+ Thanks to Dancing-Souls and emily j for the reviews! This is the concluding chapter of part one; thanks to everyone who's read along throughout the story! All subsequent parts will be kept on this thread so you don't have to jump around from link to link – next chapter will start part two.

/ / / / /

"Don't stand out there all day."

Cyrus gritted his teeth and pushed past the oaken doors to the Assembly Hall. The gold Capitol eagle stretching its wings across the great meeting table glittered in the morning light. Brilliant fractals etched fanciful designs across the floor, slowly twisting and turning as the sun rose above the roof's skylights. The lapis sculptures and jade figurines along the walls didn't look so regal to Cyrus today, though. Everything seemed a bit dimmer, a bit duller, as if focused through a grainy lens.

He knew bad news awaited as soon as he saw Taurus Sharpe sitting to Creon's right at the head of the table.

They weren't alone. Lucrezia ran a hand through her white hair, the ice-blue dye of her skin looking particularly chilling. Across from them to Creon's left, Galan Greene fidgeted with his hands. Given the way Creon's eyebrows creased like an eagle's glare, Cyrus figured he was short on allies.

"Take a seat," the president motioned towards the lonely chair nearest the door.

Cyrus had barely settled down before the doors swung open again. Julian Tercio strolled in with a bronze goblet cupped in one hand, his hair unkempt and a maroon stain running down one sleeve of his loose-fitting white shirt. "Nice of you all to wait for me," he said, plopping down in a chair to Cyrus's right. "Hope there aren't assigned seats. I don't want to walk halfway around the table, you know."

"You're late," admonished Taurus. His face didn't flinch an inch despite the stench of liquor reeking from Julian's clothes.

Julian waved him off and took a swig from his cup. "Good day to be late. There's a drunk passed out on every corner. The Games end and every toilet in the city overflows. I should give you credit, though. The longer I'm in here, the less time I'm fixing problems out there. I much prefer it in here. Wonderful lighting, opulent decorations –"

Creon coughed and cut him off. "Cyrus," he said, his voice grave. "You're the main point of this meeting. You told me you'd ease District 4's tensions. You didn't do a very good job."

"I spoke with Rio West," Cyrus said. He placed his palm on the table to steady himself as his heart pounded. This wouldn't be a meeting – it would be an interrogation. "We came to an understanding. If not for random chance – an anarchist, a terrorist, a trigger-happy drone –"

"So you blame what happened on chance?" Taurus interjected. "Twenty-three dead, including two Peacekeepers? Mere happenstance?"

"One of their trawlers sunk near the district's boundary," said Cyrus. He clenched his fist to keep anger and bile from rising up. Who was Taurus to assume everything? He had hardly spent more than a day in District 4 his whole life. "Bad timing. Chance. Call it what you will, but I had a peace brokered before that occurred. With how tense the whole district has been the last few years since their hauls have declined, a flashpoint like this was bound to spark something bad. The poor are hungry there. They want someone to blame."

Lucrezia raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like sympathy. Did you miss the part where two of our own died?"

"Our own is all of Panem!" Cyrus retorted. "Every time violence breaks out, we're risking so much more than just a few dead Peacekeepers! If the district –"

Creon pounded the table. "The district will know its place!" he growled. "They'll step in line or I'll drag them back to it!"

A moment of silence hung over the table. Cyrus looked down at his lap as his throat clenched. It was funny what a few days of turbulence had done. Since he'd left the Capitol, bullets had flown in District 4 and Creon had taken a stern turn. From the way Galan Greene stayed silent and shifted his glance from one person to the next like a guilty child, Cyrus figured it wasn't only the riot that had angered the president.

"President – sir," Cyrus began. He needed to choose his words carefully here. "I know the situation's not good, but we can pacify District 4 without a show of force. As I said, their economy's been bad for a while now. That hits the most vulnerable of the district folk the hardest, those with the least to lose. We can start by fixing that instead. We give them a little slack and they'll ease up somewhat."

Taurus swooped in, a raptor zooming down for the kill above fleeing prey. "And we should justify a riot based on their own failures?" he said, leaning forward and just a bit closer to the president. "The rest of us - the other districts, too – should pay for District 4's lack of effort? If a child rebels, Cyrus, only a weak parent surrenders to their whims. You're childless; I don't expect you to know that. Allow me to tell you from experience that rolling over at the first sign of a tantrum only breeds disobedience."

"Agreed," said Creon. "You tried your method, Cyrus. It didn't work. I can respect your empathy, but I want order. If that means punishment will keep the peace, so be it."

Julian, who'd watched the whole interaction like a back-and-forth sparring match, coughed and spoke up: "Not that I want to interrupt a fascinating disagreement," he said, taking a quick gulp from his cup before continuing. "but perhaps there's something of a middle ground in all of this? After all, we don't nuke the entire Capitol after the Hunger Games end and everyone's falling down in drunken revelry in the middle of the Forum. That would make my job easier, but we don't do it all the same."

Lucrezia nodded, her lips terse. "He has a point."

"Taurus," Creon said, nodding to the man on his right. "See to it."

A brief splash of panic washed over Cyrus's mind. "Sir, I know I wasn't able to get things done in District 4 this time, but I can work this out. Give me another chance. I won't let you down."

"No, you won't," Creon said. "You have a place at my table, Cyrus, but not as Counselor. I have another job for you. One that's just come up."

He turned towards the Head Gamesmaker, and Cyrus saw his look of dissatisfaction turn to contempt. Creon's streaks of grey looked all the more pronounce as he narrowed his eyes. "I thought we'd agreed on a victor, Galan."

Galan bit his lip. "We did."

"So why did the results of your little game have a surprise in store for me? The boy from 3; that was our agreement. You said he'd be easy to mold into what we want."

"Not when he's dead," Julian scoffed, swishing around the last drops in his glass. "Corpses are known to be stiff."

"I, uh…" Galan stammered. "I wanted to have a little bit of fairness in the last fight. It's entertainment."

Taurus folded his arms. "That doesn't take precedence over results."

"I understand that."

"Do you? Victors are unpredictable and command the nation's spotlight. They're a lot easier to predict and control when we convince them what to think," Taurus said. He leaned forward, cast a sideways look at Creon, and went on. "Our last president didn't see their potential as eyes, ears, and voices. Can we win over this…girl…who won?"

"We don't have much of a choice of who to play with now," Creon mused. "But that'll be your job, Cyrus. It's your job to make sure our latest victor is loyal, and not just because she says it. Make sure she believes it."

/ / / / /

I didn't remember much after the light.

A hovercraft, bathed in light. A man in white. A prick in my arm. Then nothing. Darkness. Then, after a long emptiness…light again.

I squinted as I blinked away sleep. Something hurt my eyes, something gold, something bright that shined in through the window to my right. It took me a few wipes at my eyes and a throbbing in my head to tell me what it was: The sun.

Sunlight. I hadn't seen the sun in what felt like years. It was beautiful, an orange-yellow ball bathing the distant mountain peaks in a robe of color and warmth. Silver towers, not crumbling and rocky but full of technology and life, glittered in the light. A flock of birds crossed high overhead, bringing neither death nor darkness but merely going on their way. None of it felt right after so long under the black, lightning-pierced sky.

Something shuddered to my left. "Hey," a warm voice that I both recognized and did not said. "Don't get up too fast."

I startled at the feeling of a warm hand in mine. It jerked back quickly, and when I glanced over, expecting danger rearing its head to chase me into some fog-filled tunnel, I was met only by the alarmed look on Finch's face.

Finch. It was a name – and a face – I both recognized and did not, like some fever dream that had slipped past my mind years ago.

"Did I hurt you?" she said as I struggled to put together the pieces. "Terra? Still feeling woozy?"

In a flash of realization, everything came together. I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I grabbed Finch's hand as if she'd run away from me and did the only thing I could do: I cried. I cried every last tear that had dried up above the black desert sand in the arena. I cried at the smell of flowers in the air and the sound of Finch's voice as she reassured me that, yes, she was there, that I wasn't stuck in some hallucinogenic loop deep in a hive of darkness.

"I'm not going anywhere, Terra," Finch said. She leaned down and pulled my face into her shoulder as tears ran down my face. "I'm not leaving this room, okay? You did so good, girl. So good."

That just made the tears flow harder. Nothing felt good. Now that I was in her arms, safe and warm, the past however long it had been came down on me like an anvil. Every move I made in the arena swirled through my thoughts, and what seemed logical or smart then now appeared the actions of a demon. "I'm sorry," I blubbered.

"Hey. You don't have anything to be sorry about."

"Yes I do," I choked. "I did things."

"Terra –"

"Bad things."

"Terra, listen to me," Finch said, her voice growing stronger. She cupped my face in her hands and set her jaw. "You didn't choose to be in this. You were picked, and the only thing you had to worry about was surviving. You did. You're here. That's all I care about. That's all anyone should care about."

"But –"

"Every single one of us had to do things we regret," Finch cut me off, her eyes still zeroed in on my own. "And for more than twenty years I've thought about what I've done. But you know what? Right now I don't care. I've waited so long to get someone out. So long. It ate away at me. It hurt. All I wanted was someone to come back. I told myself not to get attached to the kids I mentored every year, and every year I did anyway. But now that you're here…"

Finch blinked her eyes a few times and smiled. "I'm gonna take you home and we're gonna get through this."

I sniffed, nodded, and clutched her hand harder. Pain flickered through my wrist, and finally I noticed a tube running into one of my veins, the other end coiling through a hole in the wall. "How long am I gonna be here?" I said.

"Couple days at most," she said. "You lost a lot of weight in the arena. When you're a little stronger we'll worry about what's next."

"What's next?"

Finch paused and moved to say something when the door behind her slipped open. The face that came through was much easier to recognize. This one lacked all the softness and curves of Finch's expression, exchanging them for a hardness and steel that seemed so much more familiar.

"Awake?" said Daud. "How does being a victor feel?"

/ / / / /

"They've got a little resolution together. 4's quiet, if not content. Games are over. So what's next?"

Suleiman perched on the edge of the penthouse balcony overlooking the Capitol as the morning sun drifted over the mountains. He didn't want to hear Arrian talk right now. He wanted to lose himself in the view for just a moment, a brief, quiet moment before the chaotic din of the Capitol's machine whirred to life for another day's start. This was an ugly, ugly place, this filthy city of talk and games, but when the shallow creatures who called it home retreated back to their dens, it was capable of beauty. Quiet beauty.

"Nothing," Suleiman muttered, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "Nothing for now."

"Nothing? A man grows old doing nothing."

Suleiman glanced over his shoulder. Inside the penthouse, Arrian kicked his feet up on a lacquered wooden table and peeled an orange. He looks so out of place here, Suleiman thought. Born in the slums and now reclining in one of the nicest vantage points in the city, yet he's so caught up in the future that he can't see the present.

"Age has its advantages," said Suleiman, turning back towards the cityscape. He felt a pang of disappointment as he spotted a car driving out from beneath a tower several blocks away. Go back inside, insect. You're ruining my view. "But that's not the point."

"Enlighten me."

"Creon Snow wants control. Order. Let him have it for a little while. Let him believe in his fantasy. 4's not content, and it won't be quiet forever. The other districts have problems of their own, even if they're not in plain sight. Let them churn for a while."

"And in the meantime?"

Suleiman glanced up. Sunlight glanced off of the twelve-story Training Center far off in the distance, overlooking the Avenue of the Tributes lost somewhere beneath the maze of skyscrapers. Soon that building would be quiet again for another year, but not yet.

He smiled. "I'd like to make some friends in the meantime."