District 3

0900 hours Eastern Standard Time


District 3 Female: Aria Kovaćić, 17


In my dream I kneel on a high bough of a tree, just below the canopy of the forest. In my hands I hold a crossbow fashioned from a deep red wood. Far below me is a small figure half hidden in the shadow of the very tree in which I sit. As I watch, the figure swings onto the lowest branch. A thin beam of sunlight weaving through the trees illuminates its face briefly, and I see that it is a boy several years younger than me, perhaps thirteen or fourteen.

The boy continues to climb. I force myself to stay calm. With trembling fingers I slide a steel tipped bolt into position and aim the crossbow at the ascending figure. Within moments the crosshairs are dancing over his face, which is now cast again into shadow. For a moment I hesitate. He is only a child. He did not ask to come here any more than I did.

But I know what I must do.

I pull the trigger. My aim is true, and the bolt embeds deep inside his forehead. The boy falls from the tree with a scream of agony. He hits the ground head first. His necks snaps on impact, and a distant cannon sounds.

For a moment I only stare at the body splayed out on the ground. Then I tear my gaze away and climb even higher, keeping the crossbow tucked securely under my arm. The hovercraft will appear momentarily to pick up the boy's body, and it may attract others to the area to pick off whoever killed him.

And indeed it does. Less than a minute after the hovercraft flickers out of sight, I hear the sound of approaching footsteps. And there they are: the Careers, three of the most fearsome tributes in the ring. They search the area, talking loudly amongst themselves. I do not dare to move a muscle. Between the three of them they carry two bows. I might be able to take out one of them, but before I could get on to the second an arrow would be sure to find its mark in my head. If they see me, I am dead.

My heart is still pounding when I awaken. Adrenaline pulses through my veins, the paralyzing fear of the arena still upon me. It is several seconds before I take in the familiar lamp beside my bed, the pictures tacked to the wall to my right. It was just a dream; I am at home, I am safe.

But then I remember what day it is, and the fear returns. Today is the reaping. I only have six entries, as I have taken no tesserae, but what should one of those six be chosen?

In the weeks before each reaping, my sleep is always plagued with nightmares. For this I blame Victoire, my aunt, who is always ready with a story from her Games to whisper over the fire after the sun creeps down the horizon. Her stories are terrifying, but somehow I can never bring myself to withdraw from the room, nor even to look away from her haunted eyes. They always take on a singular gleam when she speaks of her Games, though it has been nearly a decade, and I know that the years will do little to dull the memories.

I pull myself out of bed and draw aside the curtains of my room's only window, and gaze out at the street below. Most mornings there is a brief rush hour wherein the streets are crawling with people, from adults to young children. For several hours after, the streets are all but deserted, with the majority of the district's citizens working or at school. But the morning of the reaping, few have cause to venture outside. An elderly woman with a frayed rag drawn over her head stands near the corner of the street, but no others are in sight.

In the distance is the large clock mounted over the Justice Building. It is just after nine. The reaping isn't until eleven forty-five, nine forty-five Capitol time. The reapings are spaced out throughout the day, with one beginning every fifteen minutes, for the benefit of Capitol viewers. The first is at nine fifteen Capitol time, the next at nine thirty, and so on.

I let the curtain fall back over the window and go to my closet. I don a pair of jeans and a shirt with the red Panem seal emblazoned on it, and then head to the kitchen.

Father is leaning against the kitchen counter, eating a piece of toast. His gray eyes fix on me when I enter. He mutters a 'good morning', but nothing more. Even those two words are more than I usually receive from him, though. Most days he leaves early in the morning, often before I get up. He is an important man, the head of the experimental physics department, where they produce technologically advanced weapons for the Capitol. Father says weapon making is the specialty of District Two, but Three is tasked with much of the designing.

I help myself to a piece of toast. As I eat it, my hands cannot stop shaking. When I finish, I glance over at Father.

"Is the lab open today?" I ask, my voice slightly rusty from several hours of disuse.

"No," he says, "but there won't be anyone manning the doors." He gives me a knowing look, and I smile in spite of myself. Father is hardly the most present of parents, and often it surprises me how well he knows me.

"Excellent," I say.

"Be careful," Father reminds me. "There are cameras."

"I know where they are."

I pull on my sneakers and grab my green sweatshirt from its hook beside the door, and then leave the house for what I hope will not be the last time.

Father's lab is a five minute walk from the house, in the lower middle class section of town. Only a few buildings down from it is the house of my sister, Tana. I hardly ever see her these days, and have not once spoken to her since she came of age six years ago. My family is very large, and has roots even in some other districts, and in it there are several black sheep, people who are ashamed of their heritage as a Kovaćić. They cast aside the ring bearing the family crest that each Kovaćić is gifted at birth and all but adopt another identity.

The first camera is strapped to the upper left corner of the door, and faces out onto the street. I cannot try the door without being seen, but I can see even from a several yards away that it is locked; through the keyhole is the dark shadow of the bolt.

While I cannot help but be disappointed at the revelation, I had not expected it to be that easy. I try the windows next, of which there are eight on the first level. The first is locked, as is the second, and the following five. By the time I reach the eighth, I am considerably anxious. But this is the window to the lab specializing in chemicals, I reason. If any room was to need a quick escape, it is this one.

And indeed, the window slides open at my touch. I scan the room from the outside, noting the placement of the cameras, before climbing inside as quietly as I can. No camera is fixed on the window, much to my relief, but the angle of the nearest must beam hardly two feet in front of it. I press my back to the wall and gently slide the window shut. I ease my way through the room, carefully weaving through the views of the cameras.

Father's lab is one room down. The cameras are spaced much more predictably in the hallway, and I easily maneuver my way to the lab.

In the second to lowest drawer of a white cabinet is one of Father's more famous weapons, a Sniper Rifle I have been practicing with for years. The rifle is naturally silent, so I needn't worry about any mics, but I am careful to stand across from a target not in view of the cameras. I have long since perfected my aim, but practicing has always proved therapeutic and served to calm my nerves.

I raise the rifle to my shoulder and squint through the sights. The crosshairs dance over the red center of the target, just as they did the face of the boy in my dream. I inhale, exhale and squeeze the trigger.

Bull's eye.


District 3 Male: Finian Lockhart, 15


I do not know at what time I awaken, only that my room is still pitched in shadow, and the sun's glow is not yet upon the horizon. My mind is foggy with exhaustion, but I pull myself out of bed and tiptoe down to the storage room.

I shiver as my bare foot hits the cold stone ground. I hug the wall, feeling around for the light switch. I flip it, shielding my eyes and turning away as the bright light comes to life. When my eyes adjust, I turn back to face the dusty storage room.

On a table shoved against the far wall is my latest project: a device designed to leech all the electricity from anything it comes into contact with. While such a device could be used for a number of purposes, from pranks to faulty equipment, the purpose I have in mind is considerably more ambitious. For several years now my ultimate goal has been to break free from the prison that is District Three, to escape into the wild that lies beyond the electrified fence that is the border of my world. And indeed, the most daunting barrier is the fence itself; it is always electrified, and far too high to climb over.

Well, technically it isn't always electrified. Just a few years ago it went dead for several days, and I claim full credit for the event. I had attempted to short circuit the fence, and caused a district-wide power outage. We all had to endure the darkness for a while, but it was worth it; never before and never since have I seen so much chaos and excitement in the district.

If all goes according to plan, my current project will be finished in just a few hours. Perhaps I will even be able to attempt it before the reaping. And perhaps though there will not be a full blown power outage, the frenzy from the last incident will return.

I tinker with the battery for a while, expanding its electrical capacity. The fence is very powerful, and while these batteries can store a remarkable amount of energy relative to their size, I am not positive it will be enough.

"Finn."

I whirl around. Father stands in the doorway. His brown hair is messy from sleep, and judging on his posture he is exhausted, but his eyes are keenly alert.

"Yes?" I say, stepping forward and shoving my project behind me. Father has never supported my experimentation, as it tends to get things destroyed. He was furious when he discovered I was behind the power outage.

"Here, eat this." He opens his hand and I see that he is clutching a piece of toast. From the look of it, there is even a small amount of butter smeared on it, a treat for the reaping. I notice how his hand shakes. Reaping nerves, I'd expect. They always affect him more than they do me.

I take the toast, but frown at him. "There's nothing to be worried about. Either I'll get picked or I won't. There's nothing to do about it." And if I am chosen, I will still have a 4.3% chance of victory.

Father's eyes meet mine, and I know my words haven't shifted him. We have never been close, but he would hate to lose me. He lost my mother shortly after I was born, and though he might not show it at times, losing his son would cripple him.

Then Father's eyes shift behind me, and his eyes narrow. "What are you making?"

A pink tinge appears on my cheeks. "School project," I blurt out instinctively. "Tech class."

"I see." I can tell he does not believe me, but he does not press the matter. He lingers awkwardly at the door for a moment. He opens his mouth to say something, but hesitates and shuts it again. And then he's gone.

It is after eleven o'clock that I finally finish the device. My heart thumping with excitement, I return to my room and dress in black pants and a light blue shirt, and put on my favorite black jacket. There may not be time to change for the reaping after I try out my latest experiment.

I leave the house, cradling the machine in my arms, and sprint at full tilt for the section of the fence that dips southward only streets away. Barely three minutes later I skid to a halt before the tall humming barrier. I glance around. From what I can see there are no spectators. Indeed, there is no one on the streets at all.

I carefully place the machine on the ground. I fumble for the electrodes, each of which is carefully covered with a thick rubber padding. I squeeze them between my thumbs, gathering my nerves. And then I lean forward and very carefully clasp them onto the humming wire.

There is a delay of about five seconds. In that time I scramble around and sprint away as quickly as I can. I don't know if anything will happen, but if anything does, I ought to be as far away as I possibly can.

I have almost reached the first line of buildings when it explodes. I launch myself forward, curling into a ball as I skid painfully into the ground. My heart pounds. Oh, no, not again.

I flex my arms and my legs. I am sure I will soon sport many bruises, but nothing feels broken. I turn around, still sitting, to look at the destruction.

An area several meters in diameter has been reduced to rubble. A large section of the fence has been destroyed, and the frayed edges on either side spark dangerously. The previously constant electrical hum is now an erratic staccato sound. Beyond the broken fence is a grassy plain, a plain that must not have been trodden upon for decades.

I will be the first. Still in a daze, I get to my feet and approach the ragged hole.

And then I hear them. In the distance, boots crunch into the ground in unison, coming ever closer. I turn around. Peacekeepers, at least a dozen of them. I know I cannot leave, not now. They will see me, and they will kill me. There is nothing behind which to hide beyond the fence. My head still swimming, drowning in the disappointment of the defeat, I turn and run.


District 3 Female: Aria Kovaćić, 17


It has not yet been half an hour since the district clock chimed eleven times. Soon I will have to stow my rifle in the drawer and ever so carefully take my leave. The reaping cannot be more than twenty minutes away. The prospect makes me nervous, but I know there is naught I can do but attend the reaping and see what happens.

The Kovaćić family is large, very large. We make up a good sixth of the district, I would wager. Every few years one of our number is reaped, a distant relative I have seen frequently around the district, even at school. There is a good chance a Kovaćić will be reaped this year. And it may just be me.

No. I cannot focus on such things right now. I shake my head and turn my attention back to the target. I lift the Sniper Rifle and take careful aim, moving my finger into position over the trigger.

As I press the trigger, a distant explosion disrupts my concentration. I straighten instinctively at the sound, and my shot goes wide, missing the target entirely. The bullet hits the leg of the nearest easel, which collapses with a loud crash. I wince at the sound. My eyes widen in horror as I note the nearest camera, which had a perfect view of the projectile colliding with the easel leg. There is no way the security officers will miss it.

Perfect.

I curse and rush over to the nearest window. In the distance a plume of smoke billows into the air. Factory explosions aren't uncommon in District Three, but the smoke is several streets to the north, beyond any factories. No, this explosion was at the northernmost boundary of the district. It was at the fence.

Excitement fills me immediately. What if someone managed to escape? It would be an amazing accomplishment, but more than that, the ensuing chase would be the most excitement the district has seen for years.

As I press my face against the window, a blue flash catches my eye. Security personnel, four of them. No doubt they saw the easel fall and decided to investigate. I curse again, a surge of adrenaline coursing through me. I cannot let them catch me. They would not shoot me on sight, as a Peacekeeper might, but I would more likely than not earn myself a night in the Justice Building as well as a month on probation, both of which I would like to avoid.

I dash to the door to return to the window through which I entered, then freeze, realization dawning on me. The security guards are approaching from the side of the window. It is clearly in their view, and I would have no chance of escaping unseen until they themselves are inside the building, at which point they will immediately inspect the labs.

But I have to try. I continue to the window and grasp the base. I will more likely than not have only seconds to make my escape.

The security guards reach the front of the building. Three are out of sight, but the fourth, a tall man with dark skin, stands at the edge of my vision, carefully scanning the street. The front door opens, and I hear three of the officers enter the building, but still the fourth stands sentry. I tap my fingers impatiently on the wooden base of the window. He has to go inside, he has to.

The footsteps come closer. I shoot a frantic glance at the door behind me. And still the fourth guard does not move.

Someone has reached the door. Panic seizes me, and I shove myself into a corner behind a tall cabinet. The door opens, and I hear someone enter the room. The footsteps come nearer, until they are in front of the cabinet behind which I am hiding. My heart is pounding so loudly that I am sure the guard can hear it, but I manage to control my breathing. I stand as still as I can.

After what feels like an eternity, the man moves on. The footsteps recede, and I hear the door shut. For several minutes I don't dare to move. I am sure they are still inside the building, and I am terrified they will search the room a second time. But they do not, and after a time I emerge from my hiding place and look outside. The guard is gone.

I open the window and climb outside. The street is still deserted. I exhale in relief. I've made it. I hurry behind the nearest building and from there make my way to the town square, sticking to undercover alleyways and detours behind houses.

My heart is still pounding when I reach the square. I half expect the guards to come running up the street at any moment to haul me to the Justice Building as soon as the reaping concludes. I sign in and go to the roped-off section for seventeen-year-olds, glancing behind me all the while. But they do not come, and I begin at last to relax.


District 3 Male: Finian Lockhart, 15


The reaping begins as it does every year, with the Mayor's long speech. In my mind I fast forward three years, to when I am eighteen and standing in the section closest to the stage, waiting in anticipation for my final reaping to finally be over. No more standing in front of the stage, showcased to the nation like lambs for slaughter.

"Hey, Finn," someone mutters.

I turn. It's Knox, a tall dark-haired boy who has been my friend and compatriot since we were knee-high toddlers, mostly due to our shared sense of humor and love for creating havoc. "Hey," I whisper back.

"I saw the smoke," he says, smirking. "What did you do this time?"

I tell him about the device and my latest master plan. "The electrical intake far exceeded the storage capability of the battery. If I had been able to actually measure the voltage of the fence I'd have seen it coming, of course. I knew I shouldn't have used ammonium chloride as an electrolyte. It's one of the old compounds, and you can do so much better these days of you have the money."

Knox shakes his head, still smirking. "Nice job. I saw the fence. They're already starting to patch it back up, but they're not having an easy time of it. Why didn't you run for it? Hasn't that always been your goal? To get out of the district?"

"There were Peacekeepers," I say sourly. "If I'd made for the fence, they would have seen me and shot me for sure."

Knox starts to say something else, no doubt a teasing remark, but he is interrupted by a deep, unfamiliar voice. We both turn our attention to the stage, upon which stands a middle-aged man with medium brown skin and a partially shaved head of curly black hair.

"Good morning, and happy Hunger Games!" the man says, smiling broadly at the crowd assembled before him. "My name is Gideon, and I am your new Capitol escort. I'm afraid your previous escort had to retire. Don't worry, it wasn't her choice, it was simply her time! She had been at it for a good two score years. Anyways, it's great to meet you. Now, for our tributes. It is custom to start with the girl, yes?"

Gideon steps over to the first bowl and draws out a slip. The district waits with baited breath as he returns to the microphone and carefully unfolds it. "Aria Kovaćić!"

For a moment there is silence. I crane my neck, trying to pick out the owner of the name. The Kovaćić family is the largest in the district, and they almost frequently have representatives in the Games. I know several from school, but I don't recall an Aria.

Finally, the seventeen-year-old section parts, and a girl walks into the aisle. She is of average height, though perhaps an inch or two shorter than me, and has a mane of hair rolling down her back in fiery red waves. She takes her place on the stage, her hands clasped behind her back. She is surprisingly calm. There are no tears, and no sign even of surprise. She already shows more potential than many of the tributes chosen from District Three. I wonder how she will fare in the arena.

Gideon chooses a slip from the second bowl. "The male tribute is...Finian Lockhart!"

For a moment time seems to stop. A breeze sweeps through the square, plastering a lock of hair to my forehead. Knox turns to me, his eyes wide with horror.

My lip twitches. It's almost funny, the irony of the situation. All my life I have aspired to escape District Three, to go anywhere else. And now, not even an hour after a devastating failure, I have at last achieved my goal. And it will very likely be my downfall.

A four point three percent chance, that is all. But it's still a chance. And what choice do I have? I shrug and walk up to the stage. Hopefully the district will appreciate its luck. It has been years since we had a single true contender in the Games, let alone two.

Gideon shakes my hand firmly and turns back to the microphone with a grin. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce your two tributes: Aria Kovaćić and Finian Lockhart!"


A/N: Sorry about the lengthy wait. I'm afraid updates are going to be considerably slower than for my previous SYOTs, due to my increasingly busy schedule.

What did you think of Aria and Finian? Who do you think will survive longer? Who do you hope lives longer?

Thanks for reading!