The Career

AN: More canon characters to come!


"Miss Angelov? Mr. Sheen?" a male voice calls as I limp down the carriage steps. "I suppose there's no need to introduce myself—"

"Odair?" District 1's male Tribute gapes. I try not to let my surprise show at seeing either of them. "Finnick Odair?"

"The one, the only," our famous host boasts with practiced bravado.

"I'm a fan," Sheen offers a hand, but instead Odair embraces him warmly. "Glad I'm not going out there against you."

Odair only laughs. "The feeling is mutual."

Odair. I was ten when he won. I still remember his terrible trident, still remember all the Seto girls swooning. For weeks afterwards they kissed propaganda pictures of his face. Not me. He gave me nightmares as a child. He moves to embrace me as well, but I remember Haymitch and Mason. Charming as he seems, he's another Victor, and my Mentor is nowhere to be seen. That and even I know he has a reputation. I edge away. "What do you want?"

"What, no kiss?" Finnick asks, letting his arms fall. "Twelve years, and that's a first."

"You won eight years ago," I remind him cautiously.

"But I was kissing girls long before that!" his returns playfully. "I could show you, if you like."

"And I've been castrating pigs at least that long," I cross my arms. "I could show you, if you like."

Far from put off, Odair only laughs. "Castration? Twelve years and that's another first. At least from a girl," he stresses. "I've had plenty of threats from concerned fathers."

"You still got that Trident?" Sheen asks, ignoring me. I imagine he's been given the same warnings I have. Knows better than to strike up conversation. It'll be easier to kill me that way. Before the night is over, I'll make him talk to me. Become strong and do, I hear my father's words. Luccan, I remind myself. His name is Luccan…

Finnick shakes his magnificent head. "It was auctioned. Brought me a fortune, though."

"Shame," Sheen—Luccan, I force myself to think—says. "I would've liked to have it."

Odair laughs appreciatively. "I don't doubt it."

I'm not here for flirting, small talk, or Games past. "What do you want?" I repeat my question louder.

"Forgive me, Miss Angelov-"

"Angelovna," I correct, sick of formalities. Hell, I'd rather just be Tribute. "And it's just Petra."

"Petra," he continues professionally, dropping his provocative manner. "I assume this is…your first of these functions. I thought I'd introduce myself. Let you know there is established protocol for how these events are run. It might make it easier."

"Easier?" I wrinkle my nose. "How the hell can this be easier?"

"Better," Finnick amends, leading us into the Villa. "For you. Your family."

"Make what better?" Luccan asks suspiciously as we pass under the walls. "Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"You're about to meet Sponsors," Finnick states matter-of-factly as we pass through the dancing torchlight. High up above, flaming crosses line the rounded stone work, beautiful and wicked all at once. Already I hear the party music, taste the smell of roasting meat.

"No matter what happens, just do your best to impress," he instructs as the cobbled walk-way turns to smooth marble and alabaster columns. "Don't approach anyone," he tells us. "Don't speak unless spoken to. And most importantly, do everything you're asked without hesitation or question."

"Sounds easy enough," Luccan shrugs. That's when I realize he doesn't know.

Finnick's smile falters in his handsome face. "It never is," he warns. "I thought it's best you be prepared." His green eyes linger long on me. I will myself to stop shaking. "In the mean time, help yourself to the food and bar," he gestures to a sumptuous spread. "Your Sponsors will be with you shortly."


With a short bow and a friendly farewell, Finnick Odair leaves us. And the second he's gone, Luccan Sheen moves to put as much distance between us as possible. He can't afford to see me as human. I can't afford for him not to.

…but fuck if I'm just going to sit here waiting. I miss Klerkov more than ever. Plots. Spies. Accidents, Petra. Think, there has to be something...

"He's lying, Luccan." I state, loud enough over the orchestra so he can't ignore me.

He grunts.

"It's not just Sponsors," I continue, picking glass out of my only recently healed palms. "They're customers. And we're the product. I just figured you ought to know."

"Piss off, Angelovna," he says dangerously. "I know what you're trying to do."

"That's what happens once we're Victors, Luccan." I unwedge a shard from between my toes. "They whore us out."

He snorts. "You've got some nerve if you think you can talk me out of winning."

"You think I'm lying, Luccan?" I glance up. He's watching me closely. "To scare you? Look at my face. Do I look like I'm kidding?" Maybe he's a better liar than me. Maybe not. But it hardly matters when I'm telling him the truth.

"Already did." He grunts again, grabbing a drink and fishing for the olive. "Your Trainer teach you how to roll through glass?"

"And kill Careers," I return boldly, pulling more from my heel.

Luccan looks unimpressed. "You'd better hope he's good."

"You'd better hope he's not," I retort.

"Games, you're a bitch," he curses, downing his drink. "You know that?"

"I've heard it several times."

"So that's your plan, Butcher?" He spits my nickname around a flaky meat pastry, washing it down with a second drink. "You going to talk us all to death?"

There's a pate of butter and goose liver next to a twelve-tiered plate of bread. One for every District, I realize. I stand, limping, grab a familiar roll and flick a smear of cream across it in one smooth stroke. The knife is flat and dull, but I lick it anyway. "I prefer slitting throats," I nibble the crust. "And you?"

"I outweigh you by at least six stone," Luccan Sheen stirs his third drink in a triangular flask lined with salt. "It'll take more than a cheap parlor trick to scare me."

I turn the knife over in my fingers. The edge is harmless, I decide. "Catch." I throw, blade first. Instinct. Catch or be killed. He swears as the glass flask shatters across the floor, but my knife is clutched tightly in his fist.

I blink. He's fucking fast.

"Alright, Angelovna, I'll admit it. You're good." He concedes. "I didn't expect that. I might be able to find a place for you," he juggles the knife expertly before tossing it back underhand. "On the Alliance, if you want."

I almost laugh, almost cry with relief. I've managed to impress a Career, might have a place on the Alliance...

I sit back down, eager to take the weight off my feet. "I'm not sure I'll need it."

He grabs yet another drink, and hands it to me to pour over the wounds. "We both know you do." I can't flinch, can't cry out. He watches me the entire time, apparently satisfied.

I've known since the Reaping broadcast that my age and size wouldn't be an advantage. Known I'll have to impress, frighten them all. The Crowd is one thing, Sponsors another, but the Alliance? I don't know if I'll accept. How I could. Everyone knows those mudak turn on each other…

So could you, durak. From inside the camp. Catch them sleeping. I turn away from Luccan Sheen and pull a blade across his throat. I promised Malcovna, promised Malcovitch I wouldn't let him suffer. I'm willing to give Holi that same kindness. As for the others…Luccan and his Alliance will take care of them. Then themselves. Seeing his size, now knowing his speed…I'll have to either kill him first, or leave him last. I have no doubts he'll kill the others, all the others, for me.

"I'll have to sleep on it." I finally tell him, still squeezing the final shards of glass from my bleeding feet. I don't dare look at him. Not now. Not yet.

He snorts, and I hear him swallow yet another drink. Already I can smell the alcohol rolling off him. "You really think we'll get sleep tonight?" Haymitch, I'm reminded so suddenly. He's drinking just like Haymitch. Like Klerkov.

"So you believed me?" I muster the courage to look up.

"I had no choice," he finally confesses, eyes fixed inscrutably into that empty cup. "You're scared shitless, Angelovna," he pops another pastry. "All the rest of this has just been whistling in the dark."


Before I can counter we're interrupted. The doors Finnick disappeared through tilt inward on noiseless hinges, and the paraded stomping of marching boots echoes from the hall. Luccan begins to sweat. Downs another drink. I search frantically for a sharper knife.

A man enters flanked by security, four private Peacekeepers. Crane, I think with dread, jumping to put Luccan between us. They wouldn't dare shoot. Not here. Not now. Not with District 1's champion between us. "Not so brave now," he quips as I cling to his back. "A lion in the Arena but a lamb in bed? How provincial of you."

"Don't let them take me," I rush.

He laughs darkly. "And why should I do that?" You're scared shitless. All the rest of this has just been whistling in the dark. He was drinking, Petra. You saw him. He was just as scared as you—

"I can help you," I remind him. "Later. In the Arena."

"I'll have the Alliance," he hisses, taking a step back into me. "Neither of us need help later, Angelovna, we need it n-"

But the Sponsor raises a single hand, and the soldiers—like our conversation—halt immediately. I can see their insignias—another ornate crest, but tongues of flame, not a Crane. It's hardly a relief. He's still here for one of us. Do everything you're asked, Finnick Odair instructed us. Without hesitation or question. Easy enough for him to say. He's had more lovers than I've had insults. The Sponsor surveys me silently, and I stare back, just as desperate. He has a blue and black forked beard, but his body is clad in armor, or skin scales, like a lizard. His bare feet end in three long, horny toes. "Makes you wonder what his dick looks like," Luccan mutters, clearly relieved. I try not to think on it. I already have. "Have fun with that."

"Luccan Sheen?" The lizard-man calls. I nearly choke in shock. Luccan's muscled back tenses beneath my hands.

"Have fun with that," I spit back at him. His strong jaw jumps, and his fingers flex, but not a hint of surprise, disgust, or fear alters his stony face. He swallows another drink, then steps reluctantly forward.

"Yes?"

The Peacekeepers part. Behind them is a girl draped head to toe in shocking red silk and pearls. "Might I introduce my daughter, Jezebella?" The lizard-man asks as she tosses her dark hair and drops her robe beguilingly. "It's her sixteenth birthday," her father explains, "and I promised her the best Panem has to offer. You would be…handsomely compensated, of course."

I hear his sigh of relief. Feel his shiver of excitement.

Luccan downs a final crystal flute of champagne in a single, steady gulp, and gives the girl a wink. "If this is the Victor's life," he sets the empty glass in my hand without a backwards glance, "Get me to the fucking Games already." Far from any danger, Luccan Sheen of District 1 is about to have the night of his life. I sit back down with a strange sense of loss and watch them be escorted away. I know Petra Angelovna won't be so lucky.