+ Thanks again for the reviews, FoxfaceFan1 and melliemoo! It's that wonderful time again, Terra begins to pick sides, and things continue to go down around District 13.

/ / / / /

"Two of them behind those trees."

Suleiman shook his head as he watched the District 13 guards through the scope of his rifle. "Four men in their patrols. Every time."

A few steps to the side, Arrian leaned on a tree, squinting in the morning sun and watching as two gray-armored soldiers picked through the overgrown wilderness to the west of District 13's marshes. They weren't bulky or particularly soldier-y, but the guards carried high-powered rifles that could make short work of any probing Capitol spy – or two rabble-rousers, in the case of Suleiman and Arrian.

"They're bait, then," said Suleiman's protégé. Arrian hissed the words through gritted teeth. He had no love for these people. They were the cowards, after all. Worse than the Capitol, worse than the districts. "They're looking for yesterday's patrol." For good reason, Arrian thought. Yesterday's patrol had been transformed from four men into many bits of men strewn throughout a particularly dense grove in the woods.

Suleiman handed Arrian his rifle. "Our friend might have found the other two by now. If not, keep an eye out for them while I go have a talk.

Arrian watched his mentor pull out a pistol as he disappeared into a thicket. That gun, always that gun. Ashen, old-looking, like some sort of relic. It wasn't any modern Capitol pistol with any holographic sight or recoil reducer, but Arrian had seen it enough times in action to respect Suleiman's sidearm. Envy it, even.

He wasn't here to admire his mentor's gun, however. District 13's citizens defended their home well, so attacking it meant picking away at its defenses – patrol by patrol, man by man. Suleiman guarded his reasons for all this, and the reasons of those who he listened to, but Arrian knew better than to probe. Suleiman had given him all this already, and a street boy from Auburn's Belly couldn't ask much more than to help accomplish something significant, even if that significance still evaded him.

Hao!

Suleiman's gun howled. The left guard dropped, his armor useless against the high-power bullet. His companion dropped immediately, rolling behind a tree and fumbling for his belt. To the left! Arrian spotted the missing other two guards sprinting out of the woods at the mournful cry of Suleiman's pistol, their own weapons at the ready. The foliage shook as one fired – crack! The bullet zipped through the underbrush, a wild shot far wide of either Suleiman or his protégé. Arrian trained his scope on the man's chest just in time to watch him die.

The forest exploded as a giant mutt roared out of the tree line, snatching Arrian's target in its canine jaws and hurling the guard twenty yards headfirst into a tree trunk. The beast was a giant, slender yet muscular, halfway between a nine foot long hyena and a greyhound missing the fur. Angry, fleshy red skin covered it from its burly head down to its wiry ankles, with long, wedged, ripping claws jutting out at odd angles from its feet. Tiny black eyes dotted its boulder of a head, far too small for the maw-like mouth that snarled at the other guard as he dived out of the way of the beast's swiping paw.

Knowing what awaited the doomed soldier, Arrian wheeled back on the original survivor. The soldier had taken cover behind a tangled mess a roots. He held a finger to his helmet, speaking to someone back in the district, Arrian assumed. Good. Let them come find the carnage a little too late to help.

After pausing for a moment, Arrian sucked in his breath, aimed, and fired.

Crack!

His rifle butt pounded his shoulder. Downrange, the district guard shuddered and slumped down. His hands wriggled and his legs kicked, but Arrian knew better than to take another shot. Post-mortem spasms. Nothing more. A perfect shot.

He turned back to see the mutt blast apart a sapling, sending the last remaining soldier from the district running for new cover. He had almost reached a pair of thick oaks when Arrian fired. The guard stumbled right as the bullet struck where he would've been, and the whizzing bullet spooked him into stepping back. As he did, the mutt recovered and lunged.

The guard couldn't so much as take a step before the mutt pinned him to the ground with one paw. Growling and spraying spittle and mucous everywhere, the mutt clenched its jaws around the panicked soldier's torso, giving one powerful pull and dividing the unfortunate man in two. Blood splashed the forest floor.

Suleiman grabbed Arrian as he ran past. "We should leave before they send a search party," Arrian breathed as he watched the mutt lumber off into the forest, savoring its prize. "Let them find it."

"Good," said Suleiman. "They can come out in greater force and look around all they want. We'll give them a reprieve for now."

Arrian jogged after him, brushing past foliage and twigs deeper into the woods. "What do we do in the meantime?"

"You figure that out. And take care of our pets," Suleiman answered, nodding in the direction of where the mutt loped off. "Their master wants a word with me in the Capitol. And I have other business to take care of there, as well."

"You're leaving?"

"For now. You have enough of a grasp on all this to keep harassing the district," Suleiman said. "I'll be gone for some time. Maybe a month."

Suleiman stopped when the two reached a forest pool. He reached down into the water, splashing a handful of it across his face to wash out the dirt. His pale skin, almost blue in the green light of the woods, stood out as alien to Arrian in this place. Suleiman looked up at his protégé, clenched his brow, and said, "Prove me right about trusting you with this. You've done good work for years now. More and more, I'll need you to make some decisions on your own now. I have places to be. Others to speak with."

Arrian nodded and smiled. Pride. That's what he felt. He could keep an eye on District 13. More than an eye, even. These people were the enemy, and he knew what to do with enemies.

If it made Suleiman proud of him, all the better.

/ / / / /

"Xanthia tells me you and Pyre had a chat."

I hunched over in my chair in my dining room as Lucrezia folded her arms and crossed her legs. I didn't want her here, especially not today of all days, but it wasn't as if I could tell her no. "Yeah."

"And? She didn't give me details."

I folded my fingers in my lap and hesitated. "And I think he suspects something. He's cagey and doesn't tell me much interesting."

"And what does he tell you at all?"

"He keeps trying to convert me into weirder beliefs and stuff," I lied, thinking on my feet. I very well couldn't tell Lucrezia, Hey, there's no way in hell you don't know who he used to be. So why don't you tell me what's up? Besides, my talk with Xanthia convinced me that Lucrezia hadn't kept her in the loop, either. Playing the game for now made more sense than throwing down the gauntlet before I had any real cards in my hand. "Maybe he wants to win over victors or something."

Lucrezia looked annoyed. "If you keep allowing him to get the upper hand, you'll never learn anything useful even if you've cultivated a relationship and convinced him you're faithful. You need to grow a backbone."

She got up and eyed the door. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"I have to be in the Capitol later today. You will be there tomorrow. Neither of us have a chance to pursue this until this Quarter Quell madness is over with. You haven't gotten far with Pyre at all, but he's not making any sudden movements. We can return to this once we return from the idiocy of the Games."

She turned to leave, thought better of it, and said over her shoulder, "I hope you know enough by now to keep quiet about anything going on here should Taurus, Calla, or the others continue bringing you around for council meetings."

What? "Taurus was the one who made me do all this. I think he knows."

"Of course he knows. But I'd rather some of the others not know of our business. That woman who calls herself president in particular."

I don't know what compelled me to speak, whether it was all the months working with Lucrezia and Xanthia giving me the confidence to open my mouth or something else, but I blurted out, "Why is Calla even president when you and the others can't stand her and do most of the work?"

"She can call herself a goddess and still not be in charge of anything," Lucrezia scoffed. "Please, use a little observation for once. You have eyes. We both know it's better that she continues thinking being president means just playing dress-up and attending parties."

She let the door slam behind her as she left. I wanted to ask more questions, but now wasn't the time. Divisions were forming in the council, frustrations boiling over since Creon's death and the three years of Calla's leadership, if her complete abandonment of any responsibility of the presidency but embracing of the status and fame that came with it could be called such. Xanthia, for what it was worth, had apparently kept my revelation a secret. If so, a lot of pieces were in play – and I would need more than a few questions and much more time to figure everything out.

That was for another day, however. Today, I had only one job – show up to the Hall of Justice in the afternoon for the Reaping.

"Reaping." Ha. I wondered what the crowd would be like in the square. Would the Peacekeepers even pile all the children in and around the buildings, force everyone to stand on ceremony even though Finch, Daud, and I had chosen the unlucky two long beforehand? What a horrible drama. Would they jeer at us, or hold their anger in with polite, customary applause?

I suppose it made for good television.

Finch came to get me early in the afternoon. "Have you been watching?" she said, forgoing any sort of greeting. "7 went with the same strategy we did this morning and picked two kids I don't think have much fight in them, but 11, 10, 8, different story. Real big and strong boys, tough, wiry, pretty girls who look like they can run rings around anyone and get sponsors."

"I guess it had to happen," I said with some resignation.

"Well, we're not showing our two the Reaping this year on the train," Finch said. Before I had the chance to add the obligatory, When do we ever? she continued, "Daud already left for the Justice Hall. Let's go."

"You don't want me to get changed or anything first?"

She fretted and twisted the hem of her shirt between her fingers. "I talked with Elan when he showed up earlier. They're doing something different. Don't bother getting dressed up."

"Why?"

"You'll find out. Come on."

Finch led me away from the main thoroughfare leading from the Victor's Village to the downtown, instead taking me off the dusty streets and paths and through the brush and scrub that dotted the edge of the canyon, where the towering rock walls joined the sandy floor. She looked around from time to time as if expecting unwelcome company.

"Is someone following us?" I asked, feeling a shot of nerves. She was making my edgy.

She shook her head. "No. It's just that I don't think a lot of people are happy with this year's arrangement."

Well, duh. Being the ones to pick who would die this year didn't make me feel like I'd be welcomed with open arms out in the square today. Finch, however, didn't lead me towards the square. Once the downtown came into view around a canyon bend and I spotted dozens of children heading towards the Justice Hall and adults filing into the streets to get a clear view of the screens set up around the merchant quarter, Finch led me away towards the cargo and personnel elevators that rose up to the train station.

"Um – we're not going to the square?" I asked.

She shook her head. "We're watching the Reaping from the train this year."

"What? Why?" The Peacekeepers awaiting us at the elevators made me feel more nervous. "Finch?"

"They're just making sure we got here fine," she said, waving them off. "Come on."

Chrome. Crystal. Silver. Velvet. The inside of the Capitol trains never changed, but every year I felt both more at home and more anxious every time I dropped into this pool of luxury. Daud propped his feet up on a shiny metal table while knocking back a drink – his second, if the empty bottle on the table was anything to go by – but his face didn't show any sign of relaxation. His eyes flicked around, worried, annoyed, something, as he watched a television in the train's lounge car.

"Some of these little shits are literate," Daud grumbled as Finch closed the train door behind us, shutting out the dry heat of the afternoon. "Looks like they're taking most of it out on you, Finch."

He nodded to the television screen before I had a chance to ask what he meant. Live footage from one of the surrounding streets near Redhammer played, clearly not something on any publicly-broadcast channel given the content. Five men pitched rocks at a rugged, filled cloth sack effigy of a woman, with loose, red-dyed straw making up the dummy's hair and painted-on freckles dotting its face. A fire licked at the effigy's bottom and stumpy stick legs. One of the men, feeling particularly lewd, jabbed a broomstick at the effigy's privates.

Confederate, read a scrawled-on wooden sign hung around the effigy's neck.

"Think it's the hair," Daud added as one of the men knocked off one of the dummy's stick arms with a well-thrown rock. "Don't know many red-haired women myself around here. You stand out a bit."

"Why are they blaming us?" I protested upon seeing Finch's troubled look. "We were just told to pick kids. We didn't decide to do that."

Daud rolled his eyes as if it were obvious. "Look at the sign."

"'Confederate.' How's what we do any different than everyone who goes to work on the power plants every day to make sure the lights are on in the Capitol? It's just a job. They're just as much 'collaborating' as we are."

"Look at it their way," Finch murmured, her brow still creased with stress. "They see us with money and trotting around in the Capitol while we pick kids to die. It's not right, but they don't know what goes into it. You can't blame them."

"Maybe we should have picked their kids, then," I groused.

Finch scowled and yanked me off to the side of the lounge car. "Terra, don't talk like that. Come on."

"Finch, you're defending these – these drunken inbreds who'd probably shank you if they saw you right now!"

"They're mad, they're worked up, and imagine if you had a son or daughter who might be picked to die by the very people the Capitol touts as victors from your district?

"Well, I wouldn't do that!"

"Those are extremists. Nobody's going to hurt us or anything when we're back. Today's a bad day. It's the Reaping. Use your brain."

Daud cleared his thought. "Elan's up. Back to the tv."

Finch and I glared at each other for a moment before I backed down and sulked off to a chair on the far side of the car. Why did she even bother defending these people? Finch sounded so confident in the goodness of these extremists, but I'd seen enough of Pyre and Valens and the other churchgoers to have my doubts about the nature of some of the people who called District 5 home. All it took to gather a lynch mob was one charismatic leader, and Finch, Daud, and I made as good targets for the public ire as anyone else. Better targets than most, even. The Peacekeepers didn't need to do anything about some idiots burning an effigy of a victor. Who cares what happened to someone who had won the Hunger Games in the past?

Elan had just finished up his usual speech by the time I dug myself out of my bitter, smoking thoughts. Like every year, children packed the town square from storefront to storefront, the age divisions barely even decipherable with the sheer mass of kids packed in the small area. Rather than the glass Reaping bowls of every other year, however, a pair of projectors mounted on individual wooden stands displayed a small hologram before Elan, too small for the cameras or the children to catch but just large enough for him to read off of.

Unlike out on the outlying streets, the kids here didn't make so much as one wrong move. The machine gun nests mounted on the Justice Hall's roof and the combat hovercraft hanging in the sky made sure of that. The cameras here were for real, after all, and the whole country would be watching this. It had to be perfect.

"Our male tribute for the 100th Games," Elan said in his typical respectful, solemn tone that he reserved for the Reaping, "is Quinn Cidaris."

Quinn was just as I'd seen him in the Capitol database. Tall, thin, but he held himself together as he walked up to the podium, knowing he'd been hand-picked for this. He looked down at his feet, but unlike so many of us – myself included – who hadn't kept it together on that long walk before the cameras, he didn't shed a tear. He was almost handsome in a way, even though he could've used ten or twenty pounds and a good deal of help from the stylists and their makeup. Something about him struck me as solemn, his clenched fists and tight lips imbued with a quiet strength. Damn.

The sight made me both approve of and regret my nomination of him to enter the Games. Maybe he'd be a better tribute than I thought, but for a split second – just a moment – I felt a fleeting empathy for the people in the streets who burned the effigy of Finch. Poor guy. Eighteen and on his last year of all this.

In a moment, that thought dissipated. We had to choose someone.

Even more so, Summer Wylie fit her database billing. Avoidant. Cynical. Her dark, tired eyes flitted around the other kids as if she expected one of them to lurch out and attack her as she walked up to the stage. No other emotion flickered across her high, protruding cheekbones and her thin lips. No fear, no despair, no crying, no trying to be strong for the cameras. She was all ice and emptiness. There was something missing in her expression, something childish, human even, that should have been there but wasn't. I had a fleeting flashback to Roan Hawthorne and his existential pessimism. If he was hollowed out by the Games and whatever happened in District 12, what happened to this girl to make her look like that?

Daud sighed as Summer stepped up to the stage, ignoring Elan's handshake. "Here we go again."