+ Another great review, thanks melliemoo – and to everyone following along!

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"Where exactly are we going?"

The Capitol streets zipped by on both sides. Elan sped his private car towards the mountains, away from the crowded streets and towards the blinking golden lights of the rich villas and mansions overlooking the Capitol. No limousine was this: Elan's vehicle was a sleek two-seater, black, stylish, and humming with power. The engine purred as he sped down a wide avenue towards the richest suburbs, and the ride was so smooth I felt as if I were riding some speedy, mechanical falcon, dashing through the streets on a current of air.

Elan nodded towards the villas. "For those truly invested in the Hunger Games, sponsorships have become something of an arms race. There's no cap on donations, and the Capitol's wealthiest can singlehandedly swing a critical moment in the arena. The smartest victors figured out who to court years ago. For District 5, that was Finch, obviously. Daud caught on after she pointed it out several times. Yelled it once, I remember."

"So we're…going to see Daud talk with sponsors?"

My escort chuckled. "Have you ever known Daud to be good with words?"

"Yeah. Four-letter ones."

"Not a very charismatic vocabulary, although it is a practical one."

A half-dozen cars dotted the wide circular drive in front of the blue villa Elan drove up to. It was a more modest place than some of the estates we had passed, certainly smaller than Calla's, and at first glance it appeared a sleepier residence. Only a few lights lit up the windows of the three-story building, which wasn't much more than a city block wide even with its gardens and lawn. A garage wide enough to fit several cars abreast was the only notable feature of the place.

"Isn't someone going to see us?" I asked as Elan lowered his window. "There's people in those cars."

"Drivers," he said, releasing something that looked like a bug out the window. "They won't care."

"What was that?"

"That I let out the window? A drone. Or a mosquito, if you're not looking closely."

I folded my arms and frowned at the villa. "So we're spying on Daud…doing whatever he does to get sponsorships?"

"What did you think we were doing?"

"I don't know. Going in?"

Elan laughed. "If you're lucky, you'll never meet the man who owns this villa. Daud's gathering sponsorships tonight from Ixion Rollo, a man who works for this city's spymaster, Lucrezia Bierce. You're familiar with her, I hear. Apart from that, Ixion also happens to be one of District 5 and District 2's single largest sponsors."

Ixion. I knew that name. Months ago Arrian de Lange had said it as he lounged in my kitchen back home in the Victor's Village, right after Pavo the Peacekeeper had been taken away to the Capitol for whatever I'd fated him to. Ixion had been the man in the square that night, the one taunting the doomed Peacekeeper, the one with the beady eyes and blonde hair who'd laughed at Pavo's cries.

I swallowed my apprehension. That was something I didn't want to share with my escort. "Why 2?"

"Daud works this sponsorship alongside Septimus Poole, the victor from District 2."

"So what do they do?"

Elan punched a button on the dashboard. A box unfolded from the center console and unfolded into what I guessed was a television screen. The picture fuzzed, and Elan adjusted dials as he explained, "You're familiar with avoxes?"

A knot formed in my throat. A little too familiar. "Yeah."

"They've long done the heavy labor in the Capitol, but less and less so since Julian Tercio took over as the architect of the city," said my escort. The screen's picture blurred into view, but all I could see was gray walls and the occasional hanging light bulb flying by. We were getting the drone's picture in flight, I guessed. "Julian's automated many of the processes that avoxes once did, introducing robotics and computer intelligence to handle many of the monotonous jobs, like offloading cargo from trains from the districts. Years ago that began to open up a surplus of avoxes, and idle hands can become rebellious ones quickly."

"The last President Snow found a solution to too many avoxes, one he'd learned with his victors: He sold them. Punishment and a quick buck came hand-in-hand for Coriolanus Snow, and the system's become ingrained over the last ten years. Criminals have their tongues ripped out, and the ones not still needed for jobs such as serving our dinners in the Training Center are left to the mercy of those who buy them."

"That's little more than slavery. It basically is."

Elan smirked. "Your surprise is surprising."

"No, it's just…" I paused to get my thoughts in order. "What stops everyone from just taking a bunch of random people and making them avoxes when they need money?"

"I wish I knew."

The screen's picture cleared as the drone settled down. A ring of young men sat above a concrete pit, drinks in their hands, laughter on their faces. I couldn't hear anything happening, but I imagined the place was full of banter and noise. The room was spacious, like a small warehouse or a giant basement, all cement and steel and stone. It was dreary apart from the people, but they filled it with color. Nearly every one of the men had bright tattoos are styled hair, many with facial piercings such as silver hoops that hung from their foreheads and cheeks.

Above all, they seemed antsy. The pit below was empty, but a closed steel grate on the opposite side from where the drone watched told me it wouldn't stay empty.

"What are they watching?" I asked, leaning in.

Elan closed his eyes. "What they paid for."

The grate inched its way open. The crowd leaned forward in a wave as a red-garbed man stumbled out, his shirt ripped, his red hair a mess. He gaped at the scene above him with wide, pleading eyes. The man dragged a thin wooden plank behind him, a nail studded through it. He wasn't alone for long: Two more men stumbled out of the door, each dressed the same way, each ragged and confused, each holding an impromptu weapon, one a pole with a metal chain wrapped around one end, the other a rusting shovel.

There was something familiar about the shovel-carrying man. I squinted, and when it hit me, I gasped. It had been dark the first time I'd seen him, but I still remembered his look of terror. Pavo.

I was watching my handiwork.

"What's going to happen to them?" I breathed, terrified to know the answer. What had I done?

"Keep watching," said Elan.

Two more red-clad men followed the other three until all five huddled in a circle in the midst of the pit, watching the gawking eyes above. From the bottom right of the drone's field of view, another man stepped out. He wasn't clad in avox red, nor did he clutch a makeshift weapon, but instead toted a battleaxe with a blade the size of my head. He was a behemoth, all muscle and bone with shoulders that fell away like mountain cliffs into his granite arms. I knew this man – Septimus, the victor of the 85th Hunger Games from District 2. I'd seen his games in passing on televised reshowings before, but his stature told me more than enough about what he could do.

I had a sinking feeling of what would happen next, and I wasn't disappointed. Another man joined Septimus, nearly as tall, nearly as large and powerful, and dressed in a gray, leathery jacket that looked like armor. He wielded a long, jagged saber as if it was no heavier than a stick. The man grimaced with cautious eyes I saw so many times from behind the lip of a glass of whiskey or a mug of beer.

Daud.

"Oh shit," I exhaled.

The rightmost avox – or ex-avox, as it were – moved first. Perhaps sensing what was coming, he ran at Septimus with a jolt of suicidal courage. The burly victor intercepted his spiked pole with his axe blade, but he didn't counter with a deadly hit. He merely shoved the avox away, hunkering down as the small crowd above jolted, their eyes and faces full of energy and thrill. Septimus was toying with the avox.

I wanted to think Daud was better than that. I knew he was, until he sidestepped the man with the chain and pole, punched him square in the chest, and circled around to the other side of the pit.

"No one likes a quick fight," Elan murmured, sensing my growing nausea.

The other three avoxes, Pavo included, hung back, hunkering down in the middle away from the two well-armed and –armored victors. They didn't want to fight, but there was no way out of this. Daud wore a grim determination on his face, Septimus a stony frown.

The man Daud had warded off took on the victor from 2 next. He must have known what was coming and wanted to get it over with, for he didn't retreat, even as Septimus knocked him away with the butt of his axe. I bit my lip, wanting to close my eyes with every passing second but keeping them on the screen in some perverse fascination of what would come next.

The avox was no fighter. He dropped his pole when Septimus drove his fist into the man's elbow, sending him reeling. No sooner had the avox gotten up than Septimus planted the butt of his axe into the man's gut, keeling him over and leaving him vulnerable for a second strike. It didn't take long. Septimus was much faster than his size gave off, and he whirled with the axe in a blinding flash.

I didn't even want to imagine the sound his blade made as it split the avox's stomach open.

The crowd leaned back as one organism, a leering, laughing thing enraptured by the carnage just beginning below. The other avoxes huddled together, but Daud split them apart as he charged the middle. My fingernails dug into my palm as Daud backed one into a wall. The cornered avox lashed out in a panic, striking Daud's arm with a glancing blow from his nail board – but if my victor felt anything, he didn't show it. Daud trapped the man's weapon against the wall with the tip of his blade, and with one quick motion, drove the base of the sword into the man's neck.

Blood sprayed.

The crowd was all energy as Septimus herded two of the remaining three avoxes. My mentor faced down poor Pavo, and try as I could to look away, I couldn't. I'd sentenced Pavo to this. I had a duty to watch it through to the end.

Like his partner in crime, Daud was a lot faster than I'd imagined. Pavo wasn't much of a Peacekeeper in avox red, but he still tried his hardest to keep my mentor away with stabs from his shovel. His face was nothing but fear now, his eyes agape and skittering from left to right. Daud stepped back and stabbed forward with one foot, his face not once betraying any kind of doubt. The audience leaned forward as Pavo stabbed forward with his shovel.

It was a poor effort. Daud grabbed the tool's handle and threw it away. He kicked out Pavo's knee and grabbed the unbalanced man's shoulder, tossing him towards the center of the pit and swinging down with his sword. He hit concrete as Pavo rolled away at the last minute, but Daud ground his sword along the hard surface and clipped the former Peacekeeper's calf.

Pavo winced. Daud lunged.

Pavo died.

"Turn it off," I said, looking away. "I'm done."

A long minute passed as Elan started up the car again and pulled away from the villa. "It won't be Daud's last time here this year, assuming Fenton can stay alive," said my escort. "The games get boring to young men like these. Too much walking and talking, not enough violence. They're more than happy to pay for bloodshed, so long as it's entertaining."

"That's just sick. That's not worth it. A sponsorship's not worth doing that."

"Daud doesn't think so."

"Then he's wrong."

"Maybe so," Elan said. "Daud has traded many lives for one. Yours. He's the farthest thing from a good man I can imagine. But your knife and your other gifts last year came from him. Finch's contributions were miniscule by comparison. I don't even know if Daud could justify what he does for money, but I don't think he'd even care to."

I sneered. "If that's what sponsorships cost, I'm out. I'll find some other way to help Fenton, and whoever else I have to mentor. I'm not doing that."

"An admirable choice," Elan said. The towers of the city drew closer as the villa district faded behind us. "Although perhaps not a practical one. By now, Terra, you should understand that you'll make no progress in this city – anywhere – if you won't get your hands dirty. How you dirty them is up to you, whether you stain them with blood or sex or blackmail. But you have years and years of mentoring ahead of you. That's quite a few tributes, not to mention any other quagmire this city sucks you into. You'll have to decide what conviction you value most."

/ / / / /

I didn't see Daud the next morning. Finch rolled into our Control Center office late, her eyes puffy and underlined with dark circles. She didn't say more than ten words to me before crashing in a chair and watching as Fenton tried – and failed – to start a fire in the arena's misty morning. He'd scrounged up what I guessed were roots, but everything in the cloud forest was damp and wet. He couldn't so much as start a fire as he could go home alive right now.

Not that I had much time to watch. Before the morning was up, Elan whisked me out the door to a meeting with a Capitolian interested in potentially sponsoring Fenton.

"Do I just have to talk to him, or…" I asked.

"I would expect so," said Elan, driving me deep into the heart of the city as the sun rose high into the mountain sky. The air was warm and humid, only getting hotter with each passing hour as not a cloud dotted the blue sky above. "Although not because I don't have reservations about him. He's a cautious man. His name's Varno Rensler, the Capitol's foremost technical expert and chief scientist."

Rensler. I had a feeling it was less his interest and more the president's. "Do you know him?"

"I've had a few conversations. I wouldn't say I know him. As a matter of fact, I don't know anyone who really knows him. Strange thing."

For whom Elan called a strange man, Varno certainly treated himself to the finest restaurants. The Amethyst West was a sprawling place, taking up a half a city block just a few streets off of the Capitol Forum. A glassed-in patio housed not only hungry patrons but also all sorts of ornate statues, bizarre flowering plants I hadn't seen even in Caro's Gardens, and even a few brightly plumaged birds squatting atop the highest branches of strategically-placed trees. Shaded blue glass above dimmed the sun's heat, while bright white tiles on the floor dulled the slightest sounds of walking.

That was only the outside. The inside was an even fancier place, lined with purple velvet walls and full of decorative gold screens, silver statuettes hanging from above doorways, and tables lined with jade and lapis lazuli. Elan led me to a private seating area in the back, where gold and crimson dominated the visual palette. Inside a block of bronze screens sat a single, lanky man, his posture as perfect as could be, a lone glass of water and a plate full of steaming green and orange vegetables before him, untouched, as if he was waiting for me to show up before digging in.

"Varno," Elan said, bowing his head slightly as he approached the man. "Terra, if I can present to you Varno Rensler, chief scientist of the Capitol."

Rensler narrowed an eye and grinned. He didn't say anything for a moment, sizing me up, his eyes flicking between me and Elan. "It is so funny," he said after a long while. "seeing you in a place like this. It must be such a shock just to step foot in here."

I shrugged, unsure of what to say. "I'm…it's a bit fancy."

"Oh, not you," Varno said. "Elan. Even after so many years as an escort, I imagine you must feel like an alien in a place like this. Let alone what the other escorts must say."

Elan smiled. "I've adapted. Although who doesn't feel like a stranger in this kind of a place?"

"That's true," said Varno. "I wonder how I manage."

"I wonder too."

Elan nodded for me to approach. "I have other places to be, Terra. Finch wants me back before two."

I looked back and forth between him and Varno. "But…"

"I trust you'll be fine on your own," he said.

He didn't give me time for a rebuttal before he was gone. I swallowed nervously, putting on my best smile for Varno, and saying, "Can I sit?" He held out a hand and I took a seat across from him, turning down his offer of food and drink. This place was a bit too fancy for me.

"Elan told me you're interested in sponsoring?" I asked as he picked at his meal.

He shook his head. "No. I'm not. Elan set up this meeting, not me. I'm only interested to hear your part."

I bit my lip. "Well…my district still has a tribute in the running. Fenton's a good kid. He's a great tribute. I know lots of people probably didn't think highly of me last year, but that turned out well."

Varno stewed on a particularly large red pepper. "It's funny you're here. I would have thought after your time in the arena, after you dealt with the beast I set loose in the games that stalked you all about, that you would have wanted nothing to do with a man like me."

"No, it's – it was creative. As far as mutts go. Do you work with the Head Gamesmaker?"

"Galan? Regrettably so," Varno said. "Galan Greene is a shortsighted man who won't last all that much longer as Head Gamesmaker, I wager. He has too large a mouth for his job. Everyone knows what he likes and what he does. He hardly checked a single thing I added to the arena before giving it the go-ahead."

"Anything interesting?" I asked. If I couldn't manage a sponsorship out of Rensler, maybe I could at least get a tip on the arena."

He shrugged. "Plenty. But I'm not so interested in that. I'm a little more interested in why you're here. I've never sponsored a tribute in the Games."

Damn you, Elan. My nerves flared as I searched for a good answer. "I mean, Elan told me you're connected with the Games and everything. If you haven't sponsored before, maybe I can interest you? My mentors tell me it's a big thing for prestige and everything if a tribute wins, and I have a good feeling about Fenton this year."

"Your escort's connected with a bit more than the Games," he said. "Less names like yours and more like the ones of Julian Tercio and Cyrus Locke. Elan didn't send you here at all, I think. He and I both know who you've been spending time with, and it's not just your tributes. Creon sent you, didn't he?"

I gulped. "I don't know the president that well."

"I don't think he knows me well," Varno said with a smile. "And I don't think he knows you well. That's such a problem in a city like this."

He picked at his food again. "Everyone knows what he wants. Creon's afraid of following in his father's footsteps to an early grave. It's hard to avoid that when your ambitions don't live up to the dreams of those around you. Cyrus. Taurus Sharpe. Lucrezia Bierce. The president can't trust any of them, so he turns to you. Do you think he really trusts you, Terra, if he can't trust anyone else?"

My skin itched. I felt nervous, trapped here by a man who clearly knew more than he was letting on. President Snow had sent me here, and Varno had sniffed me out. "I don't really know what you want from me. I'm just trying to help. My tributes, whoever. The president."

"Of course. That's why he wants to trust you so badly. People like me have so many cards in our hands, and you only have a few. You're a common girl from the districts. You're a small player comparatively, but the smallest ears often hear the most."

He took a long drink of water. "As it turns out, yours aren't the smallest ears. I know the one person Creon trusts absolutely. I could tell you, if you make it worth my while – say, you clear his suspicions of me."

"I'm just here for my tributes. Tribute. I swear. I don't know any of this other stuff."

"You're not so good at this game, so I'll take that as a yes," he said. "It's a bit harder when you're not wielding a knife and wearing snakes, as the posters depict you."

He leaned forward. "His granddaughter. Calla Snow's daughter, Cassandra. She's only nine, but I have a feeling she hears more than any other nine year-old in Panem. As chance would have it, she's tutored by Taurus Sharpe's daughter, Bera, at the Sharpe estate. Make an excuse to go there and you might find more answers that Creon wants. I might try a better excuse than 'gathering sponsorships,' though. It wasn't very convincing."

"Why?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why a better excuse?'

"Why'd you even tell me any of that?" I asked. Lying to this man seemed futile. If he really knew as much as he claimed, I wanted to know his motive. "Or why would I want to follow up on something that president wants?"

Varno smirked. "I'm a man who keeps his reasons close to his chest, Terra. I think you want to be such a person, but you're a bit too obvious right now. You're young. Inexperienced, but you're willing to play. You want a reason? Call me intrigued. Now let me eat my lunch and go show me what you can do."