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"You going to this little shindig?" says Leon.

"It's not a shindig," says Tertius. "It's a soirée."

"It's more or less the same thing," says Leon, and eats a pancake.

Here's the thing: Leon doesn't actually hate Tertius Fairchild. In fact, the list of people whom Leon currently hates, right now, above anything, is fewer than five names long. One of them is the president, and one of them is his partner in mentorship. In comparison, an entitled Capitol stylist is small fry, somewhere between "lukewarm showers" and "a very small tip" on Leon's list of annoyances. Hating things is an exhausting process, and Leon likes to save his energy for talking.

Still, he keeps his answers short. It's been a long first day, and already his mind is at work. Eleven tributes in such a short time is more than just about anyone had expected, and it doesn't surprise him that these children have so few qualms about killing—not after the childhoods they all must have had—but it twists something deep in his gut all the same.

Not that all of them were murdered by their peers. Nara seemed like a sensible girl, good-hearted enough to spare Rhona and formidable enough to ward off most of the other Tributes. It seemed like a partnership that would serve his own Tribute well.

Perhaps too well.

Part of him thought, for a moment, as Nara disappeared under the pack of howling mutts, that she would make it. She would in the better stories, if she were the heroine.

(But she wasn't, was she? Just the heroic sacrifice, and Rhona didn't look back as she ran, which was good. Nobody needed to see the aftermath on an empty stomach.)

Spinning that heroic sacrifice in Rhona's favor will be tough, but he can't say he didn't think of the possibility. It'll just take time to sort it all out, which he definitely isn't getting at breakfast.

"Regardless," Jupiter is declaring from his seat further down the table, "it will only be a chance for the Capitol's poseurs to showcase their so-called work. I wouldn't dream of darkening the door with my presence. Likely all the pretension would make me ill."

"Stay here, then," says Ergo, shooting him a Look. Ergo is good at those. "I know you. We do not need you being sick all over everyone else."

"Vomit would only improve some of those designs," says Jupiter with a significant glance at Tertius. Tertius pretends not to notice. "It saddens me to see such lovely cloth go to waste. I don't see why President Kane insists on all of these events."

Leon eats another pancake and doesn't say what he thinks, which is Of course you wouldn't. The more Kane can observe the mentors at work, the better he can understand their motives. It's a clear display of power. He's keeping everyone right where he can see them, and he's not even bothering to be subtle about it.

Aloud Leon says, "I figure it'll be nice to stretch my legs. Haven't had a chance to talk to the other mentors since the formal dinner the first night. It can't hurt to see what I'm up against now."

"Capitol fashion right now is leaning towards dressing as your favorite Tribute," says Tertius with a grimace that tells Leon precisely what he thinks of that idea. "Yours doesn't give us much to work with."

"There is always something to work with." Ergo sniffs disapprovingly. "I will design your costume, Leon. And I will go with you. I have not seen some of the stylists in a long time."

"Bellasseau won't be there," says Leon. It's not a question.

He might be mistaken—he hopes he isn't—but there's a flicker of distaste in Ergo's expression. "Bellasseau is a very busy man."

---

Leon doesn't remember the formal dinner very well. Most of his attention had been focused on the screen provided and the small figure running across it, almost lost in the pounding rain. After that, all that really sticks is the image of Bellasseau rising before the Cornucopia had even cleared, making his excuses and leaving to do something else.

Garrett has done inexplicably well for himself in the arena since, if the sheer number of Tributes offering him food is anything to go by. It's enough to make him feel guilty for the advice he gave Rhona before the Games began. He had thought Bellasseau would try to turn the boy into a weapon, albeit a small and fragile one; he had expected him to be used and discarded. Now it appears the man doesn't even care—doesn't even give a damn about the life placed in his hands—and it fills him with an anger he only rarely feels.

He doesn't usually make mistakes of this magnitude. It's one that will have to be corrected.

Still, Leon doesn't have to remember the dinner to know that Kane has outdone himself this time. The soirée is taking place in one of the spare ballrooms in his mansion, and the décor is so decadent it's almost a parody of itself: soaring arches bordered with gilt, fountains splashing merrily around the edges of the room. Beside the doors, gleaming sculptures stand at attention like underdressed valets. Leon lets himself wonder how much one of those would fetch him on the black market before dismissing the thought.

Still, what catches his attention—what catches everyone's attention—are the images projected across the vast white expanse of the ballroom walls. Kane has set up massive displays, each one showing a live feed of the Arena, each focusing on a Tribute or group of Tributes. No escape from the Games even here, and though the finely dressed mentors and their dates are doing their best to ignore them, all of them eventually find their eyes drawn to the grim-faced children surrounding them on every side.

There's an undercurrent of tension running underneath it all, and Leon would have to be blind to miss it. As far as the bookies are concerned, last night was a complete upset. All the Capitol's darlings are gone, either drowned by the flood that seemed to cover half the arena or brutally killed in the first day of fighting. Instead, it's the kids from the middle districts that are flourishing in the arena, and the attendees tonight are obviously scrambling to make up for lost time. Leon can barely even make out Jack's and Rottie's mentors, lost as they are in a crowd of appreciative potential sponsors.

He turns his gaze away from the clamoring, befeathered mob. The stylists were right; dressing as your favorite Tribute is all the rage right now, and Jack Rackam's gruesome display has won him the lion's share of supporters in the ballroom tonight. Just as prevalent are the elaborate pink bows decorating several female (and some male) heads, grotesque parodies of Rottie's choice of headgear.

Leon's own costume is almost sober in comparison. Ergo seemed to understand his tastes, despite her clear disapproval, and the suit he's wearing now might even pass for formalwear back in Six. The jacket is finely tailored, the same blue-grey shade as Rhona's shirt, and the scarf draped about his neck isn't so much dirty white as it is a soft cream color.

(Ergo. There's a puzzle he can't quite figure out. The scrap of paper she'd slipped in his hand is a a meaningless string of letters and numbers that mean nothing except to a select few people, himself included.

He'd dismissed her as a well-intentioned but brainless Capitol stylist. Is he wrong?)

"Excuse me," says a cool voice, and Leon half-turns as someone brushes by him. It takes him a moment to place the face underneath the unfamiliar hairstyle: Vinca Sylvestris, District Five.

"Sorry," he responds automatically, offering a small grin. "Crowded in here."

Vinca barely holds back an eyeroll. "I hadn't noticed."

Leon's grin doesn't fade as the other mentor makes his way through the crowd. Sensible man, if a little prickly. Possessed of at least some common sense. Leon doesn't like to make snap judgments if he can help it, but as long as he's canvassing for allies for his pet project…

There's a hubbub near the doors, and he turns to see Kane himself making his entrance. No costume for him: he's dressed in clean-cut black, a silver-tipped walking cane in hand, a confident smile fixed to his face. The President has to remain impartial, after all, despite all the rumors surrounding some of the Tributes. Personally Leon isn't sure whether he ought to believe half of them. Running a totalitarian government takes time; surely the man doesn't have the time to mete out his particularly sadistic brand of justice to all the children in far-flung districts.

Movement out of the corner of his eye as Kane sweeps toward him: a short distance away, Vinca flinches noticeably, like a startled deer, and Leon's eyes narrow at the sight. That's interesting. What it means precisely, he doesn't know, but it can't be anything pleasant. He doesn't have much time to ponder it, because Kane is already in front of him, one hand extended expectantly.

"Mr. Chen. Miss Velaro seems to be doing quite well," says Kane smoothly. Leon doesn't argue, doesn't question the statement, only takes the hand and gives it a firm shake. Whatever the man thinks of Rhona, it's positive, and that's good enough for him.

"Let's hope our luck holds out, sir," he returns, offering his best smile. "We've got a few tricks up our sleeve."

"I look forward to it," says Kane, and then he's gone, off to make the rounds and check in on all the other mentors.

Leon lets his breath out in a controlled exhale, then goes to find a drink. With any luck, at least a few more people will be joining him at the open bar soon.

Description
"You going to this little shindig?" says Leon.

"It's not a shindig," says Tertius. "It's a soirée."

"It's more or less the same thing," says Leon, and eats a pancake.

Here's the thing: Leon doesn't actually hate Tertius Fairchild. In fact, the list of people whom Leon currently hates, right now, above anything, is fewer than five names long. One of them is the president, and one of them is his partner in mentorship. In comparison, an entitled Capitol stylist is small fry, somewhere between "lukewarm showers" and "a very small tip" on Leon's list of annoyances. Hating things is an exhausting process, and Leon likes to save his energy for talking.

Still, he keeps his answers short. It's been a long first day, and already his mind is at work. Eleven tributes in such a short time is more than just about anyone had expected, and it doesn't surprise him that these children have so few qualms about killing—not after the childhoods they all must have had—but it twists something deep in his gut all the same.

Not that all of them were murdered by their peers. Nara seemed like a sensible girl, good-hearted enough to spare Rhona and formidable enough to ward off most of the other Tributes. It seemed like a partnership that would serve his own Tribute well.

Perhaps too well.

Part of him thought, for a moment, as Nara disappeared under the pack of howling mutts, that she would make it. She would in the better stories, if she were the heroine.

(But she wasn't, was she? Just the heroic sacrifice, and Rhona didn't look back as she ran, which was good. Nobody needed to see the aftermath on an empty stomach.)

Spinning that heroic sacrifice in Rhona's favor will be tough, but he can't say he didn't think of the possibility. It'll just take time to sort it all out, which he definitely isn't getting at breakfast.

"Regardless," Jupiter is declaring from his seat further down the table, "it will only be a chance for the Capitol's poseurs to showcase their so-called work. I wouldn't dream of darkening the door with my presence. Likely all the pretension would make me ill."

"Stay here, then," says Ergo, shooting him a Look. Ergo is good at those. "I know you. We do not need you being sick all over everyone else."

"Vomit would only improve some of those designs," says Jupiter with a significant glance at Tertius. Tertius pretends not to notice. "It saddens me to see such lovely cloth go to waste. I don't see why President Kane insists on all of these events."

Leon eats another pancake and doesn't say what he thinks, which is Of course you wouldn't. The more Kane can observe the mentors at work, the better he can understand their motives. It's a clear display of power. He's keeping everyone right where he can see them, and he's not even bothering to be subtle about it.

Aloud Leon says, "I figure it'll be nice to stretch my legs. Haven't had a chance to talk to the other mentors since the formal dinner the first night. It can't hurt to see what I'm up against now."

"Capitol fashion right now is leaning towards dressing as your favorite Tribute," says Tertius with a grimace that tells Leon precisely what he thinks of that idea. "Yours doesn't give us much to work with."

"There is always something to work with." Ergo sniffs disapprovingly. "I will design your costume, Leon. And I will go with you. I have not seen some of the stylists in a long time."

"Bellasseau won't be there," says Leon. It's not a question.

He might be mistaken—he hopes he isn't—but there's a flicker of distaste in Ergo's expression. "Bellasseau is a very busy man."

---

Leon doesn't remember the formal dinner very well. Most of his attention had been focused on the screen provided and the small figure running across it, almost lost in the pounding rain. After that, all that really sticks is the image of Bellasseau rising before the Cornucopia had even cleared, making his excuses and leaving to do something else.

Garrett has done inexplicably well for himself in the arena since, if the sheer number of Tributes offering him food is anything to go by. It's enough to make him feel guilty for the advice he gave Rhona before the Games began. He had thought Bellasseau would try to turn the boy into a weapon, albeit a small and fragile one; he had expected him to be used and discarded. Now it appears the man doesn't even care—doesn't even give a damn about the life placed in his hands—and it fills him with an anger he only rarely feels.

He doesn't usually make mistakes of this magnitude. It's one that will have to be corrected.

Still, Leon doesn't have to remember the dinner to know that Kane has outdone himself this time. The soirée is taking place in one of the spare ballrooms in his mansion, and the décor is so decadent it's almost a parody of itself: soaring arches bordered with gilt, fountains splashing merrily around the edges of the room. Beside the doors, gleaming sculptures stand at attention like underdressed valets. Leon lets himself wonder how much one of those would fetch him on the black market before dismissing the thought.

Still, what catches his attention—what catches everyone's attention—are the images projected across the vast white expanse of the ballroom walls. Kane has set up massive displays, each one showing a live feed of the Arena, each focusing on a Tribute or group of Tributes. No escape from the Games even here, and though the finely dressed mentors and their dates are doing their best to ignore them, all of them eventually find their eyes drawn to the grim-faced children surrounding them on every side.

There's an undercurrent of tension running underneath it all, and Leon would have to be blind to miss it. As far as the bookies are concerned, last night was a complete upset. All the Capitol's darlings are gone, either drowned by the flood that seemed to cover half the arena or brutally killed in the first day of fighting. Instead, it's the kids from the middle districts that are flourishing in the arena, and the attendees tonight are obviously scrambling to make up for lost time. Leon can barely even make out Jack's and Rottie's mentors, lost as they are in a crowd of appreciative potential sponsors.

He turns his gaze away from the clamoring, befeathered mob. The stylists were right; dressing as your favorite Tribute is all the rage right now, and Jack Rackam's gruesome display has won him the lion's share of supporters in the ballroom tonight. Just as prevalent are the elaborate pink bows decorating several female (and some male) heads, grotesque parodies of Rottie's choice of headgear.

Leon's own costume is almost sober in comparison. Ergo seemed to understand his tastes, despite her clear disapproval, and the suit he's wearing now might even pass for formalwear back in Six. The jacket is finely tailored, the same blue-grey shade as Rhona's shirt, and the scarf draped about his neck isn't so much dirty white as it is a soft cream color.

(Ergo. There's a puzzle he can't quite figure out. The scrap of paper she'd slipped in his hand is a a meaningless string of letters and numbers that mean nothing except to a select few people, himself included.

He'd dismissed her as a well-intentioned but brainless Capitol stylist. Is he wrong?)

"Excuse me," says a cool voice, and Leon half-turns as someone brushes by him. It takes him a moment to place the face underneath the unfamiliar hairstyle: Vinca Sylvestris, District Five.

"Sorry," he responds automatically, offering a small grin. "Crowded in here."

Vinca barely holds back an eyeroll. "I hadn't noticed."

Leon's grin doesn't fade as the other mentor makes his way through the crowd. Sensible man, if a little prickly. Possessed of at least some common sense. Leon doesn't like to make snap judgments if he can help it, but as long as he's canvassing for allies for his pet project…

There's a hubbub near the doors, and he turns to see Kane himself making his entrance. No costume for him: he's dressed in clean-cut black, a silver-tipped walking cane in hand, a confident smile fixed to his face. The President has to remain impartial, after all, despite all the rumors surrounding some of the Tributes. Personally Leon isn't sure whether he ought to believe half of them. Running a totalitarian government takes time; surely the man doesn't have the time to mete out his particularly sadistic brand of justice to all the children in far-flung districts.

Movement out of the corner of his eye as Kane sweeps toward him: a short distance away, Vinca flinches noticeably, like a startled deer, and Leon's eyes narrow at the sight. That's interesting. What it means precisely, he doesn't know, but it can't be anything pleasant. He doesn't have much time to ponder it, because Kane is already in front of him, one hand extended expectantly.

"Mr. Chen. Miss Velaro seems to be doing quite well," says Kane smoothly. Leon doesn't argue, doesn't question the statement, only takes the hand and gives it a firm shake. Whatever the man thinks of Rhona, it's positive, and that's good enough for him.

"Let's hope our luck holds out, sir," he returns, offering his best smile. "We've got a few tricks up our sleeve."

"I look forward to it," says Kane, and then he's gone, off to make the rounds and check in on all the other mentors.

Leon lets his breath out in a controlled exhale, then goes to find a drink. With any luck, at least a few more people will be joining him at the open bar soon.