Chapter Text
The Capitol doesn’t do quiet. Not really. But in that moment, even the glittering streets and flashing cameras could not drown out the stillness that settled over District 12’s tribute stage. It was a stillness born of inevitability, of knowing what the reaping meant.
Arlo Cerulean Calloway-Baird stood among the other victors, posture straight, hands clasped loosely in front of him, the faintest curve of a smile teasing at the corner of his lips. His black uniform was simple, understated, and exactly the right shade to highlight the sharp lines of his face, the color of stormed seas behind his eyes. Capitol stylists had learned long ago: Arlo didn’t sparkle, didn’t shine, didn’t need them to perform. He burned. Quietly, perfectly. but deep down, still a performer.
The announcer’s voice trembled, reading the decree from the Capitol as though she feared the weight of the words
“For the Third Quarter Quell, all male and female victors will be reaped from the existing pool of previous victors. Your names are…”
the crowd waits in anxious anticipation, this was uncalled for. Arlo feels like he’s been hit by 9 trucks and left to die. he doesn’t want to go back to the games.
And then…
“Arlo Cerulean Calloway-Baird and Katniss Everdeen.”
Polite, controlled applause rang out. Arlo stepped forward with the calm precision of a man who had survived more than his share of death games. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, and infuriatingly confident, but it’s all an act. The Capitol cameras followed him as though they had captured some precious jewel, but he was no one’s jewel. He was a weapon. And he knew it.
The stage shifted as the screens lit up, showing the other districts. The live feed caught the other victors’ faces, some wide-eyed, some tight with anger, some already calculating how to survive.
And then Arlo saw him.
The screen for District 4 flickered, revealing the unmistakable blond hair, the sunlit blue eyes, and that gravity he always carried. Finnick Odair.
Arlos breath catches in his throat. fear, anxiety, and that lingering care rushing through him as he clenches his tight jaw.
It had been years since their first Games together. Years since they’d survived by outwitting the Capitol, out-charming the sponsors, and outlasting the monsters that the arena made them become. They had walked out of that arena together, victorious, allies in a world that demanded betrayal. And now, all that history, all that closeness, stared back at him through the glass of Capitol propaganda.
Arlos eyes lingered one Finnicks face. Just two victors who had survived everything the world could throw at them, now thrown back together as if the Capitol could erase the past.
Arlo’s half-smile faltered for the briefest moment.
It was going to be more dangerous than he thought.