Can't Catch Me Now

Before The Mockingjay

Snow sat at his desk. The room he was in is not unlike the others in this place, huge, ceilings too high, curtains too red, carpet too white. If he hadn't picked it out himself it might seem a tad overdone, but these were the colours his father had worn, had decorated their own childhood home in. The desk itself was white too- the last president, they told him, had kept the whole place a darker brown colour. But, he thought, absentmindedly swiping dust from the inner side of the rim of a vase, the white was classier. More himself, certainly.

The waiting had been the worst part, for the election results. It had been a certain thing, naturally, but doubt hung over him in heavy ways, and had for some time. He pushed the thought from his head. No matter now, doubt was an inconsequential and unimportant emotion when one had things like hope.

From behind the great mahogany doors came conversation, the low murmur of the peacekeepers that guarded his quarters and a high voice he recognised. He collected his expression and his collar, standing, before Tigris burst in, arms out and smiling ear to ear. She'd changed again since he last saw her, lips a little plumper, cheekbones sharper. He hated it really and the right side of his lip flinches, so he turns it into a smile and holds hid arms widely.
"Tigris..."
"Corio!" She ran to him as he walked around the desk to meet her, wrapping herself in his arms. He was engulfed in her bright orange dress, that she'd designed specifically for the occasion. Over her shoulder, still smiling lightly he saw his elderly grandmother, pearls shining, tottering into the room. She smiled but it appeared pained, as if it takes all the energy from her.
"I knew it..." Tigris began, "I mean of course I knew it but Goodness when they said your name, I couldn't believe it! Truly!"
"I'm grateful for the vote of confidence." He laughed, pulling away from her, a hand on each shoulder, "This is wonderful, more than wonderful. I have no words."
"For a change!" his grandmother jibed, no doubt referencing his slightly overstated speech.

***
Snow had just surpassed his twenty-third birthday when he'd been entered into the presidential race. The youngest ever applicant, now youngest ever President. The fifteenth games were soon to begin, and he settled into his potion of absolute power gratefully. Moving himself from Sejanus's parents' home into the Capitol's mansion, taking his elderly Grandmother with him. Tigris, who had insisted she could be self-sufficient had, with no prior experience, landed herself a job in the heart of Panem making garments for the rich and famous, styling tributes and living in utter luxury. Some would call it nepotism. Snow calls it fairness. Besides, he was more than grateful to not have to lay eyes on her every day. Her natural beauty, as he saw it, was suffering for her new tastes.

Truly, Snow had landed on top. Generally, all was well, the games would continue as they always had. The fifteenth games sat controversially, only lasting for two days. The lack of foliage and brutality of the tributes was a combination that went unaccounted for, a fault he surely would've noticed had he been in power soon enough. Nevertheless, he planned to reanimate the Capitol to the games.

By the seventeenth they were excellent again. District Eight's Woof was full of strategy, brute strength and a keen, sharp mind. Snow enjoyed tributes like Woof, tributes that understood winning the games was about being a performer, about playing well and violently. Tributes that behaved. Victors that were agreeable.

***
For some time, every female tribute from Twelve had looked very much like Lucy Gray. As did the woman who changed his bed sheets, the woman who made his breakfast table up. Most of Tigris's friends. On drunken nights in the most elite places the Capitol had to offer, he saw her in the reflection of glass topped-golden legged tables. She died over and over again in the games. She hid in the woods by his hunting range, she scattered in her rainbow-coloured skirt when he shot at pheasants. She stood behind him in his mirror at night, in his bathroom, in his dreams. Always blurred edges, always disappearing when he turned around, always the tributes with coal under their fingers and fire in their eyes. Even the boys, after a while, started to merge into her too.