User blog:FrostyFire/The 21st Hunger Games

'''ANGUISH The 21st Hunger Games The Deviation Series Part I'''

Note: These Hunger Games contain mild language and mature content that may not be appropriate for all audiences; this includes: Furthermore, these games will strictly contain characters that I have created. However, the sequel will be open to submissions, with priority going to users who have actively followed and commented on this story.
 * semi-graphic depicts of violence
 * references to sexual assault
 * any additional content concerns will be added to this list prior to the publication of its respective point of view

Planned Alliances
Careers: Lorcan (D1M), Veira (D1F), Xolani (D2M), Tycho (D4M), Mayuri (D4F), Taneli (D10M)

Victors' Daughters Alliance: Honoria (D2F), Bryony (D7F), Fresia (D11F)

Female Alliance: Jenikka (D5F), Kaia (D6F), Laelia (D10F), Emeri (D12F)

District Three and Eight: Skagen (D3M), Octavian (D8M)

District Five and Six: Zephyrin (D5M), Lark (D6M)

District Nine: Havan (D9M), Farah (D9F)

Loners: Eulalia (D3F), Juniper (D7M), Nadina (D8F), Makari (D11M), Isidore (D12M)

Current Alliances
Careers: Lorcan (D1M), Veira (D1F), Xolani (D2M), Tycho (D4M), Mayuri (D4F), Taneli (D10M)

Victors' Daughters Alliance: Honoria (D2F), Bryony (D7F), Fresia (D11F)

Female Alliance: Jenikka (D5F), Kaia (D6F), Laelia (D10F), Emeri (D12F)

District Three and Eight: Skagen (D3M), Octavian (D8M)

District Five and Six: Zephyrin (D5M), Lark (D6M)

District Nine: Havan (D9M), Farah (D9F)

Loners: Eulalia (D3F), Juniper (D7M), Nadina (D8F), Makari (D11M), Isidore (D12M)

The Mentors
Head Mentors: Destry Torkili (from District Ten) and Chrysa Mansueta (from District Four)

District One: Adamaris Fidele and Myriam Deirdre

District Two: Ooma Villette and Daedalus Brantlie

District Three: Leith Taliesin and Anahita Parthenie

District Four: Cordelle Vitka and Emeric Artorius

District Five: Bronsen Raede and Flick Hewlitt

District Six: Coilee Namaka

District Seven: Matvei Zaltana and Sylvie Linden

District Eight: Baize Edmonia

District Nine: Lar Verrucosis (from District Two)

District Ten: Gania Spalding and Armin Torkili

District Eleven: Amara Copperdust and Poppi Blodwyn

District Twelve: Fergus Tancredo (from District One)

Twist
Tributes must be related to a tribute or victor of a previous Hunger Games; this can include parents (or step-parents), siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles with special exceptions for boy/girlfriends and best friends if mentioned in their will.

Veira Faustus - District One Female
In District One, there are two campuses for the Career Academy: North Campus and South Campus. While the former requires an application process, the latter offers open enrollment. As such, everyone strives to be admitted to North Campus due to its prestige and rigor. (After all, it’s where all the victors graduated from.) Meanwhile, South Campus is open to everyone between the ages of five and eighteen.

I was admitted into North Campus when I was nine years old, the same age as my sister. It was a difficult change, especially since they have such high expectations for their students. I adjusted my diet to cut out all sugary foods, and I trained until my muscles ached. It took me months to get used to waking up before five o’clock in the morning for pre-dawn runs, but the results showed.

That’s why I’m awake now, before the sun has even risen, staring at my bedroom ceiling.

Although the house is quiet, I know my father will already be awake. On reaping day, the fathers go to the City Square at midnight to drink and gamble. My father’s undoubtedly betting on my older sister, Rosalie, to volunteer. After all, she was one of the select students to pass the “aptitude exam” this year.

The “aptitude exam” is given to students on the North Campus between the ages of twelve and eighteen. It’s intended to test their physical, mental, and intellectual strengths. Although there’s no official rule, only students who pass the exam are “eligible” to volunteer. If you fail, you’re “inept" for the Games and need more training. If you fail and volunteer, you’re expelled from the academy, assuming you’re not in the arena.

Rosalie passed the “aptitude exam” the last two years, being one of the few people to do so. I’ve taken the “aptitude exam” every year since I was twelve, and I’ve failed every time. But I know that I’m more talented than Rosalie—I’ve beaten her in duals for years despite being younger and smaller. I’m almost certain the “aptitude exam” is a sham.

But a small part of me isn’t convinced.

I’m only seventeen, so I could always volunteer next year. There’s still a lot for me to learn—some survival skills to learn, some combat techniques to perfect. I might not be the best hunter or swimmer, but I could name hundreds of toxic plants and berries that have appeared in the arena. Don’t underestimate me—I could still take down a grown man without breaking that much of a sweat—but I’m a firm believer that strategy is more important than brute strength.

With a plan in mind, I slip out of my bed, my bare feet greeted by the chilly wooden floor. I throw on a dark sports bra, a pink tank-top, a dry-fit hoodie with black sleeves and a gray front, and black yoga capris. Once I slide on my pink tennis shoes and I pull my hair back into a firm ponytail, I’m ready to leave.

The hallway’s squeaky floorboards make it nearly impossible to be stealthy, but the soft snores of my mother and sister reassure me I’m not being too loud. I tiptoe down a flight of stairs, and I devour a protein bar in the kitchen before leaving the house. My dog doesn’t wake up when I unlock the front door with a thud, so my departure goes unnoticed.

My footsteps are light and nimble as I begin a light job towards North Campus. Once I leave my neighborhood, I move from road to road, zigzagging through side streets as I’ve done many times before. When I reach the main road, I hear the fathers hollering and drinking and gambling. But before I reach the City Square, I take a sharp right. A few more blocks and I turn left down a street that takes me straight to the academy. When I finally arrive, my shirt clings to my body and my hair is damp from sweat.

North Campus is  a mile northeast of the City Square, close to the Victors’ Village. After the Second Rebellion, it was destroyed by rebel forces, but it was rebuilt a couple decades ago. This time, it was assembled with steel and bulletproof glass, so guns and explosives won’t do it any harm. It also happens to be the second largest building in the district. (For legal reasons, the Justice Building has to be the largest. Otherwise, I guarantee the campus would’ve been much larger.)

Despite its sturdiness, the security is rather subpar: any person with a keycard has access to the building at any times of the day. Since every student receives a keycard, I’m able to easily enter the building. As soon as I swipe my card, the glass doors open.

Although it’s warmer inside the building, I shiver as I’m greeted by a waft of stale air, and goosebumps rise along my arms. Although I’m the only one in the building, I instinctively scan my surroundings once I turn on the lights. (I’ve been trained to always be on the lookout for danger because the moment you lower your defenses in the arena, you’re dead.)

The interior layout of the campus is simple: there are three corridors that branch out of the large, central foyer. The North corridor is for testing, the West one is for weapon training, and the East one is for survival. Everyone assumes the Career districts only care about weapons and murder. (We are the most bloodthirsty.) But survival is also held to a high degree here.

Beside the West corridor is a golden-framed portrait of a beautiful young woman with silky brown hair. Her hazel eyes seem to sparkle under the glass, and her skin looks smooth and unblemished. Below the frame, written in a fancy cursive, is the woman’s name and title:

Adamaris Fidele Victor of the 15th Hunger Games.

Since she is our most recent victor, she would be one of my possible mentors. Although I have a vague memory of seeing her around campus, I remember her volunteering and going into the arena.

She won her Games through sexiness and manipulation, convincing her allies she was weak. In fact, they only reason they kept her was because of her budding romance with the dude from Two. (Otherwise, why would they keep someone who cried during the interviews and earned a seven in training?) When only the Careers and one other tribute were left, she slipped tranquilizers in her allies’ food; they were effectively defenseless while she slit their throats. The finale was anticlimactic, as the runner-up was devoured by mutations. Nobody saw if she could actually fight.

Next to Adamaris’ portrait is one belonging to Myriam Deidre, victor of the 10th Hunger Games. I was only six years old when she won, too young to remember much about the Games. The only memory I have from the Games is its gruesome finale, when both of Myriam’s eyes were gouged out of her head. Yet, she was somehow able to overpower and kill the other tribute before bleeding out. Since her vision was irreparable, she always wears a pair of fashionable sunglasses.

The last portrait against the Victor’s Wall belongs to Fergus Tancredo, our only male victor. I was merely an infant at the time of his victory, so I have no recollection of the Games as they occurred. But, he was one of the first victors I studied at the academy, as he won in the most straightforward manner: by being the most dangerous and skilled. His ability to wield both a dagger and a sickle was impeccable for someone his age. Once it was revealed only bladed weapons were available, he was guaranteed victory.

One day, I’m going to be on that wall, I remember saying to an instructor during my first day of class. ''And then I’ll be rich and famous, and everyone will wanna be my friend. ''

I shake my head, clearing away my naive childhood memory, and walk down the corridor. There’s a variety of rooms on either side of the hall, each associated with a specific weapon. I walk right past them until I reach the last door to my right. Engraved on the brass plaque beside the entrance are the words:

Blowgun Instructor: Leith Goldwyn

After I enter the room, I halt when I notice something moving in the darkness. Is it my imagination? Am I paranoid? My questions are answered as the dark figure moves in my direction, taking the shape of a grown man. I flick on the lights to reveal the mysterious person.

“I thought you’d make an appearance,” Mr. Goldwyn says, leaning against the rack of blowguns. I notice something in his hand, but it’s hidden when he crosses his arms. In that stance, his biceps bulge from his tight-fitted t-shirt, as if the cotton can’t fully contain them. If he’s trying to intimate me, it’s not working.

“How did you—”

“I saw you sneak a dress into your locker last Friday,” he answers my unfinished question. “But that’s besides the point. You’re going to volunteer, aren’t you? Even though you didn’t pass the exam?” They’re rhetorical questions. “And I know how stubborn you are, so I figure that I’ll offer some advice.”

“Well, I already—”

“Ah, ah, you didn’t let me finish.” He raises his hand to shush me. “I know you’ve been training for the Games for a while, but”—he reveals what was in his other hand: a file with my name not it—“you don’t know why you didn’t pass the exam.”

“So, what? You’re just gonna hand me my results?” He may lose his job for this, and he cherishes his job.

“Well, yes. Why else would I be here at 4:30?” He nudges the folder into my hand. “I would suggest you open it now, but it’s your choice. Open it when you’re most comfortable.”

As he continues to walk towards the door, I stop him with my hand. “Wait, Mr. Goldwyn. Thank you. . . for everything.”

“It was my pleasure,” he says with a curt nod. “You’re a very talented student. I wish you the best of luck on your journey.”

Lorcan Estrelle - District One Male
Although a fine layer of dew covers the grass, I sit on the ground in my dark dress pants. In my lap rests a bouquet of spring flowers: azure hydrangeas, creme roses, white alstroemerias, navy delphiniums. Their colors appear vibrant against the dull surroundings. This is a Capitol-sponsored graveyard with the sole purpose of providing a resting place for its fallen tributes. I shouldn't be surprised the only other plants are a dying yew tree, a few cedar trees, and countless weeds.

Each granite tombstone contains the fallen person's name, participated Games, birth and death date, and a basic phrase. The one in front of me reads:

Artus Estrelle Tribute of the 16th Hunger Games Oct 16, 1639 P.A. — July 14, 1658 P.A. We Salute You For Your Sacrifice

The five-year anniversary of my brother’s death is in exactly one week,  the same day the Games begin this year. He was one of the most promising graduates of the Career Academy, a crowd favorite from the start. Everyone was surprised when he only lasted three days in the arena, taking a stray arrow to the throat.

When I close my eyes, I can vividly see his death: the arrow piercing his trachea, his allies panicking from the sudden attack, him collapsing to the ground, the cameras zooming in on his face as he suffocated on his own blood.

He promised me that he would come home alive. That day, I learned that, once a person enters the arena, their promises can’t be kept.

He returned home in the wooden casket, and I cried until I had no tears left. I refused to leave the house for almost a week, and I stole my dad’s spot in my parent’s bed. The house felt eerie and lonely without him, as if he were the telephone line to the family and we no longer knew how to communicate to one another.

When I did leave the house, it was to attend his joint funeral. (It's a common tradition in One to have one funeral for both fallen tributes.) As his casket was lowered into the ground, I felt like I was burying a part of myself with him.

Maybe I did, because that was the day I stopped being a brother.

My wristwatch buzzes, and I instinctively rub my finger against its leather band. The stylish watch was a gift from Artus when he left for the Capitol. Since I was only ten at the time, I didn’t have much use for it. For three years, it sat in its original box until I decided to wear it. Now, the brown leather has faded from wear, and the clock is about twenty minutes behind due to a bad battery. It buzzes at the top of every hour, or, I guess, whenever it thinks it’s a new hour.

Reluctantly, I stand up with the bouquet in my hands. I’m supposed to be at the Justice Building in five minutes, as the citizens must arrive a quarter-hour before the reaping. (Although the Peacekeepers don’t enforce the rule too much, so long as you arrive before it starts.) Either way, I’m in no hurry to get there.

“I’ll see you next week,” I whisper, placing the bouquet in front of the tombstone. “Wish me luck. Only four more to go.”

A somber silence surrounds me while I walk to the City Square, as if a cartoon stormy cloud is looming over my dark-haired head. Whenever I leave the cemetery, a sense of dreadful grief overcomes me. There’s a total of thirty-seven bodies resting in that yard, yet I’ve never seen anyone else in it nor have I come across flowers on any other tombstone. Did everyone else forget they exist? Are twenty years worth of fallen tributes overlooked when only three returned alive? I’ve debated buying flowers for all the graves to show them that their sacrifice was appreciated, but I have yet to do it.

I’m one of the last peope to arrive to the City Square. Most of the children have already been separated into those who are eligible to be reaped and those who are exempt due to this year's twist.

Since the reinstitution of the Hunger Games, a new rules was created that requires a twist every year. Essentially, every year is now a Quarter Quell. Some years, the twist is huge and heavily impacts the tributes' survival in the arena. Other years, the twist so small that it's like an old-fashioned Games. During Artus’ Games, the tributes were paired up with one another. If their partner died, so did they.

After the Peacekeeper draws some blood from my finger, he—or, is it a she? I can’t tell with the helmet—points me in the direction of eligible tributes. Although I knew I satisfied the requirements for the twist, I still feel a renewed pang of apprehension. Am I going to be reaped? If I do, will someone volunteer? Despite popular belief, District One does not always send volunteers. A lot of children have a deep fear of going into the Games, even after years of extensive training. There’s always the chance you might not come home, and, sometimes, life is more important than fame.

At precisely 9 o’clock, Athénaïs Saralee, the escort of District One, structs out of the Justice Building. Following her is the mayor, his wife, and the district's three victors. While Athénaïs approaches the microphone in the center of the stage, the other five take a seat behind her.

Although she hails from the Capitol, Athénaïs’ appearance is not gaudy and exuberant. In fact, if it weren’t for her curly purple hair and bubbly demeanor, she could almost pass as a normal citizen. Her minimal makeup might be drab to the Capitol, but it make her seem more personable to the districts. While other escorts have cosmetic surgery to hide their age, she holds her natural youthfulness. In fact, she's the youngest active escort. If she were living in the districts, she could’ve been reaped for the Games a year or two ago.

“Welcome, citizens of District One, to the reaping of the 21st Annual Hunger Games!” she says with a burst of enthusiasm. In the crowd, some of the adults holler and applaud, but the children stay silent. “As custom we will begin with a brief history of Panem and the Second Treaty of Treason, presented to you by Mayor Penleigh.”

A polite applause follows the mayor as he approaches the microphone. He retells the story of the rise of Panem, the country born out of the crumples of North America. For decades, the Capitol and its thirteen districts lived in unity. That ended when an idealist from Thirteen stirred a premature rebellion. It ended with his district's obliteration.

The remaining twelve districts competed in the Hunger Games as a form of penance. For seventy-four years, the districts handed over a teenage male and female representative. Although only a small percent returned home, nobody did anything. But when Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark won the 74th Hunger Games, a sense of hope was revived in the rebels. That hope sparked the Second Rebellion, which began with the destruction of the 75th Hunger Games.

The rebels won the Second Rebellion. They rallied enough support from the common citizens to overcome the Capitol. District Thirteen resurfaced; it was not destroyed like everyone believed. A new president rose to power, and the Hunger Games were abolished. The district citizens finally had the freedom they desired.

When Katniss Everdeen died in 1641 Postquam Apocalypsis—“after the Apocalypse,” or P.A.—the loyalists started to act. The rebels were too arrogant, turning a blind eye to the loyalists' capabilities. This would, quit literally, kick them in the ass.

Within a year, the rebel forces were defeated, its leaders were executed on live television, and District Thirteen was abolished for good. By 1643 P.A., the Hunger Games were recreated and reformed. In this new generation, the Second Treaty of Treason requires each Games to contain its own unique twist, never the same as before

“In the last two decades, District One has successfully produced three victors,” the mayor continues. The victors rise from their seat, courteously waving to the cheering crowd. “Fergus Tancredo, victor of the 7th Hunger Games. Myriam Deirdre, victor of the 10th Hunger Games. Adamaris Fidele, victor of the 15th Hunger Games.” The mayor waves for the applause to die down before continuing, “Now, I will hand the mic over to Athénaïs, who will select this year’s tributes.”

“Thank you, Mayor! As President Quain announced three months ago, this year’s twist limits the eligible reaping pool. It reads: ‘Tributes must be related to a tribute or victor of a previous Hunger Games; this can include parents or step-parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces with special exceptions for boy/girlfriends and best friends if mentioned in their will.’” She smiles. “Sounds like it’ll be an interesting year!”

The crowd shouts their approval. I can’t help but feel a little disgusted by my own district at the moment. During the reaping season, everyone seems to be more verbal about their support of the Hunger Games. Surely, people can’t be so one-dimension to not see the true brutality and devastation behind them, right?

“As usual, we shall start by selecting the female representative.” Athénaïs twirls her hand around in the glass bowl for a while, her finger tracing over the paper slips before plucking a single one. I don’t recognize the person’s name she calls, so I stand up on my tiptoes—the boys in my district are so tall—to get a better view. When a young girl with blonde hair walks on stage, I feel a pang of guilt, but it only lasts until Athénaïs asks, “Are there any volunteers?”

Immediately, two girls volunteer. When two people simultaneously volunteer, the escort selects which one will be tribute. In previous years, the escort usually selects the older tribute, the one who is closest to the stage. However, this is only Athénaïs’ second year with us, and last year, the volunteers went unopposed. To my surprise, she points to the younger girl, mumbling something about her “being first.

While the small girl is escorted back to her section, the volunteer struts to the stage, her dirty blonde hair waving from side to side with each step. Although my view is partially obstructed, I can tell she’s naturally beautiful from her stance. She emits confidence and sexiness, as if she’s fully aware that all the boys would be swooning over her slim figure and unmissable cleavage. Her name is Veira Faustus—she says with a hint of snobbishness, as if everyone should know it—and her uncle was the first male tribute from District One.

“Well, I believe we should all give Veira a round of applause for her sacrifice.” Veira curtsies as the audience claps for her. “And now, for the male representative.” Athénaïs spends less time at this reaping bowl than the previous one, simply grabbing the first slip her finger touches. “And the selected man is”—she clears her throat—“Lorcan Estrelle!

I murmur a curse. The boys in my close proximity cast me a sideways glance before it clicks in their brain. Slowly, they begin moving away from me as if I’m suddenly poisonous, creating a small path to the aisle. Although my brain barely registers my movement, I begin walking towards the aisle. Four Peacekeepers appear to my side, escorting me to the stairs. I maintain a straight posture and tight smile as I walk up the steps, chancing a quick glance towards Veira only to be met by unforgiving green eyes.

Nobody volunteers to take my place. When Athénaïs asked, I could  hear the crickets chirping in the background. I’m not surprised; like I said, some people cherish their life more than fame and fortune.

Now that I’ve been reaped, everything seems to be going too fast: the handshake, the closing remarks, the anthem. Through it all, I only have one recurrent thought:

''Why me? ''

Xolani Satine - District Two Male
In the navy suit jacket, I look different: my bony shoulders look broader, my unremarkable pecs look larger, my calloused hands look smoother, and my dull bistre eyes look warmer. Even the scar a few inches above my right eye, closer to my hairline than my thick eyebrow, is less noticeable. My overall figure appears healthier and burlier—I can practically feel my chocolate complexion radiating confidence and sexiness, much like the other boys from Two. Nobody would suspect that, when I take off my shirt, my ribs are almost as well-defined as my abs.

“I knew you’d look handsome in that,” Momma says, appearing behind me in the reflection of the mirror. She squeezes my shoulder reassuring, a heartwarming smile on her face. “It was definitely worth every cent.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t too much?” I ask, turning around to face her. I’ve never had a suit jacket before because it’s always been too expensive for us to afford. Momma must’ve pulled a lot of strings to make this work. “Because I could just wear the button-up to the reaping. I don’t care.”

“And have the Capitol criticize you for being underdressed?” Momma gasps. I can’t tell if she’s being serious or sarcastic. “Absolutely not! I want you to make a good impression from the start.”

“The Capitol loves its District Two tributes.” It’s a well-known fact that the tributes from Districts One, Two, and Four are always Capitol favorites. We’re the Careers, the ones who shed the most blood for them. “Momma, you don’t need to worry about me. I promise I’ll be fine.”

“Boy, do not make promises you cannot keep.” She points her forefinger at me. “I taught you better than that.”

“Momma—“

“No, don’t you dare argue with me.” I raise my hands in surrender and sit on my bed, allowing her to continue without interruption. “You and I both know that there are certain. . . risks involved in volunteering. Although you might be trained, you don’t know the competition. They could be stronger, faster, and deadlier than you. That being said, are you absolutely certain you want to volunteer?”

I take a moment to ponder this, but I already know I’m not going to change my decision. When I told Momma I was going to volunteer, she was concerned that I was too confident and too convinced that I would return home, but I know the risks: I may die or, even worse, lose my sanity in the arena. When someone goes in there, their survival is based on both skill and luck. Even the most trained survivalist could perish depending on what the Gamemakers throw their way. I’ve been contemplating about whether I would volunteer or not for months, so I’m fully aware of the danger I’m putting upon myself.

“Yeah,” I firmly answer Momma’s question. I can see a flash of sadness dance across her eyes. “At least, that’s the plan.”

“Well, in that case, you’re going to need all the luck you can get.” She pulls a silver cross necklace out of her pocket, placing it in my palm, and I recognize it immediately. It belonged to my dad before his death. I remember him telling me that, before the Disasters, it used to symbolize faith and hope, two things he believed were lacking now. “He would’ve wanted you to have this.”

“Thank you,” I say, sliding the necklace into my navy slacks.

“I really hope you stay safe.” She pulls me to my feet for a tight embrace, and, for a moment, I can’t breathe. “But I know you’ll do great in there.”

“Momma, you’re acting like you won’t see me again.” When she suddenly pulls back and glares at me, I know exactly what she’s thinking. Before she criticizes my terrible wording, I quickly clarify, “You’ll see me in the Justice Building before I go.”

“I know, but it won’t feel the same,” she shrugs. “I just— I want to make sure I have more than enough time to tell you that I love you, and I’m very proud of the man you’ve become. I still remember when you were a little boy, carrying around a teddy bear that was almost as tall as you.” Although she laughs, tears swell in her eyes. “I know you have your own reasons for volunteering, and, even though I don’t really want you go, I know it’s something you have to do. I just hope that whatever you’re looking for, you find it.”

“Thanks, Momma,” I say, blinking the tears off of my eye. “I love you, too. Couldn’t have asked for a better mom.” I wipe away the tears rolling down her cheek with my thumb. “You’ve done pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

“That means a lot, honey,” she says, blushing. “Okay, give me one last hug, and then you can go. I know you wanted to stop by Zina’s before the reaping.”

“Bye, Momma,” I whisper in her ear during our hug. “I promise I won’t let you down.”

“You never could,” she whispers back. “Just remember to be you. The Capitol will love you.”

After a few moments, I start pulling away from the embrace, but my mom grips onto me tighter, holding me for a few more seconds before releasing me. I know this is hard for her. She had to watch her nephew go into the arena, and she was responsible for helping her grieving sister after his death. Although it really wasn’t an easy time for anyone in my family, she was the one that held everyone together. If I die in the arena, I don’t know who will help her cope with it.

“Tell Zina that I said ‘hi,’” Momma calls after me as I leave my bedroom. “Oh, and make sure you tell Mrs. Lourdes that we’ll still have game night this Friday.”

“No problem!” I shout from the front door. “I’ll see you later!”

When I leave my house, I take a moment to look at my neighborhood for one last time, taking in every detail possible before I walk away. While District Two is a wealthy district, I was raised in one of its poorest communities, where middle-class moms would warn their kids not to go. Everybody lives in unimpressive and unappealing gablefront cottages, each with a distinct flaw: boarded windows, weathered siding, torn shingles, cracked front porch, holes in the roof, and so on. Even the asphalt road is cracked and plagued by potholes from years of use. It’s truly an ugly place, but it’s home.

As I walk down the street, I pass a group of three mice eating a robin’s carcass. I’m not surprised; rodents and pests are a huge problem in my area. I’ve had to chase squirrels and raccoons out of my kitchen with a baseball bat, and I’ve had to squish centipedes in my basement. It seems that the only things that want to live here are wildlife.

Zina and her family live about a mile south of me, in a neighborhood that acts as the transition between the ghetto to the north and the rich to the south. Their two-story house is much nicer than mine with its stone siding, slate roofing, mahogany windows, and a miniature chandelier in the middle of their foyer. Although her family identifies as “lower middle-class” citizens, it’s relative to the wealth in the district; if they lived in District Eleven or Twelve, they would undeniably be in the elite class.

When I reach her house, Zina is sitting on the steps of her front wooden porch, scrolling through her phone as she mindlessly curls her obsidian black hair with her finger. She wears a stylish black dress that accentuates her hourglass figure, and her golden jewelry contrasts beautifully with her unblemished mocha skin. Once she notices I’m standing in front of her, she looks up and smiles—the same smile that captured my heart years ago. Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if we stayed together, but I’m eternally grateful we remained friends after the break up.

“You ready to go?” she asks, sliding her phone into her clutch bag.

“Yeah,” I nod.

“And you’re still going to volunteer?” she asks hesitantly. She was one of the first people I told, and the only one that knows my true motivation for volunteering.

“I am.”

“You know, you could do more for your mom here than in the arena, right? She’ll be able to find another job, but she won’t be able to find another son. What would she do if you don’t come back?” She pauses, and quietly adds, “What would I do if you don’t come back?”

“I need to do this,” I say firmly, crouching down and placing my hands over hers. “She’s not happy anymore. People keep targeting her—targeting us—and she’s on the verge of cracking. But if I win, if I come back, everything will change for the better.”

“And if you don’t come—”

“I don’t wan to think of that,” I shake my head. “If I start with a loser’s attitude, I’ll definitely die in there.”

“It’s not a ‘loser’s attitude,’” she scoffs. “It’s being realistic. Twenty-four people go into the arena, and only one comes out. You have less than a five percent chance of coming home.”

“But if you factor in my training and the handful of weak opponents, my chances are much higher,” I argue. “Look, you and I both know I’m not going to change my mind. Why don’t we just go and spend some time together before the reaping?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she sighs. “Let me just get my mom real quick. She wanted to say goodbye before you leave.”

Zina disappears into her house, leaving me all alone on her porch. I tuck my hands into my pockets awkwardly. I feel bad for upsetting her, but it’s something I have to do. I know the risks of volunteering, but I have my motivation: Momma. I will do anything to come home for her.

“Oh, darling! You look so handsome!” Mrs. Lourdes says as soon as she sees me, pulling me into an embrace and kissing me. Zina stands behind her in the doorway, her face unreadable. “Your mom really made sure you’ll make a good impression on the Capitol.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say. She holds the embrace for a few more seconds before releasing me. “And, uh, can you do me a favor and look out for her while I’m gone?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Her smile alleviates some of my concern. “I’ll make sure she’s alright when you’re away. Is she still having game night this Friday?”

I nod. “In fact, she wanted me to tell you it was still going on.”

“That’s good to hear! I think we’re playing pinochle this week, which I haven’t played in ages. But, if I remember correctly, your mom is pretty good at it. Maybe she’s tryna break my winning streak; I’ve won for the last five weeks. Priscilla thinks I’ve been cheating, but I told her, ‘sweetie, once you’ve played these games as much as I have, you learn all the tricks and strategies to win.’”

“Mom,” Zina groans, clearly annoyed. “I hate to cut your conversation short, but we have to go.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll let you two go off and do your thing before the reaping.” She gives me one last hug, briefer than the first but somehow more reassuring. “You’re going to do incredible over there. I hope you stay safe.”

Honoria Brantlie - District Two Female
My house is unsurprisingly silent this morning, something I have become familiar with on reaping day. Since my father is a victor, he’s flourishing with activity around this time of year, overwhelmed with everything from interviews with Capitol reporters to meetings with his fellow victors-turned-mentors. He’s always felt bad for having to leave me alone, especially on years like this where the reaping is later in the day. But he never forgets to leave me a thoughtful note on the refrigerator; this one reads:

''Honoria - I’m sorry that I can’t be there. Have a lovely reaping day. You’ll be staying with your aunt while I’m at the Capitol so don’t forget to pack a bag. I’ll make sure to see you before I leave. -Your Proud Father''

But I haven’t bothered to pack a bag yet. I don’t need to; unbeknownst to my father, I plan on going to the Capitol with him. He’s going to be surprised but pleased that his only daughter has the courage to volunteer to represent our district, following in his footsteps. I’ve had the idea since I first watched his Hunger Games when I was twelve, but the timing just never felt right. This year’s twist, though, was practically made for me. I’m eligible for the Games because of him; the signs couldn’t be any clearer.

I decide to turn on the flat-screen television in the living room to provide some background noise in the house, but I’m captivated when it immediately turns to HGTV, the primary channel for the Hunger Games. It’s usually unavailable to district citizens until all the reapings have finished, but my father has special privileges due to his victor status. There’s an hour “lunch break” between the morning reapings and the afternoon ones, so I’m able to have a full recap of the twelve tributes already selected for the Games.

District One has a tendency to produce some of the most attractive tributes, which remains consistent this year. However, I’m surprised by the lack of male volunteers, but maybe I shouldn’t be; after all, they haven’t been performing the best in recent years. The following two reapings, for Districts Three and Nine, are underwhelming; the four reaped tributes pose no apparent threat. In District Four, the reaped female tribute rejects volunteers, which I didn’t realize was possible. Bryony Linden, daughter of victor Sylvie Linden, is selected in District Seven, much to her mother’s dismay. Meanwhile, I’m surprised when an eighteen year old boy volunteers in District Ten, especially since he has no relation to the reaped tribute.

The doorbell rings as Caius Fulbright, the master of ceremonies, analyzes the currently selected tributes. Standing on my front porch in a sunflower yellow dress is my next-door neighbor Aloisia, the only other resident of the Victor’s Village eligible for the reaping. Her older sister, Ooma, won the Hunger Games a few years ago, being the first female victor from the district. Since we’re the only non-victors living in the Village, our friendship developed naturally; it’s always nice having someone to walk with to the reaping.

“Wow, your dress looks gorgeous!” she practically squeals. She’s much more feminine than me. “Where did you get it?”

“Oh, this thing,” I say, grabbing the hem of the velvet dress as if to put it on display. “My father bought it when he was in the Capitol.

“Well, you look absolutely stunning,” she smiles. “I didn’t realize you had boobs!”

“Uh, thank you?”

“It’s a compliment,” Aloisia confirms. “You just never wear clothes that do your boobs justice.”

“They’re more comfortable, though.” I’ve never understood how girls could wear uncomfortable clothes for hours on end. I’d much rather wear a sports bra when I’m training than a lace one.

“Oh, sweetie.” She looks genuinely hurt. “There’s so much you don’t know.”

On the walk to the City Square, Aloisia rants about fashion, elaborating on the different types of “acceptable” outfits for each occasion. From highly formal events to regular sleepwear, she describes her tips and tricks for looking naturally gorgeous. I’m surprised by how much she does in order to look “natural”—doesn’t that kind of contradict the word’s meaning. However, the conversation is pretty one-sided; I barely listen, merely nodding and offering little comments whenever there’s a brief pause so I don’t look rude.

When we reach the City Square, we follow the general direction of the children walking to the check-in counter. Some are being directed to the left of the table, where they join their parents in the audience; others are being directed to the right, where they join the pool of other potential tributes—much larger than I expected. After the Peacekeeper draws some blood from my finger, I’m gestured to go to the right. Aloisia joins me a second later, sucking on her pointer finger as we settle in the section for sixteen year old girls.

“I hate that they always have to take our blood,” she comments. “There are so many better ways they could confirm our identity.”

“Yeah, but it’s customary,” I say. “It’s what they did before the Rebellion, so I think they just stuck with what they knew.”

“Ugh, the whole ‘traditionalist’ thing is annoying.” She rolls her eyes. “Our technology is so advanced; why don’t we actually use it?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “Maybe they use it for other things.”

“Well, people are still starving, so clearly they’re not using it wisely enough.”

I stay silent after that. Before Aloisia’s sister became a victor, the two were orphans whose unmet needs were reliant on the resources from the Capitol—or lack thereof. (Apparently, the foster system is terrible in the wealthier districts since the number of orphaned children is so small, but it’s hard to imagine District Twelve having a better system.) Although they were malnourished and borderline homeless, they were able to attend the Public Career Academy, where they received adequate training for the Games.

A few months after Aloisia was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, Oona volunteered for the 17th Hunger Games, as the treatment was far too expensive for the girls to afford. Her story of sacrificing her life to save her sister was inspirational, one that her mentoring team capitalized on to gather sponsors. As soon as Ooma killed her last opponent, Aloisia was transported to the Capitol to receive the best treatment possible. Altogether, it was the happy ending the Capitol wanted—it makes me wonder if the Gamemakers swung the Games in Ooma’s favor.

When the clocktower bell rings precisely thirteen times to signal the start of the new hour, Jocasta Fairuza, the escort, walks onto the stage, followed by the mayor, her wife, and the three victors of District Two. I smile when I see my father on the stage, a sense of pride filling my chest.

“Welcome, lovely citizens of District Two, to the reaping of the 21st Annual Hunger Games!” Jocasta shouts into the microphone. The audience responds with enthusiastic cheers. “We shall begin with an overview of the history of Panem and the recitation of the Second Treaty of Treason, presented by the mayor herself.”

“Do you think anyone’s going to volunteer?” Aloisia whispers to me as the mayor begins her speech.

“Yeah,” I answer firmly. District Two almost always has volunteers; what would make this year different? I voice the question.

“See, I’m not so sure about that,” she shrugs. “I’ve been reading some studies by Capitol researchers, and the percent of volunteers that have witnessed a loved one perish in the Games is noticeably slim, even in the Career districts. They’re anticipating this year to have a record low of volunteers.”

“Eh, I’m not so sure about that,” I say, thinking about the volunteer in District Ten. “I bet it’ll be the same as it is every year.”

“I just don’t see any girls here volunteering,” she whispers, and I notice her hand subtly trembling. Is she nervous of being reaped? “There’s just a different. . . atmosphere this year. Everyone seems gloomier than usual.”

“Aloisia, I’m going to volunteer.”

“What? Why?” she practically screams. Some girls turn towards us with a scowl, so she lowers her voice. “You already have all the perks of being a victor—”

“Yeah, but I’m not a victor.”

“And that makes a difference how?” She crosses her arms, annoyed. “You’re going to get everything you want, have an endless supply of money without doing anything, marry the hottest bachelor in the district—maybe even a victor. And you want to throw that away?”

“No, you don’t understand,” I argue. “I want to make my father proud.”

“Your father will be proud of you no matter what,” she huffs. “And he’d much prefer a living daughter over a dead one.”

“Then why did he waste so much money on sending me to the most prestigious academy?”

“For his own appearance.” She’s on the verge of hysteria. “People would disown him as a victor if he didn’t send his daughter to training. But nobody can ever truly be prepared for the Games.” She lowers her voice a notch, her words barely reaching my ears. “Do you know that Ooma is on meds for PTSD and depression? That she suffers from nightmares that have her screaming in her sleep?”

“We didn’t have the same training, though.” It’s a well-known fact that the Public Career Academy is not nearly as good as the private ones.

“So, what? You’ve killed someone before?” Is that a serious question? “You’ve lived in the wilderness for weeks on end without a solid source of food?”

“People survive the Games with only three days of training. I have eleven years worth of training under my belt.”

“Those are merely numbers!”

“Numbers that make a difference.” I pause for a moment to ground myself. On stage, Jocasta is at the microphone again, which means she’s about to select the female participant. “Look, you’re not gonna change my decision.”

“Maybe not, but I can criticize you for making a stupid decision.”

Jocasta announces the reaped female’s name. It’s nobody that I know, but Aloisia’s gasp suggests she recognizes the name. The girl is older than me, either seventeen or eighteen, with an unappealing scar along her left cheek. As soon as the escort asks the crowd if there are any volunteers, I’m the first one to speak.

“I volunteer!” I shout, raising my hand. I go unopposed.

“You’re throwing your life away,” Aloisia mumbles.

I ignore the comment. The girls in my immediate surrounding take a few steps away from me, forming a path to the center aisle. While the reaped girl walks back to her section, a group of Peacekeepers create a circle around me, escorting me to the stage. I instinctively look at my father for approval, expecting a satisfying grin, but I’m greeted by an unreadable expression. In fact, his lips seem more tense than usual, and his eyebrows are merely centimeters apart. Is he. . . upset?

Did I do something wrong?

Tycho Searling - District Four Male
On my fourth birthday, my grandma brought me to the beach where we walked along the shore for hours, collecting seashells and watching the boats glide across the water. Although she refused to let me swim due to the powerfulness of the waves, I fell in love with the ocean that day. It became my safe haven, my escape whenever I sought clarify. When I overheard my parents viciously argue about loyalty, I ran to the ocean so I wouldn’t have to listen to anymore of it; when my dad moved out, I started taking surfing lessons so I wouldn’t have to watch him carry his boxes; and when my parents finally got divorced, I cried at the beach so I wouldn’t look weak in my brother’s eyes.

“This is a special place for you, then,” Alaia, my girlfriend of four years, comments. She sits across from me in the inflatable raft, her paddle resting in her lap as her fingers brush against the surface of the water. “Is that when you made your seashell necklace?”

Upon its mention, I instinctively reach for the piece of jewelry around my neck. Although its string is frayed and some seashells are cracked, I still wear it every day. “It’s the only thing I have from my grandma,” I explain. “When she passed away, my dad got all of her belongings, and I haven’t seen him for years.”

“I’m really sorry about that,” she says, leaning forward and placing a comforting hand on my thigh. “I’m glad you shared this with me.”

“It’s even more beautiful during sunrise and sunset.” I spent countless days sitting on the beach before dawn and dusk, watching the orange and yellow flecks of the sun dance across the water. It’s truly a spectacular sight—no amount of words could do it justice. “I just. . . I love it here.”

We sit there in silence for a few moments, basking in the morning sunlight and the soothing sounds of the waves. “So. . .” she begins quietly, sounding almost afraid to break the tranquility. “Are you planning on volunteering this year?”

I’m not surprised by her question, as it’s a common one on reaping day. When a friend or loved one wants to “talk” the night before or the morning of the reaping, it’s usually to tell them of their plans to volunteer. I should know, I’ve had “the talk” twice in my seventeen years of life: first with my older brother four years ago, and second with my best friend last year. Neither of them left the arena alive.

“Yeah,” I say with a slight nod. Some might think it’s bizarre I’m volunteering after my brother and best friend both perished in the arena, but it’s nothing personal per se; it’s on behalf of my step-father, who was too old when the Hunger Games were reinstituted. “But that’s not the only reason I brought you out here.”

“Oh.” She sounds innocently surprised, her eyes widen and her lips part, and I notice a small blush growing on her cheeks. I want to punch myself. She thinks I’m going to propose to her, which is admittedly another common thing volunteers do before the reaping. “Go on, then.”

“Alaia. . .” I don’t know how to phrase it. Is there any easy way to tell your girlfriend that you’re into dudes? “Look, Alaia,” I begin again, “I just. . . I don’t think this is going to work between us.” A dark expression crosses her face. “It’s really not you—”

“‘It’s me,’” she finishes, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before.”

“You have?” I ask. When could she have dated—and, subsequently, broken up with—someone else? When she was twelve? Thirteen?

“Well, not directed to me.” She doesn’t look into my eyes. I can tell she’s more angry than upset. Is that a good thing? “But I’ve heard other people say it before. It’s not exactly the most original break-up speech.”

“Alaia, I’m really sorry. I just don’t. . . I’m just—”

“Did you cheat on me?” she asks, glaring sharply at me. “Because I’ve heard rumors about you and Iris, but you told me you were just friends.”

Iris is my oldest friend—we’ve known each other since we were in diapers—and, after the death of Verne last year, she was practically promoted from “close friend” to “best friend.” When we were little, we were commonly mistaken as siblings due to our “not quite dirty blonde, but not dark enough to be brown” hair and grayish-blue eyes. We were practically inseparable back then, and, although we’ve grown and made other friends, she’s been one of the few constants in my life.

“No,” I respond firmly. “Iris is honestly just a friend, my best friend. There’s nothing between us.” She raises an eyebrow, a disbelieving look in her eyes. “It’s just that I’m. . . I don’t—” My brain won’t piece together the words I want to say, the words I should say. “I mean, I like you, but not like that.”

“And when did you figure that out?” Her tone becomes louder and meaner as it gains momentum. “When I was there for you when Verne died? When I told you, ‘I love you’? When I willingly got disowned by my dad for dating someone from a divorced family?”

“No, it’s just been recently,” I blatantly lie. It’s been nearly two years since I realized I was gay, two years where I’ve wanted to break things off with her. “Alaia, please, I swear I wouldn’t have kept dating you if I stopped having feelings for you.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” she mumbles, looking off into the distance. “Just bring me back to shore. I need to get home before the reaping.”

The journey back to the shore is somber and silent, even the waves seem to have calmed down a bit as if it sensed our dismal mood. It takes about twice as long to paddle back to shore as it did to get out there. The entire time, Alaia’s oar balances on her lap, tilting up and down like a seesaw as I’m forced to paddle for the both of us. Fortunately, by the time we reach the littoral zone, the weak tidal currents provide extra support, giving my overexerted muscles some rest. As soon as we reach shore, Alaia jumps out of the raft, strutting away without another word.

I sigh, rubbing my eyes with my thumb and index finger; this is not how I wanted it to go. After pulling the raft onto the sand so it doesn’t float away, I pull out a ziplock bag containing my phone and wallet. I quickly unlock my phone with my finger, sitting in the sand as I text Iris:

''I couldn’t do it. ''

She’ll know what I mean. Almost instantly, I receive a response:

''OMG! I’m on my way. You need to tell me EVERYTHING!''

I moan, closing my eyes and laying down—well, more like collapsing—against the ground with my phone and wallet resting on my stomach. Although sand uncomfortably sneaks into my tank top and swim trunks, I don’t bother trying to get it out. One of the earliest things people learn in District Four is that sand will get everywhere; there’s absolutely no point trying to fight it.

A shadow appears over my eyelids, and I reluctantly open my eyes to see Iris standing above me. Her “not quite dirty blonde, but not dark enough to be brown” hair has been lightened to a golden blonde—more likely from a bottle than the sun—and her silky blue dress makes her eyes look more blue than gray. However, the rest of her face has virtually stayed the same since we were children, albeit more matured: she still has chubby cheeks, a mole on her chin that I know annoys her, and dimples that make an appearance whenever she smiles. I really shouldn’t be surprised that our narrow-minded classmates can’t understand how someone could be “just friends” with a girl as beautiful as her.

“I’m assuming your text meant you didn’t come out to her.” She’s the only other person that knows I’m gay. “Because if I have to spend anymore time coaching you on how to break up with her, I’ll slap you.”

“Don’t worry, I broke up with her,” I reassure her. “That wasn’t really the hard part.” I cringe when I realize how terrible it sounds. “I just don’t know how to. . . you know. . .” I trail off.

“I know, I know,” she says sympathetically, gently sitting down next to me. “I’m really sorry you have to go through this. It’s not fair.” Iris is the most open-minded person I now, always putting herself in other people’s shoes to understand their situation. Maybe that’s why we’ve been friends all these years. “But she also deserves to know. You don’t want her jumping to any conclusions.”

“Yeah, I know,” I mumble. “It’s just. . . hard.”

“You should text her,” she says firmly, placing my phone in my hands. I want to argue, but I notice a glint of stubbornness in her eyes. She isn’t going to let me back out of this. “Just tell her that you want to talk. Do not come out to her over text.”

“Why not?” I genuinely ask. She look at me dumbstruck, as if I just asked her the stupidest question in the world. Maybe I did. “Like then she—”

“You cannot come out to your girlfriend”—ex-girlfriend, I correct in my head—“over text!” she screams. “There’s some things that you just have to do in person.” She takes a deep breath, rubbing her temples with her three central fingers. “Honestly, thank the sea you’re gay. You’re clueless when it comes to girls.”

“And yet, I somehow managed to have a relationship—with a girl—for four years,” I smirk.

She rolls her eyes. “Eh, Alaia isn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.” Iris was never a fan of my girlfriend. “Honestly, she would’ve probably married you just ‘cause you’re hot.”

“I don’t think she’s that shallow.” Am I still allowed to defend her, or am I supposed to bad-mouth her like so many other couples after they break-up? I don’t exactly know the protocol. “She’s actually a nice person if you give her a chance.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes once again. “Anyways, we should start heading back. It’s already after 9:30; the reaping starts in less than an hour.”

“Okay,” I agree, rising to my feet and wiping the sand off of my lap. I tuck my wallet in the back pocket of my swim trunks, but I keep my phone in my hand for a moment, debating whether I should text Alaia or not. “Do you think I—”

“Text her,” Iris cuts me off. “Just ask her if she’ll visit you before you go to the Capitol.”

Although a part of my brain doubts she’ll want to see me again—hell, she probably already blocked my number—I listen to Iris’ advice. I quickly send the text before I overthink it:

''Hey, could you please visit me before I leave? ''

“Sent,” I confirm with a nod, sliding my phone in my pocket so I don’t have to look at it anymore. “It’s all in her hands now.”

“How do you feel?” Iris asks, sympathy apparent on her face.

In response, I just shrug. I honestly don’t know how I feel. Iris is trained enough in “Tycho-ology”—a term she came up with to describe my nonverbal cues—to understand the gesture.

“Well, I’m here if you’d like to talk about it.” She places a soft hand on my back, tenderly rubbing it for reassurance. “But if you don’t want to, it’s fine.”

I feel my phone vibrate against my thigh; Alaia must’ve texted me back already. However, I don’t make an effort to check it, knowing my best friend will plague me with questions as soon as I pull my phone out. Instead, I keep walking as if nothing happened, even though I’m lost in a myriad of racing thoughts. The sand turns into grass, the grass turns into pebbles, the pebbles turn into concrete; before I know it, I’m turning onto my street. Iris waves goodbye as she walks towards her own house, which happens to be directly across the street from mine.

The moment I close the front door behind me, I pull my phone out of my pocket. Leaning against the door, I read Alaia’s text:

''Maybe. ''

Mayuri Odelle - District Four Female
A luxurious maroon dress rests on top of my neatly-made bed once I jump out of the shower. It looks expensive—possibly from the Capitol itself or one of the high-end retailers in the district—and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was never worn before. The color doesn’t look faded or washed at all, and there’s no uncomfortable stretches nor abnormal stitches; it might as well have just been picked up from the dressmaker. I’m pleased when it fits my figure perfectly, as if it were made specifically for me. Even its long sleeves cling perfectly to my arms, emphasizing the definition in my lean muscles.

“Do you like it?” my aunt asks, appearing in the doorway of my bedroom. Although they are a few years apart, she could practically be twins with my mom; they have identical silky black hair, narrow eyes, and small facial features. “I got it a few days ago, but I wanted to surprise you.”

“Who’d you get it from?” I ask. It’s a question about who, not where.

“Oh, I’m not really sure,” she says, scrunching her nose. She’s lying; I’ve been able to read my family’s facial expressions flawlessly for years. “I just kinda snatched it off the streets.”

“Please tell me you didn’t steal it from the mayor,” I say seriously. The reason I’m living with my aunt is because my parents are in prison for stealing from the mayor. Ever since, it’s been a competition to see who could steal the most expensive thing from his family without him noticing. “Because if you did—”

“I didn’t!” Her tone is high-pitched. “Seriously, I didn’t,” she repeats firmly.

“You know, stealing from the mayor’s daughter still counts as stealing from the mayor.” I raise my eyebrow, taunting her to try to lie to me again.

“Ah, you got me there,” she laughs. “So, what? Are you not going to wear the dress?”

“No, I’m still going to wear the dress,” I confirm. “I’m just sayin’ to be careful. This looks like it could’ve been one-of-a-kind.”

“Good, then that puts me in the lead,” she smirks. “Anyway, your uncle made some oatmeal for breakfast. Try to eat at least some of it before the reaping.”

“I’ll be right down, let me just do my makeup real quick.” I grab my makeup bag before walking past my aunt to the bathroom. “Oh, and can I borrow your gray stilettos?”

“Which ones?” she asks. “The prostitute’s, the seamstress’s, or the widow’s?”

“The widow’s.”

It takes me about ten minutes to perfect my makeup, and I’m taken aback by how mature I look when I’m done. My eyes look narrower with the black winged eyeliner, and my cheekbones look sharper with the subtle highlight. Although my mom would call me a whore for my vibrant red lipstick, I look sexy and borderline seductive in it. No longer do I look like a slender, eighteen-year-old girl; I look like a confident woman with nonexistent money to spend.

“Wow, you look beautiful,” my younger cousin says when I walk into the kitchen. She’s the same age as her sister when she went into the Games, and their similarities are uncanny. “Did Mom get that for you?”

“Yeah, from the mayor himself.” I look at her dress and raise my eyebrow; I’ve never seen it before. “Who’d you get yours from?”

“One of the trainer’s daughters,” she smiles smugly. “It was so easy too! She completely forgot to lock her locker during class. And when she found out her dress was gone, they put the entire Academy on lockdown to try to find it, but I was already long gone by then.”

“It would’ve been more impressive if you picked the lock,” my uncle murmurs. His back is turned towards us as he pours himself a cup of coffee so it’s hard to tell if he meant for us to hear it. My cousin frowns.

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s pretty impressive,” I whisper into her ear. Her face lights up, smile spreading from ear to ear. “I think I’m going to start heading to the Square,” I tell my uncle. “Do you want me to bring Fairuza?”

“Please,” he responds. “Do you want any oatmeal for the road?”

“I’m good, thanks!” I absolutely hate the taste of oatmeal, but I don’t want to be rude; I slyly grab a banana without him noticing instead. “I’ll see you later!”

I drive an old-fashioned sedan—a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday—to the City Square since it’s nearly thirty miles away from my house. (Not everyone can live within walking distance from it.) Fairuza jumps in the passenger seat, and, for the majority of the ride, remains quiet. It’s unusual for her to be so silent, but I don’t question it; it’s nice just listening to the radio as we travel into the heart of the district.

“Do you think my dad’s ever gonna be proud of me?” Fairuza blurts.

“I don’t know if anyone can truly please him,” I joke. She’s fidgeting with her hands, though, so it’s clearly something that’s been on her mind. “But every dad is proud of their children, even if they don’t say it.”

“It just seems like he wishes I was more like Kelila.” Kelila was her sister that went into the Games a couple years ago. Her death really affected her family; I don’t even think they’re quite done grieving yet. “I just— I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s nothing you really can do.” I know they’re not the words she wants to hear, but it’s the truth. “It’s really all on him.”

“That just sucks,” she sighs. “You know, I’ve been thinking about volunteering.”

“Why?”

“Because it just seems like something he wants. He was so excited when Kelila volunteered, so, like, maybe if I do, he’ll be happier.” She shrugs. “Have you never though about volunteering?”

“No,” I say truthfully. For the last six reapings, I have not once considered volunteering, even though the money I would get from winning would be enough to get my parents out of prison.

“Then why even bother going to the Academy?”

I don’t respond, and the rest of the drive passes in silence. Although her question was not meant to be offensive, I feel attacked. My parents are the ones that started sending me to the Academy; I was never truly passionate about it. I would much rather prefer learning how the Capitol politics work than how to throw a knife. After my parents were imprisoned, I debated dropping out, but it seemed like it would be pointless. I already missed out on a “typical” education, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Since the Square is crowded by the time we reach it, I have to park a few blocks away. Fairuza jumps out of the car immediately to catch up with a group of her friends, but I don’t mind. I’m more than comfortable walking alone The line at the check-in counter is practically empty by the time I arrive, so I breeze right through it. Nearly ten seconds after I settle into my designated section, the escort appears on stage with an entourage of people behind her.

“Hello, citizens of this beautiful district!” It takes me a moment to realize it’s a new escort this year. (Our escorts almost always dye their hair blue to represent District Four’s fishing industry, so it’s easy to blend them together.) ”My name is Xevera Lethe, and I’ve been given the privilege to select this year’s tributes for the 21st Annual Hunger Games!” The audience’s cheers match her enthusiasm. “Before I select this year’s tributes, the mayor will present the Second Treaty of Treason.”

I tune out the mayor as he begins his speech, as it’s the same one I’ve heard for the last eighteen years. Instead, I stare at the girl’s purse right next to me. When I was young, my mom taught me that the reaping was the easiest place to pickpocket people, as everyone’s in tight quarters and focused on the stage. And, if they notice something went missing, they’re more likely to believe they dropped it than to suspect someone stole it. It’s essentially a pickpocket’s dream.

There are two simple rules to pickpocketing: always misdirect your prey from the targeted object, and never use your thumbs in someone’s pocket or purse. According to my mom, the thumb uses too much pressure when grabbing something, so a thief must use their other fingers—particularly their pointer and middle fingers—to go undetected. It’s a surprisingly helpful tip that has helped me never get caught, and it still holds its use today.

During the mayor’s speech, I mange to steal a silver bracelet, an unopened tube of lipstick and a small bottle of perfume from the girl’s purse. I subtly slide them up my sleeve as the escort approaches the microphone.

“Thank you, Mayor. That was a lovely speech,” Xevera says. “As President Quain announced, this year’s twist limits the eligible reaping pool. It reads: ‘Tributes must be related to a tribute or victor of a previous Hunger Games; this can include parents or step-parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces with special exceptions for boy/girlfriends and best friends if mentioned in their will.’” She smiles. “And now, without any further adieu, I will select the tributes for this year’s Hunger Games!”

As she walks towards the reaping bowl, I can practically feel a general wave of tension and apprehension from the girls in my immediate surrounding. I don’t understand how they can be so stressed; most of us have been training for the Games our entire lives. (Surely, I’ve never considered volunteering, but I know I’d do alright in the arena.) And it’s not like District Four has any shortage of volunteers.

“And the selected female participant is”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“Mayuri Odelle!”

I merely shrug. I have no doubt that someone will volunteer.

As I’m walking to the stage, though, I notice the mayor is staring at me intensely and almost. . . suspiciously. At first, I think he just recognizes my last name, as he most certainly remembers my parents. However, his eyes aren’t really focused on me, they’re focused on what I’m wearing. My veins turn cold as the realization crashes over me:

I’m wearing his daughter’s one-of-a-kind dress from probably the Capitol itself.

His eyes remain trained on me until I stand next to Xevera, and I internally cringe when I notice him whispering something into his suit jacket. He must have a hidden microphone in his pocket, and I have no doubt that he’ll have me arrested as soon as the reaping finishes. The Peacekeepers will probably surround me once I walk off the stage, and I’ll be locked away by morning. I’m never going to be able to see the ocean or drive my car again, unless. ..

“Are there any volun—”

“Actually, uh, I decline any volunteers,” I interrupt the escort. I’ve seen what prison has done to my parents; happiness is practically foreign to them. At least I have a chance to be free in the Games, and even if I don’t make it, I’d rather die in the arena than a prison cell. “Yeah,” I repeat more firmly. “I’d like to represent my district.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Xevera mumbles. She clearly has no idea what she’s supposed to do, but, in her defense, I don’t know if anyone’s declined a volunteer before. “I guess I’ll select the male representative, then—unless there is anybody already determined to volunteer.”

“I volunteer!” three people shout simultaneously. Xevera smiles and selects one of the boys in the seventeen year old section.

I analyze the volunteer as he walks on stage. He’s undeniably attracted with a chiseled jawline and styled sandy hair. Judging by his defined biceps, he’s been training for the Games for a while, but he doesn’t look familiar. I wouldn’t be surprised if he went to a prestigious, private institute; he looks like he has money. When he smiles at the escort, I can practically hear the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. He’s not going to have any issues gathering sponsors.

His name is Tycho Searling, and his brother and best friend—two separate people, he clarifies—have participated in the Games. I briefly wonder if either of them were in the same Games as Kelila, but the odds seem slim. Still, I’m surprised he would volunteer; the two of them must’ve died within the last five years.

As we shake hands to congratulate each other, I’m surprised when I notice a hint of insecurity behind his gray eyes. It doesn’t seem to align with the confident persona he’s embracing.

He must be hiding something, and I want to figure out what.

Kaia Palani - District Six Female
District Six is not a beautiful place. The manufacturing plants pollute the sky with a thick smoke, blocking sunlight from touching the ground for most hours of the day; the “fresh” air is tainted by a lingering smell of gasoline, which seems to cling to clothing better than any perfume or cologne; and the ongoing issue of morphine addiction in the poorer communities has been readily spreading like wildfire. I’ve often dreamed about moving to a prettier district, like District Four with its gorgeous oceanside view or District One with its luxurious pleasures, but I’m stuck in Six.

The only—and let me emphasize, only—reason this district is bearable is because of its diversity. Although our main industry is transportation, everyone has a unique passion and talent. My parents are renowned doctors who have actively been studying addiction and its effects on the brain. They’ve even created their own non-profit company to try to help the recovering addicts in the impoverished communities. Meanwhile, my brother has become a prominent figure in the political field, as he’s been rallying for general improvement in the district’s infrastructure.

While my family has pursued more “intellectual” careers and lifestyles, I’ve found my true passion in the creative arena, particularly in art. (One might assume this dreary district lacks creativity, but some of the most famous artists have called District Six their home.) The moment my parents brought me to my first art show, I became enticed in the breathtaking paintings and sculptures. They brought beauty into this dull district for me, and I hope that, one day, my pieces will have a similar impact on someone else.

I stare at my most recent piece: a painting of two little girls having a tea party with their stuffed animals at a miniature table. The first girl has olive skin, wavy auburn hair, and a myriad of freckles across her nose and cheeks; the other has beige skin, straight black hair, and narrow eyes. In a fancy calligraphy, written underneath the girls’ feet, are the words:

''Kaia and Clio Friends Forever''

It’s one of my favorite childhood memories, which I sometimes wish I could relive to fully appreciate it. We were so young, so pure, so naive to understand the harsh realities of the world. Those were the days when our biggest concern was who we would play with at recess, and our biggest enemies were our parents forcing us to eat vegetables.

''“We’re gonna be famous one day!” six-year-old Clio remarked once. “And then we’re gonna move to the Capitol and be rich!” ''

Her dream was to become a stylist for one of the “interesting” districts in the Hunger Games, as she absolutely adored the tribute parade. Whenever she thought of a new outfit, she would vividly describe it so that I could sketch it. It didn’t always match up with her initial idea, but we would continually adjust it until we were both satisfied. Unfortunately, she’ll never be able to see any of her designed costumes in the parade, if her ideas ever do reach the Capitol.

''“Kaia, promise me something,” Clio said seriously. We were in the Justice Building with tears streaming down our faces. I had never seen her so scared in her life, and I didn’t know what to do. “Promise me that you’re gonna keep the sketches. And when you make it to the Capitol one day, you’re going to make sure someone uses them.” ''

“Clio—“

''“Please, just say you will,” she was practically begging me. “Just don’t— don’t let me die without leaving something for people to remember me.” ''

It’s a promise that I’ve kept for three years, and I will undoubtedly keep until the day I die. I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to bring her sketches to the Capitol, but, in the meantime, they’re safely stored in my makeshift studio in my family’s attic.

She was a truly talented person; she deserved so much more than she was given.

''“I hear you have a knack for fashion,” Caius Fulbright, the master of ceremonies for the Hunger Games, commented during Clio’s interview. She looked sexy and confident in her silky red dress, much different from the twelve-year-old girl who cried in my arms the week before. “It’s a little odd for a person from Six, wouldn’t you say?” ''

''“Eh, it depends on who you talk to,” she shrugged. “Everyone thinks of Six as having just engineers, but the people are talented in so many other ways. Like my best friend is an incredible artist; she’s been painting for as long as I’ve known her.” ''

''“So your best friend was an artist and you were a designer?” Caius seemed delighted by the information. “Have you ever collaborated?” ''

''“All the time!”  Clio’s youthfulness was refreshing compared to her older, serious competitors. “In fact, we’ve always dreamed about moving to the Capitol so that I could become a stylist and she could become a professional painter.” ''

''“Well, you’re in the Capitol now. How do you like it?”''

''“It’s a dream come true!” Clio smiled as the audience cheered in response. “I just wish it were under different circumstances. But, I guess, this gives me something to fight for.” ''

''“And fight, you shall.” The gong sounded, signaling the end of interview. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present you, the lovely Clio Ottilie.” ''

''The next morning, I stared at the television in my living room, my fingernails digging into my thighs as the countdown began. My mom tried to whisper consoling words into my ears, but nothing appeased my anxiety. I imagined that I felt as terrified as Clio when she saw the surrounding arena. (That year it was a dense jungle filled with dangerous mutations.) There was no way she was going to survive without having allies. ''

''“I couldn’t possibly imagine allying with anyone in the Games,” she told me years before. “‘Cause then, I’d have to watch them die before I could come home, and I don’t think I could do that.” ''

''I desperately wished that she changed her mind since she went to the Capitol, but the announcers confirmed that she was a loner the night before. She was destined to die, and I could do nothing about it. ''

''When the gong sounded, I screamed frantically at the screen as Clio ran towards the cornucopia. I thought she would have known better, but I guess the fear of being defenseless in the arena got the best of her. She managed to grab a knife and a small backpack from the outskirts before trying to flee, but it was already too late. One of the Careers—the boy from One—threw an axe into the back of her dark-headed skull merely steps before she reached the trees. ''

I vomited the moment she collapsed to the ground.

When I finally stopped heaving nearly an hour later, I did the one thing that always calmed me: I painted.

I glance at the first painting I created after her death, which sits against the only window in my studio. It’s of Clio during the tribute parade, wearing an extravagant costume that she undoubtedly adored. Her posture was rigid but elegant, and she held a single rose in her hand as she waved towards the cheering crowd. She’s the only person standing on the chariot—I, admittedly, didn’t care much about her district partner—and I could not have drawn her more accurately.

I wanted to give the piece to Clio’s family as a gift, but I became too attached to just give it away. Instead, I created a second painting; this one of Clio in her arena apparel, wielding a knife in one hand and holding a rose in the other. It took me nearly three months to paint, as the colors never seemed to look just right; but, by the time I was done, she looked beautifully courageous and determined. I knew her family would absolutely love it.

However, I didn’t anticipate the painting to be seen by anyone besides her family, so I was surprised when it received Capitol attention. (According to Mrs. Ottilie, the district escort stopped by her house six months after the Games to give his condolences. When he noticed the original piece, he took a picture and shared it with some of his friends; it ended up spreading quickly throughout the Capitol.) Everyone in the art industry now knew my name, and Clio would never be forgotten.

Her death gave me the fame we always imagined, and I feel terrible about it.

Lark Devereaux - District Six Male
A light drizzle starts to fall from the sky as I stand alone within the crowd of eligible tributes. It’s fitting, in a sense. Nobody in District Six enjoys the reaping, and it’s especially more prominent this year. Everybody eligible has seen someone they loved die in the arena—that is, unless they’re related to our district’s sole victor—and we’re all traumatized from it. Broken tributes are going into the arena this year; how could the Capitol enjoy that?

''“What do you think about the twist?” my twin brother asked me a year ago. Although we were   fraternal twins, we looked almost identical with wavy dark hair, bluish-gray eyes, and a sharp jawline. The only noticeable difference between us was that I had freckles on my nose. “Having to fight against your district partner before even going in the arena seems intense.” ''

''“Eh, it’s not the worst one we’ve seen,” I shrugged. “Remember the year only twins could be reaped?” ''

''“How could I forget?” he exclaimed. “It was our second reaping, and we were both crying the night before. I don’t think either of us got any sleep that night.” ''

''“No, not at all,” I giggled. We had both tried to comfort the other, but we were too terrified to be of much help. “I guess we’re just lucky that neither of us have been reaped yet.” ''

“Why do you say that?” 

''Before I could explain, a voice interrupted us. “Lark! Cisco!” We both turned around to see our friend Linus pushing his way through the crowd. “I haven’t seen you guys in forever! Why haven’t you guys hung out with the group lately?” ''

''“Because Finnian’s a judgmental douche,” Cisco huffed. I raised my eyebrow at him. When did he get into a fight with Finnian? ''

''“I didn’t realize you guys were at odds.” Linus frowned. “What happened?” ''

''“He was talking shit about Lark for being gay,” Cisco explained. “Telling all these girls that he tried hitting on him and whatnot, even though I know my brother would never drop his standards that low.” ''

''“Oh,” Linus muttered. He gave me a look—the look that I absolutely hate, which all sexual minorities experience. Did he think I’m suddenly attracted to him? Does he think about every time we hung out in a different light? Would he ever hug me again? It’s hard to decipher whether his eyes were filled with surprise or disgust. “So you’re. . . gay?” ''

''The blood drained out of Cisco’s face. “You didn’t tell him?” ''

''“Nope, but it’s all good. We’re still chill,” Linus answered for me. “Anyways, I’m gonna go over by Finnian. It was nice seeing you guys, though!” ''

“Lark, I’m so'' sorry,” Cisco said as soon as Linus was out of earshot, running his fingers nervously through his dark hair. “I thought he was there when you told the others.” ''

''“He wasn’t, but don’t worry about it.” I couldn’t really be mad at him, we were twins after all. Besides, he truly meant no harm. “When did you and Finnian get into a fight? And where was I?”''

''“It was a few days ago. You were getting a prescription from the drugstore, and I was waiting outside. I saw them—Finnian, his girlfriend, and her friends—walking down the street and overheard the conversation.” He shrugged. “I mean, you know how he acts around them. I doubt he really meant it.” ''

''“So what’d you do?” I frowned when he didn’t respond. That’s usually not a good sign. “C’mon, Cisco, something must’ve happened if you guys are now in a fight.” ''

“It really doesn’t matter.” 

''“Cisco,” I repeated in a serious tone. “What’d you do?” ''

“Look, do you believe that I will protect you?” 

“What?” 

''“Do you believe that I will protect you?” he repeated. “Like literally do everything in my power to keep you safe and defend your reputation and whatnot?” ''

“Of course.” 

“Then it doesn’t matter.” 

At precisely 2:30 p.m., the doors of the Justice Building open, and a collective silence falls over the crowd. This is undoubtedly everyone’s least favorite day of the year, the day two children are chosen to be slaughtered in the arena. (It’s wishful thinking to even remotely believe they’re going to return; nobody here survives long in the Games.) The escort leads the entourage of people—the mayor, his wife, and the district’s victor—onto the stage, his bubbly demeanor starkly different from the seriousness in the rest of their faces.

My eyes linger on the escort much longer than they should. His name is Amadeus Vogue, and he’s been the district escort since the 19th Hunger Games. He has wavy, multi-colored hair—pink, lime, aqua, teal—but the hair on either sides of his head remains in its natural brown color. Although his smile seems absurd on a drab day like today, it’s undeniably charming and reveal his adorable dimples. I hate to admit it, but he’s attractive.

“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen of District Six to the reaping of the 21st Annual Hunger Games!” Nobody responded, not even with a little clap. “As is customary, we will begin with a speech by Mayor Kendry.”

''“Do you still have a crush on him?” Cisco whispered, pointing to Amadeus. “Or was he just, like, your ‘sexual awakening’?”''

''“Please, never say that again,” I laughed. “And no, I don’t like him anymore.” ''

“Then why are you blushing?” 

''“Shut up,” I mumbled, looking down to hide my rosy cheeks. ''

''“Hey, no judgment,” he reassured me. “I’m just saying, I read an article about him, and, apparently, him and his boyfriend broke up this year. So he’s available.” ''

''“So what?” I raised my eyebrow. “Are you trying say that I should go for him?”''

“Yes.” 

''“You’re crazy.” I shook my head. “How, exactly, would that work?”''

''“Well, I haven’t thought of the technicalities yet,” he admitted. “But I think y’all would be cute together, so I say you should go for it.” ''

''“We’ll see,” I mumbled. “But thank you.” ''

“Thank you, Mayor, for the beautiful speech,” Amadeus says as he steps back up to the microphone. “As it was previously announced, this year’s twist reads: ‘Tributes must be related to a tribute or victor of a previous Hunger Games; this can include parents or step-parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces with special exceptions for boy/girlfriends and best friends if mentioned in their will.’” He clears his throat. “And now, I shall select the female representative for this year’s Hunger Games!”

''“This is my least favorite part,” Cisco mumbled. “The girls never come back home.” He wasn’t wrong; District Six’s sole victor was a man. “And especially with the twist, it just seems unfair.” ''

''“It’s how things are, though,” I sighed. “There’s nothing we can do about it.” ''

“I know, and I hate it.” 

“And the female representative is”—Amadeus paused as if to make it more dramatic—“Kaia Palani!”

I recognize the name almost immediately, but I have never seen the girl in my life. She’s an artistic prodigy, known for her pieces on her best friend who was reaped a few years ago. (I feel a pang of sympathy in my gut as I realize the girl in the painting is—most likely—the reason why she was eligible this year.) She looks different than I imagined: olive skin, wavy auburn hair, chocolate eyes, freckles on her nose and cheeks, and a small stature. Although her facial expression is stoic and distant, her hands are noticeably trembling when she reaches the stage.

Nobody volunteers, but that was expected.

“And the male representative is”—another pause for dramatic flare—“Lark Devereaux”

''I was frozen as the escort announced my name. My brain wouldn’t process anything, my legs wouldn’t move, my arms wouldn’t stop shaking. All the boys around me started to back away to create a path to the aisle, except for my brother who stood rigidly beside me. The Peacekeepers started to move towards me; they stayed in the aisle, but if I didn’t move soon, I suspected they would forcibly take me to the stage. But my body wouldn’t cooperate. ''

''Cisco broke out of the stupor first, and he did the one thing my future self wishes he could take back. ''

“I volunteer!” 

''“Well, I’ll be damned,” Amadeus mumbled into the microphone. The crowd was just as surprised as myself. “Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like District Six has its first volunteer in the history of the Hunger Games!” ''

But this year, nobody volunteers.

I’m going into the Hunger Games.

Skagen Matisse - District Three Male
As soon as the Peacekeepers leave me alone in a secluded room in the Justice Building, I collapse in the corner. My legs are too wobbly to support my weight, and my hands have not stopped shaking since the escort announced my name. I pull my thighs to my chest, resting my head on my bony knees as I take deep breaths. A wave of nausea crashes over me; I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that I won’t throw up on myself. Fortunately, I didn’t eat much this morning, otherwise it would be all over the floor.

I’m going into the Hunger Games. My body trembles viciously at the thought. ''I’m only fourteen, and I’m going into the arena. I’m going to die. I’m going to end up like Petrovna. ''

“Skagen.” I lift my head shakily when I hear my mother’s voice. I didn’t even hear the door open. She looks broken and defeated; her mascara runs down her face from her tears. “Skagen, baby, I’m so sorry.”

“Mommy.” My voice cracks as another wave over tears stream down my face. She runs towards me, wrapping her arms around me as I cry. “Mommy, I’m scared.”

“Shh, you’re going to be okay,” she whispers. Her fingers run through my hair, massaging my scalp, as she attempts to soothe me. “Just let it out. I’m here for you.”

“I’m going to die.” A loud sob escapes my throat. “Mommy, I’m going to die.”

“Don’t say that!” Her words don’t carry their usual strength; she must also realize the odds are not in my favor. “Honey, you’ve gone through so much with your father and sister gone. You’re stronger than you think.”

“But I’m—“

“No,” she interrupts me. “If anyone’s strong enough to make it through the Games, it’s you.”

“There’s never been a fourteen-year-old victor.”

“And there was no fifteen-year-old victor before Leith.” Leith is the only male victor from my district, so he’ll most likely end up being my mentor.

“So?”

“So someone has to be the first.” She pauses to take a deep breath. “Why can’t that be you?”

Eulalia Psy - District Three Female
Compared to the Peacekeeper’s interrogation room, the “tribute-holding” room in the Justice Building is luxurious: the brick walls aren’t stained with mysterious liquids (in hindsight, probably blood), the table is carved from mahogany, the chairs are cushioned, and the door is finely polished. If the Peacekeepers questioned people in here, they might be more inclined to confess their crimes. (I imagine that someone must have done studies about that; comfort undeniably promotes openness and honesty.)

The door slowly opens, and I find myself unintentionally smirking. I knew he would come. Although his face is obscured by his helmet, his posture and movements are uniquely his. He (almost leisurely) walks to the chair across from me, taking his precious time to sit down, as if to insert his dominance in this situation. After a moment, he pulls off his helmet, drawing out the gesture; he expects me to be surprised, but I am not fooled by his foolish games.

“Garson.” I raise my eyebrow in mock astonishment. Might as well play along with the child’s games. “I can’t exactly say I’m happy to see you.”

“I feel quite the opposite.” He grins, flashing his teeth at me like a dog. “In fact, I’m practically ecstatic about this circumstance.”

“Ooh, ‘ecstatic.’” I smile. “I’m very proud you’ve finally learned to open a thesaurus.”

“And I’m glad you’re finally being punished for your actions,” he says defensively. “Took a long time for the bitch to get what they deserve.”

“Are you suggesting you tampered with the reaping?” It’s nothing that I didn’t think of before. “Because I believe that classifies as an indirect form of treasure. You could get in a lot of trouble for that.”

“Actually, we got the Captiol’s blessing. Turns out your hacking has enraged the entire district.”

“What hacking?” I ask with feigned obliviousness. “I’m just a normal, District Three girl. I know my way around a computer, but to break into the government database”—I huff—“I could never imagine doing such a thing.”

“You know, your pride will be your downfall.”

“Ooh, using adages in your everyday speech,” I taunt. “Consider me impressed. Have you finally moved on from reading picture books?”

“I wish I could kill you right now.” His words are tainted with venom. “I wish I could shoot you between your eyes and watch your blood paint the wall behind you a beautiful crimson.”

“I’m truly astounded by your vivid imagery—”

“You know, I think my biggest regret is that I won’t be the one killing you.” He stands up so he’s looking down at me. He really needs to consider new intimidation tactics. “But I think I’ll still enjoy watching you die on t.v.”

I smirk as he starts moving towards the door. “I could always come back,” I suggest. “Then you’ll have the chance of killing me yourself.”

“Oh no, you’re not coming back.” He stops in the doorway, his back towards me. “The Capitol will make sure of it.”

Leith Taliesin - District Three Mentor
''“And the male tribute will be. . .,” the escort trailed off for dramatic effect. I absolutely hated it. “Skagen Matisse.” ''

''I felt all the built-up tension in my shoulders and chest leave my body simultaneously, and I could finally breathe again. Horizon wasn’t reaped; he’ll be safe in District Three. The thought of us being able to have a life together caused a little smile to form on my lips. However, my borderline blissfulness was subdued as a small boy shakily walked to the stage, barely holding his composure. His entire life was now in my hands. ''

“Leith?” Horizon’s voice breaks me out of my stupor. A wave of emotions rushes through me from the sight of him, his blonde hair practically shining in the sun and his hazel eyes so full of liveliness. I’m barely able to hold back my tears. “Is everything alright?”

My walls collapse, and tears start rolling down my cheeks. Horizon rushes to my side immediately, pulling me into his arms. “I was so scared,” I whisper, face pressed against his shoulder. “I just— I couldn’t—”

“Shh, you’re fine.” He rubs my back soothingly. “I knew you were just being strong for me these past few days.”

“I knew you were scared,” I admit. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

He chuckles quietly. “And I admire you so much for that, but you really didn’t need to.” He rubs a tear off of my cheek with his thumb. “I wouldn’t have minded if you cried a little too.”

“Oh, you were crying enough for the both of us,” I teased. The tears were forgotten; we both laughing now.

“And now you’re crying for the both of us.” He fake scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Ugh, you’re so emotional, aren’t you?”

“Oh, shut up,” I say. When he opens his mouth to respond, I stop him the only way I know how: a kiss.

“That’s so cheap,” he says when we pull apart.

“But it worked, didn’t it?” I smile. The train horn “choos” behind us, signaling all required personnel should start boarding for the Capitol. “Well, that’s my cue to go.” I hand his hand in mine, twiddling with his fingers. “Are you able to watch the dogs for me?”

“You’re not taking them with you?” He tilts his head to the side. “Like I can, but I thought you always brought them with.”

“Not this year.” I keep twiddling with his fingers to alleviate some of my anxiety. “And, you know, if you want, that gives you a chance to move in with me.”

He chuckles, and my hands freeze. That can’t be a good sign. “Oh, you sly mister.” His eyes are twinkling. “Did you really leave your dogs home so you could ask me to move in with you?”

“Maybe,” I mumble, ducking my head to hide my blush.

“You’re ridiculous.” He combs a hand through my hair. “And yeah, I’ll move in with you.”

“You will?” I can’t contain my smile. “This day could not get any better!”

“But it could get worse.” I jump at the sudden voice, nearly bringing Horizon to the ground with me. Anahita, my mentoring counterpart, stands near the train entrance with her arms crossed. She doesn’t look happy. “Horizon, always a pleasure to see you.”

“You as well, Mrs. Parthenie.”

“Leith, I’m so glad you’re having the best day of your life, but we really must be going along now, shouldn’t we?” She’s not the type of person that wants an answer to her question; she expects obedience. “Kiss your ‘boy-toy’ goodbye, and get on the train.”

“I love you.” I steal one last kiss on his lips. “Be safe, and don’t forget about the dogs!”

“Don’t worry, they’ll help me move!”

Once I’m onboard, Anahita closes the door behind me. She stands there for a brief second, staring at me intensely. As I open my mouth to ask her about it, she interrupts, “So when are you gonna tell him you cheated?”

Juniper Anatole - District Seven Male
I justifiably blame my mom for a lot of things: my parents’ divorce, my general discontentment, my mental health. And now, I can add my impending death to the ever-growing list. If she learned to keep her legs closed, I wouldn’t have a half-brother who was reaped for the Hunger Games, and if he never existed, I wouldn’t be eligible for this twist. I wonder if she even cares that I’ve been reaped, or if she’s just out getting pregnant again.

“You have a visitor,” one of the Peacekeepers says. I don’t think it’s standard to have two Peacekeepers in the room with the selected tribute; hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re here because they view me as a threat.

Maybe I am.

“Let them in.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs casually on the wooden table. “After all, I’m on dead man’s time here.”

It’s my dad. I really shouldn’t be surprised that he’s my first—maybe my only—visitor, especially since I’m the last of his family still alive. (At least, for the time being.) We share many similar physical traits: a pale, almost ghastly, complexion; dark brown, borderline black, hair; light gray eyes; and an alarmingly skinny figure. I’m forever happy I inherited most of my looks from him; my mom has had enough influence on my life already, even in her absence.

“Juniper.” My dad’s voice cracks. I’ve seen him cry before, but I’ve never been the cause of it. My smile falters a bit. “I’m so sorry.”

“Dad, it’s fine.” I move my legs off the table; it feels inappropriate now. “It’s not your fault.”

“But if I just—”

“No, it’s not your fault!” I run my hand through my hair. “If Hebe wasn’t such a whore, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Your mother is sorry—”

“Wait, you talked to her?” I stand up to my full height. I might only be an inch taller than my dad, but I hope I intimidate him enough. “Did you talk to her before you came here?”

“Well, I just thought—”

“Unbelievable,” I scoff. “You’re so frekain’ naïve that you don’t even realize she’s using you! She’s bad for you, Dad.”

“When did you become the parent?”

“When you started making stupider decisions that me.” I snort, shaking my head. “Is she here right now?”

His silence is enough of an answer.

“She doesn’t expect to see me, does she?” I’m conflicted about whether I want to laugh from disbelief or scream at his stupidity. “Oh, that’s never going to happen.”

“She wants to apologize.”

“Apologize! She doesn’t even care!“

“She cares!” I open my mouth to interrupt, but he stops me. “No, you’ve spoken enough; it’s my turn. You haven’t given her a chance since the divorce, you haven’t seen her try to reconcile with you because you were too stubborn. And now, she’s here, trying to apologize for something she truly is not responsible for, but you won’t let her—that’s all on you.”

“Whatever you want to think. Just let me know if she’s there for you when I die, or if she’ll disappear like when Amara killed herself.”

Sylvie Linden - District Seven Mentor
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, or if there’s even anything to do at all. The mentors—well, just Matvei and I—hop on the train once the reaping concludes to start discussing a general strategy, to determine who will advise which one, to calculate how much money could be scavenged from last year. But what’s the protocol when your daughter is reaped? Do you join the rest of the family and visit her in the Justice Building, or do you merely say your goodbyes separately in the Capitol?

I walk towards the train. Bryony was reaped because of me, because of my reckless decisions. I doomed her to an early demise, and I can’t face her, let alone the rest of my family, with that knowledge. She deserves to know, just. . . not yet.

“I didn’t think you’d be here so quick,” Matvei says, downing the rest of his scotch in a single swallow. “Why aren’t you with your family?”

“I just didn’t want to deal with it.” I move towards a couch besides the mini-bar. “Not right now, anyways.”

“Ah, is this about the Daedalus situation?” I freeze mid-stride. “What? You don’t think people know about it?”

“And what do you know?”

“That you and Daedalus were a thing back in the day, and every year, you two sneak off to a secluded room do ‘the dirty.’”

I chuckle and sit down on the couch. “Oh, you’re still so young. You should learn, sooner or later, that rumors are almost never true.”

“No, they’re usually not, but there’s always some truth to them.” He sits in the chair adjacent to me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “So why don’t you tell me what’s real.”

“You’ve changed since—”

“Stop deflecting.” His raised tone throws me off. He’s never yelled at me before. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Okay, fine.” I take a deep breath. “Emrys—you know, my husband—broke up with me before my Victory Tour. He couldn’t take all the cameras and interviews and stuff, so he left me. Then, when I was in District Two, I met this man, same age as me, who was charming and nice and considerate. He told me that he was grateful the escort didn’t select him as the volunteer, because he didn’t want to be my enemy. One thing led to another, and, next thing I know, I’m waking up in his bed, late for my train, naked.”

“You knew him before he was victor?”

“Honey, I’m the reason he was reaped.” I sigh. “When I was late for the train, I ruined the schedule for the rest of the day. Three weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.”

“With Bryony,” he confirms. “So Bryony is Daedalus’ child?”

“Yes,” I nod, blinking the tears out of my eyes. “I had already gotten back with Emrys, so I pretended like it was his child. Bryony looks so much like me, nobody asked about the father. But somehow, someway, President Quain found out because Daedalus was reaped when he wasn’t eligible.”

“I thought he volunteered?”

“He was coerced into volunteering.” The first tear rolls down my cheek. “The only child he had at the time was Bryony, and— and—” I take a deep breath to compose myself. I can’t be hysterical now, not when the tributes—when my daughter—could arrive at any moment. “And, I just. . .”

“What?”

“Is it bad that I regret keeping the pregnancy?”

Bryony Linden - District Seven Female
“You know your mother is going to blame herself for this,” my dad murmurs in my hair. I stay frozen in his arms. I don’t want my parents to blame themselves for this situation, much less my possible death. “So I need you to be there for her, to make her believe she’s not at fault for this. And I need you to win for her.”

“Dad, I can’t—”

“No, I know, that’s a big promise to make, but I need you to try your absolute hardest to come back home.”

“I will, Dad.” I take a deep breath. “I promise.”

We stay locked in each other’s arms for a minute, five minutes, ten minutes; I don’t know how long, but time seems to freeze. His shoulder is much damper than it was before from my tears, and I know his sniffling isn’t from allergies. For a moment, we’re not in the Justice Building anymore; instead, we’re in my bedroom, sobbing over the death of our family dog. I thought that was the most devastating thing that could happen to me, but I was wrong, gravely wrong.

“Mister Linden, your time is up,” a Peacekeeper says, barging into the room. He turns towards me. “You have another visitor.”

“I love you, Brie,” he whispers one last time before following the Peacekeeper out the door.

My mouth hangs wide open as the next visitor enters the room. Her platinum blonde hair is shorter than the last time I saw her, styled in a bob cut, and she dyed a few strands of her bangs violet. Her hazel eyes look dull and lifeless under the light, her posture is slouched and defeated, and the fresh cut on her lips suggests she was recently in a fight. She no longer looks like the girl I dated nearly a year ago; instead, she’s a ghost.

“What are you doing here?” I eventually ask, leaning-slash-sitting against the central table and crossing my arms. “No, why are you here?”

“You were reaped.”

“You don’t say.” My tone is heavy with sarcasm. “Have any other incredible discoveries?”

“I miss you.”

“Did you tell your boyfriend that?”

“He’s not my—“

“Oh, so the cheaters didn’t last. Can’t say I’m surprised,” I scoff. “So what, you’re here now to apologize? Because you think I’m stupid enough to come back to you?”

“My family knows.” I raise my eyebrow. “Brie, my family knows.”

“About. . .”

“About us.” Tears swell in our eyes. “They know that we were together, that we were ‘lezzing out’ and—”

“‘Lezzing out?’ Are you serious?”

“Yes, and they. . .” she sighs. “Well, they kicked me out, and I didn’t know where to go, and I just thought that— that you could. . . I don’t know, help?”

“Because I don’t have enough going on right now?” I laugh, wholeheartedly laugh until my stomach hurts. “You’re so freakin’ selfish, do you realize that? I’m literally forced to fight to the death in the Hunger Games, and you think I’m going to prioritize you because you had a fight with your parents?”

“I know you’re leaving, but your family—”

“Is going through a lot as well.” I stand up, turning my back towards her. “Get out of here. I can’t even stand to look at you.”

“I hope you die,” she mumbles as she heads to the door.

“At least I’ll die knowing I had a roof to live under and a family that loved me.”

She slams the door behind her.

Nadina Windlass - District Eight Female
I’m not pretty. Although I’m not exactly ugly, I stray far from classical, feminine beauty. I don’t have long, wavy hair; I don’t have bodacious breasts that boys drool over; I don’t wear makeup or paint my nails; I don’t wear jewelry (haven’t even pierced my ears yet); and I’m too tall to wear high heels, lest I want to be taller than all the boys my age. Compared to the other girls in Eight, I’m barely average. Nobody could imagine someone falling for the “special”—because unique, apparently, wasn’t bad enough—orphan who lives on the streets.

I’m not pretty, so when I was assaulted, I was told I should be grateful that anyone wanted me in the first place, that this meant I was desirable. It meant that people could look past my flat chest and masculine physique, albeit they must be “repressing their homosexual desires.” Others thought I was lying about the incident to gain popularity, as if I’d want to call any of those birdbrains my friend. I’m fine with being all alone, and the more I repeat it to myself, the more it feels true.

A Peacekeeper enters the room. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you don’t have any visitors,” he says hesitantly. It must be the first time—at least, since he’s been working—that nobody had a visitor. “Would you like to be escorted to the train?”

“Yes.” I nod decisively. “Thank you.”

As we enter the hallway, I can hear crying in the adjacent room. I nearly snort. My district partner must have a loving family, people who will actually miss him when he’s gone. I wouldn’t be surprised if a dozen of his friends are waiting to see him, maybe even a girlfriend if he’s old enough. People will be weeping at the funeral—hell, people will attend the funeral. I, on the other hand, will merely be another grave in the Tribute Cemetery.

The Peacekeeper has just brought me outside the Justice Building, when I hear loud clacking behind me. Someone is running in high heels. “Nadina, where are you going?” The voice belongs to Kimani Tierza, the same woman who drew my name during the reaping. “Don’t you want to say your goodbyes to your family and friends?”

“I don’t have any family or friends, so I’d rather not waste my time in a room by myself.”

“But you have a visitor.”

I pause mid-stride and turn towards her. “Who?”

“You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

I groan. “Kimani, I’m not in the mood for games. Just tell me.”

“C’mon, I promise it’s someone you’ll want to see.” Just reaches for my hand, but I swat it away. “Please, just trust me.”

Against my better judgment, I follow the pink-haired, crazy woman to the empty room. I expect her to leave after we reach the room, but she follows me inside. For five minutes, nobody else enters the room. It takes me a moment to realize what’s really happening here.

“So you’re the visitor?” I scoff. “You know, you could’ve just talked to me on the train. There’s no reason for me to have come—”

“I thought you wanted to say goodbye at home.” Her smile makes me sick. “You know, just in case you don’t return.”

“I’m not going to return.”

“You can’t go into the arena thinking—”

“No, I’m not pretty.” She looks confused. “And because I’m not pretty, I’m not going to win the Games.”

Baize Edmonia - District Eight Mentor
Scotch tastes better when you’re in a happy mood, when you know one of your tributes might not die in the arena. Last year, the scotch tasted exceptional; at least, it did until my promising protégé refused to kill his female companion in the pre-arena battles, even though she posed no threat to the competition. But this year, neither tribute stands a chance: the boy is too young to last a few days in the arena and the girl is too austere to earn any sponsors.

I hope their farewells are as meaningful as possible.

“Do you want another glass?” the bartender asks.

I nod. “Wait, you’re not an avox?”

“No,” he chuckles, grabbing the bottle from the shelf. “Never committed a Capitol offense, still have my tongue.”

“Then why are you here?”

“President Quain allows lower-class Capitolites to take on jobs that are traditionally given to the avoxes. Rumor has it, he might extend the offer to district citizens.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, you never know.” He pours the scotch into my glass. “He’s a man full of surprises. I don’t think anyone really knows what he might do next.”

“Ah, cheers to that,” I say, taking a swig of my drink. “So, you’re not an avox. You must have a name.”

“Mordecai.” He eagerly reaches out to shake my hand. I hesitantly take it. “And you’re the Baize Edmonia, victor of the 11th Hunger Games.”

“I am.”

“Am I able to ask you about your Games, or is that off-limits?”

I’m not surprised he wants to hear about it, it’s a question almost every Capitolite I’ve met has asked. If there’s no chance you or a loved one can go into the arena yourself, you want to know about it. I let him ask away.

“Was it hard killing your boyfriend?”

I down the rest of my drink. I can’t answer the question otherwise.

“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. He was my family, you know, and his death will haunt me til the day I die.”

“You don’t have a family?”

“Not one that I care about, anyway,” I scoff. “I honestly hope they’re doing absolutely awful.”

Octavian Espen - District Eight Male
“I just don’t understand,” I murmur to myself, pacing back and forth in the small room. “I don’t know anyone— anyone who has been reaped. It’s wrong, the reaping was flawed.”

“Honey—”

“No, Mom, the reaping was flawed! I shouldn’t have been reaped! We should tell someone!”

“Octavian, listen.” It’s the first time my dad has spoken since he entered; he’s been too busy crying to form any audible word. “Your aunt. . . she was— she was in the Games when you were young.”

“I thought you were an only child.” I stop pacing. “Grandma said she only had one kid.”

“She did, it’s just—” He starts crying again. I’m getting annoyed with his tears by now; I’m the one that deserves to be crying right now, not my grown-ass dad. “It’s just—”

“Mom, what’s he trying to say.”

“It’s not my story to tell,” she says, raising her hands in surrender. “Just give him some time—”

“I don’t have anymore time.” I hold myself back from screaming. “So tell me, now, about my aunt before I ask someone else about it.”

“Your aunt,” my dad repeats. He takes a deep breath before continuing, “Your aunt is. . . well, she’s really. . . she’s your half-aunt.”

“And that’s why I haven’t heard about her?”

He nods. “Your grandpa was a little. . . promiscuous before your grandma got sick. Then he met a woman and she became pregnant with a little girl and. . . well, she named her Baize.”

“Baize? As in Baize Edmonia?”

He nods again. “My dad knew she was pregnant, but he didn’t think she would keep the pregnancy. But, she did.”

“But now you know. How?”

“When she was in the arena, the Capitol requested an interview with my dad. And then after she won, my dad tried reconciling with her, but. . . but. . .” A new wave of tears streams down my dad’s face, but he vainly rubs them away. “But she denied him.”

“Well, I don’t blame her,” I snort. “Grandpa left her!”

“Octavian, you better not speak to your father in that tone.”

“No, I will,” I say matter-of-factly. “He’s crying because his sister—his half-sister—didn’t want to be a part of a family who started caring about her when she was rich and famous.”

“That’s not—”

“It is, that is what happened.” Against my will, I laugh. “And now, now, my life is in her hands, in the hands of my aunt who probably doesn’t even know I exist, yet hates me nonetheless. ‘May the odds be ever in my favor.’”

Laelia Lantbruk - District Ten Female
I don’t bother saying my goodbyes in the Justice Building, I don’t know what I could possibly say to alleviate my parents’ fear and anxiety. When my cousin was reaped a few years ago, we were all terrified that she wouldn’t return home, and I listened to my aunt fret about not having a “perfect” farewell for weeks until my cousin officially won. I refuse to have my parents go through the same skepticism, so I decided to take the option away from them.

“Laelia, why are you here?” my cousin asks, hesitantly approaching me on the couch. She has a glass of white wine in one hand. “Didn’t you want to say bye to your parents?”

“You don’t know what I had to go through when you were gone, Gania,” I mutter. “It was awful. Everyone wished they said ‘I love you’ more and whatnot.”

“But now, they’re going to think you hate them, that you didn’t want to say goodbye.”

“I’ll leave them a letter, and I’ll just have you deliver it to them, assuming I don’t make it back.”

She looks like she’s about to put up a fight, but she surprisingly lets it go. “Fine, fair enough. How are you doing otherwise?”

“I don’t know.” I dwindle my fingers. “Nervous? Worried?”

“Nervous and worried about you going into the arena, or because Taneli volunteered?”

“Why would I be—”

“Laelia, you told me years ago that you had a crush on him.”

“Yeah, but then I had a boyfriend and—”

“And what?” she laughs. “You lost your feelings for him for forever? You don’t even find him attractive anymore because you already had a man?”

“No. . . I mean, he’s still cute.”

“Yes, he is.” She pulls me into a sideways hug. “And you still like him.”

“I do not!”

“Oh, you absolutely do.” She slyly takes a sip of her wine. “You know, he did volunteer pretty quickly, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I was surprised.”

“Maybe this means he likes you to.”

“What? So he decided to volunteer to protect me?” I snort. “That sounds like a ridiculous way to tell someone you like them. You won’t even be able to have a ‘happily ever after.’”

“Sometimes, it’s better to know you’re protecting the person you love than regret it otherwise.”

“Oh, so now he loves me?”

“You never know!”

“No, I do know.” I sigh. “He won’t fall for me. I’m too basic, too plain.

“Ah, because being a ginger in District Ten is so common.”

“You know what I mean! He probably prefers his woman with large biceps and toned abs, neither of which I have.”

“So, what? You’re just going to let your feelings go unresolved until it’s too late?” She squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “C’mon, just ask him why he volunteered. Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

“Maybe I will,” I mutter, covering my hands with my face. “Is it pathetic that I really hope he volunteered for me?”

“No, it just means your in love.”

“I’m not ‘in love.’” I roll my eyes. “I just want to know that someone like him can. . . can like someone like me.”

Taneli Masarie - District Ten Male
When I asked to go to the train immediately after the reaping, I was surprised when Laelia followed my request; I don’t know why my district partner wanted to avoid the farewells—she definitely looks like the type of girl to have a loving family and a lot of friends—but maybe there’s something else happening. I was even more surprised when her plea was granted, whereas mine was denied since I had an “important visitor” waiting for me.

I don’t know who would be waiting for me. My parents are dead, and I avoid having friends.

“Ah, Taneli Masarie,” Mayor Agustin says as I enter the room. The Peacekeeper closes the door behind me, but I doubt he walks away. “Sit, why don’t you. I think we have some things to talk about.”

“Such as?” I raise my eyebrow yet I sit in the chair across from him anyways.

“Your parents.”

“Ah, those two. How are they doing? I’m surprised they aren’t here.”

“They’re dead,” he deadpans. “But you already knew that. We found them this morning, bludgeoned to death with a mace, or so we believe; we have’t been able to find the murder weapon yet.”

“And you’re telling me this because. . .”

“Because you’re next-of-kin, of course.” He stands up and leans over the table, staring me in the eyes. “But we found your prints on the scene. We have reason to believe you were involved.”

“Ah, but you see—”

“Oh, don’t try lying to me.” He slams his fist against the table. I smirk at his rage. “We found your bloody shoes near the scene. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice a big pile of dirt in the middle of your backyard?”

“What a coincidence.”

“No, not a coincidence.” He sits back down. “We also found hair and finger prints in your parents’ blood. Forensics is confirming it’s yours as we speak.”

“So what are you going to do?” I challenge. “Imprison me? Execute me? I’m already going into the Games.”

“I can make sure you never come back.”

“See, but you don’t want to do that.” He grunts. “You know why? Because District Ten needs another victor—”

“Gania won three years ago—”

“Yeah, but that merely made us noticeable to the Capitol. We’re tied among the Career districts for the most victors, so we need another victor if you want to have the Capitol cherish us, not just notice us.”

“We don’t need—”

“Yes, we do need the Capitol’s adoration. Most of the district is in poverty; you know well enough that the number of children taking tesserae resembles that of District Twelve. So yes, we do need another victor if you want money, if you care about your people.”

He stays silent for a few moments. “So what do you suggest we do? Just exonerate you for murdering your parents?”

“Oh, my parents are dead?” I feign innocence. “Oh, I can’t die now. I need to make it home for my sister. She won’t be able to survive on her own.”

“You don’t have a sister.”

“Find me one.” I lean back in the chair. “The Capitol will love it; I can practically see all the donations piling up.”

He stands up abruptly, walking towards the door. “You’re narcissistic and psychotic, you know that?”

“And you’re a mayor who doesn’t care about his people, threatening a tribute, whose time is already limited, of guaranteed death.” I salute him farewell. “I can’t wait to see what you do.”

He slams the door shut behind him.

Destry Torkili - Head Mentor (from District Ten)
My twin brother and I stand in the lobby of the Justice Building. Since our co-mentor, Gania, wanted to spend some private time with her cousin before the frenzy of “preparing for the Hunger Games” began, we decided to wait for Taneli to finish his farewells. We didn’t have the chance to see his visitor enter, but we’re hoping to offer some condolences once they exit—or, at least, I’ll offer my condolences, since my brother is rather emotional stunted.

“Who do you think it is?” my brother asks. “His parents? A girlfriend? A boyfriend?”

“I’d assume it’s his parents. They’re probably asking why he volunteered.”

“We vol—”

“No, you volunteered. And I was forced into the Games with you.” For the 3rd Hunger Games, the twist was that only twins could be reaped, with each district required to send one set despite the traditional gender rules. “I didn’t want to volunteer.”

“But we’re alive, aren’t we?” He speaks as if everything is black-and-white. “So you can’t be mad at me now.”

“I still can—” I pause when I see the man exiting Taneli’s room. “Is that Mayor Agustin?”

“It sure is.” He waves to the mayor. “Mayor Agustin, what are you doing here?”

“Ah, Armin, Destry, pleasure to see you.” He smiles politely. “I was talking about some official business I had to clear with your tribute.”

“What happened?” I raise my eyebrow. “Is he in trouble?”

The mayor takes a minute before responding, “No, he isn’t. His parents were found dead this morning.”

“Murder?” my brother asks. I nudge him in the ribs. “What? If he’s here, it must be something serious.”

“You can’t just assume—”

“No, your brother’s right,” the mayor confirms. “It was murder. Very brutal. Needed to ask if he knew anything about it.”

“How’d they d—”

“That’s not the concern here,” I interrupt my brother. “Is he a suspect?”

“No, no, not at all.” Despite his words, the mayor doesn’t sound convinced. “It’s just standard protocol.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Look who’s being rude now,” my brother mumbles.

“I’m just asking. I think we should know if we have a murderer as—”

“Aren’t you guys murderers?” the mayor asserts. I don’t know how to respond; I’m taken aback by the comment. “Anyways, I should be going. I’ve already wasted enough time here.”

As the mayor walks away, my brother snickers. “Damn, he really got you, didn’t he?”

“I’m not going to mentor someone who killed his parents.”

“Well, you don’t even need to.” My brother shakes his head. “Your Head Mentor, remember? You don’t have to worry about specific tributes.”

“You don’t mind mentoring a criminal?”

“No.” The fact that he says it so matter-of-factly, so cooly, makes me nauseous. “Besides, we don’t even know if he did it. The mayor said it was protocol.”

“Either way, I plan on figuring it out.”

Zephyrin Greer - District Five Male
Although the exterior of the train looked large, I’m stunned by the vastness of its interior. A single car contains both a mini-bar and a general living room with two long couches, a cushioned chair, and a mahogany coffee table. Another car has a large dining room with an overhead chandelier, and the one next to it, nearest to the conductor car, apparently has a gourmet kitchen, although it’s off-limits to tributes. Everything appears refined and expensive; I should’ve probably expected it, since it’s used for Capitol officials outside of the Hunger Games season, but it’s still. . . overwhelming.

I always thought District Five was a beautiful place, and I’ve never imagined nor dreamed about living anywhere else. (Arguably, my family is pretty well off, so I’ve never dealt with half the cruelties the working class face.) Yet somehow, the sheer beauty of the Capitol is enticing. If I weren’t already engaged, I would marry the Capitol, no doubt.

“There you are!” my cousin Bronsen says, entering the car. “I was wondering where you went.”

“I’ve just been looking around.”

“Have you seen the bedrooms here yet? I swear, they’re twice the size of my childhood bedroom. Took me by surprise the first time.”

“Is it the same size of the one in your new home?”

“Bigger.” He moves behind the mini-bar. “Do you want something to drink? An old fashioned? A whiskey tonic? They have practically everything here.”

“Just a beer, I probably shouldn’t be drunk when we reach the Capitol.”

“Understandable.” He grabs two beers from the refrigerator, twists off the caps, and hands one to me. “So, it looks like you’re taking this pretty well.”

“Yeah.” I take a swig of the drink. “I don’t know if I’m in shock or just really good at handling stress.”

“The latter undoubtedly, you were the only one not crying when I was reaped.” He chuckles. “Wow, that seems so long ago.”

“Yeah, it does.”

We sit in blissful silence for a few moments, sipping our beers as if we were back on his couch in District Five. Out of all our cousins, we were the closest in age, so we’ve practically been raised together; honestly, I know more about him and his personal life than I do about my younger sisters. He’s going to be the best man at my wedding, assuming I don’t die before the ceremony.

“So if I’m going to the Capitol, does this mean I get to meet Leith?” I ask casually.

Leith Taliesin was Bronsen’s co-victor and lover in the arena, and the two have maintained their relationship since. There was some drama last year between the two, but it’s allegedly been resolved; rumor has it, the two are planning on getting married soon, yet Bronsen has constantly told me otherwise. But now, I’ll hopefully be able to hear both sides of the story, and I’ll maybe learn more about what happened last year.

“Eh, I don’t know, maybe.” He smiles. “But don’t get your hopes up, he’ll be busy mentoring his tributes.”

“Do you know who they are yet?”

“Well, we were the last reaping, so the official list should be out.” He grabs the tablet resting on top of some magazines off the coffee table. “And maybe, if we’re lucky, Caius Fulbright has already published his initial reactions.”

He opens the tablet, scanning each app until he finds and clicks on the one titled “Current Tribute Status.” A grimace appears on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Leith’s tribute is thirteen years old, so he’s definitely going to be busy.”

“So I’m not going to meet him?”

“It depends on how much effort he gives.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes, when tributes are so young and so meek, mentors can claim they’re a ‘dead man walking,’” he explains. “If they do, they’re no longer able to accept money from sponsors until after the first twenty four hours of the Games have passed.”

“So mentors can just give up on their tribute?” My stomach aches from the very thought. “Why would they do that?”

“Sometimes, it’s better.” He shrugs. “The money they earn then goes to their district partner, and if both are deemed ‘dead men walking,’ the money goes straight to the district.”

“Have you ever declared a tribute as a ‘dead man walking’?”

“No,” he says firmly. “But I know some people who have, like the mentors for Nine and Twelve who aren’t even from there.”

“That’s just wrong.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules.” He raises his hands in surrender. “It’s just something that happens.”

“Still. . .” I sigh. This conversation needs to change. “Have the initial reactions come out yet?”

“Ah, let me check.”

He clicks on a different app, this one labelled “Hunger Games News.” There’s a handful of articles related to the 20th Hunger Games, the most recent being about the Victory Tour from six months ago, and a single article about the twist for the 21st Hunger Games.

“It doesn’t look like anything’s out yet,” he confirms. “But it’ll probably come out within the next hour or so.”

“So what should we do?”

“Talk and drink.” He nods towards the beer in my hand. “And you can tell me about what’s new with you and Acacia.”

“Nothing much, just planning the wedding and everything.”

“That’s gotta be stressful.”

“Undoubtedly.” I chuckle. “Man, I still can’t believe the wedding is in two months, assuming I’m still around.”

“Don’t start freaking out on me now.” He points a finger at me accusingly. “‘Cause then I’ll start freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out.” I laugh. “I’m just trying to be real.”

“And those are different because. . .”

“Because I’m not trying to sugarcoat it to myself and convince myself that I’ll win, but I’m not exactly terrified of my fate.”

“Why?”

“Because my mom taught me that ‘everything happens for a reason.’” I nudge him in the shoulder. “Besides, if your monkey-brain can win, I think I can too.”

“Touché.”

Jenikka Amias - District Five Female
I stand in the middle of my designated bedroom, feeling an odd mixture of fearfulness and wonderment. It’s nearly twice the size of my room at home, and the bed could fit me and my younger siblings comfortably. There’s even a colorful painting adjacent to the dresser that probably costs more than my entire house. Is this what the Capitol is like? Extravagant furniture, gigantic rooms, and expensive artwork? If so, I don’t like it.

I want to be back in District Five.

But I know that’s not a possibility—not yet, I vainly assure myself—so I carefully take a seat on the edge of my bed, as if it could collapse under my weight at any moment. I can’t deny that the room is nice, beautiful even, and it’s somewhat promising to know the Capitol cares for its tributes. (At least, they care as much as a butcher cares for a cow before it’s slaughtered.) Maybe I’ll adjust to it throughout the week, maybe I’ll expect everything to be large and luxurious; but for now, this is all foreign territory and I’m a terrified immigrant.

I jolt to my feet when someone knocks on the door.

“Jenikka, are you in there?” a man asks. I recognize the voice immediately and frown. “It’s Flick. Can I come in?”

Flick Hewlitt won the 14th Hunger Games when he was sixteen years old, a fact I was retaught every year because he was District Five’s first victor. His victory provoked minor backlash from Districts One and Two, claiming that the Gamemakers’ mutations unjustifiably targeted their tributes, yet no official lawsuit was ever filed. Although he is praised as a celebrity in my district, I can barely stand the sight of him because he failed to bring my brother home the next year. I wonder if he stills remembers, or if he’s stopped seeing his tributes as people.

“Yeah, you can come in.” I’m surprised my voice doesn’t waver, despite my immediate urge to scream. He walks into the room. “What do you want?”

He raises an eyebrow at my brashness. “Are you mad at me?” I shiver at his authoritarian tone. “Because that would be a stupid way to start things off with your mentor.”

“Maybe I am, maybe—”

“No, stop talking right there.” He raises a hand to silence me. “You realize I’m the only one that’s going to help you in the arena, right? I’m your lifeline now.” His expression darkens. “So you better get over whatever feelings you have and stop playing this little ‘rebellious’ game of yours.”

He opens the door to leave. “Where are you going?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I thought you’re supposed to help me!”

“Only when you want help.” He stares at me from outside the room. “It’s your death, not mine. Do whatever you want.”

As soon as he shuts the door behind him, tears form in my eyes and stream down my face. He doesn’t remember my brother Ferric at all, isn’t regretful nor apologetic at all. He doesn’t care about me, about his tributes. It’s not a surprise his tributes never last long in the arena, and now, I’m going to be on that list.

“No,” I mutter, wiping away my tears. “He needs to care.”

With more courage and determination than I’ve had in my life, I leave the room to track him down. I’m unsurprised when I find him in the bar car, pouring himself a glass of hard liquor. Bronsen and Zephyrin sit on a couch in the middle of the room, raising an eyebrow when I stomp in. I don’t care if they’re here; I need to say what I want to say.

“You killed my brother.”

“Excuse me?” Flick scoffs. He stops pouring his drink. “Please elaborate.”

“You killed my brother because you didn’t care,” I stress. “And you’re going to kill me because you don’t care.”

“And your brother is. . .”

“Ferric, the first tribute you mentored!” I want to punch him in the face. “Do you really not remember or are you just acting stupid?”

“It’s been years—”

“Six years!”

“So what?” He throws his hands in the air. “Do you want me to apologize? Do you want me to say ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’? Or are you just finding another reason to be mad at me?”

“I think I’m justifiably—”

“No, you’re not!” The whole world seems to go silent. “You’re mad because you were reaped, because you’re going to die. And you want to blame me?” He shakes his head. “You’re the stupid one here.”

He storms past me, drink in hand.

“Where are you going now?”

“Anywhere but here.” He turns to me in the doorway. “And if you follow me, I might actually kill you.”

“What’s his problem?” Zephyrin asks.

“He gets like this when he’s in withdrawal,” Bronsen clarifies.

“Wait, withdrawal!” I don’t feel apologetic that both of them flinch at my scream. My world is slowly crumbling apart, one piece at a time. “Withdrawal from what exactly?”

“Uh. . . coke.”

“Like cocaine? My mentor is a cocaine addict?”

“It’s more common than you might think. It helps—“

“It helps?”

“Wait, have you done coke before?” Zephryin asks his cousin.

“I would’ve told you if I did.” Bronsen turns back towards me. “Anyways, yes, it helps with some of the bad memories. I know it sounds bad, but without it, he can’t mentor at all.”

“So my lifeline in the arena is my mentor, and his lifeline is coke?” I laugh. “I’m getting a drink.”

“You’re thirteen!”

“I’m thirteen and going into the Hunger Games with a coke addict for a mentor.” I unscrew the vodka bottle’s cap. “I think I deserve a drink, don’t you?”

He stays silent.

Trivia

 * Veira's (D1F) introductory point of view is actually a revised version of the District 1 Reaping in one of my previous unfinished Hunger Games, The 190th Hunger Games.
 * In the initial plotting, Taneli's mother was supposed to be a victim of marital abuse, thus leading her son to purchase a mace off the black market and train for the Hunger Games; as such, his reason for winning was to free his mother from her marriage. Hwoever, this was drastically altered to create more villaineous characters.
 * In the initial plotting, Honoria was supposed to be a member of the Careers and have a confrontation with Bryony about their father in the arena. However, this was changed for plot purposes.