AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well.

This fic is rated T for violence and language.


The Mentor

The next morning holds surprises of its own. Malcovitch rolls over sleepily under my vacated covers. I walk to the toilet. Piss. Splash my face, and head to breakfast.

Rule number one: people starve.

Corollary: eat while you can.

Tasha Pushkina interrupts my feast of grain mash, potatoes, and fried eggs. Her face and bald head are a mask of oily green of a frightful hue. I raise an eyebrow. "It's a long-acting moisturizing exfoliator," she explains as if anyone would know what that meant. "All the women in Capitol are doing it."

We spend a few awkward moments in silence, neither of us wanting to broach the subject of last night's fiasco. "Someone's hungry this morning," she says shyly. I grunt in reply, and shovel another forkful of potatoes into my mouth. I stick with foods I'm familiar with-there's no point in puking or getting sick.

She selects fruit, soy yogurt, and coffee with cream. Through the windows behind her, I can just make out the beginnings of the Capitol District in the latent darkness. To the East, there's a pale sliver of dawn creeping up over the horizon.

"You're up early," I tell her.

"Withdrawal," she grimaces. "Morphling's a downer. I can't sleep without it. Last year I was awake for seven straight days."

"Are you even going to be able to function?" I ask bitterly.

Her answer saddens me. "Petra Angelovna, you're a good girl, and on my word as your Chaperone I'm going to get you all the help you need."


We're not the only ones up. And if Tasha Pushkina's pre-dawn presence at the breakfast table caught me off guard, it's nothing compared to the shock of seeing Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov stumble in honest to Games almost sober.

Without further adieu, he sends my Chaperone scampering: "Tasha, darling, you'll have to excuse me. I need a word with my champion."

Her eyes go huge. She swipes her coffee and yogurt and leaves without even a hasty word in goodbye. What the hell?


Klerkov eyes me coolly, thick fingers combing through his tangled beard."You're not going to complain?"

"There's no one to listen," I snap, looking up from my food. "And I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

"Last night I was a dirty old man and you didn't seem to want to be left in a room alone with me."

"Last night Tasha Pushkina called you a cock-sucking, sister-shagging son of a whore." My fork stabs the potatoes with vehemence. "This morning she said nothing at all."

One of his oiled eyebrows raises, intrigued. "And?"

"And nothing," I return. "I don't depend on her to protect me. If you wanted to hurt any of us she wouldn't be able to stop you."

Something dawns in his all-too-eager eyes. I don't like it. "And you would?"

Damn it Petra, you have to play this carefully! I might not want or need his help, but I sure as hell can't afford to have my own mentor as my enemy, drunkard though he is. "I never said that."

"But you're not afraid." The light in his eyes spreads hungrily through the rest of his strained smile.

To hell with it. "Touch me, Victor Ivan Klerkov, and your balls will know it before your dick."

"Don't worry, Petra, my dear. I think that fucking with you would be a very, very foolish thing to do," he states solemnly. "And it's not just my eyes saying so." Then he laughs. For the first time in years Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov throws his head back and laughs loud, long, and unabashedly until hot tears roll down his cheeks and into his dark beard.

I seethe, silently.


He pulls back a chair, and plops down wordlessly. He reclines it back, his putrid, hairy feet splayed out on the table. "Petra Angelovna, you're absolutely right. I am a dirty old man, a drunk, and a failure. But you're also wrong: I really was only joking."

Petra Angelovna, it was a joke. I'm hardly inclined to believe him. "Right. Because I'm too damn ugly even you couldn't get it up."

"It's a test, Petra Angelovna," he explains. "One I've used for twenty-four years. It's never let me down."

"What, to see if your Tribute can pass her oral exams?"

But suddenly he grows serious. "No, Petra Angelovna. To see if any of them have the spirit it takes to win." My breakfast lays forgotten on the table.

"I'm an investor, plain and simple. Mostly I invest in vodka-I never make much profit, but then again, I never lose anything. Investing in Tributes costs, Petra Angelovna," Klerkov explains seriously. "And I never invest myself lightly."


He asks me my strategy. It's simple. "Win."

He nods. Slowly. It takes him several minutes of deep contemplation to speak again. I don't dare touch my food for fear he's testing me.

"What about Malcovitch?" he finally asks.

"What about Malcovitch?" I return.

"You can't keep him," he frowns.

"I don't plan to."

His frown only deepens. "Tasha Pushkina thinks otherwise."

"Tasha Pushkina is a well-meaning fool," I say bluntly.

"So deception's your game, is it?" He asks lazily.

"I'm not a liar. I promised his mother I wouldn't make him suffer. And that's exactly what I told Tasha."

He strokes his beard, deep in thought. "But you let her infer from that what she would."

"That's her problem. Not mine." And I need her help, since I can't count on you. I need her faith and influence up until the moment I enter the Games.

Rule number two: people lie.

Corollary: sometimes to deceive, you have to tell the truth.

He surveys me solemnly. Perhaps he guesses more than he shows. I can't be weak. Not in his eyes. I can't afford to become another risk-adverse investment. "What are your strengths?"

"I can kill." I will kill.

"What are your weapons?" He presses.

"I've watched the Hunger Games. More than any other contestant, and I'm old enough to remember them. I know how they work."

"So do all the Careers."

"Well then," I shrug, "I guess I'll have to do something about the Careers, then, won't I?"

He shakes his head, traces of a sad smile tugging the tendrils of his beard. "No, Petra Angelovna. I am thinking that we will. I can help you win the Games," he continues. "If you're sure that is what you truly want."

"Damn fucking." I am not a selfless heroine. I want to live.

"Then you will not complain," he orders abruptly. "You will not question. You will do as I say, when I say, and you will obey implicitly."

He has my answer and my disgust. "The hell I will."

"Good." He grunts. "Then I think we have an understanding." And with that, Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov—perhaps a drunk but still very, very dangerous—leaves me to my breakfast and confusion.

I stare down at the plate of lukewarm eggs and mushed potatoes, my appetite vanished. I don't quite understand. What the hell just happened?


I find Tasha Pushkina in my room, painstakingly brushing Malcovitch's hair. She's lost the fright mask and is back to wearing one of her illustrious wigs—this morning's is an impractical concoction of interwoven braids. Although after one look at Xavier Malcovitch's matted, tangled mess of curls I change my mind. It's definitely more practical to fuck it and wear a wig.

"What just happened?" She rounds on me the instant the door is shut. "What the hell just happened?"

"Cry baby, scram." I order, taking his place next to our Chaperone on the bed. He wanders aimlessly into the bathroom, unreadable as ever.

I flop back into the covers and close my eyes. I find myself confessing the first thing that comes to my mind. "I'm not really sure."