Author's Note

Thank you all for your comments and a special thanks to the mysterious person who nominated Checkmate for the Energize WIP awards. Please come forth^^

If you believe Checkmate deserves to win, you can vote on: www*energizewipawards*blogspot*com (replace the * by dots)

At the end of this chapter is the list of all the previous victors with their names and the age they were when they won. As usual, there are minor discrepancies with canon in these early Games (for example stylists are only for the interviews, not the rides).

Date: Year 10, August, a year after Mags' victory.

Mags never tired of watching the sun rise over Creneis. Blues, purples and pinks mixed in the calm waters. Mags' mind was empty as she was lost in contemplation.

Small figures were walking the path up the cliff. Lucian Gemini and his guard. It was time.

Time. Reapings were held at midday in every district, and tomorrow twenty-four tributes would set foot in the Capitol, brought to the monumental train station by a single train. Mags couldn't remember when her own train had stopped, and yet it must have, for from Lycorias to the Capitol there was less than half a day of travel.

"The hovercraft is waiting," Lucian said curtly.

Mags breathed in, her eyes on her beautiful house, trapped in a last lingering glance. Creneis was so deceptively peaceful before the great rush to the train for Lycorias.

"I'm ready," she said.

She'd made her goodbyes the evening before, taking her time. On this day, she was a victor, and victors operated alone. Lucian and her family belonged to two worlds she was determined to keep separate.

"Do you want to prepare for your tributes' arrival?" He said, adjusting his large glasses to examine her clothing. "How medieval," he commented, more indifference than judgment in his mismatched eyes.

Mags had ordered the cerulean outfit specifically for the occasion. If her district was to have an official color, than that color she would wear. The silk and taffeta dress dropped down to her ankles, pinched at the waist with a square neckline, wide long sleeves and a loose hood to shield from the sun. Or so she told herself when she fancied the warm caress of denial. In truth, she knew that once in the Capitol, she would want to hide. Hide her body, her face, and the tremble to her hands.

Lucian's first question made little sense. Prepare? How? "Do you have insight on the arena you would like to share?" she asked.

To her, gamemakers were mysterious shrouded figures, frightening ghost-like creatures with bony limbs that concocted the worst deaths possible for innocent teenagers. Her final training session had done little to erase that image, after all, alterations were only skin-deep. Those people only looked human.

"Oh no," Lucian said, with a thin sarcastic smile. "I'm waiting with bated breath."

White, beige, yellow, orange... Thousands of teenagers and an air thick with tension. Funerals were to be attended clad in black, and so black was worn at the Piers of Spirits of each town and village, but rooted traditions escaped eradication like stubborn weed, and in Mexico, yellow was the ancestral color of mourning. Mags scanned the crowd, searching for spots of a different color, for volunteers. Delphin had worn silver and black, her light blue, but this year, none stood out.

"Ladies first," Lucian said, his cold professional attitude in stark contrast with the terror his words inspired.

"Valentia Gar."

Mags shuddered. She knew nothing of the tribute yet, and still she felt like a hand had seized her throat.

A raven-haired girl was shoved out of the sixteens' section. Mags grit her teeth in anger at the callous violence. This was the consequence of the open shootings that had followed the first reapings, when the names of the tributes had been met with stubborn silence.

Valentia had a worker's tan and strong lean muscles. Her clothes were very simple and she wore no makeup at all. Mags guessed she was from a village.

There were no volunteers. Mags was selfishly relieved that despite her dark hair and eyes, the girl looked nothing like Esperanza.

"Shad Cisco."

A young man stomped out of the eighteen's section, shoulders slumped and a defeated snarl on his badly-shaven face. His broad shoulders and thick arms didn't brighten Mags' spirits. Strength, endurance and the ability to use a spear didn't change anything if you didn't have the will to kill. Delivering death went much beyond the mechanical act. Most tributes discovered it much too late, in a moment of lethal hesitation, just before the light went out in their stricken eyes, or when they stepped away from a corpse, the full impact of their gesture registering.

In both cases their life was over.

"I volunteer," a girl unexpectedly called out.

Mags stared. Had someone changed their minds? Her Games had been the very first with volunteers from Four. Had her victory motivated desperate people to follow her footsteps?

Could it be that suicidal girl from Galene? She thought distressed. The voice came from the distant sections and Adria was still fourteen.

Her heart plummeted when she realized the speaker was not a girl.

A twelve year old boy with shaggy light-brown hair had stepped out and was walking purposefully towards the stage.

Incredulous murmurs rose from the crowd.

Shad didn't move, his eyes popping from their sockets. "Dude, serious?" He whispered.

"As is your right Shad Cisco," Lucian said, "do you refuse to let the volunteer take your place?"

Shad looked like he was about to cry. His mouth twisted into grimace as if he suddenly hated himself. "No, I accept," he said, "I'm sorry little guy, good luck."

Shad leaped off the stage as if someone would force him back up if he wasn't swift enough.

Mags swallowed painfully. She couldn't blame the young man for choosing life.

"I'm Petrel Zander," the twelve year old said clearly, determination etched in his elfin features.

"Hey, I wanted to volunteer next year anyway… Maybe?" A burly boy in the seventeen's section called out. It really sounded like a question and Mags knew the only reason he was speaking was because Petrel was so heartbreakingly young.

"First volunteer on stage is in unless the reaped tribute refuses to step down, that's the rules," Lucian said, but his heart didn't seem to be in it. He looked weary, as if he really wished to be somewhere else.

Mags swiftly erased the shock from her face and forced a tight smile firmly in place. Who knew what had happened in the reckless child's mind. Twelve was the age of stupid dares and risky games, the age where death and danger hadn't sunk in. But there was a difference between swimming as far as you could to outperform a rival, even if you risked drowning, and the Hunger Games.

Or was there? Had someone convinced Petrel he had something to prove? Had he convinced himself he would win?

Twelve years old. Mags was his mentor and she didn't even know where to start.

The girl was looking at her. Mags inwardly cursed as her mind came up blank.

"Excuse me, I got distracted, your name?" Mags said as they were led to the Justice Building.

"Valentia, Valentia Gar," the tribute whispered back, her face pale. "Where are we going?" she asked, confirming that she was not from Lycorias.

"The Justice Building, it's not far. Your family will meet you there."

Mags blanched when the peacekeeper told her she was to wait with the two tributes until the ten minutes for goodbyes were over. She stepped back against the wall, hoping to disappear. She shouldn't be there at a time like this.

The door slammed open, revealing a panting black-haired boy flushed with rage.

"You're stupid. Circe, you're so stupid, Pete! I knew you were stupid, but I didn't think you were that freaking dumb," the teen exclaimed.

Mags forgot her decision to remain invisible. "Get out," she said, putting herself between Petrel and his older brother.

Valentia and her family, who was just coming in, were staring at them wide-eyed, and Mags cursed the fact goodbyes weren't in separate rooms. That had to change. The Justice building was big enough.

Petrel's brother just gaped at her, his lips trembling. He had the same wide-set large eyes, thin upturned nose and high-cheekbones.

Mags' eyes misted over, her heart going out to the both of them. "If that's the only thing you have to say to him, you're getting out," Mags whispered, too low for Petrel to hear, "because it won't help him."

The teen snorted. "Nothing can help him," he said loudly, "he's always mucking things up."

"I'm not!" Petrel shouted back, bolting to his feet. "I'll show you. Except I won't give you any money, because I hate you, you're always talking down to me when brothers are supposed to love each other. I hate you! I'm doing this for Dad, only for Dad."

Mags ground her teeth, knowing with sudden clarity why Petrel had volunteered. His brother couldn't be older than fourteen, too immature to know what his daily harsh words had done to his little brother. She felt the sudden urge to scream at the boy's parents.

She had Petrel's brother by the arm and dragged him out before the two could continue their shouting match.

"I'll win, I'll be a hero and I'll stop the Capitol from making avoxes like you did, Mags. Dad won't have to work so hard anymore and no one will ever say I'm useless, ever again," ¨Petrel muttered behind her. He sniffed, tears streaming down his cheeks as he sat on the bench with his chin against his knees.

Mags shut her eyes briefly and swallowed back her own tears. The boy she was holding whimpered in pain. Her hold on his arm had grown bruising. She let him go.

A tired-looking gray-haired man soon appeared, hurrying down the corridor. He looked so lost that Mags felt the urge to rush to him and help him walk. She swallowed, feeling desperately sorry for the man.

He frowned at Mags. "That's my son," he pointed out.

"Who was telling your other son that he's a worthless idiot," Mags said tightly, stopping there because she didn't want to add to the anguish on that lined face.

The teenager exhaled in distress. "He freaking volunteered, Dad, what can I say to that?"

"That you love him, that you're stupid when you're angry and didn't mean your words, Gannet," the man replied tiredly, looking about to collapse. "Let me in, please."

Mags moved aside. "You have minutes to get a hold of yourself, Gannet," she said softly, truly sorry for the miserable looking boy.

"Can't you let his friends in? I'll just get angry at him, even if I don't want to," Gannet said, guilt written all over his face. "I can't help it." His breath hitched. "It's my fault. I killed him. I killed my brother. I just wanted to shake him, to make him grow up, I…" his voice broke, and he let his face fall against Mags' shoulder, sobs wracking his whole body.

"Only family is allowed, except for orphans," Mags said, putting an arm around his shoulders as she bit back a scream. "You can do it. Go see him."

"No. You need to help him. You…" Gannet swallowed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Mum died two years ago, she got sick, and Petrel's now scared all the time, of dad getting sick because he's so tired, so he's been doing crap at school, but he really needs a good job, or dad's really not going to make it. That's why I always told him to stop being such a wuss and learn his knots properly to get a ship job. Pete makes the best snares, but he's too slow. Can you teach him to be fast, before the Games?" He pleaded.

"I'll do my best," Mags promised in soft tones. Her best would never be enough.

"He's so stupid," the red-eyed boy whispered shakily.

"I can take care of myself," Petrel exclaimed, glaring up at her defensively, "I'm never bullied because people know not to mess with me."

Mags wondered if this was her punishment for having volunteered.

The Games are serious. It's death. What world do you live in? She wanted to shout. Instead she decided to opt for a practical approach.

"Okay. Defend yourself," she said, before punching his stomach and grabbing him by the neck.

Petrel groaned, taken by surprise. Then he started kicking. Mags slipped her arms under his and lifted him by his armpits, making him flail uselessly.

Circe, he was heavy for someone so small.

"If I had a knife, I'd have got you. And I can make traps so you can't get near me."

You only know how make traps with good ropes, enough time and if the arena gives you something to attach them to, Mags wanted to say. But she feared that bursting his little bubble would just guarantee his death.

"Take the fork, then." Mags said. "Don't stab me hard," she warned, "just show me what you do if I attack you again."

Petrel didn't hesitate, slashing the fork aggressively before him. Mags actually took a step back, now glad for her self-defense lessons. Skewered during the train rides… Charming.

"You'd really do that with a knife?" She blurted.

"You attacked me," Petrel exclaimed, as if the question was asinine.

Mags nodded slowly. Petrel, in his childish single-mindedness, was maybe much more capable than she gave him credit for. But could he live with having killed?

"Is this really going to tip the odds?" Valentia said sullenly.

"What tips the odds is your ability to kill before you get killed. Fitness will help you survive longer in the arena, but state of mind is worth more than training when it comes to survival," Mags said. "If you do not panic at the sight of blood and can kill in cold-blood without feeling guilt, you have an extraordinary advantage."

"So basically, you have to be a criminal to win," Valentia said, her lips curled in a bitter half smile.

"It helps," Mags admitted, a part of her doubting that saying this was even wise, "or," she added with a hopeful smile, "you can detach yourself from the act and feel certain that coming back to your family is worth it, that these innocents will still die but that if you win, you'll make the world a better place."

She hated to think of herself as a criminal.

Petrel nodded vehemently at her words. "I'll kill them if I have to, but it'll be quick. I won't be a criminal. I want to be a victor to help people. Like you did," he stressed, admiration evident in his light brown eyes.

Mags struggled to conceal her horror. Was this the kind of role model she had become? She swallowed back her distress, telling herself Petrel was one of sixty-thousand, one child of reaping age among over eight thousand. The others did not share his insane ambition or suicidal devotion.

"At the very beginning, if I step out of the circle early, before the end of the countdown, I die painlessly on the spot, right?" Valentia said, chewing her words thoughtfully.

The initial countdown had been the only constant in Games one to eight.

Mags stared. "Yes," she finally said, "but it will be seen as rebellious."

"Rebellious?" Valentia spluttered. "I have no chance, I don't want to suffer. Isn't everyone a rebel once they're reaped? If we didn't hate the Capitol before, we sure do when we're told 'kill or die!' And there will be twenty three left," Valentia rolled her eyes, "I won't tell the others to act like me."

"You have a chance," Petrel said, furrowing his brow.

Only if you die, little fool.

Valentia glared. "No," she said coldly after a pause. "My family doesn't need me enough to make me desperate. I still have nightmares of the time I found a floating corpse after a storm. I like people. I want to be friends with them. I hate hurting them. I won't sleep from fear and I won't kill. I'll just wait for death, like everyone normal does during the Games."

"You could protect Petrel," Mags suggested with a wan smile. She inwardly winced at how cold that had to sound. She wondered if there was any good way to mentor.

She had no argument against Valentia's suicide plan. She couldn't afford to invest herself emotionally enough in the girl to find one and jumping against the charged forcefield wasn't such a stupid idea. Mags couldn't imagine giving up so soon despite the cruel odds, but Valentia was her own person. The sixteen year old had the right to choose her death, and she was actually putting herself in a position to be able to do so.

Mags felt disgust rise at the back of her throat. Already she was finding excuses, anesthetics made of false logic and empty promises, to forget the two tributes before her were innocents sentenced to die.

Valentia shook her head. "I held the bar and scrubbed the decks. That's no good here. Petrel needs someone who knows snares and doesn't need much food, so they can both set traps and take their time, someone who won't kill him and won't bitch about having been reaped. Good luck with that," Valentia added with a small sneer. She moved away from the window and walked up to the table. "Can I write some letters to my parents and friends? I'm slow, so I'll need to start now. It's just personal stuff I want them to know," she said softly," could you pass them on to them when I'm finished?"

When I'll be dead. The words rang as clear as if they'd been spoken out loud.

"Of course, Valentia," Mags said. She squeezed the forlorn girl's shoulder. "I'll get that right now, Then I'll try to see what I can help you with during the time we have, Petrel. Think about what you want to do during training or how you want to choose your allies so we can discuss it."

"Okay," Petrel promptly said.

He wouldn't win, but if it could keep them both occupied, if Petrel could have hope as long as possible, then she wouldn't have failed. Not completely. She wondered who among the reaped tributes would win, and who actually deserved to. Petrel and Valentia were hers to prepare, but it didn't make the other tributes less human.

She hated this every bit as much as she had expected to.

The compartment door creaked. A tall whip-thin boy with a harassed air entered the compartment.

"May I stay here?" he begged. "I'll either throw myself out the window or kill my district partner otherwise."

"That sounds drastic," Lucian muttered, a sarcastic half-smile on his face.

Mags wanted snap at him to go back to his quarters and leave them alone.

"Why?" Petrel asked, his whole body tense as he crossed his arms. He looked even smaller like this. "And who're you?" he sounded wary, but not aggressive.

"Jack, from Three. She," he said, jerking his thumb towards the door in distress, "volunteered, because she wanted to die. You know, end her life. She tried already but her parents stopped her so she volunteered to get the job done."

"She's stupid," Petrel exclaimed.

Valentia failed to contain a small snort. Mags sent her a mild warning glare. She didn't need Petrel upset.

"She looked all happy and proud when she did, hugging the reaped girl and everything. I thought she was crazy but kinda brave, but now she doesn't want to die anymore, and she's wailing and weeping and complaining and I can't," Jack finished putting his face in his large hands.

"Why couldn't there be a suicidal girl back in Four?" Valentia grumbled. "What is she twelve?"

"Fifteen," Jack groaned, his shoulders stooped and his chin almost tucked in his chest. "And that ninny Comet is encouraging her and crying with her," he said, his exasperation mounting.

"Mags is our mentor, you can't have her," Petrel suddenly snapped. His earlier tentative friendliness had been replaced by a warning glare, with a hint of steel that almost impressed Mags.

So he wasn't completely oblivious to what the Games meant.

"I get it," Jack said with a resigned smile, his eyes bright. "I'll take a nap wherever you have a bed."

"Want some company?" Valentia said, standing up, "I'll write later."

Jack nodded after a pause, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed painfully.

"They're gone, what can you teach me?" Petrel whispered, his undivided attention on her.

Her nerves begging for reprieve, Mags grabbed the nearest thing, a sugar cube.

She popped it in her mouth.

The zoo or the fish market? Mags wasn't sure which was the most fitting comparison for the welcoming chariot rides.

It was a freak show, with the commentator unabashedly boasting the physical qualities of the tributes and inventing psychological ones for those too scrawny to be taken seriously. She couldn't fathom what 'great sense of humor' had to do with the Games, but the audience would have cheered for 'likes tomatoes' at this point.

What bothered Mags to no end was that the Capitolite called the tributes by number and never by name.

Mags shuffled a little closer to Lucian when someone moved in to sit next to her.

She turned around when a familiar powerful scent of sea salts invaded her nostrils. "Hi, Myia," she said, happy for the distraction.

"Missed me?" the woman trilled. "Oh, I love your dress," she said, her purple eyes glittering, "You must be so warm, but you're right to keep covered, the sun will ruin your skin if you're not careful."

Mags flashed her a forced smile. "Thank you."

She'd talked often enough of clothes, makeup and beauty tips with Marquise, and yet Myia already irritated her. Probably because Marquise would never casually mention the dangers of sun exposure while gazing at teenagers about to be herded to their death.

"Will you make a speech this year? Aunt Evadne was very happy with your last one."

Mags blinked, taken by surprise by the abrupt change in subject. Happy? She'd made Achlys happy? How? When?

"She told you that?" She said, trying to sound touched.

Myia straightened, flushing with pride. "Absolutely. Evadne said that a rebel would have made a speech like that in the lower districts where it would have been misinterpreted as an order to stand up against us, but since District One is loyal, it will encourage people to cooperate with us and make us all wealthier."

Mags understood two things. First, she was incredibly lucky, because by every right her outburst in Byzantium Plaza during the victory tour should have signed her death warrant, and the other was that silly attention-craving Myia would do her hardest to prove that she had a privileged relationship with her powerful aunt.

Now she just had to learn how to flatter her fairy-tale princess aide properly to make her talk.

Mags should have expected the mentors to be in even worse spirits than the tributes.

She hadn't.

She really shouldn't have left her room. It seemed the absent mentors from Seven were the wisest of their sorry group.

"You look even more depressed than I am, Mattock," Mags said, wondering how to break the ice.

The District Ten mentor was built like a bull and sitting slumped on a sofa, his expression so sullen that Mags was genuinely worried for him. He was the only one who had stood up to officially introduce himself to her. The others probably figured she'd done her own research.

"I have a volunteer," Mattock gloomily replied.

"There's quite a few this year," Vicuña said. She rolled her eyes at the mildly curious reactions that earned her. "You haven't watched each other's reapings?"

Mags frowned in dismay. Should she have? The idea hadn't even crossed her mind.

"Let's play a game. Who has the worst volunteer," Mags said with fake cheer. The bunch before her looked much more eager to complain than to do anything else. She found herself edging closer to Vicuña. The blonde was the only one who looked sane.

"Whenever someone says something sad, drink!" Rye cut in, his voice much too loud.

The victor of the sixth Games did not look like someone Mags wanted to cross alone in a dark alley. He sat crookedly, his bushy brown hair sticking out in a ways that would make a homeless man ashamed, with a perpetual grimace on his face and a luscious unfocused stare that made Mags wish for even more concealing clothes.

"Help yourselves, friends! It's the very best, and they don't export this one, those fucking hoarders," he hatefully spat, droplets of wine dripping down his unkempt beard as he took a long swig from the bottle.

"I have a determined twelve year old who wants to become a hero," Mags said with forced levity, "like he believes I am."

Bianca from Six cackled. "Karma's a bitch," she said, her round cheeks flushed from alcohol.

She looked much older than her twenty-five years. A mane of fine grey hair covered the maroon and red shawl she wore over her dark brown dress, as if she was immune to the thick summer heat. Victory had sucked the youth and beauty out of her face, but at least she kept clean, unlike Rye. A heavy scent of incense hung around her.

Bianca was shuffling a deck of large cards. Tarot, Mags remembered. Fife had told them all about such fortune telling. She blinked, fierce nostalgia clutching at her heart. Her own Games seemed a lifetime ago.

Comet sighed, a long anguished sound. "I have a sweet girl who wanted to die, now she doesn't, but she will," she said dejected. The short-haired young woman was dressed as a street child, a very romanticized version of a street child, and had been scooting from corner to corner to hide in since the welcoming rides. Mags wished the actress had had a cheerful role just before the Games.

"My kid is sixteen but tough, tougher than most any kids his age and he's got a focus I admire," Mattock began, his voice so bitter that she dreaded the rest.

"He volunteered for his older brother. He kept saying 'don't be afraid, Halter,' as he climbed on stage."

"He's mentally disabled," Vicuña said, putting an end to Mattock's sadistic tension building efforts.

Mags lowered her eyes to the floor. Was that what it took, for family love to surpass the fear the Games bred? Mental disability? Yet was it really a service rendered to leave your sibling to live with the horror and guilt? She almost snorted. Even without training, she'd have volunteered for Esperanza.

"He was very well behaved in the train. He's eight in his head but helpful, calm, a good lad," Mattock granted with a grimace, "then he was told he had to get on the chariot and he saw the bits the horses are given. Those cruel bits that bloody their mouths. He got furious, refused to get on the chariot unless the bits were taken off. They sedated him real quick when he raised his fists. That's why he looked so doped. He was bawling and breaking stuff, demanding to go home when the drugs started to fade. Now he's sedated again," he said, his thick square jaw jutting forward in a grim resigned smirk.

"Bacchus' tits you play this game right, Matty" Rye exclaimed, noisily taking large gulps of wine. "Keep talkin', this is good. I could even cry."

"Either go faster and knock yourself out or waste less of it," Bianca said disgustedly, her own glass still half full, "You're an insult to the gatherers and vintners, that's what you are."

"Ha! They'd flush it down their toilets if they could get away with it. Who wants to make Capitol trash's life better? I'd as soon poison it if I was them."

Mags winced, now remembering what Vicuña had told her about Rye.

He's trying to see how many laws he can break before the Capitol hangs his ass. That ugly runt has single-handedly spent more on hookers in the last three years than his whole bloody district put together.

"Think they have toilets in Eleven?" Rye continued, his lips twitching, "Ours clogged up all the time, I can't say I remembering ever taking a proper piss –"

"No one cares, Rye," Vicuña snapped, her cold gaze made the man's sardonic smile vanish. He cradled his bottle moodily, not looking at them anymore.

Bianca gasped, causing them all to turn. She picked up her cards and shuffled them again with frantic vigor. Muttering to herself.

Vicuña shut her eyes briefly, her expression strained. Mags shared the sentiment. The temptation to leave grew greater as time passed. Lucian was healthier company, as insane as the thought may have once seemed.

"You probably think better a retard than a healthy kid, Vicuña, don't you?" Comet said darkly, still crouched at the other end of the room.

There were five chairs Comet could sit in and yet she preferred the hard floor. It made Mags' skin crawl. The common room for victors was an accursed mental ward.

"His family will mourn him regardless, and you don't need to be a genius to work in sugar or grain fields, or mind horses." Vicuña replied. "When misfits get reaped on the other hand," she said in a cruel knowing voice causing the victor from Three to hiss in rage.

"You're horrible," Comet muttered, her face buried in her knees and fat tears seeping from her eyes.

Mags couldn't believe it. How could people who'd gone through the same thing be so uncaring? Did they hate themselves so much they could only hate the others? They didn't have to be friends, but this…

"Why don't we see what we can actually do during the Games?" She said, anger flushing her face. "How big a thing is sponsoring? How do we influence it? Could we pool the money in the end, to give a chance to someone we'd like to win?"

"You want us to choose who lives or dies?" Comet said in a hoarse whisper. She cringed, backing against the wall on all fours. "I'm out. I'm not having anything to do with this."

Rya barked a laugh. "Who do you hate enough to want to win, Chick?"

Bianca lifted her glass at that. "The odds are not in my favor anyway," she said in a brittle voice, staring at the cards with her pale horror-filled eyes.

"Who'll win by them?" Comet curiously whispered, cautiously edging up to the other woman.

"I've trained Onyx personally, he's ready," Vicuña said confidently, apparently blind to the fact ready meant will be out to kill your tributes. "District Two's boy looks like he means business but I haven't talked to him. The girl isn't a volunteer." Vicuña seemed to suddenly remember something. "About sponsoring: things will be cheap this year because Evadne wants sponsor gifts to be numerous and showy."

"Showy? Not even useful?" Mattock cut in, his teeth bared in distaste.

"So use the money as soon as you get it to get more sponsors," Vicuña continued, ignoring the interruption.

"Of course, anything for Evadne," Rye slurred, slamming his empty glass down on the table loud enough to make the windows rattle.

But where did the money go? What were the sponsors really financing? New Games? More peacekeepers? Mags didn't dare speak out and hoped someone else would, in vain. Mags finally understood why Vicuña had been so happy when she had won. They were depressing as hell.

"So only the boy volunteered in One this year?"

Was this Onyx someone Vicuña really cared about? Someone the first Career believed to deserve victory? Mags shivered, thinking of Petrel's elfin face and small, fragile body as she vaguely remembered the lean brown-haired young man standing on the first chariot next to a short but smiling blonde.

"No, the girl too. But Sable Lockley is demented. I haven't gotten a sensible word out of her." Vicuña frowned. "She wanted to meet you, I think."

Mags' lips had parted in shock. Sable? Was it a coincidence or some sick joke?

"Is that a common name?" she said, her mouth suddenly dry.

Her voice was so low Vicuña had to almost bump into her to hear.

"Not really," the blonde replied, seeming to ponder it, "but not that rare either."

"Did she mention Constantine?" Mags whispered. "He had a friend called Sable, and he did imply she was unhinged."

Vicuña paled, her eyes widening in realization. "I think I just understood what she's been telling me…" She stood up abruptly. "I need to go."

A shriek escaped Mags lips when she felt a foreign hand on her side. Mattock lifted both his hands up in apology for startling her. Mags gave him a wry smile and sat on the armrest of his chair.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I sniff a story to tell," Mattock said in low tones. There was a warmth in those dark eyes Mags hadn't seen before.

"Vicuña had said you didn't speak much when I met her last year," she said, confused but not unhappy.

A small smile split the man's full lips, and his face illuminated for a brief instant. "Rosalyn said yes. I'll be a dad soon," he said, awe etching determination on his tanned face. "I want to be the kind of man that makes his woman proud. The Games are your biggest enemy, Mags, they stay with you, choke you and but they're also a friend, in the dark, when you're so down you're not even sure the sun will rise again. They don't let you die, they whisper you owe. If they're tamed, maybe that's a strength…" He shrugged, as if he was still figuring it out.

He clapped Mags lightly on the back. "You look good, Mags, better than I'd thought anyone half decent could look. Good for you. Point is, I'll be the man I want to be. I'll give my kids the father they deserve. Self-pity is fit for those who live alone."

"If you're gonna sit in his lap, there are rooms for that." Rye leered at her, licking his wine-soaked lips. "As long as I get pictures, I promise not to tell."

Mags had had enough. She jumped off the armrest. "Let's get a room, Mattock," she snapped.

Please review^^.

Games:

Games 1 victor: District 7 male (age 18)

2: D9 male (18). Committed suicide during the chariot rides.

3: D7 male (16)

4: D6 female: Bianca (18)

5: D10 male: Mattock (18)

6: D9 male: Rye (17)

7: D1 female: Vicuña Chrysaor (18), volunteer.

8: D3 female: Comet (17)

9 : Mags Abalone (17), volunteer.