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.

Their reaction was exactly what Thomas had been hoping for.

Consumed by sheer gratification, his mind soaked in the Gamemakers' repulsed faces. This should keep their minds distracted, away from Teresa, even if it was only for a little while. It'd still count.

He patiently watched as a few of them dropped their delicate wineglasses, shattering the glass all over their perfectly cleaned floor. Two of them looked as though they might faint. There was the expected glare, derived from shock and anger. He hardly batted an eye at it.

Vince finally paid him the attention Thomas was previously devoid of. The Head Gamemaker stared at the dummy, visibly dumbfounded, the peach in his hands crushed and spilling juice through his fingers.

"You may go now, Mr. Everdeen," he said with a rigid nod after clearing his throat.

Thomas didn't give any sign of acknowledgment. He turned and, letting the rage inside of him flare up for a little longer, lifted his hand and raised his middle finger high in the air toward them without looking back. Hearing their startled, flabbergasted gasps was enough for him. As the elevator doors closed in front him, he saw that no one had moved an inch.

'That should do the trick,' he concluded. It was dangerous and probably stupid of him, but being that Teresa had also made them upset before him, he had to do something that outshined her session. As long as it took their eyes off her and onto him instead. He'd be punished for his actions ten times over later on, but going to the Games again was already a dire punishment. For the moment, he allowed himself to savor the sense of elation tingling in his very bones.

He wanted to find Jorge and Teresa, but neither of them were in sight. He assumed they were getting ready for dinner, so he went and took a shower due to his hands being stained from the juice. While he stood in the water, the adrenaline from willfully provoking the Gamemakers gradually started to vacillate, making him question if it would actually keep Teresa alive. It might not. But there was no going back. What happened in training was strictly private, meaning there wouldn't be any evidence for why they would target him specifically when no one knew what his transgression was.

Getting rewarded last year for his brass decisions was a different thing. This year wasn't the same exact crime. If the Gamemakers chose to punish him in the middle of the arena, Teresa could possibly be tangled in the midst of that. Despite it all, he couldn't necessarily say he regretted his actions.

As they gathered for dinner, he noticed Teresa's hands were a little stained with a few colors, even though her hair was dampened from bathing. It looked like she took his suggestion and used some camouflage for her session. Once the soup was served, Jorge dove straight to the point. "Okay, so how did your private sessions go?"

Thomas's eyes flickered over to his best friend, not eager to reveal what he did yet. With the calm setting in the dining room, it was hard to disrupt that mood by declaring the brash choices he made. "You first," he told Teresa. "It must've been really special. I waited for forty minutes just to go in."

She gave him a weary look as if she was reluctant to share her own experience. Then, she sighed and idly stirred her soup around, her spoon tapping against the bowl. "Well...I, uh, did the camouflage, like you said, Tom." She hesitated. "Technically speaking, it was the dyes."

Everyone paused.

"To do what?" Mark asked warily.

Thomas thought back on how agitated the Gamemakers had been when he entered the gym for his session. The smell of cleaners that was impossible to hide. The mat that was clearly pulled over to a spot where it shouldn't have been. Was it to conceal something they weren't able to wash away? "You painted something," he stated matter-of-factly. "A picture?"

Her gaze quickly landed on him again. "Did you see it?"

"No. But they made sure it was totally covered up." He said.

"Well, that is actually standard. They can't let one tribute know what another did," Trina added in, unconcerned. "What did you paint, Teresa?"

She deliberately took a slow slurp of her soup, carefully placing her spoon down afterward. "I painted a picture of Alby and something he said in the Games."

Another pause lingered heavily at the table as they absorbed that information. "And what...exactly were you trying to accomplish?" Jorge asked in a very tense, leveled voice.

Teresa intently directed her focus on their mentor, then shrugged. "Not sure. I just wanted to hold them accountable," she returned her attention to the bowl of soup, peacefully lifting her spoon. "Make them pay for the goodness they stole from the arena."

It took a moment for him to figure it out, but Thomas suddenly understood what she meant. It was Alby – he was the goodness. Although Thomas only knew him for a couple of days, Alby's light, in spite of his innate cold demeanor, was hard to find in other people. He saved his life. That could never be repaid.

"What did you write..?" He murmured.

Teresa's expression flickered with sympathy before it dissipated back into normalcy. "It's what he told you. When you used the mockingjays to signal to each other that you were alright. 'Are you going to punish me now?'"

He remembered. Of course he did. Once the two of them came up with their plan to destroy the Careers' food pile, Alby sarcastically said his infamous line to the cameras they couldn't see but were most definitely there: "Are you going to punish me now?" It was a statement to the Capitol, one that reminded them of the faulty jabberjays and the mistaken creation of the mockingjays. He knew the Capitol didn't enjoy hearing about those birds, much less someone in the Districts using them to his benefit.

Thomas secretly informed Teresa about it since the Games were heavily edited and didn't include that part in the recap.

Jorge angrily shook his head, rubbing a hand over his exhausted face. Mark and Mary, especially Mark, stared at her in worry and disbelief. Trina fanned herself, practically forcing down panicked tears.

Thomas, meanwhile, couldn't stop the warm, mildly amused smile from claiming his lips. He, for one, was proud of her. Still slightly nervous for her, but proud.

"Oh no, this is dreadful," Trina lamented. "That sort of thinking...it's forbidden, Teresa."

"I'm with Trina on this one," Jorge slammed his fist on the table, breathing incoherent curses under his breath. Mark and Mary stayed quiet, but their faces were incredibly serious.

Deciding it was his turn to speak, Thomas leaned back in his chair. "Well, I guess this isn't a bad time to mention that I hung a dummy and painted Randall Crane's name on it," he said, almost casually.

One second passed. Then another.

Then the bomb of utter disapproval exploded, hitting him like a ton of bricks.

"You what!?"

"You...hung...Randall Crane?" Mary asked as though the wind got knocked out of her lungs.

"Oh, now was a very bad time to mention that!" Trina shrieked, the tears she was suppressing rolling off her cheeks.

"Yes," he replied to Mary. "I was only showing off my new knot-tying skills, and he somehow ended up at the end of the noose."

"Shut up with your damn sarcasm!" Jorge spat, glaring at him. "This is not the time for that!"

Thomas shrugged. "If you're gonna blame anyone, maybe you should blame Newt. He's the one who showed me the technique."

"Oh, Thomas," Trina sniffled, redirecting the conversation. "How did you even know about that incident?"

He scoffed. "Was it supposed to be a secret? I mean, President Paige didn't act like it was. If anything, she seemed eager for me to know," he argued. Trina left the table with her napkin pressed to her face, muffling her sobs. "Oh, great. Now I've upset Trina. I should've lied and told you guys I shot some arrows." He briefly threw his hands up in defeat.

Teresa quietly snickered, holding her spoon to her mouth in an attempt to hide her smile. "You'd think we planned this, by the looks of it," she quipped.

"Wait," Mark waved his hands around like that would clear his mind. "You're saying you didn't plan it?"

"Nope," Thomas shook his head, fighting to maintain a straight face and not grin alongside his best friend. "Neither of us had any idea what we were gonna do in there."

Jorge, even after what Thomas revealed, started to become fixated on being irritated with Teresa again. He glared at her, and Thomas knew what that glare meant. He was scolding her. But both of them should've equally been receiving it, not just her. "That was extremely stupid of you — and that's saying a lot when it comes to you."

She appeared uninterested at his rebuke. "Thank you, Jorge, I try."

His jaw visibly tightened. "Do you take anything seriously?"

"More thank you think," she replied lowly.

Seeing that neither of them were backing down, Thomas intervened. "Okay, okay, we get it, Jorge. We—"

"No, Thomas, you don't get it," his mentor snapped. "You completely don't get it."

He furrowed his brows. "Hey, we both did something relatively bad in the training session. Not just Teresa," he protested. "Don't target her."

Jorge looked like he was about to go on, but he must've chosen to keep his mouth shut. His scowl remained locked on Teresa as they ate in silence, though, and she silently returned it every few minutes.

They finished the meal without another word, but when they rose to go into the sitting room, Mary lightly squeezed Thomas's arm. "Come on, let's go get those training scores, yeah?"

When they were all settled around the television, Trina finally rejoined them, her eyes red and puffy. Thomas forced himself not to make any comment about it. The tributes' faces popped up, District by District, and their scores flashed under their pictures. One through twelve. The tributes who had high scores weren't entirely surprising; the Toad, Misty, Barkley, Rose, Minho, and Newt.

"Have they ever given a zero?" Thomas questioned, glancing at his mentor.

"No, pero hay una primera vez para todo," Jorge answered. When that earned a puzzled look, he smacked his lips. "There's a first time for everything."

"Oh, okay."

It'd been a reoccurring circumstance where Jorge was right. And he was, again. Because when Thomas and Teresa each earned a twelve, they officially made Hunger Games history. However, no one was celebrating.

"Why would they do that...?" He asked in a hushed voice.

"Are you dumb? It's so that the others will have no choice but to target you," Jorge responded flatly. "Vete a la cama ahora. I can't stand to look at either one of you."

Thankfully, they knew what that meant. They got up and dragged their feet to their rooms, mumbling goodnight to each other. Not bothering to change into any pajamas of the sorts, Thomas collapsed on his bed and stared at one side of the room, his cheek pressed against the cold fabric of the pillow.

'That went well.' He tried not to feel discouraged. This was his punishment. This is what the Gamemakers had planned for him in retaliation to what he did in his training session. He focused on his breaths, inhaling slowly and deeply. There was no point in worrying too much. He was already being sentenced to his death, he would never see his family again, and his last goal was to keep Teresa alive. That in itself was his own act of rebellion. One last middle finger to the Capitol and Paige. It was a refusal to play the Hunger Games by the Capitol's rules. He had a private agenda that clashed with his public one. Plus, if he managed to save Teresa, it would be ideal for the revolution that Paige was doing everything in her power to diminish.

Mostly because he'd be more valuable dead. If there was still any signs of the uprising left after the announcement of the Quarter Quell, they could turn him into a kind of martyr for the cause and paint his face on banners. That'll surely make people rally. Teresa could use her words like she always did once he was dead. She was good at that.

She'd lose it if she discovered what he was planning, so he swore to himself that she wouldn't have the slightest hint concerning his strategy.

The only other problem he was nervous about was the people he would have to kill. If anybody got in the way, they'd have to be terminated. He hated thinking like that, premeditating on the murders he was likely to commit in the arena, but that was the reality in store for him. It was a rare thing to go into the Hunger Games and not kill somebody. He wished it could be that simple. He wished he could forget the permanent blood stains on his hands that no one else could see but him.

Thomas brought his hands to the front of his vision, inspecting them. Soon, they would be covered in blood again.

Then a memory hit him.

It was when Newt was tying the ropes. When Newt taught him how to use a trident, even if it was just for an hour. He indirectly instructed Thomas how to make the noose he used to enrage the Gamemakers.

He huffed, a twitch of a sardonic smile appearing on his face. He'd probably have to thank Newt for what he did, although it also helped Thomas bring on his inevitable death.

He eventually fell asleep to what sounded like distant murmurings, telling himself he did the right thing for Teresa.

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

Getting prepped was filled with continuous sorrow from his prep team. They worked silently this time, leaving the room when they started to tear up, and diligently performed their tasks. It caused him to feel something similar to heartbreak for them; pity, maybe. They went as far as to express their gratitude for letting them make him look his best.

It was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wasn't returning home. Did the whole world know this? When Mary arrived and dismissed the team, his gut proclaimed she knew. But, like she promised, there was no danger of tears from her.

"So, what am I wearing tonight?" Thomas asked, eyeing the garment bag which held his suit. To his surprise, he wasn't as jittery as he had previously been for last year's interview. Sure, he despised being on stage – contrary to the personality he displayed for the cameras – and still abhorred being in a large crowd, but it was waned for the moment.

"One more suit, I'm afraid. President Paige put the order in herself," Mary said, unzipping the bag and revealing one of the wedding suits he wore for the photo shoot. A strikingly handsome outfit, but Thomas thought it was the most dramatic one he'd ever seen and tried on. Pure white silk with small, beautiful pearls lining the collar of the blazer and the hem of the pants. What made it a little too glamorous for him was the cape. Attached to the shoulders of the charming jacket, a stunning white cape would drape over his back, extending to the heels of his shoes. "Even though they announced the Quarter Quell the night of the photo shoot, people still voted for their favorite suit. This was the winner. The President says you're to wear it tonight. Our objections were ignored."

Thomas rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. "Really?"

She nodded, smiling faintly. "Yes, I'm sorry."

"Of course it's this one," he drawled, rubbing some of the material between his fingers, wondering what reason President Paige had to do this. She had plenty, actually. Being the greatest offender, his pain and loss and humiliation being showcased in the spotlight would make good entertainment for her. It was a maniac move on her end, and it managed to leave him with a dull ache inside. She was shoving it in his face that he messed up and he'd never be reunited with those he loved. "Well, at least we're not wasting an expensive suit," he said wryly.

Mary clasped her hand over his, giving him a comforting squeeze. "Let's get this on you, okay?"

He returned her nod, weakly squeezing her hand. "Okay."

When he was finally dressed in the complete outfit, Thomas couldn't help but shrug a couple of times in complaint and repeatedly tried to readjust his white gloves, where Mary suddenly clipped a part of his cape to with a special pin inside the cuff's lining on both hands. It was supposed to help him not drag the mantle over the floor. "Was it always this...heavy? And why do these gloves feel so itchy—" he glared at his wrist, where the main culprit for the discomfort on his skin was.

"I had to make a few alterations because of the lighting," Mary said, smoothing down his sleeves. "Could also be the cape. Maybe you forgot how it felt."

"Yeah, I don't wear capes very often, so thanks for that," he sighed. After fixing his hair, she had him walk around. Once he got the hang of it, she crossed her arms contentedly, a habit of hers whenever something pleased her.

"Okay, you're splendid." She affirmed.

"As splendid as it gets, I guess," he grumbled.

She went up to him and confirmed his tie was secured correctly. "Be careful when you bow tonight. You don't want to accidentally step on the cape and fall."

"Looks like you have a lot of happy thoughts," Thomas said. "I'll be bowing again?" He asked, as if that decision relied on her alone.

"Well, yes, that is your other...famous signature, if you will. I'm sure Marcus will beg you to, anyway."

"You give me a signal so I know when," he prompted.

"I will, don't worry," she assured him. "Any plans for your interview? I hear that Jorge is leaving you two to your own devices."

"Nope. I'm just gonna wing it this year. Hopefully I don't screw up." He sighed, being strengthened by knowing that the Capitol audience would be enraptured at his appearance, while also sorrowful.

They met Trina, Jorge, Mark, and Teresa at the elevator, and Thomas had to stop right in his tracks as he saw his best friend. Her wedding dress was flawlessly gorgeous; heavy white silk with a low neckline and strapless sleeves that fell from her wrists to the floor. And, to match him, he assumed, there was pearls. A lot of them. So many pearls. An elegant pearl shoulder necklace. Pearls stitched into the dress itself. They were everywhere.

His hands dangled uselessly at his sides as he stood there, admiring the pearls that cascaded down her curled hair like vines. She held out her arms expectantly. "Well, do I look decent?"

He gave his best attempt at a scoff, walking over to her and about to throw his arms in the air with her, but Mary told him to be careful, so he kept still. "Do you see me? I'm wearing this thing, Teresa. Yes, you look great."

She snickered, pinching the cape between her fingers. "We should switch clothes. We might get away with it because of how long this thing is."

Trina grinned at them. "I think you both look lovely."

"President Paige insisted I wear this," Thomas said. "Is this considered bullying?"

"She wanted Teresa to wear this dress, too," Mark commented. "It's what the people voted for."

"Alright, lovely, the President told you to wear these. Let's get going now," Jorge ushered them inside the elevator, turning toward them with a stern expression as the doors closed. "Listen, these Victors are angry, you two. They'll say anything to try and stop the Games. I suggest," he pressed the button that would bring them to the designated floor. "You do the same."

. . . . 𓊿 . . . .

The other tributes had already gathered offstage, talking softly, by the time Thomas and Teresa arrived. The moment they stepped into view, everyone became silent.

Were they jealous, perhaps, of the power their outfits might have to manipulate the crowd? The glares they received supported that theory.

Finally, Minho cut through the silence, "Are you serious? Wedding attire?"

"I can't believe Mary put you in that thing," Newt remarked, eyeing the suit.

"She didn't have a choice. President Paige made her," Thomas countered defensively. He wouldn't let them criticize Mary.

Misty tossed her flowing red hair back like a curtain and spat out, "Well, you look ridiculous." She grabbed her brother's hand and pulled him into place to lead their procession onto the stage. The other tributes began to line up as well, some flinging scrutinizing glances back at the star-crossed lovers, while some gave them sympathetic pats on the shoulder. It confused him to no end.

Minho even stepped up to him, a smirk playing on his lips. "Make her pay for it."

Thomas nodded, pleasantly shocked to feel himself smiling a little in return. The Toad and Misty were guided on the stage first, and he started to realize the vast depth of the betrayal the Victors felt. Marcus Flickerman, hair and face highlighted in lavender, did his opening spiel and the people cried, wailed, and cheered all at once. The resentment from the tributes was palpable, but they were smart, so incredibly smart about how they spoke, because it would come back to reflect on the government and President Paige in particular. He loved it.

There were the ones who were just there for another round of the Games, such as Rose and Barkley, and those who were too baffled or drugged to join in on the attack. But there was enough Victors still carrying their wits and nerve to keep fighting.

Misty catapulted the ball into action with a speech about how she couldn't prevent herself from crying when she thought of how much the people in the Capitol must've been suffering because they would lose them. The Toad recalled the kindness shown there to him and his sister.

Aris openly questioned the legality of the Quell, wondering if it'd been fully examined by experts of late. "The Quarter Quell were written into law by men, surely it can be...unwritten."

Marcus only tilited his head. "Yes, interesting opinion."

Thomas almost groaned in annoyance when it was Newt's turn. He recited a poem he wrote to his 'one true love' in the Capitol, and a hundred people fainted from the words alone, assuming he was talking about them. Their screams nearly drowned out his speech to begin with.

When Minho Mason obtained his moment on the stage, he was not afraid in the slightest to present his contempt.

"We've seen a lot of tears tonight, but I see no tears in your eyes," Marcus said, grinning ear to ear as though everything was a joke to him. "Minho, you are angry."

Minho sneered at the hostman. "Yes, I'm angry," he smiled bitterly. "I'm getting totally screwed over here. You know, the deal was that if I win the Hunger Games, I get to live the rest of my life in peace," he held out his hand at the crowd. "But now, you wanna kill me again."

His anger must've gotten too large for him to control, and he ended up cursing at everybody, boldly yelling obscenities until he was forced to sit back down in his chair.

For once, Thomas aspired to be like him in that area of his character. At least for the interviews.

Cecelia quietly ruminated about how, back in District 11, everyone said President Paige was all-powerful. So, if she was this all-powerful figure they made her out to be, why didn't she change the Quell? Chaff was more blunt, saying that Paige didn't care all that much since she didn't change the Quell.

Thomas could hear Marcus beginning to introduce him as the next tribute, and he took a deep breath in before looking at Teresa. She met his gaze and raised a puzzled brow when he didn't speak right away. "What?"

"Nothing," he murmured. "I just..." he trailed off, searching for a way to deliver his thoughts into words. "You really do look beautiful, Teresa. I'm...sorry you got stuck in this mess with me."

Maybe in a different world, he would watch his best friend fall in love, and he'd be happy for her. He'd get to witness her marry someone she truly wanted, and she'd wear a pretty dress like the one she was wearing now. What a waste. But if he succeeded in his plan to save her, it wouldn't be so bad. She'd still have a chance to love somebody, freely, in the way she desired.

Teresa's eyes softened, glinting with an emotion Thomas couldn't quite name. Regret? Sadness? Guilt? He couldn't tell, and he didn't have time to. Marcus was calling his name, and she quickly kissed his cheek. "Don't be sorry, Tom. I wouldn't want to be in this mess with anybody else but you."

The doors slid open to the stage. Teresa stepped back.

Thomas set his gaze straight ahead, the lights beaming upon his face as he carefully walked up to the platform, and the audience became wrecked – moreso than they already were. They'd been weeping and collapsing and even calling for change, so his appearance set them in a frenzy. They wouldn't have him, they wouldn't have the star-crossed lovers living their perfect life, and they wouldn't have his wedding. How tragic it must be for them.

He offered them the appealing smile they all still screamed for, shaking Marcus's hand and bowing only his head at him, making the people's blubbering and shrieks become louder. These creatures freaked out over the littlest things. They almost treated him in the same way as they did for Newt, but that was pushing it. Everybody drooled over that guy. He couldn't argue that Newt was a very seemly individual though.

"My, my, wow," Marcus hollered, gesturing at Thomas's suit. "Aren't you just ravishing? Isn't he just ravishing, folks?" He asked the audience. They cheered in response. After motioning for them to quiet down, which took some time in itself, he continued the interview. "Now, Thomas, this is...a very big and emotional night for all of us, wouldn't you agree?"

Thomas huffed, grinning and pretending the cloud of death wasn't looming over him. "Oh, don't go crying on me now," he joked, his tone lighthearted.

"I can't make any promises, you know me!" Marcus guffawed, earning a series of broken laughter from the crowd.

'No, I don't know you,' Thomas chuckled and went with it nonetheless. "You know I wouldn't believe you even if you did."

Marcus cackled, everyone else either doing the same or weeping because they'd miss one of their favorite Victors. "Oh, don't you love him? Our mockingjay is so cheeky!" He allowed himself to take a breather before going on, "So, on a more serious note...I think we're all a little disappointed — more than a little disappointed — that a certain wedding did not take place," he paused, raising his lavender colored brows. "Am I right?"

Thomas vaguely nodded. There was no need for his comment.

"Alas, but am I also correct in assuming that this is the suit you would've worn on that day, yes or no?" Marcus held the microphone up for him to speak.

"Yes," Thomas remembered what Jorge told him, what Minho told him, and he looked at Marcus square in the eyes. "President Paige thought everyone would want to see it." He finished, a pointed edge filling his voice.

"Well, President Paige, as usual, was right," Marcus replied flippantly. "Wasn't she, folks?" The people hesitantly clapped and shouted their approval, and he practically jumped in place. "I love it! I love it!" He stepped to the side, letting Thomas have more of the stage. "Your time's running out, so please, please, take a bow!"

There it was.

He scanned the audience for Mary. When he found her, she smiled, and he returned it with one of his own.

The audience was crying for him, wailing in despair at the thought of having to let him go die in an arena when they were getting so attached to his love story. He didn't pay them any mind. Instead, he made a grand motion of holding one hand across his chest, extending his other arm out, just as he'd done for the Gamemakers, and bowed sumptuously. He thought it an odd thing that these Capitol citizens threw themselves into a fit of hysteria for something so simple. Anyone could do what he was doing. When the screams of the crowd swarmed the atmosphere, he didn't think much of it.

That is, until he noticed the smoke.

It came out of nowhere, engulfing him in dark tendrils that lifted into the air. Real, thick smoke. From fire. It was nowhere near the same as the flickery costume he wore last year in the chariot. This was real, and it was hungrily devouring his suit. He yelped in spite of himself, lifting his arms and temporarily forgetting about the audience, trying to control the flames. He took a few frantic steps around in a circle, not concerned of how ridiculous he must look.

Once that failed, he knew Mary was behind it all; everything he had on was quite literally burning up. Charred pieces of black silk swirled above him, and he heard pearls clattering on the stage. He coughed, growing dizzy from inhaling an unhealthy amount of smoke and from the panic that seized his senses. He was knelt on the floor before he even realized it, trying to protect his skin in some way, and also to conceal his reaction. What was going on? Why did Mary do this to him?

He was too busy clasping onto every possible intake of breath, worried and scared that something may have gone wrong in the alteration that was done to his suit, or worse, his clothes were completely burnt to a crisp. He earnestly hoped he wasn't naked. Minho could do as he wished, but Thomas wasn't hopping in that boat with him.

And then, the fire came to an abrupt end, disappearing without a trace.

Was his flesh scorched? Was he so numb that he couldn't feel it? A wave of questions came as he blinked open his teary eyes. But then the crowd all audibly gasped.

Marcus must've stepped up to him, but his voice still sounded a way's off. "Are you alright, Thomas?" He asked into the microphone almost tentatively.

Wanting to reassure him that he was fine, Thomas barely managed to lift one of his arms in a daze, willing his vision to return to normal and rid itself of its blurriness. Everyone screamed at the small movement, causing him to really wonder if he was naked.

His eyes cleared and he did a double-take at the replacement of clothing that now dressed him. The pure white of his wedding suit was gone. In its place was a deep midnight blue. 'What?' He cautiously looked at his hands, and shock instantly overpowered his original fright.

Suddenly, he knew why everyone was yelling.

The dark mist floated gently around him now, not choking him as much as it was a mere couple of seconds ago. He slowly directed his attention to the screens, in awe of the slight iridescent glint his new outfit held.

Yes, he knew why they were all shouting.

Because Mary had turned him into a mockingjay.