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Chapter Text

Contessa Devereaux, 36

Contessa by name, Contessa by nature. Contessa Devereaux was someone who was never truly satisfied, the type of person who lived in a state of perpetually pursuing challenge. Most Capitol folk pursued physical perfection, to be considered beautiful- ostentatious through and through, and Contessa was more than equipped to use her physical allure to secure herself a worthy suitor and become a renowned trophy wide; but that would not, it could not satisfy her. Contessa did not scorn the women who chose that path, it was something she had entertained more than once- like any woman raised in the Capitol she bore a fondness for frivolity, but what truly set Contessa apart was her shrewd intellect and unrivalled ambition.

Contessa fondly reminisces on her time as a student at the institute, refining her skills in statecraft and indulging her interests in chemistry and engineering. As varied and seemingly unconnected as her pursuits were, she knew that she would be able to utilise them to open any door put before her and that her skillset would ensure she would be exposed to a plethora of 'opportunities' befitting a woman like herself who had secured her place in the upper echelon of society and was more than eager to leave her mark on the world. It was that reason, and that reason alone that she was brimming with anticipation and not dread as she walked the hallowed of the Forum.

Contessa could not help but notice that the Forum seemed no different to other areas dotted throughout the Capitol, radiating wealth with the neo-Georgian architecture and the marble floors; but the very air seemed different, as though it thrummed with possibility. The Forum was where the true power players of Panem of gathered, and Contessa knew this opportunity was her golden ticket she admired the abstract artwork as she walked through the halls, tapestries retelling the stories of the Capitol's meteoric rise to supremacy in Panem; Contessa was determined to see her own story weaved into the history of Panem and this would be step one.

The Capitolite headed closer to the offices, spotting many of Panem's most affluent and influential figures moving through the building and paused to watch a moment. Contessa had learned from an early age that observing others allowed for you to manufacture scenarios which benefitted you the most. Choosing to speak to the right person, to let the right secret finds its way into the right ear, was pivotal to success in a viper's nest and while the Capitol was the most treacherous of nests to those who had a modicum of intelligence.

A few seconds passed before Contessa was greeted by the most curious of sights, a Victor in the Forum- or Victors in this case; Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark were exiting the President's private offices. Most wouldn't raise an eyebrow at such a thing, the star-crossed lovers were beloved to the President for being instrumental in exposing the treason of Plutarch Heavensbee and the systematic destruction of any notion of rebellion in the Districts. Katniss seemed tense, although the stoic girl always seemed on edge while her beloved husband clung to her hand with his handsome features twisted in concern- something Contessa would try to investigate later. As the pair of Victors passed her heads bowed together in hushed conversation, Contessa bowed her head in recognition of their status before heading to the door they had exited.

Contessa pulled the peach silk glove from her hand before placing it again the biometric processor at the door, there was a sudden sting as her blood was extracted before a green light signalled for her to enter. Squaring her shoulders and arranging her face into a genteel smile, Contessa stepped into the President's private offices- the image of confidence. A large white room is where she found herself, so different from the halls of the Forum, sleek chrome furnishings and technology that made the Capitol itself seem primitive. Capitol technology was a marvel, but this was beyond the comprehension of most, to operate this machinery was to become nothing less than a God who could craft the world into their own image.

"Something captured your interest, Lady Deveraux?" Contessa froze, unaware that she had been reaching towards a device, she turns slowly to be greeted by Coriolanus Snow himself.

A striking figure with carefully coiffed hair the colour of snow, an impeccably tailored suit- the picture of a wealthy Capitolite, but that wasn't what made the man so imposing; Contessa had observed the President over the years, with his honeyed words and sharp gaze. If this was the Viper's nest, then this man was the most venomous snake in the pit.

"Well women are often distracted by pretty things, Mr. President," Contessa kept her tone light and airy, to appear non-threatening, and the smirk that twisted the President's full lips told Contessa her that her attempts would futile as he stepped forwards. His emerald gaze turned appraising as he looked her up and down. As he came closer Contessa inhaled a perfume of roses, almost sickly-sweet and cloying; every hair on her body stood on end.

"I would like it if we could be honest with one another Ms. Devereaux, do you not agree?" The smell was almost overwhelming, and while his tone was jovial and phrased as a question, Contessa knew it was anything but; the words seeped in menace and while every fibre of her being was warning her of danger, Contessa was enthralled with this dance they were about to enter.

"Of course, I am curious however why you requested my presence. What would someone like me have done to garner the interest of the most powerful man in Panem?" Contessa knew it was a risk; to take such an openly teasing tone with the President but it was a calculated risk. If Contessa sought satisfaction, Snow sought challenge, and the amused click of the President's tongue told her that the risk was worth it.

"Modesty is a trait many would admire, it has its place; but you are not modest are you? You are one of the brightest minds, ambitious; almost cruel in pursuit of success. You are someone not afraid to 'rock the boat' if it benefits you. Would you agree with my assessment?"

The President then moved away towards a projector, finger gracefully gliding along the control panel. Contessa watched as articles marking her rise to success were projected before her; recordings of unfortunate happenings that granted her opportunities. Restricted files that Contessa thought she has buried, research that she vowed would never see the light of day.

Contessa could not find words, simply nodding her head in agreement with his words. Internally she was scolding herself, she thought of herself as a widow but it seems all she had done was caught herself in her own web. Her discomfort must have been visibly as the President smiled wide, the expression more predatory than reassuring.

"Well in that case, I have a proposition for you."

Since receiving the proposition from the President, Contessa had been invigorated; she was now surrounded by the finest scientific mind's that Panem had to offer. Their accolades gave her a reason to push herself, to stretch the possibilities of what was plausible- to facilitate making the wildest wonderings in her mind a reality. She was by no means the most intelligent person in this group that President Snow had assembled, but she noticed very quickly why she had been selected as the one to liaise with the President. As 'great' as the minds of her colleagues were, they were unoriginal- always trying to replicate previous successes.

After 79 years, the Hunger Games were running the risk of becoming stagnant and Contessa was not blind to realising that this could contribute to 'unrest' in the Districts. Contessa knew that the games were needed to remind the Districts of the Capitol's complete control and quash any rumblings of rebellion. Following her latest correspondence with Snow, Contessa was confident that these Hunger Games would leave no question in the minds of the Districts that they were nothing more than the bread and circuses of the Capitol.

It was an unfamiliar sensation. The thrill of challenge, the chance to truly make her own mark on the world. Tracing her finger across the nameplate of her office, Contessa Devereaux was finally satisfied.

Contessa Devereaux

Head Gamemaker

Chapter Text

Caesar Flickerman

Caesar was a showman through and through, coming alive before the cameras and weaving magic with his thrilling narration of national events. He considered himself a journalist of sorts, delivering news to an enraptured audience- but he was not naive. He knew his legacy would be the effervescent master of ceremonies for the Hunger Games and that is why he had committed most his adult life to being the best MC her could be. This was the year of the 80th Hunger Games and this would be the first televised event pertaining to these games, and more importantly the first time most of Panem would be introduced to Contessa Devereaux- Head Gamemaker, and to Caesar Flickerman: An enigma.

Caesar looked up at the countdown, two minutes before he'd be stepping onstage and welcoming his captive audience to the unofficial beginning of the 80th Hunger Games. This year he has chosen a bubble-gum blue for his palette, and as he perused his reflection, he had to admit it looked better than some of the other palettes he'd adorned over the year; the maroon travesty of the 69th Hunger Games is something he still had nightmares about. The showman spotted his producer gesturing him towards the wings while the audience were getting riled up with some trivial pre-show entertainment; Caesar waved his hand in some lazy resemblance of acknowledgement and brushed down his suit, his trademark- for this year anyway- bubble-gum blue with baby pink accents. One last vocal warmup before he took a deep breath and stepped through the curtain.

The applause was like a tidal wave crashing into the presenter, his smile wide as he waved and blew kisses to the captive audience: Caesar Flickerman was a legend in the Capitol and his appearance on television meant that the beloved Hunger Games were almost upon Panem. He preened beneath the screams, enjoying the thrill of being onstage for a moment before he raised his hand and lifted the microphone to his mouth; instantaneously the screams vanished, and people were on the edge of their seats.

"Good evening Panem, it gives me great please to say this... Happy Hunger Games!" As soon as he finished the audience erupted, hollering and screaming and Caeser used this time to see which celebrities were in his audience for this evening. Looking towards the Grand Circle he found a few familiar faces: Cashmere Dubois and her brother Gloss were present, applauding politely and looking exceptional- Caesar would have to speak to Snow about the possibility of him enjoying the company of the siblings together, as a 'reward' for his continued services to Panem. Finnick Odair was notably absent, although it did not take a genius to guess where he would be; a few other nondescript Victors were there, nothing too exciting. Caesar felt a flicker of disappointment when he realised the star-crossed lovers were absent after discovering they'd been invited to the Capitol but that wouldn't deter him; he was a consummate showman after all.

"Settle down loves, now I know you're excited. It's the Hunger Games, who isn't? Now that Hunger Game season is upon us, it is time to see who will rise from obscurity; rise above the odds and join the ranks of our beloved Victors."

The audience exploded again, a cacophony of 'I love you's' screamed at the gathering of Victors as a slideshow of th most distinguished Victors played on the large screens behind Caesar. He allowed the audience a few seconds before he called direction back to himself with another raised hand.

"But before we get to any talk of tributes, sponsorships or fashions...there is someone special who will be joining us via Capo-cast. I know your all dying to know who it is... so ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Contessa Devereaux, the Head Gamemaker of this years, Hunger Games."

Caesar headed to a winged armchair at stage right as the screens lit up with a video feed directly to the Head Gamemaker's office. Contessa Devereaux was in Caesar's opinion an angel, unblemished skin the most divine shade of warm honey; platinum hair carefully pulled away from the sharp angles of her face; full lips painted scarlet and almond shaped eyes glittering. A starlet from eras past; dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit as she sits behind a large desk a coy smile on her face, hand raised in appreciation of the raucous applause from the studio audience.

"Thank you, thank you... it is truly heartening to see Panem so enthusiastic, so eager for the Hunger Games. It makes all the hard work worth it. Thank you," her honeyed voice is mesmerising, the audience becomes even louder as they roar for the beautiful gamemaker. Caesar was pleasantly surprised, not just by her beauty- beauty was immaterial in the Capitol for anyone with enough money at their disposal, and the tailored Descataru suit told the presenter that this woman had more than enough money. It was the ease in which she worked the crowd into a frenzy with a few words; she was certainly different to the other Head Gamemaker's Caesar had interacted with, and that intrigued Caesar more than anything.

"Madame Deveraux, I must say you are looking exquisite this evening." Caesar winked at her in the over-the-top style he was renowned for, and she laughed delicately before simpering.

"Oh Caesar, you are such a charmer, and I must say that shade of blue is gorgeous. I knew if I was being interviewed by one of the most dashing men in Panem, so an effort was necessary. Although I do feel a little under-dressed." Gesturing at her dress and adopting a meek expression, Caesar smirked. It was not very often that he had a guest who was able to play an audience as easily as he could, this would just make his job easier.

"You flatter me Madame Devereaux, but as wonderful as it would be to sit here all day chatting with you. I think there is something that our audience would like to hear about even more." Flickerman gestures out at the audience who are watching them converse back and forth with rapt attention; Contessa nods conspiratorially and winks cheekily.

"Ah yes, I'm sure everyone here is excited to hear about the Hunger Games and how they may be a little different this year." The audience were spellbound; any talk of the Hunger Games was like the finest narcotics being offered to a drug fiend; even Caesar was drawn in. The way she spoke seemed to indicate there would be more changes than the usual Arena.

"As you can hear madame, the audience are more than excited to hear about this year's games. Could I be cheeky and ask for you to tell us about some of these changes?" The audience roared in approval at the man's line of questioning, buzzing as the Gamemaker considered his request before giving a coquettish grin.

"It would be a pleasure to share some of the developments implemented by myself and our esteemed President to ensure that the 80th Hunger Games will be revolutionary. Everyone will have to expect the unexpected, which I know is saying a lot: The last ten years have seen some of the most memorable Hunger Games, from our star-crossed lovers to the youngest Victor ever; but President Snow knows that Panem deserves something more, where progress must be made for progress' sake." If this woman was not Head Gamemaker, she could certainly work in the political field, pandering to the audience without revealing too much although she had won over the audience even further with talk of the beloved President. Caesar could get frustrated at the blatant avoidance, but he understands the importance of keeping your cards closer to your chest.

"Oh, I'm practically foaming at the mouth in anticipation, but could offer us any more specifics Madame?" He almost winced at how he sounded, Caesar Flickerman did not beg, but he was struggling to imagine what changes she could have implemented. She was a relative unknown and the format of the Hunger Games rarely changed, why would she be allowed to do such a thing in her first year. Would the rule of district partners winning together be reintroduced? Or some other rule? Would it be something like the Quarter Quell following the success of the 75th Games?

"Caesar, I'd love to tell you all about it...but I simply couldn't ruin the surprise or any of the twists we have in store this year. I will tell you a few things though, most of these 'changes' will be shared with the tributes and Panem at large on their arrival to the Capitol. There will be some major adjustments to sponsorship... but I am sure you want some more specifics? Is that right?"

Her eyes lit up, with either mirth or triumph, as the audience roared their approval. Even Caesar was nodding enthusiastically, as entranced as the audience from the enigmatic Gamemaker. The Victors in the audience were looking at one another, anxiety warred with frustration- what changes would be introduced? How would their role in the games change, if at all?

"Okay. First and foremost, as the behest of President Snow himself- all Hunger Games Victors will make themselves present in the Capitol for the duration of the Hunger Games and prior to the Reaping Ceremony, each of these Victors will have a one-to-one meeting with myself." The room was alive with curious mumbling; there were still more questions than answers. Why would she need to meet with all the Victors? Most Capitolites were happy with Odair, the Dubois' or the more prolific but every Victor. There had to be a reason but every Victor, even Abernathy? There had to be a reason, Flickerman was simply clueless as to what that could be. The Victors in the audience were now looking apprehensive, catching each other's eyes and shrugging their shoulders.

"That is certainly interesting, I am sure the Victors will be overjoyed with an extended visit to the Capitol especially those who rarely get to visit as they are not mentoring...is that all you can share with us, Madame Gamemaker?" Caesar had managed to pull himself together quickly, knowing that they only had a few minutes left before the Head Gamemaker would be leaving them.

"I'm afraid I cannot go into specifics, but President Snow himself will be addressing the whole of Panem one week prior to the Reaping Ceremonies...but rest assured, everything you thought you knew about the Hunger Games. Think again!" With that last mysterious remark, the screen went black, and the audience exploded, questions flying like bullets while the Victors gathered. It was pandemonium, Caesar did not know much but he already had that gut feeling that these Hunger Games would be one for the history books.

Chapter Text

Katniss Everdeen

Katniss was dressed for proverbial war; the black corset Cinna had created was her armour; the stoicism she wore as a mask in public, refined ever since she left the arena, had been an asset as she had been pulled unwillingly into the treacherous web of Panem politics.

However, taking her seat before Snow, the armour felt pointless- exposed to his scrutiny Katniss was nothing other than the stupid sixteen-year-old who escaped the arena and ended up making a deal with the devil himself. Katniss mourns the bravery she flaunted in her youth, how she was able to meet Snow's eyes unflinchingly- how she naively clung to her viewpoint of the world, seeing everything in black and white. Her dealings with Snow, the impossible decisions she had been forced to make resulted in Katniss drowning in an ocean of grey, questioning everything. Beneath Snow's serpentine gaze, she feels vulnerable as though he is poised to strike, and she is at his mercy: One of Panem's brave Victors in only name.

"Do you know why I have called you here Katniss?" The question was asked in a nonchalant tone, but Katniss' mind flew through the possibilities: Was he aware of the training she had begun to provide to prospective Tributes in 12? The 'happenings' at the Hob? All illegal, and possibly dangerous for not only her but everyone she held dear. Should she plea for clemency, or attempt to divert his attention elsewhere? Instead, she chose honesty.

"No." The word sound like a question; unlike Peeta, Katniss was never one to indulge in wordplay. She didn't understand the gentle nuances and subtleties the way that Snow and Peeta did, how they were able to enthral and intimidate others with a simple word or gesture. Whenever she was unfortunate enough to find herself in positions like this, Katniss felt like she was floundering- a fish out of water.

But some of Katniss' spirit, the girl on fire, remained as she balls her fists. She doesn't doubt that Snow holds all the power in this, and every, interaction they have but she wants to show some form of the defiance she once wielded like her bow.

"Are you scared Katniss?" Katniss held his gaze, fighting every instinct in her body that was begging her to look away; he held all the cards, but Katniss had learned that the outcomes of any interaction could be dire. Her thoughts went to Gale, who suffered the same fate as her father when she challenged Snow's authority in the stupidity of her youth- misguided in the belief that her victory in the 74th Hunger Games could shield her somehow, or the ones she loves. She simply nods her head, not foolish enough to try and lie- she shivers as Snow smiles widely, finding pleasure in her discomfort before laughing and swirling the scotch inthe crystal tumbler he held gracefully in his hand.

"You delivered me Plutarch Heavensbee Katniss, you have earned my trust to a degree. You have no reason to be scared, even with that little training program you have introduced in 12. You have shown me that you will do what is best for Panem..."

"I did what I did to keep the ones I love safe, and I'd do it again." It felt rehearsed, the same thing she had said to herself and others more times than she can remember. For moths her mind had branded her a traitor, the loss of Plutarch had served a devastating blow to any form of rebellion; Katniss regretted what unfolded, how her stubbornness and ignorance extinguished any form of rebellion that could've freed Panem from the clutches of those like Snow.

Snow was once again observing Katniss, something he appeared to find great joy in; savouring the discomfort as she realised how helpless she truly was in the grand scheme of things.

"That's good to hear Katniss, now have you ever heard of a creature called a hydra?" Katniss wracked her brain but was clueless as to what he was asking, once again she felt like they were playing Snow's favourite game of cat and mouse, where she was inevitably being led into a trap to say something incriminating or ignorant. She'd wait, if there was one thing Katniss had come to know about the President, it was that he revelled in explaining himself while reminding her of her ignorance.

"A hydra is a fascinating creature from mythology; you cut away one its heads and two more grow back in its place- do you understand what I am implying?... Of course you don't, you see Plutarch is dead- you yourself saw to that. However, his 'grand ideas' very much remain alive. This little 'rebellion' is very much alive and now there are two heads for me to root out. I am not a foolish man Katniss- your fellow Victors and yourself are probably sympathetic to the cause; yet luckily I have not been informed of anything incriminating, but rest assure I am always watching."

Katniss felt uncomfortable, she was not aware of any rebellious action being undertaken; she had made it her mission to stay as far from anything like that as possible. But she could guess a few of the figures who may be more that 'sympathetic', and she would try anything to keep them away from Snow's watchful eye.

"Do you want me to keep an eye-"

Snow began to laugh, mirthless and almost mockingly. Shaking his head to himself, as if Katniss had insulted him with whatever she was about to suggest.

"Ah Katniss, Katniss- you have grown as an actress, you could almost convince me you do not loathe me entirely. However, if I wanted to recruit a spy amongst the Victors, there are many I'd consult before you- your charming husband for example." Katniss bowed her head; the threat was veiled but it was there; she had promised when she first entered this sick game with Snow that Peeta would never be tainted by his vile poison. Everything despicable thing she had been roped into doing at Snow's behest was to protect others, even if that came to the detriment of herself.

"What is it that you actually want?" She regrets it instantly; the last time she had snapped so carelessly at Snow bore brutal consequences. With her eyes trained firmly on the mahogany floors, Katniss waited for the Peacekeepers to storm the office and drag her away- instead she was greeted by something much sinister: Snow's laughter. This wasn't mocking or mirthless; it was genuine, an almost joyful sound. But hearing it come from Snow was one of the most disturbing things Katniss had ever heard.

"It has been a while since you have been so bold, so direct- I've almost missed that passion, that fire." Katniss cannot suppress the shiver that wracks her body, somehow finding Snow's praise more horrifyingly violating than any vitriol or punishment.

"I simply want you to take a simple message back to your fellow Victors- you will be very much occupied throughout the Hunger Games. Ms Devereaux's plans for you Victors will keep the audience on the edges of their seats. So Happy Hunger Games- and may the odds be in your favour." Katniss nods her head, and Snow simply turns in his seat to the large computer system to the left of his desk; simply ignoring Katniss' existence after his cryptic message. As he continues to ignore her presence, Katniss stands from the chair and squares her shoulders before walking away; full of doubt and self-loathing, Katniss Everdeen once again mourns how the girl on the fire, the Mockingjay has become nothing more than a canary in the mines. As she closes the door behind her she hears Snow's voice one more time:

"Patch me through to President Coin,"

Chapter Text

Finnick Odair

Finnick prized himself on always appearing unruffled; he was the carefree charmer who could have a Capitolite singing like songbird with barely any effort. From what he could garner about Contessa Devereaux, she would not be spilling her secrets as easily as his usual conquests, but he was determined to discover what tricks she planned to pull during this Games season. 

Victors weren't strangers to being summoned to the Capitol, but for everyone to be summoned for the duration of the games meant something was afoot. Something was afoot that would put the people he loved in danger; he'd already given his dignity, his body to keep people safe and if he had to once again sacrifice those things to keep them safe then so be it. 

He was the first Victor 'chosen' to meet with Devereaux, and Finnick was confident that during this little one on one he'd have her spilling her secrets. He'd dressed in a way that flaunted his assets, the white shirt clinging to his frame, with the deep V-neck showcasing his defined chest and bronze skin; the trousers he'd opted clung to him like a second skin: As arrogant as it made him sound, Finnick knew that no hot blooded woman would be able to resist him when he was dressed like this and on the charm offensive. 

The secretary kept glancing in his direction and blushing whenever he caught her eye, simpering like a fool and he was sure she almost passed out when he threw a roguish wink in her direction. If her employer was anything like her, well then this would be one of the easiest marks he'd ever encountered. A quick glance at the clock affixed to the chrome walls told Finnick he still had a few more minutes before his little 'meeting' so he may as well enjoy himself a little, especially while the pretty secretary, ‘Rhony’ as her nameplate stated, was shuffling files randomly.  

Standing up, he could feel the secretary's eyes being drawn to him like a magnet and he could almost hear her jaw drop as he stretched, exposing his abs in that calculated move he had used more times than he would ever care to remember. Sauntering closer the lilac skinned ‘Rhony’ was almost hyperventilating, and he leant across the marble counter and offered her a wide grin, he could hear her whimper. 

"Is there any chance of getting a drink?...I'm parched," As he traced his tongue along his lower lip he couldn’t help but chuckle aloud at how her amethyst eyes followed the movement; she was under the spell, expected really. What information would the lowly secretary have for him, probably nothing, but she’d be a nice and easy warmup for Contessa. 

“Of course Mr. Odair let me--”  

The bimbo froze, the spell shattered as she turned away from Finnick, busying herself with the computer before her. Turning, he saw what had stolen the bimbo secretary’s attention form himself. Contessa Devereaux in the flesh, she was beautiful with her golden skin and emerald eyes, but as soon as he realised that he realised she would be immune to his charm. Raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow, she gestured for him to follow before turning and heading back towards her office. Finnick through ‘Rhony’ one last wink before following. 

Finnick, trying to appear confident, whipped off his blazer and threw it across the back of the chair while surveying the room: Sparsely decorated, a large desk and a tonne of computer systems shocking for a Capitolite woman, he’s expected garish decorations, it was unsettling- He was used to having the upper hand, and he could feel it slowly fading away. 

“Odair, please take a seat. I do not have all day,” Dismissive and apparently completely disinterested in his presence, this was a surprise-almost pleasant. But he would not roll over too soon, sitting down he met her eyes; emerald meeting cobalt, and as he expected she didn’t lower eyes instead she rolled them. Finnick could not help but feel as though he had failed some unannounced test. 

“Now that you’ve finished your little game with my secretary shall we get down to the actual reason why you are here?” The way she spoke was calm, almost playfully as she discussed the ‘game’, it was unsettling. Finnick tended to deal with forceful Capitoites, who spoke their intentions and took what they desired but this wouldn’t be the game he was playing with Devereaux, she dealt in nuances and subtext and Finnick felt his heart drop.  

“Why am I here?” He could’ve hidden the question in compliments, flirted and such but the way Devereaux kept looking towards her desktop and consulting the files before her told him that was a pointless pursuit. Contessa reached into a draw in her desk and took something from it before sliding it across the desk: A pristine golden envelope. 

“You see, I have found that you Victors are under-utilised during the Hunger Games,” Recalling the hotel beds where his dignity had been besmirched, Finnick would never say he had been underutilised during the Games period, but he nodded along placidly. Taking the envelope into his hand, he was surprised at the weight, as he reached to open it Contessa’s hand wrapped around his own. 

“That envelope should not be opened until you are given explicit instructions to do so.” Drawing his hand back from the envelope he looked up and saw Devereaux looking at him with pity in her eyes; looking down he shuddered as she placed her hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t lecherous as expected but clinical, she pushed the envelope away before turning his face to look at her. 

“You see, during the Hunger Games you, and by that, I mean Victors, will have a task to complete. A second victory of sorts, where you win something, you want... something to aid your Tribute, or something you personally desire. What is it that you’d want Finnick?” The use of his given name threw him for a loop, he could have a life where his body wasn’t the Capitol’s most prized plaything, or maybe even a life with Annie. No, that was absurd. What would he ask for? 

“I don’t know--” 

“The beautiful thing Finnick, is you don’t have to ask until your task is completed. You’ve been mistreated by the Capitol, and I cannot fix that. But I can, as Head Gamemaker, ensure that during the games you are not ‘required’ for any services other than Mentoring or social appearances,” The first thing Finnick believed was that, like so many other Capitolites, she was spewing lies. Pulling his Cap-Phone from his pocket however he saw that all his appointments had disappeared. He imagined a life where his body was his own, where he had a choice, and it was more than enticing but he had others he has to care for- others that this body serviced, but before he could open his mouth two more envelopes were slid across the table.  

“Annie Cresta and Magdeline Flannaghan, I know they are why you do what you do; so, I will allow you to complete their tasks. As a sign of good faith,” Finnick hadn't felt so exposed in a long time, this almost seemed kind. Contessa smiled gently and turned away in a clear sign of dismissal. What does he do? Does he play along? Does that put them all in danger? 

“This good faith will not come without a cost Finnick Odair, now leave” 

Finnick stood from the chair, legs barely obeying him. What was happening?  

Chapter Text

Cashmere Dubois, 35. District One- Victor of the 64 th Hunger Games.  

‘When was the last time you genuinely made a choice...resigned to your life as a mannequin...exploited and abused...’  

The Hunger Games were certainly not what she had anticipated, District One prepared you more than outlying districts- physically speaking that is, by the age of fourteen Cashmere was confident that she knew a multitude of ways to ‘eliminate obstacles’; she was also conscious that her physical allure would be exploited to secure sponsorships in the Arena.  

Maybe it was youthful arrogance, or simply naivete, that her ‘weapon’ could be hung up following her victory- alas the physical allure that secured her sponsorships was a weapon she’d be forced to wield continuously in a battle that has been waged ever since she was announced as the Victor of the 64th Hunger Games. 

“What you truly desire can be yours...” What an off phrase to hear come from Contessa Devereaux’s lips, what would someone born and raised in the Capitol understand of her desires? What does Cashmere even know about her desires, her desires are whatever musings born from the sick minds of the leeches who purchase her ‘time’; pouring a large glass of cabernet sauvignon, swirling it in the crystal glass she took a large swig, not to savour the delicate notes of plum and cherries, but in some vain attempt to temper the maelstrom of thoughts inside her head. Sometimes she wished she was as ditzy as many people believed; beauty did not bely a lack of intelligence.  

Hailing from District One, being favoured by the Capitol, allowed for a certain degree of preparedness when it come to the Hunger Games- an awareness of ‘roles’ played on the chessboard that was Panem. Now, with Deveraux and this illusion of hope has shifted the pieces and Cashmere has never felt so unsure, so ignorant. Draining her glass, Cashmere poured another generous measure and grabbed another glass from the cupboard as she heard the apartment door open.  

As Gloss walks in she notices that he looks deep in thought, she’d usually make a jibe about how thinking too hard might make people assume he wasn’t a natural blonde but since she’s been drowning in a sea of thoughts since her meeting she is in no position to comment instead she handed him his glass of wine as he haphazardly threw his blazer across the back of a chair. Clinking their glasses Cashmere grabbed a bowl of fresh cherries from the fridge and offered one to her brother. 

“Met with Contessa?” Gloss grunted in a non-committed way before pulling a golden envelope identical to the one Cashmere had been given earlier and placing it next to hers. So simple, two golden envelopes, but there was something foreboding about them. She couldn’t quash the thought that these were loaded guns, she just didn’t know who they were pointed at.  

Gloss polished off the remainder of his wine before heading to pour another, gesturing to see if Cashmere needed a top up. She fiddled with the entertainment system as Gloss busied himself pouring the wine from the decanter; as the opening notes of moonlight sonata poured from the speakers Cashmere noticed Gloss pulling a comm-device from his pocket- a comm-device which was different to the Cap-phone issued to the Victors.  

As Gloss sat on the sofa, Cashmere noticed the tension in his shoulders and his blue eyes lacked the mischievous glint that was quintessentially Gloss; the feeling of unease from earlier returned with a vengeance. Gloss’ vibrance and unflappable humour grounded Cashmere, it was one of the only things that guaranteed to put a smile on her face in the shitstorm that was their life. 

Something was wrong, grabbing the bowl of cherries she went and sat next to Gloss who had his eyes closed and was holding the wine glass so firmly that Cashmere was surprised it had not shattered. Maybe he’d taken additional calls with ‘suitors’ to reduce her ‘workload’- something he did every now and then, to somehow protect her: Her eternal big brother. 

“You okay, G?” Gloss briefly met her eyes, a small smile on his face- a smile that did not reach his eyes. That was more unsettling than Contessa with her illusion of freedom, more than the parade of men she had ‘liaised’ with since her victory. She offered him a cherry before sitting back in the chair.  

“M’fine Cash, just tired. Meeting Contessa, that mandatory viewing later- just... there’s just a lot going on, you know?” Cashmere is instantly on high alert, Gloss was many things: Over attentive, overprotective but he was not dismissive. It was not right, but she also knew that if she pushed too hard then he’d just shut down quicker than she could blink.  

“Well since it is mandatory viewing and we’re not ‘in demand’ we could watch a film or something?” Gloss nods mindlessly and drains his glass, Cashmere simply grabbed his glass to refill- it was only a matter of time until Gloss broke and told her all about what was bothering him, and a nice glass of red wine could only aid the process. 

“So, are we feeling Shaolin Sunset, or Excalibur?” Gloss ignored her question, glancing over she could see him staring at the foreign comm-device with his forehead creased. Cashmere cleared her throat; Gloss throws her an apologetic smile before standing up and putting the device in his pocket before grabbing his blazer. 

“Where are you going?” She sees Gloss physically squirm, and she is disappointed. It was a weird feeling, having Gloss not be an open book. 

“I... can’t tell you.” This is certainly not how Cashmere expected him to react; Gloss, like every other Victor, was an accomplished liar when he needed to be even if she had a knack for seeing through any attempt at dishonesty on his part. Should she be concerned that he did not even try to lie?   

“Well don’t let me keep you.” She can hear the bratty tone in her voice; it was just incredibly odd to be out of the loop when it came to her brother. He paused for a moment, she could see the hesitation in her eyes, any second, he would break and tell her whatever it is that was bothering him- instead he gave another feeble apologetic smile before leaving the apartment as quickly as he’d arrived.  

For now, Cashmere would let Gloss keep his little secret. But if he, or anyone, believed that she’d simply let this go and not go digging- well then, they were fools.

Coriolanus Snow, 88, Capitol- President of Panem  

Coriolanus had borne many monikers throughout his life: Mastermind, cruel, vicious. He has been instrumental in shaping Panem into what it is today; he’d created Panem like a God- he was the most powerful, even if he was the most loathed, man in Panem. His legacy would forever be weaved into the tapestry of Panem’s history; but today, he would take it further.  

Today he would become truly immortal, what he was about to announce would turn Panem on its head and during the chaos that would ensue; he would prudently weed his garden, rooting out the cancer of traitors and making sure his control  remained unquestioned andtotal. As he began his speech he looked out, knowing that all eyes in Panem were trained on him, waiting to see what trick he had up his sleeve; as customary during Hunger Games season, he began to recite the Treaty of Treason. Now it was time for the piece de resistance. 

“...for the first time, two tributes- one male and one female, between the ages of twelve and eighteen will be reaped to represent District Thirteen. Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour.”  

You could hear a pin drop, looking out into an ocean of confused faces he could imagine how this was mirrored across Panem; he saw the moment of realisation as it happened, the dawn of understanding and as he stepped away from the lectern pandemonium reigned. He retreated from the tsunami of questions, a triumphant smirk on his face. Snow always lands on top. 

Chapter Text

Cassisus Holloway, 47, Mayor of District 13

Cassius Holloway had been described as an opportunist for as long as he could remember, ready to claw his way into the upper echelon of the Capitol; ruthless and relentless, it had taken years. Years of pandering to simpering fools, years of not being recognised for anything: He’d been forgotten, and resentment began to run deep. But when the President himself calls upon you, you answer that call, you grasp the opportunity afforded you with both hands and run with it. Unfortunately, Cassius had not thought that the ‘vital’ job he was needed for involved being sequestered underground with a literal nation of treasonous robots. Swirling the cognac in the crystal tumbler, he inhales the oaky scent before taking a liberal sip; he had earned it.

Originally, Cassius had felt shafted by the assignment- a thoroughbred Capitol sent to the depths of District 13: When vibrance bleeds to grey and creativity goes to die. Cassius had been groomed from a young age to assume a position of leadership, ideally in the Capitol; but he had been resigned that he may need to work between the Capitol and a prolific DIstrict such as 1, 2 or even 3. 

Instead, he was selected to lead the Capitol ‘occupation’ of 13. Said occupation, however, led to a degree of satisfaction that he was unfamiliar with- something he had never tasted while trying to shoulder his way into the Capitol elite: A sense of power, the limitless possibility of disassembling a society and building it into something that would serve Panem in the way it was always intended too. Cassius Holloway, handpicked by Snow himself, would be the sculptor that shaped 13 into a superpower loyal to only himself and the Capitol. 

It was his greatest victory, the occupation of 13 took three days. District 13 had been naive, arrogant in their belief that they were any semblance of a threat to the Capitol; the dreary grey Cassius associated with 13 was swiftly stained red. Rivers of blood had flowed through the network of bunkers, and the helpless screams could only be compared to a symphony: The already small population had been truly culled as any whisper of defiance or inkling of resistance was met with lethal force, any notion of rebellion was now smoke in the wind. But his greatest achievement was Alma Coin, and what befell the treasonous bitch.  

She had been a proud woman, terribly misguided- entertaining vain hopes of overthrowing Snow and taking control- but very proud. Cassius had personally carved those vain hopes from Alma Coin: Brutal, cruel, savage, there were no words to truly describe what Cassius had orchestrated for Coin. He remembered the decadent screams ripped from her throat as her bones were ground to dust; fondly recalls the guttural gasps pouring from her ravaged mouth as he callously tortured her until he was satisfied she had spilled every secret. Broken, bent, bowed- that would be the legacy of Alma Coin. The cognac he cradled now was a gift from Snow personally, for a job well done, received after he had sent her head to Snow in the Capitol. 

Standing from the chair, Cassius drained the glass of brandy- sneering at the spartan nature of the office, it has never been more apparent that Alma Coin had no taste. While he supported the District population of 13 revelling in their austerity, he would need some home comforts brought in. Heading towards the large window, he stared down upon his newly conquered kingdom: The grey ants vastly outnumbered by the pristine white of the Peacekeepers, but Cassius was fascinated by what he’d observed from the District scum. Stoic, martial, disciplined- smirking, Cassius could imagine how he could sculpt these downtrodden puppets into a militant force. 

That was a thought, Cassius was more than aware that he had garnered favour with the President but he was not called an opportunist for nothing. District 13 was scheduled to make their debut in the Hunger Games and Cassius was curious to see how Snow would react if a Tribute from 13 were to receive the mantle of Victor. One of Cassius’ new subjects winning the Hunger Games- it could only improve his position further. They were resilient, stoic despite their society having been shattered and had clearly received an education in combat and strategy; these were qualities that if harnessed could catapult District 13 to stardom, starting with the 80th Hunger Games. He pressed the intercom, an idea forming in his head.

“Send me General Vida now.” 

Circling the young general, Cassius is impressed: The young man stands tall, his eyes fixed forwards and unaffected by his presence. That stoicism cannot be taught, the man's expression is fixed, neutral neither intimidated. Neither respectful or insubordinate. If only he were a few years younger, he’d be Caissus’ chosen. What drew Cassius to Vida however, was that he saw ambition in the young man; a yearning to establish himself, something Cassius himself had possessed when he was of a similar age. He may be a native thirteen, but Cassius could smell the Capitol drive in the young man- the desire to be given an opportunity, luckily Cassius was feeling benevolent. 

“Has there been much talk about how District Thirteen will be received by the others?” Vida didn’t flinch, he simply tracked Cassius with his eyes; recognising the question was rhetorical, that Cassius would tell him everything so responding was futile. Cassius leisurely poured himself another measure after throwing back the contents of the tumbler. 

“I anticipate that their reception may be…cold, seeing as thirteen has avoided the Hunger Games for almost eight years. And as the Mayor of thirteen, I want nothing more than to set our youths up for success. You understand?” Cassius smirks as he continues to circle Vida, waiting for the tiniest flinch or reaction at all, Vida remains unmoved simply nodding his head. HIs grey eyes meeting Cassius’ cerulean, a silent understanding passing between them,

“Mayor Holloway, I share your concern. The eligible tributes within the population, I would deem- proficient. But we must adhere to the rules outlined in the Treaty of Treason; eligible tributes are not to receive any training to improve their odds in the context of the Hunger Games. Boggs has personally seen that all physical training has come to a stop.”   

“Your abidance by that rule is admirable, however I have plans for thirteen, plans that make said training a necessity. You could consider it benevolence on my part, but each District has a trade and by law the youth are required to receive training in said trade. Do you understand what I am saying? “ 

Vida could discern what he was alluding to, District Thirteen could produce Victors- that was a simple fact. Cassius was a shark in the water smelling blood, the opportunity was laid before him; Cassius knew Vida came from what was considered the ‘lower class’ in thirteen which in and unto itself amused him, districts trying to establish social hierarchies was always something he’d found amusing: The wildlife documentaries didn’t do it justice.

“You want me to train the young ones again, if that is what you desire then it shall be done as you instruct, Sir.” Vida’s tone is bland, but there is a teasing lilt that makes Cassius smirk.

“Well graphite mining can continue, but nuclear energy is better handled by five. I’ve made the conscious decision as mayor that we will be focussing on developing a prominent military presence- to ensure we have no silly notions of ‘rebellion’. So, Vida, what do you think?” 

“There’s no guarantee that someone at the desired level of performance will be selected. I will ensure that all eligible parties are prepared.” Cassius chuckled, Vida remained upright- the perfect soldier, the perfect one to mold Cassius’ future tributes- no guarantee? As shrewd as thirteen believed themselves to be, they were certainly naive to the ways of the world. 

“You don’t need to concern yourself with guarantees Vida, you will simply compile a list of the four most proficient males and females, they will then be educated by me personally. I shall teach them the more nuanced elements of strategy, and help them develop a persona- stoicism works well as a foot soldier, not for someone placed on the greatest stage in Panem.”  

Vida physically appeared unaffected, but his eyes twinkled in a way that reassured Cassius that he would be an ally, always chasing the proverbial carrot. He nodded his head, hands folded behind his back.

“We cannot guarantee they will volunteer Sir.” Naivete, a strangely beautiful thing. Cassisus wishes he could remember the days where he could be naive. 

“Let me reiterate, don’t concern yourself with guarantees. Concern yourself with moulding me the best set of tributes for our debut on the national stage. Dismissed”

Vida saluted, Cassius smiled- Vida may be the only one who saluted genuinely, without resentment or hatred bleeding into the gesture before quickly making himself scarce.  Cassius did alway value efficiency, throwing back the cognac in his hand he poured another. The stars were beginning to align, Cassius deserved a reward. Tipping the crystal tumbler toward the sky.

“May the odds be ever in my favour.” 

Chapter Text

Helios Rhodes, 18, District One  

Plie, developpe, pas de chat, jete; Helios felt his body running through a sequence of movements that were slowly becoming second nature, in his last physical assessment there had been some concerns that he tended to overbalance when using his right leg as support. He’d gone over the recordings from his private training sessions more times than he could count, and hated to admit that they were right, with District Thirteen joining the Games this year, it was imperative that One only sent the best of the best.  

He would be the best District One had to offer, he had to be. Even if that included having to force himself through dozens of hours of ballet classes and renting the studio for further rehearsal on top of that

‘Reflecting on your performance and working on identified areas of improvement is vital for success in the selection stages’ , Obsidian Rathbone had drilled that into Helios since he became his primary trainer. He would be the volunteer, whatever it takes.  

The warning bell signals the end of this block for independent study; Helios grabs a towel from his and wipes at his forehead before taking a swig from his water bottle. Savouring the dull ache in his body, Helios headed out into the hallway; joining the throng of cadets moving through the hallways of the Academy. Keeping his head down he just wanted to head to his locker and grab his textbook for Advanced Orienteering, unfortunately it seemed he would not be so lucky.  

“Helios, is it true that you’ve joined Nolan’s ballet class?” Helios gritted his teeth, of all the people to bump into- it had to be the pompous prick himself: Silver Belcourt. Overall arrogant twat, and general bane of his existence. Despite their familial connection, Helios could genuinely say that he wouldn’t piss on him even if he was on fire.  

Even worse was that Silver, the ostentatious asshole, was not alone: He was flocked by his army of sycophants. It would never cease to baffle Helios how people flocked to Silver: Preening and praising him for doing the bare minimum. He is surprised that someone somewhere hasn’t invented some award to give Silver for simply wiping his own ass, since he'd been praised by everyone for everything else since the day he was born.  

Helios had been ranked top of his cadet class every year since he was fourteen, setting records in combat, strategy and even survival skills. You would think that would warrant some form of recognition, but no he was just ‘Silver’s cousin’. Fucking baffling, and now Silver is the recipient of a ‘Philanthropy Award’ due to his father’s tendency to throw money at any problem Silver comes up against or causes.

“Cousin, are you ignoring me?” Helios bites back the urge to tell him that is exactly what he is doing, resists the urge to ‘award’ him with a swift roundhouse kick to his jaw. And what was with constant referring to him as their familial relation? But however gratifying it would be to smack the smug smirk from his face, he knew it would remove him from consideration for the male volunteer spot, and he’d worked too hard for his plans to be derailed by the arrogant knob jockey he called cousin.  

“No, Silver, I just need to grab my shit for class. What do you want?” He might not be able to beat the living daylights out of his cousin, but he’d rather swallow razor blades than exchange niceties with the imbecile. Prolonged exposure would surely result in a steep decline in the number of his brain cells. 

“Just to let you know there’s gonna be a party tonight, for the recipient of the- what was it again?” Helios could swear that he can smell the sheer arrogance as Silver looks out at his ‘followers’, constant need for validation from the simpering fools is what he lives for after all.  

“Of course,” He’d rather spend the night training but if he didn’t go and ‘support’ his cousin, he’d never hear the end of it. Even if being forced to spend time with his cousin is excruciating. From the corner of his eye, Helios spots Saphira Nolan- daughter of the ballet mistress- who rolls her eyes at Silver’s posturing, and he must look away before he laughs at the disgust etched onto her delicate features.  

Silver must sense that Helios’ patience is wearing thin as he decided to swan off like the peacock he was, his little flock following behind. Nolan was the only one left behind, her eyes following them; she sends a quick nod of acknowledgement in Helios’ direction.

“He’s a right prick, isn’t he?” Helios had never been one for camaraderie with his peers, to seek friendships when his goal had always been to secure his own successes. Despite that, he always harboured a fondness for Saphira Nolan, as beautiful and lethal as she was- the most impressive thing about her, was that she saw Silver as the righteous twat he was. As he headed down the hallway, Saphira followed, coming to stand beside him and match his steps. 

“So have you heard anything from the board yet?” He wishes he could give an affirmative, to say that he had already been chosen as the Tribute, but he hadn’t. He thought it was a foregone conclusion with his exemplary performances in the recent assessment period, but alas life had a general tendency of fucking him over so he wouldn’t be surprised if he was passed over here.  

“Nope, any news on the girls front?” Helios was never sociable, more focused on ensuring his own success, but there was something rather relaxing about just wandering through the hallways with Saphira. He knew that she was an absolute beast, physically stunning and undeniably competent in all elements of combat; it was almost a shame that she couldn’t be the female Tribute he entered the Games with- but at only sixteen, she wasn’t considered ‘eligible’ unless there were extenuating circumstances. 

“Nah, Pearl will consult with the Victors before deciding but she loves the drama of it all; keeping us waiting till the last minute. Twat,” Helios nodded along, Pearl Bellfleur was the female Head Trainer, and she really fed into the dramatics of the selection process: Did he see the allure of it, the suspense? Yes, but he just wanted the confirmation of who’d been chosen, it would be a lovely proverbial fuck you to everyone who’d ever doubted him and cast his as nothing more than ‘Silver’s Cousin’.  

“Well it seems we’re all just going to have to wait and see, eh?” He’s worked on the humble facade, under the careful direction of the Academy’s acting coaches, just in case the unthinkable happened and he wasn’t chosen. He wouldn’t be surprised as the bulk of his life consisted of nothing but continual disappointment. Saphira’s quirked eyebrow made it very clear she knew he was speaking utter bullshit.  

Arriving at his locker, Helios busied himself collecting the texts he’d need for the rest of the day. Hoping that Saphira would take the hint and make herself scarce, unfortunately he felt her presence remain behind him.  

“If you’re not the one chosen, then it’s an utter pile of wank, so stop moping. I’ll even sneak some vodka from Da’s cabinet, should make Silver shit stain and his crony's tolerable right?” He felt her punch his shoulder before turning away. It was nice to know that people saw him as what he was, the inevitable Tribute for the 80 th Hunger Games. 

Pride was a foreign feeling to Helios; he’d always fallen short in the unspoken competition with Silver. He’d never felt as if he’d been worthy of his parents’ pride, but that had changed. It was at the end of the day when he was summoned to Onyx’s office and told that he’d been chosen, above every other cadet he was the male selected to volunteer as Tribute for the 80 th Hunger Games.  

Tonight was his celebration now; Silver was finally the one thrust out of the spotlight and playing second fiddle: Everything seemed correct in Helios’ world. Taking a note of his reflection, Helios looked like a Victor- the navy suit, tailored to accentuate his lithe, swimmer’s build; his blond hair carefully styled away from his face. He knew he was handsome; it was almost a prerequisite to be in District One that to be selected as Tribute you had to be physically appealing to secure ‘fruitful sponsorships’, unless you were exceptionally talented in combat- Helios was fortunate enough to be handsome and skilled.  

“Twit-twoo, well aren’t you looking handsome? Truly Victor material,” Saphira appeared in his bedroom door, a crimson satin dress draped across her womanly figure; thick auburn hair carefully twisted away from her face. Objectively, Saphira was stunning and held herself with a quiet confidence that showed she was more than aware of it. Gracefully, she came to stand behind him- her emerald eyes glinting mischievously as they met his blue in the mirror.  

“Although you won’t be a Victor, if you let anyone sneak up on you like I have.” Helios smirked, despite his general disdain of people; Saphira was a pleasant distraction, a beautiful distraction and if he hadn’t been so focused on being selected as Tribute, he would have entertained the possibility of something more but now he knew that if he tried anything untoward she’d probably impale him whatever she could get her hands on. 

“No one will be sneaking up on me, I doubt anyone will be as stealthy as you in the arena,” It was true, he hadn’t worked with Saphira often during his time at the Academy, but he had always heard that the girl was light footed and agile; that came an extensive background in dancing and gymnastics, not something many Tributes would have. 

“You can’t be sure of that Helios, just remember that nothing is certain in the Games,” Helios couldn’t help but grimace, he thought she’d be supportive; confident that he’d win but he supposes she- like everyone else- feels that maybe he’s destined to fuck everything up and deprive District One of a Victor for another year. Pulling at his golden cufflinks he avoids meeting the girl’s eyes. 

“I am ready for whatever comes, and I am certain that I’ll be crowned Victor, and you can tell everyone that,” His tone is clipped and he knows he sounds whinier than he’d ever want to, but he felt disappointed after expecting Saphira to have faith in him. Glancing over he sees her biting her lip, she takes a flask from her purse and takes a long swig before offering it to Helios in truce. 

“I’m not doubting you; I’ve seen you with a mace. You have everything you need to win, I just want you to not underestimate anyone- just be prepared for anything,” It was clear that she was apologetic, and Helios had seen many accomplished Tributes fail to secure the title of Victor; seen them make stupid mistakes that cost them everything. Taking the flask, he took a generous swig, almost sighing as his chest was warmed with smooth, citrusy liquor. 

“Yeah, sorry for snapping. Just, I’ve worked for this- people are finally starting to see me, I’m the chosen Tribute. Like, I’ve finally proven myself--” Saphira puts her hand against his mouth and pushes the flask into his hand. Helios is grateful, he didn’t want to moan like a bitch.  

“So then, how did your parents take the news?” Helios couldn’t help the genuine smile on his face, he had never seen his father smile so broadly; his mother gushing about how she was bursting with pride. It was something he’d never forget. He didn’t know how long they chatted mindlessly, passing the flask between one another; but Helios realised this was the first time he had been happy in a long time. Checking his watch, he got up from the bed they’d ended up sitting on- luckily, he hadn’t drunk enough to feel tipsy, but his face felt a little flushed.  

“Well, we’d better be making moves,” Whether or not he’d been selected as the Tribute, being tardy to Silver’s little ‘get together’ would result in nothing more than him being the recipient of a tonne of bitching and whining that he had neither the time nor patience for. Saphira rose from the bed elegantly, apparently unaffected from the alcohol, before coming to stand before Helios, reaching up she straightened his tie before resting her hand on his lapel, a teasing tilt to her head and an enigmatic smile on her lips.

“Let’s go and show them all what the Victor of the 80 th Games looks like,”  

Vanya KIreh, 15, District Twelve  

  Vanya showed the children again, sharing the twelve rocks into three equal groups; smiling at their wonderment as they were able to replicate her actions, she applauded politely as they cutely proclaimed themselves ‘masters of division’. She begins to tidy away the things she’d used in today’s tutoring session in basic arithmetic. The children eagerly began to help but she sent them off to go and enjoy the rest of their afternoon playing, and prevent them from making any more mess .  

  Their help, while appreciated, was not always helpful; although she giggled quietly at their sweet chorus of ‘Thank you Miss Vanya’ before they scampered off, their minds now on whatever schoolyard games they wanted to play rather than what she’d been teaching them for the last hour. Gathering the sheets of paper and writing utensils, Vanya could feel someone standing behind her; she tensed for a moment and forced herself to relax. This was the Merchant Quarter, and it was broad daylight, nothing could happen. Diligently, she made sure she had everything she arrived with and sighing when she realised a pencil was missing; it seemed that her wonderful group of tutees ate pencils. 

  “You’re good with them you know,” Vanya jumped, her hand flying to her chest and the small box of resources she’d collected spilled across the floor. Cursing herself for being so jumpy, Vanya reached out to grab the scraps of paper and ancient counting blocks; she also saw another, larger hand reach out to help grab everything. Looking up, she saw Donall Teague- a merchant boy from the year above her, and rising star of the wrestling team if school gossip is to be believed. Vanya smiled blandly and continued to grab everything that had dropped to the floor. 

  “So, when you’re not teaching the little tykes, what else do you get up to?” Vanya could see him running his hand nervously through the sandy locks that identified him as ‘Merchant’ like her own; she could feel her heart begin to race, she loathed small talk and did not want to admit that those ‘little tykes’ were the extent of her social circle unless she could count her mother.  

  “This and that,” Vanya sent a silent prayer for the Earth to swallow her whole at the awkwardness, Donall seemed to ignore it as he carefully placed everything into the box she held in her arms. She sent him another bland smile, hoping he had caught onto the fact she was socially inept and would leave her to just wallow in teen self-loathing; she wasn’t so lucky, instead he stood there, hand placed in his pockets. 

  “That sounds cool, so you hear that there is going to be a little shindig at the rail yard later?” Vanya had heard, it was all the girls at school spoke about today- who would be there, what they could wear, if anyone would take anyone behind the slag heap. Honestly, it didn’t appeal to Vanya in the slightest; drunken scandals aside, she imagined what would happen if some of the more ‘active’ Peacekeepers stumbled upon the gathering. 

  “I’d heard about it. Are you going?” Donall nodded, beginning to ramble about who’d be there and that there were rumours that some of the older kids had sourced some liquor from the Hob. Vanya nodded along politely, as expected, while Donall continued to chatter mindlessly; making vague sounds of agreement as she walked towards the residential quarter.  

  “So, I was wondering if you’d like to come. Tonight, with me?” Vanya froze, turning to him she could see him blushing wildly, it was an endearing sight in a way. Internally, she was scrambling: She was not expecting this, what should she say? Is he flirting with her, or just asking out of obligation? 

  “I’m so sorry, I’m busy tonight. Maybe another time.” Vanya imagined that she couldn’t have given a blander, more robotic response even if she had tried. Donall did not look at her like she had grown an extra head as she had expected, instead he resembled one of the children she tutored on one of the rare occasions she’d had to discipline them: Dejected and pitiful. Instantly she was filled with regret, shuffling the box into one of her arms she reached over to put a hand on his shoulder. The simple gesture has him smiling shyly, and Vanya gives a kind smile in return. 

  “But I could definitely be convinced to let you walk me home,” His face brightens, and Vanya can’t help but smile brightly, Donall reaches over and takes the box from her before they continue walking towards the residential quarter.  

  “How is your Ma?” They have a back and forth, and it is surprisingly pleasant as she talks about how her mom’s health has really improved as of late; she genuinely laughs at his impression of Mrs. Mellark and stories of the various antics he and his friends had gotten themselves into. Vanya finds herself thankful that Donall had approached her today, even if he had almost given her a heart attack and their initial conversation was the most awkward thing Vanya had ever been a part of.  

  “So would you wanna probably hang around again, like when you’re free?” There is a hopeful glimmer in his cerulean eyes, and Vanya hates that she’ll be responsible for extinguishing it- she can imagine the idea of dating, Donall seems like he would be the perfect gentleman but Vanya also remembers the facts she has responsibilities, with her brother away and her mom’s health, she cannot waste time on frivolities like dating, however pleasant it might be. As she feels the rejection forming on the tip of her tongue, she swallows it- a voice inside her head, which sounds eerily like her mother, whispers ‘what is life if you’re not living’.   

  “Definitely,” Donall beams as he pulls her into an awkward hug and as he pulls back to look at her, Vanya giggles as she notices his cheeks are now the colour of fresh raspberries; she feels the skin on her own face become flush as he steps back and once again runs his hand through his sandy locks. As he walks away, whistling joyfully to himself, Vanya cannot wipe the smile from her face. 

As they’re eating their modest meal of broth with sourdough, Vanya can feel her mother’s eyes on her- imploring, and wearing a secretive smirk that always spelled trouble for Vanya. Despite being a grown woman, Amaya Kireh, had a talent for being far more mischievous than anyone Vanya had ever tutored- and Vanya had gone as far as to help tutor some of the five year olds who had only just begun their schooling.  

Vanya toyed with the spoon, making a few comments of praise as her mom hummed along eyes still fixed on Vanya as she finished her meal. Vanya couldn’t suppress the feeling that her mom was up to something, rather than confronting her Vanya would just go about her day as normal.

“So how was your day?” Vanya’s mother scoffed and rolled her eyes, which probably meant she’d been up to something that Vanya wouldn’t approve of- something she had a penchant for. 

“Some laundry, general tidying, visited the physician before you ask and helped Old Moll move furniture around- nothing special.” Vanya sighed, basically her mother seemed to have conveniently forgotten that she was meant to be ‘taking it easy’ on the orders of the physician. Collecting their plates together, Vanya made sure to give her mom a disapproving look which just made her laugh.

“Darling, I feel I need to remind you that I am not an invalid- in fact I am your mother, which means that I am the one that’s meant to be looking after you. Shocking right?” Vanya can’t help but chuckle, she could never stay cross with her mom- her buoyant humour simply did not allow for it. Vanya knew her mom’s health was improving, she had seen a dramatic improvement in her general wellbeing and mobility, but she was just cautious that if her mom kept pushing herself the way she was then she could deteriorate again.

“I’m sorry Mom,” Vanya puts the dishes into the sink, she’d wash them later and she grabs the tin of boiled sweets that they save for after their evening meal. Vanya’s mom takes a lemon drop, while Vanya helps herself to a strawberry flavoured sweet.

“No need to apologise darling, tell me about your day.” Vanya couldn’t think of anything exciting to share, at fifteen years of age she should be embarrassed that her mom has a more thriving social life. She’d been to school, and then tutored. 

“Oh, it was so sweet. Little Klayton was so proud of himself, he really seemed to grasp division,” Vanya was affronted as her mom rolled her eyes and yawned jokingly. Vanya could have made up some tale of her visiting the square with girls from her class and mindlessly gossiping about mundane things like boys or clothes. Unfortunately Vanya’s ability to lie was less than inadequate, it was so awful in fact that it should be studied. 

“You see, I’m less concerned with whoever you’re tutoring Van, and more with the strapping young man who brought you home today. A little later than usual too if I am not mistaken,” Vanya almost chokes on the boiled sweet which causes a coughing fit; her mom just laughs heartily before reaching over to pat her on the back. Everything else be damned, debilitating illness or not, Vanya’s mother was a bloodhound when it came to gossip, she could smell it from miles away. 

“He was just being a gentleman and walking me home, thank you,” Vanya got up and headed to the small kitchenette to wash the dishes up; anything to escape the mortification. She could hear her mother’s tinkling laugh and smiled to herself.

“And when will you be seeing- oh who was it exactly?” Vanya’s mother fixed her with a grin that could almost be considered predatory; she could try and distract her mom, but it would be futile- like a dog after a bone she’d just persist and Vanya would end up telling her everything anyway. 

“Donall Teague, his family runs the cobblers.” Vanya tries to make herself sound disinterested in the vain hope that her mother would lose interest, but her mom lit up and clapped her hands together.

“So when are you seeing him again? Tell me everything!” It was amusing, seeing a forty year old woman acting younger than her daughter. Sighing, Vanya knew it was pointless- she grabbed the tin of sweets and returned, sitting next to her Mom who was staring at her, expectantly. Knowing that resistance was fertile, Vanya began to tell her mother all about Donall, and the very distinct possibility that she might see the young man again.  

Echo Lewis, 13, District Three

“I have never heard such a ludicrous plan Echo…” Luckily, Echo had long honed the talent of tuning out Darwin- especially when he was ranting and raving from his moral high horse. So she simply nodded along, humming noncommittally while he probably made incredibly valid points; points based in logic, he’s probably compiled a data analysis report too- but logic well it was not the be all and end all. However, Echo was a firm believer in trusting her gut and that logic was not the be all and end all: Sacrilegious to say bring up in three, but Echo’s field of damn’s was barren, not a singular damn was available to be given.

Darwin was a prodigy, and a part of Echo knew that she should listen to him; just like a part of her knew that her little revenge plot toward Decibelle Fontaine was almost certainly going to lead to Echo finding herself in detention long after she graduates. Decibelle Fontaine thought she was ‘untouchable’- yeah, by anyone with an ounce of taste- but Echo was certain that she’d found a little chink in her ‘armour’. Was Echo the smartest in her class? Not by a long shot, but she was second to none when it came to noticing the little things, patterns that others thought were negligible or not worthy of note- her brother Glitch basically thought she was psychic, and while it was incredibly cute, it was prudent to remember Glitch also believed that Echo was able to perform real magic with nothing but a deck of cards; she’d explain the concept of sleight of hand when he was 10.

“Are you even listening to me?” Tuning back Echo realised that Darwin had come to stop during his rambling- she should have paid more attention. Darwin was getting a little irate if his twitching eyebrow was anything to go by; Echo just offered a sheepish smile and trotted back to his side before mussing up his blonde hair, chuckling at the delightful shade of puce he was turning. 

“If I lie and say yes, will you stop moaning about my little plan for Fontaine the foghorn? Because she is a right twat, if she wasn’t such a prissy priss then Coralie wouldn’t be stuck scrubbing toilets in detention. Coralie didn’t even do anything… oh yeah, she slightly singed her hair in chemistry but that was a genuine accident, well I think it was.” Darwin’s expression was unimpressed as he listened to Echo try and justify her ‘plan’, although to call it a plan was generous, in fact he began to look like a parent frustrated with a wayward child.

“You know if you began to apply yourself to your studies…” Darwin stopped speaking when he noticed Echo’s stare turned icy, sighing as he waited for the inevitable rant he was about to be hit with like a tsunami. Echo simply smiled sardonically, already hearing the lecture in her head- it was one of Darwin’s favourites, littered with extravagant descriptions of how amazing her life would be and ‘unlocking her potential’. Inspiring, yet grating. Very grating. 

“If I hold out my hand, maybe a fuck will magically appear in my hand…and I will give it to you.” Echo then began to walk away, at a slightly quicker pace than previously, with Darwin struggling to keep up with all the books he had crammed in his battered satchel. Knowing that he may have overstepped he chose to stay quiet and trailed his friend as she headed further into the suburbs of District Three. Darwin was feeling short of breath as he followed Echo along the streets which were quieter than usual; he didn’t speak, he knew that Echo would crack eventually- impulsive as she may be, she was also pretty predictable to those who got to know her.

“Okay, I will not rope you into any of my little schemes- only because I know you’re really working on getting that scholarship. No idea why you’d want to be at school any more than you have to, but this is Three I suppose. Anyways, I know it’s important to you so- yeah.” Echo was fidgeting, clearly feeling awkward; she began to lightly tug on the sleeve of her amber shirt. As frustrating as she could be, Darwin had to admit she was endearing: Wearing bright colours and performing juvenile magic tricks, especially in District Three where uniformity and academic attainment were prized above creativity and free thinking. Darwin rolled his eyes, smiling, as he linked her arm.

“Thanks Echo, I just don’t want you getting into trouble– okay, too much trouble. Also, that’s very considerate of you.” Echo shuffled closer and gave Darwin a brief hug, before giving him a sweet smile. Darwin immediately began to berate himself internally, knowing that his eccentric friend had taken what he said as permission to do whatever she wanted while actively keeping him in the dark about it. As intelligent as Darwin was, he was not ignorant to the fact that in some aspects he was oblivious: Trying to deter Echo from doing exactly what she wanted was a genuine exercise in futility.

“Whatever you do E, just keep me out of it. And please make sure no one gets hurt. We don’t need a repeat of the ‘broken nose incident’ do we?” Shrugging her shoulders Echo simply smiled and continued to walk home. More than determined to succeed in her plan to exact revenge on Decibelle Fontaine for getting Coralie thrown into detention, she could almost guarantee that it would all go to plan.

Letting herself into the house, Echo felt a brilliant blend of comfort and triumphant; comforted by the warm tones of the Lewis’ homes furnishings, and triumphant that she had gently persuaded, although he’d argue coerced, Darwin into helping her procure some laxatives for an ‘experiment’- in all honesty, she believed that he just conceded based on the fact she was able to use the scientific name. Placing her keys on her designated hook, she kicked off her shoes and placed them into the shoe rack- ensuring there were six pairs of shoes spaced evenly throughout the rack. There was something inherently comforting about home for Echo, maybe because unlike the monochromatic District she was born into, her house was not allergic to colour. 

Her mind was already whirring with how she could implement ‘Operation Fuck with Fontaine’, Decibelle was annoyingly astute but Echo had been watching, noticing every minute quirk, every routine habit. She knew exactly when to strike and Decibelle wouldn’t even see it coming- Darwin did not call her the ‘Chaos Queen’ for nothing, and she wore that title like a badge of honour. Walking into the lounge, Echo had every intention of curling up in the battered leather armchair and reading, but as soon as she passed the threshold she knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t something obvious, it wasn’t something she could identify through a cursory glance; it was something in her gut. Something was wrong, her heart deciding to join a 100m sprint just confirmed it. Rushing towards the windows, she couldn’t even breathe a sigh of relief when she realised they were locked. Her stomach began to churn and her eyes began to daft around the room, but she couldn’t focus: Realistically she knew the walls were not closing in, but the way her body was tensing felt like she was becoming a statue made it feel real: Close your eyes, take five deep breaths. 

Her mind was assaulted with questions, pessimism taking root; nausea made itself known quickly. Echo felt her mouth going dry: What was wrong? What was going to happen? Erratically she felt her body move, straightening photo frames, pulling furniture: Making safety, building symmetry but that feeling- the shroud of wrongness- continued to suffocate her. Was she becoming lightheaded? 

“Ecky- you’re back.” Glitch, her cherubic brother dashed into the room cradling a book in his arms- his blue eyes wide and bright, his ashy blonde curls bouncing, the image of joy and Echo felt her heart drop into her stomach. She knew she was panting now, her mind conjuring despicable outcomes. Her eyes continued darting the room, looking for a threat she believed was there when logically she knew there wasn’t; Glitch then pushed the book he was holding into the aged bookshelf haphazardly and Echo let out a sigh of relief. She should have known it was the bookshelf, her system of organisation was rigid but in her eyes effective.

“G, what did you just do wrong?” With her heart rate returning to normal, Echo was able to bestow her brother with a genuine smile; as the nausea and thoughts of impending doom receded she reached out and ran her hand through his ringlets. She almost giggled at the look of complete concentration on his face before she saw his mouth drop open into a perfect comical O.  

“I forgot to put the book in the basket.” He jumps to the bookshelf and snatches the book he had been carrying before dropping it into the wicker basket Echo has placed beside it,  the effect was instantaneous- she felt a sense of relief that she could not explain, but pulled her brother into a hug. 

“It happens G, we forget simple things- don’t tell Da but I forgot to do my chores yesterday. But it is super, duper, uber important that we try to remember to do things because it might make people sad or….crazy. But you’re a superstar so I know it was not deliberate. So, grab your pencils and draw while sis sorts this silly bookshelf that’s gone and gotten itself all messed up.” Glitch stared up at Echo, his cerulean eyes glittering with adoration before he jetted off to grab his pencils. Echo, undaunted, turned to the task before her: Alphabetizing the bookshelf. 

A while passed, Glitch created images of what Echo would refer to as abstract art while she herself catalogued their book collection. It was peaceful, a potentially forgotten moment but something vital to Echo- the calm following the calamity. She also ensured all frames were angled symmetrically, cushions were arranged in size order and for safety’s sake ensured that all entrances and exits were locked. She felt safe, and her enthusiasm for plotting returned with a vengeance, until she spotted Glitch scribbling away on the floor.

“So, Glitchy wanna help big sis with a super awesome plan?” Glitch’s eyes grew wide, amazement and adoration- it really did things to Echo’s ego- and clapped his hands together in excitement, before his gaze turned serious.

“Who’s the target, Major Echo?”