Speak Not The Dead

by CragmiteBlaster

Born to greedy Capitol parents kicked out of the grand city and raised to be a medium in the biggest con throughout District 9 history, Lisbeth Trismegistus enters the 126th Hunger Games to put an end to it. For her, it's not just about survival, it's about finding out who she really is. [Victor Exchange 2023]

1. Phase I: The Medium

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games.

Note: Well, well, it's been a while has it not? Basically life pulled a life and I just had things to do and too many of them to have time to write HG fics. X_X But now, it's time for something rather a bit different! I've been part of the SYOT Verses Discord Server for a while and when I saw the Victor Exchange event... yeah, there was about as much chance of me resisting taking part as there was of me resisiting a pint of coca cola in my day to day life. So here we are, the story of Lisbeth 'Beth' Trismegistus and the madlad tale I came up with for her! Be very afraid, we all know / remember what I'm like haha. It seems I've not lost a beat in terms of my inability to keep things short, hence this being split into four chapters rather than being one utterly gigantic oneshot. Anyways, Lisbeth was created by Little Knight Mik / Renardine - hope you enjoy your girl's adventure! There exists a fairly good chance that she won't quite enjoy it. T_T

In terms of timeline and connection to my other works, the victors of Cheating Death all exist here... or, like, existed in many cases. We're jumping far ahead into a timeline where Cato won the 74th Games in a world where he reached Katniss at the Feast right as Thresh landed the killing blow on Clove. Not a good outcome for the sake of rebellion, but perhaps a good outcome for this story existing? We'll see!

Enough outta me, let's get this show on the road!

---

.

PHASE I: THE MEDIUM

"Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim."

---

Across the mahogany table sit Mr. and Mrs. Rothschild. Tired, no, exhausted, you can see in their eyes how they've not slept in a week. Not since the last time they saw me.

They're decent people, really. They work hard on their farm, they always honour a promise, they know how to keep a secret, they're certainly full of tender love and care. At least, I think so?

They also lost their daughter to the Hunger Games last year.

Mosey Rothschild was reaped as District 9's female tribute for the One Hundred and Twenty Fifth Hunger Games, a Quarter Quell. The rule change? Only those who never took tesserae would be eligible. Mosey was the only one of her siblings who hadn't taken any. They took it so she wouldn't have to.

Mosey hadn't even made it past the bloodbath. She'd been knocked out at the start by the club of the boy from Eleven, only coming to after the bloodbath. With only seven deaths the particularly vicious career pack had made her death 'special'. They held her down, spat at her, beat her bloody and chopped off her head with a dull axe.

The consolation, well, if you could call it that, was that none of the careers ended up winning the Games. All six of them, plus the two psychos from 6, ended up on the sharp side of the battle axe wielded by the little girl from 8.

Specifically, the twelve year old, Sock Northsilk, nobody had taken seriously before the Games. The darling 'warrior princess' everybody cooed over like a doll. Out of spite or a desire to live, she'd made them take her seriously.

But I'm getting off track. Mosey died. She's gone. That's why her parents are so tired. That's why they make the trip to Village every Tuesday without fail. That's why they're sitting across from me.

They want to see Mosey again. What can I do but give them what they want? After all, I'm a medium. My parents make sure the district knows it. I can do no less, nor anything else.

"Mosey," Mr. Rothschild says, exhausted. "It's been too long. Too long."

"Daddy, it's been a week," I say, giggling.

"Too long," he says again.

"A day without you on our farm is too long," Mrs. Rothschild says.

"I missed you guys too," I, Mosey, say. "It's quiet, being… there.'

A silence hangs, though not for long. Not when time is so precious. Mr. and Mrs. Rothschild are quick to move around the table, sitting either side of me. They do as they always do, talking about happy memories, better times, the childhood of me - Mosey - and the joy once shared between the Rothschild family.

That's just it. They talk and talk about memories. The past. Times gone by with a person who's not around anymore.

They never once talk of anything recent. Nothing after last year's reaping.

"Remember when the racoon got into the pantry?" Mrs. Rothschild says, laughing so very weakly.

"You bet!" I say. "It ate soooooooo much bread! I thought the little guy was gonna blow up! Well, not little."

A weak laugh. A soft smile. It's all these two can do. On and on they bring up more memories. Mosey's thirteenth - and last - birthday party. A huge game of tag that ended up getting over a hundred people involved. Even simple things like watching leaves falling from the trees.

As always, no new memories. I've heard more than half of these memories before, too.

"We had good times," I say. I trace a hand through my hair - darkest brown, apparently the exact same shade Mosey's was - and curl a lock of it around my finger, just like Mosey always did. "But…"

Mr. and Mrs. Rothschild lean a bit closer. Almost close enough that I can feel their shaky, hurting breaths on my cheeks.

"Mommy, Daddy, what have you been doing since then?" I ask. "Did any more racoons break in? Did Grandpa finish his book? Did my brothers beat the record number of people playing tag? What's been going on? Tell me, tell me!"

My smile is wide, childish, about as innocent as it gets in Panem. The frowns of Mr. and Mrs. Rothschild are the opposite.

"Well… we've… we've been working," Mr. Rothschild says. He can't quite meet my eyes - Mosey's eyes in all but colour - and gazes at the sooth, spotless floor.

"We… we did what we do every week," Mrs. Rothschild says. She sniffles.

"What did you do?" I ask again, widening my smile.

"...We worked and waited for today to arrive so we could talk to you again," Mrs. Rothschild admits. She squeezes my hand, gently so. "We miss you."

The tears trickle freely. Easily.

"I miss you guys too," I say.

They trickle easily because they're real. Not Mosey's. Mine.

We talk and reminisce for the next half hour or so. More memories, all but maybe two I've heard before. Some I've heard in greater detail before compared to now. Sometimes it looks like the Rothschilds are about to smile, like they surely did before reaping day struck them.

But no. Never. They never quite manage to smile. Not a real one. And when it comes time for me, Mosey, to say I'm being pulled back. Taken back to where I'm supposed to be, at least until next Tuesday, their faces fall into a look I can only describe as dead.

Just like that, I'm me again. Not Mosey. I'm Lisbeth Trismegistus, whoever that really is. Whoever she is, it's not Mosey. Whoever she is, she prefers to be called Beth.

The Rothschilds thank me for bringing their daughter back, at least for two hours, while I wish them well until the next time they come back. They assure they'll be back.

Tuesday, it's always Tuesday. The only way they'd stop coming is if they were dead too.

They leave, one slow step in front of the other, and I'm left alone. No voices. No laughter. No crying. Barely even silence. Nothing. Just me and the tidy room that's just a bit too tidy.

Even the clock doesn't tick. My parents thought it would just be a distraction from the main draw.

I'm slow to rise. Slower to look into the mirror upon the wall at the side of the room. Slow because I don't like what I see in there.

I see a skinny, short girl of darkest silky brown hair, a curly little button nose and softest wide almond eyes. I see a girl with bangs cut neat and perfect across even neater and more perfect eyebrows.

I see a girl dressed in what some might call ceremonial garb, loose fitting royal purple robes with all manner of wavy, strange golden patterns threaded in. I see a girl without any muscle at all who hasn't truly worked a day in her life. I see a girl tired of everybody projecting their loss into her over and over and over and over and over…

I see a girl who's nothing but a walking, talking sham. I see a girl who is a liar. I see Lisbeth.

Beyond the lies and the seances, I have no idea who she truly is.

"Next Tuesday… next Tuesday," I clench my jaw as my words tumble out. "Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday! How many more Tuesdays is it gonna be?!"

I already know it's probably the same number of Tuesdays that the Rothfields will end up living to see. Not one new memory will be made in that time. Not one step forwards will be made, and how can it be? They'll always be looking backwards, back to that reaping day that ruined them.

I rear back my shaking fist, but I already know I don't make the punch. I don't have the strength to break the glass, and even if I did my parents would go spare that their meal ticket had a wound.

I'm not their kid, I'm their meal ticket. They're not really my parents, they're more like… well, co-workers.

It all started before I was even born. Before my parents were even living in District 9. Of course, it's hard to say they're truly living in it even now. They hate it here.

But when you come from the Capitol, any of the twelve districts must seem like a downgrade.

It was a common enough story, so they say. Forbidden love. Their families hated each other, but my Dad desired my Mom and she returned that feeling, enough to want to try and make their relationship some kind of modern day Romeo and Juliet, but with a happier ending.

Well, it ended differently than that story from the ancient times. They didn't die. No, they just got kicked out of the Capitol by peacekeepers my Grandparents paid off. They were dropped off in District 9, where they've been ever since.

Not a day goes by where they're not scheming to make their way back home to the Capitol.

That's where I come in.

The girl in the mirror stares back at me, her eyes just as tired, guilty, frustrated and lost as mine.

I'm the one those who have lost a child to the arena come to. I'm the one who brings them back to life for a while to talk to their parents. I'm the one who gives people like the Rothchilds some kind of peace.

It's all a lie. One big lie that nobody even knows is a lie. Nobody but my parents and myself.

But the people of District 9 don't know that. They don't know it's fake. They don't know how hard I have to study to act exactly like their child and know all the right memories, words, faces and all manner of other things. They don't know that my parents have conned them out of their money for the past seventeen years.

Most children around the district have a typical childhood; they go to school, learn how to work in fields and have chores to do around their homes.

They take part in a silly ritual where they send flying lanterns into the sky to help the dead 'cross over'.

Me? I started off being loaned out like some kind of a therapy person for as many as four days at a time. Then it escalated to not so much being kind like the dead kid to being the dead kid in all but my looks. Nowadays I'm the medium at our special gatherings every week to bring back the dead. For extra money people like the Rothchilds can have a special seance, nice and private. I never get much time to be myself because there's just such a demand for me, or for what they think I can do.

Families love it. They love what I can do. They love who they think I become. They don't seem to love me. Oh, they appreciate me well enough, but only for a lie. Only for that they believe I can give to them.

Every year the demand gets bigger and bigger. We haven't had a victor in so long, so every year two more families come seeking the powers they think I have, and I'm forced to lie to them as well. What else can I do?

Telling the truth? I don't think something as simple as family love would keep me safe if I just up and said something to visitors. No way would my parents allow me the chance.

They think I have all the power and fame in the nation. The truth is I'm powerless and I've never made a choice that was mine.

"Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday…" I haven't stopped muttering and I didn't even notice. How long have I been standing here by the mirror?

The door opens without even a knock. It's Mom… no, it's Etteilla. The same person, but she's not really my Mom. Not in the ways the Mothers of those I pretend to bring back are.

"What are you still doing here?" Etteilla asks, words clipped and cross. "We have another seance in half an hour and you need to be ready for it!"

I nod. There's nothing more to say.

"Just look at your robes!" Etteilla complains. "These give you the 'power' to bring the dead back, you know that! So why is there a split string? Look at it!"

I do. I frown. There's nothing more to say.

"Quick, go and get changed into the spare robes. And be back right away!" Etteilla orders me. "The Darts paid good money for their seance and I'm not about to hand it back to them. Spare robes. Return. Seance. Go, go, go!"

"OK," I say. There's no more words to say.

X~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X

By the time the last seance is over the sun's already setting. There's nothing more to do, nothing aside from getting ready to do it all over again tomorrow.

Tomorrow is, of course, Reaping Day. Seances are even more sought after than they already were on such a day.

In our living room I sit at a desk by the window, barely focusing on what's in front of me. All kinds of papers and notes about the dead children I'll have to act like.

Normally I enjoy studying and learning, or at least it never proves a problem. But I just can't focus right now.

I turn away from the multi-dozen paper sheets in favour of a long look out the window.

Wheat fields, so many of them. Big, full of lush wheat, golden under the sun - what wonders a walk through that wheat would do for my mind right now.

I'd run through the field, but I try to be realistic.

I barely ever get to go outside. I'm the meal ticket, the only reason my parents can do what they do, so they can't risk me getting hurt, now can they? I don't think they've ever let me pick up so much as a pile of books before.

Perhaps that's why I'm so skinny and can barely run. Yes, perhaps. Probably. Definitely.

"Get back to work, Lisbeth."

My Father, or Saint Germain. You say it as 'sahn jher-man', but good luck getting almost every single person in District 9 to say it any way aside 'Saint German'. Most people, myself included, just call him Germain.

"OK," I say, looking back down at the papers.

I should at least try to focus. Make a real attempt at learning all the habits of Teorge Braly, the boy from 9 in the One Hundred and Twentieth Games who died by being smashed through a wall of the massive glass maze.

"That's my girl," Germain says, sounding proud of me if you didn't know better. "The best studier of this district. The brightest mind around. My greatest creation!"

It's me that Germain is proud of and moreso what I can do. What I can do for him. What I can bring him - money, lots of it.

Time passes, slow and slower, as I read through more of the papers. More dead children to 'bring back'. More lies. More money.

Rherro Fontain. Sixteen years old. District 9's male tribute of the One Hundred and Eighteenth Hunger Games. Was excellent on the banjo. Killed by the pair from one and two spiked maces.

Summerly Melda. Fourteen years old. District 9's female tribute of the One Hundred and Thirteenth Hunger Games. Knew all there was to know about birds and was all too happy to share her knowledge. Killed by a slit throat by the victor, Tarquinius from District 2.

Asyn Miyamoto. Fifteen years old. District 9's female tribute of the One Hundred and Twenty Second Hunger Games. Smarter than any tribute from District 3 for the past ten Games prior and could recite pi to a hundred and six digits. She died to a swarm of cockroach mutts the size of logs.

Jaxxon Kreller. Twelve years old. District 9's male tribute of the One Hundred and Twenty Fifth Hunger Games. He loved to swim in the creek near his house; he outswam the pair from District 4 easily enough. He was the first victim of the pair from Six and they… what they did ensured that they'd never be allowed to win.

I tear up the pages on Jaxxon. The only place for them is the trash. I need a break, a distraction, something - anything - else to focus on than that.

Germain leaves soon enough, keen to charm more of the parents who've been thinking of visiting us, even approaching us for work. He didn't turn off the TV when he left. I never get to watch much TV, or choose what gets put on when I do. If I could just find the remote, maybe I could find something. Maybe a documentary or something full of facts?

"Where is it?" I mutter as I search between the cushions.

The current programme, whatever it was, comes to an end and something new starts. Some show about ghosts and haunted houses, the drivel I'd never want to watch… well, I wouldn't if not for one little thing.

It's the latest episode of Panem Phantoms. Found footage from the districts and haunted derelicts from the Capitol all the way to District 12. But none of that interests me - on the contrary, it makes me wish all the more I could find the remote.

It's the name of the executive producer that catches my eye. I stare at it, or just at where it was displayed long after it's gone from the screen.

Montgomery Crowley. My Grandfather, on Germaine's side. A family member I've never met and only heard the odd bit and bob of. A man who made his fortune from nothing… literally. TV shows and specials about ghosts, the supernatural and that kind of nonsense. None of it's real, but it turns out a lot of people believe in that stuff or at least love watching it.

The rest of his family - his wife, his three sons he had before Germaine, his in-laws, his grandkids - followed the family business. So many shows, so much footage. I wonder if they ever think about me, or even know about me.

I certainly know about them and think of them often. They're exactly half the reason my parents are here to exploit District 9.

I should just turn this stupid show off. But even if I had the remote, I doubt I would. Where else would I see half of the family I've never met.

I'm not sure how long I watch the show, mostly just staring at it rather than taking any of it in, but it's long enough for Germaine to come back, see what I'm watching and grab the TV remote from the top shelf of a cabinet by the wall.

"What're you doing!?" Germaine snaps, as much angry as lost. "You need to learn those facts! You're my genius, you shouldn't be wasting your time watching some junk by them!"

Off goes the show. Back to work I go. Only now Germaine watches me like a hawk, always muttering to himself. Muttering about moving back to the Capitol any year now.

It's routine, the same as it always is.

But it won't be the same for much longer. Not if, just for once, I have my way.

X~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X

Sleep rarely comes easy. Even if I didn't have seances to prepare for every day, there's no way I'd fall asleep on the correct side of midnight. Not when I share the dorm with nineteen other girls, half of whom never fall asleep easily either.

Once upon a time I had my own bedroom. It's a hazy memory, but I'm at least confident that it was real. It happened. It was a fact I had my own room.

Had.

Years of deceit meant years of money. So much money that, as business boomed, so did a need for space. People kept coming. People never left. Etteilla had the idea to not only move things into a much bigger building, but open up a private school.

Money, money, it's always about the money.

Well, that's why I'm in a dorm with so many other girls. Those who have lost siblings or cousins to the Games.

There would've been two more girls in here, but they died in the arena. One to maggot mutts, the other to a career's bare hands.

They didn't die because they were reaped.

They died because they volunteered for me. One when I was thirteen. One when I was fifteen.

They died because of the power they thought I had and how, if I died, nobody would ever see their loved ones again through me.

They had no idea they died for nothing. Even now, everyone thinks they died for something - for me, or at least for my powers.

That was two more people I had to pretend to be every day for months. Two deaths that felt worse than any of those before, or since. The others would've died anyways, like as not. But Teith and Sara, they would still be alive if it wasn't for this whole circus act.

Village, that's what our group, our school, our whole cult is called. 'It takes a village to raise a child, and it takes a village to mourn a child', they have us say that when we wake up, before we go to sleep and before each meal.

If I died and never heard it ever again, it would still feel too soon.

As usual I've stayed awake past midnight and so have several of the other girls. Most of them, really. No small wonder why. Reaping day looms. I can only imagine what's going on over in the boy's dorm.

I've been silent for a while, just letting the other girls talk. Some put on a brave face, but it's clear they're scared if you look in their eyes or at how they clench a hand against the bedsheets. Some cry and think it's all hopeless, even if they might stand half a chance if they kept a cool head and just worked out a plan.

Some partake in little rituals, like rolling dice, gathering 'lucky' coins or muttering some specific phrases to themselves. If it makes them feel better, then that's good, though I don't see any way it'll make a little bit of difference. Rituals and hopes don't do a thing. Actions and proper plans do.

That's why I've been silent, listening carefully. Slowly, I sniffle here and there. Crying on command isn't just easy, it's been a vital skill to learn. I've made sure to get like this a bit more with each day leading up to the reaping. Enough to make sure enough of the girls have taken note of it, but not quite found it in them to ask me about it.

When I force out enough tears to stain my bed sheets and sob louder than what my hands can muffle, they can't do anything but ask what's wrong. It's exactly what I wanted. What I needed.

"Beth, what's wrong?" one of the younger girls, Rinnia, asks.

"The reaping, obviously!" an older girl, Nat, says.

I count the seconds and the tears. One second and four tears… three seconds and ten tears… five seconds and twenty tears…

"It's not the reaping," I say, sniffling. I rub my stingy eye and choke out another sob. They react as I'd expected - uncomfortable. Sympathetic. They don't tend to see me like this. "It's… well, it is, but it's more than that!"

I turn away from them, fast and deliberate. I must end up blinking twenty times in barely two seconds. Enough for my eyes to burn.

"It's all of you," I say. "Every last one of you…"

Confusion. Unease. Tension. It's all right there on their faces. But is there more? Is… is there anger? Was saying they're the reason I'm crying going to make them mad? I can't think about it now, I can't stop now that I've started.

"I… I just…" I trail off. I need time to let it hang in the air. I need time to phrase it right.

They're hanging onto the silence. They'll hang onto my every word if I can only say it right. I always do. I know these girls cover to cover.

"Teith. Sara. They died for me. They died in horrible pain, for me," I tell them, covering my face. "If it wasn't for me, for what I do, they'd still be alive."

"But you didn't make them do it," Rinnia says.

"Didn't I? They were quite taken by what I can do," I tell her, parting my fingers so she can see my teary, stingy eyes. "They did it because if I died, so would my powers. They did it to keep me alive, so I could keep the dead alive."

I don't let too many words out after that. My cries are much too frequent for me to say much, but I make sure they understand the parts I need them to. How I blame myself for Neith and Sara's deaths, how it's selfish of me to have girls I see as sisters - or so they'd believe - dying for me in the arena, how everybody is hurting so much and how I can't bring back the dead for as long as anybody really needs or wants.

I make sure to only drop the reveal when all but a handful of the girls are getting teary.

"I've done as you and your families want. Allow me something that I want," I say. I allow myself to take a deep breath. "...If one of you girls gets reaped tomorrow, let me volunteer for you. Let me save you so you don't have to be mounted and bought back again and again."

It's about what I expected. Hushed, frantic chatter. Assurances that I'm not selfish but rather selfless because of what my powers can do. Pleas that they and their parents need me. Begging me to not let the miracle die.

It's the oldest of the girls in the dorm, the one who survived her last reaping already, who calms everyone down. Just as I knew she would. Sallan always was a peacekeeper, always the first one to move a foot forth to step between a brewing fight.

"I think we should let Beth do it," Sallan says. "Neith and Sara made their choice. They did what they wanted to. And if this is Beth's choice, if this is what she wants… it's not our choice to make. We can't tell her not to."

They can't stop me either, even if they wanted to. I think that's what goes unspoken. But this way, by asking them to let me, it feels more like their choice. Less like something they have to actively prevent. Because once someone is reaped, anyone else may volunteer and it cannot be undone.

Not even my parents would be allowed to set foot anywhere near the reaping pens.

"But we need her!" Rinnia insists. "We need her to see my brother!"

Sallan shakes her head.

"What we need is to move on. Every single time a family sees their child in a seance, all it does is make them smile for an hour and then they're sadder than ever. It's a gift, but… it's just keeping us locked in the past," Sallan says. "Our families haven't been the same for so long. Mine moved us here so long ago. I haven't seen any of my friends in years."

"Aren't we your friends?" says another of the younger girls.

"That isn't the point," Sallan says. "We need to heal. Really heal. Move on."

"I'm trying as hard as I can," I say, sniffling. My eyes burn bright by now. "But whenever I bring one back, that's not what they want to say."

"And for some of them, it's been years," Sallan continues. "...It'll keep being years. Maybe Beth will end up in the arena. Maybe she'll win and it'll go back to normal. Maybe none of us get reaped and nothing changes. But if one of us is… let's just give Beth this. It's as much for her as ourselves and our families."

"Just… nobody volunteer for me if I'm reaped," I beg. "Please, don't do it."

It takes a while, well into the dead hours of the night, but eventually - after the younger girls fall into a restless slumber - the older girls, the ones with a bit more rational thought in their heads, they all agree to let me volunteer for them. They'll keep everything quiet.

It's a good thing, I think as my head hits the pillow, that Sallan acted exactly as I needed her to.

But, I knew she would. I know everything about her. But she knows so very little about me. Mainly because there's so little to know… no, no, enough of that.

I close my eyes to the thought of how she doesn't know the real reason I'm volunteering.

If the Capitol learns that people in District 9 are looking to a power aside from themselves, that they're seeking comfort and benefit elsewhere, that they're pledging themselves to something sanctioned and alternative, something against the Games, then they'll come for us. They'll kill all of us, painfully at that.

This has to stop.

The only way it can stop is if I'm on TV, on that interview stage.

X~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X

I've always found the worst part of a reaping to be the long walk there. Oh, sure, five miles isn't really that much for most youths in the district, least of all those in reaping age who are no stranger to hard work.

The thing is, I am a stranger to hard work. My feet ache and my legs burn by the time the district square and the justice building are in sight. The tight fitting smart black shoes of Village's student uniform aren't made for walking. Looking around at the others I can tell that I'm not the only one who feels this way. Of course, they all bear it a lot better than I do.

What a sight we must appear to those who haven't managed to hear about Village and what I can allegedly do. It's like a couple dozen people just happened to wear the same outfit for no clear reason; a red blazer with black collar and wrists, a white dress shirt underneath with a smart black tie, black cotton pants for the boys and a back skirt and tights match-up for the girls.

It's an upgrade over the rags a few children around us have had to wear, no doubt, but at least they look unique. They look positively themselves. I don't feel like myself wearing this.

I don't think I could ever work out who I really am when I'm in these clothes.

"Let's hope the escort picks tributes nice and snappy," Etteilla says, right behind me. "We have seances we need to start."

"Alas, there's just not enough hours in the day!" Germaine remarks. "Terrible shame."

"You'll have to cut seances a little shorter," Etteilla whispers to me, quiet enough so only I may hear her. "Half the normal time. Think of anything to cut them short."

"OK," I tell her.

They soon fall in with the crowd, moving off to stand at the side of the reaping square with the crowd of families. I get myself signed in, getting into the pen for the seventeen year old girls. The one place I can just let myself breath.

The irony is none of those near me can breathe. Those from Village fear that, if they are reaped, I'll be on that stage. Those who have no connection to us fear ending up like our tributes did last year.

But there's no need for fear, at least not this year. Not for the girls. Not when I know what I must do. Not when I've known for weeks.

Maybe some fear would be appropriate. Tributes weaker than myself have won, though the fates some of the fallen met…

The bell rings as two in the afternoon arrives. The doors of the justice building open and out walks our mayor, our Escort for the past nine years and our sole living victor. In no time at all they've taken their places. Only the escort appears as if he wants to be there.

Oblivious as always, Periwinkle never changes. He's been our escort for years and only gets more obnoxious year after year. If I had to guess, he craves attention and validation. I guess being the escort for the district that's gone so long without a victor would do that to a person. If we lose, it's like he loses.

Maybe that's why he's taken to having his skin, hair and all of clothes turned such a bright shade of gold. The colour of victory.

He blows kisses and grandly waves to us, eager as always to appear special and someone who is worth the world. He gets nothing, not even a scattered clap.

The Mayor - Lezgeddum I think his name is, I never pay him any mind - anyway, the mayor steps forwards to begin the reaping. It's the same speech he makes every year, about the founding of Panem, the dark days, the insidious rebels, how generous the Capitol is. It's strange to think that nobody believes any of the drivel being read out, but they do so readily believe in the supernatural.

"I swear he makes his speech slower every year," one girl to my left mutters.

"Probably to drag things out. Bastard," another girl beside her says.

It's several minutes of fluff and history written by the winners later that Mayor Lezgeddum gets to the reading of the victors. Now, it's hard by default to win the Games and extremely hard for a tribute from District 9 to stand half a chance, but some found ways to beat the odds anyway. Some would call them lucky. I'd say luck had nothing to do with it; they made the right choices at the right times, and benefitted from the mistakes of others.

Luck isn't real.

Anyway, in the previous one hundred and twenty five Hunger Games we've had a total of six victors. Nowhere near the most, but not the least either.

Mizar Aldjoy, Victor of the 1st Games. Deceased.

Gwenith Rosebud, Victor of the 2nd Games. Deceased.

Teff Withers, Victor of the 28th Games. Deceased.

Laurel Flamsteel, Victor of the 36th Games. Deceased.

Tabbock Summers, Victor of the 43rd Games. Deceased.

Blossom Underwood, Victor of the 98th Games. Alive and seated quietly on the stage. She doesn't look at the crowds, content to try and make herself invisible as possible.

No chance of that. The more someone acts nervous, especially so blatantly, the more they stand out. People who appear to have something to hide always do.

She wouldn't be able to hide anyway, not with her red hair being such a fiery beacon.

Soon enough it's me who won't be able to hide. Already Mayor Lezgeddum has ceded the stage to Periwinkle and taken his seat.

Periwinkle bounds forth, chattering over how happy he is to be here and how he'd be much happier to have two young people join him on stage. A few girls shudder, a few snort. I'm not so sure how to react to that, so I don't. Not much. I just copy the shudder of the girl in front of me as best as I can.

So, naturally, I copy it perfectly.

"The time has come to select our darling tributes," Periwinkle says. He bounces on his heels. He really shouldn't; it serves no purpose and it's obviously a put-on. "Who could it be? Who will it be? Oh my oh my!"

How am I supposed to respond? I don't know. None of the girls near me seem to either. If they don't know then how can I?

Periwinkle skips over to the reaping bowl on the left, trilling out something or other about ladies first. It's not as if it makes a difference, the reaping only ends when both tributes are selected. It's just another way he can ensure all eyes remain on him.

Sure enough, he's taking his time slowly digging around deep in the reaping bowl. Some would call it dramatic, but it's much too forced for me to do such a thing.

Soon, but not soon enough, Periwinkle has a slip in his golden hand and hastens to read it out to the audience.

"Rinnia Smart!"

Over in the thirteen year old girls pen Rinnia begins to move to the stage. She's in tears, but she's not shaking with fear. Not quite. Not for herself. She turns as she passes the pen I'm in, looking at me with such heartbreak.

She knows what's about to happen, and so do I. It's perfect. All too perfect.

Periwinkle doesn't seem enthused to have reaped such a young tribute, but he fakes his enthusiasm pretty well. He draws from the facts as best as he can, claiming that if Sock could win the Games at age twelve, then it's obvious that Rinnia can win at the age of thirteen.

But Rinnia doesn't say a thing. Not a word. She's still looking at me. Periwinkle tries to follow her vision, but he can't quite pick me out from the crowd. He will soon though.

He will right now, because he asks if anybody would like to volunteer. You can tell by his tone that it's something he says because it's part of his job to ask, not that he thinks anybody would actually do it. In all one hundred and twenty five years of the Games, we've had exactly two volunteers. One of them sits on the stage. The other was Gwenith, who died peacefully many years ago.

Well, as Germaine sometimes says of our money making ventures, you ought to do nothing in life twice… you should do it thrice.

"I volunteer!" I yell. Did they hear me? I never yell unless a seance requires it. That… didn't feel normal on my throat.

Silence. Nothing but silence in this overcrowded reaping. Everyone around me, whether they're from Village or not, stares at me. Shock, amazement, horror, bewilderment - the variety is really something.

I remain blank as I make my way up to the stage. How should I act on the way up? I've never seen a tribute from District 9 volunteer. I suppose the eagerness of the careers from 1, 2 and 4 would be out of place. But fear won't work; why would a volunteer be afraid?

I can't work it out, so I settle for a blank face. If I'm not showing anything, then I'm not showing the wrong thing, right? Periwinkle doesn't seem to mind. He's bouncing on his heels and wildly applauding as I make my way forth to stand beside him.

Rinnia is crying now, really crying. It's all I can do to give her a nod and gesture for her to head to where her parents stand at the edge of the square.

She hugs me before she goes, gone before I can think of returning it or not.

"Well, well," Periwinkle says. "It's not everyday we have such a brave, charming volunteer! What's your name, dear?"

"Lisbeth Trismegistus," I tell him. "...Beth is fine."

"Well, Beth, tell us your story!" Periwinkle exclaims. "Why the Hunger Games? Why now? What's brought you into this lovely stage with me?'

It's easy to know what to say when I've had a chance to rehearse. When I know what is expected. When I know what is needed.

"I couldn't do it. I won't do it. Not anymore," I say. I think of all the tears families have wept, using it to force out a few tears of my own. "I couldn't let a sister die."

"Oh! Was she your sister?" Periwinkle asks. "Oh, but the different surnames. Oh my! Half sisters perhaps?"

"Not that kind of sister," I tell him. "We live together. Us and many more. They'd do anything for me. Two times before they've given their lives for me. On this very stage."

I wait for him to take the bait and catch the hint. He isn't getting fast enough for my liking.

"Neith. Sara," I remind him. "Two years ago. Four years ago."

That's when it clicks. Like a horse led to water he gets there eventually, his golden eyes widening like he's only just noticed me.

"So that's why you were so familiar!" Periwinkle declares. I don't know if he thinks he'll fool a single person into thinking he had any idea of that, but I play along and let him think so. "Third time's the charm, huh? I finally have you all to myself!"

"Yes," I say. "I couldn't let another sister die for me. I couldn't let them die away from their families. This time, I wanted to save one of them."

"There's few things more noble than laying down your life for family," Periwinkle says, as if he's said something profound. "Let's give her a round of applause folks!"

There's a scattered applause, but it's barely there. Nobody knows what to make of the district having a volunteer.

I'm silent as Periwinkle picks a slip from the other reaping bowl. I don't pay him any mind, whoever my district partner is my goal is still the same.

The cameras are much more obvious when you're up on the stage. I look right at them - it's better, I find, to know you're being watched than not know if a camera is there or not - and on the screens set up around the square I see my face displayed for all to see.

Aside from the tear stains my face is blank. Nothing.

"Nust Hendrick!"

A boy steps out from the eighteen year olds section. Tall, skinny, patchy hair. Composed, but his fingers are shaking. Several boys who stood near him don't look happy, they appear mournful. He must've been the popular sort.

He's about halfway up the stairs to the stage when someone lunges out of the fifteen year old boys area, screaming like a madman. They wear the same uniform as me, aside from the skirt. What're they doing? Already the peacekeepers are making a run at the frantic boy.

"I VOLUNTEER!" the boy screams. "I do! I do ! I do! I volunteer!"

If the square wasn't shocked before then it certainly is now. The crowds are slack jawed and silent. Even Periwinkle is stumped for a moment; a double volunteering in District 9 is unheard of. But here it is, happening all the same.

The peacekeepers back off as the boy sprints to the stage. Almost forgotten by now, Nust quietly makes his way back to his friends who all pat him on the back.

The boy comes to a stop on the stage, breathless and agitated. He doesn't look at the crowds though, he looks right at me. He keeps on looking, even when Periwinkle asks for his name.

"Falcon Little," he says.

Periwinkle tries to dig a bit deeper, get some reasons for his frantic volunteering out of him, but he doesn't get much when Falcon is frazzled and still looking at me. Periwinkle declares that it's a mystery that'll have to be answered later.

Why? Why did this boy volunteer? Did the boys have a plan of their own for the reaping? Did he make a plan all by himself? I can't say I'm sure what to make of this boy and his choice.

I've seen Falcon before, much like I've seen all of the students at Village many times over, but I can't say I know him super well. He lost his sister - Field Little - in the Games two years ago, but he never spoke much whenever he came to a seance. He never spoke much outside of them either, whether in free time or in class.

The most that I've gotten to know of him is how his bright blonde hair stands out in a dark room, how he was well off enough before the Games struck his family to have never missed a meal in his life and that he's often on edge. His twitching has gotten worse since he lost his sister, but he always did have issues keeping still.

Just what could bring a boy like that into the arena?

I'll find out later, I'm sure. Mayor Lezgeddum finishes reading the Treaty of Treason and we're herded inside the justice building by the peacekeepers.

Periwinkle watches us go, giddy as you please. But Blossom, she's staring at us with wide eyes and a lot of thought - she's giving nothing away. What is she thinking?

We've caught her interest, that much I know.

X~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X

My home is fancy, of course. How could it not be with the sheer profits Germaine and Etteilla bring in with their business? But the sitting room of the justice building is something else.

Flawless glass table with a sheen that seems eternal. The softest sofa and even softer feather filled cushions. Paintings on the wall, ranging from imagery of fields to something much more grotesque like mutts goring tributes.

One painting shows what appears to be a deformed car sized foetus eating someone on the younger side of the reaping age.

I make sure to take down the painting and stuff it under the shag rug.

That's about the time Germaine and Etteilla barge into the room. Germaine is torn between being at a loss for words and shouting all the words he knows, while Etteilla settles for reading me the riot act.

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!" she screams, spittle flying upon my forehead. "You… Games… arena… death… we need you! We can't do this without you!"

She's so mad she can't speak. To an outsider it might almost come off as anger born out of worry and love, like they cannot go on without me. Like the families who come seeking a seance. But no. It's the seances and the scam; they can't keep it going without me. I'm the medium, not them. That was never part of their plan.

They can't mimic like I can.

They can't lie like I can.

They can't lie like I'm about to.

"What made you think this was a good idea?" Germaine says, able to get his words out just that little bit better than Etteilla can. "Look at you! You're my pride, my joy, my best creation - the peak of my work! But you're not…"

He struggles to say anything for a moment or two longer before he throws his arms skyward.

"You're even less built than the tributes that come out of Twelve!" Germaine exclaims. "How will you survive? How will you swing a sword?"

"How will you kill?!" Etteilla screams. "Explain yourself! Right now!"

"I… I…" I hold the pause just right. I sniffle just the right amount. I let the tears flow. "I couldn't keep on doing this! I couldn't take it again! I… I couldn't keep letting all my sisters, all my friends, die for me!"

I huddle up on myself, tears pooling from my eyes down to my cheeks and off to my skirt. It's easy enough to lie to new people based on a few hours of research, so, naturally, lying to two people I've known for my entire life is simple.

"You heard me on the stage," I choke out. "I can't let another person die for me! I've already lost two sisters because of being me! They gave their lives for me! And every year, I… I h-have to b-bring a-another sister back! A brother too! It's t-t-too m-m-much!"

Through the blinding flood of years I can see anger give way to confusion, a little hesitance and something resembling intrigue.

"I j-j-j-just wanted to spare one family the pain. Save one of them so they don't need to be bought back in the first place…" I finish with barely a whisper. "I just wanted to keep one of them alive this time."

They're silent. Silent like never before. They exchange strange looks with each other, like I'm not here. But their eyes always come back to mine, before they look at each other again.

"She bought into it too well," Etteilla mutters to Germaine.

"I knew we were good, but this good?" Germain mutters right back to her.

They drop their anger. They don't want to, and clearly they have plenty more yelling they'd like to get done. But time is of the essence and they're almost out of it.

In what might be the last time they see me, they make their choice… they choose to make this into another opportunity.

"Give us a shout out," Germaine says. "The more business across the district, the better! Let everyone know!"

"We can't benefit from that if our medium doesn't come back," Etteilla says. "So, you will be coming back. You're a good study, so study everything and everyone. A victor and a medium all in one, just think of the potential. Think of the caps!"

"The stipend a victor earns truly is something," Germaine agrees. He turns to me just as the doornob begins to turn. "Make allies. Learn the skills. Come home a rich, famous victor."

"...OK," I say.

A peacekeeper enters, leading them out for their time is up. They leave, already making plans for what comes next and changing what they had planned as recently as this morning. There can't be a seance if the medium isn't home.

I wonder if either of them have any idea of just how badly things would backfire upon them if I gave them a shout-out in the way they want and not the way I plan.

Do they not know just how hard the iron fist would come down on them? On me? On everyone? There'd be nothing left of us.

I don't get to be alone with my thoughts for long or make any kind of a plan for the Games. Not when all the girls and several of the boys from the dorm come in. There's barely enough space for them to fit. A few find space to sit, but most have to settle for standing.

"I'd have gone on there if it meant saving you," Rinnia tells me, as teary as I am. The difference is that her tears are real. "B-b-but… thank you."

"It was what I had to do," I tell her. Not really a lie.

None of them want me to die. All of them, without exception, want me to win. It makes me wonder just what they think of Falcon and the possibility that he could come back, but I get neither the time to dwell on it nor the chance to bring it up. Not when they're all offering up whatever advice they can think of.

"Just hide all the time!"

"Kill everyone while they're sleeping at the training centre!"

"Offer to bring back the gamemakers' dead family members so they rig for you!"

"Destroy all the water and out-thirst them, we'll sponsor you!"

It goes on and on. I don't get to say anything to them. Their advice is well intentioned, that much I know, but they all want the same thing. They want to save Lisbeth the medium.

"If you die I'll never see my brother again!"

"If you die I'll never see my sister again!"

"Come home; I need to tell Asyn I love her!"

They don't want to save Beth. She's nothing.

X~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X

A car drives us from the justice building to the train station barely a mile north. Periwinkle chatters nonstop between us, all of a flutter over having gotten two volunteers.

He's the only one speaking. The peacekeeper driving the car says nothing, nor does Blossom in the front passenger seat. Our mentor just sits silently, watching the district fly by.

Falcon, too, says nothing. But every so often I catch him looking at me from the corner of my eye. I don't turn to him, I don't let on that I know he's looking, but I keep in mind the fact he is. The way he looks at me, it's nothing hostile - in fact, quite the opposite - but it's… it's a little more than just worry or curiosity.

I don't like not knowing what it is. Why? Why did he volunteer?

I switch off, just letting things play out as they may and letting peacekeepers and officials guide me forth one command at a time. First we get out of the car. Then we pose for some photos.

A lot of photos. Far too many than I think are really needed. Perhaps it's just because of the sheer novelty of the district's very first double volunteering?

I try to smile for the camera, because what else is there to do? I don't let myself smile too widely though, not when I'm meant to be overwhelmed, all overcome with emotion, far too overcome with guilt to let another sister to die. No, strange as it sounds, tears and a weak face is what's best for me right now.

I barely even notice when we're finally led onto the train. I barely even recall being led into the fanciest dining area I've ever seen.

I only care to claim the comfiest looking armchair in the carriage and let myself collapse right into it. If I had my way, I'd never get up from it.

I sit, sit and sit some more. It must be over an hour before I finally realise that the train is surging down the rails and the rest of the District 9 team has settled, and want for me to join the conversation.

"Huh? Oh, sorry… I was in my own world," I say.

Periwinkle just smiles, like he's seen this all before. Being our escort for years, in all likelihood he no doubt has.

"Oh, it's quite alright. That was certainly an exciting reaping after all," Periwinkle says. "Two volunteers! Two! I believe we have the odds in our favour for a victor this year!"

He gives Blossom, seated silently on her own armchair, an almost teasing grin. She doesn't return it.

"After all, every time District 9 has had a volunteer a victory has followed! Why should this time be any different?" Periwinkle continues. "Why indeed?"

He pauses, cracking his knuckles.

"We'll be served the finest of food in a few minutes, so we'd best be cracking right on with mentoring if we're going to be staying on schedule," he says. "This is the part where I hand things over to Blossom - she's here to help you both and turn one of you into the next victor of the Games! Not that you brave volunteers will need help, right?"

He winks at us. I don't say a word. Neither does Falcon. If Periwinkle is put out by this then he doesn't show it. Not much.

"There's no need to keep secrets during the Games, so feel free to tell Blossom anything you'd like. Your skills, your plans, your interests - anything could be helpful, so don't be shy!"

At last Blossom turns to us. I've never really seen her Games, just the odd clip here and there that they play on TV - something about her being the district's pride and joy, being our only living victor - but from what I understand she made the Games look easy.

How? How can this shy, skinny woman with hair that's so bright and fiery it must have been tended to by Capitol cosmetics, how can she have won the Hunger Games and done so in a way that made it look 'easy'?

She moves her long, silky bangs aside. It's eerie having her stare at us. I'm used to building a profile on another person, of course, but having the same done on myself? I decide to let her be the first one to talk. I can't say I have any idea what to say.

"Volunteers," she says, quiet and a little disbelieving. She glances at me for a moment. "I know why you volunteered. We can work with that."

She turns to Falcon, curious. He's still a little twitchy, but a lot more composed now than he was back at the reaping.

"Why did you volunteer?" Blossom asks. "You didn't really say, and you didn't seem to know the boy who was reaped?"

"I didn't. I don't," Falcon confirms. "I had no choice. Someone had to do something. It had to be me. Nobody else was gonna do it."

"What do you mean? You had no choice?" Blossom repeats. "You would've died if you hadn't done it?"

Something changes in her eyes at that. Hmm… interesting.

"No, not me," Falcon shakes his head. He points to his left.

Wait, why is he pointing at me…?

"I'm here because Lisbeth would die if I hadn't done it," he says. "All of them would be gone forever. I… I can't let that happen."

"All of them?" Blossom repeats. "What do you mean?"

"All the fallen tributes," Falcon says. "Lisbeth channels them. She brings them back. She lets their families talk to them again. If she died then they'd never come back… my parents wouldn't see my sister ever again. At least this way I can be brought back every now and then to check in, see what's happening."

He gives me a smile. I'm too horrified to even know what face to put on. He… he volunteered to save me - he's thrown his life away, and he doesn't even know it yet.

I volunteered for what I must do, and I saved a life in the process… but now I've not even done that! My parents brainwashed him - I brainwashed him.

"So, Beth… she's a, uh, psychic?" Blossom asks, confused.

"Ohhhhh, how exciting!" Periwinkle says, clapping. "Any chance you might be able to bring back Grandpa? I've missed his ramblings dreadfully."

"It… doesn't quite work like that," I manage to say. "They have to want to come back, and even then…"

"It only works for people who died aged eighteen or under," Falcon recites. "Lisbeth has to be in her proper ceremonial outfit. Usually it's done around or after sundown."

"So… Grandpa's not coming back?" Periwinkle asks, disappointed.

"I'm afraid not," Falcon says.

"...I would if I could," I say.

Blossom looks between us. More to the point, she looks at our clothes. The way they match almost perfectly. Something else changes in her eyes.

"That's a uniform," Blossom says. "I've seen kids in the reapings wearing that for a few years now. I thought it was a fad. It's not a fad though, is it?"

"You're right, it's a uniform," I tell her.

"Everyone at Village wears it," Falcon explains.

We - mostly Falcon, I'm still too horrified by the reasons he volunteered - explain what Village is, what the seances are and how it's all come together to help the families who lost children.

Periwinkle seems charmed by the idea.

Blossom looks more and more uncomfortable with every passing moment. Her already pale face has gotten a few shades paler.

"That sounds exactly like a cult," Blossom says, bluntly.

"It's not a cult," Falcon says. "We're a community. We get to see our loved ones again thanks to Lisbeth, her parents and what they've done for us; giving a little back just makes sense. We lost people getting here, but Village is how we can see them! It takes a village to raise a child, and it takes a village to mourn a child."

Blossom's expression doesn't change one little bit.

"That's a cult," she repeats.

"It's not a cult!" Falcon snaps. "What would you know about cults anyway?"

Blossom's poker face is something special. Special and eerie. It's hard, so hard, even for me, to know that Falcon's words have gotten to her. But it's there, just the tiniest little flicker of her left pinky. She knows something about cults.

She's right, too. Village, whether Falcon realises it or not, is indeed a cult.

"...I think it's time we had something to eat," Blossoms says.

"I quite agree," Periwinkle nods. "I'm simply starved, and it's just unreasonable to expect anyone to be in the right mood to make plans on an empty stomach!"

It's not even five minutes later before we've all seated at the dining table, helping ourselves to the most luxurious of feats I've ever been able to sample. I've never once gone hungry, and I've always been able to afford the best food you could hope to have in District 9, but this is a whole different level.

Honey glazed pork and all manner of other meats in any number of styles, creamy mashed potatoes, entire basins of roasted vegetables of everything from carrots to nopales, an entire fried salmon that's double the size I thought they could grow to - it's amazing.

But the stew, oh, the stew. Thick gravy, succulent greens, a mixture of fatty beef and lamb. I don't remember the last time I asked for seconds - I'm the least physical person ever, I fill up all too easily - but I do that and more. I ask for thirds, it's that good.

"You should try that with some pepper," Periwinkle says, passing over a shaker of the stuff. "This brand is the best, trust me."

He's right. He's so right, this is the best food I've ever tried. It's the best I'll ever try, whether I win or lose the Games. I could just eat this stuff forever.

But all too soon I truly can't eat another mouthful. That's when I notice the different choices everyone else made for their meal.

Periwinkle had a random mishmash of many things. I suppose he sees no reason to settle for one favourite food when he could instead have many favourites.

Blossom seems to like sushi. Actually, she seems to like things raw. Cold. I don't think a single thing on her plate, aside from the rice, has been near a fire for even a moment.

Falcon's not bothered with the luxurious foods. He's gone far more basic; heavily buttered bread, handfuls worth of butter sticks, slabs of chicken - he's not looked at the stew even once.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" Periwinkle asks him. "There's a lot more on offer."

"It'll do," Falcon says. "It'll help me put on weight fast."

"So will the other foods, like the stew," Periwinkle suggests.

"The food would just spoil me," Falcon says, shaking his head. "I'd crave it in the arena."

I didn't expect that, but he's right. Is it wise for me to have eaten so much stew? Already I'm craving the time I can have more of it. Will I long for it in the arena? Will I have a craving that I'll never be able to satisfy? I observe Falcon, waiting for him to finish chewing and keep talking. Clearly, brainwashed or not, he's got brains in there.

"I need to gain weight, fast, and stay focused," Falcon continues.

He pauses to knock back a handful of butter sticks.

"How else am I gonna make sure Lisbeth wins?" he asks.

For a moment I almost lose what I just ate. He's… he's really doing this. He's really decided to die for me. I'd bet a few hours ago he was worried about being reaped, same as anyone, but the moment I was the one in danger, he was more afraid of losing the medium than his own life. The thought has the stew threatening to come back up.

I wave away their concern when they notice how bad I must look.

"Ate too much," I lie. "I'm fine."

Our meal ends twenty minutes and at least dozens of butter sticks later. I'm barely able to walk over to the same cosy armchair as before, while Falcon is quickly onto business. Already asking about more ways to gain muscle mass, the best weapons to train with, the best skills to learn to beat the deadly tributes from 1, 2 and 4.

He seems to focus most of his questions on Periwinkle, not Blossom. Perhaps her claiming he's in a cult cut a little deeper than it seemed to.

Well, the facts don't tend to care about feelings. Blossom said what she said and she was right.

Anyway, Periwinkle doesn't answer many of Falcon's questions. There will be time for that later, he tells him, but right now we have a much more immediate priority.

"What could be bigger than saving Lisbeth?" Falcon asks, lost.

"The reaping recaps," Periwinkle says with absolute sincerity.

"Don't underestimate anyone," Blossom says as she takes a seat. "The careers weren't the biggest threat in my Games."

Falcon sits on the sofa, making sure to claim the side closest to my armchair. He gives me what I'd guess is a supportive sort of nod. The one you'd give to someone you value above all else.

"Don't worry about the rest," he tells me, ever so confident. "I'll kill anyone who comes near you."

This time a little stew does make it past my lips. The TV turns on just in time to stop anyone from paying it any mind.

Once upon a time the host of the Hunger Games, according to Germaine, was a man named Caesar Flickerman. He was quite long lived but eventually even he had to die. Blossom, I think, was the last victor he ever interviewed. Barely a month later he was gone, following the previous announcer, Claudius, to the grave.

Since then - after what must have been a ludicrous amount of auditions - a new host of the Hunger Games was introduced; Twinkle Nottenfarr, a rising star actress. Movies from Fall to Spring, Hunger Games in the summer.

She looks at the camera, smiling like a perky child. She dyes her hair differently every year like Caesar did, but goes the extra mile by changing her skin colour and applying a pattern onto it as well. This year she's gone for a sort of cold, spacey blue skin with a star pattern, while her hair is such a weird, almost glowing shade of slimy green.

"Hello, hello and happy Hunger Games!" Twinkle exclaims. "You know what time it is? I'll tell you what time it is - it's time for the reaping recaps! It's that time again, the time for us to meet this year's brave young people competing for the glorious title of victor!"

And, you know, their lives. They always seem to forget that part.

Twinkle doesn't pad out the runtime for too long, clearly far too eager to get on with meeting the tributes as well. Her reactions to each tribute are exaggerated and wild as the nation has come to expect from her over the years. It's hard to tell how much of it is her job and how much of it her genuinely being thrilled by the tributes on display.

One way or the other, there's no doubt that she loves the Hunger Games.

There's no time wasted. Already on-screen are a pair of beautiful and strong eighteen year olds from District 1 - Sun and Rupee. The former's hair is practically gold and his two front teeth seem to be as well. The latter acts all coy and mischievous, turning up the teasing whilst making sure nobody misses the feral look in her eyes.

District 2 doesn't disappoint; as usual there's two eighteen year olds as strong as I am frail. I cover my neck, knowing they'd only have to give it a little squeeze to kill me. The boy, Sturm, takes their escort into a twirl and holds her overhead to show off his strength. The girl, Macey, smugly calls herself the most vicious, powerful tribute in Hunger Games history.

"She'll regret tempting the gamemakers," Blossom says, making notes in a flower patterned notebook.

"Espesially because we already have the most vicious, powerful tributes in this very carriage," Periwinkle adds.

District 3 is raining hard and, as usual, has no volunteers so their children are left to the odds of fate and their feather-covered escort. The girl, Cookie, is a twelve year old with hair as brown as chestnuts. It's a wonder she doesn't cry. The boy, Rotor, is a bit older and clearly worried, but he doesn't fit the usual look of a tribute from 3. He's probably smart, sure, but he's tall and has visible muscles.

"He's gonna be a target for the careers," I say. It's just a fact.

"All the better for your chances," Falcon says.

District 4 once produced volunteers every so often, but something in the 60's made them stop doing that. Well, until one of their victors - Anchor I think? - had a meeting with the president at the time, President Snow, sometime after the third quell and secured funding for their own academy. Since then they've been really powerful, as much as the tributes from 1 and almost as much as the tributes from 2. Just three years ago their latest victor, Whaler, beat the kill record set decades ago.

This year, the girl - Clamantha - is tall, dark and exceptionally pretty. But she doesn't seem quite as strong as the monster of a girl District 4 offered up last year. All the better for me, I guess.

It's the boy that has all of us sitting up straighter. A boy from the fifteen year old section is reaped, but before he can take half a dozen steps there's an eager shout. Someone volunteers, making an eager run towards the stage. Judging by the shock of the victors and the crowd, it's not whoever they'd picked to go in.

This boy, Seafoam Straton, is only fourteen but seems assured of his victory. One second of listening to his smug laughter and I've already heard it too long.

"No way is he getting into the pack," Blossom says.

"All the better for you," Falcon tells me. "What great luck, right?"

"...Right," I say. It's not luck, it's just a coincidence.

District 5 provides a thirteen year old boy, Theory, with smart eyes and a smarter tongue based on his response to the escort, and a girl, Solar, with her arm in a sling. She keeps her face firmly facing the ground, claiming that - of her injury - it doesn't matter and she won't talk about it.

District 6's escort, who alternates back and forth each year on who they reap first between the girls and the boys, first picks a bald boy no taller than four feet, Axel, and a girl with a head chock full of black curls who fulfils what she calls a live ambition by swearing live on TV. Toyota has guts.

"So rude," Periwinkle tuts.

"Think she'll be punished for that?" Falcon asks.

"Could be possible," Periwinkle says. "It's a family show, swearing during the reapings isn't what you'd call smiled upon."

Falcon grins at the thought, once again claiming that I've gotten lucky for such a convenient thing happening.

There. Is. No. Such. Thing. As. Luck.

District 7's escort, who himself looks like a tree and who has held the job for far longer than I've been alive, reaps boys first as usual. From the sixteen year old's section stumbles a boy who is high out of his mind. It's just so obvious he's touched drugs of some sort. His name, Weed High, has me pausing, disbelieving.

"Is that a joke?" I ask.

"Can't be, the slips use real names," Periwinkle says.

Weed babbles something mindless - he seems to think he's got sixteen fingers - while the girl reaped makes her way onto the stage. Tall, almost as redheaded as Blossom and with a sleeveless shirt that shows off her muscles, Winnow looks to be a top contender.

In District 8 there's a heavy rainstorm ongoing, enough for the escort to get through proceedings as quickly as possible. The girl, Pleat Christmas, lacks even the cheapest of raincoats and her frizzy hair is waterlogged. In her commentary, Twinkle pays close mind to the tattoos Pleat has all over her hands - mostly flames by the looks of it.

The boy called to the stage is another twelve year old, String Goose. He's saved when a boy emerges from the fourteen year olds pen to volunteer for him. Button Goose stands firm on the stage, claiming he won't take shit from anyone.

"He'd get away with such language," Periwinkle says. "He's volunteered, he's making a name for himself."

"He doesn't look so tough," Falcon says.

"Neither did Sock," Blossom reminds him.

That quietens him down just as we appear on screen. I see myself saving Rinnia, most of the sob story I told the nation and how, aside from the tears, how blank I am. But Twinkle doesn't pick up on it, nor do the others. Perfect. The best acts are the ones nobody knows is an act.

Of course, any sort of satisfaction is gone the moment Falcon bolts for the stage in a fit of panic. Twinkle has no idea what to make of him. She's soon too lost in how our district has never had two volunteers before and expects great things from us.

It almost sounds flattering.

"What a good first impression," Periwinkle compliments us. "It'll be easy to secure sponsorships for you both."

"You mean like a sword I could use to kill any career who comes near Lisbeth?" Falcon asks.

"Why stop there? I could get you better swords or another weapon outright. Perhaps a mace or a scythe? Keep winning the crowd and it'll be easy," Periwinkle assures him.

District 10 offers up one of the strongest showings so far. The girl, Settler, must be a butcher or something like that if the stains of blood on her reaping clothes are any kind of clue. She barely shows any emotion to the fact she's gonna be entering the arena. The boy, Stetson, doesn't appear bothered at all. He actually appears amused, shaking the escort's hand fine as you please and claiming a little slaughter never bothered him.

"You'll probably want to avoid them," Blossom says. "Alliances never turn out too good. There's only one victor, and if you fought them… probably gonna be them."

"I'd kill anyone who comes near Lisbeth," Falcon says, as if he were quoting from a book.

"It might be worth testing the waters," Periwinkle adds. "Remember the third quell? Two victors! Maybe the new Head Gamemaker might want to surprise us?"

A Hunger Games with two victors. It happened - barely - and it was a long time ago. I'm doubtful that myself and Falcon will have the sheer good fortune that Dory and Mihilo had.

The third quell came right after the year where these two tributes from District 12, the star crossed lovers, had a romance that took the nation by storm. It didn't exactly go away after the girl died at the feast and the boy died of infection. Even after the Games ended with Cato from District 2 killing the girl from District 5 it wasn't going away. Romance was all that the Capitol seemed able to talk about, even with Cato rapidly rising in influence and using his status to further crack down on any sort of rebellion or alternate thinking.

Imagine how convenient it was that the very next year the twist was for tributes to be teamed up by popular Capitol vote with those from other districts. If both reached the end then both would win. Most thought that the gamemakers would just work to prevent this from happening, but somehow two thirteen year olds from District 4 and District 12 pulled it off and fell in puppy love along the way.

They love to replay the finale, Dory standing strong while Mihilo slowly bleeds out, eliminating the boys from 1 and 2 at the roof of the temple via the same crossbow bolt.

'I've got you now!', words never forgotten as one bolt impaled the boys together and sent them over the edge of the roof.

It's just as well that they got along so perfectly. Dory and Mihilo were ordered to return to the same district together after that, swapping residence yearly. District 4, then District 12, alternating forevermore. So right now, they'll be coming in from District 4, while their Grandson, Koom, who won only two years ago will be coming in from District 12.

Their marriage was a national spectacle, so say my parents. Truly the luckiest pair of tributes there ever were. Of course, Falcon and I have no hope of such luck favouring us.

There's no special quell twist to save us and, obviously, luck doesn't exist.

Anyway, the reapings continue to District 11. The girl is a seventeen year old who is met with boos which she returns with rude gestures and jeers of her own. Called a criminal by the crowd and covered in tattoos, the odd scar and a half shaven head, Dandelion looks ready to leap into the crowd and start scoring kills.

"Avoid her," Blossom says, as if I would try to do differently.

The boy is a lot less fearsome. Indeed, he looks very well kept and properly fed. The reason why is obvious as soon as his name is read out. It seems Cropper Springhaven is the son of District 11's current mayor. The mayor can't keep his composure, though the footage skips away before he can actually break down.

Last up is District 12. Officially last and least, having the fewest victors of all the districts. The girl, a skinny thirteen year old who struggles to do more than sob, doesn't strike me as the one who will break their losing streak. No, I don't think Burnice will be wearing the crown.

The boy reaped is well off in some manner, you can tell by the fact he didn't look completely dead in the eyes to begin with. But, same as the rest of them, he starts to break as he approaches the stage.

Then a twelve year old volunteers.

"How lucky for us. He doesn't look as tough as the other boy," Falcon says.

"Now this is certainly unusual," Periwinkle remarks, clapping. "Ohhhh, this is getting good!"

"...Why?" Blossom asks, staring at the TV.

Why indeed. I try to catch any kind of clue to what this boy, Steam, might be thinking or hiding, but there's nothing. He seems polite on the surface and not even a little afraid. Does he want to die or something? Is he arrogant? No, he doesn't seem to be. He's not showing it the way Seafoam was.

So ends the recaps. Twinkle happily hypes everyone up and encourages gamblers and big time fans of the Games to place their bets. I wonder who she would bet on if she was allowed to bet. Surely not me, not against the deadly careers and the frightening outliers like Dandelion. She'd not see a way for me to stand a chance against them.

I… don't see a way either.

How am I going to do this? How am I, someone so delicate and dainty, supposed to fight against someone like Sun?

The answer is that I can't.

I must be doing a poor job to hide how worried I am because Falcon takes note. He gives me a smile, one so very gentle.

"It'll be OK," he promises. "I'll kill them all if I have to."

I make my excuses and leave, claiming tiredness. It's a common enough story with how little strength I really have and one Falcon readily backs up.

Upon entering my room and collapsing upon the bed I scream into the pillow. I scream and scream and scream. I curse my weak body, I curse never being able to make my own choices, I curse my parents for putting me in this situation in the first place!

I may have volunteered, but they made me have to do it! They made it so that certain death could only be avoided by a one in twenty four chance of avoiding a terrible death!

I can't be defeatist. I need to find a way out of this. There has to be one… I just need more facts to work with.

I'll need to learn more about the other tributes.

X~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X

It's dark when I exit my room, well after midnight. Everyone else should be asleep and the TV should be free. It's the best chance I'll have to study the other tributes.

The train is different at night, all shrouded in darkness. It's creepy. Something feels off, though I couldn't even begin to say what.

"Study," I tell myself. "No distractions."

I enter the dining carriage again, only to see that I'm not as alone as I'd thought. Blossom is seated on the sofa, watching the recaps herself. By the looks of it they're almost over, at least until the next rerun of many.

Blossom doesn't look even slightly surprised to see me.

"Come, take a seat," she says. "Every year or two one of you stays up late to watch the reapings with a bit of privacy. I understand, I did the same."

I take the invitation. For a time we're silent, the TV having gone to some irrelevant commercial. Some kind of eggplant hairspray.

It takes me a moment to notice Blossom is offering me her notebook.

"I already took plenty of notes," she says. "You can add more, if you'd like. Honestly, I think you should. I think you can."

I thank her and flip through the pages. Each tribute has been given their own page. For a mentor who has never brought home even one victor, Blossom knows her stuff.

How many times has she put together notes like this, only for it to be for nothing?

D1M: Sun Blumiere. 18 years old. Volunteered. Gold teeth give him a unique image. Strong. Fearless. Potential pack leader.

D1F: Rupee Mars. 18 years old. Volunteered. Appears to be going for a sort of flirty angle. Not to be underestimated; she'll kill all the same. Will be popular on looks alone.

D2M: Sturm Koyle 18 years old. Volunteered. Held his escort overhead without any strain. Avoid at all costs. Might not even need weapons to kill people.

D2F: Macey Puckle 18 years old. Volunteered. Extremely strong, but just as arrogant. Career or not, the gamemakers will put her bragging to the test. Potential pack leader.

D3M: Rotor Hartwood. 15 years old. Reaped. Jack of all trades; strong and likely very smart. Worth considering as an ally? Visibly worried - likely not the most courageous.

D3F: Cookie Blumberg. 12 years old. Reaped. Small, terrified and no strength to be seen. A bloodbath. Might win over crowds by being cute and innocent? Sock did something similar.

D4M: Seafoam Straton. 14 years old. Volunteered. Not the chosen volunteer. Very arrogant. Doesn't appear to be fully trained. Won't be in the pack.

D4F: Clamantha Babbot. 16 years old. Volunteered. Younger than most careers. Potentially less skilled? Appears to have good people skills. Visibly annoyed by Seafoam already.

D5M: Theory Bakugo. 13 years old. Reaped. Despite his age he doesn't seem scared. Smart mouth, seems used to winning an argument. Appears to never have gone hungry.

D5F: Solar Popat. 17 years old. Reaped. Arm in a sling. Though she's putting on a brave face as best she can, it's unlikely a wounded tribute can put up a fight. Bloodbath.

D6M: Axel Dooley. 15 years old. Reaped. His lack of height will make it easy to knock him down / pin him. Baldness only works for careers. Likely a bloodbath.

D6F: Toyota Pilton. 17 years old. Reaped. Bad attitude. Swearing on stage might offend the Capitol. Seems to have nothing to lose. Likely to be a tough fighter.

D7M: Weed High. 16 years old. Reaped. Drugged out of his mind. Seems barely aware. Won't be a threat - surely a bloodbath.

D7F: Winnow Trotter. 18 years old. Reaped. Experienced with tree chopping. Almost as muscled as Clamantha. Surely knows how to use axes. Seems like a loner.

D8M: Button Goose. 14 years old. Volunteered. Will gain support for stepping forth for his brother, but his attitude may drive people away. Appears tough for his age.

D8F: Pleat Christmas. 15 years old. Reaped. Didn't even have a raincoat of her own; likely from a poor background. Likely used to baring hunger. Tattoos will be a hit with the Capitol.

D9M: Falcon Little. 15 years old. Volunteered. No desire to win, will die for Beth. Taken in by a cult and doesn't realise it. Appears capable. Will break if Beth dies first.

D9F: Lisbeth Trismegistus. 17 years old. Volunteered. 'Medium' from a cult. Doubtful that her reasons for volunteering were honest. Truth expected soon, please and thank you.

D10M: Stetson Lenivy. 16 years old. Reaped. Watch out for this one; it's a rare day than an outlier reacts to being reaped with amusement. Appears strong and confident.

D10F: Settler Simpson. 16 years old. Reaped. Desensitised to violence. All the blood will make her popular. Seems… off, somehow.

D11M: Cropper Springhaven 14 years old. Reaped. Son of Mayor; will get good sponsors. Unused to hunger. Will be stronger towards the start of the Games.

D11F: Dandelion Keen. 17 years old. Reaped. Appears unpopular; hometeam support unlikely. May be experienced in hurting others pre-arena. Clearly very willing to fight. Avoid.

D12M: Steam Kudd. 12 years old. Volunteered. A big question mark. A twelve year old volunteer is unheard of. Might have a death wish. Unlikely to be a threat, but be wary.

D12F: Burnice Raven. 13 years old. Reaped. Hungry, small and scared. Not a threat.

Blossom taps the names of the tributes from 1 and 2.

"Not to say there aren't other dangerous tributes, but certainly avoid bringing yourself to their attention. One and two are always the most dangerous," Blossom says. "If you're gonna make notes on them, be subtle."

At that, she faintly smiles.

"But I think you'll have no problem doing that," she continues. "Now, you won't be able to take a pen down to training with you - apparently it could be seen as a weapon - but I'm sure your memory will serve you well."

She stares at me, finally noticing I'm staring right back at her. We're silent until I tap my own name and the notes she wrote beside it.

"Well… am I wrong?" she asks, fiddling a bit with a strand of her hair. "I have an eye for these things. There's something you've not said."

I say nothing.

"The way I was raised, the way I've survived… you learn to be perceptive," Blossom says, not quite meeting my eyes. "If I have the full story, I can provide, um, better help."

"...You cannot tell Falcon," I whisper. "He'll find out, but he can't find out this early."

"I'm good at keeping secrets," Blossom assures me. "...It's to do with the cult, right? Or, is it not really a cult?"

"No, it's a cult. That's exactly what it is," I tell her.

I take a deep breath. How to say all of this to someone who's never once heard of us before this? Imagine being so lucky…

All I can do is tell her the truth. How I've never been able to make my own choices or know who I am. How I'm always someone else, or a mishmash of facts of someone else. How I'm just here to fulfil my parents' selfish scam. How whatever love I receive, it's not for me but just who I pretend to be.

Blossom doesn't say a word, just patiently listening as I unload it all upon her.

"Falcon's thrown his life away," I tell her. "I'm revealing everything at the interviews, and when I do that… he's gonna want to kill me. But I can't just say nothing; that defeats the purpose of why I'm even here. Say that I keep the lie going and win? I'd just be killed anyway once the Games are over."

No, that's not right. I'd be killed once the top eight arrives and the interviewers see what it is my parents have done and my role in it. It'd be all too easy to press a button and have a trap end my life.

"Why couldn't my parents have just not scammed people and not started a cult? How hard is it to just… not do that?" I ask, tugging fistfuls of my hair. "Everyone else's parents manage it just fine!"

Blossom is silent. It takes a moment for me to realise it's less that she has nothing to say and more that she has a lot to say.

"...Mine didn't," she says. "Well, they didn't start it, but they joined the cult. They followed the elders like sheep."

She looks out the window at the dark, barren fields passing by. Smart money is she's having a flashback, though of what I can't quite say.

"How much do you know about my Games?" Blossom asks me.

"Just that you won," I tell her. "Just your final battle with the boy from Eleven and…"

"Yes?"

"How people say you made the Games look easy."

"Want to know how I made them 'look easy'?" Blossom asks.

I nod, because of course I want to know why.

"The Games were an improvement over my life," she tells me, no word of a lie. "I was fifteen, and my family - the entire cult - were going to burn me at the stake for having red hair. I'd have died if I hadn't volunteered. I had nothing to go back to, nobody to miss, nobody to think I was driving away - I was free."

She goes on, soft and more than a bit shaky, about the memories of a group called the Fire Folk. They worshipped fire and the sun. Apparently they thought the sun was a man whose brightness kept everyone alive.

They thought the moon was some evil witch who would try to take over every night, only for the sun man to defeat her by sunrise each and every time.

They thought Blossom's fiery red hair was a mockery to the sun's power and she was chosen to die. She would've been the tenth annual sacrifice, if not for the Games offering her a way out.

It wasn't much of one though. Between six brutal careers and a recruit who had volunteered to escape being hanged for what he did to a baker's dozen girls, it was one hell traded for another.

"The pack's threats didn't work on me. I'd heard it all before," Blossom says. "The arena was perfect for me. It was some mixture of a swamp and a tundra, about as far apart from home and the fire worship as possible. I lived like an animal, wading through the freezing muck, but…"

She clenches her fists. That's when I notice the tip of a tattoo of some sort peeking out from her loose sleeve.

"...I kept going, because every minute I was alive was a minute I could use to spite the cult by existing. I knew that, if I could win, I could be there to stop them. End them," Blossom exhales softly. "Even at the end, when that boy, that thing was on top of me, the thought of having the elders of the cult forced to pay for what they'd done, it gave me the last push I needed."

"So, the cult… they were disbanded?" I ask.

"Executed. The elders, the adults, my parents, my sisters… all taken away, never to be seen again," she says. "The children got put into care homes around District 9 to be 'reeducated'. Either way the cult was finished and I was free."

She looks me in the eye again. This woman can stare alright, but now there's more to her stare. There's determination.

"I ended a cult. You want to end one. Seems to me that we understand each other in a way few others can," Blossom says. "Beth, are you ready to become the next victor of District 9, no matter what you have to do along the way?"

"Yes," I say, unhesitating. "I am."

I'd love to share Blossom's confidence, her determination, her fire… but I can't. She could at least fight and was an expert at climbing and enduring the elements. I'm all but bedridden.

"How am I supposed to win when I have a body like this?" I ask, gesturing down at myself.

The commercials end and some late-night announcers fill time before the next scheduled recap with a replay of the final battle from last year's Games.

The footage opens to a forest of eternal Fall, golden leaves falling all around. It's raining hard.

A cannon quickly follows after the horrified scream of the third placer. The girl from 4 staggers towards the edge of a crater at the heart of the forest, her torn knee bleeding horribly and her grip on her trident getting weaker and weaker.

The once mighty career who, I recall, slaughtered three tributes with her barbed trident, is reduced to whimpering and pleading.

A figure lunges at her, not listening to a word she says. The two tributes tumble down the crater, one screaming and one silent.

The rolling ends with the girl from 4 smashing her back against a cluster of rocks. Her howls and screams carry across the forest, frightening away many dozens of mockingjays.

The other tribute swings down their bloodied battle axe and splits the fisher girl's head almost in half. The cannon gives way to the joyous sound of trumpets.

Wheezing deeply and covered in the blood of eight other people from head to toe, Sock Northsilk becomes the youngest victor there ever was.

Blossom pauses the TV, the frame showing Sock as more like a bloodsoaked demon than a little girl.

"You'll win the same way Sock won with a body like that," Blossom tells me. "You just need the right plan. We'll get started tomorrow."

"Not now?" I ask.

"You'll need rest. The parade is exhausting," Blossom warns me. "Besides, you'll want to make a good impression on our stylist. She's wonderful."

Maybe a bit more than just 'wonderful' if the blush on her cheeks is anything to go by.

With a mumble of goodbye, and of thanks, I return to bed. I don't think I've ever been up this late before, and I'm really feeling it now.

I don't even remember my head hitting the pillow, I'm asleep that fast.

X~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X

The remake centre is far too sterile, far too clean, far too fake… but it's still better than the train station and it's not even close.

Falcon may as well have been my bodyguard against that hoard of screaming fans who barely looked human.

One of them looked like a two metre tall earthworm.

Apparently I was 'presentable' when I arrived - apparently a rarity for tributes from any district - but even so there was work to be done. Just less than they expected.

I have to wonder what they expected because after four hours they're still going. I've been bathed twice, my hair has had at least seven different formulas applied to it, my legs have been waxed and my fingernails have been filed to what they call perfection.

I don't think any of my prep team have blinked the entire time they've been working on me, although it is hard to be sure with how their eyes have been modified to resemble those of flies. Their eyes, their deer antlers and their rose coloured skin, it's… a choice.

"You really do have magnificent hair," says the first of the prep team - all of them are brothers, I think. "Most girls from your district require twice the work."

"Such a shame it's going to get dirty in the arena," the second prep team member adds. "Hair like this should be allowed to remain free of blemishes."

"All the more reason to win," the third member of the prep team adds as he curls my eyelashes. "Hair like this should be seen by all of the nation."

"...Won't they see it during the Games?" I ask them.

"Oh, well… of course," the first brother stammers. "But on the tour, there'd be no risk of it being ruined."

"Exactly," the second chimes in. "It's something to be proud of."

"Thank you," I say. It's nice, getting even a small compliment about something that's just me and not part of being a medium.

It's another half hour when, at last, the three brothers declare that they're finished. There are high fives all around between them as they dress me in a featureless robe and leave me in a private room.

"Don't worry, you won't be alone for long," the third of the team says. "Epona hasn't been late once in her life."

"She hasn't been on time either," the first team member adds. "She's always early."

For the moment, I'm alone. I have to wonder - because, what else can I do, there's nothing in the room, not even a clock - how prep has gone for the other tributes. Would any of them put up a fuss or even fight back against their prep team? Surely, in all the years of the Games, someone has tried such a thing.

Will Falcon have been as easy to prep as I was? What about Axel from Six? If Periwinkle is to be trusted, his appearance won't be a hit with the Capitol. How would they go about making him into a big hit?

I don't dwell on it. My prep team were correct, I wasn't waiting for long. A woman who must surely be Epona, walks into the room and sizes me up. She looks to be about the same age as Blossom, give or take a year, and the first thing I think is that she must love flowers. Her skin, a deep tan colour, has thousands of flowers tattooed all over it. Pink flowers cover almost all the skin I can see, and probably much of the skin I can't.

Her outfit, too, is covered in flowers. About the only part of her that's not flower themed is her long silky hair. It's been modified to resemble what I can only describe as fire… if it were made entirely out of ice.

She smiles at me with lips as blue and frozen looking as her hair.

"Hello there Beth," she greets me.

"Beth? Not Lisbeth?" I ask.

"That's what you prefer, isn't it? Blossom told me," she replies.

"...Thank you."

"Not a problem. Now, you know what else won't be a problem? The parade," she says, grinning eagerly and clapping her hands. "I've got just the thing for you. You're gonna turn heads, you're gonna blow half the minds of the nation at least - you're gonna be the brightest star of the night!"

"Whoa, is that all?" I ask.

"Not even close! Alas, we have a deadline so I can't spend all my time talking," Epona says, giggling. "Why, I remember my first year as a prep team member when I was getting Blossom ready. I was so engrossed in talking to her that I made us one minute late - one! Good thing Blossom was such a hit or I'd have been fired!"

She giggles again, quickly moving towards one of the blank walls. She taps a section that, to me, looks no different than the rest of it.

"Anyway, enough chatter, we've got to get you all suited up!" Epona says. "I've been wanting to use this outfit for sooooooo long, believe me! When I saw you on that stage, I knew that with a few minor tweaks it'd be perfect for you!"

The wall opens up, revealing my parade outfit and all its related parts carefully hung up on the wall, nice and flat.

"What do you think?" Epona asks. "Be honest, OK? We need to send you out there looking perfect and not anything less! It'd be a crunch, but corrections can be made if need be."

It feels strange to be asked for my honest opinion, but here we are. And what an ensemble it is I'm being asked about! A platinum hairpiece with grain stalks made out of crystal, a shimmering sunset yellow bodice and matching long skirt with grain kernels threaded in, or at least they looked like kernels. Upon closer inspection they're actually just gems that look so much like the real thing. All this and a pair of boots with a 9 carved into both sides of the heel.

"It's perfect," I tell her. No way would most of the outlying districts be able to match this.

"Excellent!" Epona says. "Aren't you lucky to have me as your stylist, huh?"

It's all that I can do, as Epona turns around to give me privacy while I change into the outfit, to not mutter about luck not existing.

It was just a convenient hiring, that's all. Not luck.

X~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X

As soon as I step off the elevator leading to the parade tunnel - and right as I'm met with a blast of sheer, senseless noise - Falcon is quick to rush over and greet me.

His stylist, whoever they are, certainly tried. I'm just not so sure they really tried in a way I'd call beneficial for Falcon. Indeed, it takes me a moment to get what I think the point of it is.

A wheat coloured tuxedo with matching pants, boots and a baguette shaped hat makes up his outfit, but the extras are what made me have to pause. Several slices of bread, buns, wheat pieces and more are awkwardly threaded and stitched into the tuxedo.

There's nine of each of them. Of course there is.

"Not the worst costume I could've gotten," Falcon says as he leads me to our chariot.

"Not the best," I reply.

"It could work out," Falcon insists.

"Hmmm, maybe. But will anyone be able to count up how much bread there is when they're far off in the audience?" I ask him. "Will they have time to count them in the brief moments we'll be on camera?"

He deflates a little, but remains hopeful. He gestures over to one of the other chariots. The District 6 tributes have been dressed up as tires, with tire mark patterns stencilled on their faces.

"At least we look better than them," he says. "Even if we didn't, it's not impossible to survive without any sponsors. Remember Germ from District Three?"

"I do, he only won six years ago," I say.

"He won and didn't need even one sponsor," Falcon says, nodding in a manner ever so satisfied.

"He was sponsored something though," I remind him.

"He told the cameras 'no thanks' and threw it off a cliff. Doesn't count if he didn't even use it," Falcon points out. "Sponsors, no sponsors, you're gonna be fine either way."

"Well… that's nice," I tell him.

Not all of the tributes are here yet. Either way or it's simply not time for the parade to begin. There's little for us to do other than stand around and kill time.

I note some of the costumes the other tributes have ended up with. The tributes from District 1 have been spray painted platinum and had hundreds of spinels implanted into their skin. The tributes from District 5 have been given the barest of fabric, with everything hidden away by over a thousand batteries carefully attached to the fabric.

I think Burnice has one of the worst outfits. She looks less like a human and more like a bright yellow bird. A canary, I think?

The district 2 girl, Macey, is dressed like a sort of stone soldier. That's the best way I can think to describe her outfit of war and carefully sculpted shards of rock. She holds what I hope is just a prop mace in her left hand.

She's also coming our way, leaving behind the District 8 tributes behind her. Pleat mutters something to Button, while Button looks at Macey with such contempt.

She looks at us like how a feral dog might look at its prey. Falcon wastes no time in moving in front of me to block Macey off.

"Get lost," he tells her.

"Ohhhhh, looks like we've got a fighter," Macey coos. "We'll see how long that lasts won't we?"

"Long enough to kill you and make sure Lisbeth makes it home," Falcon tells her. "Get lost."

"You sure you two wanna threaten me?" Macey asks, laughing.

"I made no threats," I say.

"He did," Macey shrugs. "Two volunteers. What, is District Nine trying to copy District Two?"

"Not really…" I say.

"Lisbeth has her reasons, and I have mine," Falcon tells her. "She saved one of her sisters. I'm here to save Lisbeth and everyone she brings back to us. You won't stop me."

Macey only laughs all the more.

"Stop you? I'll do more than that," she sneers, taking a step closer. "I'll tear the skin off of all your fingers and toes, and I'll make you eat it too. How's that sound?"

"Get lost," Falcon repeats. "I'm not here to win, I'm here to make sure Lisbeth wins. Your threats won't work."

Macey appears rather put out, like this really isn't the way she had thought threatening us was going to go. She glares over Falcon's shoulder at me, her eyes narrowed.

"I'll catch you. He won't save you from me," she warns me. "Oh, and when I do…"

"Get lost," I say, mimicking Falcon as best as I can, which to be fair is pretty good. The brave look, the calm flow of the words, the unbothered stance, it's easy to copy. Sure, my heart may be racing, but she can't see my heart.

In the end Macey storms off to vent her frustration out on the tributes from District 10. From the corner of my eye I can see Button laughing at Macey, not that the career girl notices.

Falcon gives me a respectful nod.

"If she comes back again I'll kill her," he promises. "She's all bark."

"I don't think it'll be that simple," I remind him. "They'd punish you if you so much as slapped her."

"Saving you is worth any punishment," Falcon says.

"...Right," I say. "Is it worth making the nastiest killer mad as well, even after her threats?"

"Of course," Falcon says.

"But, aren't you scared?" I ask him. "Her threats are real."

"So are my vows. I'll keep you safe," he insists. "...Fear doesn't matter. If I can save you, then it's worth it."

We don't talk much after that. Some would call it flattering to have someone care about you so much that they'd die for you. I find it really sick that someone loves my lies enough to get themselves flayed for me.

Moments after Macey finishes up mocking the tributes from District 12 an announcer tells us to get onto our chariots.

In moments the parade has begun. A distance ahead, right at the front of the line-up, the District 1 chariot makes its way out of the tunnel and into the main avenue. Already I can hear the incredible applause Sun and Rupee are receiving.

If anything, Sturm and Macey receive even more applause. How much of it is really for them and how much of it is for the fact their district has the most victors and the deadliest fighters?

The applause is unmissable quieter once the tributes from District 3 leave the tunnel. It picks up again for the tributes from District 4, but once again quietens out for those from District 5.

Even after over a hundred years there's just no changing the favouritism the career districts get. What does that say for our own chances? It's a rare year when District 9 makes any kind of an impression on the Capitol. Volunteers as we are, can we outshine the careers?

I suppose we're about to find out. In front of us the District 8 chariot heads out, Pleat waving to the crowd while Button doesn't make a move to greet them. He acts like they're not even worth his time.

I don't think it's an act. I think it's how he truly feels. But, does the Capitol realise that?

"We'd better hold on," Falcon says. "I bet these horses are gonna give us a real lurch."

I do as he says. Sure enough, the moment the horses start moving I'm almost bowled over the handlebar of the chariot by the sheer force. Only Falcon reaching out to grab me prevents me from falling to the ground.

"Thanks," I say.

"Anything for you," Falcon says. "It's nothing."

Certainly, preventing me from falling over really is nothing to what he'll do for me once the Games actually begin.

We emerge from the tunnel into blinding light and deafening cheers. Roses and plastic crowns litter the street ahead of us, with more being thrown by the crowd every moment.

Several are thrown towards our chariot. I hear members of the crowd screaming my name over and over. But it's not Lisbeth they call me - it's Beth. They… all know what I prefer.

I find it hard to keep from smiling and even blushing. I know they're only cheering for what they saw on the stage, the sob story I'd put on. But it's hard not to feel something when people yell your name so proudly, tell you they know you're going to make it, say that you're amazing… for now, I decide to let myself enjoy it.

Even something as simple as waving to the crowds earns an explosion of cheers and whoops. One man whose body I can't see behind his thousands of feathers even faints.

"They all love you," Falcon says, waving to the crowds as well. "Rightly so, you're the best thing that's ever come out of District Nine."

"I mean, uh… I'm not all that," I stammer out.

"I'd say you're all that and more," Falcon says. "You bring back the dead. You could bring any of these tributes back - it just makes sense for you to win! Though, maybe don't bring that girl from Two back?"

Just like that, my good mood is not quite so good anymore.

"Uh… wasn't planning on it," I tell him.

"Good."

A few bangs catch my attention from behind us. Falcon moves closer to me, ready for a fight. It's nothing dangerous; the District 10 tributes have been dressed like cowboys and been given fake pistols. Pop guns. With each pull of the trigger a blank goes off, wowing the crowd each and every time.

"Bang! Gotcha!" Stetson says, playfully waving the gun towards the audience.

I'd half expect him to get into trouble for that, as if it were rebellion. Perhaps worse than just trouble. But no, the crowd happily play along and pretend to collapse with each pop of the fake guns.

"Give us all your money!" Settler adds, louder.

Sure enough handfuls of coins are tossed towards them. Settler catches one, wasting no time in pocketing it.

It's no surprise that we're not stealing the show, even for being the first double volunteers of our district. No, the careers and the tens have us beat, and based on the cheers up ahead I think the tributes from District 7 are putting on a really good show.

How? Weed's high as a hovercraft, his outfit is literally covered in cannabis leaves! But even in his drugged state he smiles for the camera and beside him Winnow fistpumps in time with the national anthem.

I suppose I should be thankful we're not doing the worst. It's hard to tell for sure over the many cheers, but I get this feeling that the tributes from 6 and 12 aren't doing as well.

No change from the norm there.

At last we reach the end of the parade, our chariot coming to a stop, the crowd suddenly quietens as if on command.

Looking up, there's a large balcony. Only a moment later a figure walks into our view, smiling down at us. It's a smile far more fake than anything I could ever hope to put on.

It's the smile of President Cnaeus Light, son of an old Minister of Defence, Antonius Light.

All is silent. Even Falcon doesn't dare to say a word, not now of all times. The President holds the silence, letting things draw out.

He's sizing us up.

I let myself remain blank. Hollow. Nothing to copy, nothing to show. I do not wish to become this man's enemy.

"Welcome tributes," the President says. "Welcome to our fair city! We heartily receive you! We admire your courage! We respect your sacrifice!"

As he continues talking from one exclamation to the next, I find myself wondering how anyone could believe he means any of this. Even out in District 9 there's plenty of rumours of what this man has done to become the President.

Some say he strangled the Granddaughter of one of the old presidents, President Snow, and threw her body into a furnace.

Some say he had a man executed by an anti-aircraft turret for coughing loudly during a speech he made.

Some even say that he is working on constructing a new base on the moon, a place even the hardiest of rebels could never reach.

Do I believe that stuff? Aside from the part about the moon, I do. You'd have to be cruel and very ambitious to claim power and keep it in a country like Panem.

At last he finishes off his speech, wishing us a happy Hunger Games and for the odds to be in our favour.

"They're in your favour," Falcon assures me. "I'll make them even more in your favour."

As the crowd's cheering swells up to one last incredible crescendo the horses pull the chariots on their way to the biggest building within the Capitol, or at least the biggest that I can see anywhere nearby.

The Training Centre.

Please, just let me score above a 1.