~Grace~
The crowd hisses with laughter.
I am flushed with embarrassment as I enter in my little ballerina-ready-to-dance costume.
The bright glare of the lightning hits me first, before the size of the crowd does.
The Arena is a gargantuan throat of stone and iron, grandstands rising in endless, dizzying tiers that seem to scrape the underbelly of the clouds. Below the screaming masses, twenty boxes hang like gilded nests, draped in banners of emerald, sable, and lilac, orange, green and all the other colours of the Culling candidates. I might never truly understand what these colours mean anyway.
Around the rim of the Arena, massive screens are bolted into the steel and glass architecture. I've never seen something like this—high-definition displays pulsing with live feeds from every corner of the arena.
My face suddenly flashes across the screen as I move toward the starting line.
