I manage to hide all signs of what happened before I step off the train in Three. The peacekeepers, after some debate, decided to allow me to return to my apartment to clean up and change clothes before heading to the train station as they didn't want my appearance to cause a panic. There is something about their words and actions that niggles in my brain, but every time I close my eyes to try and focus on it I see Perry's head exploding, Gamicus bleeding out, Clara gasping her last breath. I can only hope that the rest of the group manage to get away, and that Terry Coulter and the doorman don't give up too much information when questioned.

My father meets me at the station to help carry my bag. Like me he's a naturally quiet person, comfortable with long silences and his own thoughts. He doesn't seem to notice anything, and I decide not to tell him. It's bad enough that I know I've quite possibly condemned our precious little Balia to death in a few short months. I don't think I'd be able to function if my family turned against me now too.

I make it through the next few days in a haze of unawareness, speaking only when someone asks me something (I have a feeling I miss a few attempts at conversation judging by peoples' reactions when I do reply) and barely sleeping, my nights haunted by bloody bullet-wounds and echoing whispers promising freedom.

On Saturday morning Beetee cautiously calls me up from the workshop to the kitchen in my house, where my parents are waiting. "Wiress, I thought you should know…I just got word from Plutarch Heavensbee, of all people."

He hands me a print-out of a news story and I choke back a sob as I see the photo—Clara Redfern with her boyfriend, cousin and friend Terry Coulter, alive and happy at the fairground. The headline—a tragic car accident that claimed four young lives—and the follow-up article reminding people to take care when driving seem to blur in front of me. Apparently the tragedy occurred late last night.

"Plutarch asked me to pass on that to the best of his knowledge it was just the four of them, and that none of the others you might know were hurt. Also something about a brother who may or may not have been involved that seems to have disappeared."

Royan. I can only hope he disappeared by his own choice rather than at the hands of the peacekeepers.

"I…I…" I swallow heavily, but the words seem well and truly stuck behind a wall I thought I had built a door in.

I stop trying to force my thoughts through and stand, swaying slightly. I realize I can't remember the last time I ate, though that's hardly important now. Shakily, leaning against the walls for support I make my way to the door and head outside. I'm half-way to the cemetery before I realize where I'm going and it's not until my shin scrapes the side of a stone marker that I notice the paper still scrunched in my hand and that I'm only wearing socks.

I end up sitting curled against the stone, huddled against the cold morning air, rocking back and forth as my mind tries to recalibrate. After some time I notice the two shiny black shoes on the edge of my vision and look up to Beetee standing a few yards away holding out a blanket.

I shake my head at the offer, glancing at the sky in the slim hope that the smog layer might thin enough to let some sunlight through. As I shift position my legs cramp painfully and I start shivering uncontrollably. After a few seconds thought I take the blanket. Beetee doesn't say anything, just helps wrap me in it and sits down beside me, leaving enough space between us for both of our comfort. Once my teeth stop chattering I unclench my hand and smooth out the piece of paper, fingers brushing over their faces.

"You shouldn't feel guilty," Beetee says softly. "It's not like you could have done anything to stop it and it's not your fault that you weren't there."

But I was there and I could have done something. Stopped Clara from running to Perry, thrown myself in the path of those bullets. Gone to the peacekeepers and President Snow with everything and tried to beg for mercy.

"I-"

I take a few calming breaths, trying to decide what to tell my mentor and whether to mention the group of rebels whose schemes I let myself get caught up in, or whether I should just play along with the official story and let him think I'm mourning the sudden and accidental death of my friends.

In the end it all comes pouring out in half-stuttered sentences, the whole truth from my first suspicions to the meeting to the shootout and President Snow's retribution against my little sister. At first he doesn't say anything, just lets me spill what words I can manage, lets me stumble my way through without trying to catch my sentences and hold them for me until my brain doubles back for the lost words.

Once he realizes I'm done he shuffles around in front of me and takes my hand, holding like my father might when he wants me to listen. "It's still not your fault Wiress. You need to remember that. Sometimes things happen that we can't control. A lot of the time actually. I don't know if…well. I don't know how things will go with this group now, but all we can do is stick together and-"

He cuts off mid-sentence, eyes wide as he stares over my shoulder. I turn, gasping as my legs cramp again from the sudden movement and look up into Balia's tear-stained face.

"How….how long…"

"Have you been standing there?" Beetee finishes for me.

Balia swallows heavily. "Long enough," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "You weren't going to tell me."

"I.." I'd spent the last few days debating back and forth whether to say something, trying to decide whether she would rather know how bad her odds had become. I hadn't made up my mind, too afraid that she would blame me, hate me, push me away. Instead she sits beside me and throws her arms around my shaking body, burying her head against my shoulder as she always used to do.

"Beetee is right. It's not your fault. You were trying to make things better."

Instead I made everything so much worse.

"It's ok," my little sister tells me as I hold her tightly. "I'm not afraid. Well, not too much. I already thought they might do this to me one day, you know, victor's little sister."

I'd been trying to ignore that. I thought if I played nice they would have had no reason to go for her.

"If it's not me, then it will be another girl. Someone else's sister. As long as the Games continue it will always be someone dead. I don't blame you for trying to stop that."

She's right, I realize. I hug her tightly again and don't let go until she starts to squirm. She wipes my eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, which almost makes me smile and she rolls to her feet with enviable ease, offering me and then Beetee a hand up.

"It's warm inside," she says as she takes my arm and starts leading me gently back towards the house. "If I do…you know…I don't want my mentor to be sick from the cold."

I glance at Beetee, who is staring at the ground red-faced. I doubt my sister meant to remind him of the last Games, but for some reason he still seems to blame himself for getting sick and being unable to go with me.

The walk back takes a lot longer than expected—I hadn't noticed how far I'd gone, but it's nearly half a mile. My feet, mostly numb from the cold only twinge occasionally as stones in the hard dirt dig in through the woollen socks. As the house comes into view Balia pulls up short.

"I almost forgot to mention why I came after you both. There was a phone call just after you left. From one of the Gamemakers. One of the other victors died and they want you all to go to the funeral."

"It is the tradition," Beetee answers, glancing briefly at me. Probably trying to decide if I'm stable enough to get dragged in front of a camera. I'm not sure I am, but I know I don't get a choice in the matter. "Did they say who?"

Balia frowns and shakes her head. "Not who, but it should be all over the TV. The others will know."

As soon as we get inside my father scoops me up and carries me over to the couch, where my mother wraps my now-bleeding feet in warm towels. Over their shoulder the screen shows a reporter standing on a District Four beach talking about the tragic loss of one of our youngest and most vibrant celebrities. The footage cuts to the Victor's Village, where Mags and Nimia are sharing a shawl, Morstan is staring at his hands and Ava is leaning against the tanned body of a much younger man, who holds her and brushes her long hair from her face.

They all look upset, which is somewhat surprising since I know that none of them liked the arrogant Denissa much. Still I suppose she was one of their own. Slowly I start to thaw; my feet in particular feel like they are on fire until Balia brings me some painkiller tablets and she sits with me as the story unfolds. Denissa was actually in the Capitol, apparently partying with some friends there when a balcony railing she leaned against gave way. They don't show any photos of her body after the supposed thirteen-storey fall, and as they move into another tribute which re-hashes some of her more memorable Games moments I start to put things together.

The mysterious double murder the day before Clara and the others died, that was all over the news. The sudden silence about it afterwards, Snow's reluctance to have "any more" trouble with his victors that weekend. Even the detail about the bit that got cut off the male victim and pinned to the doorframe would make sense if half of the stories about sponsor deals for the attractive victors are true.

This time I do decide to stay quiet about what I know. There's no reason to frighten my family any further and if Beetee's paying attention he'll work it out anyway. He takes care of calling back and arranging the details. The two day trip, including the three hour ceremony passes in a blur after Beetee arranges for my Capitol psychiatrist to send out some new medication. It lets me disconnect from the world scarily well and helps prevent any nightmares at night, though it ruins my ability to remember any details and I stop taking it the moment we head back home. I do stash the remaining pills in my travel bag to take with me to the Games in a couple of months' time, just in case.

I join my family in the living room that night, the last effects of the drugs fading away, and as my mind slowly wakes up I notice Balia isn't there. Malcon is in his favourite corner of the couch nearest the heater, face scrunched in concentration as he carefully colors in the pictures in his book. Usually Balia sits with him, either finishing homework or reading whichever princess story she's got her hands on that week. My parents—engaged in what appears to be a serious chess match—don't appear to have noticed anything unusual.

I sit down next to my little brother and wait for him to notice me while I read. After ten minutes he finishes filling in the sky of his picture—always perfectly neat between the lines and completely filled before he can stop—and turns to look up at me. His eyes slide from vacant to nearly focused as he recognises me.

"Wiress, trees. Like your trees. This will be…"

He trails off as he rummages through the box at his feet for a green pencil.

"Malcy," I ask before he can start on his next color, "Do you know where Balia is?"
He nods and leans over to whisper, "Visiting Grandma. Secret. Back soon."

Before I can follow up he starts on the green leaves in his picture and I give up any hope of conversation with him for the next few hours. Visiting Grandma. I doubt Malcy is aware enough to remember that both our Grandmas are dead, my father's mother several years before I was even born. The only way for Balia to visit them…

Walking softly to not disturb my parents I slip out the front door, tugging on a thick coat from the rack on the way out, though it's not too cold for two hours past sundown. I find Balia about a quarter mile out from the Village, keeping to the shadows as I watch the little light on her wrist glow a clear path through the stone markers. She passes my hiding spot, gasping heavily from the effort of her staggering run and for a moment I'm afraid she's being chased by someone. Then she stops and leans on one of the smoother stones, gulping down breaths of our cold, greasy air. Once her shoulders stop shaking she sits and stretches out her trembling legs, mumbling to herself.

"-just another few hundred yards. Not too far. You can do this."

I creep closer, letting the whisper of wind cover the sound of my footsteps, stopping just ten yards away from her as she pushes herself upright.

"Ok, I did nearly a mile tonight, so tomorrow I'll go-"

Another gust of wind tugs the hood off my head and lets my hair fly free and she turns at the soft rustling of cloth, wrist-torch blazing suddenly into my eyes, blinding me. I fall back with a soft cry that is lost in her scream and when I eventually blink clear of the dazzle spots I see her lying sprawled on her back groaning and clutching her chest.

My brain freezes—she's been stabbed from behind and is bleeding out and it's all my fault—until she starts laughing.

"Wiress, you…you scared…how did you sneak up on me like that?"

Suddenly it all comes together and I don't know whether the tears on my face are from sadness or pride. She's doing the only thing she can do with the knowledge of her possible fate: Training.

I wipe my face and offer my brave little sister a hand up. "Slowly, quietly, moved with the…the wind."

She nods like a student receiving great wisdom from a senior instructor and I pull her tight for a quick hug. "Cupros," I tell her, "Tomorrow after school. He's the best…best fighter we have. Beetee and I will…will teach you traps, snares. You ask us…anything, we'll tell you."

She squeezes my hand and whispers, "Thank you. It's the only thing I could think of, and maybe it will help me be less scared."

She pushes away from me suddenly and gives a glimpse of her old smile. "Race you to the house"

She starts running before I can reply and, despite her previous exhaustion, beats me by a good thirty yards. I clutch my chest, the old wound that's only healed on the outside, as we stop in the entrance hall to take off our shoes and coats.

"Please, don't tell mother and father, at least not yet. I don't want them to worry."

I nod my agreement, though I suspect it will be impossible to hide for the full two and a bit months until the Games begin.

~xXx~

While Balia starts running regularly and learning the few fighting basics Cupros can teach her I spend my afternoons watching replays of old Games, notebook in hand. From my conversation with Royan on that fateful day I know that the 50th arena will feature tributes to the previous 24 years of Games and I want a comprehensive list of everything that might be included. Sometimes, when I end up watching later into the night my sister joins me, occasionally asking questions about why a tribute might have done something, what they might have been thinking. I try to answer as honestly as I can.

Very quickly I notice she is much more bothered by the pain and suffering and death than I am. I honestly can't remember if I was always this way or whether the arena hardened me. Was my inner monster always a part of me? Did I find it and give it a home, or did I simply unlock the door to its cage?

It takes my parents nearly two weeks to catch us out and I spend that night apologizing over and over for bringing this down on us while my mother holds me and tells me that it's not my fault. Soon the others join in with our desperate plan, Ezra practices wrestling with her (I remember belatedly that he'd been in a few fights in school). Laney starts running with her to lose the last of her baby weight. Beetee, at my father's suggestion, orders in some personal fitness equipment from the Capitol, claiming that his sickness last year inspired him to get into shape. Officially it's illegal for prospective tributes to train for the Games, but since the kids in Districts One, Two and Four get away with it I suspect we can too as long as we have reasonable deniability.

I contact Balia's school and try to talk the head teacher into re-starting the long-abandoned gym classes. He refuses, claiming that the school's budget relies on the income they gain from the students' scavenging efforts. He also informs me that it's not my place to interfere with education facilities. I try the head-teacher at the closer school which Malcon attends, who is much more willing to compromise, especially when I suggest that Beetee and I can come offer extra classes in engineering and electronics in exchange. My sister changes schools the next day and adds an additional three hours to her weekly exercise program.

By the time reaping day comes around I can see the difference. At nearly fifteen, and just about topping 5'4", Balia now moves with more grace and strength than I ever did. Her limbs, while scrawny, still look stronger than those around her and there's at least a hint of assuredness in her eyes. She knows that she has done all she can to prepare, and while she may be afraid and about to go to her death, she'll at least have a chance at going down fighting.

It takes us a long time to detach Malcon from her hand as she parts from us to sign in, though once separated he goes quietly with Ezra. Both Balia and I tried several times over the past week to try and explain to our little brother that she might have to go away and that she might not come back. Every time we said this he shook his little tousled head and insisted that "Wiress went away, Wiress came back. Balia goes away, Balia comes back."

I repeat that to myself as I mount the stage, shivering through my too-thin silk shirt as I take my seat. The early morning showed some promise of sunshine, but by the time we left the house the sky had turned solidly gray and if anything has only got darker. Usually my gut instinct provides a good feeling for how an event might go—it warned me about bad fires and my own reaping and, once I thought back, about that awful night with Clara. Today I can't tell as I've been edging on nausea and unable to sleep well for the past week. Perhaps it's a really big warning that everything will go wrong, or perhaps my baseline is too high to judge.

Gloria Goldacre, our Capitol Escort bustles over, this year wearing a dress made of sharp triangles of silver mesh. Her fingernails—three inch long silver talons—stand out nearly as much as her spiky false-eyelashes.

"Wiress, hello, hello, it's just wonderful to see you again. And Beetee too, so good, yes, I'm so excited to finally work with you. And Cupros of course, though he won't be mentoring this year? No, of course not."

Beetee winces as she shakes his hand. He did get to meet her briefly while we were in the Capitol for the Quell Card celebrations, and had agreed privately with my assessment of her—an improvement over the cruel Carmenius Fallow, but still frustrating in her own way. Cupros grunts at her and ignores the outstretched hand. We were all informed that each district would still only field a maximum of two mentors for the four tributes. It was decided that it would be an unfair advantage for the Career districts and others who had been more successful. As opposed to their usual unfair advantages of training and popularity.

Then again, my own sister has spent the last two months acting like a Career so I suppose I can't complain too much. I wonder silently as Mayor Redden makes his way forward to start the opening speeches, how many of the Career kids started their training as an insurance policy in case they were ever reaped rather than as a plan to volunteer in the future. Perhaps if more kids from our district did train, even a little bit they might have a better chance of surviving in the future. As Redden introduces the three of us past victors I look out over the sea of scared faces, the rows of scrawny bodies and pallid, ashen skin from breathing our polluted air. Then again, maybe not.

Before I know it Gloria is at the microphone, all bubbly and ear-piercingly shrill as she tries to whip up some excitement for this special anniversary Hunger Games.

"We will alternate now, choosing one girl then one boy," she explains, "All of whom will have the honor of representing District Three in this historic event which will be remembered for generations to come."

I have no doubt that, unless we manage another miracle, the Capitol will have forgotten most of our tributes from this Games before the year is out. With a clattering of her spike-heeled shoes, Gloria bustles over to the left-hand table and shoves her talon-nailed hand into the bowl. She swirls it once before pinching out a single slip of paper. Dimly I realize my own hands are clenched so tight that my whole body is shaking. I try to rationalize again how many slips there are, and how there's still a good chance that Balia's name isn't on the chosen ones as our silver-clad escort clears her throat daintily and steps back to the microphone. A part of me is so certain that it's Balia that I nearly fall of my seat in shock when Gloria calls Seebee Lau to her death.

The unlucky girl makes her way from the very back of the crowd. Eighteen, small for her age. The girl makes it up the steps without any tears or obvious signs of fear, though she rocks back and forth slightly as our escort heads to the other bowl for the first male tribute. I'm still trying to analyze Seebee, and trying not to look relieved that it's not my sister standing up here when Gloria reads the second name. Jakson Redden, our mayor's thirteen-year-old son, is shaking from head to foot and stumbles on the second stair as he makes his way to the stage. I glance at his father, a decent man who went out of his way to help the people displaced from jobs and homes after the fires and wonder for the first time if I'm not the only one whose relative has extra entries in the reaping. Redden's face is as ashen as his son's, though from the resigned expression I assume like me he had a notion of forewarning.

A flash of color as Gloria heads back to the girls' bowl makes my stomach drop again, though not as much as before. After all, I've already seen that Balia's reaping is not inevitable. Really the odds are still in our favor, and she just has to avoid this one more pull and we're safe.

This time I'm so convinced that it won't be her that I audibly gasp when she is called. From the corner of my eye I see Beetee half-extend his hand, then draw it back. On the other side I catch a glimpse of motion, Mayor Redden shaking his head. But the main thing my eyes focus on is my beautiful, gentle, kind little sister fighting to stay strong as she wends her way past the other fourteen-year-olds. Dimly I register a murmur through the crowd. A low mutter of unease that doesn't quell until long after Balia has taken her place and I realize suddenly that it's too obvious. If just one of them was reaped, perhaps it could be taken as chance. But no-one in our district has ever been accused of being stupid and even those who aren't gifted at maths know that seeing the mayor's only son and the younger sister of a victor just two years after their Games, two children who absolutely have no additional tesserae entries, called in the same year would require astronomical odds.

The fourth boy, an underfed seventeen-year-old who tries a desperate lunge away from the peacekeepers and gets a punch to the guts and dragged to the stage for his trouble rounds out our group of unfortunates. Mayor Redden somehow finds the strength to stand and read the Treaty, as he is required to do, though his voice—usually a mumbling monotone—catches several times and more than once I see him forcing himself not to turn and look at his young son, standing just a few yards to his right beside my sister.

As he finishes the speech he suddenly can't seem to look at any of them and mumbles at his feet that the four are to shake hands, and after a few seconds of awkward shuffling they are guided by the nearby peacekeepers into the justice building. Balia tries to smile at me as she walks past, but I can see her lip quivering already. I try to stand and follow them, but my legs are suddenly lead weights and it takes Beetee's helping hand to get to my feet. Once I'm up I'm suddenly unsure where to go or what to do. Last year I spent this time with my family before being driven over to the train. But this year my family will be in the Justice Building just behind me, waiting to say a probable goodbye to…

I can't even finish the thought. I've spent these last weeks imagining this scenario and trying to steel my heart against it, yet I still can't quite rationalize that my little Balia is going to be forced to fight and possibly die in the Games. That for the rest of the family, barring a miracle, this is the last hour they will ever spend with her. I should be there with her, with them, I decide, but when I try to enter the Justice Building a peacekeeper blocks the doorway.

"Mentors are to go with your escort to the train now. The tributes will join you later."

"But I …family…"

"Now," he repeats firmly and pushes against my shoulder, causing me to stumble and fall backwards. The concrete steps are smooth compared to the roads and sidewalks but I still feel the immediate sting in my hands. An arm loops around my chest to pull me upright and my mind immediately flips back into the Games.

I can already smell blood, the blood on my hands from the thorny hedge as one of the Careers tries to drag me upright so that he can kill me. A part of me is trying to beg with him to let me die in the place of my sister, except she's not actually there. He's yelling at me, words that don't make sense and grabbing me tighter so I fight back with fingernails and teeth. I taste blood at one point and twist away to avoid the stabbing point of the spear that should follow. Distantly I hear a high pitched screaming, incoherent and feral and I come back enough to realize it's me making the sound when a sharp jab in-between my shoulder blades sends the world into spiralling blackness.