A/N: I haaaaaate stupid boring parade chapters, but this is sadly needed. It'll be short though, because nobody gives a shit about parade prep. I think I had inspiration for this at one point, but then I read The Queen of Zombie Hearts and I just… Kat. I could go on and on about the tragic and sudden death of Kat Parker but this isn't the place to do so. I just… Mad Dog, why?!

Heavenly Aquarius, District 7 Female, 17 years old

I scrunch myself into the smallest ball possible, contorting my body atop the marble floor, shaking like a leaf.

I know what they're going to try to do.

They'll try and rip the clothes off my body, force me down, scrub me, cleanse me, rub my body until it shines like the mirrors surrounding me on all sides.

But I know that a mind can wander into dark, twisted places when eyes fall open a female body. I've been ensnared in that dark place once before, clawing at demons, trapped in a personal hell I didn't know every woman, including me, feared, burning alive and breathing in the ash and smoke.

I'm never going back there. Never, ever.

That's why the key word is try.

I unfurl myself, my twisted tangle of limbs breaking apart. I scramble shakily to my feet, riding the waves of panic.

Don't let it control you. The adrenaline will kick in, and you can fight. You can escape the burning. You can dodge the flames. You were ten the first time. You're older now. You can escape hell.

My father's disconnected voice buzzes into my brain. For once, I'm happy that he's infecting my thoughts, making himself present to tell me that-

Everything is a weapon.

I run over to a mirror-encrusted dresser, refusing to give my reflection a second chance. Rape isn't about appearance or sex appeal. It's about violence. Control.

And the Capitol is nothing if not controlling.

I rip the delicate crystalline lamp from the socket, the cord whipping around to slap me in the side. I don't get a chance to raise it before the door shudders open.

Surprise! They're not what I expected, not at all. They're so heavily made up they look like dolls, or possibly pastries frosted to the extreme. A flabby, purple-dyed hand strays to the hem of my shirt and I explode into action.

I swing the lamp through the air, hearing the wind whistle. With a heavy crack, the lamp slams into purple-man's skull, and he falls like a puppet with no strings to propel him. A Capitolite with no President to worship or Games to watch.

One of his partners, a skinny woman with shockingly pink eyes and hair that looks like a three-tier-cake grabs my arm. I shove her away desperately, my skin crawling at her touch. A man with fire truck-red hair that falls to his back pushes me roughly to the wall and I scream and thrash, my body twisting and turning wildly, my soul burning away and leaving behind nothing but savagery, wildness, feral instinct.

I feel the sharp pressure of a needle against my arm, and pure peace bleeds into my veins, like…

I…

I…

I don't know anymore. What am I doing? There are so little colors and so many mirrors, glowing with an ethereal, spectral light, sending my reflection bouncing into oblivion like a single burning star.

Fabric shifts and rustles as the pretty ones let me slide to the floor. There's only bright silver now, reflecting, reflecting, reflecting me. I dazzle. I shine. There's something so beautiful about those mirrors. They can't burn or crack or die. They're indestructible.

I wish I didn't break the way they refuse to.

The sloppy, smiley grin twists on my face as the world begins to pulse and throb with sickly sweet sugar, baring garish smiles into my soul. Teeth gleam and I scream for the predator to leave, go. I want colors, but not red. Never red. There's something about scarlet…

Fumes dazzle me, bake me alive. I burn sage here, on the floor. I'm a pretty little star, twirling and singing like a… a what?

There's a song in my mind and it slithers on my lips. I try and sing it. It's garbled, though. My mind isn't working right…

I sit back and let the happy take me. I'm not in hell…

Anymore.

Maximus Vulcan, District 4 Male, 18 years old.

I stand stiffly, letting my prep team dab at my skin and paint swirling, green-blue patterns on my copper chest and face. I get the impression that there's a sea churning and biting at me. I imagine that's the idea.

I need to get my act together.

I let that stupid girl beat me. At the rate I'm going, I'll die in the bloodbath. I can't be provoked again. Oh, I'll have my revenge on Serena, all right, but until that happens? I'll need to be as cool and uncaring as the waves lapping at my chest.

"Alright!" Shrieks on of the three, a short woman with metallic gold skin and a grating squeak. I think her name is Vanille, but in all honesty? I really couldn't care less. Only sheer force of will is keeping me here as her fat fingers roam all over her body, and I don't think I could take it if she started spouting details about her pathetic life.

"We're done!" She trills wildly. "Oh, Egore is going to love what we've done with this body paint, it fit his idea perfectly! Sure, we used a bit more blue then what he asked for, but it'll be spectacular no matter what!"

She winks at me, wagging her stubby fingers in my direction. I gag. Herr partners-in-crime and herself bustle out of the room, talking excitedly amongst themselves about the Games, the parade, and the tributes.

The door swings open and the rustling of fabric fills my ears as a tall man with slitted violet eyes sweeps in, his fingers trailing disinterestedly over the dresser. "So, this is my canvas." He mutters, his voice low and barely discernable. "Could be better, but…"

I want to spit at him, to tell him he'd never find a specimen as wonderful as me- and then it hits me. This is my test! To see whether or not I'm capable of freezing over.

I take a deep breath and stifle my temper, imagining dousing angry flames in icy water, smothering sparks of rage. I exhale, my voice fluctuating like I'm thirteen again.

"I apologize, sir." I say politely. "I'm no model."

He nods curtly. "Apology accepted."

In my head, I pump my fist.

And also maim him a little.

Richard Sherman, District 11 Male, 16 years old

"Tributes, the Chariot rides are in thirty minutes. Repeat, the Chariot rides are in thirty minutes."

"Does he think we'll forgot?" I mutter to Finlay, who laughs lightly. "He wants to sound important, I guess." She teases. I snort. "He already is important- he's Adakyo Blake, the announcer for the Hunger Games." "I noticed." Says Finlay flatly.

I look down and tug at my parade outfit with a frown. I'm an apple. Not a suit patterned with apples like the stylist did last year… but an actual apple. Round and red and plastic. I feel like a freaking penguin, waddling around in this sad excuse for a costume.

Finlay got off lucky. Her outfit's a ruffled white dress, tinged with sunrise-pink and edged with pastel lace. An apple blossom. The costume's probably agonizingly scratchy and it quite awkwardly resembles a pillow, but at least she can walk.

I survey the other tributes- or at least the ones in my line of vision.

The pair from three are wearing robot costumes that makes my heart ache for them. They're almost as bad as me. The harsh lights of the small holding room we're standing in light up their costumes, illuminating them- but it doesn't do anything to approve to their appearance, only highlighting flaws with the costume.

The two from five are standing right next to us, wearing outfits that are… actually not terrible! Well, the girl's outfit isn't. The extremely unhappy looking boy is wearing a lumpy gray outfit I think is supposed to resemble a turbine, which is spitting soot in his face. The girl, however, is looking extremely smug in her dress, a dove-gray slip with her name- Hesiodia- scrawled on it in neon paint, glowing sun-bright, electric almost. Her smug smile slides off her face like sap, though, when the boy begins to argue with her about something-or-other. It only takes a second for them to begin flat-out screaming. I divert my attention from them, embarrassed.

The pair from twelve are another odd couple, who seem awkwardly unsuited to each other. The boy is dressed as a lumberjack, holding a foam axe in his callused hand, and is staring in amazement at his district partner, an ethereal wood sprite wearing a headdress of laurel leaves and an olive-green gown. She's swaying on the balls of her feet, a slow smile lighting up her face, her eyes unfocused and dreamy. She looks high, but she can't be… right?

No. She definitely is. I know the signs. But how?

I turn my attention away from the enigma that is the 7 girl and check out the twelve tributes, who are a little ways behind Finlay and I.

My heart aches for them.

The two of them are tiny- both twelve, if I have to hazard a guess. What's more, they're both extremely malnourished, their ribs jutting out of their concave stomachs, sharp, withered bones practically eating up what little meat they have. And yet they aren't crushed. They're talking excitedly about their outfits- The boy's a coal miner, as per usual, but the girl's wearing a creamy yellow dress adorned with feathers that I can't comprehend. Finlay lets out a soft "oh!" of sadness at the sight of them and I latch onto her hand.

How can they do this?

How is anyone capable of such cruelty?

And I'm not just talking about the Games.

They've been left to starve their whole lives. Nobody gives a damn about them, just because of where they were born.

I look at them… and I see Penny.

A/N: UUUUUUGH I HATE THIS CHAPTER SO MUCH KILL ME. In all seriousness, you write a chapter, it looks so long in google docs, and then when you post it... it looks like a post-it note D: