Full Summary: Hidden beneath masks and glamours too intricate to unravel, the Sterling Nightingale's self-bestowed mission is to smuggle prisoners out of the Capitol to District 13, much to President Snow's fury. He hunts the spy endlessly, only to be continuously outwitted. The reason? He is not looking in the right places. Silver Lamprey Cornelius is not your standard Victor, after all.

Finnick has always seen Sil as a brainless fop. For a fellow Victor, she certainly doesn't act the part. He's never given her the time of day, until President Snow decides to entwine their fates together. Almost overnight, Finnick and Sil go from being complete strangers to being wildly in love. Of course, Finnick couldn't actually fall for an idiot like her…

…Until he does, and suddenly he realizes that there is a lot more to her than meets the eye.

Welcome! This story is based off of The Scarlet Pimpernel, by Emma Orczy. I hope you enjoy my take on this classic story, as well as my interpretation of Suzanne Collins' world!

Chapter One | It is the in between

"We must prove to the world that we are all nincompoops." Emma Orczy, The Scarlet Pimpernel

Parties in the Capitol are divine. The elite gather to discuss important subjects, such as what the latest Victor is up to or who is appearing on Caesar Flickerman's talk show next. Every color of drink imaginable is passed around in sleek stemmed glasses, and people laugh over their gossip. And in the center of this divinity is one woman, one Victor who desperately enjoys spreading that gossip – or so people think.

"Oh tell us the latest, Sil darling. You always know just the perfect things to talk about," a Capitol woman gushes.

Sil giggles daintily, raising up a silk gloved hand to demurely cover her smiling lips as she is passed yet another stemmed glass of the Capitol's finest. No expenses are spared, of course, when Silver Lamprey Cornelius is at a party.

Sil leans into the woman and laughingly says, "I'm really not sure what on earth you mean, my love – I do not gossip, I merely…" she waves a hand dramatically and says, "…speculate." Her group of mooning Capitol enthusiasts laugh.

A man in an orange tailored suit complete with silver sequins winks, "And we so adore your speculations, don't we?"

Everyone, and that means everyone, nods eagerly. Sil tosses her head back and laughs musically. Everything about her is musical – from her flowing pink ballerina-esque gown to the way she smiles and claims, "Oh dear, no. But…well, if you insist…"

Oh, they do. As she launches into a tale of her District 1 stylist, they excitedly eat up her words as if they are her lapdogs eating out of her silk gloved fingers.

She understands these people. Perhaps that is why she's so good at their little games. She understands the dreary lives that await them when they are forced to abandon their parties and return to their realities. Wives, husbands, children? Boring. But listening to Sil's risqué stories about the latest gala she's been to is apparently enough to make them forget about all of that dreadful business. And besides, she's good at weaving stories. She's so good that there isn't a single Capitol citizen who doesn't know her and practically none who has never sat there and listened to her speak – with starry eyes and rapt attention, even when her own attention is miles away.

Across the room Sil meets someone's eyes. It is a fleeting look, but there is a slight lingering nature to their gaze. The man – her associate, for lack of a better term – sends her the subtlest nod and turns immediately, disappearing into the crowd. Sil leans back as if the entire exchange never happened. Indeed, to everyone around her, it had not.

" – And do you know what I said?" she exclaims, plunging expertly back into her story without pause. Her lips forming a perfect 'O', as if she is as shocked as they are. Everyone chimes in to ask what, what she'd said, what she'd did, what happens next. She pauses just to drag out the anticipation and then whispers lowly so that people have to lean in to hear her, "I said, 'darling, I know you dress like a slob for attention but I will not – will not – let you put me into that horrid purple dress.'"

"Oh Sil you didn't!" a woman bursts out, exchanging shocked and delightful looks with her fellow Capitol women.

Sil leans back as if her story is finished, then tosses her mane of silvery blonde hair behind her shoulder. In a pretentious voice, she nods and astutely tells them, "Purple really isn't my color anyhow, you know. It clashes with my lipstick." They are too mesmerized with her to realize how silly she sounds. Or perhaps not.

One of them chuckles indulgently and says, "Surely that isn't all you think about?"

The man who had spoken is rewarded with a horrified expression from Sil and a tittering mass of giggles from the others.

"I beg your pardon?" Sil demands, her face an impeccable mask of indignation. "Men," she says and waves her fingers at the man as if she thinks he is utterly audacious and not worthy of her time. In a trilling voice, she says, "You simply do not realize the troubles women go through in order to find the perfect shade of lipstick." There is a hum of agreement from her lady friends. The man sits back, exchanging yet another indulgent look with another of his colleagues, who chuckles.

Let them think that she is shallow. That is good. Let them think that all she cares about is lipstick and gossiping about her stylist. Good. If they know what she's really doing then surely they wouldn't find her as amicable as they do right now. Of course, funding rebellions and being the greatest spy in Panem's history is never easy, but then Silver Lamprey Cornelius has always loved a good challenge. And bringing the Capitol down from the inside out? Now that is a challenge worth fighting for…not that anyone else knows about it of course. To everyone else, she is only a stupid Victor from District 1 who had somehow managed to win her Games and is somehow aware of gossip that no one else has ever heard of.

She is neither stupid nor shallow, and in actuality couldn't care less about lipstick or gowns or whether the color purple suits her. It is all a front. A mask that hides the calculating, intelligent side of her that dwells beneath her sparkling, Capitol-engineered smile.

"My love," Sil says after a moment, eyeing a woman's hat with interested eyes, "that is a wonderfully made cloche. Wherever did you get it? You simply must tell me so I can get one for my very own." The compliment makes the Capitol woman look a little dazed. Directions are given point blank, and the name of the hat shop is written down in Sil's elegant, loopy handwriting as she pens it over her electronic PAAD that she always brings with her wherever she goes, for purposes like this – as well as scheduling other things of a more rebellious nature, but no one needs to know about that.

"Would you like another drink, Sil darling?" someone asks, already holding out a stemmed glass filled with pink liquor.

Sil pauses, taps her lip, and says, "I really must be getting home…oh but you've convinced me. Shall we make a toast?" She takes the glass and holds it up, and everyone around her scrambles to find a drink so as to join in. With a musical laugh that makes their eyes go starry, Sil exclaims happily, "To our dear President Snow!"

Everyone chimes in and there is a delicate clinking of glasses as they all struggle to press their drinks against Sil's. And Sil? She just leans back and lifts her glass to her lipstick covered mouth, smiling demurely and crossing her legs with an elegance that seems to transcend every other woman in the entire building. And against the rim of her glass she presses her frown, and her loathing, and all of her well-concealed anger. Because she is Silver Lamprey Cornelius, Victor from District 1, the Capitol baby and socialite, and she does not have a rebellious bone in her body. She has gone to tremendous lengths to ensure that they all believe it.

At the corner of the deserted neighborhood on South Main Street and 4th Avenue, a little pawn shop sits, hunched between a barber shop and a small run down pharmacist. It is a humble place. The paint is chipping off the sign that swings down from above the doorway, which claims the title, 'Sterling Silver Consignments.' The name is rather audacious to anyone with an overly discerning eye. It's also misleading. Perhaps the shop used to do consignments, but no longer. Now it is merely a gold and silver exchange where wealthy Capitol women frequent if they need some extra cash and don't want to ask their wealthy husbands for a payout.

"Mr. Dorsey my love, how are you?" Sil asks loudly as she pushes the door of the humble little shop open. A bell sounds as it brushes against the frame. It seems to awake the snoring man who's currently passed out at the counter. Mr. Dorsey snorts awake, eyes wide and confused, and mumbles something about fried eggs and tomatoes. He blinks awake.

"Ah…Silver. Do come in," he says upon seeing who is customer is. He waves a hand at his shop – a shop that socialite Silver Lamprey Cornelius wouldn't be found dead in – and slumps forward once more. "Did you say something before?" he asks, tilting his head, and Sil rolls her eyes.

"I inquired into your health," she dryly tells him, sidestepping the sluggish, fat pug that Mr. Dorsey keeps as a pet. The animal is sprawled out over a threadbare rug that is the only embellishment to the abysmal state of the aged floorboards. Indeed the décor leaves much to be desired. The walls are old and decaying in several places, featuring brown water stains and peeling wallpaper. It is an old, vintage pattern that screams 'pre-Games era'. And that, above all else, it what makes Sil have to be careful about coming here.

The real Silver likes anything vintage – she is in fact mesmerized by pre-Games artifacts. Her collection of them in her District 1 house is probably the only one in Panem. Snow doesn't exactly like reminders of those dark days before his precious Games. But then, Snow also doesn't know a great many things about her. And he certainly doesn't have reason to suspect that she harbors any such artifacts or is at all interested in anything besides fashion. The Sil that she portrays to the Capitol would scoff at this shop and probably refuse to step foot inside.

Mr. Dorsey smiles at her and only says, "I'm still alive, aren't I?" It is so like him that Sil rolls her eyes again.

"Indeed," she drawls sarcastically, though inside she is thinking that if this is his definition of being alive, then she'd be so alive that she would have already transcended mortality by now.

Mr. Dorsey is a surprisingly tall man, and younger than one might expect. He has a wavy, thick head of golden-gray hair that he never brushes, and so it always just sticks up in different places and remains ruffled against his forehead. His eyes are an honest shade of brown, and they're usually covered in a daze of either alcohol or sleep. He is almost always holding a cigarette between his fingers, and hardly worries about whether he is smoking inside or out. Because of this his shop is usually foggy and thick due to his constant smoking. It's certainly a good way of keeping the random shopper out of the way.

Sil waves a hand in front of her face as she steps up to the counter. She reaches for an expensive looking golden bracelet that is hanging off her gloved arm. As she lays it onto the counter, she tells him, "This was my grandmother's, you know, so do be careful with it darling."

It wasn't her grandmother's. She never even met her grandmother before the old hag passed. No one has to know that. Mr. Dorsey doesn't appear to care whose it was, just that it is now his – er, well, the rebellion's anyway. He takes it and lifts it up, eyeing the sparkling gemstones.

"Amethysts," Sil tells him, swaying slightly as she tries to peel off her left glove. It is a long thing that goes all the way up to her elbow, and takes certain finesse to remove.

"You really wouldn't believe the amount of jewelry I find just laying around my house," she smiles secretively, and finally jerks the glove off. There, on her wrists and fingers, are about a dozen bracelets and rings. Each of them looks expensive and delicate, and definitely worth quite a bit of money. She catches Mr. Dorsey's amused expression and they both chuckle as she drops each piece onto the counter.

"I'm sure it isn't because you make them yourself," he says with a laugh, and Sil gives him a horrified look.

"Dear me! Make them myself?! Do you think I am a common laborer?" she demands, her voice the perfect imitation of indignation. But the way her eyes shine with laughter makes her friend and confidante shake his head with a grin.

District 1 is known for several things above all else, and those things are the glass, wine, and jewelry it produces. Sil's father used to be one of the greatest goldsmiths of his time. He could make anything from a block of gold, but his specialty had been creating beautiful pieces of jewelry. He would get so many commissions from the Capitol that he quickly became one of the richest men in District 1. He is still alive but is now too old to do the delicate work he once did, and has passed down his tradition to his only daughter.

The only problem is that Sil isn't allowed to use her skills publicly, because then people would naturally think that she is talented. And that is definitely something she wants to hide, so Sil only creates in private. After winning her Games seven years ago, it is the only thing that makes her nightmares disappear even for a moment. There is nothing like the smoldering, precise labor of tapping gold into tiny links. It does more than clear her head – it gives her something to work for. And helps fund the rebellion that only a handful of people are aware is brewing.

"You've been busy, I see," Mr. Dorsey says, leaning forward to inspect a particularly beautiful chain. It is quite elegant and looks painstakingly put together. One of her finest pieces over the last few months, to be sure, even though it is simple compared to the other, more gaudy pieces.

She taps her ungloved fingers on the counter and says breezily, "No more than usual, really. Only it's taken me quite a while to find the time to see you, that's all."

Her time is valuable, for several reasons, but mostly because Snow enjoys keeping one eye on her. Her official Talent is fashion design, but her unofficial one – the one Snow forced upon her years before – is socializing. She attends parties and gathers information about potential citizens who may become problems for Snow in the future. Of course no one knows this but a select few. And no one but her and District 13 knows about the way she rescues said citizens after 'condemning' them.

Anyhow, Mr. Dorsey plays his part very well, especially considering that he is actually a rebel himself. He'd been born in District 13, and raised a soldier, or so he tells her. He was stationed here in the Capitol sometime before Sil's Games, and has been living here for about a decade now. His back story hides all his connection with his home. He is Sil's tie to the rebellion, her source of news as well as her broker.

At first she'd been skeptical of him and of his competency, just as he had been about her no doubt. But the years of them working together has changed whatever insecurities she'd had of him. No one would ever suspect that this nobody, poor pawn broker is a District 13 rebel. Just as no one would ever think that Silver Lamprey Cornelius is in cohorts with him.

"Now that that dreary business is out the way, how are our guests?" she asks, and suddenly her mask is stripped away. In place of the shallow, insipid Victor is a powerful, vengeful young woman. The change is radical and surprising, even after all these years of working with her. Mr. Dorsey stares and shakes his head slowly.

"I'll never get used to that," he mutters, and Sil raises an impeccably sarcastic eyebrow at him, impatient.

"They're in the back. Tommy's with them," he says louder, and the curtain that drapes over the doorway to the backroom flutters as a head pokes out.

"You're really good at your acting, Silver," Tommy, the man in question, says with a boyish wink, "For a while there even I thought you were the stupid Victor you pretend to be. Imagine that!" Sil rolls her eyes and steps around the counter, throwing back the curtain as she gingerly enters the backroom.

"Mr. and Mrs. Helloise, I presume?" Sil inquires of the Capitol couple who are huddled beside each other on the bench. They stare at her in surprise (probably because they hardly thought her capable of being involved in this, this being escaping the Capitol of course). Strange, perhaps, that she would help Capitolites escape from their own city, but then again they are not Captiol sympathizers. They are on their way to District 13 where they can start a new life, and she will help them get there.

"Miss Cornelius – I, that is, we didn't think you were the one responsible in assisting us – " Mr. Helloise splutters, and Sil waves her elegantly gloved hand.

"My dear Mr. Helloise, while I can certainly understand your…shock, your rescue is a joint effort performed by many people, not only myself. And while we're on the subject, Tommy, why don't you prepare the car?" she asks, and her associate nods.

Tommy and her work together usually. There are others faithful to the rebellion who sometimes help, but to be honest, Sil trusts Tommy more than any of them. They've worked together the longest, after all. Ever since she won her Games, they're been partners in crime, to put dramatically.

He nods, shakes out his dark curly hair as he leaves the room through yet another backdoor. It empties him onto a deserted side street where a car dawdles idly, waiting for its passengers. The moment he leaves, Sil tears her other glove off her arm and crassly throws it over one shoulder to join the other. Her wrists and fingers are now free of bandied jewelry, and as she kneels by a trunk and starts pulling out clothes, she says in a no-nonsense tone, "Put these on, and the shoes too. Tonight you are not wealthy citizens of the Capitol – you are poor street rats. We will be escorting you to the border, where an armed truck will be waiting to take you to the jet, which will then take you to 13. Here – your new IDs." She fishes the two identification cards out of a sewn hem in her dress, ripping the thread so as to pull them out. The couple takes the passes robotically, as if they can't believe this is actually happening – that Silver Lamprey Cornelius, the fop of Panem, is actually in charge of their escape.

Sil tosses them their new clothes and they start changing, awkwardly turning to face the wall as they dress.

"Questions?" she asks once they're done. Her refugees pause, look at each other, and then blurt, "But how can you be a rebel? I don't understand – " Sil laughs.

"Darlings," she says dramatically, but instead of sounding like her stupid alter ego, there is a sarcastic drawl to her voice now that catches their attention. Mr. Helloise takes his wife's hand as they stare at her. "Who would ever expect a dumb, air-headed socialite to be the mastermind of the rebellion? I am very good at hiding in plain sight. Just look at how shocked you both are," she winks at them and they share tiny smiles, until…

Mr. Helloise frowns and slowly says, "The mastermind? But surely you aren't the mastermind? Not the one they've all been talking about – the Sterling Nightingale - "

"Never mind who I am," Sil says, ushering them to the door. "Now come. No doubt there are people already searching for you. We must get you out of the Capitol immediately." She peeks her head out the door and Tommy glances up at her as he leans against the car. He nods and she steps outside. She opens the door and the couple clamor inside.

"Be careful," Sil says to Tommy, whose boyish features wrinkle into a careless smile. In truth, there is nothing careless about him. He is even more of a planner than she is, and that is saying quite a lot. She drags him to the side for a moment and murmurs, "There are two more parties Snow is making me attend this week. Will you be there?" He tells her yes, he will, because parties are of course the best distraction when one is trying to smuggle someone out of the Capitol. Sil rolls her eyes at him and mutters, "I wish I could come with you but – "

"I know, Silver. Don't worry," Tommy assures her, and walks back to the car. "Dorsey will let you know if anything should happen." She nods and watches as he closes the car door and pulls out onto the street, then before he turns the corner Sil disappears once more into Mr. Dorsey's shop.

The man is waiting at the front. When she reappears, he leans back and wonders, "Said your heartfelt farewells? You know Tommy's good at what he does, Sil. You don't need to accompany him on every job."

She frowns and mutters, "I know. But if he ever gets caught because of me…" she trails off, only for Mr. Dorsey to raise his eyebrows and insist, "Then you'll find a way to get him to 13 before they execute him. You always do." His confidence in her does uplift her spirits, and so does the little black metal box that he pulls onto the counter.

It's full of technological odds and ends – things for her spying. He smiles at her eager expression and says, "You said you ran out of your contacts, didn't you? 13 sent me more. And they also sent some new things too. You'll like this one – it's a new recorder. They're also real buttons you can sew onto clothing so you always have them with you. Ingenious right?"

She hums in agreement and slips the contacts into her clutch. They're special because they are very heat sensitive. They allow her to see when another person is present, even when they are hidden from view, simply by picking up on body heat. They're also very expensive – or so she assumes. District 13 funds her free of charge, sort of. Considering the amount of money she's thrown their way over the years, they certainly aren't going to make her pay for anything.

Dorsey also gives her a new automatic pistol, the size of her palm. It's tiny and perfect for stowing away in a boot or even a bra. She thinks it's a little amusing, stuffing a gun against your breast. When she comments on how she'll soon have the most killer chest in all of Panem, Mr. Dorsey rolls his eyes.

"There hasn't been any recent news, has there?" Sil wonders as she puts everything away. Mr. Dorsey shuts the metal box and shakes his head, glancing up at her with a frown.

"No. But you'll be the first to know if 13 does tell me anything," he says, and she believes him.

Sil watches him carefully, eyes sharp and cunning, and then at once she tips her head back a laughs musically. She is Sil once more, socialite and the Capitol's baby, but her eyes are still dangerous.
"Of course, my love. You know how much I appreciate updates, especially considering how much money I donate." She says the word as if she's talking about a charity case or some such thing, but Mr. Dorsey knows that she is as serious about the rebellion as he is. He nods graciously.

"Certainly, Silver. You know I'll contact you should anything happen," he tells her, and she smiles prettily at him and leans in to murmur quietly, "Good. I should hate to think what might happen if District 13 leaves me out of the plans. I'm a soldier and I like a fight as much as anyone." Her eyes flicker up to his, and the emerald green irises seem to almost see right through him.

She pulls back before he can reply, tugs her glove back up her arm, and flutters her fingers at him. "Now I really must be going, darling – the Capitol cannot survive without me, you know, and I have another party to get ready for." She steps back and opens the door. But before she leaves, she turns back and says more seriously, "I'll be back as soon as I can. And thanks for the supplies." Mr. Dorsey nods, waving her on, and she dances out of the door and into the streets of the Capitol, immediately blending back into society as if she has simply turned yet another page of her personality.

None of the other Victors truly understand Silver Lamprey Cornelius. Perhaps it is because she is District 1. Most likely it has more to do with the fact that she appears to enjoy seeking out the company of the Capitol. Which is, of course, a huge disgrace to those Victors who are targeted by the very same Capitol. Needless to say, it doesn't exactly put her in their good graces, but neither do they pay much attention to her or think very badly of her. To them she is just…Sil. Just a stupid Victor from District 1 who somehow won her Games. None of them really understand how that happened, actually, even though they were alive to witness it.

The Sil of the 68th Hunger Games is rather similar to the Sil of today. She won her Games primarily through sponsorship – not truly surprising considering how much the Capitol adores her. She had relied almost exclusively on her father's help back then. When he was still working every day at his craft and taking commissions for jewelry, Gemma Cornelius would often take her to the Capitol during his shipments. He was nothing if not particular, and since the Capitol is so close to District 1, they would usually go together. Her mother hadn't been around when she was a child. She went everywhere with her father.

Through her father, Sil created a name for herself in the Capitol even before her Games. The friends she'd made in that time helped her tremendously in the Arena. Of course, she hadn't been completely incompetent back then, but most of her training had occurred after she won her Games and decided to take up the rebellion's cause.

She is only a few years younger that most of the older Victors, but they don't really understand her even after seven years of having her around.

"Darlings, you've all made it! How wonderful it is to see you all again," Sil exclaims as she bounces up to them. Them being all the Victors who are presently in the Capitol and have no other commitments. Johanna Mason, Enobaria and Brutus from 2, Gloss and Cashmere from 1…and of course Finnick Odair, the Capitol Daydream. They all look up at her approach and, for the most part, greet her as amicably as they can.

She is dressed to the nines, not that this is particularly surprising. Sil has the most outrageous outfits. She puts Capitol women to shame, sometimes. It's really quite fascinating to see what she comes up with. Tonight it is a red swarthy gown of sheer chiffon and a small underdress that rushes up to her neck but drops off somewhere midthigh. The chiffon swings all the way to the floor in heaps of fabric and is gathered by her right knee with a silver brooch sparkling with rubies. Her hair is piled up atop her head in a crazy, messy updo. It rather makes for a cringe-worthy sight, at least to some of them who find her Capitol fashion as revolting as her other Capitol-centric interests.

"Sil," Johanna greets dryly, and eyes Sil's glass of pink wine. "I see you've started drinking." Sil merely laughs at this.

"My love, it's a party. Live a little! I see you've changed your hairstyle. Darling it suits you, truly. Oh, Gloss, did I mention that father's been asking after you? You and Cashmere simply must come over for dinner the moment we return to District 1 – I insist." She rattles off for several more minutes, expertly weaving the tide of the conversation to dreadfully boring things – at least to a Victor. She chatters on about the new fabrics she's recently acquired from District 11 ("And do you know I've never seen a shade of gold so divine?"), and then skips to the topic of the most recent Games.

"I haven't yet met Miss Everdeen and her star-crossed love," she giggles at this and inquires, "Wherever are they?"

The drone of the speech pauses, and everyone seems to scramble out of whatever daydream they'd been having while she spoke. When they don't immediately respond, Sil raises an eyebrow and says, "Dear me, you're all so positively boring! Oh, excuse me, I see my good friend over there. I'm afraid I must leave you now, do be sure not to fall asleep my loves."

She smiles daintily at Johanna, but something intelligent catches in her gaze as she stares at the District 7 Victor. Johanna stares back as Sil turns on her heel and flags down Tommy, who is idly drinking a stemmed glass of champagne several meters away. She cuts across the room like she's on fire, and the moment she steps out into the crowd, people converge on her like she's the sun that they all rotate around. It's rather exhausting to watch, actually.

"God, how do you deal with her in District 1?" Brutus grits out, staring over at Gloss and Cashmere. Finnick smirks. He often wonders the same thing and finds himself quite thankful that Districts 1 and 4 are not so close together.

Cashmere grumbles, "Actually she stays to herself mostly."

Gloss nods and glances at his sister. "You're right. Though she still goes out a lot. Probably to parties. We don't see her much in the Village though. She lives at her family estate with her father." Thank God, he seems to think.

Finnick glances over at where Sil is now teetering in her four inch heels, a contemplative look on his face. He's always wondered about her. How Snow treats her, mostly. He knows she doesn't do what he does, but he also knows that Snow manipulates almost all of his Victors in some way. Is Sil also manipulated? Something inside him has always told him that there's something else going on. Some form of manipulation that Sil does not speak of.

She tilts her head back with a laugh and bursts into speech, though she is too far away and the music is too loud for him to hear what she says. It is almost fascinating to watch her with these Capitol citizens. She dresses as one of them, is idolized by the majority of them. Finnick sometimes thinks that they know more about her than the Victors do. Then again, the Victors have never really given Sil the time of day. They are all loosely connected with her because of their similar status, but for some reason she has never truly reached out to them. It is almost as if she tries to put up a wall between herself and the rest of them. Like she doesn't want anything to do with them. It is precisely this attitude that makes them all annoyed whenever she is around.

"My love, please, no more!" they vaguely hear her laugh, and Johanna rolls her eyes.

"If I hear her say 'darling' or 'my love' one more time I'll gut her," she mutters. They all hate it when she uses her little pet names on them. She seems to use them on everyone.
Finnick chuckles and says lightly, "At least she doesn't call you what she wants to call you." The words tumble out of his mouth before he can even understand them, and they cause Johanna to turn to him in confusion.

"What do you mean? What does she want to call me?" she asks dangerously, and Finnick raises an eyebrow.

"I just don't think she's nearly as happy to be here as she lets on, that's all," he says dismissively, not wanting to get into an argument with his friend – or to think in too much detail about the inner workings of Sil's strange mind. He isn't entirely sure why he thinks this or where it came from. Maybe it's because the smile she wears is the same one he wears when he's forced to frequent hotel rooms. Maybe because her eyes are set in the same hardness that his are whenever he has to deal with Snow. He isn't sure, only that he's always thought there is something else to Silver Lamprey Cornelius than meets the eyes. Something she keeps secret. Well…Finnick likes secrets. He's good at fishing them out. And this one, whatever it is, has always been of interest to him.

Cashmere chortles at Finnick's words and tells him, "You're wrong. She's just a stupid, brainless little girl who likes to pretend she's got a life. But none of us have a life after the Games. She's a walking, breathing lie."

That may be so, but Finnick isn't so sure. He doesn't respond. All he does is watch Sil from the corner of his eye and wonder at the way she can so easily laugh and smile at all those Capitol citizens disguised as monsters.

After the party, Sil returns to her Capitol apartment feeling much more exhausted than she looks. That tiredness is also swept away beneath her mask. She does not show it outwardly, just as she does not show her intelligence or her determination or her hatred for Snow. She has gotten quite good at pretending to be infinitely tireless and happy. Sometimes she even convinces herself. But here in her apartment, where everything began, she cannot hope to pretend.

Tommy has informed her of the safe rescue of Mr. and Mrs. Helloise, who now go by a different name in District 13. He described the escape quickly while they were at the party, using the loud music to cover up their discussion. She is relieved that they were able to get yet another family out of the Capitol before Snow could track them down and dispose of them. Really, there are never that many who need rescuing, only the ones who are outspoken against Snow. His dominion does not allow those types of people to remain in his city, and that is another reason why Silver is his socialite extraordinaire. She hunts them down for him and has them arrested – but what he doesn't realize is that she also has a hand in their rescue.

Sil shuts the door, flicks on the lights, and steps out of her heels. They are kicked away and replaced with the silk slippers she keeps by the door. The moment her feet are enveloped in that silk, she sighs out and curses those heels. Her feet are aching something awful, but it's the trend in the Capitol and she's Silver Lamprey Cornelius, and she has to follow the trends. It's just another part of her mask.

Another twist of her fingers and her hair is tumbling down from its updo. The shockingly blonde color gleams in the dim light, the only loudness in her apartment. She steps out of her dress right there in the entryway and kicks that to the side to join her heels. Then, bare but for her underwear, she steps into the darkness of her living room, flicking on lights as she goes. A moment later, she's wrapping herself up in a silk robe. She stands there in the center of her apartment as she ties it, slowly and blankly looking around at the exquisite layout that is afforded to her. The Capitol socialite from District 1.

Sweeping marble countertops line the kitchen. Cherry wood cabinets and copper pots shine at her from where they hang above the stovetop. A bottle of wine idly waits on the side table, where two tall glasses always linger, for guests. Funny, that. She's never had a guest before, but she still sets them out as if someone is about to walk through her door and greet her. It's funny because she's never had a friend before, either.

Being social and attending parties doesn't mean that she enjoys spending time with Capitol folk. It certainly doesn't mean that she has made any true friends here in the Capitol. After her Games, she had hoped that perhaps the other Victors might take her under their wing and look out for her…but, well, that was before Snow had swept in and told her what he wanted from her.

She'd hardly been a Victor three months before he appeared one day on the other side of her door. She'd been eager to meet him personally. He came right in and smiled genially and accepted the glass of wine she had offered him. It had been right here, in this spot, where he'd informed her that she was to be his Socialite. His eternal Sponsor. His personal Victor lapdog.

He told her he would rise her up from the ashes and introduce her to the Capitol via parties. She'd been excited, at first, because she'd wanted to please him. District 1 has always been loyal to the Capitol and she was no exception. She'd even enjoyed herself, at first. But when the other Victors made it clear that they didn't like the way she acted so friendly around Capitol enthusiasts, it started going downhill. And that had been when Snow gave her the next orders. Always more.

It is so exhausting going to all those parties, having to look her best and being expected to gossip while rooting out the very rebels she fits in with best. Sil sighs, turns to the living room, and drops into the white leather couch splayed near the television. She'd like to be home in District 1 with her father, but alas, Snow expects her to remain in the Capitol for at least another two months. Two months of endless parties and socializing and name-gathering. Two months of a very peculiar kind of hell that is hers alone.

She knows she could have it worse. She isn't blind, of course, to what some of the other Victors have dealt with – and still deal with. Finnick Odair, for example. She is thankful, at least, that Snow hadn't thought she had potential to have that kind of life, at least not to the same level as Finnick. Most every female Victor does some sort of courtesan work and she is no exception, but she is lucky because she doesn't often have to deal with this less pleasant part of her life.

She raises her arms above her head and buries her face into the crook of her elbow, sighing out against her skin. Blindly, she gropes for the remote control and turns the TV on. She ends up falling asleep to the sound of Caesar Flickerman's voice as he rambles on and on about post-Games drama and the renovations in the President's mansion. It is just boring enough to sweep her right off, and hopefully loud enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

But they come anyway, featuring herself as the main character and showing her all the awful things she's been forced to do, and sleep doesn't come easily.

District 13 is as different from the Capitol as the moon is from the sun. As the moon triumphs over the night sky, silent and hidden from its counterpart, District 13 carries on with a secrecy that is quite similar. It just so happens that tonight, of all nights, secrets are the exact topic being exchanged around one of the unassuming dining tables in the District 13 cafeteria. One secret, in particular, holds much sway on the conversation, and that secret is one that the entire country has been trying to unearth for many long years. The secret is, of course, concerning a figure masked in mystery and hidden in the unique shadows that anonymity affords – a dilemma that is most assuredly done deliberately, for how else could the Sterling Nightingale operate in the vast net of the Capitol?

"I hear he's got a hundred faces," one woman claims. A refugee, just come from the hands of the Nightingale herself, and rescued from the inner bowels of the Capitol prisons that very morning.

The man sitting across from her eyes her dubiously and asks in a gruff tone, "Well don't you know? Didn't you see his face?"

But the woman empathetically shakes her head and responds, "Hardly! That is, is saw the face of a regular Capitol worker – several, in fact – but no sign of the Nightingale. Not that I'm aware of, anyway."
The table quiets at this, all wondering at her words.

"The Nightingale's been working with President Coin for years now," one of them says. "I wouldn't be surprised if she knew his identity."

It's true. President Coin has been in contact with the daring spy for many years, or so they say. Besides ferreting prisoners out of the Capitol before their sentences can even be announced, the spy is also District 13's main source of intel concerning the comings and goings in Panem. Even these lowly workers know as much.

"Not much good it does us," one of them responds, "since the President ain't about to grace us with a name to go along with the man."

The grumbling agreement that ensues makes the woman adamantly say, "Does it matter? As long as he can do his work, we don't need to know who the Nightingale is. He's gotten so many people out of the Capitol already, right under the nose of President Snow!"

No one would ever dispute the good that the Nightingale has done, of course. At least no one in District 13. The roguish spy has the audacity and the cunning of a dozen men. He's saved more lives than anyone gives him credit for, and has kept District 13 in the know with his information. And so the others at the table do not disagree with the woman's words, even though the mystery behind the unknown figure is a constant source of interest to them all.

But unbeknownst to the table, and the country at large, they have already gotten one thing immensely wrong where it concerns the identity of the man who wears the mask: the Sterling Nightingale is not a man at all.

How predictable the world is, when it stumbles across an anomaly. And yet – it is this predictability that the Sterling Nightingale counts on, for what else would allow the spy to hide in plain sight, at the center of the Capitol, under the nose of the very man who hunts her?

Gracious, but the world is full of imbeciles.