+ Thanks to Dancing-Souls, Theotherpianist, Moka-girl, and happyreader for the recent reviews! On to the next chapter, where we'll get to see some familiar faces again. Longer chapter than I anticipated…

/ / / / /

District to district the train ran on, foreign land to alien shore, plains to forests to urban squalor. Every speech in front of thousands of strange faces felt forced. Elan's fancy words flowed easily from my lips, but I felt no connection to the people who watched me praise their homes and their children. The hollowness from District 12 didn't stick around long, however. Something funny replaced it, something I hadn't expected before starting the tour. I wasn't remorseful. I was bored.

The haze of half-hearted pomp and circumstance in every district's stop on the tour didn't help. I'd expected to meet other victors and learn about what awaited me, maybe even forming a friendship or two that I craved in my loneliest hours on the train. Instead, I shook hands with mayors who couldn't care less about a fifteen year-old girl far from home and charmed vapid Peacekeeper captains in various states of inebriation. From District 12 to District 6, I met only two victors – the kind-but-preoccupied Cecelia Sanchez of District 8, who left halfway through our dinner to attend to her grandchildren, and Johanna Mason of District 7, perhaps the only interesting person I'd run into since I'd left the Capitol months ago. District 7's mayor might have been offended when Johanna introduced herself by referring to me as a "squirt," but at least it was novel. Even rudeness was more interesting than the tour's grind.

When the green hills of District 4 lit up with the rising sun, mixed feelings flooded my emotional void. Both Delfin and Tethys from Panem's westernmost District had helped me in the arena. I wouldn't have been alive without them…but even then I couldn't muster up enough guilt to care anymore. How many times had Delfin treated me like an unwanted hanger-on as we ran from the horrors of the arena? I'd been prepared to kill him in those final days. I'm still sure I could have.

But District 4 brought something new: I couldn't find any of those empty, hollow eyes like I'd seen in so many faces across the other, poorer districts. Elan had mentioned District 4's relative wealth compared to the likes of Districts 11, 8, or 12 on the train, but this was a place where people still lived. As the train churned into a metal-roofed station adorned with driftwood decorations across its façade, I spotted hundreds of people bustling about the wooden docks that watched over the great blue bay at the heart of this district. New huts of lime and mortar cropped up around burned-down buildings around the harbor, eager to crowd out old blight. When I gave my same, tired old speech on a redwood platform before a great, six-story stucco manor overlooking the city's square, so many faces – so many – stared me down with heated eyes.

I stumbled through the words. Did they hate me for Delfin and Tethys's deaths, for something else, or was I just so tired of this grind that I was misinterpreting their response to yet another weary speech?

Whatever it was, I was glad when it was over. Standing in front of all those eyes was wearing me down – almost as much as all the feasts and private dinners that every district put on when the sun dipped below the horizon.

"Stop fidgeting for a sec," Finch said as we stood alone in one of the manor's back rooms. Old mariners watched me with amused eyes from their oil paintings on the walls as my mentor pulled on one of my dress's shoulder straps. "Terra, c'mon. Can we just get this part over with?"

"It looks stupid," I muttered. The dress did look stupid. I hated my stylist's offbeat sense of fashion: Rhea had swathed me in some shiny, reflective green thing that dangled from my hips in long, limp ribbons. I looked like a plant.

Finch sighed. "No one's gonna make fun of your dress. I guarantee you everyone here tonight just wants to get this over with, just like everywhere else we've been. Besides, no one's even going to think back on some dinner a week from now."

"I still have to see the victors every year."

"The only person who's gonna be here is Finnick, probably. Will you just stop moving for a second?"

I sighed as loud as I could out of annoyance. "He'll probably remember it at least. Caesar and Cicero every year make it sound like he gets with everyone with a –"

"Terra, knock it off. Finnick's a good guy, and he's forty-six. You're fifteen. Get to know him first before you say anything."

Harrumph. "Yeah, fine, mom. Whatever."

She grabbed my arm. "I'm serious. You can get snippy back on the train. You're gonna have to fake a smile a lot more now, so you better get used to it. Come on."

I was done debating a wall. With the fakest smile I could muster plastered upon my face, I followed Finch out of the room and into a bright, spacious hall. Redwood walls stretched twenty feet from floor to ceiling, adorned with old pastel portraits, driftwood ornaments, and shells so colorful and large they looked unreal. A pair of polished granite tables stretched at least thirty feet down the hall's length. Upon them sat dozens of jade and wooden platters holding exotic foods I'd never seen: Blue-scaled fish the size of my chest gaped wide with jelly eyes. Bejeweled shells as large as my hand overflowed with salty-smelling goo. Even giant, armored orange bugs with claws that looked strong enough to crunch a man's finger sizzled upon the tables, waiting to be dug into. The array of food both amazed and intimidated me.

The new faces had a habit of doing that, as well. An old, wizened mayor and a few local dignitaries later, I was already scrambling to find a friendly face. Evading a pair of dock managers discussing something about boats, I ran straight into Daud.

My mentor seemingly had worked through a half a bottle of wine by the time I found him. "How d'you like being a victor?" he laughed, shoving the bottle back in his mouth and taking a long swig. "Surprised Finch didn't glue you to her."

I rolled my eyes. "She said enough already. Are you just gonna drink?"

"She's getting to you. I can't wait for in a few years when you're telling me how to live my life."

"I'm just saying."

"Yeah. Of course. If you spent less time talking to these bores and more time eating, you'd be enjoying yourself," said Daud. He jerked his head towards a plate loaded with slimy, grey ribbons. "What were you saying about jellied eels?"

"Are you ever going to actually do anything on the Tour? I mean, you haven't even come out until today."

Daud paused, the bottle halfway to his lips. "Been too cold to come out and play. Even District 10 got snow."

"So? It's been kinda neat. We don't have snow at home –"

"Easy for you to say it's neat."

"What?"

"When you're tromping around in the ice and snow without anything but the damn shirt on your back - bah, forget it. Go play with Finch or these other people."

I stopped. "What?"

"Forget it!"

Daud glared at the wall and shoved his bottle back in his face. I was confused. Every time we talked, he let up for just long enough to start to say something before cutting me off with a snarl and a vicious look. He was hiding something, I knew it – but I also knew probing to satisfy my curiosity would only drive him further off.

"Y'know," a warm voice behind me interrupted my thoughts. "Sometimes it's good to leave other victors alone for a while."

"Pound sand, whore," Daud grunted.

I spun as a hand grabbed my shoulder. Behind me stood a man I'd seen – everyone had seen – a hundred times on television before. He had a famous face and an even more famous reputation – one that wasn't far from Daud's insult. Everyone knew who Finnick Odair was, and every inch of him looked the part up close. His bronze hair hid a strand or two of gray and shallow lines creased his forehead and chin, but besides that, District 4's most famous victor's stony jaw and watery green eyes still seemed cut straight from the replays of the 65th Hunger Games.

His wide grin only made it clearer why the Capitol ladies fought to sleep with him every year. "I'm not interested in pounding sand. I think I'll entertain our guest for a while instead. Mind?"

Daud spat in response. "Let's go somewhere quieter, Terra," Finnick said, grabbing me by the hand and leading me into an adjacent hallway before I could protest.

It was quieter here. Driftwood sculptures lining the walls had a way of sucking in the sound and muffling every one of Finnick's footsteps. Ceiling lights shined a dim, milky hue down onto the redwood floorboards, and soft moonlight drifted in through glass windows just large enough to give a clear view of District 4's bay. Out there, lanterns on the piers and the boats shined against the black water of the sea. Glowing green dots flitted about just beneath the surface as straggling gulls drifted overhead in the full moon's glow, searching for a late night meal in the cool, salty air.

"Daud's not much of a conversationalist," Finnick said as he led me away from the feast. "I try to meet everyone in our little circle of victors, but he's rebuffed my overtures every time. I gave up trying with him a while ago. Sorry to drag you away, but I can see when someone's not having a good time."

I hid a little smile. Even in middle age, Finnick was handsome in the moonlight. He wasn't covered in red dust like every man back in District 5, nor glazed in makeup like those who called the Capitol home; he'd found a happy medium that laughed at age's advance. "I'm, um…yeah. It's kinda getting old. The feasts and stuff."

He chuckled. "Yeah, that happens."

"Doesn't seem like you get tired of it," I said.

Finnick raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, I mean – you're always looking good and having fun at this kind of thing," I muttered with a little more bitterness than I intended. Something about the way he brushed aside my complaint bothered me. If any victor enjoyed the life in the spotlight, I figured it would be him. I didn't know if I was irritated because I was wrong…or because Finnick's answer silently confirmed what Daud had told me about living as a victor. Disappointment awaits.

"And the television tells you this?" said Finnick with a shrug.

"Yeah."

He laughed. "The way Cicero and Caesar spun things on television during last year's Games broadcast, you're a ruthless manipulator with a penchant for trickery, especially when it leads to dead tributes. Snakes, pits, underground death traps…is that right too?"

"What? No! I didn't – "

"The television also tell you everyone in District 4's eager to play in the arena? That we're all killers?"

"No, but – "

"Mostly volunteers from here. Just like 1 and 2, huh?"

"That's different."

"Is it? Come walk with me. The feast-goers aren't going to miss us for a while."

As I followed him down a dim hallway, he fiddled in his pocket and pulled out something white and glittery. "Want a sugar cube, by the way?"

"I'm good."

He looked down at the cube between his fingers, squinted, and popped it in his mouth. "Weird habit, I guess."

A series of dark hallways led to a grand, ancient-looking room so out of place with the bustling activity that marked District 4. In here, time seemed to stop. Dust danced in the moonlight that shined through ten foot tall windows, and weathered wooden tables held curiosities that I'd never even imagined before, from glossy white spheres the size of my fist to tiny models of sailing ships, complete with intricate woven riggings.

Finnick led me over to a much simpler artifact at the center of the room, held over an old driftwood mounting by a prop carved from cragged, black volcanic rock. It was a giant, conical seashell larger than my head – but apart from the size, it was unremarkable in every other way. The shell had lost its sheen untold years ago, leaving only a milky finish on top of the intricate spirals and lines on its crusty surface.

"It's a conch shell," said Finnick, noticing my look. "Everything in here's a tribute to who we are as a people in District 4, but this is the most important thing in this room. It doesn't look like much now, but the man who founded what would become District 4 hundreds of years ago once carried that on the open seas. The Horn of the Deep, it's called. You blow into the hole in the tail and it creates a noise that can carry for miles over the ocean. At least, that's what the stories say."

"Now…well, I see the Hunger Games broadcasts every year," Finnick sighed. His shoulders slumped as he looked down at the conch. "The talking heads just glaze over our chances at winning this stupid thing. Heck, I mentored Tethys and Delfin. Cicero would have talked about them just like he does me. We're a proud people here, Terra, but you wouldn't know it from watching the vids. That's what I'm getting at. Maybe we're not just eager volunteers for the Hunger Games here. Maybe you're not a ruthless killer, and maybe I'm not…well, you know. Maybe the only time I'm having a good time is when I leave the Capitol, not when I go to it."

That hurt. I knew I'd been too quick to spout off on my feelings, but Finnick drove the point home. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to be mean."

"You don't have to apologize," Finnick said with a hint of a smile returning to his face. "I'm not usually very forward with most people I just meet. But I know what's waiting for you. I was a victor for thirty years under the last president. Thirty years. Now he dies and you're the first victor since. Things are changing in the Capitol, and I know they're going to have a plan for you. They did for me, and that was when things were stable."

"A plan?"

"Every victor has a role," he said with a grimace. "Some less dignified than others. Just be careful what you listen to, Terra. Sometimes the television isn't always telling the truth."

"So who should I listen to?"

"That's up for you to decide. I can't tell you who to trust, as much as I might want to."

We were quiet for a minute, and I stared off into the shadows in the corner of the great room. There was a sincerity in Finnick's voice and a mournfulness, especially when he said role. He knew more than he was letting on. Here was the Hunger Games's most famous victor, and he sounded like an old man looking back at life with regret.

I sniffed. "What's that?" I said to break the silence, pointing up at the wall.

Finnick looked up and grinned, some of the vigor leaping back up in his face. Above the mantle behind the conch shell loomed a giant fossilized skull, lean and dangerous with jaws longer than I was tall. Dual rows of razor teeth lined their insides, the smallest as large as my thumb, the largest the size of the knife I'd carried in the arena.

"Something that I really hope doesn't lurk out in the ocean anymore," said Finnick. "I don't want to meet a living one, whatever it is. As tough as we might think we are here, Terra, there's tougher things out in the ocean. No stone can stop the sea."

"What?"

"It's –"

Footsteps echoed in the hall. "Tell you later," Finnick said. "Hello?"

I could have confused the boy who stepped through the doorway as Finnick, only thirty years younger. He had the same bronze hair, thick jaw, and high cheekbones, with maybe an inch or two in height over the famous victor. He would've stood out in the crowd back home, from his clothes – bright blue and made from something shiny that must have cost a lot – to the way his shoulder muscles bulged out from the fabric. My heart stuttered. Oh my.

"Oh, you," Finnick scoffed. "Surprised you're not drunk."

"What're you –" The boy started, but he paused when he saw me. "Is this the new girl?"

"Oh, boy," Finnick said. "Terra, this is my son, Drake. Drake, this is Terra Pike from District 5. We were having a chat away from all the fun."

"Hey," he said. I froze, torn between a wave, a smile, and saying something stupid. Drake didn't give me the chance to decide. "I'm 'bout to go home, Dad."

"You could at least talk to our guest."

"Yeah, I could. You mind?"

He ducked out of the doorway before I could get a word in. Finnick sighed, "That's my son. You'll be seeing him plenty, considering he won the Games the year before you. Sorry in advance."

/ / / / /

Moonlight shimmed on the black water of District 4's bay. Far in the distance, lights glowed from the feast for the new victor.

Terra Pike. Brooke Larson was surprised she remembered her name. Average girl. Half-assed her way through the arena. Good distraction tonight.

A wave splashed against the side of the longboat, sending it rocking back and forth beneath her feet. A gull cried out overhead as it circled, looking for an evening snack. Out here on the water, everything seemed much simpler to Brooke. There were no Peacekeepers or trawlers at this hour, no noise, no fishing. Nothing but the sea, the sky, this boat…and the six men in the boat with her.

One wasn't much more than a boy. "We've been out here for two hours," he complained, little more than a shadow in the darkness. "We ever going?"

Brooke hushed him. She'd waited six months for this. Six months, that was how long it had been since the riot. Six months since the Peacekeepers had rounded up Rio West, dragged him into their ad hoc jail, and kept under watch. They'd kept close guard over their prisoner for that long, but now they needed their men for security for the feast. Couldn't let poor Terra Pike get hurt. Or Finnick Odair.

She sniggered. Finnick Odair. Pathetic shell of a man.

"Wade," Brooke said, rousing the boy. "Start rowing. The rest of you, start rowing. We're going."

Oars dipped into the black water with a chorus of splashes. "Are you sure Rio's still even there?" Wade asked as the longboat cut through the surf. "I mean, it's been a while."

"He's still there," said Brooke without a pause.

"You sure?"

"I'm a victor. They let me into whatever I want. I'm sure."

"That's great and all – "

"Wade, are you even rowing?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just wondering how we're going to keep this under wraps."

She scoffed. "We?"

"Hey, you asked me to do this. There's seven of us here. That's we."

"Don't get too cocky, Fowler. You don't see the other guys talking. But I've got a place in Manheim's Gulch. Rio can stay in cover for however long he needs. No need to rush like six months ago."

"Yeah – "

"Just row, dammit. You're bugging me."

Shink. Brooke pulled one of her daggers from her pocket. She'd had these carved from whale bones in secret, white, sharp, and capable of cutting through the mesh weak points in a Peacekeeper's armor with ease. She hoped it wouldn't come to that. To keep the prisoners rounded up during the riot, District 4's garrison had erected an ad hoc jail six months ago off the premises of the Presidio, the Peacekeeper fortress atop a limestone cliff overlooking the bay. It wasn't much more than a few wooden shacks: According to the data she'd uncovered, the local commander had run into bureaucratic trouble transferring Rio West and the other prisoners to the Capitol's prison in all that time. It was a stroke of good luck – and with a little more luck, she and others would be in and out with Rio without even alerting the night guard tonight.

They'd find out in the morning, of course – but it'd be too late by then for them to do anything. District 4 was a big place with a lot of hiding spots. A smart man could evade capture for years.

Splash. Splash. The light from the feast retreated in the distance and the light from the Presidio glowed ahead. Brooke could smell death from the trawler docks to her left, adjacent to the canneries and packing plants that belched smoke during the day. One of the big ships had hauled a humpback in from the open ocean, and the mammoth carcass stank. Something about it troubled her. Fish, sharks, shellfish, those were creatures Brooke didn't mind harvesting for the good of the district. Whales were a different story: There was something majestic about them, something honorable, an ancient nobility that evaded this place and belonged only to the sea. They didn't deserve to hang dead on hooks off the side of a trawler through the winter night, no matter how much oil and meat they provided. Brooke's daggers felt a little heavier on her belt.

She shook her head. Stupid time to think about such things.

"Couple minutes," one of the men behind her said. "Then we're ashore."

The limestone cliffs of the Presidio loomed like a white wall. Sucking in her gut, Brooke stood up in the longboat and faced her comrades. "Six months ago they cut down our people. They put bullets in the hearts of our brothers and sisters – our people. Now our brightest leader rots in their jail and they laugh at us. They laugh at you! We can't let their crimes go unpunished. The Peacekeepers did this. The Capitol did this. We'll take Rio West back tonight, and they can't stop us. No stone can stop the sea!"

"Nor the storm," the man chanted in unison.

"Nor the storm!"

Thunk! The longboat's keel ran aground against the sand of the beach, and in an instant Brooke charged over the side, her two daggers in her hand. The others with her wouldn't understand the rush she felt as they crept through the darkness, slinking up the grassy hill towards the Presidio's outer wall. She knew this feeling. She'd felt it years ago when she'd plunged her knives through the hearts of the others in the arena – District 1, District 2, it hadn't mattered once her district partner had fallen. They weren't here people. They were the enemy. Brooke had carved a path of blood through the Hunger Games, and that same ruthlessness filled her veins with fire tonight.

A few of the men wheezed behind her as they climbed the steep hill towards the Presidio. She hushed them sharply and squinted ahead. There – beside the outer wall stood a collection of wooden huts, clearly temporary in design but forced into permanence by circumstance. A pair of men stood outside with rifles. No serious threat – neither of them had even bothered to don armor. Terra Pike really had been a fortunate diversion.

She would handle this herself.

"You all," Brooke said, rounding on her compatriots. "Two of you stay by the boat. The rest of you fan out around those huts in an arc towards the shore. Keep an eye out for any reinforcements coming – and if they do, give me a sharp whistle. Two blasts. Okay?"

"You're going in there alone?" Wade asked.

She snapped, "Yes, you idiot. Stay out here."

"Let one of us – "

"No! I'm the one who's fought like this. Let me handle it. Don't make this more complicated. Too many moving pieces and we up our chances of screwing it up. Kay?"

Wade slumped. "Yeah. Cool."

He had promise, but not tonight. Brooke had bigger plans for the boy, but he'd just complicate tonight's extraction. Silently, she rushed ahead through the long grass, sneaking to the outside of the huts through the darkness, where the spotlights lining the outer wall of the Presidio wouldn't catch her. It all came back to her now. The long grass of the savannah, the howling cat mutts in the distance, the two from District 1 so close, just close enough to stab, yet they saw nothing, nothing, closer now…

It felt good to do this again.

Closer. Closer. She was twenty meters away when one of the guards stirred, holding out a flashlight and walking out into the darkness. It was all too easy for Brooke to pitch a rock through the long grass and head the opposite direction, letting the guard check out the disturbance as she crept up to the wooden door at the back of the second hut. Good authority had told her it was this one that housed Rio.

She opened the door without as much as a creak. It reeked inside of urine and sweat, of blood and decay. Brooke squinted through the dark, peering through the iron-barred doors of hastily put-together cells before she spotted a familiar form lying on his side atop a stone slab. He was slimmer, with the meat hanging off of the bones of his arms, and his hair had greyed and thinned considerably since she'd seen him six months ago – but she knew Rio West when she saw him.

The door was another matter. The cells were locked, and she had only way of getting them open.

"Wheet!" Brooke whistled, huddling back into a dark corner.

Right on cue, the door burst open, the two Peacekeepers looking angry at the disturbance. "The hell you all doing?" the leaner of the two barked. He reeked of alcohol. Six months of peace had left the Peacekeepers expecting nothing on a night like this.

Closer…closer now…Brooke waited for the two to walk further. In a flash, she leapt out of the darkness and jabbed her dagger into the lean man's throat. He gurgled, lurched, and stumbled back into the wall, clutching his neck as blood bubbled from his veins. The other guard reached for his gun, but Brooke was faster. She hadn't let her Games experience go to waste: In a flash, she swatted aside his arm, pulled his gun from his holster, and knocked him to the floor.

"The hell!" the man said, scrambling backwards into a wall, trapped with nowhere to go.

Brooke laughed, enjoying the moment. The prisoners were awake, but all she focused on was this man – this one man, this man she intended to kill. It all came back in a moment's flash: The boy dying, his chest a geyser of blood, the girl's abdomen slit, her hand clutching her stomach to keep it all in, scrambling away from her attacker. "Why?" she pleaded. "Why?" Brooke laughed.

"I'm having a real good night," Brooke laughed.

She leapt at the Peacekeeper. Splurch! A geyser of blood erupted from his neck.

Brooke groped around in the darkness for keys, finding them on the first man she'd killed and ripping them from his belt. Whispers and echoes sounded from the other cells, but Brooke only concentrated on the man curled up in the corner of one.

"What are you doing?" Rio demanded, finally figuring out what had happened – who had happened. "You idiot! If they find out – "

"They'll find out, alright," Brooke said with a smile, cracking up the door and offering a hand. "I want them to. But right now I need you. We need you. Come on."