Lustra's bedroom is a mess. After she made the decision last night, she ransacked her closet, strewing clothes all over the snow white carpet in her quest to find an outfit worthy of showing to the entirety of Panem. Eventually she settled on the red satin halterneck with the black polka dots that she wore to her sixteenth birthday party. It's the most expensive thing in her wardrobe, and Valiant liked her in it, even though she worries that it makes her shoulders look too broad. She didn't bother picking up the rest of the clothes, but it doesn't matter because she's never coming back to this hellhole and this time her stepfather won't be able to yell at her.
Either she'll have a mansion of her own in the Victors' Village, with a wardrobe full of gorgeous clothes, or she'll be rotting quietly underground. All or nothing.
Well, she's always been a gambler, and both outcomes are sounding better than her life at the moment. She's already spent a week crying over Val, dissecting every word he said to her for signs of hope that he didn't really mean it, that he does love her after all. Logically, she knows he's right. It's a bad idea to get too attached to anyone if you're planning to volunteer, and there's a widespread belief (among the boys, especially) that being in a relationship makes you go soft. You lose your edge.
But Lustra knows this isn't true. After all, she never felt murderous before she saw Val talking to that slut from her music class last month, the girl twirling her hair around her stupid fingers and mindlessly laughing at everything he said. She went to practice after that and threw her javelin further than she'd ever thrown it before; imagining it sinking into her rival's heart, skewering her like a kebab. 'Excellent work, Lustra' said her coach. 'Keep that up and we might be asking you to go to the Games in two years time.'
Not good enough. She can't spend another two years crying in her room, another two years watching Val flirt with all those pathetic little gamer groupies, another two years being yelled at by her stepfather and slighted by her mother. She will go to the Capitol, and she will do what she has trained to do.
If she triumphs, he'll worship her for her bravery; and if she fails, he'll always feel guilty for driving her to her death. Either way, he'll never forget her. No other girl will ever measure up.
She applies a slick of her mother's red lipstick and arranges her dark blonde curls. Her face in the mirror is still not the face she wants. The jaw is too square, the eyes too close together... she's not a beauty like her mother, but resembles far too closely the father that they never, ever talk about. The father who died when she was only two, shot by the Peacekeepers after he went berserk and throttled her mother's lover...
He was a killer too, Lustra reminds herself. And he killed for love. I can win this. It's in my blood.
She casts her eyes dismissively over the discarded piles of clothes and slams the door on her old life forever.
On reaping day, the boats from the outlying villages come into the harbour in bright convoys, waving their flags, laden with children in their best clothes. For some, it's the only time they'll come into town all year. It's a holiday, a festival, and the sun is blazing down accordingly on the cool blue water, fracturing on the waves and glittering like diamonds.
Coral, Sabrine and Mollie are arm-in-arm as always. They are the Fabulous Three, the Terrific Trio, and various other alliterative names they have invented over their thirteen years of being best friends. They were born in the same village within eight months of each other, and while, like any sisters, they are prone to spats and spitefulnesses and fallings-out, they are mostly inseparable. They plan weeks ahead of the reaping to co-ordinate their dresses, and this year they are all in orange, the better to stand out from the blues and greens that District Four girls tend to gravitate towards.
'We'll look like a giant goldfish!' Coral declares as they skip along the crowded deck, waiting for the ferry to dock.
'Um, I'm not sure I want to look like a fish...' says Mollie.
'We could make fish mouths when the camera sweeps the crowd!' Sabrine adds, pursing her mouth into a O and blowing imaginary bubbles. Mollie elbows her in the ribs and the three of them collapse in giggles. They know Sabrine's sister and the rest of the older kids are looking at them in disgust and rolling their eyes, but that just makes them giggle even more.
Sabrine keeps making her goldfish face right up until the escort totters up on stage in a pair of electric blue platforms so high she has to cling to the railings to stay upright. Finally, she manages to stagger over to the microphone stand and, clinging to it for dear life, screeches at the top of her lungs 'Happy Hunger Gamesss Dissstrict Four!', making the three of them snigger at her Capitol accent and struggle to regain their composure as she reads out the usual preamble about why they're all here today. Blah blah rebellion blah blah, ungrateful districts yadda yadda, united we stand etc. etc. It's all just filler until this year's mentors are introduced...
'FINNICK!' they scream as a tall, handsome teenager bounds up next to her, grinning and waving. Coral, the shortest of the three, bounces up and down on tiptoe, craning her neck to get a better look at their idol. It sucks being so far from the front and having all the older kids blocking their view. Even in their goldfish dresses he'll never notice them, but it doesn't stop them screaming at the top of their lungs, trying to rise above the general cacophony. Naturally, nobody takes any notice of the female mentor, who is old enough to be their mom.
The crowd only calms down when the glass bowls are wheeled in, full of tiny slips. The girls link hands and exchange nervous looks.
'And thisss year'sss female tribute issss...' She gropes around inside the drum, retrieves a piece of paper and unfolds it triumphantly. 'Mollie Krill!'
Mollie is paralysed. Everything suddenly sounds muffled, as if she were underwater. She knows that Sabrine and Coral are screaming, and the rawness in her throat suggests that she is screaming too. The crowd is parting around them, everyone's eyes turning to focus on her, Coral squeezing her hand so tightly that it hurts and Sabrine gabbling frantically 'It's OK, Moll, it's OK, don't worry, there's always volunteers, it'll be fine, there's always volunteers...'
There are not always volunteers. Nonetheless, the thought gives her the courage to loosen her hands from theirs before the Peacekeepers can come to escort her; and somehow, dazed as she is, she finds herself ascending the stage to the sound of cheers. As Philadelphia Wolter babbles on, she searches the faces of the eighteen and seventeen-year-olds at the front. Where is my volunteer? There must be a volunteer. I'm only thirteen. As the seconds pass and her panic rises, she realises that none of them are meeting her gaze. None of these older girls can look her in the eye.
There is not going to be a volunteer. This year's female tribute is Mollie Krill.
Tears of shock and dismay spring to Mollie's eyes. She can't bring herself to look for orange dresses in the crowd because she knows Coral and Sabrine will be falling to pieces. And her mom, and her dad, and her little brother... There must be a volunteer. There must.
'I volunteer as tribute.' A clear voice rings out from near the front, and for a split second Mollie's heart jumps. She's safe, after all.
But no. The voice wasn't a girl's voice, and the figure borne aloft on the shoulders of the seventeen-year-olds definitely isn't a girl. He strides up to the stage, not especially tall but muscular, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd with a bright, wide smile and a clenched fist in the air.
Philadelphia, in her platforms, is six inches taller than him and bends awkwardly at the knees to ask 'And what isss your name, young man?'
'I'm Tench Nott, Philadelphia,' he announces proudly, and as the crowd goes wild Mollie remembers who he is. He was in the same class as Finnick - he was in the interviews when Finnick made the final eight - they were friends - they probably trained together.
It hits her why none of those older girls were willing to step up. It must have been common knowledge among the career tributes that this was Tench's year, and nobody wanted to be up against him. Because they wouldn't have a chance.
She doesn't have a chance.
Sabrine was wrong. She's going to die.
Mollie screams, but her voice isn't working any more. She just stands there, in her ruffled orange dress, staring blindly into the cloudless sky, her mouth open like a goldfish.
