Converted Into Dust Chapter 11: Eleven: the arrow, the spark, a hunger games fanfic

(a/n): Here we go, guys! I am officially giving you guys the private training session scene, in which the Tributes are evaluated for their Scores...so that's right, the scene with Katniss Everdeen. ;)

Enjoy, loves!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

the arrow, the spark

Seneca.

There's a certain boredom and revelry in watching the Tributes for their private training session. There is a repetitive nature to it, of course - in part because I have to sit and watch it yearly, after having spent weeks watching them train together, in between my Gamemaker duties, as well as familial obligations. More often than not, the sessions are usually quite predictable. The Careers always outshine the Tributes from the backwater Districts, there are those who prove themselves efficient, and those who fall behind. It's easy to get lost in my own head sometimes, as I sit back with my fellow Gamemakers, occasionally murmuring amongst each other in between the respective Tributes. The evaluations are critical, of course, but morale does have a tendency to slip the further we go along the Tributes - the fatigue finally settling in.

But then, there are moments where my attentions are piqued, and I find myself inspired. This could vary in a multitude of things. An Alliance could spark my curiosity, then there is a Tribute proving a new strength, and how I can utilize it in my Arena; truly place worthy Tributes up, give them a chance to shine in the spotlights I forge in the Arena.

I am braced for it as I sit upon the large stage overlooking the training chamber, a cocktail in my hands and my fellow Gamemakers murmuring with anticipation. The Tributes will be filing in at any second to begin their session, in which they shall individually have the chance to prove themselves. I already expect greatness from the Careers, of course, who have already proven their efficiency over the passed few weeks. Of course they have. They have been training in special, elite academies since they were children. There is hardly any strain placed upon them, whereas the others will likely leave much to be desired.

Behind me, Avoxes bring platters of exceptional food and serve drinks, whilst I take my place in my chair positioned in the front and center, one leg folded over the other, and staring down at the empty space where Tributes will soon occupy. At my side, my assistant remains standing, ever vigilant.

The pad in Ames' hands makes a chirp like sound. "Head Gamemaker," my assistant says. "They're here."

At that, I immediately straighten and I set my cocktail aside. "Good. Bring them out - quietly, of course, I don't want to make a huge fuss," I assert.

My assistant nods and promptly stands, disappearing through the back door. Moments later, I hear the scuttling of feet behind me, and I stand up to greet my two sons as they rush to embrace me. It's a little unseemly and lacking in professionalism, but I kneel down to embrace them back. They are only four years old, after all, and it won't be long before they lose interest in hugging their father. (I remember when I found myself too old for such affections with my own parents.) I pull back, looking between them. My twin sons, Maximus and Felix, are only four years old and yet they stand a little taller than most boys their own age - as did I, funnily enough, when I was their age. Although they are twins, they are not identical. There has never been any concern between me and Ithaca about our boys trading clothes and posing convincingly as the other.

Maximus is our firstborn and, technically speaking, the rightful heir to the position of Head Gamemaker, when I eventually retire. While I had been thrilled over the prospect of having twin sons - doubling my chances at securing the Crane legacy - I had also faltered a little. It isn't uncommon for brothers to ill each other for powerful positions, but I am hopeful I have raised my boys right, that they can coexist within their respective positions rather than fight for superiority. That being said, Maximus, as my oldest, has always had a keener interest in my job versus his quiet, more intuitive brother. Maximus' hair is black and curly, similar to his mother's, though it is often cut short and maintained by pomade. His eyes are sky blue, like mine, with a pair of deep dimples that manifest on his cheeks when he smiles, and a splattering of freckles across his nose that reflect his mother's. (Ithaca often wears cosmetics to hide her own, but Maximus is too young to partake.) Today he's dressed in deep purples and golds.

Meanwhile, Felix is my second born son and significantly less interested in my affairs than his brother is - which, i suppose, is a good thing. I would like my sons to both follow in my footsteps as a Gamemaker, with Maximus eventually becoming Head Gamemaker, but if it slims down the prospect of them fighting for the role then so be it. Felix has his mother's naturally dirty blonde hair, though it is significantly more manageable than his brother's, with the same sky blue eyes of mine. His features are more angular and pronounced, whereas Maximus' is more rounded. Today he is wearing reds and golds.

For the last few years, I've kept them relatively at bay from my work - mostly due to how young they were, as toddlers can hardly fathom the importance of a position like mine. But since they intend to be Sponsors this year, as well as the fact they are mature enough to understand the Games now, I believed it would be beneficial for them to watch the private training sessions. After all, as Head Gamemaker I have certain perks that aren't otherwise available to others. Why not allow my sons a behind the scenes view of their prospects? My father had permitted me to attend such matters when I was their own age. He would have me sit beside him and watch the Tributes train, askingme various questions to get the gears in my head turning, and I recall how I swelled with pride when he would cast me an approving smile when I got the answers right.

I wave two chairs to be brought on either side of my own, and then the boys and I sit together. They are a little restless, on account of their age, but for the most part they sit still. Now, technically speaking, my second in command, Plutarch, should be sitting next to me - but the man, ever the strange one, prefers standing in the fark back. He likes being in the shadows, a quiet observer. I suppose this is to my advantage, since I can choose more favorable company.

The first Tribute to be brought out is Marvel Blush from District 1, a tall and lanky boy with a strangely broad smile. He wears it all throughout his session, visible delight radiating through his person as he handles spears in particular. They soar through the air with impressive accuracy, though he likes a certain finesse. After him comes Glimmer Gallica, who proves to be quite fast and efficient when it comes to various weaponry. She can handle herself with daggers fair enough, as well as a longer, slimmer sword which she uses to cut a training dummy's head off. But her attempts at archery do dock her some points.

The second set of Tributes prove to be far more up to par with my standards. Cato Ismene, a tall and broad boy of impressive build and stature, impresses all of us by his use of multiple different types of weaponry and his prominent physical strength. He scarcely balks at anything, though he does display a measure of fury when his sword doesn't decapitate a training dummy's torso fully, resulting in him yelling and kicking it down to the ground. After him comes his District partner, Clove Pyrite, who is significantly smaller and more petite, but no less dangerous. Once the girl gets her hands on some throwing knives, nothing stands in her way. She attaches about ten to her belt, then, with absolute precision, throws them all within minutes; with perfect aim, sometimes two at a time. Even my boys seem a little impressed by her.

When there is a small space to breathe between District 2 and District 3, I lean over to regard my sons. I allow them to sit silently for a short period of time, so they both have time to gauge their options. I have, of course, been providing little crumbs of influence as to who they should consider Sponsoring. That is to say, none of my words have been blatant. I haven't spoken of any specific Districts or Tributes by name, but that hasn't stopped my subtle care to imply things. Notably, my family has been eating seafood consistently the last few nights, despite how crustaceans make my skin itch.

"Tell me, boys, who are you thinking about Sponsoring this year?" I ask.

Maximus smiles widely. "District 2 seems pretty cool."

"Yes. But everyone else votes for District 2. Careers are always easy to Sponsor, which is, in all fairness, a relatively reasonable thing to do. After all, they win almost every year, but that is a follower's way. A Crane is a leader," I say. "Sometimes, you have to lead by example."

Seconds later, in comes the boy Tribute from District 3, a short boy of fifteen years old with hair shaved short and an odd nose that has clearly been broken more than once. He shakes as he stands before us, bowing his head. "Dell Silica," he says, and then goes on to be relatively boring. He proves semi-efficient, as he manages to create various little traps with the weaponry. But he spends too long with these contraptions, using ropes to make tripwires, and little mechanisms that would cause certain things to fall on top of whoever fell. Truth be told, it is impressive, but the boy takes his time, measuring everything meticulously. By the time his time is up, he's only shown us one trap. He leaves looking a little more relaxed, but my fellow Gamemakers and I feel less than impressed. The girl who follows after him, Julia Asterisk, goes the more classic route by trying her hands with weaponry. It proves inefficient and she leaves with her head hung.

As she exits, Maximus looks up at me with a furrowed brow. "What about District 3?"

On the other side of me, Felix scoffs. "District 3 never wins, dummy."

I glance to the side. "Language," I scold.

The boy from District 4 - Kipper Estuary - enters the training room, then, with his head held high despite the obvious nerves reflecting off of his freckled face. He has a mop of curly red hair, strands hanging in front of his freckled, long face. The boy is all wiry, no amount of muscle or meat upon him. This makes me wonder if it makes him an efficient swimmer, for being so lean, not that it will do him much good in the Arena. He bows at the waist in front of the Gamemakers. "Kipper Estuary," he announces, "District 4. Twelve years old."

I have to wonder who told him to announce his age, as it is unnecessary to do so; an act of sympathy, perhaps? I wave my hand.

I can't say I expect much from this boy, on account of how small he is and seemingly frail, making me wonder if he is from one of the lower sectors of District 4. But he is Ceresea's Tribute, so I must pay careful mind to him, for a multitude of reasons. I had promised her, after all, that I would do what I can, with what little influence I can possibly have in the matter. As Head Gamemaker, I cannot legally Sponsor any Tribute, nor can I tell others who to Sponsor...but hence why subtlety is key.

The boy, Kipper, seems to take a deep breath and walks towards one of the smaller tridents located on the wall. He balances it carefully in his hands, then looks up at us, but I notice his eyes are on the two young boys on either side of me. It seems to take him a little off guard, but he refocuses fairly quickly. With deep breaths, Kipper starts to flourish the trident to the best of his ability. His movements are stiff and mechanical and he is clearly uncomfortable with such a lumbering thing in his arms, but he manages. The boy doesn't throw it, but he does manage to manually pierce it through the lower abdomen of one of the training dummies; the prongs don't pierce fully, but at least it makes contact.

It does take some effort to pull it out, however, but when he does he tries again, this time aiming hire. I can hear a few chuckles resound from my fellow Gamemakers, who have already removed their gazes from off of him. It's not exactly necessary to provide full attentions on someone so young, since they are likely to die the soonest, but I beg to differ. Finnick Odair had only been fourteen when he won the Hunger Games, but, then again, he was also stronger and more physically abled than the boy below us.

Kipper hangs up the trident, then resorting to picking up heavy objects and proceeding to run with them, attempting to show off his speed. He's slow, I think to myself, and rub my brow. Poor Ceresea. Hopefully the girl is better quality than this. Kipper concludes his training by attempting to yield a spear, which he tries throwing through the air only for it to collide to the ground before it could hit its designated target. To the boy's credit, he doesn't in any way look dejected. He simply raises his chin, bows to us again, and leaves with his head held high.

The girl follows next. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, her equally dark eyes staring up at us intently. I can tell she's trying not to gawk at the two young boys on either side of me. She bows her head. "Marina Tasman, District 4," she says.

As I expected, the girl proves to be more efficient than the boy. She is a few years older than him and, of course, taller, but she has more meat upon her bones and appears more physically fit. This definitely improves her prospects, as she is able to wield a trident far more comfortably in her hands, and manages to twist it around her with a more practiced hand. She is definitely still clunky in her movements, but by comparison to her District partner she is superior. She strikes out with it, showing off various deflection moves and stunts; defensive, more so than offensive, is her performance. She then practices with a spear, showing similar strikes and parries. She tries her hand at some throwing knives, to which she has less success, but it's still sufficient.

Staring up at us, searching likely for a sign of visible approval, she then grabs two spears and proceeds to flourish them both. For a short moment there, she is almost impressive. Her movements seem mostly fluid and she's balancing out her breathing well enough, but somewhere in the mix, one of her spears knocks into her ankle, and she trips over herself. She collides face-first into the ground, cupping her bleeding chin. To her credit, she gets back up and tries again, this time slower.

By then, we excuse her, having seen enough. Her blood is still on the floor when she leaves, which one of the staff members comes to clean before the boy from District 5 enters.

Beside me, my oldest shifts, and reaches out to tug at my coat jacket for my attentions. "Um...is District 4 good?"

"District 4 is often a very good choice," I say. "Well done. Now, Felix, what about you?"

My second born looks significantly more bored than his brother, who is at least trying to sit up straight. Felix is leaning against the side of his chair, his face propped up by his palm. I almost think to correct his posture, but I am a little amused by it. "I don't know," he says, shrugging. "I'd like to talk to them first, I think."

"Talk? About what?"

"Like how Mr. Flickerman talks to them," Felix goes on. "An interview...if they're good or bad. I can't tell."

At that, I can't help but to frown. It goes without saying that my son's are my legacy and are going to inherit the position I currently stand on, but I'd always been optimistic to the notion that Maximus would be Head Gamemaker and Felix would become his righthand man, the way Plutarch Heavensbee is to me. Granted, it's hardly unheard of for sons to kill each other for positions of power, but I'd always hoped I had raised my boys better than that. Now, technically speaking, Felix bringing up an interest in Caesar Flickerman's career is a relieving one, as it would eliminate the element of competition between two brothers, but I can't help but to see interviewer as a downgrade.

My sons are being raised to be Gamemakers, the truest and most important role in all of Panem, as far as I am concerned. We are the ones who reside behind the scenes, the unsung heroes, who keep the cogs rolling and the machine functioning. We build the Arena from scratch and create all of the creatures who will reside within it. We are the ones who entertain Panem yearly. We are the blood pumping through the metaphorical heart of the Victors, as well as providing lifeforce to the citizens of Panem - most importantly, the Capitol. For Felix to find any semblance of dignity or interest in someone like Caesar Flickerman and his work is disappointing.

Granted, Caesar plays his own role during the Games. He is the one who asks the questions and brings likability to the Tributes, regardless of how unlikable they are or how awkward. He keeps the Capitol laughing with his witty jokes and flashy outfits. But he is just a preening peacock. He's there to be the visual appeal, whilst all the true hard work and labor comes from me and my team. No. I refuse to have my own son work in such a deadbeat position. It won't do.

"We'll talk about it later," I decide to say.

I will not have this conversation here and now, as my fellow Gamemakers and important figureheads sit together to watch the remainder of the Tributes. One by one they go, somehow managing to both bore and excite me. The two Tributes from District 5 are relatively subpar. The boy tries, but ultimately isn't efficient in anything, whilst the girl doesn't touch any of the weapons but rather demonstrates her clear efficiency in understanding the layouts of certain terrain, dangerous plant life, and so forth.

Periodically, I glance down towards my sons to inquire about their interests, all the way discreetly, very masterfully, swaying their opinions to the best of my ability. I am, after all, a man who upholds his end of deals. But the longer we sit, the more tedious things become. By the time we reach the Tributes from District 11, we are all becoming a little restless. The drinks have started to become soured and the food has become boring, with our conversations and energies running dry. I have even allowed my sons to venture off to stand by the food table to feed themselves, for they were becoming too restless in their chairs.

When the boy from District 11, Thresh Harrow, walks wordlessly into the training chamber without so much as a bow or regard towards us, simply beginning his private session without so much as a word or a nod. The boy, burly and large and comparably superior to that of Cato, proves to be quite efficient. He handles weapons with ease, regardless of size, and has a natural strength that does stir some semblance of interest from me, were I not so fatigued already. But the blatant act of disrespect, more so a she leaves before he is excused or his time is up, will dock him points.

The girl who follows after is his opposite, as she is likely the same age as Kipper Estuary and is equally as small and lithe. Her large doe eyes look straight up at us and she bows delicately, if not a little awkwardly. "Rue Hyssop, District 11," she calls.

As I expect, the girl is too small and too young to handle the larger weaponry. At one point, she even looks up at us and asks if there are any slingshots available, which cause a couple of my peers to laugh and shake their heads, murmuring amongst themselves. I provide a more respectable approach by shaking my head with a gentle verbal no. Nodding to herself, the girl tries her best with the smaller weapons available to her, but mostly shows off her climbing abilities, including managing to climb all the way up to the ceiling of the chamber, where she manages to stay balanced. More than once, my chest tightened, wondering if the girl was going to do something stupid, but she climbed down. Once we had seen enough, we nodded, and she departed from us with a small bow.

I believe her District partner could learn a thing or two about her manners.

Finally, finally, nearing the end, the boy from District 12 arrives. By this point, even I have started to retire mentally from the ordeal, turning to share in conversations with my fellow Gamemakers about something or other, as my sons keep busy with Ames keeping a watchful eye on them, while also being readily available to me when I need notes taken.

The boy from District 12 is oddly stocky with blonde hair and a more relaxed face than some of his peers. "Peeta Mellark. District 12," he says.

What the boy demonstrates is fine, I suppose, as he mostly proves his physical strength and some artistry, as he uses some paints available to him to illustrate the illusion that his hand could disappear against the metal wall. It is impressive, I suppose, but it's not exactly catching. The boys have returned to sit beside me, since they had started to become interested again when Peeta Mellark was throwing very heavy things around the chamber. But it's become clear that their investment is waning, more so as Peeta delves in paint. At their age, I don't mind their fidgeting. In a few years, it will get easier.

As is, I believe that this year is going to be extremely interesting. It's already proven to have quite the flair in dramatics, and we haven't even entered the Games themselves yet. After all, it's not everyday that a Tribute from a backwater District - least of all District 12 - catches the attention of the Capitol so thoroughly. Even I can admit that I had been a little star-struck when the two chariots swept through the Capitol, the young Tributes inside of it glittering with fire and their hands proudly raised above their heads. It had taken me off guard, first and foremost, but then I had been encapsulated by awe. That effect has been lingering throughout the Capitol. It's all that can be talked about. Who is the Girl on Fire? What will she be like for her interview? I've seen countless young girls throughout my grand city start to wear fiery colors and gush feverishly about their new favorite Tribute, pleading with their wealthy parents to Sponsor them.

Still, despite the impact the girl and her partner have left behind, it's still not entirely enough. There's still apprehension in Sponsoring the Tributes from District 12, for a number of reasons. Not only is it the lowest of the Districts, second only to District 13 prior to its unfortunate destruction, but it is helmed by its only Victor, the very drunk and widely detested Haymitch Abernathy. I make a point to keep most of the Victors at arms' length to avoid potential bias, especially this time of year when the tabloids are abuzz and thirsty for different types of drama and theory building, but I do keep a watchful eye on them. Haymitch has always been a difficult personality. He is often too drunk to stand and I've never seen him put the same amount of effort into his Tributes that other Victors have into their Tributes. This behavior, in truth, I find to be deplorable. To give up on one's own Tributes seems as wasteful as letting perfectly good fruit rot on top of a counter.

I have, however, noticed a change in Haymitch this year. He is putting forth the effort, despite the odds. Under normal circumstances he might have left his Tributes to fend for themselves, yet this year he has started to train them one-on-one, and I've even actively seen him among the city folk making deals with potential Sponsors. It's a strange out of character act that has me curious and intrigued. These two Tributes must surely be something special if Haymitch is paying extra attention to them.

The Capitolians have noticed this, too, given certain trajectories of focus. A handful of tabloid articles have asked the question if the Tributes from District 12 are going to outshine the Careers this year, as all flames do. I have my doubts. An open flame needs oxygen in order to function. I have no doubt the Careers will find a way to snuff it out. Still, that would be mildly disappointing. After all, the Capitol has never rooted for Tributes so backwater before. It might very well be a nice, new refreshing change to this year's Games.

The change that makes or breaks my Arena.

There is no small amount of pressure placed on my shoulders for this year to make an impact. I have maintained a credible streak for the last few years - over half a decade, remarkably - and I have to keep it up, not just for the sake of my pride but also for my career, family, and everything I value. I am all too aware of how precarious my situation is. Head Gamemakers is a temporary position at best, eventually one must retire, forced or otherwise. When my time comes, I mean to retire with dignity and my head high, my pride and position intact, and able to carry on peacefully.

My father was disgraced in his retirement, though I've since helped him salvage his reputation through my own influence. My uncle's body had been reduced to waste when it was all said and done. President Snow had hovered over my shoulder, watching me as I stared down at his rotting corpse, before it had been turned to mulch to feed the gardens on the President's state; recycled, for the benefit of the plant life. With this hanging over my head, I know that the 74th Hunger Games must go off without a hitch, as all the rest have, but there is a greater looming presence for me to keep in mind. Next year will be the 75th Hunger Games, the Quarter Quell.

It is my utmost honor to be the Head Gamemaker to such an extraordinary event. I recall each Quarter Quell with utter fondness, having spent a great deal of time in the academy thoroughly studying them, and even having had the opportunity to personally interview a few of the retired, older Gamemakers who had been working at the time of their creations. How incredible it is that we have already seen two, with next year being the third - mine. Each Quarter Quell has left some variety of an impression. They must. They cannot simply be average. Each year, the Games are simple. Two Tributes are Reaped from their respective Districts, a boy and a girl, they enter the Arena in a cluster of twenty-four others, and they fight. Quarter Quells must not be so straightforward.

I recall that the 25th Hunger Games had, admittedly, been a bit morally ambiguous. For the first Quarter Quell, the Districts had to vote on who would be cast into the Hunger Games. This was done to remind the Districts how the loathsome rebels chose to sacrifice their own children in the equally horrible, unnecessary rebellion all those years ago. Truth be told, I can't look upon that year with much fondness. It is one thing to be Reaped by fate, it is quite another to have your own neighbors choose you. I don't know quite how to explain it but it has always sit thickly in my stomach. That being said, it was memorable. And then for the 50th Hunger Games, twice the amount of Tributes had been Reaped for the occasion; doubling the Tributes, doubling the violence. The ending of those Games had resulted in Haymitch Abernathy of District 12 winning, a victory that, according to my father and grandfather, baffled all of Panem.

I imagine that Haymitch may very well have had the potential to be as equally covetous as the likes of Finnick Odair or Garnett Lux, but he had chosen the bottle, and his prospects had dropped significantly. Rather than embrace the glory Panem offered him, he chose to forsake it, like a fool. I almost pity him for it, especially due to how his actions reflect so poorly upon his already below par District. His Tributes pay for it, as well, with lack of Sponsors, resources, and general lack of preparation, which all ultimately lead to their deaths.

But next year will be different, I will make sure of that. I have spent the last year thoroughly studying and revisiting the past Quarter Quells, paying careful mind to what works and what doesn't. All of my notes are carefully tucked into my desk, along with a vast array of outlines concerning my ideas.

Among these ideas, I had considered numerous prospects. For one, I have played with the idea of, similar to the vein of the 50th Hunger Games, having Capitolian citizens be randomly selected to cast their votes on which age-eligible patrons of their respective Districts would be Reaped. I had also considered the idea of Reaping only out of one age-pool or even gender, though, truthfully, the latter feels a little poor. I highly doubt it would go over well. Statistically, the Capitolians enjoy seeing both in the Arena. I could triple the amount of Tributes, but that would mean expanding the Arena, which could be costly. I could also scatter the Tributes, rather than place them in one place; forcing certain pairs together, some clumps here or there, and others completely alone.

One of my Gamemakers, Rosaline, had filed a suggestion to me that, perhaps once in my lifetime, I would have found enticing. She had suggested that we Reap from the families of surviving Victors - and if the Victors did not have families, then anyone potentially close to them. She had smiled widely and reflected on how impactful it is when Victors' children partake in the Games. She had used Garnett Lux as an example first, then relayed the successful betray and heartbreaking impact left behind by Ceresea and Liber Rhythe. I had told her I would consider it, but I had promptly burned her note so it would never see any other eyes, never entice any other curiosities.

I know that if my Quarter Quell was to go down such a road, Ceresea would never forgive me. In spite of how I know I can't allow my personal feelings to reflect onto my work, certain aspects are unavoidable. Although I will never understand her true feelings regarding her Games, I understand that the encounters she had with her brother were hard, and it would do no good to relive those memories. I could not do that to her.

I shall simply have to find something else. Perhaps I'll find Plutarch before the Hunger Games begin so we can go over ideas, since I know I will be very busy once the actual Games commence. With that in mind, I make a mental note to also see Ceresea soon, too. With the Games so close, my time is going to be limited, and I know I'll have to spend most of it with my family. And I do still owe Ceresea a nice dinner...

My cheeks flush a little as our last encounter flutters through my head. I embarrass a little at the memory. Truth be told, seeing her again had been so overwhelming, and the natural smell of the ocean that clung to her (a smell that could never be replicated within the Capitol) had filled me whole, and I hadn't been able to stop myself from kissing her deeply and ravaging her on my desk. I try to be gentlemanly and treat her the way she deserves, with nice dinners and social events and gifts, but, on occasion, my urges unhinge and my true desires for her spill out of me. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to think any less of me for it. Still, I'll take her out to a nice dinner, then to the Oneiroi for a proper evening, where I can worship her body the way she deserves.

I think I'll get her a gift, too. Maybe some pearls...that doesn't seem too cliché, does it? Perhaps it is.

Yanked suddenly from my thoughts by a loud banging sound, I blink and look across the room. Peeta has thrown one of the large metal throwing balls clear across the room, causing it to slam against the wall. Breathing heavily, with a thin sheen of sweat on his face and arms, Peeta turns towards us expectantly. Damn. It appears I had gotten a little lost in my thoughts there.

I clear my throat, nodding. "You may go," I say. Once the boy is out of sight, I sigh. "Ames, take notes on the boy from District 12 as a potential threat in the Arena."

Ames nods. His long painted nails move rapidly across the surface of his tablet, adding yet another one of my notes to the sheet. When it comes to all training sessions throughout the weeks, I like to have Ames take notes for me. They become useful when I am adding the finishing touches to my Arena. For example, the boy from District 2 is very good with swords, so I have added a vast array of different shaped and bladed swords to the Cornucopia, deadlier and more proficient the further in you get. Then there is the girl from District 5 who has been proven to be very skilled in plant-life. She has passed every single test regarding what certain herbs are poisonous, what are edible, and what are healing. What she is not aware of, however, is how a handful of certain plant-life are excluded from the tests - such as nightlock, which I have left scattered throughout the Arena. Smart Tributes, like her, will know to stay away from it. Others will not.

"What an interesting set of Tributes we have this year," says one of the Gamemakers.

"Felix, Maximus, get up and allow our companion to sit down," I say. "Ames, kindly take my boys out. I don't think they need to see anymore."

My assistant nods and departs with them, to hand them off to their governess waiting somewhere within the building. I turn my attentions towards two Gameakers who come to sit on either side of me, both of them holding glasses of liquor.

"Very interesting, indeed," I say. "But I'll be glad when this is over. I have better things to do."

"Like your water lily from District 4?" asks Homer, one of my Gamemakers.

At that, I smile. "Yes," I say. With my boys out of earshot, I am able to be a little more open and broad with my peers, rather than being aware of what's on my tongue. I'd hate to say anything indelicate in front of my boys. "With the Games starting soon, I'll need to find time to see her."

"A lucky man you are," Homer says. "I can't possibly imagine being able to have exclusivity to a Victor."

"I know my wife would love to have exclusivity to that Odair boy," says the Gamemaker on my other side, Cosmas. He shakes his head and raises his glass to his lips. "I thought about buying her exclusivity for her birthday once, but, of course, that was just a pipedream. I believe her visitations to Mr. Odair alone will drain my finances. Imagine! Exclusivity."

"I expect it isn't quite as costly, though," Homer says, "given certain lacking features in Ceres Rhythe."

I bristle a little at that, but nod anyway. "I am very fortunate," I say. "But more so, I am fortunate that my position has allowed me to have such a broad and firm sense of creative authority on the Arena and the Games. All that we have accomplished in the last few years has been due to the creative liberty gifted to me by our esteemed President Snow, an honor, to say the least. Were it not for the 68th Hunger Games and the absolute success it saw, including my uncle stepping down to give way to my leadership, I -"

A new voice cuts overtop of mine, that of a girl's. "Katniss Everdeen. District 12."

At that, I turn, feeling my face flush a little bit over having been cut off, but more so for having not noticed the final Tribute enter the chamber. She stands before us wielding a metal bow, her head tilted upwards and her expression virtually unreadable. I settle back in my chair, nodding towards her. I raise my hand to my mouth, watching with curiosity as this esteemed Girl on Fire, who has sparked so much interest in the last few weeks, places herself into position. She won't have to do much to overshadow her fellow Tribute, I suppose, especially since I doubt a girl like her partakes in finger painting.

When the girl releases her breath, she releases her arrow. The arrow lands beside the target's head. At once, my fellow Gamemakers burst into amused laughter, and I turn my body around with a disappointed smile. So, the girl had truly been style over substance all around. Now that is truly unsurprising, given where she stemmed from...one can make a pile of dirt into a garden, but that does not mean the garden will produce anything substantial.

I turn myself back around to my fellow Gamemakers. "Now, as I was saying, it has been on account of my leadership that the Games have flourished as impressively as they have over the last few years. We have brought a new era of advanced technology and pushing the envelop on what is possible for the Arena, thus creating art," I say. "All of this would not be possible without the likes of all of you, of course - my fellow Gamemakers, who are the sculptors behind my visions."

"Well said," says Cosmas.

"May your sons prove to be as prolific a leader as you are," Homer adds. "But not too soon, of course. You are, after all, still so young and much to accomplish."

"I assure you, I've barely begun," I say, glancing up.

A large platter containing a roasted pig with a plump rosy apple lodged into its mouth has been brought out by the Avoxes. The smell of the roasted, honeyed ham entices my nose and I push myself to my feet, followed after by my Gamemakers. As I approach, I wrap an arm amusedly around Homer, who I know has a great deal of love for ham - if his plump belly is any indicator of that. "Hey, who ordered this pig, eh?" I say. "Finally - some good food. Everyone, dig in. Let's celebrate the conclusion of the -"

But before I can finish that thought, there's a slight whooshing sound that pierces through the air, followed by a thud as the apple in the pig's mouth is suddenly dislodged and then pinned to the wall behind it; with an arrow. All at once, the laughter and merriment dies, as we all turn our heads, wide eyed and stunned, to see the girl from District 12 standing there with an eerie calmness to her demeanor, as well as a coldness in her eyes. She meets my gaze back, unrelenting, and I find myself feeling an unfamiliar sense of intimidation. There is no other arrow in her hand, yet I still find myself searching for one.

And then, without breaking eye contact, the girl dips into an exaggerated bow. "Thank you," she says, "for your consideration."

All of us remain speechless as she walks off, her stride long and proud, as she disappears through those doors. There is a longer lapse of silence where none of us dare move, each one as speechless as the Avoxes who serve us. Eventually, I blink, and manage to take a breath. Damn. I am the first to move as I step back, still startled in my skin, and glance around. Everyone has wide eyes, either staring at the door where Katniss Everdeen had departed from or the apple lodged into the wall. I snap my fingers and an Avox moves forward, carefully pulling it out along with the apple.

I turn a little, finding Plutarch standing against the wall. The man has a raised brow, watching Katniss as she exits the chamber with a raised brow, before lifting his cocktail to his lips. His eyes find mine and I see amusement there. Of course Plutarch would be amused by such a sight - something so baffling, so...unspeakable. I clear my throat, averting my eyes.

"I believe we all have a great deal to think upon and consider," I say, breaking the verbal silence. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will be retiring to my office to reflect on all we've seen. We will meet again tomorrow morning to discuss Scorings."

I depart from them, then, still more than a little dumbfounded. Trailing behind me, Ames waits expectantly for my notes, but I don't yield anything. How can I? I am still more than a little shell-shocked by what we had endured, having had an arrow shot in our direction - but more so, from a girl from a backwater District. How the hell could she have missed the target so drastically? How could she have aimed so flawlessly the second time? Nerves, perhaps, but whatever the case may be, I conclude that I have gravely misjudged her. The Girl on Fire may very well live up to be exactly what the Capitol desires...the thing to make or break my Arena.

Upon returning to my offices at the Gamemakers' tower, to carry on with my duties and reflect more so upon all I had witnessed (and, most importantly, help myself to some scotch), the first thing I realize is that all of those pleasantries must wait. When the doors open to me, I find I am not alone.

I'm not necessarily a man who likes surprises. While I suppose there is nothing wrong with the occasional moment of source amazement, it does not please me to walk into something blind, and be met with an outcome I did not foresee. Hence, when I walked into my office with my sleeves rolled up and ready to pour myself a glass of whiskey, I startle as I am met with my wife standing by my desk. Damn. My family and I were planning on having dinner with my parents tonight, I knew I would be seeing my wife then, but I had not prepared for now. I needed a moment of quiet to myself, to sit back and triple check that everything is in order, and enjoy a small glass of whiskey after a long day.

Generally speaking, when my wife randomly shows up at my office, it isn't for anything nice. I stand in place, our eyes locking for a long period of time, before I realize how irritated she is just based on how she's holding herself, hand over her stomach, and her nose is raised up into the air. I shut the doors behind me and stride towards my glass table holding my decanter of amber whiskey. I pour myself some, downing the glass, and preparing for whatever it is my wife is cross about now.

"Ithaca. I always love being surprised by you," I say. "Why don't you have a seat?"

Ithaca makes a low scoffing sound. She approaches me so there is less distance between us but she doesn't bother trying to sit or lean back against something, rather remaining surprisingly straight despite the roundness in her stomach. "You do know how I love to surprise my beloved husband, and father to my children," she says, and I know exactly what kind of lecture I am about to receive. I go to pour myself another glass, but she reaches out to stop me. "I was informed, secondhand, that you're planning on having the boys Sponsor District 4."

"Don't be ridiculous, Ithaca. I'm Head Gamemaker. I can't legally Sponsor any Tributes, nor can I tell anyone who to Sponsor. But what I can do is provide useful information about all the Districts and, sometimes, offer little verbal hints to assist a person's judgment. I simply did the same for our sons," I say. "The boys are at an impressionable age. I want them to learn how to be smart with money, as well as their judgment. Gambling on Tributes is tricky business, as you know."

"Yes, but it's still my money, and you're having it go into that District," she says. When I don't reply, she carries on. "I refuse."

"You refuse?"

Ithaca meets my perplexed gaze with a cold one. "I can turn a blind eye to your ridiculous relationship with that girl, Seneca, even though it damages my pride and perpetually humiliates me. But I won't have you filling the boys' heads with fantasies about her District, or possibly even her. They are going to Sponsor District 1 or District 2 like everyone else, just like I did when I was their age," Ithaca says, so fiercely that I find myself speechless and wide eyed. "And if you decide to fight me on the matter, it only further cements my point. But by all means, please try. I'd love to see you put yourself into a corner trying to defend your frequent infidelity."

Feeling flustered now, I set my glass down and take a step back. The topic of my relationship with Ceresea is one that is not often breached between us, in part because I made it abundantly clear when we were engaged that I would not cut off ties with her. I would respect and value my marriage with Ithaca by welcoming no other to my bed, but what I had with the girl from District 4 was pre-established, and I couldn't just end it. She had accepted it as it was, though I had noticed her jealous stares and occasional pouting. I simply chose to ignore it, because it was foolish to do anything else. It was just childish behavior set against an otherwise perfectly fine, and already two-year lasting courtship.

That being said, I try not to make it too obvious. When it comes to my visitations to District 4, I try not to word it directly as such, rather a "business venture" in order to soften any jealousy lingering in my wife. I also tend to practice certain measures of discretion when I go out with Ceresea, such as our evenings spent at the Oneiroi or out to dinner. Most importantly, if I am attending a formal event that Ithaca makes clear she does not wish to go to, I bring Ceresea. Ithaca is always my first choice, a gesture I have always been adamant about yielding to her.

Still, she can be difficult. Jealousy is a wicked emotion.

"It is perfectly common for men in my position to have mistresses, Ithaca. Mine simply came before you, and I have honored you by taking no other."

"Oh, honored me? Is that what you're calling it?"

"You're being absurd."

She shakes her head, dark eyes flashing. "I have been more than patient with you. When we were engaged, I knew that you had strong ties to that girl, even after we were married I knew she'd stick around. But it's been four years now, Seneca. We have three children together, a life, a reputation. I have birthed your legacies. What has she done?"

"She makes me happy."

My wife does not appear swayed by that, for better or worse. "And I don't?"

The silence that hangs in the air is deafening, but I permit it to be there. If my wife is going to be persistently vexing on this matter, when there is no reason for it, I shall yield to her the answers she's searching for, no matter how brutal. There is no hurt in her eyes, only acceptance. Despite the visible vexation she presents to me in moments such as these, I know that she understands the circumstances found between us. Marriage for duty over love is common in the Capitol - I'd argue in Panem, given Ceresea mentioning to me once how arranged marriages exist even in District 4. The union between myself and Ithaca was always destined to be professional rather than romantic.

We were both children to important men of wealthy backgrounds, our marriage unified such a match and amplified each others' prospects. We have been civil to each other over the years, able to live comfortably in our home, but never truly be in love within it. Sure, we have raised our children well, and we have been loving to each other in many respects. Btu I don't feel for Ithaca the way I feel for the girl in District 4, who I long for more than I care to admit. And I heartily dislike how Ithaca is dragging her into this now.

"At least you're honest," Ithaca says, breaking the tense pause. "The boys will not Sponsor District 4. Those Tributes don't stand a chance either way."

"That's not your decision to make."

"It's my money, which as Head Gamemaker you can't have access to when it comes to Sponsorships," she replies. "I choose where it goes. And it's not going to her Tributes. Find another way to satiate her, Seneca. You're good at that." At my silence, she shakes her head. "You're a pathetic man, Seneca Crane. Wasting all of your valuable time and resources on a girl who's always going to be out of your reach. You know, despite all of your wealth and alleged power, you can't keep her here. Did you ever stop to consider maybe she has a life outside of you she'd like to lead?"

It's something I've considered, but would never like to think about

"No less of a waste than you treading on my time," I say. "I see your point, Ithaca. The boys can Sponsor who they want, with your final say, but if they want to Sponsor District 4, let them. Don't let my affiliations -"

"Affiliations? Is that what we're calling you fornicating with that Victor right here in this room?"

I don't reply.

"You're quiet because you know you can't say anything," she says. "You're cornered."

"Let the boys decide," I say.

"Now, I think it'd be best if you left."

"I agree. But first, remind me who you're married to."

"You."

"Who is the mother to your children?"

"You."

"Who will bury you when you're dead?"

I clench my jaw.

"Who will bury you when you're dead?"

"You, my beloved wife."

"Yes. Me. I assure you, it won't be your sweet-faced, youthful girlfriend, though I wouldn't be half-surprised if she's the reason I'm burying you to begin with. I've seen her kill. You'd be a twig for her to break," Ithaca says, coolly. "Maybe it'd be a pleasure to the both of us."

"Why not ask her yourself?"

"Maybe I already have."

I know for a fact that Ithaca has never spoken a word to Ceresea, as it is something I keep enormous tabs on - the risk of those two somehow going toe-to-toe has felt too great to ignore. I would prefer no jealousy between either of them, though I know it is partly to be expected, so the best solution is to simply keep them far apart. They are both individual pieces of my life that click nicely in their designated location, there is no need for them to cross paths. Ithaca has seemingly understood this, as she has never indicated any desire to meet the Victor from District 4. The same could be said for Ceresea, who tends to avoid the topic equally so.

Still, I shudder a little to the prospect alone, especially spoken in a moment of quiet fury from my wife. Her dark brown narrowed eyes remain centered on me, no doubt relishing a little in the tense silence. Unfortunately for me, I have lost my sense of articulation, too dumbfounded and flushed to form words, which, as a result, means that Ithaca will believe she has won. Already I can see the subtle shape of a smirk forming over her long mouth, beginning to reach her eyes.

Gratefully, we are interrupted when my assistant walks through the doors to my office. Under normal circumstances I might have scolded him for entering without knocking, but I'm too relieved by his presence to care about any sense of propriety. I straighten my back out a little and smooth over my velvet lined vest. I spare a short glance to Ithaca, whose expression changes to displeased (good), and promptly bring my gaze around to Ames. The man stands there, looking between us without any shred of indignation.

"What is it Ames?" I ask, internally pleading for it to be something immediate to pull me away.

My assistant doesn't even look a little deterred by the way my wife is glaring daggers into him, nor how frazzled I undoubtedly still appear. This is why I appreciate my assistant, he is always a man who stays on track with this thoughts and purposes. He seldom strays. "I apologize for the intrusion, Head Gamemaker," he says. "President Snow has requested that you join him for lunch this afternoon. Shall I accept or deny?"

I blink, momentarily a little stunned, but quickly gather up my wits and nod vigorously. "Accept. Accept, of course, Ames," I say, then quickly add, "It's always an honor to have lunch with the President."

Ithaca's jaw clenches and she presses one of her hands against her rounded stomach, clearly a little vexed that our conversation has been cut off so sharply, but she knows better than to protest. What would be her logic? To deny a request from the President in favor of aimlessly arguing in my office, in what is one of the busiest times of my job? With the Games a mere few days away, with the Scoring due tomorrow, my time becomes more and more fickle to manage. To even find a moment to breathe becomes complicated. So, the concept of Ithaca seizing now to bring up this matter is an insult to my position.

Had this request come from anyone else, such as my fellow Gamemakers or politicians or the like, then Ithaca likely would have had me deny it for the sole purpose of carrying on. But one does not simply say no to the President, even my sometimes difficult wife is aware of that.

"Have a wonderful lunch, darling," Ithaca says, coolly. "I'll see you tonight at dinner."

She takes a step forward, closing the distance between us so that she can press her lips against my cheek. It feels like a snake bite. At that, she then spins back around and vanishes through the doors, passing sharply by Ames who follows her curiously with his eyes, and then looks back at me with a raised brow. Once the doors shut behind her, filling my office with a momentary lapse of silence, only then does the rage deeply rooted inside of me starts to uproot. I clench my jaw, reeling a little to the insult after insult my wife had thrust upon me, and her carefully chosen words meant to jab at me just so.

It is rare that my anger gets the better of me. I pride myself on being a well-composed and practical man, without much leeway given to my more wild emotions. As a Head Gamemaker, I have to keep a level head, in my work and in my personal life. But for a split second, with my jaw clenching, I reach around and grab an empty decanter from off of the glass table and throw it to the ground. The glass is too thick to break against the rich, plush rug beneath me, which spurs me on a little more. It simply makes a loud thud noise.

My frustration flourishes. "Fuck!"

Ames watches on wordlessly, reminding me that I am truly not alone, and my little outburst is improper. Granted, I know Ames is loyal and would never breathe a word of this to anyone, but still, I would rather keep up appearances with him, too. So, forcing myself to be calm again, I smooth my pomade dried hair and my clothes again.

"Have Plutarch deal with the remainder of my affairs," I say. "I'll go prepare myself to meet with the President."

I can think of no greater honor than being summoned by President Snow. It is a highly coveted thing, for the President to not only be aware of you but to also go out of his way to invite you to certain formal affairs, much less a private lunch in his greenhouse. It is a reminder of how high I have risen among the ranks, how important I have become. One could only hope or aspire to such enormous heights, that the President would not only be aware of your existence, but also desire to praise you. As it were, these little moments are rare. That is to say, I am certainly invited to galas and formal events as is fitting someone of my position and I may have a chance to speak with the President during them, but these one-on-one moments are like jewels buried deep into a rocky surface; finding one ignites excitement.

For all the moments that the President has called on me, they have all been beneficial. He has summoned me before to celebrate my more successful Games - well, all of them have been successful thus far, but a handful have had bigger impacts than others. He has also invited me to his gardens to discuss the nature of my Games and to provide feedback, which is always an honor (though it occasionally does wound my hubris, when he finds ways to make them better). All that being said, I'm not entirely sure why I have been summoned today. After all, the Games have not yet started, and I imagine the President is a very busy man in the days leading up to it, just as I am. If I am being summoned at such a industrious time, it surely must be for something important.

This thought never leaves me as I arrive exactly on time in the President's large and vast greenhouse, filled with white roses and the sounds of some birds chirping and fountains rustling. We sit on a circular glass table together in the center of it, being served rich red wine and roasted pheasant. The conversation remains mostly pleasant, with the President inquiring about my wife and children, as well as the progress of the Games - all very typical conversation, nothing necessarily catching about it. Despite myself, I can't help but to feel a little unsettled. The President's demeanor is calm, as are his eyes, but I can't help but to wonder what else is lurking behind this invitation.

With our plates clear and whisked away by Avoxes, only to be replaced by a fruit parfait for dessert, I finally decide to carefully begin prying into the context of this meeting. "This meal has been very lovely, sir," I say. "I'm grateful for you taking time out of your day to invite me to your home."

"It is no trouble, Seneca," the President says, lifting his hand when the Avox tries to refill his wine. "I believe congratulations are in order as to your wife's second pregnancy. Did you receive my gift?"

A few days after we had announced Ithaca's pregnancy, we had received a large package to our estate. It was an exceptionally large portrait of myself alongside my wife and two sons, with her carrying a faceless bundle in her arms of what will be our third son; his face will be added in later, once he is born. "Yes, sir. We loved it," I say, brushing my tongue nervously over my lips. "With respect, could I inquire why you requested to meet today? Does this have to do with the Scorings?"

"No. It doesn't." The President smiles, staring back at me with unreadable clear blue eyes; more so than staring, looking through me. "Have you enjoyed your stance as Head Gamemaker? Including its luxuries, of course."

A little perplexed now, I straighten my back. "Of course, sir. I'm forever grateful for every opportunity I have received within my position. I hope I've done right by you expectations, as well as to my family name."

"You have. Others have not."

There's a new tension in his tone that catches me off guard. My brow knits together as I stare across the table at the President, whose piercing blue eyes are meeting mine, sharply. I don't think I've ever paid attention to just how piercing they are before. I feel pinned in place, unable to move or even breathe. Others have not. Has something happened? Did my father or mother do something? My wife, perhaps? My mind reels, going through every name and every face of every person in my life who could possibly have done something to reflect badly on me. To my horror, I realize my emotions are reflecting on my face, so I try quickly to reel them back. "Sir?"

"I'd like to show you something. May I?"

"I...yes."

Who am I to refuse, after all? The President lifts his hand and waves someone forward. An Avox approaches, head still low, and sets a little black box I recognize as a holographic carrier down onto the center of the table. She steps back just as quickly, head bowed. I watch, feeling my chest tighten a little, as the President reaches out to press a small button on the box. A holographic image instantly manifests from it, acting as a barrier between myself and the President; translucent, so I can see the other, but the image is no less clear. My eyes flicker across the image of a large room, where two men are seen sharing a meal together at a long table. My brow knits together, processing their faces, the location, slowly.

"Do you recognize this establishment?" the President asks.

"The Lemon Vine, sir. It's a private dining area," I say. "I've taken my family to eat there countless times before."

It is a widely known and popular establishment within the city. It is renowned for its delicious meals and high quality service, as a rather expensive place that is difficult to get into. For me, it's easy, since I practically have a table saved for every occasion - for my family, for date nights with Ceresea. I swallow a little as I watch the screen further, finally recognizing the faces of the two men. Thrax Mellona and my father. What the hell did my father do? I try not to peer through the hologram towards the President, who is looking at me rather than the scene.

The dinner itself seems mostly composed, with the two men sharing light conversations together, and sharing drinks. I have to wonder if my father said something to insult Thrax, but that seems highly unlikely. I internally curse the holographic image for being unable to provide audio to the image. But, as it were, all of my theories fizzle and implode on themselves when a new person enters the scene. Being led inside by a host, I watch as Ceres Rhythe enters the room, and sits down at the table, only for Thrax to depart...leaving her alone with my father.

Countless thoughts fill my head, making my blood run cold. Ceres met my father? My face flushes as they sit together for a short period of time, alone. They seem civil, no heated words exchanged between the other. Granted, nothing about their demeanors indicate any sort of overt friendliness, sending a chill down my spine as I recall my father's very obvious and open disapproval towards my relationship with her. What is he saying to her? Surely this can't be why the President has summoned me.

When Thrax returns, my father departs. I watch on as the two share a conversation together, once again tense and frigid. This has to be a Sponsorship deal, I think, and feel my chest tighten and my knuckles clench as Thrax has the audacity to assume familiarity with her. I recall back to the Unity Gala, when I had made a point to kiss Ceres in front of Thrax Mellona, whose presence had been sorely unwelcomed at the time, in an effort to remind him of his place. This has to be an open mockery, I think. He's insulting me.

But then Thrax moves forward, kneeling down in front of her, and his hands stray too broadly over her face, neck, and shoulders, before she rises sharply from her chair. And, in one fluid motion, her hand collides with his face and sends him down to the ground. All at once, my body is overcome by chills. My mouth opens in disbelief, blinking rapidly, as if in doing so the scene would change. But Thrax remains on the ground, Ceres standing over him.

Finally, I look through the holograph towards the President, our eyes meeting. "Sir, there has to be -"

"A Victor attacked a citizen unprovoked," the President says.

Unprovoked. I look back to the image, watching Thrax stand up and smooth out his clothes before departing, leaving Ceres standing there in the dining hall, unmoving. The box makes a soft clicking noise and the holographic image disappears, the barrier between the President and I gone. Unprovoked. No, that's impossible. Ceres is a smart girl. She wouldn't...she couldn't...I swallow. "Yes. I see that, sir, but it surely wasn't. I know her. She's not brash and wild like that, he must have said something to her. Is there audio? I would be happy to have my team fine tune it even if it's quiet or groggy to make it clear, so we can verify -"

The President lifts his hand, silencing me. "You're a Head Gamemaker, familiar with cause and effect," he says. "Tell me, what consequences are befitting Ms. Rhythe?"

I shift in my seat, my chest tightening. "I don't understand."

"When Tributes act out of line, you deal with it, don't you? When they stray too close to the barrier, when they use your creations against you," Snow continues. "Victors are no different. Now, kindly explain what consequences would best reflect Ms. Rhythe's actions."

"You'd give her to Thrax Mellona?"

Snow grabs a small, dainty spoon and dips it into the parfait in front of him. "Is that a problem?"

Is that a problem? Is that a problem? All at once, panic and anger both collectively grip me, and I find my eyes widening. "Sir, Mr. Mellona has a great mind and has been a credible funder for advancement in technology, as well as a loyal man to you, but he also has a reputation for being -" I clench my jaw, fighting for the appropriate words. "Of being forceful with those he has done business with, primarily Victors."

"Ah, yes. I am aware," the President says. "His reputation proceeds him."

"She doesn't deserve it, sir."

"She struck a citizen, Mr. Crane. You saw the footage yourself."

"She was likely frightened, acting on, well, impulse. You know how Victors can be sometimes," I say, desperately.

"All the more reason to nip it in the bud before the behavior escalates," the President says. "What if she were to strike you? Or any other Sponsor who has the kindhearted nature of considering her Tributes? Who is to say she will not become unhinged again?"

"I'll vouch for her," I say, quickly. "I know Ceresea wouldn't lash out for no reason. She...she wouldn't. He must have said or done something, like in the footage, he was touching her -"

"Affectionate touches from a citizen are hardly anything to balk at," the President says. "Would you truly vouch for her?"

"I would, sir."

"You're a sentimental man. I caution you to be careful with your heart. Victors seldom take care of their own, much less feel obligated to care for another's," President Snow says. "I shall consider your plea carefully, but I caution you, if I abide by it, then if Ceresea Rhythe steps out of line again, it won't be her who pays for it. It will be you. Are you willing to risk a great deal on the unknown for a girl in the Districts?"

"I am."

The President raises his hand and a new set of Avoxes emerge to remove the plates and platters from off of the table, their eyes low, and their crimson lips forming straight, sullen lines

"I believe it is time for you to go. I am meeting my granddaughter and you have the Games to finalize," Snow says. "I am expecting great things from you this year. Don't disappoint me."

"Of course, sir. Thank you."

Upon returning to my office, the first thing I do is throw everything off of my desk. An expensive blue vase my wife had gifted me for my birthday some odd years ago, filled with flowers, is sent to the ground and shatters on impact, spilling water across my floor. Countless papers and files and various things fall with it, though I don't care enough to pay them any mind. All I can do is press my hands against the surface of my desk, hunched forward, and trying to steady my breathing. Somewhere behind me, Ames orders cleanup into his speaker, but I can't bear to pay him much mind - nor to my mess.

All I can do is recount my interaction with President Snow and how very treacherous these waters have become. Of all the things to pull my focus away from the Games, this has to be the worst possible outcome. If it were any other circumstance, I could have my assistant or even Plutarch deal with it, so I could rest my sole focus on the 74th Hunger Games. But as is, I'm thinking about the trifle that my paramour has gotten herself into, and wondering if the President will honor the exclusivity I've maintained for six years - and have paid handsomely for, in more ways than one.

I clear my throat. "Ames."

"Sir?"

"Send a message to my father at once. Tell him I won't be coming to dinner, that something urgent came up."

"Anything else you'd like to add?"

"No. Now get out. I don't want to be disturbed."

Once my assistant has departed, I move across my office and slump into one of the readily available chairs, ignoring a small set of cleaners who come to tend to the mess I made. I barely pay them any mind. I simply pour myself a glass of whiskey and try to problem solve my way out of my predicament. Well, technically speaking it is not my predicament, but I have managed to rope myself into it by the nature of my relationship with the offensive party. I don't have time for this. The Hunger Games is less than a week away, everything is ahead of schedule, but I can't afford to fall even the littlest bit off track.

There are too many things to focus on. My sons are in need of guidance, now more than ever, I have my father's affairs to help manage, my wife's pregnancy to support, my own sanity to maintain, the Hunger Games to keep running, and, when I have a moment, attend to the true object of my affections. But none of these things are possible now, at least not all at once. I can't afford to derail because of this, but I can't ignore it, either.

Once the cleanup crew has left, I pull a little box from out of my pocket and set it down on the table in front of it, pressing a small button that allows me to watch the scene at the Lemon Vine over and over again. I evaluate it from every angle. I assess it as meticulously as I would any of my Gamemakers' works; critically, intently. The conclusion I come to is that Ceresea was uncomfortable from the very start, but it had been Thrax Mellona who seemingly escalated it. Whatever could he have said to her? Why had he gotten so close? And why had she reacted so violently?

I replay the footage over and over again, desperately trying to find more. One moment, Ceresea is sitting in her chair calmly, then when Thrax Mellona got up to touch her face, her neck, shoulders, she reacted savagely. Yes. Yes, that has to be understandable. Thrax Mellona was touching her, albeit coyly. She reacted defensively, yet she did not have to resort to such violence. She could have stood up, reminded him that she is exclusive to me. Why would she jump so fast to her feet? Why hit him?

In a single encounter, she has nearly demolished the years upon years of careful stacking I have committed to to keep our relationship thriving - to ensure that she is never touched or handled by those repulsive miscreants. Pushing myself from off of the couch, whiskey still in hand, I proceed to pace the length of my office.

Could I have Thrax Mellona killed? No, no. That's out of my power, even my friends who are capable of such violent acts wouldn't do so so quickly and so savagely, least of all at the expense of a Victor. Besides, it would draw too much attention, all of it targeted towards Ceresea herself. She would pay the price for it - if she hasn't already. But no, if she had already paid, then why would the President choose to meet with me and clarify he hadn't made his mind up yet? At the present moment, despite the odds, Ceresea is untouched and unhurt by the prying hands and eyes of my lesser peers. It is an honor alone that the President had forewarned me about the matter, giving me the chance to plead her case, before making the executive decision himself.

It is no less dismal, of course. These circumstances are positively awful by every conceivable nature, but it is manageable for now. I can find a solution. She hit him for a reason. She had to. But no one else would agree with that assessment, regardless of how public Thrax's reputation is as a foul client for any Victor to have. Against my better judgment, I decide I need a second opinion.

I have Ames summon Plutarch to my office, the man arriving with a mildly vexed expression on his face. He's wearing a fine navy blue suit with a tablet under his arm and a file regarding the Mutants this year under the other. It would seem that I had caught him at a busy time - as we all have been busy, given the close proximity to the Hunger Games' actual event - but I can scarcely bring myself to feel guilty. Plutarch is a highly efficient man. Even if he is slightly tardy, he will make up for it in full. I show the footage to Plutarch Heavensbee, over and over again, as he watches on with raised brow.

"Victors can often times be a little unstable," Plutarch says, after having watched the holographic vision for the umpteenth time in silence, and then raises a glass of amber liquor to his lips. "Look at Annie Cresta, for example."

"Ceresea is not Ms. Cresta. I'll ask you once to never make that comparison again," I say. "Tell me what you think."

"She might've felt cornered," Plutarch says, pausing the footage to when Thrax was kneeling down in front of her, his hands ghosting her shoulders. "Notice how his hands get lower and lower. You can see by the footage here her mouth isn't moving, so she isn't saying anything to him. His back is turned to the camera so we can't tell if he's saying anything, either. Could be he was goading her, or just generally being handsy. Is she like that with you?"

"Ceresea has never reacted that way to my touch, no," I say, bristling a little at the mere prospect. "Do you believe she was reacting in self-defense?"

Plutarch looks back at the image, shrugging. "It's possible, sir. May I ask why this is a concern?"

"It is concerning because she struck a citizen, seemingly without cause," I say.

"If you're worried, sir, I'd advise against it," Plutarch says. "Least of all now. We have the Games to think about."

A small scoff parts from my lips and I fight back the urge to throw my hands up in frustration. Of course Plutarch Heavensbee would be oblivious to these blinding emotions, to the complex nature of how my heart is rendered under such conditions. He is, after all, a man who seldom spares anyone - man or woman - a second glance, save for the occasional appointment with a Victor. (Although I imagine he bores them to tears with lectures regarding the Games.) "You don't understand, Plutarch. Her actions could result in my losing exclusivity, meaning she'd be taken by all sorts of...well, you know the types," I say. "I can't let that happen."

"Your loyalty is a beautiful thing," Plutarch says, "but, unfortunately, not something we have time for." When I flash him a deep glare, he lifts his hands in feigned surrender. "I'm not saying your feelings are misplaced, sir. But your priorities need redirection. I promise you that I will try to find a proper conclusion to this. I'll contact Thrax Mellona myself, to ensure there are no hard feelings. But, for now, you need to focus on the Games. Nothing else."

I open my mouth to protest but promptly close it, my hands then resting firmly, and nervously, on my hips. As much as I loathe admitting it, he's right. With everything going on, I need to be careful with my time management. I cannot let myself be so willfully blinded, yet I can't help it otherwise, either. I can't afford to spend a great deal of time on this matter, but I also can't afford to let Ceresea get hurt, especially when I know I can stop it; I can help her. Well, I also know that Plutarch can be useful. He is generally a likable personality with some measure of power within the Gamemaker community, so I imagine he would have some powerful input or influence in regards to Thrax Mellona, if it came down to it.

As much as I would like to deal with this personally, I simply don't have the time. There are too many things currently needing to occupy my attentions. While the Arena itself is completed, along with all of its bells and whistles, it doesn't change the fact there are still countless interviews I need to attend, evaluate the Scores for the Tributes seen today, dealing with all of the things that tag along with being Head Gamemaker. Going out of my way to deal with a disgruntled citizen is the last thing I need to focus on, no matter how much I want to, for her sake.

With a deep, heaving sigh, I decide to relinquish such matters to Plutarch. He is, after all, my second in command and, arguably, one of my most trusted associates within my inner circle. He might be strange, but he is loyal to me, and that is what matters most.

"I hate to admit it, but you're right, Plutarch," I say, tensely. "I just love her..."

Plutarch's brow raises a little at that but the man is wise enough to reserve his possible judgments. I know how taboo my small declaration is, how a Capitolian citizen should never harbor deep feelings for a Victor. Lust is one thing entirely, but love is quite another. I admit that I have grown very fond of Ceresea over the years, finding her presence to be so drastically different and refreshing compared to my associates within the Capitol. Her honesty is often times brutal, but she does not lie to me the way others do to gain things. There is no deception between us. For that and more, I will see to it that Plutarch does whatever he can to ensure her safety - and as shall I, when I have the time.

Beside me, Plutarch reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. A small knowing smile graces his features. "I know, sir," he says. "I'll see to it the situation is handled. You can count on me."

"I know I can." I exhale and approach my desk, so that I might buzz in my assistant, who enters my office immediately. "Ames. Any new messages? Any at all?"

Ames shakes his head, glancing between me and Plutarch. "None I'm afraid, Head Gamemaker," he says.

I nod, feeling the barest hint of relief. Good, no word is good, it means nothing has transpired yet...silence is, temporarily, golden. "Send one out from me, then, to Ceresea," I say. "I'd like to see her in three days time, at the Oneiroi, in our usual room - let's say seven o'clock. By then, the Scorings will have been completed...and it might very well be my last chance to see her before the Hunger Games."

"Of course, Head Gamemaker."

"You're both dismissed."

Once my assistant and second in command depart from the room, I finally slump back against my desk, raking my hand over my face.

Ceresea Rhythe...what have you done?

Plutarch.

"Ideally, this would've gone down differently."

I scoff a little into my cup of coffee, staring across the rim towards Tilda as she sits tensely on a velvet divan, hunched over and staring at a holographic image reflecting on top of the table in front of her. Her eyes are focused in on it, her hands wringing together over her lap. She occasionally goes to bite her lip, but stops herself, making me wonder if it's a habit that was nipped in the bud. We are currently in a private room located within the Oneiroi, a very exclusive and difficult hotel to get into without the proper resources, and often the primary location for affairs and trysts with Victors. It's an expensive location, but it's one without much credence paid to it, on account of its scandalous nature.

Still, I have taken every precautionary measure in meeting Tilda here. Any potential cameras or bugs within these walls have been thoroughly dealt with by a very tech-savvy associate of mine. I practiced discretion in requesting Tilda's presence here, as well as paying extra for the little things; finer clothes, room service, and so on. It's the little details that truly sell a performance. To the naked eye, I am an old Gamemaker summoning the attentions of a young Victor for a night of expensive desires, exactly how the world needs to see it. But within these walls, the truth is to the contrary. We are both rebels, practitioners to treason, and dead men walking if the truth was ever learned.

Yet here we stand.

I had intended on "hiring" Tilda's attentions this week, anyway, but a more drastic and urgent even had caused me to quicken my hand - a fact that Tilda had already been privy to when she had arrived, though she still seems speechless. The footage in front of her of Ceres Rhythe striking well-known public mouthpiece and aristocrat Thrax Mellona was downright inconceivable. Even I had been unable to form words when Seneca Crane first showed it to me. It had taken some time to process, none for the better. It seems Tilda is going through very similar motions, as she rakes her hands through her long red hair, and over her face.

I set my coffee down, watching the holograph with her. It replays within the very same loop. It begins with Thrax kneeling down in front of Ceres and his hands moving licentiously down her face and towards her torso, before she had shot to her feet, nearly sending the chair down behind her, and swinging her hand out to strike him. The loop ends when Thrax Mellona gets up and walks away, looking less than pleased, and she's left there, shell-shocked.

"I'd have to agree," I relent.

Tilda casts me a cold look and gets up from the divan, proceeding to pace the length of the large hotel room, periodically glancing between me and the repeating holograph. Finally she stops, turning to look at me with ice in her eyes. "This started when you approached her. I wish you hadn't," she says. "She's just a kid."

"Approaching Ceres about the matter was an inevitability, not a possibility," I say, frowning. "I warned her to keep her head low. Mellona must have said or done something to have triggered that response, aside from his attempts at pawing her."

The Victor scoffs cruelly. "He'll do more than that at the end of this.

"He won't. I'll see to it myself," I say. "When things fall into place, I assure you, Thrax Mellona will be one of the first to die. If I have it my way, it'll be done sooner rather than later, before he can inflict anymore damage."

"Well, let's say you're wrong about all of this, Plutarch. What happens if, by the end of the year, you fail and are found out? They'll do more than just kill you. The same for us."

"I've taken every precautionary measure, Tilda. You know me," I say. "No loose ends."

"Loose ends can still be knotted into a noose," Tilda says.

"Funny." I offer her an amused smile. "Bold of you to assume they'd hang me."

"You have experience torturing, then? I mean, aside from the Arena, of course."

I lean back, crossing my leg over my knee. "Not personally, no. But I've seen it," I elaborate. "You should have seen what they did to Lucius Crane. It would make the Avoxes pale in comparison."

"Whatever happened to Lucius Crane, he deserved it and worst," Tilda says, coldly.

"What about Seneca Crane?" I inquire.

"What about him?"

"Does he deserve the same treatment?"

"Every Gamemaker does," Tilda replies, without hesitating.

"Including me?"

"You'll see your reckoning one day, Plutarch," she replies. "Despite the good you're allegedly doing, you still have blood on your hands. Same as me."

I smile. "Whatever that justice is for my crimes, I'll meet them. You have my word," I say, allowing a small pause before sighing. Back to the conversation at hand, as dismal as it may be. "How is she? Be honest."

"She's shaken up. I would be, too," Tilda says. "I know the kind of man Thrax Mellona is. He's hurt a lot of people and I know he would hurt her if given the chance, for belittling him that way."

"She had him on the floor."

Tilda nods. "A girl hitting him will piss him off alone. But a one-armed girl hurtling him to the ground...that'll entice a different fury, I think," she says. "If Finnick finds out, things will get worse. The boy's got a good head on his shoulders and he knows how to play the game, but he knows firsthand what Thrax is like. Just fourteen, and..." She trails, a grimace falling upon her face. "He may kill him, or try to. Worse yet, he may offer himself up as a sacrifice to satiate his appetites. That might make Thrax happy, but it won't appease him. Blood for blood, as far as he's concerned. But he hasn't made a move yet."

"He will, after he's licked his wounds. But I'll take care of him," I promise. "Who else knows?"

"Just me." Tilda bites her lip, this time not stopping herself. "She swore me to secrecy, so none of our fellow Victors know."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"For the time being," Tilda says, though I can hear the doubt laced in her words. "Ren has his own agenda at the moment. Rheon is her father and would probably lose his mind. The same goes for Finnick...I won't risk him, too."

"Perhaps it'd be better if Finnick was in on the loop, with the rest of us," I say.

"I don't want him to be. The same way I didn't want her involved."

"He'd be valuable."

Tilda's lips curl. "Valuable. That's a very Capitolian word to describe him, Plutarch. I know he would be. But he..." she stops, clenching her jaw so tightly her teeth may very well shatter. "He was my Tribute. He was that scrawny fourteen year old boy I trained and brought up, and look what they turned him into. Capitol darling. I can't watch him get more hurt, or Ceres for that matter. They're practically kids compared to the rest of us."

"I don't see that as an excuse to shadow either of them. I'd call it deception."

"The moment they're both aware, the dangers become real for them. Look, we've all seen our woes, Plutarch," Tilda says. "Rheon and Ren were lucky...both orphans at the start of their Games, with no one alive who cared about them, who could be used as a weapon. That is, until Rheon made that stupid mistake of marrying Demetra Doyle - fuck, you know he didn't even know if Ceres was his? She just showed up on his doorstep, teary eyed, with a sob story about being pregnant and needing him to marry her for some dumb reason. I think it was because her fiancée definitely lacked Rheon's complexion, and the risk was too big. He risked everything for that. He had it easy."

"He would've been alone," I say.

"Rheon was in a lucky position," Tilda asserts. "My sisters were killed because of me. He had two years of being alone, able to say no to the Capitol for every request...until Demetra. Now his daughter is paying the same price, tenfold, and I have to think about the Hunger Games, about your rebellion, and protecting the only family I have left."

"You're a pessimistic woman, Tilda."

"I'm realistic," Tilda says. "I'm not apt to risk lives for the hell of it, hence why I wanted you to stay away from Ceres until absolutely necessary - same with Finnick."

"And yet you helped her send the message. Why?"

At that, Tilda bristles, and looks away. I can see the guilt swarming across her features, settling like a heavy fog. "It was her own damn choice. But that point she already knew, so how could I justifiably stop her?" she says. "Maybe I helped her pull the trigger, but maybe the bullet isn't for her. I'm still waiting for a body to drop. Regardless, being on your side is the best bet right now. She needed that assurance, for whatever good it'll do you. Now tell me how you're going to keep her safe."

"Much like yourself, Tilda. I have a great deal on my plate. The Games, my so-called rebellion, and countless other matters I can't even begin to fathom," I say. "But if it's any consolation, I'm handling it. And trust me, I will."

"How? Will you make him disappear?"

I spread my hands. "I'm a Gamemaker. I don't have that kind of power, regardless," I say, "but I do have influence."

"Not as much as you think you do."

"Hence why I can work in the shadows," I reply. "Less suspicious eyes on me. It makes uniting opposing forces easier."

"Uniting? We're hardly united at the moment," she says. "Ceres is in disarray because of what happened, so I pulled her from handling the Tributes - for now. Ren has his own agenda going on right now. Rheon is busy doing your dirty work recruiting Victors. And Finnick is trying to keep his head above water."

"And what are you doing?"

"I'm trying to see the point in this," Tilda admits. "You've promised us rebellion, but where is it? I don't see progress. All I see are the bodies stacking up in the Arena and having to repeat this hell every year, and going behind the backs of my fellow Victors. I know some who are involved, but others are still a mystery to me. And you're not exactly translucent about it."

"It's necessary, until further notice," I say. "Believe it or not, there are some Victors who are favorable in their circumstances."

"When a bird is locked in a cage for so long, it's easy to forget the sky exists," Tilda says. "They deserve a chance."

"If I try to pull them out of the cage, they'll attack my hand and start screaming a piercing song that will alert the wrong people," I say. "I have my reasons for everything I do, Tilda. Even if you disagree with it - especially if you do. The Victors who are aligned with our cause are there, but there are others who won't bend. And I don't mean to try until I have a more solid backing - a symbol to get behind. Right now, all I have are promises."

"Right. That damn spark you keep talking about," Tilda says. "Let me ask you, why not one of us? You want a symbol for your rebellion, something people can rally behind, but why not a Victor?"

"Are you interested in the job?"

"Hell no," Tilda says. "But there are plenty of Victors who could be your symbol."

"Name one," I challenge. When she doesn't reply, I offer her the most readily available name I consider, the name belonging to the most loved, the most sought after, the most coveted Victor arguably in all of Panem. "Finnick Odair."

"No," she replies, instantly. "He...no. I refuse. He couldn't...it would break him, that pressure. He won't be another puppet, not even for your cause. I know him. He could do it, but it would cause more harm than good, and I think you know that."

"I won't lie to you, Tilda. There was a short time where I considered Finnick Odair as a candidate due to those reasons and more, but I know innately he's not it," I reply. "He's stood in front of the cameras, smiling, for the brunt of his life. I don't think he could do so again, not even for this cause."

"And I wouldn't ask that of him," she sighs. "But that puts us back where we started."

"Temporarily."

"So, we just keep waiting."

"You sound bitter."

"I am bitter. You're promising change, Plutarch, but you expect us to wait," she says. "Ceres is going to get thrown to the wolves because of one stupid mistake and Seneca Crane is going to be powerless to stop it. I can't even begin to think about what that will do to Rheon and Finnick because of this - or even me or Ren, for that matter." Her jaw clenches, eyes darkening. "Then there's Mags and Annie back home. They're helpless, and we both know Snow doesn't discriminate."

"So you're asking me to speed my plans along because of one person?"

"You know what I mean. Whatever you're planning on doing, be done with it already. You said so yourself. Seneca Crane is a dead man walking, so why don't we just go ahead and kill him?"

"It can't be a murder, not on our end," I say. "When Seneca falls from grace, it has to be by his own sword."

"That fall is taking quite a long time," Tilda says. "The man is cementing himself into legendary status as a Head Gamemaker."

"As I said, I'm going to do my best with the cards I've been dealt," I say.

Tilda doesn't reply.

"If it's any consolation to you, I think I know who it is," I say.

"You do?" Tilda raises her brow at me. "Okay. Who?"

"I won't say, not until I'm absolutely sure," I say. "But if I'm right, then things will move on faster than I originally planned."

"Then I hope, for your sake, that you are right, Plutarch Heavensbee," Tilda says. "Because if you aren't, more people are going to get hurt, and the wait may very well take some of us out.

"I just need to know, when things are set into motion, and when we truly act, can I count on you?" I ask.

"Without question," Tilda says. "I will do whatever it takes to tear this place down and drown everyone with it, including me."

"It won't come to that, though I'm assured by your confidence," I say.

"My fellow Victors are all I have left, Plutarch. I'm going to go down keeping them safe, if necessary. It has nothing to do with you," she says. "Now do us both a favor and do whatever you can to keep her safe. Stall if you have to. You're good at that."

At that moment, there is a soft buzzing noise, alerting both of us and bringing our attentions to a table across the room where a pager had previously sat quiet. Our time is up. Tilda lowers her eyes, a soft exhale parting from her lips. I can see by her demeanor she is still less than pleased by our meeting, though I hope I have managed to calm some of her nerves. It is quite a game we're all playing, with countless rules and expectations and casualties that shall reside over our heads when it is all set into motion. We're all afraid, some more than others.

But the escalation of one of Tilda's fellow Victors assaulting a Capitolian had been an expected turnaround. It will be tricky to resolve, but, despite the technical roadblock it poses, it won't hinder things. I'll see to it that all the plans I've carefully mastered carry on, as well as keeping Rheon's daughter safe.

"It's always a pleasure sharing such eventful evenings with you," I say, watching her as she goes to retrieve her coat hung up on the wall.

Tilda pauses by the door, gripping the coat with an iron grasp, and looking back at me coldly. "I wish I could say the same," she says, and departs from the hotel room; slamming the door behind her.

I sigh, glancing down, as the sound of that arrow swooping through the air and embedding itself into an apple echoes in my ears. Girl on Fire, I think, I hope you continue to burn.

(a/n): So, fun fact, one of my biggest pet peeves with the adaptation of The Hunger Games was the fact that they didn't give any of the Tributes last names. So, when Caesar would do announcements, it was always like "Glimmer!" or "Cato!" But when it came to the main leads, it was always "Katniss Everdeen!" and "Peeta Mellark!" Either refer to them by first names only, or get creative. Seriously, Gary Ross? You couldn't have made stuff up? Anyway, mini pet peeve, but I did apply some names and last names to the Tributes. I'm undecided if I'll name Foxface. Not going to lie, I'm conflicted, since her name is a mystery and stuff, and I always dug it. XD

Also...*jazz hands* No Ceres POV this chapter. BUT! I did gift you with the Scoring scene from Seneca's POV, plus a scene with his wife and kids, and Snow, and a POV from Plutarch...so hopefully it balances out. X'D Don't hate me, loves! I promise, next chapter will be from Ceres' POV! Maybe somebody else's. IDK. X"D

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*

~REVIEW RESPONSES~

DreamonAlina: Thank you so much! I was very conflicted about the last chapter because it featured a lot of raw emotions and Ceres having a breakdown, so I was concerned how it would be received, but I'm so glad it had the impact I was hoping for! It was meant to be very uncomfortable, so I'm glad you enjoyed it! Ceres slapping Thrax was honestly a moment I've been waiting for for weeks. It felt sooo good. XD And next chapter we're gonna be seeing more of the impact it had. ;')