Bedknobs and Broomsticks {Ivy, Pyrian and Noah}

The Capitol was exactly as Pyrian had imagined it: Hell painted rainbow colors with skyscrapers reaching for the clouds and streets polluted with freaks in exotic dresses. It was shockingly vibrant to his sensitive eyes, almost too excruciating to behold, especially considering how terrible their wardrobes were and how unbearable their sugary-sweet smiles were to endure. But what had proven to be more irritating than the freaks themselves were the actual tributes, all strutting about the training center as if Panem revolved around their selfish little heads when in reality they were about as important as toothpicks. The tribute parade itself had been a nightmare, and a fashion nightmare at that (he’d never felt so ridiculous, wearing such dreadful garments and accessories and make-up), but it was the events following the parade that really struck his nerves. Needless to say, every tribute was either obnoxious, stupid, arrogant, or obnoxiously stupid and arrogant, and Pyrian was having none of it any longer. By the end of his first night he'd already formed a mental hit list, and right at the top of this list was the name of district four’s next dead legend: Noah fucking Ripley.

Fortunately, even his own clumsiness did not wake the district four fish boy when he crept into his dwellings, far past curfew with a box of matches (don’t ask how he snatched them, he’ll never tell) wearing only pajamas and a devious grin on his hard face. At the bedside he stuck a match against the box, surveying the slumbering boy carefully to detect any suspicious movement, and touched the flame gently to the corner of the bed sheets in hopes of ruining the Ripley’s peaceful night. He failed, however, to notice a third party sneaking in, until his dark eyes spotted a silhouette rummaging through the boy’s mini fridge. As traces of orange flame licked the edges of the boy’s sheets - their woven threads spitting smoke into the air like a victim of a nasty sickness - the mysterious girl withdrew a bottle of liquor and poured its contents across the bed, drenching both the boy and his precious blankets. The events following only summoned delightful cackles from within the pyromaniac’s rusty throat. The sheets erupted into roaring flames, illuminating the room with dancing colors of sunrise and sunset, and when Pyrian stole a glance at the bold girl he noticed her muttering a word. ”Ivy.” Of course, he’d seen that name before. A fellow tribute, no doubt. He had no interest in exchanging names, however, so with nothing to say he took several steps back and watched the chaos unfold.

The falling icicles destroyed the fire.