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/ / / / /

The night before the train came to pick me up, Glenn stopped by.

He didn't knock on my door. He didn't pull open every kitchen drawer and eat my food. He was just there, sitting in a chair beside my dining room table and turning my dagger from the arena over and over again in his hands. Pale light glinted off of its black blade from the lone unburnt bulb in the ceiling fixture fixture above. A shadow darkened the gulch in Glenn's head from where I'd driven my crowbar into his skull with a killing blow.

It had been bright outside on the street, as bright as the desert sun at high noon, but a dim gloom hazed over every corner of my house's interior. Distant thunder rumbled outside. Clink. Glenn tapped the dagger's blade against the tabletop and snorted.

"Going through the motions again?" he sighed. "At least I got out in time. I guess we'll find out what kind of victor you'll be now."

Clink.

Morning sun illuminated dust floating through the air in my lonely kitchen. I tapped a kitchen knife against an empty glass, slumping forward with my chin on the tabletop and my elbows splayed out to either side. Clink. The house still smelled too clean and new, especially on mornings like this where sleep clawed at my eyes as memories pushed back. Clink.

"Can you at least touch your breakfast, Terra?"

Across the table, Finch leaned forward to catch my gaze. She frowned and twisted a knot of red hair around one finger. Frustrated with her efforts to get me to eat, I pushed my untouched plate of eggs and toast away and slumped back in my chair. "Not hungry," I murmured.

"Terra, sweetie, you have to eat. Cameras are here at noon, and you'll be too tired in four hours if you don't eat anything. That'll be sixteen hours without food in your stomach, and your prep team's supposed to be here in under an hour - "

"I don't want to eat, Finch."

"You can't just splurge on whatever's on the train until dinner. That'll just make you sick. Here, lemme make you something else. I think you have – "

"Finch, I don't want it!" I snapped, much louder and more aggressively than I'd intended.

I felt guilty the moment I saw her face. Finch's weary smile drooped with a flash of pain. She looked away, still twisting the knot of hair in her fingers as she said with a tired sigh, "Is there…something I can do to help you?"

"Just leave me alone!" I said. I rushed out of the kitchen before Finch could protest again, scrambling up my stairs as fast as my legs could take me and stumbling over the last few. I just heard my front door click shut – Finch had finally given up on me for today – before I rushed into my bedroom and slammed the door shut. Frustrated and feeling horrible about shutting Finch out when she as full of good intentions, I pressed my forehead to the door and sniffled as my nose ran.

Why did I have to shut people out like this? Daud, Finch, my family, I'd turned away from all of them in one way or another. My brother was right: I shouldn't have talked bad about my father on air during the games. That had just been the start: I'd barely seen Dawn since I'd been back, who was apparently too interested in her friends to deal with needy me. Now I'd pushed away even Finch, who kept trying her hardest to make me feel at home in this cold, lonely Victor's Village out here in the outskirts of the canyon. It felt terrible, yet…good, in a way. I did want to be alone. I didn't want to hurt anyone else with my moodiness and my thoughts.

Something shifted behind me, and I froze. My back was turned. I was vulnerable. It wasn't a demon or a tribute coming to strike me, however, but a quiet, stoic voice behind me speaking up that caught me off guard: "Perhaps a cold dismissal, but…understandable, from your position."

I spun. Behind me stood a short, head-to-toe, ashen gray cloak, its wearer hidden behind the cloth and the shadows in my bedroom. "Many times I've tried to warn Finch about unintended consequences," the man behind the cloak said. "But for all her smarts, she's never understood emotion. Numbers, yes. Logic, solutions, certainly. But the nuances of society and court…not so much."

He turned. Short, navy blue hair stuck out at odd angles from beneath the cloak's hood, framed by a gaunt face lit up by bright green eyes. Ever since that day of the Reaping when I'd welcomed an unexpected visitor before boarding the train to the Capitol, my escort had engineered a number of surprises. "She is right, you know," Elan Triste said, folding his hands in his cloak's long sleeves and appraising me with furrowed brows. "The food gets dreadful after the hundredth meal, and you'll have many more than that over a lifetime in the Capitol's arms."

I stammered out a reply: "Elan. I…Finch said you were coming later."

"Finch said your clean-up crew was coming later," he said. "I suspect they'll have to use every minute of their time. The dust does collect here. You didn't look quite so red the last time I saw you."

He sat down on my bed and pulled his hood back. Elan always struck me as odd for an escort: I'd seen enough Hunger Games screenings to see the other Capitol guides, dressed out in fancy get-ups and covered in make-up. My escort might have had his odd hair color, but besides that, he could have slunk through the streets of District 5 without so much as a second glance. He didn't sport any of the tattoos or body paint that had covered my stylist, Rhea. Even his accent was different from most of the Capitol folks I'd heard, lacking the traditional up speak but still slanting just effeminate enough to differentiate himself from the guys in District 5 like my brother, so eager to prove their manliness. Elan seemed to have no need for such status.

"Why'd you come early?" I asked, plopping down in a chair across from him and slinking down as far as I could. Embarrassment crept over me when I realized he'd heard my outburst over breakfast. "I thought we weren't leaving 'til late today for the Tour."

"Oh, we are," said Elan. "But the Tour isn't such a big deal."

"Standing in front of the country a dozen times isn't a big deal?"

"A photo op, maybe. But rumors have it in the Capitol that you have much more than just a photo op waiting for you."

I paused. Like with Elan, I figured he had more to say than just his introduction. Unlike Finch and Daud, he hid the real meat of what he meant behind so much fluff. "The last five months have been a flurry of conversations," he said. "Parties. Extravaganzas. The usual Capitol flair. And…meetings. Frantic discussions of the bureaucrats. You've gathered quite an audience, Terra, and it's not across the country. It's right in its heart."

"You see," he went on. "Most victors have a use in the Capitol."

"A use?" I cut him off, incredulous. Daud's advice echoed through my mind. Disappointment awaits.

Elan waved his hand in the air, searching for the right words. "Skilled people are valuable assets to anyone, Terra, Capitolian or not," he said. "And victors have a great many skills. Survival, certainly, and a head for understanding what's going on around them. But more than anything, you have desire. You're amongst an elite group now, and that scarcity, that rarity, makes you a prize for many in the Capitol with resources to spare. Some victors become little more than commodities to trade and sell between wealthy patrons. They become objects, not people."

I gulped. Elan might have tried to hide his meaning behind fancy words, but I knew exactly what he meant by that. "So…you mean…I'll have to…"

"Oh, likely not," he interjected. "But I'm here early to warn you about what very well might await, based on what I've heard. Before I say any of this…I need your word that you won't repeat to anyone. Daud. Finch. Your brother. Anyone."

Not much of a choice there. Even if I had objections, my curiosity got the better of me: "Alright. Secret."

"Panem teeters on chaos," said Elan. "In the closing days of your games, a riot broke out in District 4. Dozens of casualties. You see, Coriolanus Snow reigned for more than forty years. Now his son's been in power for just eleven months, and groups that have been under the Capitol's thumb for so long see an opportunity. A new regime, a new transition, and there's bound to be turbulence. It's turned out to be more than expected, and not all of it comes from the districts. The Capitol itself is a city of many faces, some of which you have never seen. It's not all rich and wealthy artists and socialites. The Capitol's home to its own poor, its own angry, even its own rebellious. They just do a better job of hiding and playing by the rulebook of power, which happens to be very thick."

"Unfortunately for you," he went on. "the Capitol has little access to those who bridge the gap between its shining city beneath the hills and the districts. Peacekeepers, sure, but they're more an occupying army than actual keepers of the peace. Mayors? Of course not. But victors…they have a foot in both worlds, the districts and the Capitol. They're useful tools to anyone who can realize their value and influence in both the Capitol and their homes. It just so happens that you are Creon Snow's first victor, the one he can wrap his hands around from inception and mold to his desires. That puts you in a…novel position."

Before Elan could go on, the bells from the Church of the Triad cut him off. Clang! Clang! Clang! They called out eight times for the hour, drowning out everything else even this far from the city center. My escort pressed his eyes together and sighed. "The faiths have always upset me," he said, letting his last syllable slither off of his tongue as if he were loath to let it go. "Whether it's District 4's Storm Lord, District 2's Death, or your Triad. They all promise salvation, whether a man kills or is killed. A man with nothing to lose is the most dangerous one."

He glanced up at me at last, his stare so unnerving that I had to look away after just a moment. "Starting with today's Tour, Terra, Creon Snow and the rest of the Capitol elite plan to mold you into their machine. You protested against Finch just now at breakfast, but if you can't hold back your feelings, if you can't put on a pretty smile and act as they say while concealing your real thoughts and plans, you will be torn up like every other broken victor in Panem. You didn't just play a role for the Hunger Games. No matter what you feel now, you have to hide it and play the Capitol's game. If you can't, you won't last long as a victor. I'd hate to see you turn into another Finnick Odair or Annie Cresta."

/ / / / /

Lucrezia was waiting for Creon when he pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the Assembly Hall. This room always took the president by surprise at night. No more did hundreds of fractals of light dance upon the floor and the walls, scattered by the afternoon sun as it set over the Capital's mountains. Now a trio of chandeliers, crimson, gold, and white, filled every corner of the room with a glow even the neon urban skyline outside couldn't outshine. The lapis and jade statuettes of Capitolian leaders and icons lining the walls radiated with angelic hues in the light.

Everything shined, except for Lucrezia. Creon's spymaster looked as dour as ever in her seat across from the doors, her pale blue-dyed skin a dreary gash in the Hall's radiance. She glowered at the president as he entered. The woman puts on a veil every time she leaves this palace, Creon thought. She can't even fake a smile now?

"I was making sure Cassandra was asleep," Creon said as he let the door behind him close with barely a whisper. He didn't mind keeping Lucrezia waiting. His family, especially his growing granddaughter, meant more than this woman and her constant dire warnings and predictions. "Is this going to take long?"

She blinked twice, pursed her lips, and said, "To get to the bottom of things might take quite a long time."

He sat down and rubbed his eyes. "What is it, then?"

Lucrezia said nothing. She reached down below the table and laid a small silver dart on the table. It was barely the size of a fingernail, and when Creon looked closely at the four-pronged pyramid that capped its point, he could still see the stain of crimson blood on its tip.

"According to the autopsy, the weapon that killed Coriolanus Snow," Lucrezia said. "The reports say three anarchists, runaways smuggled from District 8 fired this from a half-mile away." She pointed over her shoulder at a tall, helical building off in the distance behind the glass wall that divided the Hall from its adjacent patio. Blue and green neon lights spiraled up the side of the tower, winking at Creon as they must have his father the night he was murdered. "That building. That was where they stood when they fired into this very room. One shot was enough to bury through the glass and land the killing injection, all in revenge for the crackdown that occurred in District 8 following the riots after the 87th Games."

"Yes, yes," Creon waved her story aside. "I know the report. We all do. I watched them hang."

Again, Lucrezia said nothing. She reached down again and pulled out a silver globe no larger than a ladybug. Unlike the dart, it was untouched: The light from the chandeliers still shined brilliantly on its surface. It could have been anything to Creon – a ball bearing, a tool, a piece of machinery, anything.

"The weapon that actually killed your father," said Lucrezia, laying the globe on the table. Clink.

Creon frowned. "That looks about as dangerous as a gnat."

"It was only found three months ago by an avox cleaning a vent," Lucrezia said. "It's not a projectile like that dart. It's a mine."

She pressed a fingernail to a slit in the sphere's side. With a quiet shhttth, a tiny needle burst out from the globe's shell. It hung in the air no longer than a blink before it was gone, retracted back into the metal and leaving only the perfect sphere again.

Creon glanced back and forth between the globe and the dart. "Then what's that?"

"A diversion," Lucrezia explained, picking up the dart again and twirling it in the air. "The men you hanged fired this dart, thinking it was coated with a poison to kill your father. It carried a toxin, but a nonlethal one. At worst, it would have given Coriolanus a stomachache. Those three were duped. They were diversions, scapegoats to take the blame for the real killers."

She set down the dart again and ran her thumb over the globe. "I've had this analyzed ever since we found it. It's a one-use item, but we've picked up the essence of the poison it carried. Very lethal, very dangerous. From what my analysts can tell, it was laid on this very table the day your father died. Worse, it was programmed to identify him in a crowd, seek him out, and latch onto him, even if other people were in the room - ensuring that it would find its mark as long as Coriolanus set foot in here."

A shiver crossed Creon's neck. "What are you saying?"

"Someone recorded his exact facial features, his DNA, his wardrobe, everything," Lucrezia said. She folded her arms and leaned back with a smug smile, as if she'd cornered the murderers right there and then. "Someone had access to everything your father did. They made sure there would be no mistakes, and they programmed this globe with everything it would need to guarantee a kill."

"So the killers…"

"…were not aggravated anarchists from District 8, no. Whoever killed your father had known Coriolanus for a long time. It's a good bet he trusted them enough to let them into every room of this building. Your father's murderer was from the Capitol, and they most certainly have walked these halls many times."

Creon knew where this lead. "They're still here, then. In this building, probably, someone I've trusted, spoken too many times, given assignments…"

"It's a good bet," Lucrezia mused.

"Then – "

"Then your worst bet would be to tip them off that they've been uncovered," Lucrezia cut him off. "Going into hiding would be exactly the wrong move."

"I'm not running, woman," Creon snapped. "But I'm not staying put, either. If they targeted my father, they have their eyes on one or both of two things that are mine and mine alone – my title, or my house."

"And because of that, they may be trying to get something out of you that they couldn't from your father," Lucrezia said. "That's much more plausible than killing your family for no reason other than murderous intent. If they were someone Coriolanus trusted, then they likely are close to you, as well. If you run, you tip them off. But if you stay the course…if you try to find the beasts who killed your father, well…you have a chance to save your legacy, to bring your father's killers to justice, and to keep the peace."

Creon scoffed. "You make it sound easy. If they're someone close to me, they'll know exactly what you're up to, as well. Your identity isn't exactly a secret. As soon as whoever this killer – or killers – may be, they'll figure out I'm on to them the moment they see you sniffing around."

"I have my ways. I trade in information. I'm used to discretion."

"I'm not convinced."

"Then we find another source to sniff around our ranks," Lucrezia said. She smiled. "There is…someone among us, someone close to you, who is an unknown to anyone – even to us. Someone who could do the job without drawing a hint of suspicion."

"And who is that?"

"Someone in the spotlight yet still under the radar. I believe she'll be giving a speech in District 12 tomorrow morning."