SPARK ✩ CORIOLANUS SNOW.¹

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫.

          ". . . There's something with that one, isn't there?" 

Her voice is like a scratched record, so abruptly drawing him back from his fixation on the screen in front of him. In his chest, he felt a multitude of fluttering wings, and he tried to count each one and study their wings. That one, an array of sick and nauseous greens; because this was not part of his plan. This one, dark like chocolate and golden like sunrays; because this flaw in his design is beautiful and doomed, flying straight toward the sun. 

The pen he held in his fingers tap, tap, tapped on the resin surface of Dr. Gaul's lab table. In its center was her hastily shoved equipment, and in front of him, his notebook and pen. He turned, then, to look at her fully in the face. She was studying him like one of her lab creatures, awaiting his answer or reaction. 

"He was not planned," was all that Coriolanus Snow could muster out, dropping his gaze before she could see any of the other thoughts circling his mind. 

The memories and the emotions floated at the top, too freshly stirred at the unexpected factor of the boy in District 2. Jude Carlisle, son of Atlas Carlisle of the guns manufacturing factory, and Vesta Carlisle, a stay-at-home mother to their secondborn Sage. 

(Coriolanus, of course, did his research on him. He could not have someone obscure slipping through the cracks blindly; it was purely out of concern.) 

But it was not Jude Carlisle or his disgustingly domestic family that he was thinking about -- no, he was thinking about a girl like a songbird, who also slipped right in, who also caused a little scene and stirred trouble. He could not let things repeat. He wouldn't. Not in his Games. 

"What's happening in that head, Coriolanus?" Dr. Gaul pushed, her elbows digging into the table as she pressed forward. She was always desperate for something to dissect, and his mind was the unfortunate target today. Unfortunately for her, his walls were fortified with stone. 

Coriolanus turned his attention back to the screen again, which was actually a wall of many screens replaying each Reaping, he just only watched the one. The screen of District 2. The one with the boy. He stared as Atlas Carlisle got pummeled by a Peacemaker, before the camera drifted back to the distraught face of horrified, young Jude Carlisle. 

He smiled slowly. Sweetly. 

"Who is Jude Carlisle's mentor?" 

It must have been the wrong answer, but it was not a request, because it was not Dr. Gaul's Games. Her opinion was merely that. She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, still trying to crush the stone of the walls guarding his brain. 

"He is the top of his graduating class, like you were. He was requested--" 

"His name, please, Doctor." Coriolanus pulled his notes closer to him, reading closely over them. He'd began writing their names as they came in, taking careful note of names he remembered or recognized. These Games required precise details on certain things. He would be damned if something messed it up. 

Well. Aside from the one messing it up currently, he supposed. 

"Arayne Tresta," Dr. Gaul sighed, her upper lip curled into a scowl. "This is not your place anymore. It hasn't been your place. You did well assisting me, and you are not going to make me regret turning you free the second you--" 

Coriolanus smiled one of those charming grins he often did, tapping his nails against the top of his notebook as he gathered it into his hand. "Thank you for all you've done, Dr. Gaul. But I believe that it's not your place anymore." 

✩ ✩ ✩

          Arayne Tresta was a hard boy to track down -- but not impossible. His family invested heavily in the weapon manufacturing of District 2, so Coriolanus figured that perhaps Mr. Tresta bought his son the male tribute from that District. Or, Arayne was simply granted that right to one of the most favored districts just because he was the son of someone so highly appraised. He could have scoffed right then at the irony of the familiarity, but instead, he just reveled in his rightness, knowing that Arayne had no innocence. 

Coriolanus would not let him cheat in his finals at the Academy, just like he would not let him taint his Games. 

Unfortunately for himself, Arayne thought he was the greatest gift to fucking Panem, because he did not think for even a second about how strange it was to meet the Head Gamemaker at midnight the night before his tribute was to arrive. Surely this would have docked him points for some sort of interference (Coriolanus would have made sure) and surely it was just foolish altogether; lack of sleep made working difficult. 

So he stood outside and waited, staring at he bright marigold of the upstairs bedroom light. The Tresta house was big, almost ridiculously big. The entireties of Districts 12 and 13 could probably fit in the amount of empty rooms that Coriolanus knew it had, but the Trestas did not seem like sharing folk. 

Finally, after annoyance was starting to tick his jaw, the upstairs light went dark. He forced himself off of his spot leaned against the lamppost across from their home, opting to stand underneath it. He let it illuminate him, reminding Arayne that here, he had the upperhand. One of them was controlling the Games that the other was merely set to assist in. 

"Coriolanus Snow, it truly is an honor," Arayne Tresta announced when he reached the perch Coriolanus made for himself. His hair was dark, shaggy, and unkempt like he was prepped for sleep, shirt untucked and pants loose and wrinkled. His eyes twinkled green under the yellowing lamplight, that entitled arrogance that Coriolanus knew so well filling the color entirely. 

"Yes, I do apologize for the short notice, but.. there really is no other time to speak about this, is there? Not with the Hunger Games so soon." Coriolanus skirted around the subject, giving Arayne the opportunity to piece it together himself. 

Arayne nodded once, dropping his head. "Ah, I see. About the mentorship exam?" 

He resisted the urge to frown. What a disappointing young man. "Partly. Mostly about who your tribute is." 

"Oh." Arayne snapped his fingers, his head jerking up in one quick movement. "I don't think that I've gotten too short of a stick, really. You don't have to worry about me." 

Coriolanus was anything but worried about the prick, but who was he to ruin his pride? It surely would be ruined soon enough. He laughed a little, though, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his large overcoat. "Of course not. I only came as, well, empathy." 

Understanding hit Arayne's face, and he smiled sympathetically. "That's very nice, Snow. I know that was probably hard for you." 

"Thank you," Coriolanus said, but he was already beginning to lose focus, and his words held no meaning. If Arayne had any sort of intelligence, maybe he would have caught the light draining from his eyes. Or perhaps the dagger glinting underneath the lamplight as he tugged it free from his coat pocket. 

"No, thank you." He laughed brightly, throwing his arms out in a wide and dramatic gesture. "Who knows? Maybe I'll even get a win like you--" 

Coriolanus drove the dagger into Arayne's chest. 

"Highly unlikely." 

✩ ✩ ✩