My parents were Cato and Clove. I couldn't stop dwelling on the idea, and the thought had consumed my head for the rest of the day. As I walked down the cold, gray streets of District 2, finally done with training for the day, I tried to shrug it off. I was bruised and scratched in countless places, and needed to rest.

With this new idea, the idea that I had parents, parents in the Hunger Games—I was going to throw myself into training hardcore like Zeke wanted me to, because now I wanted to win. I really did want to win. I didn't know where this determination had suddenly come from—even if I believed that doctor, I would've thought I would have just hated the games all the more, if it had killed both of them. But now I burned to enter the games, the desire to finish what my parents had wanted creeping into my mind, and I couldn't get myself to think about anything else.

I'd only been here for a few days, but my feet already knew where to go. After my arrival, Zeke had arranged things so I was now officially a citizen of District 2, and he had relocated me from the training facility backroom to his own home, which was one of the grandest buildings I've ever laid eyes on. That I could remember, at least.

I walked up the path toward the house, and went around to the side of it, where there was a small side door. Entering, I closed it behind me, and walked down the narrow staircase that led down into the basement.

I went down the hall to my room to change. It was a small room, with a little bed in one corner and a dresser and a mirror in another, one lamp on the dresser being the only light. There weren't any windows, as this was, in fact, the basement.

Zeke's parents didn't know I was here. A few servants did, but the Head Peacekeeper didn't. Zeke said they never came down here, and it was all for the better, I thought to myself, as I opened my closet and pulled out my change of clothes. I don't know why he was so accommodating, for me. I guess he saw something in me. That I had potential. That I was a trained fighter who could be made to succeed.

After taking a quick shower in the bathroom next door, I got dressed and started combing my hair out when Zeke came in.

"Having troubles?" he asked in vague amusement, seeing me attacking a stubborn snarl.

"Yes," I said irritably, "I need to cut this mess, it's much too long to be manageable."

"It think you should leave it," he mused, sliding onto the counter to sit next to where I stood, "As potentially dangerous as it could be in a fight, I think it'd be a shame to get rid of it."

When I finished brushing out my hair, he took the brush from me and started putting up my hair into a high ponytail, and used multiple ties to bind sections of it securely.

"I've seen a couple Career girls do it like this, in the past," he said, unaware of my alarmed expression. I recognized this hairstyle; it was exactly like how Clove...my mother? had worn hers in the arena. I looked just like her.

"It's, uh, sure, thanks," I stammered after a moment of silence, watching my own bright eyes in the mirror. I was pale. He looked at me for a moment, as if studying my face, then slid off the counter. "Anyway, you did well in training today. Tomorrow's Saturday, we've got an easier day, but I can train you afterward if you like. We can work on your spear-throwing, you've never really been good at that."

I rolled my eyes with an exasperated sigh, tugging on my sectioned gloves.

"You've got to learn, Blaze, what if there aren't throwing knives in your arena?"

"There's a 99% chance there will be. They want a good show don't they? It sounds to me like they normally give the Careers what they want."

"True," he smiled, following me out into the other room. "Glad you're becoming familiar with the system."

I sat down on the couch and turned on the television, and he sat beside me.

"So," he said after a moment, "Any chance you could tell me a little more about yourself? All I know is that you're a national criminal who's sanity is questionable."

I snorted. "That's pretty much all my life has consisted of."

"But what about your parents? You don't know a single thing about them?"

I tried not to look like I was about to lie.

"No. They died before I was born."

"Before?" he asked incredulously, "How did that work?"

Wow, good job. Way to go, Blaze. That's really normal-sounding.

"They died before I was born," I restated casually, as if it were obvious, "And I was extracted from my mom's womb and kept alive. I don't know why. I've lived as a Capitol servant/prisoner for ages, running away whenever I could."

"How do you know about your parents? Someone must have told you about them, surely, for you to know that."

Ugh. I looked at him, and his lips were twisted in a light smirk. He could tell I knew more.

"You're a bad liar, Blaze, now come on, you can tell me. I won't tell a soul; I'm good at keeping secrets, as you've seen."

His dark eyes twinkled in amusement at my frustration. I eyed him before speaking again.

"Well, honestly, I don't know what to think. When you injured me the other day, I met this little old guy in the hospital wing. He was from the Capitol, a doctor. He said he was the one who saved my undeveloped self, back then."

"Did he tell you much about your past?"

"Yes, there was a lot that he claimed, but I don't want to talk about it, so let's not," I said irritably, turning away from him to watch the screen in front of us.

It was true, I didn't want to talk about it. A lot of it didn't make sense, and yet somehow was appealing—to have a backstory, to have some semblence of an explanation, an explanation of why my life was in such ridiculous shambles. A tragic story of dead parents who cared. It was an interesting concept.

There's also why I'm crazy. I'd like to know that one.

Days went by. Weeks went by, and I still hadn't been discovered, except by some of the students at Academy—but they only had respect for me, and not suspicion, ever since the day they all saw me in the knife-throwing station. I made it clear that I was a powerful threat.

As I did today, since I didn't feel like putting up with anything difficult. Right now I was practicing throwing two knives from the same hand, in different directions. It was all about a trick of the fingers.

I saw Zeke across the high-ceiled room, leading around a small crowd of newbies, around ages 10 and 11. He smiled when he saw me, and led them over. "This, my friends, is Blaze Smith, who will demonstrate what true knife-throwing talent looks like."

I snorted, and went to each target to yank out all the knives, reloading them all in my belt. Then I went to stand on the center spot of the station, surrounded by little targets and dummies. Zeke pressed a button on a control panel off to the side. The targets started moving around, and I pulled out two knives, one in each hand.

Before it even looked like I was in motion, the two knives in my hands were whirling through the air, and they pierced straight through two moving targets off to my left. They struck deep, almost all the way through the target boards—I prided myself on that. Before those knives had hit the targets, two more were in my hands, and I threw again, these knives slicing off the heads of two dummies. I kept on going in a slight whirlwind until my knives ran out, throwing them in various directions at tiny targets of different speeds. The last knife I threw as far as I could, and it hit the bulls-eye of a target for spear practice across the room.

The kids stared at me in awe for a moment, then started applauding. Zeke and I exchanged amused looks, and he even smiled a little, in approval. I turned and collected my knives again, a light sigh escaping me. I didn't have the patience or the extraverted ego for being a showoff, really.