CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

I don't wake up until after noon. Pitch is still sleeping by my side. The smell of pine perfume is strong on him, but he looks peaceful like this. In sleep, he has forgotten all of the worries that plague him, and I won't take that from him.

Once showered, I head downstairs and find Isolde and Esther sitting at the kitchen table with a tablet in their hands. Esther jumps up and grabs some food that she was keeping warm in the oven and puts it on the table for me. She smiles. Isolde watches me.

They're waiting for my reaction. Am I going to fall apart completely?

I wish. I wish I had the opportunity to dissolve into tears right here and waste away on the dining room floor. I wish I could start sobbing and get out the emotions building up inside me. But I know that Pitch and Isolde weren't just giving me useless information yesterday; I know that I have to pretend to be functional.

"Guess it's time to look at apartments," I grumble as I sink into the chair next to Esther. She pushes the food towards me. Homemade French toast with bacon and eggs. I dig in before bothering to pour on the syrup.

"We're already one step ahead of you," Isolde says. "What type of house do you want? Most victors go for apartments because it has the least upkeep and people prefer to go home to the Districts when the Hunger Games aren't happening. But some people—like yours truly—want a little more space. And no loud upstairs neighbors."

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

"You remember the hip and trendy industrialized area that Pitch showed you?" she says. "Guess it reminds me of home."

Isolde holds up the tablet and starts swiping through various properties. She gives a bit of a small sales pitch with each one. Some, I think, she's just showing me because they're so overwhelmingly ridiculous, like an apartment that has wallpaper with eyeball print on it. Or a townhouse that has these grand statues of lions in front of the door. We spend some time going through the properties, and I shut out as much of the Hunger Games as I can.

Pitch comes downstairs awhile later, freshly showered and ready for the day.

"You want to look at properties with us?" Esther asks.

"Thanks for the offer, but I need to make sure my apartment hasn't been taken over by squatters," he apologizes with a shrug. I'm pretty certain at this point that his apartment is perfectly functional and he just doesn't want to do any sort of house hunting with us. He stays around long enough to eat French toast and comment on some of the apartments we're eyeing—"That one is near a bakery that specializes in onion candles" or "Sure, you can go with that if you like haunted houses"—and then he's gone.

"Oh, this one looks nice," I say as I point to an apartment that actually, well, looks nice.

"I think Barton Copperwell lives near there," Isolde grimaces.

"I have no idea who that is. Is it supposed to influence my decision?"

She shrugs. "I guess not. There will always be scummy people regardless of what place you choose. Like Martha Woolylamb lives three houses over, and she's one of the worst. Literal worst. Designs some of the arena events the Gamemakers use."

Yes, that's up there with literal worsts.

"If that's the case, let's go with that apartment," I say.

Esther takes the tablet from Isolde and starts tapping on buttons and fiddling with things. After a few moments, a real estate agent comes on the line. She takes my basic information and the information of the apartment I want, and then she says that it'll be ready by 6:00 PM tonight.

"That's only in two hours," Isolde says once the agent is off the phone. "The perks of being a victor, I guess."

If one can call it a perk. Who knows how bugged the house is? It's probably been ready to go for years—all these properties are—so that an unsuspecting victor would move in and blurt out more than he or she should say, thinking that there is safety in the sturdy walls.

Esther and Isolde start talking about all the ways I can customize my own apartment—padded rooms to run around and scream in without getting hurt (thanks guys), an indoor pool if I don't mind all the construction going on, a conveyor belt that takes me from one side of the apartment to the other for when I don't feel like moving—and things very quickly get out of hand.

We're interrupted when a telephone rings. Isolde pushes herself away from the table with a roll of the eyes and heads to the kitchen. "Hello?" she asks. "Hmm. Okay. Hang on."

She comes back and gives me the phone. "For you. It's Pitch."

"Hey," I say, cradling the phone against my ear.

"Juniper, Phil from District 10 is dead. There's a party tonight—assembling right now, actually—that we have to go to."

My heart sinks. I had spent the last couple hours almost completely forgetting the Hunger Games. But now it all comes back, and I start to feel sick as I remember that Rosa is dead.

"Party? Why?"

"To watch the final battle. I'll be there to pick you up in fifteen minutes."

All excitement from the apartment hunting (as stupid as it is) vanishes as I hang up the phone and hand it back to Isolde. She and Esther are looking at me curiously.

"Phil is dead. The final battle is about to start and there's a party. Pitch is on his way back to pick me up." I look at the two of them, hoping that they will say that there is a way I can get out of it.

"Well, I better go get ready, then," Isolde says. "Don't worry about locking the door when you leave—it locks on its own. Oh, and thanks for the French toast, Esther." She waves to us goodbye and bounds up the stairs. I can hear that she's already calling one of her fellow District 1 victors to get in touch.

"That's my cue to leave. I think my stomach is starting to hurt," Esther says. Then, gently, "I'm sorry, Juniper. I guess I'm just not as strong as you."

She does look sorry. She reaches over and squeezes my hand.

"I'd be in shambles if it weren't for Pitch," I tell her. And it's true. However, it doesn't seem to reassure her. She slips on her backpack and heads out the door.

~.~

Two left. The Hunger Games are almost over. I'm sorry to see that Phil of District 10 is dead, but it was going to happen sooner or later. And now we are in the home stretch.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

The party is in full swing when Pitch and I arrive. He keeps his arm around my shoulders as we step in the door of the mansion. As with the other parties, people rush up and greet us, shaking our hands and welcoming us and asking how we're doing. But that sort of levity falls away quickly because the final battle is at hand, and all eyes keep flitting over to the televisions.

Fjord and Oceana of District 4 never split up like most allies do when things come to the end. Instead they stayed side-by-side until they hunted and killed Phil together.

Then they decided on a time and place to meet for the final battle.

Just that simple.

The guests at the party are all riled up. Chatter goes back and forth as to who could emerge victorious, how they would manage it, and all sorts of things. Some even speculate that one will try to sneak attack the other, but I don't think that'll happen. At least not from Oceana. She was so insistent that things be "fair" earlier that it would be completely bizarre if she didn't meet Fjord in face-to-face combat.

"Let's go find a place to sit down," Pitch says to me.

Unlike the bloodbath party, there isn't a separate room we can disappear into away from the majority of the party. Instead we find a couch that's partially vacant in this large room and settle in. Pitch hails an avox over and gets us drinks—non-alcoholic, he instructs the avox—and then we settle in to watch the show. My stomach churns, but it's not as nerve-wracking as previous fights. One of the District 4 tributes will win, and I don't have my heart set on either of them. Rosa is dead. This battle means nothing to me.

"Oh, you poor thing," says the lady next to me. "I hear you were quite torn up about your little Rosa. Left the apartment in a hurry."

Yes, that's why I left the apartment so quickly.

"Yeah," I say. "She was a good kid."

"But we all knew she would never have made it," the woman says in what I can only imagine is a reassuring manner. She sets a hand on mine. "There's no way she could have held her own against Fjord and Oceana. Which one do you want to win?"

I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. Sure, belittle the death of a kid and then make me choose which murderer I favor.

"Oh, um, either of them would be good victors, I'm sure," I tell her.

Pitch pulls me a little closer and says to the lady, "District 4 has strong tributes this year. I imagine they must be proud."

"I bet they are," the woman says. "Oh, my friend loves District 4 so much that she gets a new tattoo to commemorate every victory they have."

"That's . . . dedication," I manage.

We are saved from the conversation by the appearance of Oceana at the designated meeting spot. She has abandoned her bag, but not her weaponry, of course. She has a knife attached to her thigh, a sword on her hip, and a bow with a quiver of arrows on her back. The spot the two have chosen to meet looks as though it was made specifically for the purpose of the final battle. It's a platform approximately 50 feet long and 40 feet wide. Part of the platform has rails around it, but part doesn't. There are trees near the railed portion whose branches help support the platform. These branches extend so far out that you can see them peeking out the other side.

We hear the Hunger Games announcer, Janice Lovely, catching us up on all of the latest news: "Oceana and Fjord of District 4 are reaching the final minutes of the Hunger Games," she says. "With all other competition eliminated, it's guaranteed to be a District 4 victory this year. And not only that, but they're tied."

"Tied?" comes the voice of Caligula Klora.

"Yes, that's right Caligula. The Cannon Count shows that both Oceana and Fjord have four kills under their belts."

The betting must be going crazy. Not at this party, of course, where things appear to be a little more "refined," but I'm sure some parties and bars and wherever else are just going absolutely nuts with two strong Careers battling to the death, each with four kills. Because none of these monsters even cares that "kills" means the number of lives they've snuffed out. To them, it's merely goals in a soccer game.

Then they show a picture of each of their kills: for Ocean, the District 3 male, District 10 female, District 12 female, all during the bloodbath, plus little Rosa on Day 12; for Fjord, the District 5 male and District 6 female during the bloodbath, Nicola on Day 11, and Phil on Day 13.

"Wow, the stakes are very high right now," Caligula says. "I can't believe it."

I pretend that I am a Capitolite. I pretend that this is the most exciting thing I've seen all year, and that these children and teenagers deserve to die because of the crimes committed by their ancestors. It's really not that bad to watch the Hunger Games when you absolve yourself from any crime. If you're superior to them because they were born in another place, then it's easy enough to distance yourself from the moral quandaries of pitting teenagers against each other in a death battle and then betting on them.

But I am not a Capitolite. I sit up straighter and lean into Pitch. I will not watch this as a Capitolite would. I see it for what it is.

Fjord shows up then, and everyone starts howling with excitement. There's all sorts of screaming and enthusiasm and ecstatic cheering.

Pitch seizes the momentary chaos and leans over to whisper in my ear, "It's almost over."

It's almost over.

I close my eyes for a moment and allow myself to take in that one thought. When I open my eyes, I hold onto it.

The sun is low in the horizon, but there is still plenty of light left. The two tributes approach each other. This is it. This is the end.

"It's been an honor to fight with you, Fjord," Oceana calls out to him. "And I regret now I have to fight against you."

"Whatever the outcome, no one will doubt the nobleness of your actions," he replies. "I will relish our fight, not because I want either of us to die but because I know that it's the culmination of our experience here in the arena."

What the hell? Do they all talk like this in District 4?

Fjord peels off his backpack and casts it aside. He, like Oceana, has a sword at his hip and a knife on his thigh. But he lacks the bow and arrow that she does. Regardless, neither of them express any concerns that the fight will not be fair.

"Shall we begin, then?" Oceana asks.

Fjord sweeps his sword out of its sheath as an answer.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

I have been watching Hunger Games since I was a small kid. They don't censor them even when you're a child, though most parents monitor what scenes their children watch. When you're a little older, you're expected to watch it in school if something exciting happens while you're in lessons, and from thereon out, you have no way of escaping it. We all hate it. The excitement of the battles are lost on us, especially if it involves Careers because the other tributes have been wiped out. It's a time of tragedy, not fun. We're on edge because we know that these are real human lives being lost, not a bet that we might lose out on.

And yet here I am absolutely mesmerized by what I'm watching.

Oceana and Fjord are phenomenal, and I understand completely why they had no qualms about staying together until the end. Their swordplay, their footwork, their presence—it's absolutely mystifying. These are professionals. These are people who have trained their entire lives for this one very moment. And they knew early on in the Hunger Games as their fellow Careers began to drop off that their final battle would be one that would be referenced in history books for hundreds of years. This isn't the desperate swings and hacks of people battling for their lives. This is an art that has been perfected over the course of years.

The final battle is their life's work, and it is a beautiful thing to watch.

Except, of course, for the fact that it will only end when one of them is dead.

Swords clang together and the tributes grunt with exertion as they strike and parry. Their shoes shuffle against the sturdy boards beneath their feet. They cry out when they bring down a particularly powerful blow, though the blow is only blocked or dodged. They make use of the entire space, dancing from one side to the other.

It isn't a matter of skill, it seems, but of endurance. One of them will get tired and make a wrong move, allowing the other one to strike.

The tributes sweat profusely. I can see that they are each making little errors as time goes on. They've been fighting for over fifteen minutes. Their chests heave up and down with the exertion. They are able to nick each other here or there, drawing blood or giving bruises.

Oceana is not a fighter of close range. As they tire, it becomes apparent that she struggles more than her district partner. And it is for this reason that Fjord is able to take a good swing that slashes across her chest, followed by a thrust of the sword that digs deep into her ribs. Oceana stops as the sword pierces her body. Her own weapon clatters to the floor.

Fjord rips out the sword, casts it to the side, and catches Oceana as she falls.

He helps her lay down on the wooden boards.

Her blood-stained mouth moves slightly. Fjord leans in and listens to whatever she has to say. Our cameras are too far away, the microphones too distant, so we are left in suspense. But at long last, Oceana stops trembling and her body slackens.

The cannon fires.

Fjord leans over and places a gentle kiss on her forehead before closing her eyes.

"I am proud to present the Victor of the 141st Hunger Games, Fjord McGlough of District 4!" Janice Lovely's voice blares out.

The entire room at the party goes into complete hysterics. People are screaming with excitement, shouting out cheers, blowing noisemakers, and just flat-out yelling. There are others who are crying because Oceana lost, but their sobs only add to the chaos that unfolds.

I sit there a little stunned because, of all things, I had enjoyed watching the final battle, and now I feel like such a disgusting freak.

I'm broken out of it when Pitch wraps me up into a hug that squeezes my ribs and causes me to yelp. He apologizes, but only loosens his grip slightly.

"Let's get out of here," he says.

He doesn't have to tell me twice.

We bid goodbye to the people near us, but they're so lost in the moment that I don't think they realize we exist anymore. Nobody cares about District 7 mentors when District 4 is all the rage right now. I'm relieved. Pitch and I slip out and hail a cab before anyone can tell us otherwise.

"You have a new apartment, you want to go there?" Pitch asks me as the cab pulls up.

"I'm tired . . . I don't think I want to start something new right now." Maybe we can go back to Isolde's and crash for the night. I don't think she'd mind.

But when we climb into the cab, Pitch gives a different set of directions that are not Isolde's.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"To my place. We can check out your apartment tomorrow. If that's okay with you, that is," he says.

"It's been fumigated and the squatters have been removed?"

He laughs. "Yeah, everything is under control."

I sit back in the cab and watch the city go by. I've done it.

I've survived my first Hunger Games as a mentor.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Notes: Trigger warning for mental health issues. See tl;dr at the bottom of this chapter for a summary if you feel like you need to skip.


I don't know what Pitch was carrying on about his apartment needing an exterminator. It looks pretty damned good for a place that was abandoned for two years. More proof that he probably just didn't want to help me find an apartment and left Isolde and Esther to do it instead.

"You can choose where to sleep. There are three spare bedrooms," he says.

"I want to sleep wherever you're sleeping. . . . If that's okay with you," I add.

Pitch lends me a shirt to sleep in since none of my stuff is at his place. I eagerly remove the dress and cast it aside and pull the shirt over my head. It's long enough that it might as well be a dress.

After I change, I head back out to the sitting room where Pitch is watching some sort of opera on television. It's muted.

"Juniper, I'm proud of you," he says as I take my seat on the couch.

I'm not sure what there is to be proud of me about. I'm relieved that the Hunger Games are over, but proud of my behavior? Nah. "I think I got more injuries as mentor than I did as tribute," I tell him. And pretty much all of them are there because I got a bit out of control.

"But despite that, you made it through," he says.

"Thanks to you."

"I won't say that I had no part in it, but I think you sell yourself short."

I don't respond. What is there to say? Like he said before, I had to get through it. I just had to make it through the first Hunger Games as mentor, and then I'd be better able to handle myself for future years.

"Pitch . . . I'd like to hear about Laurel, if you don't mind," I say.

He watches the images on TV for a moment before reaching over to the remote and turning it off. Then he settles back into the couch and looks at me. Studies me.

"Laurel was, in many respects, just like every other tribute: scared, overwhelmed, and hoping that there would be even the slightest chance to survive," he begins. "But he required constant reassurance from me that he was doing everything that he was supposed to do. And I mean constant. He wanted to tell me about all the training stations he visited, who he interacted with, and what he ate for lunch so that I would tell him that he did it all right. And if I told him that there was anything he could improve on, well . . . he wouldn't get upset, really; he'd just kind of look disappointed."

I draw my legs up to my chest and rest my chin on my knees as I listen to Pitch's story. Laurel wasn't someone I knew personally. I had never met him. But I remember seeing him on TV. He was always shown to be strong and promising. The way that Pitch tells it, though, it almost seems like he was more of a character than a real person.

"I wasn't handling things very well at the time. I had some . . . personal troubles going on with various Capitolites. I was trying to get out of a relationship that I didn't want to be in, and it seemed like the deaths the year before were still too fresh."

He takes a shaky breath and pauses. I don't think he's told this story to anyone.

"I had lost a girl the last year, and a boy the year before that. The deaths were piling on, and I was struggling with coping with the constant onslaught. The other District 7 victors were . . . not very willing to step in and help. That year, like this year, there was so much going on with everybody that trying to get someone to mentor to begin with was pretty damned hard. And the more I struggled, the less I saw them as an option to help me out.

"I didn't dislike Laurel. He just was too much for me to handle at the time. Any other year, I might have been able to deal with it. He didn't talk as much as Green, but when he talked, I had to be fully engaged in everything he said. If I spaced out, he'd become upset and insist that I wasn't giving him the attention he deserved. I probably wasn't. And I know that he was scared. It was just that I couldn't do more than what I was doing. The weight of the dead kept me from focusing on the living. The pressure of an abusive relationship was wearing me out. So I started to see that I was failing even before the Hunger Games began, and there was nowhere I thought I could turn.

"So I tried to kill myself. It was the first day of the Hunger Games and I knew that I couldn't help Laurel—or anybody—any more than I already had. In fact, I thought that I had done irreparable damage and condemned the tribute to certain death. I just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't watch another tribute die—I couldn't know that I had failed to save another one.

"You know the monitoring device they put on you so that you can follow your tribute? That monitors you, too. And it was for that reason that I ended up in the hospital rather than in a grave. They brought me back, patched me up, and kept me there under the guise of appendicitis. For show, they actually removed my appendix. I'm not sure how they explained the other bandages or anything like that, but they did not want anyone to know that the stress of mentoring and all that it entails had driven me to suicide."

He's quiet for a moment, his eyes unfocused as he recalls his experiences. I have no words to say anything, to comfort him. I don't want to interrupt, so I sit quietly and watch him.

"When he died, I felt nothing. There were so many chemicals being pumped into me to keep me stable—mentally stable; they had already patched up my body—that I just watched this kid get dismembered but a muttation and I felt absolutely nothing. I hated myself later for it, but at the time, I just stared at what remained of his body and wondered why the hovercraft was taking so long to pick up the different parts and pieces.

"You know, at home when you're mentally messed up, there are ways to get help. Psychiatrists, therapists, whatever. But here . . . you're a mentor. You don't get that. Nobody provides it to you, and even if they did, you'd know that you couldn't trust them, so you just have to figure out a way to come to terms with it. It took me awhile. They weaned me off the medications, but then I found that I was only haunted by my own incompetence. I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. All I could think about was how Laurel had come to me for help and I wasn't strong enough to provide it for him. I couldn't give him the comfort that he needed in order to make it through the Hunger Games, whatever the end. It wasn't just the fact that he died, but the fact that I had abandoned him that tore me apart. I kept asking myself, If I had been there, could he have made it through?

"So a month after the Hunger Games ended, I tried to off myself again. Ended back in the Capitol hospital. Back on more medications, sedated into a stupor. They said that it was complications related to the appendicitis. This time they did provide me a shrink, but the man kept digging into me with all sorts of personal questions, asking me why I didn't think I was able to be a mentor when I clearly was strong enough to win the Hunger Games. Finally Liberty came and physically took me from the hospital—you can imagine this old lady just slapping the hands of any doctor or nurse who tried to get her to let go of my wheelchair—and brought me back to District 7. The Capitol wasn't thrilled about this and sent one of their own doctors to check up on me. Which is how I met Dr. Castillo."

Pitch looks up at me now. He's finished with his story and is waiting for my reaction. I should say something comforting to him, something to express my understanding at the pain he's going through, even if I only know the tiniest piece after one year as mentor.

But instead I say, "So that's what you did to end up on Lala's shit list?"

Pitch gives a humorless laugh. "Ah, yeah. I guess I wasn't able to meet her standards."

I hate that damned woman. I hate her so badly. How could she see a man who's suffering and tell him that he is a failure? I feel my chest bubbling at the thought of what I would do when I see her next.

We're silent for a couple minutes. I'm still thinking about what he told me, the whole load of crap he had to deal with on his own for weeks and months. How it's all just a giant snowball that rolls downhill, picking up not just snow but whatever debris it can until it's a mess of junk that plows into an unsuspecting cabin and destroys it entirely.

"Are you doing okay now? Well, not okay, but you know," I ask.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. I haven't gotten to that point since, and I'm fortunate that the other victors have been supportive."

"I wish you weren't so popular with the Capitolites," I say. "That makes all this so much worse."

"I was doomed since I was chosen," he replies. "From the moment my name came up as tribute, I was damned to a life of popularity."

"You mean reaped?"

"I mean chosen."

It takes a second for me to remember that Pitch's Hunger Games were not "normal" Hunger Games. He and the other 23 tributes were hand-picked by the Capitol for participation in the fifth Quarter Quell. Over the course of a couple months, the Capitol citizens had rounds of voting, competitions, and games in order to narrow down which of the millions of teenagers around the country they wanted to see pitted together in the arena. And then once they were in, the Capitolites could vote or pay money to have certain areas of the arena opened up and blocked off; or have rivers turned on and off; or have Gamemaker events and muttations released. It was the ultimate shitshow of the Hunger Games. But it was also the most financially successful Hunger Games ever recorded.

So it doesn't surprise me that those who chose Pitch for whatever qualities they admired—his appearance, skills, anything—would want to have him in other manners as well.

"But soon we'll go back to District 7," I say.

"After all the post-Hunger Games ceremonies and parties," he reminds me.

Right. I had to go to some last year, but the majority of them I was unconscious for. We are so close to returning home, and now we have to get through a last few hurdles.

I look at my former mentor, and I see a simple man. A person. Someone who's had to deal with years of shit with little to no help. He isn't the glorified being that the Capitol makes him out to be. None of us are. And to think that any of us are strong simply because we walked away alive is just damned ridiculous. If it is painful for me to think about Rosa, and I knew that I did everything within my power to help her, then how painful is it to be reminded about a tribute you feel like you didn't do enough to save—and have that reminder shoved in your face as an insult?

"Pitch . . . thanks for telling me about Laurel."

He nods.

"Please don't try to kill yourself again."

A small smile lifts the corners of his lips briefly. "I won't, don't worry." He reaches over and gently touches my cheek.


tl;dr - Juniper asks Pitch about Laurel Shrubsprout, the tribute Pitch previously said he abandoned. Pitch reveals that he had a mental breakdown that year and tried to kill himself twice. However, the Capitol glossed this over and failed to provide him the resources he needed to get better on his own, telling him that because he survived the arena, he could deal with being a mentor. Eventually Liberty took him back to District 7 and the Capitol sent Dr. Castillo to check up on him.

Also, Juniper wishes that Pitch were not so popular with the Capitol because that adds to his stress but he reminds her that he specifically was chosen as tribute by the Capitol. In the 125th Hunger Games, all of the tributes were hand-picked by the citizens of the Capitol.

Juniper tries to process what he's told her.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

My apartment is small, but comfortable. There is no padded screaming room or indoor pool or conveyor belt to get me from one side to the other. But I make myself at home in the master bedroom. One of the spare bedrooms I immediately convert into a library. Right now, I have no furniture, so I push all the boxes of books into the room to be sorted out later.

I invite Pitch, Esther, Isolde, and Hammer to lunch and we order fried chicken from a restaurant down the street. Esther and Isolde, with a little input from Hammer, swipe through a tablet as they find the best furniture that I can possibly have. "We'll spare no expenses," Isolde assures me. "Especially since it's coming from your wallet and not ours. Haha."

We're finishing up our meals when the doorbell rings. It's a strange noise, and at first I don't realize what it is. But then Pitch gets up and heads to the door.

I hear him talking with someone, and I strain to listen in. After a minute, the door closes and he walks back into the sitting room.

"It's Pythia Todner," he tells me. "She's here to do the Q&A we postponed."

I wipe my greasy fingers on the cloth napkin on my lap. "Didn't we already do that?" I ask, keeping my voice steady so I don't betray my irritation.

"Apparently that one didn't count."

I look at the other victors in the hopes that they'll have an out for me. They stare back. But I know they're all glad that it's me, not them, even though none will voice their thoughts.

"Alright, let me go clean up," I say.

Pitch follows me back into the bedroom and closes the door behind us.

"She's going to ask us about our relationship," he says as I open my closet to find something moderately flattering but nothing that will show that I care about the interview.

"What's new?" I grumble.

"We've been able to deflect most of the questions because we said that our commitment to being mentors came first," he says. "Now we don't have that excuse."

I turn around and face him. "What do we do then? Tell them that we're now focusing on the end of the Hunger Games parties?" That would never work. You can only use an excuse so much.

"I don't think they'll ever believe it if we say that we broke up. Or, at least, they'll think we're trying to draw attention to ourselves with drama."

"So we just pull something out of our asses? About how we're so excited to get back to District 7 and spend all the time possible together?"

Isolde's voice comes from the other side of the door: "C'mon, or she's going to burst down the front door!"

Pitch shoots me a look. "Yes. Yes, we're going to go with that." Then he heads out to the hallway to buy us time while I change.

~.~

The Q&A session is held in the courtyard on the apartment complex's property. It's quiet and the weather is pleasant enough. Pythia has us sit down on a little marble bench that's framed by a small oak tree. She instructs us how close to sit to each other (very close) and how to look at her rather than at the camera when answering her questions.

"Comfortable?" she asks as she settles into a seat one of the camera men brought over from another area of the courtyard.

Pitch and I nod and agree.

I am far from comfortable. But Pitch takes my hand and I try to focus on his warmth against me rather than on the strange cameras looming in my face.

Pythia gives us a reassuring smile before she turns to the camera and the show begins.

"Welcome everyone! Pythia Todner here, and I've just sat down with some of our favorite victors, Juniper Sadik and Pitch Yassen of District 7!"

She turns away from the camera and towards us. The camera swings around and repositions so that it has a better view. It's so strange to not have a live audience in front of us. I don't even know if this interview is currently being broadcasted or will be featured later in the day.

"Juniper and Pitch, you two were the mentors for Rosa and Green, respectively. Both your tributes were projected to die early in the Hunger Games, but we were pleasantly surprised to find that they did very well," she says to us. "What are your thoughts on your tributes' time in the arena?"

I knew going in that we'd be asked something like this, but I feel anguish in my stomach regardless. I'm conflicted between the sorrow I have for Rosa and the hatred I have for the Capitol. The two meld together, and I have a difficult time dealing with the mess of confusion inside me.

Pitch speaks first, as usual. It buys me an extra few seconds. "Within the arena, I was impressed by how quick he was to jump at opportunities that he came across. He made decisions that allowed you to see how clever he really was despite the challenges he faced. I enjoyed working with Green. He was quite the little character and loved to be around the whole team. His curiosity and willingness to share with us made him a memorable kid."

Pythia "aww"s at Pitch's response. Then she turns to me.

I try not to think of the cameras on me. Of the Capitol leering eagerly at the television screens, waiting for whatever bit of Rosa they can gobble up before she's gone for eternity. Of her family at home, weeping and hysterical, hoping to have one last glimpse of their child.

"Rosa displayed strength that nobody thought she had within her. Her ingenuity led to many successes," I pause to breathe. "I know that people at home were rooting for her, that people wanted to see what she had in her. I think we all saw one the best damned tributes the Hunger Games has ever had. Moreover, she was one of the best people I've ever known, and it was a privilege to work with her."

Pythia reaches out and pats me on the leg.

I'm crying. Shit, I'm crying. Not the hysterical sobbing sort of crying but the quiet type that you don't expect and you can't stop.

I wipe away the tears that roll down my cheeks.

"It's hard being a mentor," Pythia says kindly as though she really knows what the hell I'm going through. "You work so hard for your tributes, but then they don't make it. And we all did enjoy watching Rosa in the arena. She was such a sweetheart but she also had a bit of a fight to her, didn't she?"

Can she stop asking me questions about Rosa? Please?

"She was pretty fucking awesome."

"Oh . . . Juniper, we can't air that sort of language," Pythia says suddenly. "You want to try again?"

I stare at her. There is no other way to phrase it. Pitch gives my hand a gentle squeeze.

Pythia nods and then turns to Pitch. "Now that the Hunger Games are done, what do you think about our victor?"

"I haven't the pleasure to meet him yet, but I have talked to Gill who only has positive things to say about him," Pitch says politely. "He certainly performed well in the final battle. Both of them did."

"What do you think was your favorite part of the Hunger Games? Your absolute favorite moment?" Pythia asks him.

I want to just tune it all out and pretend that I'm not here. Focus on some faraway distant place and let myself get pulled into nothingness. But I don't. I force myself to remain present and to listen to Pythia and Pitch exchange dialogue.

"Only one moment? Hmm. The final battle was pretty epic."

Easy answer. Everyone would agree that it was one of the best things from this Hunger Games. Also a safe answer because he won't have to pull up any painful thoughts or memories.

"Yes, that was a good one," Pythia says. "Now, I think we'll get plenty more thoughts from you two about the Hunger Games in the days to come, but let's go over some things that our viewers at home really want answered."

Oh boy.

"Now that you are no longer mentoring and have time to focus on each other, where do you see your relationship going?" she asks.

"We don't know, exactly," Pitch says. "We are eager to look forward in that direction and explore the future together."

Pythia beams at us.

"Now I have heard some rumors—and I just want you to tell me if they're true or false so we know what to believe—but I have heard that you have gotten 'stomach bugs' several times now, Juniper," she says to me. "Is there a chance that you could be pregnant?"

I snort. And try to cover it with a cough.

"No, I'm not pregnant," I say. "Just puking a lot."

"Not morning sickness?" she confirms. "Vomiting isn't uncommon in the first few months of pregnancy."

Damnit, woman! How many times do I have to tell you?! I want to strangle this lady for not just asking me this but also not allowing me to give her a simple answer. Why must everything be harped upon?! I want to disappear into the foliage behind me and pretend that none of this is happening. I'd like curl up into Pitch and let him answer. But I will not let this asshole get the best of me.

So I tell the best lie that I can think of at the moment, and I don't care if what I'm saying is not appropriate for whatever young children at home can't handle swearing.

"No. I had vomiting and diarrhea. A lot of it. Would you like me to go into details about how much fluid one can lose in a 24-hour period, or shall I spare you?"

Pythia blinks at me.

She looks at Pitch for help and he just shrugs. "You asked her."

"Well, I hope that you're feeling better," Pythia says.

"Yeah. It's probably just some intestinal parasite from eating something not cooked quite right," I say casually. "But don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

She shuffles her cards. "Another rumor I heard—and hopefully this one won't receive quite so . . . personal details—is that you may not be, well, shall I say, mentally stable?"

I jerk my attention to her. "What?"

"Well, I have received some information from a reliable source that your emotions might be a little out of control at times," Pythia says. "That you require frequent visits from a doctor, and that maybe this 'stomach bug' is a front for something entirely different."

No no no no. I can't handle this. They can't know the truth! Damnit, Lala. I will personally kill that woman!

"I am not certain where you get your sources, Pythia," Pitch says skeptically. He sounds convincing. But I'm certain that the anger inside me is starting to blossom onto my facial expression, and how well can I convince people that I'm not insane if I start freaking out on them?

Lala is, in many regards, one of the worst people I have ever met. And that's saying quite a bit since my understanding of "worst" has changed entirely since coming to the Capitol last year. I am not surprised that she has found a way to punish us for what I did to her. The romance just wasn't cutting it; we adapted too well. It made people think that we were "aww"-worthy. So now she has decided that if broadcasting our relationship wasn't going to hurt us enough, then maybe it was time to dig in a little deeper and find something that would be more damaging.

You can't have a mentally unstable victor. Pitch's story is proof enough of that. When he was broken, they just patched him up from the outside because they couldn't dare admit that he needed help on the inside. So how will they handle a victor who is outed on national television as being nuts?

Whatever happened to chocking it up to my emotions for Pitch and letting it go, just like she said she would?

Damned Capitolite.

"Listen, you know I can't name names. I have to protect the privacy of my sources. But the hospital staff confirm that they had a patient who says she was assaulted in the District 7 apartment last week," Pythia says.

Fuck, what do I say to this? How do I even come up with a story fast enough and make it convincing? Pitch is tense beside me. This line of questioning has thrown him off, too. He knows the sorts of things that they're likely going to ask him, whether it's about the Hunger Games and our tributes or about our relationship. But this is something that neither of us were prepared for. Pythnia Todner waits eagerly for our answer.

"'Assaulted' may be a strong word," I start carefully. "But there was an incident in which somebody interrupted Pitch and I, well . . . you know."

This is exactly what they want to hear. Pythia's eyes light up and she leans back in her seat. "Wow, that must've been awkward for you!"

All accusations of assault are off the table—for now—because she has finally weaseled out of me a piece of information that had only been assumed but had never been confirmed. Now all of Panem knows—"knows"—for official that Pitch and I are sleeping together and it's not just a big pile of rumors. I don't understand why it's a big deal, but if this is what they're willing to buy rather than the truth, then I'm fine with it.

It does strike me suddenly as I'm sitting here that my family and friends and all the people I know at home now view me in a vastly different light than they did a couple weeks ago. What are they thinking about me? Do they think that there's something wrong with me if I'm getting into a relationship with a man fifteen years older than me who also happened to be my mentor in one of the most stressful times of my life? It doesn't matter, I know, because I have to do what I have to do. Just like when I was in the arena, the goal was to survive regardless of the costs.

"Not as awkward as telling all of Panem," Pitch mutters. This makes Pythia laugh.

"You two are just the cutest together," she beams at us. "I really can't wait to see what your relationship has in store for you. And Juniper, you just bought this adorable little apartment. Any chance we could get a glimpse of the life of the newest—oh, sorry, second newest—Victor?" She leans in, eagerly awaiting my answer.

"If you close your eyes and imagine an empty building, that's pretty much what my apartment looks like right now," I say with mock levity. But really, that's what it looks like, and I don't have the skills to tell her no right to her face. "One day I'll figure out the right furniture and we'll see about it then."

Pythia will hold me to it, I know.

"Well, I'm so happy you two joined me today. It's been great to catch up with you guys since our last Q&A. Is there anything else either of you would like to add?"

"Nope," I say. "Think that covers it."

"Yeah, I'm all out of anything else to say," Pitch agrees.

Pythia giggles at us, and then turns to the camera. "This has been a Q&A with Juniper Sadik and Pitch Yassen of District 7. Hope to catch you next time for another Q&A!"

The cameras cut, and the cameramen turn to start disassembling the various pieces of equipment. Pythia comes over to us as we stand and takes one of each of our hands in her own.

"You two don't have to be so reserved. Everyone loves you, and they'd love to know their young victor even better!" she tells us. "Don't be afraid to show your affection."

"Oh, I've always been reserved. It's a hard habit to break," I tell her politely. "Thank you."

And then I take my hand out of hers and turn to leave, dragging Pitch along behind me. Pythia watches us leave before she begins to order the crew around, instructing them where to put their belongings and how to handle equipment that they probably are more familiar with than she is.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Esther, Isolde, and Hammer want to know how it went as soon as we come back inside. They explained that they tried to watch out the windows without being seen, but they could hear very little besides Pythia's laughter occasionally drifting in the breeze.

"Well," I say. "I've always wanted Panem to know when I've had diarrhea."

Esther giggles. "You didn't say that, did you?"

I give her a sharp look, but it's hard to really be annoyed at her. "They thought I was pregnant. I'd rather have them think I have diarrhea than that I'm pregnant."

Isolde bursts into a fit of hysterical giggles. Everyone stares at her. The more she laughs, the harder she laughs until she's on the floor weeping and laughing.

"Okay, once—and I'm not making this up, I swear—once, they thought that Hammer—" she begins.

"Hey, hey. You're not supposed to tell this story," Hammer interrupts her.

"No, no, let me! It's great!" She has to pause to hiccup and cough between her peals of laughter. "Anyway. They thought Hammer was having an orgy because he brought an extra pair of shoes with him to some event." Then she starts laughing again.

No one says anything. We all just exchange looks and Hammer shrugs shyly. "No one ever thought they were mine. They made up some other person and said that myself, my girlfriend, and this other person were having wild fun times together."

"They—they actually have this fictional person on the census," Isolde says. She's gasping for breaths, and her cheeks are glistening. "Like he just—he just appeared! Overnight!"

"That's absurd," Esther says.

"Exactly!" Isolde exclaims. She managed to push herself into a sitting position and her laughter slows down.

"Once everyone thought I killed my mentor," Esther then says.

"What?" I demand. "No way."

"Yeah. Calico had to run back to District 8 because her mom wasn't feeling well, and there was this big mix-up that was pretty bad. They kept it hush-hush because I'm a victor, but I was facing prison time, maybe even execution."

I shiver. That must've been terrifying. "What happened?"

"Calico returned from District 8 and everyone was very confused. The Peacekeepers apologized and let me go. Calico chewed them out for me. And then chewed me out for not standing up for myself."

Geeze.

"They once thought that Isolde was dating her professor—like this creepy 80-year-old guy—because she went to his office hours," Hammer says, eager to share a bit about his fellow District 1 victor now that she has shared something about him.

But Isolde doesn't try to keep him quiet. "Yeah, it was really messed up. We only saw each other in the context of school, either the classroom or his office, the latter of which I was alone with him but the door was wide open." She grins. "So I told them that I was. Old Professor Jones and I were joining Hammer's orgies."

"So what you're telling me is that this stuff happens all the time?" I ask.

Isolde nods. "And normally it's really dumb shit. I mean, obviously Esther's was serious and needed to get resolved, but the rest of the time, people end up forgetting about it."

That makes me feel better. Obviously I'd be terrified if I were in Esther's position, but otherwise it sounds like rumors could easily be brushed off.

"But they can also destroy you, too," Esther says, somberly. "So be careful. Remember that one victor—shoot, I forgot his name—whose wife ended up leaving him because of a rumor? He drank himself to death."

"Oh, yeah, him," Hammer agrees. "I can't remember his name, either. He'd be like 100 years old now, though."

Pitch turns to me. "We'll get through this," he says. "You handled yourself very well."

"Thanks," I mumble.

"They grill you about Rosa?" Isolde asks. She now has the bucket of chicken in her arms and is running her finger around the bottom, gathering up the little bits and pieces of breading that managed to escape.

"Yeah," I say. "That and everything else."

Pitch explains to the others, "We can only assume that Lala told everyone that Juniper is having some trouble, so Pythia outright asked if Juniper is mentally unstable."

"What did you tell them?" Esther asks. She takes a sip from her drink.

"That I'm not, of course," I say. "That somebody interrupted Pitch and I having sex—I really can't believe I had to say this to the entire world to keep them from thinking I'm insane, by the way—and there was an incident related to that."

"Welcome to the Capitol," Isolde says sympathetically.

"And there will always be more interviews," Hammer agrees. "Isolde and I have one tomorrow morning. Lucky us."

"For real. I don't think it'll be nearly as exciting. 'Yep, my tribute was ripped apart. Nope, I don't know what did it. Nope, I haven't seen the body. Nope, I don't have any pictures to show you.'" Isolde makes a face.

"They'll probably want one with us," Esther says to me. "You, me, and Elijah. Haven't received any notifications for it, though."

"How long does this last?" I ask them all, looking between them. "None of us mentored the victor, so how long before they get bored with us and we can go home?"

"We need to stay in the Capitol until the presentation of the victor, at least," Pitch answers. He reaches over and takes the chicken bucket from Isolde, but casts it aside when he sees its empty. "That requires a few days to put the kid back together. Fortunately he wasn't in too bad of shape, but they also need to prepare all the decorations, get the wardrobes together, and all that. As soon as they tell us, I'll let you know."

A few days. And then I get to go home! I'll be free from all this, at least for another year.

But, I know, I will never be free from Rosa.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

It's the final battle, and those of us who remain—District 1 female, District 4 male, District 6 male, and myself—have been herded into a beautiful, lush lawn where three of us will inevitably die. With the District 1 female and the District 6 male engaged in a battle, the District 4 male turns on me. I scramble up a tree at the edge of the lawn, but the tree shakes me loose.

I fall onto my back. The District 4 male slashes a gash across my chest, and I scream in agony. I struggle to get away from him, but he repositions himself to go in for the final kill, and he's just too damned strong.

I'm going to die.

I am going to die.

But that's not why I am here. That is not why I was reaped.

I grab the hatchet that had fallen from my hand when the tree threw me. It's a stretch, and I almost don't make it as my bloodied fingers clasp around the handle. Then, as the District 4 male's sword comes down, ready to thrust into my chest, I swing the hatchet around and slash his arm. He falters with the sudden injury, and he nearly drops the sword. I push him off me.

Then I am on top of him. I bring down my hatchet into his neck. Blood spurts out, spraying me with warm, hot liquid across my face and my body. My arms. I'm getting drenched in it as I pull back my hatchet and bring it down once more, this time on his chest.

The rage is within me. The fire, the passion, the anger. It's boiling and seething within me. I did not come to the arena to die. I came to the arena to show the Capitol how much I hate them and how much I hate their Careers and how much I want everyone to pay for what they are doing to us back home and to what they were going to do to Willow Elowen.

Once more, the hatchet falls. The cannon has sounded long ago.

I cannot use up all my fire here. There is no use desecrating the dead. I heave myself to shaking feet and I turn around just in time to see the District 1 female finishing off the District 6 male.

She is wounded, but so am I. There is a great gash on my chest below my neck. My left arm, splinted though it is, is still broken and causes me pain. But the District 1 female is limping from a wound on her calf, and she is nursing another wound on her side. Still, she grins at me with a ravenous smile.

"Do you think you're one of us, District 7?" she asks me. She licks her chapped lips and comes closer.

I will never win against her if it's down to her sword and my hatchet. Each uneven step she takes, she's covering ground. She knows that I am no Career like she is, and she knows that she will easily knock the hatchet right out of my hands with her sword. I take a risk—one that means that, if I fail, I will certainly die.

"Absolutely not," I spit out. And before she can expect it, I heave up my hatchet and send it sailing right towards her heart. It hits its mark and lodges in her chest.

The District 1 girl staggers backwards and falls to the ground. I force myself to walk over towards her where I kick away her sword. Then I reach down and wrench my hatchet out of her body.

The cannon booms.

I am the victor.

I have done it. I have killed four people in order to get out of this nightmare alive.

I collapse to the ground, my wounds suddenly very real and very painful. I feel lightheaded as the blood drains out of me through the gash on my chest. If the hovercraft doesn't come soon, I will die, too. Is that so bad, I wonder. Is it so bad to die? It's the lack of blood that's talking now, and I try to hold on, pushing myself to my knees and balancing with the support of the hatchet.

Janice Lovely pronounces me the winner of the 140th Hunger Games, but her voice is so distant that I don't listen to it.

The sound of the hovercraft draws my attention.

~.~

I wake up alone in bed.

The dream has me shaken, but not in the way I thought it would. It leaves me wondering, did becoming victor really accomplish anything? I saved Willow Elowen from certain death, but is saving the life of one person of great significance if you have to kill four others?

At least, I tell myself, a Career didn't win. But even that is little comfort to me because I recall in the back of my mind something that Pitch said about Careers and District 7.

Unable to sleep, I stand up and head out of my room into the kitchen. The house is still pretty sparse, of course, but the pantry and the refrigerator are all well-stocked. Hammer saw to that. I'm not sure if food is his highest priority or if he was trying to apologize for eating all of my fried chicken while I was being interviewed, but at least I don't have to deal with finding food right now. I open the fridge and grab a can of milk when I turn around in the faint glow cast from the open fridge door, I see that there is someone on my couch. I start and I look around for the nearest object I can use to defend myself. But then I see that it's Pitch and not a crazy murderer or reporter.

I close the fridge door and walk into the sitting room.

"Everything okay?" I ask him cautiously.

"Hmm?"

I sit down on the other side of the couch. "Want some canned milk?" I ask as I struggle to pop open the top.

"Oh, those are supposed to last longer," he says as he watches me fumble with the tab. "But no thank you, I'm fine."

To my relief, there is no hiss of carbonation. I take a sip. Slightly metallic in taste, but not terrible. Though if I were doing my own shopping, I'd rather have the stuff in the carton or jug.

"What are you doing out here?" I inquire.

"I just . . . was thinking." His voice drifts off a bit.

I give him a moment to see if he'll provide any more information. When he doesn't, I say, "Am I allowed to know?"

"It's nothing of great importance. Do you want to take a walk?" he asks.

Now? I glance at the clock on the microwave. It's about 3:00 AM.

"Is there some great nature place that's open at this hour?"

"Go change," he says.

Alright. I stand up, put the can of milk in his hand, and head to my bedroom. A walk sounds most welcomed right now. I haven't had the opportunity to get out and stretch my legs lately. Between being cooped up at the training center and trying to hide from the world in various apartments, I've seen little of the natural daylight. Or even the night sky.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

The cab drops us off at the base of a mountain. It's a real mountain, but it's obviously a tourist destination, at least during the day. Right now, its walkways and paths are abandoned. The gift shop and restaurant are boarded up. Everything is so silent that it may actually be as close to nature as one can get in the fringes of the Capitol. I can even hear an owl cry out somewhere in the distance.

Pitch and I walk side-by-side on one of the paths that zig-zags up the side of the mountain. We pause to allow me to catch my breath frequently, and Pitch offers me water.

"Thanks," I say as I hand the canteen back to him. "Is it okay if we rest here?"

I don't want for an answer before I plop down on the gravel path.

Pitch sits down next to me.

"What's bothering you, Pitch?" I ask him.

He picks up a small rock and tosses it down the side of the mountain. We hear it clatter about before falling silent into the base of a bush no doubt.

"Trying to figure out how to break off my current Capitol affair," he says.

"Oh. I have no advice on how to handle that," I admit.

"I thought your advice involved breaking somebody's arm and kicking them in the crotch," Pitch says wryly.

I snort.

The lights from the city are visible here, of course. Even on the side of this mountain, we can't avoid the Capitol. But at least here it looks like a separate entity, something that we are not currently part of. I know that anyone looking out their window right now would never be able to see us. We cease to exist in the present for nearly every person in the Capitol.

"Pitch, I've been thinking. You said that District 7 was at one point supposed to be a Career district. Is that true?"

He rolls a small rock between his thumb and forefinger for a moment. "Yes. Not officially, but it was more than rumors. I'm sure you've noticed that we've had plenty of wins in the last couple decades—you, me, Vesa, Elm. Though technically this was before you were reaped. Still, we also have Bris and Liberty, even if their wins are a bit older. With so many of us winning so close together, there was talk to have District 4 booted out of the Career pack and to add District 7. Many were in favor for it."

"In District 7? People actually wanted that?" I ask with disgust.

"Some people did. Thought it would give their kids a better chance," he explains. "People thought District 4 was getting too boring. They actually thought that all the Career districts were becoming too soft. There was a stretch in time—from Terra in the 129th Hunger Games until Hammer broke the streak in the 134th Hunger Games—in which not a single Career district won. It doesn't seem like much, but that's five years of no Career victory.

"Some in the Capitol were seriously pissed. And then when Elijah won, that was like a slap in the face to them. Not only was he from a non-Career district, but he managed to kill three Careers after being blinded. There were plans to uproot and change the entire Career situation, possibly even allowing official training. Fortunately, when Hammer won, most of those thoughts disappeared, and Isolde's victory the year after solidified the fact that no so-called 'Career academies' were needed. But there were still people in favor of replacing District 4 with District 7. Saw more potential in us."

"That would have been terrible if we were a Career district," I say. "It's shitty enough that people sometimes lump me in with them."

"You volunteered and you were a strong player," Pitch says.

"I didn't volunteer, I—"

"Call it what you want. Your name was not the original one that was drawn. You might not have made a formal declaration of volunteering, but you did take that girl's place of your own free will."

"What else was I supposed to do? They had reaped a cripple!"

"What were you 'supposed' to do? You were supposed to sit back and let them kill her," he says.

I glare at him.

"I'm only saying that that's what you were expected to do, just like all the other girls of reaping age. It's supposed to be humiliating and unfair."

"It was more than unfair, it was murder in the most obvious form."

"I know that."

I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. I can see stars peeking through the thin wisps of clouds in the sky.

"When I saw you push through the crowd, I was confused. I couldn't figure out what was going on. District 7 hasn't had a volunteer in many, many years, but even so, it's standard for most volunteers to announce 'I volunteer!' or something of the sort. Then you just climbed up on the stage and told that girl to get out of there. . . . I knew I had to mentor you. It wasn't that I thought you were a shoe-in for victory, but I admired the simplicity and determination with which you took her place. There was no arrogance or display of sacrifice. You just told her to get out. I figured that if any tribute I had would have a shot at winning, it would be you.

"You and me, we're not like the other tributes that come onto the stage. Many kids have the strength and the skills to win, but they don't have the drive to get it done. We do."

"So did Rosa," I say.

"Yes," he agrees. "So did Rosa."

She was just too little. Too young and too inexperienced. She was just a kid.

I bury my head in my knees and begin to sob. All the pain I had been holding in pours out of me. My shoulders heave as I cry, my body wracked with sadness. The tears run down my face and soak through my jeans. I can think of nothing but Rosa and how she was taken from this world for completely unnecessary reasons, and how none of us will ever see her again. I had been so angry at her for manipulating us all, but wasn't that just the way the game was played? Wasn't she one step ahead of everyone else? The pain is immense, and it has wrenched itself tightly around my heart, clasping the vital organ and threatening to stop its beating. I struggle to expel it all, and I know as my tears dry up that it will never fully disappear. There will always be pain and there will always be sadness.

But Rosa, I think, was not one who would want either. I think of her face when she died. Not fear, not sadness, not surprise. It was nothing but respect for Oceana. Perhaps it was only the last bits of her brain dying that made her face express that emotion, but I cannot get it out of my head.

I wipe my eyes and my nose on my sleeve.

"Pitch?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how you want to get out of that relationship? I think you should tell her to just go fuck herself."

He gives a dry laugh. "Is that what you'd tell her?"

"Yes."

"Is that what you would tell Quintus?"

"Maybe."

"You're playing a dangerous game, Juniper," he warns, all humor gone from his voice.

"I know. I've knew that the moment I volunteered."

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

It's another couple of days before we hear the official schedule of events. There are several interviews scattered here and there, and a couple of parties—none of which I have to attend, Pitch tells me—and then there is the presentation of the victor. That party, that night, I will need to be present.

And then we can go home.

~.~

Pitch arrives home drunk one night, and it's all I can do to get him to get into the shower and clean himself up. He keeps trying to sit down on the couch and tell me about something or another, but he gets distracted with this terrible figurine of a potato that Isolde got me as a housewarming gift. (In all fairness, I keep getting distracted by it, too.) So once I hear the shower running, I'm relieved at I'm not going to have to herd him back into the bathroom again.

I lose myself in a book, but when Pitch comes out, it's over an hour later. He flops down on the couch and looks at me.

"I assume there is some sort of explanation," I say.

"I can't drink? Didn't know I'd be policed," he says defensively.

"Pitch, you haven't had a drop of alcohol since we came to the Capitol, and now you come home very clearly intoxicated."

He shifts uncomfortably. "Remember that Capitolite I was having trouble with?" he asks. "I told her to go fuck herself. Not in so many words, but she complained about me and I told her that I was fine being dismissed from her service."

I raise my eyebrows. "Geeze. How'd she take that?"

"She got me drunk and then cried a lot, and then eventually told me that she didn't need to see me again," he says. He leans his head back and rubs his eyes. "She said that I didn't provide her the emotional support that she needed because I wouldn't comfort her when she was crying."

"Sounds like a winner of a human being." But that is the sarcastic understatement of a year. No decent human being would require such companionship from someone else to begin with. We aren't allowed to say that, though.

To distract myself from saying anything I shouldn't, I head to the kitchen and start to reheat some leftovers. "Hope you like teriyaki," I say.

"Teriyaki sounds great," Pitch says. Then he's moving off the couch, tacky potato decoration in hand. "Isolde?"

"Yeah, that's from her," I say. "I'm not sure why."

He tosses it up and down in his hand for a moment before setting it on the counter between us. Then he looks intently at me. A little too intently. I'm used to him staring at me to assess my thoughts and emotions and actions, but this is a little bit much.

"Juniper, I want to kiss you," he says.

"No. You're drunk," I state clearly.

"When I'm not drunk, is it okay if I—"

"No," I interrupt.

"Are you just saying that because I'm drunk?"

"I'm saying it because I don't want you to kiss me, drunk or not," I snap.

His teriyaki isn't done reheating, but I open up the microwave, pull the plate out, and slap it down in front of him. I do not want to think about kissing Pitch. Holding hands, hugging, whatever. Sure. But kissing takes it to a whole new level that borders on something entirely different. This is supposed to be a fake romance. And certainly not one made on drunken decisions, even if he isn't drunk out of his own free will.

"Eat up," I say to him before I pick up the potato and head back to my room. I lock my door behind me.

I lay in bed and hold onto one of my extra pillows for comfort as I try to sort out my thoughts. They say that what a person says while drinking is what is actually going through their mind. I don't want that going through anybody's mind. I don't want to be kissing anyone. I don't like anyone, not like that. And certainly not my old mentor. How far will this relationship actually go? At what point can we pull the plug?

Fine. We'll have to discuss this in the morning.

But morning comes, and we don't get to discuss it because I receive a notification that I'm scheduled for an interview with Esther and Elijah at 10:00 AM. Pitch is still asleep, so I leave him a note and head outside to hail a cab.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SEVENTY

The interview is held at a local hotel in a private room made specifically for this type of stuff. Ornate carvings and beautiful artwork hang on the walls. There are great sconces and chandeliers everywhere throughout the hotel as I'm lead back to the interview room. The hotel staff chatter happily about how wonderful and expensive everything is there, and that I didn't need to worry because I would be taken care of just fine.

Well, thanks; I hadn't thought there was any reason to worry. Should I be worried?

He leaves me as soon as I step into the room and join the other two victors.

Another staff member swoops in on me and introduces herself, and then there are several people applying a bit of makeup to make sure my skin isn't shiny under the bright lights, and they fix my hair and straighten my pins, and they use a lint roller and press to ensure my collar is as crisp and fresh as it can be. At last I am shown to my seat between Elijah and Esther.

Our interviewer today is Caligula Klora. He is flush with excitement and additional coats of powder are needed to even out his face. As I watch them add little puffs to his cheeks, I wonder what this man does for the rest of the year. Does he make big bucks doing this interviewing stuff that he just skates through the rest of the year, or does he scrape by with a door-to-door salesman job?

When everything is straightened out, Caligula tells us that we're going to be live in just five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one!

"Hello hello, ladies and gentlemen!" he greets the viewers at home. "I have with us tonight three special guests from one of the strongest alliances we saw in this year's Hunger Games. May I present Elijah from District 5, Juniper from District 7, and Esther from District 8."

The camera pans over all of us.

I wish Pitch were here with me. I swallow the thought and tell myself that it doesn't matter. It wasn't like he was going to be part of this interview anyhow.

"Your tributes' alliance made it all the way until Day 4. That's pretty impressive! And even after District 8's Taylor was killed, the other two remained together until they were separated by an event. Elijah, can you tell me how your tributes met up? I mean, where did this alliance begin?"

"I'm sure it comes as a complete shock to know that they met up in the training center. After they trained together, they decided that they would form an alliance," Elijah responds.

"That's a classic place for tributes to make alliances for certain," Caligula agrees. I can't tell if he's dumb or if he's just trying to cover up Elijah's shitty answer. "What cemented that bond between them? What drew the three of them together when they were training?"

"I would imagine—and I'm not certain because I wasn't there while they were training—but I think it was the desire to not get murdered," Elijah says.

And I'm pretty sure that's the last we're going to hear from Elijah tonight.

Caligula looks a little flummoxed for a moment, but he recovers quickly and turns to me. "Juniper, sweet little Rosa displayed some outstanding skills in the arena. Do you think that she showed those skills to her fellow allies beforehand?"

"She showed them enough so that they knew she was capable of being a strong member of their alliance, but she didn't show them everything," I say.

"What makes you say that?" he asks.

"Because she was my tribute. I knew her better than most people in the past few weeks, and I can say for certain that many of the traps she laid were not things she advertised before they made the alliance."

"Very good. Now Esther, your Taylor ended up being the first to die. It was certainly a tragic end. Do you think that she still had things to contribute to her alliance if she were not killed right then?"

"You mean if she were just injured but managed to get away before she was mortally wounded?" Esther asks for clarification.

"Yes, that's it," Caligula replies.

Now that is a terrible question. I grit my teeth and dig my fingers into the underside of the seat of the chair. I ache for Esther knowing that she will have to not only relive Taylor's death but share with everyone whether she deserved to live or die.

"That's a hard question to answer, Caligula," she says politely. "I think it would depend upon how wounded she was. In most circumstances, yes, she still would have been able to contribute. I believe that even if she were wounded, she was still a very good fighter. However, if she was wounded very badly, she, like anyone else in her position, probably wouldn't have been much use to the alliance."

"But, of course, alliances aren't the only reason that people live or the only reason they have value," I say without being asked. Because if I say nothing at all, then am I any better than the Capitolites? "Taylor was a good person and she was a good teammate. It's clear that the other two missed her after she was killed."

Esther finds my hand under the table and gives it a squeeze before dropping it.

"Aww, your tributes were all pretty close," Caligula says.

"Yes, of course. They managed to get out of the bloodbath together. That's a pretty big ordeal and it only cemented their alliance further," I respond.

Why am I talking so much? I can feel the anger within me, and I'm afraid that if I don't shut my mouth soon, I'm going to say something stupid. Or, at very least, be banned from speaking like Elijah, and then Esther will have to carry the entire interview on her own.

"Juniper, what were your thoughts when Rosa lead the Careers straight for Nicola?" he asks me. I think this is a question that is most likely supposed to be directed to Elijah, but had to be redirected to me. It's stupid because it's not like I'm going to say anything too eye-opening.

"I was proud that she was as crafty as she was," I say. "And I have nothing against Nicola. She was a good person and she always looked out for Rosa. She made their time in the arena more comfortable, that's for certain. But ultimately Rosa had to choose between Nicola and her own survival, and she made the decision that many of us would."

I think I am starting to get the hang of these interview things. Or maybe I'm just actually going insane.

"Beautifully said," Caligula compliments me. "Now I like Rosa's use of the oil. We had all forgotten about that. Do you think she was holding onto it intentionally, or was it just one of those items that she never really let go of. . . ."

And so the interview continues. Caligula directs the questions either to myself or Esther, or sometimes to the both of us. But it's very clear that Elijah is no longer included in it. I don't think this bothers him, but it's also possible that he wants to get his anti-Capitol hat on and preach to whoever will listen. I'm willing to listen, but I don't think I'm the intended audience.

The interview lasts about half an hour total. When it is finished, Caligula thanks us for joining him and then says goodbye to the camera. At last we are told that we are dismissed but there are refreshments on the opposite side of the room if we would like them.

Elijah is gone before anyone has a chance to say anything to him. That leaves just Esther and me. We bypass the refreshments and mosey out into the hotel.

"You want to share a cab?" I ask. "Can drop you off on the way to my place."

"Nah, I think I'd like to walk to the bus stop. I need to get some exercise. You are welcome to join me if that's not going to be too far out of your way," Esther says.

"Sure," I say.

As we head out of the hotel, all I can think of is that I managed to survive an interview without Pitch by my side.