A/N: Would anyone care to leave a few words of encouragement, please? Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter III: Twelve

As promised, we arrive in District Twelve just after sunset. Because it is winter and light doesn't stay with us as long as it does in summer, we are having the dinner with the Mayor tonight and the speech in front of the crowds tomorrow morning before moving on to Eleven. Plume and Aloysius briefly oversee touch ups to my makeup and dress, but I draw the line when Plume offers to put a violet hair extension under my natural brown locks.

"Oh, well it's just Twelve anyway. Not many people worth it to impress, but do reconsider when we get to One."

What a rude thing to say!

Growing up, Panem History was, of course, compulsory, but aside from the Capitol, the Rebellion, and the story behind our home District, we didn't learn much about the rest of the country. Aside from the assets and industries each District provides, we know virtually nothing. For all I know, District 12 is inside an active volcano.

It's dark as we are escorted to the Justice Building from the train, so I see nothing of the area.

"Beetee, it's so…quiet here," I whisper.

"Not every District is a city. Just…be open-minded about tomorrow, but don't let it make you emotional," he replies.

Emotional? How can I feel emotional about a place I have no connection to?

The Justice Building looks very similar to the District 3 building on the inside, except the seal on the far wall of the atrium is that of Twelve. It has mining gear on it. We are led around for a moment before stopping in a smallish dining room. The table is set for the Mayor, his wife, myself, Beetee, Plume, and Aloysius. Peacekeepers stand in the doorway, which Beetee had also warned me to get accustomed to. A single Peacekeeper guards the Victor's Village back home, but just the outermost door, and only because it's protocol.

A man with a lanky frame and a simple suit comes in, followed by a pallid woman with light blonde hair in a light floral-patterned dress.

"Welcome to District Twelve! I'm Mayor Blackwater, and this is my wife, Dora!" the Mayor says, extending his hand.

Hand-shaking. This extended social tour is going to exhaust me.

I take his hand and mumble "Wiress Ohmstead."

"Pardon?" Mayor Blackwater asks.

Beetee steps in. "She's not used to the attention."

"Well she will have to learn!" Plume interjects. I fight hard not to give her a scowl.

"Beetee! It's good to see you again," Dora Blackwater says, extending her hand and smiling gently.

"It is," he replies. "How is your son?"

"Still having trouble with geology in school," Dora sighs. Beetee shrugs causally and turns back to me, putting a gentle hand on my back to lead me to a chair at the Mayor's right hand.

"Just a warning, Miss Wiress, the Tour starts with Twelve because we are the most underwhelming in terms of what we offer. We're a—how do you put it?—humble place. Nothing like the Capitol."

With this, we are invited to sit, and a few people serve us our first course, a thick stew I vaguely recognize. In the arena, while I hid with Tatsuya, his mentor sent us a can of this same stew. It's hearty, full of lamb meat and potatoes. It is served over rice.

"We don't even do courses here," the Mayor says quietly.

Plume sighs. "It is the culture here."

I quickly bite into a spoon of stew to keep me from verbally showing my disapproval.

Beetee comes in, as usual, to save the day. "Three prefers a simple, hearty meal as well. Speaks to the efficiency and foresight to preserve resources."

The Mayor smiles approvingly. "Well said, Mr. Latier."

Plume's cheeks turn a little red.

The Mayor and his wife ask me questions, and I keep most of my answers to as few words as I can muster. I see no reason to share my life story when most of Panem seems to know as much about me as I do, thanks to Dionysius Flickerman. Instead, I sip generously at the dark red wine being served. One of the people employed to wait on us this evening had to refill my glass three times before the meal concludes (with a simple but delicious wildberry cake). I start feeling hazy and disoriented.

"Your quarters are humble but comfortable. Beetee, you remember where they are?" the Mayor says as he leads us up a set of stairs.

Beetee nods. "I do, Sir."

"Well then, I will have breakfast sent up to your rooms in the morning, and I will see you at the gathering at nine."

Beetee and I simultaneously give a head nod in gratitude before we go our separate ways for the evening.

The next morning, Plume and Aloysius arrive at my door with my breakfast tray. Seeing two Capitol citizens bring in a serving tray is more startling than it would occur to me to be. It doesn't look natural with either of them. Aloysius' hair is the same bright yellow that the scrambled eggs are.

"Get up, sleepyhead!" Plume chimes in a sing-song type of voice, as if today I'm not going to eulogize two children this morning and every day for the rest of the next few weeks.

I've already gotten up, but instead of ducking under the shower, I'm staying on my small, practical mattress and glaring at the ceiling. This was supposed to be the guests' suite, and yet there was a small patch of mildew in the corner, a few cobwebs here or there, and dust on the armoire. I imagine if Snow were to stay overnight here, he'd stay on the train. But for me, it's more like my room back in the Outer City, so I'm quite fond of the simple coziness of the place.

Plume must've been quite uncomfortable if she didn't sleep on the train. The thought of her tossing about on a thin mattress makes me feel warm inside.

I don't get a chance to swallow more than a few bites of toast before Aloysius starts fooling with my hair. Plume presses two cards into my hands with names that I vaguely recall from half a year ago: Mandel Kaminski and Donna Blackbear. The Tributes from here who participated in my Games. Both died on the first day at the Cornucopia, and both were at least under sixteen years of age. I can't even remember their training scores or anything that had given them a shot at going far. I just remember that watching the footage of their Reaping, I cringed when they put on brave faces and smiled. They were as good at acting as I was.

Oh yes, and the boy was twelve years old.

As I sit in a small chair while Aloysius and Plume prod at my limp hair, trying to make it camera-ready, I read the cards given to me:

Mandel Kaminski and Donna Blackbear from Twelve were both courageous warriors whose sacrifice we will never forget. Both fought valiantly in the little time they had, and both brought honor to their families and their Districts. We memorialize and remember them today in a solemn ceremony that reminds us of the sacrifices the Capitol makes for our well being, and the love that we give the Capitol in return…

The words make me feel sick. It's as if Plume had typed a few prompts into an automatic speech generator and took the first cliched, mindless paragraph of pure drivel that popped up. This doesn't respect the Tributes. This is humiliating.

Then I remember: I'm going to be saying this to their families' faces. I feel frozen inside.

Back in Three, when the Tour came through (usually with a Career Victor), the families of the fallen Tributes stood on platforms near the stage, a banner of their lost child behind them. I remember the year we had a tribute make it to the end stage, a girl named Curie that Beetee mentored, who was beheaded violently by the boy who'd go on the win. Even he, a District One Career who'd had a final body count of seven (out of twenty-four!), couldn't look at the crowd or the families, as he stuttered through his generic speech about honoring the Capitol. It was made worse by the fact that Curie had been her family's only child.

How am I supposed to face Lustra Vanderstone's family in One? Or Janus and Juno's in Two? I was present for Janus' death and considered by many to be the cause of Juno's. They were the first twins to be in the arena. At least there'd only be one family to face in Two.

I feel my body get smaller and smaller the more I think about it. Maybe I could disappear entirely.

I don't even look up when Aloysius declares that I'm finished and can get into my plum dress. Plume has to gently nudge my shoulder. I finally look up into the mirror and feel like suppressing a nervous laugh.

"We try not to go overboard for some of the outer Districts," Plume says apologetically. "You understand…"

My hair is in a braid, the loose ends at my temple are curled gently against my ears. It's a mature look, I suppose, and I appreciate the simplicity of it. My makeup is much simpler than the fool's face I wore for the cameras yesterday. Instead of drawing attention to my eyes, the style of my makeup draws the gaze to a darker lip.

I must be honest…I don't hate this look. That's a first in a year that's been nothing but firsts.

I'm escorted out of my room and to the stage that has been set up in front of the Justice Building at exactly 10am. I don't get to see Beetee before I go on. Plume is my support for this part.

"It's all about you, not him. And honestly, once you get to the Capitol you won't want for his company anymore—"

What does that even mean?

I'm being kept behind a nearly-closed door at the Mayor introduces me. I can see peeks of people, and what I see makes my heart fall into my stomach.

In Three, we aren't rich. In fact, some of us are poorer off. But we are millionaires compared to the desolate-looking people waiting for me right now. I can spot a few people dressed in tattered shirts from a long gone era. They are clean-faced, but their hair and clothes are covered in dirt and soot.

"…Wiress Ohmstead, Victor of the 44th Annual Hunger Games!"

A solid but unenthusiastic applause goes up as I feel Aloysius' hand gently nudge me through the door. I take a breath as I see the full crowd for the first time. More of the raggedy citizens in soot-covered clothes. I don't see an overweight person in the group. In fact, most of them make me look fleshy. Especially the children.

On two platforms near the stage are banners with the images of Mandel Kaminski and Donna Blackbear, with their families gathered in front, waiting for my one-minute eulogy. Both of them were apparently swarthy and skinny. Mandel looked a few years younger than his age. Donna, in spite of her dark skin and hair, had blue eyes, which stood out and gave her a curious look. Under Donna's image are an adult woman and two younger girls dressed in matching blue dresses that had seen better days. Under Mandel stands two adults alone, holding each other tightly.

Mandel was not only twelve, but an only child, like Curie had been.

It takes every ounce of strength in my soul to get through the horrible speech Plume has given to me. She warned me as I was being led here not to stray from the script. That isn't a problem. My mouth needs twice the normal effort to utter pre-written words. I don't think I have the capacity in this moment to say my own words.

The speech would take someone like Beetee or Plume about three to five minutes to say. It takes me the better part of ten from my guess. Then, I surprise myself by adding something after I recite the pre-determined conclusion.

"I…I'm sorry. So, so sorry. They deserved better, and so do you."

These words come with more ease than anything I'd said in the past few months. Almost as if my old self, the Wiress who knew how to articulate her feelings more fluently, had returned from vacation.

Silence. Then someone in the crowd does something I don't understand. He takes three fingers and raises them above his head. Then, the people around him follow, and a few moments later, nearly everyone in the crowd, including the families of Mandel Kaminski and Donna Blackbear, are giving me this strange salute.

I don't know what this means, and so I do the only thing my instincts tell me. I turn on my heels and quickly go back inside the Justice Building. Plume is waiting for me, her lips in a pout.

"That was NOT in the script. And you aren't finished out there yet—"

"—oh, let her be done with it. It's obviously hard for her," Aloysius intervenes. I look at him, surprised he'd take the side of empathy over decorum.

I begin shaking violently, hot tears welling up in my eyes. I'm beginning to lose control of myself. A panic is coming, and I have no one to anchor me here. Plume and Aloysius probably don't even understand what's happening to me.

"…get…Beetee…"

I black out as all control within me is gone.

The first thing I notice is I'm still in the atrium of the Twelve Justice Building, so it probably hasn't been too long. I am still disoriented. Plume is looking down at me with horror. Who's arms am I in?

I'm breathing heavily, hot and heaving. My brain seems dissociated from my mouth, because I'm not thinking about what I say as I say it.

"They hate me."

Everyone shakes their head at me patronizingly.

"Can you walk to the train, honey?" Plume asks delicately.

I have no idea. I let whoever is behind me bring me gently to my feet. I latch on to them for support as we begin making our way to the car that will escort us onward.

According to one of my books, panic attacks are common with an Americana-era diagnosis called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. They can be triggered by anything and by nothing. They can be as mild as a few moments of forgetting to breathe, or as brutal as self-harm or suicide. I was able to identify this in myself fairly quickly, but then again I have a habit of self-diagnosis, so I usually run an idea by Beetee when I find it. He's only ever agreed with my self-diagnoses twice. The first time, he had said he could see me having something called Autism Spectrum Disorder, which explained so much about me when I read about it. The second, was this Post-Traumatic Stress.

Neither of these things are accepted as real-world problems in Panem. Even if they were, there isn't much that can be done about either, I suppose, unless one can afford a pricey doctor.

I don't understand how someone could look at me in the midst of a panic, or how I can't be social around people without a lot of help and prompting, and not see either this autism or PTSD within me. Beetee is the only one who agrees with me, and we discuss it frequently. He says the only way to help me is to understand me, but he keeps everything between us. If Panem finds out I'm "disordered," not even he would know what they'd do to me.

The rest of the day is blurry. I feel an immense headache for all of it as we get close to Eleven, our next stop. I don't let Beetee leave my side. I don't eat. I don't listen to Plume as she tries to explain Eleven's etiquette practices to me for when we arrive. I don't absorb a second of it until she hands me the speech card for Eleven's tributes.

Cleave Freeman and Pear Thomas from Twelve were—

"Twelve?" Beetee asks. Plume half-heartedly gasps.

"I forgot to change that part!" she says quietly. "I'll do it before we arrive, I assure you."

Cleave Freeman and Pear Thomas from Twelve were both courageous warriors whose sacrifice we will never forget. Both fought valiantly—

These are the exact same words I'd read off like an automaton this morning.

As usual, Beetee reads my thoughts (if such a thing were possible). "This speech is identical to the last one, Plume."

"Of course," she says. "Do you honestly think after what happened this morning we really need to ask her to personalize these things for people she doesn't know anyway?"

Beetee stands up. Even with Plume's heels, Beetee stands equal height to her.

He repeats himself slowly, punctuating ever word with a hard accent, as if every one were a sentence unto itself.

"This. Speech. Is. Identical. To. The Last. One."

Plume doesn't reply this time. It's almost as if she is…intimidated!

"You will fix it to make it different, as you will for each of the rest of the Districts. Furthermore, you will allow me to accompany her onto each stage," Beetee insists. "You are going to ensure this experience goes quickly and as smoothly as possible until we arrive back home. Is this understood?"

Still silent, Plume nods quietly.

"Now if you'll excuse me a moment—" Beetee cuts himself off and walks briskly out of the car. I turn back to look at Plume, who backs away from me and leaves me alone, exiting the car in the other direction.

I still can't process much of what's going on thanks to the fallout from my attack this morning, but one thing does pop into my head. The way Beetee stood at his full height to defend me…made me wish for a moment that he'd stayed with me so I could kiss him.

The feeling passes as we pull in to District Eleven, and I realize the emotional ride is about to begin anew.