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𝐹𝑂𝑈𝑅
ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀᴍᴇs

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In Cillian's mind, district seven was little more than trees and wooden huts.

He supposed he was different now: not quite district but not quite Capitol. He wished there was something in between, where what he was, was enough. Perhaps what he really wished, was to demolish the Capitol and the districts alike. To start new and fresh. To eradicate the need to be the same, to fight for something better. But it was dangerous to wish for the impossible, and it was hard to remember that when so many people didn't.

The Victor's Village of District Seven was central to the entire area, placed neatly behind the old hall and just east of the train station that could only be accessed by Capitol authorised personnel. To each direction the eye could see, trees filled the landscape, thinned and tall, built and grown like light posts. The spindly leaves were the only hint of green for miles. Everything else was monotonously brown.

His own home didn't feel like his own. As he stepped through the front door, the warm scent of bread flooded his nose. The hallway had changed. The green wallpaper he remembered was now a floral pattern of carnations and small birds, dotted with old photos- all from before. By the bottom of the staircase, pairs of shoes were strewn, a single coat hanging limply from the bannister.

"Cillian?"

His mother's voice floated from the kitchen and her rounded face appeared in the doorway seconds later. She blinked once as if trying to clear her vision, and then waddled forwards, dusting her powdered hands against her apron before she could place both palms against his cheeks, warming him from the outside cold that'd seeped into his skin.

"Oh, we were so worried when we didn't hear from you," she said, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. "How are you here?"

"I'm this year's mentor in the games," he said slowly, wary of her reaction.

Hazel's face fell for a moment, the muscles in her cheeks struggling to hold up her usual smile. She patted his shoulder, brushing off something invisible, and then nodded.

"It's alright. Maybe we'll get another winner," she said, trying to convince herself more than her son. "Who knows, with your intelligence."

They didn't say anything for a moment. Cillian pulled on a small smile and nodded briefly.

"Oh, my boy, I missed you," she said, launching her hands towards his face again.

"I missed you too."

She smelled like pine needles dampened by snow. Winter had always been his favourite season. Seeing his mother now, wrapped in her scarf despite the earliness of the month, told him that maybe she was the reason why. It was by pure luck that his games had been cold.

His father lingered behind as Willa hurried forward, wrapping her arms around his knees. Cillian pried her away, releasing her clutch of his legs so he could bend down. His hand found the long, brown plait that fell far past her waist, and tugged the blunt ends.

"You need to cut your hair," he said, watching as she grinned and threw her arms around his neck.

She'd refused to cut her hair since he was reaped, all so she could hear him say those words again.

"Maybe next time," she said sweetly, her face full of pride.

As Willa moved to the side, Cillian raised to his full height, meeting his father's eyes from across the hallway. He nodded, as stiff as a peacekeeper and let out a breath. There could be no more avoiding it.

"Father," he said.

Tom nodded abruptly, wasting no words on a greeting. "Did you get it?"

Cillian pulled the item in question from his jacket pocket, holding out the envelope which was addressed with fine writing like a personal letter. It was light, slipping between his fingers easily as his father took it, and Cillian pushed the thoughts of the things he had to do to get it from his mind.

"The peacekeepers won't think twice about one of these," he said as Tom pulled the travel card from the envelope, switching it over to observe the writing. For a moment, he must have thought it was fake, as he brought it to his face, scrutinising each detail until he knew for sure that it was authentic.

"How did you get it?"

"It was a favour from a friend."

"If only we could repay them ourselves," Hazel said as she came to rest a hand on her husband's shoulder.

"That isn't necessary."

The family spoke little more of the card as they sat down at the kitchen table, only just able to fit around. The large house held an even larger dining room, complete with oak tables and matching chairs, but even after the Games, some little things could never change. On a platter in the centre of the table, sat a loaf of banana bread and a sponge cake, dusted with fine, pearl-like sugar. Luxuries, even for the families of Victor's.

"Don't eat it all," Hazel said quickly as she hurried to lift the tray of cake from the table as Willa reached out another hand. "This was supposed to be for Mel next door."

The name was familiar but Cillian didn't ask.

With a mouth full of bread, Willa turned to him. "Did you bring Johanna with you? She's your friend, isn't she?"

"Is my visit not enough?" He said and Willa scowled, disappointed by the insinuation whether it was a joke or not. "Haven't you met her? She lives in the Victor's Village."

"It's rare we see the girl, never mind speak to her. She has the door boarded up with a number of locks. The only time we see her is when they come to collect her," his mother said as she busied herself tidying her mess. "Poor girl has a bad family. The aunt does nothing but drinks all day and the father is too ill to move. No mother either- killed in a sawmill accident. Poor woman."

It was easy to guess as much about Johanna. Her independence was relentless enough that it wasn't simply just built from her nature. Her protectiveness too came with a fervency, one that could only come from someone who'd taken too much responsibility at a too young age. His mother's influx of knowledge of the girl was unsurprising too. She'd always been one to gossip. Thought the quality came from a place of caring, rather than jealousy or spite.

Tom placed a hand on her shoulder as she scurried over the table. "Hazel, I think it's due time we have some father, son time."

His mother looked between Cillian and her husband for a moment before she nodded swiftly. "Oh, of course," she said, waving her arms as if the fact was obvious enough to hurry her movements. Hazel stood, pushed in her chair, and beckoned for her daughter to follow. "Come on Willa, let's check on the treat."

"We'll take a walk down the Barren," his father said, moving toward the front door before Cillian could argue.

The Barren was a name given to the vast field that hid behind the Victor's Village, far past the wandering eyes of district workers and the peacekeepers that watched over them and the perimeter.

His father was usually a man of few words, but when he did speak, they were words of wisdom, as some would say. Words that held weight, often placed on the shoulders of the listener.

"You need to be careful, son," he said as they finally stopped by the far side of the Barren, resting their backs against the fence. From there, the Victor's Village was little more than a speck of bricks in the distance. Before the games, before the Capitol, the walk had always seemed shorter. "You must have heard the talks. The rest period is beginning to unsettle."

Cillian sighed and ran a hand across his jaw. "The Capitol people seem oblivious to it then."

"You talk to them enough to know?"

He almost wanted to scoff. Didn't everyone know of his... intimate connection to the Capitol? He reminded himself that it was not his father who he should take his frustrations out on. Cillian shook his head. His questions were genuine.

"Haven't you seen the news, read the articles? They're supposed to be a luxury for a Victor's family."

"They upset your mother," Tom said, his eyes closing momentarily as if in pain. "But I hear you play into their game very well."

Cillian let the silence fall softly between them, not knowing what meaning lay behind his father's words. He was comforted momentarily, however, by the knowledge that his sister wasn't exposed to the truth of his dealings in the Capitol. As impossible as the task seemed to be, he wanted to keep her as ignorant to that side of life as he possibly could.

"Your mother wants you to stay. To not go back."

"She knows I have to."

"And let them run your life? You won," Tom scoffed, half in disbelief, speaking as if a victory held any meaning. It was unlike him. "People are realising your position is not the euphoria they're fighting for."

They'd discussed this very thing- the injustice, the brutality- only twice before. It was the culture of competition, written into the very fabric of society. Compete and you could stand a chance of life, a chance of reaching that glorious image that was forever painted in the media like a fresh utopia.

It was in that way only, that the Capitol would ever allow the insinuation that its system was anything but a paradise and that there was something better than living amongst the rubble. A cull was the warning risk, written in tiny font on the back of the contract that had been written years before most had even graced the earth. With death being an option each way, there was no choice but to fight, to race to the line, play at the game that would eventually kill them.

Die for obedience. Die for allegiance. Die for rebellion. The odds were never in the favour of the districts. Even that line- riddled with images of gambling, of fragility- had been curated to destroy their optimism, to ridicule their very presence in life.

His father had taught him the true nature of the Capitol- of Panem. But nothing could have prepared Cillian for the reality, nor could his father ever begin to understand the extent of it.

To say he resented the fact that his father believed his life in the Capitol was that much easier was unfair. One could not just leave the Capitol, choosing not to turn up like picking a sick day at work. The consequence was not skipped pay, nor could it ever be, thanks to the lack of money he was paid within his line of work. But when his father looked at him, he did not see the same things he himself saw.

That was what the Capitol wanted: a division, a wall building between even the most sturdy of families. Cillian swallowed against the dryness of his throat. It was that mentality that could allow the justification of greed- a mindset pieced together by his time in the main city.

He turned, reaching out to him with a saddened smile.

"It's not euphoria. It's living every day with so much fear that you would have rather died in the arena," he said bluntly, watching his father still.

"They should know that, know the truth," Tom said.

"Don't they already know? No one wants to be reaped."

He remembered how ill he'd felt before his first reaping. Annoyingly, his anxiety had always manifested as sickness.

"No, but if they are, they want to win."

That much was obvious.

"What do you want me to say, father?" Cillian said desperately, shaking his head violently. "What use would the knowledge of my feelings do?"

Tom took him by the jacket, shaking him slightly. "It would give them an incentive to fight, my boy. To get out."

"There's no escaping the Capitol. Not when they have you on their chains," Cillian said sharply, his eyes closing for a brief moment, before staring toward him purposefully. "Use the pass. Get out and find what's out there. Willa is old enough to know why you're doing it. You taught her well with an axe and I've shown her how to set a snare."

"And your mother could make a meal out of anything."

They let the unspoken question fill the air.

"She thinks you'll follow," Tom finally said. He wasn't able to look his son in the eye.

"I know. But I'm of more use to you in the Capitol than out there," he said, letting the reality of it sink in heavily. "When will you leave?"

"In the middle of the Games. There'll be less attention coming out way..."

"And more toward mine," Cillian finished.

Immediately, he thought of Finnick, of the competition that the Capitol was selectively brewing between them. It was one that seemed like it would never end. Cillian was glad to say, at least, that his family didn't know about that.

When he made it back to the train, Johanna was already in their carriage, her legs sprawled out across a settee, an arm crossed over her eyes, shielding them from the burning light that drifted through the wide window like the dusty haze of the wildfires that were frequent in Seven. As the door zipped closed behind him, she didn't stir. Cillian floated forward and in a sudden movement, threw himself down beside her, making her whole body jolt.

The words that left her mouth were not pleasant. Johanna sat straight, her back rigid as she glared at him.

"I take it your visit went well," she said as he met her eye.

"As well as it could've," he said. The look on her face said to elaborate, and so he did. "My father likes to discuss politics." Johanna nodded, her expression bored. "How was yours?"

"Good," she said after a moment. Then, when she noticed Eirlys heading through the door, she raised the volume of her voice. "I got to practice with my old axe. Shame they wouldn't let me bring it."

"Now, now. You know the rules, Johanna. No district weapons in the Capitol. It really is for your own safety," the escort said, as she flurried into the room, setting herself down on the chair across.

"Nice hair."

"Thank you." Her hands found the bottom of her now electric blue hair, fluffing the puffy ends until they bounced across her shoulders. "I decided to use my morning off as best I could think of. Reach over and check the time, will you dear?"

"Just gone half-past eight," Cillian said.

Eirlys clapped her hands together. "Brilliant. The mentor announcement will be starting at any moment."

As the words left her lips, the hologram sprung up from the stand, displaying the dull face of head game maker Augustus Agrippa. He blinked for a moment and then, as he realised he was broadcasting, pulled an awkwardly wide grin onto his creased face.

"We welcome you, district mentors, to the 72nd annual hunger games," he said swiftly, swinging himself around to stare into the camera with eyes so piercingly pale that Johanna glanced away to the device that projected his image. "We're looking at an exciting time this year, with a total of four new mentors replacing some of those from last year. Finnick, district four. Cecelia, district eight. And, of course, Johanna and Cillian from district seven.

"As we all know, a mentor is an experienced or trusted advisor to the district tributes and a lifeline to the outside world. The Hunger Games begins with the reaping tomorrow. Mentors are expected to guide their tributes through the process, providing them with the opportunity to get sponsors. Sponsors must be Capitol born and purchased in the form of an item, not a money donation. Mentors should not and cannot aide the tribute in the knowledge of this year's individual game."

The Game Maker's speech was short and added little more to what Cillian already knew about the role of a mentor.

"Welcome to the hunger games."

The projection finished, the image of Augustus folding in on itself, the buzzing sound fading until it died out into static that sounded distinctly like muffled rain. Across the room, Eirlys clapped her hands together excitedly, standing to her feet, and brushing out the wide skirt of her dress.

"We will make a winner."

He'd never truly wondered whether district escorts found benefits in their tributes' victories.

"Why bother?" Cillian said, startling her slightly. Eirlys had avoided him ever since he'd refused to work at the opening party.

"Better dead than a victor in the Capitol," Johanna agreed glumly.

Eirlys knew better than to be surprised by their pessimism. In one curt movement, she nodded and swooped from the room, letting the sliding doors seal shut behind her.

They dropped into silence again. A silence that made Johanna uncomfortable. She shuffled from side to side against the chair, folding her arms across her chest and dropping them again. It was her eyes that ticked over to him restlessly.

"Why the frown?"

He didn't know what made him say it. "Because I'm sad, Johanna. Is that what you want to hear?"

To his surprise, she howled out a laugh: a barking mad laugh that stumbled into words. "Is that the famed, mysterious Cillian sharing his emotions?"

"What would the tabloids think?" He said with the roll of his eyes.

Pouncing to her feet, Johanna's hands were held wide as she bent down in a swooping bow, nodding her head, red and black hair swarming her face. When she appeared back straight, the expression on her face was crudely mocking: teeth grinning sadistically, the white of her eyes blinding, and her dark eyebrows lowered into her lids. It was a look that could only be an impression of the Capitol personified.

"My dearest friends of the Capitol, I have some news that may be upsetting to many. Our darling Cillian, sex symbol of the city, is not the cold-hearted beauty we think he is," Johanna joked, her head tilting to the side as if she was speaking to an audience, a movement that paid mind to Caesar Flickerman. "It seems Finnick may win after all. Join me in singing the anthem in acknowledgement of our disappointment."

A bottle of heavy liquor and a thin, crimson bottle of posca found their way between them as Johanna raised a new glass, the brown liquid sloshing over the sides, crashing to the floor in heavy drops. Her feet stepped over the stains as if trying to hide them, even momentarily.

"Oh, Horn of Plenty. One Horn of Plenty for us all!" Her singing voice was scratchy, hidden by the lowered tone of voice, like a trumpet.

"And when you raise the cry, the brave shall heed the call and we shall never falter."

"One Horn of Plenty for us all!"

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