Dust coated shoes, that are supposed to be ones’ finest, march. Through desk points where they take your blood, where you’re separated from your crying mother, from your praying father, from your confused younger cousin.

The stage is a poor example of the opulence that is the fabric of the Capitol. Big showy screens in an oval shape, that display your personalised district. The mayor calls out. “Jessup Diggs.” A shaky sigh leaves your lips as you stare at the ground.

Silent prayers begrudgingly leave your mind. Please, please God don’t let it be- You. Your name called. With a short huff, and a scoff you begin walking to the front, discreetly twirling a snake between your fingers.

*“Sing your way out of this one, songbird.” Mayfair Lipp sneers under her smirk. Suddenly you drop that snake down the back of her collar, and she screams and writhes.

Gasps fill the auditorium, in the safe walls of the Capitol. “And the songbird, of district twelve.. belongs to Coriolanus Snow.”

The futuristic screens and electronics stand out from the traditional and old fashioned opulence and grace of the room. Cream marble lining the walls and floor, servers handing out champagne, students wearing uniform, and the top class in their own formal attire. The fizz seems to stop bubbling. The clock seems to stop ticking. The richest in Panem seem to stop breathing. Apart from Coriolanus Snow, who is panting heavily, eyes narrowing on her.

The songbird of District 12.

He watches as she sings into the microphone, a slow and daring song. She and her fellow tribute are dragged offstage and that’s it for her. And him, I suppose. How would he pass with.. that?