Converted Into Dust

by Vulpine Spectacle

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

13. Thirteen: rising tides lift boats

(a/n): I won't lie...this chapter was 22k words and still going...so I had to trim it. XD BUT! Chapter 14 is pretty much done, soooo alongside the extra stuff I have from Chapter 13, I have TWO chapters pretty much done. X"D YAY!

Enjoy, loves!

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

rising tides lift boats

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Ceres.

---

What the hell do Mentors do when the Games begin?

I remember asking this question for the 69th Hunger Games - the year Kilo Stylus unexpectedly won, despite his odds. During my time as a student to the Games, an admirer to them before I saw the truth, I had spent a measure of time wondering what I would do as a Victor. When the Games began, where would I be? Would I be in a crowd of people, watching in the middle of a gala or ball, or in a room full of equally eager Victors? My imagination had been boundless, but each one romanticized. When it came time to experience my first Games, I hadn't known what to do, so I turned to my more seasoned counterparts. The answers varied between them, because, in truth, there is no set thing for a Mentor to do. Truth be told, some Mentors don't even bother to watch the Games, for one reason or another.

Typically speaking, the Mentors for the Career Districts don't do much, as they usually secure their Sponsors very early on (as they are usually the go-to option for the deep-pocketed citizens), so they can usually be found in fancy restaurants or social gatherings, where, in lieu of watching the Games, they mingle and woo potential new Clients and Sponsors, strengthening their Tributes' already strong chances. Other Mentors will stay in their respective apartments to watch the Games unfold, accompanied by Stylists or the escort of their District and so on; becoming recluse. According to my dad, Mentors like Haymitch Abernathy usually choose alcohol or morphling to cope with the process, but those are usually for the extreme cases; the absolute certainty the Tributes will die.

That's how I'm feeling now.

Finnick, Tilda, and Rheon are all absent from the apartments, departed to their own devices. Tilda had whispered to me that Rheon was meeting with an associate of Plutarch, though did not yield a name (my guess is it's Ames Cairncross). Tilda and Finnick are doing what the Career Victors do, mingling with the Capitolian citizens, flirting, and trying to bring in more Sponsorships; heighten the chances of our Tributes surviving if they get passed the bloodbath. But Ren and I know better.

We sit together in tense silence, sitting side by side and watching the screen intently. Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templeworth are both on the screen together, making banter back and forth, as the scores behind them alternate depending on rising popularity and votes; currently, the boy from District 2 ranks the highest to win. I don't even both to look to see where Kipper and Marina stand, nor do I try to find Katniss' name. My hand is wringing over my lap, tightening over the hem of my long sweater. Ren remains still beside me, his hands over his lower jaw as he sits, hunched over. Neither of us can turn our eyes away from the screen, least of all as it finally changes. Caesar flashes his uncannily white smile, then suddenly we're looking at the Tributes rising up from out of the ground.

I get the first real look at the Arena - green, all naturally green. They're in an open field with the silver Cornucopia resting dead in the center. The camera casts a fine view of it; displaying the various treasures throughout. The weapons strewn across its front, getting better and better the closer you get inside. There are backpacks and various other things available, but the backpacks upfront won't be worth shit; one or two things, maybe, but it's like an empty shell for a crustacean.

Surrounding the field are a vast array of trees. The Arena is a forest, which is oddly a little bland considering how last year it had been based upon the foundations of an abandoned city; brutal and unrelenting. A forest isn't exactly the most original design for the Hunger Games. It's been done countless times before throughout the years. For the most part, it is standard...basic. It makes me wonder if this is Seneca saving his superior cards for next year, for the Quarter Quell. My hand clenches at my side as the camera pans to show the determined look on Marina's face, then Kipper clenching and unclenching his hands nervously. I hope Seneca doesn't get to live to see the Quarter Quell. I hope Plutarch his right. He's a dead man walking.

The countdown begins in a distorted voice. My eyes move across the twenty-four children standing at attention, their bodies ready to spring. I can't help but to recall the girl who had stepped off of the podium too soon during my Games, blowing herself up. I still don't know if she did it on purpose or if it had been accidental, a misjudged calculation or a burst of foolish confidence.

My eyes find Marina, who is ready to spring the second the countdown ends, and Kipper who periodically glances at her. She won't protect you. "Their blood is on your hands," I say. "I hope you know that."

Ren's gaze flickers towards me. He doesn't bother to protest or defend himself, rather just sighing and looking back at the screen in front of us solemnly. He knows I'm right.

I look back at the screen with him, my eyes closing. I don't open them again until after the countdown ends, when the Tributes race off of their podiums, and scattering every which way. There's no use in making sense of the bloodbath. It consists of Tributes running away from the Cornucopia towards the forests, being smart, whilst the majority have charged straight towards the trap. I watch as these young bodies lunge towards the nearest possible weapons, swinging blindly in an effort to kill or maim whoever is close enough. For some, there is no strategy. It's swipe, run, stab, jab, and hope, whilst for the Careers, whose faces are contorted in bloodied delight, cut through the rest as if they were carving cake.

My eyes find Marina amidst the carnage. Somehow she manages to grab ahold of a backpack, never once breaking her pace. Good. Now keep running, I think, despite myself. Keep running. I've tried accepting, fully, the fact that neither of my Tributes are the spark - that that title belongs to the Girl on Fire, or so my brain has convinced me - but I still can't help but to want to see them survive this. I want them to outsmart us, to realize our advice is bullshit...see through it. Fight on, even a little longer. I don't want to see them stand as bait. My eyes move across the screen, unable to find Kipper. The sound of cannons going off fills the space.

Marina makes a critical mistake. Rather than taking her backpack and running towards the forest, she's heading towards the Cornucopia, allowing greed to overcome her. She's had a taste of one small victory, but it isn't enough. This is when the girl I recognize as being from District 6 tries to attack her with a serrated sword, but Marina manages to dodge it. She has height and seemingly experience - ambition - over the other. Marina uses her backpack to her advantage, throwing it hard against the girl's face and knocking her to the ground. When she tries to get back up, Marina reels her leg back and swings it hard, knocking straight into the girl's jaw; even from the angle it is filmed at, I can tell her jaw is broken.

Blood spurts across her face, but it doesn't end there. Her sword falls off to the side. Marina grabs it, impaling the other through the chest. Multiple cannons go off at the same time, yet somehow they all feel as if they are for that girl. I squeeze my eyes shut, shuddering. It's inevitable, but it's never easy to watch my Tributes kill. When my eyes open again, Marina is breathing heavily, staring down at the dead body below her with surprise, as if she hadn't expected her for to actually die. I see the realization creep too slowly upon her face. A moment she should spend running away, armed with a sword and a backpack, is wasted on nothing. By the time she seems to realize her error, it's too late.

Marina spins around, clenching her sword in her hands, and goes to run. The girl from District 3 tries to stop her by ripping the bag out of her hands running the opposite way, but Marina swings her sword, slicing open the other girl's leg, and then Marina swings at her chest. My Tribute doesn't even stop to see if the girl is dead. Once she falls over, Marina runs. She doesn't make it very far, as the boy from District 2 - Cato - knocks into her with the ferocity of a bull.

He charges straight towards her, ramming her into some cargo boxes close at hand. Her body rolls over them. The backpack and the sword fall from her hands. When she lands on the other side of the boxes, I can tell she's startled. Her eyes flash every which way as she tries to catch her breath, having landed on her chest, but it's too late now. She's vulnerable, the wind knocked out of her, and without a weapon or any form of defense. Cato jumps over the boxes, landing beside her. My Tribute sees this and starts to crawl away, clawing at the grass. Before she has the opportunity to bring herself to her feet or retrieve the sword just out of reach from her, Cato, wielding a curved blade already stained and dripping with blood, raises it above his head and -

I look away.

I can stomach a lot of things, more than I could ever have imagined, but I can't watching this. The deaths of my Tributes linger with me long after they're dead, they are ghosts inside of my head; haunting me, every step I go. I will have to relive their deaths time and time again, when they are replayed during the future Victor's Interview, or during the Victory Tour, or when President Snow decides to taunt us by sending us images of their deaths, to keep us in line. I'll face it eventually, but I can't bear to do so now, not in the moment. Two cannons go off at the exact same time. One is for my Tribute.

Ren reaches out to squeeze my arm when the moment has passed and I force myself to look back at the screen. I don't see her body amidst the carnage. If I do, then she just blends in with the others. Marina Tasman, the girl who had been so ambitious, who had tried hard, who had pushed me to advocate for her and for Kipper, who didn't understand the Games at all. The girl who had been like me.

"Where's Kipper?" I ask.

Ren shakes his head. "I don't see him," he says. "He might have gone into the forest."

Nothing in his tone conveys that he believes that. Even if he was a good liar, I wouldn't believe him. After all the effort Ren had put into convincing our Tributes to run towards the Cornucopia, that it would be a good idea to risk their lives for something so damn miniscule and unimportant as weapons and backpacks that would hinder them, there's no way Kipper would run - least of all if he saw Marina succeed, no matter how small. My eyes are scanning across the crowds of living Tributes and the dead, but cannot find the small redhead boy amongst them. It could be his stature, I think. I don't see Rue Hyssop from District 11, either. She's the same age as Kipper and roughly his height and build. Her corpse is not amongst the dead, nor is she fighting amongst the living.

She must have made for the forest. Maybe Kipper did the same.

The camera shifts suddenly, showing Katniss Everdeen running towards a backpack. I lean forward, my jaw partially dropping with disbelief and horror. You idiot. Turn around, I think, fiercely. Haymitch surely wasn't stupid enough to tell his Tributes to go towards the Cornucopia. The alleged star-crossed lovers have already separated at the beginning of everything, with Peeta Mellark out of sight, presumably having run towards the trees, whilst the Girl on Fire has beelined towards a damned backpack in the middle of the bloodbath. My eyes narrow at her as she leans down to grab it. My hand clenches over my knee.

Beside me, I can hear Ren inhale sharply. The whole damn reason he had pushed our Tributes to risk their lives and to die so soon was for this...it had to be. He has to believe that she's that damned spark that Plutarch believes in, the symbol we need. If Katniss dies, then my Tributes died for nothing.

Backpack in hand, Katniss does the smart thing that Marina did not. She turns around and runs towards the woods, but something knocks her off of her feet and she stumbles. One of the Tributes rushes at her - I don't pay attention to who it is - but the attack is temporary, for something silver flies through the air and lands in the center of the Tribute's spin; a fine dagger. The Tribute falls forward, revealing the girl from District 2, Clove, across the field. She holds a second knife in hand, those sharp eyes of her directly fixated upon Katniss. I remember her. She's the one who said she could kill Caesar Flickerman across the stage if she wanted to.

Despite myself, I reach out and grab Ren's hand, squeezing it as tightly as I'm able. He doesn't make a sound.

The knife flies through the air, but Katniss is quick; lifting the orange backpack up to act as a shield. The knife lodges into it, otherwise it would have found itself between her eyes. Now without anymore daggers to throw, Clove looks on at her, furious, and darts towards her from across the field. But Katniss is faster, she bounds back to her feet and runs, now with a dagger, towards the trees. From there, she disappears from the bloodbath; safe.

My grip on Ren remains the same, however, because a mere moment later the cameras reveal a new sight; Kipper is crouched among the cargo and supply boxes inside of the Cornucopia. He's huddled down, using his small stature to his advantage. In his hands is a large backpack, wider than his torso, which he needs two hands to carry. He's looking across the bloodshed with wide eyes from his hiding place. The Careers are distracted amidst the killing. No doubt they'll make a nest at the Cornucopia after the bloodshed is done, like countless others have done before...like what Jason, Lamia, and Liber did during my Games.

When the carnage settles a little, Kipper seizes his chance. Gripping his backpack tightly in his hands, he pushes himself up and runs towards the edge of the Cornucopia, maintaining cover amidst the boxes, but it's not around. Around the corner, appearing like a stalking predator, is the boy from District 2. He doesn't even react to Kipper, to the small boy running for his life, looking up at him in a brief moment of terror. Before I have a chance to look away, Kipper's throat is slit before my very eyes in one clean swipe.

And Cato merely walks over his body as if it was nothing.

As soon as Kipper's cannon goes off, the screen cuts to black, and will not play again for the duration of the Hunger Games. My Tributes are dead now, so what reason do I, or any others, have to watch the Games from within the apartments? Any effort to watch something else by flipping through channels will be met with the same black image, forcing we the Mentors to perpetually face the loss; our mistakes, which led to our Tributes' deaths. We can certainly watch the Games elsewhere, of course; every other screen is ready available to us, every which way we turn. But when we are within the confines of our personal floor, blackness. Now, we have the ability to watch on separate floors with our fellow Mentors, if we are in the right headspace and possess the friendship to do so, but it's generally frowned upon. Keeping us separated during this time is the Capitol's way, of course; dividing through competition.

So soon.

It's done now. Kipper and Marina are dead. Katniss has escaped into the trees, alive.

Realizing I am still tightly holding Ren's hand, I release my grip and withdraw my hand to my chest, feeling the rapid pace of my heartbeat. My eyes close, recounting the sound of Kipper's mother wailing as her son had been Reaped, the widow with her young sons, who took up the mantle of her husband's position in a baits hop, now forced to say goodbye to yet another member of her family. I can only imagine the scream she had unleashed when she watched him die...the blade cutting his neck open, the blood spurting everywhere.

Nausea doesn't even begin to describe the wave of agony I just felt inside of me.

I open my eyes, looking towards a clock on the wall. It hasn't even been twenty minutes and they're both just gone, and the days - weeks - have yet to come. It's scarcely even the beginning. I look back at Ren beside me. His face is stoic but there are tears budding in his eyes, with his hands hanging limply over his knees. He looks like a defeated, broken, tired man. He turns to look back at me, grief beyond grief echoing throughout his gaze.

"I'm sorry," he croaks.

I don't reply.

There's nothing I can say to his benefit or to bring him down. I don't want to admit it to myself, but their blood stains my hands, too. I may not have endorsed them going into the Cornucopia, but I didn't stop Ren from teaching them to do so - I didn't act hard enough to tell my fellow Victors to rally behind me, because I knew Ren was right. They aren't the sparks, not even close. The spark we need is currently running through the forest of the Arena as the bloodbath carries on, oblivious to everything going on outside of the carnage; here, within the Capitol. Maybe we're wrong, I think. Maybe Plutarch has something else in mind.

But the determination behind Ren's judgment, despite the heartache, too, is enough to convince me otherwise. It's the hope I need.

Yet, in spite of our intentions - regardless of whether or not the outcome is a free world, liberated from the rule of President Snow - we are still monsters. We willingly let them die, rather than give them a chance.

For that, I shall never forgive myself.

I bring myself to my feet and depart from the room wordlessly, leaving Ren sitting alone there with his head hung. I go back to my own room in quiet steps. But when the door closes behind me, the scream I unleash is animalistic. Monstrous.

---

Finnick.

---

It's a shame that grief can't be rescheduled, given the fact I have duties to commit to - primarily, keeping my client entertained.

The patron sitting across from me is a regular, an older woman with a large golden blonde wig that towers up like a beehive upon her small head, concealing the greying hairs beneath, is Amabilia Numitor. She has been a frequent client of mine ever since the 68th Hunger Games, when I had fought tooth and claw to keep Ceres alive by acquiring more useful Sponsors. It had been her first taste of me and she had been drunk on it ever since. She had not called on me again until the 69th Hunger Games, but it hadn't been for her purposes. Satisfied by my night, she had originally planned on giving me as a birthday gift to her daughter, Ithaca Numitor (currently Ithaca Crane), but the doting mother had been so fond of me and the pleasure I had given her, that she could not bear to yield me.

She had decided to forfeit the idea altogether and in chose the alternative gift of an overly expensive pure-bred puppy, to my understanding. This did not stop Ithaca from pleading with her parents to buy a night with me, however, only to be met with a firm headshake from her mother. "Oh, goodness no, Ithaca," I had heard Amabilia say once at a party, and in countless other instances, "never Mr. Odair. He's a complete scoundrel! He'll ravish you blind and then leave you before you can pull your pants back up!"

Her husband, Cedric, a renowned Gamemake of over twenty years and a member of the President's circle, had nodded his head in agreement. Both of Ithaca's parents highly protested the idea of their daughter partaking in the iniquitous Victors, at risk of tainting her "innocence," but this has not stopped Cedric nor Amabilia from indulging themselves.

Hypocrites. All of them.

Amabilia likes to summon me when her husband is occupied with the Games, when she doesn't have to fret over his scrutinizing gaze waiting for her at home. She can partake in her young lover guilt-free whilst he is in the Gamemaker Headquarters, playing a role in being the demise of my Tributes, and countless other hapless kids. Typically she waits a day or two after the Games themselves, to play "coy" with me, but it seems my older client is eager. She had summoned me early to accompany her to breakfast at the Borage House, which is a large and fancy restaurant within the city. It exists in a large glass building with a dome-like ceiling.

There are two levels to the Borage House. The bottom is like a greenhouse, filled with all types of exotic flowers and birds and butterflies and gloriously built fountains with the clearest blue water. It's almost tranquil to visit, especially when the natural light flows in. It's almost peaceful here. The second level exists in the center of the building, accessed through elevators. It's a circular structure with glass railing so one can peer down to look at the gardens below. At the second level, there is a large bar area, as well as seating areas so one may eat, drink, and enjoy themselves in the relatively tranquil atmosphere.

This is a place my clients like to bring me to sometimes. It's a romantic setting, but it's not necessarily sensual. My clients are more likely to take me to the Lemon Vine before the Oneiroi for a private and primal meeting, but Amabilia had thought a nice breakfast would be a good change of pace. She still intends on taking me to the Oneiroi after this, make no mistake, my company alone isn't only what she's after. But she pays well in secrets, so it's bearable.

There are screens located across the building, where one can watch the Games unfold as they dine or walk through the gardens. This is where I had watched Marina and Kipper die, having to mask my expressions all throughout as Amabilia periodically glanced back from the screen and towards my face. My face remained neutral, my brow arching a little in order to give some type of reaction, so I'm not entirely stoic. The Capitolians don't like it when we the Victors visibly grieve for our Tributes. It defeats the illusion. Sometimes they even have the gall to be upset that we made them feel guilty. From there, it never ends well.

It's been approximately ten minutes since they both died. The bloodbath has quieted down now, as the Careers have started to lay claim to the Cornucopia, beginning to map out their strategies on how to take out the remaining Tributes. The others have scattered to the winds. The young girl from District 11 has taken to a high place on the trees, hiding in the leaves, to look out over her surroundings. The girl called Foxface has found a small body of water, and she's using it to find a natural source of food. The Girl on Fire is rummaging through her backpack, while mouthing along to the numbers of each cannon, counting down.

Amabilia has long since forgotten about the Games themselves. Her favored Tribute, the boy from District 2, has survived the initial bloodbath and appears to be forming an Alliance with the Careers. As far as she is concerned, he's as good as won. So now she's idly chattering away, all the while cutting into a large banana cream pastry. I nod along, pretending to smile sensually at her as she carries on, but internally...I don't know.

It's not smart to think about my feelings now, but it's impossible not to. My Tributes are dead. Normally I can rationalize my pain because I'm in the apartments with the others. If I had it my way, I would be sitting with Ceres and Ren on the couch, watching it all unfold, and allowing us to grieve together. I know Ceres was fond of Kipper and Marina, I was, too. I can only imagine the pain and guilt she's feeling, as she was involved in their training, in them. I've mostly been busy trying to find Sponsors, appeasing the President, and maintaining my Capitol persona as its darling.

I didn't play the biggest role in their brief time here, and I feel guilty for that...more so, I feel relieved. As cruel as it sounds, I didn't have the chance to get too attached to them. Their deaths sting, but there have been Tributes I've been fond of before, hopeful they'd survive, only to watch them die. And then I lie awake at night grateful they did, because at least they won't end up like me.

But as I said, I can't reschedule my grief. There is no asking it to come back another day or time, for me to feel it at a more convenient moment. It's going to linger with me, regardless, so the best thing I can do is suppress it as deeply as I can until I can get back. All I have for today, unless my pager says otherwise, is spending the next hour with this older woman and making her happy. Then I can go back to my room, to Ceres, and let myself feel what I need to, and hold her if she needs me to. Unlikely as it may be. I shift a little, reaching out for my cup of tea.

Ceres is a complicated woman. I can't say I've ever seen her cry or mourn before, not even when Liber had died. She had been more stoic than anything, even during his funeral when we returned to District 4; stony faced, eyes distant. Countless times she's found me in unfathomable conditions, my emotions as wild and rampant as a hurricane, and she's been there; allowed me to sob into her shoulder for hours on end, has sat with me in baths and showers, held me through the night. She's seen me at my lowest. I have seen her at low points before, admittedly because of me. After we came back from the 68th Hunger Games, I had tried to keep my distance from her to keep her safe, but all it did was create more harm than good. She had confronted me on the matter, her emotions for once broadly open, and I'd torn down the wall I'd tried to build between us.

But aside from that, she's remained detached. I almost envy her for this ability, though I wish she'd let her emotions occasionally unhinge. I know they're cooped up inside of her, longing to be released, and I wouldn't hesitate to be there for her the way she is for me. I understand it's not in her nature, it never has been. Any open declarations of internal feelings have always been unnatural for her, and I've always taken those moments seriously; for they are rare, above all else, they are sincere. Like when she tells me she loves me.

My hand clenches over the mug a little.

Focus. When I get back, she'll probably be resigned after the deaths of Kipper and Marina, but we'll need each other to get through it. We always do, regardless of how we choose to feel, or how it impacts us.

Amabilia laughs at her own joke, a loud, ridiculous sound that reflects the gaudy and absurd nature of her large pieces of jewelry around her neck, upon her fingers, and in her hair. Today she's wearing nothing but a collection of sapphires, accenting with a deep green dress designed to resemble crocodile skin. The faux scales glisten and shimmer with the morning light pooling in over us.

I choose to laugh with her. "Your laugh is just exquisite, Amabilia," I say.

The older woman touches her ruby lips and giggles. "Oh, Finnick Odair, you are such a cad," she titters. "Whatever shall I do with you?"

"I can think of a few things..." I say, seductively popping a sugar cube into my mouth; tip of my tongue, causing her face to flush deep red. All I feel is ice in my veins.

"Oh, you have no idea how badly I have missed you and your charms. It's so nice to feel wanted for a change!" she says, giddily. "Between being a grandmother and attending and hosting countless parties, it's hard to treat myself. I just get so wrapped up in myself."

Grandmother, right. I try not to let my faux smile falter into a genuine look of disgust at the mention of it. Amabilia's daughter is married to Seneca Crane himself, as well as the mother to his two (well, three counting her pregnancy) children. Admittedly, when their engagement had been announced all those years ago, I had been hopeful that Seneca's infatuation, obsession, with Ceres would come to an end. Maybe he'd find favor in his new wife and learn not to live in a fantasy, but it never faltered. He's maintained his exclusivity on Ceres for all of that time, unrelentingly, while his wife has helped his career by being the perfect wife and mothering his no doubt bratty children.

I admit, I feel a measure of guilt and disgust in myself for wanting Seneca to cut ties with Ceres. On one hand, it would mean that the nightmare of having to be owned by the Head Gamemaker would end, but on the other hand it would mean her prospects would broaden. There's a market for Victors like her, and I've heard a great deal of them from my fellow Victors like Chaff.

Still, it doesn't change the fact it would give me great pleasure to break Seneca's neck, as useless and as dangerous as that violent thought might be.

"Grandmother? Please, you're as ravishing as any other young woman," I say.

"Oh, you flirt!" Amabilia giggles. "Oh, I cannot wait to get to our little room and..." She trails away, her eyes slowly widening as a shadow suddenly looms over our table, over me, and her expression takes on a flustered look as she hastily straightens out and smooths over her wig. "Thrax, how lovely to see you!"

The ice inside of me fridges over, stiffening me in place. The smile I keep up for Amabilia remains intact thanks to my years of experience, but it no longer reaches my eyes, which have hardened and fixated on a loose sapphire hanging in her hair. My patron doesn't notice, however, as she's looking up over my head and smiling charmingly at the shadow's owner. It's then I feel a familiar hand reach out to squeeze my shoulder, long, almost spindly fingers lingering a moment too long. He then pats my shoulder endearingly and rounds the table.

Amabilia rises to greet Thrax Mellona, the pair of them exchanging friendly kisses on each others' cheeks. The man is wearing a crimson suit lined with gold, contrasting against his ice grey eyes and wax-like features. He maintains that crooked charming smile as he turns to greet me. It's a smile I know too well, for too long.

Thrax Mellona is an older highly important businessman who has high ranks among President Snow's circle of associates; whether or not he is a friend would be debatable, depending on who you asked. Regardless, though, Thrax is a man that shouldn't be crossed. Highly dangerous and highly in tune with his own madness, Thrax has maintained his position of authority by being callous, determined, and absolutely hellbent on handling anything and everything that stands in his way. It's how he's stayed in his position when others have tried to seek after it, why he doesn't bend on his desires. Including me.

I've known Thrax since I was fifteen, well, technically fourteen. When I had been a Tribute, Thrax had been one of my Sponsors through Tilda. In fact, he was the one to pay for my golden trident, the most expensive gift in the Arena to date...well, one of them, but certainly it's been the most iconic. His name had been mentioned after I won the Games when I met with President Snow, when he made me the offer of selling my time to the Capitolians, and my body when I came of a certain age. He said there were dozens who saw me as desirable. It had stunned me at the time, so much so I couldn't even fathom that I was only fourteen - two years older than the young freckle faced Kipper. I had denied him, and it resulted in my dad being murdered.

During my Victory Tour, I had changed my mind and accepted President Snow's offer. Through one of his associates, I had been made acquainted with countless of my future patrons, as well as interested parties, including Thrax Mellona. He had been polite during our first meeting, had congratulated me on my success, and told me he expected great things from me afterwards. Even after my talk with President Snow, there was no way I could possibly determine how quickly things would change for me, how the Capitol couldn't be held back from the recently turned fifteen year old boy. There had been a bidding war for my first time, according to Snow; unlike any he had seen before.

So, President Snow had compromised. A first for a woman and a first for a man, with Thrax being just that.

Not much has changed since then. His interest hasn't waned. The indignity he puts me through, the assaults on my body and mind, and the embarrassment of his humiliations only fuel that fire of his.

Make no mistake, it is not the fact that he is a man that disgusts me. Even from a young age, I had been attracted to boys and girls alike, and had had my fair share of flirtations between both throughout my youth - though Ceres had always maintained my attention and affections by always matching my stride, never breaking alongside me even when I stumbled; for better and worse. Unlike some of my fellow Victors, such as Brutus and Gloss, there is no innate repulsions to intercourse of the same sex. It's still no less an assault on my body as it is with a woman, but it is bearable by comparison to others. As it were, many of my clients are married and often closeted individuals looking to satisfy those quiet, notorious desires.

I believe Thrax is one of those individuals, though he's gotten worse about hiding it over the years. I suppose being as old as he is and as important, it's less scandalous. While the Capitol is not necessarily intolerant, they are not widely accepting, either. It contrasts in comparison to District 4 (and mostly all other Districts, for that matter), where such loves and desires flow freely like water. It's yet another example of hypocrisy from these people. They may as well bleed the stuff.

"I apologize for disturbing your breakfast, Amabilia. But I saw you and knew I had to say hello," Thrax says, conversationally. He nods at me, but I don't make any move to rise to greet him as my patron has. "Mr. Odair. Lovely to see you."

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Mellona," I say, formally.

Amabilia looks between us, bringing her hands together in a small clap. "Well, where are my manners? Would you like to sit with us before we leave for our appointment?" she says, with very special emphasis on the last word, and a knowing glance thrown towards the man.

"I'm afraid I haven't the time," Thrax says. "I am here for very brief pleasure. I am just picking up a small coffee and breakfast for my morning stroll, before I meet with Cicero to go over some business." He winks, earning an amused giggle from Amabilia, making me wonder what it is that's going on between Thrax and the former Head Gamemaker. She might know something. "I also plan on meeting my son afterwards for a late lunch."

"Which one?"

Thrax tuts loudly, shaking his head. "Ovid, I am afraid."

"Oh, that scoundrel," says Amabilia indignantly. "It must be such a disappointment for your boy to follow in his late mother's footsteps than your own."

Thrax Mellona has had five rather unsuccessful marriages, in that three out of the five wives have died mysteriously by purely accidental occurrences; falling down stairs, drowning in the bathtub, and choking on some gourmet lobster. Those within certain circles know better, those who have shared their secrets with me into pillows, where voices cannot carry; my payment for my services. My eyes narrow a little at the man above me, knowing better as Amabilia remains ignorant, blissfully so or otherwise. Within those five marriages, he has fathered up to eleven children, who have mostly remained in his good graces - albeit raised by highly paid nannies. But the child who has left the most negative impact upon the man would be a young art gallery owner and unaspiring politician, Ovid Invictus, who also happens to be a patron of mine.

That is to say, he's one of the good ones. Ovid is about three years older than me, standing a few inches shorter with dark hair cut oddly and a pair of narrow eyes that always seem far away within his own thoughts, lost within a painting in his own head. When I was seventeen, Ovid started purchasing my time, but it was solely to draw me. Often we would sit in silence for hours as he did so, despite my efforts to make conversation. Eventually, he told me that I didn't have to talk if I didn't want to, and promised he would never touch me. So, I decided to stay silent, and allow myself the luxury to be mentally absent for the time spent in his presence.

I believe that Ovid pities me for my plight, especially being a perpetual toy to his father's sick, twisted delights. Every time he buys my time, it keeps someone else from doing so. It's a very strange act of kindness that I can't quite describe. Later, he would ask to draw me naked, leading me to believe that he finally desired me that way. I had reluctantly gone to seduce him, but he had recoiled and said my body - any body - meant nothing to him. He just wanted to draw what was technically aesthetically appealing, and it has always remained at that.

It's a small grace, but it's one I'm grateful for.

"I still cannot believe he changed his name on top of it. Such disrespect," says Amabilia.

Ovid's mother had been Thrax's third wife, who had died drowning in her bathtub, and found the next day by her Avox who had been executed for presumably playing a role in her death - yet another secret that had been revealed to me. When Ovid was eighteen, he had changed his surname to Invictus in honor of his late mother, and had taken up her mantle of maintaining her art gallery within the museum in the city, ironically where the Unity Gala is held yearly. It was a jab towards his father, leading me to wonder if Ovid knew more about his father's malicious intents than others did, or if it was out of sheer spite for being a shitty father.

"Indeed, it's quite disappointing, but Ophelia had been my favorite wife until her untimely passing and I see a great deal of her in Ovid, so," Thrax says, with a laboring hum, "I am inclined to make amends. I have plans on having my son assist me on a matter I have been pondering over for quite some time - a real treat for him, I believe, and a surprise, at that."

"How very kind! Isn't that kind, Finnick?"

I nod. "Yes. Very," I say. "Such a doting father you are, Mr. Mellona."

Thrax arches his brow at that, no doubt noting the subtle hint of coolness to my voice, but ignores it. "Funnily enough, Mr. Odair. I'm tickled pink to have caught you here at this time, given the fact that I was hoping to have your opinions on this matter."

I glance at Amabilia, who looks cross enough to have her paid time being eaten up by this matter, but something inside of her speaks more logically than her desires towards me. She nods a little sullenly in my direction. "Of course, Mr. Mellona. It'd be my pleasure," I say, biting back a small measure of disgust as Thrax pulls up a chair to sit with us. "What's this about? Business?"

"In a manner of speaking," Thrax says, withdrawing a small tablet from his jacket. He taps across the screen and pulls up a long strange row of squares filled with pictures of men. He hands it to me. "I need five men for a very specific task, with my son being the fifth. I have been having trouble thinking of the other four...would you mind?"

I arch my brow a little. So, this is a special "treat" for Ovid, making me wonder if this is some form of prostitution - after all, Ovid has admitted to me once before he finds the male body more attractive than the female, though not in the essence of physical appeal. Perhaps Thrax is aware of his son's lack of sexual desires and is trying to "fix" it. I feel compelled to set the tablet down and excuse myself from the matter, but I'm in too deep now. Maybe I can forewarn Ovid about this, I think, even though it goes against protocol for me to contact a Capitolian outside of Sponsorships, especially with my Tributes dead.

As I scroll through the pictures, I try to tap them for more information, but it doesn't yield.

Thrax notices this and waves his hand. "I'd rather you go in unbiased, Mr. Odair. Pick them based off of appearances alone, judge a book by its cover," he says.

"Who are they?" I ask.

"Business associates, sons of my friends, the like," Thrax says. "They are acquaintances of my son."

Okay, so not prostitution. I suppose Thrax is trying to pull his son out of the art field to a more "productive" line of work through his so-called associates. "I see."

"It's so kind of you, Thrax," Amabilia says.

"I consider myself to be a kind man," Thrax says.

Bastard. I randomly choose four men after pretending to look carefully over them, but mostly I am stalling so I don't have to go back to the Oneiroi with Amabilia, but also the fact that I am enjoying mapping out in my head the various ways I would kill Thrax Mellona and get away with it.

I hand the tablet back to him. "Those four," I say.

"Fine choices," Thrax says, tucking the tablet back into his coat. "Well, I mustn't keep you. I'm afraid I must return to my business." He reaches out to take Amabilia's hand so he can kiss it. "Ever lovely to see you. Take care of this fine woman, Mr. Odair, for she is surely delicate. I shall see you soon."

As Thrax leaves, he touches my shoulder in a final parting. Even after he has long since walked away, I feel it, like the bite from a parasite.

Amabilia huffs loudly once he's out of sight, her face now more openly annoyed. "Well, we don't have as much time as I would like...but time is time, after all," she says, with a slow smile. "Shall we?"

I fight back the urge to vomit. "Of course, sweetheart."

---

Ceres.

---

The sound of my spear piercing through the synthetic chest of the training dummy is oddly cathartic. It also manages to fill that horrible blank silence which had otherwise scarcely been occupied by my soft grunts and the spear whistling through the air in fluid motions. I hate the quiet more than I can possibly convey. When it is silent, the thoughts in my head are all the louder, and I would do anything - anything to - keep nullify them. Now more than ever, my thoughts are feverishly loud, accompanied by the flashing images of things I would otherwise like to ignore, as temporary of a solution as it might be, until I have no choice but to face them. So far, it's been a trial by fire. Keeping sane has been a chore in it of itself, yet another task for me to accomplish among countless others. I think I am doing a good job of it externally, but inside of myself is another story entirely.

I couldn't bear the silence of being alone in the apartments, unable to talk to or even look at Ren after what happened to our Tributes, even though we both knew what we do - hell, I think that made it worse. So I did the next best thing I could think of, I turned to one of the gyms within the Training Center to let out my aggression and pent up emotions.

The Victor exclusive gym is quiet, sure, but I'm able to keep myself distracted by focusing on my motions, especially since I'm in the smaller area designated for District 4 members, allowing me total privacy and the avoidance of interacting with other Victors - if they chose to do the same thing I'm doing.

Moving across the room, I yank the spear out of the training dummy, and then promptly twist it around, spinning the spear along the length of my arm, and flourishing it behind my back. It has taken consistent practice built upon years and years of each other, but I've managed to become comfortable with my spear again. Sure, I never really lost the ability to fish with it, but that's different than combative techniques. It had been hard learning to navigate the otherwise familiar terrain with only one arm, how to wield my weapon, strengthen my position, and fight properly. Tilda had been my adamant and faithful coach throughout my healing process, and would spear with me daily out on the beach until I felt comfortable with myself again. It hadn't been easy and Tilda had pushed me countless times over my limit. There were days, weeks even, where I had resented her for it. But in hindsight, I doubt I could have achieved a fraction of my current capabilities if it hadn't been for her.

While there is no mistake that I miss what I could do formerly, on multiple fronts, I'm content to have maintained the skills I have available to me, and build upon new ones.

If only I'd fought for my Tributes the way Tilda fought to keep me afloat, my thoughts intrusively whisper to me. At least Thrax Mellona can't hurt them.

I slam my spear down, creating a loud ringing noise, until my thoughts drift to something else.

It's a shame I can't properly utilize these skills for their intended purpose. If the opportunity presented itself, I would absolutely pierce my spear through Thrax Mellona's chest, penetrating it clear through his body, before he could have the opportunity to hurt my family or myself. Frankly, when my spear had flew through the air towards the dummy, it had been that monster's face I had pictured; and the spear had pierced directly through the dummy's chest, dead center. But glancing back at that faceless grey dummy now, I grimace, all too aware that my fate is still up in the air. I have no idea what is going to happen and when things are going to start to shift.

My Tributes have been dead for a few hours now. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark are still alive. The Careers have formed an Alliance, obviously.

I haven't heard a damn word from anyone, at least from people that count. The night after the private training sessions, I had received a message from Ames Cairncross, through Seneca, that he wanted to meet me at the Oneiroi within three days, at our usual room. Vexingly, the time and place would overlap exactly when the Scores would be announced, meaning I wouldn't be able to watch with my fellow Mentors and Tributes. There was something disgustingly ironic about having to spend that time with the Head Gamemaker intsead of my peers, including my father and Finnick. Strangely enough, I had assumed that his response to me had been in response to the message I sent him, the one meant to be given to Plutarch, as well, to confirm I wanted to be involved in his treason. But when I searched back through my messages, mine was gone. It was as if it had never been sent at all.

Plutarch had mentioned that the message would be read by Ames and passed along to him, so maybe it was deleted after being viewed. I can't exactly go around asking, can I? I can only assume, which only amplifies my flourishing paranoia.

But aside from that, there's been radio silence. I'm left to sit in absolute panic, enriched by the ever-present query of: when? When will I face consequences for what I did to Thrax Mellona? When will Thrax Mellona seek his revenge? When will my fellow Victors find out? For the latter query, if I have it my way, they never will. The monster has made no move to summon me back to him, for revenge, a confrontation, or, highly unlikely, an act of forgiveness. He won't take what I did lying down. He's going to retaliate, but I don't know when or where.

My Tributes died because of other Tributes, but I imagine if they had lived, Thrax would've saw to it that the Arena swallowed them whole somehow out of retaliation. But he can't use them against me now. That's a small peace they can be afforded, as horrible as that sounds. They'll never know the bullet they dodged.

There is also the fact I haven't heard from Plutarch, either. I'm not sure if I should be relieved or nervous about that. The message that I had sent to "Seneca Crane" through Ames had undoubtedly been viewed and is, obviously, deleted from existence, so surely it must have been relayed to him. Plutarch would be aware at this point that I am on his side. So, why wouldn't he send some type of verification? Like a subtle note, a direct message from Ames, or anything to indicate that he is aware? Furthermore, I still don't fully understand whatever it is the man has planned, and what will ensue from it. For all I know, I've walked headfirst into a death trap. But then again, I already am in one, so what's the difference?

Nevertheless, the waiting is killing me. I try not to focus too much on why I haven't heard from these people, or what's going to happen next. I also try not to think about the breakdown I had the day I hit Thrax. I've had moments where I've slipped from my own mind and body before, disappearing into something I don't entirely recognize, but never to that capacity. I had been so helpless, so trapped in myself that every single one of my defenses was open and vulnerable. I had to crawl to my room.

I slam my spear out against another training dummy, creating another thudding noise that pulls me from the depths of my thoughts, before they have the potential to make me spiral. I don't like being vulnerable, at least with myself. There have been countless instances where I have found Finnick in distress and spiraling from his own emotions, and I'd gladly lay everything I had down just to be there with him, to talk him through the hurricane and pull him through the riptide. But when it comes to myself, I try to make an effort to mask things to the best of my ability, and keep my head high. Yet Tilda had found me on the ground of my bedroom, dry heaving and unable to breathe. She had helped me undress and had made me a cold bath to help ground me back to reality, never leaving my side even as I begged her to do so.

I've never hit a breaking point like that before and I hope I never have to again.

My spear flies through the air, this time piercing through the neck of one of the dummy's. Were it not for it being firmly cemented to the ground, it would have toppled over. My mind works against me to conjure the memory of the prongs of Liber's trident piercing through Lamia's neck, forcing me to look away towards the floor. I really need to get my shit together.

"I'm going crazy," I murmur to myself.

"I don't agree with that sentiment."

I whirl around, hand clenched at my side, to face my father who is wearing his own training garb of black trousers and a black sleeveless shirt, his brows arched at me. How long had he been standing there? Despite myself, my face flushes a dark shade, instantly embarrassing at whatever my father had seen or not seen in my manic state of training. I also give myself a small internal lecture for having been oblivious to his presence. My senses need to be more refined than that. I should have heard the doors hiss open or the sound of footsteps, anything.

In any case, it's a little odd to see my dad like this. He's been rather preoccupied the last few days, at least in the moments that mattered leading up to today. When he wasn't training Marina and Kipper one-on-one, he was out in the city gathering Sponsors - and, primarily - associating with District 1. Some good that would-be Alliance was to them. I've tried to rationalize his absence, his presence alongside our fellow Victors, but I always come to the same bitter conclusions. Still, benefit of the doubt, maybe my father is recruiting Victors, the way Plutarch recruited me. He just so happens to be doing it through the luxury District. Apparently. I could be wrong, but it doesn't matter, at least not now. Not so soon after the deaths of our Tributes, and as I sit in absolute tensions wondering what will happen to Katniss Everdeen.

My hand clenches and unclenches, fingers cracking. "Now's not a good time, dad."

"I can see that," my dad replies, regarding the dummy with the spear lodged in its throat. He moves across the room, reaches out, and pulls the spear straight out. "Ren refuses to talk to me. He looked...pained."

Good. "We both are."

"That's why I'm here," my dad says. "I figured maybe I could spar with you. It might help you feel better."

"Do you really believe anything could make me feel better right now?"

A small bitter smile tugs at his bearded mouth. "No," he says. "But fighting can thwart the hurt."

I consider fighting back against this request, but decide against it. He's right. It would be good for me.

Yet I can't help but to feel a little wary of his sympathies and concerns, given everything. I find myself briefly internally worried over the possibility that Tilda may have told him about all of my woes and concerns, beyond just my dead Tributes. I had forced her into confidence in regards to my breakdown and what happened with Thrax Mellona, as well as my being involved with Plutarch Heavensbee - and the fact the Gamemaker had also sworn me to secrecy specifically because of my father. If Tilda had told Rheon about any of this, he would be angrier. Even if he tried to contain it, I would be able to clock the change in his demeanor.

I try to ease my unruly worries by taking him in fully. He certainly carries himself as a concerned father, as well as a small pained expression himself. Marina and Kipper were as much his Tributes as they were mine, after all. There is also the fact that I confronted him about what happened with Liber right before we got here, as well as the Nodon situation. So, perhaps, he is still feeling a measure of guilt. None of that matters, though. Not now.

"Fine," I say. "Give me my spear back."

Rheon shakes his head. "If you want it come and take it, otherwise grab another."

Despite everything, my brow arches and a sharp inhale overtakes my body. Throughout all I have endured, there is still something inside of me that craves challenges, that competitive drive that has been my constant companion since childhood. I've gotten better about keeping it compliant and quiet inside of me, but there are days where it trickles out. My father stands on the other side of the room, gripping the spear tightly, and staring back at me expectantly. We both know how this is going to play out.

My gaze flickers momentarily towards the set of spears hung up on the wall, on the other side of us. I glance back at my father, who is unmoving. With a slow breath, never taking my eyes off of him, I move towards that wall. Each step is mindful, almost soundless, my hand flexing at my side. My body is ready to spring like a cat, though I hold myself back. It isn't until I am within arm's reach of the wall that my father suddenly lunges. He is a tall and reasonably muscular man, yet he is vivaciously fast when he wants to be. He clears the length of the room without seconds, but I move out of the way. I spring sideways, tearing a spear off of the wall with me. I roll against the floor, then leap back up to my feet. I balance the spear in my hands, taking on a defensive stance.

Rheon evaluates me, eyes narrowing.

I exhale quietly.

He moves forward, bringing his spear down on me. I lift mine up to meet his, deflecting the attack with a loud clang, followed by me pressing upward, and then sideways again. I spin around, adjusting the spear in my hand so I can swipe it against his legs, but my father is too fast for me. He throws the spear from one hand to the other and reaches out to grab me. I manage to duck, but he does grab a few strands of my hair. I manage to twist free from it, but my scalp stings as a couple pieces are torn out. I don't let the pain reflect on my face, though I can see the apologetic gleam in his eyes when he brushes the few little strands out of his palm.

I click with my tongue to distract myself, to focus, and I lunge forward. He deflects my strike, then pushes me back. I catch myself before I can fall over, but he seizes the opportunity to swipe the spear at my feet to send me back down. I manage to jump, eluding it, and twist myself around in a small flip. I land on one of my knees, my other leg outstretched to support my stance. I raise my spear immediately to deflect the blow he brings down upon me. Using some momentum, I manage to push his spear sideways, then spin my body around so I can kick upwards towards his stomach. He stumbles back, allowing me enough time to stand up and hit his side with my spear. This makes him stagger a little, his grip on his weapon loosening.

And then that's when I go for it. I slam my spear between his arm and his side, wrenching it back so it would impact his shoulder, and I reach to grab the spear from him. But my father retaliates quickly. I am too close to him and in too compromising of a position to move out of his reach, so he manages to grab ahold of me. He spins me around, slamming my back against his chest, and coils his arm under my neck. The other grabs my wrist and pins it to our sides. Both of our spears clatter to the floor in loud bangs. I now face a steel wall, pressure to my throat, and unable to do anything about it.

I try to wrench myself out of my father's strong grasp, but when I do it only tightens. I try to kick and flail my legs out, but it's no use. There's no way I can get my arm out of his grasp, nor can I twist myself out of the chokehold. But I keep trying, try after try, only to be met with nothing. My father is a great deal physically stronger than me, a bitter truth that tastes like salt in my mouth. I hiss loudly, glaring daggers into the wall.

"Break out of my hold," Rheon says.

I try again, grunting. "Dad, this isn't funny."

"Break out of it."

"Dad, let me go."

"If you want to be let go, break it."

But I physically can't break out of his hold, not one with arm pressed around my neck and the other pinning my arm to my side. I try to dig my nails into his wrist, but all he does is lift my arm and, less than delicately, twists it behind my back. A short sting of pain shoots through me, but I don't respond to it. Bastard. Fury ignites deep inside of me and I stare furiously at the wall in front of me. It's either break out of the hold or give up, and I refuse to yield to the latter. My hand clenches tightly, nails digging into my palm. I count my heartbeats in an effort to focus, to think. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding together -

Wait. My eyes widen, the realization hitting me hard. Brushing my tongue along the inside of my teeth, I act fast. I am able to twist my head around just enough to sink my teeth into my father's arm, squeezing my eyes shut to ignore the taste of flesh and then blood as he releases a loud, startled yowl. His grip loosens, providing me just enough to be able to fight back. I twist my head around, his skin still between my teeth, and manage to pull my arm out of his loosened grasp. My hand swings upward, clawing blindly at his face, and then I manage to yank his arm down. I spin the whole of my body around, using momentum and adrenaline to pull out of his grasp. From there, I raise my foot and kick it hard against the back of his knee, bringing him down upon one. A set of daggers reside on a table behind me, so I hastily grab one.

My father is now on his knees, me behind him, and a knife pressed under his throat.

There is a long lapse of silence as the energy of our fighting slowly dissipates. Our rapid breaths start to slow, our bodies realizing that we are not in the Arena, and it is only after the thrum of my heart has steadied that I step back. I go to sheathe my blade instinctively into my belt, only to realize there is nothing there and set it back on the table, instead. A chill ripples through me as I am reminded of the rapala I wore and used whilst in my own Games. It stirs something inside of my head, a kindling of guilt and horror and sadness. In front of me, my father has not moved. His arms hang at his sides. The one I had bitten has blood trickling down to his wrist, the prominent crescent shapes of teeth marks visible upon his bronze skin.

I brush the back of my hand over my mouth, staining it with blood.

"I'm sorry," I say. "That was as bad for me as it was for you."

"Somehow I doubt that," Rheon says, dryly.

Swallowing my pride, I move around to face him, and tentatively offer him my hand to help him up. He stares at it for a moment, then back up at me. For half a second I expect him to ignore it, but then his large hands wrap around my wrist and he, with my aid, is pulled back up to his feet. He looks down to evaluate the damage on his arm with a grimace.

"Ouch."

"I'm sorry," I repeat. "You had me in a bind, so I used what I could."

Rheon brushes his free hand over the wound, inspecting it before shrugging his shoulders dismissively. "You did the right thing. Enobaria would be proud."

A small grimace of my own reflects on my face. "Not sure I want to be compared to her, but thanks."

Enobaria Titanite is a Victor from District 2 who had her teeth filed down before her Hunger Games so she could tear the throats of her enemies out. It was an interesting Hunger Games to view as a child, to say the least. Despite how gung-ho I had been about the Hunger Games when I was a child, I had actually balked a little when I had watched the archives of her. To watch her mercilessly tear throats out with her teeth, as well as arms, legs, and even a torso, had led me to have a couple of nightmares as a kid. I recall that, when I initially became a Victor, I had struggled a little to meet her and talk to her casually the first year or two, due to the intimidation factor.

Realizing there is still blood in my mouth and on my face, I move quickly across the room towards a water station, where I promptly was my face and rinse out my mouth, cringing visibly as I watch the red go down the drain. My father comes up behind me and holds my hair back during the process, then once I am done, he goes to rinse out his wound. I stare down at it as he does so, then at his face.

"Could you tell me what that was about?"

"We were sparring."

"You put me in a chokehold," I say.

"And you found a way out."

"Yeah, but still." I fold my arm over my torso, scowling. "It hurt."

Rheon sighs audibly. "I worry about you sometimes," he says. "I just...wanted to test to see if you could still hold your own. Clearly you can."

"A warning would've been nice."

"Seldom do you receive warnings for an attack, Ceres," Rheon says. "I'd rather you not learn that the hard way."

"Like Marina and Kipper did today," I say, before I can stop myself.

Rheon winces. "Yes. Among other things."

The scowl on my face fades, as my mind is brought back to the unfortunate truth, to the reality of the crime I had committed; how I had assaulted a Capitolian citizen, sent him to the ground with the swing of my hand. The whole of my body shudders with the memory, a familiar sting in my palm a ghostlike sensation of my crimes. I clench my hand tightly, nails digging into my palms to invite a new sensation, instead. It doesn't provide any such levity. All it does is remind me there is more pain to come, and I will not be seeing it coming.

My dad's right. We never truly know when an attack is going to transpire, I knew that during the Games, too. Sure, there were instances where I could predict when someone was about to lunge at me, but countless things had also transpired that took me off guard. The most obvious being when Liber had killed Lamia, then directed his hatred towards me. I could never have anticipated that when we fought together that we'd roll into the water, that he'd abandon me as a meal for the Mutt inside of it. Now, currently - unknown to my father - I am facing a Mutt of a different kind. A self-proclaimed human who would likely do unthinkable and horrible things to me if given the chance, all because I knocked him to the ground.

I truly don't know what's going to happen. I've been trying to prepare for it, but there is no preparing. All I can do is fight what I see, then think on my feet when I'm put into a chokehold. I swallow, the weight of everything pressing down on me uncomfortably. Shit. Typical that my father would be oblivious to the hellfire encapsulating my life, yet still somehow finding ways to provide me with much needed advice, though it stems from a less than pleasant experience. I reach up and touch my throat, which still stings a little.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," Rheon says. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, dad."

Rheon turns the water off and steps towards me, his expression now conveying nothing but guilt and melancholy. "I know we've had our differences. I've made mistakes, as a husband and as a father, but I just want to help you. Sometimes I don't know how," he admits, with a defeated sigh. "I...I've hid so much from you, our family history, who we are, what we are, I was never as honest with you as I should have been - from the beginning, even. Me choosing Liber...I should have told you when I had the chance. And...Nodon Doyle. I should have told you about him, though I still advise you to stay away from him. Everything, Ceres...I am sorry." He lifts his arm up, displaying his battle scar. "I imagine this was a partial revenge."

"Maybe," I say. If my mind weren't so wracked with countless other issues I am currently just barely juggling, his apology may very well have touched me. But as is, I can't let my mind stray to our messed up family and Nodon Doyle in District 4, who, make no mistake, I will be confronting once we get out of here. But I can't afford to think too much on it now. It's a distraction. I need to stay focused. "You did what you thought we had to, dad. Sometimes we need to keep secrets to keep each other safe. It's why I never told you about Finnick."

My father grimaces at the mention of my friend and lover, which, in turn, causes me to frown. "Still..." he says. "Is there anything else that's wrong? Anything on your mind?"

Secrets are a consistent theme in our family, and at least now my father is starting to acknowledge it. God only knows how much my mother has kept from us, if it carries on both sides. It has to, actually, since she knew dad chose Liber over me and never said anything, as well as hiding my brother's journals for all these years. Who's to say if she's aware that my dad has been giving them to Plutarch, though. Maybe that's where she'd draw the line. My eyes lower a little. Plutarch had asked me not to say anything to Rheon about my involvement with the rebellion, which is something I've been feeling guilty and unsure about, especially since I committed a crime.

But all I have to do is remind myself on how many times my father has lied to me over the years, regardless of his apology now. At the same time, however, I've seen the negative impact secrets have. He never said anything to me about Liber, for better or worse. In the end, it did more harm than good, so, by proxy, shouldn't I apply that very same logic here? But that was different, in the end. My father had to choose between his two children in the Hunger Games, in a situation where either of hypothetically could have died, making his decision moot. What I am a part of is something else entirely.

As Tilda said, I've entered a rebellion. My father is a part of it, too, or so Plutarch indicated by how my father has been providing him Liber's journals (for reasons I truly cannot fathom), as well as having me swear I wouldn't say a word to him about it. Protective fathers, after all. If my father learned of my involvement, he would be furious. He'd likely react the same way he did when he learned of my relationship with Finnick, protectively and with anger.

So it goes, the secrets don't stop. Round and round and round they go in an endless cycle, occasionally deviating when something stands in their way, but it just forms another circle.

Let's sound off. He chose to keep the truth of why he married my mother from me, which, honestly, I can't fault him for - but it is the beginning of it all. He chose me over Liber when it came to who lived and who would die. He has been giving Liber's journals away to Plutarch Heavensbee, as part of this rebellion without any clear answers. He's acting on treason as a rebel in doing so, and probably has done countless other things, too. He's been getting awfully close to Gemma Lux. The sensitivity of my parents' marriage is obvious, but I could never have imagined it would escalate to that; potential infidelity.

For all my faults, at least I have always been honest with my father, or tried to be. Even as a little girl, I made no secret of the fact I wanted to be a Victor like him, how competitive I was and, more often than not, bratty. When my father brought Finnick Odair home, I stayed true to my promise to never Volunteer, and had only broken my promise when Liber was Reaped. I had wanted to protect him. In both my hubris and my desperation, I believed I was the only one capable of doing so. Ironically, this made me the poison that ran through his veins, in the end.

I am a rebel now. Plutarch is adamant my father doesn't know about it, for a multitude of reasons. Looking up at him now with his softened eyes and concerned expression, I find myself conflicted. I don't want there to be anymore secrets between this broken family, but there's no way around it. As badly as I want to tell him, I can't. My place within the rebellion, no matter how small, has to remain quiet. My father will find out eventually and I will face that wrath when I get to it. For now, I need to smile, and pretend everything is fine. But then there is Thrax Mellona.

I can't even begin to imaine how to breach that conversation, to share the events that transpired during the Unity Gala and then cover all the rest. What would I even say at the end of it? That I had immediately sent my confirmation to Plutarch Heavensbee that I would join his rebellion? There's no easy way to navigate the topic. Tilda knows, of course, but she's been sworn to secrecy. I know she won't breathe a word of it to our fellow District members, not without my say, especially in a matter as critical as this.

But then again, wouldn't it be to my benefit if my dad knew? No. I'm deluding myself. My father would be incapable of protecting me and, quite frankly, the ignorance is a measure of protection for him. If he is ignorant to the fact I hurt a Capitolian citizen, then he can't be accused of protecting or shielding me.

Despite the whirlwind of thoughts in my head, and the nausea settling in my stomach, a strangely easy sigh parts from my lips and I shrug simply. My body, survival instincts in place, takes an almost indifferent posture, with my hip cocked out as I reach down to grab my spear off of the ground, which I idly flourish - the spear I would have won, had my father not been so quick to strike.

"I think Seneca Crane is in love with me," I decide on, knowing it's the truth and my father will recognize that, but mostly it will make him uncomfortable enough to turn away.

Sure enough, my father exhales and turns his back on me to go hang up his weapon on the wall. "That is not surprising," he says. "Did he tell you this?"

"I can just tell," I say. "It just gets complicated since he's a Capitolian and a Head Gamemaker. Not to mention the fact he's married with children. It violates the whole sanctity of marriage, don't you think?" When my father visibly winces, I feel the barest twinge of guilt. I hadn't meant that as a double meaning, but since I've said it, and it's starting to deter him, I may as well run with it. "I mean, what kind of husband and father turns his back on his wife and children for some girl?"

"A not very good one," Rheon says, lowly. "Is that all?"

I nod. "Yeah, just about...thanks for the spar, dad," I say. "You should really go bandage your arm, you know? The human bite is arguably worse than a crocodile's. Infections and all."

"You're right. A bite from an apex predator is a damning thing," Rheon says. "But, Ceres...you're sure you're alright?"

"For now," I say. "Go on, dad. I'd like to train and unwind by myself for a few minutes before going back. I'll be okay."

I lean back against the table, closing my eyes and taking a moment to just sigh and feel whatever it is trying to process through me. It's grief, sure - indescribable grief. There's nothing stopping me from reliving that moment, over and over again. I see Marina, her face twisted with determination, as she manages to grab ahold of a back with a sword in one hand, as she slashes the leg of the girl from District 3. She puts up a fight, she does it well. But had she been a little quicker on her feet, faster to think, then she might be alive now. But she had hesitated one moment too long. She was the thirteenth Tribute to die, at seventeen minutes and twenty-three seconds according to the scoreboard behind Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templeworth.

Kipper was the last in the bloodbath to die. Despite every conceivable odds set against him, he had managed to slip passed the Careers and the carnage to get inside of the Cornucopia, using his small size to his advantage. In between the bloodbath, the cameras would cut to his small form hunched amidst the boxes, looking for an opening...and something in my chest tightens so painfully I can't breathe as I relive the image of his throat being cut open.

I press my palm against my mouth to keep the small dry sob that involuntarily tears through me quiet.

Plutarch had better come through on his promises, he better mean every single ounce of this...Snow better fall, all of Panem needs to burn. I don't care how.

I need the deaths of my Tributes to mean something. I need my fellow Victors to see justice from the people like Thrax Mellona. Liber...my brother's death, who I murdered...none of it can be in vain. So help me, I'll burn the whole damn city down myself if I have to if it means an end to the madness.

May this whole damn place turn to ashes and blow away in the wind, as insignificant as dust itself.

Something new can rise in its place. Something better.

For that to happen, the Girl on Fire needs to survive. She's made it this far despite the odds, which I'm fairly optimistic about, but I know that lady lucky will only get her so far. She'll need Sponsors above all else, which should be obtainable given her popularity throughout the Capitol, even now separated from Peeta Mellark.

I look towards my pile of clothes, where my tablet resides.

The funds, I think. The money sent to us for our Tributes will be there, and Sponsors can't recall the money they've betted on if both Tributes die, so it'll just sit and go to waste otherwise. Or maybe not.

Straightening out my back, I exhale.

It's time to talk to Haymitch myself.

---

Finnick.

---

Less than an hour later, I am exiting the room Amabilia booked for us. At the very least, I didn't have to entertain her for the full hour, so I was able to keep her mostly distracted with flirtations so the time did not drag as miserably as it usually does. Still, I feel unclean. My body and, by proxy, clothes smell like her unnatural flowery perfume and the musk of sex, making me shudder and long for the warm shower waiting for me back home. Thankfully, my pager hasn't gone off, signaling me that I had another client or two waiting for me after this. For the time being, I have freedom. I can return back to the apartments, shower, scrub my body raw, and finally allow myself to stop and think about my fallen Tributes - and who the hell is still alive.

Maybe they're all dead at this point and the Games are finally over. Maybe they'll have no Victor this year. What a thought.

A small scoff parts from me over my ridiculous musing, raking my hand through my messy hair. I'll be departing through the backdoor of the building, through a secret hallway within the building made for the more discreet guests. Victors leaving the Oneiroi is hardly uncommon, but it can become a mob very quickly if the Victor is any way popular - me especially. My bodyguard and a vehicle will be waiting for me there to take me back to the Tribute Center. If I'm lucky, I won't receive anything for the remainder of the day, for I'd very badly just like to lay back in my bed and let myself be miserable and mourn my Tributes to the best of my ability; let go of my persona, if only for an hour or two.

But before I can reach the door located at the very end of the hallway, another door behind me opens, and something immediately catches my attention.

"Psst - Finnick!" someone stage whispers.

I turn, a little vexed to say the least, but startle when I catch sight of my fellow Victor staring back at me. Kilo Stylus from District 3, who won the year right after me, has his face poking awkwardly out the half-open door and is beckoning me closer with his hand. He's trying to do so discreetly, but in doing so it looks way more obvious.

I blink. "May I help you?"

"C'mere!" he whispers, urgently.

Internally sighing with defeat, I decide to entertain whatever the hell this is, at least enough so I'm standing in front of the door. To the extent of my knowledge, Kilo Stylus isn't among the likes of me, the Royce siblings, and the other desirable Victors, as he is an odd, tech-savvy individual like Beetee Latier, but far more awkward. He also was an orphan to start off with and has no one in his life, so even if the President made him the offer, he would have full freedom to say no. Hence why I find it a little startling to find Kilo in the Oneiroi, poking his head out of one of the room doors. And why the hell is he beckoning me over?

"Sorry, I saw you and had to flag you down," Kilo says. "Can you come in?"

I hesitate. "I'm not sure if that's within the rules, Kilo."

"Oh, he won't mind. Come in."

He? In spite of my better judgment, I heave a sigh and enter through the door. As odd as Kilo may be, I also know he is beyond harmless. A mostly kind, albeit awkward, individual with a technologically brilliant mind and a fine hand for mechanics, according to Beetee, Kilo is prone to deterring some people, but I find him endearing enough. He's relatively slender and lacks a great deal of muscle, so he's far from a threat.

His slenderness is especially obvious as I walk in, because I realize he's wear what appears to be a bedsheet around his waist and over his arm.

"You're naked," I say.

"Not technically. I'm wearing a towel...toga," Kilo says, shrugging. "I wanted to say how sorry I am for your Tributes. They seemed nice."

I bite my tongue. Marina killed the girl from District 3, Kilo's own District, and yet he stands here offering me condolences. It's strange, to say the least, but I guess the sentiment is appreciated. It's the small, stranger things we Victors find comfort in during the Hunger Games. "Thank you," I say. "Is that why you called me in?"

"More or less."

"How'd you even know I was in the hallway?"

At that, Kilo hesitates a moment or two too long. "I heard your voice outside," he says, moving across the room towards a table to grab what appears to be a glass of lemonade and draws a long sip from it. Turning his body a little, I watch as he tries to discreetly turn a tablet around so it's facing downward. "I'm also being drawn. That's why I'm half-naked."

"Drawn?"

"By someone who bought my time. That is to say, he asked and I said I would. The money will go to Dell. He's my only surviving Tribute and he's allied with the Careers, so...this is the best way to keep him alive for the time being, at least I think so," he says, making me frown. "That someone is Ovid, by the way. You know him, I'm sure."

"I do." I glance around the hotel room, noting the large canvas and easel located on the far end of the room beside a divan where, I imagine, Kilo had been situated before he mysteriously noticed my presence. "Where is he?"

The sound of a door opening and then closing catches my attention, as Ovid, wearing a loose blouse and dark trousers, steps into my view. He looks more than a little surprised to see me standing there, but there's nothing cold or unwelcoming about his demeanor. He simply glances back at Kilo and sighs audibly. "Finnick. Lovely to see you, I suppose," he says. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Kilo invited me in," I say.

"Ever kind of him."

Kilo shrugs. "I wanted to offer my condolences for his Tributes," he defends.

A small look of sympathy passes over Ovid's face, as he nods gently in my direction. "I was sorry about that," he says.

"Me, too," I say, hesitating. I certainly wasn't expecting to run into Ovid so soon after encountering his father, but it's a stroke of luck amidst a sea of shit, so I think I'll take it. "This is going to be out of place, but, Ovid...what I am bout to tell you is in confidence, and it concerns Thrax."

"It involves my father?" Ovid raises his brow, unimpressed. "I see. Kilo, would you mind stepping aside for a moment?"

Kilo hesitates, but ultimately nods, and goes back towards the divan situated in front of the easel. Once he is out of earshot, Ovid moves closer and I carry on.

"He had me pick out four random men from out of these pictures on a tablet, to play some kind of treat for you. He says they're acquaintances."

"Dear God, not again," Ovid sighs. "It's a little odd how he's gone about it, but it's relatively normal to his antics. I believe he's trying to introduce me to some political associates to change my career again. So be it. Did he mention any of the names of these men? Did you recognize any of them?"

I shake my head. "Afraid not."

"A surprise, then. Joy," deadpans Ovid. "Well, regardless, I am grateful for the warning. When did you find out?"

"An hour ago, I'd say."

Ovid sighs. "I'll likely hear from him in a day or two about it...it'll give me time to come up with a way to get around it," he says, taking a step back and advancing towards a table containing a decanter and some glasses. "Was that all?"

I nod.

"Good. Kilo, was there anything else you needed from your friend?"

"Oh, Finnick! One more thing," Kilo adds. "You should really ask Ceres if she'll let me measure her arm."

This catches me a little off guard, making my brow arch. Ceres had mentioned to me a few times before that Kilo had been rather insistent about this matter, of measuring her arm for something or other, and how she'd always declined him. "Why's that?"

Kilo's expression grows serious, and he stands up to move a little closer in my direction. "Advancements. The prosthetics and synthetics the Capitol has to offer are useless," he says. "I believe they can be improved upon."

"Ceres isn't interested in things like that," I say, "but I'll relay the message."

"The Capitol's product, perhaps," Kilo says, "but it is my believe that dust can become gold."

An amused smile graces my features at that, but it falters a little when I catch sight of Kilo's expression. His wide eyes are searching my face intently, as if picking something a part that I don't know about. He's searching every inch of me, every crevice of my face, and I can tell by the way his brow is furrowing that he isn't finding it. Whatever that it is, anyway.

"Right. I'll relay the message," I repeat.

At that, Kilo's face falls. "Oh. Okay, thank you, Finnick," he says, sounding disappointed.

Odd. I try not to think too deeply on the matter. After all, Kilo is a very strange young man in a many number of ways, so it's likely he was trying to find a laugh in some type of inside joke, maybe something about District 3 I don't fully understand. I do, however, make note to ask Beetee about it later, or maybe Wiress, if I can get them alone later on. Until then, I turn towards the door.

"And thank you for the warning," Ovid calls. "I know it goes against your protocol, but I appreciate it."

"The least I can do," I say. "Carry on with...whatever it is you're doing."

As I turn to go, I hear Ovid say, "Careful with your words, my love."

Ah. Another secret, and how very dangerous it is. And I have a feeling that isn't the only thing they're hiding.

---

(a/n): *jazz hands* I would like it to be known that I started a tumblr! Well, it's a tumblr that exists helmed by yours truly. Nothing is posted there yet, but I am going to eventually post some edits of my fanfics, gifsets, manips, etc., plus general posts about my lazy ass, and stuff. But my dms are open there if anybody wants to chat or yell at me, or send me asks. It *jazz hands louder* exists. So this chapter actually made it to 22k words...and...literally it kept going...and I have the next chapter already halfway written, so basically, I've more or less completed the next two chapters because I had to trim this baby down and the next one was pretty much done. X'D

As a note! I am going to try to get Chapter 14 written and published this weekend, BUT I am going to a comic con in the city, so we shall see. X'D Anyway, please check me out on tumblr! Send me asks, dm me, harass me.

I love you all so much! Thank you for all of the love, you all motivate me to keep writing!

Read, review, favorite, follow, etc.! Thank you! *heart*

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~REVIEW RESPONSES~

DreamonAlina: Ahhh! Thank you so, so much! This has touched and warmed the very cockles of my heart! *sobs* Finnick and Ceres mean so much to me, it's unreal. I've been re-watching and re-reading the first THG over and over, and it's gonna be weird when we get into CF and having to watch/read Finnick with Annie, and I'm here like "?where's Ceres?" X'D YUP! WE'RE IN THE HUNGER GAMES! I'm already itching to get into it, along with Catching Fire and Mockingjay! I am just so excited! Ya'll, a lot of stuff is gonna happen. I hope you enjoyed this POV from Finnick! Some nice slices of trauma. X'D Because I am evil...but also thinking about Ceres. ;)

Slytherin-vikis: I wasn't going to include that line, and it felt a little immature as I was writing it, but it was so absurd and so ridiculous that it felt perfectly Capitolian. XD Who knows...maybe I'll stray from Seneca's book/movie fate...maybe Ceres will do it, maybe Ceres and Finnick...who knooows. ;) You aren't wrong, honestly. Ren making the decision to have the Tributes die quickly at the beginning is something that's going to have pretty big repercussions throughout the story, not just for him but for other characters and events. Listen, the "What If" scene was the levity I needed, and knew ya'll would need, for what's to come in the next few chapters...*nervous laugh* Oh, no, it totally makes sense! And I really appreciate that you noted it as such! ^_^ It was a very important moment for me, because it has to be scary for any Tribute to realize that come the next day they could die, and their last night is their last chance to breathe, sleep, dream, go to the bathroom, have a midnight snack, etc. To be human. The 74th Hunger Games are gonna be interesting to say the least, and I am hellah excited for it. ;)

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~CASTING~

Ovid Invictus: Barry Keoghan

Amabilia Numitor: Mary Steenburgen