I originally wrote this as a TwoShot entitled 'Just Entertainment' with two versions of a Capitol citizen's point of view. One was Acacius, the typical Capitol citizen that supported the Games and the other, the one I chose to publish, is Clytia; the citizen with a conscience. I don't think I like this OneShot very much. Well, I decided not to delete this and just publish it for the heck of it. Uhm. Enjoy?

Conscience

Clytia.

"Acacius, Alerio, Amedeus! Get down here! Clytia, you too!"

I hear my mother's shouts and I bury my face deeper. I know why she's calling me and my brothers down and it disgusts me. Something has probably happened in the Games and she wouldn't want us to miss. Oh, how considerate of her. I press my hands to my ears as my mother knocks on my door. I don't need to hear what she's shouting, I already know them all. 'Clytia, you have to watch this!' 'Clytia, darling, you don't want to miss this!' 'Clytia, there's a fight going on!'. Why can't she just shut up and understand how much I hate watching the Games?

"Clytia, get down here now!" my mother shouts one last time before going back downstairs, my brothers' footsteps following after hers.

I know I have no choice. If I delay five more minutes, she'll send my oldest brother, Acacius, up to get me. I hate it when she does. I hate him so much. Being the only girl with three brothers, one might have expected me to love the Games as much as they do. With my mother pressuring me to be more supportive and all… But I can't. I just can't. How can I when all I can think about are the deaths of innocent children, a punishment because of what happened so many years ago. Every night I pray for them and their family, every night I'm thankful that I was raised here in the Capitol, even though this place is barbaric and sadistic.

I'm different and I know that, but I can never tell anyone what my real thoughts are.

I try to force an eager smile on my face as I walk down to the living room where my brothers and mother are all sitting on the sofa, watching the fight showing on the television. They're too focused on the television that they barely notice me sitting on the sofa, next to my youngest brother at the age of eight, Amedeus. I pull him closer to me, ruffling his hair, but he pushes himself away, closer to the television. I look away sadly, staring intently at the floor – anything so I won't have to watch the gruesome battle. I hate what the Games have done to Amedeus. At only the age of eight, he's been brainwashed by all this cruelty and monstrosity.

"Clytia, are you alright?"

Ignoring my mother's question, I force my eyes to fleet to the television. There are two boys there, circling each other with weapons held firmly in their hands. One of them looks thin and frail, an obvious sign he's from a lower district, while the other is the opposite of him; big and strong with muscles. I restrain myself from shrieking as the upper district boy charges for the lower district boy. I don't know their names; I don't pay much attention during the Reaping replays or the interviews.

He's going to die, that small boy. I just know it. All I can do is pray that it won't be painful.