(a/n): I'm actually very grateful I decided to divide the last chapter in half between Finnick and Seneca, because it gave me a chance to develop both chapters out longer and have more fun with it! That being said, as I was writing this, I was stupidly itching to return back to Ceres' narrative. XD Luckily, next chapter is right back to our new Victor! And...very special canonical character appearance at the end. ;)
CHAPTER TWENTY
gamemaker's nephew
Seneca, twelve years ago
This was the first time I hadn't rewatched my father's Games. When the screens replayed the events of the 55th Hunger Games, I averted my eyes. I would leave the room or whatever space I was in, if I was able to, or I would hone my focus someplace else. I couldn't bear to truly take in the sight of my father's greatest mistake. Caesar Flickerman had even mocked my father's Games in the Interview with the surviving Victor, Ren Ambrose. The Capitol was disappointed in an uneventful and all too short Games. And my father had lost everything because of it.
Not even a day after Ren Ambrose had won the Games, my father had been summoned to President Snow's office. His head had been held high. I had wanted to believe that it would be like any other meeting between the President and the Head Gamemaker, but my mother had wept unlike anything I had ever seen before that day. And when my dad had returned home, she had embraced him. The news had been simple enough. My dad would gracefully retire from the position of Head Gamemaker, as to avoid public shaming, and my uncle would take his place publicly within a few weeks time. It was a simple transition, one that would be done as delicately as possible. Despite my father's failings, the President had been shown a mercy. At least, that's how my mother described it.
Even still, we kept our heads down and avoided the screens. At least, mom and I had tried. But my dad would watch the Games bitterly, even despite our best efforts to pull him away from it. His dark eyes would be set upon it, hunched forward in his chair. Sometimes I would catch him weeping, other times he would be staring stoically at nothing. This carried out in those final days, until Ren Ambrose returned home.
Despite my efforts to avoid the Games, I had decided to sit with my father for that final day - the last screening of Ren Ambrose, with a small pause until the Victory Tour. This was a part I always enjoyed watching with my father. To watch the Victors return home to a cheering District and family was always an incredible thing. It truly solidified the artistry and importance of the Games, that the Tributes were more than just that; that they were, in many respects, heroes of their own Districts and own selves. And it was always pleasant to celebrate their greatest successes with them.
But this year is so different.
Ren Ambrose had not won by any particular talents or skills. He had found a waterfall and had hidden behind it. When a fellow Tribute would come too close, he would kill them and rob them of their supplies. It was hardly an honorable system, particularly due to how inconsistent it was. I doubt that Ren Ambrose even fathomed he won until his name was announced, when he emerged from the waterfall with a stunned expression on his face. It was rather discouraging to behold.
Now, returning home to District 4, Ren looks rather pleased with himself. His young olive toned face wears a crooked grin as he waves to the cheering people of District 4. He is clad in fine sea-green attire. His shaggy hair hangs in his narrow face. Sunny Overpath, the Escort of District 4, is applauding her little Tribute with a giddy smile; quite pleased with herself, in her sunflower yellow dress with its bright pink frills. The boy had hardly been a Capitol favorite. He had not even Volunteered as a Career, but had been exceptionally unlikely that no one Volunteered for him. He seemed to do the best he could under the circumstances, given that his fellow District partner was a Volunteer - a girl he had ultimately killed, when she had wandered too close to the waterfall.
He had hesitated in killing her. The girl, whose name had been Ciera, had requested an Alliance. She meant it, too. Given the footage I had seen during the course of the Games themselves, she had been terrified. The fierce, unsteady mountains she had been situated in here unrelenting. She could scarcely find her footing and, despite her pomp during her Interview of claiming to be deadly, had fled to the best of her ability to smoother ground. I remember she had smiled when she had seen Ren, though she had gripped her sword tightly. We can hide together, she'd said. And she has been welcomed into the waterfall, had been fed some of Ren's own food, which had stolen off of another Tribute he had killed. But when Ciera made a joke about having to kill each other, Ren had killed her first. He had choked her, then threw her body into the water. The currents had dragged her away along the mountain. And Ren had been alone, huddled in the cave behind the waterfall, with a pile of stolen weapons and goods.
It is strange to think that the very same boy who had cowered, head low and teeth clenched together, is now smiling to his District. He looks quite proud of himself, too. I suppose, by some measure, I understand why. Ren's survival throughout my father's Arena had been impressive, given how quickly and thoroughly it had killed off most of the Tributes in a mere few days. Yet he had not earned his victory, not really. He had hidden the whole time.
That is a coward's way, I think. Hardly befitting the crown of a Victor.
I would like to say so. Generally when my father and I would review the Games together, we would critique it. My father would have me take notes, of every flaw and every detail involved in the Arena and how it benefited the Tributes, or set them up for disadvantages. As Head Gamemaker, my father was not allowed to Sponsor or bet on Tributes. (As his apprentice, I would have that luxury when I came of age, and until I inherited his place - and he was always sure I understood what Sponsoring meant appearance-wise.) But he would help me learn how to weed out the good Tributes from the bad ones. If these circumstances were normal and far less bitter, I like to think that we would have rolled our eyes at Ren Ambrose's victory, or even his strategies during the Games.
But my father is in no shape to joke on the matter now, least of all discuss it seriously. As of right now, my father is hunched over his chair with a glass of caramel colored liquor, his eyes glued to the screen. His face is unshaven, with his whiskers a little untamed, and his hair is loose rather than smoothed back by pomade. He does not look himself, least of all as he draws a long drink from his glass.
When I look back to the screen, I see behind Ren Ambrose stands his Victors and Mentors. Mags Flanagan with her frazzled grey hair, wearing a fine blue sweater over a grey dress, clapping gently for her little Tribute, now Victor. Beside her stands Tilda Steelbrook. She is wearing a fine teal dress which compliments her long auburn hair which spreads in curls around her shoulders. She has always been a pretty girl, I suppose; the Capitol certainly likes her, from what I can tell. And then, finally, there stands Rheon Rythe. He is stern faced, with one strange clear white false eye beside his naturally dark one.
Periodically, I glance towards my father, whose expression bears a look of absolute grief. "We don't have to watch, dad," I remind him.
"I know," he says, as Ren is handed a microphone. "But I need to."
Ren clears his throat. "It's an honor to be here, standing before you, District 4," he says. "Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to come home, but here I am. It was my pleasure to bring honor to my District, and to myself..."
My eyes drift, noting a small blur on the side of the screen. I watch as a little girl with dark curly hair climbs the stage and runs across towards Rheon, whose eyes drift downward in surprise. All at once, the man kneels down and seems to whisper something to the girl, but she obviously shakes her head and says something in return. A little sparring match commences, but the girl seems to win whatever argument they had, for Rheon takes her into his arms and holds her at his hip. She's smiling confidently, chin raised.
My father draws another drink. "That's Rythe's daughter."
"I figured as much," I reply. "But how'd you know?"
"Head Gamemakers know everything about the Victors. It's a necessity," my father replies, sighing. "Mags Flanagan...she was married to a Michael Oisin, before he died two years ago, from black lung; no children between them. Tilda Steelbrook, an orphan, whose father died by a shark attack and whose mother died in childbirth, and both of her sisters dead. Rheon Rythe, from merchant parents, Cian and Manta Rythe, married to a net weaver; two children."
"I don't understand how knowing that is necessary," I say.
My father sighs again. "It doesn't matter for either of us now, Seneca...not until I can talk to your uncle," he says.
I shudder. Due to my father losing his position, another concern had arisen; that being, the concern of my own career. Without my father's position of authority, my stance as future Head Gamemaker and my apprenticeship when I came of age was lost. But if my father could only persuade my uncle to take me on, then I would have it again. It feels wrong to apprentice under someone who is not my father, but I also know that I can't turn my back on my own ambitions and aspirations. All of my life, I have been groomed as a future Head Gamemaker. It is simply not something I can lose so easily.
Thankfully, my father shares these sentiments, as I'm aware that he has made an appointment to meet with my uncle in the next few days.
My father clears his throat. "But to know and to understand the Victors is to have some measure of understanding towards what follows. It makes us powerful, in how we handle them, and handle their Tributes in the Arena. Knowledge is power."
I understand in part what my father means. I know that he wants to talk to my uncle, Lucius, about possibly resuming my apprenticeship. According to my father, just because he had been disgraced does not mean his son, who should carry the Crane legacy, should falter, too. But what I don't wholly understand is the essence of power, for this causes me to frown. "But the Hunger Games isn't exclusively about power, father," I say, "it's also about the artistry. You said so yourself."
"And I believed that, Seneca. God, I truly believed it," my father says, downing the rest of his drink. "But all it took was one hiccup, one weak link in an otherwise strong chain...for it to break. To think, this will be my legacy."
"It won't be," I say, firmly. "I'll carry your legacy, dad. I'm sure Uncle Lucius will agree to apprentice me. He has to. And when he does, I'll bring honor and...power back to the Crane name, to your legacy. I promise."
three years ago
The Victory Tour has always been a most remarkable affair; incredible music, fireworks, food, and the most distinguished of guests. As Head Gamemaker, my father had always been in attendance, until the 55th annual Hunger Games. The invitation to attend the party had never been extended to me as his son and future apprentice (when I came of proper age), but I understood. I was still a child, and my mother hadn't even received a proper invitation until the third year of my father's career. I used to watch the fireworks from the window of our home, waiting in anticipation for them to come home. Often they wouldn't return till dawn, yet my father would indulge me. He'd keep awake a mere half hour longer if only to describe the details of the party, and the guests. He would always smile and tell me how wonderful it would be when he could bring me with him, as not just his son, but as his successor.
When my father lost his career, there had been a moment where I'd feared the loss of mine before it even began. But by the grace of President Snow, I hadn't lost my apprenticeship. My father had intended to take me under his wing as a Gamemaker when I turned fifteen, but then he lost his position. Yet my father was a stubborn man, so when Lucius received the promotion from Gamemaker to Head Gamemaker, my father had been quick to plead for my position to stay the same. Lucius had had to discuss the matter with President Snow. Although my father had retired in a way that saved face, he was still regarded as a quietly disgraced figurehead. So to take his son on in such an important position was arguably a gamble. Yet my promise showed, and President Snow permitted me to remain under the tutelage of my uncle.
It was one of the few acts of kindness that my uncle ever spared towards my father, and even myself. As it were, at twenty years old, this would be my my fourth visitation to the Presidential Palace. The mansion is as remarkable as the day I first saw it.
Given the fact that the celebration was for Finnick Odair, of District 4, the theme of the party was very fish based. For example, there is an absurd amount of seafood across the tables. Mountains of bright red lobsters lay across each other, surrounded by bowls of butter and various sauces, with giant shrimp cocktails in almost every hand, and countless men and women clad in sea-green attire with oceanic accessories. My uncle had forewarned me to the theme, but Gamemakers were more respectable and practical in terms of attire than the average Capitolian citizen. While there was a man with a suit designed to resemble scales with a giant starfish hat upon his had, I was simply clad in a fine teal jacket over a practical black shirt and white pants. The vest beneath my jacket had a little embellishments, with subtle silver weaving to resemble wave like patterns.
Many of the women, even some of the men, are also wearing fancy perfumes that smell of the ocean, and what they describe as a sea breeze. I think it sounds rather artificial and unpleasant, yet I have seen worse. This is, after all, an enormous cause for celebration. Finnick Odair, at the age of fourteen, stands as the youngest Victor in Hunger Games history. If ever there were a time for me to overlook my own discomforts, it is now. Now I must be charming, I must smile, and I must make friends.
Arguably, I do this very well. Despite the failings I had been faced with by proxy at the start of my career, on account of my father, I have done relatively well for myself. My apprenticeship has started off simple, in which I take notes for my uncle and organize his ideas, thoughts, and so forth. But as the years have progressed, so have my involvement in the Games. Now my uncle is keen to listen to my ideas and, as it were, I have gained traction as an ideal candidate to Sponsor Tributes. After all, a nephew to the Head Gamemaker is a wealthy and impressive candidate to ensure the survival of a Tribute, or a set. I am always strategic as to who I Sponsor, lest they reflect badly on me. But as it were, Capitolians are quick to follow my lead, once they realize who I am rooting for; this only quantifies my Tributes' respective prospects.
A bit foolishly, I had not Sponsored Finnick Odair, despite the fact that he had proven himself to be an efficient and capable killer. I had simply had doubts in the abilities of a boy so young, particularly one paired with a girl like Harpee Dowe, who has scored a six compared to Finnick Odair's eleven. She had died beside him, with an arrow lodged in her eye. After she died, Finnick Odair had not held back. He built remarkable nets made out of vines to trap Tributes, and then killed them with his trident. It had all been quite impressive, once he had cut ties and focused on himself. Perhaps I had been premature to judge him, yet I had still rested my bets onto a boy from District 1, who Finnick Odair had killed himself.
Ironic, indeed.
Across the mingling crowd, I can see Finnick Odair socializing with a couple of Capitolian women. Slowly, I opt to approach. Although I am six years his senior, he is already close to my own height. His bronze hair is pulled back out of his tanned face, though a few strands do hang across his sea-green eyes, where golden eyeliner is applied to his waterline. He is clad in a white loose shirt which forms a slight V-shape down his middle. He wears a necklace composed of seashells. A golden belt is cinched around his waist, with sea-green leather pants upon his legs. Although he very much a boy, it is clear that the Hunger Games' youngest Victor is already designed to resemble a man.
Yet still, a boy - a lowly son of a fishmonger, at that.
I am well-aware of Finnick's background, of course, as I was with every single Tribute who had entered the Games. The son of a fishmonger and a woman of somewhat notable birth, Finnick had been born and raised in the Hatchery of District 4, and that detail showed firmly upon his hands, which I had noticed during the Games. His palms were calloused and his fingers were marred from years of work, yet the Capitol did not see his less than idealistic background; they saw a young, handsome, prominent new member of their most intimate inner circles.
How quick they are to forget.
When the small crowd around Finnick notices me, they part slightly. The young Victor turns, his smirking face regarding me with almost wary sea-green eyes. He seems hesitant to turn fully to regard me, but ultimately does.
"Congratulations on your noteworthy victory, Mr. Odair," I say, shaking his hand. I would be remiss to note how smooth my hands are compared to his, though I try not to allow it to harm my pride. Although Finnick Odair's lifestyle was a more physically demanding sort, mine was equally as demanding and prominent; if not more so, I would argue. "No doubt your father would be very proud of you. I was sorry to hear of his loss."
The news of it had spread somewhat quickly. Finnick Odair had allegedly returned home to Victor's Village, where he found his father dead in his home. Apparently the poor man had been unable to take the stress of his son possibly dying during the Games, and had opted to end things before he could watch Finnick die. It was sincerely tragic, and certainly the Capitol had mourned with Finnick during the trying times leading to the Victory Tour. But grief had long since subsided into giddiness, and from giddiness to insane jubilation once Finnick landed in their clutches.
Nevertheless, Finnick's smile remains the same, his expression so oddly unshaken that I find myself feeling slightly unnerved. "It was a loss," he says, in a tone that I cannot decipher. "I suppose my father couldn't handle the weight of it. It's a shame. I would have loved to share it with him."
"I'm sure you would have, Mr. Odair."
One of the young women, the daughter to a councilman, I believe, giggles a little and inches closer. Her hair is absurdly yellow and twisted into ringlets, with a matching yellow dress with bright blue accents. She resembles one of those fish I commonly see in lowly aquariums. "Well, we here all appreciate your victory, Finnick," she says. "You know, out of curiosity...do you have anyone back home to celebrate with?"
Finnick glances at her. "I'm afraid not," he says, "but I'm open to celebrations with pretty girls like you." He looks back to me. "Excuse me, Mr...?"
"Crane. Seneca Crane. I'm a Gamemaker."
Finnick scoffs. "Excuse me, Mr. Crane. I have urgent business to attend to," he says, averting his attentions to the giggling girl, and several more like her.
I suppose it is only fair for the boy of the hour to enjoy the lavish attentions thrust upon him, though I can't help but to shudder a little by how he preens beneath the attentions of these giggling girls, and even women. Furthermore, I am also wounded as to the complete disregard and disrespect he demonstrated to me. A Gamemaker.
Victors were, as my uncle said, arrogant fools. Tributes, however, were untainted things of clay that hadn't been molded into something foul yet.
With a low sound, I redirect myself from the now heavily distracted Finnick Odair and approach the buffet table. I help myself to a glass of deep blue liquor, flavored like blueberries and with teal salt around the rim. I draw a slow sip from it, when I hear someone behind me.
"Excuse me," a gruff voice says.
I step aside, and the man behind me reaches for a drink. The man in question is Rheon Rythe.
Rheon is a tall man of sturdy figure, though I find him alarmingly difficult to be around. His demeanor is frigid and cold like ice, hence why his popularity never extended farther than the initial physical appeal of his person. He lacked the finesse of his Tributes, though it seemed as though he did not mind it. A time or two, District 4's Escort, upon orders, has tried to groom Rheon into a proper Victor, as to present himself in better lighting to the Capitol, but he always refuted it. The man was content to his mangled black curls and his uncanny fake eye.
Being an apprentice for the position of Head Gamemaker, I am also acutely aware of the finer details and backgrounds of Panem's respective Victors - as my father taught me.
For Rheon, I am aware that, despite his wealth and position, he maintains a fishmonger lifestyle by dealing with the lowlife folks down in the Hatchery. His wife is Demetra Doyle, if I recall correctly; a woman who had come from good stock. His children were less than notable, though, if rumors were to be believed, his eldest aspired to be apart of the Games someday; is capable at fishing. His youngest child is said to be book savvy and spends his days in town, working between merchants. The girl does catch my attention, if only for her ambitions. It would certainly make for a good narrative, a child of a Victor being Reaped or Volunteering, and possibly winning. It would weave a fine Games, no doubt.
But I do not particularly care, either way. After all, Rheon had left much to be desired. It would seem that the stock of District 4 were all significantly disappointing. Mags Flanagan had aged with grace, but she was still just a fragile old woman. Rheon had portrayed promise, yet had lost it all with his lack of charm and with the loss of his eye; during his final Interview, he had done nothing to save face. Tilda Steelbrook was relatively liked in the Capitol for her beauty, though her Games had been fine enough. Ren Ambrose won his Games by sheer dumb luck.
It would seem that Finnick Odair had reignited the interest in District 4, as well as enthralling the whole of the Capitol. The attentions would be his, at least until someone younger and better than him came along, winning the Games.
"You're Rheon Rythe," I say.
He regards me coolly.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," I say, ignoring the way Rheon's gaze turns to ice when he looks down at me. I keep my head high, remembering my place compared to his. "My name is Seneca Crane. I am a Gamemaker."
"Yes, you are," Rheon says. "I know who you are."
I wonder if he ought to be flattered, yet Rheon speaks with such scorn that I can't help but to bristle. "I was quite impressed with your Tribute. Finnick has certainly wowed all of Panem - an accomplishment I never thought possible before," I go on. "You must be proud, I'm sure."
Rheon tilts his drink back and downs it at an impressive rate, with my brow arching in surprise. "You mean, he's chum thrown to the sharks."
"I'm afraid I don't understand your euphemism," I lie. "It was merely a compliment, Mr. Rythe. It must be impressive for a Tribute to arise out of the shadow of his Mentors and form his own."
"Just as you now stand in the shadow of your uncle?"
I fight back a bristle. My eyes narrow to the Victor, who doesn't even bat an eye or dare to display any sort of regret towards his words. At the very least, in the rare instance where a Victor's words overstep their bounds, they realize it and find ways to remedy it for themselves. Yet Rheon is staring off into nothing, his mind seemingly someplace far away, and the look upon my face does not even sway him. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. I don't stand in my uncle's shadow, Mr. Rythe. He's teaching me how to be a Head Gamemaker," I say.
"If you say so," says the Victor, coldly.
"With respect," I say, feeling myself become progressively more annoyed, "is it anymore different than having a child who wants to follow in your shoes?"
Rheon finally looks at me, though I wish he would not. It is so strange to look into his unnatural set of eyes. How I wish that the man were not so arrogant and proud, for surely the Capitol would have been able to provide him with a more useful and realistic eye. Why he had opted for an acrylic one of lesser design is far beyond me.
But the disgust either goes unnoticed or uncared, for Rheon's gaze is focused entirely on my own. "And how...are you aware of that?"
I swallow, finding myself almost entirely eclipsed by the man standing before me. "We maintain attentions on our respective Victors, Mr. Rythe."
"Could I have your word on something, Mr. Crane?" inquires Rheon. "That is, if I can trust you for it."
"I consider myself to be a man of my word," I say.
Rheon's dark eyes narrow on me. "A man...still just a boy, Mr. Crane," he says. "Keep yourself out of our lives, all of us. We won your Games. Now leave us, and our families, to peace."
"You have high expectations for someone in as demanding of a position that I'm in."
"What I ask for is privacy, for my family's sake."
"You won the Games, Mr. Rythe. With that comes consequences."
"Yes, consequences," he says, coldly. "Shall we discuss your father and my Tribute, then?"
"I suggest you mind your tongue, Mr. Rythe. I'm a man of high power - "
"You're a boy playing God. Learn the difference."
A part of me considers flagging down some guards or even Rheon's Escort, but I decide against it, at least for now. Although the man has displayed infnite variations if disrespect, I can't help but to feel genuinely uneasy in his presence; to note how distant his gaze is, how disassociated from reality he has become. I don't know why or how, but I decide to give him this singular act of mercy - to walk away. "You're quite drunk, Mr. Rythe. Maybe it would be best if you stepped out for a while."
Rheon considers me coolly. "Indeed I have," he says, setting his drink down. He turns from me, then, and disappears into the crowd.
I try not to take to heart what Rheon Rythe said to me. After all, he is only a bitter old man who could not withstand the pressures of the Games, and he has done the unthinkable: he has antagonized a Gamemaker.
two weeks ago
As Gamemakers, it is our duty to constantly stay twelve steps ahead of the Capitolian citizens, by staying in the now, as well as the future. We must predict the outcomes of a Tributes' popularity before it skyrockets or plummets, so that we are prepared for every available outcome. We study each District, we analyze our Tributes' weaknesses and strengths, from the beginning and after. As it were, I have taken up a habit of rewatching the Reapings after they have transpired, going down in order so that I might take proper notes and compare them together. I do so in my living quarters, one leg crossed over the other. My tablet rests upon my lap with a pen in my hand. The screen before me plays on.
I make notes on the Reapings, which I watch reruns on as to take proper notes. In District 1 there is Jason Ironjaw and Lamia Lowvale, both of whom Volunteered. Oddly enough, Lamia is only fifteen years old, so her training at the Academy had been cut short; it would seem that she were incredibly ambitious and sure of herself. She looks at her District partner as if he is no concern at all; a flea, at best. Then for District 2 there is Friselle Greenstone and Allio Steeldale, both of whom Volunteered, and wore broad smirks upon the features. District 3 consisted of Data Duskway and Mylo Keengaze. Only Data had Volunteered, whilst the cards had been poorly placed in Mylo's hands.
And then there was District 4. The Victors are aligned neatly upon the stage. Ivoree Gresncape, who has been the Escort for District 4 since Sunny Overpath's retirement some ten years ago, looks positively ridiculous. He has a broad, piercing white grin as he looks across the faces of the crowd. He is spouting out some patriotic speech I have heard time and time again, so I place my focus into my notes.
I brush my fingers over my tablet, then draw out my pen. District 4 - Tributes, I write, then look back up to the screen. Ivoree has pulled out the first card, for the boys of District 4. "Liber Rythe!" he calls.
I am a little surprised. It is a very rare thing for a Victors' child to be Reaped; so rare, in fact, that it often raised the eyebrows of those who resided within the Gamemaker community. More often than not, though it remained relatively unspoken, we all had a sort of wondering as to what the respective Victor did to garner the ill will of the system. While I consider myself an artisan, with the Arena as my canvas, I am not entirely blind to the politics that go on behind the scenes. Certainly they do not intrigue me to the measure of the actual Games, but, as future Head Gamemaker, it is a reality that I occasionally must pay credence to.
Liber, a boy shy of sixteen, walks towards the stage. He is a tall, gangly boy, befitting his age, with a mop of dark hair and bronze skin, with blue-grey eyes that look nervously over his surroundings. He's looking across the other boys of District 4, who avert their gazes altogether or look on stoically. What a shame it is that a Career District had not seized its opportunity to represent itself, yet even they seem to understand it is better to avoid such altercations. After all, a Victor's child was Reaped. Why intervene? I jot down a couple of notes and look towards the background, trying to gauge Rheon's reaction.
Ever a stoic man, Rheon's expression remains stiff, though I can tell by his singular good eye that there is fury residing there. But his teeth clench together, tightening his jaw, and his hands are folded in front of him. Wisely, he holds his temper. I do pity the man, however. What an enormous misfortune it is to have your own child selected for the very Games you won some odd years ago. But also what promise. It would certainly do well to enhance the Games' entertainment value by including such an enriching detail. I tap my pen against the side of my tablet, feeling a small smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. It's ironic, really. I recall being told about Rheon's other child, his daughter, who had aspired to partake in the Games. Now her brother stands at its center.
Ivoree looks across the crowd, visibly pleased. As I am writing, he draws a second name from the bowl. "And the fair lady to represent District 4 this year is...Orla Cres - "
But before Ivoree can even finish saying the name of the girl, a new voice tears through his, visibly startling him. It is so loud and so piercing that I even jump.
"I VOLUNTEER!"
I lean forward, instantly intrigued as the cameras shift to reveal a new face in the crowd; a young girl with her hand thrust into the air. Her heart shaped face is framed by long dark curls, with a set of large deep blue eyes determinedly staring at the stage where Liber Rythe stands. It takes only a moment for me to recognize her, as the girl who had pestered Rheon to hold her during Ren Ambrose's ceremony. I set my tablet aside, watching intently now as Ceresea Rythe is led from the crowd and towards the stage. There is no reluctance in her demeanor, nor any of that prideful strutting I had seen in Districts 1 and 2. The girl's eyes are fixated on Liber, who looks quite stunned.
The once stoic expression upon Rheon's face has briefly shifted into a sharp horror. It is only for a moment as he watches her climb the stage, then quickly masked by an unreadable and hardened expression. His gaze lowers to the ground to conceal it all the more, but I saw it. This is enough to draw my curiosity and my interest all the more.
His fellow Victors look visibly startled, as well. What had begun as genuine sympathy towards Rheon Rythe when his son was called has changed altogether, each of them exchanging glances when Ceresea is placed on the other side of her brother. But none of them dare to look at the father. Tilda Steelbrook's eyes stare forward, at nothing. Mags Flanagan has a hand over her mouth. Ren Ambrose is frowning. And then Finnick Odair's expression is hardened like stone, looking coldly to Ceresea as she stands back turned to him.
"And what, darling, is your name?" Ivoree inquires, in a lofty voice.
I scoff a little. Such a formality it is for Ivoree to inquire as to the name of this girl, when the Escort would be no doubt very aware of the matter; having dealt with her father for so long. Yet the Escort is beaming as if Ceresea is entirely a stranger to him, which she could arguably be. It would not surprise me if Rheon minimized contact between the District Escort and its Victors in general with his children.
Ceresea looks away from her brother to the Escort, with a small pause following. "Ceresea Rythe," she says, in a tone that is alarmingly calm. "Liber's my brother."
"Oh, oh, my!" Ivoree squeaks, clicking his heels giddily. "Two children of a Victor! What a delightful turn of events! And you Volunteered to fight alongside your brother, I'm sure? Oh, yes, of course! For the honor of not just representing your District, but your family! No doubt, no doubt! Ph, please, gift these two brave and courageous siblings a most grand round of applause! Come, come, please!"
I recall what my father said, so many years ago. Rheon's daughter was allegedly a spitfire, covetous to a position among the high ranking Victors from even a young age - even when she had rushed onto the stage during Ren's ceremony, to be held by her father. Her chin had been tilted up even then, burning with such evident pride. But her ambitions had seemingly faltered. She had never Volunteered, and I am apprehensive to say that she would have Volunteered this year if her brother had not been involved. It is a most intriguing matter.
Ceresea and Liber are pulled off of the stage and led away by Peacekeepers, but Ceresea is looking over her shoulder at the crowed. I reach out to pause the screen, carefully zooming in on her face. She does not have the same confidence or even ferocity of her peers, though there is not fear, either; not like Mylos from District 3. Her jaw is tightly set, much like her father, but her blue eyes are determined; such an odd shade, I think, resembling that of sapphires. I do not know what she is looking at or what she is thinking, but I see in her gaze a stubborn will. I lift my hand to touch my jaw, pondering over the image of her for a time.
Such a strange girl, I think. Such strange circumstances.
I grab my tablet and stand up. Why has she chosen now of all times to Volunteer, when her own brother is at stake? A sibling rivalry is a likely possibility, yet she could also have Volunteered by some measure of sibling protectiveness. But that seems counterintuitive, as well. It seems rather ridiculous to Volunteer for the Games in order to protect someone, when, in truth, only one person will be exiting the Games alive. Whatever her ambitions might be, I am intrigued that they have been rekindled now. She is the proper age for it, I suppose, freshly at eighteen years old; her final year. Yet why not Volunteer sooner? And why choose at all, now that her brother has been Reaped?
I make a low tutting sound.
Whatever it might be, I already foresee an excellent narrative for the Games. After all, a Victor's two children are to compete against each other. Whether or not they mean to stand together shall remain to be seen, though the promise of either outcome shall surely entice the Capitol's interest. My uncle will, no doubt, be pleased.
As I go to watch the next District's Reaping, I pause to peer over my shoulder. Ceresea's eyes are still frozen, staring at nothing. What is it she is thinking about?
Perhaps I'll have the chance to ask her, once she has proven herself further. After all, she is an intriguing case.
present
My hands are trembling as I adjust my coat. I desperately wish that my hands would be still, but, at the very least, my expression is masterfully composed. But it is a tricky thing to be so well composed, as my uncle and I stand waiting in the parlor of the Presidential Palace. "How do I look?"
Lucius casts me a cold glance. "Respectable."
Respectable. It is the very least of how I ought to look now. Respectable. It does not feel like the proper word for these circumstances, not when this is the greatest and most important meeting of my life thus far. For the first time in my nine years as a Gamemaker, apprenticing beneath my uncle, I am to accompany him to a meeting with President Snow. It is the highest honor of any Gamemaker to be present before the President, particularly after such an impressive and widely well-received Hunger Games. More so, the invitation for my presence had been extended from the President directly.
My uncle had been less than pleased to the idea of bringing me with him, yet I could scarcely bring myself to care what he thought now. I had met President Snow a handful of times before during the Victory Tour dinners centered at the Presidential Palace, though it had never been in a setting as intimate as this. Rather than a mere handshake and a small exchange of formal words, I was going to be seated in his own office. I had to wonder if President Snow was aware of my role in this year's Games. The Muttations had been primarily my doing, as well as the cave design of the Arena.
It was a thrilling concept, the idea that I would be receiving praise. But I try not to get too far ahead of myself. After all, this meeting could simply be a formality. Then again, my presence could be requested there due to my encounter with Rheon Rythe. I try not to think about that terrible possibility, and remind myself that, technically, I did nothing wrong. I never truly vocalized my promise to Rheon, nor had I made any directly biased moves through the Arena. Opting to cave in the tunnel after Jason had thrown an axe at it had been a practical decision. It effectively killed Nellie Baumbauch and Jason Ironjaw in a fell swoop. But that wasn't an act of bias, it was all completely practical. And then arranging the cave in of the moss cavern...practical.
Even if I had, in some respects, been found out, there are no grounds for termination. There have been far more open and crude uses of a Gamemaker's power over the Arena, such as when Cashmere Royce won the 64th Hunger Games, a year ago. I happen to have it on good authority that my uncle frequents her company, as well as other Gamemakers. Certainly her win was contributed to more than just her natural skill and Sponsorships.
A meeting, a mere meeting, I remind myself.
When I look towards my uncle, I find that he is standing somewhat stiffly with his hands shoved into the pockets of his silver jacket, lined with violet. He looks less than pleased by my presence, for he has made it abundantly clear he does not want me here. He looks well enough, I suppose. He looks upon the Presidential Palace with almost indifference, mouth pressed together sternly, though I can tell from his eyes that he's eager. It is always a sublime moment to be meeting with President Snow, even if it is something he does annually. How lucky I am to be apart of it. Luckier still that my uncle's wishes are bypassed in the President's favor.
A pair of footsteps catch my attention. We both collectively turn to note a tall man with fine dark hair pulled from his perfectly powdered face. He looks between us and nods. "President Snow will see you now."
We're led through a long corridor adorned by various paintings of President Snow and his family, as well as the Capitol - in its old state, as well as new - and we're brought before a large set of doors that lead into the President's offices. I feel as though I am about to be submerged into water, for I take a deep breath as we cross the threshold; as if I may drown simply by how overwhelming it is. My uncle pays me no mind and ensures he enters the office first, even bumping his arm discreetly against mine. But I don't care, not when I am standing here now, in the most important moment of my life.
The President is sitting at his desk, regarding us. The first thing I notice about him are his eyes, which are a pale shade of blue that contrast sharply against his fine white hair and beard. Although this is not the first time I have ever met President Snow, this certainly feels like the first time I have been seen by him. Our leader is clad in a fine dark blue suit with grey lining, looking quite respectable and authoritative. He does not stand to greet us, nor do we expect him to do so, but he does offer us an acknowledging nod as he pass through his office. It is a fine space, brightly lit from the large windows, and adorned with various bits of memorabilia accumulated throughout President Snow's service; a few photographs, then decorative pieces, and Panem's flags on either side of him behind his desk.
There are two chairs situated in front of him, even spaced between each other. My uncle sits upon the left whilst I take the right. I hold my breath, knowing that I have no place to speak until spoken to - just as my uncle had informed me, as well as my father. My uncle spares me no glance as President Snow spares a quick look between us. My uncle's back is perfectly straight and his demeanor is attempting to replicate the authoritative stance of President Snow, though it looks unnatural by comparison.
I simply lean back, keeping my hands over my lap as naturally as I am able to. Gratefully, the President's gaze has not dwelled upon me, but rather remains fixated upon my uncle. I exhale slowly, realizing I had still been holding my breath.
"Thank you for having us today, President Snow," Lucius says. "This is my apprentice and nephew, Seneca Crane; Gamemaker for nine years."
"A pleasure," President Snow says, though his tone conveys something else; at least, it does not feel directly targeted towards me. Those cold blue eyes settle from me back onto Lucius. "Head Gamemaker, I imagine you are aware why I summoned you here today."
Lucius straightens, appearing quite pleased with himself beneath the President's gaze. "The Games were a success," he says, matter-of-factly. "The feedback we have received has been generous. The Arena was praised for the horrors the Tributes endured, as well as the overall nature of the Games themselves. The cave provided limitless possibilities to enamor the audience with fear, as well as garner excitement. More so, our Tributes were certainly morable. After all, we haven't seen a betrayal of that caliber in years. The Rythe siblings certainly left an impact. And, of course, Ceresea Rythe was the popular choice as winner for the Hunger Games. There is only a small minority displeased by it, due to Jason Ironjaw's popularity as a Career and his prowess. However - "
"Do you understand why the minority is so distraught by Ceresea Rythe's victory?" President Snow cuts in suddenly, startling even me.
Lucius flits his gaze between me and President Snow, appearing almost apprehensive. "Ceresea Rythe was the Victor that the Capitol wanted, President Snow. Her victory has already spread widely, to a degree I haven't seen in a Victor in some time. Not only is she the daughter of a living Victor, but she also fought against her own brother who betrayed her. It's a memorable Games, to be sure," my uncle says. "Certainly, some Capitolians were displeased by a cripple winning the Games. But theirs is truly a minority, barely even a whisper against the shouts of the rest."
When a small silence follows after my uncle's words, I can see the color draining from Lucius' face. I watch him from out of the corner of my eye, too uncertain to look at him directly. I need to stay focused, to some caliber, on President Snow, whose face remains remarkably unreadable and stern. I notice my uncle start to fidget beneath the President's piercing gaze, though he dares not break from it. Their eyes remained locked together for a long moment, until President Snow leans forward slightly. At that, my uncle leans back.
President Snow folds his hands over his desk. "And how did Ms. Rythe become a cripple?" he inquires.
"Due to an encounter with one of our Muttations," Lucius replies, clearing his throat.
"Indeed, Mr. Crane. The Capitol called for whole Victor, one they could lavish proper attentions onto; a fine, lovely girl with a good pedigree," says our President, ever so calmly, "not an incomplete, damaged Victor, whose prospects have dropped significantly."
Prospects. I am able to mask the shudder which ripples through my body, fully aware of what President Snow means by that. I have heard that word time and time before, used for the more noteworthy Victors; for their beauty, prowess, and appeal. I heard it when Cashmere Royce won her Games, for she was certainly a prospect to be dabbled in. I heard it for Finnick Odair, needless to say. There were even a couple of whispers surrounding Lamia Lowvale and Jason Ironjaw for a time during their successes, before they met their drastic ends during the Games.
Unfortunately for me, I have also heard it in regards to Ceres. While not entirely a noteworthy beauty, she certainly caught sympathy and, by proxy, attention during her Interview and later during the Games. It was not nearly to the same high caliber as that of Cashmere Royce, as an example, who was widely coveted and considered beautiful, but it was enough to cause worry within me. I had hoped that the talk surrounding her would subside altogether once she lost her arm - and, in part, some of it had. But I knew there would be another group that would take their places, and be equally as loud. Their kind were ones I tended to stay away from.
Hence, her prospects have dropped significantly, rather than altogether.
My uncle does not feel the weight of these words as I do, for he is far too engrossed in the narrowing gaze of President Snow. Lucius stares intently into his eyes, his hands clenching over the armrests of his chair, and his forehead crinkling as he seems to struggle for his words. It's a rare thing to see my uncle so speechless, yet even I am feeling the tenseness of it now. At the very least, it is not President Snow's eyes upon me.
My uncle slowly exhales. "I did not have any control over that, sir," Lucius says, tensely. "Our Muttations were built on the foundation of true animals, triggered by blood. Crocodiles engage in the death roll once they lock onto their prey. It was only natural. I had no way of controlling the outcome of that situation, sir."
"You did," I say, suddenly, before even I am fully aware of it.
Suddenly, both gazes are upon me, and I feel myself inhale sharply. My uncle's gaze pierces through me like sharpened blades, narrowing slowly, while President Snow looks upon me with a measure of cold curiosity. Looking between them, I am a little uncertain whose gaze I would prefer to deter from.
Lucius clears his throat. "Seneca - "
President Snow lifts his hand, effectively silencing my uncle, whose eyes widen all the more in horror. I realize the power that I have in this moment and it feels almost too heavy. I look towards my uncle, whose eyes are still wide. For a moment, I consider backpedaling on my musings, and change my train of thought. I could do so realistically; a slip of the tongue, followed by an amending statement. Yet I remember the image of Ceresea twisting in the jaws of the Muttation, which had been my creation, and guilt tears through me. I imagine her clutching her stub in pain.
And then I see my uncle standing over the Gamemakers. Set for kill, he had said. It was he who had sealed Ceresea's fate during the Games. Had he been a minute or two late, I could have protected her.
I turn away from my uncle, meeting President Snow's gaze evenly. "My uncle told Gamemaker Rosaline to set the translucent Muttation for kill rather than stun," I say.
My uncle's face is turning a foul shade of red at this point, his lips slightly parted, but he says nothing; not even a hiss or a grunt.
"And what, Gamemaker Seneca, would stun have done?" inquires President Snow.
"It might have lunged out and bitten the Tributes, but nowhere near to the severity of a death roll. A minor wound, easily manageable, and certainly no loss of limbs. At worst, a broken bone," I go on, feeling the absolute fire in my uncle's gaze burn through my skin. "Ms. Rythe would have had scarring from the initial encounter and mild blood loss, but all of these things could have been easily healed and remedied. There was no reason for her to lose her arm, sir. When Gamemaker Rosaline asked me to set the Muttation for stun or kill, my uncle cut me off. If I had had it my way, I would have set it to stun."
My uncle blinks, seemingly returning to his senses. He pushes himself out of his chair, now standing over me. His eyes are ablaze with absolute fury, but he makes no moves to touch me. His hands are clenching at his sides, shaking. "You insolent, little ingrate," he snarls. "I have half a mind to - "
"Sit down, Mr. Crane," President Snow says, in a tone that is pure ice.
Even Lucius in his fiery minded state seems to falter, looking towards the President with slightly widened eyes. Slowly, as if standing before a predator and mindful of sudden movements, he sits back down. But everything about his demeanor is stiff now, as if he is preparing to run. A cornered animal, in fight or flight.
President Snow resumes. "Personal responsibility is one of the many burdens to be carried by a Head Gamemaker, Mr. Crane. It would appear that you have lost your balance and therefore your authority," says President Snow "I am disappointed."
"Sir, I - "
"Your Games were too forward. Your Muttations, while memorable, were far too savage against the Tributes, and have cost me greatly. You have cost me greatly."
Lucius swallows thickly, looking like a chastised, terrified child. "I understand, sir. I'll be sure to downplay the Muttations next year - "
"You misunderstand me, Mr. Crane. Next year won't be yours," he says.
Another silence falls upon us. My uncle blinks stupidly at President Snow, his jaw slowly falling open. I look between them, feeling my own blood cold. I am reminded of when my father returned home from his meeting with President Snow, a graveness to his features, and his jaw stiff. I've opted to step down, he had said. But even as a boy, I had recognized the grievances in his voice. He had fallen into a deep, unbridled despair, yet my mother sighed with relief. At the very least, he had not lost everything. Certainly they were demoted, but they had suffered no other consequences.
My uncle wears the same look of dread that my father did that day, but by tenfold. "I'm afraid I don't understand," Lucius says.
"I'm afraid you do," President Snow replies, evenly. He leans back and waves his hand dismissively. "Take him away."
Before I can even blink, a set of guards step away from the doors and grab ahold of my uncle. They seize him by the arms. My uncle's eyes snap between them, his composure entirely unhinging as he attempts to pull himself from out of their grasps. He yanks and pulls, all sorts of profanities falling from his mouth. "Release me - how dare you - don't you know who I am?!" he demands. But they overpower him and he is dragged towards the door, his feet scuffling aggressively against the carpet. "President Snow, please! Seneca, do something! Seneca!"
I never look over my shoulder after him.
When the door slams shut, it takes a moment or two for my uncle's loud shouting to muffle and then altogether disappear down the corridor from whence we came, I inhale. I am now sitting alone across from President Snow, the chair that had seated my uncle is now empty and, remarkably, not knocked over. I exhale slowly and look up.
When President Snow meets my gaze, he smiles. "It would seem congratulations are in order, Mr. Crane," he says, without any regard to what had just transpired. He speaks so calmly that even I feel oddly soothed beneath his gaze, even as my uncle's shouts echo in the far back of my mind.
"Where will my uncle be taken?" I ask, slowly.
"Does that truly matter?"
I consider him before shaking my head. "I suppose not," I say. "So...I'm Head Gamemaker now?"
"Effective immediately, yes," President Snow says. "Lucius Crane's team shall be excused from their duties, and a new members shall be assigned to you within the following days. You shall also be promoted to proper living conditions, befitting a man of your position. As Head Gamemaker, new doors will be opened to you, as well as new, exceptionally grating responsibilities. I trust you are more than up for the task, given your experience." He pauses, allowing me to absorb his words. "Naturally, you will have appointed privileges."
I dare straighten my back a little, forcing myself to sound strong as I push the inquiry from out of my lips. "Do those privileges extend to access to Victors, sir?"
President Snow nods. "Of course. What is it, as Head Gamemaker, that you desire?"
Despite myself, I feel heat rising up the surface of my neck and into my face. The President doesn't seem to notice, or he possesses enough decorum to pretend not to notice. The odds had landed in my favor in more ways than one, though I feel as though I am still reeling from the encounter of my uncle being dragged from the President's office. I have been promoted to what had always been my birthright, while the girl I had leaned my attentions to had survived the Hunger Games - albeit not without some particular damaging qualities. But I did not mind that at all. All I could feel was a measure of guilt for my creature being responsible for it, and for having not reacted fast enough before my uncle's issued order.
Although the President uses the word desire, I wouldn't wholly lean on it to define my intentions. While I can't deny that I do desire Ceresea Rythe that way, it's not wholly what it's about. She had been an intriguing sort - a girl who had wanted to become a Victor, whose intentions had been silenced until her brother was Reaped, and who swore to fight and die for him. But in the end, when he had betrayed her, she did the most sensible thing. She was quite pretty, which was what first caught my attentions, but I find her to be interesting. She has been invested in the Games as thoroughly as I have, over the years. She, no doubt, understands the Games as an artisan, just as I do. And I would so love to pick her brain.
I suppose this answer would be an odd one to share with President Snow, so I decide to mute it to its basic and most carnal foundations, for now. "I want exclusivity to Ms. Rythe, sir," I say, hoping I sound confident rather than desperate.
President Snow's white brow arches. "Exclusivity? Would you care to elaborate?"
"Only I would have access to her in the Capitol," I explain.
"Are you a jealous man, Mr. Crane?"
I shake my head. "I know there are those with specific appetites in certain inner circles, President Snow, where Victors like Chaff Lychee are very popular. It doesn't seem right for a girl as sweet-faced and innocent as her to be subjected to those types."
I have been around such men and women before, and I found them to be deplorable. There were few Victors with physical deformities thanks to the Games, though the few that there were were very popular in certain groups. I had encountered them during galas and other affairs, and to hear them talk often sent foul chills throughout my body. Their appetites were strange, to be sure. At the very least, women who fawned over Finnick Odair were simply carnally lustful, whereas those who were intrigued by Chaff Lychee had ulterior intentions; theirs was more based on their innermost games.
The thought of Ceresea being thrust into such a crowd fills me with horror. Her large blue eyes drift across my vision, when she had met me on the rooftop. She had been so wide-eyed, yet had maintained herself quite well despite her surprise. She had not even stirred away from the kiss I laid to her forehead. Although she had been in the Capitol for some time, she still smelled what I imagined the sea to be.
President Snow seems to consider me for a moment. "So you mean to shield Ms. Rythe from these profanities?"
"In a manner of speaking."
He almost seems amused, now. "And what, exactly, would you subject her to, instead?"
"Fine dinners and intimate affairs," I say, feeling my face flush redder.
"A kind sentiment, but I'm afraid that you are not inclined to such a broad request, Mr. Crane. Perhaps after you have developed a name for yourself, as well as proven your worth as Head Gamemaker, that I would consider a measure of your offer," Snow says. "However, what I can promise you, given your position, is priority."
But that isn't enough. To build a proper name for myself would take years, which, in that time, could be jeopardizing to her. I think as quickly as I am able to, maintaining my tone despite the rush in my blood and to my heart. "What if I proved my worth this year? I propose to you, President Snow, that I make you the greatest Arena and Hunger Games come next year. If I do this for you, could I obtain exclusivity?"
"A bold inquiry, to say the least, given the state of your predecessor," President Snow says. "What do you define as a perfect Hunger Games, Mr. Crane?"
"You would have to wait and see, sir.
President Snow hums. "You are an interesting man, Mr. Crane. I like you," he says. "But I caution you not to choke on your own aspirations. I will consider your offer. As I stated before, I can provide you priority, for now. So, what is it you desire?"
"That's all I could ask for, sir," I say, biting back a breath of relief. "An evening with Ms. Rythe at the Borage House, after her Victory Tour, sir."
"Not sooner?"
"I believe she deserves time to heal, if I could be so bold."
"You are, indeed, a sentimental man, Mr. Crane. Well, I'm afraid there will be no time for a dinner during the Tour, Mr. Crane, not with the fast-paced urgency and importance of the venture. But I believe we could make other arrangements," says President Snow. "Now, you are dismissed, Head Gamemaker. I am afraid I have a rather important meeting with Ceresea Rythe to prepare for."
(a/n): First and foremost, I want to thank everyone out there for a 101 reviews! Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought that a story of mine would reach triple digits, so I'm actually in tears right now. Just a big thank you to everyone who's stuck with me, who's engaged the story, and whose words encourage me to write on!
As a fun little 100 review celebration: Q&A. Ask questions to any of my characters, dead or alive, and I'll answer them in character next chapter in the (a/n)! ^^ Ask as many as you'd like, too. I always figured if this story reached triple digits I would do this for funsies, and now I can! ^^
So in the film, it's confirmed that Seneca has been Head Gamemaker for three years, meaning he started with the 71st Hunger Games. However...given that the books don't give any confirmation as to Seneca's age, his career, etc...I am taking creative liberties. So, at twenty-six, Seneca's career as Head Gamemaker begins with the 68th annual Hunger Games. I feel bad bending this bit of canon, but...I'm already bending canon to my will. Also...writing for Snow made me so freaking anxious! He's such a complex and deep character that I felt very unworthy to be tackling him. To prepare, I rewatched a crap load of scenes from the movies, as well as rereading sections from the books. It was tricky, but I did get comfortable after a few rewrites. And needless to say, next chapter will be featuring Ceres and Snow together. This is an interaction I have been dying to write! It's been living rent free in my head for years, so next chapter it finally gets to pop out! :D
Review replies
sokka: Thank you so much! ^^ I'm glad that you noticed the parallel between the "I love you / I know," it was very deliberate, and it is going to come back into play later on, hehe. Since Finnick still technically hasn't dropped the L-word yet. Thank you for your super kind review! I hope you enjoyed Seneca's chapter just as much!
the. apple .seed: Thank you so much! Honestly, my biggest gripe with Catching Fire was how it was a retread of the Hunger Games. I wanted to learn more about the Victors and how they Mentor. I wanted to see the behind the scenes action, the trauma of what it means to lose your Victors, the actions a Victor takes to keep them alive, etc. I also came up with the Mentor's Lounge because there has to be a place where Mentors can vibe and just scream at each other. Even Snow surely gotta know they need to let out steam. XD I hope you enjoyed Seneca's chapter, too!
rikiarin: A dynamic that I have been waiting to write for a while, Rheon and Finnick. Honestly, thank you! Because that is what I was trying to get across, how Finnick and Rheon are both technically right and wrong at the same time. And it's definitely going to stir things down the line, between them and other respective parties. ^^ I'm glad you enjoyed Finnick's flashback sequences! They were fun to write, though writing for Neleus did hurt me. XD