⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a closed starter for @clemencetaught .
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑, 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃 — Francis knows that. He’s always known that. Only a great fool would think that a tribute could enter the arena and come out unscathed. One way or another, they all get claimed in the end. It’s why he tries to avoid the whole of it. What’s the point in getting attached to someone just to watch them die? He’s always known that behind the pageantry — the tributes are people. When he’d been five years old, he’d declared to his mother that he didn’t want to eat meat anymore. His father had told him he’d grow out of it. He hasn’t. Living things deserve the right to live. Who are they, in the end — to condemn death? To give themselves the role of ‘higher power’ in the absence of religion? Things can change in an instant. By the circumstances of birth, the citizens of the Capitol have been told that they are better. But it’s just luck of the odds — just like the slips of paper bearing the names of children.
He parts through the crowd with their fizzy drinks and champagne like one might endeavor to part the sea itself. They don’t fear him yet — his grandfather’s era has not yet passed. They try to stop him, to make small talk and pleasantries, but all Francis can see is the plethora of giant screens flashing a recap of the death of a tribute. This one’s name had been Io. They had been from District Three, and Francis had bumped into them quite on accident — which isn’t a thing that’s supposed to happen. Io had been smart as hell and there had been one too many glasses of champagne and they had told him that they didn’t feel they belonged in this world, and Francis had felt that with such a deep, aching yearning that he’d allowed himself to slip away into the comfort of the moment. Too far down the rabbit hole. And two days later, they’d been sentenced to die. And now he’s searching for — he doesn’t know what. Answers? To the madness? Answers that don’t exist. Madness is madness. It is without reason and logic.
Nevertheless, he finds himself situated in front of one of the District Three mentors — Patrick Grace. It’s a precarious position to be in. He can’t afford to show any sort of emotion. Not with everything resting atop his shoulders. And still, his eyes are glassy and he’s swaying a little bit as he searches the victor’s face — as though he can provide answers. As if he had anything to do with it. He has a million things on his mind, and he can’t bring himself to say anything. People are staring, and Francis has a reputation and — “Better luck next time,” he forces the words out as the cameras zoom in on falling white rose petals over Io's body — a gift from his grandfather. A punishment, and a statement — this blood is on Francis’s hands.
