V. Trepidation

In my crown, I am king
I love their endless worshiping
I am raw, a dinosaur
But I will never be extinct
So don't mess with me

Charon Tricolette. 18.
District Eight Tribute.

This would've been worth it if he'd taken out Dice along with the others.

Would've, should've, could've… Charon sighs, leaning onto the smooth concrete wall of his cell. They nibble at the skin behind their lower lip, once and then twice. He bites down four times until he starts to bleed. The metallic taste of blood trickles onto his tongue as they swipe their left index finger over the wound. He presses firmly, ensuring their skin is completely coated crimson. Charon turns around and drags his finger downwards against the wall, their blood staining a small vertical line onto the concrete.

Forty-one. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

It's been forty-one fucking days since Dice Veloutine's earsplitting voice ricocheted off the sturdy canvas walls of the Circus of the Divine. Forty-one days since the bastard announced to all the spectators at the crescendo of his trapeze act, "Charon Tricolette is a murderer!"

The audience had erupted in a cacophony of hysterical screams as Peacekeepers blocked the tent's entrances, ensuring there was no chance in hell the newly revealed suspect of Eight's serial killings would be able to make their getaway.

Charon's always prided himself on being incredibly lucky. There's no logical reason for an average person to get away with as much as he has; he's got to be extraordinary. But luck, like liquor and love, eventually runs out.

"Where the fuck do you think you're taking me?" They hiss at an officer who cuffs their wrist with his hand. "Are you going to trust this bastard?"

"We'll talk later," the Peacekeeper responds, his voice completely void of emotion. "If you stop resisting, later will be sooner."

As if!

Charon digs the pointed heel of his red leather pumps at the officer's boot, hoping it'll allow him a moment to break away.

Stunning one Peacekeeper means three follow. Stunning three means a dozen men in white tackling him to the ground and sticking something through his fishnet tights into his thigh, making his vision blurry and faint.

(If they'd been wearing slightly less clothing, maybe Charon would have actually enjoyed it.)

People always say, "there's no use dwelling on the past," and Charon used to believe them. He's got much better things to do than sit around reminiscing on his childhood, back before he grew a spine and decided to make a name for himself. Now that he's incarcerated, the only thing they have to look forward to each day is another stroke of blood on the wall and another extended moment of thought about how much better his life would be if he'd only killed Dice when they had the chance.

(Dwelling on the past is far better than being reminded of the future. Charon Tricolette is many things, but they are not an idiot. They know that in the coming hours, some pompous freak will shout his name to the entire District, condemning for everything he's done and sentencing him to death at the hands of an equally fucked-up kid.)

The only thing that can shock Charon now is seeing the exact number of people who want them dead. Is it wrong to say he's almost eager for it? The higher the number, the more people who will be incredibly disappointed when he returns just weeks later on a throne instead of in a coffin.

(He's used to being a disappointment. How would this be any different?)

Charon knows how to maim and kill, but more importantly, they know how to put on a show. They've been putting on shows for eight years, for fuck's sake.

However, performing with the Circus of The Divine differs from performing in the Games. With the Circus, Charon was inhibited. He was forced into a cage and coerced into throwing knives at targets to appease men, women, and children alike. To perform for a crowd and a crowd alone is akin to being trapped. Why is it that Charon faces such scrutiny for breaking free?

Why must they be punished for entertaining themselves instead of the crowds?

There was a time when Charon "accidentally" threw his knife at Dice's hand. The older boy bled out in an instant, crimson coating their tent's sandy floor.

Dice had asked Charon, "What was that for?"

"I wanted to see how pretty you look when you bleed," Charon replied, shrugging his shoulders as if such a response was normal.

"Making people bleed isn't normal, Charon." Oh, how Dice would always chastise them like they were a poor, decrepit child. "Why don't you throw the knives at the target instead? There are people who pay great money to watch you do that."

Charon always wondered, Does he think that I'm a moron?

They've always known that knives are meant to be thrown at wood instead of flesh. They've always known that people are meant to be hugged instead of slaughtered. Charon's also always known that he doesn't care about society's preconceived notions of what he should and shouldn't do.

(At night, Charon lies on the concrete imagining Dice with a noose around his throat. He dreams of the traitor hanging off a tree branch, utterly helpless as they throw knife after knife at his stomach. The boy begs to be helped and moans about how he longs for a savior, but nobody's there to help him. Instead, he's dangling as his flesh twists further and further into a knot, his clothing drenched scarlet with sin. He's at Charon's disposal until he's but a mangled lump of flesh on the ground. Oh, how the thought makes them smile.)

He should've taken out Dice while he was at it. Lord, Charon's a fool for thinking his lover could someday change. They're an idiot to believe that maybe someday Dice would let Charon do whatever he pleased. She should've expected that eventually, the cage he's stuck in would turn from symbolic to real.

"The hell are you doing?" Charon finishes his forty-first bloody streak on the wall as a husky voice hums in his ear.

"Why's it matter to you?" They turn their head to see a Peacekeeper observing them as though they're an animal in a zoo. "I'm not hurting anybody, now am I?"

"Quit with the funny business," the officer scolds him. "Why the fuck are your hands covered in blood?"

Charon folds his lip back, exposing his fresh wound to the Peacekeeper. "I bit myself, and it bled."

Charon spits on their hands and brushes them against their pants as if he's not being watched. He holds up his fingers, now clean, and smiles at the officer.

"My hands aren't covered in blood anymore," Charon announces with pride. "Unless you give me your gun and let me stick it down your throat so we can change that."

"Do you want us to put you down before the arena does?" The officer scoffs.

"I'll pass on that." Charon rolls their eyes. "I thought maybe the two of us could work through our problems. I'd get you out of that bulky, uncomfortable uniform, and we'd have a little chat about our lives, get to know each other like lovers instead of like a prisoner and a guard. Maybe I'll kill you; maybe I won't. I think we can both agree it'll be more fun than all this verbal foreplay."

He knows the Peacekeeper isn't going to indulge in his suggestion (oh, what a shame that is), but watching how he squirms is rather funny. Clowns are supposed to be funny, so all Charon is doing is committing to his role.

They've been shoved in boxes their entire life. Son, friend, lover, clown, none of them ever really fit him. The title he's to be given in a few hours or less, murderer, won't fit him either.

Did he kill people? Well, yes, but that's far besides the point. Charon Tricolette's far more than just a murderer. He's an entertainer, and it just so happens that a dozen graves have become his stage.

(Eight doesn't see that. They don't see how he was slowly rotting, bored with himself and the world around him. They didn't see their tears as they tried to control their urges, only to realize there was no point in hiding them. All they see is a sick, perverted creep.)

(At the end of the day, maybe that is Charon's identity, but he'll never see it as such.)

"I'll take that as a no, then?" They comment on the officer's lack of a response. "A shame. You could've been my last before I'm sent to the Capitol. What a fun title; last fuck-buddy of Panem's first Quell victor."

"Can you just stop talking?" The Peacekeeper snaps. He hunches over and utters a faint "please" that Charon assumes they weren't supposed to hear.

"I mean, I could, but I'm just having so much fun," they whistle. "It's kind of rude of you to be so aggressive to me when I'm the one who's being sent to die over here."

"You don't know that for a fact."

Oh, but Charon does. There's no use in pretending that the public will send anybody else in Eight into the Quell instead. He's heard the musings of Peacekeepers in the halls, taking bets on the percentage of people who want Charon dead. They know that Eight's government launched a campaign against them the moment he was arrested if only to cover their asses since it took him so long to get caught.

A part of him is glad that he was caught now and not another time. If he was exposed for his atrocities a week from now, he'd be executed any much fuss beforehand. At least now, he gets the chance to do what he does best (maim, kill, ruin lives without warning) on his biggest stage yet. Now, Charon has the opportunity to potentially even be celebrated for killing, despite Eight previously condemning them for it.

"Well, then I'd prefer we get this over with," Charon rolls his eyes at the Peacekeeper. "Go on, chain me up, and drag me out of this musty cell. I promise I won't moan that much."

"I'd prefer if you didn't moan at all," he responds, fiddling with his keys.

They smirk. "Beggars can't be choosers."

Before the officer can fully unlock the door, he wedges his own body into the cell with Charon. He holds a pair of handcuffs in front of him and beckons Charon, "Your hands?"

With a sigh, Charon complies, groaning as promised when the cuffs click against their wrists. The Peacekeeper loops a metal chain around the small hoops connecting the handcuff and pulls it towards the cell door.

"This is really kinky, you know?" Charon quips as they're led through the prison hallways. He's not even offered a chance to give his cell, his bloodstained home of forty-one days, a proper goodbye. Rude.

The officer doesn't bother responding to him anymore. Probably for the best.

As Charon gets closer and closer to the prison's exit, the other inmates press their foreheads against the bars of their cells, eager to get a peek at the convict they were forbidden from interacting with. Of course, the Peacekeepers wouldn't want Charon making any friends. That would almost be nice of them; it'd be out of character.

They didn't expect the first rays of sun they've seen in over a month to be as blinding as they are. It takes Charon a moment to adjust his eyes to the sudden change.

"So now you're the one who's squirming, huh," the officer sneers at him.

Charon chuckles. "Touché."

As they're dragged to the town square, people laugh at him and point, but Charon doesn't dare react. He's come too far to give in to the people who just want a reaction from him.

In a way, it's funny.

Just two months ago, these very same people considered Charon their star. They shelled out dollar after dollar just to see him perform, and now they're promoting his public death.

If he wasn't allowed to get what he wanted, the feeling of successfully getting away with murder after murder, then Eight won't get what they want either.

Charon Tricolette's entire life has been one long performance. It's about time he receives proper credit for his talents.

Ripley Sabyn. 17.
District Five Tribute.

There are way too many people here.

Even though she towers above them, Ripley can't help but feel like they're all staring directly at her. It's silly because everybody in line looks straight ahead at the Peacekeepers as they prick fingers and smear blood on paper. Perhaps it's because they've always been the odd one out, to the point where people not glaring daggers at them feels like an abnormality.

Why am I making such a big deal out of this? Ripley wonders as they take another step towards the front of the line. It's a good thing that people aren't paying attention to me. It means that there's less of a chance of me—

She sighs, cutting off her train of thought. They aren't sure why they're making such a big deal out of this; it's just another Reaping, after all. In previous years, Ripley has never had to worry about being selected, her mothers wealthy enough that tesserae's far out of their reach. Why now is there suddenly a whirlpool of anxiety and dread spinning in her stomach?

(They like to pretend that nothing's changed in the past year. They pretend that the Sabyn Community Hospital is still on the top of their game, her entire family virtually untouchable. They like to pretend that this year's Games are the same as those in the past, and there's no Quell that's allowed her District to decide somebody's destiny. That the chances of them selecting her are zero.)

(All they can do is hope enough people forgot about what happened and can separate them from her parents.)

As the line shuffles forward, Ripley feels their chest brush against somebody's back. The boy in front of her stumbles then tilts his head upwards.

Before he can say anything, Ripley stares into his beady green eyes and mumbles haphazardly, "I… I'm s-sorry…."

Obviously, she didn't mean to bump into him, but they still feel bad for bothering him.

(Bother. Inconvenience. That's all Ripley's been to their parents from the moment she was born. Nothing can change the fact she's a cripple to the world she inhabits. Nothing can change the fact everyone they know would be better off without them.)

"Yeah, you should be sorry," the boy says. "Not just for bumping into me, but for everything else."

"Pardon?" Ripley tilts her head in confusion.

They're already sure they'll soon be hearing a spiel about how her parents did something to ruin this poor boy's life. It'll be another situation where Ripley doesn't know what she's supposed to do or say. It's rare for Ripley ever to understand how to act when it comes to social interaction, but it's much worse when she's expected to condemn her parents.

(Truth be told, Ripley isn't sure she could ever do such a thing. Her mothers have loved her despite all the times they've felt unloveable. They've given her the world when she felt like all she deserved was dust. She's mindful that their mothers hurt many people, but they'd never hurt her. That's a lot more than most other people could say.)

"You're that Sabyn kid, right?" The boy asks.

"Y-yes…" It's hard for them to go unnoticed, most of the time. They stand out like a sore thumb amongst their peers at nearly six and a half feet tall. They can cower and hide all they want, but at the end of the day, much like the truth, they'll always be uncovered.

"Your mothers spiked my little sister's chemotherapy with fentanyl," he says flatly. "Were you around for that? Did you let them do that?"

Those are two tricky questions.

Yes, Ripley's been at her mothers' sides throughout their acrimonious hijinks, but it wasn't until recently that she learned their actions were wrong. Maybe they're just painfully naive, but she always believed her mothers acted with their patients' best interests at heart. They always did what was best for their child, after all.

Maybe they should've said something when the hospital kept expanding. Perhaps they should've spoken up when medication shipments seemed to multiply overnight. Perhaps they should've done anything to take a stand against their parents' malpractice. Perhaps then, they wouldn't be so afraid as the line continues to inch closer and closer to the front.

"I'm so s-sorry." There isn't much else that Ripley can say. This boy's already too hostile to forgive her instantly, and he shouldn't. Not when Ripley could've so easily told her mothers to stop with the wrongdoing. But, she didn't, and nothing can be done to change that.

The boy rolls his eyes in disgust. "I voted for you, by the way. I hope you get what you deserve."

Before Ripley can reply, he bolts away from her, leaving them in the dust. Probably for the better because whatever response she'd have wouldn't fix a thing. No, there's no denying what'll soon be their fate, just moving slowly in line to prevent it from happening.

As she inches closer, the girl behind them whispers, "I voted for you too."

"So did I…."

"Me too!"

"Ripley Sabyn? Yeah, same."

"Easy choice, honestly."

"You hear what her mothers did to my father?"

"Was it the same thing they did to my mother?"

The voices continue to grow louder and louder in Ripley's head until tears dwell in their eyes. They lift their hand to their eyes, refusing to give their oppressors the power they probably deserve, and tilt their head downwards. Wearily, she repeats to herself, "Out of sight, out of mind. Out of sight, out of mind."

She inches closer to the front of the line and her unfortunate destiny.

"Oh, look at that, she's crying!"

"A bit too late for her to come to her senses now, don't you think."

They tuck their head underneath their arms, trying to block everything out. They feel the people around them shoving them forwards. Shivers creep down her spine, dread spinning in her stomach. Still, they close their eyes to rid themselves of their tears.

Their waist jerks, and they feel their chest collide with something heavy. As they open their eyes, she feels her body sink to the ground collapsing heavily like a rock as laughter erupts behind her. She glances upwards to see a Peacekeeper's head hung over her.

Ripley says the only thing they know how to say. "I'm sorry…."

The officer extends his arm toward her, pulling her off the ground. "You should be more careful about your surroundings. I recommend not closing your eyes when you're in a big group of people."

"Thanks for the advice," Ripley stammers. "I know that sounds like a joke, but I appreciate it."

They're sure she'd see their eyes rolling if they could see behind the Peacekeeper's helmet.

"What's your name," he asks, ignoring her previous sentiments. "I'll help get you all checked in for the Reaping while you're here."

They hunch over, not wanting to reveal the name that's left them doomed but knowing she doesn't have a choice. "Ripley. Ripley Sabyn."

The officer laughs, "Sabyn, huh?"

"Yeah…" Ripley nods her head.

The Peacekeeper leans back on the table behind him, using his fingers to search for a small pricking device. Once he's found it, he holds it in front of Ripley and says, "Best of luck in the future. Something tells me you're going to need it."

Right, because confirmation that they're doomed from an authority figure is exactly what Ripley needs right now. They look down at the device in his hands and mumble, "You're going to check my blood with that."

"I know what I'm supposed to do," the officer snaps at her even though she wasn't trying to be rude. She was just trying to get her thoughts in order. She didn't mean to speak them aloud. "Give me your index finger."

The man's grasp around their finger is firm, nearly to the point where Ripley's afraid they will bruise. If they did, it'd serve them right. She tries not to flinch as the officer presses the needle into her index finger. Growing up in hospitals means that Ripley's become immune to the sight of blood, amongst other things. Still, seeing their sticky red liquid always catches her off guard. What's worse is when they look down at the ground and notice that their knees have been scraped from their fall. A shame because their wounds from their previous tumble had just recently finished scabbing.

(Their mothers taught them never to bleed since that's nothing but a sign of weakness. Ripley promised the two of them that they'd never fall to the ground, never tumble, and be perceived as somebody less than. It's a promise she could never keep, her skin always scuffed and her mouth full of lies.)

The Peacekeeper presses Ripley's finger on a sheet of paper and then shoves them out of his way. "Next!"

Ripley grabs onto her shoulder in slight pain, her vision again going slightly blurry and her mind again convincing her that such turmoil is what she deserves for being a coward. It's what Ripley deserves for being complicit in the suffering of others, never raising her voice when she could've saved so many. How dare she dream of a doctor when there's so much blood on the hands of the people around her, so much death that she should've done something to prevent?

They wander around the town square searching for the seventeens' pen, hoping that nobody recognizes her again. Lord knows she's had enough embarrassment for the day, and if their suspicions are correct, they will only be further humiliated soon enough.

(Ripley hopes that they're just being paranoid again. They hope that somehow, for some reason, the people of Five have found somebody more worthy of death than her. They know how ridiculous it is to get her hopes up, but that still doesn't stop her from dreaming. Fantasies have quickly become all that Ripley has left.)

She sits at the end of one of the rows, not wanting to climb over the people beside her so they can sit in the middle. That'd require talking, which means more interactions where she's seen as her mothers' child and nothing more. More experiences where Ripley feels like scum of the earth for merely existing. More of the turmoil they so desperately deserve, even if they try to avoid it.

They sit back in their chair and attempt to relax amongst the hustle and bustle. It's hard to hope for, though, because as the area begins to fill, more and more people stare Ripley in the eyes with dread and trepidation. It's as if they're all in on a cruel joke about her that she'll never be privy to. Whatever it is, they're not sure they want to know.

After ten minutes, a lady dressed in candle wax and elaborate fabrics takes to the stage and addresses the audience with an oh-so-cheery, "Greetings, boys and girls of District Five! I hope you're enjoying your afternoon today."

Ripley can't bring herself to laugh like the people around her. No, instead, all they know is utter fear.

No matter what happens in the next half an hour, all Ripley can do is hope that somehow she's able to change her District's mind. If Five chooses not to vote them in, it's proof that she's above their mothers' sour legacy and more than capable of making it in the medical industry on their own.

And if it's them who's chosen for the Games, at least now they know they truly deserve it. At least then, somebody less innocent wouldn't be subject to the punishment Ripley Sabyn's cowardice fated them for.

Gremory Rossmani. 18.
District One Male.

"There's not a single soul who wouldn't give up everything just to feel nothing."

It's a belief that's been drilled in Gremory's mind from the moment he could form a coherent thought. It holds true even now as he hisses at the Peacekeeper drawing his blood from his left index finger. He's not sure why exactly he sneers at the officer when he presses Gremory's digit onto an oily white sheet of paper (It's fear; it's definitely fear), but he can't quite control himself.

"Is everything okay?" The Peacekeeper questions him, noting his uncomfortable expression.

Gremory doesn't bother looking at the armored man as he walks past him. There's no use giving his attention to somebody who's already been made vulnerable in his eyes. The moment the officer stepped into his uniform for the first time, he gave up all his freedom to the Capitol. Now, he's but a slave to them. He can pretend he's a divine figure all he wants, but like anybody who dares to wedge themselves under the Capitol's thumb, he's a pitiful, worthless drone.

Gremory has never had much use for anybody who's already so far gone, neck-deep in madness even if they're unaware. Maybe the Peacekeeper relishes the fact he's been stripped of all his individuality, condemned to a life where he serves a "greater good," that isn't all that extraordinary. Gremory will never know, and thus, he doesn't care.

As he slithers through a sea of wooden folding chairs, he slightly cranes his neck to the side and calls back at the officer, "Everything's fine."

Of course, it is. After all, July fourth at two in the afternoon marks Gremory Rossmani's exoneration.

These past few weeks have rendered him listless. The hurried meetings in the breakroom of the Viper's Nest where he whispered proposals for his sister's demise into the ears of his contacts took more out of Gremory than he expected. All is well, though; the sleepless nights and nervous daydreams will be worth it when Glasya's name is called and he's finally set free.

He'll laugh as he watches the fear rise in his twin's eyes. It's high time Glasya learns that there's no place for people void of morality in this world. Gremory's waited far too long for her to be consumed by the very pandemonium she sought to avoid.

While the citizens of One are the people voting Glasya into perdition, Gremory will reap the rewards that come with her finally being gone.

"I thought you and your twin were close," Kirana Ferrero says once Gremory's made his plea to her.

He sighs, handing her another pill and guiding her fingers to her mouth. "I thought that we were close too."

"I don't know how I feel about sending her to die over a misunderstanding," his contact admits.

Gremory scoffs. What happened between him and Glasya was far from a "misunderstanding." What happened between them was him logically assuming he could trust the person who he's been intertwined with before he was even born and dozens of people suffering because of it.

He's not sure he feels too terrible for all of the victims of that fateful night. A few souls had it coming, but Godfrey certainly wasn't one of them.

Gremory presses his lips against Kirana's ear and whispers softly, "Don't you want to live deliciously?"

"I do," she murmurs. "I really, truly do, Gremory."

"Well, you won't be able to with Glasya alive." He kisses her cheek and pulls away before she can initiate more. "At least think about it."

She grabs Gremory by the collar, trying to dig her fingers into the pocket of his blazer for another pill. He curls his fingers around her wrist and pushes her off of him.

"You can have it if you promise to vote for my sister." Gremory presses a capsule of ecstasy to her lip but doesn't let it slip between them. "You can have it, and so much more."

"Then I promise." Kirana uses her teeth to pry the pill from Gremory's fingers, a soft whimper escaping from the back of her throat as she swallows.

Gremory pulls her close and enfolds her lips between his. "I was hoping you'd say that."

He makes his way to a seat on the aisle of the eighteens pen just in time. As he arrives, the escort begins her annual monologue about the "significance" of the Games and their "profound importance" to the country of Panem. Gremory can't say he agrees with her rambling. Sure, he finds the Games and the desperation they deliver entertaining enough, but like many things, they could always be more extravagant. The helplessness Tributes feel when the last glimmer of hope leaves their eyes would only be enunciated if the Capitol made strides to embellish the Games further.

The Quell is a step in the right direction. Gremory suspects the despair that'll soon consume Glasya will be more liberating than anything the Games has seen in previous years.

"Now, as you know, this year is a special year for our beloved Games," the escort, who's now introduced herself as Luxe Urie, announces. "Last week, you all hopefully voted on who you think is best suited to represent District One in the Twenty-Fifth Games, and I'll be displaying the percentage of votes received by the top three citizens on the screen behind me. Next, I'll call the recipients of those three proportions up to the stage and reveal who you, District One, have voted as your representatives."

Gremory politely claps his hands together, the sound drowned out by the thunderous applause surrounding him. He licks his lips and reclines, pleased at what's undoubtedly soon to come.

"Like always, I'll start with the girls," Luxe says. She presses a button on the side of her pedestal, and three numbers appear behind her. "As you can see, somebody has accumulated twenty percent of the votes, another lovely lady has received thirty-two percent, and lastly, thirty-three percent of the votes have been awarded to somebody in this audience."

Thirty-three percent that makes sense. While Gremory doesn't know everybody in One, or even close, he did tell his contacts to inform their friends that Glasya Rossmani is who they should be voting for if they want to make an actual change.

"And the recipients of these percentages, in no particular order are," Luxe declares, Gremory leaning forward and nearly falling off the edge of his seat. "...Celestia Carambar, Sapphira Starlett, and Glasya Rossmani!"

He sighs in relief at the sound of his sister's name. He watches from across the pen as she rises to her feet with a meek expression on her face. Gremory chuckles. Of course, she's pretending to be innocent. Doesn't she know it's always the quiet ones who end up being the most dangerous?

From the fifteens pen, Celestia, a girl with tan skin and ginger hair, steps forwards, her face riddled with fear. Whatever she did to make such a significant portion of people vote for her, she's going to get away with it. There's no way what she's done was nearly as bad as Glasya's atrocities.

Gremory recognizes Sapphira Starlett as she skips out of the seventeens pen and onto the stage. Whenever she comes around the Viper's Nest, she's always rather theatrical, even if there aren't any drugs running through her veins. Glasya introduced Sapphira to Gremory a year ago, claiming that she was an aspiring actress who would do anything to succeed.

"Anything?" Gremory had asked her with a wink.

Sapphira nodded her head up and down like a helpless puppy. "Yes, anything!"

He slid the girl her first packet of Stardust. Once she took her first whiff, she was already gone.

She's proven herself a bit of a nuisance over the past few months, constantly begging Gremory for more and more substances, but since she pays a pretty penny, he doesn't mind. A few weeks ago, she gave him a poster with her face on it and begged him to vote for her in the Quell, but as soon as she turned away, he crumbled it into a ball and threw it in the trash.

There's no way in hell Gremory would ever vote for anybody besides Glasya. The fact at least twenty percent of the District chose Sapphira instead is a bit concerning. Not that Gremory's too surprised; many people in One have always radiated foolishness. He'll never be able to help all of them.

Luxe smiles once all three girls have taken their position beside her. She arranges them in a neat little line, then continues to speak. "The girl from District One who received twenty percent of the votes and will not be the representative for the First Quarter Quell is…."

Gremory bites down at his lip.

"Celestia Carambar!"

As the petite girl walks down from the stage, a wave of anxiety washes over Gremory. The past months of his life all boil down to the next few seconds. If Glasya's name isn't called, his work will be futile, and he'll be forced to live with her once more. But there's no way a machiavellian beast like her would get beat out by a delusional thespian, right?

"With thirty-three percent of the votes, I am pleased to announce District One's female representative." Luxe stands between Sapphira and Glasya and grabs them both by the wrist.

A single bead of sweat drops down Gremory's face as he awaits her decree.

"Sapphira Starlett!"

And just like that, Gremory's entire existence comes crashing around him. Sapphira jumps up and down with glee while Glasya descends from the stage, still ever-so-composed. Gremory feels his brain matter boil beneath his skull, his eyes fixated on his ever abhorred sister as she walks through the aisles, slowly approaching him.

He scowls at her wordlessly and raises his palm to strike her in the face. But, before he can do that, Glasya kneels and whispers in Gremory's ear, "Nice try, brother."

She sits behind him and begins to hum, Gremory hardly focused on what Luxe is saying until he hears his name loud and clear.

Gremory springs up from his seat and cocks his head at his sister. He grabs the bottom of her seat and begins to pull it from underneath her.

"Why are you being so dramatic," Glasya teases him. "You haven't even been declared One's male Tribute."

He grunts, throwing her off the side of the chair and onto the ground.

"Yet," she whispers with a sinister laugh.

Before Gremory can get another swing at her, he notices Peacekeepers rapidly dashing towards him. Mindless pigs, he thinks as he brushes off the legs of his pants and walks towards the stage. He knows it's wise not to cause trouble in front of the entire nation. The next time he's alone with Glasya, he'll continue what he started.

As he walks up the stairs and stands beside Luxe, Sapphira offers him an excited wave. Gremory doesn't return it. Instead, he crosses his arms and huffs. I should've known Glasya would try to pull something. I should've known that all the previous misery wasn't enough for her.

Of course, she'd be the sort to try and get her own brother shipped off and slaughtered. Whether or not Gremory wants to admit it, they've always been similar.

That doesn't mean he's going to let her cut him down.

"With seventeen percent of the votes," Luxe begins to announce. Gremory looks behind him and sees the numbers seventeen, twenty-five, and thirty-two illuminated on the screen.

"Paris Vistello!"

Gremory slams his foot to the ground in fury as an overweight boy makes his way off the stage.

There's no way Glasya was able to communicate with over a quarter of the District. He attempts to rationalize with himself. There's no way he's the one voted in when it should've been her. Maybe the Rossmani twins are destined to suffer together, running the Viper's Nest until they're cookie-cutter molds of their parents and their vices. Even if it's not by much, that fate is better than rotting on national television.

"With thirty-five percent of the votes, our male Tribute is…."

Gremory's chest rises and falls in rapid succession.

There's no way… There's no fucking way… There's no way she can actually do this to me… After everything we've been through, there's no way that she can—

"Gremory Rossmani!"

The world slips through his finger like the Stardust he sells. He was so close to salvation, closer than ever, and now…

The boy next to him descends back into the pens. Gremory is left on stage with Luxe and Sapphira on either side of him. If he wasn't so dignified, all the dread bubbling in his stomach would make him bend over and puke.

Sapphira shakes his hand a bit too eagerly, a delighted smile on her face and stars in her eyes. If people weren't watching, he'd kick her right between the legs and send her tumbling to the ground.

"Isn't it astonishing that we're both here, Gremmie?" the girl drawls, her voice somehow even more irksome than usual.

Why it's maddening, he muses, contracting every muscle in his body to avoid rolling his eyes at her.

"I was a bit worried my District partner would be some sort of creep, you know," she continues in a whisper. "I'm glad it's you, though, because we already know each other, and now we get to be celebrities together!"

"Thrilling," Gremory deadpans. Absolutely thrilling…

Sapphira lets go of his hand (Thank Panem for that; how does one person sweat so much?) and pivots towards the audience, her hands on her hips as if she's a model.

He'll never quite understand her. He doesn't think he wants to, either.

"The Tributes of District One!" Luxe enthuses, digging her fingernails into his wrist.

As the audience claps, Gremory can't help but wince. They're all glad he's the Rossmani twin being sent to their death, aren't they? That's their mistake. When Gremory returns, he won't be nearly as gracious towards them as he once was. He tried to warn them that Glasya was the real snake that laid dormant in the Viper's Nest, yet they refused to listen. Now, they can deal with the consequences.

It's not his fault they deemed a blockhead more worthy of death than a legitimate threat.

"Oh, this is going to be so much fun!" Sapphira whistles as Peacekeepers rush her and Gremory off the stage.

Not for you, it will be…

He'll have his revenge against the disillusioned starlet who ruined his vindication by merely existing. He'll ensure Sapphira dies with his poison in her veins, submissive to the truth that Panem is no place for those stuck in a fantasy.

'Tis a land of madness and depravity, and Gremory Rossmani will be why Sapphira Starlett finally gives in.

Don't Mess With Me - temposhark

Happy five chapters to We The People 2: Hot Girl Boogaloo!

Today, we got an extra special look at three extra special Reaping Day experiences, and as expected, they were all miserable. Thank you to Erik for Charon and Will for Gremory. No thank you to Phobie for Ripley because she does not deserve to die, and you are a stinky little bitch for submitting her to me.

If for some reason you are not on Discord but are reading along, I would recommend checking the blog. Why's that? Well, Erik is an absolute babe and has been drawing the children as they are introduced. Ve's art is really super incredible, and ve deserves the world for taking it upon vimself to draw this entire cast literally because ve just felt like it. So yes, go Erik! We love Erik! It was also vir birthday this past Saturday, so happy belated from your weird gender fucky child whose intro you read months ago and I.

OH! And here is a really fun and sexy thing I am doing. After getting my wife Brooke's (FlawlessCatasrophe) blessing, I will be following in their footsteps and doing a weekly question for all my lovely readers who I just really, truly, care about and would never do anything to hurt. With that being said…

Weekly Question #1: If your body odor was transmuted into a vape flavor, what would you call it?

I will be providing my answer next week, but am deeply looking forwards to y'all's responses. That's a great segway into the end of this AN which is my obligatory "thank you so much for the support" message. I still mean it, y'all are great.

Alright then, I'll see y'all next week with the obligatory depressing intros chapter basically every fic has these days. You've been warned.

Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds