XLVIII. Small Steps

Here do the higher creatures see the footprints
Of the Eternal Power, which is the end
Whereto is made the law already mentioned.

Ludovicus Jornmark. 19.
Victor of The 51st Hunger Games.

It's a day of awkward confrontations for him.

He looks down at his watch, the hands indicating that it's 9:45, meaning in just two hours and fifteen minutes, he'll be getting on a train and heading back to Two. It's about bloody time, he thinks to himself. Even though this trip to the Capitol was less than three weeks long, Ludo swears he's lost at least a year or two of his life from stress.

While the entire world was eager to see their previous victor's reaction to the Games, this time as a spectator, he had different plans. Ludo did his time in the mentor's lounge for the first few days, clapping when appropriate and comforting the mentor's of the newly fallen Tributes as best he could. He offered stern glares at the camera, enough to convince the people back home he still took the Games seriously a year later. He acted just as suave as he did when he was in the arena, unwilling and unable to crack under pressure even though there was a war raging beneath his skull. It worked well enough.

It worked until the Games' fourth day when Ludo watched in horror as Vancouver Easton from District Twelve single-handedly ravished Bud Bancroft from Nine as if his entire existence was a mere joke.

"That bastard," Ludo remembers muttering to himself as Bud's cannon sounded. "That fucking bastard."

When Beowulf first told Ludo that the Twelve girl would be joining his alliance, obviously he was a bit suspicious. He asked Haymitch if he had anything to worry about, hoping that his fellow mentor would be honest with him. The fiftieth victor said that Vancouver wasn't a threat, and that she was simply intelligent and resourceful. Ludo shouldn't have believed him.

He would've confronted him sooner if he got the chance, however Haymitch didn't show his face in the mentor's lounge after the bloodbath, and though Ludo knocked on his door time and time again, the man never answered. He finally caught him at Verdigris' crowning ceremony last night, which he was required to attend. He grabbed Haymitch by the sleeve and whispered in his ear, "Why have you been ignoring me?"

"I haven't been in the mood to talk," he'd replied.

Ludo rolled his eyes. "I haven't been in the mood for being told that I don't need to worry about somebody, only for that exact same person to send my Tribute into a nervous breakdown."

Haymitch had sighed. "We can talk tomorrow morning, if it's really that important to you."

He looks down at his watch again. 9:50; of course he's late.

Haymitch was supposed to open the door to his apartment for Ludo at exactly 9:45, yet when he tries the handle again, it once more doesn't budge.

Ludo tries knocking. "Let me in, please."

He hears an aggrieved sigh followed by wrathful footsteps. His palms begin to sweat, and he isn't sure why, because surely whatever occurs between him and Haymitch won't be the most awful part of Ludo's day. He still has to talk to Aquila.

Though Ludo's known that Cyra's mother has been here in the Capitol for quite some time, he's done his best to avoid her at all costs. The only reason he's even going to this meeting is because the President himself demanded his presence. Ludo's got a good enough head on his shoulders to know that one doesn't tell President Coriolanus Snow "no" when he asks to meet.

Perhaps his nervousness towards speaking with Haymitch is solely in avoidance of the later meeting. Who could blame him?

The door swings open to reveal the man in question, or more accurately, a disheveled mess of an individual who vaguely resembles him. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair is stuck up straight. His skin is more pale than Ludo's ever remembered it being, almost to the extent where he looks like a zombie. The wrinkles and holes in his clothes certainly don't do any favors for a case proving him human.

"Well, what are you doing, just staring at me?" Haymitch scowls, looking Ludo up and down with dread. "Are you coming in, or not?"

"Good morning to you too," Ludo says with a chuckle. Making niceties might not make this conversation go any better than it's bound to be, but that doesn't mean it's not worth a try.

Haymitch doesn't respond, instead walking back into the apartment, this time leaving the door open so that Ludo can follow him inside. If the victor's physical appearance could best be described as disastrous, the apartment is cataclysmic. It reeks of beer and general uncleanliness and all the pillows from the various pieces of furniture have been throw across the living room. There's food wrappers on the ground, accompanied by crumbs, and the blinds covering the window have prevented any light from getting inside the room.

Ludo sighs, hoping that this conversation won't last so long that the revolting scent of the room lingers on his skin, then sits on a leather chair. He hears an odd crunching sound, then gets up to see a crumbled cracker underneath him. He brushes the crumbs onto the ground, then tries sitting down again.

"What did you want to talk about?" Haymitch asks him, his voice unassuming as he drapes over the side of his couch.

"I think you know what I want to talk about," Ludo answers, doing his best to ignore the general havoc that is the apartment. Acknowledging it and asking questions will just make this conversation drag on longer than it has to. It'll also give Haymitch the opportunity to say things that'll make Ludo want to pity him, and he can't get distracted by such feelings.

He rolls his eyes. "Actually, I don't?"

"Vancouver," Ludo says. "You remember our conversation about her before the Games, don't you? When I was concerned because she's allying with my Tribute?"

"Vaguely," Haymitch admits with a shrug of his shoulders. "Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

Ludo recognizes that he's clearly hungover or some shit, but that still doesn't give him an excuse. It would have been so easy for him to just admit, yes, Vancouver Easton is actually a threat, yet instead he pretended he had no idea. There's no possible way Haymitch couldn't have known.

"You said that there's nothing wrong with Vancouver," Ludo tries to remind him. "The same Vancouver who put a twelve year old in an iron maiden."

"Right!" Haymitch responds, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Well, what do you want me to say, that I'm sorry? Look, it's not like she told me she was going to do that. I was just looking out for my Tribute, the same way you were looking out for yours."

"I didn't realize you cared about the Tribute of yours that you're not dating," Ludo sneers. "Twelve's a small place; you had to know something about her. It would've been so easy for you to just admit, yes, Vancouver is a threat, and then I could've told Beowulf and he and Lethia would've taken her out in the bloodbath. That's one more dead Tribute that isn't your boyfriend. Why weren't you just honest?"

"Don't fucking mention Noel," Haymitch yells, dramatically thrashing his left hand against the couch cushion. "Should I just tell you that I knew he was dead meat from the minute his name was called, so I was focused on the one Tribute of mine who actually had a chance, and I knew her running with your kid and the One girl would actually give her a fighting chance?"

"What's wrong with you?" Ludo rolls his eyes, disgusted by Haymitch's sheer inconstancy. "You just were willing to throw your boyfriend to the wolves like that?"

"I was not!" He scoffs. "Do I look like somebody who is at peace with the fact my boyfriend is dead? Does this look like the apartment of somebody who isn't mourning? Vancouver could've… well, if she won, I wouldn't have been this upset."

"Why's that?"

"Get out of my apartment and stop asking me questions," Haymitch commands him, getting up and dragging Ludo by the wrist. "You come into my space and accuse me of being a shitty person, and that's not fucking appropriate. You're a fucking hypocrite; I hope you know that."

"And how's that?" Ludo shakes his wrist to brush Haymitch off of him before rising to his feet. "I bet you'd still be upset if Vancouver was alive. You seem like you're overall a miserable person, you know."

"Thanks for sharing, asshat!" He points to the door. "You can leave now. Please, just fucking leave."

"I'm glad we had the chance to talk," Ludo says, his voice caustic as he begins leaving the room.

As soon as he leaves the apartment, Haymitch slams the door behind him, and he's left in a state of sheer confusion. Maybe whatever conversation he has with Aquila won't be so bad after all. Sure, Ludovicus Jornmark's Games have left him in undeniable despair, but at least he isn't a catastrophe the same way Haymitch is.

May that always remain his truth.

Lucien Snow. 26.
First Son of Panem.

He wakes up in Esmerelda's apartment for the third day in a row.

As was true the past two days, Lucien wakes in his own room, separate from the woman his father thinks is prostituting him. He's still not sure what to make of the whole rebellion she has planned, but having a place to sleep at night that isn't near Coriolanus is worth pretending to be interested for as long as he can afford.

Lucien Snow was born for the sole purpose of being put on a pedestal. His birth was purely political; he's only alive to give his father something to talk about and seem more relatable, even if that's far from the truth. When Esmerelda presented him with the chance to be a figurehead in a rebellion, Lucien was forced to wonder whether or not this would be any different.

No human being deserves to be treated like a doll, so why should he be any different? Maybe he's just being selfish, the way his father has always told him he is, but Lucien's still inclined to believe that he deserves better than everything he's been put through. His mother always told him that bad things are only supposed to happen to bad people, but that's awfully ironic considering everything that's happened in the years since. He's accepted that there's nothing he's done to deserve his maltreatment, except maybe being too comfortable in all of his wealth, but it's hard to fault him when it's the only thing he's known.

His stomach grumbles, so he takes it as a sign that it's just about time for him to get out of bed. He glances over at the digital clock by his bed, ten o'clock, that's not too bad.

(Lucien's past year has been one filled with little sleep, his dreams instead occupied by his mother's screams as a firing range knocks her down. He's spent night after night watching his father's wretched face as he cuts out his tongue, then moves to Lucien's limbs and tears him apart bit by bit, refusing to put him out of his misery no matter how loud he begs. As much as he tries, Lucien can't help but have the nightmares again and again. He can't help but wake up with only his mother's dead body in his mind, the ghosts of Clemensia Dovecote and Lysistrata Vickers hovering over his head as a reminder that they too are dead because of him. Lucien wakes up every morning wondering who will be the next one to die when it should be him instead.)

He laces his fingers together and stretches them in the air before rising to his feet. The smell of cinnamon enters his nose as soon as he walks into the living room, so he creeps into the kitchen to see Esmerelda sitting at the countertop while an avox makes french toast.

(The past year has taught him that he and avoxes aren't all that different. As a child, he relied on the toungeless assistants to help him with even the most benign of tasks, never thinking twice about what they were thinking or what they'd gone through to get to this state. His father told him that they were less than human, and now that Lucien's without a tongue, he wonders if Coriolanus would say the same thing about him. Not that he's ever felt human anyway.)

Lucien grabs a notepad sitting on the counter alongside a pencil and writes as neatly as possible, "Good morning! I hope you slept well." He shows the paper to Esmerelda first, and then the avox, because he does care about him too. Or at least, as much as Lucien can possibly care for a person. His heart's been stomped on and destroyed enough times to no longer tempt him to be attached to anybody ever again.

"Good morning to you too, Lucien," Esmerelda coos at him. She treats him like a child at times, but Lucien doesn't particularly mind, because at least she exhibits some semblance of actually caring for him. Other people in his life never did the same. In fact, Lucien Snow was expected to act like an adult from the very moment he was born.

The avox slides a piece of the toast on Lucien's plate, so he flashes a thumbs up to express gratitude. Thankfully, the bread is soft enough that he's able to chew through it despite his limited teeth. As he eats, Esmerelda continues to talk. "Somebody's here who wants to have a word with you. She's in the bathroom right now, but I imagine she'll be out soon."

Lucien doesn't even bother guessing; he has a pretty good feeling that he knows who it is. After several more bites of his food, he hears her voice from down the hallway.

"Oh Lucien, I'm here!" His cousin Tigris' voice bounces off against the walls. "You didn't think I was completely abandoning you, now did you?"

He cocks his head to see her standing under one of the apartment's many archways. Despite the optimistic tone in her voice, Tigris' posture indicates that she's actually rather nervous. Her back is slightly arched and her eyes are squinted with unease.

"Actually, I did," he mouths at her, though maybe he shouldn't have. Lucien knows that it's not very nice to guilt people, but still she left him quite upset. He deserves to occasionally have a backbone.

"Oh my goodness!" Tigris shrieks, her voice high-pitched and shrill. She walks over to Lucien's side and squeezes him in her arms. Her touch makes him flinch, because being touched in general makes Lucien uneasy. Even before his father's assault of him, being touched has made Lucien feel far more tangible than he's ever wished to be. His cousin continues, not really noticing his discomfort, "I am so sorry about that. I really should've told you more, but your father's arrival was just so sudden and—"

"No need to go on a rant," Esmerelda says, cutting Tigris on. "I'm sure Lucien understands, right?"

He nods, because that's what's expected of him, and Lucien Snow always does what's expected of him. Or at least he does what's expected of him, if only for the sake of avoiding getting hurt. He doesn't think that Tigris and Esmerelda are capable of physically hurting him, but he didn't think his father was either.

"I heard though, that you might be interested in our operations," Tigris continues. Again, Lucien nods, confirming the lie that Esmerelda must've told him. It doesn't hurt to express interest if it'll keep him away from his father, though he reckons he'll probably have to see him again today. He doesn't want to draw too much suspicion to anybody. "I think that truly, you could be an incredible figurehead for us. Just think, the President's own son taking a stand against all of his wrongdoings. That would mean so much to so many people, Lucien. Just because you can't talk, doesn't mean you can't be the voice for so many people who aren't heard either."

And thus confirms his suspicion. Once again, people want to see him as a symbol and not an actual person. It doesn't matter who, a symbol is all he's doomed to be unless he wants to be abused in other ways. He was destined to be beaten and bruised both physically and mentally, wasn't he?

"Like I told Esmerelda, I'll think about it," Lucien moves his lips. "I don't have a timeline to make a decision, right?"

"You don't, that's true!" Esmerelda chimes in. "I'd just prefer if I got an answer from you sooner rather than later."

Liar, he thinks. Previously, she told him that he was free to make his decisions on his own terms, but now he feels as though he's being rushed. He's also afraid that if he says no, the rebels will beat him just like his father did. He's worried tabloids will come out, calling him a sycophant for siding with his abusers, but at the same time, he doesn't want to be put on a pedestal. Whether it be physical or mental, whatever choice Lucien makes will end in abuse.

He shrugs, then mouths, "I think I'll go with you guys."

Tigris pats him on the back and enthuses, "Excellent! I was hoping that you would say that."

Of course you were, Lucien muses. Otherwise you'd be given no choice but to make my life even more miserable than it ever is.

Perhaps he's boarding on being paranoid with this whole thing, but he's been brought up in a life where he can't be anything else. Optimism never gets anybody anywhere in Panem, after all.

Liana Taylor. 41.
Head Gamemaker.

"Well, at least the arena wasn't completely destroyed."

That's what virtually everybody has told her ever since her little breakdown that followed Verdigris Ahane-Voclain's actions in the Games' finale.

Their words haven't done much to help Liana, though. That's… unfortunately to be expected. She's always been a little (a lot) different from the people around her. There's no reason why they should be able to help her if they can hardly understand her.

(At times, Liana isn't sure she understands herself even.)

(Is there even a part of her that's worth understanding.)

She tried to make nice with Verdigris in spite of all her frustration. She told herself that Verdigris' destruction wasn't personally meant to upset her, hence why she did the nice thing and decided to introduce herself to them. Verdigris of course, wanted nothing to do with her, denying the opportunity to look at the tapes of the Games before anybody else. Liana had never been kind enough to make such an offering to somebody, yet the one time she does, she's dismissed without much thought. She doesn't understand what she did wrong to lead to this, and she doesn't think she'll ever understand either.

Plutarch had told her, "The poor kid's probably traumatized from the Games. It makes sense."

But, to Liana, it very much did not make sense. She was traumatized by her own Games plenty, yet she still had the guts to stand up and watch the recordings as Clemensia and Lysistrata had so generously offered.

It's almost like this new generation of victors is force-feeding Liana reasons to hate victors as a whole. First was Haymitch and his crude tampering of the forcefield followed by his blatant denial of any wrongdoing, ruining the sanctity of the Quarter Quell and all its virtues. Then was Ludovicus, who may not have done much wrong to her personally, but his betrayal of Cyra made Two go to shit, and now Liana worries they'll cut their ties from the Capitol in all their outrage. Verdigris' wildfire was the icing on this horrible, miserable, cake.

(It doesn't help that she's without Minerva which means that her days will now be spent in isolation. She let her companion die because the idiots in the Games distracted her. She's devastated and alone because of them, and she somewhat doubts she's going to get better, ever.)

(Maybe that's a good thing.)

She eats breakfast alone, the way she prefers. Her apartment is dead silent, also the way she prefers it. The days following the Games are always filled with overwhelming fanfare, but at least soon it'll be over. She has an interview with Caesar tonight, but after that, Liana Taylor will finally be free to rest. Or at least, she'll be free to rest for a few weeks before she has to get started on planning next year's Games.

It's a stressful cycle, but not one Liana particularly minds. Being busy prevents her from thinking too hard about her reality, because thinking of reality just makes her bloody miserable.

If she's forced to think, she's forced to acknowledge what she's become.

(A monster in the body of a girl who's still fifteen, still mourning the lives of three children dead at her hands. A hypocrite, who turned her self-hatred into hatred of the Districts as a whole. She's in over her head, too convoluted to ever be trusted. She's a walking catastrophe, a disaster waiting to happen as if it hasn't already. One day she's going to snap too hard and hurt herself in the process. At least then it'll be proof she's actually capable of feeling pain.)

At least, for once, she's not the one being berated in the news.

An op-ed in this morning's newspaper called Verdigris Ahane-Voclain's victory a fluke; rigged by their Capitolite mother. Maybe if Verdigris had been nicer to her in the recovery room, Liana would tell them not to pay attention to the media's bullshit, because it's all a bunch of fucked-up lies, but unfortunately they did not. And so, if they're hated… well, it's not Liana's problem, now is it? As if she'd be swayed by an aristocrat to change the outcome of her Games. If she was, she certainly wouldn't have allowed Verdigris the win.

(She'd have chosen Hedy, and not just because of the obvious District Three ginger parallels Liana shares with her. In Hedy, she sees herself, or rather, a personification of everything she felt at fifteen and sixteen but was too afraid to attempt. The arena was Liana's cage, and breaking free just made her want to destroy more. She tried convincing herself that she's not a villain, that she's a changed woman who will do anything to make amends with the people she's hurt, but that's not the truth and she knows it too. She's always been a wretched creature, and Hedy Lovelace has taught her not to hide it.

Perhaps her adversaries were right.)

She pulls out her notebook from a drawer in the coffee table and flips to the first page, where the words "Victor's Purge" are written in bold. Liana told herself she would never add on to the that page, that it's too macabre and hypocritical for her to plan such an awful thing, but that was before the fifty-second Games. That was before another piece of her soul was burnt away alongside the arena.

She knows that she needs to be pragmatic in her planning. Killing all of the victors in one fell swoop would be overdramatic and unfulfilling. Planning this attack to occur so soon would be equally unrealistic. The most vile things are those that extend over lengthy periods of time, so she'll do her best to be patient.

Liana remembers a conversation she had with Coriolanus Snow alongside Clemensia and Lysistrata at the end of the forty-eighth Games. Wiress Vulcan had just been deemed a victor, and oh how Liana's heart ached to see somebody so unlike her but still from Three taking the crown. Oh, how she ached to see a victor she couldn't turn into her prodigy the way Clemensia and Lysistrata shaped her.

Snow asked Liana's mentors, "Do you have any ideas for the Second Quell?"

Weren't the Quell twists decided at the end of the war? Liana thought to herself, too afraid to speak up and interrupt the conversation. She thought a moment more and realized… Oh.

Of course the twists weren't planned in advance. That would be too fair, and Panem has never been known for being just.

"What about twice as many Tributes because it's the second quell?" Lysistrata suggested, shocked to see that her words made the President smile.

Perhaps if I'm still in office for the Third Quarter Quell, he'll let me have a say at the twist, Liana muses. That certainly would make things easier for me.

(The only problem is just how difficult it is for somebody to keep a position for long in Panem if their name isn't Coriolanus Snow. Clemensia and Lysistrata were lucky they had twenty-five years, and though people seem satisfied with Liana's first real Games, things could change in an instant. She has to tread carefully if she wants to succeed later.)

"Third Quell," Liana writes on her paper, a twisted smile on her face. She draws two rough horizontal lines underneath, then takes a moment to think. She needs to phrase this as eloquently as possible, showing Snow and the rest of the Capitol that she really is one of them.

She sighs, then continues to write, "On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

Her smile only widens.

Perhaps it's unfair of her, perhaps it makes her a hypocrite, but Liana Taylor simply does not care. If her name's put in that Reaping Bowl, there's always a chance Wiress goes in instead, or maybe she'll even get an out because the Games can't go on without their Gamemaker. Regardless, it feels like a problem that'll only be relevant in twenty-three years. She has more than enough time to ruminate before then.

Of course, that's only stage one in Liana's plan. Twenty-three dead victors is certainly not all of them. Unfortunately, it's not even close. However, every year a solid amount of the victors gather in the Capitol for the Games, and it won't be too hard to stir shit between them. She knows for a fact that some of them already hate one another, though not to the extent she loathes them all.

The victors act like they're a united front, but Liana knows that it's all for show. It's nothing but a front designed to make the Capitol not want to mess with them, but it's already not working if she can see through the cracks now.

Eventually, Liana Taylor will be the only victor left standing. Maybe then she'll feel more alive.

(Every victor is bound to fade; it's only a matter of time.)

Coriolanus Snow. 60.
President of Panem.

Really, he has much better things to do than get caught up in drama involving those District-born. He had to cut his meeting with Verdigris Ahane-Voclain short, and that really is such a tragedy. Coriolanus wanted to personally congratulate Panem's newest victor, convince them that all is well and soon their life won't change for the worst, but one of his many assistants informed him, "They're waiting for you, Mr. President."

Said assistant is lucky Coriolanus is feeling amicable today. Otherwise, she'd be dead on the floor at his earliest convenience. To say he doesn't take well to being interrupted would be an understatement.

(Is there even anything he takes well to?)

Perhaps, the assistant will thank him for having mercy, but it's much more likely she won't say a thing. Nobody is ever grateful to Coriolanus until they realize they really should've been. That's their fault though; not his.

Complaining doesn't get him anywhere, though. He knows that, or rather, he's begrudgingly accepted that.

When he enters his office, Ludovicus Jornmark and Aquila Ferncliffe are sitting at opposite ends of the table, looks of disscontempt on both their faces. Coriolanus glares daggers at Aquila, furious that she's the reason he's forced to deal with potentially being blackmailed in the first place.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," Aquila says, catching his gaze. "It's a pleasure to meet with you, today!"

"Good afternoon!" Ludovicus abruptly states.

If only Aquila knew what was currently going through Coriolanus' head. How funny; she thinks that this is going to be a good meeting for her. This meeting's only going to be good for Coriolanus himself.

"I'd say the pleasure's all mine, but you two have quite frankly exhausted me," Coriolanus says as he takes his seat in between the two of them. "What do you say we settle this once and for all?"

"What did I do?" Ludovicus asks, his tone aggressive and brash. "I mean— I'm sorry Mr. President, but I really don't see how I'm at fault here."

"That's rich," he replies, licking his lower lip. "I know that you say you didn't kill Ms. Ferncliffe's daughter over—"

"Because I didn't." The young man interrupts. "Why would I kill Cyra if she is— was— my best friend?"

"Maybe she was," Aquila quips. "But I always warned her that it was wrong to trust a Sheng boy. If only you could've proven me wrong."

Coriolanus coughs loudly. "Ahem!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. President," she quickly responds.

"As I was saying," he continues, drawling out his words as dramatically as possible. "Regardless of whether or not you killed Cyra Terranova, enough of District Two thinks that you did to make it a problem for me."

"Why's that?" Ludovicus says, his brow quivering.

"Two's the Capitol's closest ally," Coriolanus explains. "In the event the other Districts act up and we're forced to go to war, however long from now that may be, we can't loose that partnership. I, and many of my colleagues worry, that us crowning a victor hated by a significant percentage of their home District, could cause some problems down the line."

Ludovicus doesn't seem convinced he's done anything wrong, his expression still smug. Aquila on the other hand, seems absolutely delighted. Again, how funny.

"You're not completely in the clear here, Ms. Ferncliffe," as Coriolanus speaks, her smile narrows into a neutral expression. "I understand, you're upset you lost your daughter, but she did volunteer for these Games, so death was a possibility you both should have discussed. Whatever family drama you and Ludovicus have; my office is not the place for it, and threatening my sanctity as President was definitely uncalled for."

"I apologize, Mr. President," she says, as if that's going to help her case. Coriolanus decided what he'd be doing with her the second he saw her evidence that could possibly doom him. He knew what he'd be doing with Ludovicus as well; he just needed a moment to stall. Lucien has proven useful for that.

"I appreciate that," Coriolanus lies. "Would you mind handing me the receipt again?"

Aquila nods, digging through her purse and pulling out a flimsy sheet of paper. Hopefully her family doesn't have any more of these, he thinks. If so, enough of Two has burned, more destruction really won't hurt.

He grabs the receipt with his fingertips and sets it beside him. "Thank you, Ms. Ferncliffe."

"What's going on," Ludovicus asks with eyes of intrigue.

Coriolanus snaps at him, "You'll find out soon enough; trust me."

Aquila nods, completely unsuspecting of what'll happen to her in the next thirty seconds. He digs into the drawer facing him until he finds his pistol, small enough that he can fit it up his sleeve to conceal it. He rises to his feet and yawns, blinking twice, then wiping away the crust from underneath his eye.

"What are you doing, Mr. President?" Aquila dares to question him.

To that, Coriolanus doesn't say a thing. Instead, he pulls back his sleeve to reveal his gun, his two visitors gasping in shock.

He uses his empty hand to cock the gun, a sinister grin on his face despite the panic which surrounds him.

"Please, Mr. President," Ludovicus begs.

He's lucky the first bullet isn't for him, and hopefully the second won't be either.

"Stay calm," Coriolanus orders, his command doing nothing to stop the hysteria.

He extends his arm towards Aquila Ferncliffe's head and fires a bullet straight into her skull. Instantly, she falls to the ground, blood pooling on the carpet underneath her. Her eyes flutter for a second or two, then just like that, she's gone.

Ludovicus flinches. "What was that for?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Coriolanus teases him, dropping his pistol to the ground and sniffing the smoke it emits. "All in due time; I promise."

The victor runs to the door as if Coriolanus wasn't smart enough to lock it. He knows that Ludovicus Jornmark is not one who can easily be manipulated; he always stands his ground, unless it's made impossible.

Once the gun stops letting off smoke, Coriolanus picks it up again, this time aiming it at Ludovicus.

"What do you want from me?" He shrieks.

"You have two options," Coriolanus declares. "The first is you stay with me in the Capitol for a while. I have some people who'd like to meet you, and perhaps it'd be a good thing if you stayed out of trouble."

"And the second?"

"You join Ms. Ferncliffe dead on the floor."

Coriolanus walks to Ludovicus' side and holds his gun to the boy's chin. "Whatever you decide, the clock is ticking."

Ludovicus' brows furrow, his face turning a violent shade of red. Has one of the most confident men in Panem finally met his mental downfall? Perhaps.

(And if he hasn't now, Mayuko Aoki has just the stuff that'll bring him to his knees.)

"I'll come with you," he finally says, sweat dripping down his face.

Coriolanus lowers the gun and grins. "Excellent. I was hoping you'd say that."

Satisfied, he procures a series of paperwork from his desk drawer. Once again, snow has proven to always fall on top, and once again, an unbreakable titan is now at his disposal.

Oops…

Sorry besties, everything is once again, fucking miserable.

I know I said that we'd be hearing from Sin this chapter, but I decided he will be speaking to you all in a future chapter, as it made more sense to me. Trust me.

So yeah… a lot of shit went down, and unfortunately you will not be getting many answers until Blessings of Liberty.

On that note, next chapter will be the saddest one of this fic, as we hear from Haymitch, the friends and family of the dead (or presumed dead) Tributes, and Verdigris.

I hope you know pain is near.

Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds