A/N: Aren't you glad I had this one mostly ready? x) Enjoy!

(Also, in case you missed the edit from the last one, it's six mentors, not nine. My bad!)

CHAPTER 15: FOXFIRE

Katniss fidgeted, tugging at the silky material of her top. Another plunging neckline and open back that seemed to be designed to make Katniss uncomfortable as much as please the crowd.

It was the end of the second day. They were lined across the room in chairs set one after another. Katniss sat on the very end next to Haymitch, who was only about half as drunk as he usually was. Which was good; she wanted him to be in the best form possible to help Madge in the arena. Someone needed to be on her side, since Katniss couldn't be.

Katniss' tribute was Peeta and as per her deal with Haymitch, each of them could give their all to only one tribute. She would never let Haymitch make a choice or deal like he did before. She would never let him choose her twice.

This seating arrangement was not typical of the mentors. Gathering them all together at once was not the usual. It was more like the seating chart of the tributes during their interview. Their only one before the start of the Games. But the mentors were mostly behind the scenes at this point. Farther into the Game, as more tributes were killed off by their peers, the survivors' mentors would start explaining things like strategy or personal attachment. If they thought their tribute had a chance to win...

But even then, the mentors were interviewed separately or in District pairs. Nothing like this. Not lined up like they were about to go into the Games.

Katniss gave an involuntary shudder at the idea.

She relived her Game every night when she closed her eyes. When she drifted into sleep that was haunted with the faces of tributes past. When she opened her eyes to look around the room that belonged to her in Victor's Village, knowing that it was hers—not Gale's—because she was the better killer. Better than twenty-three other poor souls.

Twenty-three kids who didn't deserve to die.

Except Marvel, she thought bitterly. She wished she hadn't had the thought, but as it flitted through her head, she knew she believed it. He deserved to die. For what he did to Rue—so like little Prim—he deserved to die. At least it was quick, merciful.

"It is the Quarter Quell," President Snow announced to the audience that existed beyond the Colosseum sized auditorium. "It is a time to remember that Panem nearly crumbled under the senseless and traitorous actions of the Districts who went against the Capitol. A time to remember that we sacrificed too much because of selfishness, because of greed, because of pride."

The mentors lined up in their little white chairs, said nothing, did nothing. No cheering like the crowd, no bowing of their heads like the Districts. No cringing like the parents of the tributes. Nothing. Just blank stares and motionless bodies.

They had stopped believing in the speeches of President Snow a long time ago.

"And, as is customary of the Quarter Quell, we have something special in store for the people of Panem!" His smile was red, as though smeared with blood, and looked vicious enough that it could have been.

They watched, a sense of horror churning in their stomachs as memories of past Quells entered their minds. Katniss had not lived to see one; Haymitch had...

Snow's gloved hand entered the box, retrieving an old, weathered piece of folded up paper that surely was only made to look as old as it seemed. Traditionally, the paper was retrieved at the beginning, before tributes had even been named. But this year was different, though Katniss originally had no idea why. This year, Snow had waited until two days into the Games, after eight tributes had died at the Cornucopia, two more had lost their lives to carelessness and the hunting Careers, and one more to Madge's cleverness.

The reason for his waiting could not be something good.

When he opened the carefully folded piece of aged paper, his smile widened and his snake-like eyes twinkled in something far less innocent than mischief.

"To remind us that even the most experienced reinforcements cannot help us," he read in a voice that carried through speakers and televisions across the country. "The 75th Hunger Games offers us this: Those Victors who have had the honor of winning the Games have the option now to Reenter the Games and win again."

Option. Option. The only word Katniss' mind could hang onto was option. Reenter the Games. What idiot would ever voluntarily reenter the Games? Few would do it the first time around.

She had been an oddity, she reminded herself.

By making it optional, surely no one would volunteer... But no, she had heard right. It was option and reenter and Snow did not order them—those poor, tortured, broken souls who sat in their little pristine white chairs—to go back. He did not order them to kill again.

And then she heard it: "And, in the interest of a little generosity," Snow added, as though he knew anything about generosity. "I will add this: To any mentor who stands with their tribute at the end of the Quarter Quell, both mentor and tribute shall exit the Games alive. Honored for their valiant displays."

With that addition, he did order them to kill again. One way or another was the only option they really had in the matter...

They were signaled to rise from their seats. Katniss knew now why they had been arranged as they were, facing the crowd in a long row.

Black and white. It was all black and white and indeterminable shades of gray.

By choosing to not enter the Games again—by making the sane choice that anyone in their right mind would make—they were all but ensuring their tribute's death. They could do nothing but get sponsors to send helpful or useless items to their tributes, slinging things in on white parachutes with little silver containers hanging from them. Choosing to stay on the sidelines simply because they did not want to die was just as bad as choosing to kill again.

There was no right answer.

Black and white and gray.

Snow asked all volunteering mentors to step forward.

The auditorium was silent. Breaths were held. No one moved.

There was no right answer. There was only a stage with twenty-four old and young and shriveled and scared and scarred and broken people who had lost something they could never get back. There was only terror and hurt and the boy with the bread.

After a full minute, where it seemed no mentor could bear the horrors twice in their life, that no one would step forward, it happened.

The crowd roared in applause. Mentors turned their heads to the end of the line and stared with wide eyes. Haymitch ceased swaying drunkenly on his feet and stared with narrowed, hard eyes that raged with anger and glimmered with hope. The floating screens that had been showing President Snow from about twenty different angles flashed, changing to an image of a boy and a girl holding hands as they rode in on a chariot, burning like two fiery gods.

Katniss could not take it back.

One step forward was all it took to send her spiraling into insanity, murder, and the Games. One step and the thought of owing the Boy with the Bread...

"Kat-niss! Kat-niss! Kat-niss!" the crowd chanted her name, all of them on their feet, shouting with enthusiasm and pride and excitement.

Everyone still remembered the Girl Who Was On Fire.

And again she gave them a reason to never forget.

…

Six out of twenty-four volunteered. Six. Six who were willing to risk their lives for the off-chance that they could drag their tribute to victory. Not even that. Some did it for the second chance at glory. Katniss would never understand. She could forgive those who didn't bother stepping forward because both of their tributes were already dead—like Jocce and Lennea from Five, or Woof and Cecilia from Eight—but what about Digs and Wash from Ten, whose female tribute was still alive? She contemplated fuming against Beetee, too, but one look at the older man made her reconsider. She didn't want to see him in the Games, really.

Whatever their reasons, whatever their choices, Haymitch was not one of those to step forward.

A part of Katniss raged at his selfishness, but the other part, the smarter part of her knew that he was making the right choice. Better that only one mentor per district ventured into the fray. Haymitch could still provide the lifeline to sponsors, and Katniss could work on saving their tribute.

But there was the hitch. She could only save a tribute. One. Not both, even though both of District 12's were still alive—a rarity in and of itself. She still had to make a choice, still had to sacrifice. There could still only be one true victor.

And the cold stone in her gut was telling her it wasn't going to be Madge.

"This changes things," Haymitch told her, as though she had shifted from mentor to tribute. Maybe she had.

"Observant," Katniss spit out sarcastically.

He ignored her quip as he usually did. "You're going in there—" his words elicited another caustic comment about his stating the obvious. "—and you're not fighting strangers anymore."

Katniss frowned. No, they weren't strangers anymore. She knew about the tributes now, not just from watching them over these past two days, but from stories shared from the mentors of these unfortunate children.

And that's when it hit her, just exactly what Haymitch was talking about. It wasn't the knowledge of whom the tributes were that fought for survival in the arena now... It was the friendship that had developed over the years between the Victors.

The people going into the arena with her... they had become her friends. In some ways, they were more her family than her family was anymore. Oh, she would never stop loving Prim. Never stop feeling as though she had to do anything and everything to save her little sister. But Prim didn't understand. She didn't know what it was like to go into the Games—Katniss had made damn sure of that. It wasn't as though this made them any less of sisters, any less important to one another. But it was a wall. A secret that Katniss couldn't share and certainly didn't want to. And yet, it was something she needed to share. Something as big as the Hunger Games couldn't be kept inside, alone to fester.

Katniss could share that with the victors.

And now she was going to have to kill them. Because the terms were that two could leave the Games alive, but it was only one tribute, one mentor, one district. The brave souls who had followed her into the Games, had really followed her into death. And she was probably going to be the one dealing it.

Her eyes glanced over in Finnick's direction. Their gazes locked and they shared a moment. She had grown to like Finnick, enjoyed his company, even if she didn't enjoy his brazenness with sexuality and nudity. They had reached an understanding over the years and he had helped her to hold onto her sanity as the Capitol threatened to strip it from her.

In a lot of ways, they were the same, she and Finnick.

And just like that, with just one step forward apiece, they had become enemies. Finnick Odair was going in with her, but only one of them would be able to come out alive.

He smiled a sad, understanding smile, and blew her a small kiss accompanied by a wink.

She couldn't manage a smile in return, but she managed not to cry. Some days, that was all she could ask for. She looked away from Finnick and dared not look to the others. Johanna had chosen to go in, too, and while the two didn't share what would be deemed affection by any stretch, she had to grudgingly admire the woman. She had played her Game well. Seeder from Eleven caught her eye, but she looked away quickly. Everytime Katniss saw Seeder or Chaff the memory of that little girl from Eleven hit her and there was no time to think of that now. She did, however, take a minute to consider why it was that Seeder had stepped forward and not Chaff.

The last two were Gloss and Brutus, and Katniss didn't have to guess about their motives. Or about how eagerly they'd be to kill her and her tributes. There was no love shared between her and the former Careers. Their volunteering would be the easiest of the bunch, she decided, if only because it was easy enough to hate them.

Gritting her teeth, Katniss turned from the mentors-turned-tribute and looked back at Haymitch. He had a funny expression on his face, making her frown.

"Before you go in," he muttered—was that guilt in his voice?—tone low enough to reach only their listening ears. "I need to tell you..."

He glanced over at the others. Mentors becoming tributes again, and it was no secret that many were not doing it for altruistic reasons. There was more than one in that crowd that hated Katniss, whether because of her or Haymitch, she couldn't tell and didn't care to ask.

Moot point, she figured.

"What is it, Haymitch? I don't exactly have a lot of time..." She would have precious few moments with Cinna to discuss necessary things and get her glammed up for her grand entrance into the arena. She didn't have time for Haymitch's drunken slurs.

"You going back in changes things."

"Pretty sure we've been over this," she countered in irritation.

Haymitch waved off her obvious annoyance. "Yes, but you should know... The reason Madge has lasted this long isn't dumb luck." His eyes glittered with mischief and danger. "It's strategy, and I can't guarantee she won't win with it in the end. So if you want your boy to get out of there alive, you'd better tell me now."

She stared at him, eyes a little wide. Really, she shouldn't have been surprised. Faking his drunkenness—he certainly looked sober now—and encouraging Madge to do everything she could to appear weak, useless, and doomed from the very start. Playing on Peeta's kindness and Katniss' pity... Haymitch had won his Game at an early age for a reason.

Good people don't win the Games, sweetheart.

No, no they didn't. She and Haymitch were living proof. And her next choice could certainly confirm that. Because now they were once again in a position of sacrifices and deals. A place she had tried so hard to avoid... but maybe always ended up there in the end, regardless of her best intentions. Hadn't she made a deal with Haymitch for no more deals? Hadn't she made the choice to save Peeta even when the cost was sacrificing Madge? Wasn't she going into the Games again, knowing that she was going to have to kill everyone else still in there to get one—only one—boy out?

For all her good intentions and striving for honesty and some sort of honor, she was right back where she started. Katniss couldn't figure out if she wanted to kill or kiss Haymitch for keeping his end of her deal.

Now, the question became: did she make one more deal for one last sacrifice to save one last boy?

"Just make sure Peeta gets out alive," she breathed to Haymitch. "Cause if I make it out of there without him, I'll kill you."

He nodded, because she meant it.