At long last I get this one out. Thanks everyone for all the recent views – and to the awesome melliemoo and FoxfaceFan1 as always for the great reviews! Getting back into the swing of all things Games-related as the Quell officially makes its Capitol debut.

/ / / / /

Look at how damn important we are.

That's what the towering, maw-like Games Control Center foyer said in its largesse and its finery. Look at us. Look at me. Aren't you so thankful to be here? Don't you feel so damn special? Towering columns, marble, granite, soaring to the frescoed ceiling far above. Crystal skylights letting in the late morning sun, angled just sharply enough so that not a single tip of any skyscraper poked into view no matter from where in the giant room you viewed them. New additions – a pair of small, round fountains dividing the room into thirds length-wise, the water dribbling out from a trio of silver eagles centered in each display. Pleasant scents wafted out of the rippling water at the base of each fountain – lemon, lavender, lilac, berries.

As all the victors and I waited for Galan Greene to give his introductory announcement on our first day in the Capitol, Phoebe, who slouched against a column next to me looking as if she might go crazy if the Head Gamesmaker took another minute before coming out, put it best: "I'm bored already. Ugh."

"It's all part of the drama," Quintus said, sitting on the edge of one of the fountains nearby with typically-quiet Lyric. "Every year it's time to film the action and the excitement. Need to twist the story? Watch as thirty-odd people stand around anxiously with nothing to do! For an hour! Then an encore of another hour! Don't miss this can't-miss television!"

I smirked. Being around the other victors, even for just this morning, reminded me of why I felt so bored so often in District 5. Here I had actual people my age who didn't look at the Games – and my being a victor – with either see-through sympathy, envy, or revulsion. Refreshing thing, if even for just a month or however long we'd be here this year.

Nearby, Drake looked uneasy talking with Roan. For his part, the newest victor himself looked uninterested in chatting, his eyes wandering around the hall, his hands stuffed into his pockets, responding with one- or two-word answers whenever he could. Having only met Roan once, I still wasn't sure what to make of him. I gave him this much credit – him and Haymitch, at least: I'd seen all of the Reapings by now, and out of all the districts, only 12 and 7 had gone with our strategy of picking less-privileged kids to sacrifice to the arena. Phoebe'd certainly gone the other way, with District 10 boasting two of the most brutish kids this year. Drake, Lyric, and Quintus came from districts that always put in contenders, but they hadn't pulled any punches this year, either.

"It's the Head Gamesmaker's way to take a long time, anyway," Quintus droned on as we waited. "I mean, have any of you spent time with him? Paid time, I mean, not just listening to his droll voice gas on about who knows what. He certainly took his time in bed with –"

"Can we just stop talking about that?" I cut in, cupping my hands over my ears. "I don't need to know that."

He shrugged. "I see the way you're looking at Drake over there, Terra. There's only one route to a man's heart. If you want private lessons…"

"She should pick anyone else for that," Lyric finished, inspecting her fingers out of boredom as she did.

"Well that's quite rude. You haven't even seen what I can do, and we live next door to each other. Terra, don't listen to this ingrate. She couldn't even hold herself together on the train ride here long enough to resist punching Gloss after breakfast this morning."

"It was a shove."

One particular person I wouldn't have minded punching in the face also lurked nearby. I hadn't gotten over my animosity towards Achilles McRath even two years after he'd won the 97th Games. He'd grown bigger, stronger, but even though he looked more the part of a District 2 tribute, he had a sort of…intelligence? Wiriness? I didn't know what it was that irked me as he stood in silence next to the victor who followed him, District 1's Lapis. I'd never spoken to her, the small but impossibly quick platinum blonde who'd emerged from the 98th arena with a pretty face and a penchant for ambush tactics. The prevailing rumors speculated she wasn't all there in the head, a thought given credence given that neither Quintus nor Lyric ever brought her up in conversations despite being from the same district.

"And here comes our glorious host," Quintus said with a smirk as Galan Greene walked through the chrome doors that led to the interior of the Control Center. "Time for a round of applause?"

The Head Gamesmaker looked like he heard one in his head at least, because he stepped up to a podium between the two fountains holding up his hands as if to quiet some memory of a cheering crowd. Lyric rolled her eyes.

Galan stood up, arching his back just to tilt his head back another degree or two over the rest of our gazes, and said with a long drawl, "It's so good to see you all again. Another year. Another great Games. And every year, you all and I, we've had such a good run so far."

"Is Caesar Flickerman our new Head Gamesmaker?" Phoebe murmured.

"I'm proud to announce some changes this year –"

"I'm proud to announce I'm ready for lunch."

" – just in time for the Quarter Quell, our most fantastic Hunger Games yet. You heard right everybody. Everything you've done has led to this. Now, if I may…" he said. Galan adjusted his coat's collar as if he prepared to step in front of a camera broadcasting to every television in Panem and went on. "To give all our tributes a level playing field for the hundredth Hunger Games, I've extended this year's training to seven days."

"Great, kill me," Lyric grumbled. "Or learn and train how to kill me over the next seven days."

"We have a special ceremony set up with some of Panem's most famous names on the day after the private sessions," Galan went on, ignoring the murmurs of discontent swirling in the room. "So you'll have two days all to yourselves with your tributes to work out an angle. All the better, right? I know how to treat you guys."

"Like a dog. Like a dead dog. Like a dead dog run over with a truck and then backed over for good measure before being shot with a crossbow," Lyric continued.

"Finally," Galan finished, his smile so broad that it threatened to tear right off of his face, a thought that amused me. "This year and this year only, we're doing something very special. Most of the extension period is for media and dignitaries – it's that kind of year, folks, so added incentive and glory to you if you win – but we've got one special occasion the night before this year's kickoff. Usually we start the day after Cicero and Caesar's big interview night, but not this year. Instead, we're bringing to you the biggest one-night event in Games history. We'll have a formal gala that night, for the most exclusive guests and eyes. That's right, exclusive."

"Every tribute, every victor and mentor and stylist and escort here," he said, looking as if he'd burst from pride despite the mix of bored and angry eyes around the room. "Not only that. Not only that, but also, it'll be held at President Snow's very own mansion. You might even meet her. The most exclusive guests, a chance to show of your tributes in private in front of the biggest sponsors, movers, and shakers you can imagine, and the opportunity to show one another up and earn pride for your district – what more could you want? How about that?"

Frustrated staring and muffled grumbling gave him his answer. I fought to contain my mixed feelings over the "gala." So Calla'd rebuilt the place – I hadn't been back to her mansion since the explosion three years ago, the assassination that still weighed on me when I was alone and had time to let my mind wander. Then to bring Quinn and Summer there, in front of all the other kids, all the other victors, all the other…those people? The thought of what would happen that night made me shudder.

Galan finished his announcement, but I didn't get the chance to escape the Control Center right away like the other victors did. Haymitch corralled me near the exit, his beard and ragged gray hair looking even older than usual, his eyes more limp and tired than last year.

"This is a fun year," he grumbled as he walked up. His clothes didn't fit him so well anymore, hanging off of his shoulders in more pronounced sheets than in past Games. "Now we have a 'gala.' Excited, sweetheart?"

"I didn't plan it," I mused. "Aren't you gonna take Roan around?"

He looked sheepish. "Pushed him off on the escort for today. Look, I don't like asking favors, so let me just get on with this. This is like the pinnacle of shit situations. I don't play escort very well, so dragging him around while trying to manage a bunch of freaks like our stylists…it's my favorite thing to do, you know, except for every other thing there is to do in this world. Now there's all this Quell drama."

"So don't go to this fancy thing," I said, inspecting my fingernails and hoping this conversation wouldn't last long. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"You know, you're really helpful," he said. "You're like neck and neck with the old President Snow in the race to the bottom of empathy, you know?"

"You're neck and neck with Galan Greene in getting to the point, Haymitch."

He looked towards the door and gritted his teeth. "The kid says some weird stuff, okay? Alright, he's got a lot going on upstairs, but I can't relate to it. It's like trying to talk with a computer while pulling your nose hairs out and enjoying it. I'll actually have more fun trying to mentor then showing him around all that new victor stuff."

"He was talking with Drake just now. Just let him show him around, then."

"Yeah, I overheard that conversation, and Little Odair was doing a pretty bad job hiding his contempt. I'm not giving him to the Careers –" Careers. Hilarious terminology from District 12. " –either, so c'mon, sweetheart. I'm old. Take a little pity on an old man."

I rolled my eyes: "If I'm the President Snow of empathy, how am I supposed to take pity on you?"

"Is this like the new fad where you're from? Let's try to piss off everyone as much as possible?"

"Well, I mean, you could be a little clearer. What do you want me to do, exactly? Just tell Roan, hey, this is a chariot parade? I think he's probably watched television before."

"I don't know, I'm not a damn escort. Just – how about tonight you just stick with him for the chariot parade. Give him some company, because I'm not good company at these fancy events and you can at least keep up appearances with these Capitol people."

More than you know, Haymitch. Fine. If he just wanted me to sit with Roan through the parade, whatever. Our conversation left us the last two in the Control Center foyer with everyone else hurrying out, however, leaving me easy prey for Galan Greene's wandering eyes.

"Just the person I wanted to get alone!" the Head Gamesmaker cried as Haymitch beat a hasty retreat. I groaned inside and prepared for the worst. "You're a little more in the know than the others, I'm guessing."

Faking my best smile, I said, "Not really."

"Oh, of course," he said, waving me off like I was joking. "I suppose you're the most excited for the gala. Home turf, as it might be, given that the president's daughter has taken a liking to you ever since you've been here. It's all for the money of course. Tributes aside, think of how much of the money we'll bring in from sponsorships? It's a mountain."

"Which is just going to the tributes."

"Oh, of course," he said, winking. "But really. I want to ask you for a bit of a favor, given your, uh, somewhat unique situation as a victor. Taurus wants a meeting tomorrow, and I wanted to catch you before then."

I had a bad feeling about this, much worse than the favor Haymitch had asked of me. "What do you want?"

"It's a bit of a professional hitch," he said, licking his lips. "That unkempt sloth Julian Tercio has been getting on my case as of late, pestering me over this and that. Funding and budgets he cries one day, excess he cries the next. It's as if he doesn't want these Games to be a great success. Every time I suggest something fantastic, he throws a fit. Maybe it's his terrible job weighing him down, but the man's a loon. I know he must have it out for me out of envy – any man who had to maintain streets and sewers and tunnels would – but it's getting ridiculous, and he brings it up all the time. I can't much petition any of the others you're familiar with – Taurus, Lucrezia, obviously not Cyrus – but you're good at talking with these people. Just try and find out what his deal is, if you can."

He paused as if in thought, raised his hand, and said in a lower voice, "And if you can find any dirt on him, too, I'd be grateful. Everyone's had it with Julian. It wouldn't be much of a loss if he took a tumble. You know. I might be grateful enough to…well, you're a beautiful young girl, and I've got a spacious place here in the downtown. I meet even show you around it. I've a bed that reaches from wall to wall. Thirteen individual chandeliers above it."

Hiding my revulsion was a tougher feat than winning the Games. From the moment he finished, I decided I had no intention of helping the Head Gamesmaker. He didn't need to know that, however – and I did want to know what Julian might make of this little task. Galan might have been on point with the "unkempt" description of the Capitol's administrator, but I'd always gotten along alright with Julian, despite his almost complete lack of etiquette. One thing at a time, however.

"Sure," I lied to Galan. "It's an important year after all. Gotta make sure everything's right so my tributes have the best chance at success, right?"

He chuckled. "Well. I'm not so sure about going that far, but…stranger things have happened in the Games, hm?"

Stranger things indeed. The thought crept into my head that maybe, maybe, there might be something worth helping – or faking helping – this idiot for. He was the Head Gamesmaker, after all, and money wasn't the only thing that could buy help in the Hunger Games.

/ / / / /

"You're gonna go hang with him? He's, uh…he's a bit out there, Terra."

I frowned at Drake and crossed my arms. The crowds had already filled the Avenue of the Tributes to the brim, the music played from great sets of drums and long brass trumpets, and gold and red fireworks rained color across the night sky. A handful of other tributes scattered throughout our cordoned-off area of the stands near the City Circle – Phoebe, Quintus, and Lyric in one pack, Achilles and Lapis off to the rear of the cordon, Johanna, Cecelia, Finnick, and a few older victors nearby. Only one victor stood alone, Roan, propped up on his elbows leaning forward on the front metal railing overlooking the street where Quinn, Summer, and other kids would soon come rolling down, swathed in ridiculous getups and pushed along in their gilded chariots.

"You're really nice," I told Drake with a scowl. "You're mad I'm gonna go talk with someone else for tonight?"

He shrugged and glanced back at Phoebe. "Quintus already had one of the avoxes get us drinks. You're gonna make us drink without you?"

"Maybe I want to be sober for a night. Wow."

"No, like…" Drake let his words trail off. "I was talking to that guy earlier back when the Head Gamesmaker was doing his intro, and he's – uh, not really all there. Like one of those victors, you know. You ever seen those two older ones from District 6, strung out on morphling and all?"

I was getting fed up with him. Maybe I was just hanging out with Roan to do Haymitch a favor, but Drake didn't have to take a dump on the kid in his first Hunger Games as a victor. "Are you that desperate not to miss me for all of the next thirty minutes or an hour or whatever when I'll be…ten or twenty steps away from you?"

He rolled his eyes and forced an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Poop on the party. See you, Terra."

"See you" meant Drake wandered all of a dozen feet or so to where Phoebe chatted with the others. There was something in his voice that bothered me, like he didn't want me talking with the new guy out of some annoyance. What the heck was that about?

Drake shot a dark look my way as I wandered up to Roan. The new victor from District 12 didn't so much as flinch at my presence, only watching the street, watching the stands, the throngs of people in all their colors like so many mismatched puzzle pieces in some writhing, psychedelic amalgam. The smell of sulfur from the fireworks merged with the perfumed air piped out of vents in the stands, swirling into an unpleasant miasma that tingled my nose. Between the smell, the explosion of color, movement, and light going on all around me, and the banging of drums and blaring of trumpets, my brain's sensory inputs threatened to short-circuit.

After an awkward moment of silence between us, I did my best at jumpstarting a conversation: "They'll probably be out soon. Everyone just loses their minds over the chariots and it's kinda stupid."

"Yup."

Not even a look my way. Damn. "Did, uh, did Haymitch show up with you and show you around this stuff?"

"Nah. The escort did. He's in the Training Center."

Pshew. Getting a casual conversation started with Roan involved pulling teeth. A lot of me wanted to smile in defeat and retreat back to Drake and the others. It'd been a long day: I'd barely woken Quinn up in time for breakfast, and Finch, Daud, and I had ended up hurrying through a list of last-minute reminders and notes about the pre-Parade business before we pulled into the Capitol's train station. From there, a rush from place to place – the Control Center, a brief interview, a check-in with two of our more reliable sponsors (already), then getting ready for this whole song-and-dance. I wanted to take a little time for myself before things got really hectic.

I'd told Haymitch I'd hang around with Roan, however. My word meant a little more around the other victors than it did around the likes of the people I found myself around most of the time, the likes of Pyre, Lucrezia, Calla Snow, and ninety-nine percent of people back home. I actually gave a little care about what the victors thought of me.

I shifted from foot to foot, searching for something to break the ice. "Long day?"

"Long enough."

"Yeah? What kinda things did Haymitch get you into already?"

He sighed, leaned back, dropped into a seat, and said, "Not enough to make awkwardly breaking the ice interesting."

Alright, come on. "Look, if you want me to go away, just say it. I'm just trying to be friendly."

"Fine. I ate, I talked to people, I walked around, and I pretended to smile. Great conversation starter," he said, looking irritated, his brow scrunched.

The great doors at the bottom of the Remake Center rumbled open, the crowd roaring in anticipation, the music building, all as the holographic projectors lined down the avenue revved up, ready to project each tribute's image for the whole country to see. Anxiety bounced around my gut like a collection of toddlers giddy at the sight of an elaborately-decorated cake in the bakery windows back home.

"I guess watching like this is all kind of stupid," I said, more to myself than the Roan. "This doesn't even matter that much. The scores and the interviews and your own pitching does all the work in sponsorship duty."

"It's the delusion that counts," replied Roan. He didn't make eye contact, didn't even look towards the Remake Center as District 1's chariot's horses pulled into view, a pair of bright, starry white mares.

Jazz. Vim. Big kids, pretty faces, stupid names, nothing else to note. Fantastic job with the selection, Quintus and Lyric. "Why delusion?"

"The teleological dissonance of being down there," said Roan, getting back up and taking a look around at the stands behind him. I doubted he'd even noticed the chariots pulling out onto the street. "That little thought in your brain tells you, me, me, I'm here for a reason. I've got a purpose in the world. I was put here to do something important. Meanwhile, one look around tells you that you're just a statistic. District 1, male. District 12, male. District 5, female. Odds, thirty-to-one, three-to-one, whatever. You start turning mental circles on that chariot as everyone waves at District 1, male, telling yourself that you've got a meaningful reason for being here besides the only real reason of getting sacrificed to the television gods."

"It's not even a Quell or a punishment or whatever anymore," he said, his voice lowering. "For all the idiots in the stands like you and me, it's just stupid fun. No, those kids can't be kids. They're just District 1, male, District 5, female, District 12, male. They're just here for me. Me. They don't have thoughts and feelings, just me. I'm special enough to hold this contest. Just the mental gymnastics of every side of this thing is nauseating. Even for me."

I twisted my jaw as Jade and Jasper from District 2 rolled out onto the streets. He was athletic, the same slim trim of Achilles, whereas she sported the typical bulky and muscular build I'd seen from so many other District 2 tributes. Given the kind of things Quintus had told me about District 1 and the Hunger Games, I doubted either of the first two districts had had much difficulty with this year's Quell twist.

The crowd ate it up anyway. A small section across the street started up a chant – Jade, Jade, Jade – as District 2's female selectee raised a confident, iron fist. Her loose, leather outfit, ostensibly light infantry armor but giving little room for one's imagination of her body, only egged the crowd on more. "So if you were one of those people over there, what do you do?" I asked Roan.

"Assuming I had a choice, which I doubt," he said, "Just not show up."

"A lot of them are obsessed with only what everyone else thinks, so that might not work too well."

"That's the point. You can't change an hour ago, and an hour from now doesn't exist yet. Neither of them is really real. Only now is, so, hell, I might as well live in my own little universe where this isn't happening. If I lived here and had the money and power to do it, sure," said Roan.

I frowned. "That doesn't change anything. It's still going on whether you're here or not."

"Yeah. But it wouldn't be going on in my house or on my television. I don't have to bark or heel like a dog on camera. These people are all doing it willingly. I think some part of them deep down says that it's all stupid and it feels stupid, but they're so trapped in this idea that everyone else has to see them out having fun, the thought that and fear that they can't miss out on every possible activity to brag about, that they get caught up in stupid things like this. It's like a social disease taken to the extreme. I bet if every single one of them but one person lit themselves on fire, that last person would too, just to say they didn't miss out on it."

Hm. That…didn't sound too far off the mark, actually. Maybe he used a few too many big words and went on with ideas that could be summed into a sentence, but Roan had an insight into this stuff. "That's basically a hundred percent of sponsorship-gathering, so…yeah."

"Is that the same thing as hitting your kid and telling it you'll hit it again unless it sings for you?" said Roan, watching as the two kids from District 4 paraded onto the street.

District 4's stylist had gone off the deep end with the costumes this year. I don't know if he or she had wanted to go for the aggressive theme, but both tributes – Ceph and Alari – wore idiotic sea creature costumes. The boy, Ceph, donned a silver and blue suit of a shark that went from head to toe, the shark's head stretching out from his own with an idiotic grin, its tail trailing off of the chariot's rear. Ouch. Alari's was even worse if that was possible, a sort of kraken-octopus hybrid, with orange-brown tentacled arms hanging down from her midsection as she waved sheepishly to the crowd. They looked like tough kids who could hold their own in a fight, but from the way they wilted under the weight of their costumers, I saw their stylists had given Drake, Finnick, and the District 4 party a substantial hurdle to clear.

Roan noticed too: "That's it right there," he said, jabbing his finger at the two kids as if he could spear them with his fingertip. "If anyone actually gave a crap about sponsorship, this wouldn't even be a thing. I'd just put together some analytics, study what made a good victor, what traits, then make a database on incoming tributes based on who fits the appropriate criteria to maximize my chances of sponsoring a winner. Numbers don't lie. Instead people base their ideas on what some eccentric comes up with for a costume, then rides along based on how a teenager adapts to a life-or-death situation in a week. Or two weeks, this year. That's just idiocy: the event."

I barely focused on what he was saying as the District 5 chariot rolled out. Rhea and her stylist team hadn't put in their best effort: Quinn and Summer wore matching cloaks dominated with square silver panels, as if each were a living, breathing solar power array. Red lightning bolts hung off of them at odd angles, floppy and ill-fitting with the skin-tight uniforms. To his credit, Quinn tried his best to keep the crowd entertained: He waved, gave his biggest grin, and pointed out a patron or two in the crowd here or there as he heard someone shout his name.

Thank the Gods Finch was handling Summer. She didn't so much as even muster a wave, folding her hands in front of her, keeping her chin tilted up as she watched the crowd and the other tributes as if seeing it all on television.

Roan laughed. "Your girl gets it. You can't fix a stupid costume. I like her."

At the moment, I didn't. Damn it, Summer. At least pretend to smile.