𝘈𝘯 𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴

A simple, dark midnight blue long sleeve. Matching satin pants. Black gloves. That is what he wore.

Thomas was still catching his breath, his chest visibly rising and falling as if he'd just gotten done sprinting through the woods while he stared at himself on the television screen.

A part of him knew the clothing he had on wasn't at all simple. It was quietly elegant, not boastful or screaming for admiration. The wings themselves managed that specific role already.

His wings.

They were spread out longer than his own arms, but just a little. Pure black, beautifully mimicking a mockingjay to the point of making Thomas wonder if Mary studied the bird for a long time like she said she'd done for the fire of his chariot costume. The 'feathers' were linked to his wrist where they were seamlessly attached to his now black gloves. It made it all appear as though the wings were immaculately growing from his own back. But he knew any movement that came from his arms would result in the feathers following them at every shift.

"I think your days of gullible smiles and cute bow ties are behind you."

Mary's words echoed in his mind, and he scanned the crowd for her once again. When she mentioned that, he didn't think she'd take it to this level. He realized that she took his ideals to heart; he wasn't in an extravagant suit anymore, but in a much more comfortable — albeit shocking — outfit choice. It was going against everything President Paige had for him.

Right when he found Mary, he felt a sharp pang of anxiety shoot through him, striking him like lightning. It went against everything President Paige had for him.

'Oh no.'

His initial awe was instantly replaced with trepidation. Mary. She willingly burned up his wedding suit. No, she burned up the agenda President Paige was pushing for the Capitol and the Districts. He was meant to be the boy in love with the girl, meant to be head over heels for her and devote his love to her in the form of marrying her and showcasing that to everyone in Panem. Instead, that was tossed aside. Instead, he stood there representing something else entirely.

The rebellion.

Thomas couldn't decipher the expression on Mary's face with the whole crowd standing up and applauding for him. Evidently, they were clueless to the real meaning behind this design. Everyone saw it as his token, a fashion trend that remained popular among the Capitol citizens. Nothing more.

Being that Thomas was smoldering a bit, it was with tentative steps that Marcus approached him, gingerly reaching out to touch the tips of his wings. "Feathers," he observed. "You're...you're like a bird?"

"A mockingjay," Thomas clarified in a daze, giving his wings the tiniest flap by carefully moving his arms.

If Marcus knew what it all meant, he didn't give any sort of indication that he did. He only grinned and held his hand out to the audience. "Well, your stylist certainly outdid herself, hasn't she? This is the most spectacular thing we've ever seen in an interview! Mary, I think you better take a bow this time!"

Marcus gestured for her to rise. She did, making a small, gracious bow, causing Thomas to sink further into the fear wrapping around him like the suffocating smoke he'd just gotten free from. Mary went against what he normally would've done for the viewing pleasure of the Capitol. He did the complete opposite because of her alteration. He was supposed to lower himself to the audience, lower himself to their fantasies of him being so in love with his best friend, lower himself to pose no threat to them.

She made him rise up, though. She made him stand tall and face the crowd, face the cameras with the wings of rebellion that the people in the Districts were surely clinging to for the stoking of the uprising. What he wore was more than a flashy outfit. It was a cry on behalf of the rebels, demanding that they be seen and heard.

Thomas almost fell to his knees again under the weight of such a position he was involuntarily carrying. He never asked Mary what she knew of the uprisings, but she clearly knew something was going on that the government was trying to hide, to direct the people's attention to the enthralling Games they so desperately craved their entertainment from. But now, with the second Quarter Quell and the displeasure centered around it, did Mary use that advantage of the shaking foundation the citizens stood on as they watched their favorite Victor's being sent into the arena again? To showcase her own act of defiance through him?

"Don't worry. I channel my emotions into my work. That way I don't hurt anyone but myself."

Her statement made him wonder, had she hurt herself beyond repair? What was she trying to accomplish doing what she did? Surely President Paige wouldn't overlook what happened, especially since she put the order in herself for him to be in the wedding suit.

Thomas barely heard the buzzer go off through the cheering of the crowd, indicating that he had to go sit down. When he took his seat, he felt a lot lighter than he did before, and his clothes weren't itching him anymore. Aside from the few puffs of smoke here and there, he was otherwise unharmed.

Marcus made a dramatic call of Teresa's name, clearing the way for her much awaited entrance. When the doors slid open, everybody's applause merged into a wave of ballistic screams and cries as she gracefully stepped on the stage. With her wedding dress alone, Teresa swept the crowd off their feet. If Thomas was on the other side of the interviews, watching everything unfold, he'd probably go into a fever of astonishment and maybe betrayal as well.

Even Marcus's professionalism cracked for a moment as he attempted to calm the people down yet again. If they went crazy over his appearance, they were wailing and fainting as if a loved one passed away right in front of them now.

Thomas glanced at the other Victors to see their reactions. He hadn't even considered what they thought of his fiery transformation, but there was no point in questioning it for too long. What if they didn't know about the uprising to begin with? What if they just thought it was another snazzy design from Mary to give him more attention? It was forbidden for people in the Districts to communicate to each other, so he wouldn't be surprised if they didn't have any rebellious information whatsoever. If he was suspicious of anybody, it'd be Newt.

He subtly looked at him sitting next to Keisha, furrowing his brows a bit. Thomas's skepticism hadn't exactly been proven wrong yet. Newt was a secretive guy, that much wasn't hard to understand, but what more could he possibly be hiding?

A lull in the crowd made him focus on the interview at hand, and Marcus finally spoke into the microphone, "So, Teresa, what was it like, after all you've been through, to find out about the Quell?"

Teresa smiled ruefully, her voice trembling as she responded. "I was in shock. I mean, one minute I'm the happiest girl in the world, watching Thomas in all of his wedding suits, preparing for the best wedding I could ever ask for, and then..." She trailed off.

"You realized there was never going to be a wedding?" Marcus asked gently.

Teresa paused, gazing at the spellbound audience, then at the floor, and lastly up at Marcus. She carefully held onto his arm, practically whispering when she said, "Marcus, do you think our friends here can keep a secret?"

An unnecessary question. A ridiculous one, Thomas thought, but there was nothing he could do about it.

After the audience's unsettled laughter, Marcus nodded confidently. "I'm quite certain they can."

"We got married. In secret," Teresa said as if she shared sacred words. To the Capitol, she did. And the crowd proved it. A loud gasp emanated from every single one of them, and Thomas fought to keep a straight face at the news he himself didn't know. Where was she going with this? First Mary, and now her? Sure, Jorge told him the Victors were angry and they wanted to try and stop the Games, but could he at least get a better idea of what they had planned? 'They didn't have a lot of planning to do anyway. He told both of us in the elevator.'

"A secret wedding? Oh, do tell," Marcus said giddily.

"We want our love to be eternal," Teresa answered, dabbing her finger against her eyes so her tears wouldn't ruin her makeup. "Neither of us could wait any longer. So one day, we just did it. To me, we're more married than any piece of paper could make us."

"So," Marcus lifted his hand for her to pause again. "This was before the Quell then?"

"Why, of course! I'm sure we'd never have done it after we knew," she said, starting to become upset. "But who could've possibly seen this coming? Nobody. That's who. We went through the Hunger Games, Marcus, we were Victors, everyone seemed so excited to see us together, and then out of nowhere—" her throat got choked up and she needed to look away for a second. "I mean, how could we anticipate a thing like that? How?"

"You couldn't, Teresa." He held her hand in his own. "As you say, no one could've. But, I do have to confess that I'm glad you two had at least a few months of happiness for yourselves."

The audience's applause was cut short at Teresa's curt and abrupt reply. "I'm not glad," she said bitterly. "I wish we had waited until the whole thing was done officially."

Marcus was taken aback, flinching slightly at her declaration. "What? Surely even a brief time is better than no time?"

"Maybe I'd think that, too, Marcus," Teresa slowly lowered her eyes, her free hand caressing her stomach. "If it weren't for the baby."

'Oh.'

Of course. Of course, Thomas should've predicted she'd say something outrageous. Something that would leave him flabbergasted, too. But he had a feeling that even he would've never saw this coming.

'Well, she's done it again,' he said to himself, utterly numb from stupefaction. She singlehandedly managed to wipe out the efforts of the other tributes. Actually, maybe he was wrong on that part. Maybe this year she only lit the fuse on a bomb that the Victors had already been building. With him relying on Mary's talents, he felt like he didn't do anything in comparison to Teresa's mere wits.

As the bomb erupted, it threw accusations of injustice, inhumanity, and cruelty out in every direction, devouring every inch of space. The ones who adored the Capitol, the ones who would lose sleep over the Games, the bloodthirsty, each of them couldn't ignore the horrific reality of it all.

Teresa was pregnant. And he knew she most definitely wasn't.

He finally got ahold of his limbs and rigidly glanced at the other tributes. To his dismay, almost every Victor was staring at him. Minho in particular even had a smirk emerging on his lips, and it looked like he snorted. Thomas could easily guess what he might've said: "I didn't know you had it in you, man."

'I don't!' He silently protested, but Minho looked back at Teresa, who was unashamedly shedding more tears on stage. Then there was Newt, who raised his brows at Thomas. Since the cameras were certainly projecting him, too, Thomas lowered his head and raised his arm so his feathers would conceal some of his face. The residual from the smoke made his eyes teary, ultimately bringing a nice touch to his performance.

The crowd was a herd of wounded animals, shrieking, moaning, and calling for help once they were able to absorb the news. Marcus couldn't rein in anyone this time, but despite that, Teresa leaned toward the microphone, removing it from his wavering grip. "You know, Marcus, there's this line of a poem I heard back in District Twelve a while ago, and I think it's fit for this moment," she announced boisterously, but the audience was still in a riot. "It goes something like, 'Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.'"

'What is she doing!?' Thomas gathered the courage to look up at the chaos. Marcus was politely trying to retrieve the mic, but Teresa wouldn't give it to him. Everyone was screaming and crying. It was a mess.

Teresa kept going. "'You can't take my sass. You can't take my talking,'" she inhaled deeply, and Thomas recognized a flash of her true anger bursting through her facade as enraged tears fell down her cheeks, staining her skin with dark mascara. "'You can kiss my ass!'" She yelled straight into the microphone with such passion that multiple people fainted again.

Someone spurted out a fit of wild laughter close by, and Thomas blinked at the sight of Minho nearly falling over in his chair, cackling. His District partner had to keep him sitting properly, but she was grinning as well. Newt slowly began clapping but it had no chance to be heard above the crowd's roars. Keisha was trying to cover her ears from the loud noises. Other than that, she didn't look too bothered.

Teresa's buzzer must've went off, so Marcus gestured for the microphone and she pushed it into his hand at last without meeting his eyes. She only stood there, seemingly basking in the audience's reaction.

What she had just done wouldn't go unnoticed by President Paige. Thomas didn't have to second guess that. It made him nervous. If his efforts to direct all the punishments onto himself were being outshined by Teresa, there was a problem. If she was going to win these Games, her actions weren't helping her reach that destination.

But at the same time, he understood why she did it.

Delivering a story to the Capitol like the one she formed was enough to cause anyone to doubt the necessity of the Hunger Games. It was unfortunate it required that story, but it worked nonetheless. Letting herself get angry on camera while 'pregnant' was completely justified. Getting angry for any other reason would've been bad. But she had a right to, out of all the Victors.

Teresa nodded her good-bye and returned to her seat without a word. He saw Marcus's lips moving, but nobody heard anything in the chaotic storm. Only the blast of the anthem, which was cranked up so loud that it vibrated through his bones, signaled for them to stand. He got out of his chair and caught a glimpse of Teresa's hand reaching for his. He firmly clasped her hand with his, anchoring himself to stop his fingers from shaking.

He looked at the crowd, but he could only see the faces of every family member that lost their child to the Games. He saw Alby's family. He saw Ben's family. Their sorrow. Their muffled agony. That same fire of indignation revived inside of him, and he turned spontaneously to Chaff, offering his hand. He felt his fingers close around the stump that completed his arm and held on steadily.

Then a miracle happened. Across the whole row, the Victors began to join hands. Most of them right away, such as the morphlings, or Rachel and Aris. Others were unsure but listened to the demands of those around them, like Barkley and Rose. When the anthem played its final strains, all twenty-four Victors stood in an unwavering line. The first public representation of unity in the Districts since the Dark Days.

The realization of that settled quickly; the screens began to pop into blackness. Either way, it was too late. Too bewildered, they didn't cut the tributes off in time. Everyone saw. Everyone was forced to acknowledge it.

Disorder consumed the stage as the lights went out and they were left stumbling back into the Training Center. He lost his hold on Chaff, but he kept his focus on Teresa and guided her into an elevator. Newt and Minho were about to join them, and Thomas extended his arm out so the doors wouldn't close, but an aggravated Peacekeeper blocked their way. Minho cursed at the Peacekeeper before they were shot upward by themselves.

Once they stepped off the elevator, Teresa turned toward him, wiping her cheeks clean from the mascara. "How was I? Think that was good enough?" She asked breathlessly.

"Uhm, yeah, I...I didn't see it coming, so it definitely worked," Thomas said. It was a big step to take without his consent, but at the end of the day, Teresa was the one 'bearing' a child. She had a bigger responsibility to carry. Now he was just excessively apprehensive the Gamemakers might target her a lot more in the arena. 'They shouldn't, though, right? Not if she's pregnant...'

However, there was never a pregnant tribute in the history of the Games. So it'd be a mystery how the Gamemakers would handle her out there. Great.

"I can't believe you did that," Thomas muttered, pulling her into a tight hug, the feathers on his arms wrapping around her.

"I had to," she whispered in a quivering voice. "We have to make them see, Thomas. We have to fight. You get that, don't you?"

"One hundred percent, I do," he let her go, his heart sinking. Tomorrow, a short hovercraft ride away, all of the tributes would receive their own form of punishment. He and Teresa might very well be on the top of that list. Yet, even if all of them met a terrible end, the thing that happened on stage tonight couldn't be undone. It left a lasting mark on the people watching – and everyone watched.

"Hey," he turned toward her. "What was that...poem you talked about in the interview?" It felt familiar to him, but still vague.

"Oh, that was actually a line from a song, not a poem, per‐say," Teresa fidgeted with her hands. "I...heard it from someone once. A while ago."

He wanted to ask who showed it to her, but if she didn't directly reveal it now, he knew she wasn't going to discuss it any time soon. He let it go for the moment.

They waited for the others to return, but when the elevator opened, Jorge was by himself. "It's complete madness out there. You can barely even hear yourself speak. Everyone's been sent home and they've canceled the recap of the interviews."

Thomas and Teresa instantly darted to the window, trying to comprehend the commotion far below them on the streets. "What are they saying?" Teresa asked eagerly. "Are they telling the President to stop the Games?"

Jorge shook his head. "I don't think they know what to ask in the first place. The entire situation is...unique. The idea of opposing the Capitol's agenda is extremely confusing for the people here," he stood next to them, looking at the frenzied crowd. "But there's no way Paige would cancel the Games, kids. You know that, right?"

Thomas frowned. He did. Paige wasn't the type to back down, especially when she had all the power. The only option was for her to strike back twice as hard. "The others went home?" He asked distantly.

"They were ordered to. I don't know how much luck they're having getting through that mob," Jorge answered.

There was silence for a moment. Then Teresa murmured, "So we'll never see Trina again?" The lack of a response was all they needed. "You have to give her our thanks, Jorge. Please."

Jorge didn't move his eyes off her, his unfazed demeanor breaking for a split second. Teresa sounded urgent in her request for someone who Thomas swore would survive the Games.

"More than that. Really make it special. It's Trina we're talking about," Thomas added. "Tell her how grateful we are and how...she was the best escort ever...and tell her—" he looked down, hastily wiping his eyes free from the tears that started to well up. "Tell her we send our love."

Nobody said anything for a while, delaying the inevitable. Then Jorge disrupted the silence. "I guess this is where we say our good-byes, too."

"Any last words of advice?" Thomas asked.

"Stay alive," Jorge replied gruffly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. It was an old joke to them now, after he said the same thing to them for their first Games. He gave them both a quick embrace, then stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Go to bed. You need your rest."

'I should say more to him,' Thomas thought. But it felt like he lost the ability to create a full sentence. Plus, he probably already knew everything that could've been said. He was their mentor, after all. 'He'll remember our deal.'

"Thanks, Jorge," Teresa said.

They crossed the room, but in the doorway, Jorge's voice stopped them. "Thomas."

Thomas looked back at him, growing defensive at the small scowl on his mentor's face. What did he do wrong now? "What?"

"When you're in the arena, remember who the real enemy is," Jorge instructed him. "That's it. Now go on. Get out of here."

'Okay...?'

They walked down the hallway, and he hugged Teresa one more time before heading into his room. He showered, dressed in the most comfortable pair of clothing he could find, then curled up on the bed. He was unaware if he slept that night. He abode in a land between dreams and waking, uselessly hoping that he could stay in those few precious minutes of rest.

Mary and Mark arrived with the dawn, and he knew he couldn't stay in his dreams anymore. Mary, who would soon help him dress for the Games in the catacombs under the arena, accompanied him to the roof. He was close to mounting the ladder that dropped down from the hovercraft when he remembered something. "I didn't say good-bye to Mark."

"I'll tell him," Mary said.

The electric current froze him in place on the ladder, lifting him to safety until a doctor injected the tracker into his left forearm. They couldn't lose him now; his whereabouts in the arena would be available to them whenever they liked. The hovercraft took off, and he stared out the windows until they blacked out, hiding the location they were going to. Mary insisted that he eat, and when that failed, she coaxed him into drinking water. His mind was locked on the goal of keeping Teresa alive, and he knew he needed every bit of strength. Still, he couldn't bring himself to eat.

Once they arrived at the Launch Room, she helped him dress over simple undergarments. This year, the tribute's outfit was a fitted blue jumpsuit, composed of very sheer material, that zippered up the front. A six-inch-wide padded belt. A pair of nylon shoes with rubber soles. Different, to say the least.

"What do you think of this?" Thomas questioned with a judgmental raise of his brows. He wasn't the biggest fan of the outfit. He held out the fabric for Mary to examine.

She frowned, rubbing the thin material between her fingers. "I'm not sure. It'll offer only a little when it comes protecting you from the cold or water."

He blinked at it for a moment. "Sun, maybe?" He'd hate it if the arena was a barren desert.

"Possibly. If it's been treated," she said. "Oh, wait, I almost forgot," she took his gold mockingjay pin from her pocket and fixed it to the jumpsuit, making him swallow back a flood of sorrow and fear.

"Mary, what you did with my suit was...fantastic last night," he murmured. Also reckless, but he wouldn't mention that.

She smiled softly at him. "I thought you'd like it."

"Yeah," he tried to laugh. It was unsuccessful. "The only part I didn't like was how I almost choked to death on stage. How'd you do that, by the way?"

"The fire?" At his nod, she chuckled. "It's a lot to explain right now, so I'll spare you the details. When you bow, I know how much your arms move and spread out. There was a...special thread that'd gotten pulled when you did that and...one thing led to another."

"You've got a smarter mind than I do. That much I know," he said with full conviction.

She patted his arm. "You're smarter than you think," she paused, then looked at him in such sincerity, it left him a little confused. "No more implicit submission, Thomas, Okay?"

He swallowed the lump in his throat again. "Alright."

That was why. That was why she burned up his suit and caused him to stand upright on the stage. For her safety, a part of him wished she hadn't done it. But there was a greater movement happening that craved the encouragement to continue fighting. If becoming a mockingjay in his interview was the solution to that, then he couldn't argue against it.

They sat together in silence just as they'd done last year, leaning on each other until a female voice announced it was time to prepare for launch. Mary walked him over to the circular metal plate and attentively zipped up the neck of his jumpsuit. "Remember, mockingjay," she began. "I'm still betting on you." She stood slightly on the tips of her toes and kissed his forehead.

'Don't cry,' he told himself, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand. 'Don't you dare cry.'

She stepped back as the glass cylinder slid down around him with a small hiss. "Thank you," he said, even though she most likely couldn't hear him. He took a deep breath in and lifted his chin, keeping his head held high for her, waiting for the plate to rise.

Only, it didn't.

A couple seconds passed.

And it still didn't.

He gave Mary a puzzled glance, to which she just shrugged, as perplexed as he was. What was the delay for? Weren't the Gamemakers in a hurry to display his death?

Suddenly, the door behind her bursted open and three Peacekeepers sprung into the room.

'Wait.'

He froze, his bafflement converting to panic.

Then, two of them pinned Mary's arms behind her and cuffed her while the third hit her in the temple with a force that knocked her to her knees.

"Mary!" Thomas shrieked at the top of his lungs, banging his fists against the cylinder to break free and help her. It didn't budge. "Stop! No! Mary!"

Nobody listened.

They kept hitting her with metal-studded gloves, as if she was that big of a threat to them, opening large gashes on her face and body.

'No! No! No! Get out! Help her!' He continued slamming his fists on the unyielding glass to the point of making them bruise. Still, nothing worked.

He screamed until it physically hurt, wailing in defeat as the Peacekeepers, who'd been ignoring him entirely, dragged Mary's limp body from the room. The smears of her blood on the floor was the only thing she left behind, her only trace that she was ever there.

Nauseated and utterly terrified, he felt the plate rise. He still leaned on the glass, about to collapse, when the breeze swept by him and the temporary darkness he was in snapped to a blinding light. The glass retreated and he stood openly in the arena.

Thomas heaved for breath, his chest tightening and his vision swaying as he became dizzy. The ground was bright and shiny. For some reason. He couldn't pay attention to it. Not now.

'Mary...' His whole body shook with the endeavor to inhale and exhale while he squinted down at his feet to see that his metal plate was surrounded by overwhelming blue waves, lapping up across his boots. Slowly, he lifted his eyes and gaped at the water spreading out in every direction.

'Focus.'

What were they going to do with Mary? Was she dead? Were they going to torture her?

'Focus.'

Thomas winced at the glaring sun from above, trying to make out the terrain.

'Focus.'

It took all of his willpower to look straight ahead and realize how far of a swim it was just to get to the Cornucopia. The fear he'd been suppressing amplified until it seemed to rattle his bones. He couldn't do this. He couldn't survive another Hunger Games.

The arena only confirmed that.

Through the storm cloud of dread in his mind, he was able to form one coherent thought.