moved from the bar over to one of the couches, resting my arms over my knees as I sit, hunched over, watching. Ceres and Rust have been walking for sometime, luckily without encountering any Mutts - which, to my theory, have been neutralized for the time being. They walk on until they find that open cave covered in moss, where sunlight pools through. I sit up slowly, knowing that the Gamemakers are no doubt thrilled to have their Tributes cornered. And, sure enough, the entrance caves in on itself; thoroughly blocked off.

Ceres watches on with a firm expression. Her dry, cracked lips are pressed together, and her deep blue eyes are analytical. I've seen that gaze before, when she's tying knots and her brow scrunches, her fingers working diligently. I used to see it when she'd watch the Hunger Games in the town square, when I'd pass by her, or when she'd talk about it with me, afterwards. The cogs in her brain are working quickly and efficiently in this moment. I have no doubt that, in her mind, she is thinking the same thing I am. It's ending.

"Are we trapped in here?" Rust asks her, looking alarmingly calm despite the circumstances.

Ceres nods. "Now's the time to go hide," she says, tensely. "I think my brother's here."

Rust's brow knits. "So...he caved us in?" he asks, confusedly.

"No. Go hide," she says.

Despite everything, Rust does as he's told. He rushes off, disappearing between some moss covered rocks, but he never fully leaves her side. He moves carefully, guiding himself from one hiding spot to the other, as he watches her closely. She advances through the cave, calling out for Liber. The camera cuts to him tucked down into a corner, leaning against a mossy bed. He's holding the pufferfish skeleton in his hands, twisting it between his fingers. When he hears Ceres' shouts, his eyes close. His own lips press together and a look of anger tightens in his features. After a few breaths, he manages to soften himself. He tucks the skeleton back into his pocket and straightens out, taking his trident in his hand.

"I can do this," he mumbles to himself, between breaths. "I need to do this. She...I need to. For me, this needs to end."

Once he has collected himself, he pushes himself forward, and proceeds to climb up the rocks until he comes into view. From there, I feel my stomach drop. I know Ceres. I know that she is all pomp and talk, but I know where her heart lies. If she was truly coldhearted, she wouldn't have hesitated to Volunteer for Mara Spurnire after I was Reaped. My life wouldn't have meant anything to her, yet she had hesitated. Harpee had Volunteered for her instead. While Ceres doesn't talk about it, I see the grief in her eyes; the regret. I see it whenever she sees Harpee's family in town, or when she'd freeze when arrows were shot in the gymnasium. She could never have been capable of killing me during the Games, because I was her friend - even though she had hated me, at the time.

She might think that she could have been able to, but I know her better than that. She would have faltered. Now, facing off against her brother, I know that she doesn't have the heart to kill him, yet she had made that vow with Nellie. For Birch. Whether or not Ceres will be capable of killing him, I am rueful to admit that I am fairly confident in Liber's ability to kill her. In all the years I had known the Rythe family, I had never paid much attention to her brother, who was reclusive and often kept to himself. He never dwelled near the water, for he always seemed so uncomfortable by it. But now that I am looking at him, I realize that I missed so much. Had I put more focus into the training, into my Tributes directly instead of securing new Clients and therefore Sponsors, maybe I could have seen something.

Rust peers over some of the rocks, going unnoticed by his peers. He looks between them. He looks down towards a small nook where some rocks are gathered, where he could realistically crawl into and disappear until it was over. But he looks back, and I see the determination in his eyes.

"Is this seat taken?" a voice inquires.

I don't look up, though my jaw certainly tightens. "Go ahead."

Rheon sits beside me, looking up at the screen. Liber has lunged forward with his trident, forcing Ceres to retaliate. Their weapons collide with each other, singing a song of metal. But she is mindful not to use the tip of her weapon, but rather its end. Liber, meanwhile, plunges his trident forward and stabs through the empty air as Ceres dodges. Despite her injuries and her clear disability, she manages to keep up with the fight. The trident is clunky and ill-fitted in Liber's hands. This almost evens out the fight. Still, I know this dance can only last for so long, particularly when one is hell-bent on killing the other and the other has no intention on hurting him.

I press my hand over my mouth, inhaling sharply.

"She'll be fine," Rheon says. His hands are clenched tightly together, knuckles blanching. "He swore it."

"Seneca Crane," I say, with venom.

"Yes," Rheon says.

"You know what he wants."

"Of course I do," Rheon says, coldly. "But she's my daughter."

"And he's your son."

"As if I wasn't aware..."

Rheon's entire body tenses as Ceres falls backwards, the spear still gripped tight in her hand. A pained expression flashes across her face. I notice that the bandages around her wounded stub have started to redden a little, making me wonder if the impact opened her stitches; as well as with the overall flourishing and ferocity of their fight. She doesn't seem to notice, her wide blue eyes fixated on Liber as he stands over her with his trident. Take your spear. Cut him. It's poisoned, I think.

Beside me, my former Mentor makes low hissing sounds. The entirety of his body is trembling now, as one hand cups over his mouth and the other is gripping at his knee in a claw-like grasp. His gaze is flitting between his children.

"Liber," Ceres says, but is cut off.

Rust lurches out of his hiding spot and charges towards Liber, jumping onto his back and proceeding to claw and bite at him. They fumble together, with Liber desperately trying to pull the boy off of him.

Rheon's hand drags away from his mouth, slowly. His face loses some of its color as Liber uses the knife that had once been lodged into Lamia's shoulder to plunge into the boy's eye. Even I have to lower my eyes. He was only thirteen years old. I had watched his Reaping. His mother could be heard screaming and pleading in the crowd as he was pulled away, and his eyes had watered as he stood beside Effie Trinket, District 12's Escort. The boy who had begun this journey weeping now bled tears of blood, yet he had fought as bravely - if not braver - than any other Tribute I had seen.

But the boy's blood stains Liber's hands. I see something in Ceres' eyes shift. There's an anger and a disgust. When Liber readies his trident to attack her again, she remains still for a moment too long; in a deliberation of compliancy that makes my blood go cold. But then she's retaliating again, fueled by her anger. The hurt, the anger, and the upset reflect clearly upon her features as they collide together. Her movements are nonviolent, however. She is not directly attacking him, merely defending herself. No doubt adrenaline is pumping violently through her, however, as she manages to maintain an even fight. Liber appears dismantled by what has transpired, yet he fights on. But there are tears in his eyes now, as there are in Ceres', and in Rheon's.

And then the tip of Ceres' spear cuts into Liber's cheek.

I lean back. Either way, she has won.

Rheon doesn't watch as his son reacts to the venom coursing through Liber's body, though I certainly do. His veins start to protrude out of skin and blood trickles out the corner of his eyes. Pure pain flashes across his face, his nails tearing his own skin apart, and the color draining from his face. I wish I could feel more sympathetic, but I remember how he left Ceres to die by the crocodile, and how he had killed the boy from District 12 now. As Rheon moans in anguish beside me, all I can truly feel is a plunge of cold, unrelenting relief as Liber's body falls over the edge, and as the Mutts rumble in response.

He has the audacity to call out. Ceres stares down at him, her face contorted into a pain I have never seen from her before. And when she throws her spear down, sealing his death as strikes his chest and pierces through his heart, I see it crack in her. She falls to her knees, head tipped back. She's staring at nothing, as tears roll down her cheek. Regret resides there, the very same regret I had seen when she thought of Harpee; but by tenfold. I need to hold her, to get her far away from this place. But, bitterly, I lament that she'll never be able to escape this place. Just like me, she's trapped now. And it won't just be by Seneca Crane, I imagine.

Her name is announced, then the screen cuts to black.

"I hope you know what you sold your daughter for, Rheon," I say, before I can stop myself.

Rheon's glossy eyes darken. "What I did, I did for love, Odair," he says, "when you would have let her die." Before I can even reply, he is placed his hand out to silence me. "You may never forgive me for what I have done, but I shall never forgive you for believing she was better off dead than surviving the Arena."

Mags must have told him what I said. I bristle. "You don't know what it's like, Rheon," I say. "It won't just be Seneca. It will - "

"I don't care," Rheon says. "She's my daughter, Finnick. I love her." He pushes himself to his feet, staring down at me. "Can you even say the same?"

I grit my teeth together. "The fact I do what I do...what I've done to keep her alive...should attest to your query, Rheon."

"I see," he says. "But you still can't say it, can you?"

"Words are dangerous."

"As is a father's fury," Rheon says, darkly.

"As is President Snow," I say, standing. "I suggest you remember that. All of us belong to him, even her now. And whatever happens next...we can't protect her from."

(a/n): *lifts hands* Okay, okay! I know last chapter I promised this would be a shared chapter between Finnick and Seneca, and it totally started out that way...but then I got over 30,000 words in and realized that this was gonna be a heck of a doozy. So I decided to cut the chapter in half, meaning that this chapter will be Finnick-centric, and next chapter will be Seneca-centric. Before you ask, yes, Seneca's chapter will have the same format as this one. I had planned on having a relatively simple shared chapter between the two, but the flashbacks and the muses just started flooding in, as well as me needing to plant certain seeds that'll sprout into huge ass trees later on. And cramming over 30,000 (and counting) words into one chapter versus cutting down so much stuff into a clunky chapter just didn't fit my vibe. On the plus side! Because Seneca's sections are basically all done, it means you guys should get his chapter either by tomorrow or Saturday. Cough, cough. *evil grin* So next chapter will be "gamemaker's nephew" then the next will be "victor's daughter," returning back to Ceres' narrative. This story is close to wrapping up, but fret not! There shall be a sequel. ^^ The sequel will cover the events of THG and CF collectively, and then the third sequel will cover the events of Mockingjay. This story will probably conclude at 24-27 chapters. *cackle*

I am also taking some liberties when it comes to the Mentors and what goes on behind the scenes. I did extensive googling and I couldn't find anything about there being a mentor lounge where Mentors gather during the Games, so I decided to create it. Since Suzanne Collins didn't really portray that side of things in her books, I'm deciding to have a little fun with it. The same applies to the idea of Capitol citizens visiting certain Victors. I also did research on this topic and it's implied in BSS that citizens vacation to the Districts, but with Snow in power I imagine things to be very, very different. So, I limit it to the Career, and therefore fancy Districts, and keeping the visits either due to business or for pleasure. Also in the movies, Snow asks Seneca if he's ever been to the other Districts, implying that it's some measure of an option for a Gamemaker. So I imagine that people in high end authority have the ability to visit Districts, too. I am keeping it as airtight and realistic as I can, while also keeping in good faith with Suzanne Collins' established lore. If anybody has clear cut answers, feel free to lemme know! ^^

Fancast

Young Ceres: Dafne Keen

Young Finnick: Ty Simpkins

Young Seneca: Asa Butterfield

Salacia: Brit Marling

Blight: Danny Shepherd

Haymitch: Woody Harrelson

Review replies

tomeii: Honestly, that's the highest compliment ever! It was a challenge to create character who are going to die and make them stand out and be likable, so the fact you got attached warms my heart! Birch and Nellie were both very near and dear to my hearts, so killing them off was extremely rough. ;_; especially with their sacrifices being in vain. The showdown, oi! That scene was so fun to write, and Ceres accidentally poisoning him is gonna be huge in her impending survivor's guilt and the PTSD that will follow. So...prepare for the feels. XD Because I have so many scenes outlined, it's unreal.

sokka: gosh, wow! The fact you reviewed all of my chapters legitimately made me cry. XD Thank you so much! All of your compliments were just so sweet and I'm so glad you're enjoying my story! As to how Ceres will react to Rheon basically choosing her over Liber, if she finds out...well, you'll have to wait and see. And to answer your question, yes! The chapter "ceres alone" was named after "zuko alone." :D

rikiarin: Nellie and Birch were very dear to my heart! (Hence why I had to show Nellie's final moment, and give her the out she deserved) Their memories are definitely going to be carrying throughout the story! Hehe. I'm so glad you enjoyed the action scenes, because there'll be a whole lot more action to come in the sequel to this story. ;)

the. apple .seed: Haha, thank you! I knew I needed levity in this story, so I figured Jason just brutally smashing in the head of the Mutt would be the best way to go. I wanted to show just how stupidly strong he was, while also letting Ceres, Nellie, and Rust have a genuine, childlike reaction. Because they are all still kids, who just watched a really big kid do some crazy shit. XD And thank you! The jellyfish poison was something I was super excited about. ;) Oh I am so excited for you to see how this all progresses. I have so much planned. So much emotional turmoil to unravel as this story wraps up, and for so much to be built up for Pt. 2.