SPARK ✩ CORIOLANUS SNOW.¹

𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

          Jude Carlisle is going to get himself killed.

It was only milliseconds after the explosive bang ricocheted around both sides of the filled stands that the shouts began, shocked Capitol citizens unaware of what it was that just happened. Some even went as far as to start stampeding down the steps, desperate to be the first to the exit. It was only when the translucent gray smoke started to dissipate into the cobalt blue sky that some of them slowed their steps and the shouting quieted.

And there was Jude on his chariot in the streets, his bare palm glowing red in the center like a spark.

The horses to the District 2 chariot were rioting all on their own, barely held by their reins by the guarding Peacekeepers -- and yet, Jude kept his balance, even going as far to extend a hand to hold his tribute partner up too when she began to stumble.

Coriolanus watched from his perch above it all, unnerved.

They would either never let him do a parade again or expect something of greater dramatics every year. They would either want Jude dead for this or want an explanation, both of which he could not follow through with.

He leaned forward in his seat, elbows digging into the soft skin above his knees, staring at the boy. The boy, who couldn't have done it with rebellious intent, too young to even hold an opinion in such beliefs, really. The boy, who was given something to wear and told what to do. The boy, dressed like a weapon and acting like it. That was it, wasn't it? There was no reason for Jude Carlisle to be a sympathizer when he lived so close to the luxury that they practically shared the same drinking water. At one point, Jude probably even had it better off than Coriolanus did.

No, Jude was not a rebel, and this was not an act of terror reigning out onto the community. It was a show. Even if it wasn't, he would make it out to be now, and grill him about it afterwards.

But Coriolanus looked at the steel fabric of Jude's clothes, the glossy silver across his eyes and smeared through his hair, the traces of skin seeping through the sheer shirt he wore and the outline of something dark underneath -- a scar? a tattoo? -- and his heart betrayed his mind. An off kilter thumping against his ribcage. A softening of his glare at the mystery hundreds of feet below the balcony he sat upon.

He was beautiful, really.

The weapon that he tried to be and the boy that he really still was, both beautiful in their shades of steely gray and cocoa brown and golden hazel. Maybe he really was a weapon; dangerous in the way that he was becoming a liability instead of an asset.

Behind him, Dr. Gaul tsked to herself. "He is trouble, that one of yours," she added without prompting.

Below, the parade was resuming. Lucretius Flickerman was introducing the rest of the tributes, though none of them had any surprises up their sleeves like a gunshot in their palm. At the end of the road, the first few carriages were coming to a halt. As he planned, the sponsors waited to greet them, introducing themselves, all of the politics that he didn't yet involve with.

He supposed it would soon start, wouldn't it?

Coriolanus raised to his feet, smiling sugary sweet at the doctor when he walked past her. "He's only putting on a show," he said, arching an eyebrow. "Isn't that what you've wanted?"

He sauntered the rest of the way past and into the building, beginning the descent to the street to greet his tribute and collect an answer or two along the way.