"Caesura "

A/N: IDK why I said 3 povs last chapter, I guess I just was too deranged after writing that chap. Here's the second half of the last night, with Prestige and Vesta!

~And I can't say it's what you know

But you've known it the whole time

Yeah, you've known it the whole time

Prestige Freeman

This Gala might just be the single worst thing the Hunger Games has ever done. Most of the other victors are doing their best to make sure this night isn't memorable. The usual outlier gang is too many drinks deep to count, Audra and Tristan the only usual exceptions. The Career mentors are trying to talk with sponsors, though the enthusiasm is varying. Galavant and Melody are putting in more work than I've ever seen from them before, hopping from rich Capitolite to rich Capitolite.

It hurts a little bit to watch, for more reasons than one. Meanwhile I'm supposed to be winning over sponsors for one of their daughter's main competitors, an unpredictable loose cannon with an ego the size of District Eleven. The signals are at least a little bit mixed on what I'm supposed to be doing this year.

Galavant told me to win over as many sponsors as I can, though, so that's what I'm doing. The clammy old man in front of me is just the latest in a long line of sponsors that have ranged everywhere from wholesome old ladies asking for autographs for their grandkids to drunk old men with a book full of terrible pickup lines. This one lands somewhere in the middle with most of the rest: boring, strange, and in love with the sound of their own voice, but mostly harmless.

"Prestige Freeman!" Somebody exclaims, a hand slapping down on my shoulders.

I suck in a deep breath, stopping myself just short of blindly headbutting whoever's behind me. A quick peer over my shoulder leaves me just more confused as I see Kyle Timmons, the District Ten mentor, looking down at me with a big grin.

"Kyle," I say, an awkward smile formulating on my lips as I look between him and the sponsor oddly. "Hey."

He reaches out, plucking the drink from my hand and motioning for me to follow him. Before I can protest he downs the glass, dropping the empty cup on a waiter's platter as they walk by. "Come on," he urges me, continuing to motion. "Come on, you gotta settle a bet for us. Come on."

"Um," I say, looking back to the sponsor looking at the two of us bemusedly. In my head I hear his monotonous voice continuing to drone on about the Panemian Senate race, and the decision is made for me. "Okay? I'll, um, have to take this, sir. But I'm sure Galavant would love to speak with you?"

Kyle grabs hold of my arm and practically drags me across the ballroom, not-so-deftly weaving through the crowds of slow-dancers and cocktail conversations. Before long we reach a booth hidden in a corner of the room, the lighting barely casting a dim yellow haze over the crowded table. Kyle's usual crew is there, every bit as embarrassingly inebriated as he is, Atlas and Brendon loudly arguing from the center of the booth. Near the cloudy, dark window is Audra, who is resting her chin on her hand and looking at the rest of the table in dumbfounded unamusement. Tristan is beside her, though she looks more vaguely amused, her eyes dancing across the table.

None of that is exactly surprising, but the person leaning over the table, deep in the middle of a story and a foamy mug of beer in his hand, is a bit more out of place. Apollo Thompson looks like he stumbled upon this Gala on accident, his slacks and gray jacket looking comically out of place next to the typical Capitolite fashion of the room.

"I have brought, to settle this, as requested, the least shitty Career," Kyle announces, motioning to me with a flourish. The rest of the table glances over at me with expressions ranging from giddy excitement to admonishing embarrassment.

"Um, thanks?" I say. My eyes go to scan over the table but get stuck on the retired interviewer, who I give a quick wave and half-smile to. "Been a while, Apollo," I say awkwardly. "Surprised to see you here."

He shrugs amiably. "Coira needed me to drop off the kid and I couldn't pass up on the chance to catch up with some of my old victor pals."

"Right," I say, raising an eyebrow at the collection of empty mugs on the table in front of him. "Just a quick drop-in."

"Well, I couldn't just make it an Irish Goodbye and duck out without a proper sendoff."

"A what goodbye?" I ask

He stops for a moment, then a flicker of realization runs across his eyes and he whacks himself on the forehead. "Right, sorry. Capitol old world secrets, can't go around talking 'bout that."

"Right," I say. "So, I'm supposed to settle something. . . ." I trail off, looking around the table for some sort of assistance.

Audra sighs and offers it. "They were just having a stupid argument about. . ." she sighs, shaking her head. "Do I have to be the one to explain this?"

Kyle raises a hand as he takes a seat in the booth beside Atlas. I just stay standing, arms crossed awkwardly as I look across the group of near-strangers I've worked side by side with for a half-decade.

"It's just a simple question, a bit of a disagreement. Some of us are saying a solid one-half the Career pack this year oughta be psychopaths or sadists or something, Apollo here says otherwise. We need to hear straight from the source."

"None of them are psychopaths," Apollo says, in a tone that says he's repeated these words a dozen times already. "I'm telling you, it's Career culture, the ones who make it to the end aren't the biggest, meanest assholes. They're normal kids who've been radicalized, broken down to have no self-worth and then told they're amazing because of their skill with a sword so that their self-worth is tied directly to the Games. Seen it a thousand times over."

"And I'm telling you this year especially," Brendon butts in, "These Careers are not just normal kids, they're outta control."

I fidget in place awkwardly as the attention turns back to me, both sides motioning for me to speak. Tristan is sipping at a soda and looking at me out of the corner of her eyes while Audra buries her face in her hands.

"I mean, I'm not a Career, so–"

"We know, we know," Kyle waves me off. "And you're great! Definitely not a psychopath or any of that. But you mentor them, so you gotta know."

"I mean, well," I say, stumbling over my words. I think back to the faces I've mentored over the years now, this year and the three years before. I think of the Career that dragged me into the arena with her. Of the call I got a half-hour back, with the clock nearing 1:00 AM, the mental image of May curled up by the dial-up phone in the living room all-too easy to picture with her slightly slurred speech.

"It isn't like I love them all and think that we're best friends. But, but the person that I thought that I hated, that was this person I could never like, I just, I– I guess I just sorta realized that she's a real person. And, and I–"

Her voice cuts off, and I sigh. "If what you're trying to ask is if all the outlier kids are real people too, then yes, they are. I don't think you need me to tell you that."

The unmistakable sound of choked-out sobs rings out from through the phone. "Why did I volunteer?" She asks, the question repeating itself in a quieter and quieter voice as the tears keep falling.

I ask if she needs me to tell Galavant that we should head back to the training center early, and the tears are quick to stop as she yells out no. A few more sniffles come through the line before she speaks again, her voice barely holding itself together.

"I'm just not thinking right. It's all fuzzy right now. I just need to get some sleep to start thinking straight again. I'll be fine in the morning. I promise."

The phone clicks off with that and I quietly hang up the phone, the biting wind blowing against my exposed skin as I lean against the door, the sound of the party still raging from inside.

I blink, my feet suddenly feeling heavy. I sigh and drop into the booth, forcing Apollo to scoot over to make room.

I'm silent for another few moments, but the words finally find their way out my mouth. "They're not normal, sure," I say. "They're cocky and full of themselves and I'm sure you see only that, but that's not all that they are. If there's one thing that all the Careers I've seen so far have in common, it's that however much you might hate them for whatever they do, they hate themselves for it more."

Kyle still looks unconvinced. "Hard to believe that about your kids this year."

"I don't know Ariya that well. Or Ethan or Everly or Ainsley or Arno, so I can't talk about them. But even Pierre, the big asshole that he is, he, well, he can surprise you sometimes. He's not just a villain who only does bad, he can do things that are good sometimes. Not because it's good for him, but just because he wants to.

"And May?" I sigh, shaking my head as I look to the floor. My voice goes quiet. "She's just a kid, that's all."

Brendon snorts, shaking his head. "I was a kid once too, didn't see me volunteering or taunting kids about how I'm gonna kill them."

I bristle, the words shooting back at him before I take a moment to think. "Yeah, well, and most people didn't kill anybody when they were a kid either. Maybe we shouldn't be the ones to start throwing stones."

It's quiet for a long moment, but eventually Apollo raises his glass, nodding his head and slapping me on the back "Hear, hear."

I awkwardly raise my hand, using my knuckles to clink his mug. Then I stand back up, straightening out the uncomfortable dress and fiddling with the straps as I avoid looking any of them in the eye, trying to avoid thinking any deeper about any of the words I just said. "Well, it was a fun talk, but the sponsors are out there waiting."

"Who you collecting for?" Apollo asks. "Pierre? May? Ariya?"

I glance over at the rest of the room, the massive overwhelming wall of bodies and purses. And I shake my head. "Whoever needs it," I say, hoping that there won't be an easy answer to that question.

Vesta Brigarde

The rooftop is quiet. I can look up in the sky and start to fade out the skyscrapers in the peripheral of my vision, the warmth of an artificial fire coming close to mimicking the crackling of a damp log on a winter night. But it isn't home. It isn't District Twelve. There's nobody beside me to stare at the stars with, nobody to hear my stories I try to tell.

I've tried pretending otherwise the last few days. The vast, shapeshifting alliance almost comes close to resembling the brigade back home, but there's always that massive missing piece. Then there's the smaller reminders, the bleeding ink seeping through the page that trickles through to remind me of what's coming soon.

I've buried my head in the sand, trying to ignore that, but reality is catching up. The moon is climbing higher and higher in the sky, and soon it'll start to make it's slow crawl down. The sun will encroach over the belated horizon, shielded by mountains and metal towers, and it'll be impossible to pretend anymore.

I'm not even entirely sure who's still with me tomorrow, or if anybody is for that matter. Tamika has been following me since we arrived in the Capitol, and she's the only one who's thrown around that formal word of "alliance." The rest I'm less sure about. Alyssane was there most days with us, learning to start fires and listening to whatever stories I could come up with. Cambria hung around too, joking and laughing with the boys from Nine, Cyrus and Elias.

But on the last day of training they all found their own corners away from our usual spot. Tamika tinkered with wires and traps, full of animated questions for the overworked trainer. Cyrus and Elias were dragged away by the other girl from Eight to the weapons stations, looking terrified to even so much as touch a dagger. The threat the Careers made on the first day was hard to ignore, no matter how much Tamika or Basila argued otherwise.

Even Alyssane and Cambria splintered off, spending their time at the shelter station tying together makeshift ceilings and coverings. The fire I managed that day was the tallest and brightest one yet, but it felt so much colder.

They had the right idea, probably. It takes a lot to survive on your own, even without the whole killing aspect of the Hunger Games. I know well enough about that from those early days with the brigade. We wandered off into the woods with nothing but the clothes on our backs in the middle of winter and learned pretty fast what that meant. Luckily, the snow and cold weather passed before long and weakly built fires warmed the nights just enough. A bit of trial and error found which berries and nuts were safe to eat. A few caves and hollow trees offered shelter, rivers and streams that ran fast and clear gave us water that (mostly) never got us sick. Eventually we figured things out, and it fell into place. But that took time. It took luck. It took all of us working together with that single-minded goal of never having to go back to the orphanage.

I try to imagine the arena, what it'll be like, what I'll do, but nothing conjures its way into my mind. It's all a blurry haze, a big block of uncertainty that I can't weave through. If it was something like back home in District Twelve, I could almost hope to slip into a state of comfort. It may be wishful thinking, but if I could just recreate those years back in the forests of Twelve, I could stay alive. Just existing and not worrying about any of the horrors going on around me.

But there's more likely places I'll be going. The Hunger Games aren't something I've ever liked to dwell on, but it's impossible to not catch pieces and bits of it. Horror-infused apocalyptic cityscapes with monstrous mutts, frozen ice-caverns with temperatures that froze off fingers and toes, dense, humid rainforests with venomous snakes and scorpions, it's hard to imagine myself in those arenas. It's so far removed from my reality, from who I am and what I've done. I'm not an explorer or warrior or action movie-star.

I'm Vesta Brigarde. The girl who sits by fires and tells stories to a gaggle of orphans she calls her family. My adventures are diving into lakes from cliffs, my sense of danger thieving from rich, stuffy old shopkeepers.

"I almost miss Gator," I murmur to myself, lifting my hands so that my head drops fully to the soft grass. It's just another trick to convince me that this world is the same as the one I'm more used to, but the illusion doesn't hold up. The grass is short and rough, the feeling of stiff concrete not far below it. The flowers of the garden are all too colorful, too fragrant and bright and perfect to ever be real. The nibbled off leaves, trampled on shrubs, strewn about branches and leaves, they're all missing. There's no annoying mosquitoes and flies buzzing about, no gentle bees or ladybugs to balance them out.

Even the sky is wrong. The handful of visible stars are dim and shadowy, and not in the same way as they are on a foggy or cloudy day. There's no visible obstruction dropping a filter over the lights in the sky. It's like they're just turned down low, so that it looks more like a big black painting with accidental droplets of white paint than what it's supposed to be.

It's fitting in a way. Everything here is so fake, so superficial, so detached from reality in a way that makes me feel disconnected from the world. A part of me keeps on expecting for this all to come to a sudden end, for life to continue on as normal. It's been too long, too specific to be a dream, so it's not that. But there's something else, something intangible that fills me with this surreal certainty that I'll see District Twelve again. Wendy, James, Clark, all the boys of the Brigarde Brigade, all of them.

It might be stupid or naive or willfully blind to feel that way. It might be even worse to believe in that feeling and actually allow myself to trust in it. Maybe I should be back on my floor right now, throwing cold water in my face and staring at the mirror until I get it through my skull that there's no way out of this. Maybe I should have joined Basila and Cyrus and Elias and put a dagger in my hand and gotten ready to turn into somebody I never thought I'd be.

Maybe I don't even need to do all of that. Maybe I just need to lay here right now, head on the ground and eyes in the sky, and tell myself the truth. That I'm headed into the Hunger Games tomorrow. That I'm not going to be on the receiving side of some unlikely miracle. That I'll die. That those cheery and careless last words I threw at Wendy will be the last ones I ever speak to her.

Because right now I'm pushing all those hard truths aside and believing that this fairy-tale story can go on just a little bit longer. That I can be lost to the world. That I can get my happily ever after. And maybe that's ridiculous and naive and immature.

But there are worse stories to believe in.

A/N: And so ends what I'd call chapter 1 of this story. Next chapter takes us to the last of the pre-games chaps, which as those of y'all who have read my previous stories is a quick little thing. Then after that we're in the arena. It's crazy that we've finally made it there and I'm so glad I've randomly found the ability to write this story over the last week. I seriously love all of these characters so much and am so excited to show y'all the things I have planned for the rest of this story. Thank you to everybody for the amazing support and patience through this turtle of a story. See you all tomorrow with ten things you need to know.