"Welcome to the Renaissance,

To a 16th century experience,

In the age that's golden,

The olden days are over,

We bid them adieu."

Signet Graymore, 18, President of Panem

When Signet wakes up on the morning of the Games, there is a single blissful moment of contentment. For a tiny eternity, he is floating, unaware of his surroundings, his sleep a heavy blanket pulled over his consciousness.

But then he remembers a multitude of things, in quick succession. His father is dead. He is now responsible for an entire country. And the Games are today—the Games which he still somehow does not know anything about. He's managed to avoid them like a plague these past few days—other than his brief interaction with Naya of Four, he did not catch even a glimpse of the Tributes. His life lately has been permeated with a sense of denial, as if this could all be a dream if he simply wished it hard enough. Sometimes, Signet will be half-awake, a dream still clinging to the edges of his mind. He will simply lay there, not reacting, until the dream dissipates. Could this terrible nightmare he's stumbled into be the same? Can't he just pretend that it isn't there at all?

But Signet knows that's not true; his father's last words to him echo, relentless, in his brain.

"Signet, you have to make sure that you see the whole truth. Don't walk blind. Watch the Games. Do you understand?"

And Signet feels the claws of guilt sharpen against his heart, because he'd be a terrible son if he didn't fulfil his father's simple plea. To watch the Games. It can't possibly be that hard.

But everything feels like a chore to Signet these days, so how can he possibly know anything?

Signet wanders out of his bedroom, a cold fog of numbness drawn over his gaze, and switches on the television. It hums reassuringly, though dread still clogs Signet's throat. He doesn't want to do this—it's so much easier not to face his fears, to tuck them away in corners and hope they fade over time. And yet what kind of worthless excuse for a son would he be if he didn't do this one thing?

All he ever wanted was to make his father proud; no... all he ever wanted was rest. But both of those dreams are unattainable now. So where does he go... what does he do?

He's overslept. He probably has a hundred presidential things to do, yet he can't bring himself to care. His cabinet, his servants—practically the entire Capitol at this point—have been carefully skirting around him, whispering behind their hands, as though he is some precious piece of porcelain, or perhaps a child in their eyes. And maybe he is a child, too naive to bare this burden. Maybe he will never be useful after all.

Signet shakes off the thoughts, rubbing his eyes in hopes that it will quell the exhaustion, and switches through the channels until he finds the Games. Pericles McMaster is standing at a microphone, smiling his manufactured smile.

"Because this is our first public Games," he is saying, "I have been appointed to be the announcer. I will be with you all every step of the way, because I know that these Games are new. Let's go through the basics so you know what to expect."

At this point, Signet wishes for a freak accident, a knock on his door, anything to avoid watching this broadcast. His finger hovers over a button on the remote, wishing he could turn it off. But something stalls his hand, and no miracle comes to stray the course. Pericles keeps talking, and Signet keeps listening.

"Twenty-four Tributes will be sent into the Arena—" Here, a montage of all of the Tributes during their interviews and parades pans across the screen, "—and only one will come out alive. Which means that twenty-three Tributes will die, and one Victor will emerge. This was originally created as a punishment to the Districts; we would steal their children away in the night, and they would not come back. But now we are taking a new approach. These Games will have more drama, higher stakes, and the best part... you, our Capitol, will be able to bet on the Victors and send gifts to whomever you wish, so long as you have the money. And for the Districts... they will be watching with bated breath as their children fight for their lives."

For a moment, Signet is floating. All he can register is the boisterous cadence of Pericles's voice, the Tributes smiling onscreen... all he can feel is a deep, profound disconnect.

But, inevitably, the dream ends. And the words sink in. And he cannot breathe.

At least now he knows. He knows why his father hid this from them; because the Games are a monstrous, shameful thing, to be done quietly. A necessary evil, in order to keep the Districts in check.

But now they are a festival for the Capitol, and a nightmare for the Districts; because they have to watch as their own die, to watch children becoming monsters. Now, it's no longer a secret to be ignored. Now it is real and brutal and unavoidable.

And it's all his fault.

Tears stream down Signet's cheeks. He did this. How could he be so foolish, so misguided? The Capitol already celebrated the Games; if he hadn't done anything, at least they wouldn't have known what they were celebrating. At least this wouldn't all be on his shoulders.

The next thing he knows, he is running; the corridors are a blur around him. He needs to stop this... he has do do something, somehow.

He barrels into Avarette's lab, where assistant Gamemakers are bent over computers. Through blurry vision, he spots Ava tucked in a corner. He remembers her brief shock at his initial suggestion—"and I thought I was ruthless...", she'd murmured—and then her anger at his foolishness. Now he understands. He wants to melt into the floorboards.

"Ava." His voice is ragged, and he's gasping for breath.

"You look a mess," she remarks, "and I'm a bit busy at the moment, trying to create this Arena so it will be ready."

"Ava, Ava, you have to stop the Games," he says, the words pouring out of him like a flood. "Cancel them, please; send the kids home, just say that there was some kind of accident... Anything. Just make them stop."

Ava stares at him blankly. "I can't make sense of you, Signet. You were so eager for them..." She trails off, as if a light switch has been flicked on somewhere in her mind. "You found out?"

Signet's shaking, shaking, shaking—he can only nod.

"About time," she mumbles.

"Ava, didn't you hear me? You have to—"

"President Graymore," she says, the title dripping with condescension, "you were the one who commanded that these Games be publicized. You can't take that back now. What are we to tell the country?"

"I didn't know, before," he whispers. "I didn't know—I'm so sorry, I'll do anything to make it right."

Ava regards him, her expression cold and resigned. "This is the way it is, Signet. There is no point trying to change it."

And that's when Signet realizes that even though he has all the power in the world, there's absolutely nothing he can do.

...

Linnet Llamora, 30, District Nine Mentor

Asa and Luz leave early in the morning. Linnet did not sleep during the night; she was wound up so tight that she couldn't even relax her body, let alone her mind. Asa and Luz are sunshine on grass, a breeze blowing over a lake. They are home. They are two kids in love who are both too good, and their story is doomed to end in tragedy. She can't bear it, can't swallow back her tears as she says goodbye.

"I'll be cheering you on," she says, struggling to speak through her sorrow. "You two don't ever lose each other. And don't be afraid."

They both hum in ascent. Linnet has never felt smaller.

Luz gives her a quick embrace. "Thank you for all your help," she murmurs. "You've done so much for us."

Linnet tries not to cry. "I wish I could've done more."

For a moment, nobody knows what to say. The world hangs in balance. Then Luz lets go, and everything tilts.

"You go ahead," says Asa to Luz. "I just need a sec."

The door opens and closes. Linnet takes a breath. "I know what you're planning," she says softly.

"You do?" Asa's voice is hushed.

"You want to save her," Linnet says. "You wanna die in her place; is that right?"

Asa lets out a breath. "What else would I do?"

Linnet sighs. "I'm speaking from experience—I've been through these Games before, remember. The ones you leave behind won't be unaffected by your death. If you die before Luz, she will be heartbroken."

"But she'll be alive," Asa protests. "And she has people who care for her at home; I..."

Linnet hums softly. "You don't deserve to die any more than she does. Just love her while you can, Asa."

Asa lets out a shuddering breath. "I'm so scared," he whispers.

Asa has never opened up to Linnet like this before—she knows that his trust is hard to earn. The knowledge that he finally trusts her is enough to break her heart ten times over.

"I'm not going to say you shouldn't be," she says, "but try not to let that fear rule your actions. For now, you and Luz are together. Treasure that for as long as you can."

Her voice breaks. She takes a breath, trying to collect her composure where it's shattered on the floor.

"Thank you," whispers Asa. He pauses. "I should go."

"I'll look out for you two. You're not alone... at least not entirely."

His footsteps are slow and dragging. The door hisses shut and Linnet listens to their footsteps and mingled voices until only echoes are left.

Linnet sobs. She folds forward, her shoulders shaking. These Games will never stop haunting her—she wishes that she could isolate herself, never love anybody again. And yet she cannot help feeling, and loving, no matter how hard she tries.

She knows she will lose either Asa or Luz... or, more likely, both of them. And yet she still hopes, and she still loves, because something inside her will never let go of the girl she used to be.

She drags herself up from the floor, every part of her body shaking. She needs to watch the Games, and she doubts that the Capitol will provide description for her. But to not watch the Games is unthinkable.

She doesn't want to put her mother through such a traumatizing ordeal—for her to finally see what her daughter went through fifteen years ago would simply be too much. That leaves Rima, who also has Tributes in the Games.

She doesn't want to do this. But what other option does she have? She promised Asa and Luz that she wouldn't leave them alone. To send them gifts and watch from afar is the least she could do.

She grabs her cane and walks into the hallway; her movements feel slow and dreamlike. The Games will be starting soon. Already her ghosts are nipping at her heels, but she fears that if she has to relive the experience from so long ago, they will drag her down entirely.

She pulls open the door and enters the communal theater room that's offered to the Mentors, for "their watching pleasure," as they put it. As she enters, she hears hushed voices. She pauses, unsure of where to go.

It is easy to feel isolated here in the Capitol, where she is already treated like a child; the Capitolites see her as less than. She hears what they say about her within earshot, as though they think she's not smart enough to understand them.

"How'd she like... win though? She can't even see the other Tributes."

"Must've been a terrible year, for her to win..."

She is tired of feeling undeserving. She is not good enough to be a Victor, and that knowledge has almost crushed her. She would never wish either Asa or Luz to be in this position... but they'd probably do better than her, fit in better...

"Linnet." Rima's gentle voice pulls her out of her spiral. "Come sit with me."

Only here can she feel like she somewhat belongs, like she's at least a small part of something. Maybe hope isn't lost after all. At least she has this tiny group of comrades, few in number but burning bright with pent-up anger at all the ways the Capitol has wronged them, and the Tributes they train as well. She can fight for them, with them. If not for herself, then for Luz and Asa, the two pinpoints of calm in a world of furious storms and garish lights.

"Looks like it's starting soon," says the District Ten Mentor.

Linnet blows out a breath. She will have to be strong for this. Watching her kids die... it might be too much for her. What if she breaks?

"Who are yours?" asks Rima quietly.

"Nines," she manages.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Yikes."

Linnet nods, trying not to let her sadness spill over. "Yours?"

"The twins from Five. They're certainly... a handful." He chuckles, but it's laced with sadness.

"It'll be rough this year," he says.

"I know."

She can hear the countdown, the anticipation crackling in the air. Whatever happens, it will be devastating. But Linnet won't run away; she will watch these Games until the very end, even if it doesn't make a difference in the grand scheme. At least Asa and Luz will know that there's somebody there who will always remember them, no matter what happens. And at least Linnet won't go crazy, knowing that she's doing something good to counteract all of this violence, even if that goodness is miniscule in comparison.

...

Marquis Kennedy, 18, District One Male

The rest of his allies are solemn and silent as they make their way into the prep room. It's finally here, the time when they'll be launched into the Games. The parties, the luxury, the casual conversations with the Capitol aristocrats... all of that is over. Now it's time for something else, something that Marquis knows nothing about. He has no idea what to expect.

Normally, that wouldn't scare him. But something about this feels too tense, like a thread pulled tight that's bound to snap. He watches the other Tributes as they make their way into the prep room—some of them are clustered in little circles, laughing and chatting. Some of them are all alone, like the young person from Six; some of them look terrified. Tremor and Blade are stone-faced; Naya looks calm and confident. Alessio is brooding.

Marquis doesn't know where he fits in.

The ever-present Chalet is waiting for them, with his gentle smile and his kind eyes. Before they separate to change, Naya pulls them aside.

"We might not have time to talk, before the Games start; we don't know. We'll find each other as quickly as possible. Remember that we have the advantage here; we are the alphas."

Marquis has the urge to pump his fist and give Naya a high five, but the atmosphere feels too somber for that, so he stays silent along with everyone else.

She smiles confidently, then waves them away. They scatter. Everyone is talking in hushed tones as though this is some sort of funeral. Maybe it is. Maybe this is the last time he'll see civilization; maybe he visited his last club as Tiffany without even knowing it. The trainers fed him so many lies about honor and adventure that he doesn't know where the exit of this labyrinth is, doesn't know how to unravel himself from their well-woven tapestry of deception. He simply walks behind a screen as he's supposed to, a perfect robot from One.

He's prepared for something plain: sterile white leggings or maybe battle armor, but what he sees makes him gasp in awe.

Before him is a beautiful suit; shiny, pointy shoes, a coat with beautiful jeweled buttons, and puffy pants that look like something out of another time. On top of that is a mask, made of dark wood and decorated with jewels and feathers. He pull it on, perplexed, and stares at it in the mirror. The mask grins back at him. It is elegant, glamorous and utterly ridiculous. But he loves it.

Pulling on all of the heavy clothes with their thick, expensive fabrics, along with the heavy mask, he begins to feel stuffy. He's going to be very sweaty pretty soon. Still, he's not really complaining in the slightest—this outfit seems totally made for him, even if he's never seen anything quite like it before.

When he emerges, he finds his allies waiting for him. Naya is in a beautiful mask with ridged waves carved into it, Tremor has a ghoulish wolf's mask, Blade is in a simple black mask that covers his face entirely, and Alessio's mask is painted into an overexaggerated pout, as if in deep sorrow. Marquis grins, though they can't see his smile behind its frivolous twin. "You guys look great!" he says, his spirits newly lifted.

Maybe everything will be okay after all. To be dressed in such finery... surely the Games can't be that bad. Right?

A silent servant ushers them into another room, where they're instructed to form a line. Marquis is first, as he often is, and he's immediately confronted with a woman brandishing a needle.

"Roll up your sleeve," she says curtly.

He rolls up the sleeve of his elaborate coat and his starched shirt with some difficulty, and he winces at the sharp sting of the needle and the slight pressure of the injection. Unease creeps back into his gut. His District partner is sobbing again. She screams in protest as they yank up the sheer sleeves of her elegant gown and pin her down. Her wails reach a fever pitch.

Marquis looks away, sickened. This girl's been lead here against her will. She is throwing a fit but nobody's listening. Nothing they can do will change these circumstances; nothing will stop the Capitol from forcing them into this. They are being punished for something they didn't do. They're being dressed up like offerings to some hungry deity. Now, their time has finally come to be sacrificed... and for what?

He's gently steered to a spot on the floor. His heartbeat is fluttering like a mad bird, and nausea builds inside him. How could he willingly sign up for something like this? How could he be so foolish?

A tube descends over him. He's being lifted into the air, but there's darkness all around him, and he feels like he can't breathe. He's going to crawl out of so skin, the space is too small...

A distant voice counts down, and the numbers ticking ever closer to zero send anxiety rushing up into his throat. All of this is wrong, it's evil, it's sick...

He hears someone screaming from far away. "I don't want to do this, you can't do this to us!"

Everyone seems to be having their own unsavory realizations. Marquis doesn't know what to do. Should he leave his allies? The mere thought of being in the Careers is enough to make his knees shake. He isn't made for this, isn't supposed to be here.

But Marquis knows that he won't be able to leave the Careers, Naya most of all. Perhaps he can be a force of good without having to run away. He'll make sure each of his fights are fair, that he doesn't callously kill innocents. He... he couldn't handle to be alone, not after the rude awakening he's just received.

He doesn't want to die. But he doesn't want to turn into a monster either; he doesn't want to become the Capitol's puppet.

...

Tremor Atilius, 18, District Two Male

He wonders what game the Capitol's playing now.

It is as if they're mocking him, forcing him to dress in such impractical clothes that look like they're out of some gimmicky play. How could they do this to him? They are rubbing salt in the wound, adding insult to injury. It wasn't enough to send him into the Games as if he was a dissenter instead of a faithful soldier. No, they had to sully the reputation he's been trying to build as well.

He knows that he looks entirely unthreatening, in his silly mask and eccentric suit. All throughout his training, he's made sure to assert himself as a threat. He was satisfied with his private session score, his interview went off without a hitch, and his allies seem to like him well enough. But now this?

All Tremor's ever wanted is to be liked, for his efforts as a hero to be recognized. Because he truly is a good person—he eliminates the world of troublemaking rebels, and he fights for what's right. Even in the Capitol, when he was wronged by the very people he served, he hasn't done anything wrong, but instead been the perfect District Two boy. Why do these things happen to him?

The storm of turmoil rages on within him, but he makes sure not to show his allies. He hasn't really had much of a chance to speak to any one of them individually, save Naya, and that's perfectly fine with him. He doesn't trust them.

Marquis, who's practically the Capitol's darling. He Volunteered for the Games, and is obviously much more beloved than Tremor could ever be. And Naya, with her pompous superiority, acting as if she's done more to better the world than he has, when they both know that's not true. Blade has a certain disdain for the Capitol that he hides well, but that Tremor still notices. He will have to be eliminated sooner rather than later. And Alessio? Tremor doesn't know much about the Twelve boy, but the fact that he's done nothing to earn his spot in the Career pack is simply unfair. In short, Tremor doesn't trust anyone in the pack. He envies them... he even wishes he were in their position sometimes. But he does not like them, and he knows that any one of them wouldn't hesitate to kill him.

Except Marquis. Poor, impressionable Marquis, who walked blindly into this nightmare with a smile on his face.

He looks up, realizing that everyone is making their way to the pedestals which will send them off to the Games. Tremor makes his way over. He has killed before, without even a second thought. He can, and will, do it again.

The tubes close over their heads. Tremor feels himself being lifted into the air. The countdown begins.

Despite all of the factors fighting against him, Tremor Atilius still cannot help but feel confident. He will still serve justice and avenge his family, even if it is in a slightly unconventional manner. His District partner, for example, with her complete refusal to comply with the Capitol's wishes, will be the first to go. He will kill all of those who resist the Capitol with total impunity, and he won't stop until he's reached his goal. He will win the Capitol's favor again, even if he has to destroy everything in his path.

They slow to a stop, emerging from the tubes. Tremor blinks in the glittering sunlight. He is standing in a grassy area, surrounded by the other Tributes, who are all standing in a straight line. He is somewhere in the middle. He doesn't bother to seek out his allies; they'll find him if they must.

In front of him are lacy curtains that seem to open out onto a stage of some kind, though they're currently closed. Tremor suppresses a sigh. He was expecting some kind of battlefield, perhaps a ring fully stocked with weapons and cheering spectators. Or perhaps a complicated maze, where the Tributes would have to hunt each other down. He was not expecting... whatever this is. Some sort of glamorous theater.

The girl from One, yet another rebellious soul, scrambles off her pedestal, a look of panic in her eyes. As soon as she steps off, there's a great flash of light and a tremendous boom. When Tremor opens his eyes, the girl is gone.

"Stepping off your pedestal before the countdown is fully complete will result in death," says a perfectly pleasant, disembodied voice.

Tremor does not move. It's only a shame he didn't get to kill her.

He will not become one of them, a rebel who disobeys the Capitol and is punished. He'll avenge his family, and he will make sure that the rebels are totally obliterated, with nobody to remember them. He isn't sure if it's vengeance or pain or jealousy that drives him, but whatever it is, he doesn't want it to change. Because he's always been this way, and he wouldn't ever want to become something else.

As the countdown nears its end, Tremor readies himself for more bloodshed. When he trained to become a Peacekeeper at the age of twelve, he was utterly ruthless. He'd always kill when asked to capture, each mission completed with outstanding marks. He'd go above and beyond each and every one of his peers.

Despite all of that, he still managed to get Reaped, and now he's here, in a crowd of panicked children, as a voice counts down to the inevitable. Yet he still finds that he will do the same thing, kill and destroy without mercy, because that's what he's always done. And he doesn't know another way to go.

Somewhere far away, church bells ring, and Tremor leans forward, wishing he could see past the curtains so he could choose his weapon. Still, he is ready, and he is unafraid of blood, and that's more than half of these Tributes can say. So when a grandiose voice calls, "Let the sixteenth annual Hunger Games begin!", Tremor is the first off his pedestal.

...

Welcome to the Renaissance- Something Rotten

Oh my goodness. We are here at the launch, with Bloodbath coming next week, and I can't believe it. I remember getting the burst of inspiration for the first prologue and posting this as a total impulse, and now here we are, seven-ish months later, at the Games stage! I just want to thank everyone again, for your patience as I occasionally forget the names of my own characters or post a chapter riddled with typos; you are all angels and besties for hyping me up and giving me kind words. I appreciate each and every one of you.

In other news, we got the first (kinda obvious, lol) hints of our Arena! It ended up being a combination of a lot of things and is a bit self-indulgent, but it's fun and that's what matters! Do you have any predictions for the Games? Victor, or Arena, or any fun predictions you have... I'd love to hear them! Also, I have a poll up about who your favorite Tributes are post pre-games, and you can choose three. That will close right before I post day 1, so in about two weeks. Winner will get a reward, but I'll explain that when it comes. Next chapter, Bloodbath, will feature our last four Tributes; Dria, Jack, Luz and Callisto. After that though, word counts and number of POVs will vary throughout the Games, just depending on what I need to convey, so just wanted to put that out there so you wouldn't be too confused when I throw all structure to the wind, LOL. I will try to be as un-chaotic as possible but I make no promises.

One more thing that I forgot to say last chapter; the letters will show up later, I promise I have a plan with those. I think... that's all I have to say? I hope you're as ready as I am for the Games, and I hope to see you all there! Thank you again to all of the submitters and readers and kind people who have supported me. Love you All,

Miri