User blog:FrostyFire/The 21st Hunger Games

Justice Building POVs The Deviation Series Part I

Note: These Hunger Games contain mild language and mature content that may not be appropriate for all audiences. Any point of view containing heavy topics will be noted. Furthermore, these games will strictly contain characters that I have created. The following games will be open to submissions, with priority going to users who have followed or commented on this story.

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)

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 Tribute
In District One, there are two campuses for the Career Academy: North Campus, which requires an application and evaluation before being offered enrollment, and South Campus, which is available to anyone 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. Initially, it was a rough adjustment: I had to wake up at five o’clock in the morning for pre-dawn runs, abide to a strict diet, train up to ten hours a day, and sit through at least five hours of lecture each week. Maybe that’s why I’m awake now, staring mindlessly at my bedroom ceiling.

Although the sun hasn’t risen yet, I know my father will already be awake. On the day of the reaping, all the fathers in the district go to the City Square at midnight to enjoy drinking—allegedly, they have an open bar for the entire district—and placing bets on who will volunteer for the Games. My father’s most certainly betting on my older sister, Rosalie, to volunteer, as she was one of the select students to pass the “aptitude exam” this year.

The “aptitude exam” is a test given to students on the North Campus between the ages of twelve and eighteen, which evaluates physical and mental strength. Although there is no official rule, only students who pass the exam are considered “eligible” to volunteer, whereas those who fail are deemed “inept” for the Games.

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 grab one of my typical exercise outfits from my closet—a dark sports bra; a pink tank-top; a dark, dry-fit hoodie with black sleeves and a gray front; black, tight-fitting yoga capris; and some neon pink tennis shoes with black soles. Once I’m dressed and my hair is pulled back into a firm ponytail, I’m ready to leave.

The squeaky floorboards make it nearly impossible to be stealthy, but the soft snores of my mother and sister reassure me that I’m not being loud. I tiptoe down a flight of stairs, skipping the steps that make the most noise, and I quickly eat a banana in the kitchen before leaving the house. Fortunately, 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 the North Campus. Once I leave my neighborhood, I move swiftly from road to road, mindlessly zigzagging through side streets as I have done so many times before. When I reach the main road, I can hear the fathers hollering and drinking and gambling, growing louder as I continue running. At the intersection before the City Square, I turn right, and, after a few more blocks, 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.

The North Campus is located a mile northeast of the City Square, close to the Victors’ Village. After the Second Rebellion, the academy was destroyed by the rebel forces, but when the Hunger Games were reinstituted, it was rebuilt with steel and glass so it’s able to endure everything from gunfire to explosives. It also happens to be the second largest building in the district, following the Justice Building. (However, if it wasn’t for legal reasons, I guarantee the academy would’ve been much larger.)

Despite its sturdiness, the security is rather subpar: One only needs a keycard to access the building. Since every student enrolled at the North Campus receives a keycard, I’m able to easily access the building. As soon as I swipe my card, the glass doors automatically open.

Although it’s—allegedly—warmer inside the building than outside, I shiver as I’m greeted by a waft of stale air, and I feel goosebumps rise along my arms. Although I know I’m the only one in the building, I instinctively scan my surroundings after turning on the light. (I’ve been trained to always be on the lookout for any signs of life because the moment you lower your defenses in the arena, you’re dead.)

The interior layout of the Career Academy is fairly simple: There are three corridors that branch out of the large foyer—one to the north, one to the west, and the last to the east—each for a specific purpose. The North corridor contains all the testing rooms, including the “aptitude exam” that deemed me ineligible for the Games; the West corridor contains the weapon training rooms, each for a particular weapon; and the East corridor contains the survival rooms, which is more popular than one might expect. Everyone assumes we—tributes from the Career districts—only care about weapons, but learning how to swim and climb are just as important to us.

To the right of 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 the most recent victor from District One, she would be one of the two people on my mentoring team. Although I have a vague memory of seeing her walk down the halls at the Career Academy, I vividly remember her volunteering and entering the arena. She won her Games through sexiness and manipulation, convincing her allies she was ill-prepared for the arena by crying during the interviews and earning a mediocre training score. In fact, the only reason she was allowed to stay in the alliance was due to her budding romance with the boy from Two. Even Lucretia Laurent, the host of the Hunger Games, was surprised when she reached the final eight. When only the Careers and one other tribute were left, Adamaris tainted her allies’ food with tranquilizers, effectively paralyzing them so they wouldn’t fight back as she slit their throats. The last remaining tribute was killed by mutations during the finale, an anticlimactic victory in the Capitol’s eyes.

Next to Adamaris’ portrait is another, this one belonging to Myriam Deirdre, victor of the 10th Hunger Games. I was only six years old when she won, too young to remember much about the Games yet old enough to be attending the academy (albeit going to the South Campus). The only memory I have from the Games is the gruesome finale, when both of Myriam’s eyes were gouged out of her head. Nonetheless, she was somehow able to overpower and kill the other tribute before bleeding out. Since the Capitol was unable to repair her vision, she is almost always seen wearing a pair of fashionable sunglasses.

The last portrait against the Victor’s Wall belongs to Fergus Tancredo, currently the only male victor from my district. I was merely an infant at the time of his victory, so I have no recollection of the Games as they occurred. However, 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 tribute. His ability to wield both a dagger and a sickle was impeccable for someone his age, and the moment it was revealed that only bladed weapons would be available in the cornucopia, he was practically 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 weapon, but 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 abruptly stop when I notice something moving in the darkness. Is it just my imagination? Am I paranoid? My questions are quickly answered as the dark figure moves in my direction, taking the shape of a grown man. Instinctively, I flick on the lights, revealing 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 says, raising 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?” I ask, reluctant to believe him. He may lose his job for this, and he absolutely cherishes his job.

“Well, yes,” he says it matter-of-factly. “Why else would I be here at 4:30 in the morning?” He nudges the folder into my hand. “I would suggest you open it now, but it’s ultimately 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,” I say gently. “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 Tribute
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 lilies, white alstroemerias, navy delphiniums—whose colors appear vibrant against the dull surroundings. The only other plants in this Capitol-sponsored graveyard—its purpose to provide a final resting place for all the fallen tributes—are a dying yew tree in the center, a few cedar trees towards the outskirts, and a countless amount of weeds scattered everywhere.

Each rectangular tombstone is cut from a fine slab of granite, containing 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, coincidentally the same day the Games begin this year. He was a volunteer and one of the most promising graduates of the Career Academy, a crowd favorite from the start. Everyone was surprised when he merely lasted three days in the arena, taking a stray arrow to the throat from some unremarkable tribute.

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 return home. 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 eerily lonely and quiet 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 eventually leave the house, it was to attend his joint funeral with his fallen district partner, a common tradition in District One. 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 I refuse to change. 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 roughly five minutes, as the citizens are required to arrive a quarter-hour before the reaping. (Although the Peacekeepers don’t really enforce the rule too much, so long as you arrive before the reaping starts.) Either way, I’m in no hurry to get there.

“I’ll see you next week,” I say quietly, placing the bouquet tenderly 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 just 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 expectedly one of the last people to arrive to the City Square. Most of the children have already been separated into those who are eligible to be reaped—they stand close to the stage, divided into their appropriate age groups—and those who are luckily exempt due to this year’s twist.

Ever since the Hunger Games were reinstituted, a new rule has been created that requires a twist of some sort to be involved every year. Some years, the twist is huge and heavily impacts the tributes’ survival in the arena; other years, the twist is minimal and provides little deviation from the standard, old-fashioned Games. During Artus’ Games, only eighteen year old boys and girls were able to participate, one of the most basic twists in recent history.

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 entrusted with the task of selecting the District One tributes for this year’s Hunger Games, struts out of the Justice Building, followed by 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 overly gaudy and exuberant. In fact, if it weren’t for her curly purple hair and overly bubbly demeanor, she could almost pass as a normal citizen. Her choice to use minimal makeup might seem drab in the Capitol, but it make her seem more personable in the districts. While other escorts have their facial skin stapled back to hide their true age, she still holds her natural youthfulness, currently being the youngest active escort. If she were living in the districts, she could’ve been reaped for the Games merely 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 most of the children stay silent. “As is customary, we will begin with a brief history of Panem and the reciting of 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. It was established over a century after the “Disasters," after numerous attempts to restore the pre-apocalyptic societies had failed. For decades, the Capitol and its thirteen districts lived in unity, but that ended when an idealist from Thirteen stirred a premature rebellion, resulting in his district being allegedly obliterated.

Meanwhile, the remaining twelve districts competed in the Hunger Games, an annual competition in which children would slaughter one another until only one was alive, as a penance for their treasonous acts. For seventy-four years, the districts willingly handed over a male and female representative, between the ages of twelve and eighteen, and watched as the majority of them died in the arena. But when Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark won the 74th Hunger Games, a sense of hope was revived in the rebels. When the 75th Hunger Games ended with the destruction of the arena, the Second Rebellion began.

The rebels miraculously won the Second Rebellion, rallying enough support from the common citizens to overcome the armed Peacekeepers. District Thirteen was revealed to be hidden underground, not destroyed like everyone was lead to believe. A new president rose to power, the Hunger Games were terminated, and the citizens in the districts were finally given the freedom they desired.

When Katniss Everdeen died in 1641 Postquam Apocalypsis—“after the Apocalypse,” or, simply, P.A.—the loyalists started to notice the rebels’ strength slipping. The rebels were too arrogant, too certain that the former Capitol didn’t have the manpower to overcome their forces. However, they were sadly mistaken.

Within a year, the rebel forces were defeated, and all of its leaders were publicly executed on live television. By 1643 P.A., the Hunger Games were reinstituted 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 Deidre, 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,” Athénaïs says into the microphone. “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, it is the responsibility of the escort to select which one shall go into the arena. 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 “volunteering 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 already 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 practically heard 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 Tribute
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 Tribute
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?