"How do you feel?"

Anakin tilted his head at his own reflection. He was wearing a silver chest-piece, one that flashed and bounced back Anakin's reflection from the mirror. The lower part of the piece was connected to what Anakin could only describe as links, like those in the fences that surrounded the districts. The links made up little crossed patterns against his abdomen, down to his thighs. They caught the light and sparked back at Anakin when he looked at them from the mirror. His pants were a little less subtle, made from a sheer grey fabric that was disconcertingly lighter than Anakin had ever worn before.

He glanced backwards at Artoo, who was standing in front of Padmé and Threepio with a smug little smile on his face.

"I won't blind myself when I ride the chariot, will I?" Anakin asked, stepping down from the little stool he had been forced up while the other stylists had taken care of the last of his hair, his makeup. A green-haired stylist with eyelashes longer than Anakin's fingernails had flecked silver and white paint around his eyes, while another stylist with a startlingly long nose and even longer fingers had dabbed silver powder across his cheeks. Anakin felt like he had been covered in frost by the time they were done. That, added with the already flashy silver and grey tones of his own costume gave him the appearance of some metal man.

And the most curious detail—Artoo had been the one to paint the silver lines and scars up Anakin's arms himself. Anakin wasn't sure what they were for other than to make him perhaps look more…interesting, but the shine in his stylist's eyes made him suspect that there was something more to it.

"Of course not," Artoo sniffed now. "I've made sure of all that already."

Anakin glanced over at Padmé, who only nodded. "Very nicely done, Artoo," she said. "You've outdone yourself once again."

Once again—Anakin noted the genuine smile passed between Padmé and Artoo and suddenly remembered the costumes Padmé had worn during her own games. A memory of a shimmering grey and blue dress, silver armbands, silver headpiece. He couldn't remember any of her other costumes, but as Anakin watched Padmé a moment longer, the memory of her own chariot ride seemed to grow clearer and clearer in his mind. Her hair had been put in two separate bunches around her head, Anakin remembered. Held in place by that silver headpiece.

Padmé glanced up at Anakin.

Anakin realized he was still staring.

He looked at Artoo. "Did you design Padmé's costumes?"

"Of course I did," Artoo huffed. "Who else?"

"Really, Artoo, you and your bragging and boasting," Threepio said, shaking his head. "You really musn't—"

"But I really must," Artoo said. He gestured towards Anakin. "Look at him! He'll be the shiniest one out of all the tributes! They'll hate him!" His eyes shone again with that oddly strange, semi-mad look that Anakin wasn't sure whether to like or not. "A twist on the knights of an ancient age—really, a classic, only minus the horrific helmets and the arms." He nodded pointedly at Anakin's arms which were still bare.

Padmé cleared her throat. "We need to go," she said, glancing at the clock on the wall.

"Right you are, right you are," Threepio said hastily. He nervously twisted his hands, looked up at Anakin. "Come along then, we musn't be late—really, we should have been a little early, but Artoo is always so intent on boasting—"

"Ah, just get on with it," Artoo groaned, and then the four of them were walking out of the preparation chamber and down the hall, which led directly to the waiting chariots.

Padmé walked briskly alongside Anakin. "Remember," she said, her voice little more than a whisper, "this will be the first impression the other tributes will have of you. You might not have done anything yet—you haven't shown them any of your skills or abilities or otherwise, but appearances are everything." She turned to Anakin. "So whatever you do, make sure you don't—"

"I won't do anything stupid," Anakin said. "If that's what you're worried about."

"I was going to say don't look intimidated," Padmé replied. She shook her head, turned back around to the tunnel. "The other stylists love making a show of exactly who can whip up the most impressive costumes—for them, it's really all a fashion contest, and the Capitol loves fashion contests. The image is everything."

"Do I look like I get intimidated easily?" Anakin asked flatly.

Padmé glanced over at Anakin, her steps slowing briefly. For a moment, Anakin wondered if maybe he shouldn't have asked that—maybe she didn't appreciate the attitude, but Anakin was tired, and he was, if to be honest, already sick of wearing this stupid costume. He didn't care if the light didn't flash in his eyes or if it wasn't heavy. The costume still felt wrong on his skin, and he still didn't understand what the paint on his arms was meant for.

Padmé's eyes flitted over Anakin's face. A wrinkle appeared between her brows, and then she reached over with both hands. Set them on Anakin's shoulders.

Anakin braced himself, but Padmé only propped up his shoulders, and then she was walking behind him, pushing at him lightly from the back. "Don't stick out your chest completely," she said, and Anakin was suddenly aware of how brief her touches were, the warmth of her fingers flitting around his biceps and the space between his shoulder blades. "But you've got a broader frame than most, so you might as well use it to your advantage."

Padmé stepped back in front of Anakin. She looked up at him again, her lips pressed together. They were a darker shade than normal, Anakin noticed.

"Perfect," Padmé said. Her eyes traveled back up to Anakin's face. "Now come on—before Artoo or Threepio pop a vessel."

"What do you think?"

Ahsoka wanted to hate it. She probably should hate it, because the dress reminded her so much of home. At first glance, Ahsoka's costume looked relatively simple: a deep brown dress that was only a shade lighter than her own skin. She didn't have any sleeves, but two long swaths of the same brown fabric trailed from Ahsoka's shoulders and floated around her arms, giving off the illusion of sleeves that were just cut open for some air. At least, that was what Ahsoka thought of it.

But then, when Ahsoka blinked, the dress started to shimmer and gradient itself into green—multiple greens, feathery greens, and then Ahsoka was looking at a moving picture of plants poking from the deep soil until her whole dress was nothing more than streaks of light and dark greens.

But then Ahsoka would blink again, and the dress would gradient again: no longer were green, but now the faintest of yellow light that intensified into a metallic gold, until the only thing that Ahsoka could see the last of the green crops withering into that strange color.

"They're dead," Ahsoka said, watching the last green crop sicken into the yellow color.

"No," Riyo said. She nodded, and Ahsoka watched as the yellow was supplanted by the deep brown again. Rich, brown soil. "It all repeats itself. Death brings life, too."

Ahsoka looked at Riyo, unsure how to interpret those last words.

"Optimistic," she decided to say. She turned back to her reflection and found Rex and Ventress. The two had been mostly quiet while the stylists had prepped the rest of her. Ventress had snapped a few times only then, commenting to "keep the makeup light, we need to actually see her face". In the end, the stylists had obeyed, sticking only to a few dusts of powder, a neutral lip color that made Ahsoka feel like her whole mouth was coated in wax. Even Ahsoka's nails were painted—a sheer gold, much more metallic than the rest of her. She contemplated the way they shone against her skin, and a small part of her actually liked the color, the contrast of the gold against her own dark tones.

I can always look at my nails, Ahsoka thought, stepping down from the stool. She had been relieved that she hadn't had to wear any ridiculously high shoes either, not like the ones that were apparently considered high-fashion in the Capitol. Riyo had presented her with a pair of golden sandals instead, ones that made crossed pattern across her feet and reached her ankles. Ahsoka didn't think anyone would even see her shoes, but still—she was a little glad at how nice they were.

That was another thing Ahsoka wasn't too sure of: the dress was nice, and so were her nails and her makeup and her shoes, and she felt nice. She felt pretty, and she could hear her brothers' voices in her heads—make us pretty!—and then she suddenly felt homesick, because she could see herself twirling in this dress in front of her family, and her dad would be clapping his hands, and her brothers would be laughing and spinning her around amongst them. That was what they had done when she got that red skirt, but that red skirt was gone now, along with the marigolds and everything else that had reminded her of home.

But that wasn't quite true either, because Rex was standing in front of Ahsoka too, and even if Rex wasn't really Ahsoka's brother, he still came from District 11, and that counted enough as a piece of home.

Rex nodded once. He looked to Riyo. "She doesn't look too old," he said. "Just sophisticated enough."

"That was the plan," Riyo replied, giving Ahsoka an appraising look. She smiled, brushed a bit of imaginary dust from Ahsoka's shoulder. Ahsoka knew it had to be imaginary because there could never be any dust in the Capitol. "You look beautiful."

"And beautiful things are underestimated," Riyo added, stepping away. She smiled again, and this time, Ahsoka wondered if perhaps her stylist was more on her side than she had given her credit for.

"Yes, yes, a pretty little thing," Ventress said, snapping her fingers at Ahsoka, Riyo. "Now let's go. One thing to be beautiful, but another thing to be late."

"Of course," Riyo said, and she took a step aside. Waiting for her to walk through, Ahsoka realized.

Ahsoka took a few steps forward, and then Rex fell in beside her. She heard Ventress and Riyo behind her, and then they were walking out the room, through a long, dark hall that was only lit at the very end. Already, though, Ahsoka could hear the cheers and roaring of the crowds beyond, the frantic chittering and chattering of stylists making last-second preparations for the tributes. A cold wind flew by the tunnel, and Ahsoka shivered, suddenly wishing that she actually had sleeves instead.

"When you're out there," Rex said suddenly, "make sure to smile."

Ahsoka blinked. She turned to Rex.

"You smiled when you were reaped," he said. "That was a good move. You looked young. You looked your age." He looked at her carefully. In the dimly-lit tunnel, his eyes looked even darker, more intense. "But I have a feeling you already know that."

She did.

Ahsoka remembered how she had waved, how she had twirled her hair. People weren't afraid of her.

"So do that again," Rex said. "Look happy. Look like the cheerful little girl who has no idea what's about to happen."

That's easy, Ahsoka thought. She'd been doing that her whole life. Stealing things when no one was looking, keeping a neutral, innocent face whenever the Peacekeepers walked over to her and demanded what she had seen. She could play the dumb little girl for a little while longer.

She nodded.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Obi-Wan met Cody's gaze in the mirror. His stylist looked pleasantly pleased, his hands tucked in his pockets, but there was nothing quite casual about the gesture. Obi-Wan still noticed the squared shoulders that his stylist wore like armor. He was still waiting for an answer, and he wanted an answer.

"What use are pennies," Obi-Wan said dryly, "when I'm covered with these?" He gestured at himself, where his whole front—bare skin from waist up—was studded and starred with glittering, gleaming diamonds. He hadn't been sure they were real diamonds at first, but then he heard one of the other stylists coo and murmur at the exact weight of them, and then he realized that they were, in fact, ridiculously real. The diamonds traced from Obi-Wan's navel to the base of his throat, where they spread out like a fan around his collarbone and shoulders.

And from there, a long, white cape held up by diamond clasps hung from Obi-Wan's shoulders and draped down and around his back, whispered around his ankles. Obi-Wan had caught the flash of diamonds on the cape too, but the material hadn't felt heavy, even though he knew that those were real diamonds, too. Really, he should be weighted down by now, but special Capitol technology made the clothing weightless.

The pants, thankfully, were simple: white, no particular sheen to them. Wasn't needed, Obi-Wan supposed. Anything more would have been much.

"True," Cody replied. He clapped his hands together, made a motioning gesture at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan turned around completely so that he would be facing away from his reflection and instead looking at Qui-Gon and Satine.

Both of Satine's eyebrows lifted briefly, but then she consulted her pad. "We have ten minutes," she said crisply. "We'll need to leave soon."

"Thank you, Satine," Qui-Gon said. He looked at Obi-Wan questioningly. "And how does the costume feel? Can you move?"

"Perfectly," Obi-Wan replied. He reached up to adjust the clasps at his shoulders, but Cody batted his hands away.

"Everything is in its place for a purpose," Cody said. "Don't even think about moving anything."

"Apologies," Obi-Wan replied, only partially meaning it. He glanced over at Cody again. "Is this your first costume you've designed?"

"Yes," Cody replied. "So be glad." He took a step back and nodded, satisfied.

"Ten minutes, you said," Obi-Wan said, looking to Satine. "Are we to leave now?"

"Yes," Satine replied shortly. She didn't bother looking up from her pad as she turned for the doors. Her heels clicked against the ground as she went, and Obi-Wan registered that with her heels, she was a bit taller than him. He wasn't wearing any heeled shoes himself—only a white pair of boots that slipped underneath his trousers.

Obi-Wan followed Satine out the door and into the tunnel, aware of Qui-Gon and Cody both behind him. The tunnel was dark, the only light being at the very end. But Satine walked confidently, each step sure and precise, even as her head was still tilted down at the pad in her hands.

"You'll be riding out first, naturally," Satine said over her shoulder. Her golden curls were pinned up this time in a bun at the top of her head, held in place by a glittering band of diamonds, Obi-Wan now realized. Matching, even though she wasn't a tribute herself. Obi-Wan wasn't quite sure whether to feel insulted or not by that. "All the chariot rides go by order of the district."

"I've watched the chariots before," Obi-Wan said dryly. "So no need to explain that detail."

"You'll also be closest to President Palpatine," Satine said, ignoring Obi-Wan's comment. "At his right hand. Make sure you nod to him first—the Capitol always love being reminded that District 1 is their closest pet."

Obi-Wan noted that Satine said the Capitol instead of we. He watched the back of Satine's head curiously. She had to be a Capitol person, judging by the accent and the fashion and her clipped demeanor, but still, he couldn't help but puzzle over that one detail.

"Don't you mean you love being reminded of District 1 being the Capitol's pet?" he asked.

Satine tossed a look over Obi-Wan's shoulder. "I mean the Capitol," she said flatly. "Right now, I am your escort, and right now, I need you to win, and that is my first priority." She turned back around, and Obi-Wan had the feeling that if her hair was down, it would have flipped right into his face.

Obi-Wan huffed out a small breath, moreso out of amusement than anything else.

"Now hurry up," Satine said, her heels clicking faster against the ground. "I can already smell those stupid horses."

Anakin's eyes hurt from looking at all the chariots and costumes and flashing lights.

But he still followed Artoo and Threepio to the District 3 chariot—a metallic silver thing with two grey-flecked horses waiting at the front. Artoo and Threepio were still bickering about something, although Anakin couldn't tell what about or if it was of any genuine importance. Judging by Padmé's expression, the bickering wasn't anything to worry about.

"Take a look around," she murmured, and she should have been impossible to hear over the din of the horses stamping their feet and the stylists shouting at each other and the thundering crowd, but somehow, Anakin could still hear her voice as though it were in his head.

Anakin started to look, but Padmé grabbed the area just above his wrist, her fingers carefully curled out of the way so that it wouldn't come in contact with the silver paint. "Not obviously," she hissed. "Take a slow look around."

That was the second time Padmé had touched him in just the last few minutes, Anakin realized dully.

But he forced himself to look around without moving his head. In the chariot to his right, he saw a cruel-faced young man who couldn't have been that much older than himself. He wore red and black tattoos that stood stark against his skin, and he wore nothing but black armor that seemed to glow and gleam like an ember. District 2.

He looked to his left, where there was another young man—maybe a year or two younger than Anakin, though he couldn't be sure. He was big, bigger than Anakin, with even broader shoulders and even more height. He wore something that Anakin figured was supposed to resemble some kind of net, exposing his competitor's toned muscles. District 4.

Anakin flicked his eyes farther down the line of chariots. The costumes all seemed to blur together, to be honest: swaths of shining fabric and elaborate looking headpieces and a mixture of frightened and nervous and angry eyes that all told Anakin who exactly were ready for the games and who had already given up.

Anakin suddenly felt the grip around his wrist relax, but when he looked down, Padmé's determined expression hadn't changed. She was, however, looking elsewhere, past Artoo and Threepio and District 2. Anakin followed her gaze and found what she was looking at—or whom she was looking at.

District 1.

Anakin spotted the escort first: a young woman with a blonde bun sitting on top of her head, carrying a touchscreen pad and swiping furiously through the screens.

And then he spotted the tribute.

Anakin had seen the recording of the reaping with Padmé and Threepio, noted some of the faces, but really, everything had been a blur—but District 1 was a face to remember, because Anakin knew that once he stepped in the arena, it was District 1 who had the highest advantage.

He could kill me, was Anakin's first thought when District 1's eyes flickered to meet his.

From this distance, Anakin could tell District 1's eyes were a sharp grey, the kind that seemed to cut across the row of tributes down the line.

I won't let him, was Anakin's second thought when District 1's eyes flicked to him again. District 1's expression remained cool, and then he was following his escort to his chariot.

A moment later, Anakin saw two people come out from the tunnel entrance: a young man with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes, followed by an older man with a dark brown, grey-streaked beard. Judging by the clothes, Anakin could tell that the younger man was the stylist—the older man was the mentor.

And then the man was turning to the side, surveying the others just as his tribute had done—but Anakin noticed that his eyes lingered briefly over himself, and for a heart-stopping moment, Anakin wondered if—

But no, the man was nodding at him, and Anakin was about to nod back—what else was he supposed to do?—when he felt the movement next to him and realized stupidly that it was Padmé the man had recognized. Which Anakin figured made sense, since the two of them were both Victors, but still…Anakin didn't think District 3 and District 1 were ever on friendly terms with each other.

As though to prove Anakin's own point, District 1 looked down from his chariot and glanced briefly at Anakin again. Anakin kept his face expressionless as District 1 looked at him. He narrowed his eyes, silently daring him to look away first.

District 1 eventually did, the expression on his face still stony and cool.

No, definitely not friends, Anakin decided.

Ahsoka's arms were cold from all the air buffeting around the small track.

Even despite the fact that there were so many people here—so many people, filling up the stands from every single angle and direction, along with all the stylists and tributes and their mentors and escorts—Ahsoka still felt too cold, and she fidgeted a little bit with her open sleeve contraptions. She cast a sidelong glance at Rex, who was wearing nothing but a grey shirt, one that hugged his own biceps but, like Ahsoka, no long sleeves.

Ahsoka briefly wondered what costume he wore. She tried to remember, but she found that she couldn't. She must have been too young to remember his specific games. Ahsoka wondered if maybe her brothers remembered Rex's games—if they had been at all surprised at seeing their near exact similarities.

"Don't dawdle now," Rex said, catching Ahsoka looking at him. He nodded towards the chariot in front of them: a golden thing, chained to a pair of two yellow horses.

Ahsoka glanced at either side of her—at the other tributes, who kept trying to sneak glances at each other as well. Trying to sort out the competition, she knew. Ahsoka figured she could be worse off: she could be standing between District 2 and District 4, which usually bred the victors. She would hate to be the person from District 3.

She looked to her right, where District 12's black chariot waited beside her. There was a young boy there—younger than even her, with bright green eyes and a shock of dark hair. He was wearing all black, from his shoes to his neck, and Ahsoka noticed him talking to a young girl behind him. It took a moment for Ahsoka to remember that that young girl had to be the victor from last year—Katooni, she remembered. The twelve year old who had somehow managed to win the 74th Hunger Games.

Ahsoka watched curiously now, both confused and in awe at the young girl standing just a few meters away from her. Katooni was much smaller than Ahsoka expected. She remembered the Victory Tour, how Katooni had been wearing heeled shoes that seemed too old for her young face, but now, without the shoes, Ahsoka felt something twist in her stomach. This victor was even younger than herself.

Ahsoka forced her gaze away from District 12 and to her left, where District 10's tribute was already standing atop his bronze chariot. He was wearing a strange, broad-rimmed hat, and a piece of what Ahsoka was fairly certain was hay was sticking out of his mouth. Ahsoka wasn't sure if that was a part of District 10's costume—District 10 being livestock and all, but even with the lazy bob of the stick of hay in District 10's mouth, Ahsoka sensed that there was nothing lazy or casual about her neighbor.

"Ahsoka," Rex said.

"Right," Ahsoka said as District 10 turned his head towards her. She whipped her eyes away, smiled sweetly up at Rex. "Can you help me up?"

She heard a huff from behind her. Good. Just a silly little girl who still needed assistance with the smallest things.

Ahsoka let go of Rex's hand as soon as her feet were safely settled on the chariot. She could better see the crowds and the track before her now. At the very end of the smooth, grey track, Ahsoka could see the dais from where she guessed President Palpatine would receive and welcome them. She didn't see anyone there now, not that she could tell, anyways. The dais was too far away, but she was pretty sure she could see a few Capitol attendants readying the area.

Ahsoka turned her attention to either side of the track instead. She saw more color and light than she had ever seen in her whole life, but she couldn't make out the faces of those who were supposed to be cheering for the tributes. Cheering, Ahsoka wondered, or calling for their blood? Because that was what was going to become of them in a few days, anyways.

Ahsoka glanced down the line of tributes. She could see some faces ranging in expressions of worry and fear, while others were completely shut off. Ahsoka thought she saw someone smiling though, a shy little smile that spoke of some modesty. District 9.

Ahsoka caught the owner of the smile: a girl that was probably just a little older than she was, a piece of cloth covering her head and a splash of dark freckles across her face.

For a moment, Ahsoka wasn't sure what to do.

Smile back, she thought.

She did, and she waved.

Play along.

Obi-Wan's hands hurt from where he clenched the edge of his chariot, but he knew that if he let go, there was a very good chance that he might go flying off, especially with his cape dragging behind him like that.

But the citizens of the Capitol didn't notice Obi-Wan's iron grip on the edge of his chariot, not as he lifted a hand and waved. He could hear the rumble only of his own chariot beneath him, but the ride itself was smooth. He kept waving, kept on a cool, confident smile even as faces blurred past. He couldn't tell one Capitol face from the other, not with all of their ridiculous haircuts and clothes and accessories and face implants, but he knew that that didn't matter to them. All that mattered for them was that he remain looking like the shiny new District 1 tribute for them to fawn over for the duration of the games.

And Cody had made sure that Obi-Wan would remain the center of attention, it seemed, because as the chariot slowed to the front of the dais, he could now more distinctly hear the cheers at him rather than for him. Even without the sudden wind of the rushing chariot, Obi-Wan's cape still fluttered around him, only just barely touching his actual back.

As the chariot pulled to a stop at the right hand of the dais, Obi-Wan could see and feel all the eyes directed at his bare torso, his chest, up to his neck, where all the diamonds remained intact. Obi-Wan felt something twist inside of him at the strangely hungry looks of the Capitol people in front of him, and once again, he was unpleasantly reminded of the one Capitol person with the strange black bug eyes, but there were no bug eyes here. Just strange Capitol people looking like they wanted to eat him or worse.

But Obi-Wan's smile remained unmoved. He managed a little tilt of the head in the general direction in front of him, and he heard a series of cries and shouts go up before him. Really, that might have been more embarrassing for the Capitol people than anything else, but they didn't seem ashamed at all.

Obi-Wan heard a quiet laugh from beside him. He flicked his eyes to the chariot that had just pulled up beside him: District 2, with that black body armor. He found amber—nearly yellow, in this light—eyes looking straight back at him, and the tribute bared his teeth in a yellowing smile.

Obi-Wan only turned swiftly back to the crowd and waited for the other tributes to file in order. He caught District 3 and automatically tightened his grip at the edge of the chariot. Obi-Wan had been puzzled to find Qui-Gon nodding at the District 3 mentor, and he wondered if the two knew each other—but the look the District 3 tribute gave Obi-Wan told him that he wasn't at all interested in any commonality between the two.

District 3 had been the one to help up the boy who fainted, Obi-Wan remembered as he watched the tribute pull his chariot over. He was dressed in a silver, glassy chest-piece, and his muscled arms were painted with silver. He looked better than most tributes that came from District 3—and he looked a little stronger and more determined than most tributes from District 3, even now, as Obi-Wan briefly locked eyes with him.

He wasn't sure what it was, but District 3 seemed determined not to look away first.

Obi-Wan couldn't help it: a corner of his lips twitched at the ferocity in District 3's eyes. Now this one was going to be interesting.

Down the line, Obi-Wan watched more tributes come to a stop in front of the dais. District 4 wearing a ridiculous net (but that probably didn't matter for the Capitol people—District 4 was built like a mountain, all glistening muscles and strong hands and rippling skin), District 5 wearing a dark brown top that exposed her midriff, a dark brown skirt that flashed with lightning every few seconds. After a while, the costumes mostly seemed to blend together: just flashing lights and metallic hues, all except for one, and that was District 11, standing in the chariot almost across from Obi-Wan.

A small girl, that was what District 11 was, wearing a dress that seemed to shift from brown to green to gold in a matter of moments. Her sleeves fluttered around her wrists, and like Obi-Wan's own cape, they continued to curl and dance about her even without the breeze of the chariot. The girl was openly beaming, and Obi-Wan remembered that yes, this was the girl who had been smiling and waving when she had been selected. She was blowing kisses at the people behind Obi-Wan, looking absolutely delighted to be there.

Obi-Wan didn't buy one second of it.

And then there was a shift in the crowds, a sudden quiet, and Obi-Wan lifted his head to find that President Palpatine had appeared at last.

He was an old gentleman, one with white hair curling at the sides of his head. He smiled, and for a moment, he might have looked like anyone's kindly grandfather—a kindly grandfather who wore a sharp red suit and looked at the tributes as though they were all his favorite grandchild.

But Obi-Wan also knew that this kindly looking man was also the same one who enforced the games, just like those who had come before him.

That made him no different.

The president looked around the tributes, and just as Satine had suggested, Obi-Wan found himself giving President Palpatine a nod. The president, to no great surprise, nodded back at Obi-Wan with a delighted little look in his icy eyes.

"Welcome," he said, his voice soft but carrying, "to the 75th Annual Hunger Games. We are—"

But Palpatine didn't get to finish, because there was a sudden hum—one that Obi-Wan wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't so close to him. He stayed still, tried to pretend that he didn't notice any sounds at all. Really, it could have been something coming from the president's microphone, but then he heard District 2 shuffling next to him, saw the puzzled looks exchanged between the other tributes.

But President Palpatine didn't seem to care. "The third Quarter Quell," he continued, and then—

A shriek cut above Palpatine's voice, and suddenly, Obi-Wan couldn't tell what he was hearing or who he was looking at or anything, just that there was an awful sound that reached into his skull, and suddenly he was leaning against the edge of the chariot, his head ringing and his knees buckling and—

He heard similar shouts and moans all around him, and Obi-Wan lifted his head up to find the girl from District 11 dangling at the edge of her chariot, mouth hanging open but eyes alert. She wasn't looking at Obi-Wan—she was looking at elsewhere, somewhere to his right—

And Obi-Wan forced himself up from the edge of his chariot, turned, and saw District 3, lit up like a beacon. Obi-Wan almost couldn't see him: only silver and white light poured off from him, and then Obi-Wan remembered the paint, there had to have been something in the paint—

Another shriek, this one louder, and Obi-Wan realized it wasn't coming from District 3 himself. It was the sound of something mechanical—something hissing and popping, and it was all too much—

He saw District 3's face, the stricken, stunned expression in his eyes, but no fear. District 3 only looked down at his arms in silent surprise, his hands twisting around as he tried to get a better look at whatever—

Obi-Wan saw the spark first. A brilliant blue spark, electricity, spanning up District 3's painted wrists up his arm up his shoulder, and then he saw another spark, this time brighter, bolder, and then the spark searing into District 3's forearm, leaving behind an already reddening burn—

District 3's face twitched, but besides that, if he felt any pain—

That won't last forever, Obi-Wan thought as another spark flew.

And then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The young girl in the chariot across from him—District 11—had hopped down from her chariot, and she was running around the semicircle of chariots, her hands blindly tugging at the sleeves at her arms. For a moment, Obi-Wan could only stare, and then he realized—

The other tributes were staring numbly at District 11 as she bolted forward, stepped up to District 3's chariot. Obi-Wan saw her lips move, saw her eyes widen, and then he realized that the child was too close, too close, even as she tore off her sleeve and started to wrap it around District 3's arm, trying to dampen the sparks, but then the spark had jumped from District 3 to District 11, and Obi-Wan saw the matching burn there—

The ripped sleeve wasn't enough. Too little cloth, too many sparks.

Obi-Wan glanced up at the president, who was watching the whole spectacle with some mild interest. As though this, too, was just an interesting dance. So were the other Capitol civilians. The initial shock had died down, and now everyone was watching with mild interest as District 11 and District 3 grappled with the sparks—

This is getting nowhere, Obi-Wan thought. He glanced around at the other tributes. Most were looking on with some panic, while others were still dangling from their chariots, still clearly dizzy from the sudden burst of sound and light. The tribute beside him, meanwhile, seemed almost amused.

Obi-Wan was not.

Before he could fully process what he was doing, Obi-Wan had stepped out of his own chariot. His hands found the clasps of the cape around his shoulders, yanked them off. He ignored the cold wind that swept past him, not daring to show even the slightest flicker of shock or surprise on his face. Bored. He had to look bored.

Well-aware of everyone's eyes on him now, Obi-Wan flung the cape over District 3 and District 11. An abrupt spark, a hiss, and then—

Obi-Wan turned back around, headed back up to his chariot. He didn't dare turn around.

But when he got back up on the chariot, he found that the light had died down. There were no more small sparks, just District 3 and District 11 looking equally stunned as Obi-Wan settled into his position.

A/N: As always, reviews/follows/favorites are greatly appreciated!