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

9. Nine: treason from within (M)

(a/n): Okay, for once I didn't breach 20k. X'D This chapter is currently sitting at a spicy 19k, thank you very much! I thought about trimming it down more, but I'm lazy, and also a lot of things happen this chapter and the next chapter is gonna be *SCREAMS* so...*evil grin* Lots of stuff happens next chapter, will likely be equally as long.

Anyways, see you guys at the bottom! *smothers face*

Enjoy, loves!

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CHAPTER NINE

treason from within

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Ceres. Fourteen years ago.

---

This is such a waste of a nice morning.

I was pulled out of my bed over an hour ago by my very upset mother, going on about how my brother's room was empty, and how his shoes were missing, along with his little satchel and a few pieces of food from the kitchen. He's run away, she'd gone off. What did it matter, anyway? I've certainly done the same thing before, snuck out of the house to go hang out by the water or sneak the Archives of the older Hunger Games from my dad's locked office to watch or stow away to little caves along the shore to practice some makeshift weapons I've built, since my dad refuses to give me anything proper to train with. All weapons we use for fishing are strictly kept under lock and key, so much so even I can't reach them. Neither of my parents make much of a fuss out of that, so why is my mom losing her mind so much?

Maybe it has to do with the fact that my dad isn't in District 4 at the moment. He's gone off to the Capitol along with the other Victors for the Hunger Games, leaving mom alone with me and Liber. But even when he's absent, she still doesn't really lose her senses when either of us are out of sight. The amount of times I've snuck out of the house is astronomical. I'm sure my little brother has done so multiple times, too, but this is just the first time he's gotten caught. Typical it's when it's just me and mom. Now, I'm groggy and walking along the shoreline as the dawn slowly takes to the sky, looking for my dumb brother.

My mom didn't leave the house. She's staying there at the chance he comes home, thus meaning I'm the one walking over the various trails and trying to find any footprints in the sand that could be his. I had half a mind to walk into town to wake up my two school friends, Harpee and Mara, but I decided against it. They would be equally upset to be woken up so early and neither of them particularly like my brother, so I'd doubt they'd bother to help me. And the time I'd be putting into that could be otherwise utilized trying to find him myself.

Still, at this point my frustrations are beyond dispute.

"Liber! Liber!" I cup my hands on either side of my mouth in an effort to enhance my voice. It echoes across the world and beach, but is met with nothing, so I keep trying.

He has to be around here somewhere. He's not the type to have gone far. To the best of my knowledge, Liber doesn't exactly have friends. Sure, he's relatively well-liked at school and there are kids there he'll talk to and occasionally do things with, but he never goes out of his way for them. More often than not he can commonly be found hiding out in his room or somewhere in the house, helping our mom out with something while my dad and I are out on the water, fishing. So, it's easy to write off that Liber isn't with his alleged friends. It could be he's going on a small adventure of his own, but that shouldn't merit any panic from our mom. After all, we're in a District. It's practically a fish bowl. Where are we even supposed to go?

Liber wouldn't get far if he was adventuring or wandering off or just running away. It wouldn't be long before Peacekeepers recognized him as a Victor's son and returned him. I know this because I've had Peacekeepers return me to my parents after they caught me in restricted areas, such as coves or "unsafe" locations, but that always strengthens my resolve to search them more (while being more discreet). But I doubt Liber will get that far or do anything that reckless.

I pause, curling my toes in the chilly sand, and fighting back against a yawn that's trying to rip its way through my chest. It's about six in the morning, technically not too early to be awake by my dad's standards, but the frantic nature of my mother waking me up and forcing me out of bed has just overall soured my morning and left me fatigued. When I do find my brother, I'm going to give him a firm lecture. Normally I wouldn't care what he does, but it's effected me now. I can't have that.

I call out his name again once I've taken a moment to rub my eyes and wake myself up by splashing some cold water on my arms, legs, and even some of my face. The saltwater briefly stings my eyes, but it does enough to wake me up, and stir me forward - despite how overwhelmingly annoyed I am. It's a real shame my dad isn't here. More so, it's a shame I'm not a little bit older and in the Capitol with my dad right this second, being trained for the Hunger Games. I am a future Victor, after all, despite what others believe. And I would much rather be there than here, looking for my brother who's undoubtedly just taking time to himself, no different than when I do it.

For the next half hour, I wander through the dunes and across the beaches, shading my eyes against the rising sun as I look across the water where fishermen from the Hatchery have already begun their work, and trying to make sense of any potential footprints in the sand that could belong to him. Amidst the wandering, my frustrations only intensify. And when I do find him, I'm half-tempted to just spin around and return back home to tell my mom he's fine and to just let him be at peace. But I know she'd send me right back to retrieve him. She wouldn't believe me.

Liber is sitting on a half-submerged upside down rowboat that's been stuck on the shore for years now. It has countless damages all across its surface, with chipped pieces of wood across its exposed body, and visible marks where a shark had taken some bites out of it. It's been there for decades, or so my dad says. Allegedly some fishmonger sons had taken the boat out onto the water, but were attacked by a shark. The rumors vary if the boys survived or not, but it makes for an interesting story.

Either way, the boat was found on the shore, battered and upside down, and was simply left there as a warning. Now, it's half-buried in the sands, and its name is only barely visible. Although it's upside down and covered in sand and grime, the word "imagine" is written in sprawling handwriting across its side. I guess it makes sense this is where Liber would come to be by himself. This area of the beach is quiet. My brother is hunched over himself, knees tucked upward and his hands cradling something I can't see. There's a small bag at his feet where a half-eaten apple sits.

"Liber!" I call, rushing towards him.

Liber's eyes snap upwards, watching me as I rush towards him. He fumbles with whatever he had in his hands. It makes a dull thud sound as he closes it - ah, so it's a book - and he hastily shoves it into the belt of his pants, throwing his shirt over it. I'm curious what the hell it is, but I also don't care. Maybe it's a book he's not allowed to have. Sure as hell, there are plenty of things I have and things I do that aren't technically allowed to me. Liber can have this, I suppose.

"Where have you been? Mom made me come look for you," I huff.

Liber shrugs, looking a little less flushed. "Just around," he says.

"Well, just around, mom's mad," I say.

My little brother rakes his hand through his dark hair, an irritated look crossing over his face. "What she's so worried about?" he asks. "You sneak out all the time."

"That's what I was thinking," I say. "It could be because you're the baby or something."

"I'm not a baby," Liber protests.

"You're eight. That's close enough. Could also be mom thinks you'll stumble into the water and drown and die. It wouldn't be fun fishing your body out of the water."

Liber's face flushes. "I can swim," he says.

"No, you can't. You can float, that's different," I say. "Come on. Get your stuff. We need to go home."

Liber gathers up that small bag of his and puts his half-eaten apple inside of it. Although I am half-turned away from him, I notice how he double checks a look in my direction before discreetly pulling a leather looking book from out of his shirt and tucking it into his bag. I don't bother acknowledging it. My relationship with my little brother is strenuous at best, but I think he's deserving to a couple of secrets. After all, he's kept his mouth shut about my nightly pursuits to practice fighting and stealing away my dad's old Archives of the Hunger Games, and the instances where I've snuck out to night-fish with that dummy Finnick Odair, all because he said he could night fish better than me.

I'm better, of course, despite his claims to the contrary. Once Liber has gathered what few things he has, he slides off of the old boat and walks off with me. The two of us venture side by side down the shoreline in relative silence, as the sun rises higher and warmly shines down upon us. We're going straight home. I can maybe catch an hour or two more of sleep (not because I'm tired, but because I'm petty and angry I was woken up), and then carry on with my own devices. Liber will be homebound, of course.

"Why'd you even sneak out?" I inquire. "Why not just, you know, ask?"

"Why do you do anything you do without permission?" Liber challenges. "I was bored. I didn't think mom would worry so much."

I snort. "Mom's more erratic without dad home," I say. "It's a shame we have to wait weeks for him to come back."

Liber frowns. "Yeah. Shame Hunger Games isn't bi-yearly, too, right? Double the chances of you winning."

Despite the sarcasm laced in his voice, I smile widely. "Only a few more years now and I can Volunteer," I say. "Just think of it, Liber. Me. Ceres Rhythe, Victor of the Hunger Games...I'm going to be famous. My legacy will carry on for years, I'm going to make a huge impression. All the Sponsors I could ever ask for, have a relic of my Games be in the museum in the Capitol. I'm going to be remembered for this. I just know it."

"Or you could die."

"Have more faith in me," I say, snorting. "Dad's a Victor. I have every advantage in the world."

"I still think it's stupid."

I shrug. "Whatever," I say. "I'm still going to win. But how about we race?"

Liber grimaces. "No, I'd really rather -"

"The trail to home is up ahead. Let's race there, okay?"

Before Liber has a chance to reply, I lunge forward. I already know that I have several advantages over my brother. For one, with a two year age gap between us, I still have a couple of inches over my little brother. My legs are longer and are able to carry me faster. But, most importantly, I spend every waking moment of everyday at the beach. Running through the sands, swimming out at sea, it's all as easy as breathing to me. I can hear Liber struggling to keep up behind me, but I pay it no mind. I push forward, faster and faster, until I round the corner around a particularly steep hilly rock formation, only to collide with something. It's most definitely not a rock, nor is it a dune, but rather a person.

Before either of us have the proper time to react, we're both grunting in pain and collide hard to the ground. All at once, my face is aching and irritation fills me whole - the trail is just around the corner, damn it, it's right there. I grab ahold of my face, my hands rubbing my nose to ensure it didn't receive any damage. It's fine. Beside me, I can hear someone groaning. Great. I knocked into someone, and now they're going to cost me a victory, no matter how small. I lower my hands and turn to glare daggers, only to find that the person beside me is none other than Finnick Odair.

Oh, great. My glare only intensifies, especially when Finnick, after rubbing his own face, turns to face me and suddenly grins like a damned idiot. He looks more than pleased by my irritation, as he always is. The very bane of my existence, the most loathsome boy in all of District 4, Finnick Odair is a fishmonger's son from the Hatchery. He's from poor stock, or so says some of my classmates, but he's widely liked in school. He's considered cute by a lot of girls, even boys, in our class and he's also ill-fatedly deemed charismatic and pleasant by teachers. We met officially about five years ago, after I stole my dad's boat and tried sailing off with it, only to get stuck out in the open water. Finnick and his father had "saved" me that day, and I'll be damned if Finnick never let me live it down.

Nowadays, our fathers work together and make trades. Despite the fact my dad is a Victor and, as of such, receives a yearly impressive penchant, he still takes to the water to fish and to sell to marketplaces and make trades with men and women from the Hatchery. One of the most important people he deals with is Neleus Odair, the unofficially elected leader of the Hatch. That is also Finnick's future legacy...being a king of the fishmongers. Personally, I think the only thing he should be king over are the bottom dwellers.

On top of all of these things, Finnick is convinced he's better than me. He's better with weapons, better at swimming, better at fishing, and all that lies in between, and I have done everything within my power to prove otherwise to him. But I know that all these stupid games we play against each other are just the beginning. Once I Volunteer for the Hunger Games and win, Finnick will have no choice but to accept me as being superior. Sure, he'll be a fishmonger and maybe an important person in one section of District 4, but I'll be a Victor. And that, on all accounts, is better.

"Nice to see you, Sea-Sea," Finnick says, flashing me his most charming smile.

I fumble to my feet, glaring daggers at him. "Odair," I say, haughtily. "You almost broke my nose."

"It'd make it look better," Finnick says, pushing himself up to his feet. When we collided, he dropped a carefully folded net and a small spear, so he leans down to pick them up. I don't bother to help him, of course. "What brings you out here so early?"

"My little brother wandered off, so my mom sent me to fetch him," I say. "Not that it's any of your business, of course."

Finnick snorts. "Yeah..." he looks up, watching as Liber catches up to us, panting. "Hi, Liber."

"Oh, hi, Finnick," my brother greets, clearing his throat. "What happened?"

"Finnick Odair got in my way, again," I say.

The fishmonger's son rolls his eyes. "In case you couldn't tell, Liber, your sister's a delicate beach flower," he says. "You should probably take her home before the sun gets too high. I don't think her constitution could handle it."

My constitution? My eyes narrow and I have half a mind to hit Finnick upside the head, but I look up and watch Neleus Odair descending down the pathway, his trident in hand and a large satchel for the fish they're going to catch. I glance back at Finnick, huffing. The two are very similar to one another, in truth, with tanned complexions, bronzed hair, and sea-green eyes, but that is where the similarities end. Neleus is quiet and stays out of other peoples' business, whilst Finnick relishes in being the center of attention.

"Hello, Mr. Odair," I greet, with as much formality as I can muster.

Neleus doesn't even spare me a glance, keeping his eyes ahead on the water. "Ceres. Liber," he says, walking passed us. "Finnick, hurry up. The tide's rising and we need to be at the marketplace this afternoon."

"Coming, dad!" Finnick calls, directing his smirk towards me. The satisfaction that flourishes across his features when he sees how irritated I am makes my whole face turn red. "Run along, Sea-Sea, before you get a heatstroke." He reaches out and touches my forehead, but I smack his hand away. "Leave the fishing to the experts, yeah? See to it your little brother's escorted safely home."

Finnick casts me a final, typical Odair smirk and saunters off after his father, in such a stupid, stupid strut. I stare after him with a clenched jaw and my hands fisted at my sides. Stupid Odair. Thinks he's so great. I bring my gaze away from him and towards my brother, who's looking mildly annoyed by the encounter. He's also still out of breath, but my concerns no longer reside in who can reach the path leading to home first. That little challenge has been entirely usurped by Finnick Odair simply vexing me. Delicate constitution. Delicate beach flower.

I'll show him. "That's the pathway home," I say. "Just follow it up and you'll be back in Victor's Village in no time."

Liber blinks, a surprised look gracing his face. "What?"

"Just go back home. I'll meet you there."

"Mom told you to walk me home," Liber says.

"If you can leave home you can go back to it," I say. "I'll be back soon. Just follow the trail. You can do at least that, can't you?" Before my brother can muster so much as a nod, I spin around and race after Finnick and his father. "Hey, seaweed brain, wait up!"

---

Present.

---

It's roughly five in the morning when my pager goes off, buzzing on my bedside table and flashing its bright white dot against my closed eyelids. Still fumbling myself out of my dreams - well, nightmares - I reach out blindly for it, my hand smacking against the wood table until the pager is in my hand. I silence it, but honestly I just want to slam it down as hard as I can onto the floor so it smashes into a little pieces. I want to roll back over and try to get some sleep, but the clock is staring at me with that cruel number of five-o-three in the morning, and my pager is still buzzing incessantly against my palm. Irritation fills me immediately. Blearily, I roll myself over onto my side and bring the pager to my face.

I try to blink the sleep out of my eyes, my vision still blurry as I slowly start to wake up properly and as my eyes adjust to the dark. Why the hell would Seneca be paging me so early in the morning? He's never done it before. He has the common decency to let me have my mornings to myself, unless we share the night at the Oneiroi and wake up together, but still, even then it's not five in the morning that he's stirring me awake. I have half a mind to kill him myself. The thought is tempting...believe me, very tempting, but I know that's impossible and stupid.

So, in an effort to compose my thoughts and try to gather up what little I can of my morning dignity, I push myself into a sitting position and try to ignore the thudding sensation between my eyes and the overall fatigue in my body. I just hope there's enough time for me to hit the shower and, God willing, drink some tea. I can't exactly walk into Seneca's arms a disorientated, messy disaster, can I? When I play into the fantasy, there's a certain aesthetic I have to maintain. Frankly, I don't even know if he'd care either way, but I know snow does, and appearances matter in the Capitol - even this early. That, in the end, is what matters, disappointingly enough. I release a low sigh as I open my pager's screen.

The time across the screen indicates seven o'clock, meaning I have an hour and a half to get ready, and the location will be the Cardinal Park. Huh. Now that's a choice. Cardinal Park is one of the smaller parks within the city, more of a lowkey setting where families can be found instead of lovers. Sure, it's pretty, but it hardly has the grandeur that Seneca usually seeks out for us. I open the screen to look over the details concerning my attire. Sometimes there are specific requests for what to wear, or what to expect. Oddly enough, those boxes are empty. Seneca usually put something in there, even if it's a very standard "dress how you like." The blank boxes are out of character.

It's then I look to the right corner of the screen, to where Seneca's name should be, but it's not his. It's Plutarch Heavensbee.

All at once, I'm awake, and shoot out of bed.

After wasting twenty minutes pacing the length of my room and trying to steady my breathing - one hour, ten minutes - I decide to be more productive by putting myself into the shower. I don't bother with my usual routine when it comes to my sessions with Seneca. The bottles of sweet-smelling lotions and perfumes resting on a little glass table by the shower go untouched. I focus on washing my hair with some vanilla scented products, as mild as is available, and try not to let myself fall too deep into my own head. Okay. So Plutarch Heavensbee wants to see me. He's gone out of his way to call on me. It's stupid early. Why is he calling on me so stupid early?

I try to apply rational thought to the events that led to this moment and to what's going to transpire in the next hour, but nothing quite fits. Plutarch is a Gamemaker, he is also Seneca Crane's righthand man, and he knows about my brother's journals...he currently owns one of them, if my theory is correct. Technically, that brown leather book that Ames Cairncross delivered to Plutarch's office could have been anything, but comparing it the journal of Liber's that I have from my memory, it's an exact match. Sure, I could be wrong. But too many things are proving otherwise.

Once out of the shower, I make quick work of drying my hair and finding an outfit to wear. It's summertime so the weather is going to be warm, but it's still early in the morning, so it'll be a little chilly. I gauge my closet intently, searching for an outfit that will certainly reflect my "status" as an important Victor, but not anything that could indication any notion of flirtation. It's formal and professional, at best. In my head, I convince myself this is a business meeting - where we're going to talk about Sponsorships - in an effort to loosen my riled nerves.

My shower takes only ten minutes, leaving me a whole hour left to get ready. Pretty much on that very dot, my team arrives - they always do. Whenever I am paged for a meetup such as this, they are paged, as well, and come to my apartments to help me get ready. Since these matters aren't to the same caliber as the Unity Gala or interviews or general formal occasions, Galeria is typically absent. She has more important things to work on for me, so my three respective team members are what keep me afloat for my less-official clients. I trust them, of course. They were handpicked by Galeria so how can I not?

Besides, it's always nice to see them. Vesta, Turquoise, and Dion are all young and hapless and view the world through the same rose colored glasses I used to wear, but they're kind to me and find ways to make me look somewhat pretty. Truth be told, I don't want to put a great deal of effort into my appearance. It's just a formal meeting with Plutarch Heavensbee - at least, that's how I explain it to them - but they're insistent I be presentable. So, we compromise with a nude makeup pallet that makes it obvious I'm wearing makeup but not so dramatic that it sends a "message."

My goal isn't to be desirable. With Seneca, that's a given, I have to keep up with his fantasy and the appeal. Even when other clients buy my time for dinners, visits to theaters, and so on, my makeup has to highlight my features to at least "entice" (as President Snow once described to me). Attire-wise, we also compromise on a nice pair of pale sea-green pants with a tan blouse and some practical heels. Dion convinces me to wear a nice scale-patterned jacket that matches my shoes over the top of my clothes to add some "flair" to my aesthetic. Vesta also helps curl my hair and do it into a messy, yet attractive, ponytail with little seashell clips throughout it.

It seems like a great deal of effort all for one simple outfit, but I find their presences to be comforting. They unknowingly distract me from how uneasy I'm feeling about this whole ordeal. But once I'm dressed and heading out into the empty apartment - my fellow Victors and Tributes still asleep (thank God) - I feel that nausea overtake me again. My team has left me, now that I am properly prepared, and I feel the weight of it.

Luckily, Ivoree is waiting for me in the dining room, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, and smiling broadly at me.

"Ah, just in time," Ivoree says, softly yet cheerily. "I received the alert, of course - you're being summoned. It's so early, too - how completely strange. Seneca Crane must be thirsting for your attentions again..."

I shake my head. "Not Seneca," I say. "Plutarch Heavensbee."

Ivoree frowns, looking a little confused but bounces quickly back to his bubbly personality. "Oh, how strange. I received the alert from Ames Cairncross," he says, referring to Seneca's personal assistant. "I just assumed...ah, well, I suppose since Mr. Heavensbee is second in charge to Mr. Crane, it would make sense they'd utilize the same attractive assistant. Now, let's have a look at you. Yes, very lovely. Professional, indeed. Is this business or pleasure?"

"Business."

"Ah, good," Ivoree says. "Please don't look so ruffled and nervous, Ceres. You're exclusive with Seneca Crane, no one else can touch you. Besides, I am assuming this is about Sponsorships, right? I remember Rheon mentioning Mr. Heavensbee being interested. How nice that would be to have him as a Sponsor."

"I can still stand to be nervous," I say. "Have arrangements been made for me to be picked up?"

"Yes, indeed. A car will be waiting outside in ten minutes," Ivoree says. "Oh, perchance have you looked over the list of potential Sponsors I've accumulated? I've been sending them to you, per your request."

"Yeah. Right. Sorry. No, I know they're there, I just haven't had the chance to look at them. I'll check them out on my way to the park, I promise. Thank you, Ivoree," I say. "And if anyone wakes up before I get back, just tell them I'm meeting a potential Sponsor."

Before my District's escort has a chance to reply, I'm already beelining towards the elevator. Armed with a small purse containing my pad (I mean it, I'll look at the names on my way to the park) and my nerves bundled inside of me, I feel like I may as well be on that little pedestal that lifts you into the Hunger Games. My fears are certainly similar...and, ironically, I am meeting with a Gamemaker.

I lean back against the elevator's walls, tilting my head back and closing my eyes. Despite the fact I'm three cups of coffee in and a nice cold shower to help wake me up, I'm exhausted. Between the Games and my own personal matters, I feel like I can't escape; just cornered into a tight spot, defenseless. I don't like it. I feel like I did when I was in the Games, unsure of what was going to happen and what would become of me within the day - hell, the damn hour. There are so many things wrong, little things I should have noticed years ago.

My dad's strange relationship with Gemma should have stuck out to me, but maybe it hadn't been so obvious. My rocky relationship with my brother and the secrets he kept, now seemingly shared among strangers as Plutarch Heavensbee has had access to his journal. The question is, how? The only other person who could realistically have the rest of my brother's books would be my dad. But it makes no sense. Why would he give them to a Gamemaker? Was that a part of the deal he made with Seneca when he bargained for my life...? No, that doesn't make sense, either.

Despite everything, Seneca is fiercely loyal to me, and has been rather upfront with his involvement regarding my Games - even my arm loss. ("I wanted to set the Mutts to stun, but my uncle insisted they be set to kill," he'd told me once, as he brushed his fingers over my stub with rueful eyes.) Even if he were affiliated with my father like that, why would the book be brought to Plutarch, instead? And why the discretion from Seneca's own personal assistant?

The elevator stops, making a soft ping noise. I open my eyes and look up at the little marker indicating which floor we're on. It's scarcely been a minute, so unsurprisingly we're on Floor 3. It seems that, despite the fact I am up way too early for any existing human being to function, I haven't avoided the irritating requirement of being social. The doors open silently. I expect to see Beetee Latier or Wiress Zeno, District 3's seasoned veteran Mentors, but instead I'm face-to-face with Kilo Stylus, significantly younger and less experienced but just as odd (and tech savvy) as his peers.

Kilo steps onto the elevator without so much as a pause, barely even taking me in. His eyes are downcast, staring fascinatingly at his boots, with his hands tucked into the pockets of his silver jacket. Kilo is only a few years older than me, but his face is young looking; a soft jawline with smooth honey brown skin and large doe like eyes. They're a peculiar shade of grey carefully hidden under a large pair of circular glasses. He's currently wearing a silver coat overtop a dark blue vest with grey pants and a shirt. A black top hat sits upon his head, shadowing over his features as he stands beside me, ever silent. It makes me wonder if he even knows I'm here.

Kilo won the 66th Hunger Games, the year right after Finnick's. If there were any concerns about Kilo Stylus potentially outshining the Capitol darling as the following act, such fears were immediately squandered by Kilo's extremely awkward beginnings to the Hunger Games. He was Reaped at eighteen and spent the entirety of his time on stage fiddling with his glasses and didn't even shake his District partner's hand. His actual Games hadn't been too noteworthy. I recall that there had been a bird Muttation within his Arena that made sharp, piercing sounds that were birdlike, but warped.

And Kilo had won by tricking surviving Tributes into deep holes that had been dug by the deceased Tributes from District 7, and then had used the birds to kill them. They were drawn to noise, so when the Tributes cried out in pain or called out angrily or for help, the birds came. Their cries were so loud and piercing, it caused the Tributes' ears to bleed, and they would be dead not long after; internal bleeding, maybe, dehydration...whatever the case may be, it was Kilo who remained standing, though I understand he's partially deaf in one of his ears now. (Despite his efforts to muffle the birds' sounds with loose cotton material from dead Tributes' clothes.) He never directly killed anyone. He just carefully laid out his traps and left them be, otherwise hiding for the duration of the Games.

While Kilo is harmless to nearly every capacity, he is also very odd. Sometimes he is easy to talk to, but other times he'll just trail from his conversations and stand there in silence, but his eyes remain fixated on the person he's talking to; waiting, watching, and all-around making the other uncomfortable. Kilo tends to keep close to Beetee, as his protégé, and sometimes participates in important Capitolian affairs that require sharp, unrelenting minds. Despite his quirks, there is no doubting Kilo's intelligence.

I'm hopeful that Kilo will continue to ignore me, but I'm not so lucky. I feel him shift a little and then he's staring directly at me from over his spectacles. "Ceres," he greets.

I nod back. "Good to see you, Kilo."

"Wonderful morning, isn't it?" he says. "It's a bit early, though. Too early?"

"Maybe a little," I say.

"Then why are you awake?

"I have a client."

"Oh. Not Seneca, I take it?"

I tilt my head back again, finding something infinitely interesting on the ceiling of the elevator. "What makes you say that?"

"You have a certain look on your face when you're going to see him, like you're walking into the Hunger Games all over again. Very stoic and serious," he says.

My lips press together.

Without even allowing for a small sound of silence, Kilo carries on. "Could I measure your arm?"

I sigh internally, fighting back the urge to roll my eyes. This is a query that I have become very acquainted with in regards to Kilo, for it is one that he has asked me constantly throughout the years, ever since I became a Victor. Often times I've caught him staring at the vacant space where my arm should be with utmost fascination, wordlessly informing me that that query would be thrust upon me at any time. Each instance I've denied him and he's either backed off or been led away by one of his peers, but the query itself always returns. He asks as if he's forgotten. He's also asked my dad if he could measure his eye socket before.

Honestly, when he'd first asked I'd been a little shell-shocked. I had still been in the process of recovering from the general physical and mental trauma of what I went through in the Games and losing my arm in the process, so the idea of such an intimate and strange question being asked of me had felt too intrusive. But over the years, I've since learned there's no malice behind it. It's all just curiosity, the same kind that I've seen utilized from his District countless times before.

"Another time," I say, as I usually do.

"It's just that, those synthetic limbs are so primeval and and uncivilized. The Capitol has the potential to produce far more useful limbs than just those...those..." he trails away, appearing thoughtful, like he has something vulgar and offensive to say but is struggling. "Well, they are just so fake and useless. They're solely there for cosmetic purposes."

I recall it well. A year after I won my Games, I was sent an unsolicited synthetic arm that was custom made for me without my knowledge or consent. It matched the dimensions and look of my lost arm, leading me to wonder how such details could have been noted and put forth into the final design. Maybe that damn Mutt had swallowed my arm whole and it had been retrieved. I amuse myself with the idea of my arm being mummified and put into the museum alongside the countless relics of Victors' pasts, but I know that no one else would find that joke nearly as funny as I do.

In any case, my dad and I had sat on my front porch staring at the synthetic limb in the velvet-lined package, trying to fight back the urge to be repulsed and to laugh all at once. I remember the limb had been partially articulated, where I could move the joints realistically, such as in the fingers and elbow, but it was useless otherwise. The limb couldn't do anything aside from being posed and decorated, so what was the point of it? By that point, it's not a replacement, it's a hindrance.

Thankfully, in the letter provided by by the creator it had implied it wasn't necessary to wear and I hadn't received any threatening red envelops from President Snow. My dad and I, in a rare bonding moment, took his boat and sailed out miles into the ocean, and threw it into the water. It had bobbed in place for merely a moment before disappearing into the deep blue waters, out of sight.

I amused myself with the thought that another creature would eat it, then laughed over the thought of it balking over the plastic taste. It would sink to the bottom of the ocean and eventually disintegrate. It could be gone now, or parts of it scattered across the seabed. Aside from that useless synthetic limb, I've had a couple of offers and suggestions made to me before, but all of them have been for purely cosmetic purposes. It would be covered over by sleeves, shawls, and scarves to make it appear real. Much like the first one, it looked real, but nothing about it was useful.

I don't disagree with Kilo's musings, but what the hell can he do about it? He can't single handedly infiltrate the fashion industry and demand higher quality prosthetics for people like me. Sure, there are certain synthetic and prosthetic limbs available that a Victor could use that are useful, but the thing is, they aren't attractive. If I had lost my arm elbow down, I think I would've had the opportunity to have something I could use and be comfortable with, no matter how minor. But because I lost my whole arm, my prospects are limited. (Not that I want anything the Capitol has to give, honestly.)

Kilo's fascination with the matter is technically appreciated, but it is also strange. I know he has a creative mind. To the extent of my knowledge, he was raised by Beetee Latier and practically lives with him, in the same manner that Annie lives with Mags and I. They're not too different from one another, honestly. They're both different variants of mad, but Kilo insists on returning to the Capitol for the Hunger Games year after year. And, truthfully, Kilo was strange and mad even before the Hunger Games, unlike Annie.

"Where are you going?" I ask, before Kilo can say anything else about my arm.

"Oh." Kilo adjusts his black hat, smiling. "I'm meeting with a potential Sponsor."

"That's nice," I say. "Anyone I know?"

"Someone named Ovid Invictus."

A small frown tugs at the corner of my mouth. The name rings with familiarity, even though I've never met the man. Ovid Invictus. Yeah, Finnick has mentioned him in the past as one of his clients - to my knowledge, he may have Sponsored us in the past, but I can't be sure. Mags and Rheon typically handle those details alongside Ivoree. I do know that he isn't a typical monster, though, not like Thrax Mellona. Finnick had described him as one of the "good ones," a painter rather than a lover. A small frown tugs at the corner of my mouth, instantly curious, but not so much so that I'm going to pry for answers.

At least I can rest a little easy knowing that someone like Kilo isn't walking into dangerous clutches. Still, I may have to find Finnick later on and ask about this. Maybe he'll know the details, be able to share them with me. After all, we Victors need to look out for each other, since nobody else is going to.

"You know Ovid paints, right?" I ask.

Kilo smiles. "You don't have to be worried. I've done dealings with Ovid before, we're just associates," he says.

"Well, best of luck then, regardless."

"I don't need it," Kilo says, confidently. "Who are you meeting?"

"Same as you. I'm meeting a potential Sponsor."

Kilo's smile broadens. "That's good," he says. "I bet he's rich."

I smile back and focus on the elevator doors. I briefly consider sharing Plutarch's name but decide against it. I'm still not entirely sure what I'm walking into and what dangers are waiting for me on the other side. Suspicions sit uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach and I feel as though I am a cornered beast, ready to swipe at anything. I don't want to drag anyone else down with me. Even names can be dangerous. Knowledge is dangerous.

The elevator finally pings to the lower level, opening softly.

"Well, good luck," Kilo says, cheerily, and rushes forward.

I pull my pad from out of my pocket to check the time and the tracker on my ride; right on time, right outside. I towards the doors to the Training Center, where I show my identification and my assigned meeting with Plutarch Heavensbee to the guards stationed there - for our protection, of course. They're there to ensure no erratic fans try to break into the Center...as well as keep any Tributes in. Technically speaking, Mentors have the freedom to roam wherever they choose throughout the Capitol, but it is always necessary to inform the guards where we are going. They keep tabs on us.

After all, even Victors have tried to run and escape before, so President Snow likes to keep his ass covered. The guards simply nod at me and I step outside into the open air. The rising sun feels nice and is an indicator to a warm, beautiful day, but the air is chilled. The tall buildings block a breeze attempting to rustle through. On the curbside outside of the building, there's a slick black car waiting for me, with my personally assigned Capitolian bodyguard and chauffer watching me, expectantly. His name is Leto Vulpes. He's been assigned to be since after my Victory Tour, when I returned to the Capitol for the 69th Hunger Games.

Everyone like me - like Finnick, Cashmere, and all the rest in our predicaments - have someone like Leto. Their jobs are to keep us safe from the overly aggressive clients who push their luck, to ensure that we are not crowded by crazed fans, and, above all else, ensure we stay out of trouble. They drive us everywhere, ensuring no funny business. Still, to my knowledge, some of the guards can be more lenient than others. There was a circulation of rumors that Brutus Evander's bodyguard allows him to venture downtown to procure a rare spice that heightens the senses and causes one to enter a strange daze; disappear from this reality and comfortably disassociate. It's obviously not endorsed or public knowledge, but it's there. So long as Victors aren't overdosing or attempting to escape or performing any illegal, questionable acts, then the bodyguards are moderately good at leaving us to our own devices.

That being said, Leto is an interesting character, to say the least. He's always relatively quiet and seldom speaks to me unless I initiate conversation or it's necessary for general purposes. But he's good about giving me my space and staying relatively back. I can't say I enjoy him or his company, but it could be much, much worse. I've heard stories of bodyguards who've carried restraints and sedatives to keep unruly Victors in line.

"To Cardinal Park," Leto says, without even a hello, and opens the back door for me.

"That's right," I say. "Is there any chance we have time to stop for caffeine?"

"No," Leto says, opening the door for me. "Get inside."

The drive to Cardinal Park is, as to be expected, quiet. I stare down at my pad the entirety of the time, staring at the request made by Plutarch Heavensbee and trying desperately to make sense of it. I know I could be productive by sifting through the names of all of the potential Sponsors that Ivoree has been procuring for me, but I can't. How can I think about anything else? Even the efforts to distract myself by staring out the black tinted windows, watching the Capitol go by, are in vain. I do, however, catch sight of countless Capitolians hanging banners out their windows, depicting the respective Districts they are planning on Sponsoring.

Across the vast array of screens around the city, footage of the Tribute Parades are replayed, as well as interviews with the likes of Seneca Crane, and the scoreboard indicating the progress of the respective Tributes as they carry on at the Training Center. Some Capitolians have even taken to adopting the styles of their favorite Tributes. Most notably, I see countless patrons wearing fiery colors and styles, and the footage of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark set aflame for the Tribute Parade can be seen on every corner of the city.

It's not long before we reach Cardinal Park. It's not exactly the most commonly visited park, so it's relatively small by comparison to some of the others, but it is beautiful. The park itself takes on a crescent moon shape, with golden fencing around it that stands relatively tall. Vibrant green trees are meticulously positioned throughout, each perfectly spaced to allow for shading covering every angle at any time of day, and winding stretches of cobblestone leading little paths throughout; green grass on either side. There are bird feeders placed throughout to appease the cardinal birds who reside there - well, reside is putting it lightly.

Each bird within the park has been bred and raised there, with little strange bracelets around their ankles that keep them from leaving. There's an invisible electric dome-like fence, to the extent of my knowledge, that covers the park. It keeps the birds from flying away. To the naked eye, the birds are quite content in what would appear to be an open, safe place where they live in total consent and freedom, but the truth is uglier. It's not exactly a kept secret, either. It's just that nobody cares. It's no different than the Games, after all. At least at Cardinal Park, the birds aren't expected to kill each other.

Leto parks the car outside of one of the gates, and helps me out of it. The instructions on my pad are simple. I am to meet Plutarch Heavensbee within the park itself by the fountain within its center. Leto keeps a fair bit of distance behind me as I venture through the tall golden archway. Cardinal Park is remarkably quiet, save for the sounds of the birds singing their early morning ballads and the various fountains and their splashing noises placed throughout.

It does not take me long to find Plutarch Heavensbee sitting at one of these fountains. The fountain itself is huge and relatively noisy, with several pretty golden benches placed around it at a fair distance, but Plutarch is sitting directly on its edge. The marble fountain has a relatively tall and historically inaccurate portrayal of Casca Highbottom, who has swans positioned at his feet with open wings, and he's holding a golden laurel high above his head. At the base of his feet, just under the swans, there is a golden plaque which reads: TO THE FOUNDER OF THE HUNGER GAMES, CASCA HIGHBOTTOM.

"Mr. Heavensbee," I greet.

Plutarch raises his eyes towards me and smiles pleasantly, standing up to properly greet me. I'm grateful he doesn't reach out to kiss my cheeks or shake my hand, or touch me to any capacity. All he does is just bow his head in my direction. "Ms. Rhythe. I apologize for the early wakeup call, but I felt it was prudent if we met sooner rather than later," Plutarch says. "Besides, I brought coffee for myself and green tea for you."

He gestures downward and I follow the movement to two to-go cups placed on the fountain's edge beside me, both untouched but definitely coated in little droplets of water.

"Green tea."

He nods. "With almond flavoring," he says.

"How did you...?"

"I have my ways," he says, looking towards Leto as he hovers closely, though maintains a small bit of distance as is considered polite. It goes without saying that clients don't like being watched, ironically. "I am dismissing you. Go stand with the car. I have my own men available, trust me. And they know how to actually hide."

I've had clients try to dismiss my bodyguard before in the past, but it's not within their power. Leto is here for my protection and to keep tabs on me, so he's not exactly going to obey such commands. Nevertheless, I find myself speechless and startled as my bodyguard does exactly that. He nods once and turns to go, disappearing along the pathway. I half-expect him to diverge off of the path last minute to watch from a greater distance, but, no, he's just gone. I am now currently alone.

"Why did you send my bodyguard away?" I ask.

"It's a beautiful morning, don't you think?" Plutarch says, ignoring my query.

I'm sick of these games. My hand clenches at my side as Plutarch sits back down on the fountain's edge and gestures for me to sit beside him. I hesitate. One of my intrusive thoughts muses to the idea that he's going to try to drown me here, that it's quiet in the park at the moment and any fight I put up would be muffled by the birds and running water. As if he could overpower me, I think sharply. Despite my better judgment, I go to sit beside him. But I don't drink from the cup he hands me. "Seating is a little damp," I say. "Wouldn't you rather sit on one of those benches?"

Plutarch shakes his head. "I beg to differ," he says. "I think it's quite nice. Besides, it's a good spot to discuss Sponsorships, don't you think?"

A small scoff parts from my lips. I set my untouched green tea down beside me and turn a little so that I am facing Plutarch Heavensbee. My eyes are cold against his, which are all too calm and collected. "We aren't here to discuss Sponsorships. I suggest you cut to the point, instead of toying with me," I say, dropping my voice into a low hiss. "I saw what Ames Cairncross delivered to your office. That was my brother's journal. Now tell me, why the hell would he have it and why would you want it?"

"I am putting a great deal of trust in you, Ceres. This meeting is extremely important, more so than you can imagine," Plutarch says. "That being said, it will have to be quick, unfortunately, but I will make my point cleanly and efficiently. Your father gave me your brother's journals."

Journals. So I had been right. All those years ago, finding those suspiciously book-shaped marks along my brother's room where dust had accumulated around, he had had journals the whole time. It wasn't just the one I had found underneath his floorboards, currently hidden in my own room. "Why the hell would he do that?"

"Believe it or not, they can be utilized."

I blink. "Utilized?" I say. Within my brother's journals, he had drawn and designed countless different types of boats, ranging from small to large, to luxurious to work-based, and utterly strange to strangely impractical. I recall that, within one of the pages of the journal in my possession, he had detailed the possibility of a boat that could be submerged underwater. That page had been riddled with notes from Nodon Doyle, but I hadn't thought much of it. My brother had had aspirations and bizarre interests I'd never had the chance to understand or learn about. I've tried to over the years, in studying the pages I had access to. But still, I am in the dark, and now more than ever I feel lost in it. "So...my dad sold my brother's blueprints to the Gamemakers?"

"No. He gave them to me," he says. "I simply passed along the message."

"The message? What are you talking about? Why would he give you Liber's things?"

He lifts his finger, smiling. "Soon," he says. "I don't trust you yet."

"How do you think I feel?" I hiss back.

"Well, you're still here," he says. "You haven't stormed off or threatened to attack me...or gone back to your bodyguard to report me.

I clench my jaw. As if I'd be believed over a Gamemaker.

"It's difficult terrain for you to navigate, isn't it?" Plutarch says.

"Which part are you talking about?"

"All of it," he says. "You play your role in the Capitol well, you go along with the games - the one you already won, and the other you continue to navigate. But you and I both know it's temporary, especially in regards to that protection you have through Seneca Crane. Sure, he keeps you safe now, but he won't always, despite the power he thinks he has."

I inhale sharply. "It's an obsession," I say, slowly. "I'm the reason he has his career. And he probably keeps me around like a good luck charm."

"That's part of it," Plutarch says, "but I know he's fooled himself into believing he's in love with you."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, he wants to introduce you to his parents, for one."

"He's delusional," I say. "But I do what I have to to stay alive."

"Wouldn't it be nice if you didn't have to play the game, though?"

"That's a nice thought. I've heard it before," I say. "It's about as fake and as dangerous as the Arenas you create."

"The Arenas are very real, Ceres. So can be those thoughts, dangerous as they may be," Plutarch says, leaning a little closer. "Plenty of people want the same thing, and I want you to join them. Us."

"Join what, exactly?"

"I won't say much, not yet, but I can promise you there's more than what you're seeing," he says. "You're a student of history, Ceres. Tell me about the Hunger Games' creator."

I straighten, staring back at Plutarch warily. Of course any Gamemaker would be aware of the Hunger Games' creation, as it is one of the very first lessons any self-respecting Capitolian child learns, much less an educated and participator in the Games themselves would be aware of. Plutarch is also right in assuming it would be common knowledge for me, as a student of history. I dedicated too many years of my life studying the damned Games to the same caliber as any Gamemaker, the ins and outs of it, which included its creator.

I admit I've never thought much of him before, though I know him by name. I was always more focused on how to win the Games than the history of their creation. It seemed less important at the time - still does, arguably. Plutarch's request for my knowledge has me curious as to the relevance of the long-dead man and what he pertains to this conversation and general mysteries. Nevertheless, I indulge Plutarch, though I am cautious to whatever he is playing at.

"That would be Casca Highbottom," I say. "His statue is behind us...I doubt that's coincidental, for whatever speech you have ready."

Plutarch smiles at that, appearing pleased, but all it does is frustrate me more. I want to claw the damn answers out of this man. I don't want these coy games. "It's relatively common knowledge to know his name," he says. "But why did he create them?"

My brow knits together, a foul taste settling in my mouth. "To...teach the Districts a lesson."

Plutarch leans closer to me. "Common knowledge, Ceres. You're smarter than that," he says, his voice scarcely above a whisper, nearly drowned out by the sound of running water from the fountain behind us and the cardinal singing in the perfectly organized rows of trees along the cobblestone pathways. "Casca Highbottom came up with the Games drunk one night, with one drink after the other and words whispered into his ears fueling his vanity causing him to enhance the details on this purely hypothetical scenario. When he sobered up, he was repulsed. The credit was all his, but the creator himself thought the Games were barbaric."

I...did not know this. I admit that my knowledge of Casca Highbottom is limited, but I also credit that to the fact that he isn't exactly a widely taught person in history. Sure, his statue exists behind us as a standing declaration of admiration, and his name is taught in schools, but his character and person and life and legacy are all scarce. I hadn't considered him much in the past but now my curiosity is enticed, despite my better judgment. But now more than ever, I hold my breath and try to steady the sharpness of my heartbeat, and not to overthink whatever it is Plutarch is insinuating. Those strange eyes of his are still watching me, analyzing my reactions. A typical Gamemakever, ever vigilant and searching. I try to keep my expression a smooth mask so that I am not giving him anything, but somehow that feels damning, too.

"I don't understand why you're telling me this," I say, as some cardinals sing louder around us, joining in the chorus amidst the fountain's rushing water. I am almost overwhelmed by noise that would otherwise be calming and soothing to me. "Or how you know any of this."

"I have my ways," Plutarch says. "Highbottom died tragically before he could see the full potential of the Hunger Games unfold. He overdoses on morphling poisoning his veins. Entirely accidental, of course."

Something inside me tightens. "Right. Accidental," I say. "Why bring this up?"

"Thoughts can be dangerous things, Ceres, even more so when you're musing seemingly to just yourself - drunken, sober, even just general mindless thoughtlessness," he says, calming raising his coffee to his lips. "Even idle thoughts have the potential to carry the heaven burden of lasting carnage, despite one's intentions. It's unfortunate." The smile fades from his features, taking on a more somber look. "Seneca Crane won't keep you safe forever, but we both know he will never willingly give you up. Those delusions are only going to expand with the time he has with you. I think you know that."

All at once, my breath hitches, and I am overcome by understanding. It doesn't even matter if Plutarch knows what he's done here, or if he was just applying general thought to it - more than likely he knows, given all else he seems to be in tune to - but my thoughts instantly drift back to a few weeks ago, when Seneca visited me in District 4. My heart hammers as I recount the two of us sitting on my couch, watching his interview with Caesar Flickerman together, when he mused aloud how he wished more for us, and how Gemma Lux was happy. Gemma who bore a Capitolian's son.

During my Games, I'd received a head injury from some rocks that had shattered from off of the cave, causing the wound to bleed profusely and me feeling extraordinarily lightheaded. The world had felt strangely lighter than normal, as my head reeled, my heart raced, and panic chilled me to the bone. This is exactly what I am feeling in this moment. I hadn't thought much of that conversation before, in part because Seneca had dismissed it, but I am rueful to admit that it has stuck with me, though I hadn't acknowledged it. The notion of Seneca even mindlessly considering the idea of impregnating me seemed impossible, too far of a reach even by his own influence.

Gemma Lux, to the extent of my knowledge, is the only Victor to have ever been impregnated by a client. It proved to be too much of a hassle and the act of it ever happening to another Victor had been promptly dismissed by President Snow - one of the few good acts he's committed to. But that being said, Seneca Crane practically owns me. As much as I'd like to believe he'd lose interest in me one day, I know that it wouldn't be by his own volition. He lives too deep in his fantasy and I stand too closely at the center of it. If Seneca Crane truly desires me in such a way and believes to love me whole, then why wouldn't he want to father a family with me?

The thought makes me shiver with horror, forced images of myself pregnant with his child filling my head - having to live with that, with him visiting me and our family in District 4, of his more frequent visits, of that make-believe that drains me every single time.

Swallowing hard, a crueler thought strikes me. It hadn't been enough that Gemma was forced to carry a Capitolian child (though it was her choice to bear him), but she had to watch him be Reaped for the Hunger Games. Garnett won, of course, but now he lives as a Victor and with the same lifestyle his mother formerly had as countless others do now. If I were to ever have children by Seneca, I know that they would be Reaped, and it would be by no coincidence. It would be the ultimate joke, the finest punchline President Snow could conjure up for himself and for all of Panem. The child of a Victor and a Head Gamemaker being sent to die within the Hunger Games.

Seneca had made it clear to me after he'd made the mild musing about Gemma that he would never request such a thing of me, but he doesn't have to. If he makes any type of comment in front of President Snow, no matter how mild or how drunkenly misplaced or how idle, it could have a lasting impressing.

All it had taken for the Hunger Games to come to fruition was a man drunk on power and wine, spilling his mouth, after all.

I'm not sure how long I sit on the fountain's edge staring off into nothing, but it feels like hours. The intrusive thoughts and images within my own head circulate fiercely through me, with such violence that my Games almost pale in comparison. Beside me, Plutarch sits quietly and patiently, no doubt aware to the carnage inside my mind. He watches me, though. I doubt he even blinks.

Eventually, I muster up the ability to breathe, and I return myself back to the here and now. "Words are dangerous, and binding," I say, slowly. "I know I belong to Seneca. That's obvious to everyone. But I refuse to...I won't...I can't live my whole life like that." It's my time to search his face, finally seeing something in his eyes flicker, and it makes my own eyes narrow. "He is, after all, a family man. I refuse to be a part of that."

"I don't blame you," Plutarch says. "He's made comments to me in the past about that with you."

My jaw clenches, nodding. That's it, then. "You want me to join you. Is Seneca a part of whatever you're proposing?" I ask, lowly, as my hand tightens over my lap.

"No. He's not," Plutarch says, leaning forward. "He's a dead man walking, though. The goal, Ceres, is for me to take his place sooner rather than later. Under my leadership, I can press things a little faster."

Press things a little faster. Whatever I had speculated coming into this conversation with Plutarch is far deeper and more dangerous than I could ever have imagined. It's like going too far down into open water. Eventually, you reach a place where the water no longer can breach through the surface, and you're met by pitch darkness and the uncertain. You can brave it with only your instincts at your side, or you can swim back to safety, where there's some measure of certainty to keep you safe. But I am too deep into the water to swim back up now.

The heavy weight of acceptance crushes me against my chest, even though I still don't fully understand it. I am grasping at something in the darkness, finding it familiar, but I still know nothing. "I don't fully understand what you're asking of me, but I do know you're asking me to risk my life and my family," I say. "This conversation alone is dangerous."

"I don't disagree. But you risk such dangers everyday," he says. "All I'm asking for is your help."

"You're asking me for more than that. You know it," I say. "My dad...he's part of this?"

"Yes."

The immediacy to his answers triggers a sharp intake of breath from me. More secrets from my dad, then. "Tell me how and why he got involved, why he gave you Liber's journals."

"As I said, trust," he says. I've already disclosed a dangerous amount of things to you, but some of your friends and associates have been insistent to the fact you're trustworthy...and loyal."

There are others, then, more Victors like me and my dad...how deep does this go? Who else is involved? And how long has this been going for?

"Who else?" I ask, about to ask for names, but a little voice in the back of my head tells me not to bother. Of course Plutarch would share with me my father's involvement, as it would soften my apprehension, and apply even the tiniest little bit of context to my brother's journals being involved in this, too. But he won't give me other names, not that I blame him. It's not worth it to ask - yet. "You could get me and countless Victors killed."

"Trust me, everyone is aware of the risks," Plutarch says. "But every single one of them has something, or someone, worth fighting for."

"What would you need for me?" I ask.

"Your support, influence, when the time comes," Plutarch says, "and for you to keep your head high, here and now. But above all else, I'm going to need you to fight again...this time, it won't be a game. It will be real. Do you understand?"

I swallow audibly, but it feels lodged in my throat. I do. I do understand, even if I don't entirely know what is happening or why Plutarch is doing this. The dangers are unfathomable. If this conversation were overheard, we would both be dead - no, more than dead. Plutarch would be murdered or turned into an Avox and it wouldn't just be me who paid for it, it would be my family, too. Finnick could be hurt, so could my dad. My mom could be killed. I really should have stood up and walked away when I had the chance. But it's too late now. That knowledge I have, that power, is latched onto me like a leech. Even if I tried to pull it off, it would draw blood, and the sharks would smell it.

But the urgency in Plutarch's eyes, no matter how calm his tone may be, sparks something inside of me. For years, I've thought about the what-if's. What if I'd never been Reaped, or if Finnick and I had had the chance to be together without the Hunger Games tearing our lives a part. In that world, he claims he would have married me. As a fishmonger's son, we would have lived in the house he'd inherit from his father. We'd live in the Hatchery together, we'd be happy. Normal. But we've also considered the idea of what a world would look like if we could be free in the here and now. We've thought about that house on a hill, where nothing and no one can touch us.

Something to fight for. Someone. "Can I think about it?" I ask.

"Of course," Plutarch says. "But that being said, don't tell your father we had this conversation."

"I thought you said he was involved."

"He is. But he specifically requested I leave you out of it, for your own safety," Plutarch says. "A father's love and protective nature is unrelenting, after all, especially in such dangerous circumstances."

"My dad has a habit of hiding things from me, in case you couldn't tell," I say.

"I would also avoid conversations with your fellow Victors," Plutarch adds. "Some aren't as lenient betraying their country. I'd rather not see you mistakenly confide in one of them."

"Fair enough. Now, I have a question for you."

"Of course."

"Why talk to me directly? This is treason," I say. "Why risk your neck? Why not just send an accomplice or some Avox with a note?"

"Rest assured, I did think about that," Plutarch says, "but consider this a show of good faith." When I don't reply, he adds, "If you say yes, understand it won't be easy. You can walk away, of course, and pretend this conversation never happened. You can keep playing the game if it feels safer. If you're afraid, I won't be apathetic."

"I'm not afraid," I say. I am so, so afraid. "How long can I think about it?"

Plutarch shrugs. "I'd like an answer before you leave for District 4, after the Games. Ideally sooner. Is that enough time?"

"Yeah...should be enough," I say. "Do I call on you or...?"

"That would draw unwanted attention if you actively sought me out," Plutarch says. "When you've made your decision, have your escort get into contact with Ames Cairncross to see Seneca Crane - discuss the idea of your Tributes, or just general affection. Whatever you think would be the most natural. I trust your judgment."

I scoff. "Great. I get to be the one chasing him," I say. "Do you have any phrases you need me to relay, for Ames to understand?"

"No, not a phrase. Those can be potentially compromising," Plutarch says. "Find a way to incorporate one word into the message."

"What's the word?"

"Dust."

"That's a pretty complicated word to situate into a loving message, Plutarch," I say.

"You're smart," he says. "You'll figure it out."

"And that's all? Ames will get the message to you?" I ask.

Plutarch nods. "Ames Cairncross serves both the Head Gamemaker and his second in command," he says. "But he's more loyal to one over the other."

"You're talking a lot about ending games, Plutarch, but you're still playing one now," I say. "I could easily turn you in to Snow."

"You won't," Plutarch says, smiling. "I trust you, Ceresea Rhythe."

"Are you sure that's wise of you?"

"No. But I have faith in you," Plutarch says, standing. "I need to stretch my legs. Walk with me for a while, won't you? I spent money on a good full hour, so I'd like to get my money's worth. Come on, maybe we can even feed the birds."

---

"Sparring you isn't going to be easy, is it?" Marina asks.

I smile. "What would give you that idea?"

"Rheon talked about how underestimating your enemy could be fatal," she says. "You only have one arm but you still won the Hunger Games."

"You're smart not to underestimate me," I say. "But tell me, do you think you have the advantage?"

"No...because you have the experience," Marina says.

"Smart thinking. That same logic is going to apply to the Careers," I say. "They've been trained in special academies since they were knee high. They know how to fight, survive, and kill. Everything in the Arena is going to be child's play, so it's up to you to outthink and outmaneuver them."

I tap my training spear with blunt edges against the ground, adjusting it in my hand until I find a comfortable balance. Across from me, Marina is holding a training spear of her own, tightly clenched between her fingers as she evaluates me. I can see the nerves in her eyes and the way she's trying to calm out her breathing; the same way we preserve oxygen before going underwater. My brow arches a little at the sight of her, wondering if I had looked that nervous when I had first started training. Wordlessly, I lunge forward, thrusting my spear forward. Her spear meets mine with a loud metal clang, echoing throughout the room.

Over a week has passed since the Tribute Parade. The Mentors have long since started to train their Tributes one-on-one on top of the training they receive with the rest. But now I have the opportunity to work with Marina alone, without one of my fellow Mentors being present, and my time not otherwise wasted trying to find Sponsors - or being with Seneca Crane. The room itself is fairly large and windowless, grey and cold and steel, with weapons adorned on the walls and cameras positioned on us at every given moment.

It's nice to be able to step away from everything plaguing me outside of these walls. No longer am I sitting in fancy restaurants or out in rich gardens trying to convince rich, bloodthirsty Capitolians for their money - or playing into Seneca's fantasy in those free moments he summons me. And, above all else, I don't have to have the underlying thoughts of my conversation with Plutarch Heavensbee following me. When I can be with my Tributes, focus on them, my thoughts are a little less fuddled.

Still, it's been a few days since my encounter with Plutarch, and I haven't called on him yet. I can't. Between my Tributes and the Games and everything else going on, it's felt impossible to focus on his offer. Join us. What the hell even is that? He talked about it as if he were making an army, the preparedness to fight - to have something, someone, to fight for. I know for a fact my dad is a part of it and I've started theorizing over who could potentially be in on it, too. But I've stayed true to my promise to the Gamemaker. I haven't so much as whispered a word to my father, nor to anyone else - even my most trusted friends. Not even Finnick.

Marina lunges forward, pulling me out of my thoughts. She jabs her spear forward to strike my side. I move sideways, bringing my own spear down so hers gets slammed to the ground. She's visibly jostled by it, the hollow metal vibrating through her arms. I take this moment to bring my leg forward and kick out firmly at her middle, knocking her down. She staggers back so I swing my spear in. She tucks and rolls out of the way, dragging her spear clumsily with her. She fumbles to her feet, but I don't let up. I move forward to attack again, bringing my spear down. She raises hers high, blocking me. She musters enough momentum to push herself up and push me back.

Now to her feet again, she's breathing heavily. "Do you really think me and Kipper stand a chance?" she asks.

"If you stay focused."

I take in her improper stance, frowning. I recognize the way her legs are situated as something Ren would teach her. Hmm. I tuck my spear against my side and slowly start to circle her, maintaining distance between us. She keeps her eyes tracked on me, tensing as she braces for my next attack.

"Did you talk to the Head Gamemaker?" she continues.

I sigh deeply. "The Head Gamemaker cannot Sponsor anyone. It goes against the principle of bias," I say. "But he mentioned his children are going to Sponsor for the first time this year with his wife's money. So, it's possible a Crane might Sponsor you and Kipper. But I wouldn't hold my breath."

"So he'll push for us, then?" Marina asks, hopefully.

"We'll see. Don't get your hopes up," I say. "You're putting too much faith in the man who's going to be responsible for a lot of death."

"But Tributes kill each other," Marina says. "And you want us to form Alliances."

"Yes, but the Arena does, too," I say. "The environment, Muttations, all of it are the work of Gamemakers."

Marina's eyes lower. "So, can Gamemakers Sponsor or...?"

I sigh, annoyed, and lunge forward. Marina snaps back to the reality of her circumstances and hard-ducks to avoid my attack. My spear hits the ground firmly, making a ringing noise and the sensation reverberating through my arm. It doesn't deter me, though. I'm used to it by this point. Marina goes in to plunge her spear towards my torso, but I duck down, then twist myself around fast so my spear tucks under her arm. Half in front of her and half behind her now, I tighten my core muscle and bring my leg around hers to bring her down with me, causing us both to fall to the ground.

Marina lands hard on her back with a hiss, the spear rolling out of her hands in the process, and I press mine down against her neck.

"You were distracted," I say.

"Well, you fought unfair!" Marina protests.

"I fought as fair as you did," I retaliate. "There is no fairness in the Arena. You're going to have to remember that." She tries to push herself up, her hands reaching to grab at me, but I push my spear against her throat and she stops. "When the countdown ends, you're going to run. I don't care where, but you and Kipper are going to get the hell out of there before the bloodbath has a chance to begin."

"But we'll need supplies -"

"There will be plenty of times to get supplies later," I argue. "The Cornucopia is a bloodbath. The Careers are confident enough to launch headfirst into it and I can guarantee that they will kill everyone who gets in their way. Just run towards the nearest, covered location and try to disappear. If there are buildings and structures like last year, get in and find someplace to lie low, with the ability to get away."

Marina hisses like a feral cat, frustrated. This time I rise up to my feet, tucking my spear behind my back. I watch her as she brings herself to her feet, face flushed and clearly angry.

"Ren told us to go for supplies. He says we'll need them."

"He's wrong."

"He ran into the Cornucopia and survived," Marina says.

"Ren made it to the Cornucopia only because most of the Tributes died immediately rolling off of a cliff or the others were too busy struggling to stay balanced. It was a fluke. Ren was lucky enough to have good footing," I say. "You run, do you understand? Don't look for a fight."

"With respect, you ran into the bloodbath."

I did, didn't I? But it hadn't been for supplies, it had been because my brother had rushed into the carnage alongside his Allies from District 1. I would've run the other way, would've done anything to avoid the bloodshed. But I'd made a vow to protect him and so, with that in mind, I'd done the stupidest thing imaginable. Undoubtedly my father had been overcome by horror at the sight, both of his children doing the exact opposite thing a Tribute should at the beginning. "I was going after my brother. It was also a fluke I survived," I say. "Consider it a classic example of do as I say, not as I do. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. I do," she says, though I know it's not getting through to her. She turns to retrieve her spear from off of the ground, but I can hear the low, angry whisper beneath her breath. "Doesn't know what she's doing."

With Marina's back turned towards me and leaning forward, she is vulnerable. I lunge forward, using my spear to swipe her legs from out under her, and sending her hard to the ground. She lets out a startled cry, followed by a soft hiss of pain as her chin collides with the ground, a small, bleeding scrape formed there. She presses her palms to the ground to bring herself back up, but my spear is pressed to the center of her back and she doesn't move.

"Dead," I say.

Marina looks over her shoulder, the small mark on her chin trickling with a little blood. Her face is contorted into an angry sneer. Rolling over, she uses her arm to smack at my spear, and now sits up properly glaring daggers at me. "I know I have a higher chance than Kipper," she says, having the decency to look guilty saying it. "He's only twelve. I know I could survive the bloodbath - hell, the whole Arena. I have the potential."

"Do you want to win over him?" I ask.

"I don't know," Marina admits. "But I know I don't want to be the reason he dies...but if I have to kill him, I will. And I refuse to get myself killed trying to protect him. I'm going to get supplies in the Cornucopia, and I am going to survive, with my own Alliances."

"Then you're going to die very quickly," I say. "And make no mistake, with that attitude his blood will be on your hands."

"Speaking from experience," she says, eyes narowing.

I clench my jaw. "Yes," I say. "If you run into the Cornucopia, you're going to get yourself killed. Everyone will have the same thoughts you are, the same expected plans and outcomes, when, in reality, you don't know what the hell could happen. You could be in the center of an ocean or a volcano or, like me, a damned cave full of Mutts ready to rip your arms off. Trust me, if it's not crocodiles, it's going to be something." I shudder, recalling the file that Seneca had tucked away. "And you will die."

Marina doesn't reply.

"You don't know the Games like I do. The Gamemakers who run it aren't human, they're brutal. They'd be delighted to see you die a thousand different ways and the Sponsors you're leaning heavily into will buy you only so much time. But I guarantee, when you do stupid things like that, and you fail or you die, they'll be quick to change the trajectory of their payments," I say. "Do you understand me?"

She doesn't reply, but she does sit there for a short while as she unwinds from her riled state and, eventually, brings herself back to her feet. We continue to spar for the remainder of the hour that I have her, alternating between the spear to a blunt blade to hand-to-hand combat. Since we don't have as much time as I'd like, I try to focus on honing in on the individual weapons rather than trying to force too many at once. We say no more words to each other, aside from my occasional comments and reminding her to focus. I can tell I've rattled her a little. Her eyes are glassy and bloodshot, making me wonder what kind of nerve I've struck with her. A part of me feels guilty for it, but I can't afford to coddle my Tribute. I'll apologize later, maybe talk to her more.

Once the hour is up, a little alarm within the room goes off, and Marina is escorted away by guards to carry on to her next lesson - this time with Ren. I make a mental note to meet with him later on, demanding answers from him. Why the hell did he tell her and Kipper to go to the Cornucopia, instead of running? Why was he feeding them bad advice? I move across the room to drink some water resting on a metal table. Once I've gathered my wits and my aching muscles demand to be tended to, I retreat back to the apartments.

When I return there, I'm grateful to find that everyone else is absent - the Victors all scattered to tend to their respective duties, all save for Finnick. He's sitting in the dining hall with a cup of coffee in front of him and an untouched breakfast (consisting of two croissants, some eggs, bacon, and a bowl of fruit), his fingers sliding over his own pad, maybe evaluating our Tributes, taking notes, or overviewing some potential Sponsors. Thankfully, he's dressed casually, with his hair dampened a little, indicating he just got out of the shower. He's wearing a tan sweater over top a pair of dark trousers, looking remarkably normal despite the circumstances. Meanwhile, I'm sweaty and still clad in my training clothes - a black tank top and equally black pair of leggings, and sturdy shoes. My hair is done up into a bun, but it's startled to unravel a little, and strands cling to my sticky skin. I feel gross.

I take a second to just look at him, seemingly for the first time since we got to this hell-scape. Finnick and I haven't had a chance to interact together since the Unity Gala, at least not one-on-one. We've been so busy between Sponsors and interviews and training our Tributes, we haven't had a time to properly talk or simply be in each others' presences. Specifically, we haven't addressed the elephant in the room that is, well, the encounter we had on the balcony, after Thrax Mellona threatened me. Not that Finnick knows that detail yet...he just walked in on the tail end of it.

And we've left it at that ever since, just another loose end that won't leave me alone.

I exhale shakily and decide to press forward, knowing that's yet another awkward, not all desired conversation I'm going to have to partake in. Now's as good a time as any, right? We're alone, all is quiet, and with Plutarch's words ringing in my head, I feel like I need to be as upfront about things as possible. No loose ends, no more secrets. At least, some secrets.

"It looks like you need to blow off some steam," Finnick says, raising his eyes from his tablet.

I shrug, moving across the room towards the table, and grab a piece of a croissant from off of his plate. I bite into it, soured a little when I find it to be filled with chocolate. Finnick looks up, amused. "I could go for beating the hell out of something," I admit.

"Well, if you have time, I'd be willing to spar you," he says. "One of my clients canceled, so I've got time."

"I appreciate it, Finn," I say. "But...I think I'm sparred out. I had an interesting training session with Marina."

"Interesting bad?"

"Sort of," I say, sighing, and take another bite out of the croissant despite the fact that I have a distaste for such sweetened chocolate. "Ren's feeding her and Kipper bad information. And I kind of snapped." At his questioning glance, I shrug again. "I might've snapped, just a little. I'll apologize later."

Finnick's eyes soften. "That's fair...honstly, even if we did spar, you'd win," he says.

"Did Kipper give you a run for your money this morning?" I laugh, noting a small bruise on his upper arm.

"He's a tough kid," Finnick says, shrugging. "He hit me pretty good with the blunt edge of his sword."

"Tough enough?"

"No. I don't think so."

I lower my eyes, nodding. "We're doing what we can. That's what matters," I say.

"What did Ren say, anyway?"

"I'll tell you after I've cooled down," I say. "First, since I have you alone, I'd like to ask you something...there's a lot on my mind."

"Anything you want to let go of?"

"Finnick, I need you to be honest with me about something, okay?"

"When am I never honest?"

I pull up a chair so that I'm sitting beside him. His expression is fiercely concerned, though I can tell he's trying to keep it composed. I place my hand on top of the table, drumming my fingers nervously. "We should talk about what happened on the balcony, during the Unity Gala," I say. "I spiraled. That crocodile on a platter came in and I just fell apart."

"I grasped that," Finnick says.

"Right, I'm sure a lot of people did. But Seneca Crane pulled me aside because he noticed I was...not okay, I guess, and he took me to the balcony and then Thrax Mellona came out. He just said some things and Seneca had to excuse himself to go be with his wife, but Thrax, as you know, stuck around," I continue, feeling far too clumsy with my words. I really should have mentally rehearsed this shit. "He was goading me, saying things...so I stepped on his foot, hard, and he didn't like it. He told me not to disrespect him, of course - actually, I stepped on his foot because he grabbed my arm - anyway, he...Finnick, is there any humanly possible way he would know about us?"

I feel immediately sorry for Finnick, who is currently leaning over closer towards me, face studying me intently, and clearly trying to process the onslaught of words thrust in his direction. He pieces them together little by little, his eyes flickering as they fall together, and then he stiffens. "That last part...what?"

"Could he know?" I say. "About you and me?"

"No. There's...no," he says, tensely. I watch a clear flash of panic go across his face, with his eyes widening and his hands beginning to shake, so he sets them on his lap under the table. "Why would you even suggest that?"

"Are you absolutely sure?" I say. "He used you as a threat against me. He said he knows he can't touch me because of Seneca, but suggested I...that I watch him and..." I raise my eyes, not able to say it, but Finnick understands. I see it falling like a shadow over his face. The panic gives way to fury on his face, but his eyes...they're wild, manic, like a cornered animal about to run or fight. "The fact he used you as a threat just makes me -"

"I'm your District partner and friend, Ceres, at least to the public eye," Finnick says, in a low voice.

"He could've used Tilda as a threat," I say. "Anyone, honestly. It's pretty public knowledge I'm friends with a great deal of Victors, a lot of whom are, you know, like us. And I understand that he sees a lot of Victors, so he could've easily threatened someone else. So why you, Finnick?"

Finnick pushes his plate aside, his hands now above the table. He leans forward, raking both hands through his bronze hair, and then burying his face into his palms. A low growl resounds from deep within his throat, muffled. "Because I'm his favorite," he says, darkly. "If he's going to threaten someone, he's going to let it be a good time for him."

"You haven't even answered my question. Just tell me, could he know?"

"No! There's no way anyone could know," Finnick snaps, slamming his hands down so hard against the table it rattles the dishware, causing his cup of coffee to spill over. It spreads across the alabaster white table, but he doesn't react to it. I certainly jump, but that warrants no reaction, either. Finnick is breathing heavily now, lost in his own panic.

"Snow does. Maybe he told -"

"No way in hell Snow would ever risk that kind of information being leaked, least of all to customers," Finnick says. "If it came out that Finnick Odair, the great Capitol darling, was in love with his District partner then there would be anarchy. I can't present that image. I have to be desirable, inclusive to everyone, or else everything falls apart. My prospects would drop and my image would falter, and President Snow would make sure I lived to regret...he'd hurt...you, Mags, everyone."

"It doesn't -"

I cut myself off, my brain struggling to catch up with Finnick's rapidly spoken words and my own whirling thoughts as, all at once, it hits me. My mouth slowly shuts. Finnick's rage is something I've seen before. Amidst the moments where he's driven to deep anguish by the Capitol, so, too, does it send him into a fury. I've seen him throw things, shatter fragile items to the ground, and release unfathomable words from his mouth. There's an old saying that a drunken thought speaks sober thoughts, and I think there's some merit to that.

I believe that the things Finnick says in rage are true, of how tired he is and how he hates the Capitol and his circumstances and how sometimes he wishes he hadn't won the Games...that he'd died instead. I try to push those horrible words and thoughts aside, knowing that he's hurting, and people in pain say things they may feel deep inside of them but don't entirely mean. I just hold him after those outbursts, let him cry into me, until he calms down and reminds me that he's truly grateful he's here, that he's with me, because he'd be damned if he'd leave me alone in this world.

But this is different. Although it was not spoken directly, the gist of it remains the same. Finnick said he loves me.

I exhale shakily, unable to process it entirely amidst everything else. I want to address it, but I know I can't. The conversation is too heated and Finnick is still visibly furious. It hasn't even occurred to him yet. He carries on slowly pacing the length of the training room, his nostrils flaring and his face flushing with rage. His words haven't caught up with him yet. I wonder if they even will

So, I just take it in quietly, holding it tightly to my chest, and carry on to the best of my ability - for both of our sakes. "Finnick -"

"You're going to stay out of trouble," Finnick says, firmly. "I mean it."

"But you could be in danger."

"I can handle Thrax," Finnick says, his tone shaking. The rage is starting to falter, replaced by a new calm, and he's looking back at me gently and with regret. He hates it when I see his outbursts. "Whatever threats he put out there to you are just that, threats. He's annoyed you stood up to him but he'll cool off and realize you aren't worth his time. Besides, he's a possessive man. He wouldn't want someone watching. It's all just empty threats. He's good at those."

"I don't need protection," I say.

"I know you don't. But that doesn't mean I'll stop trying."

"You're insufferable," I say.

"I know...I know I am," he says back, just as quiet.

I stare up at him, seeing the exhaustion in his eyes, the subtle marks along his neck and exposed arms. The short-sleeved shirt he's wearing is casual, sure, but I can see the subtle marks of the Capitolians on him; their claw marks. I also see the scarring left behind by the Arena that Finnick never sought to have healed. I know the medical staff had wanted to clean up his scarred tissue and make it smoother, so he'd be more appealing, and in certain areas they had. But Finnick clung to a few as reminders.

Looking at them now, I'm overcome by a sense of dread, horror, and a need to protect him. If I have a chance to pull him out of those deep waters, then what the hell am I waiting for? I think about those moments we've shared under the stars in his boat, our bare skin touching and the world around us vacant, and to those promises we've made. How Finnick would have married me if things had been different, of that house on a hill we would share together

There's no guarantee we'll live to see this through. Plutarch could be found out and we could all die tomorrow, set as another example for treason. But that doesn't mean you stop fighting. So many people have died, including my brother. Their deaths won't be for nothing. Finnick's name won't be added to the roster.

He'll be free. We all will be.

I'm going to fight.

"Finnick..."

I don't have words, nothing feels right to say. I can't outright explain to him the circumstances surrounding us at the moment - hell, he could be aware of it already - but I am going to keep true to Plutarch's request. For Finnick's sake, I'm staying quiet. Until further notice, until I'm sure, I'm not dragging him down with me. I'm going to accept Plutarch's offer. I have to, for Finnick's sake, for my family's, for everyone. I can't tell him, though. Finnick would want to get involved or he'd try to dissuade me or he'd find Plutarch himself. I think I understand why my dad didn't want me to know about this. The protective fire inside of me is hot and unrelenting

With a deep breath, I lean forward and gently place a kiss upon Finnick's lips. My hand reaches to tenderly cup his cheek. The kiss itself is a soft one, our lips just barely pressed together, but I try to pour everything into it. A thousand devoted thoughts fill my head, and I try to transfer them through the gesture, for him to feel, to understand, that what I feel for him is real. I half-expect him to pull back on account of his riled emotions and the previous conversation, but he doesn't. He leans forward a little, his own hands reaching out to hold my face. His calloused palms feel so right against my cheeks.

When we pull back for air, I feel breathless. "I love you," I say, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

"I know," Finnick says.

I pull my hand from his face, setting it between us. 'I am going to protect you. We are going to protect each other,' I sign. 'It's you, it's me, it's us. Always.'

Finnick reaches and takes my hand in his, raising it to his mouth. He kisses my knuckle gently, then turns my hand around so he can kiss every inch of it. His eyes squeeze shut, little tears spilling through them despite his best efforts to conceal them. I lean forward, pressing my forehead to his, and I let him squeeze my hand tightly in his grasp as he clutches at his emotions. I murmur softly to him. His shoulders start to shake and I sit up, pushing myself out of my chair and moving so that I am in front of Finnick.

Carefully, all the while holding his hand, I move to straddle his waist. Now with the two of us closer, I let him wrap his free arm around me and press his face into my hair. He cries softly into me. I let him pour every ounce of his emotions into the moment, as I brush my thumb over his hand, and murmur sweet words to him. He's afraid and he's angry. I understand. Thrax Mellona is a dangerous and horrible monster, who has done unfathomable things to Finnick for nearly ten years. I cannot imagine the pain he feels revolving around that man. Then there is the fact we are both prisoners to the Capitol. We can vow to protect each other all we want, but, in the end, we're just pawns. Our lives, our beings, everything, belong to Snow.

Not anymore. I press kisses to Finnick's head as his breathing starts to calm. I'll call on Plutarch in a few days, allowing enough time to pass so it doesn't look suspicious. More so because I don't want to call on Seneca Crane by proxy through Ames...I don't want to see him. I don't want to think about him. All I want to do is focus on Finnick.

"I still need to shower," I say. "Do you want to join me?"

Finnick pulls his face from out of my hair, the features on his face softening. Wordlessly, he nods. Wrapping his arms securely around my body, he stands, and he carries me to my attached bathroom. I turn the water on, letting the steam build into the room as we slowly undress each other, one article of clothing at a time. The room fogs over, rendering our reflections in the mirrors to be nothing but blurs. We are visible only to each other, as we leave behind a trail of clothes that lead to the shower. I open the glass door leading to the open space, mostly large enough for two people, and shut it quietly behind us.

With every touch, every kiss, every caress, it solidifies my decision. Within this rare moment of pure vulnerability shared between us, we bare each other whole, and whisper words of devotion - promises, verbal and through our hands, between and upon our bodies. Nothing in this world can touch us in this room. All the while, I chant to myself that I am going to fight, that I have something and someone worth fighting for. Plutarch is right. It won't be easy. More than likely we are going to die, or violently tortured or worse, but it's a chance.

Plutarch stands for something and he knows what he's going to fall for. So do I.

"Finnick...Finnick..." I moan breathily into his ear as he holds me up against the cold, tiled wall.

I shiver and moan as he moves into me, his hips gentle against mine, and his lips attached to my neck. He's whispering poetry into my ear. He's holding me so tightly I may as well be anchoring him to this earth. He holds me tighter against him, his hips moving a little faster. He's whispering something against my neck, but I can't hear him between the showerhead above us and the thundering thoughts inside my head. I just tighten my legs around him, driving him deeper inside of me. We grasp at each other, share deep, longing kisses with our names murmured against our lips.

I'm going to fight. I'm going to protect you, Finnick Odair. I'm going to save you from this hell.

Eventually, we both fall into each other with ragged gasps. I throw my head back, a strangled moan of Finnick's name escaping me as I tighten and finish around him. He follows shortly after with a few shallow thrusts, pulsing inside of me. Not that it matters, of course, as I have a delightful implant deep inside of me and Finnick receives monthly injections to sterilize himself. Finnick continues to hold me against the wall after we're both finished, leisurely placing kisses along my shoulder, before slowly setting me down.

We both wind up sitting on the shower floor for a while, spent and exhausted and our eyes aching from the tears mingled with the shower water. We bask in the glow of our lovemaking, in our own little rebellion that is each other.

I can't say for certain how long we both sat there, but the water eventually starts to run cold, and there are voices from beyond this room. The Victors are home. Finnick is the first to leave, pressing a deep kiss to my lips and promising to see me again tonight, before he gets up, dries himself, and departs quietly from my room. Discretion is key, even in our own apartments. I sit there for a while longer, the cold water running over me, until I hear the soft, distinct sound of my pager going off; buried somewhere in my clothes.

I exhale through my nose, fighting back the heated tensions in my chest. Seeing Seneca is the last thing I want to do right now. Nothing would displease me more than putting on my fake smiles and pleasing him, right after Finnick and I shared a moment like this. I have too many things to think about. Finnick in a compromising position and I have Kipper's vulnerabilities to deal with and Marina being overly ambitious and Ren feeding false information to our Tributes and general Sponsorship deals and the fact my dad is most likely having an affair with another Victor and, most importantly, there's a rebellion rising from within the Capitol.

There are too damn many things on my plate. And this isn't even including the shit I have waiting for me when I get home - that is, meeting my long lost grandfather who knew my brother before he died and seemed to have a pretty solid relationship with him. Too many damn things, I repeat to myself.

I push myself to my feet, turning the cold water off, and step out of my shower. I fish through my clothes and find my pager, turning it off and looking across the screen. It's then I finally bring my gaze to where Seneca's name should be, but it isn't there. This request isn't from him.

It's from Thrax Mellona.

---

(a/n): It was alarmingly tricky to write a younger version of Ceres. I went back and reread the earlier chapters of Reap What We Sow to get a grasp of her younger, brattier voice, and I found myself feeling mildly nostalgic from those earlier days of her character and being genuinely appalled by her. It also makes me proud of how far she's come. :') I will also say, that one of my biggest regrets for RWWS was not giving Liber enough scenes/attention. I always knew he'd be critical to the grand plan, but I was so wrapped up in the romance aspect I forgot to set him up/characterize him and his relationships with his family more. XD If I could go back, he'd have more moments and development, but that was 2017 me's problem. XD Anyways, it was also hellah fun to write for Neleus again, ngl. All around, had a good time with this.

Also...I felt bad you guys had Seneca/Ceres smut last chapter, soooo I was feeling generous. XD Here's some good ole fashioned FinSea. ;)

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~

OddPotato: Ceres starting off as a dislikable character was 100% intentional. I watched an interview with Dave Filoni (the creator of Ahsoka Tano, as well as writer for Zuko) once where he described taking a character from an unlikable beginning and developing them over time, and I used that as a huge influence for Ceres. Ceres' journey starting off as a very arrogant and bratty and developing to where she is today. It's been a years long journey, but I'm proud of how far she's come! (It was certainly tricky navigating those initial chapters, though, where her development wasn't present yet so she came across as an annoying OC. XD) I'm also glad how you brought up it was Neleus' death that really triggered her realization. She was with him in his final days and basically heard him being beaten, but didn't do anything about it, and now the guilt lives with her. We're gonna be seeing more interactions with Katniss/Peeta next chapter, which will feature the Gamemaker's scoring AND the interview. ;) Seneca's parting will be intriguing to say the least...and how her relationship wil Finnick will progress.

DreamonAlina: Oh, my gosh! The way I sobbed reading this! I am so, so glad that you enjoy my story this much, but I hope you don't drop anything too valuable on my account. XD If I'm being honest, ME TOO! I actually started writing a smut scene for Finnick and Ceres in a scene I deleted from this chapter (but will be shown later ;) and it eventually became fanfiction of my fanfiction. I was just sitting there with the saddest face. XD Me, shoving Ceres and Finnick together: PORK DAMN YOU. Also, this chapter wasn't originally gonna feature a smut scene between Finnick and Ceres, but I had to. It was too good. :') (Not the same smut scene that's being saved later, tho! The other one is *spicier* lmfao) Thank you so much! Honestly, it truly warms my heart! I've had a great time using the books and movies as a perpetual reference for my writing, but I've also loved having the freedom to write the BTS of being a Victor/Mentor. I hope that this chapter blessed you. ;)

the. apple .seed: *FIST PUMPS LOUDLY* Gosh, thank you! Writing for Plutarch has been so much fun but also extremely intimidating, so I really appreciate that you feel so passionately about how I've written him! He's such a strong character and definitely one of my favorites in the books AND movies (no one other than Philip could've portrayed him so amazingly), so I've tried my damnedest to capture him. As far as Ceres being safe...I make no promises. *evil grin*

sammiemarie123: Thank YOU for your review! I am so glad that you're enjoying my story so far! *hearts*

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~CASTING~

Neleus Odair: Michael Fassbender

Young Ceres Rhythe: Daphne Keen

Young Liber Rhythe: Marcel Ruiz

Young Finnick Odair: Cameron Crovetti

Kilo Stylus: Kit Young

Vesta Clio: Aleyse Shannon

Turquoise Acker: Nana Komatsu

Dion Star: John McCrea

Ivoree Greenscape: John Cameron Mitchell

Leto Vulpes: Kristofer Hivju