I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.
Denim Luxley, District Eight Male
When observed over any extended period of time, Denim Luxley appeared to be sliding down the razor blade of life with all the vigor of week-old road kill. And in truth, he was, though he hardly cared enough to notice, and he certainly didn't care enough to do anything about it.
The world, as a whole, either pissed him off or bored him out of his mind. In fact, his three known interests were based purely upon what few things he could tolerate: his family, making trouble, and music.
On the afternoon of the Quarter Quell announcement, Denim found himself gazing listlessly up at his ceiling whilst treating his neighbors to some duet by two washed-up rock stars, though at the time of the recording they were both still firmly in their prime. He'd received a number of noise complaints over the years from the boring old people who lived on the floors above and below, but he'd ignored them, and eventually they gave up. Peacekeepers didn't have much time for teenagers who didn't steal, murder, maim, or incite rebellion.
Of course, that wasn't to say that Denim never got in trouble. He didn't intended to break the law, but he'd ignored some peacekeeper orders that he probably should have obeyed and got into a fight with one a few years ago. They'd had it out for him ever since, and he did his best to avoid them.
He rolled over onto his side. Maybe they didn't have it out for him specifically, but it certainly felt like it from time to time.
Across the apartment, he heard the front door slam open, and amidst the shouts of men and women, he heard his younger sister cry out in panic. He sat bolt upright. Whoever it was, they'd better not hurt her.
One of the strangers screamed his name, demanding to know where he was, but in response his sister simply screamed, "Run, Denim!"
Tromping boots hurried through the main entryway and down the hallway.
He rested his back against the wall, debating the likelihood of escape. No matter where he went in Panem, they'd eventually find him. Maybe he could hide out for so long that they had to find another tribute to take his place?
Even as the thought formed, he knew it was just a false hope. If he did somehow manage to miraculously evade them, he'd probably have a firing squad waiting for him once they rediscovered him. Denim Luxley, a lone teenage boy, versus the nation of Panem? Didn't look too good for him.
Still, no point in just giving in.
Before the peacekeepers reached his door, he had flung the window open, leapt across the narrow alleyway, and landed on the adjacent balcony. He swung around to the metal ladder and slid down, hissing as the friction built up and seared his hands. He hit the ground hard and took off down the dark alleyway, sifting his brain for a potential escape route, trying to piece every relevant bit of information he remembered into an actual plan. The street ahead let out at a local park, and just beyond the park was a run-down textile mill that hadn't been active since before he was born. The doors were locked, but one of the windows was completely blown-out. It was a long-shot, but better than nothing.
As he took off toward the main street, the concrete at his feet erupted in tiny bursts of superheated dust, and bullets ricocheted off of the brick walls. They were shooting at him! Apparently he wasn't so important if they were willing to potentially kill him.
From the window above, a peacekeeper shouted, "Citizen! Remain where you are!"
Like that was gonna happen.
He turned the corner and sped down the street, arms pumping and legs burning. He hadn't run this hard in a while.
A black van came hurtling through the intersection a few hundred feet ahead, clipping a produce stand and sending bits of fruit skittering across the street. Denim tried to course-correct, but they anticipated it. The back doors flew open, and four more peacekeepers hopped out of the vehicle, two for each end of the van, and all of them pointed their guns at his head and chest.
He slowed to a trot, then came to a halt and leaned his hands on his knees, panting.
"Denim Luxley," the tallest one said, "you have been reaped. Do not resist."
Denim straightened with a sigh. At least he'd tried.
Damian Ridge, District Five
Damian knocked on the door again. "Mom?" No response. "Mom, we need to talk."
A long pause followed, but still she said nothing.
He rested his head against the door and closed his eyes, wishing that she would make even the smallest effort to understand. "I'm not going to change my mind just because you won't talk to me."
A string of curses erupted from inside the room, followed by tromping footsteps, her voice growing louder, and he jerked backward as the door flew open. Before him stood a tiny woman in her late forties, face streaked with mascara and nails bitten down to the quick. Judging by the color of her face, he could've probably cooked an egg on her forehead if he were so inclined.
For a moment, he briefly reconsidered his situation. Perhaps he should stay. Both parents expected him to take control of the family business, that sprawling and nebulous beast that had financed their big, expensive house and their nice, shiny things, though it had also driven his father to an early grave less than one month prior. Stress-induced heart-attack, the doctors said. Too much work, not enough play. Wrapped up in the cutthroat hustle and bustle of District Five, the Ridge family knew all too well that money, for all its varied uses, could not buy happiness. Or, even more importantly: contentment.
The pursuit of more power, more money, more everything - it had killed his father. Warped his mother. It wasn't the kind of life Damian wanted, wasn't the kind of person he was. He wanted quiet. He wanted peace. He wanted the right to use his life as he saw fit, and whether he met success or fell into the deadbeat rhythm of mediocrity was his own business.
"How dare you!" his mother shrieked. "Your father's dying wish, just to see his legacy continued! And you, you, you-" She paused, choking on the words before she could sort them out. "You ingrate!"
"It's not my responsibility to continue a dead man's work," Damian said, knowing how awful the words were before they left his mouth. "I'm not the person dad was. Living his life will just make me miserable."
"You think he wasn't miserable? You think he didn't sacrifice for us? For you? Look around you, Damian! You think the world just gave us these things? No! We had to fight for every inch of what we have!"
"And yet you want more. You and dad. Nothing was ever enough."
"That isn't the point!"
"No," Damian cut in, "that's exactly the point." He drew a sullen sigh. He had forgotten himself. "I didn't come here to yell at you. I just… I don't want it to be like this. I don't want to leave things this way."
His mother's lower lip quivered, but she showed no sign of yielding. "Then maybe you should stay."
She slammed the door, leaving Damian alone in the hallway. Anger flared up, but he forced it down. No use in letting his emotions get the better of him.
He left her alone and walked to his own room, where a neatly packed suitcase sat on the edge of his bed. He thought of all the places he could go. District Ten seemed like the best bet since it was more rural than suburban, and from what he heard, the people were nice. They'd done well in the past few decades, so not much poverty, either. Of course, Four had always held a certain appeal, too, what with the ocean and all. He could live on the beach, or somewhere near it. Both of those options appealed to him far more than running an empire.
Of course, he'd have to wait until tomorrow to leave once and for all. Travel between districts had been restricted for everyone between the ages of twelve and eighteen, at least until the reapings were over. Apparently they didn't fancy hunting kids all across Panem and back.
There was a knock on the door, interrupting Damian's reverie, and he perked up. Maybe his mother had changed her mind? He dismissed that idea almost as quickly as it arrived. She was probably just going to yell at him some more.
He opened the door, expecting his mother and preparing for another tongue-lashing. What he found was much worse.
A woman in black, flanked on both sides by two peacekeepers, smiled at him with measured passivity. "Damian Ridge, you have been reaped for the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. Please come with us. Resistance will be met with force."
"Fine," he said, surprised by the control in his voice. The woman nodded, and he reluctantly followed.
So much for self-determination.
Brand Coil, District Thirteen
The desk lamp flickered every now and again, though it posed nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Brand certainly wasn't going to spend money on a new one.
If she had any money, of course. Which she didn't. But even if she did, she wouldn't waste it like that.
The last few bits of metal weren't fitting together all that well, but she'd make it work. She always had. It was her specialty: fixing all the little things that meant nothing in the long run, while fucking up anything that actually mattered.
Not many kids in Thirteen dropped out of school by age fifteen, mostly because they were content with living the life their parents had, so long as they had job security and what meager happiness they could scrape from the bones of routine. But fifteen-year-old Brand had other plans. She'd make a difference. She'd be better than the rest of them. She'd be free of District Thirteen's shackles, and she'd make a name for herself as an inventor, or maybe something else equally respectable.
Brand had wanted to be so many things, but she hadn't wanted to do the work. She didn't want to listen to the teachers, or her parents, because in her dark little heart of hearts, she thought she was better than them. Brand Coil, inventor extraordinaire. She didn't need any instructors because she knew everything already.
But natural talent only went so far.
Which was why eighteen-year-old Brand found herself stuck in an entry-level monitoring job at Reactor 12, and would likely stay in that position for the rest of her life. Unless she ran off to another district, which was entirely possible. She'd thought about it a lot.
Running away wouldn't solve anything, though. The scenery would be different, but her problems would remain the same because she was the problem. It was something she'd only admit to herself. She was the one who dropped out of high school. She was the one who started drinking too young - though she'd managed to kick that habit a while ago. Not without doing irreparable damage to her relationship with her parents, though.
There were so many things she wanted to change, but she had no idea where to start.
So instead, she fixed up little devices and sometimes made a few of her own. Machines were easy. Unlike people, there was no gray area, and the problems were very easily addressed.
Except with this little piece of shit.
She wrestled with the screwdriver, trying to force the coiled wire and metal casing into place, but eventually she gave up with an exasperated sigh. No use. She'd made the shell just a bit too small to hold the machine's guts.
Strange. This was the first time in a long while that she'd made such a stupid mistake on a project. Perhaps it was due to stress, what with the reapings and all. Or maybe it was just the usual anxiety that came with being a general failure.
She picked up the little contraption, no bigger than her fist. It belonged in the basement, where nearly all of her creations went regardless of whether they worked or not. She'd actually managed to sell a few, but when it came to vending her wares, or interacting with people in general, she didn't have the best luck.
As she set foot on the first basement step, a knock sounded from the front door. She turned, eyebrows knit with concern. Her parents wouldn't be home from work for at least another few hours, and they usually had house keys anyways, which meant that it either had to be Dexter or a stranger. Neither prospect seemed very appealing, so she ignored it.
There was another knock, this time more urgent. They were persistent, whoever they were.
Brand didn't get the chance to ignore them again. Something smashed against the door from the other side, and the wooden barrier whipped open, revealing a small crowd of dark, masked figures standing on the front stoop. Distantly, Brand remembered that the Fourth Quarter Quell had been announced only hours before, and the President had mentioned something along the lines of "strange people come to take you away".
One of the peacekeepers surged forward, gun held level with her chest. "Brand Coil, you have been chosen-"
She screamed and chucked the machine at the guy's head before scrambling toward the back door. It struck the front of his visor, leaving a tiny white chip in the otherwise uniform iridescence, but the man barely seemed to notice. He was in front of her before she'd even cleared the living room.
"Ma'am, either you comply, or we make you comply."
More peacekeepers circled around her, and she knew there was no way to permanently escape tributehood unless she was prepared to die within the next few seconds. She was not.
Slowly, she held up her shaking hands. "Okay."
They fell upon her like wolves.
Charne Valle, District Zero
Soft twilight clung to the western horizon, leeching light from the sky, and a warm breeze blew through the meticulously manicured garden.
Charne sat in the gazebo at the edge of the lawn, picking at her toes with a faint, resentful frown. The nitwit pedicurist she'd seen earlier that week hadn't known the difference between raspberry and mauve, and her nail polish definitely showed it. Charne was a winter, not a summer, and she'd have to get the color fixed before she met up with her friends tomorrow.
"No, Isca," she said, rolling her eyes at the girl on the other end of the phone. "Charles hooked up with Lucinda, but Juno was okay with that because she was already cheating on him with Ophelia and Xavier."
"At the same time?"
"Yeah. Juno thinks they have an open relationship, but from what I heard, Charles isn't so keen on the idea. He's just a pig and wants to hook up with everyone, while having Juno remain faithful to him." Charne breathed a self-important sigh. "If I were her, I'd break up with the hypocrite."
Isca scoffed. "Charles has always been like that. It's not like Juno didn't have any prior warning."
"True." She sat up on the plush cushions, remembering what she'd learned that morning. "Isca, I have something to tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else, okay?"
"Okay…"
Charne held her breath for a few moments, giving the information a sufficiently dramatic introduction. "You know about Yvonne Orwell? The valedictorian from last year?"
"Yeah," Isca answered. She sounded dubious.
"And you know about Jordan Velasquez, right? That one really hot senior on the water polo team?"
"I know of him, sure. What about them?"
"Apparently, Jordan got Yvonne pregnant, and they both want to keep it, so her parents kicked her out! From what I heard, they're both going to District Ten to live with Jordan's uncle."
Isca gasped, and in the ensuing silence, Charne smiled to herself. She knew that Isca couldn't keep a secret for even ten seconds, but pretending that a bit of gossip was supposed to be kept under wraps automatically made it more valuable. Knowing all the dirt before anyone else made Charne important, and it was fun to talk about all the skeletons in everyone's closets, even if she had to embellish a bit here and there. Without it, life wouldn't be nearly so amusing.
"How did you find out about this?"
Charne shrugged, even though she knew Isca couldn't see her. "A friend of Jordan's brother. They're leaving in five days."
"Wow." She could sense Isca searching for words. "I mean, good for them, I guess? At least they have somewhere to go."
Charne almost answered, but a light went on in one of the upstairs rooms of her house, and a figure passed in front of the curtains. She sighed to herself. "Ugh. Isca, I think I have to go. My mom just woke up from her nap, and she doesn't like waking up to an empty house. Talk to you later."
She hung up, pocketed the phone, and hopped to her feet. Electric lanterns lined the path that wound through the garden, casting a soft, creamy light across the smooth paving stones and surrounding plants. A breeze played with the hem of her dress, rippling the white fabric, and she brushed her hair behind her ear. The day had been unusually placid. No school, since reaping day was always considered a national student holiday. But even then, the overwhelming silence was a bit unnerving.
Even the birds were quiet today. Charne spent a lot of time in her backyard, and the birds were only quiet was at night, during especially inclement weather, or when someone else was nearby.
The thought had barely crossed her mind when a chill ran up her spine. Had there been a sound?
She whipped around, eyes darting through the trees, searching for any unusual figures that didn't belong. But she saw nothing. Seconds ticked past, and she continued to see nothing.
With a strained sigh of relief, she turned back to the house.
The faceless, black-clad figure clamped a hand over her mouth before she had time to scream. An iridescent obsidian visor obscured the strangers' features, and she only saw her own terrified reflection, wide-eyed and ghostly pale in the semi-darkness of twilight.
Evelyn Arellis, District Eight
Terryn stared down at her hands, face grim and pale under the harsh kitchen lights. "I'm scared."
From across the table, Evelyn didn't look up from her meager dinner. "As you should be."
"People will die, Evelyn. In the worst ways imaginable. Doesn't that..." Terryn's face folded into an uncomprehending frown. "Don't you feel anything?"
"People have been dying since forever, Terryn. And the Hunger Games aren't exactly new. If anything, you should be happy, since this is the last one." She reached over and gave her young roommate a patronizing pat on the head. "Lighten up."
The inherent hypocrisy of that statement wasn't lost on Evelyn, and it brought a derisive grin to her lips. She may have had all the levity of a dead cat, but she wasn't about to give the government power over her personal feelings. Shitty or not, it was her life. She'd be happy just to spite them.
A dog barked from a few houses down, and Evelyn pulled the curtains back from the window to catch a glimpse of what the irritating creature had noticed. She watched a shiny black car drive down the street, sliding under the yellow streetlamps like a liquid shadow. It came to a stop at the opposite curb. The windows were tinted to hide anyone inside, and Evelyn frowned. She waited for a few moments, but nothing happened. No one moved inside the car.
Anxiety prickled in her gut, but she let the curtain fall. It was probably one of the neighbors being stupid. There was a lot of that going around in her neighborhood.
A few minutes later, as she was just starting to forget about the car, someone knocked on the front door, and her blood ran cold. Statistically speaking, since Terryn was only twelve, they were probably here for Evelyn.
Terryn gave her a wide-eyed, pleading stare.
"I'll get it," Evelyn said, voice suddenly hoarse. She cursed her own weakness.
Forcing her hands to remain steady, she unmatched the lock, and let the door creak open. Two peacekeepers stood in the hallway, dressed in military body armor, and Evelyn couldn't help but notice the subtle totalitarian flair in the cut of their outfits. These weren't just normal peacekeepers. They meant serious business. She decided that their opaque faceplates really completed the look.
The one on the left inclined her head. "Evelyn Arellis, you have been chosen to represent District Eight in the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. Please come peacefully. We are authorized to meet resistance with any force necessary."
Evelyn sighed.
Hysteria was starting to build in her core, but it was far enough down to hide underneath her well-practiced shell of sardonic non-emotion. She would keep it together. She always did.
But as the peacekeepers came closer, in light of the situation, her brittle, crystalline fear shone with a facet of utter exasperation. Everything she'd worked for, all of the little pieces that she'd scrounged up and tried so hard to protect, none of it mattered. They'd called her paranoid for being afraid, and yet here was her proof, breaking into the dingy apartment she had turned into a home and ripping her from one of the few people she could call an acquaintance, let alone a friend.
She'd fought for everything good in her life, and she'd always known that she was never more than a step away from the maw. Now, she was close enough to count the teeth, and a tiny part of her smiled with grim satisfaction. She'd expected it, and with the peacekeepers' arrival, she'd been vindicated.
In the long run, though, she'd rather have happiness - or the closest thing she could get - than petty vindication.
Margery Kappel, District Seven
The house was quiet. At least, it was supposed to be quiet.
Margery shuffled out of her room and down the hallway, running a hand through her hair and blinking to clear the bleariness from her eyes. She glanced at the small clock hanging on the wall, hands and numbers illuminated by the yellow streetlamp outside the window. It was much too early for someone to be making a ruckus.
Maybe it was just Noelle wandering about, creating as much noise as humanly possible while getting a glass of water. The girl was too young to always take other people into consideration. Sometimes she forgot, and accidentally waking everyone up at four in the morning wasn't totally unheard of.
Margery had nearly rounded the corner to the kitchen when a hand darted out from a doorway and pulled her inside. Another hand, cold and dry, clamped over her mouth, stifling her cry of panic.
"Be quiet. They might hear you."
It was just the twins. Darya gaped at her, lips trembling, and Jonas hung back in the shadows, eyes wide and strangely bright in the darkness. He'd been the one who pulled her inside the room.
"Who might hear us?" Margery asked, keeping her volume low to play along, though her fear was quickly turning into irritation. Jonas oftentimes pulled stupid pranks like this, and sometimes managed to rope Darya and others into it, too. They were supposed to be in bed, not prowling around the house and scaring the pants off of their older sister.
"The peacekeepers," Jonas whispered, voice oddly calm. "They're here to take one of us, I bet."
The blood drained from Margery's face. "What?"
A floorboard in the hallway squeaked, and Darya screamed at the top of her lungs. The lights went on, and Margery staggered back, her night vision overwhelmed by the sudden brightness.
"Margery Kappel," said one of the peacekeepers, "we request that you come with us. Resistance is ill-advised."
The doors along the hallway all slammed open, and she heard her parents and her siblings screaming at the peacekeepers, demanding to know what was going on. Darya's scream had awoken them, and now everyone, including Margery, was panicking.
"Citizens," said one of the peacekeepers, "we request that you remain where you are. We are here for Margery Kappel, and her alone."
Her eldest brother, still one year younger than herself, rushed forward without thinking. "Like hell you are!"
The peacekeeper simply sidestepped. His baton cracked against Roan's shoulder, and her brother screamed. Her father tried to intervene, perhaps to protect Roan or maybe pull the boy to his senses, but another baton flew from the mass of black-clad figures and struck the back of her fathers' knees. He fell, teeth bared and eyes watering.
Her mother, sisters, and two youngest brothers stood at the end of the hallway, the younger ones crying, the older ones in shock, and her mother looking as if she were about to collapse.
"Stop!" Margery cried, putting herself between the men and her brother. "I'll go! Just leave them alone!"
The batons froze. All eyes turned to her, sympathetic and unfeeling alike. A painful beat of silence sunk into the cracks of the room and froze there.
Her father pulled Roan to his feet, and her brother looked at her with a mix of pain, resignation, and disappointment. A little hurt, too.
I stick my neck out for you, and you just give up?
But he understood. There was no way her family could win against multiple well-trained peacekeepers. And even if they did, there would be more. There would always be more, and they would keep coming until they got what they wanted. And they wanted Margery.
She couldn't put her family in that sort of danger, especially since anything they did would just delay the inevitable or, worse yet, get someone killed.
As the peacekeepers swarmed around her, she offered Roan a regretful smile. She'd rather have him angry than have him dead.
A curtain of black fabric fell over her eyes, and she lost sight of her family, her home. Her everything.
They dragged her through the house, and she struggled to stay upright as her feet scuffed across the old carpet and hardwood flooring. They thrust her through the front door and into the muggy, early summer night. The chorus of crickets was nearly deafening, and somewhere nearby, a car engine sputtered to life.
Tears streaked down her face. In less than five minutes, they'd stripped her of everything.
She hadn't even had the chance to say goodbye.
Owen Blackwood, District Four
The television blared in the living room, casting blue light across his father's expressionless face. An anchorwoman from Zero sat behind a white table, her dark hair done up in a tight bun, and she gave a smile so tight that Owen was surprised her face didn't split open.
"Pardon the interruption," she said, her voice impossibly serene. "Citizens are reminded that physically interfering with a reaping can result in heavy fines or jail time. Assault on a peacekeeper carries a maximum sentence of twenty years. And now, your regularly scheduled programming."
Two flashy newscasters appeared on screen, debating about the potential tributes already gathered from other districts. They brought up a few eye-witness accounts and missing persons reports that had been filed within the last twenty-four hours, and the guy on the left claimed that they knew for certain who four of the tributes were.
These stupid gossip shows would find any way to reign people in, even if it meant capitalizing off of a tragedy. If it wasn't the violence, it was the suspense. If it wasn't the suspense, it was the mystique. After all, "The Last Hunger Games" had a bit of a ring to it.
Owen rolled his eyes and headed for the door. He needed to clear his head.
From the kitchen, his mother called, "Where are you going, Owen?"
Her voice shrilled with worry, and Owen winced. He knew she was just scared - after losing one son to the Game, she had every right to be. Perhaps he should have been scared, too, and he was. But not nearly as much as he should have been.
"I'm going for a walk," he said, leaning forward to catch sight of her as she bustled around the kitchen. "I'll be back whenever."
From the couch, his younger sister said, "Have a nice time."
He smiled at her in thanks, and headed out into the bright morning sunlight.
Stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, he stared down at the ground. He didn't know if the District Four male had been reaped yet, but he knew his chances weren't great. He'd taken out a lot of tessarae for various reasons, though mostly in order to sell the supplies for money. He'd lost count of how many times his name would be entered into the reaping bowl this year, but it was somewhere north of two hundred. His family wouldn't have had enough to make ends meet otherwise.
He veered left onto a small road that would take him to the ocean side. After a minute or two, he heard a car approaching, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched a black van with tinted windows drive up alongside him and match its pace to his. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
The passenger window rolled down, and an empty voice asked, "Owen Blackwood?"
He stopped, eyes fixed straight ahead. The car stopped, too. Could he lie? Could he fight? Could he flee?
No. They would catch him. They would win.
Slowly, carefully, he turned to face the shadowy figures in the window. "Who's asking?"
They ignored his question and took his response as confirmation. Or perhaps they knew all along, and had only asked him as a formality. "Owen Blackwood, you have been chosen to represent District Four in the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games."
He thought of running. To where, he didn't know. Anywhere that wasn't here.
As if reading his mind, the voice said, "Son, you have two choices. You can comply, or you can resist. Compliance will result in no immediate harm to your person. Resistance, however, may result in lethal force being used against you. If so, we will simply find another tribute to replace you."
Owen sniggered. It wasn't much of a choice if he was fucked either way.
"I guess I'll comply, then," he said, giving them a dead smile.
The vans' back doors swung out, and two people hopped onto the street, faces hidden by black visors. They were both taller than him, which was fairly unusual considering he was nearly six foot five. One held up a black bag, and Owen's gut clenched as they stepped forward and pulled it down over his face.
"Really?" he asked, almost more exasperated than afraid. He'd already agreed to comply. Was the bag really necessary?
Hands wrapped around him, pushing him forward, and he stumbled in the general direction of the van. They threw him inside, and the doors slammed shut behind him.
Though he had made no move to resist, a needle pricked his neck and sent a wave of ice water through his veins, numbing everything in its path. He drew a sharp breath, cringing as the fear swelled, then slowly died down, smothered by the haze of nothingness that rolled across mind. Desperately, he tried to hold onto the anger, the fear, anything at all. But it all crumbled in his grasp and he fell into the blank space.
Polly Brady, District Three
The water shone dully under an overcast sky, but compared to the way it had looked only a few years ago, it was absolutely gorgeous. A few of the more zealous locals had decided to implement a clean-up effort for the neighborhood waterways, and by all reasonable measurements, they had been quite successful. The expanse of water before them was rather like a pond, but the residents of District Three, having rarely seen anything that could remotely qualify as non-urban, took pride in referring to the now-clean patch of reeds and water as a lake.
Regardless of designation, Polly liked it because, contrary to the rest of the district, this place offered a sense of calm. No demands, no one telling her she wasn't enough. It was nice.
Cayla leaned her elbows against the metal railing and gave a theatrical sigh. "But if you moved to District Eight, you'd be around other people who shared your interests."
"That's the problem, though. If I go where all of the fashion designers are, not to mention all of the textile tycoons, I won't be able to find a job. If I stay here, at least the market isn't flooded with factory-made clothing. I just can't compete with that." Polly's mouth quirked with a facetious smile. "And I don't really know how you'd live without me."
Cayla rested her chin on her fist and rolled her eyes. "I'd find a way."
This time, Polly allowed herself a real smile. She hadn't been able to speak so freely, or even just be herself, around anyone else in a long time.
Most people in District Three didn't want much to do with her. She didn't quite have the typical mindset, and she certainly didn't have the typical skill set. Very few students decided to pursue a career that deviated from computers or technology, let alone math and science in general. But she had forgone all those things in favor of fashion and clothing design, which she was actually good at. And that was how she'd met Cayla, her first real friend in maybe forever, so she'd taken it as a sign that things all worked out in the end.
A car pulled up in the parking lot behind them, but neither of them turned to look, too busy were they in enjoying each others' company. A sudden wind picked up, sending ripples across the formerly placid lake. Car doors opened and slammed shut, and boots clacked across the cement walkway.
Two hands fell onto Polly's shoulders, and before she had time to scream, another one clamped over her mouth, and another around her waist. They dragged her away, toward the car in the parking lot.
"Polly Brady, you have been reaped for the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. We demand your compliance."
After a split-second of uncomprehending shock, Polly wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to let them know what sort of terror these people were putting her through, but she couldn't. Not yet.
Cayla stood alone on the sidewalk, hands hanging at her sides and strands of hair whipping around her narrow face, watching them take Polly away and completely powerless to do anything. She looked so small, so delicate. So sad.
Falling backward into the darkness, rough arms grasped at Polly's body as voices commanded her to remain still. In her panic, she kicked out, and her foot connected with the side of someone's helmet. A woman shouted, and a harsh string of curses quickly followed.
"Restrain her!" someone cried, and the van doors slammed shut, closing Polly off from the only world she'd ever known.
Even as the strangers held her down and shot her up with whatever drugs they had on hand, Cayla's tear-streaked face hung at the forefront of Polly's mind.
This couldn't be happening.
And that concludes the "reapings". Let's be real, this was so much more fun to write. If everything stays on track, there will be six more of these 8-POV chapters, and then we have the bloodbath.
So, I'll try to keep to at least a weekly Sunday schedule, but I have midterms this week so it might take a bit longer. Y'know, school and life and stuff.
Thank you so much for the reviews! Each and every one fills my authorial heart with joy.
Now, since this is the first chapter where I start showing off the tributes, here's my "review policy" (I put it in quotes because otherwise it probably sounds pretentious, and who knows maybe it still does): Reviews are not the be-all, end-all deciding factor of a tribute's placement. The story itself is much too important for that. However, I do take reviews into consideration when I'm stuck between two equally good tributes with equally viable personalities and plotlines. But really, as long as I know what you think of the story (i.e., as long as I know you're still reading and still invested), I will be happy. Letting me know through PMs and Skype are just as good as reviews. (A big review number is very nice, though.)
Anyways, thanks for reading, and hopefully I'll see you in a week.