opening ceremony: wolf in sheep's clothing

Mark my words: one day, you will pay, you will pay -
Karma's gonna come collect your debt.

kellen akos, district two male

…

Kellen doesn't know what exactly he was expecting from the Hunger Games, but it certainly wasn't this.

Granted, he isn't exactly in the Games yet; the Capitol likes to take their time drawing out the proceedings, be it by making a mockery of their future tributes, or by causing drama through unnecessary displays of pomp. And it's understandable, to a degree - after all, if the Capitol wants a spectacle, isn't it smart for their leadership to try and drag out the pre-Games phase for as long as humanly possible? Isn't it smart to make a prelude to the gorefest, get the public talking, rake in the money through bets and backroom gambles and sponsorships before they feast on the main event?

Anyone with powerknows its best not to set all their pieces on the board at once. That's why the fighting comes last, in the long run - the Gamemakers are playing the tributes against each other, letting the pawns formulate their own strategies and cement their own alliances in the hopes that it will make their Game all the more interesting once they begin the slaughter. With that in mind, Kellen supposes he can appreciate the way that the Capitol has plotted their moves, engineering a series of events that will put the tributes in their place and set them on a path toward maximal destruction. He just doesn't appreciate…

"Statues."

The stylist perks up at his comment, their eyes lighting up as they clap their hands together, cheer absolutely radiating from every inch of their tanned skin. Kellen turns his head as they stand to their feet, their form comprised solely of crazy lines and too-bright colors, seemingly intent on assaulting his eyes with naught but their absurd appearance. Their orange-nailed hand claps down on his shoulder, the flesh painted white and outlined with a myriad of false-cracks, makeup thick and heavy across the entirety of his exposed skin.

Fuck, it itches. He's got half a mind to start raking the shit off with his nails, and honestly who could blame him? Nobody from Two volunteers for the Hunger Games out of a desire to play dress up. And yeah, maybe Kellen didn't volunteer, maybe he didn't willfully decide to be here, but the point still bloody stands, because this is not what he wanted to do when he woke up this morning, idiot stylist aside -

"Isn't it great?" The Capitolite chirps, clapping their hands together with a flourish.

Kellen cocks an eyebrow at them, utterly unamused, crossing his arms over his chest -

Or not.

"No!" The stylist shrieks, grabbing for his hands and tugging his arms back down to his sides. "The makeup's not dry yet! Do you want it to smudge?!"

Kellen's brow raises even higher, though this time it's less sardonic than it is surprised. How the fuck is their grip that strong?

His lip curls as their fingers tighten even further around his own, knuckles straining a touch under the exertion of pressure. He's never been much of a handholder, and when ten second pass and bitchface still hasn't let go, he narrows his eyes, teeth gritted as he says in the absolute politest of growls:

"What I want is for you to take your hands off me. Y'know, before I decide to break 'em."

"..."

"..."

"... oh…" The Capitolite finally manages to stammer, quickly withdrawing before Kellen can make good on his promise. They give him a sheepish smile, followed by a nervous giggle, and then turn to grab for their styling kit. Clearly his threat unsettled them. Kellen's lips quirk as they duck their head, seemingly desperate to look anywhere but at him. It's sort of cute how intimidated the little mouse is. Doesn't discount that they've spent the last hour poking and prodding him with needles and doing him up with enough cosmetics to rot his flesh off, but still. He almost feels bad.

Almost.

"I'll just, uh, be right back. Please don't go anywhere!"

"Where the fuck am I gonna go?" Kellen asks rhetorically. His stylist giggles again, backpedaling in the direction of their dressing room, waiting until there's a good ten feet of space between them before finally turning their back. Kellen's gaze remains fixed on them as they push a button on the wall and stride out of the prep area, the door sliding shut behind them as they vanish from sight.

Good riddance, he thinks to himself, slumping down in the vanity chair, body paint be damned. The silvery fabric of his tunic clings to his legs as he sits, costume cut in such a way that it falls nearly to his ankles despite his tall stature. Why they felt the need to makeover skin people can't even see is beyond him, but he's honestly too done to keep questioning it. Everything is just…

"... absolutely ridiculous." A voice deadpans from somewhere beyond the separation curtain, scarcely loud enough to be heard. Kellen makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, unable to find fault with the assessment.

"It's like you took the words out of my mouth," he mutters, and there's a long silence as the curtain shifts, then pulls aside just enough for a familiar figure to poke their head through, their usually-dark hair pasted to their head with product, just as grey and dull as Kellen's own.

"Kellen?"

"Ailith," he greets, somehow managing to keep a level tone despite his mounting anger. "Good to see I'm not the only one feeling a bit grey this evening."

His district partner's eyes wander over his body, and Kellen thinks she seems faintly bemused. "... are you wearing a dress?"

"... are you not?"

Ailith pulls the curtain back even further, hooks rattling against the bar that's holding it up, and steps through the divider into Kellen's side of the prep room. Whereas Kellen's tunic falls nearly to his feet, hers ends somewhere around her knees, high enough not to impede her movements while still low enough to give the outfit a distinctly modest cut. And that alone would be just fine and dandy, if it weren't for the distinct lack of paint covering her tan legs - a discrepancy that makes clear exactly what mistake has been made, and causes Kellen's skin to begin itching all the more where his gown clings to it.

"What the fuck?"

"If it helps," Ailith says, "at least you're tall enough to walk in that."

"I'm going to murder that pinhead."

"Right. Sure. Although here's a thought, maybe save the violence for the Games? Probably not a great idea to piss off the Capitol this early on…"

"Ailith," Kellen responds dryly, a vicious lilt to his previously composed tone. "I have makeup in places I can't even explain, I'm wearing a fucking dress that's been practically moulded to my ass, and my legs feel like they're being devoured by fire ants. If you think I'm just letting that slide…" He scoffs, shaking his head. "No. Homicide is definitely the answer."

(Definitely, if Ailith's words didn't hold a kernel of truth to them. Definitely, if Kellen thought he could actually get away with scrapping a Capitolite without having his anger impede his chances. But she's right. She's right, and for as irritated as Kellen is, he's smart enough to know that feelings aren't worth ruining his odds over. By tomorrow morning, it'll all blow over. He's calm. He's in control.)

Just take a deep breath, he tells himself, the phrase reverberating through his head in the shape of Kayla's voice. His sister may not have been the most practical person, but she was good at calming him down… usually. Kellen won't deny that his rage can be difficult to quell - he's snapped on more than just a few occasions - but he's got more of a handle on it than most people think. Seriously, he does. He just… needs to get his head in order. Master the impending outburst before it occurs. He's got this. He's stable.

"I'll see you on the chariots," he says sharply, dismissing Ailith before she can dismiss herself. The door creaks open in the background as his stylist comes rushing back into the room, a silver circlet clasped in their grip as they wave to Kellen wildly. His eyes narrow, but he allows them to approach and outstretch their fingers, dangling the prop before him like some sort of peace offering.

Kellen snatches the crown from their fingers, not wasting a moment before affixing it in place over his hair.

"Is that everything?" He questions through gritted teeth (keep breathing, just keep breathing). The stylist nods their frantic head up-down-up-down, and Kellen purses his lips, watching Ailith duck back behind the divider before the little mouse has a chance to take notice of her. "Good."

He brushes past them without another word, snubbing the rest of his prep team on his way toward the exit. Just looking at them is enough to make his limbs ache, the sting of the waxing they'd forced him through not likely to go away any time soon, no matter how much Kellen wills it to.

Not that it matters. He can be strong when he needs to be, and his body's been put through much worse than this. Perhaps it's the humiliation that's wearing on him, but the fact of the matter is Kellen's better than humiliation. He won't let himself be humbled by a stupid costume or an imbecile's mistake. He needs to make an impression.

And that's exactly what he's going to do.

For better or for worse, he's a tribute now. It's best if he saves his rage for when he really needs it.

maevyn voydanoi, district four female

…

Her scales are alight with flame and starlight, small flecks of gold glimmering between the thin panels of her armor. In the dim light of the stables, the strands of thread seem to mimic the color of her hair, a touch too white to be truly blonde, and a touch too gold to seem iridescent. Maevyn likes the look of them, nestled in the dark hems of niobium mesh, offsetting the shadows just enough to appear luminescent, even when she knows they're anything but. The fabric that clings to her body is not truly hers, but it fits her like a glove, clings so tightly to her body that Maevyn can almost believe it's real, if she focuses hard enough.

Is it wrong to say she enjoys the costume? Is it wrong to say that she's happy to be here, in the midst of glamour, delirium and hedonism, clothed in fabrics more delicate than any she's ever worn? Maevyn's heard a whole lotta bad stuff 'bout the Capitol - they kill people, spread rumors, talk drama, everyone an' everything is chaos without a cause - but now that she's here in person, she's findin' it hard to believe the people are all bad. They let her be a mermaid! And not just any mermaid, but a royal one, with all them rings and bracelets clanking against each other every time she moves her arms, layered well enough to cover up the bruises shorn into her skin.

She is a mirage of silvery-blue, tinged in purple and surrounded by red, a supernova poised to explode in a cacophony of colors. She is pretty and she is bubbly and she is death, even if nobody else's realized it yet. Her fingers dance reverently across the divots of her hips, tryin' to ignore the way there are little pockmarks from her nails set into the flesh as they caress scale and bone, bone and scale. She wishes she could have a tail for real, but she's not one t'look a gift horse in the mouth when she comes 'cross it! Maybe she can't be a real mermaid, but acting one's the next best thing. Now all she needs is to find her little shell coach and some seahorses to pull it!

"'scuse me," Maevyn says as she ducks beneath a tall guy's arm, then wriggles away from the arm of his (cute, ohmygosh, she's cute) District partner, mere seconds before the girl's arm swings close enough to nearly smack her in the chin. "Comin' through! Don't mind me, don't mind, just gotta find my seals and wheels."

She spins around playfully, past a pair of kids dressed as statues, then another set that are glowing like diamonds, and man, they're almost pretty enough to be the real deal! Maevyn stops for a moment to look the pair over, all their sharp angles and shiny! little trinkets, and before she can bring herself to stop she's dancing on over them, pirouetting right along down the walk, step-one, step-two, twirl, foot out. Give 'em a bow, nice and respectable, or is it respectful? Somethin' like that, anyhow, anywho. Wow, look at her eyes, aren't they just somethin'?

"Ya look like the sea," Maevyn says, "well, if the sea was made a' jewels and pure starshine. My name's Maevyn! Are you District One?"

"What gave it away?" Pretty Eyes asks, her lashes goin' fluttery. Maevyn just grins, shrugging her shoulders up.

"Miss Circe said y'all liked your sparkly stuff!"

The boy raises a brow at her, then turns to shoot the girl a look. Maevyn blinks at him, then at her, then at him once again. Pretty Eyes frowns, but doesn't say a thing. Maybe she came on too strong? Classic, Maevyn, just classic.

She shakes her head and reaches up to thump at it, trying to unmake the mess that's filling her skull. Why is it she can't ever seem to talk right? People just stare and shame and they make her feel like shit. They always make her feel like shit. Bolivar and Mama and every one of those asshats back in the Academy… Dad, when he finally gave up on her. Madora, when she told Maevyn she was bein' too caustic, doin' too much -

" - staying with him, Vyn. We talked about it and - "

"Myra's a cute name, dontcha think? Nice and sweet just like her."

" - aevyn, listen to me - "

"Or maybe it'll be a boy, what d'ya think? Man, I'mma have to go back through all my lists now, I only got girl's names 'cuz I just assumed she was a girl, but -"

" - need to stop this. You're too volatile. I don't feel safe -"

"You can trust me," Maevyn says to the Ones, her eyes twinkling with unshed tears. She grins a big ol' grin, wide as wide can be, and claps her hands together. "I'm just like you! A Career!"

Pretty Eyes raises an elegant brow, and the boy shifts on his feet, almost as if he's getting ready to run. Oh, Maevyn thinks, was that too strong? Bad at these first impression things, aren't I?

She laughs sheepishly, reaching a hand up to run her fingers through her hair. Old habits die hard.

"Sorry, I forgot that maybe y'all aren't Careers, like not the Career Careers, like I'm always used ta seein'. 'Snot a normal year this year. But like, we can still ally, right? District Four… District One…"

She offers the pair a hopeful grin, sticking out one arm, golden bangles makin' clinks around her wrist when the limb extends. Maevyn keeps it there for a moment, outstretched, waiting for One to take it, please just take it, pretty please, we'd be a great team…!

"... sorry," Pretty Eyes says, stepping over towards her partner. "We're not interested."

And just like that, Maevyn's heart starts to rot, the bits and pieces that had been restored by proxy of her hope crumbling off and decaying all over again.

She'll never be anything more than a reject.

Even here, surrounded by other outcasts, she's entirely alone.

"Oh," she says. "Okay, that's… that's fine." Maevyn forces herself to smile, raising her left hand to wave the pair goodbye. "Bye, then."

Her feet drag across the ground as she heads back toward the line of unstocked chariots, half of the lot still waiting to be mounted. There's one she can see that's shimmering bright blue, water painted across the metal sides in an almost saddening facsimile of home. Maevyn makes her way toward it and hoists herself up, giving the guiding horse a couple pats between the ears.

"You'll be my friend, won't you?" She asks the animal, and Maevyn thinks she can almost hear a neigh! in response. 's that a yes or a no? Ah, whatever, it's good enough for me.

"I'll bring ya some sugar cubes once 'sall over with, whaddya say?"

"I think that sounds lovely," a quiet voice speaks up from beside her. Maevyn pulls back sharply, the suddenness of the response almost bewildering her. Where did he…?

"Behind you," the voice speaks again, and Maevyn snaps her head sideways to match eyes with her District partner, his slim, dark frame covered in scales identical to her own. "I apologize, I didn't intend to startle you."

Maevyn shrugs. "'s alright."

"I'm glad."

Atlanshi smiles, and for some reason, it feels like a weight's been lifted off Maevyn's shoulders. Her chest loosens, her head starts to spin. The bubbles in her windpipe start to disperse, filtering up into her throat and exiting from the space between her lips. When the horse whose head she was petting starts to whinny, Maevyn finds herself giggling and giddy. Suddenly, the Ones' dismissal doesn't feel like such a big deal after all.

"I don't need them," she says, nodding her head. "If they don't want me, fuck 'em. And fuck Four. Fuck the Peacekeepers and fuck my mother and fuck Bolivar and fuck everything. Why should I give a damn about their opinions?"

Why should I give a damn at all?

Maevyn raises her eyes to meet Atlanshi's. His eyes don't look quite right, but she doesn't really mind. We're all outcasts here, she remembers thinking, and finds the notion warmer than it probably should be. Her partner smiles and turns away, looking off into the distance as he starts to address her.

"I find that much more can be achieved with a clear mind," Atlanshi murmurs. "Even if we might not immediately realize it."

"What's that s'posed to mean?" Maevyn asks curiously, spinning again so her gaze can follow after his own, down the aisles alongside the loading zone, across chariots and tributes and stylists and horses, all the way over to a just-opened door.

There's a figure there dressed in patchwork, tall, bald and slender. Her chin is raised in an expression of contempt, but Maevyn thinks there's something soft in the lines of her face, despite her stony demeanor. She watches as the girl struts through the dirt, her uncovered feet leading her to a chariot not so far off from their own, painted red, the paneling emblazoned with the number 8. Maevyn turns back to Atlanshi and quirks an eyebrow.

"Why her?"

"Why not her?" The younger teen asks, just as cryptic as ever. Maevyn supposes it's a fair question, but it's still frustrating enough that she can't resist the urge to stick out her tongue. Atlanshi starts to laugh.

"Try not to bite your tongue before you introduce yourself?"

"No promises!" Maevyn chirps, her hand tightening around the rail as the chariots begin to roll. Slowly their horse starts creeping forward, its hoofs thudding each time they hit the dirt, the sound coursing through Maevyn's ear canals and mixing with the song of cheerful screams roiling from within her blood.

Ready for the next step? Someone asks, and Maevyn finds herself reaching backward for Atlanshi's hand, hearing only Madora in her head when One and Two slip out onto the causeway.

Ready, she affirms, and her arm twists upward into the air as the shadows part at long last, and the stables give way to stands and sky.

(Gotta make the most of the opportunities we're given, she remembers Daria telling her, a scant few months after Cel had passed, shortly after Maevyn had moved into the apartment. Risks are scary, but they can be good sometimes. Cel always thought it was better not to do things on whimsy, but I…)

Before the chariot clears the archway, Maevyn quirks her head back, one last time. Her eyes wander back to the girl from eight, a smile stretching over her visage entirely unbidden. Is it wrong of her to find them cute? Thinking of anyone as attractive in these circumstances feels a bit like an insult to Mads… after all, Mads is the reason why she's here, in the long run. And Mads is why she's gotta make it back. Madora's memory deserves avenging, especially now that it's been tarnished. How can Maevyn claim to love her if she's already letting her eyes wander toward someone else?

(Stop fretting, the voice in her head says again. We've got the eternity of eternity to spend together once you're gone. For now, you have to listen to your instincts. Let them guide you. Let them free you.)

Still… an ally wouldn't be so bad, Maevyn muses, twining her fingers with Atlanshi's as their arms stretch upward into the air. Dunno why he suggested Eight, but it's somewhere t'start. An' that's what matters, ain't it? Can't get anywhere without a start.

rhys intarsia, district three male

…

In the Capitol, everyone is alone.

Rhys had realized it the moment he stepped off the train, the crowd's raucous cries overshadowed only by their taciturn curses. People had crowded together along the walls of the tribute center, but their blank expressions and hollow faces had spoken of a despondency their words could not. Behind the veneer of bright colors and ostentatious designs, the people who inhabit Panem's center are empty, worn out husks hiding behind a mask of aesthetic.

And now the tributes have become their mirrors. Twenty-four glassy-eyed starlets sewn into false skins and mounted on pedestals, expected to smile and wave and act as though they're excited for the deathmatch to come. Rhys had never felt quite so vapid as he did when his prep te was pulling at his skin, filling his vision with the opaque tint of makeup and his nostrils with the scent of flowery perfume. They had poked him, prodded him, stripped him down to the very bone only to remake him in their image.

And once he fit their mold, they sent him off. Ushered him into a chariot, his lithe form tangled in the confines of a metallic costume, and left him to rot on a tarmac made from bone, beneath an onslaught of voices clamoring for his death.

Rhys won't deny that it makes him feel used. Albeit in an entirely different way than he had been used by his District.

Three wanted his body.

The Capitol wants his soul.

He knew it from the moment he set foot in the tribute center, donned the black jumpsuit left inside his empty room, no accents of identity beyond a single number. Capitolites may be materialistic, and their fashion may be eccentric, but at their core they are conformists, born and raised knowing nothing but makeup, masquerade and splendor. They work and they live and they grow, but only in the shape of what surrounds them, and only so far as their fellows will allow.

He cannot decide whether he envies or pities them.

(But if nothing else, he supposes ignorance is a blessing. What Rhys wouldn't have given to be born into fortune, presented with education and opportunities of the sort his poverty had never allowed. Growing up in the slums had been a lesson in humility, forcing Rhys to curb his ambition until it barely existed. He had traded his clothing for shelter and his body for scraps, humbling himself for the sole purpose of staying afloat. And it worked. He'd survived long enough to reach adulthood, long enough to give himself a name that was not synonymous with orphan. He had a reputation before Esme stole it away, and though it may not have been one of great significance or even muted reverence, it was his!)

Rhys takes a deep breath, a shudder traversing down the length of his spine as he does his best to even his posture. Even for as bitter as he feels, he doesn't have the luxury of letting his anger rule him. Not when he's stuck inside the basin of a horse-drawn barouche, each turn of the wheels drawing him a step closer toward flashing cameras and voracious sponsors. So much hinges on how he chooses to present himself - his health, his favor, even his life(for what little it seems to be worth). Rhys would be a fool to risk his chances by allowing his heart to rule his head. Resentment can be quelled, frustration can be managed, but reputations, once ruined, are nearly impossible to salvage. Hell, that's why he's here, isn't it?

(Social suicide is not an experience Rhys is keen to repeat.)

At his side, he can hear Morena taking deep breaths, inhaling sharply and exhaling in turn. Though his District partner has hardly spoken a word to him since they left the dais at their reaping, there is a certain solace to be found in her presence - a camaraderie that Rhys cannot help but appreciate when his nerves are so blatantly frayed.

He glances at her from the corner of his eye, offering the barest hint of a smile when he finds her staring back. If he dared to dwell on it, he might have even seen her lips twitch, might have noticed how her head dipped low in a semblance of a nod, appreciative for the gesture of reassurance Rhys was obliging enough to offer.

But dwelling on sentiment is not in his nature.

(Rhys has never been an altruistic person, has never dared to attach to people with any intention greater than hospitality. To do so would mean risking his own prosperity, and that is something he cannot afford. Though Rhys has no delusions regarding his odds in the Games, he also has no desire to hasten his impending death, much less for the sake of another person.)

(No connections, no disappointment.)

No connections, no betrayal.

He raises his head high as the Capitol's anthem begins to blare, the familiar composition ringing through the confines of the chariot aisle as "District Three!" is finally announced. The fanfare that heralds their arrival is nothing short of nauseating, so empty that it rings hollow in Rhys' ears, each clap a mere note in the prelude to a funerary procession. Still, he returns their cheers with cheer of his own, a wave, a grin, a cheeky wink. It's easy enough to pander when you've spent half your life doing so.

(In Rhys' experience, fabrication is often simpler than defiance. As much as he would enjoy reveling in chaos, there is a time and place for trouble and havoc - and that time is not now.)

Hide your claws, he tells himself, loathing the rationale of his common sense even as it works in his favor. Stuff your feelings. Save your grudges for the arena.

(The arena's the part that really matters.)

(Everything else, the chariots, training, interviews with Tal Velasquez… it's foreplay. A means of drawing out the festivities to put the tributes' minds at ease, trick them into believing they're prepared enough to have a chance. And sure, there are people who enjoy it - the little pre-events and the standing traditions - but I can't waste my time channeling energy into distractions.)

(I will not be used as a distraction.)

Finally, the chariots rolled to a stop. Rhys' attention turns toward the balcony, where the President is perched high above his head. A shadow stands at his side in impeccable dress, their arms clasped behind their straightened back, hair perfectly styled and elegant as can be. Rhys doesn't need to see his face to recognize his name: Coriolanus Snow, the youngest Vice President ever to hold office.

He's the reason I'm here, Rhys thinks, biting the inside of his cheek. Yes, he'd had tesserae - plenty of it, too - but without the twist of the Quarter Quell, Rhys knows his name would not have been called. Though Esme's slander had made him infamous before Silas was ousted from office, she hadn't been powerful enough to rig the reapings against him - of that, he's almost certain. It was the Quell that gave her an outlet, the Quell that marked him for death.

Rhys' hand balls into a fist at his side. He rips his gaze away from the box, almost glad that he could not make out the features of Snow's face, the callous disregard he's sure is fixed upon it. Instead, he turns his attention toward the others in the square: his fellow tributes and competition, each District dressed as ridiculously as the next. Two's tributes are marble statues, Six's are dressed as train porters. Nine has been outfitted to resemble stalks of grain, and Twelve, poor, unfortunate Twelve, stands naked save for a dark sheen of coal dust, their chariot floor covered with what looks to be chains and rocks. It's enough to make Rhys feel almost grateful for the unimaginative look of his own costume - a green and gold plated bodysuit that he supposes was meant to resemble a circuit board. It's clunky, stiff, and far from glamorous, but it's not the worst of the lot.

Lucky me, he scoffs, and rolls his eyes. Morena turns her head at the sound of his tsk, and Rhys shrugs one shoulder blithely, no longer bothering to hide his distaste.

"This is ridiculous," the Two boy says from a chariot over, loud enough to draw a giggle from one of the Fives. Rhys smiles wanly, and dips his head in acknowledgment, glad that the others seem to share his sentiments. Even if he's alone in the Capitol, at least he's not an outcast.

He's just one of twenty-four pariahs, excised from his community and exiled from his home.

(Three doesn't want him coming back.)

" - twenty-five years now, the Games have given us the opportunity to celebrate the strength and courage of the Districts, and to solidify the unity of Panem. We have endured through hardships and through trials, because we are united as one country, serving one common cause - "

"A common cause for what?" The boy from Five shouts. "Assimilation? Conformity? You don't own us, Newmahr. Neither does Snow! You're all sycophants, fucking puppets dedicated to upholding an order that favors dronification. Well you know what? Fuck you. Fuck all of you!"

"He's right!" Someone else cuts in, and Rhys is almost surprised to see it's the girl from Eight. "You don't care about the Districts, just the riches you can reap from their pockets. What do you even do, aside from parroting pretty words from a stack of notecards?"

"Fuck you!"

"Fuck the Peacekeepers!

"If the government stands for nothing, then what will it fall for?"

The tributes start to cut in one, two, three at a time, hurling insults up at the balcony where the President sits, none of the speakers bothering to stifle their words.

"You're a bunch of stone-damned pigs -"

"What have you ever done for us?"

"Anarchy is the answer!"

"Do us all a favor and kill yourself, Mister Prez! The balcony's right there!"

"You call this a game, but it's sadism, plain and simple. You like killing kids! You get off on it!"

"SILENCE!"

Snow snatches the microphone from Newmahr's hand, his words booming through the air as the square goes quiet. Heavy thuds echo across the causeway as a dozen boots crash down on stone, and Rhys doesn't even have to look to know that it's peacekeepers, come to quell the conflict before it can get any worse. A pair of them storm over to the Fives, two black gloved hands wrapping around the boy's wrists as a set of arms grab the laughing girl around the waist and haul her out of the chariot. Another one all but tackles the girl from Eight, slapping a pair of cuffs around her flailing wrists, one arm at a time.

"Tributes, you are dismissed," Snow says coldly, and Rhys shakes his head, a caustic response spilling over before he can stop it.

"Then may the odds be ever in our favor! Even if they've been rigged against us."

A/N: Wolf in Sheep's Clothing by Set it Off.

Remember to vote in the poll if you haven't yet! Hope this chapter finds all you wonderful readers well and merry. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, commented or discussed their thoughts with me throughout the character intros; I hope that you are all as excited as I am to officially move into the pregames!