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PART I: THE TRIBUTES

District One Reaping
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.

Veira Faustus, 17
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 everyone of age—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 master, 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 blonde 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 . . . guidance."

"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, 15
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 1640 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 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," 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?

Author Note: Welcome to my first Hunger Games on this website!

During these Games, I'll be experimenting with my style, so constructive criticism will be greatly appreciate. And, if you end up enjoying these, please don't hesitate to submit a tribute for its sequel. Users who leave reviews will be given a priority spot (with the most active reviewers receiving higher priority).

Thank you!

Next Chapter: Different Worlds (D2 Reaping)