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

8. Eight: nothing but deception (M)

(a/n): Say it with me, everybody...this chapter WAS 25k long...but I cropped it down to 15k. X'D I am the absolute worst, but to my credit it means that the next chapter already has a great deal of stuff already written for it! It's how I'm able to churn out weekly chapter for you friggin' nerds. Alright, alright, so a lotta stuff goes down this chapter that I am hellah, hellah excited for you. Also, as you noticed...yes, this chapter is rated M. That is all. I will see you guys at the bottom!

Enjoy, loves!

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CHAPTER EIGHT

nothing but deception

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Plutarch.

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The Unity Gala is appalling. Still, if one abandons their morals it can be fun.

Surrounding me there's loud music from a live band, with rows of tables containing all types of exotic food, flocked by people ready to eat their fill, then take gulps of those drinks that trigger the food back up, and then the cycle repeats. Around these vultures there are the Victors, all fabulously dressed and smiling at the well-placed cameras and socializing with the higher society of the Capitol. Their smiles range from pleasant, conversational, seductive, desperate, and all that lies between, though there are a small handful ignoring their respective duties. It goes without saying that Capitol hating Johanna Mason, notorious for her disdain (so much so the cameras make a deliberate point to ignore her), clings to the walls with a forever full drink in her hand and a hateful sneer on her face. Her District partner, Blight Thicket, is wise and lets her keep to the shadows.

His smiles are pleasant enough. Despite his less than popular position as a Victor, he maintains a mostly positive relationship with the Capitol, and, by proxy, its patrons. It's not an impossibility for him to garner Sponsors from the parasitic individuals surrounding him, but Ms. Mason does make it a tricky process. Similarly, Garnett Lux is keeping out of sight. While an attractive individual with arguably the potential for popularity among Panem handed to him on a silver platter, he rebukes it. Like Johanna he keeps to the shadows, but he is a more mysterious kind; unreadable expression, vacant eyes drifting off into nothing until he's called by his mother to participate. These are just a small example of the more awkward Victors who either don't care or are deliberately trying to sabotage themselves, for one reason or another.

Although each Victor stands with their own gains and reasons, one thing can be mutually agreed upon: they all hate it here. The Unity Gala stands as the epitome of glamor, with all of the Victors gathered together under one marble column held roof, golden lights down upon them, and clad in the most fabulous costumes their Stylists could come up with. This is their big moment. They bring themselves into the spotlight to promote their Tributes, enhancing the qualities seen during the Tribute Parade or scrounging for the scraps they can use to raise them up. No matter what, they apply substance to the style. It's similar to how a butcher garnishes the meat before selling it, though some meat sours sooner than others, and the Victors know this applies to their Tributes, too.

If you ask me, it's all grotesque. It's expensive and a waste of valuable time and resources, yet another hardy distraction for the Capitol to partake in, to disappear from the realities surrounding them. It's easy to forget why certain Tributes may look more malnourished or sickly than others when a person's favorite Victor is wearing a shiny, glittery new outfit.

Garnished pieces of rotted meat.

Nevertheless, it has its moments. The nicest thing about the Unity Gala is that it is very loud and very crowded. It's all too easy for the wallflowers, regardless of who they are, to disappear amidst the shadows. There are so many people and things to focus on, it's impossible to keep track of everyone. Besides, it's not uncommon to disappear specifically alongside a Victor. A great deal of potential Sponsors prefer discussing deals in privacy. And with how entirely loud it is, cluttered with voices, music, all types of noise, a person's words can be invisible. The average person can vanish pretty easily, but it's also ideal for someone of my position. As a Gamemaker myself, it's not uncommon for my kind to personally intermingle with the Victors, especially privately. We're technically not supposed to, as an unspoken rule, but it's the forbidden aspect of it that makes it more common. It would almost be too suspicious not to indulge, especially at the Unity Gala.

For the first while of the gala, I alternate between my Gamemaker social group and the various little gatherings of Victors attempting to woo respective patrons to Sponsor their Tributes. A small handful of them look to me hopefully, and I give them some small measure of hope to keep them on the reel, in case I ever need to pull them in - and trust me, I'm planning on it - and others don't even bother. The ones who already know. I'm a waste of time, but not necessarily in an offensive sense. They just know. They understand.

Only after have I made my respective rounds that I actively seek out my interested person. I find him standing by one of the many tables containing a vast array of colorful beverages. Atop the table is a huge swan-shaped glass fountain containing an orange punch that fades into a deep shade of magenta, the colors perpetually moving but never intermingling. The person of my interest is socializing with a small group of socialites who seem politely interested at best, but are clearly only talking to him because the Capitol darling is otherwise occupied. But as I draw closer, he notices, and politely pulls himself from the conversation. They don't seem disappointed, not even a little. It's almost a shame. Despite how technically forgettable his career has been, I've always admired Rheon Rhythe as a man and as a Victor.

Compared to how he's looked over the years, Rheon looks better than usual. I still remember when I had first made proper introductions with him, six years ago during his daughter's Victory Tour. His eyes had been lined with dark circles and the fatigue had been obvious on his person, creating sunken in craters across his face. During those Games, he had seemingly aged a decade. I can't say I blame him for it, though. He did watch his son die, after all, with his daughter violently losing an arm and having to kill said brother. Nevertheless, his health has improved, now that he has something actively to drive for. Our conversation all those years ago had truly been beneficial, though there is still much to be improved.

But before I can reach Rheon, someone cuts between us, none other than the clearly displeased Johanna Mason. She hasn't noticed me yet, with her back turned, and has all of her focus on Rheon.

"I'm looking for Ceres. Have you seen her?" she asks.

Rheon glances over her towards me, then brings his gaze back down. "She's socializing," he says.

"You saw that crocodile they dragged in, right? The big flayed one? I just wanted to check on her in case she saw it," Johanna says lowly, practically hissing between her teeth. "There's no way that was a coincidence, you know? There's mind games like that all over the place here..."

The gaze of the older Victor shadows. "Johanna. Be careful."

"All one stupid game," she hisses defiantly. "Could you at least tell me where the last you saw her was?"

"I don't know," Rheon says, truthfully.

Despite the venom in her voice and her unfriendly demeanor, I find it quite sweet that her concern is so broadly open, and it is far from misplaced. While I had absolutely no role in orchestrating the Unity Gala - that belongs to some other unlucky individuals - I have no doubt in my mind that it is played out with equal calculations as the Hunger Games themselves. There are countless well-placed little secrets all throughout the gala that could only be noticed by very specific Victors.

It's a show of power, little reminders of what happens during the Games, what their Tributes could face, and of general consequences. I am sure Johanna Mason has seen more than a handful of her own little secrets, especially given how openly hateful she is of the Capitol and its patrons. It could be why she's so riled up, even more so than usual, or it could also have to do with the flow of alcohol she's consumed throughout the night.

"Well, maybe you should be a little more concerned," Johanna says, turning only to come face-to-face with me as I approach. All at once, I'm met with a twisted, unhidden show of hatred all across her makeup coated face, her eye makeup specifically designed to resemble branches adorned by emerald leaves. They enhance her eyes, make her look almost feral. "Oh, look. It's one of Crane's little, loyal dogs."

Her words are sharp like knives, but I meet her demeanor calmly and with the ghost of a smile. "I'm a Gamemaker, yes. Specifically Mr. Crane's second in command," I say, noting how irritated she looks by my lack of a reaction. "I'm a little surprised you didn't immediately ask if I'm interested in Sponsoring your Tributes."

Johanna looks me over slowly and scoffs. "Please. Even I wouldn't Sponsor them," she says, reaching out with surprising speed to grab a glass of champagne off of the tray of a very startled passing waiter, who nearly drops the golden platter in his hands altogether. She doesn't even give him a second look. "How about you fuck off?"

Rheon takes a step forward. Although he knows I mean no harm, we also have to keep up appearances here. After all, a Victor is usually inclined to protect their own kind, especially from people like me. "Johanna," he says, lowly. A warning tone.

"I'm afraid I'm too stingy with my money to Sponsor more than one set of Tributes, anyway, Ms. Mason. So, even if you were interested I would be entirely useless to you," I say.

Johanna looks far from impressed. "Why the hell are you even here, then?" she says, gesturing to the countless Capitolian patrons surrounding us currently shmoozing with the Victors.

I shrug simply. "A courtesy," I say. "As Seneca Crane's second in command, I'm obligated to be present for the affairs. Besides, it makes for interesting conversation...it truly helps hone my vision for the Arena, ultimately, in meeting the Victors."

A small shadow flickers across Johanna's face, her dark eyes searching mine for something, and I can tell she wants to throw that drink right in my face. Rheon must sense it, too, because he reaches out to gently a lay a hand over her arm. Her eyes snap to him, nostrils flaring, but her anger slowly tempers and she pulls herself coldly from him.

"My name is Plutarch Heavensbee," I say, once I'm sure it's safe to speak again.

"If you're not interested in our Tributes, you're wasting our time, then," Johanna snaps.

I fight back an amused smile. I like her. I've always liked Johanna Mason, even from the beginning. She had fooled the entirety of the Capitol, even myself, during her Games. While she had played the role of a small, helpless little girl, too frightened to even look at any weapons on the walls, she had been plotting in her own head. I've often wondered if Blight had encouraged her to do so or if she had kept her plans entirely to herself. It's a mystery I find most intriguing, but have no mind if it remains unsolved. It makes Johanna all the more interesting. Her strategies are as sharp as the axes she used to cut open her opponents. She is most certainly one I've kept an eye on the last several years I've been a Gamemaker, standing off in the shadows and quietly assessing every Victor; weighing them in that heavy scale in my head.

There is also the truth of her loyalty. Rheon has gone to extensive length to explain just how loyal of a friend Johanna is, specifically to the likes of Ceres Rhythe. To my understanding, the two had become close the year after her Games, and Johanna has maintained that friendship strongly. She is overall polarizing to her fellow Victors, allegedly, but that's not totally a bad thing. It is arguably better to have someone fiercely loyal to few than have someone with a great deal of friends but no loyalties. Still, I haven't gone out of my way to make those types of introductions yet. I need more first, specifically Johanna's seemingly closest friend. It's easier to catch a fish when there's familiar bait, in a crude metaphor.

But she is not the target of my focus at the moment.

Rheon notices my expression and exhales. "Blight is looking for you."

Johanna makes a low scoffing noise. "No, he isn't. But I can read the fucking room," she says, eyes narrowing. "I'm going to look for your daughter, since you're too busy with their kind."

She spins around, then, storming off into the crowd. There are a vast array of disgruntled noises as she makes a deliberate effort to bump directly into their bodies, some even spilling their drinks or plates in the process. I watch on, brow raised, while Rheon has an almost fatherly look of embarrassment on his face. When he lifts his eyes to me, I see a small measure of shame, but it's not placed towards Johanna.

"Your daughter is fine," I say. "I wouldn't overthink it."

"I didn't see the crocodile," Rheon says.

"They've been bringing out all types of dishes the last few hours. I don't blame you for missing one," I say, discreetly guiding Rheon towards the wall where we can talk more privately. We remain a part of the crowd, yet there is a small measure of privacy bestowed upon us, as well. We disappear in the right way. "That suit is interesting, by the way."

"Proof my Stylist enjoys me," Rheon deadpans. "I'm very easy to work with, as you know."

"Of course. It's always a pleasure talking to you," I say, smiling.

The formality wares on Rheon, whose expression remains much the same, but I notice how one of his hands discreetly shifts so it's half-tucked within his jacket, as if reaching for something. I follow it with my eyes. 'I didn't think you'd show up,' he signs.

Not long after I had successfully recruited a couple of District 4's finest, Rheon included, Mags Flanagan had lost her voice from a stroke. She had created a language of her own, shared among her peers, and it is one that Rheon has relayed to me. I am still a little less than polished in the language, but I understand it enough to get by - and enough to relay messages, albeit less than proper. It's a very useful means of communication in such a public space, when certain things are more vital than others. I trust ourselves as shadows on the wall, blending in against the background, and disappearing in every imaginable sense. But there is always the threat of light shining over us.

This is a nice way to keep things discreet and safe.

"It's a good party. I'm never one to miss them, as you know, least of all with free drinks," I say. "The caterer outdid themselves, whoever the hell they are." I believe that Ithaca Crane had some measure to do with catering, but that's a detail that doesn't need to be shared with the man in front of me. "Don't you think?"

"I wish I could say the same," Rheon says.

"Now, in regards to Sponsorships, Seneca has been gently discouraging his Gamemakers from Sponsorships this year. He's been slowly rewriting certain unspoken rules," I say, lowering my hand to my side, out of view. 'Things are promising.' "He considers it unethical."

Rheon scoffs. "Unethical. Says the man who's..." he trails, gripping his drink a little tighter. "I don't like Gamemakers."

"Well, at least you're honest. It's because we killed your son, right?" I inquire, watching his face tighten. "We're an acquired taste." I lower my hand, tucking it close to my stomach and almost concealing it casually under my jacket; the hint of it visible only to Rheon's view. 'Did you bring it?'

Rheon glances down, then looks back up. He nods once. "An acquired taste is putting it lightly," he says. 'Not here.'

"I figured," I say, answering to both.

Rheon makes a low scoffing sound, reaching out to stop a waiter passing by, and quietly demanding a glass of whiskey, which is promptly brought to him. He almost downs it within a single breath. "How do you even come up with your Games, anyway? Nightmares?" Rheon asks. 'Who do you give them to?'

"That's confidential, Rheon. Need to know basis," I say, once again to both.

It's safer if certain names and whereabouts are left unknown. While I trust Rheon and the others I have enlisted, I know that it would be entirely foolish to entrust them with everything. The grittier details are best left, as we are, in the shadows. Only once it is necessary will all be revealed. For now, uncertainty is still in the air, and I need to play everything just right. For now, I'm comforted in knowing that the steps I have carefully laid out in front of me are solid. Sure, sometimes they may wobble, but they keep me steady. And I intend on keeping it that way, not just for myself but for my peers, too.

We're all in this together, after all.

"Since Crane is overthrowing Sponsorships -"

"Not overthrowing, but definitely starting to crack down on. He thinks it leads to unnecessary bias," I cut off.

"Right. Unnecessary violence, ethical dilemmas," Rheon says. "Are you inclined to Sponsor anyone this year? Or is what you said to Johanna true?"

"I said what I said to Ms. Mason to get her off my back. The last thing I need is to Sponsor Tributes from someone so unstable," I say, my words so effortlessly smooth, so calculated, that even Rheon's brow raises a little. "But I would consider paying some merit of attention to yours this year. Maybe I could arrange a meeting between yourself and, well, Ms. Flanagan isn't with you. Correct?"

"She stayed him with Annie this year."

"Shame. I enjoy our conversations, limited as they may," I say, once again falling against that specific persona. "Ren Ambrose, then?"

Rheon shakes his head. "Tilda," he says, drawing an internal smile from me. "Ren will be busy with our Tributes."

"Good."

"Could you at least tell me how much you're willing to contribute to my Tributes?" Rheon asks. Meanwhile, his hand speaks otherwise. 'How many?'

My brow arches.

It's a question with multiple different answers, but I know what he's looking for. I can't exactly give him specifics here, nor would I be inclined to give him exact numbers even in absolute private - mostly to keep him safe, until things are set forward. Still, I raise my chin and smile broadly, proudly, like a man who has money but is going to be coy about it. "Enough," I say.

"Enough," he echoes. "Maybe when you're actually Head Gamemaker you'll make more than enough."

Amused, I nod. "Could be years from now," I say.

"Maybe he'll retire sooner," Rheon says, hopefully.

When I laugh, Rheon throws me a cold look. But I'm not inclined to look back at him sympathetically or apologize. It's a ludicrous statement, to say the least. Seneca Crane is at the height of his career, maintaining his position at half a decade, and surpassing expectations despite his youthful age. Truth be told, how our dear Seneca rose to his power is both a series of unlucky and lucky circumstances. His father and uncle both fell hard from their respective graces, yet Seneca was able to stand on top of their broken backs to reach to that high-placed station. Still, the ground can be very unsteady, so I know it's only a matter of time before Seneca, as all past Head Gamemakers, falls. It's an inevitably, not a possibility.

Even despite the fact that Seneca plays the game well, he also takes too many risks. His choice to keep Ceresea Rhythe as effectively his paramour is questionable one at best. If he maintained interest in her but lost exclusivity, I suppose it would apply some measure of logic, but the man governs her. Because of him, no one else in the Capitol with morally dubious appetites have had a chance to get their hands on her - a fact that I consider beneficial for her sake, but far from Seneca's. By putting so much money, time, and focus into this girl, he loses credibility in certain areas.

Furthermore, there's the morality of it. Seneca is a husband and a father, so it reflects rather poorly on him when he's noticeably spending time with Ceres rather than his family. It's not necessarily career damning, but it could take a toll on his public character.

I wouldn't mind this at all. The sooner Seneca falls, the sooner the position can fall into a new set of hands. Mine.

The Games governed by myself would be beneficial in a multitude of ways, but none of them are ones I can speak out loud, not until I'm sure the position is mine, and how many allies I have standing at my back. Currently, I can count a fair few - notable ones in powerful positions and with even more powerful secrets - but not enough. Most are too afraid to take shade in my shadow, not that I blame them.

I just need that spark to get the fire going, then it can burst into an inferno. One spark is all I need.

First things first, Seneca has to go. It could be this year, or it could be a few years from now, either way I expect I'll be needing to lend a helping hand in that regard...when the time is right. After all, while I am a patient man, I'm not inclined to just watch Seneca idle around and wait for him to ruin his career or have it torn from him by bad luck.

I internally scoff. Maybe I'll get lucky.

"Doubtful, not the way his career is going," I say, shaking my head. "Besides, Rheon, the moment Seneca Crane retires your daughter's prospects are going to inflate. With respect, she is the Head Gamemaker's paramour, unofficially. That alone stands between her and all of the people in this room who'd paw her. You know it."

Rheon opens his mouth to verbally retaliate against me, but his mouth promptly closes. There's a quiet rage residing in his dark eye, even shadowing over his obsidian glass eye, and he looks away from me. His expression is carefully masked from my searching eyes. "I do," he says, bitterly. "Still...purely hypothetical, Seneca Crane retires within the next few years, or sooner. Who's next in line?"

I draw a long sip from my whiskey, allowing the vibrant and throat-stabbing flavor to absorb me. "Well, if you want to get technical, it would be his sons, if we're following the line of succession. He's training them to be Gamemakers after him, the way Cicero and Lucius brought him up. If you ask me, it's premature," I explain. "But they're only kids. So it'd be me, as his second in command, until his sons came of age. That is, if I wanted to honor the chain in command as Head Gamemaker regent."

"And are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Honorable."

"No. Not even a little," I say. "Depending on how long my career lasted, it would either be followed up with one of the boys taking my place, or a second in command of my choosing. Truthfully, I imagine if I gave it to one of the sons, the other would kill his brother for the position. Head Gamemakers have done less for their positions, after all."

"That's brutal," Rheon says.

"That's Panem."

Rheon hums. "As Head Gamemaker, you would be obliged to certain privileges, wouldn't you? You'd have access to things and persons that others don't."

At that, my brow arches, all at once understanding what Rheon is insinuating, what the man is searching for. A small smile tugs itself at the corner of my mouth, which I conceal by taking another sip of my drink. "I know what you're asking. Yes, I'd take up Seneca's mantles...all of them."

Rheon glances around, then lowers his eyes. 'She'd be safe?'

I nod.

It goes without saying that I have no interest in the likes of Ceres Rhythe - no one at all, for that matter - but, should the position of Head Gamemaker fall onto my lap, I would take up the metaphorical mantle that Seneca has placed for himself. After all Rheon Rhythe has done and sacrificed for my expense and that of our cause, dangerous as it is, it's the least I can do. Besides, on a more critical note, Ceres Rhythe is a valuable asset. The knowledge she bears regarding Seneca Crane and the insider she has, no matter how inadvertent, into things will serve us well. That is to say, if she'll hear us out. Furthermore, she's a key to other important figureheads. I have no doubt in my mind that Finnick Odair will follow her to the edge of the world. Maybe he'd follow her into the oblivion we're all seemingly stepping towards. Who's to say what's on the other side? The hope alone is worth the cost we pay.

A small silence settles over the voices as the audible sound of clinking glass fills the room. We all collectively turn, watching as Seneca Crane stands proudly in the center of the room with a glass in his hand and his pregnant wife at his side. He's smiling pleasantly, looking cross the crowd with a proud look on his face. This is, according to his massive ego, his handiwork, after all. He did this. This is great big ceremony leading up to the upcoming Hunger Games, forged by his hands and his vision. Beside him, Ithaca is smiling just as proudly, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Those dark brown eyes of hers, even from all the way across the room, look empty.

I turn, fully expecting to see rage on Rheon's face, and I am right. He glares daggers into the back of Seneca Crane as he stands in the center of the room, having the audacity to proceed to make a toast towards the Victors - the true heart of the Arena. I smile and raise my glass, but internally I'm disgusted. The speech itself is atrocious, the analogy he's made is absurd, and he stands there so all-important with a loyal wife at his side and children at his feet, looking remarkably bored. I truly hope, when all is said and done, they don't pay the price of the errors of the likes of Seneca Crane and all the rest.

"Do yourself a favor, try not to let it get to you," I say. 'Not while he's breathing.'

Rheon exhales.

'Head Gamemakers have a habit of getting themselves killed, anyway. Sooner or later, you'll get lucky.'

"You say we have enough...what are you waiting for, then?" Rheon asks, then promptly adds, "Why not just Sponsor us?"

I consider his query carefully, watching on as Seneca smiles widely and is met by a broad array of cheers from everyone surrounding him, promising a wonderful and memorable 74th Hunger Games. I believe him. "The spark," I say.

"Spark?" Rheon says, frowning when I provide nothing else. "You're an odd man, Plutarch." 'I hope it doesn't get you killed.'

'It won't,' I return. 'But make no mistake, people will be killed when this begins.' I tuck my hand into my coat pocket. "Do yourself a favor and find your daughter. If you can't watch her, how can you watch your Tributes?" I say. "Maybe I'll find her first and discuss the Sponsorship -"

"No." Rheon shakes his head. "She has enough to deal with Gamemaker-wise at the moment. I'd rather if you didn't -"

"It's rude to cut someone off, Rheon," I say. "She seems to know what she's doing where her Tributes are concerned. Do you have so little faith in her?"

"Not at all. I just have very little faith in Gamemakers," Rheon says. "Just...let's keep the dealings between myself and the others, for now. I don't like her being overly involved in things. You're not a father, you wouldn't understand."

"With respect, Rheon, you're a Victor first and a father second," I say. "But I can respect your wishes."

"I'm glad we have an understanding."

But Ceres Rhythe is a necessary piece of the puzzle, for a multitude of reasons. Securing her would also secure countless Victors who would proudly stand beside her, but it's more than that. It's more than just the vast connections she has to the Head Gamemaker and the undoubted secrets the fool has let slip in front of her. She's by no means the spark I need, not the symbol we're looking for, but I have a feeling she can help ignite it. With countless tight connections to the other Victors, I understand the importance of her presence, even if Rheon is too stubborn to admit it.

I understand his fear. His involvement in these affairs is dangerous enough on its own, but at least only he knows what is happening, whilst those he loves remain oblivious. But it can't stay this way. He knows it, he just isn't ready to face it yet.

"That we do, Rheon. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to get get another drink...maybe make a few more deals."

Rheon doesn't protest.

I wander through the crowd, finding a fresh glass of whiskey to slowly enjoy, and making idle conversations between socialites and Victors alike. Occasionally I share knowing glances with my peers, maybe a nod here or there. The understanding is wordless. Eventually I find something interesting, which catches my attention and changes my trajectory. Standing on the sidelines, just behind a cluster of large sculptures of the first few Victors to leave their landmarks, is Ceres Rhythe. The first thing I notice is how shaken and frazzled she looks. She has her hand against one of the statues to support herself. She's carefully masked behind the cluster, so anyone not paying attention would miss her. But I always keep a keen eye on events such as these. I tend to miss nothing.

Curiosity pulls me forward, eventually being able to hear her mumbling to herself as she takes in a long set of breaths; more jagged than composed. I think back to what Johanna Mason said earlier about the cooked crocodile. It certainly comes as no surprise that it would effect her so deeply, given her experience, but it is a little puzzling how seemingly deep it truly cut. It makes me wonder what else is amiss.

I reach into the inner pocket of my coat, withdrawing an unused and perfectly folded handkerchief. I extend it slowly, mindful my steps are soft and yet loud enough to announce my presence. Her body stiffens when she becomes aware to my presence, but she hasn't paid me any mind yet. Still, I keep the handkerchief extended.

"In case you need it," I say. When she doesn't move I tuck it back into my jacket. "Ms. Rhythe. I don't believe we've ever properly been introduced. I apologize to do so now, but you seemed distraught. And what kind of gentleman would I be if I ignored a young woman in need?"

At that, Ceres looks up. Her deep blue eyes flicker with a brief fraction of panic and then eerie calm. The rapid succession of emotions is intriguing, to say the least, and truly entices my curiosity to what have triggered it. It could have been just the meal made in poor taste, but I know better.

"Johanna Mason was looking for you," I say. "Did she find you?"

"She did," Ceres says, slowly. "I was...on the balcony. I needed air."

"It is a bit stuffy in here, isn't it?" I say.

"Yes. It is."

"Well, as I said, I didn't introduce myself. I am Plutarch Heavensbee."

"I know who you are," she says. "You're Seneca's second."

"I am. I appreciate you remembered me, I can scarcely remember myself," I say. "May I ask if you're alright?"

Ceres brushes her tongue over her lower lip, eyes drifting away in a brief moment of thought before looking back at me with a raised chin. "My dress is pretty tight. My Stylist went a little too rough around the lacing," she says, even managing an annoyed, little sigh. "It was just a little hard to breathe, so I stepped away. I didn't want to try to find the bathroom, so this seemed like the best spot. Private. I see I misjudged it."

I smile through her lies. She is a good liar, I admit, as her speech pattern remains level and she maintains a cool demeanor throughout. Surely it must work wonders on the likes of Seneca Crane, too blinded by the girl he's ludicrously smitten with, and the same can apply to any other low level Capitolian she socializes with. She's good at the game. "I'm considering Sponsoring your Tributes this year," I say.

The look she gives me is fleeting, but it's there. It reflects confusion, before she forces herself to straighten out and adopt an indifferent expression. She pulls her hand back from the statue. "We would be honored to have you as a Sponsor. But, if I may ask, why us?" she asks, blue eyes staring deeply into mine, searching. She borders on caution. Good.

"Ms. Rhythe, considering. My decision isn't made yet," I say. "I'll be meeting with some of your associates to discuss the matter, since your Tributes aren't the only ones that interest me. I'm keeping my options open and seeing what everyone can bring to the table."

At that, her brow furrows. "By bring to the table, what do you mean?"

"Promising Tributes," I say. "Don't worry, Ms. Rhythe. I'm not a hedonist."

"I see."

"It is promising to have a Gamemaker on your side."

"I'm familiar," she says.

"I know you are. Would you be interested in my Sponsorship? If you are uncomfortable with a Gamemaker contributing to your Tributes, you only have to say so," I say. I'm met by a cold silence as her eyes narrow in on me. "You know, I don't believe I ever had the chance to say this, but I am sorry for the loss of your brother. He was just a boy."

"A boy who wanted to kill me," Ceres says, surprisingly quickly and with pure ice. I see the regret wash over her. "I'm sorry. That was..." she trails away. I can see the twisted nature of her thoughts and how they're strangling her from the inside out, but she manages to grapple with them and pin them down. "What's done is done. I appreciate your sentiment, and also I would be honored to have you Sponsor our Tributes. Having a Gamemaker is very useful. Thank you."

"Of course," I say, smiling. "Perhaps we could meet privately about it to go over the details? Later, of course, we can make arrangements through your escort." Once again, I'm met by cautious silence. "I'll leave you to it, Ms. Rhythe. I hope you can catch your breath."

I turn to go, but before I do a thought strikes me. It's a brash one, yet sometimes those are necessary under my circumstances, and in the games I play. I peer over my shoulder at the young Victor, who looks back at me with slightly narrowed, expectant eyes. I can tell she wants me to go, disappear back into the crowd as a faceless Gamemaker she can forget about come tomorrow. Under normal circumstances, I don't mind being forgotten. But in this moment, I need her to remember my face. Within the scales residing in my head, I weigh my options. They balance out between each other, in the fraction of a second I have before it becomes too suspicious just standing here, staring back at her.

A small chuckle parts from my lips, thinking back to when I had cornered her father six years ago, when he had been drunk and stared at me as if I were a madman. I hadn't needed a monologue, all I needed were a few choice words. By the time he had come back to the Capitol, after he had been able to ponder over them and weigh his own options, he had been convinced. Now I'm faced with a similar situation. Ironically still, both manners of convincing had involved Liber Rhythe.

No better way to stir a longing to fight than the promise of justice, twisted as it may be.

I raise my hand, enough for her to see it. 'You know, he truly was an incredible artist.'

---

Ceres.

---

"Under no circumstances, do not show your strengths."

I keep my eyes forward, staring at the elevator door as we begin the descent downwards. Fear and nerves are like a radiator in the tight, all too confining space, though I don't look at either of them, already knowing their expressions are no doubt vibrant with such emotions. I don't fault them for it at all. Today marks the beginning of their training. Ivoree had their uniforms delivered early this morning, already tailor-made to fit their figures. Under normal circumstances it would be Mags or my dad, as the seasoned, older veterans of the Hunger Games, to take on the Mentor position and escorting the Tributes to the center, where they'll be led away by some guards. But Mags isn't here and my dad left early this morning to go to a meeting along with Tilda. Finnick has been gone since last night, out late with a client or two, and Ren thought it would be appropriate if I took up the mantle for a change. I can't say I enjoy it, but I'm glad it's me.

It gives me something else to think about, rather than my own nerves circulating throughout my body, as my mind keeps trying to make me relive last night and the conversation I had with that Gamemaker. I push these thoughts and memories down as deeply as I can, burying them under the varies duties and obligations that need to take priority. Although my heart is hammering and I didn't get any sleep last night thinking about it, I need to put my Tributes first. They have their own fears. Even if one of them lives, the other will die. There is no reprieving thought between them.

Although it's tempting to just lay in my room and scream into a pillow until I lose my voice, I need to be a Mentor.

Kipper exhales lowly and I can feel him shift from one foot to the other. "Then what are we supposed to do?" he asks. "Shouldn't we really focus on our strengths?"

"There will be plenty of time for that," I say. "When you each train personally with us, we'll really hone in on them. It'll be necessary to really show your skills when you have to perform them to the Gamemakers for your score, but don't worry about that right now. That's sometime away. Today will mostly be getting comfortable with the center, the equipment, and general studies." I allow a small pause to fall among us, so they can register what I'm saying and hopefully feel better, before I continue. "It's easy to fall into the trap of hyper-focusing on combative skills only, but that's just half of the Games. Survival is key. And to survive, you need to know how to set traps, tie knots, and make fires."

"Do you think there'll be water?" Kipper asks. "I know how to fish."

"It's likely, but don't expect it," I say. "As members of the fishing District, the others are going to expect each of you to find water first and foremost, so don't rely on fishing as your sole source. Learn how to hunt and how to harvest water elsewhere."

"Like in trees," Marina says.

"Exactly. The important thing today is to keep your heads down," I say. "Evaluate your fellow Tributes. The less threatening you look the more likely it is they're going to ignore you."

The elevator pings softly and the doors open. I step forward, with my Tributes on either side of me. Ahead of use, rows of Mentors leading their Tributes to the start of their lessons are doing the exact thing I am. I try not to pay them too much attention.

"Don't cause any trouble. No antagonizing your fellow Tributes," I say.

"Should we try to make friends?" Kipper asks.

I frown. Friends. That's such an innocent word. One doesn't make friends in the Arena, you forge Alliances when necessary to stay alive, then, eventually, you have to kill them or watch them be killed. There is no in between. Even during my own Games, I'd let myself fall into that trap. I let myself care about Birch and those two kids from District 12 he had wanted so desperately to protect, but I still wanted Daisy die, then Birch, and my own brother killed Rust. Nellie had saved my life and kept me alive, until the end, but the rocks still crushed her bones into dust. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier if I'd never let myself get attached to them, but I always rue those thoughts. Despite everything, I valued them deeply. But it's not a loss I'd wish to inflict on anyone else, least of all my Tributes.

"Not friends, Kipper," I say, assertively. "Alliances. And, no, I don't think so. Just gauge them today."

"What will you be doing?" Marina asks. "Will you be there?"

"Not physically, no," I say. "But I will be watching, as will the Gamemakers."

"Including the Head Gamemaker?"

I feel my hand clench at my side. I wish she would stop bringing him up...I understand where her logic resides, because if I were in her shoes, I would be pushing the very same thing, but I'm tired of thinking about it. If she thinks that I can just will Seneca Crane to keep them alive, then she's wrong. Sure, he can maybe buy them some time, but it doesn't matter. Despite the sentiment he yielded to me during the Unity Gala, of asking me who I'd prefer to live, his power extends only so far. But he had promised to gently lead his sons to Sponsor us...but, quite frankly, I don't trust that, either.

"He will be," I say.

"How will you be watching, though?" Kipper asks.

"Mentor secret, I'm afraid," I say, looking down to wink at him.

He smiles.

When we reach the broad doors leading to the center, two guards emerge and retrieve my Tributes from me. I smile at them as they peer back at me, hoping my words have stuck with them. As it were, I'm on my own today. Typically, I have at least one or two other Mentors with me during the first day of training, but all of them are occupied at the present. It's strange, to be sure, and I do feel a set of nervous butterflies in my stomach. But it'll be fine. Sure, it'd be nice to have someone else to talk to, to fully be enveloped by distractions instead of alone in my thoughts, but it could be worse. I turn once my Tributes are out of sight and walk off to reach my designated perch, through an elevator at end of the corridor.

There's a large room reserved for Victors and, sometimes, their escorts where we can watch our Tributes train. It hovers above the center itself on the upper level, so I have to take an elevator to reach it, with large floor to ceiling windows that look down directly over the events. The windows are double-sided so we can see out but the Tributes, if they looked up, wouldn't be able to see us; just a glossy silvery-black wall, like all the rest of them. The room itself is large enough to house the multitude of Victors, with vast arrays of screens across the wall providing multiple different angles of the events transpiring from down below; so we can see things up-close. There are a vast set of chairs and couches where some may rest, as well as a bar located, ironically, by the windows. There are also staff members who occasionally walk through to bring us food and the like, but it's never easy eating when you're up there.

When I step off of the elevator and into the room, there are several Victors there already. I decide to skip the pleasantries and go straight to the window to look out, peering down as the Tributes stand together as the instructor gives them the standard speech about the importance of survival skills, combative skills, and all else. I remember my own all too well. I can tell that Kipper is standing beside the little girl from District 11, since they come to the same height - no doubt he feels more comfortable with her, but it does make my heart sink. Marina, meanwhile, seems to have inched close to the likes of Districts 8 and 7. My eyes drift towards the tall platform overlooking the training, where Gamemakers all sit together with lavish chairs and are waited on by Avoxes. There are tables full of exotic foods, so rich in color and bust, I can practically smell the spices from up here, and taste the wealth on my tongue.

My eyes search the platform for a moment until I find him. Seneca Crane is currently here, shaking hands with a couple of his peers and a glass of wine in the other. It's strange watching him when he can't see me, but I'm hovering above him. He looks so incredibly small from down below, so miniscule. Unimportant. It makes me wonder if this is how he feels when he watches the Tributes from his own perch, staring across what I presume to be an array of monitors, mapping out their deaths like a fine puzzle.

I turn away from the window and find someplace to sit, pulling a little pad from out of my pocket where I keep notes. I'll be sending them to my fellow Victors afterwards. It's important to maintain communication during this time, keeping track on our thoughts, our Tributes, and so forth. An Avox brings me a glass of iced tea with a lemon, since I've never had the stomach for alcohol, and I begin.

Across the wall there are dozens of screens reflecting multiple views of the Training Center as the Tributes are given their first lessons. Some of them look nervous, others terrified, other faces unreadable, and the Careers look positively elated. There are broad smiles on their faces, standing comfortably in place. Specially trained in academies in their respective Districts, no doubt this structure and setup looks very similar to home for them. This is their territory, the same way I feel most at peace out on the water. My lips press together. They're going to be tricky to navigate. They're lethal in nearly every way, but that also makes them proud and arrogant. They slipup easier.

My eyes lower. It's why Lamia had been so comfortable having her back to Liber. She had Volunteered at fifteen instead of the standard eighteen, believing her prospects to be higher than most, and to some degree she was correct. From District 1, her prospects were impressive. She was young, pretty, dangerous, and did well for herself in training and in her interview. She had been incredibly dangerous in the Games and her done well for herself Sponsorship wise. If anything, allying with my brother had been her doom. Occasionally I've gone back through the old Archives of my Games to watch Lamia and Liber together, trying to figure the two of them out. It was easy to tell they were mutually attracted to each other, but I could never fully grasp of the little "romance" they had was real or not. It could be they were playing to the cameras or trying to pose a united front. A young Career and the young son of a Victor. It seemed like an interesting pair.

Through tabloids, I'd learned that they almost had the potential to be popular, were it not for the fact that Liber ruined it by plunging his trident through the back of her neck, when she'd made the mistake facing away from him. I still remember the stunned expression on her face, but it didn't last long. Liber had pulled the trident from out of her and she'd fallen. The Mutt in the water had smelled her blood and dragged her body underwater. I can still hear the sickening crunch of her bones in its mouth.

I wonder if Liber always knew he'd betray her, or if it'd been an impulsive decision. Alternatively, I've also wondered the same for me. Had he known he would kill me after I Volunteered or had he chosen to do so at a later time?

I bring my eyes back up again, forcing myself to stare at the screens and my Tributes. It doesn't matter, because he's dead, and yet his ghost continues to haunt me. But it's not just through my family or my arm or my nightmares anymore, now it's spread to someplace more dangerous. A Gamemaker.

The truth is, I'm still reeling from that conversation I had with Plutarch Heavensbee. I can't say I've ever thought much of the man before, save for the few times Seneca's mentioned him or I've seen him interact with Victors at social events. He's just always been another nameless Gamemaker, another cog in the system. But all of that has changed after the Unity Gala. When I think of him, I see that strange smile of his and his fingers moving in a language that does not belong to him.

The bastard walked away before I had the chance to confront him, but the simple reality is I never would have been able to do so. There was no way I could have grabbed him and demanded answers out of him during the Unity Gala. It was absurd to even consider. There were too many prying eyes and cameras. If I'd reached out and grabbed him and demanded answers, what could I have gained? He might've just ignored me or gotten confrontation himself. So I had been able to do was stare at him as he disappeared into the crowd of socialites, vanishing like a shadow.

I haven't seen him since, either, and I've been too damn afraid to ask anyone about it.

A multitude of questions fill my head. Why would he approach me? How would he know about Liber's art? Why does he know how to use Mags' language? And, most importantly, who is the reason he knows all these things? I've gone through multiple prospects in my head. To my knowledge, Tilda and Ren both don't know about my brother's secrets. Sure, they know the language Mags made, but I doubt they'd feel inclined to share it. Rheon, Finnick, and Mags all know about Liber's journals. Rheon has proven before he's capable of lying to me, but why the hell would he share that kind of information with a Gamemaker? Finnick wouldn't dare betray me like that. Would Mags...?

Nothing makes sense.

My hand clenches over the top of the pad on my lap, where I've been maintaining my notes. It could be no one told him. Would it be possible for the language to be learned? Maybe the Gamemakers have a broader expanse on the Districts than I thought. How many cameras do they have access to? How much time do they have to decipher the subtle use of of our hands?

I'm in too deep. Maybe it had been a mistake letting myself become exclusive to Seneca Crane. Involving myself in that business is proving too much trouble than its worth...

I look up, watching as some of the guards get between two sets of Tributes, then immediately look back down to take notes. I can't hear what they're fighting about, of course, but the boy looks furious and points accusingly at the other, who looks on helplessly. The boy from District 2 has a temper. He has an enormous physical presence about him, which is more than just the strength of his body and character. He carries himself with utmost importance. This is a young man who's spent the entirety of his life dedicated to the simple fate of being a Career.

He has a high probability of making it out as a Victor, too, but he certainly has his hindrances. Primarily, that short fuse of his.

My fingers brush across the screen of my pad in quiet thought. I doubt either of my Tributes could take the Careers out themselves, but, perhaps, if they secured some allies they could have a better chance. The problem is, the potential for Alliances are subpar at best, given the stock we have this year. There are some credible characters outside of the arrogant Careers, but none particularly standout.

I keep going back to Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, but I know my fellow Mentors will never go for it. It's practically suicide to chuck our cards into the betting pool of District 12.

My relationship with Haymitch is complicated. I respect him for what he is and I understand why he is the way he is. I've stared down the end of a bottle before after my nightmares or episodes, I know how easy it is to disappear into that void. But his negligence in regards to his Tributes grates me.

My dad once told me he neglects them because he doesn't want to get attached. All I have to do is remember how my father disappeared into a bottle, absent as a Mentor, when Liber and I were in the Games. I had longed for my father's presence and, despite everything, had felt fearful without him. I can only imagine what his Tributes feel, particularly knowing just how incompetent their Mentor is.

Still, maybe I can convince them. If I could convince, at least, two of my fellow Mentors to consider District 12 then I have a fighting chance. Alternatively, if we can have Sponsors, then that would be beneficial, too. Ivoree had sent me a list of names to socialize with for the Unity Gala, which I had started to do the day of, but all of that had been squandered after my encounter with Plutarch. Since then, he's sent me more names and potential prospects, but I haven't opened them. I've been too distracted.

"That one has a temper on him," someone says, as they go to sit beside me on the sofa.

I startle out of my thoughts, turning to peer over my shoulder, and facing none other than Gemma Lux. All at once, my hand clenches around my tablet, and I force myself to smile before a subconscious scowl has the chance to settle on my face. Gemma, in return, is looking down at me with a soft smile. At nearly forty years old, Gemma looks remarkably good for her age. Her long silver hair is pulled out of her face and in a high ponytail. Her angular features are contoured and adorned with glitter, reminding me of Cashmere. Amidst these fair features resides a pair of deep blue eyes that giveaway nothing; they're just blue, voiceless orbs.

Gemma looks casual today, wearing a high-necked black leather top with no sleeves, allowing for a vast array of golden bangles to circle around her arms, with cuffs at the wrist. She's wearing golden leather pants, as well, with a satin looking belt around her waist. I've never understood District 1 fashion. It's so damn impractical. But I suppose when your main export is luxury, practicality doesn't matter. In an outfit like that, she'd sink to the bottom of the ocean in my District.

"May I sit down?" she asks.

I consider waving her away. I'm too deep in my thoughts right now and I have a million and one things to focus on. The last thing I need is for Gemma to swoop in and provide more of a headache for me. Still, I know that'd be stupid of me. Pissing off anyone from a higher District is a bad call, especially so early in the Games. I scoot over. "Go ahead."

Gemma smiles and sits down beside me, crossing one leg over the other. "He's going to be a problem."

"He's allying with your Tributes, no doubt," I say, pretending to be very interested in my notes. "I wouldn't worry."

"I always worry about my Tributes, Ceres. It's my fatal flaw," Gemma says, casually. "Somebody has to."

I stare intently down at my pad, hoping that she'll notice how very busy and focused I am and leave me alone, but no such luck.

"Your Tributes did well during the Parade," she says.

My knuckle clenches at my side, which I carefully hide from her view. "So did yours," I say. "But I think we all know who we were outshone by."

At that, Gemma's perfect brow, sculpted and plucked into a high arch, lifts. Her expression momentarily relays some measure of disappointment to my statement but it's quickly squandered by amusement. It's almost a little frustrating how quickly her emotions shifted. "I think we were all taken by surprise," she says, her face shifting into a smirk. "Gloss is helping them lick their wounds as we speak."

"They'll be fine. Careers always are."

"Well, even Careers can have wounded pride," Gemma replies, either oblivious or willfully ignorant to the ice in my voice. "It's their deepest vice."

"Yeah. I know."

"Garnett told us he approached you about an Alliance. But Cashmere thinks it isn't a good idea. I'm sure you understand why."

"No need to reiterate the details, Gemma. Gloss already made it clear he's not interested, either, and I understand it. We have a poor set of Tributes this year," I say. "It's not like our Districts are married to each other. There's no annual loyalty."

Gemma sighs. "Still. I owed you an apology."

"You don't have to be formal about it. Nothing about it is legally binding," I say. "My Tributes are a liability to yours, right?" My jaw tightens a little as I watch Kipper being taught how to handle a sword that's too large for him, already setting him up for failure. I'm going to need to talk to my fellow Mentors about that, and I'll request handling his training personally when it comes to it. He'll need something lighter, like a dagger. "Did you really come all the way over here just to talk about Tributes?"

"Perceptive little thing, aren't you? No. I didn't," she says. "I wanted to check on you."

"Did Rheon ask you to do that?"

Gemma looks curious at that and shakes her head. "No. Just me," she says. "I saw that crocodile brought in at the gala and I thought of you. That couldn't have been easy to see."

It really wasn't. It makes me wonder how many people saw me freeze in place when it had been carried through the crowd, or worst yet who saw me being whisked away by Seneca Crane to a balcony. "I'm fine. I appreciate your concern, but -" I swallow. "I'm fine. Thank you, Gemma."

"Is something wrong?"

"Nothing. I just think you need to focus more on your Tributes and getting Sponsors and less on me," I say.

"I can multitask," Gemma says.

"I'm not a part of your District -"

"You're my fellow Victor and my friend," she cuts me off. "And I care about you. You and I share a similar set of experiences that the others don't necessarily have, so I want you to know you can trust me. I'm here for you." When I don't reply, her eyes soften. I hope she'll get up and go when I don't give her anything, but she just carries on. "It would be nice if it didn't have to be this way, right?"

"Sure. But there's no changing things," I say. "Gemma, I'm sorry. But I can't focus on you right now, or your apologies. From where I stand, the Careers from District 1 and 2 are going to be lethal in the Arena and my own Tributes need all the help they can get, so, given the fact you have no intentions of negotiating any kind of alliance, I suggest we just keep to ourselves. Okay?"

I want to see her be angry or be hurt, but all I see is that remaining calm demeanor and soft eyes focused in on me, as she slowly nods and pushes herself to her feet. "Okay, if that's what you need."

A small part of me feels guilty as she walks away. While I've never spoken much to Gemma Lux, most of our past conversations have been pleasant. She is right, we do have a great deal in common in regards to our respective predicaments. We've both been bound to Capitolian men. Mine has been over the course of six years, without pause or break in Seneca's affections, whilst Gemma was forced to be impregnated by a Capitolian man. I can only imagine what those nine months were like for her, being owned by someone in such a deeply disturbing way. The very fact she followed through with the birth of her son is astounding to me, and worst still that Snow still saw him Reaped when he came of age. My sympathies and even respect for her are broad and wide, but it doesn't change the fact that I still saw her with my dad. I saw the way he smiled at her and she smiled at him, and how my dad twisted his ring when he was with her.

By the same token, I look back on when Demetra and Rheon parted when we left District 4, how impersonal and cold it had been. I know that their marriage has been stagnant since my brother died and I can't fault them for that. There was a huge blame game involved and guilt and other emotions I can't even begin to comprehend. But it's been six years. They still live in the same house, but it's divided between them. And now my dad is smiling at Gemma Lux like she hung the damn moon. Does my mom know about this? Have her eyes wandered too?

I feel like this should be my business, too, but how can it? I'm not a child anymore. They aren't obliged to me.

Besides, we're pawns to the Capitol first and a family second...if we were ever a real family to begin with.

I sit for a while longer in my sullen thoughts, trying to focus on Kipper and Marina as they find their footing. Thankfully, none of them are playing to their strengths. They are listening to me. I can see how their eyes wander discreetly towards their fellow Tributes, looking for a moment, and then carrying on with their own affairs. Good. I'll have to ask them what they've learned and what they think afterwards. An hour or two must go by, as I've consumed about four iced teas and one small meal at this point, when I feel a new presence behind me. I turn, expecting an Avox or another Victor, but instead it's a tall young man with heavily lined eyes, an easy smile, and a pad tucked into his arm.

Ames Cairncross, Seneca's personal assistant. Oh, great.

"Ms. Rhythe."

"Ames...nice to see you," I say, turning my pad off and tucking it back into my pocket. I already know what this is about so there's really no such need for formalities, but it does startle me that it's happened so fast. I'd expected maybe a few more days to pass before I would be seeing him. Furthermore, I am a little alarmed to be summoned in the middle of the first day of training, making me wonder if he made an excuse to slip out as an impulse decision or if this was pre-meditated.

"Mr. Crane has requested to see you," he says.

I know, I figured. "Of course. I'll go change," I say. "Where will we be meeting?"

"His office."

---

The desk makes a strange rattling noise as it buckles beneath the rapid movements atop of it, making me wonder if there's anything loose in one of the golden lined drawers. I let my mind drift to that distant place, considering maybe a set of keys or jewels or, to my own amusement, a collection of coins, but it's hard to let my mind drift when my Capitolian lover is adamant to keep my thoughts in the present. I suppose I shouldn't really be surprised that I was called on so soon. Typically, Seneca waits before summoning me, but after the events at the Unity Gala, I imagine he was feeling maybe a little paranoid or threatened by the likes of Thrax Mellona. In his own insecure head, I wonder if this is his way of asserting the truth to himself that I, Ceresea Rhythe, belong to him.

Under normal circumstances, Seneca would have invited me to our normal room at the Oneiroi, a lavish and, honestly, sensual hotel within the city. It's a hotspot for meetups with Victors and people generally having affairs, given its romantic and secretive atmosphere. The hotel maintains discretion, too, which garners its favor. It's a place that Seneca likes to take me, for a multitude of reasons, and he practically has one room in particular rented out reach year just for us. I've grown so accustomed to the routine there I could walk it blindfolded. But given how busy Seneca has been, as Head Gamemaker, I imagine he hasn't found a moment for him to remove himself from his desk. So, in an act of critical thinking, he currently has me on his desk with him between my legs, rutting away.

I can't say it's the most comfortable position in the world, but I do know there's some advantages to Seneca having me in his office. For one, there's less time for us to share then we otherwise would at the Oneiroi, and, secondly, it's less about the sentiment and more about the physical aspect of it. When Seneca lavishes me with affections and words of devotion, I never quite know what to do with it. But when he's just ravishing me on his desk, it's so straightforward. At most, there's just about half an hour of post-coital interaction before I can leave. All in all, it's an hour of my time, versus a whole night or afternoon. This means not so much of my time will be wasted. After this, I can go back to my duties as a Mentor, and, maybe, just maybe, try to figure out the things currently rotting inside of my head.

In any case, at least there isn't the worry of dressing again. When I'd first arrived to Seneca's office, I'd scarcely been greeted, rather kisses hungrily and with utmost need. We almost didn't even make it towards his desk, which had already been cleared in preparation for my arrival. Seneca had only undone his buckle and trousers just to allow his member to be free and the dress I'd chosen for today, a deep blue one with little scale patterns, was hiked up around my waist to allow my lover easier access to me. Frankly, there's little for me to do right now. Seneca is absorbed in his own thoughts and the frantic nature of his thrusts. I provide an obligatory moan here or there, a gasp of his name, but mostly I can let my thoughts drift - as do my eyes. With Seneca's face buried into my neck, it's easy to do so. I tactfully avoid locking eyes with a portrait of President Snow hung over the fireplace, as well as a large portrait of Seneca with his wife and sons.

On a little glass side table beside a large red velvet divan, I see a couple of folders, with a piece of paper sticking out. "MUTTATION" is written in large bold letters, spiking my curiosity. I wonder if he had had a meeting with one of the Gamemakers earlier today. He's told me a couple of times before how each Gamemaker has a specific area of expertise, and how he has one named Lucia who is one of the ones responsible for the creation of Mutts. I'd asked once if she had made the Mutt that took my arm, in a moment of boldness. Seneca had said no, that he had been the one to design them, but someone named Rosaline had been in charge of their settings.

It makes me wonder what kind of sick, twisted creatures the Gamemakers have designed and cooked up for the Games this year. The mind boggles. If they can conjure up crocodiles who can camouflage in black and clear waters, then the sky's the limit. Glancing back at the folder, I wonder if I can somehow sneak a peak, or pry something out of him. He's usually very careful to keep those kinds of things from my knowledge - bias and all, and just contractual dangers - but still, he's just a man.

Seneca starts to move a little faster and less consistently, his grunts growing deeper. I can tell that he's getting close now, so I reach up and grab a fistful of his black hair and murmur into his ear, gasping out his name, moaning the way he likes, to quicken the process. His hips snap forward against mine, his breath hitching, and I feel him pulsing inside of me. After a few shallow thrusts, he all but slumps against me, supported only slightly by his arms on either side of me. Once his breathing has leveled out, he finally draws himself out of me, and pulls some tissues from out of his drawers to clean us both up.

His face remains totally flushed, eyes glassy, and his body moving loosely. "I'll call on you soon for a proper evening, I promise," he says, huskily.

"I'm going to hold you to that," I reply back, knowing that's exactly what he wants to hear, and I pull him forward to kiss me.

Seneca pulls away slowly, a contented smile across his face. He turns after caressing my cheek affectionately and goes across the room to pour himself a glass of brandy from a rose-shaped decanter on his table, right where that file sits. He notices it, then, and picks it up along with his drink and brings it back towards the desk. I watch as he opens one of the drawers, going to put the file inside, when a moment of boldness has me reach out to place my hand over his chest, fingers dragging sensually, distractingly, over the front of his clothed torso.

"What's that?" I wonder, pleased when he shivers beneath my touch.

"Work-related business, I'm afraid," he says. "Highly confidential."

"You can't even give me a hint?"

Seneca turns to look down at me, his blue eyes looking across my face with nothing short of pure affection. That gaze of his has always puzzled me. I ever know entirely what to feel when it's set on me, if I should be revulsed, confused, or pity him for living so deep in his own delusions. "I adore you," he says, "but I'm afraid not." He tucks the folder into the desk and shuts it with a soft little click. "I can assure you that this year is going to be interesting, though, but not too interesting. I'm saving my best tricks for next year."

"I'm curious what you have planned," I say.

Seneca smooths out his ruffled hair, appearing a little dismayed by it, and reaches into a separate drawer for some sweet-smelling pomade. "You won't be disappointed," he says, pausing. I notice him hesitate as he fiddles with the lid of the small container. "Did Mr. Mellona say anything to you after I left? I had the impression he was trying to flirt with you."

Not in the way you're thinking. I turn away to hide my grimace, recounting Thrax's smile as he spoke of Finnick, of me watching. All at once my stomach churns and I have to fight back every urge not to fall forward and just throw up my multiple glasses of sweet tea and the little breakfast I had. I swallow it all down, then turn back to face Seneca with a sweet smile. "He just wanted to discuss being a Sponsor, is all. It was fine," I say, reaching out to hook my arm around Seneca's neck, brushing my fingers over his still messy hair.

"Good...I was worried," Seneca says. "It's funny how some people can't grasp that the nature of our relationship."

What is the nature of our relationship, then? I want to pose this question to him, to really force him to think about this predicament we are both unceremoniously in. Whilst he gets to live giddily in his own head, balancing his successful career and his long-time, shameless affair with a Victor, I live in perpetual fear. Someday Seneca's affections will wane or he will lose his power, and then that puts me back at square one. Our relationship isn't anything more than a distraction for him and a way to stay float at sea for me. Once I lose him, something else is going to come for me, and I highly doubt it'll be another lifeline.

But none of these things are anything I can voice out loud to him, or to anyone else outside of whispered conversations with only a select few people. Instead, I just have to smile and pretend that everything is most certainly fine, when everything is anything but. I've pretended for a very long time that everything is fine, but that's just been a farce, too. So much is wrong. Where do I even begin? The state of my family is something I should think seriously about, but I don't have the time. My father's potential affair is hurtful, but how the hell can I focus on that, either? There is the fact that my brother's journals mean something, more so than I could have imagined - I have a grandfather in District 4, unaware that I know about him, and now I have a Gamemaker seemingly aware to my brother's work. What do I do with that? Where the hell could he have gotten that information?

It's entirely possible Gamemakers keep up with the Victors' lives outside of the Capitol, like a spy network, as horrifying as it is to consider. It could be a way they keep intel and report back to President Snow, but that seems unrealistic, too. I know we're constantly being watched, even in the privacy of our own Districts, but to that extent? I try not to leave anything out when it comes to Snow. He is a man not above killing children. It's hardly a stretch to consider he'd have perversions against privacy. But if Plutarch knows, who else? I look up at Seneca, who's turned to smooth out his hair again with a gold lined mirror on the wall. If Liber's journals are, theoretically, common knowledge...what else would be? Would Seneca know? No, if he knew...he'd give it away, right?

I brush my tongue over my lip. "I have a question for you."

"Of course."

"What do you really think of Plutarch Heavensbee?" I ask, sliding off of the desk and smoothing out the front of my dress. "I know he's your second. He went up to me and my father yesterday asking about Sponsoring our Tributes and, well..." I allow a deliberate, thoughtful pause to settle as I go up behind him and wrap my arm around his waist. Affection lowers defenses, once again reminding me that my life seems like it's nothing but a perpetual cycle of deception. "I'm protective of my Tributes. I want to know they're being Sponsored by someone with good intentions. You know?"

Seneca hums against me. "I think Plutarch is an incredible Gamemaker. He's worked for the Cranes for quite some time, and well before our claim to the position of Head Gamemaker," he says, setting aside the pomade and cleaning his hands off with a rag on the table. "I think highly of him, but he is sometimes a little odd. He's not as charming as I would like...a bit aloof, truthfully. But he's a man of his word and I trust him. I think he'd be a good Sponsor."

"I value your opinion," I say. I need more.

"If you're worried, I could talk to him," Seneca says, turning himself around so he's facing me, and he hooks his arms around my waist.

I shake my head. "No, that's not necessary. I feel better knowing you trust him," I say. "I'm just worried about my Tributes this year."

"We do have interesting Tributes this year," Seneca says. "But I wouldn't worry about it. My sons are still considering who to Sponsor this year, but they are leaning more towards District 4. I think they see themselves in that young boy of yours. What was his name again?"

"Kipper."

"Yes. Kipper," Seneca says. "They're boys, so they gravitate towards the young ones."

"Their support would be appreciated."

"Uninfluenced support," Seneca adds, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "Now, as much as I'd like to carry on and chat more, or...other things, I have more work to do. But I mean it when I say that I'll treat you to a real night out soon. You have my word." He steps away from me and presses something on his desk which makes a soft buzz noise and the doors to his office immediately open. "Ames will see you out, of course."

"Don't keep me waiting," I say, giving him one last kiss before I depart through the doors with Ames behind me.

Once they audibly shut, I release a soft breath. Ames guides me through the long corridor of the top floor, the hallway lined with portraits of past Head Gamemakers and President Snow, and leads me to the elevator. Once inside, I lean back against the wall and touch my face. I smell like sex and a blend of amber and raspberries. I'm going to have to shower immediately once I get back to the Training Center and to District 4's respective floor to erase it off of me. Everyone will know where I was, of course, because it's obvious, but I'd prefer if the physical evidence wasn't visible to them, especially Finnick. I close my eyes, wishing the elevator would go faster, and that the soft orchestral music it plays would just shut up.

Beside me, Ames is staring down at a little pad in his hands, typing away at something or other, and barely paying me any attention. He does, however, hum along to the elevator's irritating music, and I feel compelled to bang my head back against the wall. After a short while, I open my eyes and look over at him. He's stopped typing, seemingly aware my eyes are on him now, and he adjusts the front of his deep magenta jacket with a teal lined tailcoat to tuck the pad into an inner pocket. The inside of the coat faces me, an alabaster color with glittery designs to replicate feathers, with several pockets along the material. I notice they hold pens, another pad, a pocket full of candies, and then what looks to be a small brown leather book scarcely poking at the top.

Ames closes his jacket and smooths it out, but I'm still staring at his torso. I've seen that book before, or one like - even from just the brief glimpse I had of it, I know that worn brown leather, I with the subtle hint of stains over it. My heart starts to hammer all over again, my vision blurring a little as something in my head begins to pound. Ames leans forward, oblivious to the slow rise of my panicked breaths, and presses a button. The elevator suddenly stops.

"I'm so terribly sorry," Ames says, "I forgot I had to drop something off. You don't mind, do you?"

I can't breathe. I can't speak. Ames takes this as confirmation, because when the elevator doors open, he strides through them. Ahead of me is a floor very similar to the very top leading to the Head Gamemaker's offices, but this one is a smaller space, with rows of doors rather than just one at the very end of the hallway - though there is one here, too. I watch as Ames strides towards the very end, stepping through a set of large obsidian doors, and then reappearing again all within a breath. It's as if he scarcely had time to say anything, as if he just took whatever it was straight in and dropped it. When he returns back to the elevator, he presses a button. The doors close and we descend down again. Ames' resumes his humming.

That music, that damned music, accompanied by him and his humming and the orchestra of my own heartbeat and the blood thudding in my ears is too much to take. I swallow a heavy lump in my throat but it won't go down. It feels like it's choking me. I blink rapidly in an effort to steady my trembling vision. My hand is clenched tightly at my side, but I burrow it into a pocket in my dress, nails digging so deeply into my palm they may draw blood. The book. The book. How possible is it that it's...?

I've never seen anything like it in the Capitol. I scarcely see books in general in this place, at least like that. Sure, there are the hard-bound covers with fancy decorations and lined with gold, but nothing as mundane as that.

"Is something the matter?" Ames asks.

I wish he wouldn't have spoken to me. I preferred the damning silence, because I don't fully trust my voice in this moment, yet I try to swallow it down and keep myself calm. My hand unclenches slowly, feeling my palm ache. "What did you deliver?" I manage to ask.

"Oh, nothing of any importance, really. Just a parcel," Ames replies, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a pad.

I glance over quickly, seeing the leather book gone. It is so far out of my place to ask. I should have just said I was fine and carried on, but I can't shake the twisting sensation in my stomach. "Who was it for?"

If Ames is at all affronted by my bold curiosity, it does not reflect upon his face. He simply stares down at his pad and resumes whatever work it is that Seneca has him do. "That would be Plutarch Heavensbee. I believe you met him last night at the Unity Gala," he says. "I'm afraid I can't say anymore than that, Ms. Rhythe. It would be utterly careless of me to divulge confidential Gamemaking business to you."

"Yeah. Careless," I murmur, glancing away.

Plutarch Heavensbee. If my nerves were rattled before, they are doubled now, but my thoughts immediately drop to something else, forcing my gaze from the floor back to Ames' eerily calm face. My stomach starts to do summersaults, followed by another wave of nausea. How did Ames know I met Plutarch last night?

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(a/n): *ducks the onslaught of tomatoes* Eh, eh, eh, I am real sorry that the first M chapter of Converted Into Dust wasn't between Finnick and Ceres. I really did try to find a way where they could do the do together before Seneca, but I couldn't fit it in. :'( That being said, yes, we will be getting some nice lil' smut between them, but I am sorry that ya'll had to have Seneca first. XD Anyway! This chapter was a LOT of fun to write! Writing from Plutarch's POV is always so much fun...especially since we are officially laying down the groundwork for the rebellion. ;) We're going to be seeing a lot more of the BTS leading up to THG and CF, and, boy, is it gonna be a DOOZY. We're gonna be seeing all types of Alliances, enemies, backstabbing, romance, angst, passion, etc. So much shit, you guys. I am HYPED. And next chapter is basically 60% written up, so if I'm feeling frisky I might finish it sooner rather than later and have it published before the next weekend. ;)

Also, we have 30 reviews, 23 favs, and 33 follows! I am beyond words! I am bawling my eyes out, you guys. Thank you so, so much. I've decided every time that we hit a milestone like this (i.e., 30 reviews, 40 reviews, 40 reviews, etc.), I'll do a special treat for you guys. SO! In honor of marking 30 reviews on my humble fanfic, I offer to you an in-character Q&A. In your reviews (you can write it separately or in your review, whichever), feel free to ask any of my characters a question and they'll answer it in the (a/n) next chapter. No cap on characters, either. Go for it.

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~

the. apple .seed: *fist pumps* As a self-proclaimed softy, I'm so happy I wrote a terrifying character. We'll be seeing more of Thrax in the future and I'm hellah excited for what's to come. *evil grin* It's all gonna be a doozy, in more ways than one.

DramonAlina: Haha! I also wait for my own updates, honestly. XD Truth be told, I have the whole part of Converted Into Dust and the final story all mapped and outlined out. I even know exactly what the last chapter will be. So I live in anticipation everyday, writing as fast as I can, so I can get to the pinnacle moments that live rent free in my head. XD Thank you so much! The Unity Gala was a lot of fun to write, and I spent a lot of time watching videos on the Met Gala and looking at absurd fashion costumes. I was really disappointed in Suzanne Collins for never showing the BTS of the Hunger Games, so taking it on myself to add in the extra detail has been fun. And it makes me so happy you enjoyed it! *heart* Haha, listen, I hate Thrax too! I'm ready to grab him and yeet him into a big ole ditch. XD Hopefully you enjoyed the crumbs in this chapter, too. ;) I promise, we'll be seeing more of "it's you, it's me, it's us" throughout the story. XD By the end of it, so many decades will be added to you're life, you'll be immortal. X'D

NotInTheSameWay: Aww, thank you so, so much! I clutched my chest, I'm so glad you're enjoying my story! *heart* Haha, not bad at all! I welcome the shippers! XD

Slytherin-vikis: A wonderful observation! One of the biggest means of infatuations Seneca has in Ceres is the fact that her Games are what won him his success. She, in his view, is like a good luck charm (his feelings are significantly more complicated than that, but it's a huge factor). Plutarch approaching Ceres and Finnick...we'll see what happens. ;) PETITION FOR EVERYONE TO GO AFTER THRAX! #FUCKTHRAXUP2022. I won't lie, I was laughing when I wrote those scenes. Seneca is so in his own head that his relationship with Ceres is 'real' that he wants to introduce her to his parents like a teenager. And as for Ithaca, we'll learn more about her, her relationship with Seneca, and her whole view on Ceres later down the line. Also, another wonderful question. We are going to be seeing the Victors who don't side with District 13 and why, but I won't say how, where, when, or through whose POV. ;) I am going to avoid answering the question about Demetra and Rheon's marriage, since I plan on going in depth over them in the future - including discussing that very scenario, eventually. ;) The amount of reviews I've received of people wanting Ceres with a metal arm makes me laugh. See, I also want Ceres to have a metal arm, but I also recognize the Capitol would never go for it. A metal arm would be clunky and unattractive and lacking in aesthetic. Peeta getting a mechanical leg in CF is different, since his pants can cover it, and he was also in a "love story" with Katniss, so there weren't any fears of an aesthetic issues with clients. Haha, the cooked crocodile scene has been living in my head for years now. I always knew Ceres would be face-to-face with it, so it was really nice to write. It was also definitely not a coincidence. I imagine that Snow orchestrates little triggers throughout events like the Unity Gala to put Victors "in their place," like how there's a huge bowl of fish eyes being served close to where Rheon (who lost his eye during the Games) is standing. Honestly, though. I've got decades worth of trauma and I always hear "it happened X years ago, get over it," through malicious and also ignorant perspectives, so I really wanted to portray that through a Capitolian lens, specifically Seneca. So, the term "mud-people" actually stemmed from Homelander from "The Boys," who's an evil Superman archetype who looks down on humans without powers. I liked the translation of that to fancy Capitolians in the city to the "lesser" Districts. It felt fitting. Capitolians be shitty, after all. I'm so glad you enjoyed the FinSea content! And I promise, we'll see more Galeria. ;)