+Thanks another another great review, melliemoo! Yes, I know I have a lot of names that start with the letter C. This became very apparent to me in this chapter.

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"Is that it?"

Mari stared out the dining car window as the sun shined off of the first Capitol towers to come into view. The bright, silver gleam was a welcome relief from the long dark, night. I'd barely slept. The lights in my room were too bright, and every time I dimmed them, every last one of my terrors came climbing out of the darkness like so many poisonous spiders, waiting for my guard to fall before ambushing me. I couldn't stop yawning over my lukewarm plate of eggs and breakfast meats.

"Yeah," grunted Daud. He stirred around the contents of a cold bowl of oatmeal, his eyes blank and unfocused. "That's it."

"It's a little pretty."

"Only from far away."

Daud glanced my way as he said that. A sinking feeling nestled in my stomach. He was right: From here it was all cakes, games, and shiny buildings, the Capitol standing on reputation and eye candy. I'd thought the same way as Mari last year, and I couldn't deny its physical beauty. If it had been any other city, I would have loved to have called it home. The mountains still bore caps of powdered sugar, and the pristine blue skies above ran off forever to the horizon without a cloud in sight.

I was far enough into this game to know something very different waited inside the city limits.

It didn't take long until I dove back into the thick of the Capitol's swirling mists. No sooner had our train arrived at the city station and white Hunger Games cars from the Remake Center come to take Mari and Fenton away for the stylist teams to have a crack at than a black, dark-windowed, truck-like car screeched to a halt in front of the station's debarking platform. Daud caught me as I stepped back at the sight of two Peacekeepers hopping out. "Media," he said in my ear. "Probably. Exclusive interviews and the like. It's how it worked when I was a new winner."

The third man to step out of the car told me it wasn't Cicero Templesmith looking for an interview. I'd only seen him once before at the party during the Victory Tour right before I'd first spoken to Creon Snow. He'd seemingly lost even more hair since then and age hadn't let up its assault on his face, but Cyrus Locke carried himself with an air of authority. I didn't know much about who he was, but given that Snow had tasked me with keeping a watch on the people around him, I figured I'd better start learning.

Cyrus ruffled the lapel of his plain gray jacket and called out, "Mr. Mosely. If I could borrow your protégé for the morning? And most of the afternoon? Business."

Daud's hand tightened on my shoulder before giving me a little shove forward. "All yours."

"She'll be back for dinner," Cyrus said with a quick nod. "And the parade before it. Come on, Terra. No reason hanging around."

I turned back towards Daud, but he only shook his head and waved me on. Cyrus threw open the passenger-side front door for me before slipping into the driver seat himself, with the Peacekeeper guards piling into the back. It was cool and breezy in the car, a welcome relief from the hot, sticky summer air outside. The darkened windows lessened the worst of the glare from towers but still let in the sun, making the car feel bright and welcoming. Even the white leather car seats seemed ready to invite me in, forming and fitting to my body as soon as I slumped back in them. The car revved to a pleasant hum as Cyrus turned on the engine and drove back from the station. Then, in a split second, he slammed on the gas, and the engine growled like a great beast taking off at a sprint.

"Truth be told, I'm eager to outrun the cameras before they flock to you," Cyrus said, cutting out onto a wide avenue. Hundreds of Capitol pedestrians flashed past on either side of the road, clothed in every color of the rainbow. A dozen young girls in bright, flowery yellow sundresses lounged on the side of a crystal fountain. "I'm sorry for the circumstances, Terra. I'm sure you've heard enough of people thinking you're lucky to have the spotlight on you this summer."

I rolled my eyes. "You're probably the only person from here who'll tell me that. Besides my escort, maybe."

"Just him, then," Cyrus said, swerving down a side street and veering in front of another car as if it didn't exist. I gripped the side of my arm to hold on and glanced back at the Peacekeepers. They stared out the windows as if nothing were out of the ordinary: Apparently, Cyrus driving like this was nothing new. "None of us in the car grew up here. We're just a bunch of tourists, although some of us have a longer stay."

That made me look back at him. It took me a minute to digest the words: None of us grew up here. I knew from Orson, my work supervisor back home and a Peacekeeper himself, that most of the soldiers came from District 2 – but Cyrus's admission baffled me. I tried to come up with something smart to say, but all I could manage was, "Is that why you're balding?"

"I suppose that's the blunt truth."

"I didn't mean – well, you don't have fancy hair or tattoos like so many people here do."

"Always was afraid of needles. Made it a bit hard for all those pre-Reaping sign-ins. I almost had a breakdown when I was twelve."

"Then…you put your name in…"

"For the Games? Ah, not as seriously as you," Cyrus said¸ yanking the wheel to the right and buzzing a group of chattering men on the sidewalk. One gave us a rude gesture as we flew by. "I never trained back home. I grew up in District 1 but wasn't ever going to volunteer. Always had a better chance of seeing the inside of an arena as a visitor rather than as a tribute."

"How'd you get here then?"

Cyrus jerked the car to a stop in front of the towering gray façade of an imposing stone building. A crimson and gold Capitol eagle nested above two mammoth bronze doors, flanked on either side by a quartet of Peacekeeper sentinels. I'd been here before, six months ago – the Presidential Mansion. It wasn't just Cyrus Locke who wanted to see me before the parade.

"I backslid my way into the civil service when I turned twenty," said Cyrus. He didn't get out of the car as the two Peacekeepers did, but merely stared up at the belltower of the Mansion, resting his head back against his seat, and sighing. "Most pencil-pushers from District 1 who get into the service just want to keep their jobs so they can stay in the Capitol. I didn't really care, so I just took any old assignment that opened up. Trying to find myself and all that. I ended up meeting a lot of people. That helped, especially when one of them was name Coriolanus Snow. The whole story's a bit long and boring."

"So now what? You make sure victors like me don't get into trouble?"

"Oh, that'd be an easier job," he said with a slight smile. It faded in a flash, and he shut the doors of the car with a flick of a button. "Creon wants to meet with you. Listen to me before you go up to talk to him, Terra."

His eyes darkened and he lowered his head. "I've known Creon for many years. He's a good man, and an honest one. But I'm not the only one advising him, and for all his effort he's still new to the presidency. A lot of that is learning who trust, and I don't have much faith in some of the others around him. He wants a victor to trust to have that connection to the districts. You can do some real good. Don't let him down."

I stared at him, trying to find his motivations. Cyrus seemed like the honest sort, but by this point I knew better than to trust him at his word alone. How much did he really believe in the president, and how much of that spiel was just him making me think that was the case?

"I'm not going to do something dumb," I said.

He frowned, nodded, and pressed a button to open my door. "The Snow family's been good to me," he said, waving me out of the car. "I would have been just another commoner in District 1 without Coriolanus. Loyalty has a way of rewarding us. A lot of these others might tell you otherwise, but…well, it's up to you on who you trust here."

Cyrus shut the door and peeled off before I could get in another word. As the Peacekeepers escorted me into the building, thoughts raced around my mind. Arrian was right about this game: With each conversation, I felt more and more like factions were squaring off with each other within the Capitol's highest circles. All the shine in the Mansion couldn't hide it, not the glittering chrome and crystal of the chandeliers, not the oil and pastel portraits of old, unrecognizable men and women I didn't know that lined the wall, not even the six foot-tall glass windows that ran up the Mansion's great spiral staircase, filtering in the morning sun through panes of purple, scarlet, and gold.

I felt more anxious as the Peacekeepers made me wait outside of the great oaken doors to the president's study, or whatever this giant room was that I'd met him in six months prior. We weren't here to talk about plans anymore. Now he'd have actions for me to take.

My heart was racing by the time the doors opened and the Peacekeepers ushered in. I didn't take one step before something furry dashed over my legs, making my jolt in surprise.

"Keep that thing out of here," someone called from inside the room. "And close the door."

Creon Snow's hair had grayed a little more, but that was all that had changed. He still stood with authority, his wide shoulders back, his jaw square, and his gaze unwavering. His plain gray coat and trousers gave off the same feeling that surrounded Cyrus, a sort of simple clout that spoke of efficiency with no time for the subtleties that seeped into seemingly every part of the Capitol. If the president played Arrian's Gilded Game, he didn't show it.

"My granddaughter's cat," he said as the door shut behind me with a solid thump. "I never got along with cats. Selfish animals. They'll take every handout but won't give an ounce back. Horses, even pigs, they show appreciation. Cats, not a thing. You might as well not exist to them."

I fidgeted, unsure of what to say. "How old is she?" I managed to blurt out after a long pause.

"I have no idea. I didn't buy the animal."

"Er, no. Your granddaughter."

Creon turned away. He cast a long shadow in the light shining in from the stained glass window at the end of the room. The shade blurred and twisted in the twinkling light, a twitching darkness that flickered over the great hardwood table in the center of the room.

"Cassandra's nine," he said after a pause of his own. "We're too busy for each other most of the time. I'll put up with her pet if I have to."

His moment of reflection ended as quickly as it came. He spun back towards me, his face lowered, his eyes centered dead on my own. "I was told Cyrus picked you up at the train."

Strange way to welcome me back here. "He did. Yeah."

"Well? What do you think of him?"

Gods, he was testing me already. I searched the president's face for clues of how to answer, but he met me with a statue's stare. "He was happy to answer any questions," I said. "I think he just wants to like someone."

Creon twirled a pen between two fingers, narrowed his eyes, and laughed. "That's about right."

"He didn't seem bad."

"He's not. He's an idealist. Wants a world where we can all be honest to each other, but he doesn't know how that kind of world comes around. I know he doesn't like half the people I keep around me. Taurus, Lucrezia, the Gamesmakers. I can't even blame him."

Creon leaned over the table, still twirling the pen. "That doesn't mean I can put all my trust in him, either."

"It sounds like he liked your father a lot."

"He did. How about you? Did you like the man for all fifteen years you knew the last president?"

Another probe. I nearly blurted out the first thing I thought he'd like: Of course. We're at peace. Coriolanus Snow made it that way. I'm happy. I could tell that lie, one that any son would want to hear about a father they looked up to, I imagined. But as I watched Creon's eyes snake across my face, Cyrus's words came threading their way back through my mind. He wants a victor to trust.

Somehow, I had a feeling that Creon Snow would see right through my niceties. I didn't have to be blunt about it, but honesty seemed like it'd go much further than a well-intentioned fib. "Mari, the girl tribute I have this year, cried into my shoulder last night," I said. "The Hunger Games are still going on. I almost died last year. Your father didn't do anything to stop any of it."

"I suppose you'll tell me that I'm not doing my part either, then," said Creon. "And you'd be right. But I will put an end to this annual madness."

That jolted me. "What?"

"The Hunger Games aren't something you stop with a push of a button a year and a half into your presidency," he mused, turning back towards the window. His shadow looked much longer now, even as the sun crept higher in the alpine sky. Fractals of light reflected off of the stained glass danced around him. "They're too ingrained in everything to stop all at once. The Capitol loves them. The Peacekeepers rely on them. So many districts revolve around them; hell, District 1's economy has a big stake in them. There are too many moving pieces to stop in any way but bit by bit, little by little, year by year."

My mind's gears ground. "But you can't just…you're the president. What you say goes."

He glanced back, held up his arm, and dropped the pen to the floor. "And who in this city still calls me president when I say that, hm? I wouldn't have enough support to prop up an outhouse."

"My father was a terrible ruler," he went on. "Nothing more than a tyrant. The fist can only keep the mob at bay for so long. Games can only entertain this city for so long. It's law that keeps order, and that's just what my father ignored. Now I'm left cleaning up a fifty year-old mess."

"You don't miss him?"

"No. Even if I did, he wouldn't know. The dead are blind and deaf," he said. He smirked at my expression. "It's a saying in District 2. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. They have a cult that worships death, but for all that delusion, it's a good saying. A fitting one. My father was concerned about legacy and power, but it's not doing him any good now."

"Speaking of now," he continued. "Tonight. I'm going to be a bit preoccupied with ceremony, but you'll be free from the media's intrusions. It's a good chance for you to catch up with your fellow victors. You have a job of your own to do."

I swallowed. Here it was. "I know. And I can."

"See to it. The more you earn their trust, the more you have for my advisors, and me. I can use all the information I can get."

He frowned. "You're an unknown, Terra, but I like that. I know that you're an unknown. I can plan for it. It's all these people that know each other that concern me. With them, I don't know what I don't know. Cyrus. Taurus. Lucrezia. The other victors. Others besides them. Too many unknowns that I might have missed."

He didn't get a chance to go on. I startled as the doors creaked open behind me, and even the president seemed surprised by the intrusion. Through the opening walked the most stunning woman I'd seen. She was tall and lithe, with long yellow hair that seemed almost neon in the light, running down past her shoulder blades. She had much more of a flair for fashion than either of us in the room: The woman was dressed in a bright, knee-length violet tunic, but waves of red and orange seemed to flow through the fabric, forming clouds and clumps here and there before withering away on their own. While she lacked any of the more extreme body modification I'd seen some Capitolians trying on, a pair of flowery green tattoos covered the backs of her hands. She was a walking array of color, more vibrant than even the fractals of sunlight twirling about on the walls.

More shocking than that, she didn't seem to care one bit about stepping in front of Creon's presence.

It didn't take long for me to figure out why. "If you want to see Cass today, hurry up," she said, strolling by me as she addressed Creon with her chin held high. "I'm taking her out this afternoon, and she'll be with her playmates tonight. Just saying."

Creon looked annoyed. "Another day. I've got work today."

"Suit yourself," the woman said. Finally she noticed me, stepping aside as if I'd just come up. "Busy day? Oh, wait a minute. You're the new girl, huh? You're pretty in person."

I bit my lip as my face flushed. "Terra," the president said, gesturing at the woman. "My daughter. Calla."

At first glance, Calla Snow seemed anything but like her father. She lacked his gravity and his serious demeanor, trading it instead for an overpowering blend of charm and confidence. At second glance, however, I questioned my thinking. Maybe she's just better at hiding.

"I'll have to get you in private sometime," Calla said, brushing my arm. Her touch was warm and welcoming. "I'll see you some other time, Dad."

"Wait," Creon said, stopping her before she could leave. "Tell Cassandra I'll be by in an hour or two. I'll push Templesmith to the afternoon."

Calla grinned. "Sure."

The president sighed as she left and the doors thudded to a close again. "That will be all," he told me. "I'm out of time to stand around and talk."