Converted Into Dust

by Vulpine Spectacle

Victor. Mentor. Pawn. These are identities Ceres Rhythe, Victor of the 68th annual Hunger Games, has familiarized herself with in order to survive. But something is changing, a flame rises where there were once bones. From ashes begins conversion. Let the 74th annual Hunger Games begin. Finnick/OC, mild Seneca/OC

6. Six: open flame

(a/n): Staying on brand, I wound up writing another 20k word chapter. XD I condensed it down to almost 15k this time, because I'm...very weak. Once again, this means more is already written for the next chapter, which I have outlined!

This chapter was a lot of fun to write. It features quite a few Victors you nerds have been wanting to see, and...we get to see Katniss and Ceres meet for the first time. ;) I hope ya'll enjoy...THE TRIBUTE PARADE!

Enjoy, loves!

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CHAPTER SIX

open flame

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Ceres.

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When we arrived to the Capitol, things were very quickly put into motion. My Tributes were whisked away so they could be properly cleaned and dealt with by their Stylists, whilst my team of Mentors were taken away to change into a new set of clothes, provided for us by our Stylists, who are ever hard at work upon our return, for the Tribute Parade. The clothes given to us for the occasion aren't anything too glamorous, for such attires are being saved for more important events. For the Parade, my Stylist, Galeria, has made me a simple dark sea-green dress that goes to the neck an has a shawl-like design around my torso, effectively covering my stump. The dress itself goes to the floor, with a slit on its left side; underneath is a fine soft blue tulle, so no skin is visible. It's perfectly modest and presentable, yet fabulous enough to be noticeable. She didn't personally bring me these items, but my team did, since Galeria is otherwise occupied. I know the routine, though. I'll be seeing her tonight. And I trust the clothes she picks out for me. They won't catch too much attention. After all, the Tribute Parade isn't for the Victors. It's for our trainees.

After my team and I have been dressed and cleaned up as necessary, we're promptly whisked away to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is, for all intents and purposes, a very glamorous stable. It smells strongly of overly-perfumed manure and the artificial light all around us gives me a headache. I've never liked it down here. It's too isolating, too closed off. I remember telling a fellow Victor this once and he had laughed, exclaiming that I swam in the ocean, how could I be so affected by something like this? It's no different. But he doesn't understand. The ocean can be too tight and too small sometimes, depending on the conditions, but it never feels cage-like the way this place does.

Within the space, there stands a long row of chariots with a team of four horses pulling each other; glossy and radiant, to say the least. Stable hands alternate between checking the straps securing the horses to the equally glossy chariots and then misting the horses down to keep them shiny. Meanwhile, Stylists and Mentors alike work together to keep their Tributes put together, physically and mentally.

My own Tributes are currently standing in their own chariot, led by a team of silver dappled horses. To say they are nervous would be a gross understatement, yet Tilda is doing a good job at keeping their nerves down. This is where my former Mentor truly thrives. She, Ren, and Rheon are standing together to keep things in order, whilst I try not to think about Finnick's absence. There are a handful of Victors who have yet to arrive, who were summoned immediately upon arriving to the Capitol to attend to their respective clientele. The thought of it makes me sick, but I try to focus on my Tributes. Their nerves need to be rested before they're launched out.

The distraction is nice.

My dad catches sight of something and steps away, but I don't spare it a glance. My focus is on my tributes and their...mortifying outfits. I try not to stare too much, at risk of inadvertently pointing it out and triggering more riled nerves, but I can't help it. The Stylists assigned to my Tributes had certainly worked hard, but the attire leaves much to be desired. Upon each of their heads are headdresses full of miscellaneous sea-related things, such as seashells, pearls, and so forth, all interwoven within a thick shimmery blue material that clearly weighs heavy on their brow; having to be pinned into place to keep it from toppling over. The clothes upon their persons are made up of a shiny blue material I imagine is supposed to simulate the ocean. The fabric has been meticulously wrapped around their bodies like a toga, fastened at their shoulders with starfishes.

It's certainly one of the least original concepts I've seen to represent District 4, but maybe I'm jaded at this point. I've seen all types of costumes through the years, in my own personal experience and through the old Archives I used to watch when I was old enough to understand how to access them. Still, I don't let it show on my face. They have enough to worry about.

"What if I fall?" Kipper asks, as his Stylists adjusts his headpiece.

"You won't," Marina interjects. "We're pretty secure. Right?"

I nod. "Right. Just remember to breathe, wave, and smile."

"Breathe in and out through your noses," Ren adds. "If it helps, picture your friends in the crowd."

Kipper's eyes lower, while Marina seems to take the note with open arms as she nods encouragingly to herself.

Her lips purse. "It's not a bad idea," she says. "I have friends in District 4 I wouldn't mind seeing..."

"If it helps, utilize it," I say, glancing at Kipper, who still looks uncomfortable. "What do you think will help you?"

Kipper hesitates. "Um...I think imagining my family, but that might make me sad."

"How about friends?"

"I don't really have any," he admits. "I've always been too busy."

I can relate to that. When I had been his age, I had been too busy for such things, too, usually out on the open water with my dad or harassing Finnick to some capacity. It was honestly a miracle that I had managed to make friends with Harpee Dowe and Mara Spurnire before things fell apart - all thanks to me, of course. I had planned on Volunteering when I was fourteen, but Finnick had been Reaped that year, and I couldn't afford to play with fire.

The idea of having to kill him had been too much. At the time, I didn't fully understand my reasoning. I think I considered him to be my best friend, but in hindsight there was something else. But most importantly, I couldn't handle the prospect of me killing him, or forcing him into a situation where he'd have to kill me. So, when Mara had been Reaped, with Harpee hissing in my ear to Volunteer, I'd done nothing. In the end, Harpee Volunteered, and she died. And now Mara is God knows where, bitter towards me, no doubt. At least she's alive.

But who needs gaggles of friends, anyway? It's just more ammunition for Snow to use against people like me. Maybe it's for the best that Kipper doesn't have any strong ties waiting for him back home. At the off-chance he survives, it'll be for the better.

"Just wave and smile," Tilda says. "Try not to overthink it."

"It's pretty straightforward," Marina says, looking down at Kipper. "You'll be fine."

I open my mouth to say something else, but Ren elbows me in the ribs, and nods his head behind us. District 1, he mouths, and I turn my body. Approaching us is Garnett Lux, one of District 1's more elite, yet also elusive, Victors; not nearly as popular as the likes of his peers, but still considerably high up in the food chain. I go to meet him halfway after Ren nods for me to do so. Victors can often mingle amongst each other down here, whilst we wait for the Parade to commence, but my own fellow Victors aren't too enthused over doing it too close to our Tributes. Sometimes the interactions make them nervous - sometimes they have every reason to be.

"Nice to see you, Garnett," I say.

"Nice of you to say," he says, in a tone that's relatively flat.

Garnett is Gemma Lux's infamous son and is, by reputation, an odd one to be sure. Despite the fact he comes from the most famous, prestigious District in Panem, with a reputable Victor for a mother and a relatively well-liked Games of his own, he seems to elude the limelight. While figureheads like Gloss and Cashmere Royce seem to absorb public attentions like sponges to water, Garnett clings to the sidelines, purposefully embedding himself into any surface like a wallflower. He's eye-catching physically speaking, with a distinctly long face with soft features, such as full lips and doe pale green eyes, and just overall appearance (despite his best efforts to dress as simply as he's able to, under his Stylist's influence), but he has a fine talent of disappearing into shadows. It's a talent I've envied of him for a long time.

Truth be told, not a lot of people actively seek Garnett out, due to him being so aloof. Sure, his mother had significant amounts of popularity in her early years - so much so someone bought her body for the nefarious purposes of carrying a Capitolian child, just to gain some ownership, then cast her aside before the birth - but Garnett hasn't sought any of that lingering fame out. As the child of a Victor and a Victor himself, naturally he stands out. It's the same way I've stood out over the years. Well, that and the fact I killed my own brother, but that's luckily a fate Garnett has avoided, on account of being an only child.

While not sought after, I do know that Garnett maintains a clientele the way Finnick does, though he's not nearly as popular - that alone goes without saying. While physically attractive, his personality is a little daunting; aloof, actually. I've encountered Garnett during his meetings with clients before, when Seneca has taken me out to dinner or walks through parks. In every instance I've seen him, Garnett looks all-around stoic. His expression remains stiff, as does his demeanor, for that matter, and the atmosphere of his "dates," from what I've noticed, can be described as uncomfortable on a good day.

Were it not for his natural beauty and having a Victor for a mother, I imagine he would have slid beneath the cracks.

Still, despite his overall demeanor, Garnett can occasionally be friendly, and those days are always the strangest. I can't tell if he's trying to push himself out of his comfort zone or if he's looking for something. All things considered, he's technically a friend, but he's also one I don't place a whole heap of trust into.

"I know it's a little premature, but I'd like to begin the prospect of an Alliance with you," he says.

"That so?"

"Well, I am considering bringing it up to Gloss and Cashmere," Garnett says.

"I'm a little surprised, honestly. It's pretty early."

"Your Tributes aren't much, that's true, but I'd prefer to form an Alliance with a District I'm comfortable and familiar with. In my experience, you may have strange Victors, but they're strong, despite the odds," Garnett goes on, making my brow raise. "Finnick surviving despite having been fourteen. Annie nearly died in her Arena, yet survived. Rheon lost his eye and lived. You lost your arm -"

"Yeah, I get it. District 4 is pretty durable."

"Durable, but not invincible. It's the right sort of thing that could fit well with our Careers," Garnett replies. I know he doesn't mean it as callously as he says it, but I do have the fight off the urge to glare at him. "It would be mutually beneficial to yourself and to your Tributes, if everything fairs out."

Until your Tributes kill mine, obviously. "Right. All of this would be better discussed with my dad. He's the stand-in as the, uh...I guess head of our team in Mags' absence. Have you seen him, by the way? He walked off..."

Garnett nods his head sideways, gesturing to the sidelines of where the Victors have gathered together to socially mingle amongst each other, whilst the Stylists prepare the Tributes. These interactions can technically be seen as Victors catching up with one another, but there is a grander purpose behind it. After all, we're evaluating our competition, and we're seeking out Allies. Even now, everything we do is for the greater good of our Tributes. I expect to see my dad in a small group of Mentors, discussing possibilities. He's always been good at that. He's been a Victor for over twenty year now and has gained and developed countless rapports with different Victors all throughout the Districts.

He's friendly with basically everyone, but there are several he seems to have strong friendships with; we try to stick close to those in terms of Alliances. I half-expect him to be beside the likes of tech-savvy Betee Latier from District 3 or the brutally powerful Brutus Evander from District 2. He's with no one from his usual crowd, rather standing with only one other person, and nothing about their demeanors conveys the seriousness of Mentors arranging strategies or even casual friends catching up.

Standing in front of my dad is Gemma. There's a small bit of distance between them, but that isn't by any means an issue for them. As they stand together, I notice that they are both smiling, gesturing gently with their hands, and seem to be entirely in depth with one another. Looking at them, I'd wager that both were oblivious to everything else around them; their eyes so hyper focused on each other. I blink, wondering if the image is warped by my own nerves and anxieties in regards to the impending Tribute Parade - the first critical impression Tributes can make - but nothing changes. It's still the same. Beside me, Garnett seems equally as uncomfortable, but he's staring more openly.

Sure, my dad has worked with Gemma Lux before. What Victor hasn't he worked with, at some point or another? But there had been nothing particularly noteworthy about their dynamic. I've watched them sit together at affairs and share conversations, but nothing to this capacity. There's a natural, charming air between them, lofty and warm.

When my eyes lower, I notice my dad's hands resting close to his stomach, his fingers twisting something. With narrowed eyes, I realize that my dad is fiddling with his ring, sliding it up and down his finger, and twisting it idly all the while. Not once does it leave his finger, but I can see the longing to remove it. He twists it as if it were a chain, trying to rid himself of it.

My father smiles down at Gemma and she laughs over something he said.

So that's what you walked away for.

I've noticed before how Gemma and my dad have worked together here or there, but I didn't think much of it. They both were respectable Victors around the same time as each other. They've grown up within the same system that has wronged them, just as every new Victor does with one another, and my dad has always been honest about being friends with certain Victors - Gemma included.

But there's something different I'm seeing for the first time. Maybe I'd seen it before and had just opted to ignore it.

I narrow my eyes.

My dad is looking at Gemma in a way I've never seen him look at anyone, least of all my own mother, and something about that makes my stomach churn. I try to fight back against the bitterness and the anger and the overall confusion, but it has me in a vice-like grip, and all I can do is try to twist out of it.

It seems like the easiest solution is to lie to myself.

I swallow.

It's probably nothing, I tell myself, as sweetly as I can. Liar.

Garnett only looks at them sparingly, before looking back towards his Tributes. They don't look like they need any variety of support. They're already standing with their backs straight, confident smiles on their faces, and presenting a united, oddly proud, front despite the absurdity of their costumes. Garnett doesn't look impressed by them. But, then again, Garnet isn't impressed by anything. "You alright?" he asks me, even though he's staring elsewhere.

I shrug, feigning indifference as I find something unique and fascinating on the wall beyond Rheon and Gemma's closely standing figures. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine," I say, forcing myself to look away and following Garnett's line of sight. "We'll consider this Alliance thing. I'll bring it up to Rheon later on tonight, after we see how the Parade goes, and everything in general. You probably won't hear from us until after a day or two into training. We want to evaluate your stock as much as you're evaluating ours."

"A practical answer, to be sure," Garnett says, peering over my shoulder. "Oh dear."

I'm expecting him to be looking back at his Tributes, but instead his pale green eyes are staring down the line of chariots towards a young woman going toe-to-toe with who I assume to be Stylists, in what is a very hostile looking argument. It doesn't take more than just a second for me to realize it's Johanna Mason, with Blight Thicket behind her trying to pull her away. He's saying something soft, I can tell, but she's ignoring him. Seems like we can't catch a break today.

The poor Tributes in the chariot look mortified and seem to be trying to shove their heads deep into their shoulders, whilst their poor Stylists are trying to meet Johanna's wrath with forced grace and professionalism, but I can tell they're about to snap. While I can't hear what they're saying, as Johanna at least has the sense to be hissing her words, it's pretty obvious there's something salvageable about this argument.

"She's going to make a scene," Garnett says, sounding more annoyed than concerned.

I cast him a small glare, wishing he would shrink under it but he doesn't. "I'll handle it."

"We look forward to hearing from you, then," Garnett says.

I don't reply, rather walking off towards my fellow Victor. "Johanna, hey, a word?" I call, once I'm within earshot.

Blight looks mildly relieved by my presence, but Johanna doesn't seem so grateful. She is still fuming by the time she tears herself out of Blight's gentle grasp and storms towards me, with her knuckles clenched at her side.

"My Tributes don't stand a chance. Just kill them now and be done with it," Johanna practically snarls.

"Calm down, Jo. Come over here."

"I am calm," she hisses. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Okay. Be mad, then," I say. "What's going on?"

Johanna scoffs. "Well, for starters, what's going on is how those idiot excuses for Stylists screwed over my Tributes," she says.

Looking over her shoulder towards her Tributes, I have to agree, those Stylists definitely haven't done them any favors. Quite frankly, I can't even put together the theme behind those ridiculous costumes. At the very least, when it came to my own Tributes, I could understand the idea behind it. Sure, the use of blue as a primary color scheme and the various seashells, net fabric, and starfish adorning them is pretty cliché, fashion-wise, but at least it makes sense. We are the fishing district, after all. But District 7's purpose has to do with lumber. Over the last several years, I've seen some pretty interesting costumes made for them. I've seen dresses that look entirely like trees, I've seen body paint that remarkably mimics a forest background, and so on. But what these Tributes are wearing has no primary sense.

"They look bad," I say.

"Blight says they look just fine. He's an idiot, too," Johanna says, glaring openly at her Tributes. "If they didn't stand a chance before, they definitely don't now."

"Mm-hmm. Who are they this year?" I ask, even though I already know their names. I'm just trying to distract her.

"What does it matter?"

"I care about District 7, for one," I say, watching Johanna's face twitch.

"Right," she grits.

No doubt she recollects my own Games, in which I had made an Alliance with and befriended both of District 7's Tributes. They had died in the end, of course, but they'd left an impact on me. Birch had entered the Games with the hope of keeping District 12's Tributes alive as long as possible, despite dying because of it, and Nellie honored his memory by keeping me, his friend, alive. It's one of those strange interconnections that had helped Johanna and I become friends shortly after her Games.

"Holly and Cane," she says, frowning deeply. "I could really use a drink."

"You can drink after," I say.

"No I fucking can't and you know it."

"Right...the interview," I say.

After the events of the Tribute Parade, into the evening, the respective Mentors all gather together at the Panem Museum of Historical Preservation, with everything usually taking place in a large make-shift ballroom. The building is located within the city, close to its heart, and is adorned with countless art pieces and artifacts and other highly valued things accumulated throughout Panem's history. The Mentors attending the event are all interviewed one by one by Caesar Flickerman. This is an integral role we play. This is where we present ourselves to the cameras with wide smiles, glamorous outfits, and wide smiles to promote our Tributes to the best of our abilities. Our Tributes have had the chance to make first impressions on appearances via the Parade, but then we sweep in to add the finer details to the outer looks. Occasionally, we also do collateral damage if a Tribute somehow messes up during the Parade. We, with our influences and our experiences and our own reputations, attempt to serve our Tributes up on a silver platter to the blood-hungry Capitolians in the vain effort that one of them will take the bait and Sponsor us.

Whilst one Mentor is being interviewed, the rest are mingling in a ballroom filled with potential Sponsors - including, but not limited to, politicians, rich socialites, and, specifically, a guest appearance made by the Head Gamemaker himself. Seneca attends annually, usually accompanied by his wife; hand in hand, a true display of strength and unity. Generally speaking, Seneca is wise enough to keep a small bit of distance from me during the Gala, on account of his wife's presence, but also due to the seriousness of the circumstances. Seneca, as Head Gamemaker, is effectively there to advertise his Games, put on a big show of how very put together he is and how extravagant the Games will be that year, whilst I strive to keep my Tributes alive. It's all one juggling game, honestly.

I can't say it's one of the worst events that Victors are obligated to go to. It can be a lot worse. The museum itself is honestly beautiful and full of incredible little artifacts and trinkets that have been collected throughout the near hundred years of the Hunger Games. This includes, but is not limited to, Tokens from deceased Victors, bloodied bits of clothes from Tributes who died memorably, statues of important figures throughout Panem's history, and so on. Portraits, statues, artifacts, Tokens, mannequins wearing clothes from particularly famous Victors from their Tribute Parade, and so much more. Aesthetically and historically speaking, it's not a bad place to be, but the company it maintains is vulgar. That being sad, it's not the worst of example of Capitolian stock. They are, by comparison to most, tolerable.

The event itself is called the Unity Gala. The name is utterly ridiculous on a number of levels. The museum, while technically beautiful, stands as a glorified lie depicting the truths that Panem wants you to know, and romanticizing the rest. It shows various art pieces and photographs of Panem through the ages, depicting its "progress" over each and every generation. President Snow's face is plastered everywhere, starting from a young man beginning his career as president, to now; his eyes, in every portrait, are still ice blue. Yet all throughout the museum, President Snow's influence is prominent. After all, where better to show the unity of the Districts, the Capitol, and all of its willing occupants than at a museum displaying its good glory, with a name like Unity Gala?

Johanna dislikes the Gala more than I do. She's gotten willfully drunk there multiple times, has attempted to cause scenes, and has almost been removed. It looks too bad if a Victor is removed, of course, as it displays some unwanted rebellion, so she's usually talked down or escorted to a quieter area, with Blight by her side trying to talk her down.

The disgust in her eyes is obvious as she looks back at me, her lips curling. "What am I even supposed to say? How am I supposed to promote...them?" Johanna asks, scoffing.

"Say what's on your mind, be damned the consequences," I offer.

"That's adorable, Rhythe," Johanna snaps.

Still, it's one of the few things I struggle with. The concept of promoting my Tributes similar to how a saleswoman in local boutiques within the city advertise their latest fashions sickens me. The smiling into the camera, the being charming with Caesar Flickerman, and all the necessary means of assuring my Tributes, my latest metaphorical fashions, are the best in the market. It's no different than when I had been interviewed before my Games, when I had advertised myself, nor even when I had been in the Games themselves. Even if I hadn't intended to, everything I did, everything I said, was what boosted my popularity - primarily surviving after losing my arm, then being able to fight my brother one-on-one and killing him. Truthfully, I attribute my survival mostly to Nellie, who had nursed me back to health, stitched my wound, and cleaned it whilst I had been unconscious. She very easily could have killed me herself or let me bleed out, but she showed me compassion. I'm ashamed to say, but I think it was something I wouldn't have afforded her, had our situations been reversed.

I think about it more often than I should.

Johanna audibly sighs, sparing a glance towards her two Tributes, who look extremely nervous. Too nervous. Internally, I hope that they manage to get a grip on their nerves and emotions before they're set out through the city. It's not uncommon to get sympathetic Sponsors - the bleeding heart types - but it's not enough to bank entirely on them. Most of the Sponsors within the city, who will be watching the Parade with keen eyes and full pockets, will be placing their wagers on someone with potential. They like the bold types who stand out, who exude confidence. Those who cower or look hesitant usually don't last long in the Arena, though that's not always the case. Johanna herself had presented a very meek front during her interview, her training, and Parade. I still recall how she had shrunk like a frightened mouse from beneath the stare of the city's leering eyes.

Only once in the Arena, armed to the teeth, did her true nature unfold. My brow arches. I highly doubt that Johanna encouraged her Tributes to take on her method. Firstly, it would be too obvious. She won by fooling not just her fellow Tributes but also the Capitol itself. Even I had been shocked as I watched her mercilessly hack those Tributes apart with her axe. People will expect her Tributes to follow in her example. But it's a method that usually only works once before people catch on.

Besides, looking her Tributes over, I can't help but to read genuine fear out of them. At the very least they have Blight standing beside them, moving his hands fluidly to communicate with them. He's a kind man, too, with an oddly gentle voice and kind eye. I can't say his Games had been particularly memorable, but he had been clever in using rope and twine he'd found in his backpack to create various traps interlocked between trees, tripping up or tangling the feet of his fellow Tributes. He had also been a superb climber, practically a squirrel, and used the high ground to his advantage. He also happens to be significantly more level-headed than Johanna, as well as one of the few people who can calmly handle her outbursts and find ways to reach through to her.

Johanna looks back at me. "Has Seneca called on you since you got back?"

I don't like talking about Seneca. It's a topic that I otherwise actively avoid unless absolutely necessary...especially here, because when he's not calling on me or present at social gatherings, I can try to forget about him; that my body, time, and smiles are at his beck and call. The reminders of him make me shiver unpleasantly. But, strangely enough, Johanna is one of the few people I am comfortable discussing Seneca with. She doesn't coddle me or sugarcoat her words. She doesn't tread lightly over herself, at risk of offending me. Hell, even if I was offended by her she wouldn't care, and I think that's exactly why I'm so okay with it. She's upfront and honest about it, to almost every capacity.

I shake my head. "No. I expect he won't for a while," I say.

"He'll be at the Gala, you know."

At that, I sigh. "I know, and I'll see him then, but he won't actively seek me out until a few days, I think. You know how hectic things get after the Tribute Parade. He has his own interviews and advertisements to do, in between all of that...Gamemaking business."

"Could be worse," she says, glancing down the long row of golden chariots led by snow-white horses with silver, flowing manes and tails. "Cashmere has an appointment with some eighty-year-old retiree or something now that she's back. God knows when. But I know he needs about eighty pills to get it up."

"Johanna," I say, lowly.

I understand why she talks like this - hell, sometimes I need the levity, the necessity in joking about something to take the power away from the situation - but it doesn't always land. I don't mind if Johanna says anything about me. I can take it. But I do feel myself edge a little when it's about someone else, especially a fellow Victor I consider to be a friend. Now, Johanna and Cashmere are friendly with each other, but there's a definite mutual dislike. I don't blame either of their views, as they are both, equally, acquired tastes.

Johanna shrugs unapologetically. "I'm just saying," she says, glancing over my shoulder. "Oh, look. Speak of the devil."

Turning, I watch as Cashmere approaches us, ever the epitome of beauty and, well, luxury. She's wearing an absurdly magenta pink leather jacket lined with white fur that swallows her neck and wrists, with a pair of matching pink leather pants and high heels that allows her to tower over us. Her makeup is mostly blue and silver based, complimenting the various blue accents across her attire, such as in her nails, various threading details, and jewelry. She certainly does blend in well with the Capitolian fashion, if not reflecting more of a glamorous edge.

"Cashmere," I greet.

"Ceres, Johanna," Cashmere returns, flipping her honeyed hair over her shoulder. I notice how there is glitter in her hair, creating a golden effect that catches the light; some of it has sprinkled onto her face, accentuating her features. "I noticed you both ogling at my Tributes. Remarkable specimens, aren't they?" Her tone conveys no one-set emotion, neither pride nor interest nor dismay. I also decide not to correct her as to what we were looking at and why. "Marvel and Glimmer."

"I know. I watched the Reaping," I say.

Johanna scoffs. "Of course you did," she mutters.

"You're saying you didn't?" Cashmere asks.

"No. I leave that shit to Blight," Johanna replies, as if it should have been obvious.

"Hmm. Right," Cashmere says, looking at me. "Shame about your stock this here. I was going to propose an Alliance, but I think yours might be a little young. A twelve year old boy and a sixteen year old girl...I'm not saying the latter isn't doable, but, with due respect, she doesn't look like much."

"Yeah, well, we'll see," I say. "There could be an Alliance yet. She did volunteer, after all, same as yours."

"Mine are trained Careers. Yours doesn't look like one," Cashmere says.

I can't help but bristle at that. There is some truth in the unity preached about the Victors. We truly are a united front, in many ways, as we survived the same type of hell, have the same nightmares, and live through the same ordeals. Many of us are friends, arguably very good friends. We've known each other for years, some longer than others, and it's easy to forget that we're competing against each other sometimes. But then there are moments like these that remind me that, despite how close we may be to one another, the looming reality still hangs there.

Our Tributes are going to kill each other, and only one of them is making it out alive. Needless to say, it's usually the Career Districts that make it, and it's a reputation that the likes of Cashmere, Gloss, Brutus, Enobaria, and all the rest cling to tightly. It's a competitive edge, to be sure, but I also like to think it's a breath of relief in knowing that they get to return one child back to his or her family. It's certainly a luxury that the lower Districts aren't afforded, most of the time.

I recognize that my Tributes this year aren't great. Cashmere's wording - my stock - certainly could use some improvement, but she's not wrong. Kipper is a small, lanky twelve-year-old boy who is very shy, even with a sweet smile. He's like Annie in this regard, but she was older and won based on a fluke. Meanwhile, Marina is older and ambitious, but she's too assuming, already relying too heavily on her Mentors rather than her own resources. So, no, Cashmere isn't wrong, and I know she doesn't mean it malicious. But it is yet another reminder of how there is still one goal in mind between us.

"She may surprise you," I say.

Johanna glances between us, unimpressed, and looks over our shoulders. "The least we can agree on is that we all know who's going to die out there," she says, nodding her head down to far end of the row of Tributes.

Following her line of sight, I look towards the two Tributes from District 12 as they are led towards their chariot, guided by their respective Stylists, I am assuming. From the distance between us, I can make out that the dark haired girl and the blonde haired boy are wearing shiny black leather suits which cover the entirety of their figures, the artificial lights surrounding us creating an odd type of sheen against the fabric. I can safely say, just based on first impressions, that these outfits are significantly better than what we usually see every year. I remember one year the two Tributes had been naked and covered in soot and ashes, an event I found odd and degrading even before I had become privy to the Hunger Games myself; even when my dreams of it had still been through rose colored glasses.

I notice immediately that Haymitch is not with them. He does not stagger behind the Stylists, nor does he wander ahead of them, and, almost sadder, the Tributes don't even bother to look for him. Their gazes aren't wandering for someone who should be there, but I can tell they are curiously looking around. The Stylists seem to be doing a good job keeping things in order. One of the Stylists is a woman with thick blonde hair and dark honeyed skin, moving swiftly to adjust and help the boy, while the other Stylist -

Oh. Looking at him directly, I recognize him. Clad in a dark, shiny suit, a measure of simplicity that almost stands out like a sore thumb in a place like this, I feel my brain instantly connect him to someone I've met a handful of times before, via introduction by my own Stylist. Cinna. I haven't seen him for about two years now, but our interactions have always been formal and cordial. He's a kinder personality by comparison to the rest. My own Stylist, Galeria, has sung praises to his talent and character countless times before, and yet has also complained about how he hasn't budged on working within the inner structure of the Games themselves; always on the sidelines.

I suppose that's the way of it. You can fight to stay out of it, but, in the end, you're somehow dragged in.

"No Haymitch. That's not surprising," Johanna says. "He's probably in a ditch somewhere. He'll show up, even if they have to drag him. Ah. Excuses me, Blight's calling."

She spins on her heel and struts less than pleased towards District 7's chariot, where Blight is standing waiting for her. He has a mildly concerned look on his face as he reaches out to comfort her, but she whips her arm out of his touch, and he turns in defeat. He seems to be addressing something about their Tributes. I turn away out of respect, looking back to Cashmere as she continues to stare at District 12's chariot and Tributes. She doesn't have any type of negative emotion on her face, nor even any positive one; it's just sheer indifference.

After all, the Tributes from District 12 are quick to die and are easily forgettable. They're barely a footnote in the Hunger Games themselves, and we all know it. So, there's no real reason to put any measure of focus on them. Still, I think Cashmere at least has some measure of curiosity as she takes in their outfits. It's certainly an upgrade from what we usually see annually.

"Cashmere, do you know where Haymitch is?" I ask.

Cashmere arches her brow, finally turning to look down at me. "I don't know," she says, honestly. "What does it matter, anyway? When is he ever present down here?"

It's true. Haymitch rarely ever turns up. It's not technically necessary for Victors to be present down here - as there are a handful of us who are absent, either waiting in our respective seating arrangements at the Training Center, to watch the conclusion of the Parade, or socializing with Capitiolians in search of Sponsors...that is where Finnick is currently, and usually is yearly. Haymitch, one way or another, is in his seating by the time we reach there. That part is mandatory, but he is always drunk. His absence down here, however, is always noted. But it's not surprising.

I shrug. "I figured he'd show up. He has interesting Tributes this year."

"You're giving him too much credit," Cashmere says, rolling her perfectly blue eyes. "When has he ever cared?"

"He should be here," I say. "District 12 has never had a Volunteer, you know."

Cashmere slowly starts to smile, clear amusement on her face now. "Right. The Hunger Games scholar," she says. "Well, it doesn't matter. It was sweet, that girl Volunteering for her sister, but it won't do her any good. It might by her some time, maybe a Sponsor or two, if she survives the bloodbath. But she looks pretty scrawny to me. My guess is, at most, two days." Her head shakes. "Don't think about Haymitch, Ceres. You have your own Tributes to worry about."

She's not wrong, but I also know I'm not wholly needed. There will be plenty of time for me to make my own impression on my Tributes and help them. "They have four other Mentors at their sides right now," I say, sparing a glance towards District 1's chariot, where the largest stock of Victors all stand together as a united front.

Gloss has his arms folded and appears to be strategically talking with Glimmer, whilst Gemma has Marvel. Countless others surround them, all clad in strange, yet perfectly organized, attires, and absolutely surrounded by Stylists and Avoxes holding drinks. Special privileges, I guess. I bring my gaze to the farthest end of the row, to District 12.

"You've got a look in your eye."

"What look?"

Cashmere leans closer, dropping her voice into a whisper. "The kind of look of a girl about to get into trouble," she says, the subtle hue of a smirk crossing her face. "What are you thinking, hmm?"

"Something stupid. It was nice talking to you."

I turn from Cashmere and walk down the long row of Tributes, walking passed Victors who look towards me expectantly and even some Tributes looking on admiringly, nervously, or even indifferently, but I pause for none of them. My gaze is fixated forward, my stride long; anyone who might have addressed me directly knows better not to. Ahead of me, Cinna and another Stylist I don't know the name of are helping the two Tributes onto their chariot, readjusting their black leathers and capes

They step away from their Tributes, appearing to convene amongst each other, oblivious to my approaching self. As I approach, I catch the softest, briefest interaction between the two Tributes amidst the rest of the ruckus.

"...rip your cape if you'll rip off mine," the boy, Peeta, says.

"Deal," replies Katniss. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

"Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" says Peeta.

"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," I say.

A laugh is shared between them, something I find a little odd and yet endearing. It's always strange to hear laughter in a place like this. Even the laughs shared between old friends has some semblance of nerves or bitterness behind it, yet the laughter between the two Tributes has something youthful about it. A familiarity. It's strange to say the least, but something else catches my attention. Open flame. Interesting choice of words.

As I draw closer, the laughter between the two instantly dies. When Peeta looks at me, a small frown tugs at his mouth, but his clear blue eyes remain curious. He leans forward a little to take me in, his brow furrowing together. I know that look. He recognizes me and is trying to place it, but when it registers in my brain that nothing resides underneath my cloaked left shoulder familiarity instantly reflects in his gaze. Those eyes of his widen, though his expression remains much the same. Katniss, however, doesn't seem to care who I am. If she does, it doesn't show on her face.

She is staring at me with narrowed, piercing grey eyes - like steel, or stormy clouds struck with lightning. There's no semblance of trust within them, more akin to a wild animal carefully evaluating a strange new creature. Her hands lift to clench over the front of the chariot, her demeanor shifting into a stance I recognize. It's similar to how we hold ourselves in District 4 when we're in the water, aware that a predator is lurking beneath the surface; we ready ourselves, to fight, to run, or to stand perfectly still and wait. Katniss' demeanor conveys the latter.

She's right to consider me a predator. I am a killer, after all. All of us are. Whether we like it or not, the title just naturally flows...even though it's not as pretty as Victor or Mentor, but it's honest. Nevertheless, I smile at the both of them, but quickly bring my attentions to Cinna, who is turning away from his fellow Stylist to look at me.

"Cinna."

Cinna smiles at me as if we were common friends. Despite the fact we've only encountered each other a handful of times during formal events or the rare instances he'd visit Galeria in my dressing room, with only about once or twice of actual conversation, he opens his arms to me as if we've known each other for years. He does not go to embrace me, but the gesture is one that I don't take for granted. It's a very vulnerable and friendly stance, so I open my arm to great him, as well. He briefly places his hands on my shoulders to kiss both of my cheeks, his lips just like a feather against my skin, and draws back just as quickly.

"It's good to see you," he says.

"You, too," I say.

Cinna turns, looking back to the set of Tributes behind him. "Katniss, Peeta, this is -"

"Ceres Rhythe," Peeta finishes. "I, uh...I remembered your Games." I can tell by the dull flush in his cheeks that he had been staring at the left side of my body. "I'm sorry about your brother."

That both piques my interest and surprises me all in one. I've never once encountered a Tribute, mine or otherwise, who has offered those words towards me. It takes me back, but doesn't render me speechless. I'm able to recovery quickly from it.

"That's very kind," I say. "Thank you."

"You're the one who lost her arm," Katniss says.

Peeta glances at her in shock, his mouth parting speechlessly.

No ounce of offence triggers itself within my body. If anything, I'm deeply amused, mostly because there's nothing malicious about her tone nor even her expression, which all convey wariness. Her statement was simply blunt, as factual as stating if the sun is out or if it's about to rain. I glance at Cinna, then at the Stylist behind him who looks shocked. I smile back at Katniss. "Keen eye," I say. "What gave it away?"

Cinna chuckles, whilst Katniss stares at me, expression shifting from wariness to discomfort. Peeta looks between us, visibly unsure.

"What brings you by?" Cinna asks.

"Just wanted to say hi to a familiar face," I say. "I see you finally caved into being a Stylist."

"Ah, it was an inevitability."

"What convinced you?"

Cinna shrugs casually, then opens his empty hands to me. "I figured it was time to advance my career," he says, sparing a glance towards Katniss and Peeta. "I felt inspired."

I follow his gaze, curiosity filling me. "You chose District 12, then?"

"I did," he says. "I have my reasons."

"I'm not judging you," I say, before he can assume otherwise, then nod my head towards their clothes. "I like it, but..." I lean a little closer. "I heard her mention something about an open flame. Does the fabric reflect like fire in direct sunlight or something?"

"Or something," Cinna replies, with such a wicked grin I find myself wondering just how eccentric this man is.

While I haven't interacted with Cinna much, I feel as though I know a great deal about him thanks to Galeria. From my understanding, on a personal measure, they're on-again-off-again lovers who occasionally collaborate, but who took different fields early on in their fashion careers. Galeria launched pretty quickly into the Hunger Games as a Stylist but hadn't found major success until me. Sure, she'd had a couple of popular designs and attires formulated, but nothing attached to a Victor.

Cinna had been invited to be a Stylist before, but he had always rejected them, even despite Galeria's attempts to convince him otherwise. I can't say I know his fashion, either. I've seen a couple of drawings or references, thanks to Galeria, but it's nothing I've paid particular attention to. Looking at Katniss now, I find myself regretting it. He truly does have an incredible mind for fashion. Still, I have to wonder what set him over the edge, what finally triggered him to join this demented inner machine as yet another cog. I'll have to ask Galeria tonight, when I finally get to see her.

"I was also wondering where Haymitch was," I say.

The lack of Haymitch's presence isn't entirely surprising, but it's always disappointing. The man certainly has a knack for leaving his Tributes defenseless. To some capacity I feel sympathy towards him, but in others I can't help but to feel bitter. I know I don't have much room to talk. District 4 has multiple Victors who can stand in as Mentors whenever one of us needs to tap out, or juggle our general duties and obligations. Haymitch is only one man.

It's an enormous responsibility, to say the least, especially for District 12; the most backwater, dismissed District of them all. It's no easy thing. My dad's also tried to explain parts of Haymitch's story to me, without being too revealing. The gist of it is easy to understand. Haymitch angered the Capitol and his loved ones paid the price for it. it's a tale as old as time here in Panem, especially - mostly - for Victors. I can scarcely cope with being responsible for my brother's death, so I can't imagine how Haymitch feels. All the same, he's still a Mentor, and he should be here. But, judging by that earlier conversation, neither of his Tributes are missing him too deeply.

Cinna shrugs. "I'm the Stylist, not escort," he says.

"Haymitch isn't here," Katniss says. "And you're not our Mentor."

Her brutal wording is almost endearing. I look back up at her, impressed that she's able to narrow her steely grey eyes down at me without any semblance of hesitation or pause. Those eyes are as unrelenting as storm clouds threatening to wage violent war. My own eyes, meeting hers, are calm. "No, I'm not. I'm not here to teach you things," I say. "I just wanted to see an old friend."

Katniss' eyes narrow with distrust. Good. She already has that advantage.

"She's still a Victor, Katniss," Peeta says, lowly. "It's not a bad thing to listen to advice or suggestions. She has experience -"

"She could lie," Katniss says back, in a low hiss. "She has her own Tributes to protect."

"I lost my arm, not my hearing," I say. "If you're worried about me feeding you false hope or information on how to win, or just general sabotage, I'm afraid I'm not that forward thinking. I'm not that petty, either. And if you think I'm here to offer you advice on your the Parade, you're also out of luck. Frankly, I don't remember my own experience. It was years ago and far more eventful things happened afterwards, so it's a bit of a blur in this useless thing that sits on my shoulders."

Katniss glances at Cinna.

Cinna shakes his head. Turning towards me, he carries on. "It was nice seeing you, Ceres. I mean that. I'd like to catch up again."

"It was good to see you, too," I say.

Cinna turns to go back to a conversation he was having with Peeta's Stylist. I almost turn to depart myself, but something stops me. Despite myself, I draw closer to the chariot as I start to walk away, this time with a slower stride. "What you did was brave," I say, watching as her expression changes into visible confusion.

There's a slight shift in her demeanor. I can tell I've taken her off guard, though it doesn't hinder her at all. She's instantly cautious, still all-too wary of me, and looking me over as if I had doubled as a predator. She's right to be mistrusting.

I take a small step forward, so I have the slightest bit of freedom to speak more openly, using a softer voice. "I am sorry, Katniss," I say. "Selfless acts like that won't save you, but they can present a good image. Use it." Stepping away, I smile again at the both of the. "Good luck, both of you. You'll need it."

As I walk away, I hear yet another brief, hushed sharing of words between District 12's Tributes.

"She killed her brother in the Arena," Katniss says. "Don't listen to her."

"Katniss, I don't think..."

I try not to let it get to me. It's the sort of talk I'm used to from everyone. I've heard it spoken by my fellow Victors from across Panem before, as well as some Capitolians (sometimes said directly to me, within earshot, in tabloids, etc.), and within my own District. It's chatter that I've simply learned to deflect. It's by no means easy, but the alternative is letting all of those voices fester deeply within that inner voice residing somewhere in my head.

Upon returning back to my chariots, I see that Finnick has returned, too. I am reminded rather coldly of when I had been here, clad in a dress made to resemble moonlight, and staring down the long row of Tributes who were set on the same journey as me. I recall that Lucius Crane had been present, leading his then apprentice Seneca along the way to introduce him to the various Tributes, and to find who he would Sponsor that year. Seneca hadn't been Head Gamemaker yet, so he had the liberty to Sponsor Tributes.

But Finnick had been mostly absent, appearing only towards the end.

To my dismay, I can tell that Finnick has been placed in a similar predicament. My body ripples with anger. We haven't been back in the Capitol for more than a few hours and already Finnick has been thrown to the jackals. His expression and clothes are composed and put together, but there's a hickey on his neck that he tries to mask by deliberately tilting his head a certain way and a perfume that smells too fruity lingers on his body, even though I can tell he'd taken a shower before coming here. The oils he uses to mask the aroma of others is sometimes effective, but it's obvious he had showered in haste; not going through his usual routine.

Still, despite the fact the smell hits me hard and reminds me cruelly of what he's endured, I go to stand close to him.

His fingers brush against mine discreetly, a gesture I return back. It's quick and noticeable to others, but to us it means everything. But just as quickly, Finnick withdraws his hand. It's the safest thing to do, though I wish the moment could have lasted longer. Thankfully, he keeps close to my side, leaning his body towards me curiously.

"What were you doing over there?" Finnick asks.

I look over to our chariot, watching as Kipper and Marina's Stylists are carefully adjusting the sheer blue fabric of their togas, and then looking over their seashell headdresses, securing them firmly to their heads. Both look miserable. "Saying hello to a friend," I reply.

"A friend?"

"Cinna," I say. "He's a Stylist."

Finnick spares a brief glance over his shoulder, his arms folding tightly over his chest. "Can't say I know him," he says.

I catch the sudden concern and act quickly to snub it. "He's Galeria's...well, I guess flame, but mostly an occasional headache," I say. "She introduced us a while ago, and I've only seen him a few times since. He's nice, really."

Finnick's eyes shift, nevertheless, and I catch him staring a little icily in Cinna's direction. I can't tell if it's general caution, because, arguably, everyone from the Capitol is untrustworthy, and we must always tread with deliberate wariness, or some semblance of jealousy. It's most likely not the latter. Still, something warm fills my chest and promptly spreads to my cheeks. It's always strange to see jealousy in Finnick's eyes, mostly because it never seems real; just a figment of my imagination. Even when we were kids, well before the Games had ever touched us, Finnick had always been a rare specimen of confidence and casual ease.

He excelled in his classes, for the most part, and was naturally beautiful at an early age. He was also quite tall, taller than most kids his age, so he seemed older than he was. But above all else, he was naturally skilled with his trident at a very early age. Neleus had wasted no time introducing his son to the water, as well as the weapon, and it showed. By the age of eight, Finnick had a reputation as an impressive fisherman. His swimming and net-weaving, to say the least, were also impeccable. And he caught the attention of boys and girls alike.

It always seemed like Finnick had nothing, and no one, to be jealous over - least of all me, especially growing up. Yet it's always strange when I notice the little sheen in his eyes, the subtle indicator that makes my brow arch and increases the urge to scratch my head in puzzlement. It's probably wariness, I conclude.

"Did you assess the competition?" he asks, changing the subject.

I look back to Kipper as he visibly winces when his Stylist pinches his hair with that bizarre, all too ridiculous headdress. Low tolerance for pain, I apply to that inner noting in my head. "I'm going to withhold any comments until I have a proper look at them," I say. He hums in response. Seconds later, there is a loud blasting of music, a sign that the events are about to begin. Stylists rush to finish up their Tributes and Mentors are stepping back, preparing to go. I seize the chance to lean close to Finnick, my voice muffled by the noise. "You okay?"

A brief melancholic smile passes over Finnick's face, then promptly masked by his usual suave smile, reserved for his public appearances. "It was fine," he says, brushing his fingers against mine again, and then turning to walk away.

I spare a final glance towards my Tributes and follow after, joining my fellow Mentors. We're led away together in a huge cluster down a huge, silver corridor that leads through various passageways; an underground structure with various signs, guards, Avoxes, and such, all leading towards the Training Center. The Mentors have huge tiers, looming above the Capitolians in their respective seats, all labeled and layered, one above the other - District 1 at the front, the best seating, whilst District 12 sits at the lesser point, at the highest corner, scarcely in view.

The passages leading to these seats are reserved strictly for the Victors. It makes travel significantly faster and also avoids crowds, because, truthfully, it's easy to get mauled by fanatics when the Hunger Games begins its festivities, especially for the more popular Victors. Once we breach the sunlight, we are met with an uproar of cheers and cries as the large screens projected all across the city depict us walking out one-by-one, in a perfect line. We wave to the cameras, we blow kisses, we bask in our names being chanted, and we take our seats. Once we've all had our chance to sit, it's then I see Haymitch being led up by some very uncomfortable looking staff member towards his seating, looking nervous he may be thrown up on. Haymitch receives no cheers, no ounce of attention. He looks piss drunk and angry. His visage doesn't even make an appearance on any of the screens.

I'm sitting between my father and Finnick, staring down at the currently empty streets, and then back up to the large screens as District 1's chariot makes its entrance. One by one they go, as I carefully gauge the audience. Naturally, District 1 receives the most ample amounts of uproars, as they are the most popular, but District 2 does well, too.

I lean forward as District 4's chariot glides into view on the screen. It depicts the closeup of my Tributes' faces. Marina has a forced smile on her face and her hand-waving is stiff. Despite all of her pomp and confidence, she's nervous, and, unfortunately, it shows. Meanwhile, Kipper looks more relaxed, but is almost too floppy by comparison. His hand-waving is too loose, with a smile that's significantly more comfortable than Marina's, and yet he looks no less natural.

As they pass through, with the view changing to District 5's chariot, I sigh.

Beside me, I can feel the tensions exuding from Finnick's body. "Those outfits aren't doing them any favors," he says.

We can mostly talk freely up here. There are no Capitolians to overhear us. Our voices can hardly project over the uproar of applause and music. So I'm able to look back at him and reply with, for the most part, whatever I want to say. It's one of the few nice qualities of the Tribute Parade, I think. "I don't disagree."

"Any potential Alliances?" Finnick asks.

I shake my head. "Cashmere was interested but changed her mind. You know how District 1 is. Gloss and Cashmere are the unofficially voted ruling heads of the Victors, so whatever they say goes," I say. "Garnett expressed interest, but he won't get very far. His input isn't as valued, you know."

"We'll figure something out," Finnick says. I can feel the dread now. We both know that it's going to be very tricky to find Alliances for such a young Tribute and another one with very little experience - tricky, not impossible. The Career pack are most certainly out to consider, especially if Cashmere and Gloss are vocal about their lack of support, so we'll have to turn to the other Tributes from lower Districts. Alliances are still Alliances. "I can think of some new Sponsors -"

"Finnick, no. Don't," I say, finding a new edge in my voice.

He smiles sadly at me. "Sponsors."

"Not if it means selling more pieces of you," I say. "Don't look for anyone new, okay? We'll figure it out."

"I know we will," Finnick says. "But it's always safest to have options."

I...ruefully don't disagree, but I also have absolutely no intention of watching Finnick take on anymore lovers than he needs to. I know that the revolving door of his Capitolian lovers is endless, yet there's no need to actively seek them out. I refuse to watch it happen. There are other options. Despite the fact I am exclusive with Seneca Crane, I am technically obligated to entertain some Capitolians here or there. These affairs are strictly non-physical. Hell, I don't think they're even allowed to lay a finger on me. Usually, someone very important will buy my time for a dinner, a trip to some fancy theater, a nice walk through the park, anything like that, and I just have to smile and keep them entertained.

I guess I'm the forbidden fruit in that aspect, and that can, in its own way, be enticing. Maybe I could pull some strings and entertain a couple of potential Sponsors. Sharing dinners with creepy individuals who look at me wantonly is a far, far cry from sending Finnick out like fresh meat into a pool full of sharks. I decide not to voice this out loud, all-too aware that Finnick would most definitely protest it - hell, my dad, overhearing this conversation, would, too. We wouldn't be able to get anywhere. I'll just have to corner Ivoree later on to make arrangements, then talk to Tilda. She's the more sensible one in this regard.

My thoughts are promptly cut off by an odd hush that falls over the crowd, promptly followed by an array of gasps, of awes, and absolute adoration. Beside me, I can hear Finnick inhale sharply, and my own father curses beneath his breath. The Victors all around me, above and below, all seem to stiffen, their demeanors shifting entirely. My eyes raise to one of the projections. They widen.

District 12 rides through the streets, Katniss and Peeta standing side-by-side, with their bodies on fire. Brilliant orange and red flames envelop them, leaving a trail behind them, licking outward. The black leather beneath them reflects the flames, like true coals sparking a deep, warm hearth. The crowd eats it up. An outcry such as I've never heard before explodes across the streets, from those who are watching twenty minutes away, and those who are standing here surrounding us. Upon the screen, I watch as coins and roses are thrown towards them. And, with unity, they join hands and raise them high above their heads.

The noise the crowd exudes is almost violent.

Open flame. Katniss' words resound in my head, followed by that eccentric smile Cinna had given me.

Looking down, I can see the awe in a couple of my fellow Mentors. In District 3's section, I can see Beetee removing and then cleaning his glasses so he can watch better. Further down, I watch as Cashmere leans in close to whisper something to Gloss. Neither look pleased. I lean back, bringing my attention to Finnick beside me. His eyes are wide, but he's leaning back with a forcibly unimpressed look on his face. His jaw is tightly set.

"Damn," he says.

"Damn."

I can see why Galeria had been so adamant about Cinna taking up a career as a Stylist for the Hunger Games. He is truly skilled. I've seen some fairly original and interesting costume designs throughout the years, but the effort has never been extended to District 12 before. After all, how can you make the coal mining District glamorous? There is a reason one very lazy Stylist adorned the naked bodies of their Tributes with coal and soot and ashes, after all.

But what I see before me, the incredible flamed bodies of Katniss and Peeta, is beyond admiration. Not only does it stand as a true impression just by District 12 alone, but it easily outshines all the other costumes and the Tributes donning them. In this moment, even the Careers have been overshadowed, and Cashmere's indifference earlier seems almost too comical. I almost laugh.

"That's one hell of a first impression," Finnick says.

"Cinna knows what he's doing," I say, glancing over my shoulder. I catch sight of Haymitch attempting to sit upright, his knuckles seemingly clenched over his knees. He's nervous. "At least somebody does."

Rheon, leaning forward and watching the streets intently, casts me a colder look. "Cut him some slack."

I bring my gaze forward, watching the remainder of the Parade. The cheers remain deafening all throughout the ordeal. Sure, I think some of them are for the Careers or the other fabulously decorated Tributes, but the true brunt of it is for the two Tributes from District 12. Even after all the chariots have gathered and President Snow has given his speech - may the odds be ever in your favor, the usual spiel - the hype surrounding the backwater District remains intact. All eyes remain firmly fixated on the Tributes. Once the Tributes in question disappear into the Training Center, we are led away through yet another passageway, and brought into the Center.

The Stylists for my Tributes have already gathered to help them down off of the chariots. Marina is visibly shaking as she steps down, with Kipper needing to be lifted. Around us, Mentors have already gathered around their respective Tributes, their Stylists already in attendance. There is a wide array of nerves circulating throughout the structure, as Mentors go to comfort or encourage their Tributes, and as glares are cast between each other. Most of the looks, gratefully, are targeted towards Katniss and Peeta, so no one is paying any mind to my own. I do spare a quick glance towards District 12's chariot, noting how they are being flocked by their own team, with Haymitch finally present. Peeta's Stylist extinguishes the flames that engulf them, yet the dirty looks from Tributes and Victors alike remain on their persons.

I look away, directing my attention onto my own Tributes. First, their headdresses are removed. Kipper makes an audible sound of relief as it is untangled from his mop of curly red hair, whilst Marina leans against the chariot for support. I can tell she's still a little rattled. Luckily, no eyes are set on us right now, so vulnerability shown within this moment, while not ideal, isn't the worst thing to consider.

The stable hands gather from their places along the walls to retrieve the horses and chariots in question.

"You did well," I say, "both of you."

Marina looks up at me, swallowing. "I thought I was going to throw up."

Oh, I believe her. Looking at her up close now, I can tell by her face that she's a little green, but it's all carefully masked under the absurd makeup on her face and the various decorations hanging from her head. "You did well," I assert, then nod to Kipper. "So did you."

Kipper smiles appreciatively, though he still seems distracted. He's eyeing some of the chariots and the Tributes stepping off of them, his expression hesitant. "They look mad," he says, nodding towards District 2's chariot.

I follow his line of sight. The two Tributes in question are named Cato and Clove, who indeed look quite furious, with their cold, piercing eyes directed fiercely towards District 12. They're very mad, I think, as Brutus goes to cover their view and seems to scold them. I couldn't say, given his back is facing me.

"That's to be expected," Rheon says. "They outshone all of us."

I consider giving my dad a glare of my own for how brutally honest he was, but I think it's useless. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could tell what happened here. Most likely, in the very first instance of Panem history, District 12 had well and truly outdone the other Districts. It's going to be interesting to see how this carries through the rest of the Games. Fashion-wise they've proven to be efficient, but Haymitch could very well undo all of it in tonight's interview, then there's the matter of actual training. Who's to say what type of skillsets those two have? The girl looks more malnourished than the boy does, which doesn't come as a surprise given their home, but, like Johanna, they might be hiding things.

I hope so, for their benefit.

"It's not over yet," Ren assures. "This is just part one."

"Of many parts," Tilda says. "Let's get out of here."

"Where? What now?" Marina asks.

Tilda nods her head forward. "Well, now we're going to go up to our rooms. We're on the fourth floor," she says.

"You'll change up there," Ren adds.

"Then what? Do we plan or -"

"You'll eat dinner and rest. You've earned it, both of you," Rheon says.

Marina falls silent after that. We gather our bearings and we make our way to the elevator, after the respective Victors and Tributes have gone first. By this point, I'm so used to this damn thing that I don't even pay it any secondary attention. The clear crystal floor catches the attentions of both Kipper and Marina, who make awestruck, albeit woozy, sounds as we ride the elevator upward. Kipper even wonders if we can ride it again soon, but there's no time now, nor I doubt anytime in the future...but it's a sweet musing, though it reminds me, harshly, that he's a child. They both are. Every single Tribute in the Center is a child.

There's not much fuss when it came to putting the two of them away. They went off with their Stylists to be removed from those absurd togas with its various oceanic decorations, and then were placed into something more comfortable. Meanwhile, myself and the rest of the Victors wait for our own Stylists to arrive. Ren and Tilda are already sitting by the holographic screen in the main room, rewatching the events of the Tribute Parade, and taking careful notes to every reaction seen in the crowd, as well as the commentary made by Caesar Flickerman and his associate Claudius Templesmith.

I know it won't be long before Galeria and all the rest arrive to whisk us away to the Unity Gala, armed with fabulous costumes that will, ludicrously, enhance our efforts to gain Sponsors for our Tributes. So, with what little time I have, I seek out Ivoree. The escort has been a loyal and true friend, as he hasn't said a word about my interaction with Angler Cresta to anyone - not even my fellow Mentors, even though he likely knows Finnick intruded on the impromptu confrontation. I find him in the dining hall with Kipper and Marina, who are now dressed in light blue pajamas and being fed a luxurious meal by a set of Avoxes. He's chatting away about something or other, when he notices me standing in the doorway. There's understanding in his eyes as he sweeps away from the table and glides towards me.

"How may I be of service, darling?" he asks. "You look worried."

"I'm not," I lie. "I need a favor. Don't worry, it's not...not like before, I just need you to try to treat the kids to something nice tonight, okay? They both looked nervous. And since we won't be here, could you just make sure they eat? Maybe find some stupid Capitolian film for them to watch..."

Ivoree's brow arches. "Well, I'm sorry, but there won't be any films playing for a while, not with everything being broadcasted. But I'm sure I can improvise something," he says.

Feeling a little bit better, I nod. "Thank you," I say. "One more thing, if you know the guest list for the Gala, could you find anyone who you'd think could be a potential Sponsor?"

"I'm sure you could discuss this with -"

"I don't want Finnick or anyone else selling themselves more than they need to. Their bodies are at risk, whereas I just have to sit through an uncomfortable dinner," I say, mindful to keep my voice low so no other Mentor, nor the kids, can hear me. "Just look, okay? Anyone who seems interested...try to get ahead of it. Okay?"

A small sigh parts from our escort's lips. "You sure are having me sneak around for you."

"I trust you."

"Then...that's all I needed to hear," Ivoree says, lifting his hands. "I'll see what I can do, on all fronts."

I nod gratefully, sparing a quick glance towards Marina and Kipper as they eat together, seemingly finding some semblance of rest. They both look beyond tired, though their nerves are keeping them jittery. Justifiably so, I'd say. They are assigned to the inevitable prospect of death in the Arena, to arrive within the coming weeks, and their fates are placed in themselves and their Mentors. It's a terrible thing to carry. But it is nice to see them share a meal together, their shoulders slackening a little bit, and knowing they'll be in Ivoree's capable hands. Still, I know this is only the first of what will be many, many terrible days. Some days will be easier, but mostly they will be a nightmare.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I try to assure myself that I'm going to be making things easier, by attending this absolutely insane Gala, and working hard to find Sponsors to keep them alive. It might be fruitless - maybe this whole thing is - but at least it's some semblance of hope.

Kipper's eyes raise, finding mine. "Are you sure we did okay?" he asks.

Marina looks up, expectantly.

"You did," I say. "It...could have been better, I won't lie, but there will be plenty of opportunities to show what you're really capable of."

Marina inhales, tightening her grip on her fork. "The Head Gamemaker...he'll be at the Gala, right?"

Biting back the urge to glare or to hiss or to turn away at the mention of him, I force myself to calmly nod. At the very least, I know that we'll both be too busy to interact with each other at the Gala. And, as per usual, he'll have his wife there. He has the good nature to keep close to her and to avoid me whenever she's present...to his very, very minimal credit.

Marina nods back. "You should put in a good word for us," she says. "Since...I don't know how well we did..."

Ivoree inhales deeply and slowly turns to look at me, a worried gleam in his eyes. I look at him only briefly, leveling my gaze towards Marina. I'm reminded unpleasantly of how she had addressed the matter of my boyfriend on the train and, it seems, she hadn't caught the hint. This is going to be something she leans heavily into, if she's already addressed it twice. Kipper looks at her, brow knitting together, and then at me. I think about biting something back, maybe for them to be realistic or to stop talking about him. My mind reels to my father going to the Gamemakers to barter with my life and Liber's, and meeting Seneca Crane, who made him choose. Looking between my Tributes, I feel a cold chill tear through my body, as I consider the possibility of such a decision falling onto me, and from there my mind conjures the most horrific images it can muster; replacing me and Liber with them.

I blink rapidly, trying to will it away. For now, I decide not to quarrel with her...I just need them to feel hopeful, if only for a night, and knowing I will address later, when I'm not thinking about something else. Still, it plagues my mind. It makes me feel cold. Making deals with the damned is hardly a complimentary look...and I've already sold so much.

What's another piece of me?

"For my Tributes...anything."

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(a/n): Okay, so this chapter was published last night and deleted this morning. Special thank you to miacoa304 for alerting me that some random notes I'd made had accidentally worked their way into the published chapter! Sometimes when I write I randomly jot down notes so I don't forget, I typically try to keep them all in my google docs outline/draft in a separate tab, but sometimes I write them down in the moment, especially if I'm on a time crunch. I was definitely overtired last night and didn't do as thorough of a read-through as I usually do. And I definitely should've done a triple check before publishing the chapter. Anyway, sorry about any confusion! Thank you again to miacoa304! Without your review, I wouldn't have noticed until I came home late from work, so I was able to delete the chapter and re-publish it note-free haha!

Anyway...to my not absolutely chaotic author notes...

This very well might be my most favorite chapter I've written so far! The whole time I've been writing my crazy story, I've been waiting for the moment where Ceres and Katniss interact for the first time - as well as her just being friendly with the various Victors. God, it was so much fun to write, and to say I am buzzing to write more interactions, delve more into the BTS of the Hunger Games, and the actual chain of events itself is an understatement. The next chapter is one I am VERY excited about, for a number of reasons! It will follow a set of interviews from the Victor side of things, which is an original concept made up by me. Truth be told, I was always a little annoyed we never got to see the behind the scenes aspects of the Hunger Games from a Victor's POV. Katniss and Peeta jumped right back into the Tribute role in Catching Fire. So, I'm going to be introducing some new concepts to keep things interesting, and hopefully expand the universe a little bit. Hehe.

I can say that the gala hosted at the museum and the upcoming Victor interviews that are going to transpire are 100% inspired by the Met Gala; in the aesthetic, general celebrity craze, popularity, etc. I am very excited to write that out. A lot is going to go down next chapter. We're going to see the beginning of the training, see the Victor interviews, and...more. *evil grin*

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*

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~REVIEW RESPONSES~

sokka: aww, thank you so much! I'm glad that you came back to my page. ^_^ It warms my heart that you like this story (and think it's better than the first!), and I hope Katniss' and Ceres' first meeting lived up to your expectations, haha! I know I had so, so much fun writing it! *heart*

Slytherin-vikis: I always love the little details you notice, it truly makes me happy that my little Easter eggs I lay out get found haha. Demetra's name is actually inspired by Demeter, whose daughter was Persephone and, in some mythologies, kidnapped by Hades. I chose it as a way to to mirror the Seneca/Ceres dynamic, which, in turn, was inspired by the version of the myth in which Hades kidnaps Persephone and forces her to eat the pomegranate. (I personally subscribe to the mythos that Persephone dipped into the Underworld, decided to stay, and wooed Hades herself, but that's neither here nor there.) But also, I actually lived in Greece for a while and studied Greek mythology with Greek scholars, as well as lived in Italy and studied the Roman myths, so the mixture of names is my nerdiness coming through haha. XD Sleazyca is my new favorite thing ever, I am DEAD. (Annie and Demetra coexisting together will be explored later, I promise.) Haha, I gave you Katniss and Ceres meeting with a free side of Cinna and Peeta! So, the things that happened to Finnick when Ceres was late for Sleazyca will actually be explored later...maybe in a flashback...you shall have to see. Hehe. Goodness, so many questions! Alas, I can't answer them because spoilers, but I can promise that Ceres and Ithaca will interact...eventually. *evil grin* I can, however, answer your question about the Snow prequel. Ceres has studied the old Games, but the 10th Hunger Games have canonically been erased from existence. President Snow saw to that, so Ceres would have no way of knowing much about the ordeal - archives, pictures, etc. She might know Lucy Gray Baird's name...but you'll have to be patient. ;) That will come into play later. Haha - in regards to your remark on Seneca, I do agree. I meant the phrasing as more of a show of Seneca's hypocrisy, in that he's with Ceres (essentially his mistress/paramour) while leaving his pregnant wife and two kids in the Capitol, but there's some underlying prejudice there, for sure. As a biromantic asexual person myself, I do imagine the Capitol is more on the conservative side of things, not necessarily to the extent of our modern world, but definitely inspired by it. I also don't feel like this is a spoiler, but I'll say it, anyway, I do write a number of my characters as being members of the LGBTQA+. For example, I imagine Finnick as being panromantic demisexual and Ceres as being pan-demiromantic demisexual (like, I couldn't resist her going into depth on Cashmere's beauty in an earlier chapter and arguably here), and countless other examples of my characters are LGBTQA+. Some will be more open than others, but there will be same-sex couples seen later on. I won't say who or where, because...*evil grin*...that would be a spoiler.

DreamAlina: Oh my gosh! That just makes me, so, so happy and warms my heart! *heart heart heart* The fact you compared me to Suzanne actually made me start dry-heaving and my heart skipped multiple beats. Thank you so much! It really means the world to hear, and I'm just...ahh! No words, truly, I am speechless and just in awe of your kindness! I'm also so glad you liked Ceres/Finnick making amends! *sob* I can promise more of them in later chapters...but I can also promise more Seneca interactions, because I am evil.

the. apple .seed: Thank you so much! Writing for Demetra and Rheon is an absolute joy, as I consider them both to be complex characters, and I'm really glad they're enjoyed! Spartan Demetra is definitely my favorite, and we'll be seeing more of that later on, hehe. I'm so glad you enjoyed Katniss' Reaping! I hope you also enjoyed getting to see Katniss herself, I am so hyped to have finally gotten the chance to introduce my beloved bow and arrow queen into the mix!

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~CASTING~

Garnett Lux: Austin Butler

Johanna Mason: Jena Malone

Blight Thicket: Danny Shepherd

Katniss Everdeen: Jennifer Lawrence

Peeta Mellark: Josh Hutcherson