Drabble, actual headcanon.
For swinging from mars.
In a perfect world she'd be a fashion model for the latest and greatest of Capitol styles. Granted, her parents already work hard on the chemicals needed to integrate tattoos that would actually move under a person's skin, and sometimes they need her to sit in on one of their sessions and see if they need to adjust this or adjust that or even scratch the formula and start over. She's had hundreds of little needle-pricks, something that's not lost on Marvel as he stands next to her, waiting to go before Flickerman. They run up and down on her bare arms, just barely perceptible. He wonders why her body team left them. Shouldn't they have edited them out? Then again, they left that scar on his chest when he fell off the training block in third grade, saying it made him more manly if he happens to have his shirt ripped on live TV in the areana. He absentmindedly rubs his finger down one of those little dots where the ink didn't all come out and she shies away from the touch, glaring.
"What the hell, Marvel?" she mutters, right before she's hauled on stage and onto the spotlight, her white poofy dress almost hiding the flash of green dragon he sees poking out on her thigh.
He doesn't have time to think about the poetic justice of her death coming by thousands of little needle pricks.