Azalea Rose Willow loves three things above everything else:
summer, the only season that mattered in her mind.
singing, alongside the comforting embrace of her guitar.
but above all, the easy camaraderie with the boy who lives next door to her, and...
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The weight of the papers in Azalea's hand mirrored the oppressive silence that had settled over the apartment. Evening shadows stretched across the room, a stark contrast to the vibrant spectacle of the parade earlier that day.
Finnick, ever the social butterfly, had flitted off to another party shortly after their return. Tomas, bless his pragmatic heart, had disappeared to wrestle Haymitch into a semblance of sobriety. Now, Azalea found herself alone, the stark reality of the Games crashing down on her.
The weight of the papers in Azalea's hand felt like a physical manifestation of dread. The Capitol's nonchalance about these forms, tossing them at her like a pre-game snack, only amplified the sickening reality. Games. Not a competition, not a test of skill, but a twisted spectacle where children died for entertainment.
They had casually tossed the papers at the tributes after the parade, as if they were a mere formality, like a grocery list or a dress fitting request. But the words on the crisp white sheets screamed a brutal truth – they were preparing for her demise.
Burial preferences. Organ donation. Condolence cards.
The starkness of it all sent a wave of nausea crashing over her. Filling them out made it feel too final, too real.
Two weeks. That's all that stood between her and the arena. Two weeks before she, and 23 other children, would be thrust into a fight for survival.
A choked sob escaped her lips, tears stinging her eyes. What was the point?
Suddenly, the weight of the forms in her hand became unbearable. She flung them onto the floor, the sound echoing in the silent room. Needing air, needing an escape from the suffocating reality, Azalea rose and walked towards the balcony.
The cool night breeze washed over her face, carrying a faint scent of flowers from the rooftop gardens. Stepping out onto the balcony, she leaned against the railing, her gaze taking in the glittering cityscape sprawled out before her.
The city lights below twinkled like a million mocking fireflies.
Down there, people laughed, dined, oblivious to the horrifying reality that awaited her in just two weeks.
It felt unreal. How could they go on with their lives, sipping champagne and attending lavish parties, while children were being prepped for slaughter? Didn't it prick at their conscience? Didn't they feel a shred of guilt for the blood spilled year after year?
A single tear escaped, tracing a warm path down her cheek. She didn't want this. Didn't want to be forced to kill other children, other victims in the Capitol's cruel game. They were all pawns, sacrificed for the amusement of a sick society.
The very thought of it sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. All her years of training flashed before her eyes – throwing knives, dodging attacks, wielding a sword. It felt mechanical, almost detached from the human cost it entailed. She hadn't trained because she craved violence; she trained because District four, her father, demanded it, because it was the only way to stay alive.
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Azalea closed her eyes, picturing the familiar sights and sounds of District Four. The rhythmic crash of waves against the shore, the salty spray kissing her skin, the gentle sigh of the wind through the swaying fields. A world away from this suffocating concrete jungle, choked with fumes that felt like a physical weight on her chest.
Azalea sighed, gazing at the twinkling cityscape. It was a stark contrast to the memories flooding back - District Four, bathed in a soft, moonlit glow, with most lights shut off to conserve energy.
Her father's voice echoed in her mind, reminding her of the curfew and the dangers lurking in the darkness. A chuckle escaped her lips, warm and bittersweet. Suddenly, a voice startled her, sending a jolt of adrenaline through her system.
"Not thinking of taking a dive this late on the night are you?" Finnick's voice, laced with amusement, cut through the silence.
Azalea spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Finnick! You have got to stop scaring me when I'm at altitude!" she sputtered, regaining her composure slightly.
Finnick held his hands up in mock surrender, a playful glint in his sea-green eyes. "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."
"I thought you had gone to a party." Azalea told him.
"I did, I just wasn't feeling it tonight. So I came back early." Finnick nonchalantly replied, placing a small sugar cube in his mouth. Truth was he'd just returned from meeting with a Capitol elite, he just hoped she wouldn't pry.
A strained laugh escaped her lips as she glanced back at the glittering cityscape, a bitter taste settling on her tongue.
"Lowkey," she began, her voice turning serious, "the idea of jumping down doesn't seem so bad right now, with all the papers I'm made to fill out."
Her attempt at humor felt hollow, even to her own ears.
Finnick's gaze softened, the teasing glint replaced by a quiet understanding. He knew what she was thinking – the dark allure of escape, of anything but the brutal reality that awaited them. "Yeah," he said softly, admitting her unspoken thought. "Sometimes the idea doesn't seem so bad, even if we're only in the fourth floor."
The weight of his words hung heavy in the air. It broke her heart to realize he'd grappled with the same morbid thoughts. They weren't just tributes; they were terrified children facing an unimaginable horror.
"But it wouldn't solve anything, would it?" Finnick smiled sadly as he reached out, picking up a small, smooth pebble. A silent question hung in the air.
Azalea looked questionably at the pebble, then back at Finnick, awaiting his explanation.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the stone over the railing. It plummeted for a moment, but then, to their surprise, it bounced back upwards, defying gravity for a split second. It struck an invisible barrier, a shimmering field of energy that pulsed faintly in the distance. A plasma shield.
The rock seemed to defy gravity, bouncing back mid-air before landing harmlessly at Finnick's feet.
"Seems like they care about their tributes just enough to keep them from offing themselves before the Games," Finnick remarked, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Protecting their investment, wouldn't you say? Until they get their money's worth in bloodshed, of course."
Azalea burst out laughing, the absurdity of the situation hitting her. Here they were, tributes deemed valuable enough for entertainment, yet destined for a fight to the death. "They're so considerate," she said, shaking her head. "So worried for our safety! Just until we enter the Arena."