GHOSTS OF FIRE AND GLASS | The Hunger Games

00 .. Prologue

PROLOGUE
* . °•★| Face to Your Nightmares |☆•° . *

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          HIS HEART WAS IN HIS THROAT, an uncomfortable pulse that accentuated the fragance of blood lingering ironed tastes upon his tongue. The Tribute Center building was hardly the place for the President to be seen in and by all means, he knew that, but he had to see her for himself.

There was no better time to discreetly check whether or not his eyes had deceived him but when the whole Remake Center wing was buzzing with the sounds of showers, trimmers, driers and hushed chatter around mumbling tributes. Everyone was busy and every single stylist was informed by Peacekeepers guarding each compartment that they should not exit for the following ten minutes. Mentors and head stylists would be held at the entrance, should they try to cut the line of schedule. Coriolanus planned on being out of that place before the ten minutes had been spent anyway.

Not even half a thought had been formed in his mind as to how he would react should the girl prove to be his Edith. Somehow, he couldn't phantom a shame higher than the one presented by that possibility. But then, he walked into her compartment and locked eyes with the orange colored palms of the stylist in charge of washing the tribute's hair.

"Ah...," the stylist gasped out. Wide eyes stared from beneath thick neon green bangs at the president after having looked down for far too long at the dye on her palms. The president simply nodded to the side that the Peacekeepers with him, four in number, would remove the two stylists quietly — an Avox fate awaited both, regardless of what he decided to do regarding Edith. Two Peacekeepers would remain outside the compartment in which he now stood alone, petrified to watch the girl laid on the table open her eyes and sigh.

"I have requested they dye it back before the Chariots," she informed him nonchalantly, staring only ahead, at the bright lights of the ceiling.

"Get up," Coriolanus ordered in response. Without the distortion of recordings and broadcast, her voice was unmistakable. There was no room for doubt. "Get up, Edith."

Her jaw clenched, but she sat up and moved her attention to her father, "It's Lucy now." After a deep breath, she settled into her new posture and tilted her head to the side, "Figured I'd need a new name to avoid the press, but not one you wouldn't recognize."

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm being washed," Lucy gestured at their surroundings. "Prepared for the Chariots. District 4 has made me reek of fish."

He held his rage condensed, best he could, to a whisper, though she had had no such curtesy for a lower tone. As for expression, it so seemed that they shared the trait for coldness — all creases on Coriolanus' face were ridges of old age rather than deviations from numbness and unlike him, Edit benefitted from a features unspoiled by old age.

She ultimately shrugged.

How could that be the best answer she could muster? The president's fury accentuated behind the banner of that thought until he could no longer control himself in approaching. Then, because she was within reach, it was almost magnetism that drew out his hand to grasp the chin of his daughter and force her to look up st him.

"You stupid child," he seethed the words out, looking down into her pale blue eyes, unable to distinguish her own fire from a mirror of himself.