Elise

Run, run, run. Those three words, pressing through my head as I watch Millie and her ally run. Piper's already greyed out on the screen, but that pair is still going, still surviving. Still walking, and they may have slowed from the full-blown sprint of the Cornucopia but they're heading through the forest, towards the slopes of the mountains. Away. Away. That's good.

Seeder's already left our booth, I can't blame her. It'd take it out of anyone watching that kind of loss, of a promising tribute, this early into the Games. Doubly so when it's an outlier. Triply so when Eleven's not had a Victor since Chaff, and they've been so hoping for one. Doors have been opening and closing for the past ten minutes, each of the slams echoing around the wheel as a Victor stormed out or in.

Chrissie's still here though, looks at me and slips her screen around so we can both face it. Her voice is soft, soft enough. "They need to keep going. To the edge of the cliffs. The others, they're scattering now. But they'll come to ground. They need to set up somewhere they can keep alive, somewhere they can survive without the Squad breathing down their necks."

It's true they need to set up – but our kids are the furthest out. Less vulnerable as is. Most have stopped, and I can see the blue of their dots indicate they've stayed roughly within the same space. Some are still purple – moving. Millie and Lysa I can see for certain, moving in a nice northwards pattern. Robin is less certain, the dot 'within a certain radius', but I can see that he's heading roughly east. The rest of the kids? Well, I know they're moving, the map says it's accurate to 200 metres, but truth be told it's just as likely that they're in a wrong direction and it's throwing us off.

The rest, the Ones and Fours, and Two's girl, are huddled around the Cornucopia. There's dead bodies scattered around, and Two's boy is among them – downed in the opening minutes by a spear from Three's boy. After all, you can do a lot, but there's always going to be random change. I can hear Brutus congratulating Beetee outside – for the best, and Terce mentioning next year. With a warning tone, but friendly warning. As if they've forgotten who has an 18th birthday next year.

Should probably tell the girl next year not to ally with the Threes.

But for now, I have to just stare at the screen. Know that Skye is next to me, watching, and Sol is off somewhere gathering Sponsors because for all her faults she isn't quite the worst at that. Know that Chrissie's across from me, pursing her lips and considering the maps laid out on her own screen.

And really, really hope that Millie has the sense not to break the alliance. It'd be a surprise – given that they've already split out supplies, and they're still walking together. Still, one thing I've learnt is never, ever to trust a Tribute's judgement. Even the ones Five offered up back when we had the favour of the Capitol occasionally made bad decisions, the kind of decisions that sent them to the dogs.

Outside the room, I can hear all kinds of yells. It was quieter at first, but now I can tell one simple truth. People are, as usual, not the happiest their child has been killed. As if it's the fault of anyone in this room. I can hear Seeder and Taffeta speaking in low voices, for a moment want to insert myself but. Well, this is a discussion between Mentors who've lost. My joining in would only be impolite.

There's other voices, as well. A chirpy runner, one of the Capitol students who volunteer and get paid a little sum for running errands, fetching food and drink, carrying Sponsor forms – all the usual things that a Mentor needs doing but doesn't want to do themselves. The silent footsteps of Avoxes, carrying complimentary food and drink as opposed to custom requests made to runners. Holstein, who's lost his Tribute already and isn't, really isn't, afraid to let anyone know what he thinks of that 'steaming pile of horse-shit One.'

I can already see what's going on, even as Chrissie rolls her eyes and gives me one of her snide little frowns. The frown that says 'honestly', that complains about Angus having the audacity to complain about losing a tribute, that expresses some gladness we're winning but… well, little past that. The frown is tight and terse, flecked with disapproval as she glances towards the door, and then speaks. Lays down a little… condemnation, or something along those lines.

"I know you feel bad, but really. Well, someone had to die. Best it not be ours, yes?" I nod, but my heart's not in it, and. Well, truth be told, Skye's better suited than m to deal with Chrissie's brand of fatalistic… something.

There's papers on the desk – reaching out, I take quite a few, slipping them into my bag. Forms, regulations, all kinds of things for Sponsors to sign. The kind of things that I'm going to need for my mission, if I am to have any chance of success.

Leaving the booth, I leave Chrissie and Skye to handle the issues – I can't be there all the time to secure their interests, and more to the point we need… well, everything. Sponsor funds, the public momentum that prevents the Gamemakers from deciding a Tribute isn't interesting enough to send them to the grave early to please the crowds.

The elevator ride down is long, but in the glass shaft gives me a gorgeous view of the Capitol, laid out in silver and steel across the lakeshore. The same city I have to venture into, and tapping in a message to my phone I get a simple response back in golden letters.

'Sure'

The sun is shining, gold and gleaming off every skyscraper in the city as I walk out the front doors. The Tribute Center at the least was air conditioned, and a wall of heat ploughs into me walking outside. Still, it isn't as bad as it can get in the summer - thank it all for small mercies.

What isn't a mercy is the flashing cameras, lens after lens, as I try to walk through the field of journalists. It's horrible, the lights snapping every which way and every man and woman with microphone in hand demanding some kind of answer, some words, any statement form me. My Tribute's survived the bloodbath, and so of course they want some commentary on how I think it happened. How lucky Millie was, how glad I was she escaped. Whether I was certain she would win (no. I'm not).

Still, railings keep them off the path, and before long I can cross over the street, and let them stay penned up within the press sections – let them wait, let them bay like a pack of hounds for the next Victor to leave the Center. I've got an appointment, after all, and this one just can't wait. Not when I'm relying on this to bring in enough extra funding not to lose Millie and Lysa in the earliest stages of the Games. Which is why I walk through the glass doors and down the stairs to the main concourse of the nearest Transfer station – it's safe enough, and it's the kind of place mostly empty save for some Center staff.

The Transfer is a lot cooler - the air conditioning is whirring at a full blast, and the lights aren't the sort to heat up, so it's back into the cool. A quick stop at the nearest Markt, snatching up a bottle from the fridge and scanning my wristband to pay the store, and then it's off and out the front door. The platform isn't too crowded – mainly journalists, and all of them (for once) offer some set of space. They take photos, some of them talk into cameras, but at the least I'm not pressed for comment, told I have to give answers or explain or some other thing that I really don't have time for at the moment.

The train, I'd hoped, would be similarly quiet. Instead, I'm swarmed by the Capitolites, most of them from the outskirts of the city, the moment I set foot inside. Because, for better or for worse? Well, that's the price of celebrity out here. I'm congratulated on Millie making it past the bloodbath, I'm congratulated on not losing my head and panicking, I'm congratulated on going out (and everyone seems quite certain I'm doing it to get Sponsors).

And, to be fair to them, I am, and it's likely that the better these people can connect with me the better money they'll give me when I really need it. So I smile. I offer a nod, and agree that yes, I'm going out to get Sponsors because (and this has to be stressed) no matter how much support Millie is drawing, I can always, always use more support.

And within ten minutes, half the carriage has offered their support, because oh they just love seeing a Victor so invested in a Tribute, and (as one older lady puts it) 'I'd doubt that any Tribute you're trying this hard for isn't worth the support we can offer. I'd be very interested to meet her, see if your Millie really is all that.'

And I smile, and not, and agree, and feel my fingernails bite into the balls of my hand because this is the bare minimum. This is the least I can do for Millie, and they're treating it like I've crossed the Panemois border and walked to one of those ancient cities that burned in the fire of the eight-hour war, out in Asia.

But I can't say any of that. So instead I squeeze, and smile, and let the pain keep me centred because, really, that helps. A lot.

By the time we reach my stop, I can stride off to a chorus of goodbyes all too chirpy for the majority of these people to be sober, and walk up stairs and past shops, tossing the half-drunk and mostly forgotten bottle into a bin as I do. I shouldn't – half of Five would kill to have been able to taste that bottle, but they aren't here, and here in the Capitol anyone would spit down on a half-drunk bottle.

Besides. I push open the doors of the bar, let smoke and the stink of fire and half a dozen other smells waft over me as I push through and into the bar. Bartenders tend not to like people bringing outside drinks into their inside. It's a truth you learn early in Five, and one truth that meant I had to get rid of the drink as a result.

As I walk into Bell's, I can see the oil painting behind glass on the far side of the entry hall, the first thing anyone ever sees. The founder may be long dead, but his memory sits there even as I give his portrait a quick once-over and then take a right turn into the bar.

There's all sorts of things going on behind the doors. Exotic dancers, some Ones and some from the Capitol, are on the stage to the eyes of a crowd of men (with some women). There's a man I half-recognize nursing a glass against the far wall, and looking a bit closer I can see Millet's features etched in grief, rage, all the emotions that pass through your head when you lose another Tribute. The bar is seething as per usual, cocktails with names far too fancy – Vipeche Vortex, Silver Slammer, all that kind of mess passing out of jugs, mixed at the bar or otherwise passed over.

I ignore all that – the serving girls are coming around taking orders from anyone seated at a table, and going further to the back I can slip into a booth, sit down and look at the man opposite me, pink smile playing over my lips.

"Price." The man is sat at one end of the table, having struggled to squeeze in it seems. Nonetheless, he smiles at the sight of me, two glasses already on the table, and I just have to offer a smile of my own in polite greeting.

"Elise." The smile plastered onto my face wavers slightly at the casual manner of his greeting, but still I'm sliding into the booth, my bag rustling as I do so. "It's good to see you. I didn't know what you wanted – thought I'd best just ask for your usual and if you want something else. Well, you know I'm good for it."

We laugh together, and I can already feel his warmth – sticky and humid seeping into me. I tuck my legs back to the edge of my seat, and I offer him a broadening of my smile that's only skin-deep. My hand reaches into the bag, draws out a set of forms, and I offer him a smile. "If I could prevail upon you for… well, a lot, but Sponsorship would be about the best I could hope for. We've known each other a long time, Mr. Price. I'm sure that we could cooperate, get a deal out that benefits both of us. You can Sponsor Millie, it won't even make a dent in your funds because. Well, the Price family's well off."

We share another laugh, and I can continue my little spiel. "And, of course, I'd be happy to cooperate with you. We can have a nice little mutual benefit. Like we did for Sol, and probably half a dozen others at this point.

Tanager, Poppy, Sailie, Fern, Bonnie, Vela. Half a dozen I'll never get back, and yet Price, with his deep laugh and his ready grin, is still here. Just not fair, really.

"And if I sign." His smile is ready, full of teeth, but comes with the same fangs that I should expect. "Elise, if I sponsored every girl of yours who managed to make it past the bloodbath because she's a girl of yours who managed to make it past the bloodbath? Well, I'd have a lot less money, and you'd likely have no more to show to it."

Bonnie would disagree, given it was only her being the least popular that saw the weasels slip out for her near twenty years ago, but Bonnie's dead. The dead can't disagree, the dead can't challenge. The dead can only listen. Listen and understand.

"Besides." He's speaking again, and snapping myself out of my thoughts? Well, I have to if I want any chance of convincing him. "The others are already coming around. Furrier's pitching her girl, claiming Dazzle will sweep away the rest. She seems to be confident. Ditto Terce for her Katla, Lianne is as excited as only a Four can be for bringing out Leandra. Hell, look at the numbers – that big Titus boy from Six seems to have the confidence of half the Capitol, and. Well, Six may have won last year, but we have Cashmere and Gloss as a precedent. Miracles can happen."

He laughs, keeps going. "So what does your girl actually offer, Elise." I make a move, trying to answer, trying to cut apart his armchair analysis (the one I just know is coming), but he raises a hand, and I have to stop like one of his secretaries. "She's pretty. I know that much, and she seems to be half decent on the social stage. But look at it from my perspective. Good words to not a Victor make. You need that streak of viciousness. And, truth be told, I don' think she has it. Grouping up with that silly girl from Ten, losing her strongest Ally this early in? I already gave Lianne some because that was an impressive shot by her girl."

I hesitate. Try to slip a word in, but he keeps going, in that imperious tone that suggests he's sure he knows best. "Five's looking good, Elise, but I need better than good. I know you want my funds, I want to fund you, but. Well, drink, drink. Think up your argument, and then make me your pitch. I look forward to hearing it." He grins, that seemingly perpetual vision of happiness etched onto a face who's never missed a night's snack.

I take a sip. Taste sweet grenadine, silken orange juice, the sharp bite of vodka because I need something to make the early Games bearable, and for all the issues that come with it alcohol is a good enough sponge for my sorrows. Lucius Price knows I like it, knows I'm a big fan. He may not know why, but. Well, some things deserve to remain private, the why is certainly one of them.

Take another sip, and before I know it the ruddy orange in my glass is half-drained and I'm placing my hands on the table, nudging my words and a pen a tad closer to him. "Because Millie's a survivor." He nods, waves his hand in a circle, and then I'm thinking. Speaking. "She survived this far, survived the Bloodbath and you know that at this point it's entirely possible she survives. Sol was in a worse position – no Allies, no friends, no backup. Millie has Lysa, and she has hope."

I keep going, rattling off facts from the dossier the Minister for the Southern Department had sent to my desk. "She works in a casino, and you know how hard those are to get in. On the floor, as well, and if you've ever been to Vipeche?" He nods. "You'd know that place is all but exclusively One's stock. Do you really think they'd take her if there wasn't a lot of reason to expect she'd do well. She's a damned good sight, and that's half the battle – I mean just look at me." We laugh, shared and half-truthful because it is true.

"And, besides, she's spoken to me. Capitol odds are based on one score – where she did above average in, and a three minute interview. We haven't seen her in a fight, we haven't seen her in a mess, we haven't seen her in the kind of situations you need to see whether a Tribute is likely to be a good fighter. I think that's entirely fair for you to look away from her, but realistically? You have enough money to put you eggs in more than one basket. Why not maximise your hance, give over a token of friendship, and if she wins? Well, that's bragging rights, and I know your friends would just love to hear about how well you outfoxed all of them and got the Victor on your list of Sponsorships."

Another laugh, big and booming, and he nods. His cheeks, nose are reddening now, I can see how proud he is of previous Victors. Have seen how proud he is, and given that he still has his little book of Sponsorships, I'd expect that pride has carried over.

"Of course you're right. How could I ever doubt one of my oldest friends." There's no question behind those words – it's a statement, and maybe that's for the best. He reaches out, takes a form and soon enough his hand is moving in smooth pin handwriting, the kind of handwriting that promises good things. Second only to the words inside that bring spike after spike of joy to my heart, and bring with them… well, hope. Hope.

"Two hundred thousand, shall we say?" I nod, trying to conceal any hint of the excitement that's welling up inside me, and he keeps speaking. "I look forward to meeting her after she's out the Arena."

His smile suddenly takes on an entirely different tone, and I can feel a shiver shift through me because. Well, under better circumstances I may be more interested in his 'support' and what it entails, but as it stands? Beggars can't be choosers, and so I shift the subject, spent precious minutes of small talk before standing, straightening up, thanking him for his time and with forms in hand heading out of the booth.

Outside is just the way it was before – it should be, I've only spend half an hour in the place after all. The dancers are still up, staff still moving. Millet's nursing a glass, two empty now besides him, and so it's with a sigh that I have to go over to him and sit down.

"Millet. Mate." He stares at me, blank, and then takes another drink. I place my hands around the glass – one on each side, gently pulling it away from him as he protests. "You can't drink. What's got you like this, eh?"

That blank stare keeps going, and then his voice is a mutter. "'e killed her."

"Tilla?" Truth be told, I didn't see. Well, any of what happens. Still, Millet looks decidedly broken up, and so waving one of the servers over and asking for a glass of water, I try to coax the truth out of him.

"Who did? Who killed her?" He doesn't look up at me for a second – hair washed only this morning hangs in limp trails in front of his face as he stares up at me.

"Seven. The boy. Blight said, said." He stutters, wavers for a moment but resolves himself, setting the glass back down. "That there were no hard feelings. That his boy was just trying to escape. But if he was just trying to escape, then why did he have to butcher her like some goat? Not fair." His words are filled with the sloshing alcohol of the bar, and he stares at me for a moment before resting his head on the counter.

It's not proper. Not what we should be presenting as an image. Which is why, after coaxing a relatively listless Millet to take in all the water he can, I reach down and struggle to lift one arm over my shoulder. Manage to carry him outside and call a cab, and then slip through mostly silent streets (save for the occasional bus) until we reach the Tribute Center, guards stood outside as per usual. When they see me, though, one of them sets down his rifle, and comes over to help, draping Millet's other arm over a white armoured shoulder and giving me a smile under his beret.

"Long day?" The sun's still high in the sky, and it's not even been twelve hours since the Bloodbath. Still, I nod.

"'course it has been. His Tribute's died, so. Well, you can see." The guard nods, and shakes his head.

"Had to be someone, right? Anyways, we'll get him back to his rooms, Ma'am. You just get up and handle your business." This draws a grateful nod, and soon enough Millet's being ushered into one elevator, and I can take the other. Head up to the third floor, and into the steel and glass Mentor's room. Citrine and Brutus are drinking together, Elan's got her circle at a table, and still over half of the Mentoring suites are full. Pushing open our door with the tap of my wrist (a necessary measure, after Woof had accidentally entered the wrong room and heard enough to encourage Cecelia out), I can go back to the position I'll occupy for. Well, until Millie's down.

The room has an entirely different atmosphere to how I'd found it. Chrissie's gone, her Escort is in place but the Capitolite is presently speaking on two different phones at the same time. Skye looks ragged, Sol is slumped on a chair on the corner of the room. All in all, it seems, they look pretty damn tired. There's a clear tension in the air, one broken when I walk in, and there's a moments wait before I finally get the answer as to what's happened.

"Millie's fallen."

A barked laugh from Sol, and then. Well? The laughter from Skye and Sol grates on my nerves, biting down. A joke, and after a moment one I have to laugh at as well. "Skinned her knee on the way down, but this early? She should be fine."

Author's Note

We're back! Sorry for the Saturday post - had a busy one last night, but glad to be back in Lightning! Heading back to week on/week off schedule, and we'll be seeing Millie in two weeks!