As promised, no trigger warnings here either. Please enjoy!

Leave a comment, and kindly vote! 

Stay safe and take care!~CANGEL

***

Scarlet Wolfe

     The Victory Tour always took place halfway between the previous Hunger Games and the next Reaping. The Victor would travel through Panem and all its' Districts, starting at the furthest and descending in numerical order until they reached the Capitol before ending in the Victor's own home.

     Before this year, the Victory Tour had always begun in District 14 and followed its descent: District 12, 11, 10, and so on. It always ended with the Victor's return home, celebrated with a feast for the entire District. But this year, because District 14 had won—because Scarlet had won—the Tour would begin in District 12 and end in District 14. Her home.

     As far as Scarlet was concerned, the Victory Tour was nothing more than a way to keep the horror that the Games brought from leaving the hearts and minds of all the citizens in all the Districts. The Victor's District would be rewarded while the other Districts would be reminded of the pain of their losses. Every District would feel the power and the might of the Capitol and of President Snow. They would feel either the sting of punishment, or the sweet-tasting mercy.

     This year would be the first year that District 14 would feel the Capitol's mercy. Food and drink would be plentiful during this year's Victory Tour. A feast would be held. Scarlet wondered if the people of her District would begin to appreciate her as a Victor once their bellies were full of food that only came because she had come back, or if they would continue to despise her.

     Even if they stopped hating her, she decided. She would not forget.

     The train hummed beneath her, the luxury of the car muted by the cold distance she kept within herself. She barely registered Verra's careful movements as her stylist orchestrated the last-minute touches to her appearance. Her prep team worked with meticulous focus, ensuring every detail of her makeup and presentation would be flawless. She didn't look at the mirror in front of her. She knew what she would see.

     They had spent hours back in District 14 polishing her body to perfection—waxing, scrubbing, and oiling her skin until it gleamed. The second round of waxing had been no easier than the first, and certainly no more pleasant. Her hair had been combed and curled in an attempt to tame her wild curls with something more uniform, while layer upon layer of red fabric wrapped around her like a second skin. The dress clung to her body tightly, forced into curves by the gold corset that never left her wardrobe.

     A long train trailed behind her, so impossibly long that Scarlet wondered how anyone could walk without tripping on it. The fabric whispered against the floor with every breeze or shift of movement like a blood-red river, silent yet consuming.

     Her black hair hung loose, a cascade of waves pinned meticulously into place, sprayed until it wouldn't dare move. She hadn't seen the final result yet, even though they were now on the train speeding away from District 14.

     Her image was not a flexible one and she knew that Verra wouldn't allow her to look anything less than what had been specified.

     The Wicked Wolfe, she thought grimly, the name clinging to her as tightly as the corset was. The Capitol's creation.

     As they finished their work, Scarlet held her head high, her expression unreadable beneath the metal wolf mask that covered the lower half of her face. The wolfish snout was a constant reminder of the Capitol's narrative—an image of terror, cunning, and ruthlessness that she had to embody.

     She had left her new home in the Victor's Village earlier that morning, flanked by her Penelope, Verra, and her prep team. As soon as she had crossed through the gates that separated the Victor's Village from the rest of their District, she had been surrounded by reporter's and camera's that no doubt were broadcasting to the whole Nation of Panem. Their questions poured out as fast as they could, but she could only read one person at a time.

     In a way, it was comforting. They knew she was deaf—but they didn't know what that entailed or they were too selfish to really make any accommodations for her. They were used to people making accommodations for them. The result being that they treated her like everyone else, demanding that their questions be answered first.

     "How are you liking it here in your new home?"

     "How do you feel now, settling in here as a Victor?"

     "What have you been occupying your time with?"

     "What are you looking forward to the most on this Victory Tour?"

     She took a moment to let it all sink in, not giving way to her anxiety or unease. Then she laughed in response to their questions, her lips curling beneath the mask in a way she knew they would interpret as sinister. The Wicked Wolfe didn't answer questions with kindness or gratitude or thoughtfulness. She gave them what they expected: an enigmatic smile and the unsettling feeling that she might devour them whole if they stepped too close.

     "What more could I possibly want?" she had teased before walking away, her gown trailing in the snow, the wind tangling her hair as she left the vultures to feed on her words. Let them think what they would about her.

     Inside the train, Penelope handed her a card. It was for her speech in District 12, she was informed. Penelope's puckered, sour face never changing in the slightest as she turned and walked away.

     She had glanced at it only once, immediately hating the insincerity of the words written on it. District 12 would be her first stop in the Victory Tour along the way to the Capitol where she would stand on a grand stage before the entire District, offering cold condolences to the families of the fallen tributes.

     Families like hers.

     Flickers of memories arose, details from two years ago when Finnick had come to District 14 on his Victory Tour. Victors came every year, but that year was sharper in her mind than the rest. That was the year her own family stood on a small stage of their own, mourning Aureolin's death. Her chest tightened. Two of her siblings were dead now because of the Games.

     She was sure that the Capitol had not announced anywhere in the time that she had volunteered to enter the Arena, that her older sister had also been a tribute in the games two years prior. No one really cared about a girl who died within the first few minutes of the games several years ago.

     But Scarlet wanted to tell them. She wanted to tell them that she understood.

     If only so they might understand even the slightest bit, when she told them that she wasn't sorry.

     How could she be sorry? If she had made any choices differently, then she might not be here, right now, so how could she regret?

     She knew what awaited her there. She knew they wouldn't want her condolences or her pity—just as well because she had none to give. District 14's silent welcoming of Finnick after he had killed both their tributes was a warning. She had taken Dawson's life, even after he had risked his to save her in the cornucopia. And the girl—Lillian—she had wounded and left to the mercy of Crimson's Tide's blood thirsty nature.

     A stinging echo of pain shot through her side. The memory of his teeth in her own body was far sharper than that of the girl's contorted face as she screamed while being ripped apart. Scarlet gritted her teeth, forcing her hand to stay in her lap and not cover her side. It was just a memory. She told herself. The Capitol had healed the damage and erased the scars. The pain was only in her imagination.

     District 12 wouldn't see a Victor deserving of mercy or admiration. They wouldn't see the girl who had once mourned her own sibling lost to the Games, or the one forced to kill her own brother to survive it. They would see only the monster who had taken their children.

     Brutally. Ruthlessly. Mercilessly.

     And they would hate her for it.

     She wanted to tear the card apart, to throw the meaningless words into the wind. But she wouldn't. She couldn't. The Capitol demanded these performances, these displays of false sympathy. And she was expected to play her part.

     Scarlet let out a breath, her gaze drifting to the frosted window. Outside, snow blurred by in pale, gray streaks. The cold landscape matched the numbness inside of her. Soon it would fade, changing into the dull barren land that was District 12. Too soon, they would be there.

     Verra finished the final adjustments, her fingers fluttering over Scarlet's hair like a bird settling its feathers. For a moment, her hands stilled, lingering in Scarlet's hair, but then she resumed her meticulous work. Probably just considering if there was any more to do.

     Her face levels with Scarlet's. "Is everything to your liking?" She asked, her words over pronounced and probably louder than normal. Scarlet glanced at her reflection in the mirror before her—her face framed by dark curls, her lips—a perfect, blood-red line beneath the gleaming metal wolf mask, and her eyes... Her haunting golden wolf eyes. Eerie and dangerous, a predator through and through.

     She hated it.

     But Scarlet gave a small nod. There was nothing left to say.

     Verra smiled, her eyes critically viewed Scarlet before she smiled with approval. "You're ready." An object under view of its creator, is what Scarlet felt like sitting before Verra as her stylist stepped back to get a fuller view of her creation. "The Capitol will love this look. My best work yet," she added, almost like an afterthought, but Scarlet could see the pride that straightened her spine and excitement that lit her eyes.

     The Capitol's approval, Scarlet thought, was more important above all else. Around Verra, she would have to be careful not to lower the mask. Unlike Cassandra—or perhaps because of Cassandra—she would never find sympathy or empathy. It was better that way, like Verra, Scarlet preferred to focus on the task at hand instead of getting caught up in all the emotions.

     The train hummed beneath her feet, the luxurious car feeling more like a cage. The chandeliers overhead sparkled in soft golden light, reflecting the gleam of the polished surfaces, but to Scarlet, it was all hollow. The Capital's luxury was always cold, always distant. It was a shiny veneer that concealed the rot beneath it.

     "We'll be there in about an hour." Penelope announced as she trampled through the car. She looked toward her with a heavy sigh, as if she were burdened by the very sight of Scarlet. Scarlet looked down, her eyes latching once more onto the paper held in her hands, feeling her Escorts heavy footsteps grow faint as she left the train car once more.

     According to the card she was to read, she would offer her condolences for the fallen tributes Districts and thank the Capitol for all of their generosity.

    The words were stiff and superficial.

     How could words like that come out of the mouth of the Wicked Wolfe? How could words like that come out of the mouth of Scarlet Wolfe?

     It was very simple, actually.

     It couldn't.

     But it had to.

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So, how do you all like this chapter? I, personally, really enjoy it. It's short but powerful, again, in my opinion. 

My question to all of you, that I'm curious about, is this: The Capitol paints Scarlet Wolfe as this wild, vicious, monstrous wolf. A dark temptress. A ruthless killer. So, why do they want her to offer condolences to the families on the Victory Tour like any other Victor before her? 

(I have an answer in my head, but before I give my own opinion, I would really like to hear from all of you reading)

Take Care and Stay Safe! ~CANGEL