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

14. Fourteen: trust a few

(a/n): This chapter...has a lot...and it's one I've been looking forward to writing for weeks now, but also one I have been dreading. *nervous jazz hands*

Enjoy, loves!

---

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

trust a few

---

Ceres.

---

The water is starting to get cold and the bubbles have started to fizzle away. It makes me wonder how long Finnick and I have been sitting here in total silence, nothing more in the world than just the crackle of the bath bombs which have long since faded into a dull color, with its bubbles dissipating, and the soft sounds of our breathing and heartbeats. It's been a while, surely. Both of us had made the executive decision to skip dinner, in spite of Ivoree's gentle encouragements for us to sit together as a united front. None of us could bring ourselves to sit at the table where two chairs would remain empty. Ren couldn't even be bothered to be pulled from his room, so Tilda had gone in to comfort him. It could be they're discussing rebellious affairs in there, or Tilda is simply doing to him what she did to me all those days ago; a nurturing presence amidst our emotionally inept group of Victors.

Rheon had tried encouraging me to eat with him, which I had legitimately considered, but I couldn't do it. When I looked into his eyes, the one made up of obsidian and the other his true dark eye, the guilt was just too heavy and I couldn't stand to look at him. Whether or not he knew about the plans involving the Tributes, I don't want to think about the type of person he'd think of me if he learned I went along with it. I think it's safe to say my father has been morally ambiguous at best throughout my life, but there are still some bridges I don't want to cross with him. It's a time of grief for all of us, but, most of all, it's a topic with treasonous undertones.

Instead of eating with Rheon, I went with Finnick into his room. Neither of us wanted to go to bed and, mutually understanding each others' needs without having to say anything, we decided for a bath instead. It was as if we both felt this sense of unclean disgust. Finnick felt it because he was with a client today, whose name he wouldn't disclose to me (I know it wasn't Thrax, as he always leaves some type of prominent mark on Finnick as a sort of claim), and me because...well, the obvious.

This is where we've been for the last God knows how many minutes, hours, and maybe even days. We're both in his bathroom, which is admittedly pretty spacious, and the bathtub is no exception. Finnick is leaning back against it, his head lolled against some towels he formed into a makeshift pillow. His arms are wrapped around me as I'm leaned against his chest, mostly burrowed beneath the water as it rests just below my chin. My fingers move a little above the surface, fiddling with the few lingering bubbles there; drawing patterns, leaving indents, and herding the soapy formations into random directions. It calms me, if only for a brief second in time.

It's mostly been quiet, allowing our thoughts in our heads to fester. I wouldn't be able to say what Finnick was thinking, though I'm sure I can take some guesses. In my own head, I'm mulling over everything. How the hell can I face Kipper and Marina's families when we go back to District 4? What's going to happen at the end of these Games? If Katniss wins and she's crowned Victor, what's next? What will Plutarch do with her? What role will she play?

There's no shadow of a doubt in my mind that she's the spark, for reasons I can rationalize and others which are, for all intents and purposes, completely illogical. She's only sixteen. She's a kid, younger than I was when I won the Games. Hell, I'm twenty-four now and I feel like I don't have a clue about anything, when push comes to shove. How the hell can I be expected to fight when I can't even imagine this girl doing so? Yet I close my eyes and I imagine Katniss Everdeen firing an arrow at the Gamemakers. I see her fearlessly Volunteering for her sister, without pause or question, and has fought for her ever since. And I think about how Haymitch, who hasn't lifted a finger for his Tributes in years, has suddenly taken a keen interest in keeping Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark alive.

Sparks ignite fires. Fires can burn. Burning can tear empires down. Down goes the President.

Who better to do so than the Girl on Fire?

Then again, it could all be one coincidence. Come tomorrow, Katniss could be dead, and then I'm back at square one, and still trying to figure out if-when it's a smart idea to get into contact with Plutarch. Sooner rather than later, maybe, but I haven't exactly had the chance to directly ask Tilda about it. I feel more comfortable discussing the matter with her than with Ren, since we haven't exactly had the open verbal confirmation I'm a part of this.

Finnick moves his hand out of the water and raises it over mine, his fingers mirroring the movements of my own. "There's still money in the funds," he says, so quietly I almost don't hear him, "from the Sponsors, I mean...it would've been enough to keep them fed. Armed."

I find myself wincing. In the far back of my vision, I relive the moment where Marina grabs the backpack but goes back for a weapon, managing to kill two of her fellow Tributes before the boy from District 2 took her life. Then there was Kipper, who successfully found his way into the Cornucopia, armed with a backpack larger than his torso. He had waited for an opening, hid himself well, but in the end he had been killed by the very same Tribute. Neither of them were the sparks, I try to tell myself, but it only makes my eyes sting. I try to blink the pain away.

I turn my hand so that I can intertwine my fingers through Finnick's, squeezing them. There's nothing I can say to make this hurt go away, least of all since Finnick, as far as he's concerned, believes that I have done everything to keep those Tributes alive. I trained them. Everything I did and said was to their benefit, to keep them alive, to bring them home - and yes, all of it had been my intentions. I had tried to give them a chance, even letting my fury show when Ren threw them suicidal advice. But I had gone quiet when the truth dawned on me. They had to die for the flame to rise.

Finnick would never forgive me if he learned about my involvement in that, even if all it was was saying and doing nothing to correct Ren's teachings. Maybe it would be easier if Finnick was involved in this...after all, there wouldn't be the fear of secrets, but then again that would make him an open target. He wouldn't be safe. If I'm found out, that's it. But if Finnick is genuinely oblivious, he has a chance to survive...if this goes south.

"I know," I say.

Finnick exhales, the breath brushing against the top of my head. "I figured neither of them would last...Marina was overconfident and Kipper was so young. But I thought they'd last longer."

"Guess they'll just catch dust in the meantime," I say, instantly tensing against him.

"What is it?"

"I...just a thought. I think we should..." I hesitate, biting down on my tongue as I weigh my option, heart hammering with nerves. Damn it. "I think we should transfer the funds."

Finnick shifts a little behind me. I'm not facing him, but I can envision the confusion on his face. "Anyone in mind?"

"District 12," I say.

"You're serious?"

"Yeah." I shrug. "I mean...Haymitch is trying this year. You have to have seen it. Sure, he's drunk, but not like he usually is...and the Capitol's responding to District 12 like I've never seen before. I feel like they deserve a chance."

"The star-crossed lovers," Finnick deadpans. "I never took you for a romantic."

"I'm not," I say. "But I'm not cold, either. I want to help them."

"It's not a bad idea, but we should talk to the others first."

"I agree...tomorrow, though. They're probably not in the right headspace to talk about it now."

"When are we ever in right headspaces?"

I can't dispute that. We sit together in silence for a while, the soundless quality of the room deafening, before we are forced to retreat from the now freezing cold waters. All I can do is think about the funds we have procured in the last few weeks, funds meant to keep our Tributes alive. How often had Ren looked at the money we sought after and gained - specifically, Finnick and Tilda selling themselves - and mused how meaningless it was. No. None of it is meaningless.

No doubt we've procured substantial funds. It would be beneficial for District 12.

As we towel our bodies off, Finnick spares me a glance. "Are you sleeping with me again tonight?"

"I will, just not yet," I say. "I think I'm going to stay up a bit longer. Clear my head."

He nods. "Sure. Door will be open for you."

"I know. I...try to get some sleep, okay?"

Finnick smiles ruefully. "No promises."

---

I wind up staying up in the living area for a while, hunched over and staring at the pitch black holographic screen in front of me; soundless, blank, just like a void. The longer I stare into it, the more unhinged I start to feel. In the blackness, my imagination starts to stray off with me. I relive the moments of Marina and Kipper's deaths, like a knife lodged into my chest. Compared to my fellow Victors, I have been moderately fortunate. Along with the fact that I avoid the broad spectrum of prostitution by being exclusive with Seneca Crane, I haven't lost as many Tributes as others have, at least as a Victor. Specifically ones so young. Up until now, the youngest Tribute that's ever died under my care was fifteen, which was still too young, too inexperienced, too unsure. Watching Rust and Daisy die underneath my care as fellow Tributes had been enough for me in the Games, these two helpless twelve year old kids from District 12 who never stood a chance. But I saw Rust through the final day, the final hour, before Liber killed him. The guilt had been overwhelming. It still is.

Thinking about the bright-eyed, freckled face of Kipper Estuary ignites those same feelings within me. He is now the youngest Tribute I have ever lost. I hadn't looked away fast enough when he had been killed, so I had seen how Cato's blade cut through his neck; slicing it clear through the middle. The blood had been astronomical as his small body slumped to the ground. He'd landed on the backpack. According to Johanna, the girl from District 1, Glimmer, had callously pulled Kipper's body off of the backpack to claim it, and had then complained about the amount of dried blood on it.

I didn't see that moment, but my mind works against me to create the image in my head. But the more it replays, Kipper's face changes. In one instance he is Kipper, in the next he is Rust, and then he is Liber - so much younger than he was before he was Reaped - and I struggle to tear my eyes away from the blackness, too frozen in my own head.

So young. All of them.

Those boys died because of me. I couldn't protect Rust, I broke my vow to protect Liber, and I willingly chose to let Kipper die.

But their deaths won't be in vain. I'm going to make sure of that.

After a while longer, I'm finally able to make sense of the jumbled thoughts within my head, and it's then when I withdraw myself from that space and venture towards the elevator, hoping that I'm not about to do something totally stupid. My own hypothetical running into the Cornucopia, versus running away from it.

As I stand in the elevator going up, I practice my breathing, the way I would when I'm about to do a deep dive into treacherous waters. In, out, faster, and faster, I trick my body into believing I have more oxygen than I really do inside of my lungs, to prolong the inevitable of me having to resurface. I lean back against the elevator wall, looking down at the crystal, translucent ground below me; watching myself go higher and higher than I ever have before. I squeeze the railing behind me until my fingers ache. It's not at all uncommon for Victors to visit each other - hell, some Victors are lovers - so what I am doing isn't necessarily wrong. It won't draw unwanted attention, not yet, anyway.

I brush my tongue over the inside of my teeth, looking at the row of buttons depicting each floor and their respective number. I know what I have to do, but I don't know if I'll have the strength to do it. Damn it. I have to, for everyone who's died because of these damned Games, for the Capitol's pleasure, for every ghost who lives inside of my head. There can't be any shadow of a doubt in my head that this is wrong, that Katniss Everdeen is not the spark that was referred to. For my own sake, and for the sakes of everyone else around me, I need to believe in this. I need something to fight for.

Exhaling through my nose, I rehearse the lines in my head. It's after midnight, but something tells me Haymitch isn't asleep, not even close. It's a gamble, to say the least, but it's one I am very willing to take.

Finally, the elevator pings, and I step through the doors before they even have a chance to fully open. District 12's floor is almost pitch dark, but the layout is very similar to my own floor that I am able to navigate it well enough. The smell of liquor hangs heavily in the air. The smell of an untouched dinner also lingers within the air. But amidst the darkness, I catch the slightest glimmer of light, towards the living space. I advance towards it, mindful to keep my steps quiet, but loud enough that my stride will be heard; I don't want to sneak up on a fellow Victor, but I don't want him surprised by me, either.

Sure enough, I find Haymitch sitting in front of the holographic screen depicting the Games. Currently, most of the Tributes are asleep or hiding out, so there isn't really much to pay attention to. The cameras, however, do depict the image of Katniss sitting high up in a tree, having tied herself in place to avoid rolling over and cracking her neck. She appears to be in that haze between sleep and wakefulness, her arms folded over her torso and her head tilted back. It's a miracle that she's survived for as long as she has, but also I am a little surprised that she hasn't received a parachute yet, given her popularity. Then again, it could be the Capitolians are waiting. The Games are still so fresh, after all.

I stand in the archway for a moment or two longer, just watching, until something seems to catch Katniss' attentions. Her head turns, then the cameras shift to show that one of the Tributes, a young girl with dirty blonde hair, huddled around a freshly built fire. My eyes close, a grimace falling upon my face. Stupid. Fires as a whole are dangerous, at any time of day. During daylight they are a little safer and less noticeable, but the smoke is easy to trace, but during nightfall it is a damned beacon, practically begging for Tributes to find her. No doubt her Mentors told her this, but it makes me wonder just how cold the Arena is that the girl would forsake all rationality in favor of comfort.

The Careers find her shortly afterwards. It's Cato who kills her, drawing it out long enough for her to beg and plead for her life and for her to scream. When her cannon goes off, I feel myself wince. Stupid girl, I think. Poor girl. The Careers mock her, laughing collectively over the girl who lit a fire at night, and parrot he cries for mercy.

"If you're just going to stand there, at least get me a drink," Haymitch says.

I turn my head towards him. "I would've knocked but the lights were out."

"So you just helped yourself. How very Capitolian of you," says my fellow Victor. "Your Gamemaker is rubbing off on you."

I ignore the jab against me and advance into the room, deciding to take a seat on the long couch where Haymitch is currently slumped against. I lean forward, my arm over my knees as I stare at the screen. The Careers are just below Katniss now, causing me to hold my breath - don't die, don't die, don't die - when Cato turns over his shoulder and calls, "Hey, lover boy!"

Peeta Mellark emerges from the shadows, wielding a silver sword that catches the stray beams of moonlight. When the Games had begun, he had raced towards the woods, disappearing out of sight. I had assumed he would hide out or try to find Katniss later on, but it bewilders me that it is the Careers he currently stands with. How long have they been allied together? Was this premeditated? They certainly don't regard him with the same strange friendliness that they do with each other. When Peeta passed through the pack, they regard him coolly; eyes tracking like hawks to a mouse. Did Peeta find them after the bloodbath or did they find him?

I glance sideways at Haymitch, whose expression is remarkably stoic all things considered. He is hyper focused on the screen in front of us, at Peeta as he addresses one of Katniss' snares, proving in that moment that they are tracking - hunting - her, and he is the dog for the pack of feral hunters. It certainly is a twist I didn't see coming. Twenty-four hours ago, Peeta had declared his love for Katniss Everdeen, now he is helping the most lethal force within the Arena to hunt her down. There has to be something more to it, though. If it was all just a ploy on Peeta's end to garner sympathies and attentions, he wouldn't have given up so soon. Something else has to be there.

"He's our best chance of finding her," Cato says to Glimmer.

The Careers, including Peeta Mellark, depart from the grove of trees, each one utterly oblivious to the Girl on Fire looming over them. Once the Careers have made their way out of sight, the camera shows Katniss' face. The betrayal and hurt upon her young features is obvious. She's staring at the spot where Peeta had been, then towards where he had gone. I can't tell of this look of pain upon her face stems from the betrayal of having your own District partner turn his back on you, or if it's that of a scorned lover. Katniss had certainly seemed surprise and taken off guard by Peeta's revelation during the Interview, but a lot can happen on the night before the Games. They might have resolved it, or talked about it in general, literally anything.

I mean, I know what it's like to know you could die tomorrow. On the night before my Games, I did, after all, give my virginity to Finnick Odair in a night we believed to be our last - a night I will never, could never, regret. But that same night, I had tried to make amends with Liber. I'd tried to pry into his life more, had learned that he wanted to be a boat-builder. That night, as we sat together watching the fireworks outside, I felt as if we had come to an understanding; that we learned about each other, would fight for one another in the Arena. But, clearly, that doesn't always follow through.

Now more than ever, I truly sympathize with the betrayal Katniss is feeling.

The Careers make camp. Once it is certain that both Katniss and Peeta are safe for the night, Haymitch turns to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot and traced by dark circles. Oddly, though, he looks less drunk than usual - just very, very exhausted. His steel grey eyes are watching me with distrust.

"Is this part of your plan?" I ask. "Having Peeta join the Careers?"

"The hell would I tell you for?"

I shrug. "My Tributes are dead."

"But you could relay the information to the others. It wouldn't be the first time," he says, pausing. "Or even your Head Gamemaker. I bet he would just love to hear all about whatever insider information you can get from us, sweetheart..."

"Right. Because I am so wholly loyal and deeply in love with Seneca Crane," I say, feeling an edge creep into my voice. I know that Haymitch is drunk and it's passed midnight, and I imagine he's been awake since the Games began - as we all have - so his words probably aren't entirely thought through. Still, a drunken tongue speaks sober thoughts, and, in all honesty, I don't blame him for his callous words. I would be mistrusting towards myself, too. "It's an interesting strategy."

Haymitch doesn't reply, instead reaching for a drink on the coffee table in front of him. There are two empty bottles of wine, one over on its side; trickling little droplets of red. Haymitch's glass is half-empty when he raises it to his lips, and by the time he sets it back down again it is all empty. "I...am sorry about what happened to your Tributes," he says, in a strange tone I think is meant to be kind. "They seemed like good kids."

"They were. But I'm not here to talk about them. They're dead. There's nothing I can do for them anymore."

"Right. Now that those pesky cameras are turned off on your floor, you want to mooch off of mine. Probably assumed I was passed out drunk so you could steal away and watch mine, instead of disturbing the others," Haymitch says. "Might I suggest someone more likely to win? That boy from District 2 looks like a good candidate. I'm willing to bet old Brutus and Enobaria would be more than happy to host you."

There is not a shadow of doubt in my mind that either of them would favor hosting me, if not for the purpose of taunting me. While Victors like myself, Finnick, Johanna, Haymitch, and the morally sound examples of us have nightmares revolving around the Games, there are those among our ranks who thirst for the bloodshed they experienced; longing to return. Among this category can be included Brutus, Enobaria, Cashmere, Gloss, and others. Brutus, as his name would indicate, was utterly brutal during his Games. I recall he had been covered head to toe in blood during one of the days, after having killed five Tributes within the span of an hour; bloodily and viciously. Enobaria, meanwhile, had her teeth filed down so she could tear the throats out of her opponents.

I might have admired them once for their sharp determination and loyalty to the Games, but now I distrust them. Whilst I am associates with them by proxy, I try to keep our relationship strictly professional, and, above all else, I would never aspire to share a screen with them; watch them gloat about their dangerous Tributes. They'd likely make snide remarks about my late ones, too.

Besides, I imagine they are not among the Victors that Plutarch has recruited for his cause. It would be laughable if they were.

"I don't think either of their Tributes should win," I say.

"Oh? What's this about, exactly?"

I bite the inside of my cheeks. "I think you know." Shit. This is one big gamble...one stupid, stupid, stupid gamble. "Haymitch, what do you think happens to us in the end?"

Haymitch visibly rolls his eyes at me, and grabs ahold of each bottle and starts shaking each one to see if there's more wine available. When it becomes clear he's out, and clearly too lazy to get up and fetch some more, he slumps back against the seat and looks at me irritably. "Don't tell me you're getting philosophical on me. I'm too sober for it," he says, touching the rim of his empty glass. "More sober than usual, I should say."

"What do you think happens to us in the end?" I repeat.

Haymitch lifts a hand in defeat. "Enlighten me, starfish."

No going back now. "I think we convert into dust."

I search his face vigorously, for the same look that Tilda gave me when I asked her to send that message to Seneca Crane, through Ames Cairncross; that surprise, then the understanding. But Haymicth's expression remains much the same, regarding me with lingering annoyance and now indifference. He doesn't even flinch in regards to the word. "I think we just rot," he says. "But yours is more poetic."

He rakes a hand through his hair, his gaze staring back at the screen. He doesn't know. I feel a small measure of disappointment...could I be wrong about Katniss Everdeen? Plutarch has to see things the way I do, so wouldn't he want to recruit him? If Plutarch had the same theories that I do, then he would have approached Haymitch by now, wouldn't he? Then again, Haymitch is a known drunkard and can barely keep himself together - falling off of the stage during a Reaping once - so it might not be the brightest idea to have someone so steep within their own shit to carry such secrets.

But my father had always said that Haymitch doesn't get the credit he deserves, and if he's involved in this, then surely he would vouch for District 12's only surviving Victor. Right?

"You look deep in thought there, sweetheart. Care to tell me what this is all about?"

"I think you've made quite a story between your Tributes," I say. "Katniss may very well have a shot thanks to you."

Haymicth shrugs. "All Peeta did was announce his school-boy crush on a grumpy-faced girl," he says. "I just sat back and watched."

"See, I don't believe that. It felt sincere on his end, as did her reaction, but it seemed like he needed that extra push...and I think that came from you."

"Perceptive. But I'm not one for theories. I'm admittedly getting a little bored and need another drink, and figure out some Sponsors for my tributes. Let's wrap this up."

"I could help you with that."

"Sponsoring my Tributes? Where would this good grace come from?"

"My Tributes are dead, but there are funds from Sponsors that were untouched," I say. "I could have them transferred to you, otherwise they'll go to waste - just sit around catching dust. Say the word."

"You didn't answer my question."

"The funds would go to waste otherwise," I repeat. "I'd much rather they go to a worthy Tribute than no one at all."

"But why my Tributes?"

I hesitate. "I couldn't save Liber. Katniss Volunteered to save her sister's life...I don't want that to be in vain."

"Sweet Primrose Everdeen got to you, too, then," Haymitch says. "That everlasting sibling love people are so sentimental about...until one gets you killed."

My eyes flicker. "You'd know about that, wouldn't you?" I say, watching his face cloud over.

"The hell did you just say?"

"My dad told me," I say. "We both have our brother's blood on our hands. I'd rather not see the same happen to someone else."

Haymitch turns his body a little so he can face me properly. His eyes are narrowed sharply at me, two thunderstorms looking back at me icily. "Let's get one thing straight, sweetheart," he says, his tone dropping. "You ever, ever, mention my brother again..."

"You'll what? Go ahead, Haymitch. It's fine. Threaten me."

His eyes remain narrowed on me, but I can see the morale upon his features diminishing. He turns himself so he's facing the screen again, but his nostrils are flaring. "Lost my train of thought," he says, in a low grumble.

I've seen his anger now, his sincere, bitter, and heartbroken raw form. "We have similar experiences," I say, ignoring the dark look he throws me. "Katniss...I feel for her, and I think you do, too."

"And sweet Peeta? What about him?" Haymitch challenges.

"Only one gets out," I say. "She has a spark."

Haymitch casts me a look I can only describe as doubt, before heaving a huge sigh and nodding his head. "Fine. Transfer them," he says. "Bout time District 4 allied with District 12. Bit late on your end, though."

"Maybe so," I say, smiling sadly. "Better late than never."

"Guess so...thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. Just keep your Tributes alive, okay? And put the drink away. You're no good to either of them like this."

"We all have our vices," Haymitch says, "yours is chaos."

The ghost of a smile graces my features, a distant memory reflecting like shimmering moonlight across the surface of my vision. The first day I met Galeria was for the Tribute Parade. She had reflected on the nature of water and the gravitional pull of the moon, the two a united force rather than a divided one. She had described how the creatures of the sea lived in that chaos. That was the way of their nature. "When I look at you," she had said, "I see someone in control of her chaos."

Now more than ever I hope she's right. God only knows, it's only just beginning.

---

Plutarch.

---

As I sit at my desk, hunched over my tablet, I recall a quote I read from a very old book I found buried in my mother's private office once when I was just a boy. "You have power over your mind - not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength." I had marveled at that strange quote as a young boy, even writing it down within one of my own journals so I would never forget it. I often returned to that strange book in my mother's library, which had been carefully hidden under mounds of others. When my mother had caught me with it, the panic in her eyes had been similar to that of a wild animal's, and she had lunged across the room to seize it from my hands. Without any word, she had thrust it into the lit flame of her fireplace. With tears in her eyes, she watched it burn.

We had both sat there in tense silence watching the flames before she turned to me and made me swear to never recite or tell anyone about the old book with the strange words. Ever the obedient child, I had nodded. Wordlessly we departed that room, never to speak of my mother's book again, but I never forgot. That night, I returned to my journal and wrote down everything I could remember. I spent the entirety of that full moonlit sky staring at the words, memorizing them until I could recite them blind, and burned my journal, as well.

I can't say who said those particular words, nor do I know if it was the same man or woman who also said, "Panem et Circenses." The words had confused me at first. Without dispute, I knew Panem, but the following words jarred me, until I had read deeper into my mother's book. The saying stemmed from thousands of years ago, well before the rise of our great nation, written in a language called Latin about a place called Rome - not unlike the Capitol we know today. The phrase translates to "Bread and Circuses." The writer, whoever they may be, was saying that in return for full bellies and entertainment, his people had given up their political responsibilities and therefore their power.

I have never stopped pondering those words, the meaning behind them. It is so easy to give up our power to entertainment, just as a prey animal might be entranced by something pretty before the predator strikes. But as the other quote mused, "Realize this, and you will find strength."

These were dangerous ideas, dangerous words from another era that should have been buried eons ago; yet another forgotten scrap of history, akin to the 10th Hunger Games. The strange foreign words from a dead language coupled with my mother's panic followed by grief-stricken tears as she watched the pages burn have been a permanent driving force throughout my career, for Panem and against it. Even when I was a boy I saw through the cracks of our great nation. But unlike some, I hid it. I smiled when necessary, I played the games I had to in order to win, and my loyalties have, allegedly, never faltered.

It's a mask I inherited from my mother.

Harpocrates Heavensbee had been a force of nature in her day. She had gained her early inheritance after the mysterious deaths of her father and brother, naming her heir apparent to the Heavensbee name. She took claim to the family fortune and invested well in it. She was not a Gamemaker, but she was an avid investor in them, and maintained constant relationships with Head Gamemakers throughout her time. Through this, she worked her way into smaller, tighter inner circles. Under her watchful cold eyes, she could tell what any person was thinking as they walked into a room. Everything she did she did with purpose, an underlying motive to every action, word, and decision.

She did nothing without forward thinking, save for myself. I had been the unfortunate byproduct of a nameless dalliance, but my mother was never one to pass up opportunities. An heir was necessary, yet from the beginning she never trusted me. Her secrets, her plans, were kept as far away as any sense of motherly devotion towards me.

Despite our fortune and status, all I have done and all I have become has been of my own accord. I pulled myself through my academics and rose early into power within my position as a Gamemaker, though I regard my name as having played some positive role in it. But my dear mother never paid it any mind. She continued to watch me as coldly as I watched her, each one analyzing the other, until our ambitions became transparent.

When my mother became sick, she gave me everything. As she laid on her deathbed, when I was only twenty-seven years old, she yielded every secret into my young ears, whispering things so treasonous and so foul I had scarcely believed her. Her hand squeezed mine, her pale eyes staring deeply into my own, and she had smiled. Her grin was bloody and toothy and there was a strange collected calm and malice in her eyes. She was content to die that way, with her secrets passed to me. If her treasonous acts and innerworkings were ever unearthed, she was already dead. She would never pay for them. I, however, had taken up her mantle. I could have snuffed the flame she stirred out, of course. I most certainly considered it when I had found her secrets carefully buried and hidden within her library. I did burn them, but not after imprinting them to my memory. And there they have stayed, though the flame has expanded beyond me now.

That was her legacy, unfulfilled promises, quiet acts of betrayal, and the stench of death following after her in a trail of flies and decay. Funnily enough, not much has changed since I inherited these precious heirlooms. Among these treasures, I have found the most dangerous thing my mother gave me was the key to Snow's locked away discretions.

The Archives she had salvaged from God knows where are very old and almost ineligible, but through countless hours upon hours, years upon years, of cleaning them up and analyzing each frame of the footage and every blurry photo, I learned a great many damning things. the information is dangerous beyond words. Even my esteemed accomplice within the allegedly destroyed District 13 is unaware of them. Some things are better left unsaid between alliances of conveniences.

Those particular Archives, of the President's time as a Mentor, of District 12's very first Victor, and the mysterious nature of her demise, no longer exist. I had thought to save them, for historical purposes should my rebellion prove successful. After all, destroying the Hunger Games from within is necessary, but forgetting them after is foolish. It may have been beneficial to save such historic and important information for such purposes. As I watched them burn, I understood the nature of my mother's tears as she watched her ancient texts flicker away to ashes. The loss was heavy, but it had to be done.

Yet, as with all things since, it remains in my head. Lucy Gray Baird, the only person to have seemingly caused the President to sway, and the first Victor of District 12 - forgotten. But by the President? Doubtful.

How very vexing it would be for the President if another unsung hero of District 12 were to arise from the ashes of her predecessor, a reflection of something old and lost from eons ago, to burn him down. Like any proper song, it would rhyme, and surely catch tune within his head. There are a number of things to take into account, of course...primarily, Katniss Everdeen needs to be kept alive.

Thus far, she has done a fairly good job at it.

There had certainly been a little scare when Seneca Crane thought it would be funny to set the forest around her on fire, to chase her away from the Arena's edge and carrel her into the waiting arms of the Careers. My knuckle had clenched from my place perched above the other Gamemakers, watching on as Seneca grinned like a child in a candy store, instructing Gamemaker Lucia to ready a cannon in Katniss' name. But rather, it came for the girl from District 1, whose once beautiful and covetous face, desired by everyone in the Capitol, had swelled from the tracker jackers.

Currently as I sit at my desk, a holographic screen playing in the background of the Games, Katniss is very much alive, though she is still under the influence of the venom. She lays unconscious in a carefully concealed section of the Arena, being tended to by Rue Hyssop from District 11. Technically speaking, I should be in the Tower supervising the Gamemakers, but, as any self-respecting man would admit, I need a break. I have taken to my private office, eyes flickering towards cameras positioned throughout my room I know to be deactivated, where I shall remain for the next hour during this quiet spell within the Arena. It shall provide me plenty of time with a matter of utmost importance.

Reflecting back on my previous thoughts, I recognize that a circus is not a circus without performers. Panem's are the Tributes, but they are only temporary, the lasting performers are the Victors, of whom have learned to play their songs and do their dances to keep the viewers pleased. But many of them have blood in their eyes. The Victors who stand behind me are impressive, but there are still some who I have yet to get ahold of, and others I mean to keep at bay.

When all of this began, I created a list in my head, and over the years I have proudly checked the names off one by one.

As of recently, I procured a name I had been coveting for some time. Ceres Rhythe.

It always piques a man's interest when the child of a Victor partakes and wins within the Arena, another example being Garnett Lux, but Ceres Rhythe had been interesting from the beginning. Seneca's obsession had begun early on, practically since her Tribute Parade, which struck me as odd, making me wonder what was so special about her. She had proved herself efficient within the Arena, in how she survived, how she killed, and how her heart opened to the likes of Birch Indica and the two Tributes from District 12. She continued to protect them, even when he was incapacitated. She has remained interesting even after her Games, having lost her arm, and taken up the position as Seneca Crane's primary paramour.

Her contempt for the man is well-hidden, but I can see in her eyes just how hateful she is towards him. By comparison, I see the warmth in her blue gaze when her eyes find the likes of Finnick Odair. Curious, indeed. Her loyalties are obvious. Approaching her had been a gamble in many ways, but one that had paid off - even despite the fact her father had begged me to stay away from her.

Truth be told, I hadn't expected her to accept my offer so quickly. I had assumed a woman as strategic and mindful as she was would take a number of days, maybe even weeks, to return a response to me. Needless to say, I hadn't been disappointed, even when Tilda came to me with the truth behind her decision - how she had struck Thrax Mellona upon the face, and was scared. It's definitely not ideal, but it's manageable. At least she didn't kill him, yet.

In spite of being a vengeful personality, Thrax hasn't done anything in retaliation towards her, nor even her fellow Victors. I expect this has half to do with the hectic nature of the Games, with the man biding his time for the right, most unproblematic, moment to strike. His silence is far from good, but at least he hasn't made any noise for now. It gives me time to plan, to prepare; focus my priorities on Katniss Everdeen. If I can secure her, if I can keep her alive, then she is my symbol. And with a symbol, there is a visible rebellion, where more Victors will follow behind.

And my less than trustworthy ally within District 13 will be pleased.

Now, that being said, I have no real control of the outside events which transpire beyond my mind - at least, in most cases. I can only hope that, with this hour I have procured for myself, that the outcome will be straightforward. There is someone else who I want, who will be easier to gain now that I have his key. Persuasion thrives in the prolific environment of positive associations. But, first and foremost, I must face another. Rheon is going to find out the truth of Ceres' involvement within our rebellion sooner or later. Might as well be now.

It will make my following decisions a hell of a lot easier.

The silence I have been sitting in, idling through some Gamemaker business on my tablet, is brought to a halt when a knock resounds against my door. I straighten.

"Sir, a Victor is here to see you," I hear Ames' voice on the other side.

"Send him in."

But it isn't Rheon Rhythe who enters my offices, rather Haymitch Abernathy looking remarkably sober all things consider. My brow arches at the sight of him, feeling a small measure of displeasure of having him arrive her, announced. It could draw unwanted attention. My eyes skim across his face and he seems to recognize the mood he has walked into. He scoffs, lifting his hands.

"Relax, Plutarch," he says. "I made it very, very known I was coming here to plead with you."

"Plead with me?"

"Yeah...you know, I was a little put out about my Tribute almost being set on fire. I felt I needed to complain to upper management about it."

"How formidable of you."

Haymitch shrugs. "Crane's handiwork, I take it?"

"You know how he is with theatrics," I say. "I have a meeting. Can this wait?"

"It can't," Haymitch says. "It's something you should be in the loop on."

I sigh. "Fine. But let's make it quick."

"Ceres knows more than we thought."

What considerable timing. "Care to elaborate?"

"Well, after District 4's Tributes were so conveniently massacred during the bloodbath, it meant their funds were left out to dry. Why waste them, after all? Ceres chose to transfer them to my Tributes," he says. "She wants them to win."

The nerves and vexation I felt previously ebbs away a little. My back straightens out and I find my eyes narrowing in on Haymitch, taking in the seriousness upon his face. This certainly took an interesting turn. "That could all be a coincidence, Haymitch."

His head shakes. "She also said we all convert into dust when we die," he says, watching my face tighten. "You talked to her at all?"

"Not since she consented to be a part of this," I say. "So these are her own conclusion."

"Then you're on the same page. At least some of us are," he says. "Enlighten me, does pretty boy know about any of this?"

"Not yet."

"I think it's time he got involved. Among others."

"I agree. It is hard for a man like me to take time away from work, however, hence why my time here and now is so vital," I say. "I'm meeting with Rheon to discuss his daughter's involvement in our cause now. Perhaps, if he takes the news well, I'll also inform him of the fact that she's seemingly caught on to our spark. Clever girl." I shake my head. "Finnick Odair will be joining us soon, I imagine."

"Is that something you're planning on bringing up?" Haymitch asks, scoffing. "Rheon might be more forgiving if he knows Finnick'll be in the line of fire."

Such is the nature of overly protective fathers. "I think you should go now, Haymitch. Thank you for bringing this to my attention...it might make this conversation easier. But you should go. Having two Victors in my office, one abrupt unannounced, might pique too many curious looks. Ames will see you out...aggressively, of course, seeing as how I turned you away for making a scene in my office."

Haymitch scoffs again. "Right...drunkard in a Gamemaker's quarters," he says. "See, I'm not planning on leaving, Plutarch. You'll need me here."

"And why is th -"

But before I can finish speaking, there is a loud thundering noise from beyond the door. Ames' voice, usually so calm and deadpanned, suddenly raises a little as the doors to my office burst open. The one-eyed Victor from District 4 rushes inside, and anger throughout his demeanor.

"I already told Rheon about Ceres," Haymitch says. "I'm here as the precursor."

My eyes cut to him then back to Rheon, forcing myself to face the storm with calm. "Rheon. I wasn't expecting you so soon," I say, as cordially as I can muster. "Haymitch, thank you for being so forward...behind my back. Would you be so kind as to stay with us for a moment?'

"If you're expecting me to protect you, you're shit out of luck," Haymitch says.

I glance behind Rheon and his heaving shoulders and flaring nostrils towards Ames, who has closed the door behind him and is looking back at me expectantly. I arch my brow at him and he nods, clinging close to the walls with his tablet tucked under his arm, but I see how his free hand strays into his coat. I glance back at Rheon.

"Haymitch stays," Rheon says. "If he doesn't, I may just kill you myself."

"That would put a damper on our acts of treason," I say. "Rheon, I -"

"Ceres was never to be involved, not until absolutely necessary. That was our agreement, those were our terms, when I gave you my son's books," Rheon says, approaching my desk in long strides. He slams his palms down against it, rattling some carefully stacked papers there. "What you've done is irreversible. And to think...I learned it from Haymitch."

Despite the anger I am feeling towards Haymitch for going behind my back, I keep it controlled. There is no reason to keep things so hidden now between us, not when things are open, but I can gain some semblance of control over it again. I bring myself to my feet, aware that there is no real damage Rheon can inflict against me. He may speak blindly and with rage, but he won't hurt me - much less kill me. From where we stand, we are in the middle of the orchestration of a rebellion. The song is sung now and there's no muting it, and the music shall carry over. That being said, anyone is replaceable, including myself. While I do have contingency plans in place should I fall, now would be a most inconvenient time, for everyone.

"In Plutarch's defense," Haymitch says, "it was only a matter of time."

Rheon scoffs, darkly. He has quite a head over me and stands tall, yet I meet his gaze unwaveringly. "Neither of you are fathers," he says. "I had my suspicions before Haymitch...I was going to confront you, before he told me the truth. Ceres, she...she would have convinced Ren against sending Kipper and Marina into the Cornucopia, but she didn't. I know my daughter, she would have stood her ground against him, but she didn't. And now she's helping Haymitch support his Tributes with our funds, and looking for Sponsors for him. She chose Katniss Everdeen. Imagine that."

I open my hands. "Believe it or not, Rheon, I had no sway on your daughter's choice to Sponsor Ms. Everdeen."

"Smart girl came to that conclusion on her own," Haymitch says. "To Plutarch's very little credit."

Rheon glances coldly at the notorious drunkard and back to me. "We agreed she'd stay out of this. You broke your part of the deal," he says. "If this goes south, they'll know she was involved, and they will kill her, or do worse."

I offer the angered Victor in front of me a smile, though it lacks any semblance of warmth. "To my very little credit...it's hard to see what hasn't formed. The rebellion is here, gentlemen. Katniss Everdeen, I'm sure, is our spark - and every sacrifice we've seen, every drop of blood we've spilled, will mean something when all is said and done," I say. "Rheon...you and I both know it was only a matter of time. Ceres needed to be a part of this."

"She needed to be safe," Rheon protests.

"Don't delude yourself. You're a smarter man than that," I say. "So long as she's Seneca's paramour, she isn't safe. None of you are, including me. We all stand for a cause we're willing to fall for. Each of us understood the consequences."

Haymitch takes a step closer, placing a hand between myself and Rheon. I can see the contempt behind Haymitch's eyes as he looks at me, but at the very least he is keeping Rheon from lunging forward. I doubt the man, no matter how angered, would react so impulsively - but one can never fully be certain with people. "You'll face your consequences someday, Plutarch. We all will," he says. "But he is right, Rheon. Ceres was going to learn the truth sooner or later. It's better she knows now. Besides, Plutarch is only doing what he promised, recruiting Victors...you've been doing the same thing. How is Gemma doing?"

Rheon's eyes, which had been fixated firmly onto me, suddenly snap towards Haymitch with a sharp swing of his neck. He pushes Haymitch's hand aside and takes a step back, face now ignited red. "We're not..." he stops, jaw clenching. "Gemma is in. I'm not sure about Garnett - really, any of those Careers. But that's dif -"

"Good job, then. You seduced her to our side."

"I never seduced her," Rheon says. "This isn't about me. This is about -"

But Haymitch ignores the man, carrying on. "Listen, it's obvious you've had trouble with your missus back home. And, let's face it, you don't have the most savory history yourself -"

"Enough!" I yell, watching both Victors startle as my voice echoes in the tightly contained and soundproof chamber. "Haymitch, get out."

"Trust me. It's safer for you if I stay," Haymitch says.

"I don't care. Get out. You've done enough," I say.

Haymitch's mouth twitches a little, looking towards the enraged and flustered Rheon. He says nothing else before turning and departing from the room in long strides. Ames goes to escort him out, no doubt replicating the façade I had previously envisioned earlier. None of this is ideal. The cameras within my chamber are no longer operational, at least not in the way that will be noticeable, but the others are; a show is necessary in order to remain invisible.

After a few moments of silence, allowing one another to collect ourselves, I finally look back towards Rheon. His dark eyes are dangerously placed upon me.

His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I'm not having an affair," he says, so lowly I know he is speaking solely to himself.

I consider pretending I haven't heard him, but decide against it. "I don't give a damn about your personal love life, Rheon, so long as you stay focused," I say. "Despite what you believe, your daughter chose this. I never forced her hand, not to join us and not to towards Katniss, either. Frankly, prior to now, I've been keeping my thoughts on that matter to myself, save for a few. That being said, I was hoping to discuss this with you personally. Haymitch was out of line."

"Out of line...we aren't your soldiers, Plutarch. You don't control us," Rheon says. "We're loyal to each other. We don't know or trust you."

"Understandably so. I've yet to help you gain the freedoms you deserve," I say. "If it were up to me, things would be moving faster. But we both know that's impossible. If we move too fast, make too much noise, we'll be seen."

"I know how the game goes. I've played it before," Rheon says.

"All the more reason for you to understand why patience is necessary. And why we can't discriminate between your peers," I say. "If Ceres weren't your daughter, you wouldn't have batted an eye to her involvement."

Rheon's eyes flicker. "You sound so sure," he says, though I can tell I've struck a nerve. "Since you've been recruiting her, who else? Have you recruited anyone else from my District? Finnick? Annie?"

"Ms. Odesta will continue to stay out of these affairs, for her sake," I assure. "As for Finnick, I believe - as does Haymitch - that he should become a part of this as soon as possible. I had even planned on telling you beforehand."

"Funny how you extend that courtesy to me for Finnick, but not my daughter."

"He is her lover, after all."

Something shadows over across Rheon's face, and there's a split moment where I half-expect him to lunge. But he steels himself into place, jaw clenching and diverting his eyes to find something interesting on the floor, but when he lifts his eyes again they are no less composed.

"Typical Gamemaker," he says. "You're no different than them, are you?"

"I beg to differ," I say. "You can't shield your daughter forever." When he doesn't reply, I carry on. "I've always known that one cannot go without the other, either. If Finnick knows Ceres is a part of it, he won't hesitate to join, just as Ceres would have joined immediately if she knew Finnick was involved. It's a mathematical certainty."

A cruel smile adorns Rheon's face. "We're all still pawns to you, then," he says, laughing mirthlessly. "One piece leads to the next move."

"Inevitably, that's what we all are. But it doesn't change the fact that your daughter made her choice," I say. "It doesn't seem the Rhythe family has a great track record for their decision making when it comes to each other, or yourselves, but I -"

But before I can finish my thought, Rheon is reacting. There is a flash of movement and, before I know it, the Victor has moved around my desk and has slammed me back against the wall. His arm is tucked under my neck, pressing just enough that I gasp for air by surprise alone. He's staring down at me darkly. It's very strange to see a man with a false eye so up close. As it were, Rheon's natural eyes had always been strange. They were so dark that the pupil seemed to disappear within them, creating these strange fathomless voids that deterred most Capitolians during his Hunger Games.

Many were disturbed by his cold stare and lack of charisma, even considering he was an attractive individual. When he lost one of his eyes and had it replaced with obsidian, it only enhanced the Capitol's discomfort. It has been a wide attribute as to why his popularity never accelerated, why he's remained at the bottom. It's said the eyes are the windows to the soul, so what does that make Rheon? As he stares down at me now, unblinking and his eyes crinkled with rage, I have to wonder.

"Keep my family out of your mouth," he hisses.

"You should let me go," I say, calmly.

His head tilts. "You created our Games. You were the puppeteer behind our nightmares," he says. "And you expect us to just trust you. I had one condition when you approached me...one. I gave you my son's books for your schemes, I've fed you information, I haven't questioned you, and yet you still sought her out."

"This changes nothing," I say. "You can bash my head in for all I care. What would it change? Nothing. So, let me go and we can discuss this like reasonable gentlemen."

"Go to hell."

Rheon presses a little harder against my throat, when suddenly there is a small clicking sound that catches both of our attentions. Maintaining his hold on me, Rheon turns to peer over his shoulder. Standing at the now closed door, Ames is there, pointing a gun at the Victor's back.

"I suggest you put that down," Rheon says, dangerously, "before you hurt yourself."

"Let him go first," Ames replies.

I see Rheon calculate the moment in his head, looking between me and Ames before he steps back, removing his hold on me. I see the disappointment on his face, but I also see sensibility creeping into his features. "Your secretary is armed?"

I adjust my coat. "More or less. Ames, lower it. It's fine," I say.

Ames does so, though his eyes remain upon Rheon.

I take a step closer to him. "Whether you like it or not, Ceres is a part of this now," I say. "If it's any consolation, she knows nothing. I haven't been in contact with her since she made her decision, not until I'm sure of a few things." He doesn't reply. "It's been a long time coming, we both know it, but Finnick needs to be involved now. To my understanding, Finnick Odair is paid in secrets. He'd be a valuable asset to our fight. He would know things, could procure information necessary to bring people down. And I imagine he'd love to watch them fall."

At that, Rheon scoffs. "Ceres is a bargaining chip for Finnick, then?" he challenges.

"Among other things," I say. "I value her mind and spirit."

"Will either of those benefit her if the Capitol finds out about this?" he says. "If she dies because of you, I'll rip you apart myself."

"I'd expect nothing less from you, Rheon."

"Good. When are you going to approach Finnick?"

"Are you just as inclined to stand up for your former Tribute or are you a little more apt for him to enter a dangerous situation, Rheon?" I challenge, watching his whole face shadow. "I'll be meeting with him shortly. Do you expect he'll take it well?"

"If you expect him to trust you, think again."

I can't help but to laugh at that. "Rheon...you think too highly of me. I know better," I say. "Now that all of that dirty business is out of the way, and that anger is hopefully out of your system, I hope you can understand why."

"I understand that your reckoning will come," Rheon says. "As will ours. You made the games, but we played them...I doubt there are any happy endings for us at the end of this, Plutarch. But if we can end them all, then that should be enough." He inhales deeply, eyes closing. "But if you ever disturb my family again or go behind my back, you'll regret it."

"I'm glad we have an understanding. You can leave now, Rheon...unless there was something else you wanted out of your system."

But the Victor doesn't reply. He casts me a final cold stare and spins around, storming out of the office without another word. Both Ames and I stand in complete silence for a short period before I allow myself the luxury of an exhale, finally feeling the pain in my throat, and the throbbing sensation in my back from where I had been impacted. I press my palm against my desk, steadying myself. Across the room, Ames is watching me like a hawk.

"Sir, are you sure about this?"

"About?"

Ames slowly approaches, his expression hardening. "Finnick Odair is the Capitol darling. You're sure he isn't loyal, like the Career pack?" he asks, brow arching skeptically.

"Trust me. I'm sure."

"And Rheon Rhythe...?"

"An angry and protective father lashing out, nothing to worry about yet," I say. "Tell me, how is the Oneiroi looking?"

"Controlled, sir. Kilo's seen to it," Ames says. "The cameras won't pick up anything for the time you're with him."

I nod. "Good. And while you're at it, find out more about Cicero Crane and Thrax Mellona's little business arrangement, will you? That could be useful."

"Of course, sir. Is there anything else?"

"Arrange my meeting with Finnick Odair for tonight, Ames. I need to go back to work."

---

Ceres.

---

This is how I spend the next few days, finding ways to keep Katniss Everdeen alive - the purest for of productivity, at the moment - and keeping Haymitch as sober as humanly possible. All things considered, he's done a marvelous job at the endeavor, surpassing even my own expectations.

That is to say, nothing about this has been easy. Every single day has been a challenge by fire, quite literally.

A few days into the Games, while Katniss had been asleep in the trees, a forest fire had ignited and she was forced to flee the scene as fast as she possibly could. I remember sitting with my hand clenched over my drink as I stared at the screen, as I had sat with Tilda and Ren among some Capitolians at a social event. My heart had hammered with utmost fear and fury as the Girl on Fire made her escape, dodging falling trees and the vast expanse of flames. She had severely burned her leg in the process, but had stumbled upon a cool spring of water. But the relief had been short-lived, because the Careers found her.

They chased her down like hunters to a deer, until she climbed a tree. She was out of reach, but the girl from District 1 had tried shooting her down to no avail. Peeta had convinced them to wait. Despite the odds, they consented, and I sigh with relief over how utterly stupid these Careers are. If they had any semblance of wit or brains, or they would have resorted to trying to burn the tree down, but that is a way of thinking I never want to return to, and I'm grateful that they lacked the means to consider it. So, the Careers slept at the bottom of the tree, biding their time.

It hadn't lasted long. The girl from District 11, Rue Hyssop, was in a tree not far from Katniss' and had pointed out a trackerjacker hive just above the girl's head. Katniss had cut it down atop the Careers, killing the girl from District 2, and severely stinging the others. I'll admit, a small smirk had tugged at the corner of my mouth as I watched the sight. It brings me no pleasure to watch Tributes die, under any circumstance. Yet the intelligence and critical thinking Katniss presented in that moment, even as the genetically engineered wasps were stinging her in retaliation, was remarkable.

After having dismounted the tree when the Careers fled, clearly hallucinating and out of it on account of the venom, she had managed to take the bow from Glimmer's dead hands. She had proceeded to wander and stumble aimlessly, until Peeta found her. "Get out of here! Go! What are you doing? Go!" he had yelled in her face, eyes wide as saucers and voice riddled with desperation.

It had been a vast change from the boy willing to sell her out to the Careers, enough to cause a stir among the Capitolians. An onslaught of queries and intrigue erupted from between them, curious as to what was transpiring between the two. Had Peeta planned on protecting Katniss the whole time? Was he actively trying to lead the Careers astray from her path? The murmurs had bloomed and theories were constantly present within every conversation. People wanted to know more about the star-crossed lovers from District 12, the boy who is fighting for the girl, and what the girl will do next.

As it were, Katniss had managed to escape the clutches of the Careers, before collapsing. She was found by Rue, who has been taking care of her unconscious body ever since. That is to say, days after the events involving the trackerjackers. To say that I am surprised by this would be an understatement. It would have been so easy for the sweet-faced girl from District 11, only twelve years old, to eradicate one of the competitors in such an easy way. No one could have faulted her for it. Yet, instead, she had chosen kindness. In the rare instances where the Gamemakers show the unconscious Katniss being tended to by Rue, I see her cleaning her wounds and checking on her bandages, which are made up of leaves and dirt and some herbs.

I can't help but to find my heart aching a little as I recollect my time during my Games. Liber had betrayed me by casting and abandoning me into water with a crocodile Muttation in it. He had left me to die there, as it gripped my arm and twisted me in the water over and over, until I was finally free. I had escaped, resurfaced to the land, but had not noticed my bloodied stump until too late. I remember the agony that overtook me, how the blood loss was astronomical and how I had collapsed onto the ground. Seeping into unconsciousness, I should have died on that ground. A cannon would have gone off for me. But, instead, Nellie had found me. She had taken me to a secret and out-of-sight corner of the caves where she nursed me back to health, tended to my wounds, and ensured I didn't die.

She, too, could have killed me that day, and the days after. Instead she helped me, and I survived. Not a day goes by where I don't find myself looking at my stump and remembering the girl who protected me, healed me, and fought by my side towards the end against the Careers. No one in the Capitol remembers her, but I do.

The good die young, my mother told me once.

It's true, though I hate to admit it. In any case, despite the fact that Katniss is unconscious she is still very much alive, and for that time there is hope.

As her name and the name of Peeta Mellark, who is hiding away from the Careers now that they have dubbed him a traitor, have become a constant topic amongst the Capitolians, I become more sure as to my theory that she is the spark. Still, I have no confirmation on that. I haven't heard word from Plutarch Heavensbee, which, I suppose, is a good thing. As vexing as the silence is, I also need to take into account the fact the Games have started, so his time is going to be a little less open and available. After all, Seneca can't even find time to squeeze me in once the Games begin, so if he can't get my time, how can Plutarch?

I just hope I'll have the chance to speak with him before or after the Games conclude. Surely there'll be a quiet spell then, where he and I can meet and discuss a few things. After all, he's received the confirmation that I want to be a part of his rebellion. Surely he'd want to go over a couple of details with me, even if I'm still fresh meat. Unfortunately, I have to be patient - bide my time, continue to play my role within the Capitol, and try to hide my contempt for it all. Thankfully, securing Sponsors for Haymitch has been a nice distraction.

Finnick has been supportive to my plans to do so. Ren and Tilda have both tagged along with it, as well, though Tilda protested a handful of times (obligatory, I'm sure) to place it towards a set of Tributes more likely to win, but I've always won the case. Rheon did cast me an odd look when I brought up my newfound partnership with Haymitch Abernathy, making me wonder if I have revealed my intentions to him, and when he's going to piece together what exactly is going on. He hasn't brought it up directly. Sooner or later, it'll have to be addressed, but preferably later.

Until then, I'm doing what I can for Haymitch, and for Katniss Everdeen.

Currently I am sitting on the edge of my bed, going through a list of potential Sponsors Ivoree had secured for me earlier. I check off the ones I've been talking to, one by one, and find myself smiling a little at the progress made towards District 12's popularity. While the number of Sponsors isn't wholly impressive - certainly there is quantity, but the actual amount of funds could be better - it's a vast improvement from what Haymitch has seen before.

But as I am going through these names, the tablet buzzes in my hands, and an alert pops up. A grimace falls over my face. I spend a minute or two procrastinating opening it, for my own sanity. Seneca never summons me at the beginning of the Games, nor really throughout it unless there's a quiet spell where he can seize about ten minutes to have me on his desk as a little stress reliever, but it's all too soon for that. It could be the alert has to do with Sponsors, but something in me is doubtful of that.

Wasting three minutes staring at the wall, I exhale loudly and finally open it, but it isn't Seneca's name.

Hadrian Gnaeus. That's a name I haven't heard before, at least not one that I remember off the top of my head. The grimace shifts into perplexed look as I open the request further, finding it to be a Capitolian inviting me out to an early dinner tonight at some kind of party. To my internal horror and disgust, it reads as "ocean themed," meaning that I will be a piece of the decorations. It's not necessarily uncommon for Victors to be invited to such ludicrously themed affairs. And, in any case, given my exclusivity to Seneca Crane the Capitolians knows they can't have me in that way, but they can still secure my time for events such as these. Parties, dinners, and so on.

It's a little surprising that someone would want to summon me for something so ridiculous, particularly when my Tributes are dead, but I try to see it as a chance to secure Sponsors at a fancy event. I accept the invitation and evaluate the instructions, noting how I will be picked up and delivered to the location, and how it is requested that I wear something ocean themed.

Great. Still, maybe there's something productive in this - a way I can help Katniss. Besides, it's just a party. What's the worst that can happen?

---

"An ocean themed party? You're serious?"

I look up towards the mirror in front of me, smiling as I see Galeria's aghast face behind me. "Ocean themed," I repeat.

My Stylist shakes her head, a scoff parting from her dark blue lips. Today my Stylist's hair is ebony black with streaks of silver lined through it, resembling an almost tabby cat pattern, and is hanging loosely around her shoulders. Her pale face is adorned by electric blue makeup and glitter, creating such a sharp and strange contrast. The very same color is drawn across her bare arms in lightning-bolt designs. They also allegedly glow in the dark, though the room is too bright to tell. As very odd as her fashion might be, and how very Capitolian she looks right now, she is a welcomed sight. Under normal circumstances, my team of Stylists would be the ones to arrive to help me get ready for my meeting, since Galeria is usually so busy.

But given District 4's most recent loss, as well as the general hectic and emotionally draining qualities of the Hunger Games, Galeria has taken it upon herself to see me directly. It's nice. While I am fond of my team, quirky as they may be, Galeria is my truest friend here in the Capitol. She dresses like them, speaks like them, and yet she doesn't act like them. Her disdain for the Games is open to me and she's never shied away from empathizing with me for each and every loss I've endured, despite how controversial it might be from another's point of view. It goes without saying she knows nothing about the rebellion. As much as I trust and love her as a friend, I cannot - will not - endanger what Plutarch has growing from within. Still, I can tell she can see just how stressed I am, and her eyes have been probing at me in search of any unveiled answers since she arrived.

There's a great deal to be concerned about nowadays. I can easily pawn off my visible nerves as simply still being in shock over the loss of Kipper and Marina, which is partly true, or my growing resentment towards my circumstances with Seneca Crane, or any other millions of things. Yet I know, no matter how convincing my fib is, she'll see through it. She's too clever that way.

Galeria's nimble fingers are currently pulling my hair into an intricate fish braid, pausing only to lock gazes with me through th emirror. "Were any of the others invited?"

"I don't think so, otherwise we'd all be getting ready," I say, shrugging. "Finnick and Tilda are with clients. My dad's with Haymitch, I think, smoothing out the details of our alliance, and Ren is...he's just taking some time for himself. Kipper and Marina's deaths really shook him."

She hums at that, lips pressing together. "Are you okay?"

I'm not entirely sure how to answer that. No answer feels wholly right...if I say I am alright, that's partially true, because the distractions circulating around me have done well to let me overlook my grief. I am definitely not okay, though, because at night I relive their deaths when I close my eyes. And then I wonder if I can ever forgive myself even if we do somehow overthrow the Hunger Games, if the world becomes a safer place. Can I atone for playing a role in sacrificing them?

Nothing really feels right. It must show on my face because Galeria wordlessly squeezes my shoulder and moves on from my hair to some ocean-themed jewelry, like a long pearl necklace that wraps twice around my neck, as well as some earrings. I understand what this cue means. She knows I'm not sure how to reply, or if I don't want to, and is giving me permission to carry on. I smile gratefully at our reflections.

"I appreciate you coming to help me get ready," I say. "You have to be busy, though."

"Never too busy for you," Galeria says, grabbing some golden cuffs and attaching them to my wrists. "Let me know if I can do anything for you."

I shake my head. "This whole thing is ridiculous," I say. "I'm just going to be some attraction there, the thing to tie the theme together. Knowing my luck, there'll be seafood and sea-based drinks and, God, fashion...how they think we dress." My nose scrunches a little, earning a laugh from my Stylist. "I don't think I have to say long."

Galeria shrugs. "Eh, could be productive," she offers. "Do you know who'll be there? Or where it is?"

"I don't know who else will be there, but I know it's at some house."

"You'll have Leto, right?"

"I'll be fine," I say, glancing at my pager resting on top of the vanity. "Do you know a Hadrian Gnaeus?"

Her brow knits together as she ponders over the name. She shakes her head. "Not personally. Gnaeus sounds a little familiar, though. I could do some sleuthing."

"No, it's fine. It's just for the night," I say. "He probably requested me because Tilda is busy."

"You're also very beautiful." Galeria locks eyes with me again. "Just be careful."

"I always am," I say. "This isn't the first event I've been invited to by someone other than Seneca."

"It just always worries me. Regardless," she says, sighing. "I know they can't do anything, but they can in their heads."

"They're free to do whatever they want inside of their heads. The me they have inside of there is only made of moonlight," I say, watching the ghost of a smile flicker across her lips. "It's a chance to procure Sponsors for Haymitch. That's all that matters."

Galeria hums at that, gently pulling me to stand up so she can adjust my skirt. She has me in this long sapphire blue sleeveless dress that goes down to my feet, with a V-shaped neckline covered by pearls. My arms are bare and wear those wrist cuffs, but I also have a beige shawl around my shoulders knitted and patterned out to resemble a fishing net. My braid hangs over my left shoulder, with a couple of strands strategically placed to frame my face. The makeup she's adorned me with is tasteful.

There's sea-green and coral pink on my eyelids, to compliment my blue eyes. There's some soft pink highlighter upon my cheeks, accentuating my sun-kissed freckles. My lips are a dull shade of red, almost brown, with the softest hint of gloss upon them. Something I have always valued Galeria for is her simplicity. Whereas some Stylists really try to push a sense of outrageous absurdity to their respective Victors' clothes, Galeria pays homage to my District, but without making me look like a prop. It's tasteful, and I always feel comfortable (for the most part) in whatever she puts me.

After having smoothed out my skirt, she stands. "Cinna mentioned you were helping Haymitch. It's very sweet of you."

"So far so good," I say. "How is Cinna? I imagine he's relieved how well Katniss is doing so far."

Her head tilts. "You could say that," she says. "Although I was with him when the forest was set ablaze...that was a little on the nose."

"Seneca probably did that," I say. "He's not very discreet."

"He's an idiot," she replies, casually, and I can't help but to laugh. She reaches out and touches my shoulders. "You look great. Good luck tonight, okay?"

"Of course. Let Cinna know we're all rooting for the Girl on Fire," I say.

Galeria smiles at that and departs from me, and I sit alone for a short while before I receive an alert that my ride has arrived. With a deep sigh, I grab my clutch and pocket a couple of personal items, including my pager and tablet, and venture towards the elevator. I rock on my heels (I am wearing a nice practical pair of flats, so I'm able to comfortably do so), and I stare down at the translucent crystalline floor below me. This is going to be a productive evening, I'm going to make sure of that.

I have no idea who Hadrian Gnaeus is, as the pager wouldn't allow me to access his name and information, but I can only imagine he's moron looking to add a mascot to his stupid party. He doesn't concern me. If I am lucky, I can persuade him into Sponsoring the Girl on Fire. If not him, there are surely countless others who will be in attendance I can try my hand at. There'll be options.

Crossing over the Tribute Center and making my way outside, I startle a little to the sight of a car different from Leto's. It's a long black limousine, with Leto standing at the door. I find this a little odd, as Leto usually drives the same car (or at least has multiple versions of the same vehicle) to my respective locations, so this is an odd change. But seeing my tall, stony faced bodyguard standing there as a familiar sight is comforting enough. When he opens the door for me, I see the outline of a person inside. Ah. This must be Hadrian Gnaeus...although he hadn't detailed it, I imagine he wanted us to drive together to make an appearance, and he likely requested this specific car, too.

I fight back the urge to roll my eyes as I slide inside, Leto closing the door after me.

The inside of the limo is strangely spacious, with a long row of black leather seating, decorative lights, a small table full of lavish drinks and finger food. Everything inside of here smells leathery, fresh, and like some expensive cologne that stings my nostrils. Once I am seated, I face forward towards my companion for the evening. There's a small table between us, with an equally small holographic screen depicting the events of the Games. Two of the Careers are on patrol, whilst the others have built a nest at the Cornucopia. They've utilized the bombs to their disposal; burying them around the cargo of supplies. Smart.

The man is watching the events unfold with a keen eye, especially as the cameras shift to Katniss Everdeen finally waking up. I feel myself suck in a sharp breath, wishing that I could be back in my apartments to watch, or with Haymitch or literally anyone else. I have to refocus, however, but I feel an immeasurable sense of relief as Katniss slowly stirs, peeling back the makeshift bandages over her wounds. She's alive. She's alive.

I force myself to look up. He is a relatively young looking man, maybe a year or two older than me, with long angular features and neon yellow hair upon his head. His eyebrows are dyed the very same color. The suit he wears is a shocking sapphire blue, creating an utter eye sore. His shoes glitter and have a scaly texture, making me wonder exactly what they are made of.

I smile at him. "You must be Hadrian Gnaeus," I say.

"You would be correct," he says. "The striking Ceres Rhythe. It's a pleasure. I hope you don't mind we carpool together."

"Not at all," I say, barely feeling it as the limo moves forward. It's all alarmingly smooth. "It is a party we're going to, right?"

"Yes, indeed. Oceanic themed," Hadrian says, smiling cockily as if that should impress me. Good job, four syllables. Look at you go. He carries on. "Well, you definitely weren't our first choice, but you were the only one available." He eyes my left side with a grimace. "It's a bit gory, but I suppose it's also a bit of a treat to have someone who's had a real deadly encounter with a sea-beast. Crocodiles are sea-dwelling, aren't they? I can't recall."

I fight back a scowl. As I suspected, I wasn't their first choice - more than likely they had wanted the beautiful and perfect Tilda Steelbrook in attendance, and I'm just the second best choice. That part doesn't offend me, as I had been expecting it and I refuse to feel any sense of appreciation of jealousy within the Capitol, but I do wince a little at the blasé nature of how he addresses my wound.

Looking at his arms, which are draped over the seat behind him, I wonder how he would like it being twisted into the death roll by a very angry and very hungry crocodile. But I don't let any of this show on my face. I just keep smiling. "Crocodiles can be found in both saltwater and freshwater environments."

"Of course. I knew that," Hadrian says, snapping his fingers.

Sure you did.

"Interesting Games this year," he adds.

"Very interesting."

"It was very upsetting when your Tributes died."

I press my hand against my side so I can clench it, unseen. "Did you have money placed on them?"

"I make a point not to gamble so soon, although that Marina girl was very pretty. Had she won, I wouldn't have complained," he says. "But the same could be said for that Glimmer girl...real shame. It's almost a tragedy we can't send ugly people into the Arena instead...but, then again, an ugly winner would emerge...shame we can't rig the system, right?"

Shame I can't beat your face in. "It's a tragedy."

Hadrian nods, seemingly only half-listening to me. "Everyone keeps rooting for this Girl on Fire. I have my doubts."

"Why's that?"

"I mean, think about it. A girl from District 12 winning? Impossible."

Hadrian leans over to the seat beside him, grabbing it by its bottom and lifting it up as if it were a lid. Underneath, there appears to be a cooler, as he retracts a bottle of champagne from there, as well as a small crystal box with what appears to be something akin to sand inside; an amber colored substance, which shifts and sways as it's moved. He closes the lid down and sets both atop. I watch as he reaches for two empty glasses and sets them down on the small table between us.

"What's this?"

"Oh, some champagne. These parties can be pretty intolerable when you're sober," he says.

I have no doubt about that. "I'm not much for alcohol," I say.

"It's very light," Hadrian assures. "Besides, I don't like drinking unless someone else does, too."

"If you have water, I'll have some of that."

He arches his brow, looking unimpressed, and pours two glasses of champagne, anyway. I resist the urge to sigh and roll my eyes. I suppose I can at least hold it, play along, maybe find a way to pour a little out discreetly along with the game. I make an effort to keep myself constantly on alert whenever I am out for affairs such as these, even with Seneca. Allowing alcohol to stray away with my mind, or any other substance, is too frightening a concept to consider. It requires too much vulnerability.

If there is anything the Arena taught me, it's to not let my guard down.

After the glasses have been poured, Hadrian hands me mine and I accept it. He then proceeds to open the crystal box full of that shimmering substance. He looks it over carefully, brings it to his nose, and softly inhales. With a contented sigh, he sets it down. He takes his thumb and forefinger and gently takes some of the substance between them, and then sprinkles the rest overtop his drink. He sways his slim glass before drawing a sip.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Oh, it's spice. Do you know what spice is?"

"Can't say I do."

"It's a, well..." he smiles, leaning forward. "To put it in simple terms, it's a relaxer. It can do incredible and wonderful things depending on doses, but, for now, it's meant to soothe my nerves and make this evening more enjoyable. Would you care for some? It's very difficult to get your hands on this, so you'd be savoring a real treat. But it is tedious to take."

"Why take it, then?"

"You must've missed the first part. The pleasant side effects, of course. The relaxants are just the tip of the iceberg for what spice can do, if utilized properly," he says. "When taken in larger doses, it can create fascinating hallucinations. I once took a little too much and spent the better part of two days dreaming about a nine foot tall woman chasing me through my house...marvelous dream. But I have learned from that experience. I understand the quantities better than most. So, care for some?"

"No, thank you," I say. "I like to have my wits about me."

He shrugs. "Sometimes it's nice to get lost in your own head and not be in control of your body for a while," he says. "If my father found out, he'd be furious."

"It sounds like a scandalous drug."

"Oh, it is," he says. "Too big of a dosage can kill you...depending on a person's stamina. Mine is most impressive. Shall we toast?"

"Toast to what, exactly?"

"A pleasant evening."

I fight back the urge to roll my eyes again, but oblige. I lean forward and gently clink my glass against his. I draw a small sip from my glass, noting how the champagne has a sweet, almost cinnamon style, taste to it. A little odd, to say the least, but it's tiny enough. I set the glass down on the table in front of us, while Hadrian finishes half of his glass with a broad smile.

"Where do you live, exactly?" I ask.

"In the estates."

"I see. Why are we carpooling to your home, then, instead of me just meeting you there? Is it being hosted at your house?"

Hadrian chuckles. "More or less," he says.

I look towards the end of the inside of the limo, towards a black window which, I imagine when open, shows the driver - Leto - taking us to our designated location. No doubt this thing is slow on account of its length, but I do wish it would hurry up a little. I want this over with.

I brush my tongue over the inside of my teeth, then the roof of my mouth, where I notice a strange sticky sensation. Huh. Maybe it's something I ate earlier. I tentatively take my glass and draw a sip from it, in an effort to wash away it away. When I feel it again, it feels the same, and the taste of cinnamon dwells longer in the back of my throat; like a tingle.

The texture lingers on after one more sip of the glass. I set it down, shifting uncomfortably now. Hadrian is looking at me over the rim of his own drink.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"No. Nothing. Just something I ate, I think," I say. My words come out slower than they should, less sensical. Strange. I bite my tongue as if to wake up my mouth.

"You look a little dizzy."

"Just motion sickness. Are we close?"

"Soon, I expect," Hadrian says. "You could lay down if you wanted, until we get there."

Something cold settles in the pit of my stomach. It registers in my brain, alerting me loudly, but my reactions are strangely slow and I'm struggling to pinpoint things in real time. Each time I blink, I notice how some things are a little blurrier than before. I look down at the drink, at the clear slightly pink-hued liquid. I reach out and grab it by its stem, stirring it slightly, carefully watching the bottom. I see the grainy remnants of something sand-like at the bottom of the drink, so subtle and so small I almost miss them.

"I hope you don't mind," Hadrian says, watching all of this without so much as blinking, "but I lined our glasses with spice before you arrived. I thought it would make the night interesting."

He's smiling so pleasantly, as if he had placed a secret piece of candy under my pillow to find later. My mouth hangs low for a moment, realizing that the sticky texture has expanded throughout my mouth, reminding me of wet sand. "Stop the car."

"But we're almost there," Hadrian says.

"Leto -"

"Isn't the driver. My personal chauffer is taking us to our location," Hadrian says, causing my bones to chill. "Your bodyguard has the day off. Mine is perfectly capable of keeping us safe, don't worry. Sit back, enjoy yourself. Shall I turn on music?"

I grind my teeth as the man in front of me starts to twist and say amidst my vision, as if I had my eyes open underwater. His whole body distorts as the corners of my vision starts to blacken. Despite how sluggish I feel and how disorientated, a sense of determination fills me. Bastard. My hand clenches at my side, nails digging into my palm. I draw in a couple of steady breaths, weighing my options. Lunge for him, lunge for the door. But I'm not even sure where the door is, exactly. The wall is lined with lights and a black velvety fabric, making it resemble a windowless room more than anything. My eyes flicker around me, trying desperately to pinpoint something amidst the haze as Hadrian watches me amusedly.

There. I see the handle for the door. I push myself up as fast as I am able, my movements weighted, and I reach for the handle. Locked. I try to use my natural strength to slam my body against it, yanking the handle out as far as I can, but to no avail. Anger fills me, and I face it towards Hadrian. I go to hit him, but it's awkward because of the table between us. I'm not even sure where he's sitting in front of me anymore, because although he is sitting still he is constantly moving. Little by little, my vision starts to fade. I'm swinging at dead air.

Soon I just slump against the table, propping myself up by my elbow as a wave of nausea overtakes me. Fury, fear, hatred. I feel myself start to slide off of it and land with a soft thud against the floor, where my muscles betray me.

"Mellona said you'd be like this. We're almost there," Hadrian says, finishing his glass. "Just relax and enjoy the ride."

---

(a/n): This was a chapter I looked very much forward to writing but also one I very much dreaded. We're going into deep shit within the next few chapters, a lot of things are going to transpire, and I am very nervous and very excited for how it will be portrayed and perceived. So...*jazz hands and nervous laughter*

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: THE SEEDS ARE BEING PLANTED, INDEED! Come next chapter we're going to be seeing Plutarch and Finnick together, at long last. *evil grin* It's been such a delight to write the BTS of the Hunger Games! I was always intrigued by how Plutarch orchestrated everything and the kinds of relationships he had with the Victors. The conclusion that I came to was that it was very tense. I didn't want the Victors to be wholly convinced or trusting towards him, as seen in Rheon and Haymitch being very confrontational and tense with him (the same isn't said for others, though, there are also some Victors who wholly trust Plutarch). Plutarch himself also has no reason to trust them, nor even his allies in District 13. ;) Trust is built upon...and we'll be seeing more of it after Katniss wins, when there's a real symbol to fight behind. ;)

the. apple .seed: Thank you so much! I remember reading The Sorcerer's Stone for the first time and wondering who the hell Sirius Black was, and being richly rewarded when he appeared in Prisoner of Azkaban. I always love the idea of name-dropping random characters who are, for all intents and purpose, meaningless and introducing them later with meat on their bones. So I really appreciate you noticed that detail! Ithaca's mother is a doozy. And Ovid! I am very, very excited for his character to be explored. ;) There's a lot going on for him. Is he in kahoots with Plutarch? Is he allied with Snow? Is he allied with no one but himself? We shall have to see...;)

---

~CASTING~

Hadrian Gnaeus: Alex Pettyfer