Hello everyone and welcome to the second prologue chapter of Long Way Down! I'm still looking for tributes and would love it if you submitted! This second prologue chapter introduces another mentor for one of your tributes and continues to detail life on Victor's Village, the inane TV show one of your tributes will end up on if they win the 148th Games. Fun!

Thanks for reading, and please submit!

Welcome back to Victor's Village, where drama and the deadliest killers in Panem go hand in hand! Last episode, we saw Abraham Savage's attempt to welcome newest Victor Vascula Phalanx to the Victor's Village… by attacking her. Will this bold choice win over the judges? Or will one of the other Victors welcome Vascula in a more conventional way and win this month's challenge? Watch tonight's episode and find out!

Vascula Phalanx, 18
District Two Female, Victor of the 147th Hunger Games

Vascula Phalanx had finished laving tap water over the wound in her side when she heard the knock on the door.

She squeezed the cup in her hand so that she felt the plastic beginning to distort in her grip. Then she slammed the cup onto the kitchen counter. Tap water sloshed over the side and puddled around the base of the cup. For a moment she was concerned that the camera perched on the counter would somehow be damaged, but she shook herself and thought, It's fine. I'm sure there are dozens of these all over the house. Better hidden than that one, too.

There was a wooden block on the counter that held a set of knives. She pulled the biggest one from its sheath and walked into the living room, towards the door. Warm liquid trickled down her side from the wound with every step.

When she reached the door, she rose onto her tip toes to peer through the peep hole. On the other side was the face of a man on the older side of young, distorted by the rounded glass. She recognized the symmetry of his features, and stepped away from the peep hole. That's Allen Morphol, she thought. Victor from District Three. Still handsome.

"Hello, Mr. Morphol," she said. "What do you want?"

She could see the shadows of his feet in the light filtering underneath the door. "To welcome you to the Victor's Village," said Allen. His voice was gentle and lilting, like he was speaking a lullaby. She remembered that voice from his Games, which she'd watched on video. She remembered a lot about Allen Morphol's Games.

"No, thank you," she said. "Abraham Savage tried to welcome me earlier."

"I heard," said Allen. His voice was muffled by the door. "I've brought supplies with me. I can sew you up. There's no need for you to suffer." His voice was soulful. It was difficult to disbelieve a voice like that, which bled warmth and sincerity. Every word was music. Vascula thought that Allen Morphol's voice might have helped him win his Games. His voice, and his looks. And his capacity for incredible cruelty and violence.

Still, she reached for the doorknob and unlocked the door and pulled it open. "Come in," she said, waving him towards the kitchen with the blade of her knife. "Don't try anything. It's been a long day for me."

He sat himself in a seat at the table, back ramrod straight. His posture was perfect. He's wonderful, thought Vascula. Physical perfection, if anything like that existed.

She settled in the seat across from him. The knife she set on the table by her hand, close enough to keep her fingertips pressed to the grip. She'd already pulled off her shirt when cleaning the wound, so she swiveled a bit so he could see it. He leaned towards her; she could feel his breath on her side. "This should not be difficult," he said. He'd brought a small black bag with him, which he unzipped. Inside were several sets of sutures. He selected one with slender fingers and peeled it free from the packaging. "You've been through worse, I expect."

"Yes," said Vascula. Her eyes were fixed on his hands as he lowered them to the wound and set to work. Vascula's expression remained impassive as the needle pierced one jagged flap of skin over the wound. But she felt it, the hot lancing sting of the needle impaling flesh. She wanted to pull away. Instead she relaxed in the seat and rested her chin in her hand. She stared resolutely at the needle, dipping in and out, in and out. "Why are you doing this?" she asked.

He paused, and glanced up from his work. His eyes were enormous. "I only want to help," he said.

She recognized those words from his Games. They hadn't ended well for the people involved. She was acutely aware of the thread he had in his hand, the thread that trailed from the neat sutures he'd sewed into her flesh. She considered driving her foot into his perfect face, but instead stayed very still and watched him work. His lips were thinned in concentration; his slender hands plucked at the string like the hands of a harpist drawing out a melody.

"Abraham wanted to welcome you to the Victor's Village," said Allen, words dripping into the silence like blood soaking through a wooden floorboard. "That was his strategy. This is mine."

She frowned. "Strategy," she said. "Is this a competition?"

"The Games never end," said Allen, pulling on a thread hard enough to make her squirm, just a bit. "We're all still playing." He glanced up at her. Their faces were very close, so close that a strand of her black hair fell against his high cheekbone. He did not brush it away. "Every month there's a challenge," he said. Then he pulled away and went back to suturing. She was grateful, and disappointed. "This month, our challenge is to welcome you to the program. The judges will decide who the most successful Victor was. And the least successful." He reached for his black bag and pulled out a small pair of scissors. "Next month, you'll be a player too," he said, pulling the thread taut. The scissors flashed.

"All done," said Allen Morphol. He did not stand up. Instead he continued to stare at the wound in her side. "Did you feel it?" he asked, reaching out to trail his fingertips along the line of thread.

"No," said Vascula. Pain fanned out from where his fingers brushed the stitches.

"Of course." His hand lingered for a moment. Then it fell to his lap. "Victors experience pain differently than anyone else. I've seen that firsthand." He got to his feet and scooped his tools back into his black bag. "Welcome to the program, Vascula," he said, smiling, beautiful. "We'll be seeing more of each other very soon."

She watched him go, and remembered the handsome boy in the 127th Hunger Games. So beautiful, so easily trusted. What he'd done to his allies, in a stinking cave underneath his arena, was still Hunger Games legend. They didn't release the footage easily, but in District Two there'd been a copy. She remembered his knives and his needles, and his beautiful, manic face. Promising that it was all for a better cause. Arms up to the elbow slick with red.

He closed the door behind him on his way out. Vascula ran her fingers over the thread, over and over again. Welcome to the Victor's Village, she thought. The Games never end.