3

THE REAPINGS

(DISTRICTS 1-6)

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DISTRICT ONE

Bells clang in the distance, lights guiding her towards a place far away from home —glazed eyes scan over the remainders of ashes and dust, washed away in the airy breeze, found only in a place such as this, and there was no other place Sarapri Janessa Martine despised as much. There are leftovers, obviously, leftovers of her family, their broken brittle bones cast carelessly into an adjacent field of daisies, ironically the flower of the dead; a faint smell of lilacs floats over the cemetery, reminding her of the years that she had spent at the Preserve. "Sarapri; you shouldn't be up here, not today, of all times, to visit the grave." The deep voice echoes, cracking a little.

"You don't understand, Topaz," Sarapri smiles a little. Please, please, please, seriously don't ask me any more questions since I won't have answers that don't end up with tears ruining your Reaping Day shirt. "This grave is my mother's grave. How could I not visit her?" She rises, tears visibly falling down her cheeks. "She was the one who wanted me to go in the Games; you know that she's the one who helped me train." Of course, like most of the children in the first district, Sarapri had the typical doting father —nobody truly knew the reason why he was that doting; nobody else besides her, her father, a few select maids, and Topaz knew about her mother's death. For all they knew, Mrs. Martine was currently diagnosed with a slight cold and was immediately taken to the Capitol for treatment.

Of course, Topaz understood. "You have to go down." He awkwardly set a reassuring hand onto her right shoulder, an offering she shrugged off. If it had been any other boy, literally any other boy in the entirety of District One (which had a population of nearly three thousand individuals), Sarapri would have accepted the gesture of affection, but this was Topaz, somebody who would never want to be entangled in romantic affairs, especially not at the age where one could be reaped.

"—I'll be down there in a min," she murmurs, fingering the pearl necklace that resides around her neck; it's her mother's pearl necklace, her mother who's dead and gone and who's never coming back, so why should Sarapri still care so much, anyway. She feels as though she'd rather fly away from this place than ever face anybody ever here again; she's put up cover after cover, and it's almost as though there's just so much cover-up that Sarapri's not even the same person under all those layers as she used to be before her mother died.

Within minutes, Sarapri finds herself all the way back at her household —it's more of a mansion-type, but then again, with a doting father, how could she not have everything she wanted; still, even this wasn't enough to cover up the everlasting sadness; fake smiles didn't seem to work, however, if somebody actually cared.

"Hey, honey." The said ohsodoting father casually walks into the room, grimacing at how messy everything had turned out after the party she had hosted a few days ago; after all, Sarapri had a reputation to hold as the district's most popular. "How was your day?" Sarapri fakes a smile, and moves on to clean her room.

On the other hand, it didn't look either of them were giving up —her father crossed his hands and his right palm clenched around the left; also, her room wouldn't stop smelling like poison and wine, no matter how many Capitol-esque perfumes she applied, along with the daily supply of air fresheners that the maids had left behind in the halls. Today was Reaping Day, and they had been given the day off; after all, there was a chance that their much poorer children, with taking all that tesserae, would definitely be reaped. However, they didn't know that some people actually wanted to be in the Games; Sarapri wasn't one of those people, however.

Her trainer had emphasized how important for her it was to volunteer not this year, but the next; she was seventeen now, and a year, Sarapri would most definitely be the most skilled female trainee in District One; it didn't matter, though. She wasn't going to volunteer, or even be in the Games in the first place, and nobody could question that. Her father lets out a cough. "I'll let you dress; I've laid something out for you." He leaves the room, quickly, and Sarapri frowns.

She gasps suddenly, murmuring a slight ohmygod underneath her breath, along with a few select swear words.

It was this dress that her father was talking about —it actually was her mother's wedding dress. Living in a place such as District One, Sarapri could afford all the luxuries, everything that she had ever wanted just because her father was that rich and had that many connections. However, something so beautiful and expensive and sentimental as this was everything that she needed to make it through Reaping Day, today. Just one more year, and she would be done with this. Then again, looking back at the dress, it was almost as if her father thought that something bad was going to happen, otherwise he wouldn't give his daughter, no matter how much of a doting father he was, the prized possession.

Nevertheless, Sarapri was standing in her appropriate age section fifteen minutes later, having had to have an emergency appointment when apparently, the Reaping Day times were changed to earlier in the day, around twelve o' clock, since District One would be the first district to be picked up; apparently, unlike the usual games, all of the tributes would be placed on the same train, at the same time, to get to know each other better. As if; they would be going to the Capitol to kill each other, not to make friends. "Well, hello, there." There was a strange looking woman, standing upon the pedestal.

The rest of the Reaping introduction goes by in a flash; Sarapri holds her breath as a name is called. "Callica Worthy!" And, then something instinctive went on with her as she saw the terrified expression on the twelve year-old blonde who she had trained with at a younger age; she had no chance of survival. Nobody else was going to volunteer, and she felt herself yelling the words, "I volunteer as tribute!"

Sarapri makes her way to the stage, numbly. "Sarapri Martine." There's flashes in the audience, and out of the corner of her eye, Sarapri can see her trainer who's sending her a disappointed glance, and she doesn't even make a moment to think about somebody else, like her father or the maids that have practically been the mother of her life ever since her mother had died. She thinks about other people, like what's going to happen to —to Topaz.

Recently, she's realized that she's fallen in love with him; she's made out with every boy in the district in her age, and been pregnant twice (it doesn't matter though, that's just her cover); they don't have a chance, now though. He wouldn't have a romance with anybody, unless she came back from the Games as Victor, and he would be over the age of eighteen, which was this year. Everything was going to be perfect. They say his name out loud, and Sarapri's a little confused until she realized why the name has been called. "Topaz Marks and Sarapri Martine, these year's tributes to the 100th Annual Hunger Games!"

DISTRICT TWO

Laying around in her room doesn't seem to do much for the eighteen-year-old; she tightens the bracelet around her right wrist as her dark blonde hair twists out of its low bun at the nape of her neck. Perquet Valley looks outside of her window to see a typical District 2 scene, in the upper part of the neighborhood, at least —there are some cars zooming past, and others are parked by their respective house mansions, but the one with the odd license plate catches her eye, reminding her of a childhood game.

She's above all that, now, however; that was from the past, and being the victor of the Games is her present and future. There's a house at the edge of the road; it had iron wrought gates, and has always been protected, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, by the same burly security guards; she had watched them at night —they never moved, they never slept, they never made a motion to eat or drink, almost as if they weren't even human beings. Anything was possible, these days, however. Her eyes focus on the door, which echoes a familiar knock-knock-knock. "Come in," she mutters in a snooty voice, her fake accent shining through. After all, Perquet knew exactly who was going to be at the door; her suspicions were confirmed. "Oh, it's you."

"Nice to see you, too," Tomella replies, plopping down onto one of the beanbag chairs that were from Perquet's mother, Rallie's, the newest boutique in town; she was trying to make the place more child-friendly, speeding through themes faster than Perquet could throw knives and make a fatal impact. "Have you decided what you're going to wear; 'cause you know, you're going to volunteer this year, right? But you're wrong; I'm going to beat you to it."

"Is that so?" Perquet raises an eyebrow. This was her chance to shine, and nobody else was going to take that away from her, especially somebody who was one of her closest friends. She took a long glance at Tomella, examining the natural glow in her dark hair, which was pinned up in a chignon, perhaps by her stylist mother.

Tomella fingers the miniature carrots set down on a small plate, and puffs cold air into the steaming pot of boiling water; it was a family ritual. "You know that this year's my last year, and I have to live up to—"

"Is this about Chloe?" Perquet replies in a snooty voice, filled with disgust. Chloe was Tomella's sister, who had died in the Hunger Games three years earlier; you think that Tomella would get over the death, but no. She had to just keep on yakking and yakking about how her sister died, her sister died, she had to avenge her sister; it wasn't as though Tomella had a greater chance than Perquet at winning the Games; she wasn't as agile, or quick, or even trained as well with all the right resources. "This shouldn't be about Chloe; winning the Games is an honor."

"I know," Tomella replies, rolling her eyes. Of course it was an honor; especially in District 2, where winning the Games was something very highly regarded, as if it was the best occupation a person could ever be, a Victor; to live in the Victor's Village and have everlasting glory and fame, now that was the teenage dream. "Anyway, you better start choosing your outfit." Tomella checks the watch which dangled loosely off her bony wrist. "It's nearly one o'clock."

Perquet was aware of the time. "Then, you'd better go, Tomella. Don't want to be late, now do we?" she said in a mocking voice, shutting the door in Tomella's surprised face; by the time three minutes had passed, Perquet's friend had already left the mansion, and was walking through the city streets towards the Forum. Minutes later, Perquet had dressed in a simple training uniform —it modeled the ones that the Hunger Games tributes of the previous year had fought, and died, and one won in. Walking into the Forum, everybody's eyes turned to hers, even Tomella's, who was standing near the stage with the rest of the eighteen-year-olds.

Nobody was going to stop her, Perquet reminds herself. All she had to do was be loud, and be heard; it would be even better if she was reaped, but that was quite unlikely; she never took tessarae; with an upper-class family, better than all these assembled Plebians, there was no need to do something like that. Perquet didn't even bother listening to the longwinded lectures and the typical video which boomed loudly; she was standing near the speakers, and it unfortunately blasted into her ears. "And now...for our female tribute." The man made his way across the stage, his gold nails floating through the slips. Oh, please, let it be me, let it be me, Perquet hopes, closing her eyes tightly, and then opening them, feeling like a fool for the strange action, "—Perquet Valley!"

"I volunteer as tribute!" Perquet hears another voice shout, several voices in fact, but she cuts her way across the crowd, and runs onto the stage before any of them can take her place. She sees her parents in the distance giving her approving glares; for a moment, Perquet wonders if this is what she wants, or what she has been brought up to realize.

"Well, I reckon," the man said; up close, he was much scarier looking, though with her six feet of height, Perquet was a good five inches taller than the man, even though she was quite sure he was wearing some sort of genetically engineered shoes which made him appear taller, all the way from the Capitol; oh, how exciting. "Now, for the male tribute..." Her attention didn't go into a daze; all she knew is that there were a few people who shouldn't have been reaped. Like that guy with a gladiator name who had nearly crushed her when she was thirteen years old, or that twelve year old boy who was a certified killing machine. "Kai Gladius!"

They shake hands, and for a moment, Perquet feels afraid when Kai approaches her —after all, he was six feet and three inches of pure muscle, with the typical sea blue eyes of an Upper District member. All the details she knew about him was that he dated this girl, Milah Jones, but now their love was probably doomed, star-crossed even. He looks vicious enough, vicioius enough to kill her. Nevertheless, she stares him down with a tight grip in their handshake, lets go quickly, and gives a winning smile towards the crowd. After all, she was Perquet Valley, and she was going to win. They might as well remember her.

DISTRICT THREE

Kick. Stomp. Push. Pull.

The commands echo through Ashley's head as she makes her way down the field, kicking and screaming as she goes; nobody was carrying her away, but it felt as though all the energy that she had consumed through those Capitol drinks and bars earlier that morning were of no avail. It wasn't one of the first times that a product from the Capitol went wrong, but there was no reason to question the government, who made people go missing all the time, bodies found years later. A wiry looking boy stands in front of her, probably not older than thirteen years old and he winces as the soccer ball makes contact with his shinbone and he flies into the grass, falling to the floor —Ashley would have felt bad for him if he wasn't the enemy team, a travel soccer team from the Woods region of the District.

Against common knowledge, District 3 and all of the other Districts didn't just exist within the Capitol-mandated electric fences, which were barely on, and if they were, it was during the evening hours when curfew had passed over; some people lived in the Woods, some people lived upon the mountains, but they were all citizens of Panem, nevertheless. She focuses her attention towards the goal, and performs a bicycle kick mid-air as the ball goes shooting through the net, and her teammates clamor around her, surrounding her in a group hug; it smells like sweaty uniforms and mud stains, which was pretty much home, at least for Ashley.

Everyone was hanging out on the vast green hockey field, which was surrounded by thick woods; the grass was always greener on the other side of the soccer field, filled with wiry frames continuously opting out of the game to use their inhalers. There were more nurses and doctors on the field than there were players, but it made sense; today was the Day of the Reapings, but for District Three, it was also their soccer tournament. Brushing the sweat that fell onto her cheeks and dribbled down her chin, Ashley Renee walks towards the bench, sitting down when the coach demands that she take a break —she had been playing for at least an hour, already, and the day had just begun.

There weren't many players, today, and Ashley understands just why; most of the soccer players who were actually good and trained were between the ages of twelve and eighteen, just like her, and were spending the day with their family members and friends, knowing that any day could be their last. Of course, district three did have some victors —a lot more than the outlying districts, in fact, but they couldn't ever match up to the Career districts that surrounded them.

Sometimes, the tributes from District Three were invited into the Career Alliance, but over the years of watching the re-runs, Ashley had learned that it was just a trap that nobody should fall for anymore; they were killed within a day, easy victims, almost as if they had lit a fire in the night. Technological value was the only important thing about the third district, and Ashley was sort of sick of the stereotype. "You're going to have to go home, Ash," Coach Byron announces, ticking off something on the clipboard.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she retorts, crossing her hands and placing one of them on her hips.

"You've got a caller," the Coach replies. "Those girls that used to do soccer with you?" The names echo throughout her head —Bailey, Emma, and Emily; the four of them had once been seriously, the closest of friends, but not anymore. They meet up in the coffee shop, in thirteen minutes.

Ashley feels out of place in her soccer gear, but it doesn't seem to matter; only Bailey's there, the rest of the girls must have ditched, because after all, Bailey was the nicest out of the four of them, each of them had their own labels; that was one way to say it. Emma was the vicious one, Emily was the intelligent one, and Ashley was the sporty one; not, really, but then again, thinking back on it, it wasn't as though they had known each other that well, if labels were all that mattered.

She finds Bailey sitting in one of the empty tables, waving goodbye at a taller looking boy. Her dark hair has been made lighter over the years, blonde highlights in the back and strongly reeks of chlorine from the several hours of swimming that Bailey participates in —Ashley remembered that they had all been on the swim team, together, when they were younger, but childhood was meant for things like play and they were all much older now. She was wearing a frilly black lace top that extends down to mid-thigh over a pair of aquamarine skinny jeans, ratty sneakers replaced by platforms; Bailey looks up from her phone. "Come on, c'mon, Ash!"

Dragging Bailey along with her by the arm, she finds herself pulled all the way to the Town Square. Most of the other districts, especially the Career ones, have a fancy Forum, but it was almost as if District Three couldn't afford something as nice as the normal types of Forums, with their sculptures and busts honoring the Capitol, almost in a godly sort of reverence as if the people of the districts were the worshippers, and the Capitol was filled with gods and goddesses. The Town Square was already filled up with most of the typical-looking candidates; "We're going to be late!" Bailey echos, dragging Ashley backstage. "If we're not there, and they can't find us, we won't be Reaped."

Bailey looked older than her thirteen years, but then again, even Ashley, who was only twelve, looked as though she was fifteen with the bags under her feeble looking blue eyes, not as fluorescent as they had been at a younger age. "This isn't going to work," Ashley whispers. They were going to get caught. She just knew it; and Ashley's hunches were usually right, at least from her knowledge and experience. She could see the assembled crowd from behind her hiding spot; Bailey was crouching down beside her and she recognized the familiar faces of her parents as they argued with the Peacemakers, who must have been insisting that they reveal the location of their daughter —for a moment, Ashley wonders if she could take the risk to show where she was, but it would ruin everything.

"Close call," Bailey whispers into her ear when one of the Capitol's Avoxes goes backstage to turn on the typical movie, which played every year, new footage being shot in the annual Victory Tours, something that was plain mocking to all of the losing Districts. The idea of the Victory Tours was to emphasize how these people were under the protection of the Capitol, and these were who you should try to be—at least that was what Ashley had heard.

"Ashley Renee, is the female tribute!" The words echoed through her mind, and she felt numb for a moment —she was twelve, yes, this couldn't be happening to her, this just couldn't. Before she knew it, Bailey had pushed her through the curtain, and the crowd started clapping, as if this was all a show. To them, and to the Capitol, it probably was, however with their fickle minds and deadly threats. "The male tribute is...Bose Clapburn!"

Ashley winces outwardly and inwardly —Bose Clapburn. He was that gambler from down the street; Ashley had heard enough about him, the criminal boy who had killed thirteen people last year with two rods, along with the help of his brother Claus, who was more of a Peacemaker type, however. Though, she was from the middle class rank and he was one of the lower class, she was officially petrified. There was no way that she was making it out of the Games alive. "Happy Hunger Games!" The overexcited voice announces. Happy Hunger Games, indeed.

DISTRICT FOUR

She likes to pretend that this day was like any other day —it really wasn't, but Waverly de Lune was always one for pretense and games—, so around midday, she ends up by the river when the sun was beating down on her half-bare back, the top covered only by her caramel highlighted hair. She sits by the water, feet dangling in as she catches a whiff of burnt something; perhaps it was the fish that her father had brought in earlier. It didn't exactly look so good, but times were hard and the family had to manage by. Though she was only sixteen, Waverly likes to pretend that she was ship captain in training, just like her father would have been if he hadn't have gotten into that accident when he was thirty, fifteen years back; instead, Frost de Lune was now a fisherman, but a skilled one.

In Waverly's district, people could be longliners, trawlers, canners, ship captains, deckhands, fishermen; nevertheless, because she lived in the wealthier part of town, Waverly spent most of her childhood doing nothing but learning how to be able to hold a trident, as she wasn't strong enough to actually wield one of the lethal weapons, but knew how to manipulate ropes into fancier notes for nets, and the shows that her father put on. She enjoyed the art of people-watching; from the corner of one hazel, under the sunlight - gold, eye she could see the flustered young woman was covering a mop of frizzy, yet curly hair underneath a grimy grey beret which looked like it had fallen into the sea —over and over again, and the woman hadn't bothered to dry it. She was motioning frantically to the girl next to her, obviously much younger but dressed much better with professional looking attire; perhaps, it was a business deal.

"Hey, kiddo!" her father yells, from the ship; he had a slight accent from the South; when Waverly was a child, her father had gone traveling with the rest of his crew. "You're gonna help your old man today?" A smile leaps across Waverly's lips, turning into a grimace when she sees the Forum in the distance, a reminder of everything that was going to happen that day, though she wouldn't be reaped —her father had paid extra, almost like a bribery to the Capitol to take away her slips.

Music pounded in her ears as she jumps down into the sea, her clothes becoming drenched into the cold water, but for a moment, Waverly feels free and though her heart was pounding louder than her ears, it was freedom. She just wants to let everything out; Waverly rips off the earrings that her mother had insisted on her wearing daily —they were the real gold ones that her mother had bought from the Capitol, on a family trip last year when Waverly had won the scholarship by getting the top score on a standardized test; the earrings came along with a moonstone necklace, that was supposed to protect her from harm. Waverly wore it everywhere.

Waverly pulls out the fake white carnation flower that decorated her signature style, a fishtail braid, something that the District's very own stylists had come up with, modeling the traits of their own district and combining the fashion sense of Panem's center. "Waverly de Lune —get out of that water. Now!" Please, please, seriously let this be a joke. "What are you doing in there; you don't understand, anything, do you child?" It was her mother, with the same obnoxious loud voice like usual.

"Coming, Mom." Waverly climbs out of the water, holding onto the poles and waving a goodbye to her father, who didn't look the slightest bit as if he didn't expect this; it was bound to happen at one point or another. Waverly was already sixteen years old, a proper young District 4 lady, and she had to start acting like that —sooner rather than later, according to her horribly eccentric mother. "Can't I just enjoy myself, for one day?" she emphasizes, drying herself off with a towel.

Sapphire de Lune, her mother, sighs. "No, honey, you can't enjoy your life anymore. I know that you want to have fun, but those are for children. Do you see any sixteen year old or any young lady, here?" Waverly doesn't even have to look around; no girl her age in their right mind would spend the day by the sea; she isn't the typical District Four girl however, and nobody, especially her mother, was satisfied with that. They just want her to be the stereotype, the perfect daughter that Waverly knew she could never satisfy. Sure, her father and mother had worked hard so that she could get here, but they didn't get to choose what life she led.

Did they? According to the Capitol, they probably had every right to choose their daughter's lifestyle —from what she consumed in the morning, a breakfast usually consisted of a spinach, cucumber, and carrot juice, to what color her nails were painted, a light hazel that went well with her skin tone. Her mother dragged her along to the costume shop, near the middle of town.

Sapphire's Savvy Looks was one of the things that Capitol Weekly had declared hawt rather than Grow Books' nawt.

Waverly's life feels like something out of a movie, the kind that didn't ever have a happy ending and where the heroine was suffocated to death, or just lived the rest of her life obeying the rules, always knowing that this wasn't the type of life that she was born to lead. "I don't understand what you're trying to do, Mom—"

"You're going to be beautiful!" her mother announces, waving her hands excitedly as she ushers all of the customers out of the store, interrupting her daughter's thoughts. Within hours, she had been converted into something that she expected a clown would look like —none of her friends had eccentric mothers who would act like this, dressing their daughters in clownish makeup that basically concealed all of the good features they had, dressing them literally in a Cinderella costume.

Making her way to the Forum five minutes later, Waverly feels childish waving the magic wind for good luck, her mother having left earlier to get good box seats, as if the Reapings were the best reality show to watch. She had watched reality shows at a younger age, and had been disgusted at how people found it amusing that people were killed —even she had been interesting watching it, just for a while, until people started being killed (faux, of course), and the gore was described at length, as if everybody in the world should enjoy things like that. The only part of the costume that Waverly enjoyed was the silver chain, a good luck charm.

"Welcome, welcome," the younger lady huffs, striding across the stage in a low-cut dress, "—to the 100th Annual Hunger Games!" Loud applause comes from the crowd, but Waverly merely rolls her eyes; a chill goes down her spine when she feels that everybody's eyes are on her, but they aren't. "Your female tribute is,' she takes a long breath, onyx fingernails plastered to sticking slips, but she finally pulled out one. "Waverly de Lune!"

Waverly makes her way to the stage, shoved by the Peacemakers and ushered by the approving glances of her parents, though her father looked a little disappointed that his bribery hadn't managed to work. She knew that this would be happening at one point or another —unlike the people of District 1 and District 2 she wasn't overjoyed at the result of the Reaping, but she wasn't horrified either. Maybe she could win and then her mother would stop complaining about what a disappointment she was —yes, that sounded like such a good plan. It wasn't like she wasn't professionally trained, or anything like that; note the sarcasm.

"And, your fellow male tribute is," - someone in the crowd lets out a scream - "Niall Blake!" Somebody in the audience lets out several screams of excitement, and there was a lot more applause for Niall than there had been for Waverly. She had never seen or heard of the boy before, but looking at his chiseled seven foot frame, Waverly realized that coming back, not in a casket might not be so easy —it wasn't going to stop her from trying, however.

DISTRICT FIVE

They had called her out of the hospital for this. The Silvius Preserve wasn't exactly a hospital —yet, Bena Larykn liked to imagine so. Flashbacks jolted her mind every now and then, and emotional breakdowns and flipping tables full of drinks and food was a normal routine in her life; it just brought her more attention, the reason why she had gone to the Preserve in the first place. It wasn't her choice, but her parents; on the day of Halloween, this holiday that the Capitol allowed only some of the select Districts to participate in, she had been asked to take care of her younger brother Selenium. To this date, Bena wasn't sure what exactly had happened.

All she knew that one moment her brother was taunting her about this boy that she liked, and the next moment, he was lying on the floor, cold and lifeless with something horrible foaming out of his mouth. Bena had tried to run, but there was nowhere to hide; her parents had come home an hour later, and had found Selenium's body in the closet, one of the places where she had tried to hide his body, but it was of no avail. She eventually blurted out the truth, and within a few days, Bena's parents had found a place that could keep her in a straitjacket for life without attracting too much attention to harming the family name.

After all, that's all that mother and father cared about, preserving the family name, and pretending, pretending that everything was still perfect. Sometimes, they would invite her home for parties, saying the only reason why she went to the Preserve was for anorexia —the only suitable reason was an eating disorder, apparently, and she was lean enough to pass off like that. "You're going to be taken to the crowd, and you will be under handcuffs at all times."

Bena had been guarded by the same people since she had been admitted to the Preserve, six years previous to the current date; she had nearly been ten then, and she was sixteen now, but for her, it was almost as if nothing had changed. She was still that little girl with anger problems that she was six years ago. Somehow, the Preserve was supposed to help her solve her problems in a collaborative environment but the closest people that Bena had tried to make friends with were actually trying to use her as an alibi so that they could have an escape route mapped out —they were supposed to take her with them, but she was just dead weight.

"Okay," she replies, numbly. After all, Bena had put up the excuse of being in a coma for twenty four days after she had been admitted to the Preserve and whenever anybody came to visit her, she went into hysterics; her visiting privileges had been taken away, and then she was alone, just the way that she liked it.

But, now, they were taking her out again. District Five was in outrage about it, but there were at least thirty other people within the ages of twelve and eighteen from the Preserve who had to be taken out, yearly, because of the Reapings. That much, Bena knew; it was Capitol-mandated, and nobody argued with the Capitol, whether they were the strongest Victors in the world or weak children who just wanted to have fun and play, letting the day spin away with new presents. The light blinded her delicate eyes and Bena requested for the sunglasses to place on top of her eyes, with the shades —in a way, the sunglasses allowed her to be shielded from the public, who would like nothing better than to hang her from a pole and throw tomatoes and other forms of rotten fruit with her, like a family bonding day.

In fact, one of the family's, the Ashtons, Bena remembers, had tried doing so but had been stopped by the police force. The Reapings would be taking place in a few minutes, and for a moment, Bena wishes with all her heart that she would be admitted into the Games —she would be perfect for the type of person that everybody would think was innocent, and then days later, they would realize they had been hunting all the wrong people; she was insane, and insanity was ruthless.

Ruthless was what Victors were described as, according to some of the Capitol books Bena had been allowed to read over the years. Her brown curly hair was kept under a grimy blue beret for the day, her bright blue eyes shining but glazed over, a pretense, of course. She couldn't wait to be in the Games.

The pleasure of throwing axes at all of their slimy little heads and carving her beautiful name into their skulls; now, that was the dream that Bena had been having ever since she had killed her brother. And, oh, she would be honored for being the Victor, honored very greatly and then everybody would like her and she wouldn't be shunned at the Preserve anymore —and you have to feel sorry for her, somehow, if you have heart, because all Bena ever wanted was to be loved.

They announce the male tribute first that time, for some reason, almost as if they're defying the Capitol, and then they call her name. Bena smiles widely as she walks up to the stage, not hearing the complaints from the people in the crowd, saying that mad children and nutjobs shouldn't be allowed to go in the Games, but then she takes the microphone from that Capitol nutjob, the real maniac. "Listen, bitches. You sent me to the Preserve, so I'm going to kill your children. Toodles!"

The Capitol woman doesn't even bother to let her shake hands with the male tribute, Volkner Jax, a smallish boy who looked anything but manipulative, and she was restrained once more; still, Bena had gotten her point —and charismatic smiles— across, and that was all that mattered, for now.

DISTRICT SIX

Her life has gone by in a blur, that is the life of Bianca Mave. She sits upon a pedestal on the stage, reciting a poem to the crowd below, and then the world switches and she's hearing voices at night and throwing up everywhere in between, because the voices will never end; nevertheless, Bianca was aware that she was late to the reaping. Of course, there was a chance that being late to the Reaping could affect her family's standing because the Peacemakers, would, for sure, arrest her for this minor offense, but her parents would weasel their way out of the situation. Bianca squeezes her muscular frame through the crowd, and makes it to the front of the stage before the female name is called.

Earlier that day, her mother had presented her with a bowl of cantaloupe, a delicacy that wasn't usually served for family members; though the family was rich, they didn't treat their children so. The sweetness still stuck into her mouth, and into the mechanical wiring of her teeth, bolts and screws and wires all meshed together to resemble the Capitol's form of what they called braces but her family couldn't exactly do what the Capitol could do.

It made sense, however. Everybody in Panem, all the citizens of the districts, even the Career ones, relied upon the Capitol —that's what made the country strong. At least that's what Bianca had been taught from a young age —that perfection, and following the rules was everything.

She cold see her parents from the top; they were dressed casually, like all of the other parents, but her older looking mother looked more out of place with the faint traces of mustard on one hand, from the subway shop she and her husband operated at the outskirts of town. Though they were one of the wealthier people in the District, or at least, for now they would be, the Maves didn't dress like they were able to feed themselves well enough; in fact, the only fact that showed their status were the diamond rings that all of the females of the family wore on their left hand; Bianca had lost hers a few hours ago, and felt a little saddened by the fact, but it was just a trifle. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Bianca Mave!"

Never mind, she thought to herself. Nevertheless, Bianca couldn't help but feel as though this had been her fault, in some small way. Maybe if she hadn't been late then she wouldn't have been reaped —it was just like, though; nothing could change what had happened. She faked a smile; because she might as well put on a good show for the crowd while she died, shook hands with Adam Song and resisted the urge to start bawling. That wouldn't be right, though.

If she was going to die, it might as well be perfect.

::

Sorry for not updating quickly, but a lot was going on; I made a few videos (Dance Academy, Tara/Christian), and updated a few other stories that I didn't update in a while, and then I just forgot about this. I'm really sorry about that; I promise to be a better update, now, :) Approximately 1/2 of the reapings are done! Which district was your favorite this time around? Which tribute? Sorry that I only focused from the girls' point of view's, but next time it will be the boy's; I'll do individual ones next time, instead of combined districts. Also, sorry if your tributes aren't how you expected them to be. This chapter is around 7,000 words and beta-read by the ah-mazing sparkle filled hearts —go check out her stories, too!

Remember, submitters, each (signed & anonymous —if you wish to be a sponsor, you can be anonymous) review counts as a point! I recommend stacking up your points early, because you'll need them routinely during the games. Also, each follow counts as a point.

clara

(are you excited about districts 7-13? leave me a review! they motivate me :)