HG OCT Round 2 SE: Dances with Wolves (3 of 3)

In a crowd like this one, it's all too easy to tell who's lived through the war and who hasn't.

Leon is one of the first to hit the ground, dragging Lucretia down with him. She shrieks, but mercifully doesn't struggle. Around the ballroom, several other mentors have dropped down, to the complete bafflement of most of the other guests. It takes two more gunshots before the Capitolites understand what's happening, and then the room devolves into utter chaos as half them stampede for the doors.

There's no point in trying to escape—anyone trying to escape now will only get crushed and die in the attempt. At the very least, part of the room is clear enough that he can finally see what's going on.

There's a nondescript-looking young man standing in the middle of the dancefloor, his face pale and trembling, shaking hands leveling a handgun at Kane.  At least one of the bullets has gone into the ceiling, scattering fragments of plaster and stone and dusting both men's hair with flecks of white. Neither of the other two bullets seem to have struck Kane, considering the perfectly unconcerned look on his face.

"Put that thing away, boy," he's saying, leaning forward slightly on his walking stick. "You'll hurt someone with it."

"That's the idea," says the other man, but his hands are still shaking.

Some kind of botched assassination attempt, Leon thinks as Lucretia follows his line of sight and clutches convulsively at his arm. They're out of the line of fire, but he pulls Lucretia behind the banquet table anyway. No sense in taking risks. And the woman may be an airhead, but that's no excuse to want her dead.

A commotion at the entrance: Peacekeepers, probably, but they're trying to get in at the same time half the Capitolites are trying to get out, and having precious little success. Kane's gaze flickers to the doors and he laughs precisely once.

"It was a good show," he says pleasantly, taking a step forward. "You got in here without much trouble, and you picked a good time to try and shoot. Points for trying, I suppose, but it stopped being entertaining a while ago."

Something in the would-be assassin's eyes flashes, and he sets his jaw and his finger descends on the trigger, but Kane is faster. There's a sharp crack as the walking stick makes contact with the assassin's wrist and he cries out, dropping the handgun. Then Kane's closing in, bringing the walking stick back up on the upswing to smash into the other man's jaw with a sickening crunch.

Leon's hands clench up, but he's stepped over enough lines tonight. The last thing he wants to do is draw more attention to himself. Instead he can only watch as Kane brings the walking stick down on the man's face twice more, the President's expression oddly emotionless.

There's a scrabbling noise beside him, and Lucretia is gone, headed for the exit like the rest of the Capitolites. By the time the Peacekeepers finally move in, the would-be assassin is a crumpled heap on the floor, cheek resting in a pool of his own blood.

"Keep him alive," says Kane absently, cleaning the tip of his walking stick on the man's torn jacket. "I assume you've secured the premises. Don't let anyone leave the building. And find Bellasseau. I'd like to know how a man this incompetent got in."

And doesn't that just beat all. The cold sweat that trickles down Leon's back is instinctive; he knows, intellectually, that his cover is secure. All the same, he finds himself having to take slow, deep breaths as the Peacekeepers escort Kane out.

With nowhere else to go, some of the Capitolites are reluctantly trickling back into the ballroom, and the deathly silence from before is slowly being replaced with laughably shallow conversation. Leon has just enough presence of mind to remember Rhona and send a gift he prepared earlier today. There's no time to get her the medicine she'll need for that injury, but he knows the value of mental encouragement as well as anyone. It's all he can do for now.

On the screens around him, the live feed from the Arena is still playing. There's a blur of movement as Ofelia Qian grabs Garrett Lykke's hand and runs through a courtyard from a fairy tale. Someone in the crowd yelps as something reaches for the two Tributes, and there's a short burst of laughter from the people around them, as if nothing has happened at all.

Leon focuses on the feed, clinging to it like a lifeline. He knows so many stories about the place he can hardly keep track of them all, about the city built from a dream, following the structure of the stars. He wonders where the Gamemakers found the idea.

"They say it's from an old legend," says Reinald Todorov.

Leon turns. The other man is leaning against the wall, legs crossed, apparently completely at ease despite the Peacekeepers making their rounds.

"I spoke to one of the Gamekeepers earlier today," Todorov clarifies. "I like to know what my Tribute's up against if I can help it. Of course, they're not generally supposed to talk, but he was fairly intoxicated at the time; I suppose he can't be blamed. What have you done with my date?"

"She ran," says Leon automatically. Then, recovering, "Guess she won't get very far. I don't think she's a fan of blood."

Todorov grimaces. "I suppose it's different for Capitolites when the blood's being spilled in front of them. My thanks for putting up with her, in any case."

"Wasn't a problem." Leon glances at the screen again. "You hear what the legend's about?"

"He didn't tell me. I expect he didn't know. But I've done my research." The edges of Todorov's mouth lift in something that might be a smile.

Leon's expression doesn't change. "You got a story for me, Mr. Todorov?"

Todorov doesn't say anything at first. Instead he only half-laughs and watches the milling crowd for a moment. And then he murmurs, so softly Leon can barely hear him, "Once there was a vast empire across the sea, or so they say. And the rulers were cruel, callous people, who walled themselves off from the people in a great city built for themselves. Thus they could live in the lap of luxury without having to look at the misery of their citizens, day in and day out. And as time went on and they grew fat and complacent in their city, the empire slowly began to fall apart."

He pauses and looks at Leon expectantly.

This is it, then. It's not a gamble, not really, as much as it seems like double or nothing. He doesn't have a choice in the matter anymore.

"And in the end," Leon says slowly, quietly, "foreign soldiers pillaged and burned the land. The empire's own people turned against her after a while. And the rulers went on living their lives. The servants scraped their heads against the floor in the presence of their child king, and the eunuchs catered to his every whim, and none of them knew their land was crumbling around their ears."

He pauses. An Avox is scrubbing the worst of the blood from the floor. In the distance, a woman laughs, shrill and nervous, before she's abruptly hushed.

"And so the great kingdom fell," he says. "And it fell without knowing it was going to fall, which is the worst fall of all."

Todorov blinks. Then he smiles fully and tilts his head in acknowledgment.

"I saw a heron flying west across the Capitol," he replies, his lips barely moving. "She told me she met a jabberjay who was looking for a rook."

Leon's eyes widen. "You—" he begins.

"We were aware of your existence from the start, Mr. Chen," says Todorov. "And now we're aware of your motives. I'd say you've been vetted and cleared. I'd consider this a formal invitation on my part, but I think the heron already gave you one."

A quick glance at their surroundings: the Peacekeepers are still too busy herding the rest of the Capitolites back into the ballroom to pay them any attention. "How much do you know?"

"Just the basics," says Todorov. "You're not from Six, I can tell you that much. But I don't need to know where you're from or what you did before to know you have talents we're looking for."

Leon huffs out a breath. "'We,' huh. There a lot of you?"

"Enough to make a difference," says Todorov simply. "Some of us in higher places than most." Then he offers another small smile and checks his watch. "It's high time I took my leave. If the Peacekeepers ask, I threw a restrained fit about viewer ratings and stormed off to win some sponsors. Try to stay out of the spotlight, Mr. Chen. We'll keep in touch."

And then he's gone.

How about that, thinks Leon, and slumps against the wall. Todorov is the Rook. The Ghost. Whatever he's supposed to be called. The biggest information broker in the Capitol isn't even a Capitol native, he's a small-time businessman from District Three.

That's when he makes his second big mistake of the night.

It's not sleep deprivation. At least, not entirely. Leon's the sort of man who can drive for twenty hours straight and come out cheerful and refreshed at the end of it. But then he's never felt this stressed behind a wheel, and he's just seen Rhona kill two people (two!), and the Peacekeepers are closing in, and Todorov is the Rook.

His fingers close around Ergo's note, and he pulls it out. It's a liability. It has to be destroyed. He'll find Ergo (where is she, he hasn't seen her for at least an hour) and explain later. Numbly, he makes as if to tear the paper in two—

A shadow falls over his hands. Leon looks up.

"I'd prefer if you didn't do that," says Nichol Bellasseau.