the puppets dance.

Glory was starved of sleep. What little she got was plagued by the faces of those lost to the carnage of the games. The nights leading up to the first glimpse of the arena were always the worst. Ten-minute nightmares on repeat. She would dream of the seventy-second games; her games. She'd wake with the taste of ash and salt on her tongue, in the air was the scent of something floral, her nose raw, and she'd lean over to her bedside table and gulp water. She'd sleep again, then wake feverish, heart thundering, feeling her own unrelenting and ruthless need to win and the expectation of it from her father. The pressure to bring them a better life was craved compared to the desolation of now.

The shadows in her room became hives for her tormentors; their bloody limbs crept out like spider legs. She wished she carved them into chunks when she had the chance. Her eyebrows pulled together in the dark.

She thought one was supposed to grow out of horridness. But it seemed she couldn't. It was deep down in her- an abyss of silence, a pool of stagnant water and rotting weeds. Once, when she had still been a child, it had just been a pit, empty and black and somewhere between then and now it had become foul. She suspected the cause wasn't just one thing but a multitude. Her mind chewing and gnawing on day-to-day life. A glare, a snide comment, a lack of love. It's always the small cruelties that get you in the end.

When her mind began to replay the whimpers of her district partner she sat upright with a sigh. The inky darkness she craved wasn't coming tonight.

Her socks were slippery on the tiles. The entire penthouse was cold and quiet, and outside, down on the street the Capitolites cheered as they placed bets on their favourite tributes, they would drink and eat until they were sick and then go and eat some more. Glory couldn't see the line odds but she could imagine Cato, the brute from Two would have the best of them all. His physicality spoke for him- broad shoulders, muscular arms, he towers over his district partner; Clove- it tells them he's here to become the next Victor. The cheering and betting will only increase as the days pass, it will spike as training scores are announced and will continue to rise and fall once the tribute interviews air, the bloodbath concludes and then lastly when there are only six tributes remaining. But it was all just a hum right now, background noise, like a rotating fan.

She thought she would only have the Avoxes for company, but she found Haymitch in the lounge room with the television on, volume low. It was the Caesar Flickerman all-night show. He was half asleep when she sat down on the opposite end of the lounge, and neither offered any acknowledgement to the other. Haymitch shifted position and ice clinked. This was the punishment for winning.

When the television lit up his face she saw him looking at her. Now she'd washed off the makeup he could see how tired she looked, which wasn't the right word, hollow was closer. She imagined she looked just as he did. Which is to say, not good. Haymitch held his drink out for her to take.

The liquid burnt on the way down. It wasn't her first taste of alcohol. On dinner dates sometimes they gave her a wine they said paired well with her meal- which she'd sip slowly between mouthfuls of food and gaps in conversation, she'd sip it to be polite but never fast enough to feel the effects she saw Haymitch suffering from. She'd never tasted this before. The bottle sitting on the table in front of them read Whiskey.

"Where's your mother?"

It was the drink that brought tears to her eyes, not his question that had caught her off guard. A cruel thing to ask considering what had happened to his own family. Once again, the punishment for winning. The rest of Haymitch's drink went down in a gulp.

Glory reached for a pocket in her pyjama pants and found the coin and the rope. She traced the dull edge of the coin, around and around. "She died."

She felt her insides warm, a result of the alcohol despite the conversation. She understood why Haymitch drowned himself in it. She couldn't do that. It would feel like giving up, she had a vow to keep and she had Father to look after. Haymitch didn't have anyone. Only himself, and sometimes it seemed like he was trying to lose that too.

His chin rested on his chest and Glory could barely hear him when he asked. "Snow?" It was a question that could get him punished. They both knew better than to rebel against the President in his own home, maybe one could get away with it back in the districts but not in the Capitol; there were too many eyes and ears.

It took her a long moment to gather the will to shake her head. "It was a long time ago."

Silence followed as they let the conversation die. Glory didn't want to talk about her mother and Haymitch couldn't pry anymore without getting them both to commit what one might call treason. Glory understood he only asked because he'd never seen her before.

Haymitch motioned to give the glass back so Glory did, he filled it again with whisky and got up and left leaving only a warm hand on her shoulder as he passed.

Glory let her head relax into the cushioning and her eyes fell shut. She breathed deeply, letting the tension in her muscles go, hoping one last time for sleep. "Let us take a look back at the history of the games, and don't worry folks, we're leaving out the boring years." Ceasar Flickerman chuckles and Glory's head throbs.

"Yes, but what constitutes a good game and do you think this one will qualify?" Claudius Templesmith asks. He's Ceaser's co-host. Glory's mind throws away any notion of sleep in favour of the conversation. Isn't the answer obvious? The Capitolites just have to be entertained.

"Well Claudius, just two days ago we learnt from our interview with Seneca Crane- who if you don't know, is the current head Gamemaker- that his personal signature is finding obstacles for the tributes to tackle, which without, as you can imagine would leave us and potentially the tributes bored. Then, of course, there's the tributes themselves."

Of course! There's no Hunger Games without tributes. Glory understood a major part of the success of the games came down to appearances. The more attractive a tribute was the better the games were. No one wants to watch malnourished, unwashed kids fight to the death. It felt unfair and upsetting, it was too obvious it was punishment. The train, full of food, and the three-course dinners weren't only boasting or a display of how much better off the Capitol is, all the food shoved in front of tributes is to fatten them up for the slaughter. To make them more watchable, more palatable.

They have a remake centre to make them pretty and handsome and perfect. To cover up the hard truth no one in the Capitol wants to face; the people in the districts are suffering, they are starving and dying of sicknesses, they don't have sanitary living conditions, and they are oppressed- and the games are ensuring no one in the Capitol needed to face it.

The tributes needed to seem like they all had a fair chance of winning, hence the food and the remake centre, and the Capitol needed someone to root for to keep them watching, and the tribute interviews allowed them to do that. It made her sick.

The only way to save Katniss and Peeta's lives was to play into the game and make them seem interesting enough to root for. But how could she do that? She knew next to nothing about the two and they were from Twelve. Twelve only had three victors in seventy-three years, no one was going to root for her tributes with those odds.

Katniss had her sister. She could tug on the Capitols' sympathetic side, play on how much she needed to get back home for her, how she was willing to do anything to win, and if she made it to the final eight her sister would be interviewed which would help sway sponsors. Everyone who watched the reaping had seen how much they meant to each other. It might just work. But then there's Peeta. He appeared to be strong, and she was sure the remake centre could work wonders to amplify his appearance but anyone could see he would be no match against a career like Cato, and if they wanted to see someone strong from an outlying district- they had the male from Eleven. That approach would be futile.

Glory's temples pounded. She dragged herself off the lounge in the direction of the kitchen. There she found an Avox. Glory could tell he straightened up from leaning against the wall, dozing, the moment she walked in. "Sorry, I could use something for a headache, and a coffee please." He nodded and turned on the coffee machine. The immediate noise made her jerk away. While the machine warmed up, he plucked a glass cup from a cabinet, filled it with water and set it in front of Glory, he left the kitchen and returned a minute later with a pill on a tiny circular tray. "Thanks," She put the pill on her tongue and took a drink of water. Down it went. By the time he was grinding coffee beans and extracting the coffee, she wasn't flinching at every noise. Two years ago Glory was amazed at the medicine the Capitol had access to before she grew angered by it. Not by the medicine itself, but by the complete absence of it in the Districts.

Glory looked down to see the coffee in front of her but the tray and Avox were gone. The kitchen was empty. A shiver ran down her spine. She wondered what he'd given her for her to miss him getting as close as he needed to put down the coffee and then his departure. She decided it to be wise to sit still for a moment longer. Her eyes closed as she focused on herself. Her toes and fingers felt normal, her joints didn't ache, her breathing was steady, heartbeat normal, headache dulling by the second. Her vision didn't blur when she opened her eyes and moved her head so she deemed it safe to move. She stood up tentatively and took the coffee back into the lounge, stepping softly so she didn't spill the liquid onto the saucer.

She took a sip to test its temperature, it didn't scald her tongue so she took another before setting it down on the table beside Haymitch's bottle of whiskey.

Still bent over the table she glances up at the television and the world tilts. Her knees tremble until she sits back on the lounge. "-Everyone's favourite year," Caesar's voice was sharp. It was so sharp it felt like the sword skimming her lower back again. "The arena was stunning! The use of colour and contrast, I think is a part of what made it so special."

"Fun fact Ceasar! My wife took inspiration from this year for our little girl's nursery. My wife even visited the arena to replicate the infamous flowers."

"We need to see this one day!" The screen flicked to the countdown at the beginning of the games. In hindsight of Glory's victory, the camera focused on her face. Her jaw clenched similarly to how it did now. "Oh yes! Our darling Glory made these games unforgettable-"

"Not really a darling here, was she?" Her teeth ground together as Claudius chuckled at himself.

"She was so determined, I think it's quite admirable. She's a fantastic role model for kids across Panem- oh! Side note ladies and gents, I hear she's going to be at this year's opening feast, so if you haven't had the privilege of meeting this beauty in person, I would jump on this opportunity."

Glory tears her eyes off the screen and steadies her shaking hands by pressing them into her thighs. Father wouldn't be impressed if she allowed a few images and words to get her so rattled. He didn't spend sixteen years of his life training her for nothing. Her mother's death wouldn't go in vain because she couldn't control herself. Her coffee doesn't spill when she picks it up. "Seneca did a fantastic job in his first year being Head Gamemaker. He proved himself to be the right man for the job!" Claudius becomes mute as Glory presses a side button on the remote.

She needed to get back on track.

Peeta didn't stand out in any way. He was an average merchant boy, and while being merchant may have left him better off in Twelve, he hadn't known hunger like she had. Not the growling, hollow kind food satisfies, but the kind you grip tight inside, it glints like a knife behind your eyes. It's unsatisfiable. Insatiable. Not many had a hunger like that. Peeta had no fire behind his eyes like there was in Katniss's, no glint as there was in hers. No drive to win. The capitol would see that, they would leave him for dead.

Glory wouldn't let that happen. Selfishly, she couldn't.

Peeta was a boy, they would see this. Would they condemn him for it? Not if it could be used in his favour. Careers like Cato would strive to come across as confident and ruthless to show Panem they were capable of becoming the next Victor, this approach would work for Cato because it's what careers are known for, winning is what's expected. It's telling a story not so far-fetched, it's something everyone can believe and therefore root for. Selling the same story for Peeta wouldn't work. Boys like Peeta had emotions. Father had once said emotions would get you killed and maybe in the arena this was true but while in the Capitol, emotions could save his life. People could relate to a boy with emotions. And if they relate to him, if they see themselves in him, they're not going to want to see him die.

Glory almost smiled into her coffee cup. A tiny morsel of weight slipped from her shoulders.

Domitilla Hughbell, aka Tilly, is the closest thing to a friend Glory found in the Capitol. Glory spots her the moment she walks into the café. She sits slouched in a quiet corner booth, slender shoulders drawn back but her spine rounded, moulding to the cushioning. She's tired- they both are- Tilly's is physical though. Behind her sunglasses, her eyes must be closed. Glory slides in beside her. The sound of her top brushing against the leather seating jolts Tilly straight.

She pushes the sunglasses up onto her hair and drags Glory into a hug. "You came!" She holds her at arm's length, green eyes looking her over, ginger hair a brilliant red underneath the chandelier light. "Blanche does so well, I wish I had a stylist," she freezes for a moment. "Well, a permanent one. The company gives me one for press and parties, you know that kind of thing, but I was trying to pick out something this morning and I just didn't know what to wear. It's been a full month since I last saw you! A girl needs to impress, you know, otherwise, I fear you'll bore of me."

Chronically terrified of being left behind, she hasn't changed a bit. Glory doesn't tell her Blanche was still asleep when she left this morning. "I'd miss you too much," She holds her hand on top of Tilly's. "Who could I talk boys to if you weren't here? Pax?" Pax is the waiter who always serves their table, he lingers at their beck and call. It makes Glory uncomfortable but Tilly finds it endearing. Tilly also finds his wide dark eyes endearing. Her judgment shouldn't be trusted.

"Could you imagine? His complexion is so pale, his cheeks might deepen to the crimson of my dress," She giggles quietly so she doesn't draw his attention to them. Her eyes betray her, they dart to him hopefully. This is the reason they never find themselves anywhere else, and the fact that this café is in Tilly's building so they can't be photographed for the tabloids. Someone did try once, but Pax wrangled them out, igniting Tilly's crush. "Oh! Do you want to talk boys?" Glory smiles eagerly at her. "Should we go up to my place?"

"Let's stay and get breakfast."

Tilly orders a green salad, a stack of strawberry pancakes and a hot chocolate, Glory makes it two stacks and adds on a coffee. While Pax is tapping their order through to the kitchen, Tilly is staring holes into Glory; who won't talk until Pax has left earshot.

"So? Who's the lucky boy?" She's impatient, but quick, Glory will give her that. In the minute it took for Pax to take their orders and leave, she'd deduced this wasn't just a general chat about the male kind, but about someone specific, which made Glory's purpose for asking her to meet so easy to fulfil.

Glory feigned reluctance. She pursed her lips and looked down at her black stockings. She held her breath so her cheeks might redden. "Come on, spill! You know about all my endeavours and shortcomings but never mind that. Tell me who has finally got you blushing!" Glory looks up at Tilly, her expression is equal in surprise and excitement. Glory's gaze scans the people near them, there aren't many. People don't like to sit in the back corner, they prefer to sit near the window so they can gaze out at the Capitol when their conversation dies. The people near them are engrossed in their own lives which is important because what she's planning on saying is for Tilly's ears only.

"T's ta tri-ute." Glory mumbles.

Tilly's eyes narrow. "Don't make up your own language! My ballet master does enough of that on his own." Glory bites her lip, earning a light smack on the arm. Stop that and hurry up it says.

"Fine. It's Peeta Mellark, my tribute."

Tilly's grin grows until she's nearly squealing. Pax walks over with a hot chocolate and a coffee. Glory nudges her with her foot, Tilly sends her a wide-eyed glance but stops nonetheless. Pax places the drinks down on the table. "Would you like your food now?" Tilly turns her smile on him and his blush isn't fake, she nods.

"Pax is going to fall in love if you keep smiling at him like that." Glory picks up her spoon to scoop up the foam. It was Panem's emblem. She tears it in two, spooning it into her mouth.

"This isn't about me right now!" Pax returns with two plates for Tilly and one for Glory. They both say their thanks. "Pax, can we also have a rose and raspberry meringue tart, cut in half? Today is a day to celebrate."

He nods but it looks like a half-bow. "Of course, Miss Hughbell."

Tilly's attention is back on Glory then, expectant. "I don't know how this happened! I feel foolish. I was told to let him know dinner was ready-" Tilly opened her mouth to speak but then shut it. "I was in his room-"

"Ok wait. Don't let anyone command you around. You were in his room?"

"Yes, he was distracted so I went in to get his attention, and then he glanced at me and his eyes were beautiful and so blue. Then at dinner, I'm sitting across from him and he smiles and I can feel my cheeks warming up." Tilly laughs. Keep going. Mix the truth with lies. Speak with conviction and she will believe it. "He's kind, Tilly! He has manners. I barely know a thing about him and I can't ask him because I'm his mentor. If he says he has a girl back home, that would make things uncomfortable, wouldn't it?" Tilly nods along, leaning forward. "If I can't mentor properly, I don't need to explain what might happen do I?"

"No, you know you don't." She leans back. Manicured brows furrowing. Glory can see her mind mulling over what she's just heard. Glory picks up her knife and fork and cuts into her pancakes, this prompts Tilly to as well. They're both quiet, but Glory doesn't feel the need to look out the window. This conversation isn't dead. Tilly is a good person- as far as Capitolites go- and she'll come to a solution. Preferably Glory's predetermined solution. Whether she has to ask it of her, or if she'll come to it on her own, is to be seen.

Glory reaches for her coffee. Tilly grabs her forearm with a gasp. Her expression is now clear, nearly hopeful. She is truly stunning. "Let me talk to my uncle. Before you say no, there's already a family dinner planned. I won't mention you, he will believe it's just another one of my infatuations, you know there's many- what I'd do to get my hands on Finnick Odair-" Her fingers tighten around Glory's arm and Glory pulls it back to her body slowly. Tilly lets go. There's a white handprint that she will let regain its colour underneath the table, out of Tilly's view. "Anyway, it wouldn't be a problem, it would be a help honestly. After thirty years of interviews, you would think he'd know what to ask, but no, we have a brainstorming family dinner every year..." Tilly trails off.

"Thank you, Tilly! I'll owe you."

"Don't be silly, this is what friends are for!" Glory puts the drop in her stomach down to hunger. She forks a strawberry. "Don't worry, live television will loosen his lips, you know he can't refuse to answer if the entirety of Panem is watching." Glory forces a laugh, the strings pulling her about, loosen. That was too easy. She was a puppet who knew how to dance well. It helps that Tilly can't tell what is real and fake. She grew up on lies and rumours so she learned to believe whatever served her best, which meant she often took everything at face value. If Glory's laugh sounded off, Tilly wouldn't look into it, she would just be happy she'd made the girl laugh. She would believe Glory until her last breath because she craved a friend, she craved validation.

"Is Titus still your dance partner?"

"Unfortunately. He dropped me the other week. I nearly twisted my ankle," Tilly looks as furious as her innocent face can look. "I'm so glad the games are finally here. I don't think I could live through another week of bleaching myself the colour of a white swan..."