Author's Notes: Written for mizzy2k livejournal, for leverageland's Hallowe'en Bash Gift Thing. This is unbeta'd flash fiction, so there will be some mistakes. It's also written in an unusual tense, but…imitation is the greatest form of flattery, right?

"Incredibly, chance does seem to bend itself to his bizarre mechinations..."

"That's his superpower."

At first they think he's no threat at all.

He's born and raised in District One. Born and raised to produce luxury. He has no need to rebel or uprise: he just goes with the flow and enjoys a quality of life the rest of the districts didn't even know to dream about.

Then his 12-year old son is chosen in the Reaping; a fluke, of course, that they chose one of the few boys in the entire district who hasn't lived for the idea of the Games. Who hasn't trained for the Careers.

The boy dies on the first day – doesn't even make it out of the Cornucopia.

Some say he dies at the same time.

But if he does die, he's reborn in a silent, invisible flame that only flickers from his eyes. Something that comes across only in his words, in conversations with otherwise complete strangers. Doesn't anything seem off about this? and If children are the future, what are we building ourselves?and...

He's never caught saying anything. The words can never be traced directly back to him. But somehow, they always have that soul-fire flare to them, the one gleaming in his sea-blue stare.

That's about when they rethink the threat thing.

Later they think he won't be a threat if they just remove his voice.

It's where his thrall over people comes from, isn't it? The silver tongue and the gold-pressed words, manipulating and cajoling people into thinking ways they haven't before. Into seeing the tiny little chinks in their own personal armor; into looking at the screens and seeing people, children, instead of entertainment.

Take away his words and the people will stop listening.

He doesn't seem surprised when they come for him. Doesn't fight them – just smiles, something serene and supremely dangerous flickering behind his dark blue eyes.

Nothing changes in those eyes when he awakens after the procedure - muted forever; the flash taken from his gilded voice - and is put to work in the Capitol.

But then, nothing changes in those eyes when he escapes, either, and his silent, wordless face starts cropping up on video screens everywhere.

He doesn't have to say the words anymore – someone else is saying them for him. They come in writing, codes sent through the television in ways that no one can trace. They come in fighting, an elegantly brutal violence in the deepest parts of the Capitol, where no one should be able to go. They come in subtle hints and sighs to the highest politicians - and in the missing jewelry of their wives.

Sometimes words don't need to be spoken.

Sometimes they just need to be thought.

Lastly, they finally, finally think that maybe he won't be a threat of they just kill him.

They clearly made a mistake for once. The problem is not his tongue. The problem is his mind. His thoughts, passed on through writing and feeling and...

And they realize that they need to find him and the rebels he runs around with, put them down like rabid Mutts before this nonsense gets a real chance to spread.

But somehow, with the advent of feathers and fire, somehow with the rise of the Mockingjay, the odds don't look to good for that either.