DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognize belongs to Suzanne Collins and others who hold rights to the Hunger Games.

The sun is shining rare gold today, casting the carved stone letters into sharp relief as I walk along the rows of the dead. It's a walk that has become far too common in the last months, but every time I return home I feel I've paid a small part of the debt.

There is nothing living in District Three besides the people and a handful of stray dogs, cats, rats and some insects that roam the rubbish heaps for the few scraps that somehow get thrown out. A few have been showing themselves at the Victors' Village of late, now that my little brother Malcy roams about dropping crumbs outside.

Out here in the district cemetery the dead earth at least seems appropriate. Despite the heavy rains of the last three weeks there is still no sign of anything green creeping up from the cracked ground. Apart from me, the only color is the rare faded flower resting on a stone nameplate.

I've been making the walk every week with a handful of fresh blooms imported from District One. The unwanted remains of the weekly purchases by factory overseers and peacekeepers, they are still too expensive for anyone but a Victor. There are four graves I always visit, those I owe the most. The rest go wherever, a pretty name, a young age, a lonely corner as I wander.

I only have six left when I reach my second permanent stop. Grandma Tolsey, my mother's mother who taught us to sing and looked after us when our parents were busy at work or ill. Her grave is the least painful to visit as she passed some years back, an old woman, happy enough to go find Grandpa again. Her grave is in the block that belongs to our former residence area, nearly a mile from the Village. I drop another flower on a stone with a familiar surname to our old neighbours.

The next is still a recent wound, a stop on my walk for just these last two weeks. Wiran Ling, my little nephew who lasted only eleven days in the world before the sickness took him, coughing and hacking, to a tiny grave. Laney is still bedridden from the early birth and terrible illness, and Ezra has only been up and about these last few days. Both are heartbroken, especially since they were too sick to attend their own child's funeral, however brief the interment was.

My last stop is nearly half a mile on, through three more areas to the graves of those who work in the packaging factories. I drop another bright red flower on a stone that is scuffed and stained by mud splatter before I reach the last of my consistent stops. Stata Wash, Stuvek's older sister who I saw at my own reaping. I kept my final promise to my deceased district partner and visited her apartment three days after I returned, only to find her body in partial decay, a dried pool of blood on the floor by her slashed wrist. Her father's corpse was just as bad, mottled purple and green-gray from the illness that had finally killed him.

I was still fairly desensitized to death, so their lifeless bodies didn't send me into a state of panic at the time. They've been turning up in my nightmares often enough in the months since that I wish I'd taken up Ezra's offer to come with me. In a way I am almost glad that she did end it all and whenever I wake from one of those dreams I try to imagine them together, a happy family again.

The last flower goes to a girl named Bria, who would have been nine from the carved stone dates I brush clear of gray dust. I circle her stone and start the long walk back home, letting the golden light soak into my skin and humming gently to myself as I crunch along the dirt path. Malcy will be at school by now, Balia and Mother already on their way home from dropping him off. My sister got the day off school to see me away, but we all agreed that Malcy would be scared by the cameras and reporters and the last thing we needed was one of his tantrums. Father will be at work too, covering a shift for one of his sick friends. He still works part-time, bringing in a little money besides my Games winnings and, more importantly, still staying on the roster. If something happens to me they will be forced to move back to the old apartment and make do without my pension.

Pella and Ezra opted to stay in their own places, or our old place in Pella's case, still working their shifts as well. Both do microchip assembly, as do most in our old neighbourhood, and like it well enough. Ezra and Laney visited two or three nights a week until she became too heavy to walk, so it didn't feel like I'd lost my older brother.

The rest of us moved into the new house, revelling in the space and accessories now available to us. It means a longer walk for Balia to our old school as she wanted to keep her friends, and each area of the district tends to focus on a particular aspect of manufacture. Malcy started at the closer school about two months ago and seems to like it well enough. He's gotten better with communicating, and now speaks to myself, Ezra and mother unprompted maybe once or twice a week. He answers questions from all the family and, more importantly, his teacher about a quarter of the time, which is a massive improvement from six months ago, back when he first spoke to me.

According to Damia, my psychiatrist, he has a combination of brain damage from his birth and a touch of something called Outism. He's been making better progress than I have with his problems. Damia calls once or twice a week to check up on me and to go through the speech therapy exercises that will apparently help. I haven't noticed much improvement yet, though my family has gotten fairly good at deciphering half-finished sentences and obscure hand-waving gestures. Balia in particular can nearly always follow my train of thought, the same way she could always understand Malcy. To my surprise Malcon also seems to follow fairly easily when he's in one of his good moods. We both have messed up brains, so maybe that helps. Beetee too is good at guessing where I'm trying to get to, especially when we're talking shop.

I went back to my senior science and innovation classes for a week before giving up and retreating to Beetee's workshop instead, though Miss Tafter still sent along the assignments and final exams. I miss working with Julez a little, but he, like many others, seems half-scared of me and what I've become. The fact that he was dragged out by the media storm as my male school-friend probably didn't help, though there's never been anything like that between us. Some of the other boys started quoting things at him the second day when we were walking back from classes and after that he told me he was walking home alone. Once he and Laue graduated, both into the design rooms that I had always assumed would be my fate they had no time to see me anyway, though his mother Tereza has been up to the house a few times. The group of girls I stuck to the fringes of at school essentially cut all contact as well after the lunch I spent with Elecia and Amily was mostly awkward silences.

Instead I turned to the world of inanimate objects to find my solace. My Victor's house is right next-door to Beetee, whose workshop extends all the way to the fence. When I get back from the Victory Tour we're going to knock down the fence and extend my own workshop out to meet. I can't wait.

The Village comes in sight as the rows of gray stones thins and I pass by my first regular stop, where the yellow flower has already been blown several feet from where I left it and the petals have darkened from the chill air. The tributes' cemetery is essentially two neat lines of off-white stone markers surrounded by a low metal fence, with room for plenty more rows to come. Each marker has the name, dates of birth and death and Games number set in dark bronze. The older ones are more gray and grimy, and there are two tiny gaps in the right-hand row. You can't really notice my gap on the left yet, though it will be clear enough after a few more years of our district's children dying.

I replace the flower, though it will undoubtedly blow away again before I'm even on the train. Stuvek said that one of the things he liked most about the Capitol was the bright colors, so I always leave the brightest flower with him. I have a feeling that in a few years I'll run out of flowers before getting past here once I have tributes of my own to remember.

The front door of my house is open when I turn up the path, as is Beetee's one building down. The man who mentored me to 'victory' is standing in-between talking to one of my least favourite people.

They both turn when they hear my crunching footsteps on the gravel and I have a half-second of panic—they've heard me and are going to chase me down—until I notice Carmenius Fallow's hair. The electric blue that previously streaked the bleached white-blond is now the dominant color, criss-crossed with ripples of orange, purple and green. The effect is so ridiculous that I can't help laughing. Our esteemed escort shoots me a glare, but keeps at a safe distance.

He waits for me to reach Beetee's side before glowering down his nose and informing me in his most obnoxious tone, "Thankfully I have acquired a better position for the next Games as escort to District Four. No thanks to your poor interview and public presentation skills."

"I guess my…my…winning…didn't…didn't have…."

"Still can't speak properly? I thought you'd have fixed that by now."

He turns away, sneering and shaking his head, and I start after him until Beetee's hand clamps softly but firmly on my shoulder.

"Dido and your prep team are waiting inside. You should probably hurry, they want to film us in the workshop before we pack it all away onto the train."

I should, but I don't want to. I've gotten a little better these six months, to the point where I can read out something prewritten without dropping too many of my words. If I'm talking about my work I can occasionally get everything out, but Beetee follows well enough that it's often not worth trying.

I can hear my prep team chattering away at my mother as soon as I step through the door. Juliette spots me first and engulfs me in a hug then steps away with a torrent of apologies as she remembers belatedly that I don't like being choked in. Then she spots my fingernails, rough and cracked and stained with grease from last night's playing in the shed. There's a new burn across my left knuckles where a bad hand tremor caused me to drop the soldering iron. Six months of breathing smog and ash has renewed the gray tinge to my skin. All disasters of the highest calamity apparently as I'm dragged upstairs to be made presentable again.

The trio take over my bathroom and bedroom, scrubbing and snipping, though I'm able to skip the painful waxing treatment. Lorcan cuts my hair back to the length I wore it in the arena, muttering about greasy snarls and split ends. The sunburn I took in the arena enhanced the gold tinge for a few months, but it's all faded now so Marius rubs some foul-smelling cream in instead.

I haven't put back on much of the weight I lost in the Arena, so when I finally find myself in front of a mirror, I look just like the half-crazy girl who mounted the stage six months ago to be crowned. Instinctively my hands go to my right chest, just below my breasts where the scar should be. I can feel it there on the inside but the surface is smooth and unblemished. It still unsettles me a little, and serves as a constant reminder that things aren't always as they appear.

"Wiress, it is good to see you again."

Dido sweeps through the door behind me on her four inch heels, chains jingling. She's added a familiar looking ring design to the charm necklace around her neck and a sweeping train of black material that trails behind her from the hall. Over her shoulder is a covered dress-bag, the first of many for the next two weeks.

My mother and sister come in as they are tightening the straps of the silky under-dress. Neither of them are used to seeing me all dolled up; Pella's always been the one who liked dressing in frills and skirts, most of which were inherited by Balia. She stands quietly in the corner watching the four strangers who have invaded her home to steal her big sister away again. At least this time we know that I'll come back.

I've taken Beetee's advice to heart and packed my bags with a tool kit, three of my smaller projects and several sketch pads for ideas. As a Victor, I'm supposed to have a talent to keep me occupied during the months outside the Games. About a month after I got back, someone from the Capitol (I highly doubt it was Carmenius) sent a list of suitable choices including drawing, singing and sculpture. I wrote back and told them I was opting for design and invention, and received a scathing reply about causing myself a negative feminine image.

We all had a good laugh over that one, and Beetee assured me they couldn't stop me choosing what I want, so now I have a whole load of sketches and drafts, two simple robots and a miniature remote-control hovercraft that I built during a particularly sleepless week some months back to be loaded onto the train. Before we leave, the reporters want to film a piece about my talent in the workshop, and if I'm quick I should be able to sneak in a few circuit boards to play with into my load as well.

Practicing my skills on smaller and smaller boards has helped with the tremor in my hands to the point that it's essentially under control when I remember to take the medications Damia prescribes and ships out. It also helps focus my mind, something I'm going to need on this trip.

"..iress?"

"Huh?"

A hand waves in front of my eyes and I realize I've zoned out again. Mother looks resignedly amused—she's been used to my mind wandering all my life—and lets her hand rest gently on my lower arm while they resume the dressing. I'm still fairly jumpy at unexpected contact, but we've found this sort of thing helps me stay in the present, especially when it's someone I'm close to. Balia takes my other hand whenever it's not claimed by one of the prep team and starts singing softly, a song about mountain valleys and lakes that I don't know. I close my eyes and let her voice soothe me as it always does.

Of all my family, Balia and Malcy are the only ones I haven't yet lashed out at. My protective instinct kicks in over self preservation I guess. I shake off the memories of clawing father's arm or bloodying Ezra's mouth and focus on the lilting words about green slopes dotted with blue flowers until the song ends. When I open my eyes again I'm mostly dressed and Mother and Balia are standing off to the side while Dido adds the final touches.

The thick gray material is soft to touch and has glints of silver when I turn it in the light. There's also silvery lace at the collar and when I look closely I can see they actually form a series of interlocking gear wheels stitched around my neck. The boots are flat-soled and cover my legs up to my knees. They feel uncomfortable at first, but after a few minutes I'm used to the strange compression of my calf and rather enjoying the warmth.

District Three, unlike the rest of Panem, has two seasons: hot and cold. We're just past those middling weeks of the season the rest of the nation calls fall, where the line between hot days and cold days varies from year to year. This year it was early, and we've had frosted dirt in the early mornings for the past fortnight. The victors' houses, unlike the apartment I grew up in, have proper heating and insulation like the factories, a wonderful luxury we discovered at the seasonal change.

"All done."

Balia leans over to squeeze my arm gently and I smile to let her know I'm here and look again at the mirror. The dark circles are covered, the golden skin is back, the chapped, bitten lips are smooth and pinkish-red. All set to go remind the districts of the children they lost so that I could be here.

As we head back downstairs, the front door sweeps aside to admit the camera crew into the house, followed by two reporters, who greet me enthusiastically and practically drag me into my workshop, where Beetee is waiting. He helped me set up when we first moved in here, and knows it as well as I do. We have the robots out for filming, and when I let the male reporter Imicus have a go at flying the toy hovercraft he gets all bouncy and cheerful, a child with a toy. Despite my trepidation, the people here are mostly friendly and interested, and as soon as I start talking about my work the tension flows out with my words. Until they start packing up, to be replaced by Capitol attendants, ready to load up a train carriage full of my toys and drawings. The time has come, and I don't want to leave my safe sanctuary. Or I wish I could bring my family along.

Mother steadies me to the doorway and Beetee stands behind me when we're jumped by the remaining swarm of reporters not ten steps from the house, ready to step in whenever my words fall away. I try to smile and answer the three-way interview until a wave of dizziness swamps me.

"Are you looking forward to the tour?"

No, I don't want to see the families of the dead.

"Yes, I can't wait to…to…see…"

"To see the other districts. They are fascinating."

"How have you been spending your time since your victory?"

Trying not to get caught in nightmares.

"I've been working on…on…my…"

"Wiress is a most talented and innovative student of design and invention. You'll have a chance to see some of her work over the next two weeks."

"What does your family think of your chosen talent?"

My family would have been surprised if I chose to spend my life doing anything else.

"They…I've always been…making…"

"Wiress has been involved with this sort of work since her early schooling, and her family are most proud of her genius."

The faces and their microphones and cameras begin to blur together, swirls of color against the drab gray and brown. Swirling, twisting, warping into monsters with fangs and dripping venom, glistening white and…and…

Beetee's arm catches me loosely around the shoulders as I start to drop and he single-handedly supports me as we push through the press of swirling color and sound to the car.

"Thank-you all, we really must be on our way. We'll see you in District Twelve in a couple of days."

He shoves me in and shuts the door to the flashes of light, and suddenly it's all muffled and dulled. The monsters are fading, fading away, and by the time the door opens again to admit my mentor and good friend I even have my breathing back under control.

"Ok?"

"Now."

He smiles and settles his slight frame into the smooth black leather before signalling to the driver.

"Where's…?"

"Carmenius and Dido are in the next car and your mother and sister behind them. Ezra should be meeting us at the station. One more mob to go and we'll be free for the next forty-eight hours."

If you count being stuck in a confined space with Carmenius Shallow free.

"I know," he says, his wry grimace presumably matching my own. "He's still terrified of you though, and you can always escape to your room to 'practice your speeches'."

"I think I'll be…be…doing a…"

"A lot of practicing? You will actually need to; we both well know that you need to have it completely down-pat to keep the words flowing."

He looks at me sternly, wagging his finger and I try not to laugh. Then I see the all-too-familiar streets of my old neighbourhood and stop to watch the press of people, the sea of black hair and ashen skin, grey tinged and sickly and shivering in the cool air. The night shift workers out to do their shopping, spending or trading what little they have for bite-sized bread squares, easy to toast; tins of fruit or vegetable puree, necessary to prevent the rotting sicknesses; components to repair heaters or old blankets if they can't do that. At least my victory brought some joy with food.

The first parcel day Balia and Mother dragged me out to the nearest markets, not the one closest to our old house, but they all look the same anyway. Each market had a licenced distributor and when we arrived there were families queued up half way around the block, each getting ticked off to receive their packages.

All the alleyways and concrete squares were packed with happy faces as they feasted on sweet pastries and fresh fruit for the first time in fifteen years. Two large trucks were parked to one side of the market area and burly peacekeepers were actually being cheered as they carried up sacks of grains and tins of this and that, nothing that most people would normally be able to afford, right to the doors of each apartment.

As we walked through people recognized us, recognized me and came to thank me, to shake my hand. At first I flinched away, not wanting these strangers to crowd me, to touch me. Then I saw the little boy, no more than Malcy's age, munching happily on a crisp slice of apple, held up by arms so thin they looked like cabling wires. Not many in Three are truly starving, but there are always families here and there, people with joint aches or previous injuries that prevent them working in the factories. Children who spend hours cleaning scraps from production line floors or using their delicate fingers to separate tiny components just to earn enough to eat something that week. But not this year. This year they get to eat for free because I slew a monster in the Arena and became a monster myself. The children of District One don't need it like we do, though. It gives me some solace.

The flash of more cameras drags me back to the present. Usually the train station is full of workers packing the carriages with the outputs of our factories. They took us through in 6th grade to show us another of the unpleasant jobs available to us at adulthood. All of us agreed that sitting or even standing at a factory bench in a climate controlled building was better than carefully manhandling boxes of electronics and appliances in either sweltering heat or freezing cold depending on the time of year. The workers themselves all seemed to be crude and unkempt, larger on average than most and reeking of sweat.

Today there are a modest number of them about, cheerfully going about their business loading two nearby carriage trains, all wearing clean overalls and neatly trimmed hair. Three cameras are aimed towards them, showing the people of the Capitol how happy the districts are hard at work to sate their every need. I try not to roll my eyes while a camera might be filming.

"Ready?"

Beetee looks fairly pale himself as he schools his expression into something vaguely happy and slides open the door at my nod. I take a deep breath and follow.

Flash.

Murmuring noises.

Flash.

"Wiress, Wiress…"

"…District Three…"

Flash.

"…ewest Victor makes her…"

Flash. Flash.

Something grabs my arm and I clamp down on a shriek as I pull free. A white-clad peacekeeper steps between me and the over-eager reporter and blocks them off until we reach the side of the train. My family have beaten us here without the mob to push through and I let myself fall into Ezra's arms, remembering at the last second that he's still fairly weak from the illness. He's also no taller than me, and the weeks of sickness, sadness and worry have stripped him of what little weight he had.

"I'll be…back…"

"Soon," he finishes, and tousles my curls before settling me straight. I gave him back the ring I used for a district token and he holds it up now with his clenched fist and taps me lightly in the chest.

"Be strong ok? We'll be here when you get back."

I nod and he steps back so that Balia can launch herself for the cameras. She's grown a little in the last six months, maybe 5'2" with her bouncy curls piled up in a high ponytail. All five of us got some form of Mother's curls, unusual in our district where the sleek, straight black hair is so common. She burrows her head into my shoulder and squeezes my ribs so hard that for a second I start to slip into panic.

"I'll be….ok," I force out and she smiles and jokingly tells me to bring her presents from everywhere and tweaks my hair, the very image of a precious little sister. Finally my Mother wraps me up, though she's no taller than Balia and whispers "Be brave."

"I…I will."

Then we're on-board the train, zipping away to far off-places that my family's arms and my sister's songs can't reach.