+ You are an amazing reviewer melliemoo, haha. Every chapter. That's dedication. On we go with Hunger Games-y stuff! Long chapter ahead; if you have comments, suggestions, feedback, criticism, I'd love to hear it! Otherwise, I appreciate your readership! As a side note, if you've read through this far, thank you for keeping up with all the characters I introduce! I know it's a lot. More are on the way. Yay.

/ / / / /

"It's been a year. Can't they take those down?"

I frowned and slumped against the side of the car. Just like I'd seen six months ago during the Tour, a towering, stylized poster of me hung from a skyscraper just off of the Capitol Forum. It was me, but it wasn't really me: Instead, the Capitol's branded, idealized, dark version of Terra Pike smirked down at the bustling streets through which we rode. Her long, swirling, black hair looked so much silkier and more menacing than the usual ponytail I'd put my hair up in. I was thankful that Rhea had someone else to style this year.

The Capitol really liked the snake theme with me, it seemed. Stylized Terra carried a knife in one hand, the blood-dripping tip of the blood sneaking out from behind her back in the giant picture. In the other hand she clutched a lime green viper, its tail sneaking around her thigh and beneath the billowing gray storm clouds that covered her lower half with a begrudging of modesty. The artists hadn't been so kind with the top half.

I'll call at midnight, read neon violet letters across the top of the ad. Funny. There hadn't been many other times to call in an arena where the sun never shined.

"'Least you got company," Daud said, shifting in the seat next to me and nodding towards a similar poster across the street.

The Capitol artists had given Drake Odair a similar treatment, although in my eyes, they'd been a lot kinder with his image. He was tall and bright, his bronze hair shining against a clear sky background. I rise with the sun, his message read. At least my tagline was catchy.

"The advertisers are quite eager to use you as Drake Odair's foil," Elan noted from the front seat as we drove on past throngs of Capitolians headed to the chariot parade. The sun had just slipped behind the western mountaintops, and neon green and orange lights flickered on from above the patio of an outdoor restaurant that whizzed by.

I folded my arms and scowled at Drake's poster. "It's cheesy."

"It's effective," countered Elan without a trace of humor. "And it could go a long way for both of you in the eyes of sponsors. Wealthy patrons have been only too happy to snap up all sorts of merchandise advertised by you or Drake – or at least, the virtual representations of the two of you. Imagine how much they'll spend on the Games when you're here in the flesh. Remember what I said about branding?"

Fine. My escort didn't have to be smug about his little victories.

The sunset-lit cafes and outdoor shops lined with displays draped in fabrics of all the rainbow's colors rushed past as our car sped towards the Avenue of the Tributes. Ahead, white spotlights blazed stark paths through the darkening sky, flashing and crossing paths above the four-story granite stands that overlooked the Avenue.

"How much time we got?" Daud muttered to Elan.

"Thirty minutes," my escort said. "More than enough time to get a good view."

A good view? "Is that where all the sponsors are?" I asked. "At wherever the best view is?"

"Not getting sponsors tonight," Daud said.

"What? Why not? This is the best time. Everyone's out and watching, and if Mari and Fenton make a good appearance –"

"Which we don't know that they will."

"That doesn't matter. We only have a few days before the Games start. We need all the time we can get."

Elan coughed. "Admirable sentiment, Terra. It's not time that we're lacking, however, but strategy. The strategic player will lay out a better hand in an optimal situation as compared to the one who plays rashly. The best mentor teams use tonight to assess how their tributes present, and to see what branding strategies they can use to win the crowd's favor. Besides, most of the high-rolling sponsors don't want to be bothered tonight. They want to enjoy the ambiance and the energy of the event. Training's a private affair, on the other hand, and three days' worth of it is a somewhat boring ordeal for most fans of the Games. It's a much more useful time to appeal to sponsors before Cicero and Caesar get the children on stage."

Something struck me as he spoke. "Are the other victors going to be there?"

"Yeah," Daud said. "We already met earlier when you were playing presidential invitee. Everyone shows up."

"A few are with the Head Gamesmaker now," Elan added. "Finch and several others want to get a good feel for how Galan Greene wants to lay out his Games. The rest, however, will be watching."

Good enough for me. A plan formed in my head as our car swung towards the end of the Avenue closest to the Presidential Mansion and the City Circle, where Mari, Fenton, and the rest of the tributes would end the parade. Creon Snow and his councilors wanted me to keep an eye on the other victors. I wasn't a fan of playing spy, but I figured the more I gave them what they wanted, the more time I'd have to spend on improving Mari and Fenton's chances in the arena. It was a tradeoff I'd have to make.

After pulling into a private garage underneath the Avenue, Elan led Daud and I up towards the stands. I'd been here once before, but not like this: Where last year I'd ridden down the street behind a pair of horses, the crowd ooh-ing and aah-ing over costumes and appearances, tonight I saw everything from above. Thousands of Capitol citizens flanked the Avenue, a morass of color and movement beneath a dusk sky of burning red and evening blue. The sound of trumpets and drums filled the air as speakers blared out patriotic tunes. The whole thing had the air of a holiday unrivaled by anything in Panem. It was energizing. I felt alive up here, and as much as I wanted to think about Mari and Fenton, I found myself drawn towards a crowd that thought about something other than me for a change. Tonight, the focus was down below, and I was no more than another spectator enraptured by the spectacle.

When I turned around, Elan was gone, lost among the roped-off area of the grandstands that we climbed. Daud shrugged. "Just us," he said with a grimace.

We weren't alone for long. No sooner had we found an empty row at the very top of the stands – ostensibly cordoned off for victors – than I felt a tugging on my sleeve. A blonde-haired girl a little older than me and a hair shorter giggled and tried to pull me away from my mentor. "Terra, right? Stop being such a stranger! We missed you earlier!"

I glanced at her, puzzled, and looked back at Daud. He grinned, amused. "I'm…are you trying to ask something?" I stammered.

The girl laughed, as if I'd said the funniest thing in the history of comedy. "Gods, you're so serious! Just come on!"

Daud smiled as I looked back again to get his opinion. "Go have fun," he said. "You can worry tomorrow."

Something in his expression told me he meant it, that for a moment his walls dropped and something deep inside clawed its way to the surface. Then, like a mirage, it was gone, replaced by the same surly demeanor I was used to.

"Guy's a bit of a weirdo," the girl said, dragging me into the crowd before I had time to speak up. She hurried me through as an onlooker here and there called my name, hustling towards me before the girl pulled me away and out of view. I barely had time to catch my footing before she rushed me down a flight of steps and further on down the Avenue. "I'm Phoebe. Phoebe Dustin. Why didn't you show up earlier?"

I was taken aback by her bluntness. "You're a victor?"

"Yeah," she laughed. "Don'tcha watch? I won three years ago, girl."

Oh, yeah. Phoebe Dustin, District 10. I'd still been busy with school then, and paying attention to a girl doing her best to avoid people on the sides of a volcano hadn't occurred to thirteen year-old me. Apart from the dangerous, lava-infused arena, the 94th Hunger Games hadn't been especially memorable. I had remembered Phoebe as a shy tribute back then, however. Whatever had happened since, something had changed her into the chatty, flighty girl who was pulling me through the throngs of Capitolians.

"Where are we going?" I asked as Phoebe nearly avoided colliding with a man in a velvet cloak.

"Back to the others," she said without looking back. "Quintus wants to meet you. I think Drake does, too."

Drake. Great. He hadn't seemed very interested to meet me back in District 4 when Finnick had shown me around.

I didn't get much time to argue. Phoebe pulled me through an opening in the crowd to another roped-off section of the stands closer to the street, flanked by a trio of Peacekeepers warding off eager fans from stepping in. Inside the small block, a young, well-dressed man and a surly-looking woman stood side-by-side, glancing down at the Avenue. The man couldn't have been more Capitolian, clad in an ankle-length green silk cloak and adorned with a perfectly-coifed head of black hair. His features were all bony and sharp, though he was thin, a certain power rippled beneath his fancy garb. His counterpart was the opposite: The woman looked angry and dressed like Daud, clad in a brown coat that barely stretched past her waist and hiding beneath a wild mane of dirty blonde hair. If anything, she was even more muscular than her companion. Her expression was anything but welcoming: She looked like she would rather have been anywhere else but watching a parade tonight.

"Where's Drake?" Phoebe asked as she dragged me up to the pair. "I got Terra. She was easy to find."

The man smiled and sized me up. "Perfect timing," he said in a high voice, his eyes brightening as he sized me up. "Well, not exactly perfect. We have ten minutes or so before this all begins."

"He's getting beer," the woman said.

"I know. Uncouth," the man added.

Phoebe rolled her eyes. "If you watched any other recent Games," she said, waving towards the man. "Then you might remember Quintus. He won in '92."

"Quintus de Ostia, District 1," he said, exaggerating a bow. He clearly was enjoying the introduction. "Saw every minute of your win last year. Just a wicked kill on District 2. It was great putting them in their place, if I have to say. If we can't win –"

"Lyric Sforza," the woman next to him muttered, folding her arms and staring off into the distance. "Same district. Won the year after."

I remembered her. For her cheerful name, Lyric had been anything but pretty in the 93rd Hunger Games. None of the others had really stood a chance.

"Um…" I stammered, unsure of how to introduce myself. It didn't help that Quintus looked absolutely amused by my awkwardness. "Hi."

"'Hi,' she says," Quintus said without missing a beat. "Bit better than you did, Phoebe. I remember you standing there and sweating as Siro tried to introduce himself. I thought you were the new sprinkler system."

"Maybe if my district had won in the past forty years…" Phoebe began. "Just trying to stand up for us, y'know."

I made mental notes. Phoebe believes in her district. Quintus is a walking cliché.

"You guys have…you've met your tributes, right?" I asked, trying to find something to say. I immediately kicked myself: What a stupid thing to ask!

"Met them?" Quintus asked. "Half trained 'em. They're, eh…not exactly the greatest pair of people ever."

"Couple of dicks," Lyric added.

Well, then. "You're not trying to help…what?"

"Oh, here we go," Quintus said, turning to me with a smile on his face. "What do you think this all is, Terra?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you want? Out of this, the Hunger Games, the Capitol, all of it?"

I pursed my lips. Was he trying to get a specific answer out of me? "I just…I'm not trying for anything."

"Ah?" Quintus said. "Really? Nothing?"

"What? I want – I'm trying to get my kids out alive. That's it. I don't care about whatever."

He smirked. "That's it. That's what you want, Terra. You want to be someone's hero, the protagonist of your little tale. Sure you don't want anything else? Been a while since you guys won, right? Don't want anything for yourself in the meantime until that happens again?"

Heat flashed across my face. "No!"

"I'm not arguing," Quintus said. "It's noble, really. Unrealistic, but that's not my call."

"Hey!"

"No, I'm applauding, really! We need more knights in shining armor. Too many of us cynical bastards."

"Quintus," Lyric grunted. "Leave her alone."

Wonderful first impression. Quintus angered me more since, deep down, I knew he was right. Him, Daud, everyone else, they all told me District 5 couldn't win every year. Even in the off chance that Mari or Fenton came home, I'd be stuck in this same position next year.

I just couldn't let the futility of that realization win.

"Hey," Phoebe said, touching my arm as I looked away in a huff. "He likes hearing himself talk. Don't worry about it. He's just feeling you out."

"Well, I'd be happy to feel her out in other ways."

"Quintus, really?"

The arrival of Drake cut off any response I had. He looked like he'd jumped right off of the towering posters, with his bright hair and high cheekbones. Well, he'd have looked just like the posters if he hadn't had a beer bottle raised to his lips, with another three clutched in his other hand.

"Got 'em," Drake grunted, stepping over the rope, dodging behind the Peacekeepers, and hurrying away from a pair of eager girls rushing behind them. "Freakin' madhouse. When are they going to give us a private box?"

"You could just watch it in the Training Center with all the old poops if you're afraid of the crowd," Phoebe said, snatching a beer from him. "I got Terra."

He glanced over at me, took a swig, and belched. "Huh. What's up?"

"Didn't get me one?" I asked as Lyric took the last drink.

"Didn't remember if you drank or not when I last saw you," he said, shrugging.

Quintus laughed. "Not drinking makes everyone suspicious. I think I read that in a book once."

I bit my lip and glanced back towards the Remake Center, just as the garage's great doors began to open. The man from District 1 didn't know half of how right he was.

I didn't get time to ruminate. Within a minute, District 1's chariot rolled out into the Avenue as a wild cheer ripped like a wave down the road. It was strange, almost out-of-body, watching things from up here. I remembered the exhilaration and thrill of riding between the stands just last year as Glenn and I's faces popped up on the holographic boards flanking the street, the crowds fawning over the costumes. While I'd never been a fan of attention, it had felt…special. Now I was just another onlooker, even if I had a stake in this parade. Some strange part of me yearned to be back down there.

"Boring," Lyric yawned as her tributes waved to the crowd down below. "Bright colors again."

"It's pretty, you snooze," said Phoebe. She looked enraptured by the two from District 1 as the second chariot rolled out of the garage. "How does your stylist do all that?"

"Who cares?" Lyric said.

I leaned forward to get a better view. The tributes from District 1 were pretty: They looked like models down there on the Avenue, each with long blonde hair, each dressed in a flowing violet toga adorned with bright, gem-like lights of green and yellow. They looked powerful in their grace and beauty, the boy in particular with his lithe, muscular build and angry-looking eyebrows. I'd have thought Quintus and Lyric would be happy, but neither paid much attention to their two kids.

"I wish we had a decent stylist. They could at least give me something nice to wear then," Phoebe grumbled as District 2's armor-clad tributes rolled out onto the Avenue. They were less imposing than last year's pair that I'd squared off with, especially the boy. He looked about half the size of Acheron.

"I thought you were from District 10," I said, my mind only half on the conversation as I watched the third chariot rolled out.

"Yeah. Why?"

"It's just…sorry. I didn't think your district would care much about clothes and fashion. Cows and livestock and all."

Quintus sniggered behind me. "Stereotype much?"

"Leave it," said Phoebe, waving him off. "Maybe I'm just weird."

I locked in as the two from District 3 showed up. I couldn't keep chatting: I had to look over the competition and get a sense for just who Mari and Fenton would be fighting. Fortunately, by the look of District 3's skinny, short boy and girl, it didn't seem like they'd be as much of a threat as last year's finale.

What a hero you're being, judging tributes like meat, a little voice said in the back of my mind. It sounded a bit too much like Quintus.

"Your two look nice," I said to Drake as the fourth chariot rolled out. I wasn't kidding: The boy was a handsome kid, tall with dark hair and granite shoulders. The girl had a slender lethality about her, and her knowing expression and sly little smile told me I couldn't take her lightly. District 4's stylist had done a good job too, dressing them in shimmering blue body suits that covered a lot of skin but left little else to the imagination. What a tease.

"Yeah. That'll go a long way," he said.

"Well, sponsors…"

"Because what those two look like really determines how much people pay," said Drake, rolling his eyes. "I get you're trying to be nice, but try it for a year and come back to me, Terra."

Whatever that meant. I almost missed Daud's surly company.

The fifth chariot rolled out of the garage and I left Drake behind. After last year, I had high hopes for Rhea and the stylist team – and as I saw Fenton and Mari, I was disappointed. I had hoped for something powerful to inspire the crowd, but Rhea had dressed them in identical, knee-length tunics that glowed with a sunny yellow light. Solar power, real innovative. Everyone glowed tonight, and those two looked boring against the kids that had already come. It didn't help that Fenton himself looked bored, slumping and frowning as the chariot rolled on. Mari was at least trying, but her chin shook as she held it high.

"Better hope I'm right," Drake said to me.

I shoved him away. I didn't need him to tell me what I already knew.

Fortunately, the rest of the tributes didn't impress much, save for a brutish, massive boy from District 9. Drake, Quintus, Lyric, they'd be my competitors this year in the arena if Mari and Fenton hoped to have a chance. It wasn't District 5's lackluster showing that surprised me the most as the parade continued on, however. As fireworks and a hovercraft flyover marked the president's arrival above the City Circle, I leaned forward against the railing to get a better view. Creon Snow looked annoyed, as if he would rather have been anywhere else at the time. I knew he wasn't a fan of the Games, but he beat a hasty retreat after what must have been the shortest presidential speech in the history of the chariot parade. Where was he in such a hurry to go?

"Not much of a speech," Lyric noted.

"Maybe he's got something better to do," I said.

"Psh. Like there's a lot else going on."

Maybe there is, I thought

/ / / / /

The Capitol Science Center was dark and lonely at midnight.

It had good reason to be. The streets were full of revelers celebrating the official launch of the Games, drunk and high and ready to party after the chariot parade's finale three hours before. Across the Capitol, smoky nightclubs were full of patrons looking for a good night, and chatty bettors dropped huge sums as winning odds varied by the minute. 5:1 for the girl from District 1. 35:1 for the girl from District 5. Place your bets!

Creon Snow wasn't a betting man, nor a partying man. He was, however, a man in search of answers.

The lowest level of the Science Center was a dark and shadowy land, doubly so when its entire staff – save one – had left for the evening. Heavy white doors sealed off experiment rooms on either side of a great, hundred meter-long, warehouse-style main floor. Secure cages holding test subjects, some natural, some decidedly less-so, lined the back of the room. Muttations growled and hissed from within. A sterile fog seeped in from ceiling vents, wafting over the gunmetal gray floor and flowing over steel tables and workstations. Creon felt like an alien in here, a lone man walking into a world devoid of the life and vigor that animated the Capitol tonight. This was a place of cold logic and numbers.

All except for one man, a single specter in the fog who stood at a workstation at the back of the giant room, punching numbers into a computer. Creon lowered his hood, coughed loudly, and said, "Of course you're here. Some of the others chide you for avoiding them. Taurus says there's a seat on the council for you, but still, here you are."

The man turned. Creon thought he had a decent idea of who the city's best and brightest were at heart – all except for Varno Rensler. The chief scientist kept his cards a secret. My victor's not going to get anything out of him either, I figure, Creon thought.

"What a surprise that your guards let you out of their sight," Varno said. "On a night like tonight, when everyone is out, it's such a security risk."

"I manage. A few are trustworthy."

"So Locke smuggled you here. I imagine that's one of the…drawbacks of the presidency. It must be so hard to decide who you can trust when the whole country depends on it. It's a bit of a conundrum I enjoy not dealing with. Here everything's numbers and equations. They're much less subtle."

"I'm not here to talk about your numbers."

Varno smiled. "Of course. Your answers are all about that subtlety, aren't they?"

Creon pulled a small orb out of his pocket. What little light shined down from the ceiling glistened off of its shiny, perfectly spherical shell. "I've spent too long trying to figure this out. Lucrezia can't even tell me where it's from. Months I've looked for answers and come up empty. I'm resorting to you."

"Oh, Lucrezia," Varno said, drawing closer. His white science jacket didn't so much as shudder as he walked. "Spymasters have a way of overlooking the little details when they're technical. I'll wager she thinks it's beneath her."

Creon closed his hand as Varno moved to pluck the orb out of his palm. "It's odd that you spend all your time in here, meddling with your creations. I know more about these beasts you make for the arena than I do about you. It makes a man suspicious of your loyalties."

"It's a shame we're all short on friends. But then again, when everyone's so obvious about their ambition, who can you trust as a friend?" Varno said. "Cyrus Locke, the president's right hand who let an assassin kill him? Taurus Sharpe, whose ambition is as plain as the sun's rising in the East every morning? Lucrezia, the spymaster? Julian or Galan, the men who trade responsibility for hedonism? The choice must be a difficult one. What a shame it would be if the president of Panem was forced into trusting scientists. Or worse. Victors, maybe."

Creon opened his hand, and Varno picked up the orb. "An assassin's mine," Varno noted, twirling the orb over between his fingers. "I'm guessing you're not looking to assassinate anyone yourself."

"Cowards resort to assassination."

"Cowards have a way of surviving. Why did you bring this to me?"

"That was found inside the Presidential Mansion, not long after my father was murdered," Creon said. "The best anyone tells me is that it's an assassin's weapon, and not from the Capitol. My father's DNA is on its needle, and poison's residue is still on it. I know it was the murder weapon. I want to know more about it."

Varno held it up to the light. He twiddled his thumb over the side until it found a small groove in the sphere. With a schink, a thin, nearly invisible needle poked out of the front. "On first glance, I'd say District 3," he said, squinting as he spun it around.

"That's what others have told me. I refuse to believe that."

"And you're quite right to do so. District 3 makes a lot of things, but not out of these materials," Varno said. "The needle. I recognize this. It's synthetic diamond, and a kind District 3'a foundries don't employ. It is something the jewelers of District 1 frequently use, but not of manufacture this complicated."

"So you're saying whoever made this doesn't have a problem traveling?"

"Not to those two districts, at least, or they have access to someone of that description. Most likely, whatever assassin planted this, they have a wealthy backer."

Creon frowned, annoyed. "I could have told you that myself. Not everyone just walks into the heart of our city. I need specific details."

"If you want a suspect, I can't give you that," Varno said, shrugging. "But I can say this. Before your great-grand uncle Caro took over, a weapon just like this killed his predecessor at the onset of the Dark Days. It was planted in his hovercraft, on the chair he rested on during long trips to the outlying districts. In fact, it was an assassin from District 13 who carried out that deed in pushing for civil war. It was the instability that followed that gave District 4 the boost to declare independence, which led the other districts to follow suit."

Creon felt a chill run up his spine. "You're saying this is 13? After all these years of our standoff?"

"More likely, it's someone who would use them as a scapegoat," Varno said. "Imagine who knows about District 13's existence. A handful of people here? Less? I think if you want your suspect, you won't have to look far. 13 likely has spies everywhere, but they also had exactly what they wanted in your father – a known enemy, and one who had been happy to let them be. They wouldn't have needed to kill your father, or even have wanted to. But if we consider all the ambitious families here and in District 1 who have circled power for so long…the Sharpes, the Tercios…"

"I get it."

Varno grinned. "Sometimes it really is hard to decide who to trust."