Introduction

"Tributes!" The voice, from that old lady who'd handled us all at the beginning, told us we were ready to play 'her' Game. It's loud, rolling over the ruined city and I'm sure shaking more than a few birds from their perches. It would be offputting in normal scenarios, in this I can hear Guava jump behind me with a whimper. "Chrys, what is that?" I raise my hand, stop her from talking any further because there's got to be more, there has to be more. She's quiet. Good.

"There's going to be a feast! You've been having your little fun." It isn't fun, it's horrible and I may have learnt how to play this game well enough but certainly not as well as anyone would want to be a player. "And now it's time for a feast. A reward, of sorts, to make sure you all remember exactly what you need. The love and mercy of the Capitol. Five of you left, we'll set five places."

Her voice goes more sing-song for a moment. "Don't be like Eight last year. She came sneaking in, tried to take what wasn't hers to take. Tried to take what wasn't hers without payment or reward to Elan, and look where she is now. You get your place, you get to rest in the peace of a sentinel, and then you can fight. Isn't that fun?" It's not fun, and I hear a stifled yelp of shock from behind me as the voice continues. "Ta ta, now. Don't be late, the lights will show you the way."

I look up around at the street-lights so like back home. The street lights that seem to wait, not flicker but wait. They look ruined and broken, damaged. But this is the Capitol, this is Panem. Surely they could do it if they want.

Still, I have other things I need to do first. So, with fist raised, I nod at Guava. "It's time. Then. Get it all ready, we'll had back to camp soon. Pack up."

Guava, just getting all her food out for a picnic or some other stop, responds with a glare, and I sigh. "Come on now, Gua. We need to get this all done, else we'll be in a whole world of trouble. So lets get moving!"

Verse One

The fire's roaring, crackling with the kind of excitement that makes it very obvious it doesn't know we're about to die. The fire's burning and I'm standing here, smiling. Hand on her cheek, white skin pale and visible against her dark cheek, and then I pull back with a grin. "Are you ready. We're going to have a nice fire tonight, you hear me? Nice fire, maybe some marshmallows, who knows!"

"Chrys." Guava's voice is trembling, filled with the kind of terror that makes me want to promise her that it's all ok, that if we just stay here nobody will ever do anything wrong. "I'm scared. Tomorrow is, is."

"Is the last day we'll ever get here." I offer a smile, a grin, and it only serves to make things worse because her eyes are wetter. "Guava. One way or the other, one of us or one of the others in the arena is getting out tomorrow. No more fear. No more pain. No more worry. We're going to be fine."

"But I didn't want to do this." I hide a roll of my eyes, because even if we're friends that's the kind of stuff I don't want to hear. "Neither did I. I wanted to be a singer, I wanted to sing for the Peacekeeping Corps. The anthem, all of it."

"Then sing." I do a double take, her voice is insistent. "Sing a song, come on. Last night alive, you want me to feel better? Sing a song."

I nod, give a smile. "Straight from Two. The words are shit, ours always are."

"There will come a warrior." My words are light, dancing in the night. The voice is not, but I'll get better. I can watch Guava lean back, see her expression relax. "Blade all chased by light." She's leaning in now, the fire crackling around us. "He will chase the darkness out." My voice is croaky, but as I can remember the words I'm getting stronger. "Protect you in the night."

"Then will come your mother. To hold you in the storm. Shut the door and draw the curtains, home is safe and warm." I take a breath, the almost strange bounces in note are getting to me. "Then will come your father, when monsters knock on doors. Keep you all well, keep you all safe. None must fear their roars."

"Then must come the crown, keep the rebels back at bay." The fire dances slightly at this, and for an instant the fire is drawing back and we aren't enemies, aren't tributes. Just girls, singing around the campfire. "Shield your home, protect your family, make home safe to stay."

"Soon will come the dragons, and the monsters from away. Try to bring the darkness back and let storms out to play." My voice is finally hitting the kind of notes mama wanted back home, the kind of notes I was never quite good enough and no matter how much I complained this was better than even One wanted, she insisted. If I was to advance musically in the Corps, then I'd take the lessons and be grateful.

"But, dear child, don't worry. For none shall bring you pain. Warrior, Mother, Father, Crown. Shall make them all refrain."

She laughs, claps her hands. A moment of childlike glee and for a moment I feel bad for what I'm about to do. But I need to make the offer. Need to try and make this as quick as possible. We're friends, after all. As close to friends you can get in the arena. "Guava."

"Yes?"

Another sigh, I try to compose myself. "If we get out of it. If it's the two of us. You know what's probably going to happen, don't you? Pretty foregone conclusion at this point. We're not exactly on level ground." She nods, and I press the idea. Try to keep it going, because if I keep to the idea then maybe we'll be fine and maybe we won't even have to debate it because we'll be fine. "So. Um. I don't have to fight, if you don't want to. We can make it quick. I stab, I know the place to do it. It's how I did it for the-"

I've said too much.

"You did it for them? For who?" I try to backpedal. Try to insist it wasn't me, that I was wrong, that I'd misspoken. That it was nothing to worry about. "Chrys. I thought we were allies. Allies tell each other. Who did you do it to?"

"They. I. I." My eyes are big, and she's stepped back, machete out. Not that it would help her, but. Well. I reach a hand to my rapier, and she takes another step back and around. Putting the fire between us. "I meant for it to be quick. I promise. I didn't want it to hurt, but I. I."

"You what?" I hear threat in her voice. My rapier's out.

"I killed them. All of them. I meant to make it quick for them, but. I got Lili in the back, then Bronze and Mac in the front. I tried to make it quick and then Lili turned and I got her lung and I was so scared and, and." My voice is running a million miles a minute now, and I keep speaking. Breath is coming quickly to me now.

"I ran. I should have ended it, should have made it quick and instead I ran because I didn't want them to know, to come after me. Those were the cannons. I got others before that, but I. I."

I don't have time for any more explanation. Guava kicks the fire, the embers and sparks fly and when I turn I can see her grab her bag, swing it over her shoulder and rush into the night like a vanishing ghost. I want to chase, but the street lamp nearest us flickers on and then off. A warning. The end is near, no need for us to be killing each other any sooner than when the Capitol's got it in their own time.

We arrive at the feast the next morning. Me and Eight, big man taking a seat directly across from me at a table. We're both glancing at each other, down at the empty plates and heaped trays, and I can already see from sunken cheeks and eyes filled with something else that I can't interpret that he's hungry. He manages to wait until Four turns up armed with her trident, and Guava (who sits as far away from me as is physically possible). Then he reaches for a potato. Gives a yell, looks down at his ankle, and that voice comes back on.

"The rats won't be happy if you don't keep good table manners. Don't cause issue, they'll be much less happy."

So we wait. Four reaches for a potato, receives a bite of her own before Seven finally joins us. Then the tablecloth seems to shift from a pale red to white, and everyone begins to take. Another nip from a rat is audible as someone yells, and then it's time to properly eat. The food's good, the cooking's good, I can hear some polite chat from Eight, Seven. Nothing I want to participate in, not when these rats are swarming around our feet.

Finally, something happens. Guava bashes her elbow into a water jug, which spills all over Four. Soaks her trousers, and I can hear apologies from Guava when Four shoves her chair back, grabs her trident. "Eleven, you bitch. Damn their manners, I'm going to-"

She isn't going to do anything. One bite, then another, and then the rats are swarming her. I can see the girl I was allied with eventually sink beneath a carpet of them, a swarm that I can hear chittering and squeaking. I think I can hear screams, but they're soon gone. What they leave behind is some torn skin, flesh. Missing eyes, exposed ribs, the kind of thing you imagine but never see because it's not even a skeleton, just a shredded body. It's enough for Eight to lose his dinner, stammer apologies as the first bits land. That seems to be enough, and so with ignorance of the body we drive through dinner and a dessert that's delicious if it weren't for. Well.

Once that's done, the voice comes on again. "Well. With that done, do you all want to get to it? Go to corners." Four dots appear, soaked in red light from the ground that seems to be waiting. Overly formal, waiting for us to get moving, because we should be. Everyone takes their spot, the carpet of rats beneath the table carries Four away, and it's go time.

I rush forward, see Guava and Eight both stay still. My rapier flits forward, Seven raises his axe in challenge until I pass my blade straight through his throat because he didn't try to cover that. The sword goes in, goes out and I step back, it's decisive and I'm proud of that.

Eight next, puts up more of a challenge. He has Four's trident, catches my first swipe and stabs forward, gets me across the face and avoids my stab save for the little I manage to turn into a slash that furrows across his chest. Another blow from his trident, swung like a bat across my ribs and sending fire through them. Still, he's left himself open, and my sword through his chest is all it takes.

Guava doesn't even try to fight, crying. She's terrified.

I drive my sword down through her back, and it's over. I'm panting, chest heaving over three fallen bodies, and it's all over. I'm glad, and yet there's a stab of disappointment until I remind that disappointment that I stab.

Chorus

"Chrysaor, Chrysaor!" I excite the Capitol, new Victors always do. Not as much as Elan, I've been told that much because the pretty One holds Capitol affections better than anyone and when Elan shows up I knows why. But I'm still fun, and that's why when I recover but two days after leaving the Arena there's a slew of people outside waiting for me.

So I make a handful of appearances after my interview. That mess comes first.

A battery of simpering questions thrown at me by a host who seems all too annoying. Lucky Flickerman, and every time the man leans in I want to yell at him. Yell that he doesn't understand, that he doesn't get it but I'm their guest, and so I have to allow him to take me through the Games and treat them like they're the kind of story that a Seven would spin. Not like they're reality.

Starting at the reapings, where after a shivering fourteen year-old is reaped I can be seen literally elbowing another girl aside (and that elbow was, despite denials, definitely intended for Hera's face) to volunteer. There's a triumphant grin on that face I had just a few weeks ago, and Nike's giving a smile of half-pride, half-terror (I see both sides now, understand why. Even if there's that liquid smoothness slipping through my veins courtesy of that nice doctor, I can see both and not just the pride.)

Lucky asks questions. "Did you know Nike before this? Did you know the girl you volunteered for? Are you proud of volunteering?"

And all I can do is grin and nod, because I'm meant to project myself as a cocky, proud volunteer. Nike told me to do that, and Nike is of course right. Has to be.

"Yes, of course I knew of Nike. She was an inspiration to me, else why'd I be here?" Lucky whispers something else, and that draws a laugh a little louder than it needs to be but no matter. "Oh, you wanted to know whether I knew her personally? Sadly, no."

All bullshit. We'd known each other from the day a pretty, prissy Chrysaor from the upmarket townhouses had knocked on the Victor's door, just a year after Nike had won. Asked to be trained. There'd been a lot of changes since then, a lot of changes to me, but for the better. Right?

"No, I didn't know the girl I volunteered for." That's true enough. We met for the first time when she came to the Justice building, came with flowers bought in haste from a shop and expressed her gratitude. Her parents were there, they thanked me. Promised an eye would be kept on my family, and even though that should make me glad. Well, it doesn't, because I know they'd be horrified at the idea I'd been needing sympathy from anyone else.

"I am proud," but that's more complicated. Because sure, volunteering seemed a good idea at the time. A way to get away from parents who really didn't give that much of a shit about me in all honesty, a way to look good and make sure that either way, win or lose I'd be remembered. And memory is good, memory is proud, memory is resolved. So I can say, truly say that I was proud.

Now, I'm less so. Because I killed children who just wanted to go home, murdered and hurt and left no sympathy or sorrow. Now the only thing keeping it at bay is a dull purple liquid in my veins that the doctors promise will be just the thing I need to keep happy, keep positive, keep up and glad.

They all lie. But more questions, and it's time to move on.

The Pre-Games. Chariot rides, for the second year in a row. Interviews, no public appearances, and there's only one real question. "How did you do it?"

I wasn't flirty and excited like Elan. Nor scrappy and dangerous like Skye, nor just plain scary like Woof. No, I did it because I put my whole heart forwards. but that wouldn't be an acceptable answer. Wouldn't be the right answer. "I did it because I was loyal. I am loyal."

Loyalty. A load of patriotic shit, something I believed in three weeks ago. Because it's loyalty, of course, that drives a teenage girl to kill. Loyalty that drove me, in full clanking armour, to stand resolute and ignore the crowd and not just be a little respected but loved. Loved, for it. Because I seemed so strong, so powerful, they said. And t wasn't like I could complain, not when I was kept all but caged like a dangerous animal, a wolf or dog, for three days.

The interview was the fourth day, and that was another chance to shine. Another chance to grin at Lucky, and promise that of course I'm looking forwards to the Games or else why would I be here. A chance to express my former wish to sing with the Peacekeepers, and though I'm told I should sing right then and there as a demonstration of my talent, instead I smile and promise that they can find out just how well I can sing when I return.

Because that, of course, is what the crowd wants to hear. Surprising, but true. Teasing promises given under blue stage lights, that's what gets them excited. Nike promised me that, and though bragging isn't too fun I'm content to smile and agree when Lucky proclaims I got the biggest applause of the night. Probably because I almost certainly did.

The Cornucopia is next, the place where I claimed my first honour, if one can call it that. Took first blood, made sure I was far and away the scariest-seeming tribute Two had deployed since my mentor. It worked. I brought down three, two thanks to my rapier slashes at their face that drive them off-guard, forced them to reconsider because they weren't giving up without a fight. One when, in the opening rush to the Cornucopia, tiny Twelve had tottered into my path, looking like one of the children they showed on History of Panem documentaries. Slipping on a loose chunk of cement, from the ruins of course.

It was the work of a moment to grab him by the hair, slam the face into the ground. Another to drive the chunk of rubble next to me into his skull, hear the scream and do it once, twice, thrice more until the cannon roared and I could lunge for my blade.

"So, Chrysaor. Your sword. It was certainly a lethal weapon in your hands, where did you learn to use it? Those techniques aren't the kind of thing you pick up on the fly. Any chance you could get me an invitation?" This is all an opening for me to smile and laugh and explain and I do.

"Well, Lucky. Of course, I'm not exactly your typical fencer. I'd bet half the Capitol could beat me." They couldn't, but sucking up to them is entirely the kid of thing I should be trying to do if I don't want them to turn off me. The laughter works well enough to suggest I did right. "But Mama, Papa. They're both in the Peacekeeping Corps, both pretty high up." I can muster a grin then, and nod. "So they taught me a little. The rest, well. I always did enjoy making stuff up, and playing with sticks in the garden gives you an eye for the kind of stylistic choices others miss."

This is the right answer. The only answer, because they always say training for the Games is illegal and so I'm just not training for the Games. If asked, I was learning how to best serve Panem and decided to apply those ideals against instruction into the Games. They can't believe me, not even the Capitol seems that stupid. But they laugh and grin and so maybe they're a little easier to fool than I'd expected.

Then the body. We skip over most, save for my two quick kills. One across the throat, one where (when we find sleeping Three) I just sneak up and break her neck. No weapon needed.

What they linger on, and I cover my face at until there's a little shock of warning from my wrist-band, is my kills of my allies. Lili from Four was first, turning to speak to me when I'd thrust. Point of my blade sinking into soft flesh between ribs, she fell back with a wail turning into the hiss of a popped balloon and it was all I could do to withdraw the blade. Point it at Bronze and Mach, still standing over the carcass of Nine's boy from when the big man had attempted to gain entry to the Cornucopia.

Bronze came first, like this was some film and not real life. It was the work of two, three heartbeats to trip him, let him rise before putting the blade into his kchest, piercing one lung and then the other and watching as a hissing fountain of red poured forth, Mach took longer. Had to, he was big and strong and he was as good as I was. Truthfully, I hadn't expected I'd win until he fell in too close, and I could close the distance. Hand on his back, sword through his chest.

"Were you proud of it?" No. I hate it. "Yes, Lucky. I did what I had to do to survive." Deadpan tones seem too sincere to be truthful, and yet. Maybe they are. Who knows at this point, not me. I feel a deep biting regret and little else, as well I should. Friends, allies, and now they're dead. It could have been me, maybe it should have been, but what I do know is that I should have at least given them a chance. No honour in killing as I did.

"And Guava. How did you feel when you found her?" Overjoyed. Glad to have found a new ally, one I would not fail this time. "Glad. I needed a new ally, someone to help me survive. It's just a shame that. Well."

"Your incident. Of course, it was painful to watch. Information's a key commodity, trust me on this. Best restaurant in the Capitol, nay, Panem. And it's. Well, that would reveal the secret." A groan from the audience, but this is how Flickerman works. He's mellowed out, less dramatic in this old age. Still, it gets on my nerves more than a little and so I try to keep a smile. "Yes. I gave up too much, we broke. Still, I won."

He echoes this. "Still, you won. And what was at that feast, the cameras kept very much away from that? I'm curious, what was our Capitol hospitality?"

Verse Two

"Go, go." Barb's got her spear out, and as I watch is lunging towards her partner, tall Leo, with a swinging of the blade that seems entirely too fast for the eye to comprehend. I can watch this from behind the glass, am not really meant to be in the gym when the practice sparring is going on. Not because they're a danger to me, no. I'm a Victor, I've proven I can handle myself and that's why when the new wing of the former Peacekeeping academy opens? Well, I'm the first person, before Bell or Marble, that Nike invited.

No, the rule is because I carry a rapier. All of us do, not technically allowed but as much a tool of status as anything, a way to mark out 18 year old Victor, Chrysaor Lettnant (Birthday 21st January) from 18 year old Trainee Melise Waters (Birthday 19th July). Because we do look awfully similar.

And it works. Looks good, lets the kids know Victors are here because we earnt our place at home. But it's also a liability, and if thrust into a combat situation? Well, after Nike almost took an eye out when a sword went off balance and nearly hit her, it was deemed unsafe.

Still, I have to intervene, sword tossed outside, when Barb brings down her sword and I can almost hear the thud as it hits Leo's head, and she moves to jab it towards his eye.

"Good, Skip!" His blade clashes against mine with a screech that suggests I shouldn't be parrying, and now I'm slipping under his next sweeping blade, bringing what would be the point on a real rapier to his throat. "Good technique. Keeping me off-balance, yes?" He nods, and I get a chance to smile and prod the tip into his throat, drawing a wince. "Don't overflash. Being flashy is for One, and they haven't gotten one back since Elan. Understand?"

Another nod because the boy's been all but silent since the day he went into the Games, and in an instant I'm smiling and straightening up. "Again, then." His sword's drawn, so is mine, and we lunge forward in a storm of swords that seems all too real at the time. Clashing blades, and there's equality. I'm better now, that doctor saw to it, but still need my meds, and as long as I take them? I can do some time helping Skip with practicing against my blade.

Bringing the knife up to his throat isn't fair, but this is a boy who wants the Games. Fair's an afterthought.

"Come on, Marianne." The girl's got her knives, and the first thrown knife takes a second before near on embedding itself in the far wall. Missing me, and I can hear the thud that suggests it would have hurt.

The second throw hits my bicep, leaves a slick of red paint, but I'm able to ignore the bruising force and muscle through it because I'm Chrysaor Lettnant, Victor. It hit my non-dominant arm, and that's why when I reach Mari my sword is brought down with a speed that keeps a third throw fended off. Fake, as is usual. No real weapons for Victors, for anyone, when sparring. That would be silly, after all.

Surprising, to be sure, when her knives come up in an X, one longer one smaller, and catch the sweeping blade, not just parry but catch, on the top of the X. I raise my blade, and like a rattlesnake she's in, jabbing the knife into my abdomen and giggling when I double up because there was enough force behind that to wind me. After a few seconds of my doubling over, she laughs, leans in. "All good, Ma'am? Miss Lettnant?"

"Dodgeball!" The kids start earlier, twelve to become a good Peacekeeper (and two to become good tributes). Activity can't all revolve around those two, so we do some things that tend to inspire a little more excitement. So they've got twelve rubber balls, twenty children to a side, and now it's time for me to stand well back.

There's a couple of near misses, those names are written down on my clipboard. Not for punishment, but for revenge. Because when the opposite team is losing, it's to cheers I'm able to toss my clipboard aside and walk out onto the field like any normal teacher would do if their team, one of their teams was losing. To grab a ball, throw it and watch the lad who'd tossed it and hit the wall by my head go down, not injured save for the deadly wound to his pride. Catch one throw, fire off again and that's two out for that side, one in for this side.

The battle, for now, is over. Not vicious, like teaching actual combat, but just as thrilling in the moment and a whole lot safer until Megan comes over with a bleeding nose and I'm the one who has to handle it.

Damn dodgeball. Definitely up there for most spirited fighting I've participated in.

When Brutus is carried through the doors by two trainers with his third breaking this week under belt, I've had it up to hear with the grinning young man. It's me who's first at his bedside, ahead even of Nike (if she's able to get up from her chair any more, my friend seems to spend more time sitting in that and doing paperwork). It's me who has to shake my head, stalk over and ask the question that seems to dog his every footstep. "Why did you do it?"

The first answer is unsatisfactory. Because, he says, he was just in the mood, and Matteos was the closest there so he was the one that bore the brunt of the punishment. The lie might as well be glass, because I can see through it from a mile away.

When he confesses that one of the boys, not Matteos but one of his friends, had asked Berenice out on a date and then rejected her excited yes in a 'joke', my anger is assuaged just a little. Teenagers will be teenagers no matter how hard we try to prevent that, and if he was standing up for honour, then I may as well grin, salute him and carry on. when I call Trainer Florissant into the room, ask him what happened and hear of how a stone-faced Brutus had stalked up to boys laughing at a girl he barely knew and gotten in a single, devastating punch?

His name goes directly on the list of renewed scholarships, six months before that list is meant to be started.

When Selyse is told that she should learn how to use a rapier because she's not built for using anything else, it's me to whom she comes. I'm glad, half the trainers seem positively useless and even at 56 I'm still good enough to teach a small girl the basics of rapierwork. Teach her how to slash, parry, cut. Most importantly, how to stab.

Selyse seems to adopt it as a way of life. Her words slash like a blade, cutting deep when she speaks to each opponent she spars with. Ever fanatical about how loyal she needs to be, how she needs to win. How if she can just win, she can get her family a new house and it'll all be fine.

I have higher hopes for Sel than any boy or girl I ever get to teach after. Expect she'll be the first daughter of the iron mines to wear a Victor's crown, the first one I get to save and point to and be so proud. But she learnt a lot, knot tying better than anything else. And when Selyse's ideals fall down to the screams, pleading of one boy she tried to induct into the alliance? Well, tree branches are available aplenty.

I can find it in my heart to be polite, forgive the golden girl who comes back in her place. I can never forgive Snow and his Games.

Cato was one of mine. I never liked Clove Kite, thought she was too much an issue to be called in. We weren't One, you weren't expected to know two hundred different ways to hurt without killing. Enobaria took that stray dog in, and to her credit turned out a killer vicious as any.

But Cato was mine. Cato was the boy me, Brutus and Hannibal turned into a perfect Victor. Someone who was genuinely excited for the Games, not just resigned to the fact he had to compete but excited, expectant of the rewards he'd receive on the other side for participating.

And he was mown down. Thrown to the wolves that bit and tore at him, and I sat to watch 18 hours. I'd lectured him, allowed the boy to study at my office late into the night. He may not have been the brightest, he proved that when he didn't cut the tree Everdeen was sitting in down and bring the Mockingjay to ground. But he worked hard, and that was why I was so, so proud of everything he managed to achieve. Disappointed when he died. Glad when six of us agreed, promised next would be the last year this would happe.

They'd told me I couldn't sing. Said it was unbecoming of a Victor, wasn't right for a lady to sing at the head of the Peacekeepers as if I gave more than a passing damn. Still, I gave as much I could. When there was official, Peacekeeper funerals I'd be at each one, singing the songs the Capitol wanted at the front.

Tribute funerals were worse. But still, once or twice after the Games ended I would without fail be stood there singing my heart out, and it was a good singing.

Chorus 2

And all that time, I'm feted as a hero to the Capitol. Games after Games, I'm played as the ideal Victor. Which turns into so many social engagements that after a while it seems I begin to lose count.

The sponsor meetings, because there's so many Capitolites who want to sponsor a pretty Victor's district and can't. At first, it's relatively innocuous because who cares. It's not like there's any chance of issue, any reason to doubt that I'll be allowing them a chance to Sponsor our tributes. Or more than a chance, a guarantee because lets face it. At the current rate of going, every sponsor is necessary if we want a chance of bringing back one of ours.

So I work hard. First is the Price family, who say they mean to support Six. But, when Persephone's father dies, and I get the chance to meet the new heir to the fortune? Well, she's lovely and friendly, and though the Price family has always been staunchly aligned to Six by the time I leave I've secured a promise of continued funding so long as Two keeps offering useful, competent tributes to the Capitol as opposed to the kind of half-dead children that seem to be plucked from anywhere past Two.

So that's fun.

So is much of the rest of it. Taking our girl around the big social events when she's pretty enough to be offered at such, because if One does it near on every year at this point so can we. Going out for late night dinner with socialites, heirs and heiresses and trying to pretend like I've grown up on these table manners as opposed to having them forced onto my hands like cuffs by our escort late at night. Interacting with everyone, from adults to teens and children, and being respected. Not just treated like something to be tossed away like an unloved toy most of the time, but treated as someone of status, someone important.

Because I am. I'm Chrysaor Lettnant, and even if half the city seems to know me by that shitty nickname some tabloid slipped in and the rest picked up on, they don't say it while we're conversing. Besides, Angel of Death has a nice enough ring to it, makes me sound a lot more dangerous than I am.

But then there's the messy stuff. Because, even if I'm a Victor I'm still subordinate to the Capitol and I'll never be allowed to forget it. I'm still the little girl they allowed the reward at eighteen of a nice house and money and the glitter of red rubies of blood upon my hands. I'm still Chrysaor, the darling of the Capitol. My luster fades in time, that pretty Mayor's daughter from Seven replacing me as the hottest new thing. But still, the Capitol keeps control.

I'm adored as a Victor, as a hero, as the perfect example of everything a Victor should aspire to because I'm amazing. Nobody ever questions the continued use of red rubies across my gowns and dresses, always nine in an arrowhead. Nine gems, one for everyone I've killed, because without the knowledge that I cut down boys and girls for no greater crime than wanting to go home where would I be. That's why, when the gems are noticed I have to grit my teeth as the Capitolites grin and giggle about just how gorgeous they make me look, how they bring out green eyes and cream-pale skin.

I'm continually spoken to, because the others always get off easier than I do. Save for Elan. At first, it's subtle and I can shake it off. A smile that lasts just a little too long. Hands that roam a little too much during a dance, because if there's one thing it seems every Capitol social event must have it's more dancing for ten than a thousand do back in Two. And the hands flow. Just eye contact that lasts a little too long, roams down me and makes me feel like the toy slime I see far too much of advertised in the Capitol, got some thrown at me by a petulant child.

And at first I can refuse, as well. I can tell them no, slap roaming hands away, demand that they stop and they'll listen. Then they happen, those two men who seem determined to screw their own kind as hard as possible, and in an instant I'm dragged into their Games. At first, it's simple. The President would like you to talk to this person or that, and Ravenstill agrees, and we're sent off and given time to do it. These appointments are fine, fair, I'm surprised they're that tame.

I wish it wasn't that tame. I wish that it had stayed tame forever.

Because the next few years are always the same. When a Victor is particularly desirable, and everyone is to someone, it's deemed only right and proper for us to be given appointments. Even when we're watching our tributes, there's always someone who can take over and at least in their minds it must be that it's a kindness to give us a break. I can think of no other explanation.

But it's not a relaxation. It's not a break, it's a different kind of Games. Because, if we try our absolute best we can usually extract something from them. Sponsor funding, usually, because they're rich enough to afford an exclusive night and when you're lying together in a whirl of fine Eleven cotton it's easy enough to let fingers trail over warm pillowcases and suggest that maybe they'd enjoy just giving a bit more to yours. But other things, as well, and that's one thing they overlook. Trinkets, gifts, tokens of favour. But soon, everyone has a journal of information, all of us who matter. Nothing big, you'd need a talent to get those, but a web of stories that point back to one man. One man who seems untouchable. One man who's slipped his way through the Games like a.

Like a snake.

Bridge

"Miss Lettnant. What a pleasure. Please, sit, sit."

President Coriolanus Snow. Only 42, and already the president of Panem. What had happened to President Ravenstill, none could quite agree on. He was dead, all of them could confirm that, his niece and great-nephew too. A horrible car crash, the kind of crash that leaves driver, passengers, bodyguard nigh unrecognizable until DNA can be extracted to confirm that yes, it's them. Coming just on the heels of the President's untimely death of somehow untreated tetanus, it rippled through Panem. How he'd got it, who knew. There's attempts at blame thrown around, but in the end it fell on Lysistrata Vickers, who'd medically examined the President not a week before and found him fit.

Her execution had taken place not a week prior, shocked all of us. I'd met her before, she seemed utterly devoted to her job, so this announcement was a disappointing revelation to put it nicely.

Still, I knew I'd had to attend the summons, and so when the door is opened I walk in, take a seat opposite the golden-haired young man who'd been elected by a Capitol vote. None of us Victors were given a vote, whatever we were we were still District. But we'd all hoped against a Head Gamemaker, for the singular reason that he was. Well, the Head Gamemaker. Tossed Circe, Taffeta, Seeder and every child from the 25th to the 34th into those Games.

Can't focus on that now. Need to sit down, smile at the President and receive nothing but a tense almost-grimace in return. "Mr. President. What an honour to meet you so early, I was glad for the invitation."

An offered hand is taken, shaken. Then does he speak, with a slight smile now. "Mrs. Lettnant. It's a joy to meet you, I've always had a certain. Soft spot, for Two. You've always been so loyal, so well allied with the Capitol. So aware of our need for cooperation. That's why I'm meeting with you and yours first, the rest can wait." A brief laugh is shared between us, and then it's time to get down to business. I can hear the slap of folder against table, and then we're both looking at each other, him with genuine curiosity in his eyes. "How are your volunteers doing?"

"Volunteers, sir?" I'm no fool, I know that admitting to training volunteers is nigh a death sentence. When the law forbids it, and you're speaking to a man who is in all but name judge, jury and executioner? You lie. "Two makes Peacekeepers. Our volunteers are nothing to do with us."

Snow laughs, and I can only try to smile. "Of course not. Much like your talent with a rapier was not one Nike Gardiner's work. Miss Lettnant, please do not lie. Now. Volunteers."

His fingers drum on the table. "We can accept this. They may keep going, under certain conditions." It's my eyes that stab question into him. "Conditions?"

He nods. "You do not train them in any ideological matters concerning to the Capitol. You do not make it known officially you are training, keep up that story about training our next Peacekeepers. It works well enough. And you make sure, if yours seem too good, you fix the deck. Muss it up. Make sure yo aren't dull every year, or we will have issues. The Games may be entertainment for the Capitol, they can easily be punishment, further punishment again. To lose the security of knowing your likely deaths? Truly, it would be a great shame for Two."

I nod, agree, and he moves on.

"Miss Lettnant. What does Two think of the Capitol?"

This takes me by surprise, an ambush. "Well, Two's loyal, and." His hand is held up, I stop nigh-instantly, stomach wrenching itself into a knot a little tighter.

"What do you think of the Capitol?"

"Well." Where to begin? "I wished to be a Peacekeeper. Always did, until I took my role." He nods, makes an approving mhm, and I can continue. "But now I'm a Victor. I must confess, before I got this role you scared me a bit. The Capitol seemed like some other, a great gaping maw just waiting to swallow me up. And now that I've been coming here regularly enough by invitation, well..." Trailing off, I feel a hint of irritation. "Go on."

"I think I've been digested. I love it. I understand, sir, that that may not be the proper attitude for a District-born to have, but it's the only emotion I can express. Gratitude for the Capitol, and you've treated Two as well as can be. There is.. some doubt, but that's surely just teething problems." I'm not sure why I'm saying as much, but his demeanour just seems. Trustworthy. Uniquely trustworthy.

He nods, gives a longer nod than strictly necessary, and I can relax slightly. That terror goes. "Of course. There's always resistance, always misguided idealists hoping for the kind of escape they cannot be allowed. Miss Lettnant, what do you think would happen without the Capitol?"

That answer's easy, offered in no more than a heartbeat. "Chaos."

He nods, and nine years age difference between us seems to stretch into a thousand miles. "Good. Some see chaos as a ladder, a route to climb to the top. That is not right. Chaos is danger. So, to this end, we'll be looking at making Two a little better off. We will allow you privilege linked to loyalty. So, I would like your input." Big booklets are stacked what must be a foot high, and he begins.

"A tram system. Not quite as fancy, as enjoyable as what we have in the Capitol, but save for One better than anything you Districts are likely to get for nigh on fifty years. It'll be able to take people from place to place, if Two is especially good we can get you a proper system to go between cities at a lower cost. Might help with visiting relatives and such. Pre-authorization demanded, of course, but that is natural."

I can only nod, offer an "Of course, sir." More plans are launched, and these seem filled with words he intends to keep me from understanding.

"This is what's intended to serve as a new hospital for out in Two. After all, were your people to get long term injured this could cause concern. This will allow the better off in Two to get access to better healthcare, and allow the worse off to continue using Two's present general facility."

"New housing, for those who can afford it. Helps spread the load."

"For the miners, some new detection tools to minimize cave in risks."

The benefits offered seem to be largely for the rich and poor, and when he leans back and asks 'what do you think?', surveys the map like it's one of his arenas? I have to offer my honest thoughts.

"I don't quite. Understand most of that, sir. But it looks good. I'm afraid someone else may be a better choice, I think Taffeta was nosing around city design as her talent?"

I get another laugh, short and sharp. "Miss Everett and I will be having a discussion in due course, but for now you're my eyes into Two. My present discussion partner."

"Why me? Why not Nike, or Marble, or Diana?"

"Because they are... busy. You're busy, but you are also still able to make time. That is a distinctly useful trait."

I get a nod. "That, and you were the first name in the book, so I felt it was best see you in order. Now, there was one other question I had. I expect an honest answer, Miss Lettnant. What do you think of the Games?"

I shiver, glance over. He doesn't get an honest answer.

Chorus Reprise

Two's buzzing when I get back. The news of new construction, of new excitement, of a new age for Two has been announced. Of new benefits given by a gracious new President to the people, with the support of the Victors. We all gather in the Academy that evening, in the offices. The one part we know is bug-free, because it's been swept enough times by now.

The discussion is frenzied. It seems all of us were told we were first to meet the new President, and nobody can pin down who was actually first. So, for now, it's like a convoluted game of Ninechat. I say that the President wanted to build a new hospital for the district, Diana was promised a nice new hospital extension, including a new maternity ward. The best thing for her at the moment.

Marble had discussed with the President. Well, he won't say, but he does say that he was warned Two would not be allowed transit for some time, that it would always take longer unless Two got crime down and Peacekeeper numbers up. Sisyphean tasks given to keep us going, one none of us would likely be able to meet in any quick manner. Still, we have to try, for the District as much as for ourselves.

The one thing we were all given was the conditions of continuing to train our volunteers, and that goes down like a baton upon a skull. Or, in other words, not particularly well. There's shouting, arguing, before Nike stands. And given she founded this, we listen.

"This is our Presidential order. We will not become problems to the Capitol. For now, we do not breathe of our discussions to anyone past the fence of the Victors Village. We do not under any circumstances engage in public activity troubling to Snow or to the District as a whole, lest we invite further issue."

A flurry of nods, and the meeting continues. Ends, after discussion on every point, what we actually want and can request from the President on short notice. A list is drawn up, mailed off. We're sure it will arrive soon

Until then, we throw ourselves into PR to draw those rewards. And this stretches into one year, two, ten. Because Two grows to become the model society. Not as rich as One or even Five, I can see that their glass towers and shining marble are far superior to our heavy, solid stone. But Two is well off enough compared to the messes in Four, Eight, Eleven. Two is patriotic moreso than those others, and for this we are rewarded. The trams promised come late for me, but when they hadn't been promised explicitly the rest of the District? They rejoice. A clean-up of the lake, that new hospital. It all comes well enough.

We schmooze with Capitol elite. We work with them, have fun with them, cooperate and lead and understand just how Two and the Capitol are linked. Capitolites, on tours through Two, become more of a common sight. We get new food, restaurants where the majority couldn't afford a single meal but where Victor outing nigh inevitably lead to after a night of drinking on the town because we're fun.

We work with them. We get along in the Capitol, and though many of us come back night after night for appointments even if mine taper off, there's enough free time. Enough time to try and ignore the bad and focus on the good. Enough time to make sure we're friends not just with some but all, because Mags' words ring true. We're Victors, we stand together. We can't fall apart, we've all done enough killing and hurting for the mistakes of those who came before us.

We drink. We befriend. And, slowly, I see this is wrong. Because it's not right that some should live and others should die, not just boys and girls I knew but children from twelve Districts. What purpose does it serve? The questions bounce in my mind, and can only lead, after almost thirty years as a victor, to one conclusion.

This is wrong. The Capitol, the Games.

But I keep my views hidden, year on year. Try to pretend to myself and all that the deaths are necessary, to preserve Panem. Try to keep my head down, because if I stick it up and try and fight we will only see more bloodshed. Thirty years of hiding. Thirty years of lying in wait and praying that someday something changes. Thirty years of expecting that at some point new blood will come in, and the second time the Districts take the banner and plant it in the Presidential palace.

Arenas burn. The banners wave. The winds of war fly. Revenant Thirteen, proud Eleven and the east rise in open war against the Capitol. Drawing the Capitol into false security and faith in their loyalty, One, Five, Seven and Three declare their own secession and drive the knife into the Capitol back when the time is most right, and are all the prouder for it.

Outro

"Chrysaor Lettnant." I'm kneeling, in the main square. Peacekeepers are standing, several shifting nervously. They should be, this isn't right. They're stock of Two, they're meant to be supporting their Victors, not. Well. The drums are beating, a rhythm that invites no argument, before an abrupt stop. I can hear Coriolanus Snow's voice, don't even raise my head when I can raise my middle finger. Old women deserve death with dignity, not the pomp and circumstance that the President decides is what's necessary to keep order.

"For crimes of sedition, challenge to the Capitol, murder, treason and aiding and abetting suspects of terror including Lyme Carlssen and Terce Wright, you are convicted and sentenced to death."

I wanted to say no, for a second. Wanted to say I'd turned a blind eye in that instant, but I hadn't. I was guilty of a great many things.

I had plotted with individuals bearing distaste to the Capitol, because they were right. The Ones, the Fives, the Sevens. All of them playing sweet, and now they're fighting in the west properly. Spoken with the Capitol rebels, or whatever of the disjointed factions there I'd come into contact with.

I had challenged the Capitol. Refused to let new Peacekeepers base themselves in my house when they were told they had to, refused to make propos in support, had rebel banners in my basement ready for when they marched into Two. Had convinced a Peacekeeping patrol to give me a weapon for my own security

I had killed those Peacekeepers, but there was every reason for it. Parents being rebels does not a child make in any case, and so when the Peacekeepers demanded I give the children up, kicked down the front door? I stood my ground.

I had intended treason. Had gone outside, helped plant those little dots I was told were so vital at various locations under the guise of a tour to raise the morale of the troops. When each of the locations was all but flattened the next day when One did airstrikes? Maybe I'd had a hand in that.

I had let Lyme and Terce stay in my house when the Peacekeepers searched theirs, convinced the Peacekeepers there was simply no way little old Chrysaor had hosted rebels. They were upstairs the whole time. But I was a victor, had status. Status enough to get two extra Peacekeepers on a train to One, and then when the golden district rebelled? Well, Lyme and Terce were on some of the first propos.

So I give a nod. Roll my eyes, speak last words. Braver than I ever was, I hope they put them on my tomb. "Get it over with, Snow. Glad to know an old woman scares you enough, and I'll see you wherever we end up." There's no time for more.

A single shot to the back of the head is all it takes.