+ Huge thanks for all the reviews last chapter! Getting closer to a rendezvous with the Capitol once more, and District 4's impending showdown gets a little more personal.

/ / / / /

"Hey, this is promising. This guy, Steffon Reuven – he's eighteen, six-two, dad's a grocer so he's well-fed and pretty big compared to most guys that age."

Finch stared down at the holographic projector a Capitol administrator had given us, reviewing files of children in District 5. I glanced over at his notes, frowning, and adding, "He's also got six siblings and a big family."

"Well, that's good. He's probably quarreled with them growing up. That's almost fighting experience."

Daud snorted and looked away from his spot on a couch in Finch's living room. We'd been at this several days now, sorting through names and children and statistics, trying to figure out just who we could swallow condemning to death. We weren't arguing as much anymore, but now every name and every face felt like dropping another lead weight down into my stomach.

I stomped my foot at Finch's suggestion. "It also means he has a lot of people who're going to miss him."

"Terra, tell me you've gotten used to that by now. We don't actually have to watch some scrawny kid get picked. We can take someone with a chance. Family or no family, it's the best chance of taking one of ours back home."

Daud looked amused as I rejected Finch's suggestion and we went back to sifting through files. Sort by age, sort by residence location, sort by school records, sort by criminal record, sort by height, weight, and sex. Fanning through the Capitol's database on the district made me feel like everyone here was just a series of numbers put together on an electronic drawing board.

Unfortunately, picking someone with a chance in the Games meant eschewing humanity in favor of just those numbers.

"This girl is tops of her school class," I said, opening a file and checking through the data. Philippa Rinde had a cute face and pretty, short-cropped hair that could at least make a scene on the screen, and her grades and schoolwork were nothing to scoff at. "She only has one sibling, and he's a lot older and already has a family. Both parents though."

Finch glanced over. "She's twelve."

"Oh. Didn't see that."

I sighed and closed Philippa's file. Every potential tribute had a drawback. Too many family members. Too young. Too small and weak. Every direction I looked shined a face that would show up in the arena sky some night during the Hunger Games as Cicero and Caesar marked the dead.

Daud, who hadn't so much as browed a single file since we began, got up from his seat. "You both are trying too hard and playing dumb," he rumbled, lurching towards the projector and flicking his hand across the images. "Every schmuck can find some warrior or pretty face or big brain, and that's what every other damn district's going to do."

"None of that crap matters," said Daud, running a finger along a data column. "Just one thing."

Immediate family members – zero.

"Dig through all the community home castoffs and orphans," he said, plopping down on his seat again and picking his drink back up.

"That's a stupid idea," Finch said, moving to reset the files.

Daud stopped her: "It's a better idea than either of you have. Everyone else sends in their best, then we're no better off than most years – and probably worse off, because we have losers like 11 and 12 actually competing for once. Not to mention that those whores in 1 probably rig the whole damn thing, since, the horror, they went a whole year without winning. I guarantee you some of those orphans just want to go to sleep and not wake up. Might as well make some kid's wish come true and hurt the least number of people if we'll lose anyway."

Finch started to protest, but I felt my resolve give way. I thought of Glenn: My partner way back in my Games had wanted nothing more than to disappear off the face of the world, arena or no arena. In a cruel way, the Reaping had spared some other family and some other boy the pain of loss. Glenn's death had done something good.

Hm.

"Why don't we just try looking?" I offered up, my peep barely making it through Daud and Finch's escalating argument.

Daud cut her off with a hand and a raised eyebrow, nodding in my direction and grinning with smug satisfaction. "You're spraining your brain muscles when you're overthinking," he said as Finch turned her back on him.

She rolled her eyes. "Strain. You strain a muscle, you don't sprain it."

We dug through the list of orphans and the kids in District 5's community homes, a tiny sample compared to all the children between twelve and eighteen here in the desert. Given stories I'd heard from Phoebe, Haymitch, and others, I wagered some of the other districts had a much larger proportion of their kids living without parents than we did.

That didn't stop Finch from grumbling as we sifted through the database, snarking now and then with a, "No better way to tell a beaten-down kid to kill themselves than picking them for the Games." As she frowned and pushed on, I realized something: Daud had hinted and revealed bits of his past, but Finch had spent so much time mentoring me and trying to teach me things that I'd never learned much beyond her victory in the 74th Games.

I'd have to cajole her into some stories. Now I'd never be able to let that thought go without closure otherwise

After an hour of digging through more names and faces and children, I stumbled across Quinn Cidaris. He was thin, lanky, and had a long, dour face that would need extra care from Rhea and the stylists, but he was tall, originally from the community home, and, according to notes from the Capitol attendants who observed the orphanages from time to time, had gotten along well with the other orphans while living there, if doing so while largely keeping his head down. Being eighteen, he'd moved out two years prior to public housing in Redhammer and worked in the geothermal power plants. Diligent, read a work report. Fits in well. Reserved, but productive. No recorded disciplinary action.

Maybe he wouldn't win a hand-to-hand fight with the biggest brute from District 2, but if he could think on his feet and make friends in the Games, that was something we could work with.

Finch spoke up before I could: "I've got a girl who might work for us."

She'd really gone with Daud's idea. From the furthest outlying orphanage in town, Summer Wylie was a short, skinny fifteen-almost-sixteen year-old who looked like she'd struggled for years to keep her stomach from growling. She wasn't malnourished or withered like some tributes I'd seen from Districts 12 and 11, but I wouldn't have put her in a close-quarters fight with any competitive tribute in recent memory. Her black hair frayed in wiry strands that ran past her shoulder, and her brown eyes looked tired and worn. Her administrative profile was a mixed bag: Top of academic class. Difficulty with peers of same age, although responds well to authority and elder figures. Avoidant and cynical.

No siblings. Orphan. No extended family. At least she fit one part of the bill and had a brain, if not much else. I'd led Daud and Finch handle her in the Games.

After another hour of arguing over our two unfortunate selectees, I tromped out of Finch's house and down the street running the length of the Victor's Village in a huff. I could only take so much of Well, there'll be different rules, Terra. You'll understand later and Hells, if they bomb, at least we can enjoy ourselves before my nerves frazzled. Finch's paternalism and Daud's premature surrender on this year's Games built up a thundercloud inside me that threatened to burst from my lungs.

Looking for a fight to blow off steam, I set off for the downtown to do something stupid.

Xanthia scowled over the top of a mound of papers as I strolled into her office. I hadn't mentioned my meeting with Pyre and the Peacekeeper, Valens, to neither her nor Lucrezia – in fact, I hadn't even seen either of them since then. While I had no doubt Lucrezia knew just who Pyre had been and had hid that from me from the start, I wasn't so sure about Xanthia's knowledge. She was just a bureaucrat, even if a smart one willing to do more than the likely boring job required.

"Shouldn't you be off electing kids to die?" she snorted as I plopped down in a seat without asking. "You know what your district and most of the others did back in the first Quell? Picked a bunch of farts no one liked to die. That's democracy in action. As long as someone we don't like gets shat on, you have our vote! Hilarious hearing drunk idiots banter about governance at bars late at night."

"Why are you even at bars?"

She sneered and shoved the pile of papers against the wall. "God, are you my mother? A woman can't drink around this dust bowl? What do you want? I'm already pissed off that no one here can use a god damn computer. Sorting through this pile of crap is a drag."

"I talked with Pyre," I said, looking down and twirling a finger through my hair. The cramped, hot office reeked of stale booze and cheap perfume. I supposed if Capitolians weren't in the Capitol, they didn't have to keep up appearances.

"Great. Have you learned why these whatever gods made humans if ninety-five percent of them are idiots?"

I eyed her with caution. "Does Lucrezia ever tell you much about this when you talk?"

"Terra, hurry up and get to the point before I get an ulcer."

"Pyre's a Peacekeeper. Did you know that all this time?"

She rolled her eyes. "Really? Has Calla named him her successor, too?"

"It's not some stupid idea!" I protested, leaning forward over her desk and knocking a few papers to the floor with my elbow. "He showed me himself! He has a place in Redhammer, and he has a crate with Peacekeeper armor in it! And not just usual armor, it's the serious type. The Black Rings. Little black bands around the shoulder. I've never even seen that once here in District 5! So either he killed a guy or stole it, and probably not here, or I'm telling the truth."

"Total crap. Even if you're not shitting me, which you probably are, there's this thing called a black market. Anyone could get anything here if they have money, and I don't know if you're aware, but being a key social figure means you probably have all the money you'll ever need."

"Why the hells would he buy Peacekeeper armor?"

"You know, it's really weird when you people say 'the hells' rather than the singular. Like you've all internalized this polytheism bull. And I don't know, maybe he's giving it to people to blend in. Get info on the Peacekeepers by camouflaging themselves. Kind of like, say, you've been doing for the past several months, if that wasn't apparent?"

I sighed. "Then fine. If you're still guessing, then either I'm right, or you have Pyre and whoever else pretending to be Peacekeepers and getting away with it. Either way it's something serious going on."

"That's even if you didn't just make this up," Xanthia said, clenching her jaw in annoyance. "What? You what me to tell Lucrezia to march in the whole army because a nineteen year-old thinks some preacher's robe or some shit was a Peacekeeper uniform?"

"Go see for yourself! Go sneak into where he lives some day and snoop around!"

"Maybe I will, on my own time, and without you. Unlike Pyre, who can't keep his big mouth shut if you're not lying to me, I'm not about to go letting a teenager in on my day-to-day life, let alone my personal history or god forbid my future."

I stopped before I could mutter a snarky reply. God forbid my future. Whatever that meant. It almost sounded as if Xanthia was more frustrated with Pyre than she was with Lucrezia or me.

"If you're having sneaking suspicions about Lucrezia's trustworthiness," Xanthia snorted, "join the club. She's a spymaster. It's her job to vomit anything but the truth, and if you don't think she has ulterior motives, then good god. Nobody's dumb enough to spill all their secrets. Obviously Lucrezia hasn't told you or me everything, and if you think that's the key to success in intrigue, then maybe you should go find some other way to kill your boredom. Killing small animals, maybe, or abusing drugs. Now get out of here and back to your victor business. I have enough going on without you eagerly running up to spill some new revelation."

/ / / / /

The grassy hills overlooking District 4's Victor's Village gave a clear view of the bay. Mid-afternoon sun sparkled off the deep blue water, the morning fog long since dissipated in the warm late spring air. The great white and red lighthouse loomed large miles in the distance, a stony sentinel overlooking the channel leading in to the bay and District 4's ports. Only small boats lingered in the waters off of the harbor district at this hour. The trawlers and heavy fishing boats still patrolled far off to sea, several hours away from heading home with a full catch of the ocean's bounty. Brown, rocky mounts jutted up from the hilly landscape, and to the east, a great green and yellow plain stretched on between a trio of distant peaks.

Brooke kicked her feet over a cliff on the hillside, scattering pebbles down the rock face. The Peacekeepers didn't bother coming around out here. They looked for dissidents in the downtown, around Manheim's Gulch, and anywhere else where people condensed in droves. Out here by the Village, where civilization thinned out and many more jackrabbits called the place home than people did? There was no point wasting time out here.

She heard her guest's footsteps on the rocks behind her. Brooke had had Wade slip him a note a day before, telling him to meet her out here for a chat. Unlike his parents, Drake Odair still had sympathy for Brooke after all those days and weeks she'd spent looking after him in his early childhood when the Capitol had called on Finnick and Annie for this or that.

Drake didn't sit down next to her. He scuffled his feet and muttered, "What'd you want to meet for?"

Brooke pitched a rock off the cliff. "Friends can't just talk?"

"I mean, I'm pretty sure the Peacekeepers want you. What'd you even do to piss them off? Mom keeps thinking you're going to draw them home."

Brooke laughed. "Don't worry about it. How is your mom?"

"Really? That's what you drag me out here for?"

"Jeez, Drake. Is it 'cuz the Games are a few weeks away? Is that why you're uptight?"

He scoffed and stuck his hands on his hips, looking away off towards the sea. Brooke feigned concern and added, "Hey, I get it. Every other year the academy sends in the kids, but this year it's on you guys. A couple people I know around the Gulch were talking and pinning blame on your dad…it's not really fair. I mean, it's not his fault or your fault you have to pick the tributes this year."

"Yeah, you were helpful with that."

"Come on. I have a lot of friends with kids. If I'd just smiled and gone along with the Capitol's plan and said, hey, these kids have to die, sorry suckers! What would I be?"

"Like the rest of us?"

She stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. Drake recoiled instantly, pulling away from her and scowling. "You can tell me things, alright? I can figure out when something's eating at you. You don't have to play tough guy all the time."

"Piss off, Brooke. I'm out."

"Drake, don't be like that. We've known each other forever. We're both victors. It's not just picking the kids, huh?"

He folded his arms and smoldered, but Brooke knew she was digging away at his fears. Drake put on a good façade – the whole I'm invincible, the golden boy, yadda yadda thing – but he was human, just like any other victor. Just like both his parents. Brooke knew where to push humans to persuade them to see her way.

She folded her hands, bit her lower lip, and said with a voice just above a whisper, "They make you do things there, huh? In the Capitol? Even though it's all the new order and whatnot?"

Drake looked at her with a murderous expression and turned to walk away. Brooke followed right on his heels: "You wonder if they make the other kids do things, too? What are their names – Phoebe, Quintus, Terra, whoever else I missed? It's just the same shit over and over with a new label and a new Snow as president. See, this is why I'm not having kids ever."

"Seriously, Brooke, screw off. I'm going to put my goddamn fist through your face."

"I mean, your mom and dad are good people. They wouldn't want that for you for the rest of your life. So let's say you find a nice girl, you settle down, have a kid or two of your own. Hell, if Finnick and Annie's kid is made to be a tribute, what do you think your kids are going to do? And if they aren't as good fighters as you are…hell, even if they are, getting made to do things for their whole adult lives –"

Drake whirled, balled his fists, and exploded, "What the hell do you want? Did you do this to my mom, too? 'Cuz if so, back the hell off."

Brooke smiled and looked away. "Guys are so touchy. Alright, you can't talk about it. It hurts your pride or whatever. Just, when you have to go to the Capitol again in a couple weeks here, think about it, alright? You have these kids who you and the others picked this year to fight, and you want them to win, but do you really? Knowing what's coming? And what's coming for you, or your future…just think about it Drake. This whole system's just a big shit sandwich. If there's no point to thinking about your future because it's crap, and your kids will almost certainly be Reaped, and you're nothing more than a tool to be waved around by some pretty boys strutting about their pretty city off in the mountains, well, that sucks. Why bother doing all that? Look at me. I'm not."

He waved her off, turned around, and said over his shoulder, "Cool. Go have fun doing whatever you do these days."

"I intend to," she said with a smile.