I claim nothing.

Cinna is one.

He will always be the first, the one who turned her into the Girl on Fire, someone other than the poor pathetic girl who volunteered for her little sister in District twelve, the slum district.

He saw his rise to fame in the opportunity to model the tributes, originally. He had purely selfish motives, and perfectly understandable ones.

Then her bravery touched him. He saw the desperation with which she protected her sister, and because he was an observant man, he noticed the tall lad who carried the little sister away, and the elderly woman who received the girl, holding back tears of her own. Everyone saw the tribute District twelve gave to their Volunteer.

He was touched, because he was a compassionate man.

He was also a determined man, and he wreathed her in flames, willing to let none overlook his tribute. He set fire to her so that she burned as she had the day of the Reaping, visible flames so that the inobservant could see.

He set them as a distraction, for how much could people criticize someone who carried fire in her footsteps? He set flames to outshine her, so that she could rest in reflected light, gathering her own strength, her own will so that she could flame on her own.

He named her the girl on fire, and willed her to set the world aflame.

Suddenly he was the most sought after designer in the history of the Games, but it didn't matter anymore, because, that poor little flawed, stubborn, hotheaded, honest, sincere and so brave girl needed everything he could help her with.

So he gave. Somehow he found himself in the role of her confidant, giving her quiet advice, and she returning a naïve trust she had offered so impulsively. He resolved never to betray it.

To the last he was there, offering comfort, what help he could offer, helping her into her jump suit, kissing her forehead and sending her off, locking eyes with her until she had risen out of sight in that hellish tube.

He put his soul into fashion; that way he hurt no one but himself. But now his part was done.

He couldn't watch the games. He couldn't make himself do it, so he relied upon Haymitch for updates. Every night, at dinner they would discuss what had happened.

'Peeta has taken in with the Careers, seems to be looking out for our girl. Katniss found water.'

'They,' the Gamemakers are only ever 'they' 'started a forest fire and threw fireballs at Katniss. She's got a burn wound, and has been treed by the Careers and Peeta.'

Then there is finding sponsors, punctuated by more news, 'Katniss dropped a Tracker-Jacker nest on the careers and Peeta with the help of that girl from 'Eleven. Girl from 'One, what's her name? Gleam? died. Our girl has a bow and has taken up with 'Eleven- Rue, now.'

He started having nightmares those nights. Nightmares in which Katniss and Peeta were gnawed to pieces, burned, stabbed, poisoned, oh so many ways of death to choose from…

So he started watching. The reality couldn't be that bad, right?

He saw Katniss approaching the careers' food supplies, heard the commentator announce the hidden mines, and clenched his fists and prayed to high heaven, to any god in existence for Katniss to see the trap. He hadn't seen Katniss get blown to pieces in his nightmares yet.

She did, and he witnessed the casual death of a boy, a kill in anger, not self defence, or with no other choice.

Then… Then Rue died, and the world as it was, started smoldering.

Millions of tears were wept for the little girl from district Eleven. It was just one casualty amongst the promised twenty three, but it was the most horrific in some odd way.

Haymitch went to pull strings to save Katniss from the ultimate lash-back, and Cinna stopped watching again.

The nightmares returned, but every time he woke, he would work on his newest project, whose stated object was to make Katniss look so innocent that the world would forgive her for her sins.

He listened to the news every night with compressed lips, planning a ruffle here, a tweak there, maybe a touch of eye shadow? No better to leave her youthfully fresh.

He put his soul into fashion; that way he hurt no one but himself. And besides, did some good.

He succeeded, Katniss was free to go. He was heartsick at the lifelong charade she was promised to with Peeta but also quietly optimistic; the lad loved her, and she could do much worse than him, faithful and ever loving.

He designed the perfect wedding for her, trying to give joy at least in that, implementing himself in each detail, making it his ultimate gift to her

Then that too was destroyed, in ruins. The president called for the seventy fifth Hunger Games, amongst the victors of the previous, the Quarter Quell as it was known.

Cinna is reading when he hears his 'screen activate, and the announcement ring through his apartment. For a moment his eyes ring and he feels as if he cannot make sense of it, but of course he can, 'else why would he react this way. The words swim in front of his eyes, and he stares down at them blindly.

Only one thing slowly registers, as if hearing a far off death knell. Katniss would be participating.

The knell might have been for her, he thinks inconsequentially.

When he rises, it is slowly. Cinna is not an unintelligent man. He knows of the rebellion, and it's vaunted 'Mockingjay'. He also knows that every symbol Katniss has given to the rebellion has been inadvertently.

And finally, he thinks, It is time for something to be on purpose, even if it is just me raising the Mockingjay, the symbol of rebellion from the ashes left by the Girl on Fire.

That night he sketches the concept and styling of the first armor suit for the Mockingjay. From what he knows of Katniss, she will not sit by and watch people suffer in her name for long.

When the trains arrive, he hands the sketch pad, all his designs, all his long nights of work to Haymitch, because Cinna is an observant man. And leaning forward, he whispers, "only if she chooses." Haymitch nods.

Cinna is satisfied.

He puts his soul into fashion, and it hurts no one but him, and does good to many others.

He dresses their girl in the black of coal, then lights her into an ember, shooting up. He gives her the affronted arrogance of a Goddess, and lets her make her entrance, looking neither to the right nor to the left, listening to none of the pleas of the people. He armors her in coolness, and she makes her way through unscathed.

He feels accomplished then.

President Snow is angry. He has looked for graciousness, fear, but not this Holier than thou line. He intends to break her.

He sends her a wedding dress for shroud, corrupts a work of love into indifference, into cruelty. Cinna will not have it.

That night he takes the shroud onto himself, loving work shredding the corruption and redoing so very carefully. Cinna knows he will die for this. That night he steels himself to feel fear, but instead feels only calm, serenity, and acceptance. He makes his master piece, and he knows it. And he is proud of it, knowing it to best seventy five efforts by twenty four experts in his field.

The next day he helps Katniss into it himself, reassuring her and ensuring she will twirl for the crowd. He scarcely knows what he says, and what the results of his personal rebellion would be; other than the fact that they would hurt only him.

He is in the audience, he watches in appreciation as the veteran Tributes play masterfully with the emotions of the crowd, Katniss earning a gasp/sigh as she walks down to her place, in her wedding dress, all in white.

He doesn't hear a word, waiting, willing Katniss to stand… and there she goes.

She twirls and twirls and twirls, and if Cinna knows that there would be hesitation somewhere, he doesn't see it. And if he doesn't see it, no one will.

Smoke billows around her, as flames lick at the hems of her skirt. For a moment she is the Girl on Fire, then the moment passes as smoke enshrouds her. Then she slows gradually and stops.

Cinna smiles then, so slowly, so quietly. She is a mocking bird, her Wedding dress turned black, her sleeves, wings. She too looks at herself for a moment in realization and her words are loud in the sudden silence. "I'm- I'm a Mockingjay."

Severe déjà vu strikes when both are alone in the tube. He knows Katniss has realized the danger he is in, and he is thankful when she refrains from remonstrating with him, simply hugging him as hard as she can.

He deliberately repeats, 'I'm betting on you.' And his words echo, betting on you… on you… you… you…

He watches her step into the tube, waits for the tube to rise and feels his stomach sink in anticipation when nothing happens. He had feared that they would use his death as a weapon against her.

He is unable to reassure her before the doors slam open, and the next thing he knows is that he is watching Katniss through a haze of pain, as she rises, a setting sun above her setting her hair on fire. She is frantically banging against the glass and he tries to repeat, 'betting on you…' He doesn't think he manages it, and everything goes black.

I couldn't help but love some of the side characters. Rue. Cinna. The Gamemasters. (no kidding) Ceaser Flickerman. This is for them.

Cinna created the freaking mocking bird, cremating the girl on fire first. He is waaay awesome. Also, I might continue this, one for Seneca Crane, one for... Haymitch? No he was a fully made character and he made her nothing. District 11? Rue? I'll have to think about this. But Seneca Crane, yess.

Okay, confession. I have only read the book. I have heard about the movie, and I like some parts of it, such as the death of Crane. So fitting. I've seen that scene, and I like the fact that his expression does. not. change. Awesom-ish. I was intrigued by the pseudo evil-but-not gamemakers in the book already. They like Katniss' guts. I got that feeling. They also hate 'em, but that's a different matter.

And you know something? I like this! My 'fic, that is.

Hija