A/N & Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games series. The honor goes to Suzanne Collins.

Set kind-of after Mockingjay. Full cast of characters + some new ones. This means: a focus with the victors (Katniss, Peeta, Finnick - yes, he'll be back -, Beetee, Annie, Haymitch, Johanna, Enobaria), with supporting roles by other including Cinna (also back), Katniss's prep team, Plutarch...and plenty of others. New characters will include Brielle "Brie" Snow, Alamo, Xenia, Basil, and more (some will be supporting characters, others will be thrown in as major characters). This first chapter will have mostly new characters.

This fanfic will unabashedly feed off own love of many of the "minor" characters, therefore, some who have died in the actual series may reappear. I mean, you never know what the President could be able to pull off. Also, the Games will only be a portion at the beginning of this fic, because I wanted to have more plot than that. So there. Cinna/OC.

Halfway to Lucky

Chapter 1: The Announcement

One – my favorite dress is a blue chiffon piece that I've never worn.

Click click click.

Two – my first pet was given to me by Grandfather.

Click.

Three – three nights later, my father took it outside and shot it.

Quiet.

One – I'm never going to wear that dress, am I?

My head is foggy – it has been for weeks – months, probably; I move in and out of time. Sometimes I'll be fine for days, and sometimes an hour will go by and I'll find myself only half here.

My fingers drum lightly against a cool metal table. One, two, one, two, three, three, three…my fingers continue their rhythm unasked. I ignore the glares that sometimes sneak, sometimes blast, my direction. There are others sitting with me at the table. It passes my mind that I haven't seen many of them recently, and how was their family? And wasn't the weather outside just fine? I clamp my mouth shut, forcing myself to remember this wasn't a dinner party. The metal cuffs loosely banding our wrists to our chairs reminds me that.

Minutes pass in semi-silence, my fingers the only thing creating noise in the blank room. Even the pictures had been taken off the wall. Suddenly, a hand slams on top of mine, silencing them. The metal rings that held him close to the chair were taut - there was enough room to touch those who sat beside us, but that was it.

"Shut up, won't you?" Basil hisses. His black hair obscures his face, but I can see his purple eyes are livid. I pull my hand from under his without a response, clasping it with the other in my lap. "It's your damn fault we're sitting here right now."

"Oh, give it up, Basil. It's not like your father wasn't helping with the hovercraft bombing in the Districts," a brunette across the table from us snarls back. Who was she?

"Don't try to help the situation, Xenia." Oh, that was it.

A youngish blond boy, probably fourteen or fifteen, spoke up. "Don't take everything out on the rest of us!" My eyes flickers to him – Alamo; at fifteen, he was the youngest of us. Basil was the oldest, at twenty-four. I've known both of them all twenty-one years of my life, but I've always been more prone to like Alamo. Honestly, I've known most of those around the table my whole life, minus a few – Xenia, for example.

In my musing, I hadn't realized a host of voices had begun to snarl and snap at each other. What was happening? Bewildered, I look around. We used to have tea together, dinner, nights dancing. My fingers find the table and start furiously tapping again.

One, two –

My brow knits together. I wish I could go home, slip under the cool sheets…

One, two –

Woudn't Verity would be there? My stylist, my friend, who always took care of me…

Three, three, three –

I'm so tired.

I sit on the couch, watching the state-run (or was it now rebel-run?) television channel replay and replay the capture of the Capitol, of Grandfather's mansion. Verity sits next to me, transfixed to the moving pictures.

I turn my head and close my eyes when I know the bombing of the children and rescuers is about to play. Why do they have to show it? Verity makes a noise in the back of her throat and I know the video of the bodies being blown to bits is almost done. How had it come to this?

We're alone in my three-floor apartment. The residents that we had taken in had cleared out to find other refuge almost as soon as the bombing aired. It's been quiet, stagnate, cold since then. For days after, I woke up sweating, thinking I heard someone at my front door, come to get me. Verity did her best to calm my anxiety attacks, even weeks after my dreams had calmed, because what had I done but thrown parties and dance in the evenings? My worst crime, according to her, was wanting a pretty dress for a party here and there. And didn't all the stylists send me dresses just to see me wear them? So I didn't even have to ask for my wardrobe.

But I know my worst crime is my name. Brielle Snow. Last living relative to President Snow.

I turn back to the television, forcing my fingers to unclench the couch's fabric. A glance at Verity told me my internal musing had taken longer than I expected. That happens often these days.

Click, click, click.

I ignore the sound, knowing I've been hearing clicks now, too. I haven't told anyone – because what would happen? I can't admit me to a hospital for medication. I just work through it, and it's worked so far.

Click. Click.

Verity stands up, perplexed. I suddenly realize it's not in my head. My wall clocks shows eight-eleven. Evening. I know what's going to happen.

I hear when Verity opens the door from the foyer.

"Miss Brielle Snow?" A deep, male voice comes from around the corner.

A moment of silence before I hear Verity, in a very quiet voice, respond. "No, I'm just –"

He cuts her off. "Please bring us to her."

There's no movement, and I imagine Verity tries to figure out a way to say "no". But there's no way out of this one. I hear footsteps moving towards me, until Verity stands in the living room doorway, flanked by two grey-suited men. I stare at them from over the couch, the television now playing nothing but black air waves.

"Miss Brielle Snow?" The tall, thick man to Verity's left asks again.

When I don't answer, he continues. "We've been dispatched by President Coin to bring you to the Capitol building." The Capitol building? Is that what the mansion is now? "And your stylist is to come as well." Verity's dark skin grows pale – if that were possible - in the dim lighting and she looks at me, frightened. There's nothing to do, though, but follow the men to outside to a black vehicle they must have found at the Mansion. They don't shackle us, or tie us up, or drug us. They just open the back door of the car as if we're going out on the town, and then we're gone.

I snap awake, still at the metal table. But the voices had quieted.

I look around for the reason of this, and see her – President Coin. It's impossible to not recognize her, the way they've been playing her speeches on television.

"Good day," she begins succinctly. "We have tracked all of you to be related to those who were closest to the previous government. Within a week, there will be one – maybe – of you left alive." Silence fills the room. Some, like Alamo, show shock on their face. "You will be final tributes in the final Hunger Games."

Coin shows neither pleasure nor amusement as she speaks, just plain business. It's as if she just told us we were grounded for a week.

"But we haven't done anything," Xenia finally speaks.

"Yes, well, your families – and perhaps yourselves – are the direct reason for many deaths. And hasn't the Capitol done the same thing year after year to the Districts' tributes?" She adjusts some of her uniform before continuing. "Your fate was decided and agreed upon by the living victors. There is no room for negotiation."

My head spins. The victors agreed to this? I could understand some of them – they weren't always the most hospitable when I met them at parties. But Finnick agreed? Something clicks in my head. Finnick isn't alive. But what of the Mockingjay? Of Peeta, her lover? Didn't someone speak for us?

At least I understand why Verity was brought with me. She wasn't here now, but I'm sure there is someone explaining her job now. How upsetting – she never wanted to be a Hunger Games stylist.

"What about our mentors?" Basil asks, his voice caustic.

Coin shrugs. "We're still working on this. It seems like not many would like to lend a helping hand to the lot of you. Currently, I believe there will be approximately five mentors that all of you will share. I've been assured this will work fine, however."

Basil tries to lunge out of his chair, but the cuffs hold strong. Coin smirks a little, the emotion out of place on her face. "I expect you all will put on a good show for the Games, even though the odds most definitely won't be in your favor."

One, two, one two, three, three, three…

My fingers work overtime on the table, my mind drifting off to something calmer.

It's Coin addressing me that brings me reeling back to reality. "Oh, Miss Snow? You'll be missing the first training center day. I have a seat saved for you at your grandfather's execution. I didn't think you'd want to miss it."

Coin leaves even before the sobs begin to choke my throat. Minutes later, our guards start unlocking our cuffs – one by one – and taking us (although, they have to drag some) to our designated rooms. My guards are fairly gentle as they guide me out of my chair and down the hallway. It's good they hold on to me; I don't think I can walk, or even find my room, with the tears that blind my eyes.

When we make it to the room, I slide under the sheets of the bed, burrowing as deep as possible. I hear the lock click on the door and I close my eyes. As sleep begins to take me, dreams of my previous life, of the dancing, the food, of the Hunger Games tributes that I knew, flit before my eyes. I dream of Mags, who taught me to make clam chowder one year when she stayed an extra two days on her own accord after one of my parties. She's floating in a lake – no, the ocean, but when I get closer, she's pale and lifeless. When I'm finally standing over the body on a rock, her eyes suddenly open, hands reach out, and then I'm being held under the water until I can't breathe anymore.