+ Thanks for another review, FoxfaceFan1! Sorry for the long update time; been hitting some writer's block recently.

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The hovercraft had arrived early in the morning, hanging over the canyon top flats just north of the dam. Twelve hours later, it lingered there in the sky as blue and violet streaks overtook the waning sunset. Daud and I watched from the market streets as it disgorged a pair of cargo crates, dangling them by wires as Peacekeepers atop the canyon guided them down. I'd seen it offload soldiers much earlier, then cargo load after load.

It didn't sit well with me. District 5 had always been lax in terms of Peacekeeper oversight, and I'd seen Districts 11 and 8, with their urban redoubts and security checkpoints and streets lined with patrols. The thought of that coming here for whatever reason made me queasy.

"Probably be gone by tomorrow," Daud grunted, noticing my unease. "It's nothin'."

I shook my head. The hovercraft wouldn't have come for nothing. ""It'll come back with more."

Daud frowned and slung a bag of sweet potatoes and yams over his shoulder. "Leave it. It's nothin'. The TV's gonna talk to us soon anyway."

That it would. No one would miss Calla Snow's nationwide presentation in an hour. The unveiling of the fourth Quarter Quell and the one hundredth Hunger Games was mandatory viewing.

Bats fluttered about in the warm evening air by the time Daud and I got back to the Victor's Village. Insects chirped to the blowing of a dry, dusty breeze. Yellow light peeked out from between the blinds guarding Finch's house. Across the street, darkness shrouded my home. Every window faded to black. It felt cold even looking at the place, and I was glad to have company for the night – even if it meant listening to someone I detested announce what new hurdle I had to clear.

"What do you think the Quell's gonna be?" I asked Daud as we walked up to Finch's house.

He shrugged. "First time was districts' picks. Then doubles. Then all little kids. Gets more boring every time, so probably something even duller. All boys or something, who knows or gives a hump."

"I think we give a hump. It kinda affects us."

"Yeah, sure it does. Won't change anything in the end. Results are always the same."

Cicero Templesmith's stupid grinning face greeted me from Finch's living room. Daud dropped his sack of yams in the entrance way and banged about as he made himself at home, clearly frustrated with the whole exercise. I knew where he was coming from: In the end, one kid lived and the rest died. The results were the same from a top-down view, but we weren't looking at it like that. In the thick of things, the little details did matter. Whatever Calla announced tonight could mean a slight reprieve from the usual dull knife stab of the past few Hunger Games or the plunging of a hot needle straight into my waning resolve as a victor.

"It's just been usual gab so far," Finch said as I plopped down on a couch, a drink provided by Daud in my hand. She noticed my choice of beverage at once. "Maybe something non-alcoholic, Terra?"

"'M fine," I grumbled.

"It's not –"

"Let her drink. That's what you do on bad nights," said Daud, slouching down in a chair with a fistful of sliced ham and a half a block of cheese. Between him and me, we'd already taken Finch's spotless house down several notches.

Finch crossed her arms, but she wasn't looking for a row. She sat down away from the rest of us, throwing a disapproving look my way before turning back to the television.

On the TV, Capitolian spectators draped in every color imaginable packed the entire length of the Avenue of the Tributes. Bright spotlights lit up the City Circle and the Presidential Mansion as red and gold fireworks shot off above the skyscrapers. Cicero chirped with excitement and commentary alongside old Caesar, saying, "Now it's not just business as usual, even for a Quell, is it Caesar? One hundred Hunger Games. A century's worth of pageantry. That's an occasion to lay out all the best for."

"Well, the Quell twists, let's call them that, were decided a long time ago," Caesar reminded him. He took care of himself well despite being past age seventy: The old host's hair glistened and gleamed with a bright yellow flourish, and his skin showed not even the faintest sign of wrinkles. Only a tired rumble in his voice every other sentence or so reminded me that Caesar Flickerman had been doing this for more than forty years. "But that's not the real important part of it, Cicero. This year, two weeks of celebration before the gong kicks off in the arena. Everything bigger, everything better. Tonight's just the first step. The summer's going to be unforgettable."

"Speak for yourself," Daud grumbled.

Back in the Capitol, Cicero shouted, "There's our lady of the night coming up onto her platform right now – our one and only President Snow! Ladies, gentlemen, this is what we've been waiting for. Hold on to your pants and all other items of clothing! Let's cut to what awaits us in the Hundredth Hunger Games!"

That smug grin. Those ever-so-slightly squinted eyes, encircled by a frosting of glazed makeup. Even if the rest of Panem changed, Calla Snow never did. I was torn between shrinking away into my seat and punching the television in an attempt to deliver my fist through the digital space into Calla's mug.

I wasn't alone in that feeling, given the expressions of the two advisors flanking her high above the Capitol on the Presidential Mansion's observatory perch. On one side of her stood Taurus, his lips contorted into a suppressed rebuke, as if he longed to slap her and deliver a lecture about leadership. On the other side stood Cyrus, whose downcast eyes and folded hands made him look like he wanted to be anywhere else in the country than there. The tension between all three of them was palpable, even here hundreds of miles away. It got worse every year, with every advisor meeting that Calla skipped to prance off to a media interview or private entertainment showing. Add in how much Lucrezia seemed to detest the president, and the question arose – how long before somebody burst a blood vessel in the Mansion?

Applause. Applause, applause, and more applause greeted Calla as she soaked it in high above the crowd. After a minute or two, she waved it away and spoke up, "I think you're all excited."

The crowd cheered again, and I was treated to a possibility of who would burst the first blood vessel as Taurus's face reddened with indignation. I could already hear his thoughts now: If you want to be respected as a president, then start acting like one. Perhaps I'll mandate that in the next law I write in your name.

"Seventy-five years ago, each district voted for their own tributes," Calla went on. "Every man and woman elected the lucky boy and girl destined to fight for glory. Fifty years ago, we saw a spectacular showing of forty-eight fighters."

Finch scoffed. "That's a little liberal use of the word 'we.'"

"Saw the replay once," Daud said, taking a bite of cheese. "Stupidest idea for an arena ever. It's like they let a five year-old think it up. If making the trees and animals all look like candy wasn't bad enough, why not prevent anyone from drinking water that wasn't from rain or sponsors? I'm sure that'll excite people. Nothing like watching dehydration kick in. It's almost as exciting as my morning piss."

"A quarter-century ago we picked our youngest and brightest to fight," Calla went on.

Ðaud snorted. "Not brightest. Wonderful time that was." When I looked over, he pointed a finger Finch's way. "Her first round as victor. I sort of ignored the kids that year."

Finch fretted. To their credit, I doubted whoever had been Head Gamesmaker back then would've let District 5 win thrice in four years. The fact that Finch won so soon after Daud itself was a miracle.

On screen, Calla let a chant from the crowd die down as she reveled in the attention. My thoughts drifted to her daughter, the future president of Panem likely watching from somewhere inside the Mansion. What sort of future did she as a leader have when her mother whored for attention like this? Cassandra had always struck me as a great blend of spunky and sweet, but how long would that last when the only member of her family to look up to – and the only one left – made a mockery out of the presidency? Calla's grandfather, Coriolanus, had ruled for decades with an iron fist. Creon had tried to uphold the law as a just ruler, for what good that had earned him. Now…this circus.

I empathized with Taurus.

Calla waved a hand-sized yellow card at the crowd, eliciting another round of cheers. "Now for the one-hundredth Hunger Games, the fourth Quarter Quell, and a century of victory and remembrance," she boomed, glancing down at her hands. "As a reminder to the rebels that the strongest among them ushered their dead into war and horror, this year's tributes will be handpicked by each district's victors."

"That's a fucking cop-out, you plastic whore!" Daud thundered. "That's barely any different from the first damn Quell!"

Finch swore and pressed her palm to her forehead. "I get it."

I sure didn't. "Why? That's…it's just what he said. It's just voting people in again."

Daud stomped out of the room and banged the front door open as Finch explained, "No. It's not. Think about it, Terra. Victors can't go in again, so this is the closest they can get to an all-star Games. Every victor wants to win, whether for pride or to keep their kids alive like we want. So this year, if we get to choose, we all pick the most capable kids to go in. It means less starving, more fighting, and better fights at that."

"Even better…" Finch trailed off. Her eyes glazed over and she stared at the wall. "Better for them, we look like the bad guys. We are the bad guys in everyone else's point of view. Whoever we have to pick, and we do, their families get people to point the finger at. Not just nebulous people in the Capitol anymore, but people who live down the street. Us."

Oh Gods. It took me a second to wrap my head around what Finch was saying, but it did make sense. I started connecting the dots, all the way from the hovercraft arriving today and dropping troops to Lucrezia's arrival here in District 5 and Taurus's assignment. If someone high up was worried about violence, what better way to quell it temporarily than give the district commoners someone to pin their anger on? That'd give time for the Capitol to root out any problem spots, too, while keeping victors from amassing any sort of community prestige.

From where I sat, it was just another arrow loosed my way. As if digging around the church for trouble and risking blowing my cover wasn't bad enough, now my name could get dragged through the dust even more here in District 5. Going from you killed our two kids to you're working for them wasn't a stretch.

Little by little, the district wasn't feeling so welcoming…and that was before Finch, Daud, and I even got the chance to look into the eyes of the two kids we'd nominated to die.