Beyond the train station windows, the utterly urban District Eight waited, without a speck of foliage for miles. There was only stone, brick, and metal as far as the eye could see.

  “Dr. Gaul, what a pleasant surprise. We weren’t expecting you.” Indira politely greeted, nails tap dancing over her forearms.

  Gaul traversed the car, gliding her fingers and eyes over the various objects in her path. Checking for soft spots. Prying for vulnerability.

  There was something about being in Dr. Gaul’s presence that invoked the feeling of exposure, like raw, naked skin beneath the edge of a blade. Or a helpless creature trapped in a tank.

  “Is Mr. Trask not returning?” Festus asked a little too hopefully.

  “Augustus is currently occupied with his newfound interest in politics. Also, it seems this tour has been quite eventful under his supervision, even with my very clear direction to avoid excessive spectacle. So I took it upon myself to supervise. ” Dr. Gaul scanned each person before her like different species of lab rabbits. “But rest assured, Mr. Creed, Augustus will be joining us shortly.”

  Festus’s countenance dimmed.

  Finally, after being satisfied with her inspection of the surroundings, Gaul honed in on Hazel, advancing until she was within reach. Stubby fingers surged forward, clasping the victor’s medal. Hazel choked down a small gasp of surprise.

  Bleach-worn nails dug into the face as if she had the strength to dent it with sheer will and her bare thumb.

  A guttural sound filtered out of the terrifying woman. “Lovely, no?”

  Hazel nodded as she leaned slightly backward, “Yes, doctor.”

  Dr. Gaul hummed. “To the untrained eye, one can hardly discern that it is not the original. Placeholders are interesting things, are they not?”

  Hazel swallowed as Gaul’s fingertips gave up indenting the medallion and instead began to poke out a haphazard rhythm. “Yet, somehow, you can still sense the difference.”

  Snow cleared his throat.

  Dr. Gaul’s teeth flashed as she examined their reactions. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Snow?”

  A sinking sensation weighed on Hazel’s chest even heavier than the medal.

  Snow perused the thing himself. Clearly, he understood more closely what the mad doctor was referring to. “Don’t be modest, Dr. Gaul. This one is better. Even more than the first. More befitting if you ask me.”

  “An opinion you have quite a bit lately.”

  Snow ironed his lips together for a moment before evenly saying, “Fact is hardly opinion.”

  “And theory is not fact. Speaking of, I’ve a couple that I need to test. You can take the doctor out of the lab and all…” Dr. Gaul’s grip squeezed as she zeroed in on Hazel. “How do you feel about a little tour, Miss Marlowe?”

  “A tour of what, Doctor?” Hazel stammered, the tightening straps digging into her neck.

  Dr. Gaul leaned in, “Let’s not ruin the surprise.” Releasing her hold, she presented an almost chivalrous elbow to Hazel.

  With a shaky breath and a quick rub of her tingling neck muscles, Hazel looped her arm within Gaul’s, letting the woman lead her into the train station and then out into the fresh winter air. The rest of the group reluctantly followed.

  Hazel swore she heard Snow mutter a curse.

  Gaul’s astringent nails scraped her forearms even through the layers of her clothing as they walked. The District was mostly gray structures and faded brick buildings in rows beneath a dusky, smog-choked sky. The air carried the nostril-burning scent of dyes, chemicals, and smoke from the many factories. Street blocks were filled with warehouses and mills, their faces caked in a matching slate-toned grime. A perpetual burr sound came from every direction.

  “Do you hate this as much as I do?” Gaul asked.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “The Victory tour was never my idea. It’s wholly…unnecessary.”

  “Why not cancel it if you dislike it so much?”

  The few District citizens who were about hurried along with their heads bowed, bundled in threadbare coats that had clearly been mended by hand.

  “Too late for that, I’m afraid.” Gaul chortled, turning her attention back to the path ahead. “It seems the whole ordeal has grown quite popular. And if it benefits my games, it is a necessary annoyance, I suppose. Sometimes we have to put up with a little fa?ade to make actual progress.”

  Hazel did her best impression of neutral.

  The path they followed wound past alleys littered with abandoned fabric scraps.

  Gaul sighed as they approached a structure. It was crammed between two clothing factories. The once red bricks were washed out to a lifeless brownish gray and cracking like everything else.

  The courtyard was fenced in by metal bars. An ancient-looking swing set was off to the side. Its rusted chains screamed as the wind swung them about.

  Windows lined the front, many of them fogged or sporting tape, likely to block out nature’s drafts. A metal plaque hung above the entrance. Time and weather had nearly erased the lettering, but Hazel could still make out the inscription: Trask’s Child Welfare Housing.

  Bile suddenly coated her throat. That monster being a benefactor of an orphanage was stomach-turning. A shark building a home for minnows. A holding pen for laborers or tributes.

  The entourage was oddly silent. Even Festus held his tongue.

  “Here we are.” Dr. Gaul’s voice had taken on the tone of a plucky tour guide. “Let’s take a look inside, shall we?”

  Indoors, they were welcomed by a popping fireplace in a wide common room. Around it, mismatched chairs and tables lined the scuffed floors. A television in the corner blared Capitol news on repeat. To the side, a bookshelf housed a few, likely outdated school materials and ancient picture books.

  Each wall was washed with chipped industrial paint. A barely hospitable green in some areas and a dreary beige in others. Fluorescent lights spasmed overhead.

  Dr. Gaul sucked in a lung full of the stale, cleansed air.

  Festus grimaced. “And I thought the outside was depressing.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Where are the kids?” Hazel asked.

  “Waiting for your speech in the town square, of course.” Dr. Gaul dismissed. With a twirl toward the small group, she announced, “Means we have the place to ourselves. Feel free to look around. I need a private audience with our Victor.”

  Hazel’s heart skipped several beats. She was certain the doctor’s words dropped the blood flow to her brain, and she swayed. Gaul held her tighter.

  One of Hazel’s least favorite activities was being alone with the semi-insane head of the war department.

  “Yes, doctor. Of course.” Sable agreed, clearing his throat. Guiding the rest of the group toward the mess hall that held a distinct gruel scent.

  However, Snow lingered, eyes roving over Hazel as she was hauled up the stairs. He had grown so rigid he seemed to be having a kind of seizure.

  Leo’s hands twitched.

  She met his stare, practically willing him to save her from the monstrous woman. But there was nothing he or anyone else could do. She was wholly ensnared.

  “Don’t fret, Mr. Snow.” Dr. Gaul called over her shoulder as they ascended the staircase, “Promise not to crush any wildflowers.”

  Snow blanched, letting out a long exhale.

  “What?” Hazel breathed.

  Gaul ignored her, smile widening, “Be back soon. We girls need to chat.”

  Snow’s eyes hardened into cobalt spheres, yet even he had to relent to the will of the formidable woman. His contemplative gaze cut away as Gaul whirled Hazel around the corner of the second floor.

  The hallways were simple, made from medium-thickness boards. Cheap pine. Probably came from Seven’s forest.

  Despite all the wood, the soothing smell that usually came with pine had been scoured away. Washed clear by caustic cleansers. One with a fake citrusy after-smell.

  Gaul’s nostrils flared as she gorged herself on more of the scent. “Mmmm. Reminds me of my laboratory. Nothing quite like the sweet scent of formaldehyde in the morning. It really awakens the senses.”

  Hazel’s very organs cringed. Maybe one day, they would be floating in the stuff. No doubt suspended on a shelf in the woman's lab like revolting trophies.

  Gaul preened. “It's an acquired appreciation.”

  “You are famous for appreciating the unique, doctor.”

  Gaul’s preening intensified like it was an honest compliment. “How observant. Although I think of it as seeing things as they are. The raw. The real. There's a sort of beauty in the visceral truth, you know?”

  Hazel couldn't keep her nose from scrunching. Both because of the thought of what viscera she might be referring to and because of the pungent odor burning her eyes.

  “I'm afraid I don't share your talent, doctor.” Hazel's pores curdled when one of Gaul’s nail tips flitted over her bare wrist. Right where her sleeve had ridden up.

  “Do you know the difference between talent and skill?”

  Hazel shivered but pretended it was a shake of her head.

  “Years of experience.” Her brown eye twinkled. “And a great many experiments.” The blue one dilated.

  They collectively turned a corner until they were face to face with a hallway so long that the end was misty. Mirage-like.

  “Besides, life’s raw truths and all its savagery should not just be appreciated. It should be protected… preserved.”

  Images of jars with indescribable contents consumed Hazel once again.

  “And do you know how we go about that, dear?” Gaul’s nail tapped harder. Her mismatched irises scoured the walls.

  “Formaldehyde?”

  “Ahhh. Yes, well, my personal favorite, but it’s hardly the only one. Not by a long shot.” Sharp white teeth winked at her. “You could say we humans have perfected many different tactics.”

  Their feet made a bizarre echo as they continued their walk. Gaul inclined her head to the walls, “Take these pictures, for example. They preserve something special, don't they?”

  Hazel didn't want to turn her back on the creaturish woman. Yet the rows of evenly spaced picture frames called to her. Like the children confined within were begging for her eyes.

  Ash-toned faces. Bones just beneath thin skin. Eyeballs that were too wide but teeming with a deep-seated hardship that was mature beyond their years. Their faces morphed into exploitative, daunting wallpaper.

  It was doubtful many of the children in the stills were actually related, but the similarities far outbalanced the differences. They stared into the lens, wary, untrusting yet caged.

  “The press couldn't get enough of these poor, unfortunate souls when this place opened. Especially at the hands of an immensely popular businessman, of course.”

  Clearly, each one of the portraits had been another humiliation forced upon the youngsters.

  “There is just something about them that I … appreciate,” Gaul hummed a repetitive three-note tune. “What is it you think they represent? What do they preserve about our nature?”

  Hazel tilted her head as she stared into a set of hollow two-dimensional eyes.

  Pain... suffering? Humiliation maybe?

  An involuntary debt, milked for the benefit or fleeting entertainment of others.

  Jars, cages, or pictures, in this case. All were just different flavors of the same poison.

  “Like what the Hunger Games represent? What they… preserve?”

  Gaul seemed proud of her little lesson thus far.

  “Very good, dear. Like the arena, this place preserves control, containment, the soft lie of civility, and, of course, government programming at its finest. A social contract required for survival. We cage the chaos so the rest can keep pretending there’s order. And isn’t Augustus just darling for funding it?”

  Hazel’s grimace must have given her away as Gaul tutted.

  “If this structure weren’t here, what do you suppose would become of these orphans?”

  “I can’t begin to imagine…” Hazel trailed off. Maybe they would be handed off to the mad doctor to experiment on. Such a thought made Hazel shudder. The Hunger Games were practically merciful compared to the fates of whoever ended up in Gaul’s lab.

  Gaul licked her lips as if to abrade them, as a dry laugh slipped through. “I'm sure the press will be crawling all over this place in the next few weeks. Trask will see to it.”

  “Fits his brand.”

  “If only they knew the real man,” Gaul said. “It wouldn’t fit at all.”

  For once, Hazel agreed with the woman.

  "You have to admit he’s simply brilliant at monetizing heartbreak."

  Hazel's bloodstream soured.

  Gaul suddenly stopped, her attention fixed on a particularly large picture frame at the end of the hall. “You know what's nice about when orphans are chosen for the Hunger Games?”

  And just like that, all agreement vanished. Hazel directed her attention to Gaul again, but the woman was utterly engrossed by the largest picture, which seemed to be their final destination.

  Hazel reluctantly adjusted her stare to the portrait. It was the only color photo of the bunch. Smiling back at her was a younger, bright-eyed, black-haired Augustus Trask. He was in a deep grey suit with his long hair arranged in two thick braids. There was no gaudy blue streak to be found. He had his arm bent around one of the orphan boys.

  Peculiarly, the picture was behind more than a simple wood frame. A dense glass case enclosed it. It was thick and broad. Bulletproof, most likely. A panel beneath was illuminated with bold lettering.

  Founder: Augustus Almo Trask.

  Several marks blemished the glass. They were jagged parallel lines, almost like claw marks, but too shallow for any animal. They had to be human.

  “It's simpler.” Gaul’s voice made Hazel jump. “Less mess. Less drama. No sentiment. No blubbering families.”

  Hazel's very soul froze.

  “Though Flickerman would probably consider that a downside. It does make things less entertaining for those at home.” Gaul acquiesced. “A bawling mother or two really bumps up the viewership.”

  Hazel’s mouth went dry as sandpaper. “For someone who insists otherwise, you seem quite fond of spectacle.”

  “Like I said, a little fa?ade can go a long way.” Gaul’s grin turned sly. “Besides, my tastes in entertainment are…perhaps off-brand for most. Affinity for the unusual, remember?”

  Whatever Gaul found amusing populated most people's nightmares.

  Gaul’s attention settled back on the portrait. She released her snare on Hazel's arm. Slithering forward, she tapped the glass like it was a tank and the two figures within were specimens.

  “Why the case?” Hazel asked.

  “Have you not been listening?” Gaul tutted. “Preservation.” She ran a long finger over one of the faint scratches. “And protection.”

  “Protection from the orphans?”

  Gaul leaned closer. Her sweaty forehead was a hair away from smudging the case. “Mmhmm. One in particular. But he was no orphan.”

  Hazel followed Gaul’s stare to the boy under Augustus's arm. He couldn't be more than ten. Definitely wasn't smiling. Instead, he had plastered on a strained grimace. A much shorter yet growing braid was slung over one of his shoulders.

  Wait.

  She knew the boy. And by the way that Gaul was chuckling, she clocked Hazel's recognition.

  It couldn’t be. But it definitely was.

  Ian Threader’s eyes met hers from beyond the grave. A particularly haggard scratch in the glass caught the light. Ian must have made them clawing at the picture of himself embracing the monstrous man.

  “What is the saying about chips and blocks or apples not falling far from trees? The resemblance is uncanny, don't you think?”

  Hazel's heart nearly stopped in her chest.

  Resemblance? Not an orphan?

  Harla's words filled her like she was whispering them into her ear. Tulsi wasn't the first, and she won't be the last.

  The braids. The irises speckled with that signature tan color. Ian's utter unrestrained hatred of the man…

  Hazel cupped a hand over her mouth.

  How had she not seen it before? It should’ve been obvious.

  The resemblance.

  Harla’s hushed voice ambled within her mind once again as Gaul's chuckling intensified.

  There's little more dangerous in this world than a father to a child he doesn't want.