The first thing I notice when I step off the train in District Five is the wonderful sea air. Drawing in a deep lung-full of the delightful salty breeze, I feel some of the anger and frustration from last night drift away. By the time we've reached the high cliff-face where the giant silver columns of the hydro-electric station sit I feel more alive, more content than I have since walking away from Greta's farewell hug.

The Tour crew want to shoot some photos here, as the scene is apparently reminiscent of the cover of my Games tape (they used the moment I stood on the arena cliff-top, trident in one hand, net slung across my back, watching the red sunrise just before Rosie Plane's death). Pelagius hovers nearby with a small pouch of hair- and make-up brushes, ready to touch me up while the photographers and film crew argue about lighting and angles behind me.

I ignore them and focus on the rippling water far below, the small fleet of boats moored to a platform about two-hundred yards off-shore and the twisting, cawing sea-birds who wheel above our heads and dive down to the rocky cliff ledges where their nests are.

It's more than twice the height of the cliffs that our Victors Village sits on. There's a point just a little around from the back of Morstan's house where the water below is deep enough that we can safely jump from the rocks into the sea below. It's good for a few seconds of glorious freefall and the beach is only a short swim around. It was a favorite pastime of mine when I was younger; like fighting and training, it helped me feel alive.

I try to move closer, to see if such a jump would be possible from here, but a hand on my shoulder restrains me. Acanthus, who I was still mad with at breakfast this morning and didn't speak to as I shovelled down bacon and eggs. I find that my anger seems to have blown away on the sea breeze, and try a tentative smile. He returns it and steps closer to me.

"I am sorry Finnick," he says softly, his words nearly lost in the bustling sound of the camera men setting up their equipment. "Ms. Colwin, from District Seven?" he pauses until I nod recognition. Dragonfly lady. "Her sister-in-law holds a rather high ranking government position, and received a complaint about your lack of social grace and my interference. I have been reprimanded for your poor presentation and have been instructed to minimize my interference with Capitol citizens who wish to congratulate you on your victory. Particularly the wealthy or well-connected ones."

He squeezes my shoulder briefly, and turns to answer the primary photographer who has approached with a clipboard, leaving me alone near the cliff edge once more. It makes sense of why he didn't help me, I guess, but I still don't have to like it.

I shake my head to clear all those thoughts away for now and edge another step closer to the ocean, far enough that I can see the waves crashing into the rocks almost directly below the drop. For one moment, I can almost hear the voice in the back of my mind saying 'jump, jump, you know you want to.'

It would be so easy. Just another four steps and a leap. I could do it faster than anyone here could react, and then I would be free of everything. No more sleepless nights dreaming of blood and mutts and pleas for mercy. No more grabby old ladies pawing at me, pinching my cheeks, squeezing my arms. No more rules, no more cameras, no more Hunger Games. No more Oris or Greta or Ric. Or Mags, who would undoubtedly be punished for letting anything happen to me.

I remember the first time Mags told me about the sponsorship deals that sometimes take place in the Capitol, about how they'll force me to do what they want by threatening those that I care about. My family, perhaps not by blood, but certainly by love. The teachers at my training school who taught me to fight, Ric's friends who crew our boat, my tributes in the years to come. I don't want any of them to suffer on my account.

So when my name is called, I turn away from the cliff edge and smile for the cameras. I stand on the stage and give my speech, recalling pretty Maria who my ally Anita stabbed in the back at the Cornucopia, and her district partner whose name and method of death I can't even remember. All I know was it wasn't anything to do with me. I sit with the District Five elite and their liaisons at dinner and laugh at their jokes, even when they aren't funny. One of the younger ladies has a wicked smile and apparently no inhibitions, and after the requisite small talk and appreciation of the Mayor's son's piano skills, I let her pull me off into a quiet back corridor for an enjoyable few minutes where I learn I know a lot less about kissing than I thought I did.

We're interrupted first by service staff rolling trolleys of empty dishes, then by Acanthus who regretfully informs us both that the train will be leaving for District Three in an hour, and that I do in fact need to be on it. Aquilla suggests that she's happy to continue our 'conversation' another time if I happen to be in the area and releases me into the care of my Escort. To his credit, Acanthus says nothing about it, even when we're alone.

The train station here in Five is only three blocks from the town center, and the cool air from the short walk helps get me back to normal. Mags raises an eyebrow when we climb aboard, but ultimately chooses not to say anything either. I think back to how I was treating them both yesterday, and feel my cheeks flushing with shame.

"I don't deserve you guys," I tell them both.

This makes them both smile, and nothing more needs to be said on the matter. I know they have my back even when it's me that's the problem.

~xXx~

District Three is nearly as dull as Six was. Almost every single building is either gray concrete or dull gray metal and there's no living plants in evidence amongst the gray concrete paths and muddy gray-brown dirt side-streets and 'park areas'. Even in the town square, the gathered Victory Rally crowd look to be dressed in washed-out shades instead of real colors, made worse by their nearly uniform black hair. It almost makes me wonder if the people here are produced on a factory line too. They all applaud dutifully at the end of the speeches and move off down the various side-streets in a bland, orderly fashion.

My newest lime green tunic shirt looks painfully bright against all the gray, as do the outfits of the accompanying Capitol film crew and support staff. Thankfully Acanthus didn't try to schedule a boring tour of the factories, and instead arranged for a pleasant late lunch after the Rally in the district's largest restaurant. All three victors from their district join us, though they all seem to be naturally quiet people, not given to conversation. The youngest is six or seven years older than me and seems to withdraw from her surroundings at every possible opportunity, huddling against the wall, eyes unfocused while she picks at her food. I try to talk to her at first, but I quickly realize that she doesn't seem to be hearing most of what I say, so I give up and join the more animated conversation between Mags and the older pair from Three

The woman Wiress seems a bit odd as well; she tries to be friendly, but every other sentence she drifts off and lets the man, Beetee, finish whatever she was going to say. I don't mind him though. He's curious about my boat, in particular the navigation system I'm using, and recommends a different model that is apparently more reliable and provides more accurate weather data. Wiress scribbles the details down onto a napkin for me, along with a diagram of some sort that makes no sense. I thank her and dig in to the giant platter of steamed buns while Mags and Beetee move on to discussing some new sort of microwave oven.

The victors also make an appearance at the dinner that night, though they, along with Mags, are too far away down the main table for me to speak to them. Instead I get stuck with Phineas and District Three's complete jerk of a mayor, who spend most of the evening casually insulting poor district folk and their uncouth ways. Acanthus, seated on my Stylist's far side, doesn't join in even when Mayor Gowan tries to joke with him about how it must be easier to tell District Four residents apart from the rest of the rabble because at least we wash sometimes.

I tune out most of the conversation, thinking longingly about the amazing woman last night, or the pretty girl in Seven. The forward Liaison's daughter in Twelve and sensual Piper in Eight. Apart from the younger victor Antimony, the only capitol citizen even close to my age is a woman who sits with the victors, her black puffy hair spilling out from a netted hairpiece that's too gem-studded to belong to even the wealthiest engineer from Three. She seems to be doing most of the talking for the group.

There are some wealthy district citizens as well, but none of them seem very outgoing or approachable, and most of them are men. There's a few women, all Greta's age or older and they seem perfectly happy chatting amongst themselves. In an obscure way, I'm almost insulted that they aren't paying attention to me, even though I don't actually want them to. Ultimately the night ends on a boring murmur and we make it back to the train by half past ten. I get a surprisingly good night's rest with the aid of a couple more sleeping pills and wake in the home District of two of my closest allies, both of whom met their deaths at my hands.

~xXx~

I fret a little at breakfast about another experience like Ten, though Mags ruffles my hair and tells me that it will all be fine. Apparently District Two respects any victor who fights fair and well, even if they did kill the hometown tributes. I hear the scrape of metal against a plate as Acanthus cuts his sausages and my mind flickers back to the grating sound of my trident prongs scraping on bone. A dollop of red sauce is the blood from Marcellus' neck, Carla's chest as I ripped them open. I put down my loaded fork and push the half-eaten plate away, suddenly nauseous.

My stylist takes this as a sign that I'm done eating and bustles me away, where he and Theodorous spend over an hour doing something to my hair, while Euthalia re-smooths my fingernails and rubs some sort of oil into my hands. Pelagius helps me into my outfit for the rally, which doesn't make me feel any better as the green shirt is patterned with a golden net design, just like the net I threw over both Carla and Marcellus before killing them.

I start feeling nauseous again as we head for the stage and I end up fumbling and dropping several of the cards with my extra words about my former allies. A peacekeeper nudges me on when I try to stop and grab them, and I'm forced to hope I can remember enough of what I was going to say to not come off as a massive jerk.

Thankfully Mags' description of the District Two crowd proves correct; their applause is genuine, and their attitudes appear unhostile. The older man with a hunched back and a cloud of white hair glowers at me from under the projected image of Marcellus at the front of the crowd, but the rest of his family (a younger sister and much younger brother), and the lean woman with a scarred face and one eye standing for Carla seem stoic and attentive. Marcellus' sister even smiles at me.

The mayor of District Two responds to my speech, praising my fighting ability and competitive drive. It's the same words that have been said in many other districts on this tour, but here it sounds like he means them. Like at home, the Victory Rally has much more of a party feel about it and the square stays full of citizens who bring all sorts of food and drinks to share. A long line of tables is set up to the left of the temporary stage and the sound system at the rear of the square starts blaring dance music.

Where we are, it's not loud enough to drown out conversations, and I find myself chatting to Mags and the mayor's wife and, eventually, the one-eyed woman whom I correctly assumed was Carla's mother.

I wonder whether I should apologise for killing her daughter, but she beats me to it by thanking me for working fairly with Carla and for facing her with honor at the last. She also passes on similar messages from her two older children, both already training or serving as Peacekeepers in other districts. I nod, swallowing a lump in my throat as I remember the feeling of Carla's fingers running through my hair, her strong grip as she wrenched my broken fingers straight and splinted them. Her fearless assault on the gator-mutt that so nearly killed Anita and my vicious attack on her that left her blood spattered on my face.

I thankfully don't have to engage with Marcellus' family as I see his sister, who smiled at me during my speech, being towed away from the square by the white-haired man. Not that I am short for company as the afternoon and evening wear on.

The public party continues until sunset. As the daylight fades a more exclusive group are ushered into the large hall attached to the Justice Building for the slightly more formal buffet dinner, including a surprisingly large group of people around my age or just a little older. From a few brief conversations, I deduce that most of them are part of District Two's unofficial training program (almost all of the kids in the training program take the tests to be Peacekeepers once they age out of the reaping, apart from the two in their final year who volunteer for the Games). There are also a few wealthier families: quarry and factory overseers, a family of artists that have recently fallen into Capitol favour for their ornate stone carvings. And the Capitol Liaisons of course, though here in Two, many of them are involved with the Peacekeepers, and don't appear to have families.

All of the District Two victors are at the party too, though the older ones mostly cluster together near the end of the bar, leaving the floor clear for us younger people. After making sure I get something to eat, Mags leaves me in the hands of this younger crew and settles down between two of the older victors, chatting comfortably.

I turn away from them to find myself face to face with Enobaria Cavera, the slightly crazy woman who won a few years back by biting out the throat of our tribute. She forces a glass of something pungent into my hands and urges me to drink it. I consider refusing, but her challenging grin showing off her viciously sharpened teeth convinces me to upend the savage brew down my throat, swallowing quickly to avoid the harsh taste. Whatever it is makes my eyes water and my head swim; I try to steady myself against the wall but miss it by half a foot. Another victor, Noah, who is still on the younger end of the crowd, catches my arm and holds me until I think I'm steady and my vision has cleared.

Enobaria laughs loudly and tosses her own empty glass onto the table, grabbing my arm roughly and pulling me out onto the floor where a good number of the young crowd are already dancing wildly. Whatever the drink was seems to make my heart pound in time with the music and I join the mass of moving bodies. Swaying in time to the beat, brushing up against warm bodies and feeling limbs press against me, causing interesting sensations to ripple through my stomach and groin.

I don't have a good sense of how much time is passing, as one song flows into another and there's no respite in the middle of the crowd. Hands grope parts of my body and I'm sure my hands do the same to others – it's almost impossible not to in the tight press of bodies. Other times I'm jabbed by sharp elbows, whacked by flailing arms, stepped on by people who seem to know where and how to move, while I'm constantly a second too slow. Twice I stumble and only the tight press of people prevents me from hitting the ground.

At some point, someone's face ends up pressed against mine, our lips and tongues joined. I dimly register the feel of their hair in my hand – thick and wavy and scented with flowers. She lets go of me with a grin and soon there's another, this time a fair-haired and freckled girl who not only steals a kiss, but also runs her hands over the front of my far-too-tight trousers.

A part of me wants to explore this feeling further, maybe in private, but there's no escaping the throng of bodies. The next person who presses hard against me is a boy, maybe a year or two older than I am. He dances close enough against me that I can feel he's enjoying being there. I don't push him away, because it's not an entirely unpleasant sensation. A girl starts grinding at me from behind, her thick black hair tickling my upper back, where the shirt collar dips low. It pushes me forwards, into the arms of the guy who takes it as an invitation and plants his mouth firmly on mine.

I'd never really considered kissing, or being kissed in this case, by a guy. Turns out it doesn't really feel any different to a girl in the moment. I can't help but smile at him when he pulls away and he grins back, ruffling my hair. This pushes me back towards the reaching arms of the girl with the rough black hair, who also claims her turn.

I eventually manage to work to the edge of the dance floor and push through several bodies to get to the bar. The woman at the counter takes one look at me and shoves a large glass of iced water at me before I can say a word. I grin at her and down half of it, then toss the rest over my head, sighing in pleasure as I feel it soak through my sweaty shirt.

She pours me another, which I sip slowly while she lines up three other glasses on the counter.

"Sweet and light. More refined, may not be to your taste yet. Very sweet and will get you dancing for the next hour, possibly heaving your cookies the hour after."

She points to each of them in turn and takes the water cup I've finished back, leaving me to decide how drunk I want to get. I glance around for another opinion; Mags is off in a corner with one of the older victors, their heads almost touching as they try to talk over the pounding music. I can't see Acanthus or and of the prep team, and I have no interest in talking to Phineas any more than I have to. The younger victors from Two are still part of the crushing crowd on the dance floor – the boy who kissed me apparently has a thing for victors as he's now enthusiastically making out with Enobaria. Or maybe she saw me kissing him and decided she wanted a piece too – I can't imagine anyone with sense tries to make her do anything she doesn't want to or says no to her advances.

I spot a clock on the wall behind the bar, which shows that the party still has a good few hours in it and decide that I'll need some help keeping up the manic energy that is apparently expected here. I take the larger glass the bar lady called sweet and light and try a sip. It's good, but not enough.

I leave the middle glass and grab the other sweet drink, eyeing the brown liquid curiously before throwing it back in one go. It tastes very much like what Enobaria gave me earlier, though the smell isn't as strong. The alcohol strength is comparable though, especially when I top it off with the rest of the pale green drink.

Willing hands reach for me as soon as I approach the dance floor again and I let them pull me in. It's almost like swimming in the ocean, a swaying current of movement. Like swimming, it's far more efficient to move with it than try to fight against it. I lean into the dance, learning the movements by repetition, like I once learned to front-crawl or side-stroke. How and where to push my body, rest my hands, whether or not to move my feet or just stay still and sway.

I get better at it as the night carries on. I end up with less bruises at any rate, and some more kisses. As the party starts winding down I end up seated on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs, a freckled girl sitting across my lap, alternating between kissing me and plying me with another mouthful of the sweet green drink.

Her other hand starts stroking down my arm, across my ribs, then brushing my thigh. Suddenly my dizzy mind flashes back to District Ten, the haze of alcohol, the girl caressing me while leaning seductively into my space, who pulled a knife and tried to kill me. I distantly hear the crash as the girl hits the table, though it takes me another few seconds to realize it was because I shoved her. She pulls herself up into a sitting position with a groan, her shirt and hair splattered with droplets and a red mark already showing on her left arm. Her eyes go wide as she sees me standing over her, then narrow in anger or pain I'm not sure. I stop looking. Close my eyes, swaying slightly until I find the chair and lean on it. Take deep breaths, hearing the blood pounding against my closed eyes until the survival instinct build from five years of training and my visit to the arena force them back open again.

Thankfully she hasn't made any sort of move to attack me; just rolled over to face the floor again, her arm tucked tight against her ribs. Moisture glistens on her face, tears or the drink I'm not sure. Suddenly I feel sick to the stomach. Could be the drinks and the wild dancing mixing badly with the adrenaline. Could just be shame at what I did. I run for the door and make it five steps before I fall. Acanthus picks me up and leads me outside where he helps me balance against a snow-dusted statue and hurl my guts up.

He sends someone for my jacket when I start shivering violently and has Pelagius from the prep team help support me to a waiting car. I black out before we reach the train and come to in my bed, feeling a gentle hand rubbing circles on my back. Mags, looking old and very tired helps me sit up and take a drink, then holds the bucket for me as I upchuck the last shreds of the meal that were hiding in my stomach. She smooths down my hair like my mom used to when I was little, like Greta did the few times I was sick since moving into her family.

"Sleep Finnick," she orders softly, and I do.