This chapter is a shameless Victor interlude because I like my Victors and wanted to show them off. Training will start next chapter, I promise.

Poll's still open! Please vote in it (unless you like them all and can't decide, very understandable I'm in the same boat). Lurkers/people who didn't submit a character are more than welcome to vote as well!

Also, we hit fifty reviews! Yay! I'm very happy, especially since I'm shameless and like reviews. Thanks everyone, you are all amazing :)

Coulter Mignon, 36
District Ten Male, Victor of the 127th Hunger Games

He spoke with Kobe first. When Kobe stumbled inside from the Opening Party, bleary-eyed and exhausted, Coulter led the boy to his room and sat him on his bed. He took the plush chair in the corner and sat on the very edge so that his spine was as straight and taut as a bowstring. "Tell me how you felt it went," he said.

Kobe yawned. His chocolate eyes watered from the force of the yawn. "Well," he said, closing his jaws with a click. "You said to seem bored, right? Disaffected? But still confident? I think I managed that." He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "It wasn't that hard, since that's basically exactly how I feel. Minus the confident bit." He rubbed his chin. "Honestly," he said, "It's hard to feel confident when you're dancing with a Career and she squeezes your arms in, like, a friendly way, and you want to die because she's really strong but if you say anything you'll look like a wimp." He groaned and collapsed on top of his sheets. "It's unbelievable," he said. "I bet I have bruises."

"You danced with a Career?" said Coulter. "Which one?"

"Ivelisse Shale," said Kobe. "District One. She asked me to dance, would've been rude not to." He stared at the ceiling. "For someone who's probably going to try and kill me in a few days, we really hit it off," he said. "We're pretty much best friends now."

"Well," said Coulter, crossing his legs at the knee. "I would recommend trying to remember that this girl, in all likelihood, wants you to die. District Ones are notorious manipulators."

"Mm," said Kobe. "No, you're right. I'll keep that in mind." He had begun to sink into the plush magenta bedding. "Oh well," he said. "Pretty much every other tribute is probably hoping I'll die at some point. The Careers are just more gung-ho about bringing that dream to life."

"That's certainly a way for you to think about them," said Coulter. "If you don't mind my mentioning them, my own Games had a formidable Career pack, and I did survive. There's no reason why you shouldn't as well. Sponsorship is an important factor in that." He settled his hands on his knee and thought, How will I spin this dance with Ivelisse Shale? It must have interested the Capitolians. Kobe Engle Dances with Death. It was not ideal. Turning Ivelisse into the personification of death would increase her sponsor count as well. Could leech potential sponsors from Kobe and Ellie. But the Careers will always have sponsors, Coulter thought. District Ten… not as often. There's no reason for me to waste this opportunity.

He got to his feet. "You should rest, if you at all can," he said. "Tomorrow is training, nine o' clock sharp. I recommend getting there on time and working on the strengths you already have. Practice unarmed combat. The odds are very good you won't be armed, the majority of the time."

"Right," said Kobe. "I'll punch my way through." He lifted a fist into the air above his head. "Box my way to Victory."

"Well," said Coulter. "You'd be surprised, I think. It worked with me, for the most part."

He left Kobe and made for Ellie's room, which was across the darkened suite. He knocked three times on her door, and on the fourth knock she opened the door and let him inside. She went to sit on her bed, and Coulter sat himself in a chair identical to the one in Kobe's room. Every tribute room was exactly the same; some other mentor had told him that. He couldn't remember who, now.

"How are you doing, Ellie?" he asked, leaning forward so that his elbows dug into his knees. "How do you think the Opening Party went in terms of sponsorship?"

Ellie picked at one of the cloth flowers on her dress. The gloss on her nails shimmered in the dim red light coming from her desk lamp. "I don't know," she said, looking at her hands. "I talked to five potential sponsors. I think I talked around twenty minutes to all of them." She sighed. "None of them committed or anything," she said. "But that doesn't mean they're not interested, right?"

"You played up your angle?" asked Coulter. "Aloof, confident?"

"Yeah," said Ellie, "I don't know how they felt about it." She kicked one of her feet against the bedspread. "I didn't like talking to them," she muttered. "I hope they couldn't tell. And they kept asking me stuff about how many people I was going to kill and whether or not I was excited about that." Her lower lip wobbled. "It's not fair," she said. "I'm only twelve. I shouldn't be here."

"You have no idea how much I agree that you shouldn't be here, Ellie," said Coulter. "I wish very much that you were not here. But, since you are, we have to do our best." He glanced at the door. "Have you seen Katar anywhere?" he said.

"No," said Ellie. "I barely saw her during the train ride over here."

He sighed. "That's not a surprise," he said. "Katar can be… difficult to hold in place, as it were. I'm not convinced she's even in the building." He got to his feet. "I need to hunt down potential sponsors," he said. "I must remind you that Kobe is likely doing better than you are in that area. Have you reconsidered your stance on allying?"

She shook her head twice. Her blonde hair danced from side to side in a sheet. "No," she said. "I'm not going to. I… I don't want to. Still."

He nodded. "Alright, then. I'll keep mentoring you separately." He made for the door. "Training is at nine o' clock tomorrow," he said. "I suggest that you get there right on time. Try and hone your survival and plant identification skills. I think you'll make great progress in those fields." He opened the door. "Rest well," he said. "Until tomorrow."

Then he went out into the hall and clenched his fist so hard that one of his blunt nails tore through the skin. But there was no time to worry about it. He had sponsors to impress.

Allen Morphol, 39
District Three Male, Victor of the 127th Hunger Games

Allen Morphol watched the clock.

Tick, tock. It did not actually tick or tock; it was a digital clock, with red numbers that rose steadily until they reached their apex before starting over. 11:45. 11:59. 12:00. 12:01. His eyes watered from staring at the numbers as they rose. One of his fingers tapped against his knee, but when he became conscious of the tapping he strove to prevent it in the future, and kept his finger very still. 12:07.

At 12:11 AM, Techeela Selyck turned over in his sleep, clutched once at the pillow as if in the throes of some dream, and then opened his eyes. His body under the blankets was long and slender, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the dark. Allen leaned forward in the plush chair by Techeela's bed. He wanted to reach for Techeela's foot and perhaps grasp it over the sheets, but midway in the act of reaching, a foreign part of his brain seemed to say This is not what people tend to do. So he settled back into the chair and put his hand back at his side.

His clothing rustled, and Techeela's black pupils slid to where Allen was sitting in the chair. Techeela's nostrils flared and his body tensed. Allen could see his muscles flexing under the sheets, like the hood of a poisonous snake beginning to rise. Then Techeela sat up and rubbed some of the crust out of the corners of his eyes with the back of his hands. His open mouth reminded Allen of a wound.

"Why are you watching me sleep?" said Techeela. "Did you want to talk to me again?"

"Yes," said Allen. "I was waiting for you to wake up."

"Why wouldn't you just wake me up?" said Techeela, shoving some of the sheets down to his waist, where they draped over his crossed legs. "You could have."

Allen raised both of his shoulders and let them fall. Fluidly. The rest of his body did not stir. "I was watching you," he said.

"I gathered," said Techeela, with a wry note in his voice. "What were you watching me for?"

Allen got up from the chair and walked to the edge of Techeela's bed and sat down. He sank into the plush sheets and soft mattress. The bed dipped under his weight. "I wanted to see if there was something in you," he said. "Or if you were capable of coming out of this alive."

Techeela shifted his weight onto his palms. "Am I?" he said. "And how would you be able to tell if I was?"

The clock ticked upwards. 12:14. "You know," said Allen, looking at the red numbers on the display, "I knew your mother very well."

"Oh," said Techeela. His eyebrows drew together so that the skin in between them was distorted and wrinkled.

"Before I was reaped for the 127th Hunger Games," said Allen, "My parents believed that it was in my best interests to consult with a clinical psychologist. They were under the impression that I was suffering from a profound lack of empathy." He intertwined his long fingers and settled them in his lap. The red glow from the digital clock was beginning to scald his eyes. "Your mother encouraged me to remove from myself all unnecessary emotion," he said. "It became an integral part of my treatment." His eyelids flickered. "A great many situations encourage you to feel," he said. "I found that after the therapy your mother put me through, most scenarios evoked very little feeling from me. Empathy or otherwise." He leaned forward. "There is nothing inside of me," he said.

Techeela did not draw back. Allen could feel his breath on his face. It was warm and rapid. "I don't believe it," he said. "My mother couldn't have erased everything inside of you."

Allen raised one eyebrow. "Your mother might not have had much to do with it. I believe that, before my sessions with Maryann, there was very little inside of me. After my sessions with her, there was nothing at all. She hardly tipped the scales." He closed his eyelids. He could feel his own long eyelashes brushing the soft skin under his eyes. "It has been very useful," he said. "The 127th Games showed me the practicality inherent in my situation."

Techeela swallowed. "You're referring to what you did in your Games," he said. "The people you took apart. You didn't feel any remorse?"

"What remorse was there to feel?" said Allen Morphol. "At the time, and to this day, I was struck with an intense and burning curiosity to understand what other people might possibly be feeling, if I was to be so bereft. I discovered one thing that interested me very much."

"What was that?" said Techeela.

"The Victors," said Allen, "Are very much like me. They have almost nothing inside of them." He lifted his arm and reached across the short space in between them and used his fore and middle fingers to hold open Techeela's left pair of eyelids. "I think you and I are alike," he said, looking at Techeela Selyck's eye as the pupil narrowed to a floating dot and the eye began to leak water onto Techeela's dark skin. "You're struck with a desire to understand your fellow humans with such intensity that it leaks from you wherever you go," he said. He pinched Techeela's eyelids further apart and watched the pupil shrink. "I look forward to seeing how alike we are," murmured Allen, watching the tiny dot of the pupil, "I expect that you will win this Game, if you can bring yourself to purge whatever is left inside of you. As your mother once told me to do."

"My mother," said Techeela, "Was found guilty of faking her psychology degree and deliberately giving her clients the worst medical advice she could think of as a sadistic joke. If she hadn't killed herself she would have been in prison for life. As it was I spent two years in prison paying for her crimes as an accomplice. I was not an accomplice." He squeezed his eyelids so tightly that they slipped out from underneath Allen's fingers. The pupil was lost under Techeela's skin. "I don't know that we're so alike, Mr. Morphol," he said. "I don't want to hurt people."

"I never strove to hurt anyone," said Allen Morphol. "Only to understand them."

"I think we have a profound difference in how we interpret that," said Techeela.

Allen nodded. His fingers fell away from Techeela's face, and he got to his feet. "Whoever wins this Game will win because they will strip themselves of their humanity. No Victor can win without doing that." He stared down at the boy huddled underneath the sheets. "Can you survive without being human, Techeela?" he said. "It is something you will need to do."

He left the boy before he could answer. Some things were better processed alone.

Vascula Phalanx, 19
District Two Female, Victor of the 147th Hunger Games

"Welcome to the first strategy meeting of the 148th Hunger Games," said Wishbone. "Tonight's order of business is to elect a leader for the Career alliance based on the two candidates who have offered to take the job." He turned to his right, to where Vascula sat in the chair he'd set aside for her. "Vascula is here to observe," he said, "Since her own tribute this year volunteered outside of Academy bounds and will not be accepted into the Career alliance. Vascula will be offering her tribute no assistance, as the District Two Academy requested, and so having her present at this meeting will put the rest of our tributes in no added danger."

It was a small room, more abandoned broom closet than anything. According to Wishbone, the Career mentors had sequestered it for their strategy meetings decades ago. The white paint on the walls was cracked and webbed with dark brown water stains. The wooden table was small and the quarters were cramped. Vascula's back was pressed into the slats of her chair. She could feel the slats digging into her skin every time she swallowed.

"Before we start proceedings," said Wishbone, waving one broad hand in the air as he spoke, "We'll need opening statements from every mentor." His limbs and trunk rippled with muscle; he seemed far too broad for the delicate table, as though a single thump with his fist on its surface might crack it down the middle. His pit-bull jaw was clenched in concentration. His black eyes scanned the occupants of the table. They were rarely still.

"I'll begin," said Songbird.

She laid her brown hands flat against the table and said "Ivelisse is as manipulative as they come. Sweet, beautiful, friendly. Most of your tributes will love her before the end." Songbird raised black eyes to the bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. "She's not particularly innovative," said Songbird. "She lacks creativity. As long as the Career alliance remains intact, I don't forsee any Game-changing action from her." Songbird shifted so that she was slumped against the back of her chair. A District One signal that she was ceding the floor.

"I'll go next, if no one minds," said Regal. "I have a great deal to tell you about Alluvion, but from the looks most of you just shot my way, I'll do my best to keep it brief." He smiled. It was the kind of smile that included everyone who saw it in its boyish joy, as though everyone in the room had contributed to its being there. "Alluvion is the strangest tribute I've ever had the pleasure of mentoring," he said, "And as you all know, every one of us has mentored some bizarre tributes in the past." He shuddered. "Vascula, you remember your ally from last year? Luxure, I believe?"

"Luxure was his name," said Vascula.

"Right," said Regal. "Poor boy had no chance of winning. He was always counting things. Blades of grass, crystals on a chandelier, bubbles in a wineglass. Do you remember that, Vascula?"

"When he and the other Careers were killing me he counted the number of times I'd been cut," she said.

"Exactly," said Regal. "He was very strange. Alluvion is stranger." His full bottom lip jutted out from his face as he considered what to say. "Alluvion… has a very limited emotional palette," said Regal. "He doesn't get angry. He rarely gets frustrated. The strongest emotion he seems capable of feeling is mild dislike. You know, he quite reminds me of Allen Morphol!"

"Capitol's fuckin' sake, man," said Marr Garcia, from the other side of the table. "Get to the goddamn point already."

Regal raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me," he said, folding his gloved hands and pressing one tightly atop the other. "Kindly keep your opinions to yourself for a moment, Marr." He smiled again. "I wouldn't want to have to cut your eyes out in the strategy room. It would change the tone of the meeting in an unforgivable way. Also it might stain my gloves."

"You're so fuckin' weird," said Marr.

"Moving right along," said Regal. "Alluvion is difficult to get a read on. He's not a friendly person. He doesn't put himself out there in any way whatsoever." Regal scratched his chin. "Fascinating character," he said. "The rest of your tributes are probably going to die."

"We'll see," said Wishbone. "My tribute, Roman Ward, will be a difficult competitor. He is incredibly serious about the Games. He volunteered with absolutely no doubt that he would be capable of winning and operates with extreme efficiency. He treats the Games with the reverence they're supposed to be treated with. Realistically, he will be extremely difficult to beat." He nodded across the table. "Enver," he said. "Tell us about Starla, if you would."

"Capitol," said Enver. When her lips moved, the grotesquerie of her left cheek shifted to follow the movements. From the left corner of her lips the skin of her cheek had been mostly eaten away by infection, or peeled away by Enver Marrington herself when the pus began to fill her mouth every time she swallowed. Through the ragged opening in her cheek it was possible to see most of her teeth, which gave her the illusion of always sporting a half-smirk. "Starla's weak," said Enver. Saliva dribbled from the hole down to her jaw, which she wiped away with the back of her wrist. "She didn't train. She's pretty much useless." Enver rolled green eyes. "She's the whiniest tribute I ever had. Always boo hoo, I don't wanna be a Career, wah wah wah I don't want to be in the Games at all, shut up Enver I bet your advice isn't useful anyway." Enver wiped at the hole again and said, "She's gonna die pretty early, I bet. One of your tributes is gonna use her as a human shield." She shook her head, and her brown hair danced in sheets around her pointed chin. "It's so unfair," she said. "I'm just trying to get off this goddamn Victor's Village shit. Why can't I ever get a normal tribute?"

"Hey," said Marr, leaning forward abruptly, "My tribute this year is not so fuckin' incredible either."

"Yeah, but he trained," said Enver.

Marr screwed up his thick eyebrows and seemed to consider it. "That's true," he decided, grinning and flashing his yellow teeth at the others around the table. "My guy is not so bad after all. His name is Jax Brooks and he's very, ah, he's a funny guy. He likes to make jokes and do dares and bets and things. He's not very serious about the Games." Marr shrugged his massive, sloping shoulders. "I ask him, What's your favorite torture, and he says, Listening to you talk. Fuckin' rude." He rubbed a hand across the short bristles of his Mohawk. "He'll probably die early," he said. "He's not even excited about killing. Boring as hell."

"Alright," said Wishbone. "That's everyone." He straightened his spine. "As it's getting late, I'd like to get the leadership business over with early so we can head to bed and inform our tributes of the leadership situation first thing tomorrow. Since it's our tributes vying for leadership, Songbird, we can both make a case. Would you like to go first or shall I?"
"You," said Songbird, arms folded across her chest. A hint of a smile flickered around the corners of her lips.

"Alright." Wishbone leaned back in his seat. "Roman, as I said before, is unbelievably dedicated to the Games and to this alliance. He has no intention of breaking the alliance before every other tribute in the arena is dead, and will do his best to ensure the survival of all of his teammates. He believes in the Careers as an institution." He nodded at Songbird.

"My turn, I suppose," she said. "Well. Ivelisse, as a manipulator, is more than capable of bringing her allies together and making them want to work for her. Career infighting is extremely unlikely with Ivelisse at the helm." In the glaring light from the bare bulb, her skin appeared to be the color of ash. "That's all," she said. "I assume I'm voting for Ivelisse and you're voting for Roman, Wishbone."

"Correct," said Wishbone. "Which leaves District Four and Regal to break the tie. Enver, Marr, what are your votes?"

"Roman," said Enver. "Ivelisse seems like an airhead. No offense, Songbird." But she was grinning as she said it.

"Yeah," said Marr, "Roman. Who cares about that lovey-dovey wanting to work for her shit. They'll all work together anyway or they'll fuckin' die." He bared his front teeth. "My guy's probably gonna die anyway. What are you gonna do, you know?"

Songbird raised her eyes skyward, but did not protest. Wishbone nodded and got to his feet. "Roman wins by default," he said. "Sorry you didn't have a chance to vote, Regal."

"I was planning on voting for Ivelisse, for the record," said Regal.

"My apologies," Wishbone said. "I'll inform Roman of our team decision tonight. The rest of you should do the same with your own tributes." He thumped on the wooden table with his fist. "Good team meeting, everyone. I expect to see you at nine tomorrow." The corners of his lips turned up, very slightly. "If things keep going well, I'm sure many of our tributes will make it to the final fight," he said. "It'll be a finale to remember. I have a good feeling about it."

Hamilton Damask, 43
District Eight Female, Victor of the 120th Hunger Games

She dug her knuckles into her blue eyes with such ferocity that it felt for a moment as though they might burst free of their moorings and slide out of their sockets and fall onto the table with hideous twin plops. Hamilton sighed and pulled her hands away from her eyes. Exhaustion weighed on her like a physical entity. She felt as though her spine might collapse like a badly-constructed tower.

Her tribute fidgeted on the other side of the table, looking as though she were trying to memorize the patterns of the grain. A steaming mug of cocoa sat on her right, but she hadn't touched it. Flax's mouth was small and twisted into a tiny pout. The lines between her eyebrows were very pronounced. Hamilton had come across her on a trip to the bathroom. Flax had been awake much of the night, it seemed.

"So," said Hamilton. Her voice was husky. She wanted very much to go to sleep, right there at the table. "You're feeling anxious about the Games."

Flax nodded. Her eyes flickered up to meet Hamilton's and, once eye contact was established, immediately flickered back down.

She's so afraid, thought Hamilton. It's twisted. It's evil. She wanted to tear the room apart, rant and scream at the cameras she knew were poised in every corner like fat needle-legged spiders. The muscles in her abdomen clenched in anticipation of the rage she felt sure would bubble out from her at any moment. But she took deep breaths, like Wheatgrass Lowe of District Eleven had taught her to. The rage died to a murmur that whispered through her veins and under her skin. A murmur was alright. That she could handle.

"I felt the same way before my Games," said Hamilton. "I couldn't sleep. I could barely eat or drink." She indicated the mug of cocoa. "But it's important that you do, Flax, or in the Games you'll be that much weaker."

Flax nodded and picked up the mug with quick, awkward movements. She took a long draught and settled it back onto the table with a ceramic clink. Cocoa powder caked her lips.

The murmur of rage rose to a spitting hiss for a moment. Deep breaths, Hamilton, she told herself, clenching one of her fists under the table where Flax wouldn't see it. The rage cooled. "You have a strategy," she said out loud. "So you know that in that department you're not lacking." Flax showed no sign of recognition, and the tiniest hint of irritation welled up somewhere deep inside Hamilton. It was difficult, having a tribute like this. She hardly spoke, rarely emoted. Her chances were not very high.

But it wasn't Flax's fault. She hadn't chosen this. She would never have chosen this.

"Your strategy," said Hamilton. "Is to not present yourself as interesting or a threat in any way. Blend into the background as much as possible. Make them forget you're even alive so they won't remember to come looking for you." It was a nightmare of a strategy on the sponsorship front. But Hamilton's tributes were rarely sponsored anyway. She had found that her ability to play nice with sponsors was seriously limited. She had been corrected on more than one occasion, on account of that.

The exhaustion was threatening to overtake her. She got to her feet. "Remember, Flax," she said. "You can win without playing their Game exactly as they want you to play it."

"... okay," said Flax. Her voice was so small that Hamilton wasn't sure she'd meant to say it.

When she'd seen Flax to bed, she left the District Eight suite and took the elevator to Eleven. Wheatgrass came to the door after the third knock. "It's late, 'Milton," he said. His eyes sagged with sleep. He leaned on the doorframe for support. "Can't this wait until tomorrow?"

"If I don't talk to you, right now," said Hamilton, "I'll burn this building down."

He groaned and let her in. They sat at the dining room table together, both in the soft fluffy robes they were provided for nighttime escapades, both in soft Capitolian silk pajamas. "How's your tribute?" asked Hamilton, to distract herself. She played with one of the flowers in the vase on the table, bending the stem until it threatened to snap.

"Saege is doing very well, actually," said Wheatgrass. "I think he has a real shot at this. He's smart, strong, capable. He got some sponsorship offers during the Opening Party."

"Sponsorship," Hamilton muttered. Her eyes were narrowed. "No one offered Flax a thing. She was too afraid to talk to anyone."

Wheatgrass' mouth twisted. "I'm sorry to hear that, Hamilton," he said. "But if she won't play the Game…"

It was an old argument, one they'd had before. "She can't play the Game, Wheatgrass!" said Hamilton, slapping one hand onto the table with such force that her palm stung. "The Ones, the Twos, the Fours, they can play. Send all of them into a deathmatch and leave the Flax Newells out of it."

"But she has to try," said Wheatgrass. As always, he was calm. He never got upset. Not when she did. "If she doesn't try, she's as good as giving up. Besides," he said, glancing towards the ceiling, "The Capitol is often very good to us. They-"

"I know they're listening and I don't care," said Hamilton. "They've never arrested me for talking to you before. They won't stop now." With a convulsive jerk of her wrist, she snapped the stem of the flower in the vase. She could feel water leaking from one end of the stem onto her fingers. "If she doesn't play the Game it doesn't mean she's giving up," said Hamilton. "I didn't play and I won."

"You won because the Capitol loved how passionate your hatred for them was," said Wheatgrass, without raising his voice. "Flax doesn't have that. She's just afraid. They get bored of fear."

"They're sick."

"They want to be entertained." He closed his eyes and hung his head. "Here's an interesting fact for you, Hamilton. The majority of the people who watch the Games are under thirty. They're children, Hamilton. It's children who watch. Because they've been told it's the thing to do."

"And how does that make it right?" she snapped. She felt as though the stem of the flower were leaking blood onto her hand. Real human blood. She dropped it into the vase and rubbed her hand on her soft robe.

"They don't understand what they're seeing. To them, it's not really real. It's just a show. Like Victor's Village."

"Then they're willfully blind. And stupid." She got to her feet. Her rage was simmering now. "I don't know why I always need to talk to you, Wheatgrass. Your devil's advocate thing drives me crazy." She snarled the last word at him, but he just nodded.

"I know," he said. "But sometimes I think you need to be angry, Hamilton. Or you'd do something that we'd all end up regretting."

She thought about that, on the elevator back to the Eight suites. That she needed her anger, or she'd do something drastic. Something the Victors, quite possibly, couldn't come back from.

It would shake things up, anyway.

Beatrice Hunt, 28
District Six Female, Victor of the 138th Hunger Games

Reuben had her wake up at eight o' clock to rouse their tributes, but when Beatrice went to shake Kara out of her slumber she found Kara and Tucker sitting at the dining table, Tucker chewing a pastry sullenly while Kara sipped coffee from a ceramic mug and tried to blink the sleep out of her blue eyes. She smiled broadly when she saw Beatrice, but her eyes seemed to be fixed on something far away, like only part of her was really present.

That was something Beatrice could understand. She had spent a huge part of her own Games locking most of herself away, so that the Beatrice Hunt Panem was watching was not the core of herself. Although, when she'd killed her last opponent and they finally lifted her out of the neverending series of holes that dug deeper and deeper in the earth, she'd been a bit startled to discover that the core of herself had withered away after all, while she'd fought.

She sat across from the tributes and poured some of the coffee in a gleaming pitcher into an abandoned mug. "Good morning," she said.

"Morning," said Kara. "I hope you slept well, Beatrice."

"I did," said Beatrice, hoping that the dark half-circles under her eyes would not give her completely away. A yawn threatened to shudder its way free from her body, but now she would feel disingenuous if she yawned, so she forced it down as tears sprang to her eyes. "Are you two ready for today?"

"Yeah," said Tucker, who'd finished his pastry and was now eating a fistful of cold cereal. "I'm going to master the sword today. Tomorrow I think I'll work on bow and arrows."

"Right," said Beatrice. He's going to get her killed, she thought, glancing across the table at Kara. There isn't a realistic bone in his body. She squirmed and bit her lip. I wish Kara had never decided to ally with him, she thought. I wish Tucker had never accepted. But it had happened, and Reuben had been thrilled, in his particular way. He hadn't smiled, or said anything much about it, but that night in bed he'd been even more vicious than usual. The marks still stung. And so she knew he was happy about it. He'd never give her what she really wanted unless he was happy.

It's because Kara will get Reuben's tribute much farther than he'd otherwise get, she thought, frowning. I should've told her not to do it. I shouldn't have accepted the alliance request.

But then they'd all be angry with her. Kara, Tucker… Reuben. She might have been able to handle the anger of her tributes. It was unlikely that they'd be around much longer to hate her. But Reuben… When he was angry with her, he was vicious in a very different way than the way she wanted him to be. She felt cold, thinking about him. His ravaged, fire-scorched skin.

"You know," she said, taking a sip of coffee. "Maybe you could focus on handling something a little less flashy, just for starters. Like a knife, maybe, Tucker?"

He wrinkled his nose. Dry cereal spewed from his lips. "C'mon, Beatrice, wouldn't it be a teensy bit more fun to use something cool like a sword? I'll bet you I'll be real good at it by the end of the day!" He jittered in his seat. "Alright, I guess I can pick up some knifework on the side, but I'm pretty positive I'm gonna be killing it with a sword in a few hours." He plucked a grape from its stem and tossed it into his mouth. "Don't worry about me!" he said. "I can definitely handle this. I promise."

Kara winked across the table at Beatrice. "I'll work with you," said Kara. "We'll try swordplay and see how it goes. If we get bored we can always do something else, like survival skills or something. Right?"

"Sure!" said Tucker. "If you really feel like you need to know survival skills I'm not gonna get in your way, Kara. Maybe I can help you out! I bet I'll be really good at trivia."

"I'll bet," said Kara, grinning.

"Well," said Beatrice, "I'm going to go talk strategy with Reuben. Have a good day at training and make sure you both get there at nine!" She shoved away from the table, the chair squealing.

"See you later, Beatrice!" said Tucker.

"Bye, Beatrice," said Kara, waving a delicate hand.

As she walked to Reuben's room, she tried to purge the thought that sat in the center of her brain, gnawing and chewing like a beady-eyed rodent. Tucker's going to get Kara killed. She's going to die. It's a stupid waste, and it's not fair. It was a thought that needed to go. Reuben could usually tell what she was thinking. This was a bad stage in the Game to have him angry.

She reached his door and twisted the handle and let herself in. He was working at his desk, as he'd been when she left him. Papers and blueprints that she did not fully understand were scattered under his lamp, which glowed yellow in the dark. He'd kept his curtains closed again.

He was hunched at his desk, but when he heard the door open he turned to face her. The half of his face that had been spared the greater part of the fire was alert, pointed, sharp. Handsome. The other half was bloody, weeping, grotesque. Handsome. His features were like melted wax. But both of his eyes were grey and clear and stared out from his face as though his body was a prison that could do very little to contain what was lurking just underneath the surface of his boiled skin.

She'd watched his Games about a hundred times. Each time she felt even closer to him. She wasn't sure he'd ever watched hers in their entirety.

"They're both awake," she said, going to sit on his bed. It had the cool feeling of a bed that had not been slept in for a while. "They're going to head downstairs after breakfast. Kara's planning on steering Tucker towards survival skills. He wants to learn swordplay."

"He wouldn't even be able to lift a sword," said Reuben. She shivered at the sound of his voice. It was cold, unaffected, with the faintest note of sadistic amusement crept in. Reuben Eyre had very little patience for people he thought were weak. Why he'd taken a shine to Beatrice was anyone's guess. She didn't understand it.

"I know," she said, clasping her hands together and hunching over at the waist. "I think Kara might be able to keep him focused, but I'm not sure."

"She'd better," said Reuben. "I don't have time to waste on him. I'm not telling him what he should or shouldn't do." He passed a hand over the papers on his desk. "I'm busy," he said. "So it's quite convenient that you've been mentoring him for me. Keep doing it."

"Sure," she said. "That's why you wanted them to ally, I figured."

He nodded. Then he glanced at her as if seeing her for the first time. "What time is it?" he said.

She thought about it. "8:45."

"Alright. Take your clothes off." He did not look up from his work, but he did not pick up his pencil again, and in fact remained very rigid in his chair. Waiting.

We should probably talk strategy, she thought, but he was happy. She could see it in the way one corner of his ravaged mouth seemed almost to be smiling. Even his eyebrows lacked their usual sullen quality. He's happy, she thought. So he'll give it to me. Everything I want.

She was still marked quite badly from last time. Last time, the bruises had ached for hours. The cuts had stung for days. One of the burn marks was almost deep enough that she wasn't convinced it would ever go away entirely.

I really deserve it this time, she thought, as warmth and heat pulsed through her. Saddling Kara with Tucker. I'm selfish. I'm so, so selfish. The marks on her thighs had begun to throb again. I'm a coward, thought Beatrice Hunt. I'm a coward who'll let her tribute die to make Reuben Eyre happy, so he'll give me what I want. That's just despicable. Really, it is.

She took her clothes off.