+ Big thanks to FoxfaceFan1 for the review! Final chapter for Book 2. Here we go!

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The Training Center common floor was quiet. Now that the Capitol had opened up the trains to leave the city again, the other victors began to flee back home. I didn't blame them. Our train back to District 5 would be one of the last ones out, and the pressure of waiting in this turbulent, charged city in the wake of so much change felt grating.

Solitude didn't help. I'd run from others to hide the shame and fear over what I knew – over what must have happened, over what could have happened, and what lay ahead. The question was obvious: Who killed Creon?

The easy answer was Calla. Between the Gar business and going all the way back to the dismissive way I'd seen her address her father, she certainly had no love for the ex-president – and she'd made out pretty well in the wake of his death. But the obvious answer didn't seem like the right one here.

Suleiman and Arrian? Arrows pointed in that direction. Suleiman's cover as Rex, slinking away into Calla's estate during her party, looked a lot more suspicious now. I questioned every little thing I'd heard Arrian say since meeting him back in District 5. Had it all led to this, one giant manipulation to push me into leading Creon into a trap?

It was a little more plausible than Calla, for sure, and definitely a possibility. No way could I guess at their motives if they had done it, however – and those two seemed to know way too much before Creon's death as it was. Would killing the sitting president even help them?

Option three – one of the members of the council did it. Again, a bit obvious, but the motive was definitely there. Creon wouldn't have let them push him around, and his long-term agenda and ideals were a radical departure from the Capitol image I'd grown up knowing. But I had no idea who would pull the trigger in planting a bomb in Calla's estate. Taurus? Doubt it. He preferred subtlety. Same with Lucrezia. Rigel? I hardly knew the chief Peacekeeper, so maybe. Julian? Cyrus? I thought they were better men, but what did I really know after all this?

Then there was option four, the one I found most likely: Whoever killed Creon remained in the shadows. As much as I'd learned about the Capitol these past few weeks, this city was vast. It would take a dozen lifetimes to learn all the places where a resourceful killer could hide.

Despite all these possibilities, one thing was clear: I'd told the president where to go to die. Whoever was ultimately responsible for this, part of the blame lay with me.

The weight of that made me nurse a strong drink, my hands trembling as I swished the alcohol around the glass. Now I had no choice but to keep stumbling forward, keep smiling for the cameras. What was the point of it all? As much as Creon had been a suspicious and humorless man, he was ambitious for the right reasons – and there was something else about him, some sort of air I hadn't felt before. Something fatherly, almost.

Now I'd never know what it was.

I groaned at the sound of someone stepping off the elevator. "Who is it?" I mumbled into my glass.

No one replied for a moment. Then came a soft chuckling, and finally, "Is this really what a victors' party looks like? Yeesh. Why is every light on in the middle of the day?"

I didn't need to look up to know who'd arrived. Bowing my head, I said, "Leave me alone."

"Whoa. What'd I do to you?"

"Leave."

I clenched my jaw and looked up. Newly-crowned victor Achilles stood near the door, his hands on his hips, an amused smile playing across his face. He didn't look as if the Hunger Games had touched him at all, what with his clean-cut hair, stylist-cured skin and spotless white shirt.

He rolled his eyes. "Man. Vids weren't kidding about you. One hello and you're biting my head off."

I turned back to my sorry drink as he went on, "You know, I really shouldn't like you. You killed my brother, after all. Snuck up on Acheron while he slept. But guess what? I hated that kid. Hypocritical excuse for a brother. He was always so quiet and humble in public, then the moment you got into private, he didn't hesitate to lord about anything he did better than you. If he'd won, god, that'd be horror. So no, I don't have a beef against you."

My fingers ached as I clenched my glass as hard as I could. "But man, you must be taking this hard to be this mad, huh? What, you friends with those tributes you had? The guy your lover? Or the girl, I'm not judging what you do in private. But hey, you killed, I killed. We did the same thing when push came to shove. We're just alike, you and I. No stupid heroics. Just surviving. So, how about we start over where I got off the elevator and saw you bending over your drink, and –"

His hand grazed my shoulder. At his touch, I leapt to my feet and swiped at him with my fist. Off-balance and tipsy, I missed by a mile as he watched me flail. I threw my glass at the wall and snarled, "Don't touch me, you vicious shit!"

He smirked. "Alright then. Can't argue with crazy."

I sunk into the couch as he left. The loneliness felt even worse now. The last thing I needed to see after all this was the face of the boy who'd killed my first two kids, and the way he treated it like such a…a routine thing gnawed at my heart. My time in the arena hadn't left me. For Achilles to call us alike, for him to compare our fights as anywhere close to being on the same wavelength, disgusted me.

Maybe, deep down, that was because there was some truth in that.

I fell asleep clutching my glass. By the time I woke up darkness settled over the city outside, and a hand shook my shoulder. In my sleepy stupor I lashed out with a hand, hitting an arm and receiving a grunt of discomfort for my trouble.

"Gah. You don't have to hit."

Crap. Not Achilles coming back. Drake. I didn't know if that was any better, however. "'M sorry. Thought someone else…"

He frowned at my spilled glass on the floor. "Your mentors're looking for you. Are you just napping?"

"No. Yes. Tell them I'll come."

Drake looked at me with an uneasy glance. "Alright."

"Wait," I said, stopping him halfway to the door. "Sorry."

"'Bout what?"

"Games," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. "Your tributes. Kids. Wanted to say sorry about them at the end."

Drake sighed. "Yeah, well, we're kinda in the same boat. I'll get over it."

"How?"

"Huh?"

"How do you –" I said before stopping myself mid-sentence. Dumb. I must have sounded like a complete idiot. "Forget it. I don't even know why I'm asking you of all people."

"Great. That makes me of all people feel wonderful."

I slumped back over on the couch. "Yeah, well, I'm just a crazy victor. You can't argue with crazy. Don't mind me."

"Terra, what the hell? Are you taking a dig at my mother now?"

"Oh jeez. No. Look, just go away and go back to hating me. It was better like that."

He exhaled a lot louder than necessary. "No, I don't hate you. Never hated you."

"Swell. You're the second victor to tell me that today. At least I had a good reason to piss off Achilles."

"You met Achilles?"

"Yup."

Drake walked over and picked my glass off the floor. "First off, you need to stop binge drinking and wallowing, or you're going to end up like Haymitch."

"That sounds lovely."

"I can't be serious for one minute? Yes, you're kinda crazy. And you lose your temper too fast and push people away and take everything personally."

"Keep going."

"No. I don't hate you, dummy. I'd rather be friends with you, since we'll be seeing each other a lot for, oh, I dunno, the rest of our lives. You got along fine with some of the others. If you don't want to be friends, can we at least talk to each other like two normal people, rather than doing whatever the hell this is every time we chat?"

I teared up. I didn't know why, but my brain decided to shut down there and then. Like an idiot, I lurched at him and grabbed his shirt with both hands before pressing my face into his chest. He stepped back in surprise, but I leaned forward and let myself fall into him.

"You're actually the worst listener I've ever met," he said.

"Please don't go," I blubbered. "Just for a little bit."

He didn't say anything for what felt like a long time before wrapping an arm around my back. "Fine. Just for a little while."

/ / / / /

For many people here, autumn was beautiful in District 12.

The Hunger Games were a faded memory by now for all but two unlucky families, three months since the 97th Games had come to a close. The televisions spoke about "big changes" coming to Panem, about one President Snow dying and another one taking his place. It was all the same to the people here. Goings-on far away in the Capitol didn't dampen the vivid red and yellow curtains that draped the sturdy oaks of the Seam. The coal mines were as bad as ever, but the Peacekeepers had eased off. Something had made them cautious, worried, something most everyone in District 12 couldn't figure out. Still, the why behind that didn't matter. A little leniency was nice. Soon winter would come, and with it, the struggles of starvation for many in the Seam. It meant choosing between buying food and buying extra blankets, between bundling up the young son or the young daughter. Best enjoy the present while it lasted.

For Donnel Oates, however, the present wasn't so good. He was a coal miner in the Seam like so many others – or had been.

It was bad enough when the pox outbreak had taken his wife a few years ago. After the disease had subsided, he'd hardly known what to do with his life.

Now life told him. It wanted him to die.

Bloody ridiculous, he thought, shivering in his thatch bed and clutching his ratty blankets. He couldn't keep down even runny porridge for more than ten minutes. Specks of crimson flew from his mouth every time he coughed – which was often. Even the blankets couldn't keep him warm, despite the fire he'd started in his old stone fireplace and the warm early autumn afternoon. He was sick, but it wasn't just any old sickness.

He'd seen this sickness ravage his wife. He'd seen it cut down a quarter of the district before dying away. How had it come back, here, now, and to him?

Donnel had done the only thing he could imagine – isolating himself from everyone else, in the hopes that no one would catch this horrible thing. He had no doubt it would kill him. He just couldn't live with the thought that anyone else died because of his ailment.

He started when his front door creaked open, the old iron hinges whining and moaning. "The hell're you doing?" he barked. "Who is it?"

A young man of average height with red hair, hazel eyes, and a pleasant, clean demeanor walked in, carrying an armful of blankets. "Mr. Oates?"

"Get out, idiot!" Donnel snapped. "I'm sick, dammit. Get out before you are, too."

"I know."

Donnel narrowed his eyes as the man continued, "One of the Peacekeepers reported you were sick. They suspected the pox had come back. No one wants what happened before to happen again here, not after how so many died. I'm from the Capitol, sir. I'm here to try and make you feel better."

Donnel swore. "Fat chance of that. From the Capitol? So now you start trying to help? Damn you, kid. Go back to your shiny houses and whatnot."

"I know you might be mad –"

"Oh really? Is that what you learn in the Capitol?"

The Capitolian nodded, his face turning grim. "I don't think you want this to spread, do you? We don't either. Do you think it's good for the Capitol, for District 12, for anyone in the country if another plague outbreak happens? We're on the same side here."

Donnel sighed and lay back in his bed. Whatever. Stupid kid could shoot him dead now if he wanted. It wouldn't make a difference. For that matter, he was surprised the Peacekeepers hadn't already if they'd learned about him.

"You here to finish me off?" he asked. "Do it quick. I don't want to linger around like a dog."

"I'm not here to kill you," the Capitolian said. "I'm just here to help. I'm not going to lie, I don't know if there is a cure to the pox. But I can try and make it hurt a little less. If I can help a little bit, that's fine by me."

"Real good sentiment. Look, you don't sound like as much of a dick as the Peacekeepers, but take my advice and screw off. You're not going to find much good around here. Not around me at this point."

The Capitolian motioned at his blankets and said, "How about I change out those rags, then? At least'll it keep you warmer. Those things are full of holes. That might work for a summer night here in the Seam, but for a sick guy? Not so good."

"Fine," Donnel sighed. No arguing with this kid.

The Capitolian pulled the blankets off slowly, folding them carefully into a neat pile of brown and yellow hole-pocked cloth before laying out his sheets over Donnel. They were nice: All fresh and new and made of stuff that must have come from District 8.

"Make sure to burn those if you aren't gonna leave 'em," Donnel said, nodding at his old rags. "Gonna be covered in germs."

"I will. I might be back later, or someone else. Try and rest, Mr. Oates."

The Capitolian picked up the ratty blankets and closed the door with nary a thump. He bundled the rags under one arm, strolled off towards a trio of old, thick oak trees a ways off of the main street, and pulled a small black canister off of his belt before disappearing behind the trunks.

A blink of an eye later, Suleiman walked out from behind the trees.

He pocketed the canister and clutched the blankets against his waist. As good as gold. Persuading the sick miner had been even easier than he'd expected. All there was left to do was the last part.

Suleiman made for the Hob.

The unseasonably warm and sunny day made for a big crowd at District 12's black market. Despite his height and his pale skin, Suleiman had no problem blending in with the crowd. Everyone was here on business or for socializing, not to gawk at a newcomer. Besides, Suleiman had even dressed for the occasion – if wearing a torn and dirty old shirt counted as being dressed.

He knew exactly what to expect a dozen feet in through the back door of the Hob and ten feet to the right. Against one wall was the soup lady, as Arrian had called her in his report, an old, gray-haired, and wrinkled woman stirring a tarnished pot of something red and thick while a handful of scraggly Seam natives ate at a table nearby.

She glanced up as Suleiman approached. "You new here? Haven't seen you. Just find out about the Hob or something?"

He shrugged. "I'm, a…bit of a loner. Not really all that great with crowds."

She frowned. "Now you are?"

"I was hungry. Wanted to see if I could sell off any of my crap, too."

"Right place, a'least," the old woman said. "You work the mines?"

"Ah, yeah. Not a miner. I do the blasting."

She snorted. "'Splains why you're a loner, then. No one wants to be friends with someone with a short lifespan."

"Oh, that's truer than you think."

"Alright. Whus it gon' be?"

Suleiman nodded at the pot. "That looks good. How much?"

"Sixty sols."

"Ah. Um…here's the thing. I'm a bit…short? Right now. Wanted to see if I could barter a little. Throw in a coin or two with it."

The soup lady stuck out her jaw and said, "Watchu wanna trade?"

Suleiman fished a pair of coins out of his belt, slapped them on the table, and held up his blankets. "They look bad, but if you don't like them as blankets, sew them into clothes. Or a rug. Or curtains."

"Ha! Curtains. Tha's a good one."

"Hey, being creative. I'm not so good with my hands, and it's not like I have anyone with me to do the sewing. So, twenty sols and the blankets for one bowl. How's that?"

The old woman stiffened her lip, crossed her lips, and relented. "Fine, a'right. My granddaughter wore a hole in her last shirt anyway. Maybe I'll try an' sew her a new one. Patch the holes wit' what I can."

Suleiman smiled, dropped the blankets on a table, and picked up a wooden bowl full of steaming soup. "Mind if I have a look around while I eat?"

"Do what you do. Just bring the bowl back"

"Mm, count on it," he said with a smile. "I'm not in any rush to leave."