+ Thanks again to melliemoo for another fantastic review! This turned out to be a very revealing chapter for the D5 contingent.

/ / / / /

I could just hear Mari's peaceful snores through her door as I left the fifth floor the next morning, and I hoped it wouldn't be the last time I heard them.

The Capitol streets were quite in the early morning sun as Finch, Daud, and I rode in a private car to the Games Control Center. Finch's hands were clasped, her hair a mess, her eyes shut as she murmured something to herself. Daud stared out the window, statuesque. If he hadn't coughed every few minutes, I wouldn't have been able to tell he was alive. It seemed like a bad time to ask what happened next.

Compared to the Training Center and Presidential Mansion that I'd grown so accustomed to, the Control Center wasn't much of a sight. It was a plain, squat building, bleached white, boxy, and only about a block long. A trio of double glass doors opened right onto the outside walk, and the long row of second story windows overlooking the street lacked any of the colorful stains or glittering gilding that decorated the more notable buildings of the city.

"Here's our stop," Daud groaned as our car pulled up to the doors.

The Control Center's insides weren't very impressive, either. A small foyer lined with a floor of checkerboard tiles opened up into the nerve center of the Hunger Games. Dozens of Capitol attendants sat at computer stations all arranged in a circle around a great disc of a holographic map of the arena. I could just make out hills and tall mountains stretching out high to the left of the map's center before Daud and Finch hurried me along towards a door on the left. Blue lights shined everywhere in here, from the ceiling, from the map, from the computer stations, even from behind the great, blacked-out television screens hanging above a platform upon which Galan Greene strolled. He raised his eyebrows and grinned at me as Finch hurried me away.

She glanced over her shoulder and frowned. "Creepy guy."

"Surprised he hasn't put his hands all over you already," Daud said to me, disapproval in his voice. "Unless he has."

"No. Not him," I said. Thank the gods for that.

Finch hurried ahead, but Daud paused and stared at me with an odd expression. He furrowed his brow, pursed his lips, and left some silent question hanging. I thought of Calla Snow, swallowed hard and avoided his gaze. He knows something.

The room adjacent to the nerve center was a wheel-like hub. Twelve clouded glass doors stretched off like spokes, each adorned with the number of a district. Television screens and chairs filled out the center of the hub as a sort of communal meeting place, but it was empty – save for a tired, ragged-looking Haymitch sprawled across one chair, his legs draped over an arm, his feet propped up on a table, and a glass of whiskey in his hand.

"Great, company," Haymitch belched. "Oh, it's the perky kind. Up for the task, sweetheart?"

He raised his glass in my direction in a mock toast. I smiled. "I'll take any advice."

"I'd say stay alive, but you did that. Try to keep other people alive. How's that?"

"That's a lot of shit dribbling out of your mouth," Daud growled.

I stepped back. My mentor looked angry. He scowled at Haymitch, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed as if sizing up an opponent. Haymitch took a long swing and laughed. "Don't let the guy ruin your day, sweetheart, if he hasn't already. He has a way of doing that. I'd hate to sleep on the same floor."

"How hard it must be to sleep at all for a man in your position," Daud spat.

"Hey," Finch said, grabbing his shoulder. "Leave it. Good luck, Haymitch."

"Finch," said Haymitch, nodding.

Haymitch looked amused as Finch led me to the door marked with a tan 5. Beyond the doors was a quiet room, full of electronics and lights but sterile. A miniature version of the giant Gamesmaker map popped up from a circular console in the middle of the room. Six television screens made up a large array on the far end of the room, with several couches and chairs all around the perimeter. A bright, square, white depression in the wall perked my interest, but besides that, I understood the rest of this place: It was our office.

"Map's up," Finch said, shutting the door and glancing towards the holographic console. "We have a few hours to pick it over."

"A lot more than some people are doing," Daud grumbled.

I glanced towards the door, unsure of what to make of his confrontation with Haymitch. "What was that about?"

"Haymitch is probably drunk," Finch said, scanning over the map. "This isn't really his day, either. He's gone forty-seven years without anything. Try to step in his shoes."

"I can. They're a coward's shoes," Daud rumbled.

Finch looked exasperated. "Daud…"

"He quit a long time ago," Daud went on. "He gave up on every one of his children. Chose drink over them."

"Yeah, you drink too."

"Not at the expense of the kids I'm supposed to protect. Don't put me in the same sentence as him, Finch. He's a dog."

Finch looked over at me with pleading eyes. "Terra, I've talked with Haymitch. He's a good man. Just tired. District 12's had it tough. It's hard for him to keep trying after all these years."

I wanted to understand. Elan's words about the plague that had struck the district, Ember's recount of his home, they told me of a place that had known horror – more so than any other place in Panem. I wanted to give Haymitch the benefit of the doubt.

But I couldn't, not if he really had given up.

"Daud's right," I whispered. "He's a coward if he quit trying."

The waiting was the hard part, and I spent the hours before the Games kicked off studying the arena. I felt a pang of envy: It was much more hospitable than the hellscape I'd escaped, a great green thing, a stadium of trees and clouds and life. It was a giant cloud forest high in the mountains, its snow-capped hills birthing rivers that cut a half-dozen arteries through the map from east to west. Mist and fog hung over everything. A hidden city of stone temples and ruins lay in a shrouded valley just to the north of the Cornucopia, the golden horn positioned atop a basalt mount like a shaded beacon unable to slice through the mystery below the clouds. Valleys ringed the immediate vicinity around the Cornucopia, teeming with life small and large. Giant mushrooms and bulbous, man-sized fungi towered over the underbrush, cloaked in the shadow of the rainforest canopy. I couldn't see a live feed of the arena yet, but I already knew it gave Mari and Fenton a chance.

"Going with the no-sunlight theme again. Did the Light ever reject Galan Greene or something?" Daud said. "It'll be cloudy. And rainy."

"At least there's water," I pointed out.

"Too much water's no good for anyone."

The hours felt like days. I slumped over in a chair, picking my fingernails, my nerves on edge. "What's the white dent in the wall for?" I asked after what felt like a week of waiting.

"Food," Finch said, typing at a computer terminal against the far wall. "You can stay here as long as you want. Get hungry, order anything."

"Is that what you're doing?"

"Nah. I'm messaging some sponsors back. Once the Cornucopia action's all done, that's what we'll be doing."

"If ours are still alive," Daud murmured.

"Way to be optimistic. What were you saying about Haymitch?"

"If everyone in the Games were optimists, what would you tell them?"

The television screens flickered to life with a ten-minute countdown to launch. I squirmed in my chair as images of the rainforest sprang to life. Marmalade slime molds dangled from trees, picked at by cotton candy-covered rodents. Birds – or bats, or some things with scaly red wings – flew overhead, each the size of a car. Dew clung to everything, and an ocean of fog sapped the arena of color.

Five of the screens showed images of the arena, but one popped up with Cicero and Caesar Flickerman. It was the broadcast I'd seen so many times as a little girl, the one all of Panem saw. This was live. The 97th Hunger Games was on.

"Quivering with excitement!" Cicero was in the middle of saying as the television flicked on. "This buzz you always get, Caesar. Just a few minutes to go before our tributes enter the arena, and already I can't wait for what the opening has in store!"

Daud scoffed. "I can tell you. Dead people."

The ground opened up with ninety seconds to go. Mist blurred scared faces, tear-streaked cheeks, and loose jackets not strong or thick enough to keep the damp out for long. I searched the screens, desperate for a look at Fenton or Mari. There – closest to a drop off over a steep decline stood Mari, her hands her shaking, her chest heaving. Look back, I urged. Look back behind you. Find a way down.

But she didn't. Mari scanned the Cornucopia, her fists clenched. No. No! As the timer counted down past thirty seconds to launch, I sucked in my dread and checked out the Cornucopia too. Polearms filled the horn's mouth to the brink: Long, jagged-bladed axes rested against gunmetal gray containers. A pair of staffs with short swords built into their ends stuck into the ground at the Cornucopia's entrance. Closest to Mari, a simple, short spear with an obsidian head rested against a lumpy sack. Food? Extra clothes for the damp?

I didn't get time to think it over.

Bang!

A green flare shot out of the tail of the Cornucopia into the clouds. Tributes ran, some in, some out, some dancing from foot to foot, unsure of what to do or where to go. One skinny girl fell off her platform and broke down into a fit.

Brocade, the boy from District 1, sprinted towards the axes.

"There goes our boy," Daud pointed out.

Yup. I caught a glimpse of Fenton streaking off into the fog before focusing back on Mari. Why wouldn't she move? Mari looked on the verge of tears, her eyes flickering this way and that, her mouth frozen in a half-gape as Brocade picked up an axe, rolled out of the way of a big guy from District 11, and sliced his calf.

Blood spurted. More followed.

"Why isn't she going?" I gasped, my voice shaky.

Daud shook his head. Finch bit her lip. As the girls from 1 and 4 formed up at the Cornucopia, finally, finally, Mari dashed forward. Not a dozen feet away, the boy from 4 drove his war hammer's head into the skull of the girl from 6. Crack! Bone shattered like glass.

Mari was a foot away from the spear when Achilles met her.

The boy from 2 was unarmed except for a fist-sized stone he clutched in his right hand. That was enough: As Mari dashed forward, Achilles clipped her in the jaw with the rock. My stomach churned. Mari fell, her chin split open, blood leaking down her neck. She tumbled and scurried back, alive, scared, and facing up at the last person I could think of who would have empathy for a District 5 tribute.

Achilles picked up the spear and gazed down with a blank expression. Mari shook her head, scuttling back with pleading eyes. A whimper escaped her lips.

Achilles thrust the spear.

I screamed.

/ / / / /

Reality faded. A kaleidoscope of sound revolved around me for the next hour or two, a melting pot of noise from the television and from my mentors. I didn't care. I planted my face into a couch cushion and clenched my eyes shut.

At one point, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Terra? Terra, come on. We can't stick around here forever."

Finch. I ignored her as Daud said, "Give her the day off."

"Daud," she protested. "Fenton's still running around. We have to help him out, and that means getting with sponsors. Terra has to learn –"

A long pause followed. I guessed Daud gave her a look, as eventually, he leaned in to me and said in a low voice, "Be back here by tomorrow morning."

For a long time after that it was quiet. I faded in and out of sleep, the only voice the taunting in my head.

Why? I asked it.

It snorted with contempt. Duh, stupid. You spent all your time running around with the Capitol folks. You screwed up. You could've taught her. Instead you killed her. In your negligence, you fed her to the wolves.

No! I pleaded with myself. I tried! She was a good girl.

Not good enough for you, I guess. Does it feel good having her death on your hands? Your hands?

What could I do? She…I wouldn't have told her to do that.

So why didn't you?

I had things to do! I'm scared. I'm sorry. Why did she even have to be Reaped in the first place? She was nice, shy maybe, but she could've been somebody.

The voice snickered. Twenty-three could-have-been-somebodies are buried all around your victory. "Victory." How quaint.

That's not fair.

Oh? What makes you even conceive you could save Mari or Fenton? Terra Pike, the extra child her father didn't want, the tribute who bumbled her way into victory on the backs of circumstance and others' stupidity. Even now you're tasked with jobs by an infighting Capitol council and you can't handle any of them.

I can.

Glenn. Ember. Tethys. Delfin. Mari. You even doomed the Peacekeeper, Pavo, to a fate worse than death. You ruin everything you touch. You are the snake the Capitol wants you to be. You poison anything worth saving.

A long, quiet time passed before a soft knocking on the door jolted me out of my self-loathing. I didn't look up as someone entered the room. "Hm?" I mustered.

It wasn't Finch or Daud. "You might try eating or drinking before the night is over," Elan said.

I rubbed my eyes, sighed, and sat up. "What time's it?"

"Just after sunset."

Shit. I'd been lying here half the day. In my misery, I'd probably made things even worse for Fenton by not tracking down sponsors. I really did ruin everything. "Sorry."

"You're sorry?" Elan said. "Hundreds of thousands are celebrating the end of the first day in the arena. They applaud eleven deaths. You're sorry for mourning one? I would chide you for not mourning one."

"I know I'm supposed to be productive," I grumbled, slouching down and resting my elbows on my knees. Sitting up felt too tiring. "Finch already made that clear."

Elan looked down at me with…was it pity? Sympathy? Unlike with my mentors, I so often had no idea what my escort was thinking or feeling. "Finch has always been a very smart woman," he said. "She can plan and strategize as well as anyone I've ever known. Sometimes she lets that get in the way of empathy and understanding."

"Like that matters."

"Do you remember what I said about Daud?"

I looked up. "He swears a lot?"

"He earned you your knife in last year's Games. He was very productive. He always is, every year. Right now he's being productive, and that productivity comes with a bitter cost."

"That doesn't matter," I said, feeling irritated. "I'm just hurting Fenton by sitting here. Screw it. I'm just going to make things worse for him."

Elan was quiet for a long moment before sitting down across from me. "Daud and Finch don't know the extent of your involvement with the Capitol's highest circles," he said. "But I do."

"Huh?"

"Circumstance has afforded you a taste of real power," he said. "Creon Snow wants someone to trust, someone who knows as little about the Capitol's games as he does, and thus poses little risk. He has taken a chance with the first victor under his watch, and as fate would have it, that's you. Tell me. What good will any of that be if you're whoring yourself out for sponsorship money? What good is power if you're too broken to use it?"

I huddled into a corner of my chair. "How do you know that?"

"I have two ears and two eyes," he said, smiling. "And I know many, many others in the Capitol with two ears and two eyes."

Shaking my head and shutting my eyes, I said, "No. No. I can't do whatever you want to me to do. Mari died because I didn't do anything for her. I can't kill Fenton like that."

"Mourning is fine, but Mari died because she made a bad choice and ran into a bad roll of chance's die. Nothing you could have said would have saved her. You might save Fenton with sponsorships. Daud no doubt helped your case immensely last year. Or you might not. The only known quantity here is sitting in front of me, threatening to throw away everything as a self-imposed penance."

I scowled at him. "I'm not throwing away anything if I help Fenton. I'm not anything anyway. You just said it. I'm only here because I got lucky, because of chance."

"So why not change that? Fenton's survival relies on chance. Your future depends on what you do from here."

Elan stood up and pointed towards the door. "I won't convince you with words. I can sit here all night and try to persuade you not to throw away your body and whatever pride you still have in a desperate act to earn money for children who may be doomed no matter what you do. I know you won't listen. You're not a quitter, even if you think you are. There's so much of Daud in you. So tonight I'm going to show you what you could become if you really are willing to throw away everything for your tributes. Daud's earning sponsorship money right now. I'm going to take you to him."