+ Big thanks to melliemoo and Radio Free Death for the reviews! I went a little far on the language in this chapter to flesh out some characters I've only touched on, so fair warning. Super-long chapter on deck, fyi. I really should cut these down.

/ / / / /

The president gave good advice. I gave Fenton and Mari my all in prepping them for the interviews, and on the big day, I stayed by their sides as long as I could. It may not have calmed their fears entirely, but it did ease my own anxieties – and build my confidence that maybe, maybe, one of these two could make it back home alive. Fenton, for his credit, wasn't backing down from the challenge. He may not have been the most approachable guy ever, and it may have felt strange training a boy two years older than me, but he had a chip on his shoulder that wasn't going away. I could do my part if he could fight – and I didn't have any doubts he could fight.

Mari needed a softer touch.

"I can't do it," she blubbered on the day of the interviews. She hadn't budged from beneath her fortress of bedsheets, even after Daud had hammered his fist against her door. "Can't."

I sighed and sat down on the end of her bed. "It's not gonna be that bad. Finch said it best yesterday. Cicero asks you maybe five or six questions. He does most of the work. You remember the angle we made up? You don't have to worry about your score or anything. Just smile. Look nice. When you're up there tonight, it'll feel a lot easier."

"No it won't."

"What do you think's gonna go wrong?"

"Everyone's gonna be looking at me."

Huh. Performance anxiety. That wasn't something I could relate with. I'd found the Capitol spotlight harsh at first, sure, but I'd adapted to the attention. It felt familiar now.

"Look," I said, putting my hand on her blanketed knee as she bunched up sheets around her face. "The audience and everything, they don't matter. They don't know you. They're gonna have fun tonight anyway. You're not doing this for them."

"They're still watching."

"I know. But so are other people who matter."

She gave me a skeptical look. "That first day we met," I went on. "You told me you had friends back home, friends you were close with. Lyla, Rose, I think their names were, right?"

"Yeah. They said they'd –"

"Shh. They were scared for you. You were scared. I was scared last year."

Mari was quiet, her eyes darting, trying to make sense of what I was saying. "They're watching tonight," I continued. "They're still scared, but I know you can be strong. You've made it far already. You can be strong for them. They're probably freaking out just as much as we are over what comes next, but if you go up there and just talk with Cicero like you're ready for anything, even if you don't feel that way, you'll make people believe. Your friends. People back home. Whoever. You can be more than just what you feel."

"What do you feel?"

Didn't expect that. I bit my tongue and probed her expression. She was questioning, her eyebrows creased as she dug into just what I'd meant by that last bit. "I'm anxious."

"For me?"

"For you and Fenton. And for myself."

She paused before speaking up: "It's not any fun?"

I knew what it meant. "It doesn't matter if being a victor's fun or not," I admitted. "I wouldn't be here to talk to you if I wasn't one. I can be strong for people now. I think that matters more than just what I feel. Now c'mon. Rhea has to dress you up, in her weird way."

The waiting was the worst part. Finch dragged me out on sponsorship duty while the stylists worked over the kids, but my mind wasn't in courting young, tattooed, rich guys and ditzy Capitol girls with green-striped hair and purple eyes. It felt as if the Capitol had two sides: This side, the public side, the one where people looked and talked like walking clichés who did nothing but indulge, and the private side, the one I worked for in secret, the one that gave me orders and advice and played the games that never saw the light of day. I could court the latter. The former was much more a mystery, and unfortunately, it was the one that held the key to gathering sponsorship money.

I'd take a lifetime of listening to Taurus Sharpe's high-handedness over one filled with the bleating narcissism of some of these idiots. There was only so much I could listen to the mundanities of people's lives on full blast, where the most exciting thing was the dinner menu or who screwed who or what ended up in the toilet. I wished I'd made up that last one.

Anxiety clawed at my sanity by the time we headed to the Capitol City Music Hall for the interviews.

"How does this work?" I said as our long white car sped between throngs of onlookers swarming around giant screens displayed around the city. I was thankful the windows were tinted dark.

"Just the same thing as last year. Nothing's changed," said Finch.

"No, like, what do we do?"

Daud frowned. "Nothin' we can do."

"Huh?"

"We sit and watch. Private area with the other victors. You wanna jump on stage or something?"

I folded my arms and looked out the window. It seemed so helpless to do nothing more than everyone else was doing tonight.

"Terra, nobody wants to talk to us tonight, anyway," Finch said as we drew closer to the event. Spotlights burned bright circles on the low cloud cover, and the thrumming of music thumped through the windows. "We'd just be bothering people if we tried to bug them for money tonight. They all want to watch."

"I know, it's just...I want to do something."

"I know too. Tonight, after they're in bed when this is all over, that's when we get to work."

"Not much sleep tonight," Daud groaned.

The amphitheater was huge from the outside, much larger than I'd thought sitting on stage last year. A dozen columns stood guard before twenty tall bronze doors as hundreds of brightly-clad guests streamed forward. Five great granite walls decorated with elaborate frescoes supported a giant limestone dome atop the building. Gold was everywhere: Gold linings down the side of the dome, gold studs along the top of the amphitheater's walls, gold-inlaid murals above the front doors, even ornamental gold gargoyles watching over the front steps. Light shined out of an oculus somewhere at the top of the dome, casting a brilliant white beam into the dark clouds above.

A private back entrance gave us a surreptitious way in, and it wasn't long before Finch and Daud led to me to the victors' viewing chambers. It was a nice place, if lacking so much of the livelihood that made the amphitheater such a vibrant place. Cool green carpeting and soft white lights glistening from chrome chandeliers gave the wide room a muted dreariness. Large television screens showed live feeds of the stage and the audience, who right now were enraptured by a loud, angry musical performance. Victors clustered in little circles here and there, some I knew, some I didn't. For a room that seemed large enough to fit every living victor, it seemed surprisingly empty – and lonely. I couldn't count more than twenty people here in all.

"Where is everyone?" I whispered to Finch as we walked in.

"Not all victors come to the Capitol every year," she said, keeping her voice low. "Some who do like to keep their privacy and don't show up to this kind of thing."

"A nice way to put it," Daud added.

I didn't stick with my mentors for long. Finnick Odair waved me over from across the room, and I was happy to see a friendly face. I still felt uncertain over my interview with Drake.

Finnick wasn't alone. I'd met the short-haired, disgruntled-looking woman next to him before, way back during the Victory Tour's stop in District 7. Johanna Mason looked much more intimidating tonight. "Having fun, squirt?" she said as I walked up. "After your girl got a four in training, I told myself, 'See? She can't kill my kids this year!' Then I remembered you got a five. What a kick in the crotch."

"You killed my kid during your Games," Finnick said.

"That's a totally different thing. Totally different."

"Uh-huh," he said, turning back to me. "First year here. Like the place?"

Unlike with the Capitol crowd, I wasn't so worried about what I said anymore with the other victors. I belted out the first thing that came to mind: "It sucks."

Johanna burst out laughing. "Yeah, it really does. God, wake up, Haymitch!"

She kicked the table next to her, upon which an old, gray-haired man snoozed. He jolted at Johanna's kick, slapping the table and nearly knocking over a half-full glass of dark brown drink. His hair was a mess, full of unkempt gray strands dangling here and there. Given the lines creasing his face and the way his eyes sagged, I guessed he had to be in his sixties at least.

"Huh?" the man, Haymitch, blurted. "They start already?"

"Like you really want to watch," Johanna snorted.

Haymitch shoved her. "You're full of optimism, huh?"

"Oh, sorry. I can't wait until we all hold hands and sing along to cooperation. You want to start? Besides, you're making the squirt uncomfortable."

He looked up at me through half-glazed eyes and sighed. "When'd you get here?"

"Have you met Haymitch?" Finnick asked, and upon the shake of my head, continued: "Haymitch Abernathy. District 12. He's been around a while."

"I think we've all overstayed our welcome by a couple decades," Haymitch said, swirling the drink around his glass. I immediately imagined Daud: Was this what my older mentor would look like in ten or twenty years? "How 'bout you, sweetheart? Excited to here Caesar or whoever the hell is doing this tonight make some bad jokes?"

I shrugged. "I don't want to be here. Out there I could at least try to get sponsorships."

"Oh, this is right out of a book of clichés," Haymitch groaned. "So much enthusiasm! Are you gonna go back into the arena and fight this year, too?"

"Well, I'm not gonna get anything done here. We're gonna start soon and –"

"And what?" he asked. "You're gonna solve the riddle to getting your kids out alive based on how much Cicero laughs tonight? Yeah, good one, sweetheart."

"Well, it's better than doing nothing!"

"Yeah, because all your victor experience will change things, huh?" he went on. "I won this thing, too. Forty-seven years ago, in fact. Want to know what's happened since then? Nothing. Get used to it."

"Haymitch!" Johanna protested with a smile. "You're supposed to let her be disappointed. You're spoiling what happens next."

Finnick stepped in, grimacing. "Before you guys make her cry in front of everyone," he said, steering me away from Haymitch and Johanna. "How about we break this conversation up?"

"Oh, yeah, be a good dad," Johanna said with a smirk. "You were more fun when you weren't pretending to be responsible, Finnick."

He tried his best to conceal a smile as he led me away from them. I felt heated, but I didn't resist. So far, I hadn't found much to like about most of the other victors, Finnick the exception. "They're, uh, a little jaded," he said. "You get used to it."

"Yeah, I'm sure they're a lot of fun," I spat.

"Try to step into their shoes. It's been a while since District 7 won, and I'm willing to bet someone on your team's told you about the kind of things District 12's dealt with lately. Be a little open-minded, Terra."

I bit my lip. True. Elan's lecture about Panem's outermost district sounded a lot louder now. No victors since Haymitch. Disease. Poverty. Ember had told me as much last year, and yet I still couldn't wrap my head around it. It was just…so foreign from what I knew in District 5. I'd spent less than a day there, and had rushed through most of the other districts, as well. If anything felt normal to me, it was here in the Capitol, this place that wanted to use me but gave me purpose, despite all the glaring lights and vapid partygoers. It was easier to deal with this than to think about starving plague victims in District 12.

"Why doesn't Haymitch at least act like he's trying?" I said, putting up a last defense.

"You think he hasn't before?" countered Finnick. "He's alone. It's not like your guys. Imagine you're all by yourself back home, no other victors but you, no family, no real friends in the district. Imagine that going on for almost fifty years. Does that make you optimistic?"

I sighed, "No."

"There you go." He paused and grinned. "By the sounds of it, you're butting heads with other victors, too."

I knew instantly what he was talking about. "Finnick, I didn't – Drake and I just –"

"You don't have to apologize or anything. It's an interview. Drake's a jerk sometimes," he said. "Although he stomped back into our floor and called you a 'fucking hypocrite,' so that's something."

"No. Come on. He said I should've died."

"Well, you know what you winning meant. I mentored Tethys and Delfin. They were good kids."

"Finnick, am I supposed to just bend over and die so he feels good?"

He laughed. "No. But as much as I want to laugh at my son getting angry over this, do you see his side? You want your kids to win this year, right? We have kids too. Should they just bend over and die so you feel good?"

I exhaled loudly in a huff. Finnick was right, of course. We were all in this for our people. It just felt stupid. I didn't want to be against any of these people, even Johanna and Haymitch for all their cynicism, but I wouldn't let Fenton and Mari down for their sakes.

A rescuer saved me from any more embarrassment in the face of Finnick's logic assault. Phoebe from District 10 dashed up, looking far too enthusiastic for the surroundings. "What are you doing with these fuddy duddies?" she yelped, nearly knocking Finnick aside to pull me away. "They're old and they're gonna make your mind mush."

"Don't you spoil my plan," Finnick chided as Phoebe dragged me off. "Terra, get back here. I have to mush the rest of your mind."

"He'll try to seduce you next," Phoebe said, just loud enough for Finnick to hear. "These lecherous old guys creep me out."

"Phoebe, come sit on my lap. Annie always likes it."

"Ew!"

Quintus and Lyric ignored me as Phoebe led me up to the two District 1 victors. A half-dozen empty glasses littered a tabletop, and Lyric was halfway through another one. "Where's Drake?" I asked Phoebe, glancing around.

"Probably out sexin' someone," Lyric grunted, watching the television screens without a hint of interest. "Par for the course."

Quintus smirked at me. "I can't imagine the scintillating conversations you had with Johanna Mason and Haymitch Abernathy," he said. "Let me picture it. Oh yes. Yesterday was shit. Today is shit. Tomorrow will be shit. Am I close?"

I shrugged. "That's pretty close."

"I just love this sense of community we have!" he said. "It's so supportive."

"Quintus, shut up," Phoebe said. "We're about to start. Just watch."

She was right. Cicero Templesmith finished his opening remarks just as I looked up and ushered in the girl from District 1, a bright, bubbly blonde in a fluffy pink dress. She overflowed with enough enthusiasm to make Johanna drown in a sea of cheer. "Cerise," Cicero exclaimed, shaking her hand and ushering her to the chair beside him. "What a treat it is to have you up here tonight. And let me say, you are just a treat for the Capitol, too."

"I love it, Cicero!" Cerise said with a bright smile. "It's everything I could hope for."

"I hope someone punches her in the face, hard," Lyric growled into her glass.

Phoebe looked offended. "You don't mean that. She's your tribute. I'm sure you're teaching her well."

Lyric looked amused. "No. I do mean that."

"She is just a ball of sunshine," Quintus mused as Cerise plowed through the interview, smiling and offering up happy answers to every one of Cicero's questions. "In particular, she's one of those rays of sunshine that strike the world too hard and burn everything to a crisp. A bit detrimental to the cause, you know?"

For all of Quintus and Lyric's put-downs, Cerise was on top of the interview, and the crowd couldn't stop applauding as she left the stage. "At least getting sponsorships for her will be easy," I murmured.

"Fun," Lyric murmured.

Phoebe coughed. "If you want, we can go together. Kind of a team thing even though we're different districts."

"No, we can't," Lyric said, rolling her eyes.

It was District 1's other tribute, however, that caught my attention. Brocade Goswell was a hulking beast of a tribute, more man than boy, bigger than even Acheron McRath had been last year. He didn't sound like the District 1 I know, refuting Cicero's probes with one-word answers and gruff laughs. He looked like something forged in District 2 and lured to District 1 for the sole purpose of winning the Hunger Games, with his huge shoulders and boulders of arms making me wince. I couldn't imagine a physical test in the arena even challenging him.

District 2's girl wasn't much beyond a pretty face and some muscles, but it was the boy from District 2 who caught my attention. On first glance he wasn't much: He was shorter than any of the three tributes who had come before, and for a boy from District 2, he lacked the build and power I'd have expected. But despite his floppy brown hair and plain face, he had one thing going for him: His name.

"Achilles McRath," I echoed Cicero's greeting. "McRath. That was Acheron's last name last year."

"I think that's his younger brother," Phoebe said, watching as Cicero shook Achilles's hand. "I was trying to pay attention during the Reaping recap."

"I missed it. Did they say anything important about any of the other tributes?"

"I don't know. I fell asleep during District 4."

I laughed. "Mission accomplished, I guess."

"It's been a while since District 2 won," Phoebe said, watching Achilles maneuver through Cicero's questions. He was good with words, even if his physique wasn't up to his brother's standards. "I have this really bad feeling about that. I mean, I'm probably screwed anyway, but…"

"Love your fatalism, Phoebe. It brightens up the place," Quintus said. "Bet their mentors are mad as hell, though. They always seemed to take this stuff so seriously."

"Doesn't your district volunteer? Because that sounds pretty serious to me," I said.

Quintus laughed. "How judgmental of you, Terra! But basically. Our whole contingent likes to come here every year. I just get dragged along. And I like the food. If you want to know more, you can ask Cashmere and Gloss all about our district. Then again, they'd be caught talking with victors from 'those backwards districts.' So much for that idea."

"Lyric got in a fight with Gloss last year, for the record," Phoebe chimed in.

Lyric smirked. "Yeah. He's not that bad of a guy."

"He really is," said Quintus.

She shrugged. "Mm. Yeah. He actually is."

District 4's tributes were unremarkable, to say the least. I felt my heart speed up as their boy jumbled his words talking with Cicero, but not because I was too worried about them. This time last year, I'd felt lost in a rushing sea of color and light. The experience had been overwhelming. I hoped Fenton and Mari were up to it.

I didn't have to wait long for the answer. No sooner had Cicero ushered the boy from 4 off the stage then Mari shuffled out onto the stage. Head down, eyes searching the crowd, ouch. Not the best first impression, even in her bright, fluffy pink dress.

"Marigold," Cicero greeted her after the crowd calmed down. "Welcome, welcome. Stepping into some big shoes, aren't you?"

"Hardly. Your feet are rather small," Quintus cracked.

Mari's one-word answers and shy smiles weren't helping my anxiety. If Elan's concept of branding really was the make or break point for tributes – and it seemed to have worked for me – then I had no idea where to go now. After a few questions, it felt as if Cicero was reaching to draw something more than a yes or no out of her.

"She's not…you didn't train her personally, or anything, right?" Quintus said, cocking his eyebrow as Mari scurried off the stage to muted applause.

"Leave her alone," I growled, taking offense at his remark. It was one thing if he was taking shots at me or the other victors, but Mari was a different story. "She's just quiet. The stage isn't her kind of thing."

"My fellow victor is rolling her eyes," he said, nudging Lyric's shoulder.

"What? Once she's in the arena, she'll be fine. Just watch."

Lyric sighed. "I don't have enough fingers to count the number of times I've heard a victor, on screen or in person, say they had confidence in a tribute who bit the dust not ten minutes into the Games."

"I've been in the Games too, thank you."

"Maybe you're just forgetting how it felt," Lyric said. "But most kids aren't scheming or luring others into snakes. Some piss their pants. Some fall down in front of a guy with a sword and beg for mercy. Some scream for their mothers. If you think you're never going to see that from one of yours, good luck."

"Not this year," I grumbled, folding my arms and watching as Fenton took the stage.

He provided a better interview, but I wasn't feeling confident as I returned to the Training Center following the conclusion of the show. Mari scampered off to bed, not wanting to talk about the interview as if she was regretting it. I felt a pang of disappointment as I walked off to bed – not in her, but in myself. Could I have done something to help her prepare better? Gather more sponsorships? Beg Creon or someone else on his council for money?

Ugh.

I nearly walked right into Fenton in the hallway. "Hey," I said, trying to get around him. "You should probably go to bed. It's…it's gonna be an early morning."

"You too," he said, looking down. "I, um…goodbye, huh?"

I turned as I passed him. "It's not goodbye. Just goodnight. Finch says I have to be at the Control Center early tomorrow, and Elan'll see you to the hovercraft. But when this is all over…"

"You'll see Mari?"

"No, Fenton, I…I don't…"

"Look," he said, frowning. "She's a good girl. We've talked a lot. I know why you've spent more time with her and probably want her to win."

"I'm not picking between either of you."

"Terra, come on. One gets out. Not both."

I exhaled hard and slumped against a wall. "Fenton, what do you want me to say? You're a lot older than her. I gave her more time because she's small and young and needs it. Not because I like her more. You deserve to win just as much as she does."

"Yeah, I do," he said. "I like her, but…would you kill Glenn again? After what you did last year, would you do it again?"

I bit my lip. "He wanted to die. I…yeah, I would. I wanted to get out. He just wanted to end all the pain."

"It's still the same thing. Terra, you're cool, but as much as you like Mari, I'm not sitting down for her. If it somehow comes down to the two of us, I'm doing what I have to."

There wasn't any way I could blame him. So much of me wanted Mari to win. She was innocent, naïve, shy, everything that said she didn't understand what she was headed into. Fenton was right. If it came down to the two of them, I'd root for her.

But if I was in his shoes, I'd kill her all the same. Maybe that was what it took to win.

"Fenton, whatever happens, I want to go home with four victors," I said. "That's all. I can't ask for anything more."

"It's stupid. I just went through the motions at school and at work," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and staring into dead space. "I did things because there were things to do. Schoolwork to finish. Tasks to do up top of the canyon. People said do 'em, so I did them. Now it feels like I'm carrying so much more weight on my shoulders, and it's all on me to do it. It's weird."

I grabbed his shoulders. "It's not all on you. I'm gonna help you. Promise. So will Daud and Finch and Elan. We're all here to help you."

"Not really the point," he said, gritting his teeth. "If I die, I'm dead. Screw it. I won't feel anything else. I guess I should tell you good luck, because you're the one living with all this. I see Daud and his drinks and Finch wringing her hands and trying to think up all these solutions, and it's like…doesn't really seem all that great, y'know? I'll figure it out, Terra. If you want to help Mari more than me, go for it."

"I don't, Fenton. Really. I'm going to help you both. Swear."

He sighed. "Yeah. Well, dunno if it's goodbye or goodnight, then. Good luck, I guess."

/ / / / /

Cyrus held his breath and opened the doors to the Assembly Hall.

"President Snow," he said.

Creon had his back turned across the room. Upon the great conference table sat a holographic projector displaying a live map of District 4. Blue circles lit up the ground all around the area from the coast to the inland precincts, each with a beacon indicating a pop-up report. One flashed red – a recent one, an urgent report.

Creon shrugged. "You have contacts in 4. Have a look at that," he said.

Cyrus closed the great doors and popped up the latest report. He scanned it for a moment and inhaled sharply. "They killed them."

"Rebels," Snow hissed, turning around with his hands clasped behind his back. The soft evening lightning made his face look especially hardened. "See what your sympathy gets you, Cyrus? Not even a year after the place riots, Peacekeepers have to storm another den of bandits. Six of ours dead."

"If I could speak my mind, I'd say this isn't going to help –"

"And what would?" demanded Creon. "Letting these bandits ran rampant all over the district? Letting this Rio West play us for fools? That's what they think of us. Fools. All of us. You, me. The moment we prove them right is the moment the death toll leaps from six to hundreds."

Cyrus gave a moment's pause as Creon opened the glass doors to the outdoor patio. Outside, trance music echoed up from the street as colored strobe lights ran across the sky. Capitol crowds celebrated the eve of the Hunger Games, blissfully unaware of the conflict that divided the room.

"We can't afford to prompt open rebellion in the district," Cyrus said, following Creon out onto the balcony. "You know just as well as I do that we have enemies on the east coast. District 13 is lying in wait, hoping we misstep. Adding an enemy on the west coast would give them ammunition."

"We crushed them once," Creon said. "Who was first in line after District 13 rebelled during the Dark Days?"

"This isn't the Dark Days. Who knows if we can count on District 2 this time? They're building up their home guard. If we don't keep the peace with the districts, we'll never be able to withstand an invasion from 13, let alone hold off any internal rebellions."

Creon slumped over on the balcony railing as Cyrus walked outside. He looked different, Cyrus thought. The president was only in his fifties – young by Capitolian standards – but the stress of this job was getting to him. He doesn't have the same political chops as his father. He's a commander. He can lead troops and earn their loyalty, but this is a different game.

"I was there when 8 rose up," Creon said, watching the crowds below. "Thousands of people all fighting against us. My father had sent me away to learn how to lead, and I did. I led our unit against the industrial block, holding off wave after wave of the rioters. How many died fifteen years ago? Three hundred? More? It was the worst riot in a generation, far worse than last year's. We fought. We had a duty to fight, and we had an enemy, so we held them. It wasn't like this. When they were finished, they knew it. They bowed out, and I can respect an enemy that knows they're conquered. I don't respect an insurgency, Cyrus. They're little more than a terrorist bloc."

"With respect, perhaps we should look at their motivations."

"Yeah? And what are those?"

Cyrus pursed his lips. "I grew up in District 2. I stood there every Reaping as children went off to the Games, most never to come back. I saw men die in the stone quarries. Most of them never knew why they were working, beyond staving off poverty and death. Toiling away put a paycheck in their pocket and kept their families going. What if that's not enough? A fishing boat blew up in 4 last year, and they think we destroyed it. Can you blame them for rioting? What if they can't even rely on safe work to keep food on the table?"

"That's an excuse," Creon spat. "I've reviewed the records. We're not guilty for that."

"Whatever it was, they thought we were guilty. The thought counts. The longer we fight them, the more we reinforce it."

"So what? We bend over for them? Let them use us?"

"We reach out. We stop hunting and we give them room to grow. There are starving people in District 4, no matter how wealthy the place looks. What if we help them get on their feet?"

Creon stared off into the distance. Despite all the light from the street, his face looked dark and clouded by shadow. "After these Games, maybe," he said after a long pause. "I want to get these things over with."

"It's a lot to deal with."

"Twenty-three kids die, starting tomorrow. What a waste. Then we end up the Terra Pikes of the world."

"You like the girl?"

"I'm not saying I like her, just that I want to be able to trust her."

"She's eager to please."

"She is."

"I don't know if that's a good thing. You need a victor who can speak their mind. Terra's cowed by power."

"You don't like her?"

"Not saying I don't like her."

"But you mean it," Creon said. "That's alright. I only need someone who can carry out a job, and she seems capable of that. If I can like her, all the better. I won't end up like my father, cut down by invisible assassins. I'm getting to the bottom of all this unrest, and I'm doing it now."