HOME | DD

Description
He doesn't see any mentors worth speaking to on his way to the bar. What he does see, projected on the walls around him, is the beginning of a surprising alliance.

He's reasonably certain that the story he told Rhona never had this many dragons and fire-breathing mutts in it. But Rhona plows through her own version, making up with enthusiasm for what she lacks in actual storytelling talent. He thinks he knows why she's doing it, too, and she might be succeeding: at least a few of the attendees are paying close attention.

And okay, it's all style and not much substance, the way she's telling it, but whether she knows it or not it's exactly what the Capitol laps up. Before long there's a small but noticeable crowd huddled around one of the speakers, listening closely, and as a couple waltzes by he hears one of them murmur, "Well, we'll be able to catch it on the replays, anyway."

Leon doesn't bother hiding his smile. Instead, he finishes his beer and orders another.

If Caleb Noley's mentor is here, he can't locate him, which is frustrating. As rash as Caleb seems, Leon figures he'd be a good ally to have. The boy's a former rebel himself, which is enough to get Leon's attention; he'd be good for an inside man, if nothing else. Still, he'll keep an eye out. It's possible he's disappeared momentarily behind the blindingly colored horde-turned-probable-orgy of stylists that's just arrived.

Roarke Farryn's mentor is easier to find. Any man dressed simply stands out in the Capitol, and Stephan Atreo is no exception—especially at a soirée like this one, where everyone is dressing for attention. He's seated a few stools down the bar, wearing a reserved suit version of Roarke's outfit, not unlike Leon's own, and nursing something clear that could just as well be water.

He's in business, from what Leon can remember. Looks like a pen-pusher. Liaising between Four and the Capitol, maybe? Leon hasn't had the chance to do research.

"Not much of a dancer?" he offers as he approaches. Atreo glances at him; it's a moment before recognition dawns and he shakes his head, offering a slight smile.

"I'm afraid it's not my area of expertise." His voice is quiet and clipped, a far cry from the drawl Leon usually associates with Four.

The Games bring out the unlikeliest of people, Leon thinks wryly, himself included. "Mine neither. Not a lot of fancy dress parties back in Six."

"Hmm," says Atreo, and sips his drink. "I take it you're looking for an alliance."

"Got it in one," says Leon, because all right, that was abrupt, but he can't deny it's nice to get straight to the point. "It looks like our Tributes are working together for the time being. I'm willing to pool some of my resources if you are."

He can practically see the gears in Atreo's head turning. Leon's sponsor list isn't exactly sizeable, considering it's been less than two full days, but the few he has are wealthy and willing to donate. Atreo has to know that by now, if he's anything close to the banker he resembles.

Atreo is quiet for a moment longer, clearly thinking, and Leon lets him. Then, "I'm afraid I'll have to think about it," he says at last. "You understand it's a question of presentability."

And that's a brush-off if he's ever heard one, albeit one of the politest he's ever been given. Why would I agree to that when my Tribute killed a mutt and yours just ran away from one? Leon fixes a small, confident smile on his face and inclines his head. "Take all the time you need, Mr. Atreo," he says anyway as he slides off his barstool. "I'm confident we'll be able to reach some sort of agreement."

He refuses to count that as a lost cause just yet. The night's still young, after all. Assuming for a moment it's high-grade vodka in Atreo's glass, all he has to do is wait for a few more dances and come back when the man's more amenable to reason.

Still no sign of Caleb's mentor as he returns to the dancefloor, but Leon's a patient man. Velma Twipp whirls past, laughing in the arms of a man in some sort of fishnet getup that probably cost more than all the ships in Four combined. Kane has retreated to the side of the ballroom, where he appears to be holding court with several well-dressed businessmen. And, breaking off from the conversation and crossing the dancefloor, dressed in a smartly cut suit that glows faintly with cunningly designed circuitry, is Reinald Todorov.

Leon hesitates for a moment. He's used to taking calculated risks, sure, but on his own terms. As far as he's concerned, there are few better judges than his own gut instinct. Having a practical stranger suggest that he should make contact with another stranger for vague reasons goes against everything he's ever known.

Worst case scenario: Ergo's a mole, someone who's cracked a rarely-used rebel code and is making full use of it, and Todorov is her accomplice, and this is all an elaborately constructed trap to weed out remaining pockets of resistance among the volunteer mentors. Best case scenario: Everything he needs falls neatly into place, and the Capitol comes crashing down around their ears.

He's always been a gambler, but he can't help but feel the stakes are a little too high this time.

Todorov retrieves a woman from the brightly painted gaggle of stylists as Leon watches, though the expression on his face suggests he'd rather be doing anything else. Some kind of courtesan hired for the occasion, probably. Her face is done in the Capitol style, so caked with makeup it seems to have lost all definition or individuality. The things that pass for beauty here, thinks Leon wryly. Stand out, as long as you look like everybody else.

If anything, it's the dress that catches his eye. She's wearing a rich green gown with a gossamer-thin scarf draped over it. Near-invisible vines curl over the sheer fabric, almost identical to the real ones woven through her bright red hair. When she moves, the dress ripples, like light shining through clustered leaves. As if it weren't already obvious who her Tribute of choice was, she gives him a little wave in greeting as Leon approaches, and he catches sight of her left arm, encased in a clever wooden glove so intricate he can't decide if it's breathtaking or just plain offensive.

"You must be Mr. Chen!" she says. "Reinald has told me so much about you!"

Her Capitol accent makes the end of each sentence go up, as if she's not quite sure whether she's going for a question or a statement. Leon looks up at Todorov with some surprise, but the other man only twitches one shoulder and offers him a slightly resigned smile. "Only that it's quite odd for a cabbie to have volunteered for such a thankless task," he says.

Leon matches his smile with a pleasantly bland one of his own. "I like to win, Mr. Todorov. And I know a winning side when I see one."

"It's a big risk," says Todorov, and looks at him with surprising intent. "Don't you think?"

Leon's smile doesn't waver. "I'm a betting man."

"Some would call that insane," says Todorov.

"Do they? I call it living," says Leon, and casts about for a suitable subject change. "And I believe you have the advantage of me, Miss…?"

"Enyo," supplies Todorov. "Where are my manners? This is Lucretia Enyo, professional socialite. God knows if she does anything else, if she's free to drag me to this ball."

Lucretia Enyo smacks his arm. "Don't be so rude! Have you read our magazines here in the Capitol, Mr. Chen? I edit some of the advice columns."

"Only the fashion ones Jupiter foists on me," says Leon, and pauses briefly over her hand, hiding his confusion. He wouldn't have pegged her for Todorov's type in the slightest. What's the man up to? "Speaking of which, I adore your dress."

She brightens. "Do you? I'm ever so glad! I almost didn't wear it when Reinald asked me to come, because I thought it would be in terrible taste if he dressed like his Tribute and I didn't! Could you imagine! But then I thought it would be such a waste, and anyway I didn't have the time to get a new one."

"It was woven on a loom by exquisite boys," says Todorov, straight-faced, and Lucretia stares at him for a moment before tittering. Actually tittering, as if it's a thing people actually do.

"You're so funny, Reinald!" she cooes, curling a possessive hand around his arm. Leon thinks he catches the flicker of a grimace before his face smooths over into placid acceptance. "Leon, he's been standing here all night making rude comments about people. Tell him to dance with me."

"I don't think so," says Todorov, and levels a look at Leon that says I will be indebted to you forever if you get her off my arm. Strictly speaking, it isn't really the alliance Leon dreamed of, but he's in no position to complain.

"Oh, please," says Leon, offering his best smile as he steps forward, "you don't really want to dance with that old stick in the mud. Allow me."

She titters again, glancing up at Reinald. "You should be ashamed," she tells him, prodding him with a perfectly manicured finger. "Passing off a lady like that! Lead on, Mr. Chen."

Leon bows at the waist, offering a hand. "Call me Leon. We might as well start with first names, because I'm going to be stepping on your toes all night."

---

Lucretia Enyo, Leon decides after two dances, is an airhead. But she's a pleasant one, and at first, it's easy to keep the simmering anger from his voice as she asks painfully naïve questions about what it's like in District Six. He gathers from stray comments that she is well off, even compared to her peers, and her casual, dismissive comments about Capitol life may rub him the wrong way, but he grits his teeth and grins through it.

She's about his age, if not a little younger. What would a bright-eyed, twenty-something Capitol socialite know of the war? It's not her fault. He has to remember that.

Besides, she's rolling in money from the sound of it, and that's more than enough incentive to try and win her over.

"I don't suppose I could convince you to switch sides," he says lightly as they whirl past the chocolate fountain. He's not a dancer by any stretch of the imagination; thankfully, Lucretia has taken the lead in that regard.

She blinks, then titters again. "That's very flattering, Mr. Chen! But I'm afraid I'm already sponsoring Miss Darton. It seems awfully like cheating to sponsor two Tributes!"

"It isn't at all," says Leon, allowing a touch of seriousness to slip through. Maybe this isn't entirely fair, if she's already picked a Tribute, but he's never planned to play fair. Besides, he'll consider it a fair trade, considering Todorov is studiously avoiding them on the other side of the ballroom. "Ginger and Rhona haven't even met in the Arena yet. You can think of it as making sure the odds are in everyone's favor, if you like."

"That's true," says Lucretia agreeably, in the tone of voice that suggests she hasn't paid any attention to what he's just said. "And your Miss Velaro seems like such a sweetheart! I do love a good street urchin, don't you? They're always so resourceful in the books!"

She doesn't know any better, Leon chants in his head, she doesn't know any better. "But?" he prompts, because that's the kind of observation that always precedes a 'but.'

Lucretia sighs. "But Miss Darton's story is just so tragic! I saw it during the live broadcast and I must have wept for hours. Both her parents must have been so very brave, even though they were so misguided! And her mother, sacrificing herself for her children like that!"

Leon only makes a faint sound that could be assent, and breathes through his nose. She doesn't know any better. Of course not. What would she know of the families torn apart by the war?

"And she's at a disadvantage already, because of her arm." She actually has the nerve to waggle her own, for emphasis. "You know, I feel like that's the best way for these Games to end, for a girl like her to rise up above her sordid family past and restore some honor to their name."

"Honor," says Leon, suddenly, and that's the first mistake he makes. He lets himself get angry. "You think there's honor in a name? In a game like this?"

"Well—" begins Lucretia, more confused than upset, but he cuts her off.

"There isn't," he says, quietly, vehemently. "If she wins, she'll be paraded around your Capitol like a doll, for people to watch and fawn over, and then she'll be discarded when she isn't useful anymore. You think there's any rising to be done here? There's nowhere to go for any of these Tributes but down."

Lucretia has stopped moving. She stares, openmouthed, and Leon sucks in a breath. It takes a moment for him to realize she's not staring at him but past him. It's Kane, isn't it, he thinks, he's standing right behind me and I'm a dead man walking.

Except it isn't Kane who has her attention. It's Rhona.

This is the thing: for all his righteous anger at Lucretia's "good street urchin" comment, it's just as easy for Leon to forget who Rhona is. She's young, and it's hard to remember that not two years ago, she would have been in the thick of the fight. Six was hit just as hard as any other District, and worse than many. When he thinks of her, all he sees in his mind is the quick-witted kid with a smart mouth and a fondness for the underdog.

The kid projected on the walls now isn't one he knows. When she slashes a bright line across Roarke's throat, Lucretia makes faint sounds like she's going to be sick, and Leon can't even find it in him to feel vindicated. Suddenly the idea of talking a sponsor round is a long way away, distant and difficult to grasp.

A low hiss escapes his mouth as Caleb appears, but there's nothing he can do to warn her, there isn't enough time, and he feels oddly trapped as he watches. She moves like she's used to death, like it's just another trick the war taught her. He knows she's not unaffected—the closeup on her face clearly shows him the tight lines around her eyes and mouth—but it's lost in the heat of the moment, in the harsh sounds that escape from her throat as she closes in again, is knocked back again.

As if by instinct he finds himself turning from the broadcast to pick Kane out from the crowd. The President's face is almost expressionless, but he's watching the screen intently, and Leon thinks he can see a sort of cold satisfaction on his face.

And then Rhona finally drives the horn through her opponent's eye, and there's a low murmur—of horror or appreciation or both, he's not sure. For a moment, the ballroom is hushed, and he waits, heart pounding in his chest, for their judgment.

The scattered applause is loud enough to ease his nerves a little. What it's not loud enough to do is drown out the sharp report of the gunshot that follows.

Description
He doesn't see any mentors worth speaking to on his way to the bar. What he does see, projected on the walls around him, is the beginning of a surprising alliance.

He's reasonably certain that the story he told Rhona never had this many dragons and fire-breathing mutts in it. But Rhona plows through her own version, making up with enthusiasm for what she lacks in actual storytelling talent. He thinks he knows why she's doing it, too, and she might be succeeding: at least a few of the attendees are paying close attention.

And okay, it's all style and not much substance, the way she's telling it, but whether she knows it or not it's exactly what the Capitol laps up. Before long there's a small but noticeable crowd huddled around one of the speakers, listening closely, and as a couple waltzes by he hears one of them murmur, "Well, we'll be able to catch it on the replays, anyway."

Leon doesn't bother hiding his smile. Instead, he finishes his beer and orders another.

If Caleb Noley's mentor is here, he can't locate him, which is frustrating. As rash as Caleb seems, Leon figures he'd be a good ally to have. The boy's a former rebel himself, which is enough to get Leon's attention; he'd be good for an inside man, if nothing else. Still, he'll keep an eye out. It's possible he's disappeared momentarily behind the blindingly colored horde-turned-probable-orgy of stylists that's just arrived.

Roarke Farryn's mentor is easier to find. Any man dressed simply stands out in the Capitol, and Stephan Atreo is no exception—especially at a soirée like this one, where everyone is dressing for attention. He's seated a few stools down the bar, wearing a reserved suit version of Roarke's outfit, not unlike Leon's own, and nursing something clear that could just as well be water.

He's in business, from what Leon can remember. Looks like a pen-pusher. Liaising between Four and the Capitol, maybe? Leon hasn't had the chance to do research.

"Not much of a dancer?" he offers as he approaches. Atreo glances at him; it's a moment before recognition dawns and he shakes his head, offering a slight smile.

"I'm afraid it's not my area of expertise." His voice is quiet and clipped, a far cry from the drawl Leon usually associates with Four.

The Games bring out the unlikeliest of people, Leon thinks wryly, himself included. "Mine neither. Not a lot of fancy dress parties back in Six."

"Hmm," says Atreo, and sips his drink. "I take it you're looking for an alliance."

"Got it in one," says Leon, because all right, that was abrupt, but he can't deny it's nice to get straight to the point. "It looks like our Tributes are working together for the time being. I'm willing to pool some of my resources if you are."

He can practically see the gears in Atreo's head turning. Leon's sponsor list isn't exactly sizeable, considering it's been less than two full days, but the few he has are wealthy and willing to donate. Atreo has to know that by now, if he's anything close to the banker he resembles.

Atreo is quiet for a moment longer, clearly thinking, and Leon lets him. Then, "I'm afraid I'll have to think about it," he says at last. "You understand it's a question of presentability."

And that's a brush-off if he's ever heard one, albeit one of the politest he's ever been given. Why would I agree to that when my Tribute killed a mutt and yours just ran away from one? Leon fixes a small, confident smile on his face and inclines his head. "Take all the time you need, Mr. Atreo," he says anyway as he slides off his barstool. "I'm confident we'll be able to reach some sort of agreement."

He refuses to count that as a lost cause just yet. The night's still young, after all. Assuming for a moment it's high-grade vodka in Atreo's glass, all he has to do is wait for a few more dances and come back when the man's more amenable to reason.

Still no sign of Caleb's mentor as he returns to the dancefloor, but Leon's a patient man. Velma Twipp whirls past, laughing in the arms of a man in some sort of fishnet getup that probably cost more than all the ships in Four combined. Kane has retreated to the side of the ballroom, where he appears to be holding court with several well-dressed businessmen. And, breaking off from the conversation and crossing the dancefloor, dressed in a smartly cut suit that glows faintly with cunningly designed circuitry, is Reinald Todorov.

Leon hesitates for a moment. He's used to taking calculated risks, sure, but on his own terms. As far as he's concerned, there are few better judges than his own gut instinct. Having a practical stranger suggest that he should make contact with another stranger for vague reasons goes against everything he's ever known.

Worst case scenario: Ergo's a mole, someone who's cracked a rarely-used rebel code and is making full use of it, and Todorov is her accomplice, and this is all an elaborately constructed trap to weed out remaining pockets of resistance among the volunteer mentors. Best case scenario: Everything he needs falls neatly into place, and the Capitol comes crashing down around their ears.

He's always been a gambler, but he can't help but feel the stakes are a little too high this time.

Todorov retrieves a woman from the brightly painted gaggle of stylists as Leon watches, though the expression on his face suggests he'd rather be doing anything else. Some kind of courtesan hired for the occasion, probably. Her face is done in the Capitol style, so caked with makeup it seems to have lost all definition or individuality. The things that pass for beauty here, thinks Leon wryly. Stand out, as long as you look like everybody else.

If anything, it's the dress that catches his eye. She's wearing a rich green gown with a gossamer-thin scarf draped over it. Near-invisible vines curl over the sheer fabric, almost identical to the real ones woven through her bright red hair. When she moves, the dress ripples, like light shining through clustered leaves. As if it weren't already obvious who her Tribute of choice was, she gives him a little wave in greeting as Leon approaches, and he catches sight of her left arm, encased in a clever wooden glove so intricate he can't decide if it's breathtaking or just plain offensive.

"You must be Mr. Chen!" she says. "Reinald has told me so much about you!"

Her Capitol accent makes the end of each sentence go up, as if she's not quite sure whether she's going for a question or a statement. Leon looks up at Todorov with some surprise, but the other man only twitches one shoulder and offers him a slightly resigned smile. "Only that it's quite odd for a cabbie to have volunteered for such a thankless task," he says.

Leon matches his smile with a pleasantly bland one of his own. "I like to win, Mr. Todorov. And I know a winning side when I see one."

"It's a big risk," says Todorov, and looks at him with surprising intent. "Don't you think?"

Leon's smile doesn't waver. "I'm a betting man."

"Some would call that insane," says Todorov.

"Do they? I call it living," says Leon, and casts about for a suitable subject change. "And I believe you have the advantage of me, Miss…?"

"Enyo," supplies Todorov. "Where are my manners? This is Lucretia Enyo, professional socialite. God knows if she does anything else, if she's free to drag me to this ball."

Lucretia Enyo smacks his arm. "Don't be so rude! Have you read our magazines here in the Capitol, Mr. Chen? I edit some of the advice columns."

"Only the fashion ones Jupiter foists on me," says Leon, and pauses briefly over her hand, hiding his confusion. He wouldn't have pegged her for Todorov's type in the slightest. What's the man up to? "Speaking of which, I adore your dress."

She brightens. "Do you? I'm ever so glad! I almost didn't wear it when Reinald asked me to come, because I thought it would be in terrible taste if he dressed like his Tribute and I didn't! Could you imagine! But then I thought it would be such a waste, and anyway I didn't have the time to get a new one."

"It was woven on a loom by exquisite boys," says Todorov, straight-faced, and Lucretia stares at him for a moment before tittering. Actually tittering, as if it's a thing people actually do.

"You're so funny, Reinald!" she cooes, curling a possessive hand around his arm. Leon thinks he catches the flicker of a grimace before his face smooths over into placid acceptance. "Leon, he's been standing here all night making rude comments about people. Tell him to dance with me."

"I don't think so," says Todorov, and levels a look at Leon that says I will be indebted to you forever if you get her off my arm. Strictly speaking, it isn't really the alliance Leon dreamed of, but he's in no position to complain.

"Oh, please," says Leon, offering his best smile as he steps forward, "you don't really want to dance with that old stick in the mud. Allow me."

She titters again, glancing up at Reinald. "You should be ashamed," she tells him, prodding him with a perfectly manicured finger. "Passing off a lady like that! Lead on, Mr. Chen."

Leon bows at the waist, offering a hand. "Call me Leon. We might as well start with first names, because I'm going to be stepping on your toes all night."

---

Lucretia Enyo, Leon decides after two dances, is an airhead. But she's a pleasant one, and at first, it's easy to keep the simmering anger from his voice as she asks painfully naïve questions about what it's like in District Six. He gathers from stray comments that she is well off, even compared to her peers, and her casual, dismissive comments about Capitol life may rub him the wrong way, but he grits his teeth and grins through it.

She's about his age, if not a little younger. What would a bright-eyed, twenty-something Capitol socialite know of the war? It's not her fault. He has to remember that.

Besides, she's rolling in money from the sound of it, and that's more than enough incentive to try and win her over.

"I don't suppose I could convince you to switch sides," he says lightly as they whirl past the chocolate fountain. He's not a dancer by any stretch of the imagination; thankfully, Lucretia has taken the lead in that regard.

She blinks, then titters again. "That's very flattering, Mr. Chen! But I'm afraid I'm already sponsoring Miss Darton. It seems awfully like cheating to sponsor two Tributes!"

"It isn't at all," says Leon, allowing a touch of seriousness to slip through. Maybe this isn't entirely fair, if she's already picked a Tribute, but he's never planned to play fair. Besides, he'll consider it a fair trade, considering Todorov is studiously avoiding them on the other side of the ballroom. "Ginger and Rhona haven't even met in the Arena yet. You can think of it as making sure the odds are in everyone's favor, if you like."

"That's true," says Lucretia agreeably, in the tone of voice that suggests she hasn't paid any attention to what he's just said. "And your Miss Velaro seems like such a sweetheart! I do love a good street urchin, don't you? They're always so resourceful in the books!"

She doesn't know any better, Leon chants in his head, she doesn't know any better. "But?" he prompts, because that's the kind of observation that always precedes a 'but.'

Lucretia sighs. "But Miss Darton's story is just so tragic! I saw it during the live broadcast and I must have wept for hours. Both her parents must have been so very brave, even though they were so misguided! And her mother, sacrificing herself for her children like that!"

Leon only makes a faint sound that could be assent, and breathes through his nose. She doesn't know any better. Of course not. What would she know of the families torn apart by the war?

"And she's at a disadvantage already, because of her arm." She actually has the nerve to waggle her own, for emphasis. "You know, I feel like that's the best way for these Games to end, for a girl like her to rise up above her sordid family past and restore some honor to their name."

"Honor," says Leon, suddenly, and that's the first mistake he makes. He lets himself get angry. "You think there's honor in a name? In a game like this?"

"Well—" begins Lucretia, more confused than upset, but he cuts her off.

"There isn't," he says, quietly, vehemently. "If she wins, she'll be paraded around your Capitol like a doll, for people to watch and fawn over, and then she'll be discarded when she isn't useful anymore. You think there's any rising to be done here? There's nowhere to go for any of these Tributes but down."

Lucretia has stopped moving. She stares, openmouthed, and Leon sucks in a breath. It takes a moment for him to realize she's not staring at him but past him. It's Kane, isn't it, he thinks, he's standing right behind me and I'm a dead man walking.

Except it isn't Kane who has her attention. It's Rhona.

This is the thing: for all his righteous anger at Lucretia's "good street urchin" comment, it's just as easy for Leon to forget who Rhona is. She's young, and it's hard to remember that not two years ago, she would have been in the thick of the fight. Six was hit just as hard as any other District, and worse than many. When he thinks of her, all he sees in his mind is the quick-witted kid with a smart mouth and a fondness for the underdog.

The kid projected on the walls now isn't one he knows. When she slashes a bright line across Roarke's throat, Lucretia makes faint sounds like she's going to be sick, and Leon can't even find it in him to feel vindicated. Suddenly the idea of talking a sponsor round is a long way away, distant and difficult to grasp.

A low hiss escapes his mouth as Caleb appears, but there's nothing he can do to warn her, there isn't enough time, and he feels oddly trapped as he watches. She moves like she's used to death, like it's just another trick the war taught her. He knows she's not unaffected—the closeup on her face clearly shows him the tight lines around her eyes and mouth—but it's lost in the heat of the moment, in the harsh sounds that escape from her throat as she closes in again, is knocked back again.

As if by instinct he finds himself turning from the broadcast to pick Kane out from the crowd. The President's face is almost expressionless, but he's watching the screen intently, and Leon thinks he can see a sort of cold satisfaction on his face.

And then Rhona finally drives the horn through her opponent's eye, and there's a low murmur—of horror or appreciation or both, he's not sure. For a moment, the ballroom is hushed, and he waits, heart pounding in his chest, for their judgment.

The scattered applause is loud enough to ease his nerves a little. What it's not loud enough to do is drown out the sharp report of the gunshot that follows.