Emiliana Vincere (16), District Three Female-POV
If you had a secret to hide, incredibly dangerous and life threatening, it would impact your choices on where to live. Panem wouldn't be one of them, or even near to the top ten on the list; common sense determined that it would be that way. Being hidden meant that, well, people wouldn't be walking down the street with their poodle and be able to see exactly where you are. It wasn't like this would be news to anyone, as the print of the invisible newspaper it had been typed on would have surely worn out by now; the Capitol understood that as well. The very reason that they forced us to all live out in the open, to come to a public Reaping each year, so they could correctly observe us all; ingenious yet simple. But of course, Papa didn't take that into account when starting his own family, and as of such, continuing the Vincere mafia.
Straightening up against the limestone bricks, the rapidly degrading state of my house always seemed to catch my attention, but believe it or not, there aren't many smiths available on call in District Three. Papa's connections all across Panem couldn't have changed the condition as quickly as they were able to do anything else; instead, the money went towards hiring the guards. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a burly local watching my every move, and yet maintaining a purely casual appearance; nothing I do anymore is unseen, ever since Gran Mama pointed out how much more involved I had become in the family business. Of course, her intention had been to pull me out of it, to free me before its grip settled upon my soul; at least, that had been what she said at the moment.
"Figlia!" a familiar voice beckoned, probably coming out from a window, "Vai dentro. E 'troppo freddo oggi."
Another thing came across my mine, pulling out the wry smile that Isis, my best friend, claimed meant that I'm up to no good. Well, if that is true like she says it is, you can't possibly blame me; it isn't my fault at all that I'm stuck with a bunch of criminals. And as Papa as contacts all across Panem, I'll never be able to live a normal life without being recognized as a Vincere; I've been told too often that I'm a carbon copy of Mamma. Pushing away a strand of caramel hair, my pondering mind returns to the fact that my mother has chosen to scream Italian in broad daylight, which no doubt would draw suspicion from a couple of the onlookers; Nimmo Finaca, along with his harem, actually stop to stare with stupid grins. They all want to see the Vincere girl, the one who doesn't quite fit in, and discover just what makes me tick. Well, let them, though if Papa finds out, I daresay they won't be around too much longer; that's life.
"Ma la mamma, la mietitura inizierà presto!" I countered, huffing slightly when Data Jewels, a particularly preppy girl, starts mimicking the language; she sounds more like an alien from outer space.
"Ora! Sii veloce! Gran Mama si richiede!" Mamma commanded before slamming the shutters closed.
Sighing slightly, I don't give the idiotic kids across the street another thought until the guard comes back into view. He wears a particularly wide smirk, probably forced as to not look as if he's working for my father, well, working for us; teenagers in District Three come to us for part time jobs every now and then. Huffing slightly, it's only when Data starts squealing about seeing more of the 'Vinclear crazies' do I decide to do something about her. With that dark brown hair and bewitching green eyes, it's not surprising that she had been added the the collection that Nimmo walks around with day and night; at one point, he'd even invited me to join them. The very next day, he'd come to school with a swollen black eye and blamed it on his sister, mentioning something about her ugliness causing him to trip; I'd pitied the deceased girl ever since that day. Nimmo hadn't even cared the very day that she died, and Isis reported to me all about how the Finaca family had been having troubles ever since- not that it surprised me in the very slightest.
"You want something to laugh at?!" I shout, catching the attention of the arrogant boy and the ditzy girls, "I'll give you something to laugh at!"
Reaching into my back pocket, a box filled with tiny white packages was revealed. Papa had gotten them for me on his last mission, calling them, I believe, works of fire! No, no…it must have been fireworks; I would have thought that I'd remember a title like that when the time came. According to Papa, these were nifty for pulling little pranks, which he encouraged as long as one of the many guards accompanied me; it practically ruined the entire purpose in my mind, so I hadn't chosen to do any of those particular deeds as of late. But now, one of them indeed was watching me, probably calculating my very next move; could he possibly know what I was about to do? Ripping the package open, in which 'Snaps!' had been written in bright yellow writing, the lack of mumbling coming from across the road didn't bother me in the very slightest; they'd be shrieking in just a couple moments.
Holding the little white items, which resembled Hershey's Kisses (a chocolate that Papa sometimes brought home, claiming that our ancestors would feast upon them), part of me doubted that this would actually be able to work. Yet I knew that it would, as anyone that lied to Papa would meet a gruesome end; the maker of these, last I heard, was living pleasantly in the slums of District Five. Though a niggling suspicion that these would turn out to be a joke continued to plague me, even as I let the little white droplets fly, and listened to the crisp crack that sounded open them connecting with the ground, almost dangerously close to the ballet flat clad feet of the girls and Nimmo. All of them shrieked as if in unison, their wide eyes darting around wildly.
"Witch!" one of them jeered, somehow managing to scowl while screaming her head off.
"I knew those Vinclear's were, like, wacko! Let's go, like, now Nimmo!" Data requested, pouting while she pressed herself against the marble shop wall.
For some reason, our ancestors who arrived in District Three decided that the middle of town would be the perfect place to live. Knowing their love of food, it was probably so they wouldn't have to walk to the bakery as much, though I couldn't be too sure about that; I wasn't alive at the time. Flashing a smile towards the guard, who appeared to be torn between scolding me and laughing at the plight of the kids across the street, he evidently resorted to the latter; Papa's probably going to fire him for that though, I reflected sadly. Oh well, someone else could give him a job, and the employees tend to not last very long, unless they're Vincere family; some of them probably want to wed me, that way they won't have to worry about losing their source of food.
"Molto bene!" I cheered, giving a slight bow before going back inside the house; Emiliana: one, Nimmo and the girls: zero.
The door closes behind me, muffling the sounds of shrieking and cussing from the street. Dark halls, lined with candles and portraits are all around, casting shadows left and right. A quiet tapping sound if present, probably from Papa or Mamma messaging one of their contacts; if it's the latter, I truly do pity them, as Mamma is in charge of eliminating all threats. Most of the time, she's rather effective in her job, yet like the Careers in the Hunger Games, Mama does tend to enjoy it most of the time. A crude portrait of Gran Mama hangs on the wall, staring down at me as if with scorn; peculiarly, I'm reminded of the looks Nimmo's little gang had been giving me outside. Instantly, my hand flies up to the scar on the forehead; the event that gave it to me had been the reason that Gran Mama hadn't wanted me to continue in this business.
But as the Vincere family code, there wouldn't be anything that would allow me to escape this. When they learned of my near-death experience, in which I learned what it truly meant to die and come back to life, Papa hadn't been all too pleased. Mamma had scolded me for not following instructions to a key, even though each of us knew that it wasn't so. Merely, the entire reason behind it is simple; I'm an only child and someone is going to have to lead the Vincere mafia when Papa is gone. According to them, that person is going to be me…
Mika Lizt (13), District Three Male-POV
Constantly, the sound of the soft ticking clock plagues me, forcing my thought towards the direction of the Reaping. Plastering on a fake smile, to try and focus on the positive facts of life, methods of escape and plans for what I could do if I had been picked runs through my brain. There wasn't any time for me to think about it though, as I'd promised Bollo that I'd run the shop for her; any minute, someone would rush in here with a pre-Reaping disaster. A jacket torn in half, a dress with juice spilled all over the front, or something that desperately needed alteration; just about all of those would happen before the clock finally struck noon.
"Oh my gosh, you've just, like, got to help me!" a girl squealed, drawing my attention up from the piece of arithmetic homework I'd been working on.
Well, it wasn't really arithmetic, as there wasn't anything mathematical about rabbits with machine guns. Doesn't really matter to me though, as I just try to enjoy life; I just try to forget all of the horrors that had befallen me. The sympathetic glances that follow me around the District, pitying me from a distance, had long since grown tiresome. Everyone knew that my parents had been thieves, idiotic ones according to the town's gossip mill, who had gotten into more than they could have possibly handled. Funny thing is, not a single image in my mind remains of them; Bollo's the person I think of when they talk about family at school.
The girl lets out an irritated sound, something guttural probably, but it's enough to make me drop the lead pencil that I had been holding. Yellow strikes down against a weary and tired oak desk, bouncing up and down as I scramble to catch it. Fumbling with it, all I manage to do is drop it; it rolls onto the dusty hardwood floor as the girl eyes me distastefully. I smile nervously up at her, hoping that I hadn't ruined Bollo's business because of this; there wasn't a mean bone in my entire body, so doing any harm at all would keep me up all night until I figured out a way to fix it. But from the way the brunette narrowed her eyes, I doubt that there's anything that I could have done; clearly, this may end up being a dead cause.
"I said," the girl repeats slowly, as if I'm not able to understand her, "that you, like, need to help me. There's, like, no way that I'll be, like, you know, mangled looking at the Reaping…You, like, here me?"
"Heard you the first time," I said, smiling sheepishly, "Ms….Well, Bolo is out running errands. I'm running the shop for now."
"Oh…when will she be back?" the brunette said snobbishly, staring down at her manicured nails as if they're the most fascinating thing in the world.
Already, I can tell exactly what she's thinking, one of my few talents. If this kid is in charge of the shop, Bollo must have been short on help. Doubt that he's good enough…I sighed slightly, wishing that the girl would just tell me what she needed mended so that she would leave; I've never been good with company. Even with Bollo, the one person that I felt close to, the way that I had felt with Netalia. We'd been dating, but having a reputation of the District Three weirdo doesn't exactly help keep a relationship blossoming; in the end, Netalia dumped me for being too much work. Clearly, I remember that day, when the sun shined like all would be well; her brother, Web, had cast me a sympathetic look before leaving. It always made me mad when people acted like that, as I could so clearly tell that they weren't sorry for me; they were sorry that I didn't turn out the same way as then. That I would barely speak to any of them, and if I did speak, like now, the words usually felt forced and required; Bollo's shop couldn't survive if I didn't make myself communicate.
Opening my mouth to answer, the tinkling bell of the shop door draws my attention. Clothes are all around, hanging off of shelves and racks, with pins and needles covering each available surface. Only one spot, off in the dusty right corner, remains untouched by the disaster. Bollo kept it there, since she knew that the clocks had a way of calming me, a way of getting me to open up to her, if only it was a little bit; it felt awkward that she would do things like that for me. She'd bathe me, feed me, and give me a place to sleep at night if I asked her, probably even adopt me if I felt the inclination to do so, but I didn't. Owing people is a horrible feeling to have, so each piece of food that I put down my throat I try to earn in some way, through a variety of small jobs; big tasks weren't my favorite, as I tended to hate putting time into things.
"Actually, I'm back right now," the newcomer stated, tucking a loose strand of gray hair back into her bun, with a yellow tape measure hanging loose around her neck, "What can I do for you, Ms. Jewels?"
The name rings a tingling bell in my head, akin to the shop one, as I remember that the girl's name was Data. She'd been enemies with Netalia, so I don't feel all too bad about leaving the shop early; according to the grandfather clock that stood in the corner, the Reaping would be starting soon. Having no street smarts at all, it would be best if I left to go right now, even if the place was only around the block. Glancing through the window, on which 'Bollo's thread and needle- clothes repair' was inscribed in looping cursive letters, a lot of the children had begun to poor out into the streets. Judging from the weary eyes of some of them, they had to begin their journey to the Justice Building yesterday, as they lived on the outskirts; in District Three, that area was known as the Brackets. Most of the areas in our District played off of arithmetic, so some kids from the Brackets liked to call town the Variables. Corny, but most people would rather think of that than the possibility that it could be their very last day in District Three.
Pushing the door open, I vaguely hear the girl complaining about scorch marks, and Bollo telling her that there wasn't anything that she could do. Part of the guilt comes off of my chest, knowing that there wasn't any way that Data would have been able to pay Bollo at all; there wasn't any reason that I should feel bad about the minor screw up. Smiling a bit, I join the crowd of kids drifting towards the Reaping, blending in with the taller ones and dwarfing some of the fifteen year olds; five feet and seven inches, yet I doubt that I'm going to stop at that number. Quickly, I smooth down my messy black hair after they've stuck the tiny needle in my pinky finger, tearing open the flesh slightly for yet another year. It puzzled me a bit, as I knew that they liked to keep the Tributes in top condition, yet they harmed them right before the Reaping. Too weird and crazy for my thirteen year old brain to comprehend, so I tried to remain docile.
Eventually, Morginth Trin, the District Three Escort, finally stepped onto the stage and launched into his prepared speech. Morginth didn't look anything like he did last year, with a couple gray streaks running through his hair; I had a feeling that he wouldn't be coming back as an Escort next year. Some new person would be entertaining the District Three pair. Someone, hopefully, who thought that orange and blue, clashed together as much as they really did; he clearly didn't share that view, and obviously didn't mind the idea of cross dressing at all from the mini skirt he wore. Though I didn't have to see it for long, as I shut my eyes during the video, not wanting to watch all of the violence; too many people had been hurt by the Capitol, but at this rate, I doubted that it would ever end.
"For the ladies, we'll have…Netalia Nex!" Morginth called out, glancing off into the thirteen year old section.
I didn't know how to react; I felt numb and awkward. This must have been the way Einstein felt, when he discovered that his daughter, Lieserl, had died from scarlet fever. All I could do it watch, mumbling things under my breath; everyone around me took a step away, fearing that I would lash out. Though this had never happened to me before, it was something that they had learned to expect from madness; Viper Elias, our most recent Victor, had finally been cured of whatever mental disorder she'd gained in the arena. Still, the vicious looks that she sent out into the crowd, filled with hatred in scorn, were enough to make most of the people in the District feel otherwise.
"I Volunteer!" a girl with honey blonde hair called out, "My name is Emiliana Vincere and I Volunteer!"
Netalia let out a sigh of relief, her soft brown eyes shining with relief. Small tears come out of the corner of her eyes, as she stares gratefully towards Emiliana. The girl's making her way towards the stage, leaving astonished whispers and murmurs in her wake. Data, the rude girl that visited Bollo's shop, grins triumphantly at her; it almost feels like a repeat of last year's Reaping. The year that Malaya Finaca Volunteered for the Hunger Games, and from what we could tell, it had been for no reason at all. Quite honestly, I'd been among the one's silently cheering her on, hoping that she would be able to win it. In a moment, someone just like Jitz would be Reaped, a tiny voice told me; it would be someone broken beyond repair.
"And for the fine young man…Mika Lizt!"
Instantly, my face goes as white as a sheet. This couldn't have been happening to me; it just couldn't be. Shifting around, a wall made out of people, angry and loathing, blocks every route of escape that I could have taken. Eyes stare towards me, condemning me to this fate, the fate that they would pretend to be sorry that I had received. But they weren't truly sorry; everyone just cared about themselves. That's what the Hunger Games were all about, right? Being the last one standing is the goal of it, and remember the girl from District Ten, the way she talked during her interview, it reminded me of something important. The only way to win this is to treat it the way it really is; to treat it like…
A game.
Italian translations (in order of occurrence):
"Daughter! Go inside. It's too cold today."
"But Mother, the Reaping will start soon!"
"Now! Be quick! Grand Mama requires you!"
"Very good!"