Chapter Text
You want the Capitol to burn.
You don't just want it to burn- you want it to explode. You want to watch every single one of those affluent, privileged, douchebag motherfuckers to roast over a slow flame and burn to death. You want to watch every stupid, weirdly constructed building with stupidly overcomplicated architecture burn to the ground. You want to watch President Reiss get tied to a fucking stake and have a slow, painful death as he burns to a crisp.
No, you don't want to just watch it- you want to do it yourself. You want to be the one that lights the match, the one that starts the fire.
It'd just be so much more satisfying to be the one that does it, wouldn't it? Be able to have a front row seat to the destruction of the capital, watching Rod Reiss's tough façade fade away as he screams for mercy.
"You scare me sometimes."
You blink, looking over to Petra. "Only sometimes?"
She laughs quietly, picking at some of the grass by her leg. "When you glare so hard at the birds that it looks like you're trying to kill them just by glaring at them, yes," she says with a gentle roll of her eyes.
"I don't need my eyes to kill birds," you grumble, rolling your eyes in return.
There's a chirp of birds in return to your statement, and you resist the urge to throw the small stone that you've been fiddling with between your fingers at one of them. You seek the bird out with your eyes, looking for how far away it is- yeah, that's within your throwing range. You could probably hit it if you wanted to.
You listen more. Besides the chirping of the birds, you can hear the rustling of the leaves in the breeze. The faint noise of rushing water from the river that's a fair distance ahead of you.
"Our last year, huh," Petra muses softly. "Who would've thought we'd make it."
You huff. "With all those extra rations I took last year, I thought for sure I'd be picked."
"Oluo thinks it's a conspiracy," she says.
"Of course he does."
"No, I'm serious! You know. They say that for every year you're eligible, you get more entries, right? But it feels like the twelve and thirteen year old kids are in it as often as our age bracket."
She's got a point. "You know, you'd think that they want the oldies in the games," you say, tossing the pebble down the hill.
"We're not old," Petra says with a laugh. "We're twenty."
"Oldest eligible for the games," you clarify with a roll of your eyes. "Because, you know. At our physical prime or whatever those stupid announcers say. We give better fights."
"You trying to jinx it?" she teases.
"No," you argue, kicking her shoe. She kicks you back. "Just- well, you know. I think Reiss has a thing for watching minors die."
Petra laughs, which turns into a cough. "You can't say that."
"Why not?" you reply, shrugging. You fall onto your back, the grass squishing underneath your jacket. "No one can hear us out here."
You're right, of course. Sneaking out past the fence that surrounds District 12 is the only true way to get some piece and quiet, away from your nosy neighbors, away from the Peacekeepers that patrol the streets, away from the Capitol cameras. You do it often: mostly to hunt, sometimes to set traps, sometimes just to nap in the sun. It's worth the risk, every single time.
You like it out here. You like how your heart rate picks up every single time you duck under the broken part of the fence, how you can hear the muffled steps of animals running away when they hear you.
It's exhilarating. The way that you're a predator out here. Not like the prey that the Capitol makes you out to be.
"Do me a favor."
You tip your head, looking to Petra, who's also fallen on her back into the grass next to you. "What?" you ask, frowning.
"Don't volunteer."
You blink in surprise. "Why the hell would I do that?"
Petra stares at you incredulously for a second. Then, she tips her chin up to the sky and laughs. "Because the only reason you haven't run away yet is because you've got your vendetta," she says. "Everyone knows. And you know full well the easiest way to get close to the Capital when you're a District 12 peasant is to-"
"To win the games," you finish, reaching down to your pocket to fidget with its contents. "Yeah, yeah, I know."
"So don't volunteer," she says, and you glance at Petra as she sits up. "Don't. Because it's stupid."
"What, you think I'd lose?"
"Don't ask me that."
"Ouch," you say dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. "The faith you have in me."
Petra sighs. "You know it's not that. We both know it's all about who's in the games and what the arena's like, not about how good you are."
That's true. The two of you have seen games where the Career tributes- District 1 and District 2- have wiped out all of the competition and made it look like a leisure walk in the park. Other years, the best tributes have been knocked out at the very beginning by mutts or whatever sort of convoluted environment the gamemakers have come up with that year.
Petra's right. The two of you have seen promising tributes with scores of ten or eleven die within the first thirty seconds. There's no guarantee in the arena, no matter how good you are.
"...I'm pretty good," you say.
"Oh, don't start," Petra says with a sigh.
"What?" you object, sitting up. "I can shoot."
"You're self taught."
"And that just means I'm a damn good learner. I know what plants to eat, I know how set traps," you continue.
She raises her eyebrows. "They're not very good traps."
"They still work," you protest. "And I can survive on my own. I've been doing it for the past seven years, how is two weeks in an arena going to be any different?"
Petra frowns at you. "What, do we not count?"
You sigh, turning your gaze back out to the forest in front of you. "You know that's not what I meant. But I could win. You know that."
"Yeah, and then what?" Petra sighs again. "You try something stupid in the Capitol and President Reiss has you killed?"
"It's better than doing nothing."
"It's better than being dead."
Debatable. But you don't say that out loud.
Petra huffs to herself, looking back out over the forest. The two of you have tiffs over this sort of thing occasionally; she knows how much you hate the Capitol but she knows you're rational about it. You keep your head down, you don't challenge Peacekeepers, and besides the occasional (more like daily) sneaking into the forest, you don't do much to challenge the rules.
But she's not dumb. She knows it's all coming to a head. This is your last chance to be in the games, and as practical and smart as she knows you are, she also knows how reckless you can be when you have the opportunity.
That's a bit hypocritical, now that you think about it. How can you be both rational and reckless? Aren't those two opposites?
"Can someone be reckless and rational?" you ask Petra.
"Are we talking about you?" she asks, and you don't have to reply for her to know the answer. "Well, I wouldn't say you're... reckless. Just... driven."
"Driven," you repeat.
She nods. "Driven... or maybe motivated. Focused so hard on one goal that you'll do anything to accomplish it- yes, that means being rational. Because you're so focused that you know when it's important to be practical and think with your head instead of your heart."
She's right. In all fairness, she normally is. "Fine," you agreed. "You're right."
But what if you don't want to be rational anymore? What if you just want the Capitol to know the extent of your fury, of how deep your rage goes?
"I won't volunteer," you tell Petra, looking towards her. "Unless it's you or some poor twelve year old that looks like she'll piss her pants. Otherwise, I won't."
"Promise?"
She holds out her pinky.
You stare at her for a second. She's right; there's no guarantee the games are going to be in your favor, ever. Knowing your luck, this would be the year that they make the entire thing in a desert and you die of heat stroke. Or, the Capitol decides that they don't like you and they squash you like a bug, just because they can.
It's not worth it. She's right.
You lock your pinky with Petra. "I promise," you agree, squeezing tight. "You're stuck with me."
She laughs. "Oh, lucky me."
You're not lying. Volunteering doesn't happen in District 12, very rarely if at all. Anyone who does volunteer without any apparent reason is immediately under watch in the games; the people that volunteer almost always have a plan and a method of attack, like the Careers. Or they're volunteering to save someone else.
You've got no plan. But you've got a goal: kill President Reiss.
But still, not a plan. So no, no volunteering for you.
You and Petra head back to the district, ducking under the broken part of the perimeter fence. You've known Petra for years now, clinging to her after you lost your family, and she's the one who kept you afloat. When you were ready to lose all hope and call it quits, Petra stayed right next to you and introduced you to her friends, giving you a community to rely on.
Without Petra and her little squad- Oluo, Gunther, and Eld- you wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be here to plot out your revenge on the Capitol.
You and Petra head back to the tiny house where she lives with her parents; she always gives you nicer clothes to wear for the Reaping. Petra's parents are so sweet, and you can tell how much they adore her- she's the light of their life. You're not sure if she realized how serious you were when you made that promise to her: if she gets chosen, you'll volunteer in a heartbeat. You can't imagine her parents having to lose her.
The Reaping. Reaping number one hundred and twenty-one.
You can't remember when it was that the age range changed, jumping from ages twelve to seventeen to ages twelve to twenty. The Capitol gave some bullshit excuse about less and less children being born every year, so increasing the age range would "make the selection larger". Personally, you just think that the stupid fucking Capitol idiots were getting bored and wanted more excitement, so they wanted more bloodlust.
So this is your last year. Last time you have to stand in a pack of sweaty girls in this stupid clothing.
"Hurry up," Petra calls, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts. You throw on the drab grey collared shirt and black pants that Petra had given you- dark and muted colors, which work fine for you- and pull on some shoes that are too big for you as you stumble out of Petra's room, heading to join her and her parents.
"Sorry," you say quickly, brushing off the dust that's already started to collect on your pants.
Petra's mother smiles. "You look wonderful, dear."
"One last one," Petra's father says, "and then you can shove that clothing away into the cellar as soon as it's all over."
He's already assuming that neither of you will be chosen. You glance at Petra; she shoots you a meaningful stare before she falls into step next to you, eyes turned forwards.
District 12 is miserable. You've always known that, but Reaping Day makes it so much more apparent. The sad faces of parents, clinging onto each other and their children. The kids, some already in tears from how scared they are, others clinging to their parents' legs and refusing to let go. The coal dust, the dirty streets. It's all so depressing.
You stick one of your hands in your pocket, fiddling with the matchstick that you keep there. You know how to make a fire of your own in the wild, but you'd traded a few turkeys for some matchsticks in case of emergency.
Fire. It's always been so fascinating to you. How bright it is against the drab misery of District 12.
Maybe that's why your fantasy of the Capitol is always the same: with it burning to the ground. With President Rod Reiss burning at the stake. With everything, every last building and every last person in the Capitol going up in flames.
Hm. Could you set the Capitol stage on fire?
"You're plotting something again, aren't you?"
Your lips twitch. "You've got to stop reading me like that."
Petra snickers. "Which one was it this time?"
"Burning things."
"Our favorite little pyromaniac!" someone says, and you glance sideways. Your lips split into a grin when you see it's Oluo, wearing a collared white shirt. His hair has somehow been tamed; you know it won't last long.
You laugh when you feel him nudge your shoulder. "You name it, I'll light it on fire," you say.
"Alright," he agrees. Oluo steps into pace with you and Petra, humming thoughtfully. "The stage where they make all their shitty announcements," he suggests. "Burn the stage."
"It's not wooden, though. Hard to light on fire."
"You'd find a way."
You smack his arm. "You know me so well."
"Do not set the Capitol stage on fire," Petra says with a sigh.
"Quiet!"
The snap of a Peacekeeper along with the cocking of a gun makes the three of you fall silent. You pinch the matchstick in your pocket so tightly that you're surprised it doesn't snap.
It's moments like this that you hate. When the Capitol cronies remind you just how little power you have. How pointless your lives are. Like you're fucking livestock being herded, cattle instead of human beings.
"I'll see you two after, yeah?" Oluo mutters, and he splits off to head towards the guys' section.
You stay with Petra the whole time, a wordless agreement to stay side by side as you both check in with the Peacekeepers and shuffle into line. You wonder how many times your name is in that glass bowl sitting up on the table on the stage. When you're twelve, you're entered once; thirteen, you're entered twice, and so on and so forth. So you're at... nine entries, at least.
The Capitol's got a nice system where you can trade extra entries for rations, too. A stupid way to exploit kids, but it's got you another... at least another dozen entries.
So in that giant glass bowl, filled with thousands of slips of paper, you've got maybe twenty, a little over. Your odds are fantastic, then.
"I love you," Petra whispers.
"Ditto," you whisper back.
"Welcome!"
There's a crackle of feedback from the microphone as the Capitol floozy perches herself in the center of the stage. She's got sapphire blue hair, puffed up like a giant blue cloud, and she's wearing some pastel blue puffy outfit. Glitter falls as she shifts from foot to foot in giant sapphire blue heels. Sunlight shimmers against her outfit.
She blinks giant eyelashes as she scans the crowd, a ridiculous grin on her face. It makes you want to smack her. "Welcome to the 121st annual Hunger Games!" she chirps. "It is my honor to be District 12's escort for the third year in a row now. I'm sure these games are going to be splendid!"
You fidget with the matchstick in your pockets. The Capitol finding enjoyment in the deaths of children will never fail to infuriate you.
"Now, to introduce one of District 12's previous victors, who will be serving as the mentor this year," Sapphire Blue Lady chirps lightly. You shorten her name to Sapphire Lady in your head. "Dot Pixis!"
One of? More like the only living victor. Everyone in District 12 knows who Pixis is, even if not everyone knows the story of how he won his games. He won over twenty years ago, well before you were born, but apparently the games were traumatizing enough that he needs to drink himself into a coma every single year at the time of the games. You don't think you've ever seen him sober.
"Mr. Pixis!" Sapphire Lady says brightly. "Be a dear and come on up."
There's a momentary pause before Pixis stumbles on stage, and to what you're sure is no one's surprise, he's got a bottle in his hands. He staggers forwards, taking a hearty gulp of his drink before his arm falls and the bottle tips. Liquor splashes across the stage before he whips the bottle back up to his mouth again.
One of the capitol officials sitting at the side stands up and moves to him. They murmur something that you think is "alright, come on," as they guide Pixis to his seat next to them. The drunkard collapses, head tipping back against the wall.
"Well," the Capitol escort says, forcing a smile. "That's fine, that's fine. Our victor of District 12, everyone!"
No one claps. No one ever does.
Petra grabs your hand and squeezes briefly. You squeeze in return.
"And now," Sapphire Lady says with forced enthusiasm. "For the selection of the female tribute that will represent District 12 in this year's games!"
She prances over to the bowl, heels clacking across the stage. You've got one hand in Petra's and the other in your pocket, fidgeting with your matchstick. The lady rummages through the thousand-something paper slips before her ridiculously long nails select one to pull out, and she heads back to the microphone.
This is the last one. The last poor girl's name that you'll ever have to hear while you're standing in the eligible reaping area.
"And for the female tribute, we have," she starts, struggling to unfold the paper in her hands.
She calls a name.
The matchstick in your pocket snaps.
You hear Petra inhale sharply beside you; her palm squeezes yours so tightly that you think she might break something in your hand. A breeze ruffles through the area, but you can't blame the breeze for the goosebumps erupting down your spine.
The name she called was yours.
Yours.
You keep your eyes on the stage and squeeze Petra's hand one last time before you let go and start moving your way through the line. The girls next to you shift backwards, giving you space to move.
"No," Petra breathes, but you refuse to look behind you.
Well... you kept your promise to her. You didn't volunteer.
This is it, then. Your chance to exact your revenge, to give the Capitol a massive middle finger. You're a part of their games now, which means you've got immunity until the games begins.
Which means you have to cause the Capitol as much pain as physically possible until then.
Alright.
You need to show them you're not scared of them. You need to show them that you're willing to do whatever it takes to burn them to the ground. If you can scare even one Capitol member, then you've done your job.
So you stride to the front. You walk confidently with your hands in your pockets, no hesitation in your steps. The irony of this whole situation- promising not to volunteer and then getting chosen anyways- is making your lips twitch.
If you're going to die, you're going to go out with a bang and be as much of a pain in the ass as you can along the way.
You move up the stairs, your hands still in your pockets, fidgeting with the broken matchstick. You keep your chin up, shoulders back, and your eyes glued to Sapphire Lady as you march up the stairs.
"Welcome, darling!" she chirps. "Congratulations."
You force a tight-lipped smile and then face the front. The faces of every single member of District 12 stare back at you. You glance at all the young girls of the district, ages twelve to twenty, all staring at you with a familiar look.
I'm sorry it's you, but I'm glad it's not me.
"And now for the male tribute!" Sapphire Lady continues, skipping over to the other glass bowl.
You spin the matchstick pieces between your fingers in your pocket, feeling for the broken edges. You glance behind you at the victor. Pixis isn't even focused on the Reaping; his head is still tipped back against the wall and he looks like he's passed out. You've seen the looks that the victors normally give the tributes: a look of wistful sadness, knowing that they have to mentor a kid that won't make it all of five minutes in the games. You're kind of glad for the ignorance instead.
Well, you're certainly not planning on going out in the first five minutes. You're going to make it worth your time.
You turn back to the front as Sapphire Lady calls, "Zeke Jaeger!"
Yup. No idea who that is.
A blond man stumbles forward. He's got plenty of facial hair, so you assume he's closer to your age. He's wearing some wire-frame glasses that look like they're a gust of wind away from falling right off of his nose.
Zeke stumbles to the front. You glance around the audience, looking for your friends. Your eyes manage to find Eld and Gunther, who are both watching you with solemn looks on their faces. Beside them, Oluo is watching too, but he doesn't look upset- he's smirking.
Ah. What was it he'd said earlier? When you were talking to him?
Burn the Capitol stage.
Well, Pixis did spill a bunch of alcohol on the stage before he actually made it to his seat...
Huh. It'd make for a splashy entrance.
You lock eyes with Oluo and nod slightly. His grin widens.
"And here we are," Sapphire Lady says excitedly. Your fingers close around the broken matchstick in your pocket. "Your tributes this year for District 12! Shake hands, you two."
No one claps or cheers. Everyone is dead silent, just like every year.
You turn to the other District 12 member that's just been handed a death sentence. He raises his hand, posture stiff, and you pull your hand out of your pocket, matchstick pinched between your fingers. You strike the match against your pant leg and as you raise your hand to shake his, you drop it to the stage.
It lands straight in the spilled alcohol, and flames jump into existence.
Sapphire Lady yelps, stumbling backwards and nearly tripping over her own feet. You can't help but grin as the fire consumes the liquor on the stage, and by consequence, catches the pant leg of one of the Peacekeepers. He starts swatting at it and another tries to help; your grin keeps growing.
There's gasps from the residents of District 12. Pixis finally looks like he's awake; he's staring at you with a weird look in his eye. Have you caught the victor's interest? Maybe.
You glance back at the audience; Oluo's grinning madly. Your eyes flicker to Petra; she's smiling, but it's sad. You don't like the sadness, so you look back to Oluo. He's still grinning.
You can't help it; you laugh.
You laugh, turn on your heel, and march straight through the line of liquor-induced flames to head backstage. That's where they wanted you to go, right? So you'll go.
It's only after you're behind the stage and out of sight do you notice your pant leg is on fire. With a frown, you batter the flames out with your hands. Ah, well, you walked through flames, what did you expect? When the flames are out, you examine your now-ruined pant leg: it's only a little bit charred. Mostly still good.
"Well, I never!"
You look back towards the opening to the stage. Sapphire Lady is fanning her face with her hand, lips parted in a gasp. It's only now, seeing her up close, that you notice all of her makeup is matching her outfit: blue eyeshadow, blue jewels at the corners of her eyes, blue lipstick.
"A stage on fire! Heavens forbid," the woman quips, trotting over to you. "And walking straight through it! The lack of regulation and manners here is astounding. Are you alright, dear?"
You blink stupidly. Did she just insult you and then ask if you were okay?
The male tribute- what was his name, Zeke?- comes stumbling backstage. He shoots you a glance, not a particularly angry one but more... intrigued. It comes across as creepy, and you wrinkle your nose.
Sapphire Lady pats your shoulders, brushing away nonexistent dust. "Alright, off to your rooms," she says. "Off you go! Say goodbye to your family."
"I don't-" you start to protest.
But a Peacekeeper's already grabbed your arm, and then another is on your other side, and you're being shoved towards a doorway. They push you inside (not very gently, might you add) before they slam the door shut.
Well, you don't really have family. Is it just some time in silence then?
You're in some sort of office- desk, chair, shelves lined with books, vases with flowers- and you start skimming through the books. School taught you the basics of how to read, sure, but there's not a lot of source material around District 12, so your opportunities to learn more vocabulary are limited.
You've just started considering tearing some of the pages from one book to use as fire starter if you need it when the door to your room opens. You glance over, and it's your group: Petra, Oluo, Gunther, and Eld.
"Well," you say quickly, shoving the torn book pages into your pocket, "I didn't volunteer."
"You idiot," Petra says, and she crossed the room to grab you in a hug. You hug her back as tightly as you can; as much as you joke about the situation and refuse to let the gravity of being selected for the Hunger Games sink in, you know full well this may be the last time you ever see Petra.
"I didn't volunteer," you murmur. "I didn't."
"Still picked, though," Eld says, and Petra lets go of you so that you can turn to him. "Are you doing this?"
Doing this- also known as giving the Capitol hell. "You know it," you say firmly, looking between all four of them. Petra's eyes are red; you don't let your gaze linger on her. "You all know full well what my plans are."
"But you could win," Petra blurts out. "You could! You can shoot, and you can hunt, and you can..."
She trails off. Oluo wraps his arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, and I'm going to try," you say firmly. "Petra, I promise you, I'm going to try my ass off. But..."
You trail off. "Capitol's going to hate you," Gunther volunteers. "So it'll be difficult."
You nod. "Yeah. They are."
"Have you even considered playing it safe?" Eld asks, eyes flickering from Petra to you. "Keep your head down, play the games out. You could win."
He's right. The safest option would be to play along with the games, smile when the cameras are on you, show off your skills so that you get a high score, get yourself some sponsors to get you through the games. Take your revenge after you've won and you're deeper in the Capitol.
But to that, you'd have to win. And everyone is well aware of what those odds are. "I could," you agree quietly, "but you guys know what the odds are."
The odds of dying. The odds of never coming back. The odds of this being the last time you're ever going to see your friends.
"It's risky for me to assume that I can just be a menace if I win," you say lightheartedly. "May as well just be a pain in the ass the whole time."
Oluo chuckles weakly. "You dumbass."
Ah, so they can see right through you. This tough façade, fueled by years of pent up rage that your friends are all too familiar with, is only doing so much. You're still coming to terms with what this means for you: you're probably going to die. You've thought about volunteering, thought about being here, thought about being in these games for so long- and yes, you'd considered the consequences, but it's still scaring you.
You don't want to leave these guys. You don't.
"Come here," Oluo says, and you step towards them. It's a messy group hug, but you're clinging onto them like it's the last chance you'll ever get (it very well might be) and they're doing the same.
"I love you guys," you murmur, voice muffled by the shirt of whoever you're clinging onto. "Thank you, for taking me in when I had no one."
Everyone pulls back. Eld meets your eyes, and he nods. "Give them hell," he says.
Gunther leans in to give you one last hug. "You've got this," he murmurs into your ear.
Oluo is next, letting go of Petra so that he can hug you tightly. When he pulls back, he lets his hands rest on your shoulders. "You're going to go in there, and you're going to fuck them up, and we're going to be here cheering you on the whole time," he says firmly. "Even if you're just making a shit ton of stupid decisions."
You laugh. "This whole thing is a stupid decision," you admit.
"Hey, at least you know it."
And then last is Petra, and you can feel your eyes beginning to sting. She doesn't hug you right away. She stands there, hands clenched into fists, jaw locked. "I know," she says shakily. "I know you hate them. That you've hated them for years and for good reason. So I know," she continues, voice cracking, "I know you're going to go in there only planning to fuck them up."
You swallow hard. "Petra-"
"Fuck them up," she demands fiercely. "Fuck them all up and come back to us anyways."
Your throat feels clogged, so instead of using your words, you reach out and hug her as tightly as you can. Petra has been your lifeline for the last seven years, and without her, you would've spiraled. "I love you," you murmur into her hair.
You hear her choke on a laugh. "I know. I love you too."
She's only just pulled back when the door is thrown open. All five of you look up; there's two Peacekeepers standing in the doorway. "Time's up," one of them says, gun raised.
Nobody moves right away, and one of them steps forward, seizing Eld's arm. Gunther's saying something, but the Peacekeeper gets him out the door too quickly and you can't figure out what. "You can win this!" Petra says insistently as the other Peacekeeper corrals her towards the door. "You can! You can-"
The door slams, and your friends are gone.
You stare at the door for another moment, feeling unbearably lonely, before you feel moisture touch your cheek. Scowling, you wipe at the tears that you'd been hoping wouldn't come, desperate to be rid of them.
Emotions have no place in the games- they need to be locked away. This is the last chance you'll give yourself to be scared or upset. After this, there's only one emotion you need, and that's the only one you'll allow yourself to feel.
Rage. Pure, unadulterated, rage.
It's time for you to show the Capitol and that dickhead President Reiss what you're capable of.
.
"Hey, Erwin."
"Hm."
"Shouldn't you be more focused on your own tributes?"
Erwin doesn't reply. He keeps his eyes locked on the television, watching the reaping from District 11 unfold. He's looking for something, for someone in particular- but he doesn't know who yet. District 11's tributes are reaped, a young man and woman who both look like they could use a week's worth of sleep, and Erwin turns to the last reaping.
This plan of his. It'll work, he's sure of it- but it's risky. There's one element he'd love to have, one thing that would increase the possibility of his plan working- it would at least double it, he's sure.
"Erwin."
"Yes," he says, eyes watching as a Capitol escort decked from head to toe in blue prances towards the glass bowl.
"Are you looking for something?"
"Yes."
"Do you even know what you're looking for?"
Erwin's eyes flicker to his tributes. Levi and Mikasa are both sitting at the dining table, staring at him. They both know what's happening from here, what the endgame is, and they've been training all their lives- he doesn't see what else he could teach them that they don't already know. His job as a mentor is rather useless, but that status is going to help make this whole plan possible.
Levi's twirling a butter knife between his fingers. His steely eyes are locked on Erwin, waiting for an explanation.
"Levi," Erwin says. "You know how dangerous this plan is. I have contingencies."
"I'm aware you're an over-planning psychopath," Levi replies dryly. "But I asked if you know what you're looking for."
Erwin looks back to the screen right as the District 12 tribute waltzes up to the stage, and he straightens up. There's something different about this one- walking with confidence, head held high, moving with determination that screams that you would've volunteered if you hadn't been called.
"Yes," Erwin says, answering Levi's question. "I think it might be her."
There's a screech of chair legs pushing against floor, and he hears both tributes stand up. Levi joins him on one side of the chair he's in and Mikasa moves to his other side. All three of them watch the screen.
The District 12 male tribute stumbles up to the stage, looking flabbergasted, like almost every single other tribute has. Erwin rules him out in his head.
"I'm looking for a distraction," he explains as the District 12 escort welcomes the male tribute up on stage. "Our plan moves on a large scale, and with you all being Career tributes, we know full well all eyes will be on you. It'll be hard to operate. I'm looking for a distraction, someone that that Capitol can turn their eyes to while we're moving right under their nose."
"A distraction," Levi repeats. His eyes are glued on the screen.
"Less eyes on us," Mikasa murmurs.
Erwin nods, watching as the Capitol lady backs up so that the tributes can shake hands. "I don't need one of those tributes that are just trying to win the games. I need one that's willing to cause as much damage as possible, take as much attention away from us as possible. Give the Capitol someone else to look at."
Mikasa frowns. "You think that's her?"
He does. The way you walk, the confidence, the look in your eyes. That's more than a look of wanting to win- that's a look of revenge. He's seen it before.
Then, the strangest thing happens.
The stage lights on fire.
There's several shouts and people scatter, moving away from the small burst of flames on the stage. One Peacekeeper's leg catches on fire. Erwin's eyes stay locked on you: you haven't even moved. You don't even look bothered.
Instead, you laugh before you walk straight through the flames to head backstage.
"I think she'll work," Levi says eventually.
"Our wild card," Erwin agrees. "She's perfect. I'm going to make a call."