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[𝗶𝗶𝗶. 𝗹𝘂𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗿𝘆]
𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 , 2200

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𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙖𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙪𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙗𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙤𝙘𝙠, decked out just as grandly as the rest of the proud city,  in the wings of the Remake Centre. Wren's stomach turned within her, conjuring up an uneasy sense of nausea that was once foreign. Her childhood in the district had moulded her into a character that displayed nothing but pure strength and alexithymia. But, now, as she was shrouded in the darkness of impending death, she felt so small under the gaze of the country.

The airy skirts of her ballgown billowed at her feet, of which the terminal portion of her leg bore the weight of Cinderella-like glass slippers, allowing her to glide across the hay infested concrete flooring towards the awaiting chariots.

She eyed the great stallions attached the vehicles in wonder as they loomed over the tributes as still as magnificent statues. Wren couldn't remember the last time she saw a horse, at least not a wild one. District Eight was void of many fields, farms and countryside, over time it had become a metropolitan landscape, dominated by factories and fumes.

Her attentiveness was too distracted and wonder struck by the spectacular animals she neglected to notice the path ahead of her was not clear. The airy state of her consciousness crumbled as she blinked, her eyes landing on the broad chest that was inches before her nose.

Wren halted, suddenly, neck snapping up to eye the man in her way, disgracefully.

"Move," she snapped without a second thought, her bitchy attitude oozing and diverting her manners, or lack thereof. 

The red haired girl was quick to meet the deep ocean iris' of past-victor Finnick Odair, and his obscene smirk. Now, Wren couldn't deceive herself into believing that Finnick Odair wasn't as stunning as the capital made him out to be. His beauty was effortless, perfectly aligning him with the title of 'Panem's Golden Boy'. His dirty blonde hair fell just above his eyes and curled slightly at the end, tousled, sun kissed like he'd just come from the beach. Fitting for the 17 year old. His skin held the soft-glow of a bronzed tan.

Wren could all but refrain a scoff at his perfectness.

Finnick eyed the girl mischievously and extended a course hand, "Well, hello to you too, beautiful. Finnick Odair."

This time Wren did scoff at the boy's haughty introduction. She ignored his hand and folded her arms over her chest, "Finnick Odair? The capital's fucking golden boy? I know who you are."

Finnick frowned at both her bluntness and her outright rudeness, "Such a pretty girl. District Eight?"

Finnick's comment sparked a reassessment in Wren's brain as she recalled Cecelia's advice to play the sweet, vulnerable girl. He'd be mentoring this year, meaning it was most likely that he'd been gathering information to relay back to his own tributes. So, she bit back her snark and silenced her aggression in order to stretch her lips into a phoney smile.

"That's right, Odair," Internally groaning, she blinked up at the boy, "If you don't mind, I must be off."

Desperate to vacate this conversation and find Niko, Wren attempted to brush past the young victor. Finnick stopped her, clutching her forearm lightly before she could flounce off. The warmth of his fingertips alarmed Wren and his eyes bore into her own as if he was reading into her.

"It's Wren, yeah?" He questioned. Wren nodded, briskly tugging her arm away before Finnick could figure her out any further. But, the boy had already come to his conclusion. He knew what she was. A rose with unmistakably sharp thorns.

If Wren had walked away any faster from her suspicious encounter, she'd have been running, the curls of her fiery locks bouncing against the skin revealed by her backless dress.

Her eyes swooped around the paddock, searching for her district partner and team. As she glanced around, she took notice of all the other tributes. The sheer vanity of the careers, the nervousness of 11 and 12. Many threw out disarming sneers, many would not lift their gazes from their shoes, all were dressed to represent their districts, polished to perfection.

She spotted Niko, jumping from foot to foot beside the eighth carriage in line, dwarfed by the horses. He too was clad in formal attire. An expensive looking suit fit his lean figure. It was clear that the District Eight tributes were dressed to characterise the elegance of their home. They both looked as if they'd walked straight out of the garment factories in the plaza at the centre of town.

Cecelia stood beside Niko, tentatively rubbing his shoulder and nervously surveying her surroundings. Spotting Wren, the blonde immediately waved her over to stand beside the pair.

"Now," Cecelia shifted so she was facing both children, "I want big smiles and friendly waves. You're playing characters. Likeable characters."

The woman glanced pointedly at the redhead in front of her upon the word likeable. Wren rolled her eyes, which she did admit to herself was not an attribute of the construct Cecelia had imagined for her.

Before Cecelia could reprimand Wren further into presenting herself as a polite young lady any further, the beginning notes of the maddening capital anthem erupted from the speakers attached to the hovering drones.

"Wren." Cecelia shouted over the noise, searching the girl's eyes for any signs of the slightest chance that she may obey her mentor. Wren watched her do so before relaxing her shoulders and smiling sweetly.

Cecelia, relieved, nodded thankfully before gesturing to the chariot. Wren hitched herself into the vehicle first and then reached her hand down to tug Niko up beside her. As they stood to their full heights within the sleek black carriage, both tributes watched as the horses of the first chariot began to trot forwards through the curtains that hid the less than worthy paddock from view.

The screams from behind the curtains amplified as the citizens of the capital cheered and applauded for this year's tributes. At the noise, Niko coughed uncomfortably and brought his small hands to cover his ears.

Wren glanced down at him quizzically, his suit shimmering in the shards of light scatted around the room, his mop of curls slicked back with an excessive amount of hair gel. They'd even painted his face with layers of foundation to hide his pubescent blemishes.

Yet, despite the prep team's effort to hide his innocence and vulnerability, his child like fear and nervousness bled through the coatings of cosmetics. Niko's panic wrenched at Wren's heart, twisting and warping it as she watched the boy try to hold back tears sparked by the ignorant cheers of delight that were growing in volume.

Without thinking, Wren reached over and gently wrapped her bony fingers around Niko's wrist, pulling his hands from his ears. Niko flinched at her touch and looked up at her, his glazed over pupils dancing around. Wren, who had never been very good with her words, pulled Niko's arms down to his sides, smoothing down the wrinkles in his suit and pressing against the hunch in his back so the boy stood up straight.

"You can do this." Wren practically yelled over the noise. Her words fell onto to deaf ears as Niko shook his head, body and face crumbling once again. Wren caught him and picked him back up, positioning him to satisfy conventionality.

"Niko!" Wren grabbed the boy's face rather forcefully, eliciting a shocked gasp, "You can do this."

Niko's lips parted to protest in a cloud of self deprecation but, Wren beat him to it.

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"Say that you can do it."

"I-"

Niko reached up to shakily wipe his eyes, slightly creasing what ever chemical his stylist had used to brighten his deep under eyes.

"Say you can do it, Star Boy." Wren repeated firmly, adding in the nickname to evoke the hint of a smile from the boy as he recognised the words from the previous night.

"I can do it, Star Girl." Niko replied, voice wobbly. And that was all he needed as Wren felt him straighten under her grip. She released her own hold on him, leaving him to stand tall all by himself.

Content with the fact that Niko was no longer a wriggling mess, she readjusted herself this time, plastering on her perfect smile and clutching her district partner's hand as their horses tugged their chariot through the curtains and into the circus that was the capital streets, lined with rows and rows of spectators, roaring for them almost anomalistically.

They jumped and screeched like animals attempting to be free of their enclosure. They were feral.

Wren's eyes darted across the crowds resentfully, every cheer seemed to grate on her. And yet, she kept her grin in place, attempting to wave in a friendly manner. Then, she saw it.

Projected high above the avenue they were being jolted down, stretched across a curved screen, was her own face. She almost didn't recognise herself at first. The shimmer, the glitz, the glimmer. But the camera caught her narrowed eyes, stormy and fuming, and the expression she was trying her best to hide. A flash of movement moves to the other side of the screen. Niko.

Wren's fingers clenched around the rails of the chariot. Niko looks far too small atop their coach, like a child playing dress-up in someone's else's costume. Too pure. Too kind. His eyes were wide with fear as he tried his best to grin through it all, like he was enjoying this.

The red head drew in a sharp breath as she found herself questioning. How the hell was she going to mould the outcome of these games to crown Niko Kent as their 68th victor?

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𝙒𝙧𝙚𝙣'𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙜𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙥𝙩 𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙩𝙚-𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙪𝙩𝙚 𝘾𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙚, the lacy train trailing behind the redhead girl as she hurried herself into an awaiting elevator. She'd never been more eager to rid herself of an outfit, to shed herself of this new, glorified skin of a soon to be killer.

Gathering her skirts into her arms, the fabric spilling slightly out of her clutches, Wren spared a hand to punch the number eight in the panel within the elevator. The machine started to rattle and the shimmering doors began to slide closed.

However, before Wren could be entrapped into the boxed machine and in transit to her district floor, a hand slid between the doors, evoking the elevator to register and open up for another passenger. She recognised the playful smile, the twinkling eyes, the picture perfect poster boy for the capital's propaganda. Finnick Odair.

Wren practically popped a blood vessel resisting the urge to roll her warm brown eyes.

"Room for another?" The boy smirked as he clearly had no mind to actually wait for an answer, slipping into the elevator beside Wren. He raised his eyebrows at the bundle of skirts in her arms before delicately tapping the number four beside him.

Wren pressed her lips together in a scowl. She no longer had the energy to play pretend today and she had waisted all her smiles on the demanding citizens of the capital.

There was a buzz and they began their descent in awkward silence. The kind that made Wren itch in a way she didn't know how to comprehend.

She turned slightly, eyeing the boy who was now leaning against the back wall lazily, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Wren whipped her head back around to face forward before Finnick caught on to her staring.

But, like a magnet that was clearly trying to defy her better wishes, Wren found herself turning to glance at the victor once again, unable to fight the curious pull.

"Something on my face?"

Wren looked away briskly.

Finnick pushed off the wall, shifting closer to her, "You're not slick."

Wren hummed in annoyance, eyes flicking to the screen above the doors. Floor 11. Another three floors to go.

The silence returned, heavy and tense now that the pair had established an obvious dislike for one another.

Finnick spoke again, quieter this time but still oozing with confidence, "You always this charming, Rose, or is it just me?"

"Don't flatter yourself." Wren practically spat, still refusing to look at him. She paused, "What did you call me?"

"Rose."

She did look at him then, twisting her neck to throw him a quizzical expression, shuddering. She hadn't quite realised just how close he was stood. She was practically enveloped in the pungent stench of the capital's own branded aftershave.

"Why?"

Finnick shrugged, squinting at Wren as if she was far away from him. He really was struggling to see her, to read her, "Prickly."

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Floor 8. Wren had no choice but to trudge into the connecting corridor, restraining herself from glancing behind her at Finnick.

Gosh, he was irritating.

She shook her encounter off. There were much pressing issues swimming in her subconscious that leaped mountains above the likes of perfect Finnick Odair.

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well hey there angel faces, hope you enjoyed <333