I'm bleeding out
So if the last thing that I do
Is bring you down
I'll bleed out for you

~ Imagine Dragons

PROLOGUE I

Emilian Kouris, Head Gamemaker

When Emilian was younger, he and his brother would race up and down the corridors of their parent's mansion late at night, playing. It didn't matter - it never mattered, not back then - that the corridors had been dark enough to allow shadows to surround them, nor that the long halls would be so quiet that the sound of the two brothers' laughter would shatter the silence as violently as if they were shattering glass.

As the walls had blurred behind him as he ran, Emilian had imagined that the shadows were part of their game. He had imagined that the long black tendrils lapping hungrily at the lamps were dancing as if they were putting on a show for an invisible audience. Like one of the light shows that were sometimes performed in the Capitol's sky to mark special occasions; the spots of artificial firelight on the walls leaping like fireworks all around him.

That was a long time ago.

For Emilian, the shadows stopped dancing the day his brother betrayed him.

...

Emilian's heart hardens with resolve, yet as he strides through the corridors of the presidential palace, the shadows wrap around him like snakes, trying to squeeze that resolve out of him.

Instinctively one hand goes to the knife at his side; it's a tiny blade that wouldn't ever stand out, given that most of the Capitol elite carry something similar for their own protection. The cold metal is comforting even though it leeches the warmth from the skin. The blade is well-honed and sharp enough to slice through almost anything, so Emilian handles it with the same caution taught to him by his father all those years ago.

The recollection evokes memories of his teenage days. Days which he spent studying and training alongside his brother under the watchful gaze of parents who had always hounded both of them with their towering expectations and standards. After all, they were aiming for positions that would hopefully place them in the top class of society, and they had to be ready.

There's an acidic taste in his mouth as he recalls sparring with his brother. Recalling the playful insults and jokes that had bubbled on the tip of his tongue as they did so.

He should have stabbed him, Emilian thinks to himself, savagely. A moment of unawareness, an accidental blow that his brother hadn't expected, and he would have saved everyone so much trouble in the long run.

Don't dwell on the past - Emilian makes a low noise of irritation in his throat as he dismisses the what-ifs and maybes ricocheting off the walls of his conscience. He turns the corner, and recognizes the black door at the end of this next hall, flanked by two guards, one on each side of the door. The glow from orange lamps illuminates their impassive faces, the guns at their sides, and he watches with satisfaction as their eyes sharpen with surprise.

He doesn't blame him. He's the twin brother of the prisoner that they've been tasked with guarding. Even though he's not completely identical in appearance to the traitor on the other side of the door, the resemblance is still jarring to those who aren't prepared for it. But, despite his appearance, he's not Theo Kouris, traitor to Panem.

He's Emilian Kouris, Head Gamemaker.

The title still feels unfamiliar as he bounces it around in his skull. He wishes, with a desperate keening hunger that gnaws at his inside, that the fluttering sense of pride that accompanies it would eclipse the other title that he's been stuck with: brother to a terrorist.

There's no evidence that Theo's actions were motivated by anything personal but that doesn't prevent - not even close - the feeling of betrayal that festers in Emilian's chest. Like a physical wound, it feels like there's something rotten inside of him, something deep and aching. Something trying to claw itself out of his chest.

He hates how it makes him feel. It's a sign of lingering sentiment towards someone whose actions mean that they don't, and will never, deserve such feelings.

He just wants this all to be over.

Theo's already been convicted of carrying a bomb into the heart of the capital, and his execution is inevitable. The knowledge of this brings Emilian a morbid sense of relief that he shouldn't relish, but he does.

"Mr Kouris." One of the guards interrupts his whirling thoughts. Emilian is grateful for this. "Forgive us, We weren't told to expect you."

Emilian stares at them, coolly, "I'm a family member of Th- of the prisoner. I'd like to speak with him one last time before his execution."

The two guards exchange hesitant glances.

"I'm not sure we're authorized to-"

"As the newly-appointed Head Gamemaker and close confident of the President herself, consider it authorized." Emilian interrupts, his voice ringing with certainty. The guards blink, taken aback by the command dripping from his tone. A small smile twists itself onto Emilian's lips as they silently nod to him. A set of keys is pulled out from the pockets of one guard's uniform; the clinging sound of the metal keys amplified in the stifling air of the dark corridor.

Emilian resists the urge to push his hand through his hair, to tug apprehensively at the strays strands of his short, dark brown curls.

He just hopes it doesn't show on his face.

"Knock on the door four times when you're done with him." The guard instructs him, "That way, we'll know it's you."

You think he'll overpower me? Emilian tilts his head, a challenge glittering in the depths of his irises. The guards don't pick it up, and Emilian is almost disappointed; his limbs are stiff, and he's raring for a fight to break free of the mental chains weighing him down. The bubbles of emotion inside him remain, despite his best efforts, even though he knows that they weaken him.

He also knows that he's not behaving in the professional and collected manner expected of him, and Emilian shakes his head roughly in order to steady himself as the guard unlocks the door and yanks at the handle.

What's gotten into him?

Emilian swallows, hard.

...

The open door in front of him is like a yawning chasm, radiating all his emotions, as if they've been thrown together into a pot and violently mixed together. The force of it almost drives Emilian back but he refuses to give in. Refuses to abandon the mission that he's set himself. Refuses to be a coward.

He feels like he's crossing a threshold between worlds as he steps through.

...

The room is clean, if bleak. There's a small single bed, a desk, and another door that Emilian supposes leads to a bathroom of sorts. On the desk sits a plate that recently held food, scraped clean. It's the dinner that Theo's guards must have brought him, if he had to guess. The white surroundings sharply contrast the black door that Emilian has just come through.

All the preparation in the world couldn't have prepared him for the sight of his brother sitting on the bed, though, Dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, with his legs hanging off and swinging idly against the bedpost, Theophilus Kouris has the same black, unreadable pupils as his brother. Not a single mark of guilt or regret lines his face, nor his aggravatingly neutral expression. He barely even turns to acknowledge his brother's arrival.

Emilian blinks.

"This is more than you deserve." He states, bitterly, indicating the cell as his eyes sweep over it.

"So I've been told," Theo responds, offering him a sharp smile. "A lot of people have said that, actually."

Emilian feels a throb of resentment pulsing inside him, in time with his own heartbeat. He's spent his whole life learning to conceal such emotions, so hiding it is like second nature to him.

"I'm not surprised." His voice is flat.

Theo adjusts his seating position to look at his brother more easily. His eyes narrow, "Why are you here, unless it's to ask me 'why I did it', like the rest of my visitors."

"I don't care why you did it."

There's a moment of silence.

"Liar." Theo's lips twitch as he spits the word out like acid.

Emilian shrugs, "If you say so," he replies. Having grown up with Theo, he knows how to push all his brother's buttons, and his nondescript, vague answer is a perfect example of that. Theo's eyes flare with annoyance and Emilian can't help the glow of malicious satisfaction seeping through his bones as he creates cracks in his brother's facade. And sure, maybe it's a little petty, a little childish, even. It doesn't matter. After all, he wasn't made Head Gamemaker for his ability to be kind.

...

"How did we turn out so differently?" Theo tilts his head, then. His legs have stilled, as if he's lost himself in a cloud of deep concentration. Emilian can't even be sure if Theo's just talking to himself, or if he actually expects an answer.

"I'm not the one who blew up thirteen people and injured countless others." He replies, regardless. "I'm not the criminal here, so I'm glad we're different, in that regard."

"I could never have been content with your lifestyle," counters Theo, "Playing by the rules, living exactly how our parents wanted us to. Nothing we did was ever good enough for them, it was only ever 'acceptable'. For once, I just wanted to do something that would, pardon the play on words, I wanted to 'blow them away."

Emilian feels sick. "By killing them and eleven other innocents?"

"No one is innocent, brother. Not here."

"You're wrong."

Theo's smile is dark, and sharp-edged, "I suppose that's why you're Head Gamemaker. It doesn't matter whether the kids you put in the games are innocent or not, you're still going to kill them. You'll be responsible for more deaths than I ever was, and yet I'm the one who's going to be executed in front of a crowd baying for my blood soon."

"That's different. I'm doing my duty."

"...Sure, if that helps you sleep at night." Theo grins.

"Is this really what you want?" Emilian quickly changes the subject.

"What." Theo frowns.

"Public execution."

...

Emilian can practically see the gears in Theo's head turn as he runs Emilian's words over in his skull, unpacking them, pulling apart Emilian's tone of voice to try and decipher his intentions. Patiently, Emilian waits for him to finish.

He doesn't want to admit it to himself, but he's also using the time to steel himself for what comes next. He turns to face the wall as if the unyielding white plaster might help him to carry out the necessary action. To do the right thing. He knows it will be better in the long run. He knows it's what he has to do.

For his parents. For his own conscience. He doesn't have a choice. Resolve causes his jaw to involuntarily harden.

"Have you... made a deal with the President. Are you here with an offer?" Theo finally asks, caution dripping from every syllable.

As he turns around, Emilian can feel tension surging through every muscle in his body like a tidal wave.

...

"More like a promise to myself."

He's run this scenario over in his mind so many times that he draws his knife instinctively. He moves like a cobra, silent and doubtless. Theo barely has time to cry out before Emilian is practically on top of him from where he sits on the edge of the bed, slashing the metal blade across Theo's throat. Emilian doesn't think about it as he does it. He's already thought about this more times than he can count. His mind is utterly blank. It's bleached with the same adrenaline that's burning through his arteries as he pulls back.

The deed has barely taken a second or two, and Emilian gives himself the time to meet Theo's wide, stunned eyes as the life drains out of his brother.

He's all too conscious of the blood soaking his hands and knees, of the glistening red life-force dripping from the knife blade onto the white paneled floor, like rose-petals onto a blanket of snow; he can feel the wet stickiness of it soaking his skin like bitter, crimson honey.

It's as red as the lamplight in his parent's mansion.

It seems... morbidly fitting.

"This is peace. For both of us." He barely registers the words leaving his mouth, resonating in the small room around him. Theo, half on, half off the bed, stares sightlessly up at the ceiling.

Emilian isn't lying either.

A deep, satisfying sense of peace and calm seems to come over him as he walks, numbly, towards the door and knocks: One, Two, Three, Four. The sound is hollow, much like the beats of his heart as they beat with the knowledge that his brother's heart can no longer do the same. Because of him.

He registers the red stains his knuckles leave on the black door as he waits for it to open, and the way that the red, still-wet spots spill down the dark wood.

Like red firelight, dancing in the black shadows.

Huh.

Welcome to this new SYOT I'm trying I need a project to focus on, and I've been a long-term lurker of this fandom for a long time, although I recently moved accounts due to technical boogaloo when I tried to switch emails. I'm interested to see what you think of the characters in this prologue, and what this means for the rest of the story, as it will definitely be explored more in further chapters.

I want to try something new with this so I can play around, so it's a Quarter Quell, The twist is that the characters from each district are siblings. That basically means that submitters have to submit both the tributes for any one district, both the boy and the girl. I'll probably only take about half the tributes in submissions, as I want to be able to flesh them out more, but that could change.

Extra details about the background and twist are on my profile, as well as the submission form and rules. As long as submissions follow the rules and are acceptable, I'll accept them. Please do submit if you have the chance, and we'll just see what happens from there. I've already written out a second prologue, so that should be coming shortly.

~Carnival