Chapter 5 : Fire and Fury
The staging area beneath the Remake Center hummed with barely contained chaos.
Twenty-four tributes lined up with their chariots, twelve districts arranged in numerical order. Capitol handlers shouted instructions. Horses stamped and snorted, engineered for beauty rather than temperament. The air tasted like perfume and sweat and fear.
I climbed onto the District 12 chariot beside Katniss. Her costume matched mine—black unitard, flowing cape, the same crown of synthetic material designed to erupt in flame. Up close, her jaw was tight, her hands gripping the chariot's railing hard enough to whiten her knuckles.
"Ready?" I asked.
"No."
"Good. Neither am I."
Ahead of us, District 11 waited on their chariot. The male tribute was enormous—six and a half feet at least, shoulders like a bull. His district partner barely reached his elbow. Small, dark-skinned, maybe twelve years old. She wore a harvest-themed costume that made her look even younger.
My stomach clenched. I looked away.
District 1's chariot led the procession, their tributes draped in silver and gemstones. The boy had the kind of confident posture that came from knowing he'd trained for this his entire life. The girl smiled like a predator scenting prey.
District 2 followed. Cato—I'd memorized the threat reports—stood like a marble statue, muscles visible even through his costume. Beside him, Clove watched the other tributes with eyes that cataloged weaknesses. Both wore gold armor that glinted under the staging lights.
Careers. Killers in training. They'd be hunting everyone else the moment the gong sounded.
"The tributes from 2," Katniss said quietly. "They're staring at us."
She was right. Cato's gaze had fixed on our chariot, on our strange black costumes, on the two volunteers from the district that never won. His expression held something between curiosity and contempt.
I smiled at him. Waved.
His eyes narrowed.
Before he could respond, the massive doors at the front of the staging area began to open. Capitol noise poured in—cheering, music, the roar of a crowd hungry for spectacle. District 1's chariot lurched forward, and one by one, the others followed.
"Remember," Cinna appeared beside our chariot, touching a control on his belt, "chin up. Let them see you."
Synthetic flame erupted from our capes and crowns.
The heat was immediate but bearable. Warm, not burning. Cinna hadn't lied—the fire was safe. But it looked real, dancing and flickering, casting shadows that made us seem larger than life. Through the flames, I caught Katniss's expression shifting from fear to wonder.
Our chariot moved forward.
The Capitol streets hit like a wall of sound. Thousands of citizens packed the route, screaming and throwing flowers and reaching toward the chariots with hands painted in every color imaginable. Cameras swooped overhead on drones. Giant screens displayed each chariot in turn, commentators babbling in voices amplified to thunder.
My Blind Spot sense screamed. Million of eyes. No safe spots. Complete exposure from every angle.
So I stopped trying to hide.
I grinned at the crowd. Caught a flower thrown from somewhere above and tucked it behind my ear. Waved with both hands, then one hand, then gestured for the audience to cheer louder. They obliged. The noise swelled, crashed, became something almost physical.
Beside me, Katniss remained rigid. Her spine was iron, her face stone. But the flames danced around her, beautiful and terrible, and the crowd loved her for it—the fierce girl who burned without flinching.
I reached over and took her hand.
She tensed. For a moment I thought she'd pull away. Then her fingers interlocked with mine, and I raised our joined hands high.
The crowd lost its collective mind.
"District Twelve!" Caesar Flickerman's voice boomed from every speaker. "On fire tonight! And look at that unity! These two volunteers are giving us quite the show!"
Sponsors were already calling in. I couldn't hear the individual conversations, but I recognized the look of Capitol citizens reaching for their phones, their tablets, their credit accounts. Money was flowing. Toward us. Toward District 12, the district that never mattered.
Our chariot rolled to a stop before the City Circle.
President Snow stood on his balcony, distant and white-haired and utterly still. While other tributes waved to the crowd or posed for cameras, I watched him. His eyes moved from chariot to chariot, assessing, calculating. When they reached District 12—reached us—they paused.
No warmth. No entertainment. Just cold evaluation of a potential problem.
I didn't look away first.
The flames flickered around us, throwing dancing shadows across the City Circle. Snow's gaze lingered another moment, then moved on, dismissing us as easily as he dismissed everything beneath his notice.
But I'd seen the pause. The calculation. He'd noticed us, and noticing was the first step toward fearing.
Snow began his welcoming address. Standard propaganda: the glory of Panem, the generosity of the Capitol, the honor of competing in the Hunger Games. I let the words wash over me without absorbing them. The crowd cheered at prescribed moments. Tributes stood at attention, some trembling, some stoic.
Our flames extinguished as the ceremony concluded.
In the sudden coolness, I became aware that my hand was still warm where it touched Katniss's palm. Her grip hadn't loosened. Her expression remained fierce and closed, but she hadn't pulled away.
That meant something. I wasn't sure what yet.
The chariots circled once more, then filed into the Training Center's underground entrance. Handlers and stylists swarmed the moment we stopped moving. Portia helped me down, her expression caught between professional satisfaction and genuine excitement.
"That," she said, "was exactly what I hoped for."
"The hand thing—" I started.
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Sponsors are already calling. You've made yourselves memorable."
Katniss climbed down on the other side, Cinna speaking quietly in her ear. She glanced toward me once, her gray eyes unreadable, then looked away.
We moved through corridors toward the tribute elevators. Other tributes passed us, some openly staring at the fire-wielding volunteers from District 12. The Careers from 2 clustered together, Cato's gaze following our progress with new intensity. The small girl from 11 slipped past, quick and quiet, and for a moment her eyes met mine.
She smiled. Tiny. Fleeting. Then she was gone.
The elevator doors opened on the District 12 floor, and Haymitch was waiting.
He wasn't drunk. That was the first shock. The second was his expression—somewhere between surprised and genuinely impressed.
"Well." He clapped me on the shoulder. "That was something."
"Good something or bad something?"
"Good something. Memorable something. The kind of something that makes sponsors reach for their wallets." His gaze moved to Katniss, including her in the assessment. "Don't waste it."
The doors opened on Capitol luxury—plush carpets, crystal fixtures, food displays that could feed the Seam for a month. Tomorrow, training would begin. Twenty-four tributes learning to kill each other while evaluators watched and scored.
But tonight, for one moment, we'd burned brighter than anyone expected.
Tomorrow, I'd start dimming those flames. Playing weak. Disappearing into the background while Katniss commanded attention.
Tonight, though, I let myself feel something like satisfaction.
The Games hadn't started, but the real game was already underway.
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