Author's Note: It seems a bit out-of-character for Cinna, truth told. And it seems to have a really abrupt ending... hm. So one day I might add more or change it or somesuch. All the same, feedback is greatly appreciated! :)

Beyond the windows, the candy-colored lights of the Capitol shine like pieces of shattered glass. The stars are entirely lost to this artificial, gaudy display. Night is nearly as bright as day here. Tonight, working beneath a single light, I wish for darkness; I wish that the night could invade the corners of the room and let the bare bulb above my head be enough, without interruption from something as false and wretched as sugar-glow.

Fabric pools across the table, the floor, curls around my feet like some sleeping creature. Katniss once told me of a lynx who followed her on her hunts, and how one day she had to shoot him because he frightened away game. What a life wasted. Not her fault, of course—the money from his hide went to feed Prim and her mother . . .

I think for a moment. Oh, yes. I remember the fur. How ironic, that the beast she killed would find its way to my hands, to be made into some patron's garment . . . his coat had been soft. Beautiful. He must have been an elegant, deadly creature. A smirk tugs at my lips. He wouldn't be the only thing of such a temperament I know.

And I? I am shaping the other into something she would never be.

The needle flashes in the light, simple and artificial alike. My hands are used to the work and sometimes I can let my mind wander. Not so now.

Because I am sewing no wedding dress tonight. Tomorrow it will be something truly magnificent—and I say so not because it is my work, but because of the girl who will wear it, who will twirl onstage and burst into flame; who will become a mockingjay . . .

The black fabric at my feet is more splendid, more beautiful, than the white which covers the table. Its pitch is the night that I long for. I stare at it a moment, imagining a dark room, illuminated by a single fire, a flame, dancing about a tapered wick.

A frown works itself across my face at the sudden association. A flame burns only if it has something to feed on. And Katniss—the girl on fire—will this—what she must become—will this destroy her?

What am I doing? This is for the rebellion, for a greater cause than us both, but suddenly I am struck with the realization that Katniss, for her strength, is a girl, a child. She wants change, freedom, a reworking of whatever mockery this society has become—all of this is true. But she must choose to become a mockingjay. No one can do this for her. And I—by this dress—am I forcing the change unwittingly upon her? In robbing her of a choice, am I any better than the Gamemakers?

Pain shoots through my finger, momentarily blinding. The needle has slipped and pierced not fabric but skin; I stare at it, uncomprehendingly, as it slips deeply into flesh.

My reaction is too slow; a dark stain already blossoms on the pristine white fabric.

I swear under my breath. Because I've let my thoughts wander. Because I have almost thought something blasphemous. Because in spilling my blood on this dress, this symbol of something sacred, something pure, I've ruined it.

I drop the fabric on the table and yank out the needle with more force than necessary. Was the damned dress ever sacred? Of course not. Not when it has been twisted into such a gaudy thing, such a mockery. There is no wedding. No love here. Only deception, exploitation, dominance. If not by the Capitol—then, yes, I will admit it: by the rebels. Because Katniss does not understand what she is becoming. She does not know what is at stake. She cannot know the road she must—must!—travel if any of this is to be a success, if any of it is to be counted for something.

I am no better than they—the Gamemakers. Plutarch. Crane before him.

No. No, I must be. I may be playing a part in their game, but I love Katniss. Who else—except Peeta—can say that? Truly?

It's some comfort, to admit it. She is like a daughter—and yes, I love her . . .

And I hate myself for sewing this dress.

As consolation, I press my lips against my bleeding finger until it clots, and close my eyes. I can put down the needle for a moment. Against my lids, even the Capitol lights vanish. Ideas slowly form, images shaping themselves from the darkness. Yes. My free hand reaches out, as if reflexively to draw lines on paper.

I smile. Perhaps a bit sinisterly. But I have found a way to redeem myself. If I am to sew this wedding dress for the Capitol, and transform Katniss into a mockingjay—then, when the time comes, I will protect her, too. I can design more than gaudy things. I, too, am capable of a more ferocious rebellion.

Because in my mind, I see her, fierce and feared, clad in armor; framed by the flames from which I've nicknamed her, she comes to exact vengeance . . .