A/N: The T rating is for some mild violence and slight gore. This piece was written for the Caesar's Palace challenge "Something Different, Something Strange."

"Toria, no!" screams a woman, her voice only slightly muffled by the walls between them. Darius dashes into their small living room to find his mother shaking slightly, her gaze fixed on the black and white television in the corner. Though he is only tall enough to reach her waist, he wraps his arms around her in a comforting embrace.

Now that he is closer, he can see the slight movements of her jaw, and Darius can just barely make out the seditious words she says under her breath. Darius tries not to hear those words, the words that even at age seven he knows are not to be said. But when he glances at the television and sees his cousin lying on the ground lifeless, he thinks them.

It is the dark puddle underneath Cousin Toria that he remembers most clearly when he thinks back to that day.

He swallows, trying desperately to calm the butterflies in his stomach. More from muscle memory than actual conscious thought, he aligns his body parallel to the target, placing the majority of his weight on his back foot, and releases the weapon. Even before the spear leaves his hand, he knows he will miss. He is proven correct when, with a loud thud, the spear hits the wall to the left of the target. Darius bites back a curse and walks over to retrieve the weapon.

By the time he returns to his spot in the Training Center, a trainer is waiting for him. The woman shakes her head when he asks if he can try again, instead pointing to a cattle carcass hanging in the opposite corner. Darius bristles. A tool meant to demonstrate the force necessary to lodge a weapon into human flesh, the corpse is generally used only by the youngest trainees. The trainer's word is law here, though, so he grudgingly moves to the other side of the room.

With the much larger target, his task should be much easier. Again, Darius performs his ritual, this time successfully hitting his mark. He feels a small surge of satisfaction as the head of his spear buries itself deep within the body, but as he pulls the weapon out, his satisfaction is replaced by a darker emotion. Crimson droplets rain down from the hole his spear has left. He can feel the cool liquid on his hands, running between his fingers as he tries to clean the weapon to be used again.

He does not throw the spear again that day. His hands are shaking too badly.

By the fourth year of training, it is obvious Darius will not be the chosen tribute. Fifteen is too young to have one's dreams snatched away, but the news comes anyway. The trainers tell him he is too gentle, too kind to succeed in the Games. They want the tribute they select to have the best chance of survival, and Darius would never hurt a child, not even to emerge from the Arena outside of a body bag. He accepts their criticism more gracefully than the other failed trainees.

Grateful for his understanding, the trainers suggest a different future for him. He will have to move far from home, but the pay is good and the work is less demanding than quarrying stone. Later, the kind old woman who has run the Training Center for as long as anyone can remember pulls him aside. She tells him that she will secure a good district for him, one where the law is relaxed and the punishments less severe.

Darius smiles as he thanks her. Despite what his family and trainers might think, he secretly welcomes the news that he will not be selected. He knows that the Games would have proven lethal for him, but as a Peacekeeper he at least has a chance for success. The men in white are not known for their kindness, but he believes that he will be at home within their ranks. If he avoids giving punishment, he will be fine. Maybe there will be no need for him to spill another's blood.

When those around him ask why he accepted the offer to leave Two for the destitute outer district, he does not dare to admit his true reasons. Instead, he creates a lie, and he repeats it until he almost believes it to be true. In District Twelve, he will live as a king among peasants. It should be reason enough for any ambitious young man to leave his family, he tells himself before he drifts off to sleep each night.

Though he pretends to be as brave and strong as is befitting of a Peacekeeper trainee, Darius still fears that his gentleness will show between the cracks in his new white armor. Even in the seemingly lawless land of Twelve, a situation may arise where he will be expected to administer harsh, physical justice. When he refuses, he will be cast out of his new position, just as he was in training. No matter the consequence, Darius still cannot stomach the sight of blood.

Winters in Twelve are darker than they are in Two. After four years in the district, it should not surprise him, but each winter seems darker than the last here. He tugs on his high, white boots and trudges off to headquarters, which is located just off the town square. The winter air is frigid, but he does not mind, and he allows the cold to nip at his exposed ears, nose, and cheeks, reddening his fair skin. Though those in the Seam struggle through the harsh winters, he has spent the morning in front of his warm fire, and he appreciates the chill for a few moments, as he knows Cray prefers to keep headquarters blisteringly hot.

The scream reaches his ears before its source comes into view. Intent on stopping the crime in progress, Darius reaches for his nightstick and races into the square. What he finds angers him. A man, the beautiful victor's friend, is strapped tightly to a post unlike any he has seen since he was a boy in Two. An unfamiliar Peacekeeper stands behind him, lashing at Hawthorne with a long, thick whip. Darius's vision swims with red. This remnant of his past has no place in Twelve. The peaceful district he has settled in should not be marred by the violence of this man.

The red trails that run down Hawthorne's back are too familiar. They break him out of his anger and incite him to action. Before he has time to think, Darius is charging across the square towards the Peacekeeper. He yells as he runs, pleading the man to stop, to show the boy mercy. The last thing Darius hears before his head hits the pavements is the sickening crack of the butt of a gun against his temple.

He awakens in a cold room too clean and white to be in Twelve. Though he struggles to get up and there are no bindings holding him in place, Darius finds that he cannot move. He wants to scream for help, but not even his mouth will cooperate. Eventually, he admits defeat and settles in to his paralysis. This is less punishment than he had expected for his disobedience. Darius had heard that dehydration is a slow, painful death, but at least it would all be over in a few days.

Before he was allowed to peacefully slip into death, a man comes into the room. He barely spares Darius a glance as he washes his hands and puts on a pair of blue surgical gloves. Though Darius wonders why the Capitol would bother to kill a man so close to death anyway, he cannot say anything as the man opens his mouth and takes out a pair of sharp scissors.

The pain is searing. The man turns Darius onto his side once he is finished, leaving his mouth open so that the former Peacekeeper does not choke on his own blood. Darius watches with a sick fascination as a pool of red stained the white sheets. He marvels at how all of this had once been a part of him, and how another piece of him had left with the man. When he had seen Toria on the television, he had learned that blood sickened him, but he had never realized until now how fascinating it could be. Even after his temporary paralysis wears off, Darius stays in the same position, admiring the crimson splotches on the bed.

He barely dares to meet the eyes of the Girl on Fire, sickened by the creature he has become. In the Capitol, he is worth less than dirt, his person barely valued as anything more than the blood, bones, and skin he consists of.

Now more than ever, he longs to repeat the words his mother whispered long ago in their living room. He dreams of shouting them to the world, of announcing to the world the wrongs the Capitol has committed and calling the people to action against the president and those like him. At twenty-two, he still understands that those words are never to be spoken.

Not that he ever has to worry about that again.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I would really appreciate any feedback you could provide on this fic. This is very different from my usual style, and I'm excited to hear what you think! Thanks again for reading,

~finnicko-loves-anniec