.
I.
Hellfire rains from the sky, lighting up the windows of the President's Manor like a New Year's party, and President Romulus Snow's starting to think he's just made the biggest mistake of his entire life.
No, not think; he knows it.
His shoes clack a panicked beat into the tiled floors of his home, but he doesn't even hear it over the bombs, the blood rushing through his ears — his fucking mistake to think the rebels had a single ounce of mercy, or maybe it was his mistake to listen to Dévora and her stupid, risky plans. But he doesn't care about that right now, not when his children are out there with the others, in that burning hellscape he used to call a garden. His staff scramble about in a frantic state, ducking under door frames and dodging chunks of marble falling from the ceiling, but he pushes through the charred mahogany doors, relentless.
"Cory! Venus!"
His voice is raw in his throat. They were supposed to be safe here.
But around him, children are fucking burning, their high-pitched screams of terror and pain piercing the thick clouds of smoke, and curse Dévora to the coldest pit of hell for this asinine idea; Antony's gonna kill him if-if…
He can't look at their faces, but he has to, has to check if they're his own. The smell of singed flesh makes his eyes water, almost brings up the measly rations he'd eaten earlier; hell, he can't even hear himself think over their wailing. "Cory!" He passes over the faces that aren't his; he'll hate himself later for it. "Venus! God, please let them be alive—"
He's frantic, so frantic; sparks pepper his once-neatly-pressed shirt, and goddammit, he's not a war leader, he doesn't know jack shit about how this goes. They weren't supposed to attack. We had the children here, they knew it. Dévora said they wouldn't…
"Daddy!"
Romulus's head snaps to the voice; that's Cory, his Cory, little blonde curls covered in soot and wreathed in flames like a spark of hope. He's sitting on the ground next to—
"Dad, why won't she wake up?"
Just like that, it dies. "God, no. Venus…"
He kneels down next to his son, tucking the boy's small frame into the safety of his arms. But his daughter….
Her auburn eyes are far too glassy, staring at nothing despite the raging fire and dying children surrounding them. He'd be able to see the stark burns marring her little-girl body if the world around him weren't already red.
But he knows what he's looking at, and there's no making up for this.
He's given up.
Romulus Snow has given up, and when he closed his eyes that day on the lawn, he sure as hell thought he'd be closing them forever.
But the rest of Panem hasn't. Dévora hasn't, and somehow they've managed to stage off the siege, chase those damn rebels out of their home before they could land their hovercrafts; god fucking bless those District Two loyalists.
He's got Cory sitting in his lap now; he refuses to let the boy out of his sight (look what happened last time).
"Sir?" His Vice President's still reverent despite her obvious distaste at letting a child into a war meeting. "On your mark."
The map of Panem lies in front of them, the hologram flickering every now and then. Red dotted lines mark the trajectory of the missiles.
Romulus closes his eyes and sees fire.
"Send them to hell."
There's panic in her eyes, deeper than usual. "What is it?" Romulus snaps, brushing away the comfort of Antony's hand on his shoulder.
"Thirteen." Dévora swallows. "They've got the codes."
Romulus stiffens. Squeezes his eyes shut for a second before they reopen. No, he's not a war leader, but he's had to be, especially now with the news of god-knows-how-many nuclear missiles aimed at the Capitol's heart. His voice is flat. "What are they asking for."
"A cease-fire."
He doesn't believe her.
"And." The Vice coughs irritatingly. "Secession. From Panem."
"You're kidding me."
He wants them dead. He wants them so fucking dead for what they did he can't even breathe.
"The terms aren't bad, all things considered," Dévora dares to say, and he shoots her a withering glare.
Romulus bites his tongue so he doesn't start screaming. He knows Antony can sense it; his husband always picked up on that sort of thing. As soon as he finds words, he sends the man away to look after their son and calls a council meeting.
The war is over.
It doesn't feel real. Sometimes, in the midst of it all, the war itself didn't even seem real, but now it feels like all he knows, all he ever knew.
The war's over, but Romulus isn't even sure he wants it to be.
(He's not the only one.)
The Treaty of Treason, they'd called it; they'd signed a separate agreement with Thirteen before publicly blowing them off the map.
(The worms had long since crawled underground, burying their heads in the sand. They'd signed an agreement to keep their fucking mouths shut and their weapons cooled; they had no say in what Romulus did next.)
The Capitol still had enough military power to manhandle the districts into signing the Treaty now that theirs was gone, bombed to dust by the Capitol and her own array of nukes.
At least, that was the story.
But it worked.
And there's more work to do, new rules set in place so this never happens again, districts to be reorganized and boundaries to be set.
And the Capitol… She still grieves the loss of her children.
All three hundred and twenty-six of them, the innocent bodies that had gone up in flames that day, his own Venus Snow among them. There will be blood for that; oh, her father will make sure of it. The district leaders balk when they reach that part of the Treaty, but they sign anyways; signatures are easy to come by under the barrel of a gun.
They'd stooped low enough to come for the children of the Capitol; now they must pay annual tribute with their own.
It's only fair.
It serves multiple purposes. A census and a punishment rolled into one. Dévora came up with the idea of random selection, and Romulus has to give it to her. They'll keep track of the citizens this way, starting with those aged twelve to eighteen.
(Venus had been twelve. He thinks often about how she'll never be older.)
He's not sure how long they'll need to keep up the punishment, but frankly, Romulus can't see himself cutting it off quite so soon, no matter what Antony says.
The districts aren't happy about it. The day's come to reap their tithes, and they're refusing.
"It's two children per district," Romulus hisses to his Vice. "That's not even a dent of what they took from us."
It's not all of them. Some, like Twelve and Ten, they'd been broken down enough where the populace barely lifts a finger against Romulus's boot. Good old Two and One know when to pay their dues, but Eight, Eleven, Three? The rebel hotbeds of the east; of course they couldn't keep quiet.
But Romulus is smart; Dévora smarter. They'd already begun wresting control of the districts' supply chain, and Romulus has enough military force stationed out there to make a difference.
The choice is simple: they can pay tribute to the Capitol.
Or they can fucking starve.
"So, what, you're just going to execute twenty four kids each year until you reach three hundred twenty-six?"
"That's the plan, dear."
"And how is that going to help?"
Romulus ignores his husband in favor of brushing an imaginary speck of dust from their son's collar. He gives the boy a pat on the head for his troubles.
"This is all some sort of sick vengeance trip, isn't it?" Antony continues. "And just where do you think the districts will be pointing their fingers when this is all said and done with, huh?" He points his own to emphasize. "You, Rom."
Romulus is feeling reckless. "Let them," he sneers.
"When did you become such a fucking tyrant?" Antony spits, as if he'd woken up on a different side of the bed and suddenly can't recognize the man he married.
Romulus covers Cory's ears; the boy's only just turned nine. "Watch your language," he snaps. "I won a war, or do you not remember?"
Antony rolls his eyes, but he can't deny he's terrified of what his country is turning into.
What his husband's turning into.
In other words, the tributes arrived in the Capitol today. Their execution is set for this weekend.
II.
Arabella Fairfax is fucking pissed.
Oh, she's sure most (if not all) of the other tributes are equally fucking pissed. Either that, or they're so scared they're pissing themselves; that would explain the smell.
But unlike them, Arabella doesn't deserve to be here.
She knows she doesn't. It's ridiculous, actually.
Her parents fought in the war, died in the war, and here she is, surrounded by fucking rebels, being treated like she's one of them.
It's infuriating.
Her parents were more worried about her than anything, when they'd left. Capitol needed reinforcements; of course they'd call on Two.
"Stay out of trouble, and stay away from the rebels."
"I'm not an idiot, Ma."
Her mother sighed. "We'll be back soon enough, Bella."
"Say hi to the President for me. I'll hold down the fort here."
…Of course, they never came back. They'd dropped her off at the recruitment center when they left, and Arabella had thrown herself into it, training side-by-side with the soldiers with every intention of joining the war effort once she turned eighteen.
However, by the time she did, the cease-fire had quieted both rebel and Capitol guns; there's no place for a soldier in peacetime.
She'd been excited when they'd announced the signing of the Treaty, the reading of the punishment. Finally, those rebel fucks will get what they deserve. Blitz the Capitol and bomb its children; what did they expect?
What Arabella didn't expect was her own goddamn name being drawn from the bowl alongside Kurt Umberland, of all people; they'd slapped her in shackles and shipped her off to the Capitol and Kurt nearly laughed himself sick at the irony despite the fact that he was being sent to die along with her.
It's supposed to be the rebel kids. Not me.
The Capitol was where her parents had gone to die. It looked like Arabella Fairfax would be sharing their fate.
I don't fucking belong here.
Arabella knows it. The other tributes know it too, the way they glare at her, their eyes full of beady hatred that Arabella returns with vigor.
The officers had kept them locked in the cellar of some old stadium ever since they'd gotten here. Twice a day, they'd toss them food and water, but they hadn't bothered to remove the shackles.
At this point, after the arduous journey north, the only thing fueling Arabella is her fury, her sense of injustice.
She brushes one of her once-golden ringlets out of her face, now covered in dirt and grime and who-knew-what else. Smartly, she keeps away from the other tributes; when she finds a long shard of glass with the toe of her shoe, she picks it up, tearing a strip of cloth from her shirt and wrapping it around in a handle. Just in case.
She's not sure what's taking them so goddamn long; not like it's hard to execute a bunch of half-starving kids. Point the gun and pull the trigger, that's all it takes.
But no; the guy from District One finds her sitting on her own away from the crowd. "Heard one of the Peacekeepers say they're trying to set up camera equipment," he tells her. She snorts; of course they want to broadcast it. Any other day, she'd love to watch. He gives her a look. "You're not supposed to be here either, are you? My name's Lustre."
"Arabella." She shakes the still-shackled hand he offers; if what he says is true, it'll be nice to have a friendly face for the time being.
Turns out, his family had been able to escape the wrath of war, up until now. Their little mining sector of One hadn't seen much action; all they'd done was sit tight. Arabella clamps her jaw around the urge to yell at him that he should've helped.
They're in the same boat, either way.
Capitol's finally got their shit set up, or at least that's what Arabella thinks when they begin lining the kids up by district. Kurt tries to trip her up on the way, but Arabella keeps her footing, her thoughts wandering nastily to the shiv in her boot.
But the flicker of fear seeps back into her bones once they move upstairs into the pit of the arena, and not only are they broadcasting the event, but there's an audience. They crowd the war-torn stadium, filling in the gaps that are still fit to bear weight, and jesus, that's President Romulus fucking Snow up at the top, glaring down at them like a vulture.
Arabella swallows; she hears crying, and then a grunt as someone behind her is shoved forwards.
Indignance flits across her expression. Being executed alongside Kurt fucking Umberland would do that to a person; it's as if the Capitol forgot that her parents had been fighting against his, trying to save the district from their poisonous ideals. Look where it fucking got them.
She has to say something, do something, because as of now, she's set to be shot through with bullets like some common rebel.
It's entirely possible, she thinks, that the Capitol doesn't know.
(Does it even matter? the hopeless part of her retaliates, the one that wanted to crumble to ash when she'd received the letter. They've got Lustre here too. Maybe they just don't care.)
The kid stands diagonal to her, in front of Kurt. As if he can sense her thoughts, he sends her a reassuring look. No, not reassuring, neither of them can be reassured here, but there's something like solidarity in his face, and Arabella will take what she can get.
They're lined up again, shoulder-to-shoulder to face the Capitol. Arabella feels her legs start to shake.
I'm loyal. I'm fucking loyal, I swear!
The President rises to his feet. "Tributes of the districts. Welcome to the Capitol, or what your parents made of it," he sneers, and she thinks she sees his own child, only a couple of rows behind. "Be honored; your sacrifice today will bring forth a better Panem of tomorrow."
My parents died for you! Arabella's brain shrieks. Not me, you!
A cheer rips around the crowd as white-armored soldiers in front of them raise their guns. How will they do it? One kid at a time? By district? All at once? She trembles still, anger and fear ripe in her veins. Most of the other tributes are shaking too, except Lustre, and she's not sure how he's not. Kurt's chuckling slowly like he's mad, but the sound's drowned out by the others and their sniveling.
Arabella herself had trained for war. Given the chance, she would've fought for the Capitol, bled for them, died for them. Still would; they were the victors, after all.
But not like this.
I'm not one of them. I'll fucking prove it.
It's not like she has anything to lose.
"Long live the rebellion!" The cry tears from Kurt's mouth, and in a flurry of her own madness, Arabella wrenches the shiv from her boot and drives it into his throat.
Romulus has yet to give the word.
He hesitates still, as gasps and cries of horror echo through the audience of Capitolites. The District Two girl's on the ground now, still stabbing her compatriot, and hell, I don't even need to give the order, they're killing each other for me, fucking savages that they are.
The soldiers aim their guns to pick off the mad dog, Romulus raises a hand to halt them.
He's almost enraptured by the violence; the girl stands, blonde curls ringing her like a halo, and spits, "Anyone else want to die for your fucking rebellion?"
And something unexpected happens.
The audience starts to cheer, to howl their excitement, and all thoughts of stopping the girl and her warpath to load the rest of the kids with bullets fly out the window.
Because, as it turns out, they do indeed want to die for their lost cause.
Arabella's not sure what she just started, but all hell's broken loose among the tributes, and she's standing with Lustre at her back, fending off the incoming rebel scum with only a shiv and a pair of fists between them. At this point, she's starting to think he's lied about where he came from, but she's grateful for it as he pulls who she thinks is the Eight boy off of her and snaps his neck like it's nothing.
Their numbers are starting to dwindle now; she attributes part of that to the handful of idiots who thought it would be smart to charge the soldiers carrying automatic rifles. Clearly, rebels have never been the most clever sort.
Another kid runs at her, and Arabella ducks around their wildly swinging fists, driving her shiv into their chest in a swift movement and out again, the body dropping at her feet. The voices of the screaming Capitolites fill her ears as she spits blood, and together, she and Lustre lunge for the nearest tribute; he holds her still while Arabella stabs her in the stomach, rips open her gut, before they're moving on and is this what war feels like?
It's singing in her blood, hers and that of her enemies soaking her clothes, coating her hands.
The noise, the smell, the red, it's all so raw, and Arabella's finally doing what she dreamed about since this goddamn war started.
She catches a fist on her cheek, and her head snaps, but she snaps back. She's got a shiv and he doesn't, this kid; well, now he does, lodged underneath his jaw and tickling his brain, and Arabella laughs—
The sound of a scuffle from behind makes Romulus glance over his shoulder; he finds his husband struggling to clasp a hand over Cory's eyes, their son drawn to the carnage before them.
"Let him see," Romulus orders. He's already seen more blood than either of them had before they'd reached forty.
Antony hesitates, but eventually lowers his hand, and Romulus continues.
"Let him see the full range of this…this district savagery. Why, they kill each other just as quickly as they kill us!" He laughs sharply, speaking to his son now. "Look, Coriolanus. These are the people who killed your sister. Don't think they wouldn't take everything you have in the blink of an eye if you'd let them."
—wrenching the shard of glass from his skull; red liquid drips down the length of it, jagged edges poking through the handle and into Arabella's palm, but she doesn't care.
The stragglers run away from her and Lustre, and she can't deny she's beginning to feel the exhaustion, peeking in through the blood-fed adrenaline. They're not the only ones who've been killing; once the others realized they weren't being immediately shot, it was everyone for themselves.
Everyone except Lustre and Arabella, and the others fell before them.
By now, the corpses far outnumber the kids; the closest one's halfway across the arena, and the pair pick up their pace, separating to come at the boy from different angles. It's Arabella who gets him first, launching herself onto his back and digging her glass shiv between his shoulder blades. She stands with a huff, shaking hair from her eyes, and exchanges a glance with her ally.
"Was that the last one?" he says.
Arabella casts her gaze around the pit. Blood soaks through the dirt at their feet, and she adjusts her hand around her weapon. She opens her mouth to agree, but movement catches her eye: there's one by the wall, bleeding heavily from what looks like a bullet wound, and trying desperately to scale it, to breach the barrier between themselves and the Capitolites.
Lustre starts towards them slowly, but it's a Peacekeeper's bullet through their eyes that fells them, the body slumping against the cracked stone.
That's it, she thinks. It's just us.
Just the two of them and their loyalty, the only thing that remains after the bloodbath.
Arabella's not sure what happens next, but…
The Capitolites are cheering still, a screaming thunder that presses against her ears. It's insistent, expectant, and Lustre and Arabella exchange a wary glance, backing away from each other in a dance that slowly turns into a circle. Still unarmed, Lustre eyes her shiv, and Arabella's grip tightens.
"Not involved in the war, my ass," she scoffs.
Lustre only grins, raising an eyebrow. "Now, what else would I tell a pack full of angry rebel kids?"
He's smart. Arabella's gotta give it to him.
But the blood's pounding in her ears, dripping down her fingers, and they both know what they have to do.
She can't deny she wants to as Lustre lunges first, swiping for her shiv. She dances out of the way, and she wants, needs to be the last one standing, because how else am I going to prove myself?
He's knocked out a few of her teeth before she manages to catch him in the shoulder with the shard of glass; it sticks in his skin, and Lustre wrenches it from her grasp. The glass edges sticking out from the handle slice into her palm, and he's the one grinning now, all teeth. It only lasts long enough for Arabella to throw herself at him, tackling him into the dirt and earning a shallow slice across the ribs for her troubles.
In retaliation, she grabs his wrist, the one holding the weapon, keeping it out of striking range; her fist slams again and again into his face until his smile looks like hers.
There's thunder in her ears, and he's struggling too much, wriggling and writhing under her hold. Arabella digs the heel of her palm into the wound at his shoulder and he screams; the audience drowns him out in a bloodthirsty cacophony, and it's all Arabella hears.
It's funny. She doesn't even hate him, not by a long shot.
But her hand's wrapped around his throat, and she's squeezing, not letting him breathe; his legs kick wildly as she pins him to the ground with her weight, and I need to win. I need to fucking win. Her fingernails dig into his wrist, twisting it, and his grip on the weapon slackens enough for her to swipe it in hers.
She finds his azure eyes one final time before she plunges the shiv down.
The roar of the crowd is deafening. There's blood on her tongue, and Arabella spits it from her mouth, refusing to look at the still-twitching body of her ally, the long shard of glass protruding from his eye. She stands to meet the Capitol, to bask in their cheers, their wild adoration for their champion; that's what she is, isn't she? She laughs again, turns around, and—
Only instead, she's staring down the barrel of an automatic rifle.
This was supposed to be an execution.
That's what Romulus had wanted, had intended.
Instead, here they are, the people of the Capitol — his people — cheering for this Arabella of District Two.
She'd fought well, he couldn't deny it. Instigated the bloody massacre all on her own, even.
But this was supposed to be an execution.
Down in the pit, his soldiers have their guns pointed in the girl's face, and she's not having it. "This is it? This is the thanks I get?" It's hard to hear her from all the way up here, but someone down below (and if he ever finds out who, they'd be getting a raise) turns their camera on the girl, clearly broadcasting her voice. "I killed your rebels, Mr. President!" She shoves the gun out of her face to glare at him. The stadium's gone quiet now, every ear tuned into the tribute's words. "Are you really going to kill me for it?"
His soldiers are good; they're waiting for his word to shoot. Romulus doesn't give it.
He stands, fixing the girl with an imperious glare of his own, hands folded behind his back. The fact that she has the gall, the insolence, to address him like this is almost impressive, not to mention she's right. The gears in Romulus's brain are turning quickly, but for the moment, he remains quiet. Even Two must learn its place.
Arabella's stare is challenging, her chin sticking out. But in the end, she is as she claims.
Loyal.
"Fine," she says, shaking the mess of hair from her face, and speaks sincerely. "It was an honor to fight for the Capitol. Like my parents before me, it will be an honor to die for her."
She sinks to her knees, head bowed as she waits for the bullet.
And Romulus… he sees her dirt-stained halo of flaxen hair and can't help but think of his own son, the night of the bombing, alive against all the odds.
Something tells him the decision he makes now will shape the future of the country forever.
The soldiers are itching to fire, but Romulus raises his hand in a fist, and they lower their weapons. Arabella looks up.
"The deaths you see before you serve as a reminder of the brutality of the rebels." Romulus's voice is steel, projecting throughout the arena with the aid of the microphone on his lapel. "Their attacks on our home held no regard for man, woman, or child, killing utterly without mercy." His eyes fall on the tribute, still kneeling. "But the Capitol is not. As much as rebellion deserves punishment, loyalty deserves reward. May those in the districts heed my words:
"Henceforth, your tributes — your children — will do as they did today. They will fight to the death, as punishment for your rebellion, and only by the mercy of the Capitol may a lone Victor remain." He pauses, letting his words sink in.
"Stand, Arabella Fairfax."
She rises to her feet, unsteady but proud.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the first Victor of the Hunger Games!"
Dévora swarms his office after the event with a Sir, what the fuck was that? look plastered across her painted face. "This… wasn't part of the Treaty," she says, with no small amount of uncertainty.
The president waves his hand in dismissal. "Treaties can be amended. And besides, isn't this more fun?"
There's a hint of something dangerous in his voice, and Dévora's silent.
"Do you think they don't deserve this, Dévora?" He cocks his head, the question rhetorical. "Don't tell me you didn't see what I saw. Clearly they want to kill each other; what's the harm in letting them?"
She clears her throat. "The girl…"
Romulus laughs, leaning forward on his elbow. "It's obvious," he says in that faux-dramatic tone Dévora used to find endearing. "She's a symbol of my — the Capitol's — mercy, a shining beacon of hope for the districts should they remain loyal." He drops it, his lips curling into a serpentine grin. "Of course, she's also their scapegoat. I'm not the one who killed those twenty-three kids, after all."
He'd intended to; she knows that.
But Dévora only nods. Times like these, she's reminded why they elected him as president and not her.
They've transported Arabella to some sort of hospital in the Capitol, gotten her all cleaned up and shining like she's brand-new; even replaced the teeth she'd lost in her fight with Lustre.
And they're fascinated by her, their newly-crowned Victor.
Arabella's clothes are unexpectedly gentle against her skin, the flash of cameras harsh on her eyes. The Capitolites are stranger up close than she'd thought, but of course, she takes the praise. But now she's face-to-face with the President in his private office, and this is new territory.
She's sure he can sense how nervous she is; the man scares her more than she'd like to admit, his eyes dark and his smile reptilian.
They exchange pleasantries before she asks, "What happens now?"
"You said it yourself." President Snow steeples his fingers, his tone casual yet non-negotiable. "It was an honor to fight for the Capitol. It will be treated as such."
(The words are pretty, but Arabella gets the feeling she's bitten off more than she can chew.)
She speaks her mind anyways; nerves have never stopped her.
"Y'know, there's a lot more like me." Arabella folds her arms, leans back in the plush chair with false confidence. "Kids who lost their loved ones in the war, who'll jump at the chance to get their hands wet with rebel blood."
(It's still under her fingernails. She can see it. Theirs and Lustre's; she knows it'll never come out.)
"Is that so?"
"Back in Two, at least. You should let them." Her eyes gleam with a righteous fury.
"Volunteers…?" She grins, but his expression hardens."The children of the Capitol — my daughter — did not volunteer to be killed in a rebel airstrike." Arabella quails under his stare. "The primary function of the Games is punishment. If people can volunteer, they can come prepared to fight and die, and that defeats the purpose."
"But to compete in the Games... Is it not an honor, sir?"
She's right, though it takes every ounce of her to quiet the cheek.
The President is silent, thoughtful. Arabella hopes he hasn't forgotten her district, its loyalties. It was Two's actions (her parents) that saved the Capitol during the blitz, after all.
(He hasn't.)
"Perhaps… we can come to an agreement somewhere down the line."
Her fellow districtsmen aren't quite sure how to treat her when she returns. They hadn't expected her to, after all.
But they'll learn. Arabella makes sure of it.
Antony was right.
Executing twenty-four children in cold blood would've gotten them nowhere.
"Fetch me another glass, dear," Romulus says, beckoning him.
Antony wants to say something. Romulus can see it in the rage simmering behind his once-husband's eyes, no doubt bouncing around his lovely little single-minded brain.
But he doesn't.
(It's hard to say I love you without a tongue.)
"Running a country demands sacrifice, Coriolanus," he tells his son, swirling the glass of wine placed into his waiting hand. "You've learned this by now, but you'd do best to remember, once you're President."
The boy nods raptly, soaking up his father's words.
"And a fine one you'll be," he smiles. Cory's future, at least, is bright.
And why shouldn't it be?
Fragile as the country may be, it rests gracefully in the palm of Romulus's hand, his people wrapped neatly around his fingers. The Hunger Games will continue to remind the districts the price of rebellion, the reward for loyalty.
And besides, they're all anyone in the Capitol talks about these days. His citizens await next year's with a fervent, almost ugly glee; Romulus can already think of a number of ways to rake in a profit from this, kickstart their economy back to where it had been before the Dark Days.
Those in the districts, they'll always be pointing their fingers.
As long as they're pointing at each other, Romulus doesn't have a problem. If they want to hate Arabella Fairfax for killing their children, he'll gladly let them; her and all who follow in her footsteps.
Because the louder they do…
Well, the longer it'll be before they start pointing their fingers at him — at the Capitol.
Excerpt from the Treaty of Treason:
THE REPARATION CLAUSE.
In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public "reaping". These tributes shall be randomly selected, delivered to the custody of the Capitol, and executed on a public stage to commemorate the loss of life of 326 children during the rebel blitz. Failure to pay tribute will result in a severe reduction of incoming essential supplies for the offending district.
ADDENDUM I.
In lieu of immediate execution, these tributes shall be transferred into a public arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone Victor remains.
Henceforth and forevermore, this pageant shall be known as "The Hunger Games."
.
.
.
Nearly seventy-five years later, the rebels come again with their guns and bombs and girls on fire. They want revenge for their children, all one thousand seven hundred and twenty-five of them.
President Coriolanus Snow gathers them in his manor, the children of the Capitol. The rebels are coming, he knows. But they underestimate him — their mistake. He doesn't think twice before he calls in the hovercraft.
The freshly-painted rebel seal coating its underbelly is impossible to miss.
(It's fascinating, isn't it? The power of one very loved, very dead little girl.)
FIN
A/N: Fucked in the head. Every last one of them. ...I honestly have no explanation where this came from, it just sort of sprouted in my brain and took over one evening, and there I was at 3 am, writing this... You know how it goes lol. If anyone's curious, the faceclaim I've imagined for Arabella is Babette Strijbos :D (I don't have any for the other characters, rip lol)
So obviously this is far enough in the past compared to the current stories I'm writing, but this can be interpreted as the same universe ! Especially with that last little tidbit lmao.. Sorry if things didn't quite make sense at first with the Games, but they're honestly such a Specific punishment. Like, Why make the tributes kill each other instead of just executing them? It's so specifically brutal for no overly-apparent reason. Obviously there's the element of the Capitol not wanting to get their hands dirty and shift the blame to the districts, but that's a huge jump, the more I thought about it... Anyways, my solution ended up being Arabella, the girlboss herself jhfdhjfd.
But yeahh I think that you can guess that I'm of the opinion that BOSAS was.. lacking in many elements so (highkey forgot they gave Snow's dad a name so I gave him (both of them) a diff one LOL..) Wiping that little thing from the table for my au canon (:
There three main theme songs for this one-shot too..
Arabella by Arctic Monkeys (for Arabella, obviously)
Dear Dictator by Saint Motel (for Romulus)
Nemesis by VNV Nation (overall theme)
Hope you enjoyed this ! I'll be back soon (hopefully) with more TrV shenanigans soon (:
- Nell