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

7. Seven: the unity gala

(a/n): So I know I promised last chapter this chapter would include the Unity Gala and the beginnings of Tribute training, but...I am the worst. I once again surpassed 25k words, so...ya'll know the drill, I had to cut shit down. X'D Even then this beast is 21k long, because I have no self-control. And as a special holiday treat to you guys, an extra long chapter. XD So this chapter is strictly the Unity Gala and the NEXT chapter will begin with the training. We'll meet the rest of the Tributes, learn more about Marina and Kipper, and all of that glamorous business. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! It was so much fun to write.

Enjoy, loves!

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CHAPTER SEVEN

the unity gala

---

Plutarch.

---

"Apparently people are putting their money on District 12. I call that a shame," Cicero Crane says, with a long, drawn out sigh.

My gaze is fixated on the holographic screen before me, depicting the earlier Tribute Parade, with Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith's commentary over it. The screen cuts from them to the costumes to the rows upon rows of Capitol citizens in stands and in the streets cheering on. The cheers are per usual, some are obligatory for the lesser Districts or less impressive costumes, but the crowd truly cheers and sings when District 12 in their blazing chariot glide down the street; all the louder when they join hands. I must admit, even I was a little taken off guard when I saw it for the first time. I hadn't personally been at the Parade, of course. I'm not a man to waste time on festivities when there's work to be done, but, even still, I had been left speechless as I'd sat at my desk, sifting through old pieces of paper and having them scanned.

It comes as no surprise to me that people are already placing their money on District 12. While it's technically smarter to wait to place bets until after the Tributes have shown off their respective talents and started to show their assets, others are more inclined to go off of appearances only. And by God, did District 12 begin with a complete and utter bang. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the Capitol losing it's mind over two Tributes from a backwater District, least of all a Stylist putting so much effort and emphasis and care into such a design. It's all very captivating, but mostly it's intriguing. It makes me stop and think.

But, in all honesty, I'm not the least bit surprised by Cicero's disdain. The former Head Gamemaker has always been snobbish when it's come to Sponsorships, usually placing his own assets into the Careers, because they are safer bets. He's always looked down on the lesser Districts, devalued them, even during his Games the bias showed. He always paid careful mind to keep certain Tributes alive, whilst those from the lower Districts barely stood a chance. I know this because I worked for him for some years, just as I worked for Lucius Crane, and now Seneca Crane.

The current Head Gamemaker is currently hunched over in his chair with his pad on his lap, his fingers moving rapidly as he jots down notes regarding the fresh batch of Tributes. Seneca has a habit of watching the Tribute Parade multiple times, then taking note based on his own initial conceptions and then based off of public reception. He likes to apply it to his Games, so there's even opportunities.

It's currently what we're doing now, gathered together in Seneca's office for a viewing of the Parade while we drink tea, and prepare for the Unity Gala this coming evening. Our presences are necessary. As a valued member of the Gamemaker team, I am here to provide insight and advice to Seneca as he prepares for his interview questions revolving the Tributes and his expectations, and Cicero is there as a former Head Gamemaker and father. Arguably, it should only be me present, but I am legitimately fascinated by Cicero's commentary.

"When I was Head Gamemaker, no one would have ever dared placing their money on District 12," Cicero says.

"No one ever put such care and attention into District 12 until now," I retaliate, watching Cicero's face contort into a short-lived scowl.

"Seneca, what do you think?"

Seneca looks up from his pad, frowning. "I think it's interesting. A Volunteer from an outlying District always sparks some measure of curiosity. It shouldn't really be surprising the Stylists put extra effort into her, given the effort she put in," he says, raking a hand through his hair, which lacks its usual pomade; stragglers hang in his eyes. "They won't last long. Neither of them."

"I should hope not," Cicero huffs. "You know, I forgot to mention this earlier, Seneca. But you look good. Better. Have you gotten rest?"

I turn my head, noting the dull flush in Seneca Crane's face and the obliviousness in Cicero's. I smile pleasantly. "He went on vacation to District 4. I'd say it did him well," I say.

Seneca raises his eyes, looking briefly like a child caught with his hand in a sweets jar. "I...yes, actually. It was quite nice. It helped me clear my head," he says, clearing his throat. "Plutarch, any updates?"

I pretend to look down at my own pad on my lap. "District 12 has impressive rates so far, sir. We'll see what the Unity Gala will bring to the table, as well as the beginning of training."

The distraction Seneca hastily rushed out doesn't seem to work, though, as Cicero turns his old, tired looking eyes from the holographic images in front of us towards Seneca.

"Everything is on scheduled," I add, smiling.

Cicero looks away, seemingly processing what we just shared. His wrinkled face contorts thoughtfully, his olden eyes falling to his wrung hands over his lap. Cicero has always been a distinguished man and age has been mostly kind to him, but the strain of being a disgraced Head Gamemaker and the general poor quality of his health, he has often looked like hell. Due to Seneca's success as a Head Gamemaker, he's had significant financial gains. As of such, the gout that plagued his father's legs had since received treatment. Although they are still partially swollen and the man walks on a bejeweled solid gold cane (no doubt heavier and more cumbersome than necessary), Cicero does have the ability to walk comfortably now.

Despite his older age, Cicero has kept up his appearance. His dark hair sleeked back against his wrinkled features, harboring the same chiseled jaw and fine cheekbones as his son, is often dyed black in order to hide his duller natural colors and the amount of silver piercing from his roots.

I had been fortunate enough to serve under all three of the Crane men, and I have learned a great deal from watching all three of them work. Cicero Crane had been a relatively decent Head Gamemaker with a fair enough reputation, but his hubris often got in the way of his work. He had been far too ambitious when he built the Arena that ruined his career; a huge mountain with steep drop-offs and little to no secure foundations, resulting in Tributes dying almost immediately due to accidents. He had convinced himself this Arena would be the pinnacle of his career. Countless Head Gamemakers after him would follow in his example. Instead, he had been discharged. To his credit, despite it being widely seen as a disgrace, he had gone out with some semblance of dignity. He had shuffled quietly into the shadows, where he resided semi-comfortably until the rise of his son.

Meanwhile, Lucius Crane, Cicero's brother, had been a far more effective Head Gamemaker, but he was far less kind and significantly colder by comparison to Cicero. Cicero, despite his incompetency, had been kind to his Gamemakers, while Lucius had been cold, critical, and broadly disliked by his peers. Still, he knew how to do his job, and he did it well. I'd argue that his final Games, that being the 68th Hunger Games, had the potential to be successful. What had hindered it was the nasty business with Ceresea Rhythe, its ultimate Victor, losing a limb and, thus, a great deal of attraction from Capitolians. It cost Lucius dearly, though I contribute some of his losses to his apprentice and nephew, Seneca, who now stands as our Head Gamemaker.

I've worked under Seneca Crane for six years now. In that time, I've had the chance to properly study him and take him in, weigh in the vast importance of him in the grand scheme of what lurks beneath the surface; what the Capitol, what Panem, sees. Seneca is good to the Gamemakers, including myself. He's good about taking criticism and learning from his mistakes, he takes our efforts into account and ensures we receive due credit. But he has Lucius' efficiency. He knows how to work his Arena, like an artist with a paintbrush; it's his canvas, and he's ever so giddy and eccentric in bringing it to life. But that's also a great hindrance of his. He's often blind to the greater image, as well as the things which occur in his personal life and his little fantasies.

And it seems Cicero is also oblivious to his son's affairs.

"You went to District 4 again, Seneca?" Cicero asks.

I inhale slowly, pretending to be very invested in the holographic screen as the two Tributes from District 12 interlock their hands and raise them high above, as the crowd below them burst into a roar of cheers. My eyes are faced forward, but my ears are strained to catch the conversation between Seneca and his father. People are far more inclined to carry on conversations when they think the third party is oblivious to it, otherwise occupied with something else or just disinterested.

I've gotten very good at being a shadow to conversations.

"I did, father. I felt I needed the break," Seneca says. Out from the corner of my eye, I can tell he's straightened out his back. Judging by his tone, this isn't a new subject matter between them, and I can already tell he is bracing for something else. "We were a week ahead of schedule for the Games. Weren't we, Plutarch?"

"Yes, sir, we were," I say, raising my glass of brandy to my lips. It tastes metallic like liquified gold.

Cicero glances between the two of us with clear disapproval, then lands his gaze upon his son. "You know, it's not uncommon for young men to...experiment in life, Seneca. God knows, I certainly had my fair share of women in the past, including Victors, but I set all of that silliness aside when I married your mother - out of respect. I assumed when you married Ithaca, these affairs would stop."

Seneca smiles coolly, appearing uncomfortable, but also clearly struggling to find a way to effectively silence the man without upsetting him. He looks like a chastised child hastily trying to come up with an excuse. I broke the window because...I stole that cookie because...that sort of nonsense. The Head Gamemaker takes a very long and deliberate breath to steady himself. "As Head Gamemaker, I am entitled to certain luxuries others are not. For example, exclusivity to a highly esteemed Victor. It's a reflection on my status, father," he says.

Cicero looks far from convinced. "I believe the mother of your children ought to take priority."

"And she does," Seneca replies, voice strained.

"Distractions can jeopardize a career, Seneca. Be careful," Cicero says.

"Ceresea is far from a distraction, father. I assure you," Seneca says. "I'm still not opposed to introducing you -"

"Don't bother," Cicero scoffs. "Watching you wet your wick in District 4 while your wife stays dutifully behind to tend to your house and children is bad enough, but to meet the woman and pretend all of this is so normal, all the while behind your wife's back, is another matter entirely."

At that, Seneca goes quiet, and averts his eyes. I slowly bring my gaze from the holograph to the Head Gamemaker, watching him shrink like a child beneath his father's stare. His eyes remain downward with a hunched back, looking thoroughly defeated. Then he lifts his pale blue eyes to mine, realizes he is being stared at, and shoots promptly to his feet. Now he stands tall over Cicero.

"There's a reason I'm Head Gamemaker and you're disgraced, father," he says, sharply. "I assure you, six years of a successful career has not been hindered by my dalliances with a Victor. If anything, I believe it has strengthened my resolve, by providing an insight into the head of someone who has survived the Arena. The Tributes are the bones of our Arena, while the Victor is the heart. Now, I suggest you get out. My wife and I will see you tonight, after the Unity Gala."

Cicero's eyes narrow. "Of course, son," he says, coldly. "We'll be there."

"Good. You are excused, father."

My eyes remain forward, though I watch from the corner of my eye as Cicero Crane grabs the solid gold cane beside him and brings himself to his feet. He barely spares his son a second glance before he walks off, with his small gaggle of staff members behind him; all elegantly dressed, personally hired by Seneca himself to tend to his ailing, though still healing, father.

Once Cicero is out of sight, I turn to the Head Gamemaker. "You alright, sir?" I ask.

"Yeah...yes. Yes, Plutarch, I'm fine," Seneca says, raking a hand over his face. "I'm sorry you had to see that. As Head Gamemaker, I try to keep myself composed. You must think I'm very foolish."

"Not at all, sir. You're still only human," I say. "And not to change the subject, sir, but you do have your interview with Caesar Flickerman to prepare for."

"Yes, I know. Right...to business," Seneca sighs. "The Careers are typical. Nothing really to note there, very standard examples of volunteering for the duty and honor of their respective District - it's almost a cliche at this point, if they weren't so damn good at providing entertaining performances. And the Tribute Parades for them were normal, I suppose. But this...this is interesting."

"A Volunteer from an outlying District is always interesting," I say. "Especially given an entrance like that."

Seneca nods, regarding the screen with a strategic eye. "But why she Volunteered...for her sister. It's moving," he says. "Well, more so cinematic. A backwater girl from District 12 Volunteers to save her younger sister's life. That is the kind of compelling storytelling that can make or break an Arena, Plutarch."

"I don't disagree."

There's a reason District 12 is backwater. The last time a Tribute won from District 12 hadn't reflected too well on the President or his Gamemakers. I seem to recall the Head Gamemaker at that time met an equally interesting fate, more so than just an early retirement. But this is a piece of history that is burrowed so deep it's beyond a rotting corpse, and, certainly, Seneca Crane, even despite all of his bookish studies and intense training to be Head Gamemaker, would be oblivious to it. As it should be.

I raise my chin.

The Capitol might just root for this strange girl from this poor District, whose cause is arguably purer than most Tributes - not for the glory and honor of Panem, not for victory or riches, not for the pride of their District, but for something more personal. Katniss Everdeen has stationed herself as a human shield to protect her sister, now she has to be a sword.

"What do you think?" I ask.

"I think it could make mine," Seneca says, "if we play it right."

"She's not the first Tribute to go into the Games for a family member," I say, watching a dull flush fill Seneca's cheeks. "It's not original."

"But it is distinct," Seneca argues.

"Who knows," I say, "maybe she'll win and next year her sister will be Reaped again. Gloss and Cashmere Royce, but make it District 12."

"I am always inclined to appreciate your levity, Plutarch, but your jokes are occasionally inappropriate," Seneca says. "The girl probably won't last long, the lower Districts never do. My guess is, she'll make it one or two days - maybe get some Sponsors sympathetic to her cause - but she'll die, in the end. Probably by one of the Careers, if she's lucky. That big guy from District 9 looks like he could knock some heads in...so, who knows? We have interesting qualifiers this year."

"Certainly promising, sir," I say.

Seneca shrugs. "Anything to note at all?" he inquires, changing the subject. "For my interview, I mean."

"You don't need my input, sir. You know what you're doing," I say, smiling.

"I do," Seneca replies, quickly. "Still, I value your opinion, Plutarch. You're my second in command for a reason."

"For that I'm honored and flattered. But still, there's a reason you're Head Gamemaker," I say, smiling over my brandy. "But...I wouldn't think too much into it. Just tell them what they want to hear, that you have a good crop of Tributes this year, and a promising Games ahead. We already know that's true. Lucia's been working on those new Muttations for six months now and they're to complete perfection. And I, well, I've been working on the technical aspect of the Arena. We're in good hands with not just our team but the support of Panem. They love you."

"And you're sure a forest isn't too overdone?" Seneca asks. "Last year was the ruins of a city -"

"Can never go wrong with the classics," I say. "Besides, we need to save our wild cards for next year. Quarter-Quell and all."

"And next year, my sons want to be involved," Seneca says, shaking his head. "Maybe they can be. Five isn't too young, is it?"

"If children can be Reaped at twelve, I think children can start Gamemaking at five. Seems reasonable," I say, and Seneca simply nods, oblivious to the comical hypocrisy. "Was there anything else you needed, sir?"

"Just your opinions, Plutarch. But I think it's all settled now," Seneca replies. "You may go. I'm sure you have other things to attend to."

"Well, you know as well as I do that the Games never really end," I say. "The work carries on."

"As it should," Seneca says, with a tired smile. "Luckily we have our outlets, don't we?"

We most certainly do, though mine are of a more treasonous nature than that of Seneca Crane's. At least for now.

---

Ceres.

---

"Cinna really put on a spectacle."

Across the room, adding the final adjustments to my dress on a velvet white mannequin, my Stylist smiles. Galeria Lovecraft, who has been my Stylist since the beginning, when I had just been a mere Tribute, looks back at me. Her dark blue lips twist into a smile, reflecting a small measure of mischief. Some Victors can go through multiple different Stylists throughout their careers, for varying reasons. Mags' Stylist died about ten years after she won, then others either retired, passed away, or just fell between the cracks. For others like my dad, they just quit, due to creative differences.

Meanwhile, I've been one of the few lucky ones to have kept the same one. Granted, my career as a Victor has only been six years long, which is a rathe small amount of time compared to my colleagues. Sure, the offer has been presented to me to "upgrade" to a more in-fashion and popular Stylist before, including one who had worked with Gemma Lux in her prime, but I've turned them all away. It would technically boost my appearance and popularity to be wearing something from someone more current and popular, but I'm not interested in any of that pomp. After all, who the hell am I trying to impress?

Aside from recruiting Sponsors and maintaining a favorable appearance by staying out of trouble and playing up to the cameras, I have no reason to woo Capitolians. As Seneca Crane's exclusive companion, there's nothing I need to prove or show off. Wearing something that makes me desirable or catch attention is unnecessary. I already have Seneca's full undivided affections, anyway. I'm not exactly in danger of losing them. And, most importantly, Galeria is my friend. She had shown me compassion when I had been a Tribute and had been there for me after I won. While others were congratulating me, Galeria had sat beside me and asked how I was, had looked out for me. It's something I'll never forget. It's a rare kind of loyalty that I'd be stupid to overlook, much less replace.

Thankfully, the feeling is mutual. I've asked Galeria a few times if she's ever wanted to move on from being my Stylist to pursue a broader career out in the city, by opening a shop or even finding a new Tribute, but she's always shaken her head, smirked at me, and told me I'm her sole muse. In all honesty, I think I'd lose it a little more than I already have if I lost my friend and confidant. At least with Galeria I can be mostly honest. I try not to say too much around her, knowing words (especially words against the Capitol) can be dangerous.

Still, it's nice to have an ear who understands.

Swiveling the mannequin around to test out the spin on the dress, Galeria assesses the quality of my gown, and then looks up at the screen against the wall of my dressing room, showing close-up footage of Tributes' clothes. The camera pays very specific attention to District 12, as does everyone else; the trail of fire being left behind is met with an uproar of yells and cheers. "Not bad for his first Games," she says. "He didn't tell me a thing about it. I always knew he was crazy, but...I never imagined he was that crazy. Even if those kids die, they're going to be remembered."

"And him by proxy," I add, grabbing the sash around my waist and idly fiddling with it between my fingers.

I'm wearing a robe to conceal my modesty whilst Galeria finalizes the adjustments on my dress. The rest of my team - Turquoise Acker, Dion Star, and Vesta Clio - have already completed my hair and makeup, before they'd been sent away so Galeria could dress me. As they had gotten me ready, though, they'd giddily babbled on about the success of the Tribute Parade, exaggerating just how well my Tributes had done. Neither Kipper nor Marina had left an enormous impression on the crowd, though. Their costumes were subpar at best and their demeanors were stiff and uncomfortable. But I know that they were just trying to be supportive and kind, and the sentiment did mean something to me. I'm just comforted by the fact that things aren't over yet. The Tribute Parade had just been the first step.

My Tributes can prove themselves with their scores, their general appearances, performing to the Gamemakers, and their eventual places in the Arena. There's still a chance for them to make an impression. But, in any case, I doubt it'll even be a shadow compared to what District 12 did for the Tribute Parade alone. I suppose time will have to tell what kind of impact they'll leave for the rest of the affairs, including the Interview. The girl, Katniss, was certainly brazen and stoic, given how she had spoken to me before the Parade. I wonder if she'll carry herself with the same demeanor on stage. The boy, Peeta, was more welcoming and kindly, which could bode well for him.

I shake my head. One way or another, they'll be remembered, but they aren't my Tributes to think about...hopefully Haymitch has come to his senses, though. More than likely he'll be piss drunk at the Unity Gala. If he knows what's good for him, he'll get himself together for the rest of the events. After all, he has an impressive pair of Tributes who've already gained a head start. It'd be a shame if he cost them for the rest.

"He called District 12 his muse," I say. "He said he requested them."

"Sounds right," Galeria says, nodding. "He's odd that way. His mind is different."

"What do you mean?"

"He sees things we don't," she elaborates. "We see coal, just this black piece of rock from the earth that gets things messy and coats your lungs. He saw fire. It's warm, beautiful, and dangerous."

"I think all Stylists need to be odd," I say. "Including you."

"Thank you," she replies, without hesitation. "That's the kindest thing anyone's ever said to me. So, enough stalling. Let's get you dressed?"

I smile. Despite the hell I endure in the Capitol and all the horrible things that are going to transpire, I can safely say one of the few good things about this place is my Stylist. She's strange, to be sure, but so am I. Pushing myself out of the chair in front of a huge mirror lined with lights, I face my dress in full. It really is beautiful - everything Galeria makes for me is. The dress is a mermaid cut, relatively tight around the bodice and lower half of my body, get expands into an elegant skirt around my knees, the skirt resembling waves in how it moves.

The fabric is a soft shade of blue, transitioning into a deep sea green along the skirt, with dots of silver to resemble stars across its surface. I am willing to bet they take on the form of constellations when looked closer at, an added detail that could otherwise be overlooked, but it makes me smile. the top of the dress has a slight V-shape, allowing for some of my cleavage to be visible, but it's a modest amount. There are no sleeves, just a strap on my right side that drapes elegantly over my shoulder, with nothing on the left; an instance where my gown proudly exposes my loss during the Games, also the pinnacle of my strength and resilience. Around the waist, a long skirt of tulle hangs in pale and dark blues, with shimmers of soft greens and coral pinks, trailing behind me.

There are some coral pearl earrings, as well with a matching necklace; a perfect ivory seashell hanging at its center.

"It's beautiful," I say.

I blush a little as I remove my robe and as Galeria casually begins to dress me. I always feel a little awkward and insecure during this part, particularly conscious of my body and figure and just how vulnerable I am, but Galeria pays it no mind. The body to her is simply a blank canvas to be metaphorically painted upon. She moves meticulously, helping me into the dress, and smoothing it over on me without any pause.

"Is Cinna still a headache?" I wonder, as she adjusts the laces on the back of my dress.

"Oh, always," Galeria laughs, the sound lofty and strange with her Capitolian accent. "He is to all of us now. I doubt any of us are going to be able to top that spectacle for, at least, another decade."

"It was creative," I say, making a soft hissing noise as she cinches the laces at my back.

Galeria makes a low apologetic sound. "With respect, I could've done better for Kipper and Marina. Those costumes..." she shakes her head, appearing almost melancholic over the memory. It's still a fresh wound, for the both of us. "If I'd had the chance or authority to review those designs, I would've burned them immediately. I had no influence over those monstrosities, trust me."

I laugh. "They can still come back from it. The interview, remember?"

"I may have to have a strong conversation with their Stylists, if I get the chance," she huffs. "Those sweet things deserve better. God, they looked like the ocean threw up on them..." She and I laugh together at that. "Okay, let's talk your interview tonight. What are you planning on saying?"

"Aside from obviously reviewing the atrocities of their costumes, just the usual," I say, finding myself hesitating despite the small bit of levity. "I have a moral dilemma with advertising my Tributes. I...know I shouldn't. It's been six years, it should be easier, but it's still hard."

"Six years is hardly any time at all. Cut yourself some slack," Galeria replies. "Fake it till you make it."

"I do that on a regular basis," I say, pausing. "Especially with Seneca."

I feel Galeria pause behind me as she's adjusting the trail of tulle fabric, then I hear her start to laugh. It's a low sound, but it's there, and that makes me smile a little. "I feel guilty for laughing," she says, even as I can still hear it in her voice. "It is a serious plight."

"Go ahead. Laughing is the only liberty I have over that situation," I say. "I think laughing takes away something's power."

"Indeed, it does. Now, the interview..."

"I'm going to share my faith in my Tributes and their capabilities. I'm going to smile and maybe crack a few jokes, since Caesar just loves to laugh," I say. "And then, if I'm feeling up to it, I'll make a charming plea to Sponsors, but not too desperate."

"Not too desperate," Galeria says, nodding. "I like it. Okay, do a spin for me."

I do so.

"Perfect, you look perfect," she says. "Go look in the mirror for me."

Turning around, I walk carefully towards the table with the large light-lined window, taking in my reflection. I'm wearing a pair of tall coral colored heels, designed like fish scales along the material, so I have a couple of extra inches on my usually short stature. I take in my reflection, noting how the dress does well to hug my body properly, without being too revealing, and how beautifully it shimmers when I shift in it. The fabric moves just so, reminding me of gentle waves against the shore. My long dark brown hair is curled and hangs loosely down my back, with some strands framing my face.

The makeup isn't too overdone, but does well to accentuate my features. There's a soft pale blue highlighter along my cheeks, to bring out my dark blue eyes, which are carefully lined with a glittery black liner and a fine mix of sea-green and coral pink eye shadows. My lips are colored a matte deep shade almost resembling purple. Upon my head rests a silver bejeweled crown, with various pearls strung around them, and a silver crescent moon at its center; reflecting the moonlight inspired dress Galeria had made for me during my own Tribute Parade. I look nice.

"You've outdone yourself."

"You say that every year."

"Well, I mean it."

"You should see my other designs," Galeria chuckles, reaching over to open a drawer, and withdrawing some pieces of paper from it. "Rheon's Stylist suggested we do a theme...a fish theme, if you can believe it. She wanted you to be a damned lionfish."

She lays the drawings down on top of the vanity. I peer down at them. The way some of the drawings are smudged remind of Liber's journals and the pages pages of his own designs in them, making me wonder if, in another life, he would have gotten along with Galeria. Maybe he could have found a life in building like he wanted, forging his own designs from the ground up; a true craftsman. But he won't. He never will. He's dead and his body was sent out to sea in a little boat, then set aflame; he became one with the sea. The memory of it makes me shudder, so I try to focus on Galeria's exquisite drawings and designs. They are stunning, though the design of a lionfish dress at the top does make me pause to sigh with relief. I'm glad I won't ever have to wear it.

"Who's working with my dad now?" I ask.

This would be my dad's seventh or eighth replacement, I think, since he won his Games over two decades ago. The Stylist that had been assigned to my dad for his Games had quit immediately after his Victory Tour, under the pretense that my dad was difficult to work with and his lack of popularity wasn't at all boosting the career of the Stylist in question. I can't fault that logic. It's just bad business. Since then, my dad's gone through, I think, three other Stylists - a rotating door of people who try to come in to make him nice outfits that stand out, get him to cooperate with their plans and for events, and struggle to collaborate with fellow District 4 Stylists when everyone knows damn well that Rheon will slam a wedge into something. He's too damn stubborn for his own good, much like me, I guess.

Galeria leans back against the glossy black table. "I think her name is Beatrix. I'm not sure," she says. "I know she's worked on other Tributes before and maybe a small handful of Victors, but nothing spectacular or lengthy. Honestly, she was probably only hired as a last stitch effort. Another spin for me, please, this time the other way." I do so and she nods. "The other Stylists hated her idea, too, thankfully. But I think she still committed to giving your father a fish inspired outfit, just to be petty."

I scoff. "He's going to love that," I say. "You know Beatrix is going to quit after this year, right?"

"I'd be disappointed if she didn't," Galeria says. "It's entertaining how many Stylists Rheon goes through. Soon enough the man will be dressing himself."

"It's a shame my Games didn't flop the way his dead," I say. "He's been able to dodge quite a few bullets."

"For what it's worth, I've always liked your dad's Games," Galeria says. "I was impressed by him."

I chuckle and look back at my reflection, swaying a little so I can see the little silver dots across my dress twinkle. "Constellations," I murmur.

She nods, pleased. "I thought it'd be a nice addition," she says. "When the ocean is still enough, the stars reflect like a mirror...but when the water shifts, they're blurry, but no less there. If I may, you look a little wistful."

"It's nothing. I was just thinking about a time I was in a boat, staring at the stars," I say. "It was a long time ago."

Galeria smiles knowingly. "I think stars tell stories," she says. "They've seen everything, after all, even the darkest, most secrets parts of this world. Wearing them is a nice rebellion, isn't it?" Before I have a chance to question her about her strange remark, she claps her hands together and beams at me. "Alright, gorgeous. Let's get you to the gala."

---

Cameras flash and voices roar in admiration, demanding attentions, and outcries of excitement fill the room. The Unity Gala is more than just the Victors gathering together to negotiate and impress potential Sponsors over fancy food and music, it's also a performance - as everything revolving around the Games is. Before we reach the ball itself, the Victors go through a huge open room lit with golden lights and paparazzi carefully positioned all around, and important people waiting behind the lines and guards, to admire the incredible costumes made up for the event. Victors pose, smile, blow kisses, and wave to their patrons, all the while flaunting their clothes. The opening to the museum in question is an open floorplan with a large statue of a young President Snow standing at the center to greet the visitors, with a golden chandelier hung over his head; bejeweled with diamonds and subtle rose designs within the gold.

Behind the statue there are two connected sets of staircases, which curl together. There are several doors and hallways on the lower level that lead to interesting parts of the museum itself, but they're all blocked off and filled with important and rich Capitolians who paid to be inside, along with the paparazzi. The upstairs is equally as interesting, but most of the displays have been moved to make room for the Gala. At the very top of the stairs, standing at the center, is Caesar Flickerman with a microphone and hidden cameras all carefully placed towards him, covering the entire event. One by one, Victors who are done posing on the stairs go to speak with him, for the brief period of time they have, before they are led to the ballroom where the Unity Gala is hosted; where all the potential Sponsors will be.

Currently, Gloss and Cashmere are being interviewed together, both playing to the cameras and presenting a strong front together. Typically, Victors are interviewed separately, but for the family connections there's leeway given. My dad and I have been interviewed together before, actually. In the early years of my Victor career, I let him do the talking, but I've since developed my voice and confidence in promoting my Tributes, despite my moral dilemma against it. And I always feel sick afterwards.

But my dad and I won't be doing the interview together, I think, because I'm on one side of the staircase and my dad is on the other, posing with a couple of the older Victors - including Beetee Latier and Gemma Lux. Just like Galeria said, my dad's outfit is very much fish themed. He's technically just wearing a regular suit, with long pants, a blazer, a tie, and a well-to-do button down shit. But every piece of the outfit, save for his plain grey shirt, are made up of the same material; a strange coarse looking dark grey fabric liked with brown stripes, with a subtle shimmer. It's like how the sunlight reflects on a shark underneath the water, a tiger shark specifically. At least, that's my guess. Why else would the Stylist have included the stripes? Also, the fact that there's a pronounced dorsal fin on my dad's back, protruding outward against his suit.

I'm just glad Galeria and the other Stylists talked Beatrix out of a theme for all of us.

As for me, I'm standing at the top of the stairs, looking out across the crowd of cameras, in a sea of flashes and cheers and questions and demands for poses, to be looked at, and smiles. I accommodate to the best of my ability, turning myself around so my dress can be seen at every angle, knowing that it is truly a beautiful one, and, honestly, I may as well at least try. Just because we were most definitely showed up by District 12 doesn't mean the effort shouldn't still be there. I just keep smiling. Some Victors occasionally approach me to greet me, hug me, and then we pose together - presenting a united front, exactly what the Capitol likes to see.

When it came to Johanna when she arrived, the girl barely stood and posed at all. While Blight played along and kept his demeanor, she stood tensely, and then stormed up the stairs, passed Caesar, and straight to, no doubt, the drinks. I cast Blight a sympathetic smile as he passed me by. I can't say the interactions between the two surprised me, though. However, what did surprise me was seeing Haymitch Abernathy mostly sober, making his way up the stairs without stumbling. His long hair hung in his somber face, but his clothing was actually quite put together. He wore a black suit that reflected cinders in a fireplace, glittering against the lights above us, and his vest underneath was bright orange. And, despite his evident discomforts, he actually managed to pose for some pictures and even seemed to maintain himself during his interview, as short as it was.

As I pose and smile, the crowd lets out an unholy roar, mostly feminine, and I turn to peer over my shoulder at the bottom of the stairs. Walking through the large two-story tall archway, I watch as Finnick waltzes in an almost sultry fashion across the open space, looking exactly as I'd imagined he would; a pure sex symbol. All around me, women begin to scream. Countless hands reach out over the guards and barriers in an effort to reach out to him.

The Capitol darling, fashionably late as per usual.

Finnick's clothes leave very little to the imagination. He's wearing a sleeveless, open-chested robe made up of a translucent fabric that begins a deep shade of blue and fades out into a silver, shimmering like ocean water as it trails behind him. Beneath, his chest is fully bare, unveiling his tanned perfection and chiseled muscles, which catch the light just right, and drag every eye in the building onto him. He's wearing a black leather choker around his neck, morbidly reminding me of a collar, with a long necklace made up of shark teeth hung low, dangling between his pectorals. He's wearing tight black leather pants that leave very little to the imagination, with a subtle blue sheen. His silver boots with a scale-like pattern - making me wonder if it was made up of a truly exotic creature - ride up mid-calf. Around his wrists are impressive silver bracelets that coil up to his elbow, accentuating his toned arms.

Finnick stands at the base of the stairs, waving to his peers, smirking and winking, keeping true to his persona. But when he looks up, I see something new in his face, a quietly stunned moment accompanied by wide eyes. It lasts only briefly, so quick that I could've blinked and missed it, but I did see it. And, feeling my face turn red as I turn my body to face him, I know he's staring up at me. There's awe in his eyes, making my face and neck go a little darker, despite myself. I can practically feel Galeria smirking, if she knew.

I decide to wait at the top of the stairs, continuing to pose and feeling my heart race a little faster the closer Finnick gets, even though I know there's nothing I can do about it. But the closeness is all I need, just the feeling of him beside me.

"You clean up well," Finnick says, in his swarthy Capitolian voice.

I bite back the urge to roll my eyes...but I just let it go. I don't mind if the Capitol thinks I'm annoyed by Finnick Odair - in part because, yeah, there's some truth to it - but mostly because it's a good front. It's a performance, just like everything going on under this roof. "Don't you own a shirt?" I retaliate.

"I'm just giving the people what they want," he replies, blowing a deliberate kiss towards a set of photographers who nearly drop their cameras. "You know, I think they want us to pose together. We are District 4's youngest Tributes, after all."

"Right. The youngest Victor ever and the one who lost her arm," I say, brow arching. "What an iconic picture."

But I catch the hidden aspect to it, even if no one else does. The Capitol will enjoy group photos of Victors standing alongside each other, from mutual Districts or separate, and they enjoy anything that has Finnick it. More so than that, though, this is a rare instance where we're allowed to be close to each other, all the while playing it up to the camera and it going over everyone's heads. Finnick moves closer to me and wraps his arm around my waist, while his free hand reaches up and waves to the crowd, deliberately flexing his muscles in a relatively discreet way, but definitely deliberate enough to garner swoons and cries. I feel him gently squeeze my hip, causing me to shiver a little.

I nod and wave back to the crowd, demanding Finnick pose more, for him to smile, for him to open his already very much open robe even more. From the other staircase, I notice my dad look over at us, but I don't care to look back in full. If his expression is disapproving or otherwise, I don't care. He currently has his own arm around Gemma Lux - and Beetee, too, technically, but still - so I can't really give him any credit to his potential judgments.

Down below, I hear a new cry, and the paparazzi let out eager rumbles.

"Head Gamemaker, over here!" someone shouts.

Finnick's grip on my waist tightens, subtly pulling me closer to him. I can feel the way his body tenses against mine, though his expression remains ever charming and flirtatious as he eyes the rest of the crowd, never once sparing a glance down below. But I do. I look briefly away from the cameras to look down, even for a fleeting second. Sure enough, Seneca Crane has entered the foyer, crossing the threshold with his wife at his arm, and his two sons on his other side. I look away before I can even take in their attires, bringing my focus back to the cameras I promptly smile for, trying to distract myself as I can practically feel the Crane family getting closer. I don't know which staircase they'll take.

No doubt they'll stop and pose and smile and answer questions, but I can't shake the terrible feeling of Seneca stopping to say hello to me, or, worse yet, having to take a picture with him. I doubt this would happen, since Seneca is moderately good about maintaining distance at such affairs when his wife is present, but who's to say? After the talk we had when he visited District 4, anything is possible. He's crossing boundaries, even hypothetically, that should never have been treaded into to begin with.

I pull away from Finnick, leaving him there to continue to pose and smile to the cameras, as he carries on singularly, and rise up the rest of the stairs. Caesar flags me down and, unfortunately, my dad is also there. Great. I guess I'm doing this interview dually.

"There she is!" Caesar says, smiling toothily. I'm almost blinded by just how white his teeth are against his orange skin and the bright lights surrounding us. "A nice family interview, just the way I like it! Ceres, tell us, how are you doing tonight?"

"Wonderfully, Caesar. It's such an incredible evening to top of an equally incredible Parade," I say. I practiced every possible word in the mirror today, while my team got me ready. I look up at my dad, smiling. "And getting to spend it with my old man makes it better, of course."

"Hey!" Rheon says, with a strategically placed fatherly smile.

"An oldie but a goodie, to be sure," Caesar cackles. "Both of you look absolutely incredible. Frankly, it's hard to spot the showstopper for this Unity Gala."

"Well, you always outshine us, anyway, Caesar. We can never keep up with your fabulous suits," I say, playing to the man's vanity.

It works. He cackles again. "I love it!" he says. "Now, in all seriousness, you both have a very interesting set of Tributes this year. Can you give us any details on what we can expect this year?"

Rheon licks his lips. "Well, we can't reveal too much, of course - a Victor must maintain some secrets - but we can promise some pretty impressive skills this year," he says. "A few critics have noted that our Tributes, especially Kipper Estuary, are a little on the young side. But who're they to judge, when District 4 has the youngest Victor of all time? Finnick Odair won his Games when he was fourteen, despite the odds. Who's to say it can't happen again?"

It always amazes me how soft-spoken and quiet my father is on a usual basis, defaulting to his cool demeanor on a good day, but he manages to find his voice for affairs such as these. I think back to my father fishing with me before the Reaping, when we'd stood in comfortable silence with scarcely three words spoken between us. My father had looked wistful as he stared across the word, as well as deeply melancholic. Sure, his expression is serious now and he's certainly not exuding charisma, but he is speaking plainly, in such a way that gets the point across, and will catch the attentions of Sponsors.

Despite my wish to say otherwise, I know he's right. Although we're still early in the Games, there have been people who've already spoken negatively about our Tributes for being too young, Kipper especially. When we have twelve-year-old's standing against well-trained eighteen-year-old Careers, it's hard to root for the former. But still, bringing Finnick into the narrative proves a point, and creates a positive association. Even Caesar's brow arches at it, looking both impressed and also intrigued.

"District 4 certainly breeds sturdy stock," Caesar says, then looks pointedly at me.

"Sometimes our disadvantages are what give us our strongest moments," I say. "I feel very confident in our Tributes, Caesar. Marina is quite strong and well-handed in weaponry, while Kipper is clever and swift. The ocean is a dangerous beast all of its own and our District has learned to co-exist with it and all that lies within. Despite how young our Tributes may be, they're ready to face the dangers. After all, they pale in comparison to the apex predators we see in the water; sharks and the like."

"Your confidence in your Tributes is just contagious, both of you," Caesar says, with a feigned gasp. "It must run in the family."

My dad wraps his arm around me and squeezes me to his side. Even the fabric of his suit is coarse like sandpaper, resembling shark skin. I guess Beatrix understood the assignment.

"Indeed it does, Caesar," Rheon says.

"Well, I won't keep you. We still have an incredible party to partake in!" he says. "But thank you as always for your time and sharing your wonderful family dynamic with us. Truly, an incredible thing it is for a father and daughter to share, the unity of being Victors. How incredible!"

My father kisses my head and I smile, and he leads me away with his arm still hooked around my shoulders. It isn't until we're led through the archway leading into the ballroom that he pulls away from me. The ballroom the museum uses for the Unity Gala is a large open room with three huge chandeliers spread across the vast expanse of space. There are countless glass cased displays meticulously placed around the marble floored room, with finely trimmed walls adorned with countless portraits of past Victors and politicians, mostly President Snow, of course, and statues all around.

Within the glass displays there are countless items of past Victors; mostly deceased. Typically, a Victor isn't immortalized in the museum until they're dead or half-dead, but there are a handful of Victors popular enough and still living to be immortalized here. Finnick included. The trident he used for his Games is here within the museum - well, technically. It's a replica, but it's so close to Finnick's actual trident it doesn't even matter - and it is presented as the real deal. (Snow gave Finnick the real one, to remember what he did during the Games.) There was once a time I would have wanted something of mine placed in this museum, but now I view it as a tomb of lost innocence.

Around the room there are countless tables of food, rows upon rows of it, and there are circular tables, too, where people sit together and drink and make merry. Staff members holding glasses of champagne glide across the room. Cameras flash and laughter resounds around us. Victors mingle with important political figures and the wealthy hierarchy who pose as prominent candidates for Sponsors. And after the last batch of Victors have arrived, Caesar will join the party, where he will drink, eat, and laugh, before interviewing the Sponsors to ask about their options, interests, and so forth.

Beside me, Rheon sighs. "It's bigger this year," he says, looking down at me. He lifts his hands, moving them so casually the words almost don't exist. 'You okay?'

During large affairs such as these, my fellow Tributes from District 4 will communicate with our hands, in the language Mags made for us after she lost her voice. It's an easy and efficient way to communicate between each other without speaking a single word, and no one else understands, not even our fellow Victors.

I nod. "I'm going to go mingle."

"As will I," Rheon sighs again.

I go onward, finding a gaggle of Victors to blend in with, and socializing idly with potential Sponsors. The whole affair is honestly quite dull and boring, but I do manage to find a handful of people who express interest in my Tributes - I weave a fine narrative to them, and they seem to take it in appreciatively. I then move on and do the same all over again. All the while, as I move through the ballroom, I make a very, very deliberate effort to avoid any measure of proximity to Seneca and his family. Luckily, they seem to be keeping mostly together, so I haven't run the risk of running into them individually. I do, however, spare occasional glances in their direction. This is the first time I'm seeing his family out together like this, excluding the instances they've been on the television. Typically, Seneca arrives to the Unity Gala alone or with his wife, so it's curious he has his sons in tow, too.

Seneca himself is dressed, I guess, to impress. His black hair is slicked back and his beard is cut into its typical angular shape. He's wearing a white jacket lined with black, though the back half trails down to his feet in a rare instance of exaggerated flair I rarely see in Seneca's clothes, as he usually despises theatric Capitolain fashion. He tends to keep things simplistic, as one can in this place. Beneath his shirt is a black button shit with an ivory tie lined with purple. His trousers are a deep shade of red, with a pair of ivory shoes to match. Perpetually at his arm as the dutiful wife, Ithaca Crane presents grace and elegance. She's wearing a long red velvet gown with billowing sleeves lined with lavender, with a vast array of jewels around her neck and laced throughout her lavender dyed hair, which is done up in a high bun. Her belly is pronounced against the fabric, with jewels creating a circle around it.

Seneca's two sons are wearing suits similar to their father, but don't seem as engaged as their parents. In typical five-year-old fashion, they seem bored.

And I avoid them.

Thankfully, Seneca has been occupied socializing with Victors and important figures, introducing his wife and sons to all of them, and has seemingly never once sought me out with his eyes. At least he's being intelligent on that front. I carry on, alternating between socializing with potential Sponsors and my fellow Victors, and occasionally visiting the food table. The food is outrageous this year, all types of exotic platters all across the white silken laid tables, and the platters keep coming. One after the other, seemingly every twenty or so minutes. I try not to think about how just a quarter of this food could make such a difference to one District. If I overthink it, I'll get angry.

Whilst making my rounds, I encounter Gloss, who's staring at a display case showing off the axe of a deceased Victor from District 2; it was never cleaned, so the blood of the Tributes, and even chunks of their skin and bones, lingers along the weapon, mummified. Gloss is wearing a high-necked glossy black shirt, with a bulky coat overtop of it; a deep shade of blue, burgundy underneath and golden buttons and creamy yellow lining. His fingers are adorned with all types of rings and his trousers are glittering. Similarly, across the room, Cashmere is wearing a dress with the same materials, though it's low cut, of course, with a large slit along the side exposing a great deal of her leg. And she's wearing countless amounts of jewels, including an enormous tiara with, doubtless, dozens of rubies crafted into it.

I was just going to walk by the man, but he stops me. "Garnett told me about possibly allying with your Tributes. I told him no."

"Yeah, well, I figured," I say. "Cashmere already covered bases with me."

"I figured I'd reiterate it," Gloss says. "I don't want any misconceptions."

"Of course. Your Tributes plan on killing mine, I get it," I say. "And by misconceptions, I assume you mean Garnett implying interest?"

"More so how Rheon and Gemma have been," Gloss says, shrugging. "I noticed them spend a lot of time talking before the Parade."

"I noticed, too," I say, trying to play it calmly, even though I'm internally fuming again. "Odd, right?"

"Not necessarily odd," Gloss says. "But I don't approve."

"My dad is married."

"It has less to do with the sanctity of marriage and more so how those kinds of relationships can blind us, and also create unnecessary bias," Gloss replies.

I try not to wince regarding Gloss' statement. I've certainly called my parents' marriage into question more times than I can count, but it's still jarring to me that, even despite the fact they live so divided now, that my dad's eyes would trail to someone else - a fellow Victor, no less. It doesn't escape me just how damn hypocritical that is, too. All the instances he's ridiculed my relationship with Finnick, and he has the gall to have interested eyes towards another Victor.

Then again, I could be wrong. It could be entirely platonic, just two Victors who are roughly the same age finding common grounds in insanity. It happens. But if Gloss is noticing this, as well, there has to be more to it.

"Keep a leash on your father," Gloss says. "I'd hate for Gemma to lose her focus, especially given how promising our Tributes are this year."

"That's a bit of a double standard, don't you think, Gloss? Maybe you should tell Gemma to keep away from my dad if you're so worried about it." Behind me, there's a small round of cheers and prominent ooh's and aww's. "Just a thought."

I turn to face the noise, wondering if maybe some more people have arrived to join the festivities, or if one of the Victors did an abrupt and surprising outfit change - not necessarily a surprise there, there are often outfits concealed beneath the other outfits, for the purpose of presentation. But what I am met with is a huge silver platter having to be carried by six people, three on either side, and even then they seem to be struggling. There's a small round of applause as the absurd platter of food is brought to a hastily cleared table, which doesn't look big enough to support the abnormally thing thing. I peer over the crowd, curiosity enticing me now, but once I catch sight of the thing in question, my heart and thoughts stop. Atop the huge platter is a cooked crocodile.

Its body, aside from its head, which has been pried ajar and filled with various types of fruit, has been skinned, exposing the pink colored meat. Garnishes and fancy greenery are laid out beneath the body of the, honestly small, crocodile, whose lifeless eyes stare off into nothing. His ajar mouth is stuffed full, but its teeth are still very much visible. Teeth. The head is perfectly intact, a shade of dulled green with its wicked smile unchanged. It's significantly smaller than the crocodile Muttations I faced in my Arena, as well as a drastically different color, but still...the appearance of it, that jaw, all give me immediate pause. I haven't seen a crocodile since then, not even in the open waters of the ocean where they sometimes appear.

This crocodile is dead, though. Its body is flayed and cooked and it's garnished and it's clearly dead, but all I can see is that open maw stuffed with fruit and picture myself in its place. In my head, I'm back in that clear water after Liber pushed me in. That crocodile, made invisible by the water, grabs ahold of my arm and twists me. I try to roll with it. I use my rapala to stab at the beast, but mistakenly stab my own arm in the process, maybe even playing a role in dismembering it from me. I plunge my rapala into the crocodile's eye, with an explosion of blood filling the water around us like a diabolical mist. I still remember how elated I felt when I finally drifted out of its mouth, how quickly I had swam to the surface. I, too, remember the horror of seeing my flesh hang off of my shoulder like old, wet rags, and how the blood pooled so heavily out of me. I could see my bone. I remember I touched it, and it burned.

I used to imagine what became of that Mutt after my Games. I liked to imagine it was killed and burned, or its body rotting in a dark dungeon somewhere. Alternatively, maybe it was served up on a platter like the one before me, devoured by the Gamemakers after the Hunger Games. Now that would be a stroke of irony, wouldn't it? But no matter how satisfying that musing has been in the past, I can't use it to shake off what I'm feeling now. My body is overcome by a cold sensation, of nausea deep in my stomach. As the platter is carried through the crowd, I can practically feel the crocodile's dead eye watching me, almost imagine its head turning to face me with a smug crocodile grin.

And then it's my arm in its mouth, not the fruit, and there's so much blood it fills the whole ballroom and drowns us all -

I don't realize just how heavily I'm breathing until I feel someone touch my arm, but I don't turn around to see who it is. I don't register the touch itself. It might be a Capitolian trying to move me aside to get a closer look, it could be Gloss ready to say something snarky, it might even be one of my fellow Victors. Something hitches deep inside of my chest, tearing me apart from the inside out, and nothing else matters.

I can't breathe.

I'm in the water.

I need air.

"Hey...hey, come on," a voice says behind me.

Everything except my basic motor skills are put to rest, as all I can do is be willingly pulled away by someone I've yet to face. My eyes are firmly set upon the crocodile as it is placed upon a table, and then promptly swarmed by hungry patrons greedy to cut into its face. I fear if I turn away it shall direct its violence towards me, those teeth snapping together as it charges at a horrible speed towards me. The blood...I imagine all of the blood...

It isn't until the strangely cool night air hits me that I feel myself drawn back to reality. I blink, realizing how my eyes have begun to burn, and how my throat is pained by my rapid breathing. I practically stumble forward, ignoring the man behind me trying to keep me steady with his hand carefully placed on my upper back. I catch myself against the railing of the balcony, which I hold onto tightly, as I heave in and out in rapid, shallow breaths. I'm acutely aware to the fact I may throw up, which wouldn't be a good look at an event like this, but there's really not much control I have over that. I do, thankfully, manage to get my breathing under control. Finding a steady pattern,

Feeling like I finally have control over my breathing and my mind, no matter how minimal, I loosen my grip on the marble rail and look over my shoulder to my, I guess, rescuer. In the far back of my mind, I wanted it to be Finnick - even though, realistically, it would have been stupid for him to help me that way. It would've caught too much attention, caused too much of a stir, and Snow would have noticed. Although his presence is absent at the Gala, his network of spies and resources would have picked up on anything Finnick would have done to help me in the moment, and it could've been turned into a weapon.

The person behind me is none other than Seneca Crane. All at once, my stomach starts to do unpleasant and angry summersaults. I guess, to some measure, I'm relieved it's him. Alternatively it could have been someone at the Gala attempting to find an excuse to lay a hand on me or maybe feel like they're rewarded something, but, instead, it's the person who owns me. At the very least, I know him. In his hands, I'm moderately safe, and he's not going to do anything creepy or demented like the others.

Still, I'm not happy to see him.

I don't have it in me to pretend. My heart is still hammering and every instinct inside of me is telling me to run. There's a flaring pain in the left side of my shoulder, with the phantom presence of my former arm intensifying. I can practically see the haggard bits of flesh, resembling old, wet rags, hanging off of me when my arm had been freshly torn from my body. I could see bone. I remember how it felt when I touched it, in my confused state. Even now, my hand reaches out to touch my bare stub, to feel the flesh that didn't heal as smoothly as my doctors had hoped, and remembering a time where something had been there, and when it had just been loose skin and blood.

The last thing I need right now is to be face-to-face with the man who played a role in my horror.

Seneca hovers closely, staring at me as I recover myself. He doesn't say anything, nor does he attempt to reach out to comfort me, all things I'm grateful for. I just want him to go away now. I need him to. "I'm fine...I'm fine," I manage to say, swallowing. My voice is hoarse. "You can go back inside. Big party. Very nice."

"It is. Yes," Seneca says, softly. "I was worried."

Sure you were. I bite back a scoff. "I'm fine," I repeat. "You can go back in."

"I know I can. I don't need you tell me whether or not I can," he says. "Tell me what's wrong?"

I don't reply.

Seneca swallows. "I was worried," he repeats, as if that means something. "Was...was it the crocodile?"

He's clueless. He's so stupidly clueless. I can't help but to scoff to his reply, my hand gripping the marble railing all the tighter, my painted nails scraping against its surface.

"But it's dead, and cooked, at that. I suppose I could understand a living creature," he carries on. "It happened so long ago, it shouldn't mean anything now."

It shouldn't mean anything.

"Seneca...you know that feeling when your arm falls asleep?" I say, my voice a shaky sound, still, but I steady it to the best of my ability. I need my voice to be strong. "It's all tingly. You can't quite feel your fingers, and they're all stiff. It's ticklish and burns all at the same time, but then the blood rushes back through you, and it's like nothing changed. You carry on." I pause, taking in Seneca's face as his brow furrows together confusedly. "I feel it. I can feel my arm right here, right now, but the difference is the blood doesn't rush back. I don't go back to having it there. My arm is gone. That thing twisted me underwater in the death roll and tore it off of me, clean from the shoulder. I thought I was going to die. I was in enough pain I wished I would. And the pain didn't stop, not even after I was out of the Arena when it was all clean and I was given medication for it. Even now, the pain lingers. It stays with me."

Seneca releases a shaky breath. His eyes are wide as saucers and his lips are parted, making me wonder if he is surprised or horrified or both. He clears his throat. "I was there with your father when it was happening."

I blink. "What?"

"Your father, he...he came to speak with the Gamemakers to negotiate for your life and for your brother's," Seneca says. "And we both turned and saw what was happening on the screen. You were being...twisted by that crocodile."

I stay quiet, letting him speak

"He practically fell to his knees begging for your life. I didn't think much of it at the time, but being a father now myself, I understand what that devotion feels like. I would move the sun and moon for my sons."

And yet he ignores them all in favor of visiting me. "You have a funny way of showing it," I say, startling even myself

A part of me expects him to wince or display some measure of regret at my words, maybe even get angry at them, but rather his eyes lower and he seems to accept the statement, with what I can only describe as faux dignity. He lifts his eyes back up. "I can't Sponsor anyone. You know that already," Seneca says, drawing closer. "But my sons, using my wife's money, of course, have the ability to Sponsor Tributes. I can't be involved, financially or personally. But I could nudge them to your Tributes' favor."

Is this his way of apologizing? He's just undermined how I felt looking at that crocodile, even though it wasn't the one that claimed my arm, and has compared my father's desperation to save his daughter from a fate worse than death to his own children who are entitled and privileged and will never know what it's like to stand in a Reaping. He could never understand that type of pain from a father. Looking out over the city and its sparkling lights, I find my heart twisting. I had never known that my father had been with Seneca Crane when he'd seen me under that water, being twisted around by the crocodile. In the moment, as I'd walked through the shock and pain, I'd hoped that my father wasn't watching.

I think I'd hoped he was passed out asleep or drunk, anything for him to not be looking at the screen. All along, he had. He must have gone to the Gamemaker's center before it happened to beg for my life...God, I can't imagine what was going through his head, witnessing his son betray me, and then watching me almost die the way I did. I close my eyes. I don't know if I could have gone through watching Finnick in my situation, during his Games. So it is unfathomable to consider my father's predicament.

"Do you have a preference?" Seneca adds.

Is this how my father felt? Had Seneca Crane looked at my father, who was watching the unthinkable, and said to him, do you have a preference? Hatred fumes through my body, almost making its way into my face. It's all a game to Seneca, no matter the circumstances. It doesn't matter he isn't managing the Hunger Games right now. Even outside of those quarters, he is creating something, making deals, and selling lives in favor of others. As a Victor and Mentor, I know that one or both of my Tributes are going to die. Even if it came down to just the two of them, one of them will be in the ground whilst the other is forced to stand with us.

The concept of choosing one or the other deliberately makes me sick all over again. How had my dad felt, with his own flesh and blood? I don't think I've given him the credit he's deserved before, because what I am feeling is indescribable. The anger, the pain, the hurt, and all that lies between is damn near overcoming, particularly as it stands combined with the lingering ache I am feeling from seeing the crocodile.

But, like most things, it doesn't matter. None of it does. It's all one game where there are no real winners, just pawns used for yet another game, and so it carries on.

"Surprise me," I deadpan.

Seneca hums in surprise. I'm not sure if he can see through my words and contempt, or if he's as blind to it as he is to everything else, but there's still a measure of concern in his eyes. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I just need a second," I say. "Thank you, though, for pulling me out. I needed it."

"Of course. I'll always come to your rescue," Seneca says.

Like hell you will. I force myself to smile, anyway, and it feels like knives in my cheeks. Footsteps behind us cause my head to turn, looking towards a new figure crossing the balcony with a wide smile and deep set eyes.

"Mr. Crane. I was afraid I lost you."

Seneca clears his throat. "Sorry...I was -"

"Busy, I see. Justifiably so," chuckles the older man.

"Ceresea, this is a family friend and associate," Seneca says. "Thrax Mellona."

The name doesn't process immediately, in part because I'm mentally and physically preparing myself to be presentable towards someone allegedly important, who could be a potential Sponsor, but all of that shatters away once it finally clicks. Thrax Mellona. The name is like a slow acting poison in my head. At first, I don't know it's there, but then, within a breath, it's tearing through my body; shaking me to my core. I feel ill.

When he extends his hand expectantly out to me, my first reaction is to lunge. I'm not even entirely sure what I would do if I could even make it that far. Maybe I could somehow get him pinned to the ground and strangle him, since I am physically stronger than the average person and more able-bodied, but this dress is also pretty restricting. It would make it difficult. I could find a blunt object within reach (maybe one of those statues by the doors) and bash his head in. I could also pry his eyes out with my fingers. I could claw at his face. I could make him bleed, hurt, and die for what he's done to Finnick. That hand, first and foremost, would be decimated. I would break it, I would tear at the skin, the thing he used to hurt Finnick would be entirely gone.

But I need to settle myself. These violent thoughts can't exist outside of my own head, though I know the contempt is radiating fiercely through my gaze as I raise it from the hand to the man himself.

Although I have never met this man - monster - before, I know enough about him. I still remember finding Finnick late one night in the living area, having had too much to drink, and staring at me with glassy eyes and a tear-stained face. His clothes were fresh and his body was red from how brutally he had scrubbed at himself in his earlier shower. With a rueful smile, he had shaken his head at me, and mused how lucky I was that I would never be touched by him...that I was safe under Seneca Crane. I had been so jarred by his statement, that in his drunken state he had spoken positively to the man he holds in utter contempt. Truly, it expresses the true fathoms of Thrax Mellona's malice.

The details behind the abuse Finnick suffers at this man's hand are blurry at best. Finnick isn't inclined to divulge such things to me, even under the influence, and the other Victors have too much respect for him to give me any answers. I can't say I blame them for that, and I'm even a little grateful for their proven discretions. But I know enough to understand that this man is one of cruel appetites and devices, who has been seeing Finnick since the beginning. I'm not sure how early it all started, but I do know that it was early enough that Finnick was still just a boy.

My chin raises.

No. No. I refuse to touch him. Even just being within proximity of him, after all he's done to Finnick, is making me sick. That putrid hand extended to me may as well be that of a creature. I stare down at it coldly, my own hand remaining clenched at my side. If there is disdain on my face, I don't bother to hide it, even though every instinct inside of me is yelling at me to do so. That practical voice, the one that's kept me alive, is being subdued by my anger and disgust. Slowly, I bring my gaze up to meet the man's. I shiver. His eyes are an uncanny shade of grey...so pale.

I remember it snowed in District 4 some odd years ago - a very rare instance, one that I had imprinted fondly to my memory. I'd gone out late when the snow was still fresh, before the sun could melt it. I'd taken up a piece of ice and raised it towards the moon, watching the silver flicker through the remnants of winter. That is the best way I can describe Thrax's eyes, which are far too large in his sunken face, lined with wrinkles. His broad forehead is met with a widow's peak of fine dark grey hair, slicked back with a shiny, chemical reeking hair pomade. It looks as though, in pushing back his hair he has tried to push back the wrinkles in his pale face, as well, but the result is no less horrifying. Looking at him intently, I decide his face reminds me of the wax that melts along the sides of a candle; pure wax.

Thrax takes me in as intently as I do him, his expression remaining attached to that charmed demeanor he's maintained since he stepped onto the balcony. His hand, however, slowly withdraws from the space between us and back to his person. I imagine it cut from his body. I imagine a rapala in my hand, the one I used during my Games, and in my head I gut him like I did that girl from District 8. The thought causes my stomach to do multiple different twists and turns. Horror fills me as my intrusive thoughts recollect that memory, yet it fuels me, too; replacing her face with his, her body with his, her blood with his.

If he has any indication that I am fantasizing about killing him, he certainly doesn't convey such. "Of course, do forgive me," he says, looking towards Seneca. "Such a loyal pet you have, Seneca. She won't even touch another man in your presence."

A new fury envelops deep inside of me, which I take initiative in staunching before it can join the rest of the tidal wave inside of me. I glance back at Seneca, watching as his face illuminates bright red and as he seems to stutter over his words. He's taken aback, differently than I was. His own blue eyes find mine, having the dignity to at least look sheepish, and turn back towards the monster. I know that Seneca isn't going to hit him for that comment, but, God, I wish he would. I need to see this man endure some type of pain. I'm not picky at this point, just something.

Seneca straightens out his back in an effort to appear taller than Thrax Mellona, who has a couple of inches over the Head Gamemaker, and he even lifts his chin a little. "Ms. Rhythe is not my property, Mr. Mellona," he says, "nor is she my pet. I would appreciate it if you didn't refer to her as such.

Bullshit, I'm not, I think. Instead, I offer him a smile, knowing that's what I'm supposed to do even though I want to glare at him, too. Frankly, I can't tell which word bothers me the most. Pet or property. At least pets have some dignity and independence, right? Property implies no measure of sentience, no individuality, at least a pet is something. I blink, internally cursing myself. I'm neither, so stop measuring which is better or worse, I tell myself, sharply. Seneca may have ownership over me, but I refuse to have a title attached to it.

Thrax looks thoroughly unconvinced. "Nevertheless, she has loyalty. I can respect that," he says, redirecting those large, unnaturally grey eyes back at me. They look me up and down slowly, from the top of my head to the bottom hem of my dress. "She's simply exquisite, Mr. Crane. Truly."

I fidget. Sometimes in District 4, if we're out fishing in the open water, we're hunted by sharks. They can sometimes idly circle us from a distance, gradually closing in minute by minute, or sometimes they'll straight up go under our boats to knock us over. I remember when I was twelve, I'd fallen off of my dad's boat and landed in chum-filled water. A shark's sandpaper skin had grazed the surface of my leg, but I hadn't known its teeth. But even as my father was pulling me back into the boat, sternly chastising me for being so clumsy, I could still feel those shark's eyes tracking me. I feel the same way now, as Thrax Mellona stares at me.

I try to stand strong against his gaze, keeping my head high and my back straight, but a part of me wants to step back away from me; go through those doors and disappear. Those eyes are unnerving, watching me like I'm fresh meat, a helpless body in the water for a shark to claim. I glance quickly at Seneca, wondering if he's seeing this, too. His expression is certainly icy, but I can't tell if it's on account of wariness or general jealousy.

Looking back at Thrax, I decide to push my boundaries - just a little. "Do you have a habit of talking about women as if they're not there?" I challenge.

A little surprisingly, Thrax laughs. "Only intimidating women," he says, looking at Seneca with a subtle smirk. "It's truly a shame what happened to you in the Arena, my dear. A figure such as yours, and the prowess you displayed in the Arena you could have gone quite far. Still, I suppose it was not a total loss."

Why the hell is he poking at me? I force myself to smile, pleasantly. "I make do."

"Nevertheless, it has caught my attention - District 4 as a whole, actually," Thrax carries on, his words overlapping mine. "I am considering Sponsoring your Tributes this year. Your fellow Victor made quite a compelling case towards them..."

Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

My blood runs cold. Finnick's absence during the Tribute Parade, hell, when we first arrived to the Capitol, rings louder in my head. I imagine him being led like a lamb to slaughter towards this man, spending God knows how much time with him...and having to keep performing when he came back, smiles and flirty and everything the Capitol wanted of him. Meanwhile, Thrax's smile is easy, if not a little self-satisfied, like a cat who's cornered a mouse and can't decide what to do with it. I press my hand against my skirt, trying to hide it within the many layers of fabric as it clenches tightly into a blanching ball.

"We fight for our Tributes, Mr. Mellona," I say. "Always."

"Well, your lot certainly find creative ways to engage in combat," Thrax continues, clapping his hands together with a smile on his unusually plump, pale lips. "You're a hardy District, Ms. Rhythe. Of that there's no debate. Still, I need to keep my options open, so we'll see what talent your Tributes can bring to the table. That reminds me, Mr. Crane, your children expressed interest in Sponsoring this year..."

Seneca clears his throat, appearing visibly uncomfortable. It startles me a little that he's letting Thrax Mellona go off like this, but, then again, maybe he doesn't know the full horrors of Thrax's actions - specifically on my District. Alternatively, maybe Seneca doesn't care. Either way, despite the fact he's in an equally high position compared to Thrax Mellona, he doesn't say or do a damn thing. He just stands there, looking between us hesitantly, and then forcing himself to appear formal when the attentions are brought back onto him. Moreover, I can definitely tell that Seneca is not pleased for his children having been brought up. I know that it's a topic, along with his wife, that he likes to keep away from me. I think it threatens the fantasy in his head.

"I'm having them wait to make decisions until after they've seen enough of the Tributes. I don't want to teach them to rush blindly into something that could prove to be ineffective," he says.

"A good lesson in finances, Mr. Crane. Well done," Thrax says, then gestures towards me. "Too often I see hapless young fools place all of their bets on initial appearances. No doubt, tonight hundreds of our esteemed Capitolians will be placing their well-earned money into Tributes who, quite frankly, look good but will have no ounce of credit to their name, no skills. Imagine it. Wasting all of those valuable resources on mud-people."

All at once, the entirety of my body bristles. I can't help it. Mud-people. It's a term I've heard before among a couple of Capitolians who look down on those who reside within the Districts, but it's, at the very least, considered a dirty word; like saying it is generally frowned upon. After all, why speak so vilely of those who keep Panem running? Who keep the Capitol both entertained and sustainable? Still, I've heard it before, but never this openly. It should come as no surprise that a man like Thrax Mellona, of all that Finnick has told me about him, would be that type. I glance at Seneca, whose eyes instantly widen and he looks towards me with an equal measure of surprise and indignity.

I expect him to stay quiet about the remark, but Seneca surprises me by clearing his throat and offering Thrax a colder look. "I would kindly ask you to refrain from using such language, Mr. Mellona. The Districts and everyone in it keep Panem afloat, us included. Without them, there's no us."

"Of course, Mr. Crane," Thrax carries on, unflinching. "How did you word it? The Victors are the heart of the Arena. No doubt, so too are the Districts' people to Panem?"

"Undoubtedly," Seneca says, looking at me proudly. I stood up for you, his eyes say.

I try to smile back, but there's still a cold look on my own face as I quickly bring my attentions back to the widely smiling Thrax Mellona. Sure, he defended me, but for what purpose? If he truly wanted to defend the people of the Districts, he would stand up against President Snow, even if it meant death. He wouldn't preach about how useful we are, to the same measure that someone would preach how important horses are to pulling chariots. They're necessities, but that doesn't change the fact that the moment they go lame they're put down. When usefulness runs dry, the source doesn't last long.

Seneca might think he's better than the harsher Capitol citizens who are so forward with their low views of the Districts, of Victors, but he's no different. He's far from a monster like Thrax Mellona, but he's still on the same road.

And if he thinks he's going to get any measure of verbal praise out of me, he's gravely mistaken.

"And surely, Ms. Rhythe is very useful to you," Thrax says.

I'm once again caught off guard by just how brazen Thrax is, as is Seneca, who, no doubt, is unused to be spoken to in such a manner. Seneca is an important man. He belongs to one of the wealthiest, most influential families in Panem, has built a name for himself as one of the youngest and most popular Head Gamemakers to date, and, despite technically being lower on the food chain, has some measure of power. To be spoken to like this is no doubt uncommon for him. His eyes visibly widen and I can tell he's on his last nerve at being prodded at. He opens his mouth to retaliate, his brow crinkling in anger, but before any words can leave his mouth, a voice resounds over his.

It's a soft, gentle one that calls out his name, causing the Head Gamemaker's light blue eyes to go wide and for a new flush to overtake his face. He turns his head, peering over his shoulder towards the balcony doorway where a young, very pregnant, woman stands. I follow his gaze with equal curiosity, but all at once regret it. Standing there in the doorway, with an oddly calm expression, is Ithaca Crane. I try to turn away before our eyes can meet, but it's too late. Her large, round brown eyes are staring back at me. Both of us seem to share a mutual understanding of discomfort between the other. I look away first, trying to maintain some measure of respect for her - I am, after all, paid to sleep with her husband, and we do actively try to avoid each other...this is more than just awkward.

Out from the corner of my eye, I watch as Ithaca places a perfectly manicured hand over her belly, which protrudes out from the long silken gown she is wearing, with a shawl draped loosely over her thin shoulders. She inhales deeply, slowly moving her eyes from me to Seneca, and then smiles sweetly.

"Seneca, my love, I'm sorry to interrupt," Ithaca says. "Caesar wants to interview us. You know how he is..."

There's a strange loftiness to her already strange accent. I can tell she's less than pleased to have found her husband on the balcony like this, no doubt she saw him step away to help me. There's a subtle frigidness to her voice, despite it ringing with mostly formality. She even casts a kindly smile in the direction of Thrax Mellona, who returns the gesture with a bowed head. I, however, receive no such regard - not that I blame her, of course. I'm not exactly going to be demanding respect or attentions out of her. Being within such close proximity to any of these people, much less cornered on an isolated balcony away from a party, is almost tipping me over the edge as is.

I grind my teeth together, waiting for all of us to properly excuse ourselves, so I can get the hell out of here. Maybe if they all leave ahead of me I can be left alone to the peace and quiet to properly gather my thoughts, before venturing back out into the crowd. Alternatively, I could find the bathroom or a quiet corner someplace in this overcrowded, extremely loud space. All of that seems unlikely, but it's the only thought keeping me moving forward at this point.

Seneca audibly swallows. "I...I have to go. I'm sorry," he says, looking between us, and then leveling his gaze. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Mr. Mellona."

"The pleasure was all mine," Thrax replies.

Seneca nods and turns towards me. I was hoping he would just walk right on off without sparing me so much as a second glance, but I'm not so lucky. Rather, the Head Gamemaker takes a step forward, thoroughly closing the distance between us, and does the unthinkable. He cups my face in his all too smooth hands and kisses me, right there in front of his wife. My eyes remain wide as he does so, feeling my heart hammer with internal horror, and my hands instantly go clammy. I try to conceal my mortification, grateful the kiss is at least soft and brief. I try desperately not to look at Ithaca Crane, I truly do.

I squeeze my eyes shut and then promptly pray gratefully to anything when Seneca pulls away. I do, however, notice how his eyes briefly flit to Thrax Mellona, coldly. It's then I understand. Seneca, in typical Capitolian fashion, is staking his ownership of me - making it very, very obvious, even forgetting his decorum. Much like how a dog pisses on things to make its territory, Seneca has kissed me to mark me as his. The thought makes my blood run a little hotter with irritation, but I mask it. Despite whatever I am feeling, I need to remember why it's necessary. Without Seneca Crane, men like Thrax Mellona would have easy access to me, and I would well and truly know the horrors of the Capitol the way my peers do. As I stand, I am one of the lucky ones.

"I'll see you soon, Ceresea. I promise," he says, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. He sounds like he means it, like he's saying something so genuinely sincere and meaningful. It almost makes me pity him, but I think all I can feel for is Ithaca in the moment, watching this.

Seneca turns promptly, returning to his wife's side. Her expression remains much the same, masterfully composed. If there is any hurt in her expression, any sense of betrayal or sadness or disgust, towards her husband's brazen infidelity she does not betray it upon her long, angular face. She greets her husband warmly, one hand taking his whilst the other remains on her rounded belly.

Thrax smiles, watching as Seneca kisses his wife's cheek and as the two walk away, arm in arm, towards what I assume to be is their children - or maybe towards some cameras, for interviews and pictures, and keeping up all of their worthless appearances. Thrax turns back towards me, looking pleased again. "A lucky man, isn't he? A beautiful wife of good pedigree and two hardy young boys to take up his mantle when he retires, with another child on the way," he says. "And a successful career. What more could a young woman want in a man?"

I frown, instantly wary, but try to keep my words sounding neutral. "You'd be surprised," I say. "Well, if you'll excuse me, it's getting late, and I need to convene with my team about Sponsors."

I go to stride forward, prepared to march shamelessly off of the balcony since it's clear Thrax isn't going to leave first. I don't care if it looks improper or disrespectful for me to just go. The cool air is suddenly suffocating me and I feel...unsafe, in ways that make me consider running, and I feel dirty simply being around him. But, unsurprisingly, Thrax is not so inclined for me to go. He doesn't reach out to stop me, but he does quickly step forward to block me from the exit.

His smile remains easy, repulsive. "Isn't that what we're doing now?" he says. When I try to step around him, he blocks me again, and this time there's a shift in his grin. "Am I to understand you're rejecting my offer to Sponsor your Tributes?"

"No. Not at all," I say, moving to go around him again. "I just need to go discuss it with -"

He grabs my arm, which unhinges something in my brain, something that I don't have any time to stop. As soon as his hand makes contact, his spindly fingers coiling around my upper arm, I raise my foot and bring it down hard against his; the heel jabbing right at the center. He lets out a low hiss, his grip on me loosening, and I pull my arm back. My second course of action would be to body slam him to the ground and bash his head in, maybe throw my own head against his in an effort to break his nose, but I manage to stop these thoughts and actions before they have a chance to accelerate. I've already done potential damage as is, even if it's not registering yet. I'm just angry, blindly, unrelentingly angry.

Thrax appears enormously startled by my actions, staring down at his black soled foot and then up at me, his eyes wide like saucers. I stare back at him, eyes narrowed, my hand clenching at my side. He seems to be trying to compose himself, as he smooths over the front of his jacket, and looks around for a moment with sharpening eyes. When his gaze finds mine again, it's ice. Gone is that easy smile of his, now replaced with an angry sneer. I long to ball up my hand and swing it across his face and send him hard to the ground. I could do it, too. Sure, he's taller than me, but I am stronger - significantly stronger. I've swam against riptides and alongside sharks. This man isn't shit by comparison.

Slowly, Thrax seems to gain back his composure, though the casual ease previously laced across his face is long gone. He smooths over the front of his long coat, his fingers trembling. There's a suppressed rage deep inside of him, I can tell, and I know he wants to take it out on me. But that would be stupid of him. We both know it.

"That was quite bold, Ms. Rhythe," he says, after a very long tense silence.

I turn my head and meet his gaze coldly, my own expression icy. "You startled me," I say, coolly. "As a Victor, I'm so very fragile, I'm afraid. But don't worry, your foot will recover."

"Fragile...fragile," Thrax scoffs. "You Victors are anything but fragile, Ms. Rhythe. Well, perhaps in body, your minds are another thing entirely."

He must be referring to Annie, the mad girl who can't even come back to the Capitol without causing a scene, whose mind is so delicate and so soft it cannot be repaired or pushed beyond its limits again. She's a testament to how deeply the Arena destroys us. Most of the Victors are good at hiding it through smiles and performances, whilst others drown it in drugs, and others simply disappear into the cracks. Annie can't. And I can only imagine how the Capitol views her for it. The abnormality, when, in truth, she's the personification of how every single one of us feel.

Not that the Capitol wants to see any of that. It's a very complicated thing to use broken Victors for carnal desires and general purposes. We're far less marketable that way, more human that the Capitol would like. Sure, our bodies remain intact, for the most part - my arm, my dad's eye, Chaff's hand, and so on - but our minds are another thing entirely. Luckily, we can mask it, or we can try to. Fake it till we make it, kind of thing. Now, what it is we're making has yet to be seen. Maybe it's just survival and its most basic core. Alternatively, maybe it's something more hopeful, like watching this man, and all others like him, choke on their own blood...and all of the Capitol and its parasitic occupants submerged under water.

The violent thoughts circulating through my head go right over Thrax's, who is looking at me calmly, albeit with lingering contempt. It must be quite jarring for him that someone like me, a Victor of short stature, with no arm, and seemingly a collected disposition, make such a bold move against him; an important citizen in the Capitol. I hope his ego is bruised.

Thrax exhales slowly, releasing his anger. "My dear...how vivacious you are," he says, pointing a finger at me.

"I'm aware. It's why so many citizens love me, Mr. Mellona," I say. "It's time for me to go now. It was nice talking to you."

But Thrax doesn't move, he simply stands there with the archway behind him, and the golden light of the room inside outlining his figure like a bastardized spotlight. To me, all it does is accentuate how very small he is, how meaningless. In his own mind, no doubt, he appears glorious. Bastard. "Permit me to ask you a question," he says. "Ah - just one question, then you can go."

"What is it?"

"Are you familiar with voyeuristic appetites?"

What the hell?

My jaw clenches, considering breaking his. Alternatively, maybe I could disarm him enough to be able to haul him to the balcony's edge and throw him over, be damned the consequences...there'd be hell to pay on my end, sure, but it'd be so satisfying to watch his body shatter on impact against the cobblestone down below. So tempting. I suppress these thoughts quickly, reminding myself just how foolish it would be to act on these feelings, and to focus on the here and now. I have to choose my words carefully, play the game. I've already risked quite a bit just by stomping on his foot.

"Whatever it is you're about to propose, Mr. Mellona, I suggest you rethink it," I say. "I'm Seneca Crane's exclusive...companion, so my time and affections aren't up for purchase." Nor do I think Seneca would be too pleased with what I am imagining Thrax is suggesting, that he watch...God, the thought alone makes me sick. "I'm afraid all I am available for are dinners, walks, and anything lacking in intimacy -"

Thrax lifts his hand, dismissing my words. "Yes, yes. I am well-aware, Ms. Rhythe, and please don't jump so urgently to assumptions, you are far from my type. I don't desire you, so I won't be treading on that little arrangement you have with that spoiled boy," he says, his eyes rolling. "What I am inquiring about is simply your eyes..."

"My eyes?"

"Why, yes. I know better than to propose I touch you. I am, however, proposing you join my own little tryst by simply being an observer, nothing more or less. Hardly intimate, at least on your end," he goes on. "Besides, it may even be familiar, as it would involve myself and Mr. Odair. I doubt he'd mind a captive audience."

All at once, I'm sick. It doesn't register immediately, since my mind is reeling and I'm trying to come up with an excuse to walk away, or change the subject, or say something that can get him to screw off, but all of these thoughts come to a screeching halt; blaringly loud in my ears, almost blinding. I can't breathe, move, or even blink. All I'm seeing is the smug face of Thrax Mellona in front of me, taking in my visibly bewildered expression as I slowly process his words. It's like a gear broke in my brain, forcing everything to stop, and it takes a moment for it to come back to itself. When it does, that sickness inside of me intensifies, and it takes all of my willpower not to double over and be sick right then and there. I certainly feel the bile in my throat.

Flashes of Finnick's face fills my vision, followed immediately by the memory of him drunk on the long, velvety sofa with tired, bloodshot eyes as he stared at me ruefully. He told me how lucky I was to not know who Thrax Mellona was, to never know his touch, and to be bound strictly to Seneca Crane. He said I was lucky, because I had protection he didn't. Fury fills me, as I am finally able to put a face to that horrible memory, to Finnick's croaking voice and the glassy eyes threatening to tear up. The monster is responsible for all of that, and more. And now he's threatened me with the unthinkable, all the while smiling like a cat who's found a mouse tucked into a corner, but without the decency to just kill it.

Thrax waits patiently for my answer, his hands neatly folding in front of his person. I don't yield any reaction for quite some time, stumbling over myself internally instead. I want to hit him. I want to run. I want to cry. I want...God, I want a thousand different things right now, but they're all out of reach. Finally, I manage to get ahold of my thoughts, and I'm able to form the coherent musing of, why would he threaten that? Thrax Mellona has been privy to countless Victors, including Tilda. Why not threaten her? Why not the others? Why Finnick specifically? My stomach starts to drop.

His smug expression conveys more than I care to admit. It's knowing. It's a cat who knows where all the little corners are where a mouse could scurry off to, and how to block them...it's knowing where the mouse's nest is.

I can't reveal my fear, though. I've already unveiled too much, so I try to take a steady breath and get ahold of my expression, which I tighten up, and force to look more irritated than anything. He's wasting your time. This is a gala honoring you and all the Victors. He's the inferior one here, I say, in a voice I try to mirror as Ivoree's, so it sounds more authoritative.

"Excuse me?" I manage.

Thrax chuckles. "Startled, aren't you?" he says, that damned smile returning, and he takes a step forward, so we are now too close for comfort. But I don't step back. I won't give him the satisfaction. "Disgusted, perhaps. Good." His breath smells like wine and mints. "Think back on this feeling, Ms. Rhythe, your...disgust, helplessness, what have you, the next time you decide to disrespect me."

I wonder what he's referring to. Me trying to leave or me stepping on his foot...either way, all I can do is stare up at him, coldly, and resisting the urge to hurt him a thousand different ways.

"I suggest you slacken your face. You look so...unattractive when you look angry. Smile," he says, then waves his hand over my face for emphasis. "And try to relax. I won't call on you just yet, but consider it a thought...a very serious one. I assure you, if I approach the President with such a request, he'll be inclined to agree. He's very giving, you know. Still, tread carefully, otherwise I will ensure you regret it. And, despite what you may believe, Seneca Crane's influence doesn't run high enough to prevent it."

I hum in response, momentarily speechless. Words evade me. Every possible thing I could think to say feels too damning, too revealing.

Why Finnick? I want to ask, but it's too risky. Maybe Thrax doesn't know anything and he just said Finnick because he's from my District and likely a good friend of mine, since we're the same age and our Games were three years apart. Finnick also happens to be his most used Victor, to my knowledge, so that could be a reason, too. But maybe he knows something deeper...how the hell could he? It might be paranoia coming to a broil, that broken madness seeping through its cracks in my head. Bringing more attention to it is more dangerous than I care to admit.

Thrax reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair out of my eyes. "You are a pretty thing," he says, sighing almost ruefully. "What would Mr. Odair have to say about your insolence?"

"What would I have to say about what?"

My heart stops again. Even Thrax appears a little startled, as he withdraws his hand from my face and turns to peer over his shoulder. Standing beneath the marble archway leading to the balcony is Finnick himself, holding a glass of rose-colored wine, and looking between us. He has that swarthy Capitolian smile on his face, but I can see something in his eyes start to flicker. It could be rage or it could be wariness, but it's something I'm worried will unhinge. So, I take a small step back, one that goes unnoticed by Thrax as the man now devotes the entirety of his attentions towards Finnick. The smile on his face changes, as does his eyes. He looks almost endeared, damn delighted, to have Finnick standing there.

I'm not sure how long Finnick has been there or how much he has heard. I know I need to share what Thrax has said to me with him, a part of me hopes he overheard it so I don't have to relay it in full...but, damn, truth be told I'm just glad to see him. There's a little bubble of relief in my chest that starts to expand, but I try not to let it enlarge too much. We're not safe until we're off of this damn balcony and out of sight of this monster. Hell, we're not in the clear until we're gone from this whole damn gala. The night isn't over, though. Even after we part ways from each other, we still have some odd hours to linger in this place, schmoozing to important people, and doing what we can for our Tributes.

We're not out yet, not by a longshot. So I need to stay calm and so does Finnick.

"Nothing, just a trifle," Thrax replies. "I was simply trying to negotiate a Sponsorship with your fellow Victor. But she is being, well...rather stubborn, aren't you, dear?"

Finnick looks at me and, upon seeing my tense expression, looks back at Thrax with a new smile. It's entirely flirtatious, broad, and desirable to anyone who doesn't truly know Finnick. But I hate that smile, because it's all fake. Finnick approaches Thrax in a sensual stride, and licks his lips thoughtfully, drawing the man's eyes to them. "You should know better than to engage with my peers," he says. "They lack my finesse."

"Of that I am sorely aware," Thrax says, and drops his voice into a whisper, but loud enough for me to hear. "It certainly doesn't help the Head Gamemaker spoils his little plaything."

Finnick shrugs, raising the glass of wine to his lips. It blocks his facial expression, making me wonder if something twitched in his mask, or if he's buying time to think of something to say. When he pulls it back, he's still smiling. "I couldn't agree more," he says, and spares me a quick condescending look. "Thrax...let's discuss Sponsorships later. It's a big party, let's enjoy ourselves for now. We'll arrange a more private meeting at a later date, when it's less, well, crowded."

Thrax nods, appearing pleased by this, and looks back at me. "This, my dear, is how you handle your superiors," he says. To Finnick he adds, "I'll make arrangements."

Without another word, he turns to leave. He carries himself with such a satisfied, confident stride, disappearing into the golden light inside, and becoming one with the warms of Capitolian people clustering around the glamorously dressed Victors. I stare at the place where he had been standing, as does Finnick, and we do so for an uncomfortably long time. His words resound in my head, as does his demeanor and his stare, and I try to remind myself how fake it is. I understand why he did what he did, what he said what he said. It's all necessary, like how I flirt with Seneca or keep him on my metaphorical fishing line. But it doesn't change the overwhelming sense of hurt settling itself in the center of my chest. It was a good performance, I'll give him that.

Still, I don't know how to break the ice. It might be best just to return to the party and pretend this whole awful encounter didn't happen. It might also be good to stay on this balcony and catch my breath. Screaming seems like a good option, letting it all out, but that'd cause more unwanted attention. It would also, sadly, be frowned upon. Slowly, I bring my eyes over to Finnick, wondering what's going through his head. His eyes remain downcast and his hand is clenched around his wineglass. Then, within a breath, his eyes snap up to me. His sea-green eyes are glassy, and the pain in them is unimaginable.

"I'm so sorry," he says, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

I shake my head. "Don't be," I say back, just as softly.

There's no reason why he should apologize. He didn't say what he said out of malice and I know that, despite the fact something in my head triggers me to feel distraught about it. It's no different than how I navigate things with Seneca. It's survival. It's all necessary. There's nothing personal about it. I guess it doesn't change the hurt, though, from either of us. I try to mask mine, though. I keep it hidden under some measure of casual indifference, with a small shrug and a forced smile, but I can barely muster the latter. I'm still shaken by the encounter, mostly by Thrax's final words to me, and the meaning behind it.

Finnick lets the wine glass drop. It shatters quietly on the marble floor, the sound muffled by the loud music and chatter from inside, and the wine itself pools across the ground like a small puddle of blood. He steps forward towards me, using his arm to gently guide me to the side of the archway, out of sight, and hidden away into a little nook of shadows. I think about stopping him. It's a risky maneuver he's pulling, because if someone were to notice this, it could draw some questions or entice curiosity. It could look like two Victors having a casual conversation, or it could look like something else, verifying suspicions that shouldn't be there. But I also don't really care. We're both frazzled, and the shadows hide that from the prying eyes of the moon and the people inside, enjoying the gala.

Finnick uses his body to block me, as my back presses against the tiny space that holds us both, just barely. I'm shadowed, shielded. Finnick's hands lift to touch my face, holding it tenderly as he carefully lifts my eyes to meet his. With my heels on, our height difference is a little less extreme. My own hand reaches up to touch his right wrist, holding it gently. His thumbs brush against my cheeks, just under my eyes. His own eyes threaten to water over, so much guilt and resentment residing in them. But I know the resentment isn't towards me, no matter how much my warped brain would perceive otherwise. And it's not entirely directed towards Thrax, either.

After a second, he pulls back one of his hands. 'I didn't mean it,' he signs, using Mags' language. 'I'd never mean it.'

I pull my hand back from his. 'I know. You had to say it,' I sign back.

Finnick shakes his head, flinching. His hand clenches in front of him.

I reach out and touch it. "It's okay," I murmur.

His lip almost quivers. "If h -" he stops, his jaw clenching. Flexing his hand for a moment, no doubt gaining back his composure and senses, he resumes signing. 'It's you, it's me, it's us. I'm not going to let him hurt you.'

I shake my head. 'He wouldn't try.'

'I know. Crane keeps you safe,' Finnick signs. 'But he won't always.'

I know he won't. The little affair I have with Seneca Crane is temporary. Eventually, Seneca Crane will fall from grace, as all Head Gamemakers do, or he'll lose interest in me in favor of a younger, more beautiful Tribute or just altogether bring his attentions onto his wife, like a good, loyal husband. A part of me hopes for that day, where I don't have to see him anymore. Given my options, Seneca isn't the worst type of person to have as my exclusive client. I'd argue he's best case scenario, actually. He's never been unkind to me or forced himself on me, he always pays mind to me. He tries to understand me, as proven by earlier when he pulled me away from my near-manic episode. But it doesn't make him any less of a Capitolian.

He still deludes himself into believing I legitimately care for him - maybe even love him, if he's desperate enough - and that my affections are sincere. When I'm moaning his name under him, he believes it's all real, that I'm not just playing along for the sake of my own life, and the lives of everyone I love. He still leaves his wife and children behind in the Capitol to visit his young, pretty Victor in a District that's nothing more than a pawn in the overall game Panem plays. He's ignorant and innocent in a great deal of ways, almost to a degree where I pity him, but he is still one of them. He reminds me of that every time he gushes about his job, of all the things he's accomplished within it. Nevertheless, he's the lesser of a great deal of evils.

But it won't last. When he moves on, not if, my life will change greatly. I can only hope that by the time that happens, I'll be older and less desirable, and I'll slip into obscurity like a handful of my fellow Victors. But by that token, the better parts of my life will still be wasted on him.

Either way, there's no winning. Much like the Games themselves, actually.

I reach up and squeeze Finnick's wrist again, to bring his attention back to me, then I lower my hand to sign something else. 'It won't always be like this,' I sign, reflecting what my father told me back on the train. I didn't believe him then and I don't believe him now, but maybe those hopeful words, as foolish as they are, will give Finnick something it can't give me.

Finnick's eyes soften a little.

'I promise,' I add.

Finnick leans forward, pressing his forehead to mine and closing his eyes. My own eyes close, too. For a brief, wonderful moment we're frozen in time. Tucked away into the shadows, where the golden lights of the party cannot touch us, and where the world is a little more muffled, I find myself feeling briefly safe. Finnick's body covering mine feels like home. But as is with most things, it doesn't last. Moments later, we hear the sound of heels clicking against marble, and it's enough for Finnick to step back immediately and smooth out his sleeveless robe. I remain in place, hoping to disappear into the shadows. Finnick always outshines all of us, so surely if anyone stepped around the corner he would capture all of the attention, and no one would be the wise to our brief predicament. Thankfully, it's no Capitolian who has intruded upon us, but rather Johanna. And frankly, she looks irritated.

"Nice to see you two dumbasses all cozy," she says. "Someone's looking for you, Finn. I'd hurry."

"I - right. Thank you," Finnick says, looking back at me. 'You okay?'

I nod. 'Fine.' I look back at Johanna once Finnick has reluctantly removed himself from the balcony. "Good of you to say hi."

"Yeah, well. I saw Crane walk off with you, so I figured I'd come check on you eventually," she says. "Just in time, too. You know, it's kind of important to practice discretion around here."

"No shit," I say. "I just needed a moment."

"A moment?" Johanna scoffs. "I'd say that was way more than a moment, Ceres."

"It's complicated. I can explain later, but I think we need to go back to the party."

"I don't disagree." Johanna takes a step forward, a more serious gleam in her eyes. "You're lucky it was me. Some of the others wouldn't have been so forgetful about whatever it is I just saw."

I don't say anything back, I just nod. Satisfied, Johanna takes ahold of my arm and we walk back into the gala together. I leave that balcony feeling colder than I did when I first walked onto it.

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(a/n): I felt like you nerds deserved a Finnick/Ceres moment, so here it is...with some angst and trauma laced in, of course, because I am The Worst. I promise, you guys will get fluffy stuff eventually. Eventually. I'm not entirely evil and made of stone, after all. Just 70%. XD

I won't lie, Finnick seeing Ceres on that staircase and being all slack-jawed was 100% inspired by that scene in Anastasia where Dimitri sees Anya and is just *gawk, gawk.* I like to think that Finnick always gets a little jarred when he sees Ceres dressed up like that, because...let's face it, I'm weak for these two, too, despite the angst I put them through. XD Also, I feel so bad for casting Richard E. Grant, such a charming and obviously kind individual, as such a scummy and evil person like Thrax Mellona. X'D But he just looks evil and like a melting candle, I had to.

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! It was so much fun to write, as they all have been. I have so many evil plans ahead for you guys, you don't even know. *evil grin* And don't worry, shippable moments too.

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~

Slytherin-vikis: Oh my God! What a paradox it is for me to have some OCs shipped together. XD I am so sorry to break your heart! Indeed, yes, Rheon may very well have a thing for Gemma...but don't start sweatin' it yet. There may be hope for him and Demetra yet. *shady face* As a point of reference, I'd say 93% of my characters are to some capacity queer. XD Nobody fully escapes straight, haha. When I was mapping out Ceres' and Katniss' first meeting, it was always a part of the plan that Katniss would bring up Liber negatively. Ceres and Katniss are interesting parallels to each other, in that both Volunteered for the sake of a sibling, but one had a successful result and the other, well, not so much. So I am very excited to explore more of that! (Katniss has a lot of judgment towards Ceres, I can safely say. XD) Peeta is also probably one of the most sincere characters in THG canon, so it was important to me to include him demonstrating humanity right away towards Ceres, despite the fact she's Mentoring the competition and could very well be rooting for their deaths. Interestingly enough, I don't ship Ceres/Seneca, either. In the early stages of my development for this trilogy, I had actually planned that Ceres/Finnick would break up when he went out to sea in Reap What We Sow, resulting in a six year gap between Ceres' Games and THG events, where her relationship with Seneca would carry on. But that plotline died very quickly in development in favor of Ceres/Finnick. Seneca and Ceres' relationship, complicated as it is, is still very critical to the story and things that'll be going down, but I decided early on to portray it non-romantically. It's a very toxic dynamic. Seneca is basically Ceres' lifeline so she's clinging to that in order to stay out of that bigger circle like Finnick, Cashmere, and others live in, and, meanwhile, Seneca lives in ignorance that she actually detests him, because District 4 is his career boost and he views Ceres as the personification of that; the physical body of something that won him his promotion, basically. I am very excited to portray how things go down, especially considering how THG ends, and how all of that has repercussions throughout CF and Mockingjay...with twists.

DreamonAlina: *also bangs pots and pans* LISTEN, I'M OUT HERE GIVING THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT. I actually sat for a minute wondering if I should make Finnick have a jealous moment, but my inner shipper heart exploded and I had to do it. X'D Jealousy is too good of a trope not to utilize. I'm so glad that you enjoyed my portrayal of Katniss and Peeta! I hope I continue to write them well and accurately. We'll be seeing more of 'em later. ;) Hopefully you also enjoyed the Finnick/Ceres crumbs here! XD (once again, giving the people what they want!)

miaoca304: I owe you my life, thank you so much for letting me know about the error! *heart*

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~CASTING~

Thrax Mellona: Richard E. Grant

Galeria Lovecraft: Natasha Lillipore

Cicero Crane: Chris Sarandon

Ceres' Unity Gala Dress: Mermaid / Trumpet Luxurious Floral Engagement Formal Evening Dress V Neck Short Sleeve Floor Length Tulle with Appliques 2022