Your Own Kind

by Seta Suzume

What comes after. Mags as a mentor; Mags as a victor. [sequel to Save Yourself]

5. Part I, Chapter V

As opposed to all of the certain everyday-clothes- just to Capitol tastes- style of the outfits I've worn throughout the Victory Tour so far, the dress that's been picked out (made? adjusted?) for me to wear to District 1 is definitely a party dress. It's white and gold and yellow, which suits my vague notions of District 1 just fine. It also matches the white city we've come to rest in as it appeared while I watched it the warm dawn roll over its sleek surfaces. Is this setting the tone, I wonder, for the few steps of the Victory Tour yet to come?

There are dangling ornaments for my hair too- made of ribbon and bells and old coins shined up to a brilliant gold sheen. They dangle down around my shoulders and remind me of the nets and pearls I wore in my hair for the initial on air celebration of my victory.

Even the shoes, though fortunately they're flats, are part gold and just as flamboyant as the rest of the outfit. Irish dabs a bit more eye makeup on me than usual and it also glitters. "District One expects someone pretty, I guess," I joke about it.

"Eh," Spring shrugs, "They know what to expect."

Someone plain it is then!

I don't mention it to Apple because I don't want to irritate her, but while we wait for our cue (not our arrival, since our train has actually been not only within the boundaries of District 1, but sitting in the white city, whatever its name might be, for a while now), I consult with my more understanding Capitol mentor-minder-friend. "So now I get to see Jack?" I stand on tiptoe to whisper to Aulie (even when I am on tiptoe, he must lean back down toward me to keep our speaking private).

"Presumably! I can't think of any reason at all why they would want to deprive us of a little time with one of our favorite victors." He winks and I notice that his eyelids are just as gold as mine. "Yours, mine, and the Capitol's," he clarifies his "ours."

"You and Apple were really bored in Two, weren't you?"

"Oh, no," he begins and I think he's about to lie, "We weren't just bored on some normal level, we were bored practically to tears!" …I should've known he just wanted to tease or make a big deal out of it. "The food was very nice, but I found the fashion and entertainment somewhat lacking. …And we barely got to speak to the victors. A bunch of stiffs and Peacekeepers aren't really the kind of company Apple and I much appreciate." He shrugs. "It probably goes both ways, to tell the truth."

"You'll be able to make up for it by having an extra good time here though, don't you think?" I flip one of the bell-weighted ribbons back over my shoulder then point at his suit of the day with its many magenta sequins. "We look like we're dressed to have fun here."

"Fun is definitely my aim," Aulie grins and gives me the full, um, experience, of his perfectly cleaned Capitol teeth and their various sparkling adornments. "And I do suppose that the fun quotient is on a definite upswing now- One, the Capitol, and then back to Four where the party will inevitably be huge."

"Are you sure it's possible for us to put on a bigger party in Four than they will in the Capitol? An ordinary day in the Capitol can put some of the small celebrations we have back home to shame, size- and glitz-wise."

"Well, you know, the party is going to be in Four, but the Capitol is throwing it for you, Mags, so I imagine the budget is skyscraper high."

"Hmm." I want to say that it "makes sense," but what is there to make sense of in this situation? It is what it is. I guess that it all fits together nicely now that I've been better informed about the way it works.

"Now, now," Apple and Tosca walk through the hall, jarring me back to the better posture somewhat Capitol occasionally tells me to show as Apple claps her hands. "It's time for us to get going!"

"Mags fiiiirst," Apple gives a little cheer and pushes me into forward motion with a tiny touch of her manicured hands. Today, her hands are kind of cold.

The door opens for me automatically and I am received by a delegation whose cheers and clapping were presaged by Apple's own. I smile and look around. There are men and women; there are cameras.

There is no sign of Jack Umber- not that he would be the first fellow victor to fail to meet me the moment my feet alit on his home district's soil. …though the ones who didn't were either ambivalent or unfriendly to me and I think I can be reasonably sure that Jack is interested in me without seeming naive or self-absorbed.

A blond woman with a long ponytail swishing behind her breaks from the anonymity of the group to meet me. "Ms. Gaudet, I'm Sophie Varen, incredibly pleased to meet you!"

The way she shakes my hand, she certainly seems like it. There are pearls hanging in her hair and they bob about with her excitement. "Please," she continues, "Consider me your tour guide and facilitator throughout your visit to District One. I hope you will find it most enjoyable."

"Uh, yeah," I stammer, "Thank you." She's a little like Apple or Aulie with her overwhelming enthusiasm, but I am also tempted to say that she bears some resemblance to Jack. She is putting on a show, after all. Off to the side, by one of the cameramen, I can see Tosca looking pleased. "It's nice to meet you too, Ms. Varen."

"Just 'Sophie' is fine."

"And likewise, just 'Mags.'"

She's so pretty. I realize that she hasn't let go of my hand all this time. Her hand is warm. Her eyes are green. She does remind me of Jack. It's something about District 1. A little something visual- genetic- and a little something related to presentation. She steps around me and turns me this and that, introducing me to everyone assembled who they've determined is worth my specifically knowing, but I know that I won't be able to keep track of them all, so I focus my remembering efforts on the mayor, Cyn Greenstreet, who I figure is the most important among them.

Sophie is warm and friendly with the rest of my entourage as well, giving the assembled people a small introduction to each of them, "Because their unique identities may not always be entirely apparent from the way they've been presented on TV," she beams.

It occurs to me that Shy would probably love her.

"Apple Smitt, official District Four escort, with a taste for the color green that goes past fashionable and into the iconic-"

Apple is obviously (and unsurprisingly) flattered. She waves the little forest green and gold fan she (or someone else) has picked to go with her current outfit.

"-The impressively muscled Aulus Strong, several time coach to District Four in absence of a victor-"

Aulie is a bit better behaved in regard to the attention.

"-Erinne Cousla, up and coming fashion designer and current head designer for Mags and District Four's tributes, and, rounding out the official District Four style team are Spring Sam and Irish Wilkes, assistants to Ms. Cousla."

The style team accepts the accolades gracefully, as expected. They generally manage to be calm purveyors of (relatively, by my standards) good taste.

When everyone has been suitably introduced, clapped for, smiled at, and otherwise fawned over, I learn that next part of the plan is a tour of District 1's highest end artisan district, where any number of pretty things are made to suit the tastes of the Capital. I catch Erinne vaguely noting, "I always wanted to see this," to Spring.

"If you have any questions at all, please feel free to direct them to me," Sophie tells me.

The questions I have are small and flippant and not really intended for public consumption, so I nod my understanding and withhold them, at least for now. I am getting better and better at forgetting how many cameras can be around me, but to a certain degree, I know it's better not to forget. I don't know the punishment for a victor who says something untoward- though since the Victory Tour isn't airing live, the Capitol reserves the safety of editing. Whether many or few people hear it, even with the consequences an unknown, I feel that vaguely defined pressure to "be good."

Sophie and I ride in the back seat of a fancy white car with the top down, which makes for a decent veil of noise. "Do you mind my asking," I intrude on her silence, "Where Jack is?"

"No," she says, "I thought you would want to know that."

"I guess I thought he'd be at the station when I arrived…" I admit.

"The district has a rough relationship with Jack, you know?" Sophie offers in place of a straightforward explanation, "One hated him as much as anyone else when he won. He killed five people, including Rosie Callahan, his female counterpart, our last "Junior Miss District One." Jack was an orphan; Rosie had a big family. And then the Capitol went and said, after they'd done all this to punish us as a whole, that for killing his fellow district citizens, Jack deserved to be rewarded, not, well, the best I can imagine would've been being allowed to quietly fade from the spotlight. So he became an honorary one of them.

"…Now, you also know that our district has long been pushed into focusing our industries on pleasing the nearby Capitol. In a way, Jack is doing that very same thing, but people hate to be reminded of such unpleasant truths about themselves. They want to say that Jack chooses it and they don't, when, really, we all have roughly the same choice- submit or die…"

Sophie trails off and unenthusiastically points out beyond the developed bounds of the city that come into view as we go up a hill. "Vineyards. We grow grapes to make wine. We grow garlic too. Oranges. Some strawberries. No staples. It's whatever we can grow that the Capitol likes, to make up for or supplement the things out of the more workmanly farming districts. …That's what we did before and what we're doing again. Whatever the Capitol likes."

"You never hated Jack though, did you, Sophie," I guess. She seems wistful. For all her talk of the past, including the pre-Games past of the earlier half of my childhood, it's hard to believe Sophie could be old enough to remember it much better than I do. How old is she? She can't possibly be as old as Jack, can she?

"No, you're right. I didn't." Her voice grows so soft I almost strain to hear it. "I like him."

It's romantic (even if she doesn't mean her feelings romantically). It's kind of beautiful.

"You're turning pink!" Sophie laughs, surprised.

I am? I am! "I can't help it!" I protest.

"Don't worry," she keeps on sputtering with mirth, "Jack will make an appearance eventually. He just had something else on his schedule for the morning- it's all been worked out in advance."

We're slowing down a bit. "Almost there," she says. "…You know, Jack has talked to me about you. He follows all of your television appearances and publicity."

"Do you work with Jack?"

"Yeah, all the time."

"Ladies," the driver prompts us once we've come to careful stop. Sophie thanks her and holds the door for me. The wind has mussed her hair somewhat, but mine has largely held. My style people know how to do their job well.

"Jack's such a popular topic of conversation," Tosca says as she approaches us.

"Can you lip read?" I inquire. I think I'd come off paranoid asking if she could hear (via a bug or other less sneaky recording device), so it's better not to voice that thought.

"Enough," she answers, "And it seemed worth a guess."

Aulie's favorite cameraman gets us- Sophie and me- in frame. Tosca backs away rather than holding up the proceedings. Sophie gives me a well-rehearsed spiel about this three-block area being the jewel of District 1's arts district and we set out on our walk to investigate a representative sample of the craftspeople and shops.

There's a seamstress who painstakingly copies the current Capitol trends for those with lower incomes (by Capitol standards) who strive for upward movement in the fashion world. Her work on display includes a replica of my blue and gold crowning dress resting on a mannequin. The seamstress acts pleased to meet Erinne, the designer, though to a large degree, I think it's an act. The seamstress is thin and the circles under eyes are impressively dark and heavy even through her makeup.

There's a jewelry shop focused on diamonds, a place full of golden watches, designer aquarium fish, jewelry made like (of?) stained glass, strangely fluffy scarves knitted out of some material that's so soft I'm mesmerized and can't stop touching them (I have probably provided my moment to be laughed at for the Tour show right there), seashell-shaped chocolates, ice sculptures…things I've never seen and can't name. Some of the things are designed by people in the Capitol and made here, but there's also a small segment of 1's population that gets to exercise some degree of their own creativity.

I don't know if the area has been specifically cleared out for my visit, but I'm struck by how quiet it is. Maybe it is normally like this. Maybe there are rarely any shoppers unless visitors or wholesalers come out from the Capitol and it's calm with just the various locals working away above and below and behind the storefronts. They only film samples of individual tasks that involve precision and artfulness, but I can hear in places the sounds of mass production, and catch a glimpse or two of the more undifferentiated workers toiling away in other parts of the shops.

Aulie and Apple purchase a few things at what they tell me are very large discounts from what the items would cost them in the Capitol. I feel like I can practically see the stars shining in their eyes. If they had to live in one of the districts, this is the place they would pick. Even if, in those circumstances, they couldn't afford any of these things, I think they would be happiest if they remained around them at least, able to look.

Rather than "spoiling my appetite" for whatever lavish dinner District 1 has prepared for me, Sophie takes us to a sweets shop so fluffily decorated in white and pinks that I'd almost believe that the building was made out of frosting. "It's going to be really rich," Sophie cautions me, "So you should only pick one thing."

I take the decision rather seriously and lean down, peering into the display counter at all the fancy confections, somewhat awed by the variety that I see. One thing. How do I pick one thing when I've never eaten any of these things? I mean, I'm sure they're all good, but-

Apple and Erinne and everyone else pick sweets out around me.

The younger-looking of the two women behind the counter approaches me. "Lacy," reads the frosting-like lettering on her nametag. "You're just like on TV!" she giggles, "Do you, um, need some help? Like a recommendation?"

I laugh nervously, proving how much I probably do need it. "Pick me something?"

Lacy's smile seems to stretch from ear to ear. "You got it."

A stranger is happy to do some small thing for me. This is part of what it is, I suppose, to be a celebrity. Lacy chooses something soft and almond-studded and filled with pink whipped cream. I take it outside to eat at one of the small umbrella-shaded tables and it tastes lovely. I can see why Sophie told me only to get one.

"Somebody's happy," Sophie says to me, between dainty bites of her chocolate eclair (do all these people have special training to be able to eat so neatly? I spend a lot of time feeling awfully sloppy in their presence). "Jack gets the same way when he eats."

"Will we have dinner with him?"

"No, I don't think so. It wasn't in the plans. But, you never know, he could finish up early and come join us. I'm sure he will if he has the time."

I didn't get the impression that it was very difficult for most of the other victors to find the time in their schedules to interact with me (and some of them genuinely wanted to do so). Jack is a busier person than I realized.

We go for another driving ramble and this time a cameraman squeezes into the car with us to record Sophie's pressed, polished, and shined comments on various local landmarks and industry while I respond with polite interest to each of the things we see.

Between takes, the cameraman (I have never really learned their names- we were never separately introduced) pokes fun at my canned replies to Sophie's facts. Sophie is thoroughly amused. "But I'm the one who's really giving canned lines!" she protests.

"Your acting is better than my just being!" I act mock-affronted at this charge.

But my good mood fades as I realize where our ride is about to end. Time to speak of the dead once again. To take one last bit of responsibility for the more unfortunate things I've done. It's time to get the hardest part of this over with (for that last time, I assure myself, because there may be that empty ache in 4 where Beanpole was, but it's not some new thing to be confronted- I've been dealing with it all this time).

Clark and Korona's family members stand out by the way they've been pinned with a black, folded ribbon each on their chests. A sign of mourning, maybe. "We respectfully welcome Victor Mags," Mayor Greenstreet goes on, "And salute her for her performance." I seem to be packaged slightly differently for each district. It's all in the wording. No one has asked me to behave differently for the benefit of any particular group. I am my usual shaky self, stumbling through my thank your and remembrances and veiled "I'm sorry"s. 1 accepts all of this with gloomy reserve. One of Korona's sisters starts to scream something at me. I am startled, but the rest of her family quickly quiet her.

There's nothing surprising about anger in this situation. They've had several months to cool off, but the pain of losing a family member doesn't fade fast. I've had plenty of time to observe the reactions of Mrs. Mirande, for instance, and she's hurting even though she doesn't blame me for Beanpole's fate. Here, bad feelings are being stirred up again on purpose. Smile for the killer. Welcome her to your home.

Dinner follows, but I'm not very hungry. Sophie tries very hard to be entertaining. I learn that she is twenty-two and works as a tour guide for Capitol visitors. She appears on television occasionally in a related capacity, which is how she knows Jack. Apple cues up a short video of Sophie and Jack visiting a vineyard on her comp device via Capitol Net. They look very comfortable together.

There is wine on the table from that very same vineyard. Aulie gets tipsy.

Jack doesn't show.

But that only means that we'll go on from here to meet up with him elsewhere, according to Sophie. Something about having a secondary stop that will- undoubtedly, I feel it- be big and flashy makes me nervous.

I go quietly to this next destination, somewhere large and enclosed. A theater? A television studio? I know there are satellite branches of the Capitol's various film and television companies located here. Sophie leads me through a black back door and down a nondescript hall. "We'll be watching from the sidelines," Apple assures me as the hall branches in several directions and the vague blurs of noise and light at the edges grow stronger.

"Wh-what am I being expected to do?" I freeze up and interrogate Sophie.

"Nothing terribly complex," she assures me, "Just play along with Jack- he's got the whole thing under control. He's going to show you off a little bit."

I start to stammer out something related to my suddenly spiking nerves, but I'm not given much of a chance to say it. A man with a headset waves me on and when I hesitate, I'm urged up onto the shiny, mother of pearl-ish stage to stand beside Jack, who looks all flash in a golden yellow three piece suit, behind a gold ornamented microphone on a stand. "Oh, here we are! We have our newest victor with us today- Mags Gaudet!" he works the crowd into giving me a hearty round of applause. "…Hey, look, we kind of match," he stretches out an arm to compare the color of his suit to my dress and I'm able to see that even the lighter white-gold lining of the suit jacket is similar to my costume. Who coordinated this? My style team? Someone in Victor Affairs? I don't know who it is who directly manages and dresses Jack.

"Those colors," I say and the words come out quiet, then I am suddenly picked up better by the microphone as Jack leans it toward me, making the second half of the sentence boom, "Look nice on you."

This provokes a round of chuckles from the audience and someone shouts out, "They'd look nice off of you too!" which- is it wrong to hope that's directed at Jack?

"Tonight's looking booked for me, but maybe some other night you'll get to find out," he takes the jibe and runs with it, tossing the crowd a flirtatious crumb that provokes lots of laughing here, but will probably be greeted with just as screams and swoons in the Capitol. I think of what Sophie Varen told me about Jack and District 1. This audience was probably specially chosen for this event. Maybe there was a bit more flexibility because I doubt many people in 1 have anything specifically against me (there's my involvement with Korona and there could also be some plain dislike of victors), but still, for all that the Victory Tour is meant to be about me, this is looking like another installment of the Jack Umber show.

"Now, back to the task at hand," he tries to take hold of things, but he's no Jeff Zimmer and the audience doesn't settle immediately at his command. "Now," he repeats himself, "About Mags." He sticks his hand under his jacket and from his back pocket pulls a gold-colored box with a little blue ribbon around it. "I bought her a present."

I jolt a bit. He holds it up for everyone (the cameras) to see. "Is that okay?" he asks for the approval of the audience.

I dig my hands into the folds of my dress. I can feel my face turning red and I can't think of anything to do to fight it. I can only hope that if I take a deep breath and throw myself into the act that it will pass before too many people pick up on it and it gets replayed a hundred times on talk programs all over the Capitol.

The cheers and whistles that Jack receives can only be taken as a general approval of his actions. I manage to convince myself to let go of my dress (if it were just a shirt, I am sure I would be worrying the hem of it between my fingers- I've been noticing that I do that, but is it enough to be considered a bad habit?).

Jack turns a bit, the box in one hand and the microphone stand in the other. He looks down at me. There's so much gold and glitter in today's themed clothes and decorations that his deep green eyes almost seem to have flecks of gold in them too. "Is it okay?" he repeats his question to me, in a softer, less emcee-like tone.

As much as I want to be in control of my feelings and my performance, I haven't managed to get fully into the swing of this quite yet. I nod.

"So, what do you think, District One?" he looks back out at the people in search of their okay.

In the Capitol, across Panem, and back at home, this is what Jack does, isn't it? He bends and contorts himself, smiling and joking and inquiring, to become or give whatever people want. There were no interviews before his Games. There were no public signs that there was anything chameleon-like about him.

I wonder what Jack would do or say if the people were to tell him this wasn't what they wanted. That they wanted to hate me. That they didn't want to watch any friendly overtures toward me. …but someone in the Capitol must feel the same, or similarly, to Jack. He is dancing to their tune or they are accompanying the cheery jig he begins a cappella.

"Can we be friends?" Jack asks the people, though presumably he is also asking me, "District One and District Four- what do you think?" he proposes, "Friendly rivals?"

The reception this suggestion garners is nothing to scoff at. I see some "Go District 1" banners waving toward the back of the room, the same kind of Games boosting stuff that Jack flaunts on television when he's stuck between Mr. Bronze and Mr. Zimmer during all the pre-Games coverage. There is- or at least I'm meant to see- some kind unity in District 1, but it doesn't feel the same to me as the cool solidarity that District 2 seemed to present. I guess that doesn't mean it's not real, but I think I could be forgiven for a bit of skepticism. 2 might've come off a bit dull, but what I saw felt real. Nearly every bit of 1 that I've been exposed to has been perfect and polished to such a degree that it's not hard to question how real it is.

If the Victory Tour is as much propaganda as Gerik said it was, every other district is propaganda I can believe. But not 1. So what does that mean, regarding 1?

Jack lets go of his grip on the microphone stand to untie the ribbon on the box and theatrically open up his gift for me. Inside the box are two, um, I think there's a special name for them, but I forget. Hairsticks? They're hairsticks. They look like they're made of gold (or gold paint) over wood. They're thin at the bottoms and thick up to small balled tops. They're glittery. I have ceased to be all that moved by glitteriness, the way that it has been overdone as the theme of this Tour stop (or of District 1's public image in general).

"May I?" Jack removes them from the box, which he tucks back into one of his pockets (I can see it jutting out of the top against his jacket now that I know it's there).

"Uh," I stammer stupidly as he reaches toward my hair. No "yes," but no "no" either.

He moves very carefully, touching my head as little as possible as he slips one stick through the bun on the left side of my head and then the other through the bun on the right. Some of the dangling decorations are jarred a bit and jingle slightly. "There," he declares when he's finished. He steps back from me and reaches back for the microphone. There are better, smaller ways of amplifying sound, but I suppose he likes the dramatic display that this microphone makes. It stands at about eye level for me, probably making me seem particularly short.

Jack looks me over and the cameras are probably doing the same.

"How do I look?" I ask him.

The microphone picks up his sharp little intake of breath. "Wonderful," he settles upon. It sounds good, but it's not too weighted. Better than "great," but not "lovely" or "beautiful."

Do I look wonderful? It doesn't matter. It makes me smile.

"You got something to say?" he offers, moving the microphone between us and giving me the floor as he stands primly by my side.

I laugh, and my voice echoes around the room. "Ha ha, thank you, Jack."

I catch a small snapping sound, but it might be someone in the audience dropping something or just a bit of audio feedback. "Isn't he nice?" I prompt the people.

"Yes!" calls Sophie, which is funny, since her voice comes not from the people sitting in front, but from backstage. People are beginning to laugh, but the timing seems a bit off for it to have been prompted by my comments.

Then there's a pop. It sounds very close to my head.

I only slightly turn my head to look at Jack, who wears an incredibly tight-lipped smile that can only be a dam against a torrent of laughter.

There is a lit match in his hand.

I turn to face him full on. A few colored sparks flutter down in past my cheeks. The popping noise continues sporadically. My mouth falls open, nervous and incredulous, but I can't think of anything reasonable to say as Jack reaches up and touches the match to, presumably, my other hairstick, before blowing it out.

Bright, gem-hued sparks of light pop off and drift around me. I try to look up at them, but it's hard to see something that's situated toward the top of your own head. "Umm?" I query him, worried.

"Aww," he puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to rest against his side- apparently he's not bothered by or worried over the sparks that are still jumping off my hair sticks, even though they must start quite close to his face based on our comparative heights, "I wouldn't put you in danger," he insists.

The way the laughing around us continues, this is not exactly the best way to sell me on believing him, but I try and believe him, leaning stiffly into his "good buddies" type of one-armed embrace.

The popping sound dies down, although streaks of color still float down around me. I catch sight of Aulie standing on the far edge of the stage wiping tears of laughter off his face. His makeup is smearing from the tears and his hands.

Jack babbles on for the entertainment of the crowd, thanking the makers of the trick sparkler hairsticks for the use of their product, telling everyone when they'll be able to see the rest of the airing of the Victory Tour (and when it will re-air, which I'm sure my team takes note of), and commenting on some of his favorite parts of it so far, which were mainly times I was shown doing something awkward or tacky. "Now," he says at last, drawing his presentation to a close, "I have one last proposition to make before I retire for the night and leave you lovely people to carry on your celebrations without me."

He slides his arm around until it's just his right hand resting on my left shoulder as he looks down at me, "Mags." He sounds very serious, but I can't help but assume now that Jack being serious is nothing but the setup for yet another joke. "Will you come out sometime and host my show with me?"

…and how is it that he makes his eyes sparkle like that?

What a funny, funny man.

"More than once or twice," he hopes, "Maybe a lot? Maybe all the time?"

Now, I could play this distant and uninterested and, who knows, maybe that's what Jack wants from me, but we didn't talk about this at all beforehand and there's no way for me to tell, so I've just got to proceed as I see fit. So, I tell him, "I don't know about all the time, but…yes. I'll be on your show. More than once or twice. I would love to."

We are enveloped in applause. Maybe I didn't play it perfect, but it was all right.

We head back stage and Jack puts his arm around my shoulders. "Oh, that was great! You were great!" he squeezes my shoulders.

"You were too, Jack," Sophie approaches us. She looks so happy.

I tilt my head up to try and gauge Jack's reaction to her. Am I disappointed that it isn't incandescent? He is certainly happy, but it's of the same caliber as he's shown to me. "Thank you, Sophie."

It's funny. What's all this about a romantic dream…?

"You look tired, Mags," he peers down at me. There's so much kindness in this simple squint. "The parties the Capitol likes to throw can really take it out of you, so I should probably see you safely delivered back into the hands of your people so that you can rest up for tomorrow night."

"I can stay up," I answer, "The party won't be until late- I'll have lots of time to rest." Jack's face hasn't registered any change in his stance. "…I want to talk to you," I offer my candid feelings.

He considers it.

"Mags!" Apple calls to me, scampering over to my side, "You really are all right, aren't you? You looked so scared when you realized there were sparks flying around your hair."

"I'm okay, Apple."

"I'll be at the party in the Capitol," Jack tells me, "Don't worry, you're going to see me again. You'll probably see me so much you'll get sick of me." He laughs. It's strange to watch him fluctuate so quickly between self-promoting and self-deprecating.

It's just…in the Capitol is there ever a chance to talk without scrutiny? For people like Jack and me, is it possible to exist in public without an audience? "I- I," I stutter. Well, what is there after all for me to say?

He takes his arm off my shoulders and touches my face. I pull back, bumping against Apple, who puts her arm around me instead, sort of protectively. "Tomorrow then," Jack reiterates, "In the Capitol. I'll be looking forward to it."

"Let's round up Aulus and everyone and get you back to your room on the train," Sophie suggests. I get the feeling that Sophie's entire public life revolves around making things easier for other people. While it's admirable, it must be exhausting. I hope that after a day like today she gets some time off for some good rest of her own.

"Good night," Jack tells Sophie, I think, in particular.

"Don't get mobbed when you leave," Sophie warns him.

"Oh, what do I care?" Jack shrugs.

"…Would people hurt him?" I frown as we separate. Jack moves away from us and eventually I can only see the top of the back of his head as he's enveloped by members of the broadcast crew.

"Probably not." Sophie can't reassure me.

It's dark outside as we make our way back to the cars. District 1's white city twinkles around us. It's not the Capitol, but 3 is its only competitor among the districts for concentration of lights. "Do you think we can keep in touch?"

"I'd be happy to try," Sophie says, "But even if we can't, know that I'll be watching all your events.

"I'll watch for you on TV too," I promise. "…I might even learn something."

"A lot of it's fluff," Sophie smiles and leans her chin on her hand.

The combination of darkness and silence that enfolds us afterward is not unpleasant.

"…I'll take care of Jack the best I can," she tells me.

"I'm sure that'll mean the best that anyone can." I mean this quite sincerely. There's only so much anyone can do, but Sophie has the proximity, if not the means, to manage something.

She doesn't have a phone at home, but she gives me the extension of the branch of the studio she works in, admitting she doesn't have much time to chat there, but if it's urgent, she can make up an excuse. I offer my phone number in return (the remembering of it still trips me up a bit).

And that's how my journey through the remaining foreign-to-me eleven districts wraps up. I am as exhausted as Jack thought, though I can only tell it now that the moment has passed.

There will be time to wash up in the morning. I go to sleep in my party dress.

If I dream, I don't remember it.

I sleep in. I shower. I don't bother braiding my hair or putting it up in buns, but settle for simply tying it back in a ponytail. I wear the dress that Pal made for me. I keep running my fingers along the seams between the different patches of fabric. It's a very comfortable dress. It was so kind of him to make it for me.

By the time I've gotten myself all together, it seems to late for breakfast, so I hold out for lunch. Aulie goes into the city and brings lunch back for everyone, even the four Avoxes, whose reactions to being invited to eat with us look to be a mix of caution and excitement. They sit off to the side even while sharing the dining car with us, but whenever I make eye contact, they smile at me. They do some kind of impressively intricate talking with their hands among themselves. I wonder what kind of things they say about us. I wonder what their schedules are like. Who's in charge of them? What do they do for fun? What is the blond Avox woman from the Games complex doing now?

Aulie and Apple both offer to take me into the Capitol to do something during the afternoon, but I figure that it's better to stay low-key until tonight. Aulie's been out already- along with picking up lunch, apparently he checked on his place, looked through his mail, and chatted with his neighbors who were excited about seeing him on TV. Apple takes her turn to out and do some things of her own. "I'll bring you back some fun," she tells me.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, Apple," I laugh.

"It will be my pleasure," she disagrees.

"…If she brings you something I've seen before in her apartment, I may never stop laughing," Aulie says once she's gone.

"So you know her well enough to have been in her apartment. I wasn't sure."

"Well, it was just during your Games. We watched some of there together. We couldn't help but worry about you."

"Sometimes I think that you're like my aunt and uncle," I admit.

"You are what we have in common…"

When Apple returns, she hands me a pink plastic bag. "Mink's" it says, in curly, magenta lettering. "It's just a few little things."

This turns out to mean two magazines ("Fashion Forward" and "Out and About" which has my photograph on the cover), two candy bars, and some sort of wooden brain teaser puzzle that causes Aulie to mouth something which probably means "out of her apartment" to me but I'm still no good at lip-reading. I do my best to express my gratitude to her for thinking of me, then retreat to my room.

I sit on the bed and look at the magazines. As much as it pains me on some level, I look at the article related to me first. It's about the Victory Tour, featuring pictures through our stop in District 5. That's something to be said for the Capitol- they do things fast. There's a row of little cut out pictures of me in each of my different Tour outfits that makes me think of the paperdolls Aoko and I used to make, cutting clothes out of magazines. The writing is pretty vapid, but I actually enjoy the pictures. I want to keep them- posing with Pal, attempting the Woodcutters' Dance, visiting the hospital with Sunny, being thrown over Aulie's shoulder… Whatever the Capitol finds good about continuing to have a Victory Tour, there's been good in it for me too.

Jack Umber is visiting a famous Capitol bar and photographed with colorful, practical glowing bottles and drinks in "Out and About"'s other main spread. I wonder if tonight we really will talk, or if it will just be another opportunity for him to tease me.

I can't figure out the puzzle before Erinne knocks on my door to collect me for tonight's round of dressing up- inevitably the fanciest, most elaborate one of all.

The outfit is waiting for me on a dress form. "I am sooo sick of sewing those stars," Spring laughs as I gape at the detailed costume before me.

It bears some similarity to my victory dress, which I presume is intentional. It's just like the matter of how my preferred hairstyle is usually preserved for my various appearances. Recognizability is important. …Or it will be as the ranks of victors swell. I can't imagine at this point that it's hard to tell me apart from Emmy, Luna, Sunny, and Shy. The only one I can strain to think I resemble is Emmy- I suppose if she always veers pink and I always slant blue there's unlikely to be much confusion.

"I love the way you gawk," Irish chuckles, shaking her head at me.

The dress is…well, I take the base to be blue. Another gradient of sorts, with a light blue at the top, running down to a dark blue at the bottom. But over that blue are large shapes in other colors. Toward the top is a golden yellow sun shooting forth sharp, rectangular beams that wrap around the dress's chest and waist and over the short sleeves. Curving up from near the bottom of the roughly knee-length dress is a yellow-white crescent moon. Stretched in between and behind them are curlicued clouds in varied shades of gray and white.

The part that Spring must be referring to tiring her out is hanging loosely over the dress. It's a huge, diaphanous piece of blue-tinted fabric run through with silver thread and sewn with white stars edged with silver and gold. There's a certain net-like quality to it. There's a twisted braid of through-lines here and I'm not even sure the woman who designed this is aware of all of them. Shades of the Games and of 4's fishing industry were probably captured intentionally, but that wearing a net makes me something like a bride has probably escaped her. (It's not really a net after all and it wasn't woven back home. They don't expect me to share it with anyone.)

There are black tights. Red flats. But I keep staring at the decorated piece of fabric, wondering how they want me to wear it. "You caught the stars in a net," I say to Erinne.

"Well, a veil," she shrugs, though she looks pleased with my response.

I get dressed up and after my hair is fixed up and a bit more makeup than usual is daubed on my face (red-pink lip gloss, mascara, some very shiny blue eye shadow) the star-spattered veil is draped over my head in an artfully casual way. Erinne secures it with two inconspicuous silver pins.

Apple applauds for me when I come out ready to go. She and Aulie have also dressed up (though they always seem to be dressing up to me).

"We'll catch up with you at the party," Spring winks at me.

"They're nothing like yours, but we picked out special outfits too," Irish elaborates.

Tosca is nowhere in evidence as we depart, but we still have one of the cameraman officially training his lens on us (to say nothing of the various folks who stop to film or snap pictures when they notice our small ensemble passing by). Apple tells me that Tosca is picking up her brother to bring to the party. Her much younger brother, apparently, since it sounds like I'm older than him.

We arrive at the location where the party will be held. It's a huge mansion. I have no idea who it belongs to and don't bother to ask. There's a handsome man in a rather ridiculous fur hat waiting to meet us. He hands me a bouquet of sunflowers. "Nar Lycius," he introduces himself, "From Victor Affairs. I've been appointed official District Four liaison on top of my preexisting post as official liaison to District Five, so I'm sure we'll be seeing each other on and off on a regular basis."

"So Shy has to share you with me now?" I smile.

"She's easy to manage. I think you'll be the same. This setup is a compliment, really. Some of the other districts need separate liaisons already just because they have complicated or troublesome circumstances."

"Kayta Hiro," I suggest to Apple and Aulie. Apple indulges me with a smile. Aulie chuckles.

First up on our agenda here is an impromptu photo shoot on the steps. Luckily it's not meant to be anything particularly fancy or "artistic" because we gradually garner a large audience as more and more guests arrive for the party. I pose with the sunflowers. I pose by myself. I pose with Aulie and Apple.

At some point I realize that the whole photo affair is being broadcast live on a large screen facing the sort of square that the manor abuts. My surprise and embarrassment is writ large on my face. I can see as well as hear people as they laugh.

Following the photography session, we head inside. Jeff Zimmer is waiting to engage me in a brief interview as soon as the majority of the guests have arrived. We sit together at a table on a raised platform and make small talk until then, listening to the mumble of chatting partygoers, soft, recorded music, and the not as subtle as the people probably think clicking of cameras.

I see Erinne and Spring kissing beside a large vase of tropical flowers. They look pretty. So happy too. I can't pick Irish out of the crowd, but, presumably, she's here now as well. Nar is making a complicated series of hand gestures to an Avox, giving me the impression he "speaks" their special language. Some of the people do a lot of looking at me. Others just carry on with their socializing like Mr. Zimmer and I aren't even here. I guess it doesn't make much difference to me either way. I just notice.

When the president arrives, business, as it is, begins in earnest. The crowd quiets down and Mr. Zimmer turns on his microphone. He asks me if I've been having as much fun on the Tour as I appear to be having and, of course, I respond in the affirmative. As troubling as some aspects of it have been, it has been fun. He quizzes me about some of the things I ate and saw and did, all easy questions intended to amuse the audience as a result of either my enthusiasm or the perceived provincial quality of the districts or some combination thereof.

No one is surprised that I can't decide on either a favorite food or a favorite district outside of my own. Apple speaks up from behind me to suggest that that I might discover that my favorites are things I have yet to experience here, which is also an inevitable crowd pleaser.

I look around while people laugh and can pick out just one fellow victor in the crowd. Jack Umber is twenty-seven now (or twenty-eight?), bronze and glowing, but with that First Games refresher on my mind, I find I just don't know him well-enough yet to completely stop seeing the boy he was when he won his Games (missing teeth, bloody nose, black eye, so very many cuts and bruises) superimposed over the man he's become.

Before I know it, Mr. Zimmer is complimenting me on providing a thoroughly satisfying Tour for everyone to watch (on some level this is a commentary on Emmy's stilted, unsatisfying Tour that proceeded it) and asking me if I have any last remarks I want to make to the audience here.

And, for some reason, I say yes.

Even if I can't say it as perfectly as I would like, my public speaking skills being somewhat lacking, I know basically what it is I would like to say. It will not all be true and I can only hope that the people back home (the ones who matter) will understand.

I put on my brightest smile and I thank the Capitol. I thank them for the house, the clothes, the money, the food, the opportunities. I push the notion that most, if not all, of District 4 harbors similar feelings, dreaming of the chance to rebuild bridges burned with the Capitol during the recent war.

On the one hand, I am kissing up. On the other hand, I am yearning for something further down the road- something better. There are many rotten things in the Capitol, but they don't extend down through every thing and every person. There has to be middle path. The further we diverge, the districts and the Capitol, the harder reuniting will be. The Capitol has had their little revenge- if only they could say, if only would say that it's been enough. If that were to happen, that impossible thing, for my part, I'd consider what I've been through to be worth it.

But to think anything would happen because of me is to grossly overstate my own importance. I can only do the smallest of things. I could only volunteer for one girl. I can only nudge these people in what I believe is the right direction.

I look at Jack as he looks at me. That's it, isn't it? That's also what Jack is doing (please don't let me be wrong). He's become like the Capitol to convince the Capitol. Would it be enough if we just (lied and) said we (the districts) were wrong? Look at us, please, and see that we're not so different after all.

I admit that I've found it difficult gaining my footing as a victor, but I promise to keep on trying. I promise to try as hard as I can to make 4 a district they'll always think of fondly.

"I want," I conclude with the absolute truth, "To make many more friends."

…and never have to kill them. To keep them always.

People clap. Mr. Zimmer thanks me. I thank him back. I need to sit for a second and compose myself, but I am free now to mingle, to eat, to enjoy the live music that picks up when I am done.

"All that spunk you've got in you," Apple shakes her head a little and pats my shoulder.

I slouch and finger the hem of my veil. "That took it out of me though… And I'm a little embarrassed now."

"Well," she encourages me, "Just pick yourself up and we'll go bury that feeling in the business of making those new friends." She gives me her hand and coaxes me down onto the floor with everyone else. At first she sticks close by my side (and Aulie and Nar aren't far away either), but as I speak with whichever of the people want to chat with me and prove that I'm going to be all right- or whatever it is she's looking for- she gradually drifts further away.

She is right though about my being able to move on from my discomfort to other thoughts. There are just so many people who want to devote a moment or two of their time to talking to me. This is tiring too in a way, being the center of attention. I conclude my current conversation and drift toward one of the decked out tables where the food sits.

"You should feel free to indulge your appetite, Miss Gaudet," the president says to me. I go rigid with shock. "We are all aware of how much you like to eat."

"W-well, as long as it doesn't seem rude," I stutter. Compared to the amount of eating I've seen so far at Capitol parties, the amount of food present seems excessive, but it does look appetizing- and gorgeous. More time and effort was probably put into styling the food into these wondrous displays of perfection than it was in gussying up me (not that I think that's a bad thing). "People keep wanting to talk to me and I was worried I shouldn't be trying to eat on and off between conversations," I sigh. When I'm feeling this nervous about this many things at once, even being around the president doesn't get to me as much.

"Yes, do, eat," he encourages me, "…Assuming the fine things we have available are to your tastes."

He pauses.

I try not to gape. …Is the president of Panem about to make a Crispco crackers joke? I hope not.

"…But I could always send an aide off to the store for some crackers, if those would be more to your tastes."

…I think I am gaping a bit now. "N-no, thank you. What you have here is more than fine."

Some of the people around us are laughing at his Games callback. He chuckles and I stiffen up. "I am always glad to oblige for a victor, my dear."

I would like to get away from the president as quickly as possible, but that's a temptation that I shouldn't give in to.

Quickly enough, however, he moves away from me, bidding me good evening and making a beeline for the pair of Jack Umber and Jeff Zimmer. I lean back against the table, feeling a bit weak in the knees.

I attempt to revive myself by biting into an excessively fancily frosted cookie. Nar shows up out of somewhere looking a bit nervously in the direction of the president's wake (nice to know it's not just me) and pulls out a chair for me. "You should aim never to walk the edge of the knife, Miss Mags," he advises me. "…May I call you 'Miss Mags?'"

Even if I were bothered, I don't have the energy to argue. "It's fine," I wave a hand through the air.

Nar picks up a little paper plate and makes it his business to build me a small pyramid of sweets before setting the one-use dish on the table beside me. "…What will you do as District Four liaison?" I ask him.

"Manage your appointments, for one thing. Apple can't be expected to do that all the time. She's in charge of tributes, mainly. Victors fall a bit more under the purview of my department. …I've tentatively scheduled your first television appearance with Jack Umber, for instance."

"Oh," I nod, "I see." Kind of.

"Hello, Nar," Tosca joins us with her serious-faced brother on her heels. "Cute speech," she regards me as impassively as usual. "Mags, this is my little brother, Coriolanus."

He must be half Tosca's age, which makes him of reaping age, but still younger than me. His eyes are blue and biting. He looks like Tosca in this regard. "Hi," he says to me, "Congrats, I guess."

"Nice to meet you," I respond, the same as I have to all the other people I'm bound to forget in a day or so (just too many all at once and I'll probably never see any of them again- I'm focusing my remembering on anything relevant about Nar).

He really is like Tosca in his manner of heavy visual scrutiny. It's just he's not important. It's harder to feel uncomfortable under the gaze of a thirteen or fourteen year old.

Tosca looks at Coriolanus for a moment like she expects him to say something more. "Let's take a picture," she suggests at length, shoving her comm device into Nar's fumbling hands. I quickly whip my mouth with the back of my hand and make sure my dress and veil are neat. Tosca stands to one side of me. Coriolanus flanks me on the other. We smile. Nar manages to pull off the task.

"Enjoy yourself," Tosca takes her leave of me, brother still near at her side, "You've only got a smudge of spotlight left."

"It's more than enough," I reply. I don't think I should say that it can't end soon enough. Things will be easier when it's not all about me. …at least I hope so.

I eat the cookies and other assorted pastries Nar picked out for me. He suggests that he take Shy and me out for cake and coffee the next time we're all in the Capitol together. I wonder vaguely if he knows whether Shy makes such bold suggestions about looking at her bloomers to lots of people or whether I'm special in that regard, but it's just not the kind of thing I can ask. …not a man, at least. Would Sophie know something like that? Sunny?

Apple rejoins us. "That looks good," she points out a cookie studded with dried cherries.

"I already had two," I offer it to her.

"You know I think you're a darling brat," she smiles, turning the cookie around between her long, decorated nails.

"I like you too, Apple," I counter. This is just the kind of relationship we have.

"Lycius!" bellows a large man with indigo freckles and that's enough to get Nar rushing off with a friendly skip in his step, leaving behind the chair he was dragging over to our position with its back facing us.

Before anyone else can commandeer the slim golden seat to some other location, a man settles down on it, sitting backwards to face us.He's wearing mainly gray and black and white, but his tie has green stripes. It comes as no surprise that the whole ensemble is very well tailored. Like me, his looks run toward the ordinary side, but the people in charge know how to make him handsome.

"Hi Mags," he greets me. Jack Umber knows my name (I already know, I know so many times over, yet here I am reliving it- does it sound different in the Capitol?). I shouldn't find this as strange as I do. Everyone in Panem knows my name. I am the victor of the 12th Hunger Games.

"That was some speech," Jack continues. I don't know if this is his way of congratulating me or he's just kidding around. …His way of congratulating me would probably include kidding around.

"She wrote most of them herself based on the outlines I gave her. This one, however, was all Mags." Apple sounds very proud of me. I suppose it's related to how surprised she was that I actually agreed to write some of my own lines. For all of the Victory Tour until this point, I just let them feed the meat of the speeches to me. Even considering, it was exhausting.

And then it hits me. Jack can tell the difference. After all my canned dialogue from 12 to 1, he knows I've addressed these Capitol people in basically my own words. My nervous embarrassment probably shows in my tense smile.

"Oh, yes," he agrees with Apple, looking at me, all bright-eyed and (mock?) sincere, "No one can mangle a sentence like Miss Gaudet."

…This is the part where I haul off and slug him, right?

…Right?

He stands up and towers over me. He stretches out his hand. "You dance in Four, don't you? …a bit more easily than you dance in Three? Or Seven?"

I sit up straighter. I think I honestly tremble a little (why? is he scary?). I feel it run through my body. The silvery hem of my veil flutters against my back.

"Do you," he leans over slightly, "Want to dance with me?"

"Uh-uh," I gasp out.

"Well," he turns to Apple, "How about you?"

She agrees (I think she's flattered) and I drop down into her chair to watch as she swirls about the shimmering floor (the tiles are sort of opalescent) with Jack. They're a very Capitol-pretty pair. When they rejoin me, Apple is flushed, from exertion I think. She may not sit around all day, but she doesn't run or dance or swim of anything frequently either. She handles it gracefully. I surrender the seat back to her, although she probably would've let me keep it and switched to the one Jack or I vacated.

So I'm standing now and Jack is back to standing in front of me. There is an unspoken question on his smiling lips. Something like, "Maybe you changed your mind?" But he just looks at me and keeps on smiling until I feel awkward again, the calm brought from watching him at a distant eroded.

"The dancing in Four is kind of different," I tell him, an explanation to a question he never asked.

"I'd like to see," he says. "The only time I've been to Four was on the Tour. That was kind of a long time ago now." He tips his head a bit to the side, remembering. When Jack Umber came to District 4, I must have been about six, but I don't remember it. I can only remember him on television. …the war wounds of the district were practically still smoldering. No one would've danced, even at a forced celebration. "…It's sort of pathetic, but the best thing I remember about Four was that no one threw anything at me there. Everyone was really quiet about their distaste for the situation."

He's done it again. I've been hooked by a story. This is it, isn't it? This is how strangers connect. The stories that they share. Stories are not how Jack won the Hunger Games, but they are the way he lived on after. "Do you remember anything else?" I ask. I've taken the bait, even as I see it for what it is.

"The smell of salt in the air. The sun shining on the water." He shakes his head. He looks nicer a bit tousled than perfectly coiffed and combed. …Or is it that I think that about everyone? "Nothing grand, I guess."

"I don't think the things I'm going to remember from my Tour will be anything grand either." And people were generally nice to me. …But the bad things, the hard things, they stick out in my memory. It's probably the same for Jack.

The band finishes playing one song. Another song begins. He's asking without asking again (or I read into his subtle shifts in expressions way too much).

"I'll dance," I say.

"With me?" he has to make sure. That he asks for this kind of clarification only intensifies my positive feelings toward him. The Capitol is not fond of asking permission (or it is only a meaningless token, where they ask, but don't care what you answer).

"Yes."

The closer I stand by him, the taller he seems to loom over me.

I have trouble finding the rhythm of this unknown music.

The song is fast.

Jack barely touches me- only my hand.

"The next song is a slow one," he can tell from the first few notes. What he means is, "Would you like to dance more? This one will be easier."

I agree to it, but slower dancing, in this kind of context, means more touching, and even though Jack doesn't act strange about it, I find myself feeling increasingly embarrassed. Looking Jack right in the eye would be too excruciating (like looking into the sun), but looking away and watching myself be watched would be even more horrific.

I take advantage of Jack's height and stare at his vest. The way the light shines on the rippling fabric starts to make me think of water.

"You know, you don't have to think about what we're doing if you want to," Jack says, "You could tell me a story about yourself right now."

"A story?" Yes, I have understood something about this man already that goes down deep into his being. It makes me wonder…when he was a little boy, what kind of stories did people tell Jack Umber?

"Just a short one," he sort of shrugs.

"I can't think of one just like that," I admit, defeated, but distracted.

He's unphased though, as usual, and he turns his question around onto himself. "How about I tell you something else then? I'll tell you about this thing that's been on my mind lately."

This mood is easier. I meet his lively eyes.

"You see, I have this wish-"

It's not a calculated answer; it's what just immediately comes to my mind. "Stop," I shake my head, "You don't say what you're wishing for. If you do, then it will never come true."

Jack laughs. "You- you want my wish to come true?"

…And why wouldn't I?

He knows the song. He knows it's about to end. He dips me low and I resist the urge to flail around as someone else takes control of my center of gravity.

…Is it because we're victors? Is "I want to live," the only wish we can have answered? Because, like most people, as soon as my wish was granted, I only had more. "Jack," I say without even knowing what I want to follow it, as he helps me right myself, "I-"

"You," he takes over for me, "Are a good dancer, and even better when you don't think too much about dancing. …But now," someone or something else catches his eye across the room, "It is time for me to let you go and allow other people to enjoy your fine company."

"Oh. Okay."

"Have a lovely night," he nods to me, turns, and leaves.

"You and he make a pretty pair," Aulie comes up alongside me.

"Don't say that," I shush him.

But he's a good friend too. Now that people have seen that I'll dance many of them want to try their hand at spinning me around the floor. Aulie subjects all of them to some kind of silent test before he lets any of them touch me and he makes sure that I get a break here or there.

Eventually it's just too late and I'm just too tired. I ask to take some of the cherry cookies home to Papa and Faline, which seems to really amuse Nar (Apple tells him, "she's always like this"), who goes to tackle this newest in the ongoing series of small jobs with gusto.

The party is hardly beginning to wind down, but, fortunately, no one forces me to stay. I don't see the president anywhere, but Jack is back on the dance floor, dipping some…um, ridiculously endowed…woman with purple hair to match her shimmering dress. There are lines showing under his eyes- he's human, he gets tired too- but he's still smiling.

I leave, a bit vexed upon realizing I didn't talk to him about any of the things I had previously wished so much to discuss with him.

When I awake, I am on the train, mere miles from District 4.

Apple's first words to me that day are, "Almost home!" I drag along, tired from the late night proceeding this. Two small bags of cherry cookies from the party are sitting on the table alongside the bouquet of sunflowers, which someone has arranged in a vase. Amidst all the yellow another color has been inserted since I last laid eyes on them. A single pink rose.

"Where'd this come from?" I quiz Apple.

"Mmm…I don't know," she shakes her head. "Nar set those up."

And he's back in the Capitol, not here to ask. I don't have to ask to know he didn't say anything about. He might not have even known himself, considering the press of people and things going on around us. The rose probably ended up falling into my flowers by accident and he just went along with it.

I can see the waving streamers blowing over the highest rooftops in town when the train pulls in.

Papa is waiting for me, along with Dan Armain- presumably because Dan has a sea salt rusted old truck he can drive us in. The truck is there too, but it has a new coat of blue paint. "Welcome back!" my father calls the moment he sees me, lifting his arms above his head.

"It's gonna be the biggest Fall Festival ever!" Dan chimes in enthusiastically. "The whole town's been made up on the Capitol's dime! You've not gonna recognize some of it!"

I run down to Papa, who folds me up in one of the tightest hugs he can manage (even pressed still against my skin, I can feel the twitch of nerves in his hand). "There was this Lycius fellow down here with a crew organizing local folks to work on it almost the whole time you were gone. …I missed you."

"I missed you too," I respond.

"Of course," he admits, "At least I got to see you on television every day."

"So not fair," I laugh.

I dress simply for the home affair. There's no speechmaking. I am paid attention to and captured on camera, but every eye in the district is not on me. I may be the guest of honor, but the party would go on without me.

I give Faline the cookies I wanted for her, along with the bundle of flowers for good measure. She shows me a basket she made while I was away based on the method I've been attempting to teach even as I improve my own skills. When one of the cameramen compliments her work, she gives the item to him as a gift.

Papa proudly shows me the homemade thank you card sent to me from the hospitalized children in 6, making sure the cameras capture it.

The focus of the event is really just mingling around a big fish fry. Local news floats around. Dan Armain's niece is pregnant. 'Lito's father has been able to hire on two new hands at the boat shop because of the effects of my victory- parcel day brought more food in, which freed up money to be spent on things like repairs. Saigo Kanno has made a preliminary proposal to his girlfriend now that they had only one last reaping to outlast (some people think doing even this is inviting bad luck). Tylina is going to be taken on part-time as an assistant to the Crestas at their ropes and nets business (I think their very handsome son about five years older than us may have something to do with this).

Mostly I just try to sit quietly and enjoy eating and hearing and seeing familiar things.

Aulie gets drawn into helping fry the fish by some of the boys. Erinne sits and sketches some of the decorations. Irish and Spring bring out a makeup kit and set to work making over anyone who feels so inclined (it's mostly little girls and grandmothers- I think other people who are interested as kind of embarrassed).

Apple asks Papa if he'd like to take a stroll and he agrees after a short hesitation. They head off at leisurely pace toward the shoreline.

I'm alone in the crowd for a while. One of the cameramen is idly observing the footage (I don't know whether this is the official airing to the districts or some kind of rerun or what) of me in the Capitol last night. He notices me looking and comes over to tilt the palm-sized screen my way. "Take a look," he smiles.

Onscreen I am twirling awkwardly in Jack's arms.

"That Jack Umber, huh?" 'Lito speaks up from nearer than I realized.

I try to read his face as he watches the dancing, but it's harder than anticipated. My own feelings are clouding my judgment. Whatever 'Lito thinks, he doesn't look away.

Someone breaks out fireworks and the sky lights up with color. The cameras are careful to capture it all- the color as it bursts through the night, as it reflects on the water, as it illuminates my face.