(a/n): Hello, everyone! I apologize for the long absence, I got COVID a few months ago and I already have a huge array of lung issues, so I was hospitalized and had to deal with a bunch of medical issues and shit, and it's been rough, but I am finally on the up-and-up, and I am back with a new chapter, one I am very, very nervous about. *LOUD NERVOUS LAUGHTER*

This chapter contains triggering themes such as sexual assault, and I have that particular section labeled, so when you reach it you will know. I caution anyone who is triggered by this to tread with caution. As an SA survivor myself, I want to ensure everyone is safe and comfortable.

Enjoy, loves!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

welcome to the rebellion

Finnick. Nine years ago.

I'm not sure what to expect when my dad comes to see me off. For a while, I just sit in this room in the mayor's house, staring at an old grandfather clock across from me, watching those little hands tick by after each second. I can hear the rumble of voices in the corridor, a mingle of Peacekeepers and Victors and the mayor's staff. I don't have it in me to pace the length of the room, or delude myself into thinking of a way to escape...that'd be stupid. The windows are locked and even if I could somehow get through, where would I go? There's only one way out, and it's through that currently locked door and onto the train that'll take me to the Capitol. To the Hunger Games. It's hardly what I expected for myself, but here I am.

I am fourteen years old. I live in the Hatchery, in District 4. I'm all my dad has in the world. And in a few weeks I might be dead.

There's a lot of things to take into consideration as I wait for my father to come see me off, as I stare at the clock as it taunts me with time I don't have anymore. I'm a kid, despite the fact I'm taller and stronger than most kids my age - and growing up in the Hatch has helped that. I live in one of the poorest sectors in District 4. I wake up with the dawn every morning to fish. I've seen the tide at its best and at its worst. I know how to handle a trident, thanks to my dad. I can fish. I can hold my breath for an extended period of time, thanks to my dad teaching me how to hunt in corals. I'm pretty fast and strong, too. I'm able-bodied. That's all fine and good and technical, but it doesn't change the fact I am scared shitless.

Because the thing I keep coming back to is how my dad will be alone when I go to the Games, and if I don't come back. My mom's been dead a long time now and my grandparents aren't alive. My dad didn't have any other living family members...he was an only child, and he didn't exactly keep in contact with my distant relatives. He liked isolation. It's how he thrived. He doesn't even really have friends, per say. Now, he is technically the unofficial leader of the Hatchery. He's the head fishermen there and is often the person the people go to for aid and questions and to be their advocate. He didn't ask for it. He was born into it, because his father was also the unofficial leader. And that title and position would've come to me, when my dad died and I inherited our house on the shore. Would've.

I exhale shakily.

None of that matters now. My backwater inheritance, the duties and responsibilities I've carried since I was born...but what does this mean for my dad? Without me, how will he get through the harvest season? How will he catch enough fish to bring to the market? I close my eyes, imagining him leaving our house earlier than normal, going to the beach in long strides, carrying his trident and net. I imagine him down at that beach, all alone. Would he be lonely? My dad's hard to read. Sure, he likes solitude. But I want to believe he likes having me there. Hell, I know he needs me there.

A fishermen needs an apprentice. So, will he take on another one?

That thought fills me with an unexpected wave of bitterness and jealousy, which I try to swallow down through clenched teeth.

But before I have time to process it, to properly collect these wild emotions, there's noises outside, and the door opens. Neleus steps through, calmly. There is no swarm of emotions or embraces. My father isn't a coddling man. He just stands there, staring at me with an expression I wish I could read, and with eyes that are devoid of, well, anything. A part of me wishes he would just lower himself a little so I could see what he's thinking, and understand if I'm going to be missed or not. The door shutting behind him is so loud against the silence, I wince.

I swallow. I guess this leaves it up to me. "Dad, will you be okay if I die?"

I decide it's better to just cut to the chase. We aren't going to have a sentimental goodbye. He's not going to cry and hold me and beg me to come back alive, that's never been his way. Even when I used to take our boat out to sea for days on end, returning with nets full of fish and a few bite marks on the boat from brave sharks, he hadn't flinched. In the short amount of time we have, I need to iron out the details of my absence. Permanent or otherwise.

Neleus looks back at me with consideration, then nods. "I will survive."

That's a given. My dad is a remarkable fishermen and has a good reputation in the District. Although he's an odd loner, he's respected. He keeps things in order in the Hatchery, keeps the peace with the mayor. And he doesn't cause trouble with the Peacekeepers. Yeah, I have no doubt he'll survive.

I can't say the same for myself. "Okay," I say. "I...dad, I'm scared." He doesn't reply, which I expect, but I do see his jaw tighten a little. I take a step closer. "You're going to have to take another apprentice on. I know you, you don't fish alone, and it's not practical, not with the work you do, so..."

"Did you have someone in mind?"

"Could you keep her company?"

At that, my father's face twitches a little. He looks surprised, but also mildly displeased. "The Rhythe girl?"

"Yeah..."

It doesn't please me to say it. No part of me would be pleased with anyone taking my place at my father's side, whether or not I live or die, but among the candidates who rush through my head, there's only one person I can think of. Ceres Rhythe. It's less than ideal. My dad isn't exactly keen on being around her in all of her self-righteous and arrogant glory. She annoys me for it, too, but I enjoy her company, all the same. I love to annoy her and she loves to upstage me. It's always been our pattern through the years. But, more so than that, I know I'm her friend. She may not admit it to herself, but I am. Arguably, her only friend.

The girls she hangs around with have kept close for safety reasons. All their lives, Ceres has boasted about Volunteering for the Hunger Games. So, if either of them were ever Reaped, there was an absolute certainty Ceres would leap up to Volunteer for them. What a wonderful way to be a hero and make an impression in the Capitol, especially if she won. Like moths drawn to the warmth of a flame, they flew to her. I don't think either of them ever expected to be burned by her, though.

All throughout the year, Ceres talked about nothing more than Volunteering this year. She's fourteen years old, wide-eyed, and convinced she's better than everyone - including me, especially me. But Ivoree Greenscape had called my name first. As I walked onto that stage, I had to wonder if she was going to Volunteer, anyway. I wondered if our petty childhood game would run so thick that she would honestly be satisfied with killing me to gain her success. When Mara's name had been called, it had felt like the perfect opportunity for her. Kill two birds with one stone, but she didn't. Through the crowd, I watched her freeze, staring back at me with wide eyes and her body trembling. So, it was Harpee who Volunteered...and she was going with me to the Capitol.

I can't imagine what's going through Ceres' head right now. I'm not even entirely sure what's going through mine. I guess a part of me is pleased she doesn't hate me enough to want to actively kill me...but, also, sickeningly, a part of me is amused - in some way to rationalize a horrible situation - that I'm going to the Games before her. Maybe I'll even win.

"She doesn't have a lot of friends. Real friends, I mean. I'm the only one who tells her like it is," I continue. "If I die, you'll be lonely and so will she." When Neleus opens his mouth, with an expression that clearly indicates he's about to decline my request, I quickly throw in. "For me. It's the last thing I'm asking of you, dad."

His mouth closes. He stands there silently for a moment, then exhales. "I'll keep an eye on her, as best as I can."

"Make her your apprentice. Say you will."

Neleus looks less than pleased by my request.

"If I die in that Arena, I'll die easier knowing you're looking after her, and she's looking after you," I say.

"I see." Neleus nods. "For your sake, Finnick, I'll take the girl on." My father takes a step closer to me, reaching into his dark blue jacket to pull something out. A clenched hand is extended to me, then his fingers unfurl to reveal a fine pink pearl residing in his palm. My mom's pearl. "You're allowed a Token."

All at once, I shake my head. "I can't take this. It was mom's," I say. "If I lost it, I -"

"Take it, Finnick."

I stare at the pearl for a long moment. I still remember how my dad went to my mom's bedside, how he handed it to her...the gentleness in their exchange. A pearl like that could've been worth something substantial in one of the shops, could've gone to the Capitol to be strung around the neck of some rich woman. But, instead, my father gave it to my mother. He called it, her, precious. I had wondered why he could give it to her instead of feeding us with it, but I understand later in life. The sentiment was lost on me then, but I've learned to understand it. And I understand it all the more now.

My father isn't a verbally or physically affectionate man. I don't think I've ever even heard him say he loves me before. But as he stands in front of me, handing me my dead mother's pearl, I feel it now. I may not see it in his face, hear it in his tone, but the object held between us speaks volumes.

I reach out to take it, holding it tenderly in my palm, before tucking it into the pocket of my pants.

"I'll keep it safe," I say. "Dad, I -"

The door opens again. A sense of dread fills me, wondering if my time is up, if the Peacekeepers have come to fetch me - because, truth be told, I don't exactly have an onslaught of people who would come to visit me. But when I look up, I see Ceres Rhythe standing there, looking a little more composed than she did earlier, but no less frazzled.

Typical of Ceres to interrupt my goodbye with my dad.

"Your time is up," the Peacekeeper says to my dad. "Move along."

Neleus looks at the man in white armor, his face shielded by his glossy helmet, and he turns slowly. He leans down to me, his voice in my ear. "It takes ten times as long to put yourself together as it does to fall apart," my father whispers to me.

He pulls back, leaving the room in long strides. He doesn't even look back at Ceres, nor me.

Now left alone with, truth be told, my best friend, I'm unsure what to feel. "Truthfully, I didn't expect you to be here," I admit. "I didn't even think you wouldn't Volunteer."

Her shoulders twitch. "I know."

I stare back at her, expectantly, but she's looking back at me with nothing. Her lips are tightly pressed together and her deep blue eyes are looking across my face, as if memorizing my every feature before I die...imprinting me to memory. "Just say something. You've been bragging about Volunteering for years, and yet all of a sudden you decide you're above that? What changed?"

Her eyes narrow. "What changed is that you were Reaped."

The reply catches me a little off guard, but it is also one I had expected. There are a number of reasons why she didn't Volunteer for Mara, despite the fact I had been Reaped. Maybe she felt she had been upstaged by me, yet again, or she had been too in shock. Alternatively, she could very well care about me. Our friendship might mean more to her than I've realized, though the thought makes me sad. That type of revelation, right before I die, isn't pleasant, not in the way I'd hoped it would be.

So, I draw a little closer. "I get it," I say, lowly. "I jinxed myself last year, didn't it? By saying I'd be Reaped."

"You did."

I smile, amused by her bluntness, even in spite of my circumstances.

"I figured someone would Volunteer in your place," she adds.

"But they didn't, so your perfect plan about going into the Games and having me watch you 'show your strength' failed, huh?"

She doesn't reply. Those deep blue eyes of hers are burning holes into my own, her whole face darkening a little with a subdued anger - she's annoyed, more than annoyed. I can't tell if it's due to my usurping her position or if she's annoyed I may die on her. Either way, I decide to provoke her. My dad is unreadable, but Ceres is an open book - at least to me.

I step forward, so we're almost nose to nose. "For the record, this wasn't part of my grand plan. Unlike you, being a Victor and being praised and high and mighty wasn't in the cards. But you know what...I'm going to win. I'm going to be District 4's Victor before you get the chance to. You want to know why?"

She inhales and exhales sharply. "Because you hate me," she spits.

Typical. I scoff. "No, Rhythe, because you're making it too easy. I'm glad you didn't Volunteer, because I would've hated having to kill you. Despite what you may think, I like you, and you are a friend of some mutual kind. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let myself die in there just so you can get the title credit next year or the year after that, or whenever you're Reaped or decide to sell yourself out."

She's rendered a little speechless by my words, which gives me a whole measure of satisfaction...she's usually so quick with a comeback. I guess, if I do die in an Arena, our last encounter will have been eventful. In any case, I don't regret telling her I like her, because I do. Although we go at each others' throats and would undoubtedly kill each other if given the chance, I do enjoy her company. I enjoy her friendship. I think she's smart and skilled and all the things a proper fishermen should be. Her father trained her well, when he didn't have to. The girl was born with a silver spoon up in Victor's Village. She never needed to work for anything in her life, yet Rheon pushed her, all the same. So much so I had to save her and her stolen boat when we were kids.

There is also the fact she's pretty. Her dark brown hair framing her bronze face, with a small splattering of sun-kissed freckles across her nose and cheeks, with those large doe eyes of hers that stare straight into me. Sure, I've thought about her in that way a couple of times before, but it's never lived in my head; just fleeting, passing thoughts I snort at. Nevertheless, that same voice pipes back up in my head, noting the closeness of our faces, and how I could die. This is my last moment with her, after all.

I glance at her lips.

"So you'll let Harpee die?"

I look back to her eyes, shrugging. "I can ally with her," I say, the trance broken, "and try to protect her, but I can't promise I can get her out alive. You know that."

"Then at least make sure you do," she says. "I want you alive when I eventually win, when I prove myself to be better than you were in the Arena."

I can't help but to groan. God, of course she would seize this opportunity...I'm so personally mortified by it, I don't even stop to consider that she suggested I win over her own friend. "Maybe I do hate you, after all," I say.

The door opens. "Times up."

I notice how Ceres' face tightens, a nervous gleam in her eyes in spite of her previous pomp. "Just live long enough so I can win," she says, as she turns to go out the door.

"When I win," I call back, "then I am going to be your new best friend. Okay?"

The door closes behind her before she can even look back at me, before I can see her eyes again. I stare at the place where she had been standing, biting my tongue. Eventually I turn to face away from it, looking back at the clock in the corner, staring back at me. My time is almost up, I think. Maybe I should've just kissed her.

Now all I have left to do is to wait.

Ceres. Present.

When I open my eyes, I'm home.

When I say home, I don't mean my apartments back at the Tribute Center, but rather home in District 4. It's not my house, but rather my parents. I'm standing in the center of our living room, as the afternoon sun sheds its golden light through the open curtains...the space is a little messy, with some pillows strewn on the floor and the sound of my mom cooking in the kitchen filling the air. I glance around, trying to catch sight of her, of anyone. But I feel a little unsteady. My feet are planted to the ground, but I feel weird, like I'm standing underwater. My movements are unnaturally slow. When I move myself, it's like I'm pushing against something. The same could be said about my vision. Sure, I'm aware of how the room looks and everything going on around me, but there's a strange blur to the outline of everything, like how things look underwater. My eyes aren't burning, though, and I can breathe normally.

Am I drunk? My brow knits together. No, no, I'm not drunk. I don't feel sick or woozy or dizzy. Everything seems mostly in order...but why am I here? Why am I not in the Capitol? The longer I look across my surroundings, the more I become aware to how real everything is, even though it's not...here. I'm in the Capitol, I think. Or am I? Had that all been a dream? Am I just back home? I reach out to touch a lamp resting on one of the side tables by the couch. My fingers touch its coarse surface, feeling it, and tracing its outline. It feels real. I try pushing my hand through, but it doesn't do anything. It doesn't go through like a ghost, nor does it push the lamp away. It's like pushing against a solid mass.

This might be a dream. I focus on the light bleeding through the lamp, squinting despite the burn it provides to my vision. I might be back in my apartment right now, passed out on the couch or on my bed. But where had I been before? I remember being with Galeria, yet everything goes blank after that...I know my Tributes are dead. Could it be that I drank myself into a stupor? Am I just in a drunken dream, passed out on the floor? The thought makes me frown. Had I resorted to Haymitch's coping mechanisms? Why can't I remember it? I keep going back, tracing my steps through being with my Stylist, to being in the elevator, but everything gets so blurry and disjointed after that, making my head spin -

"You couldn't wait for the damn room?"

The voice startles me, causing me to spin around. I look across the room, searching for anyone who could have owned that unfamiliar voice...a man's voice, sounding exasperated. There is something off about his voice, as well. He has an accent, one that wouldn't belong in my home. As I bring my eyes around, I find myself staring at a holographic screen projected in front of the wall, and a little girl sitting there, watching it. She has her hands placed behind her, supporting her as her legs are stretched out. Her dark brown hair hangs loosely down her back. Her large eyes are watching the screen, intently. Although she, too, is a blur, I recognize her instantly.

She's me, but younger. She looks no more than eight.

And when I look up, I can see's watching Rheon's Games. Together, we watch as my father is wrestled to the ground by one of his competitors, the boy from District 8. They struggle, swinging fists against each other, until my father manages to grab a rock and slams it against the other's head. He knocks him down. The boy sputters blood and clutches at his half-caved in eye. This was before my father lost his, so both of his solid black eyes are staring back at him, still clutching the bloodied rock. He brings it down against the Tribute's head, again and again. The carnage is visible, every thrust breaking a surface of the boy's face. His mouth remains perfectly intact, open in a perfect, silent scream.

But then his lips move, in a way I know they shouldn't. "How could I?" he grunts.

The rock finally collides with his mouth, severing the skin there, and splitting the jaw in two. It is then that my father, breathing heavily, finally rises to his feet. He's covered in blood and looks exhausted. He throws the rock aside, staring down at the bloodied boy he had killed - just a year or two younger than himself. He stands there for quite a while, actually, before picking the corpse clean of any resources. He leaves the boy's Token, a pretty ring, in his pocket. Rheon leaves him there, now armed with new weapons and a backpack with a couple of food supplies.

I look down at the little girl, noting how in awe her face is. She looks inspired.

I feel sick. Something is twisting deep inside of me, a nausea I can't describe. This little girl is watching a younger version of her father, his face swollen and red from the loss of his eye, murder someone - all in the name of Panem, all for that alleged glory she had coveted once. The very same glory I coveted. We are the same, her and I, and it fills me with a new sense of self-loathing as I see myself firsthand, as blurry and strange in appearance as she may be.

She looks up at me, smiling. "Well, finish up. We want a taste," she says, in a deep man's voice.

Before I can reply, my father walks through the archway dividing the parlor from the kitchen. He's holding a guitar in his hand. He jerks his head, and both I and the little girl understand. I spare a glance to the holographic screen, which has now gone completely black, as the girl gets to her feet and walks with my father outside. I stand in the parlor for a while, until the vision becomes so blurry and so unsteady I start to lose my balance. I practically crawl after them, thankful when the vision becomes clearer. I follow the sounds of my father playing the guitar, to the strumming...all the while, the world around me jolts back and forth, causing me to lean against the rail of the porch for support.

I lean against it, holding myself in place for a moment as my dad strums some tunes on his guitar, as my little girl self rocks beside him on the porch swing. She's staring out across the water, looking a little unimpressed. My dad is focused on his music. I'm just trying to keep from falling over. My eyes squeeze shut as a wave of pain takes over, a stabbing sensation...but I'm not being stabbed. I'm not bleeding. It feels as though it's coming from my head, yet that doesn't feel right either. It's a blinding sensation.

I double over against the rail, nails digging into the wood. It gives no reprieve.

"So tight..."

I blink, turning to look back at my dad and my little self. That voice didn't belong to either of them. My eyes move forward. Everything looks like a painting...hazy, strange. The water isn't moving normally. It's both too fast and too slow against the shore, and our house is placed too high on a huge cliff overlooking the sea. Victor's Village should be on a tall hill. My eyes rove across the landscape, finding there are no other houses around us. We're someplace high up, so high that the rest of the world has shrunken.

But the waves are rising higher. My dad is playing something fast and deep, his fingers moving rapidly against the strings.

Biting my tongue to keep from throwing up, now feeling a sense of...seasickness? My little girl self is still staring across the water, but this time she's different. Her left arm is missing. She's wearing a blue dress, swinging her legs, and there's a bloody stub where her left arm used to be. The skin around the area is torn like old dishrags, swinging with her movements. I can see the outline of her bone, the pulsing muscle and spewing veins where flesh and bone and muscle used to be attached, keeping it all together. Blood spurts out of her, but she doesn't even react. I don't think she's even blinked.

Where the hell am I? What is this?

When I look at my dad, his eye is gushing with blood, looking freshly gouged out; an empty red hole. He, too, is unfazed.

"Just like that," he says.

"You almost done?" asks my younger self.

Shut up, I want to say, but it's like my mouth is sewn together. I can't say anything. I can't do anything.

But what I can manage to do is look back to the water. The wave is suddenly well higher than the cliff where our house resides, it towers over even the sun. There is a split moment where everything is black, the sound of water high above us. But neither my younger self nor my dad have reacted, simply sitting on that porch swing, unaware to their missing parts. I try to turn to run towards the house, for what good that would do, but it's like my feet have weights in them. My arm, trying to flail forward to propel myself, feels like it's hitting wet sand and digging for nothing. I can't push myself forward, not even when the wave crashed down on my house, smashing me and everything else straight down. My house is flattened and my younger self and father have disappeared.

I am spun in a whirlpool, my body hitting random surfaces, receiving ample bruises and strikes and random tugs and pulls and thrusts I don't fully register. I feel like a ragdoll...it isn't until I feel my right arm grabbed my the jaws of something very strong, that my body forcibly jolts and fights back, even in my slow motion haze. I flail my body against it, but it brings me upwards, out of the water, and to the surface. Once sunlight hits my face, it's gone.

Finnick.

"Ah, Finnick! Marvelous to see you - just in time, too! I assume you just got the page - you've got quite a client today, my dear, quite a client!"

I'm not in the mood to deal with Ivoree's chirpy, high-pitched voice, nor hear about any client...I've just gotten back from the gym, having spent the last few hours working off the steam I've built up. For the hours spent previously to that, I had been wooing and engaging with older women who could be my grandmothers, all the while thinking about Thrax Mellona's icy smile and how his fingers and dug covetously into my shoulder, when I had been with Amabilia. I need to take a steaming hot shower, get the sweat off of me, but, most importantly, try to scrub away the memories of their touches...they never go away, though. Not entirely. They linger like parasites under the skin. It's with this bitter thought in mind that I cast Ivoree a chilling look.

My District's escort simply casts me a scolding look back, though I can tell, behind his purple contacted eyes, he has some semblance of sympathy. He's trying to keep the spirits high, but what's the point?

"No, my pager didn't go off," I say, reaching to touch the little box attached to my hip. It had been quiet throughout the hours, much to my relief - allowing me some time to myself, to unwind to the best of my ability. Sometimes Snow has pity on me. Often, I've wondered if there's a heartbeat monitor on this thing that keeps track of when I'm about to hit my breaking point...when Snow knows to give me some time for myself, so I don't snap on some random Capitolian. Their neck snapping with me.

The apartment is oddly quiet, which isn't really surprising. Our Tributes are dead and we can't watch the Games from here anymore, having to resort to either going out in public or retreating to one of our fellow Mentors' apartments to do so. Alternatively, everyone could be holed up in their rooms, grieving or trying to hide from the scrutinizing eyes of the paparazzi lurking outside. When a Tribute dies, the Capitol is also hungry for the reaction of their Mentors. They look for some semblance of shame to mock, or some grief to pretend to sympathize with. We try to give them nothing, at least some do. Others are more apt to react to the cameras, in an effort to protect their surviving Tribute or one of their allies.

"Where is everyone?" I ask.

"Oh, everyone is out except for Tilda," Ivoree answers. "Now, Finnick, your client -"

"What about Ceres?" I ask. "Is she with anyone?"

Ivoree huffs with a little exasperation, and opens his tablet. He brushes his finger along the surface. "I believe she was paged to attend a party," he says. His perfectly manicured fingers move rapidly, mumbling something, and then looks back up. "Ah, yes, indeed. She's attending an oceanic themed party within the inner city. A very high ranked party. Those usually go for quite some time." He raises his neon purple eyes to me, now smiling. "Is something the matter?"

I shake my head. "No, it's fine," I say. She's not with Seneca. A small part of me feels relief in that regard. At the very least, at an event like that, with Leto with her, she won't be touched - used, like I am. She'll just be there to be the prized trophy of the evening, the key direction to the whole affair. I do, however, have to wonder why I wasn't invited...normally, I'm the primary person to turn to for those types of events. Maybe they couldn't afford me. Or maybe it's the one-arm...my thoughts trail away, cringing. I cut them off. "My pager hasn't gone off."

"Well, that is certainly odd." Ivoree huffs again. "I'll have to have it replaced. It must be from overuse." He shakes his head, tutting. "My dear Finnick, Plutarch Heavensbee has requested and paid for your time, if you can believe it. Seneca Crane's second in command. Imagine it."

"Oh, joy."

"Finnick."

Ah, a warning tone. I visibly roll my eyes. "Forgive me if I withhold my enthusiasm," I deadpan.

"Fortunately, it isn't just you."

"Let me guess, Cashmere?"

"It's me."

Ivoree and I both turn, watching as Tilda has stepped into the foyer, wearing a long sea-green dress with long sleeves that compliments her bright red hair, done up into a braid-like bun. She's wearing an overabundance of makeup that highlights her already sharp, narrowed features. Her dress reaches the floor, but there's a long slit down the left side that reaches her upper high. She looks formal, yet very annoyed. This attire is not uncommon for her person. Tilda, in spite of being an older Victor, is often coveted for her beauty and prowess, and yet it is requested she dress less sensually and more formally.

To my understanding, most of her clients are those who have unfortunate relationships with their maternal figures...and seek it through other means. Each Victor stands to accommodate multiple tastes, depending on their person. I'm fortunate, I guess, that I can accommodate dozens of them.

"Plutarch asked for us both," she says, in an oddly flat voice.

I swallow, dread filling me instantly. Tilda is like a sister to me, the older sister I never got to have. She was my Mentor when I was fourteen, who kept me alive and safe during my time in the Arena, who prepared me for all of its horrors - before and after. I've been fortunate...there's never been a request for me to be intimate with Tilda before. We've both been placed in precarious situations in the past, but it's never involved one another being in each others' bed. I think it has to do with how Tilda has become an acquired taste thanks to her age, while I am still the Capitol darling, desirable in every way. Coveted. How typical it is that a Gamemaker would be the one to break the mold on that one. How fitting that it was none other than Seneca's second.

"I see," I say, gravelly. "Let me guess. Oneiroi."

"You'd be correct," Tilda says. "Go shower and change, Finn. We need to be there in an hour. Heavensbee isn't a patient man."

If he's anything like Seneca Crane, I can imagine.

The Oneiroi is a familiar place, though I've never frequented it with Tilda before...and I feel every sense of bitterness, contempt, and dread settle deep inside of me as we walk through these halls together. The silence is deafening. In spite of the copious amount of debauchery transpiring within every door we pass, we hear none of it. The rooms are all effectively silenced to ensure utmost security. Most of the people who come here could potentially face damning consequences if their appetites, interests, and affairs became public knowledge, hence the utmost care in security, and why I often find myself here.

Typically my clients who bring me here include closeted men seeking out affairs, older women bored of their husbands, yet uninterested in a scandal, some voyeuristic types interested in watching only me, or sometimes with other Victors. The Oneiroi, to put simply, defies every sense of moral code and ethics. Its staff are no doubt buried deep in the pockets of President Snow. They hold secrets tightly between their teeth, where their forked tongues can't pierce through. That being said, there are cameras positioned everywhere, to carefully monitor the safety of its occupants, but mostly for blackmail...I had managed to work a secret out from one of my clients once, who had once worked here. The cameras are not present directly for the safety of the clientele and those they partake in, but more so for President Snow - so he might observe, to learn, and to blackmail.

I can only imagine how much footage exists of me in this place. I can't say Snow has ever shown it to me before, but I'm sure it exists, and he would be more than delighted to share with me in the event I somehow stirred his anger. He had, after all, been more than apt to show me footage of when I slept with Ceres for the first time, the night before she went into the Arena. I try not to think about who else exists within those archives, and how many of them exist within this building now.

We're led by an Avox to the room where we'll be entertaining Plutarch Heavensbee. I spare a look at Tilda, wondering what was going through her head, but her face is entirely unreadable. Her jaw is tightly clenched and her green eyes are fixated forward. When the door opens, she pushes through, and I follow after.

The room is much the same as the others, with a large bed wide enough to fit over ten people, resting on a marble platform, with various velvet seats and plush pillows and flowers adorned all across the space. There are candles and dim lighting. The room exudes sensuality by nature, but the air within it is anything but. I can't quite place it. But when the door shuts behind us, and we're face with Plutarch Heavensbee, I don't see a man ready to debauch us, with lust in his eyes - I see a man with a strange focus. He's holding a glass of what I presume to be whiskey, based on the decanter set in front of him. He has a half-smile.

Tilda strides ahead of me, straight to the decanter in question, and pours herself a glass. She doesn't even say anything to Plutarch, leading me to wonder just how familiar they are with each other, if this is just their normal. And I find myself unnerved with just how quickly Tilda has lunged towards the alcohol. I've never imagined Plutarch to be a vulgar man of vulgar tastes, but I can often be surprised by my clients.

I straighten, offering my most seductive smirk, and I go to open my mouth -

"No need for the flirtations, Mr. Odair. They're not needed here."

My mouth closes, a small look of surprise settling in my face, but it quickly reverts back to its usually look - sultry. Maybe this is all a game. I move across the room and go to sit beside him, crossing one leg over the other and leaning close to him, only for him to lift a hand to stop me.

"I said, it's not needed. Have a drink," Plutarch says.

Tilda downs hers in one gulp and pours herself another. "Are you sure this room is secure?" she asks.

"I saw to it," Plutarch says. "I have an insider, you know."

"And you won't tell me who?"

"For their security, not yet," Plutarch says, and looks at me. "I imagine you have questions."

That's an understatement. I look between Plutarch and Tilda, the sensual smirk on my face now gone and replaced with confusion, and slowly recoil away from him, until I am at the edge of the couch. "What's going on here?" I ask, cautiously.

Tilda looks at Plutarch with a hardened expression, her eyes stern. Plutarch regards her back with a raised brow, the pair seeming to be speaking through their eyes, through little arches, little nods, and finally Plutarch looks back at me. His strange eyes examine me closely, but not to the measure I'm used to. It's not like I'm a slab of meat, with my patrons deciding how I should be devoured. I'm something else...and I can't place what, nor can I decide if Plutarch's gaze is searching or predator. Whatever the case may be, I stiffen beneath it.

He seems to sense my discomfort, because he moves his eyes away for a moment. A smile quirks at the corner of his mouth, amused by me. Bastard.

"I'm here to offer you freedom, Finnick," Plutarch replies, with ease. He speaks so casually, so disarmingly, that it's almost as though this situation isn't wrong. That I'm not in a room with my fellow Mentor and a Gamemaker, under false pretenses, it seems...to discuss freedom? Plutarch doesn't give me the chance to ask anything else, because he carries on. "You accept payment in secrets, so here's mine. We're overthrowing Snow."

I blink. There's a short pause where Tilda and Plutarch are both staring at me, waiting expectantly. I give no immediate reaction, simply processing what was said to me, and then I laugh. For the better part of a minute, I just laugh, and soon it almost sounds hysterical - the sharpness in Tilda's face dissolving to concern. "That's cute," I say. "Is that a Gamemaker joke?"

Plutarch doesn't reply.

Tilda pours herself another drink.

The silence hanging over us is louder than any cannon from the Arena. I look back and forth between them, waiting for something - anything - but I'm just met by frigid quiet. "You're...serious," I say, reluctantly. "You're serious."

"Unfortunately," Plutarch replies.

I push myself to my feet, now standing above the Gamemaker, and trying to catch the eye of Tilda, but her gaze won't find mine. "How the hell do you think we can even trust you? You're a Gamemaker," I begin, spurred suddenly by the urge to storm from this room - go back to our apartments, choose to forget this encounter...the treason hanging over our heads, the impossibility of these circumstances. I look up at the corners of the rooms, towards the cameras I know are masterfully disguised and watching us.

"I already told you, Mr. Odair. The cameras are out. No one can see or hear us. The men positioned in their rooms, assigned to watch us, only see what I want them to," Plutarch says, evenly. "As far as trusting me goes, you can't. None of us can trust each other, but we have a mutual enemy. Snow. You want to protect the people you love, as everyone else does - but that's an impossible task when we live under these conditions. How many people have you lost? How many people has Tilda lost? Every Victor you know, Snow has taken something from them. Your father. Tilda's family. Rheon's son. Ceres' arm." He stops, seeming to notice how my eyes shadow when he brings Ceres up. "We want to protect the people we have left."

Tilda inhales, speaking before I have the chance to. "It's not just me, Finnick. It's all of us," she says, watching my face fall with a grave look. "Including your sweetheart."

My eyes flash.

"She hasn't told you," Tilda says. "She was probably trying to protect you, for the same reason Rheon didn't want her involved, initially. But there's no reason to keep secrets between us anymore."

Rheon's involved, then. I look back at Tilda, an unspoken query in my eyes...what about Ren? Her eyes finally catch mine and she nods once. So they are all involved, then, every single member of District 4 - except for myself, until now, apparently. I look back at Plutarch, darkly. "What do you want from us?"

"Just to fight for something that matters, overthrow the man responsible for every horror you've ever seen," Plutarch says. "And I'd like your secrets."

There it is. Capitolians are all the same. They claim one thing, but desire another. "My secrets? And is that the cost I pay for this freedom you're offering?"

"There's no price, Finnick. Freedom is yours. But anything damning we can use to bring down this empire will be useful."

"That's no small request," I say. "Why bring this up now? How long has this been going for?"

Tilda looks at Plutarch.

He shrugs. "A while," he relents. "I'd like to answer your questions, Mr. Odair, but I don't trust you, either - that's something we can mutually agree on. So, how about we earn each others' trust and answers?" He offers an amused smile, then, one I'd love to swipe off of his face. "We need people like you. You have knowledge we can utilize to tear down the Capitol from the inside, breaking down the pillars that will break the whole of the foundation. And, when the time is right, we can get you and everyone you know and love out of here...it won't be easy, it won't be quick. But you will have a chance at a normal life. Whatever that means to you."

Something rumbles deep in my chest, bursting from me as a barking laugh before I can stop it. It's almost a hysterical sound. Unhinged. Crazy. Tilda casts me a concerned look but is smart enough not to approach. Plutarch doesn't break his gaze from me. I half-expect him to look disgusted or condescending, but his expression remains neutral. And I just stand there, laughing until my sides hurt, and I'm wiping tears from my eyes.

With my composure gained, I find myself scoffing. "You're offering a lot here, Plutarch," I sneer. "And you expect me to just, what, believe you? That you can get us out of here? We could be dead just by being in this room."

"I don't dispute that," Plutarch says. "And I understand your apprehension. You've probably been offered sweet nothings before...but this is real. This offer is real. My promise is real."

Tilda sets her glass down loudly, forcing my attention from Plutarch to her. "He's not lying, Finnick. If we do this, if we can break the Capitol, we can get out. No more clients. No more Games." She looks at Plutarch. He nods. "Seneca Crane's head will be on a spike and Ceres would be free."

My eyes snap back to Plutarch.

He opens his hands, casually. "I don't like Seneca Crane anymore than you do, Mr. Odair," he says, "I can't say I'd weep for him. But I do need him displaced for my ascension...and from there, I can break the system."

"You'd be Head Gamemaker?"

"I would. I'd subplant Seneca's own children," he says, "as well as take his place as Ms. Rhythe's exclusive patron. I could ensure she'd remain unharmed and safe, and Seneca would be out of the way. That is an assurance I can promise you right here, right now. By the end of these Games, I can have Seneca's position. And who knows, by this time next year, we could find ourselves under better circumstances."

A shaky breath parts from me.

Tilda is staring intently at me, holding her own breath.

"You'd keep her safe?" I ask, stiffly. "For what, me? So you could have me in your ranks?"

"As a show of good faith. I'm trying to do what I can for you Victors, wiith what little power I have at the moment," Plutarch says. "It's small. But it'll grow." Something buzzes in his coat, and he reaches into his front coat pocket to retrieve a small tablet. He opens it, staring for a moment, and the whole of his body goes stiff. He looks back up, face masterfully composed. "Unfortunately, our time is running low. I need your answer now."

My heart hammers. I look at Tilda. She's nodding.

"Ceres stays safe," I say.

"Ceres stays safe," Plutarch repeats. "And you give me your secrets."

My jaw clenches. "I give you my secrets."

"Glad we understand each other," Plutarch says. He brings himself to his feet and approaches me, offering his hand. "Welcome to the rebellion, Mr. Odair."

Ceres.

I'm acutely aware of a strange sensation rippling through my body, as I lay floating in the vast open ocean - no land around me, just the sun glaring down upon me, and myself floating away. The cliff is buried under the water, along with my home and family. There's a push and a pulling sensation that courses through me, rocking me back and forth against the water. I stare up at the beating sun until my eyes burn, yet I can't bring myself to blink.

Seagulls hover above me, circling me.

"It's my turn," one of them caws.

The voice sounds like an echo from a far off place, long out of reach, barely even an outline off of the horizon. I manage to turn my head to the side, looking out across the flat surface of the water; still nothing, no one. Just my imagination.

My movements feel sluggish and involuntary, the ocean is carrying each part of me. My arms - arms...arms, why do I have both arms? - sway with it,

How long have I been floating like this? It feels like it's been hours, yet the sun hasn't moved from its place in the sky...how odd. The water feels too thick, too. I try to submerge myself into it but it is as if I am frozen, just aimlessly floating on its surface. I think I read a book once about a mythical sea so salty that it was impossible to dive into it. Is that where I am? Am I in a book right now? The thought makes my brow knit together, my gaze fixating from the golden sun to the impossibly blue sky. The voices still echo across my ocean, but they're too far away. I don't recognize them. From the mainland, or passing fishermen.

But this doesn't feel like home. I don't feel safe. I just feel strangely out of touch with myself. Laying upon my back, I am disconnected from everything else around me. I should feel terrified, but there's something seemingly keeping me down; muting all of my senses. Fatigue? Exhaustion? Am I dreaming? It feels like I am, but the push and pull of the ocean doesn't feel like in my dreams. My body feels heavier, rocking almost in slow motion against the undertow.

I draw in a deep breath, expecting to smell the familiar salted air of the sea, but I am met with...something thicker, like liquor, specifically a whiskey; honeyed and dark. I inhale deeper, finding that the smell is close to me, stinging my senses. It makes me blink rapidly and fidget uncomfortably, causing the push and pull of the water to intensify; my body's movements, though still slow, moves with it. A dull ache manifests itself within me.

I inhale again. This time the sun seems to jostle a little in the sky, quivering in place. The smell of whiskey is accompanied by a rich and disgusting aroma I can't quite place, but it smells like expensive and foul cologne. I make my body move this time, forcing my hands upward, reaching for the shaking sun as if to catch it when it falls. I know it will, despite how absurd the notion is.

The dull ache intensifies into a sharp pain, which causes me to gasp. The sound echoes across the vast expanse of the ocean, creating a ripple across the water, and it shakes the sun straight out of the sky. I watch as it starts to fall, golden and bright, straight towards me.

I am able to squeeze my eyes shut, then throwing both of my arms over my face to protect myself -

The impact doesn't come. Suddenly, I'm not floating in the ocean, I'm laying on a gravelly surface and my skin itches. I can hear the sound of rolling waves. I pull my arms from my eyes, finding myself laying on the beach...I'm home. Home. The shore is calm today. The sun is still in the sky, remaining there. It's not quite as burning to look at now...the sky is a clear blue, almost a comforting hue. I push myself up slowly, raising my hand to touch my shoulder where a stump once resided, but there is an arm there, exactly as I remembered it. Smooth, albeit chafed, skin...dazzled with some freckles from the sun, and bronze in color. I touch every inch of it with my hand, flexing and curling my old fingers. I flex my muscles. I curl my hand. I twist my shoulder.

Whole. I'm whole again. I look back towards the water, where I see a vast array of fishing boats beyond the horizon...I see fishermen along the shoreline, with their nets and spears and tridents.

When I look sideways, I see my own spear laying there, and a net. Am I home?

I exhale shakily.

What the hell? I look up, seeing seagulls flying overhead, cawing, but voiceless. Not like before.

"When do you think you'll wake up?" a voice asks.

I turn. My eyes widen.

Liber is sitting atop a capsized rowboat, with 'imagine' written on its side; upside down...I remember that boat, I remember my brother...he looks as he did when we left home all those years ago. His shaggy dark hair hangs in his eyes, his limbs gangly and slender. On his lap is his journal, which he is currently bent over, writing in. He's scribbling fast, his lips moving wordlessly; not even a breath parted from him. That voice wasn't his, but there are no others around us. It had to be him.

I open my mouth to speak, but it's like I have no voice. Liber, Liber, my lips move. You're dead.

His head tilts. "You should wake up soon," he says, in a voice that isn't his.

You're dead, I repeat, voicelessly. You're dead. I killed you. Where am I? Am I dead, too?

He doesn't look up.

I push myself off of the ground, each step labored and weighted as I try to walk towards him, as if something is pushing me down, down, down to the ground. I try to resist it, pushing forward, but it feels as if he is always out of my reach. He flips a page, continuing to write and draw, his lips still moving fast.

"I wonder if you can feel it," he says.

Feel what? I feel like I'm drowning in air, I mouth.

Liber stops. He lowers his pencil and raises his hollow, lifeless eyes up at me. His expression is somber, and then his lip ticks up into a half, mirthless smile. "It's a shame you won't remember."

That's when my eyes open, when I finally wake up.

Plutarch.

I stay in the Oneiroi for a short while longer, staring at the door where Finnick Odair and Tilda Steelbrook have exited. I'm gripping my tablet tightly between my fingers, forcing my expression to remain calm, for my demeanor to not shake in front of them. It hadn't been easy, least of all when I saw the message which flashed across my screen...now I look up towards the cameras, knowing they'll be activated soon. Time is short. I need to act quickly. It won't be entirely strange for me to stay longer in the room - one coudl argue, based on the distorted footage the camera operatives will have been subjected to, that I am a perverted old man who enjoyed himself...and will need time for a reprieve. I, the loyal patron, sit and bask in a sick afterglow after the Victors have left. No, it won't be strange for me to still be here, but I know the cameras won't serve me for very much longer. Soon, they'll be active again, and as will the microphones.

Time to act fast. I shoot to my feet, pacing the length of the room as I open my tablet. I stare down at the message from my associate, who has been so gracious in ensuring the cameras in this room were to my benefit and mine alone, feeling a wave of sickness overtake my stomach. I reread the message a few more times, each word after the other. There's a question lingering at its end, albeit unspoken. I can't stay here. I have to leave the Oneiroi. There's no logistical reason why I should be staying here longer than necessary...it would arouse questions. Suspicion. Especially if I found myself in a room I am not supposed to be in. My nerves rile up, my free hand clenching and unclenching.

Think fast. Act fast. I can't just let this sit.

Least of all when I watch the video attached...the remnants of the security camera, catching the tail end of unspeakable carnage. An act of violence that would put countless things into jeopardy, my plans including - my carefully laid alliances, and so much more.

'Cover it up,' I respond, 'destroy the footage. Tweak it as best as you can. And see the situation is handled. I will send backup.'

The response I receive is a simple one.

'What if it's too late?'

My jaw tightens. 'For our sakes, it better not be.'

Ceres. TW - sexual assault.

At first, my vision is blurry, despite my efforts to blink and squint, but it starts to clear little by little. After a few slow breaths and a dizzying moment of initially waking up, I realize that I am laying on my back against something plush and velvet; my head cushioned by fluffy pillows. The ceiling above me is a red velvet canopy lined with gold and floral decorative designs. Very familiar to me. Yes, I know that canopy, I've seen it hundreds of times before.

But before I can fully register my location, I become aware to a foreign presence above me, along with an equally foreign voice grunting a slur of words and pleasurable moans, and then, all at once, a newfound sensation tears through me. The push and pull becomes abundantly clear now, as I feel my body rock back and forth against the pillows behind me; the sound of a creaking bed hitting my ears as loudly as a cannon. My lips part. The man above me doesn't seem to be aware that I am awake, as his face is buried into my clavicle. I can feel his breath against my skin, hot and rapid.

His hand is holding my own above my head against the pillows, as his hips rut fiercely and uncaringly against mine. My body rocks limply with the motion, though my legs have stiffened with consciousness, and my body begins to do the same. I find myself unable to breathe, my gaze fixated on the canopy above me.

No, no, no, no.

The man lets go of my wrist so his hand can drag across my body, which I realize is partially clothed - what the hell am I even wearing...no time for that. He's distracted, lost in his own demented pleasures as he takes my body. His focus isn't on me. In the far back of my mind, I hear Tilda's voice, distant as it may be. She's hovering over me during my Hunger Games, watching me train. "Evaluate the Arena. Take in your surroundings, see what you can use to your advantage," she had said, "and when they least expect it, strike."

With this in mind, I quickly survey the room. Without even needing to think too long or too hard about it, I conclude that we are in the Oneiroi, specifically in the room designated for myself and Seneca Crane. But I can't see the Head Gamemaker anywhere, so this surely isn't his doing. He's never once expressed any voyeuristic appetites in regards to me. In the rare instances where people have asked to share me, he's firmly rebuked them, and had been insistent to me that we were only for each other. I can't imagine that greedy, jealous, little man changing his perspective so abruptly. But how is it that we're here, in the room he maintains for us?

A higher power must have intervened, or someone outbid him.

Suspicion arises deep inside of me, but I snuff it down for now. I can't think about who or why right now. I have to focus on the man rutting away on top of me, grabbing roughly at my chest through a thin silken piece of fabric over them. I bite my tongue to keep from making a sound and to hide my anger and disgust. He's bigger than me. The weight of his body alone on top of me...I can't fight him off, not coming out of my haze, not in the position I am in. My eyes skim quickly around the room. That's when I see it.

On the side table, just within my reach, is a slender porcelain vase full of gladioli flowers; slender and fine, not too heavy by the looks of it. I push down the nausea and horror and pain tearing itself through my body. As the man is thoroughly distracted above me, I stretch my hand out and grab the vase. With his hands on either side of me, he pushes himself up a little, hips snapping hard against mine, and he throws his head back. His eyes are squeezed shut with his mouth agape, and that is when I strike. I muster all of my strength and swing the vase hard. It collides against his head.

There is a loud shattering sound as the porcelain cracks and breaks on impact with his skull. He howls in both pain and surprise. Shards protrude from out of his skin, whilst some have scattered across my body. But I don't care. I squeeze the weapon I still have in my hand, a huge piece of broken porcelain.

He pulls himself off of me, rolling onto his side as he clutches at his bloodied face. He lays naked and vulnerable, thrashing like a fish out of water.

Run, a voice that isn't mine says urgently.

Still holding the broken piece of the vase within my hand, tight enough to draw blood from my palm and fingers, I push myself off of the bed. The adrenaline pumping through my veins keeps the pain from hindering me. My bare feet touch the ground, racing off of the platform where the bed resides, and lunging across the room towards the hallway leading to the exit. Nothing in my head registers what I may look like, or if anyone will help me - what I will do once I escape the Oneiroi, how I'll get back to the Tribute Center. Every single logistical step doesn't matter, because my sole purpose is getting out of that door and into the nearest elevator, out of his reach.

My legs don't carry me as fast as I would like. My head is spinning and the room spins with it, so I have to push myself off of the wall and furniture for momentum, but that doesn't stop me. My stride doesn't break. Determination fills me, damning everything else. But then something clambers behind me, and something grabs my ankle, causing me to stumble. I manage to grab ahold of a decorative table along the wall, but it falls with me. I land with a pained thud against the ground, kicking blindly as the man, with a sneer on his deeply gnashed and bleeding face, yanks me towards him.

"You bitch!"

His hands are gripping at my leg and the garb of clothing I am wearing, pulling me towards him. He doesn't see the porcelain shard within my hand, least of all when I swing my hand back and pierce straight through his neck. A gargled noise pierces through he and goes to fall forward, but I manage to shove him back. He rolls over, reaching to grab it from out of his neck, but I have it first. I bring myself around, acting fast as I straddle his body and bring the shard down again and again into his throat, his chest. He tries to fight back, but it slows. I slash every part of him I can, feeling warm blood spray across my face.

It isn't until I am absolutely sure he isn't getting back up that I bring the broken piece of porcelain down one last time into his throat, lodging it deep into the mess I've made. I sit there for a while to catch my breath, before forcing myself back. On my knees on the other side of him now, I stare down at the dead Capitolian on the floor. His eyes stare up at the ceiling as blood gushes from out of his neck, his chest, his torn stomach. I glance down, realizing that in my ferocity I had torn up his genitals with my weapon, which lays half-attached to his body now, hanging by his thigh. Everything is gushing with blood.

It's then I catch sight of myself in one of the countless mirrors in the room, a sharp breath piercing through me.

I am not wearing the clothes I had on earlier, God knows where those are. What I am wearing is a black lacy dress, low-cut with thin strings holding it up above my shoulders. The skirt hangs to my mid-thigh. I realize my thighs, upon further inspection, are bloodied on the inside along with bodily fluids I don't dare to think about now. My hair is tussled and hanging loose around my shoulders...but there are bruises all over. My neck is marred with fingerprints and bite marks, as are my shoulders. Scratch marks, bruises, cuts are adorned along my arms and legs...

My lips quiver before I can stop them, so I sink my teeth into my tongue and clench my jaw as tightly as I am able, until I taste blood. Blood. I am covered in this man's blood. I reach up and touch my face, where his bloodied handprint is left detailed upon my cheek, from when he had tried fighting back against me. My body is covered in his prints. I look back down at him and then back to my reflection, hardly recognizing myself.

I was just raped by a Capitolian citizen. I just murdered a Capitolian citizen.

Just the one? I frown, my body rippling with chills. The voices that had echoed in my head become clearer now. Some of the things said within my haze belonged to this man's voice, I'm sure of it, but others were not...some of the voices were loftier, others were low...others. They were talking to each other, as scattered and disjointed as their dialogue was.

Down the hall of the room I had tried to escape through, a door opens and promptly closes.

The sound of footsteps from around the corner stirs me back to reality. I turn sharply, now facing a man standing in the archway staring back at me with wide eyes. He's wearing a long deep blue coat overtop a velvet vest and patterned trousers. His dark brown, oddly cut hair frames his almond shaped green eyes and angular features. I don't know who this man is, I don't recognize him. He stares back at me with familiarity, though, and then towards the man.

"Oh my God," he says.

His wide-eyed stare fixates on my bloodstained face. I don't think, I just react. Without a weapon but running solely off of feral anger and instinct, I push myself to my feet and go to lunge towards him - he won't hurt me, I'll kill him, too - but he outstretches his hands and somehow manages to deflect my attempt to knock him down. He staggers back against the wall, waving his hands back and forth, but I lunge for him, anyway.

I make him bleed.

(a/n): This was a chapter I looked very much forward to writing but also one I very much dreaded. We're going into deep shit within the next few chapters, a lot of things are going to transpire, and I am very nervous and very excited for how it will be portrayed and perceived. So...*jazz hands and nervous laughter* I wish I could've provided you guys a happier chapter after my long absence, but nothing in Panem is ever good...and shit is really hitting the fan here. Oof. A lot of stuff going down...more to come. I hope you guys enjoyed! Once more, I apologize for my absence - I hope ya'll can forgive me! I promise, now that I'm healthier and out of the hospital, I'll be back to writing!

I love you all so much! Thank you for all of the love, you all motivate me to keep writing!

Read, review, favorite, follow, etc.! Thank you! *heart*