it is now too late!

[BARRY KEOGHAN, CIS MAN, HE/HIM] The 74th Annual Hunger Games are upon us and here comes NERO COMMONHART, a DISTRICT 12 TRIBUTE. Word around The Capitol is that they’re OBSERVANT and HARD-WORKING but can also be VENGEFUL and UNCARING. According to sources, they’re 24 and were once described as the runt of the family, a constant reminder of pain, taking hits to feel something, dry humor, and dreams deferred. What a character! As we always say, may the odds be ever in their favor!

Nero had never paid much mind to technology. It didn't seem necessary in Twelve. At most, he had a radio that required so much concentration to break through the static, it was relegated to decoration. Some people had gramophones, if they were really lucky or had something worth trading for-- But for the most part, everything was done by hand or blunt tool. Nero liked it that way, the control that came with hand-operating everything.

The train ride had completely changed Nero's understanding of... everything, really. He couldn't figure out how the train worked, nevertheless how something moving this fast could have holos and sliding doors and self-cleaning toilets. He hated feeling stupid and he hated feeling out of place, so standing in front of a large metal door that refused to open, no matter how many times he stepped forward and waves his arms, was fraying his nerves.

Nero's stylist had said to call the lift to floor twelve and he'd find his quarters. How was one supposed to call a fucking lift? What was a lift? He straightened at the sound of footsteps, turning around with a glare and downturned mouth. When the other didn't offer any help, Nero shifted on his feet, glancing at the large metal door. "Do you know how to-- how the fuck does this thing work?" Nero pressed, watching the tribute from Ten expectantly.

As many hours as Nero had spent thinking about the Capitol-- believing that he deserved to be here, lamenting how different his life would've been had he been born within its walls-- he never considered how strange it would feel to actually be here. He certainly never thought he'd get to live it, and not with all of these eyes on him. It felt like everyone was sizing him up, picking apart every little thing about him. Nero felt like prey about to be eaten.

So, he did what he did best-- he slunk to the back, hugged the wall with a drink that tasted like wildflowers and bourbon, and tried to blend in. It got easier the more he consumed-- loosening up, that is. He wondered if the Capitol itself wouldn't swallow him whole. He wondered if he would mind all that much if it did. Nero ducked around the edges of the party, moving slowly and purposely towards the long table where he could refresh his drink. He thought he'd done a good job of evading prying eyes, until Nero looked up and saw the Career.

"Bliss, right?" he deadpanned, filling his glass to the brim and bringing it to his lips. The saccharine liquid rolled down to his chin, and Nero brushed it off with his sleeve. "What kind of a fuckin' name," his shoulders shook with a rare display of amusement. "Bliss," he repeated to himself, shaking his head.

As excited as he was about his first taste of the Capitol-- of anything outside of twelve, really-- Nero felt fucking ridiculous. He'd never worn makeup a day in his life, and his stylist had practically bound him to the chair for an hour, griping and muttering about how his black eye and freshly-busted lip needed to be hidden to protect his image. Nero didn't have an image, he just was. Everything else was bullshit, and the chalky black on his lids made his eyes feel so fucking itchy.

He was pacing the 'foyer' and tugging on the sleeves of the leather suit jacket he'd been forced into when he heard heels clacking down the hallway. Resisting the urge to swipe at his face, Nero looked up, eyes fixed on the familiar face. "Aphrodite Saltshore, District Four," he mumbled, mostly to check his own knowledge. Soon, he would be trapped in a cage with these people, so the more he could memorize, the better. "You're not a Career," he stated, as if he could know for sure. It was technically illegal in Four, his mentor had said, so they tried to keep that kind of thing quiet.

"Are you a threat?" Nero asked, glancing at her ridiculous netted get-up. Could anyone really be a threat in these outfits?

Nero didn't understand the impulse to wear one's best clothes for the Reaping. He found it childish, as if scrubbing behind your ears would spare you when whatever overdressed representative from The Capitol would be digging their hands into the bowl this year. He hugged the back of the crowd in the same fraying gray flannel he'd worn last year and the year before, hanging loose around his frame and defiantly untucked. He detested the spectacle of it all-- why did everyone need to be here to watch kid after kid crying on stage? Wouldn't it be just the same if Peacekeepers collected the tributes from their homes, like they did to those who were caught trading wild game in The Hob?

While the Escort droned on and on about how being selected for the games was an honor, a sparkling gem on the crown of Panem's history, Nero zoned out. He glanced around the square, studying the Peacekeeper's sleek helmets and the hovercrafts filming from above. He vaguely registered the female's name-- Wilhelmina Rivers. He knew her brother from-- well. He knew her brother. Nero watched the girl stumble onto the stage, taking stock of her thin frame and wondering how many days she would last in the arena. He figured no more than three.

Nero sighed impatiently, jittery and eager to get back to his hideaway. Historically, Reaping day was a big occasion for the men and boys who regularly stole off into the woods to get in a few licks. It put people on edge, reminded them that they weren't in control of their lives, not really. He'd put money on a match-up tonight, the highly anticipated Gabbro and Colt fight. He'd gotten so lost in the thought of a little extra money, a slice of warm bread for breakfast tomorrow, that it took the person to his left jabbing his ribs for Nero to hear it.

"Nero Commonhart, honey, are you here?" trilled a voice from the stage.

Nero stepped into the aisle, familiar faces clearing space for him, leaving him open and vulnerable to everyone's eyes. The fabric of his reality stretched and pulled, fraying at the edges like the shirt he was wearing. He might never know the outcome of the fight. He might never see the inside of a mine shaft again.

He steeled himself, stepping onto the stage with his head held high. This was the moment that was replayed in years past, when tributes mounted the stage with tears in their eyes-- not him. With a hard-set jaw, Nero glanced over the crowd. His eyes fell on his mother, and a rush of red-hot anger ripped through his stomach. What did she have to be crying about, anyway, as if she would even notice that he's gone?