"We'll walk into War"

Part one | Part two (will be up in a week) | Part three

Title: "the march"
Author: annicaspoon
Rating: T
Word Count: 6,353
Characters: Almost all of them are mentioned at least once. From the pre time-skip and post time skip teams, with some extras added in. Only two or three explicitly shown pairings
Summary: "This year is different from other years. It feels like everything is about to snap – collapse."
Author's Notes: Very long Hunger Games AU. ALL the characters, ALL the subplots, ALL the deaths. I normally don't do these type of things, but I saw a graphic floating around tumblr and then I was also inspired by a video that Brella made for me ages ago (links to them can be found on my profile page) – aaand my brain pretty much went BOOM!

This was also a bit of an experiment for me, trying to juggle the plights and mindsets of multiple characters in one fic

(also this has taken WAY too damn long to write – sorry -_-)

~o~O~o~

The six months before this reaping are different to other years. The same dread and anxiety as every other year hangs around the months leading up to the games; but there's more than that in the air. A tenseness - unsettled activity and whispers of rebellion and uprisings. The attitudes of the district residents are more fearful and on edge than usual, but there's also something else - an undercurrent of hope, determination and heart. Whether or not that is beneficial or destructive, depends on perspective.

But none-the-less, this year carries far more disquiet than other years. Order is hanging from a thread - about to snap and collapse.

And of course, this is a Quarter Quell year.

-o-

"On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district is required to send twice as many tributes."

As soon as the words float through the TV speakers and sink in among the adults and children with their eyes trained on the screen, chaos rips through the districts. Parents grow fearful and clutch their children close, because it's not two young people that will be reaped for the annual event, but four, and the odds of their children being drawn from the glass container is immediately heightened. Nightmares fill the heads of the young boys and girls who will stand in order in a few months to wait and see who will be thrown into the arena, praying in their minds over and over that it will not be themselves, because if they are reaped to participate this year, they will not be up against the usual twenty-three other participants, but instead, they will have to survive the odds against forty-seven.

That's the reaction among most of the districts, anyway. Up in District Two, among the training of future peacekeepers and building of weapons that could even be chosen to be used in this year's games, Conner Kent merely nods at the news and turns around to get back to his training. While the result of the Quelling isn't ideal, he can still manage to figure out a way to defeat the extra twenty-four tributes and win his way to upholding the expectations set on his shoulders. This year is his year to volunteer for the boys, after years of gruelling training under the past victors of District Two, one of which, being his cousin, Clark Kent. Clark, nicknamed "The Superman" by Capitol media, is Conner's great idol; his role model, the man he has been brought up and trained to surpass the achievements of.

While other boys of District Two scoff at the idea, stating that Conner should be his own man, rather than trying to live up to the old glory of a past tribute, Conner disregards them (he's never been one for socialism) and continues training - watching tapes of past games, learning a variety of ways to fight, heightening his resourcefulness, his strategic thinking, anything, everything - anything that can help him, that can heighten his skills, so he can go to these games and come back from them as a Victor, another name for the history books, a true District Two man and warrior, and a worthy successor for the Superman's legacy.

Roy Harper knew this was coming.

It's been hanging there for years, from his first reaping - six years ago - to his last - today. Each year it has always been the same process, the dread and anxiousness leading up to the reaping, the minutes in which he holds his breath and waits for his name to be called out, the rush of relief when it isn't, and the months of calm following the games until the next year, where the whole routine starts over again.

He's known from his first time that he will be reaped one year. It's bound to happen, as it always is when you are the son (or daughter) of a previous victor, but this is just torture. Every year he has steeled himself, ready for his name to be drawn out, and every year it's someone else. His father, Oliver, a victor who won the games through survival, fashioning himself his own bow and arrows in order to hunt his food and opposition, tries to push optimism onto Roy - not every child of a victor is reaped, maybe Roy will be safe, maybe he won't have to participate in the games.

But Roy knows better. And as he lines up among the other eighteen-year old boys from District Ten, he knows, for sure, that his name is going to be one of those pulled out of the glass bowl at the front.

As always, girls are drawn first, and he watches as a young girl walks tentatively out of the fourteen year-olds' line as the name "Cissie King-Jones" is called out. Her hands are trembling slightly and her eyes dart around nervously as she walks up to the stage, but as she is guided to stand next to the District Ten chaperone, her jaw tightens, fists clench, and she straightens and gazes at the audience. She is not going to let herself be labelled as weak. Roy feels a twinge of admiration towards her for that.

Because there are four tributes going instead of two, the girls' names are rustled about again and another slip of paper is plucked from the container. "Artemis Crock" is announced and another girl from the sixteen year-olds' strides up to the stage. As he watches her walk up, her long and thick blonde ponytail swaying side to side as she steps up to the stage, Roy can't shake the feeling that he's heard her name somewhere; that there's something about her that's important for him to remember, but his mind stays blank as their escort crosses the stage to draw from the boy's names.

The first name drawn is not his. Instead, a sixteen year-old named Merlyn is called up, a boy that Roy has noticed many times playing with his prey - taking the hunter philosophy like many of District Ten, but adding his own cruel and twisted outlook into the mix, cutting his prey up slowly and deliberately while they still squirm underneath him.

He's dangerous.

Finally, Roy hears his name echo through the speakers; the last name pulled out, in his last year of reaping. As he takes his own walk up the aisle towards the others, he sees Ollie bow his head at the back of the stage. The usual speech of congratulations and the ever so familiar 'may the odds be ever in your favour' are given out to the four tributes, and they all face each other to shake hands as the usual custom.

It's only once he moves to shake the hand of Artemis Crock, and her dark, hard eyes dart up to meet his, that her name finally clicks in his head and he realizes why she looks so familiar.

And suddenly, Merlyn, with his obvious killer instinct and lack of remorse, is the least of Roy's worries.

The small Garfield Logan has to be pulled up to the front platform by the District Nine peacekeepers, his eyes wide and terrified as he looks around desperately for someone - anyone - who will step forward and save him. He trips on the last step up to the platform and lurches forward, his breath hitching in his throat. He's certain he's going to land flat on his face when a slim hand reaches out and catches his arm just above the elbow, steadying and guiding him to the middle of the stage.

He's half-expecting the crowd to laugh at him as he stumbles towards the middle of the stage, just like that time he slipped in a puddle and fell straight onto his butt in front of his classroom, his tailbone aching and his eyes and face burning as he tried to ignore the titters and snickers of his classmates. But the crowd stays in a sombre silence. No one dares laugh about this.

He looks up at the owner of the hand that's softly gripping his arm and meets the large, soft brown eyes of Megan Morse, the seventeen year old with auburn locks framing her face and demure smile always on her lips. Right now though, her lips are pressed together in anxiety and her hair is pulled back, exposing a pale face and apprehensive expression as she gives the smaller boy a silent nod of encouragement before lifting her head and facing the audience. She loosens her grip on his arm, but her fingers linger close to his skin - just in case he's in need of support again. It's insane, but she can't stop herself from feeling a surge of protectiveness towards him; a responsibility to keep this boy - with his wide blue eyes, adventurous grin and love for the animals in his mother's refuge - safe, no matter what the cost.

Though, given the circumstances that they've been thrown, this task she's inserted onto herself is going to be virtually impossible to achieve.

But as she looks down at the boy by her side, and watches him bite down hard on his lower lip and try to blink away the tears as he stares out at the audience, she knows that these odds aren't going to stop her from trying as hard as she damn well can.

He's never been among the strongest. He's never been renowned for being particularly skilled or talented in any certain area. He's not among the most attractive, or the most charismatic. Really, there isn't much going for him.

So it's a surprise for all of District Four, that when there is a call for any volunteers, La'gaan is the one who steps up.

He lifts his chin and stands tall as he strides up to the podium, relishing in the hush that has fallen completely over the members of the District that surround him. The normal murmurs of regret or gossip of encouragement is absent, and the entire community around him has been shocked and bewildered into silence. There isn't even a hum in the air.

His sense of victorious silence however, is cut off abruptly when one of the girls on the tribute stage breaks her composure and cries out, backing away from the others and moving to run off the stage. La'gaan recognizes her as a girl from school, Lori, someone he has often spoken to during lunchtimes and is usually confident and content with her life. It's strange to see her like this; completely losing it, kicking and screaming against the peacekeepers that attempt to carry her back up to the stage. All eyes are trained on the girl, and La'gaan thinks he can hear some members of the audience begin to sob along with Lori. He notices the other two volunteering tributes, Garth and Tula, two of the top students in the District's victor training, step closer to each other and slide their hands into the other's, interlacing their fingers.

But once again, a hush is settled over the crowd (bar Lori, who is still sobbing and whimpering in the clutches of the peacekeepers), and La'gaan raises his chin and smiles again, waiting for the attention to turn back to him.

But the audience hasn't quieted because of him. They aren't looking at him. Instead, all eyes are on a serene-faced, dark-skinned boy, a little older than La'gaan, who is walking towards the podium. La'gaan knows him as Kaldur'am – Kaldur, a dropout from the special school where young people are trained to be volunteering tributes in the games and come out as Victors. Kaldur looks straight into the eye of the District Four chaperone and states in a soft, but clear and easily heard voice, "I volunteer as a tribute in place of Lori."

Now the audience is pushed into whispered queries and exclamations. Is he able to do that? What do the rules say? Something like this has never happened before. He couldn't possibly be allowed. They already have two males, both of which are volunteers. It wouldn't be possible.

The fuss goes on as officials dash into the government building to look through the rulebook, and everyone is instructed to stay in place. La'gaan begins to feels restless and fidgety waiting for them, as are both Tula and Garth. Kaldur however, stays motionless and continues to stare up at the podium, waiting for the officials to return, every so often sending a sympathetic look towards Lori.

The officials come back with their ruling. There is nothing listed in the rules about a male volunteering for a female tribute, or vice-versa, and with no instruction rejecting the idea, the volunteer must be accepted. Kaldur nods and steps up next to his former tributes, while Lori is released from the peacekeepers and runs to her family, stopping for a moment to whisper multiple thankyous to Kaldur. The rest of the District salutes Kaldur and cheers his name, and the last thing La'gaan hears before they are pushed inside the government building, is the culmination of praise for a tribute who is not him.

District Two is thrown into uproar as volunteers are called up (they don't do a draw in District Two; they never do, as it is evident from months before who's choosing to volunteer for each game). At first, Conner is not sure what everyone is yelling about; he's been too busy trying to catch the eye of Clark Kent, hoping to see the famous victor looking back at him with a proud expression on his face – but Clark's attention is elsewhere, in the same direction the attention of most of District Two has been guided to. Conner breaks his gaze away and glances towards the source of the chaos to see a young girl – blonde hair and excited expression on her face – break out from the line of fourteen year-old girls and announce with her head held high and her voice loud and clear for everyone to hear; "I volunteer as a tribute."

There are outraged shouts and protests as she walks down the aisle and steps up to the podium, and Conner can hear his fellow male tribute, and friend, Cameron Mahkent whisper; "What the hell is she thinking?" Conner doesn't reply, but he agrees. District Two already has four volunteers, all of them fully fledged warriors in their own rights, having gone through years of training, and all of them either seventeen or eighteen years of age; the last two years in which they are able to participate. There is no place for a fourteen year-old naïve fangirl on this stage.

Still, the officials gather the three female volunteers to discuss how this is going to be resolved as the audience waits. One man calls out for a trail by combat to determine who is fit enough to represent the District in this games, receiving quite a loud assent from many other members of the audience, but after a short talk it is decided that a chance toss is the easiest and quickest way to resolve this problem. The coin will be tossed. Once to determine whether the young girl – Cassie Sandsmark, she announces to the crowd – will be participating in the games; and, if she wins that, a second time to decide which of the previous tributes she will be taking the place of.

The coin is flipped – and even though he can't see the result, Conner knows from the way Cassie pumps her fist and whispers a 'yes!', she has won the first gamble. The coin is thrown into the air a second time, and one of the previous girls slated for the games growls and spits on the stage at Cassie's feet, before striding powerfully down the stairs and out of view.

As Cassie faces the front and beams at the crowd, Conner once again hears Cameron whispering. "Does she have any idea what she's just signed up for?" Conner casts a sidelong glance at his friend, and from that glance he can tell immediately that Cam doesn't want to be up here. He's scared. And that's only fair, seeing as he was never supposed to be up here in the first place; not this year, anyway. Maybe next year would have been his turn, but this year was supposed to be Conner's year. However, the adjusted rules of the Quarter Quell, and Cam's authoritarian father have forced him to be the second male volunteer for this year, and Conner knows, Cameron's not ready for it.

But at least Cameron is aware of the extent of the event he is about to be thrown into. At least he's had proper training for it, and he knows his odds and understands what he has to do in order to better them throughout these next few weeks. Conner looks up at the young Cassie, almost bouncing where she stands in her excitement, grinning at the rest of District Two, completely ignorant of what she's going to have to face.

She won't last the first ten minutes.

It is simple. You participate in these games, you destroy your opponents, and you can come back here.

"It's not that simple."

You are mistaken.

"I can't just kill these people!"

Your compassion makes you weak. Studying these games of the past years, it can be determined that many of your opponents will not feel the same way about you.

"I'm not killing anyone." He whispers earnestly, and the voice – the Beetle – finally keeps quiet. Whether that means he's won the argument, or that the Beetle has decided to follow plans of its own, Jaime Reyes isn't sure.

He slumps forward in his chair and moves an arm to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead. He finds his pinkie finger is caught in a hole in the sleeve of his jumper, and he attempts to untangle it, eventually just wrestling his whole jumper off and dropping it at his feet. He's not going to need it for much longer anyway; may as well give it to his parents for Milagro to grow into.

His stomach plummets. His parents. Milagro. His loud, infuriating little sister, Milagro. Who is going to play with her in the afternoons now? Who will pull the crusts off her sandwiches for her? Who will she crawl into bed with when she gets nightmares, and who's going to keep her entertained when their parents are working late at the clinic?

His thoughts are cut off and his gaze snaps up as the door in front of him opens and his parents step through it, their faces creased with lines of worry. No one speaks to begin with. Instead, Jaime's parents gather him into an embrace and clutch on him tight, like maybe they can attach themselves to him so he has no choice but to stay with them and never have to leave District Twelve into this death sentence. Then maybe they can go back to their normal lives – his parents working at their health clinic in the district, while Jaime and Milagro sit out the back and wait for them to finish, drawing on the ground and walls with pieces of charcoal – and the only thing they have to worry about is what they're going to cook for dinner for the night.

But those are far-flung dreams; and really, they had to expect this some time. In District Twelve, the odds are never in your favour; that's evident from day one. Even if you dodge the death sentence that is the Hunger Games, you're still stuck with the other option – maybe even the worse option – of dying a slow, painful death of starvation and poor health here in District Twelve. The only real difference is that one death is televised, while the other, hardly anybody will know.

This is a waste of time. Jaime blocks out the scratchy voice in his head and instead focuses on his mother's hurried whispering in his ear – "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay" – and his father's voice forcing itself through a tight throat of tears – "You come back to us son, alright? You come back to us."

Finally Jaime has to push them off, and looks up at them, biting his lip – his own nose runny and his throat choked up. He pushes his jumper into his mother's hands. "Look after Milagro, and tell her I love her for me." He is enveloped into his mothers arms once again, and he breathes in her scent; an odd mix of sanitiser – that "clinical" smell – and the rose perfume she keeps in a small bottle the bathroom, which Jaime spilt all over himself when he was six, smelling like roses for a whole week as he ducked his head and avoided anyone else's eyes at school.

"We will," she says, "We love you." Jaime buries his face into her shoulder as his fathers' arms circle around his back.

"I love you, too," he whispers, before the door to the room is flung open once again and peacekeepers pull his parents away and out of the room, sobbing and yelling. Jaime slumps back down on the chair, suddenly feeling cold and wishing he hadn't given his jumper to his mother – and alone once more.

Almost alone.

This…affection you feel for your family. It is exactly what makes you weak. You must extradite it in order to be able to win this competition. You must-

"Shut up," he whispers harshly. "Shut. Up."

Zatanna isn't sure how Billy managed to get into the government building of District Eight, but she doesn't ask any questions, and welcomes the hug he offers her as soon as he steps inside the room. He gives her an encouraging smile and she wraps her arms around his shoulders. "You'll be alright," he says, "you'll be fine – I know it," and Zatanna is at a loss in trying to comprehend how her eleven year-old friend can remain so strong, so hopeful and sure of what he believes, in a world where no-one else is.

When they pull away, Zatanna can hear her father outside the room, his voice loud and forceful as he begs for her to be released, demands to talk to someone in charge, insists that there must be a mistake. There must. There's no way his daughter could've been reaped to participate in this years Hunger Games. They had to have done something wrong.

Billy has also noticed the loud voices coming from the other side of the door, and sends Zatanna a sympathetic look. "Don't worry," he whispers, "it'll be okay. Just make it back, and everything will be fine again."

Zatanna swallows back the lump in her throat. "But if I want to make it back, that'll mean I have to win, and that means I'll probably have to…" Billy is looking at her with a confused expression – not completely sure of what's she's trying to say. "…kill people," Zatanna forces out as a choked whisper, and her friend's eyes widen and he mouths an 'oh'. Billy opens his mouth to say something more, but is cut off as the yelling from outside the tiny room they're perched in grows louder, and the sound of a scuffle joins in amongst the shouts. Zatanna can hear the distinct voice of her father easily through all the others; it's roaring and panicked and she's never heard it sound anything like this before. He's screaming out for her, but as much as her heart is begging her run out towards him, the fear of what is happening on the other side of that door drives her feet to take a step backwards, further away from the chaos occurring outside.

She hears the shouted command of "Get the tribute down in the car with the rest of them!", and the door is thrown open. The peacekeeper that has obviously been assigned to take her outside catches Billy standing next to her, and the younger boy squeaks at the sight of the imposing figure gaining on him. "The hell are you doing in here?" the peacekeeper bellows, bewildered as he takes a step towards the eleven year old boy.

Zatanna quickly steps between Billy and the advancing brute. "Run," she hisses over her shoulder and Billy darts around the peacekeeper and out through the door. For a moment Zatanna believes he has gotten out safe, and almost gives a sigh of relief, when she hears a cry and the victorious shout of "Got him!"

"No," Zatanna whimpers, falling into step as the peacekeeper in front of her grabs her arm forcefully and pulls her out of the room. As she is dragged out of the room, she catches a glimpse of her father; held back by three peacekeepers, he begins thrashing around in their grips as he sees her walk out of the door, screaming for her, "Zatanna! Zatanna!"

After a moment the peacekeepers decide they've had enough, and one of them clobbers her father over the head with his baton. Zatanna screams, and must begin flailing around herself, trying to reach him, because the peacekeeper that had been guiding her has jerked her off the ground and is now carrying her out of the government building. Zatanna catches Billy's eye as she is carried out; trapped by two peacekeepers and looking at her with an expression of complete fear that hits Zatanna so hard it feels like someone has just knifed her in the heart. "Just make it back, okay?" He yells at her as he himself is picked up, his voice choked and wobbling and sounding like he's ready to scream. "Just make it back."

"Where are you taking them?" Zatanna gasps out as she is dropped into the car that waits outside for them. She scrabbles on the car seat, trying to get out, her hands slipping on the leather. "What are you going to do to them?" The car door is slammed in her face and her hands press against the glass window as she stares horrified at the government building, gasping for air and tear creating tracks down her face, completely heedless of what her fellow tributes in the car are currently thinking of her.

Artemis has no idea why Oliver is even bothering with the train ride pep-talk, seeing as the only one that is actually paying any attention is Cissie – leaning forward and staring intently at the victor, taking in every piece of advice he has. Merlyn scoffed as soon as the talk had started, and left the main compartment to lock himself in his own, doing what everyone else can only imagine. Artemis herself is focusing her attention through the windows of the train, watching the different types of terrains and landscapes pass by swiftly, and entertaining herself with wondering which one of these environments is going to be the one that this year's arena is based off.

And Roy Harper, it appears, is centering his attention on her.

At first, Artemis told herself that she was being paranoid – that maybe she just happened to be standing in his line of sight, but even after she moved to the other side of the carriage, his eyes continued to train on her; a constant, unwavering heat, warming her blood more and more until it's ready to boil.

And finally, it simmers over.

"Alright," she growls, her eyes snapping away from the window. She stands up and crosses her arms, mirroring Roy's pose as she meets his eyes. "What's your problem?"

Ollie stops talking, and both he and Cissie glance up at the two. Roy however, doesn't flinch. "Just seeing what I'm up against," he says slowly, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, and of course, I'm your biggest threat." Roy shrugs.

"Everyone in the district knows your family's history," he says. "I'm curious, though. If you happen to win this year, are you going to desert the district like your father and sister did a few years ago?"

Artemis feels a spark of anger drive through her chest. "Don't tell me you're still bitter about the fact that my sister screwed you over," she shoots back, smirking as Roy visibly bristles.

"I've got my eye on you," he growls, and now it's Artemis' turn to be irritated. She pushes her back off the wall and uncrosses her arms.

"Well," she spreads out her arms, "why don't we save you from all the trouble?" She spies a steak knife sitting on the table next to her, and her hand darts out to get it. She keeps her eyes trained on Roy and lowers into a fighting stance. "Let the games begin!" Roy also lowers and prepares to block her incoming strike.

"Enough." A hand whips out and strikes Artemis wrist, causing her to curse and drop the knife. Oliver stands between the two teens and sends then both a hard look of provocation. "Both of you sit down." His voice is deep and loud in the carriage, and both Roy and Artemis are pushed back into their seats out of pure shock. "Obviously, neither of you were listening to what I was just saying," Ollie says, before turning to Cissie. "Cissie, do you want to tell these two what I just told you?"

The young blonde glances quickly around the three before she recites. "You were saying that because this year's games have double the participants, it's extremely important to make sure you have some allies."

"And the best allies you can get, are the ones from your own district," Ollie finishes, sending a meaningful look towards Roy and Artemis. "If you two think that the person across from you is your biggest opponent, you've got another thing coming. Because there are forty-six other people in these games, and lot of them will be stronger, faster, smarter and far more prepared for this than you. This is a whole lot bigger than any personal problems that you two have with each other, and there is no way that either of you are going to be able to survive against forty-seven people all working towards the same goal, if you go into this alone."

The compartment is silent for a while after he finishes, before Roy finally speaks up. "All working toward the same goal?"

"Winning, Roy." Roy narrows his eyes towards the ground, thinking, as Ollie continues.

"Everyone who is in that arena when the buzzer goes off, is aiming to win."

District Three isn't aiming to win. No, their plan runs much further than winning; surviving this and freeing themselves. If this all works out, then hopefully they'll be able to achieve the freedom of everyone – all of the tributes, all of the districts. This will be the first blow on the Capitol from the resistance, this will be the horn's call to battle; this is where it will all begin.

The fate of everyone – essentially, the final result of the war that they aim to trigger – is all relying on what they do in this year's arena.

No pressure.

The four tributes, all volunteers who have been in this plan for almost a year, listen intently to their mentor, and head of District Three's resistance. Bruce Wayne is a solid, stone-faced victor from years past, with an intense demeanour and fragments of ghosts and old hauntings rippling at the edges of his eyes. He explains everything they need to know in short, hard facts. Everything they'll need for their mission will be provided to them; hidden among the clothes assigned to them by resistance insiders within the Capitol. They'll have to keep a low profile in order to prevent the Gamemaker from figuring out what they are doing and attempting to stop them, and they'll have to be precise. They're only going to get one shot at this, and if they blow that, it's over.

Tim Drake, the youngest of District Three's tributes at fourteen, chews on his lower lip in anxiety as his mind scrambles to take in everything Bruce has to say; as he tries to tell himself that he can do this. This is just like another drill; another practice. The last few practices they've performed have gone off without a hitch, so this – the real thing – shouldn't be any different.

He looks over at Dick, and the older boy gives him an encouraging smile as Barbara speaks up. "How many people are in on the plan?"

"Only members of District Three know about the full plan, although members of the Capitol Resistance have the details of what you will need, and there are a few other districts that know that something has been planned and are prepared to give their full support to you all," Bruce replies, to which Barbara nods. Tim licks his lips and gazes down at his hands, thinking as he asks his own question. "Which districts?"

Bruce directs his attention to the younger boy. "Both District Five and Six are associated with the resistance and are aware there is a plan. We're not sure whether District Eight know of anything, but there has certainly been some raised rebellion activity occurring in the district. We've been working on gaining District Ten's support."

"Regardless," he continues, "you are not to communicate with anyone from those districts, or any other tributes for that matter, throughout the preparation for the games. Focus on your mission. Anything that the other districts need to know will be communicated through their mentors and myself." All four tributes nod in assent, and Bruce pulls out a long, rolled up, sheet of paper.

"These are the tools you will be supplied with," he says, unrolling the sheet. "What you'll have to do is…"

"Thank you." A soft voice floats on the air behind him to his ears, and Wally West lazily lolls his head backwards to meet the dark eyes and sad smile looking down at him. Karen shrugs and continues. "If you hadn't have volunteered, then Mal would have, and I…" she breaks off and her gaze moves up to fix on the scenery flying past the window of the train. She doesn't finish the sentence that is resting on her lips, but anyone can easily guess what she was going to say.

I don't think I would have been able to handle fighting against the person I love. I don't think I could handle seeing them die.

Wally also looks out the window. "Well," he says, moving his arms to rest behind his neck, "I wouldn't want to miss on the 'great honour of participating in the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games!'" Sarcasm threads through his words, and his mouth twitches up into a bitter smile. Hopefully, if he plays this all off as a joke, Karen won't ask him about the real reason he…

"He's your cousin, isn't he? The kid you volunteered for?" Wally's jaw tightens as he remembers Bart Allen's name being called out, and the way his uncle had frozen and his aunt had gasped in horror as they watched their son walk up to the podium. "Yeah," he ekes out, "he is."

"That's good of you to volunteer for him like that." Wally doesn't say anything, keeping the disgusting truth to himself, that saving Bart was not the first thing on his mind as he stood up to take his place. No, the thing on his mind was created from the disgusting worms of insecurity and pride that wriggled their way into his brain; the idea that maybe, for once, he'll be better at something than his younger cousin. It's a ghastly idea, and completely inappropriate, given the circumstances, but it's the one that was rooted in his head as he called out the words "I volunteer", and took the place of his fourteen year old cousin.

Wally shakes the reminders from his head and directs his attention up to the TV in time to see the replay of a tiny, stiff-faced and terrified boy from District Nine being pulled up by peacekeepers to the platform. He hears Karen shift behind him and make a sound that's almost akin to a growl as the camera zooms in to focus on the young boy's face; his bottom lip trembling so much he has to bite down in it, his green eyes darting around the crowd in desperation and absolute terror.

"This is insane," Karen mutters, low enough that only Wally is able to hear it. "All of this needs to end."

Wally's eyes shift around the room, scanning for any peacekeepers before replying. "If what we're being told about Three is true," he murmurs back, just as quietly, "hopefully, this year, it will."

The roar of applause during the opening ceremony is louder than in previous years. There are more tributes, more excitement, more reason to celebrate. Every night for the week, extravagant parties are held out in the Capitol; laughing, dancing, betting, gossiping. Cassie stares out through the window in District Two's luxury apartment, mouth open in a wide grin of awe. The celebrations are so full of colour and light that it's impossible to imagine that these people could be the cold and cruel sadists that the citizens of the districts make them out to be. Cassie doesn't understand how any of this could be seen as horrible.

Conner stands next to her, also looking down at the festivities. Though in contrast to Cassie's expression of wonder, his face is masked with a frown of confusion. He might be someone who has trained for this, but he still knows the price of the games. He knows that many kids die each year for it – even more this year – and he doesn't understand how these people don't realize that as well.

Don't they know, that this event, this form of entertainment, is actually just a mass sacrifice to make sure the districts are kept in line?

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