The Fight Is In Your Blood
.: Goodbyes I :.


Gypsy Vanner, Seventeen / District Ten Female

All I want to do is visit my mother and ask her for advice. It's been years since I've visited the cemetery — I'd stopped after Duke Mroziks had followed me there and tackled me over her grave, ripping open my denims and demanding to know what Mama would think of her beautiful little girl now — but in this moment, I'd give anything to talk to her for the last time.

When I die, she's going to hate me for this, for allowing a stupid lad to taint our memories forever. She won't be there to welcome me with open arms; in fact, she'll probably send me to hell. She was always one for holding grudges.

Maybe she'll forgive me, though, because Lord knows she loved Daddy. Everyone says they were perfect opposites: fiery and cautious, optimistic and realistic, intense and calm — fitting together like loop and spoke.

It's possible that Mama will see me and think of him; we have the same coarse red hair and bright blue eyes. But I act like she did, or that's what all the neighbors say anyway. I guess that's why Daddy practically worships me: I'm replacing my mother.

I wonder when he'll come to say goodbye, and what token he'll bring. There are a few necklaces he could give me, including the lucky horseshoe he made himself. I'm hoping for that one; it has a picture of our entire family. I was an infant, while Mama and Daddy were about a quarter of a century. It's the only photo I have of all of us.

But, and not altogether shockingly, Lipi Arnold is my first visitor. She's my best friend, my sister. We've known each other since we were in cottons, and maybe even before. I have some hilarious memories of pulling tablecloths out from underneath dishes of beef, hiding in the corners of the paddocks to scare the scat out of the ranchers, kissing each other at age thirteen so that we'd have experience when we wanted to go out with the boys.

That was two months before Duke assaulted me; since then, I haven't even considered making out with anyone. (Well, I've kind of thought about that time I pressed my lips against Lipi's at the field, but that doesn't count. Our attraction isn't romantic. It's so much more than that.)

"Lord, Gypsy." She runs the last few steps, then engulfs me in a bear hug. We tumble onto the overstuffed couch, cuddling against each other. Lipi is warm in all the places I'm cold, and feeling her arms around me is the best thing in the whole entire world. "Why did you push me out of your way? You know I would have volunteered for you!"

Maybe she would have, maybe not. Good intentions don't mean a thing during the clampdown. But I'm thankful nonetheless, and I smile. "Of course you would have, hon. But I'm glad you didn't."

Sure, I wish someone could take my place in the arena. But allowing Lipi to sign her own death sentence just to save me from mine . . . even thinking of it is abhorrent. And now that I'm a tribute, I feel like it was always my destiny. My entire life, culminating in this moment of truth.

Kill or hide.

Survive or die.

Win or lose.

"Gypsy?" Lipi's shaking my shoulder. "Hey. I've only got twenty minutes left with you. Talk to me."

I nestle my head on her shoulder. Her blonde waves brush my nose, and I can't help but grin. "Well, good news: your Reapings are over. Now you're free to marry Talone. Love to the perfect couple."

"Love to the perfect couple," she scoffs. "Please. The only nice thing about Talone is his money, and there ain't even enough of that. His brother spends it all at the canteen."

This is nothing I haven't heard before; in fact, it's Lipi's favorite topic. I can never tell where she and Talone stand — one moment they're between the sheets, the next one's kicked the other onto the streets — but I do know that her parents expect her to wed him before the year is out.

"You could run," I suggest.

"Where?" she asks bitterly. "Into the slums? South to the desert?"

I can't bear the thought of Lipi alone, or starving, or bleeding to death from a rape or robbery. "Would Miranda's folks let you stay with them until you find an apartment?"

"No. Mama's already told everyone that they're not to harbor me. If I leave, I'm on my own."

"I'd let you live with me," I tell her quietly. It isn't like there's room in the loft I share with Daddy, but I wouldn't mind splitting a mattress with my best friend. We did it often enough when we were younger.

She isn't facing me, but I can hear her smile. "I'd rather marry you than Talone," she murmurs.

My answer comes easily. "Same here, Lipi."

She turns towards me now, opening her mouth to say something. For the first time in years, her pale eyes are completely serious. "I — "

"I'm sorry, Miss, but I must ask you to leave." The Peacekeeper who enters the room has the gentle twang of District Two, so similar to ours. It makes me think that he'll take good care of her.

Lipi blows one last kiss at me as she leaves the room. In response, I tell her that I love her.

I'm still wondering whether she heard me by the time my father bursts inside.

"Darling." He extends his arms, wrapping me against his muscular body. "This wasn't supposed to happen. After your mother . . . how could they take you away too?"

The thought hasn't even crossed my mind that I'm the last person he has. Yeah, there are guys he hangs out with at the canteen, and his farming buddies, and sometimes we're invited to dinner at the Arnolds' house (though that's becoming rare now that they're trying to shove Lipi out of their home and into Talone's). But I'm the only one who loves him.

There is a wet patch on my shoulder and I know he's crying, small sobs that he's doing his best to mask lest I break down too. It would be terrible to be seen weeping on Capitol camera; I won't be a tribute that shows weakness.

Instead, I embrace him tighter. "Daddy, I'll come back to you. You know that. All I need is some rope and I'm the Victor. Simple as that."

He looks at me for a long moment, biting his bottom lip.

"Spit it out," I tease, faking a grin. It's what I always say when he suddenly grows quiet, and not uttering the words now will just convince him that I'm a dead woman walking.

"The Careers," he sputters, hiccuping. "Trained . . . and deadly. It's horrifying. Seven with their axes, and Three with their technology and mines and bombs. You don't watch the Games, Gypsy, you don't know."

That happens to be true. The odds that I'd be chosen were just so small that I never concerned myself with staring at the blood covered screen. During mandatory viewing, I'd stand in the back with Lipi. Sometimes we just wouldn't go.

"There's nothing we can do," I reply, making an enormous effort to match my usual flippant tone. Then, so I won't have to do that anymore, I whisper, "Did you bring my token?"

A flash of panic crosses his face, and for a second I feel ridiculously selfish that I asked him for something as trivial as a District token when I'm about to leave for my death. But then he pats down his pockets and finds the small plastic box. "How could I not, sweetheart?"

Sure enough, it's the necklace I wanted. I don't open the pendant, but I run my index finger over the carved metal. "Thank you, Daddy."

For the last time, he slips an arm around my shoulders. "I love you, Gypsy. You're amazing, beautiful, and so much like your mother. Draw your strength from her, princess."

"I will," I promise, and lean against him for the four minutes I have before the Peacekeeper arrives once more, this time to escort my only parent away forever.

I watch the door for a long time, wondering if I'll have another visitor. I'm prepared for Duke to break in, or even one of the girls from school to wish me goodbye and good luck. But I'm alone.

Sighing, I sink into the plush couch. There are knots in my thighs and lower back, but there's no point in stretching. They'll come back the second I catch sight of my military sergeant of an escort.

For some crazy reason, I'd been convinced that I was invincible.

I'd thought that I would survive the Reapings, that normal girls didn't get picked for the Hunger Games, that there was no reason for me to be chosen. Almost every year, a descendant of some famous District rebel — Joanne Mythe (who seemed to have more children than is humanly possible; half the people here claim to be somehow related to her), or Dennis Roan, or Alexandre Amwitz — is selected. I'm not one of those; in fact, I'm ashamed to admit that most of my family fought on the side of the Capitol. Whether it was under their own conviction or if they thought it would earn them points with their oppressors, I'm not sure. I don't care.

But it doesn't change the fact that this is why I'm a tribute: I had the audacity to assume I was safe.


Crest Remington, Fifteen / District Five Female

My sister tells me that I'm not good at managing my feelings, that I bottle everything up and then I explode when someone confronts me. It's because I deal with too much stress, she says. Over the years, I've figured out that it always begins the same way: a nauseous stomach and a throbbing pain in my head as the world starts to spin.

I collapse onto the couch, wanting to curl into a ball but afraid that I might roll off the cushions if I do. Plus, what if someone comes in and sees me shaking in the fetal position? They're going to think I'm weak, and I'm not.

At least, I hope I'm not.

I'm fast, and I can find an alliance. I've never been the best at dealing with people, and most of the time I'm too introverted to keep friends for very long, but I'll be able to force that down. I'm going to have to, if I want to survive. District Five hasn't had a Victor in a decade, and the only reason Venture won was because her allies protected her.

I think of finding a friend during training, someone to rely on. Another girl who would be willing to deal with me when I give her shit, who would help me through my fears. And in return, I'd put on a happy face and carry out the kills that they'd be afraid to. And then, when it came down to it, I'd stab them in their sleep. To other Districts, ones that are proud of their so-called honor, that might be considered cowardly. But in Five, any way out of the Hunger Games is a good one. We aren't exactly known for our fair play here.

The door crashes open against the wall. Deena's face is a mixture of pain, relief, gratitude, and pure anger. Her expressions have always conveyed exactly what she feels. When she speaks, her voice rises about an octave with each word. "Why would you volunteer for me?"

Is this the moment to tell her the truth?

I could.

After this, there will be no more time.

But I don't have to.

Deena falls down next to me. We don't usually sit this close; she loves cuddling and hugs, but I prefer cool smiles from across the table while we're mostly busy with something else. And my choice of friendship always wins, because she doesn't want to argue with me. Which is funny, because she fights with everyone.

"I have to talk to you about something, Crest," she says suddenly, and her voice is uncharacteristically soft. "When you volunteered for me, I realized." She takes a deep breath, and this is the first time I dare to think that whatever the hell I'm feeling for her, she's feeling too. "You're . . . "

I blurt it out before she has to. "I love you, Deena."

She jolts backwards. "What? What?"

The familiar sear of panic cuts across my stomach and up through my heart. I've done something wrong, I've embarrassed myself, I'll never get over this as long as I live. (Not that I'll be alive for more than another two weeks, or anything.) "As . . . as a friend, I mean. I love you as a friend." Each stammering word hurts as it escapes my mouth.

She looks interested, maybe a bit flattered. But there's nothing else: no spark in her eyes, no flash of teeth as she smiles. The electric tingle that I feel every time she glances at me is not shared by her.

There's a rule on all the posters in the District factories. It hangs on doors and walls, in each nook and cranny, above every lab table and machine. It's the rule that all of our theories are based off of. It is physically impossible for one object to be attracted to another of the same without the latter being likewise attracted to the first.

Let me tell you: it's a lie.

Deena is the only person I'm not related to who can actually deal with me for longer than a couple of months. But our connection has broken: she's purposely put space between us, and she's staring at me in disbelief. "I was going to say that you're my best friend, Crest. That's all."

Deena's popular; she attends parties and festivals. She's surrounded by other workers during her shifts, and she walks home with an enormous group of girls every night. They laugh and grin, passing inside jokes back and forth like bribes at a Capitol party. I was her afterthought, the person she visited when she didn't understand an assignment, or if she couldn't keep a friend's secret any longer. And I fell in love with her.

And then we starting spending time together, at each other's houses or in Watts Park. Soon she was talking to me about everything she couldn't tell anyone else. I didn't share my own words in response; I was content to listen to her speak, to watch her expressive brown eyes and full pink lips and thick braids swinging against her smooth cheeks.

That wasn't enough. Nothing ever is.

She's standing up now, backing towards the doors. She's brave enough to make eye contact, even to paste on a nervous smile. But she's too cowardly to say a word as she leaves.

I curl against the arm of the couch, tracing circles on the soft velvet. I focus on the facts: after silk, this fabric is the most expensive in Panem. It's imported from Eight. Every year, Alyson de Greene of District One — Victor of the Sixtieth Hunger Games; the least vicious Career anyone has ever seen — wears a dress sewn from the material.

I'm crying as my mother enters the room. When she finds me in tears, she immediately sits down next to me, stroking my tangled hair off my face. "Baby," she whispers. "Can you tell me?"

"Mère," I murmur, and now I'm in her arms and sobbing. I'm not sure whether it's because of Deena or the shock of the Reapings or the fact that I'll be thrown into the Hunger Games arena in a matter of days, but I do know that I can't talk to her about any of it. I love her, of course, but judging by the amount of time she spends in our house, it would surprise me if she even knows who Deena is.

"Nell wants to say goodbye to you on her own, so I can't be very long," she says, and takes a deep breath. "But it's long past time for me to apologize, Crest. Since . . . since your father died, it's been hard to support both of you, and it meant that I couldn't spend time with my daughters. And I'd like to say I regret it, but I don't. You and Nell had each other, and the money to survive in a cruel world. And since we couldn't have everything, that's what I'd have asked for if I had a choice. I missed watching you both grow up, but I love you all the same and I know you'll do the best you can."

I squeeze her tighter. "You were taking care of us, Mère. It's okay that you were't there. You did your best, and I love you for it." I'm not sure those last words are true. I don't resent any of it; she did what she had to do and she certainly provided us with all the things she could. But I barely know her. How can you love someone who you haven't spoken more than ten words to in the last year?

We each know that I'm lying.

With one last sad smile, my mother nods and stands. At the last second, I think she turns back to look at me, but I'm staring at the wall, and I can't talk about this anymore anyway.

As Nell stands in the doorway, a Peacekeeper informs her that she has exactly half an hour to say all the words in both our hearts. (She was always better at speaking.)

But when my sister comes inside, she doesn't even speak at first. Instead, she lifts me off the sofa and leads me to the window. As we watch the rain pour down, streaming in silver ribbons down the hills, she braids my hair and repeats all the lessons she's ever taught me.

"You're strong, Crest. You're beautiful. You're smart. You're proud. You're not lesser than the other tributes, and you're worth a thousand times more than any Capitolite. And you know it." She runs her hands over the top of my head, gently tilting me back so she can tighten the weave.

"Don't let them objectify you, or hurt you, or call you names. You're not anything they say you are. You hear me?" At my nod, she continues. "Flaunt it if you choose to, but never let them buy it. People like to take away pieces of others. You're whole. Don't hesitate to strike if they touch you first."

I remember the first time she told me that; it was three years ago, when the boy I would have done anything for ordered me to drop my panties if I wanted him to take me on a date. He chased me as I ran home crying, shouting that I'd won, that I'd only have to take off my top if I liked that better.

"Be gracious, Crest. Be kind. Be better than they are. Show them that the Districts aren't the ones with the problem." She pauses as she secures an elastic around the last braid. "I love you."

"Nell." I don't want to weep again, but now I'm hoping that my gratefulness glitters in my eyes. I need her to know how much she's helping me. I need her to know how much I care about her. I need her to know that I'm so damn happy she's my sister.

The thoughts form in my head, fixing themselves together like puzzle pieces.

But I've never been able to make them into words.


Evelyn Summers, Eighteen / District Seven Female

There is a video of me that's still making the rounds in the Capitol: I'm nine years old, made of sun kissed skin and tangled brown hair and wide olive eyes. My sister has just been murdered by the District One female. I inform the reporter that if I ever meet someone from the luxury District, I'll chop them into tiny pieces. Then I tell her to go screw herself.

In the other film — since the Capitol has decided that I provide such interesting entertainment — I'm thirteen, at mandatory viewing. It's the sixth day of the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games, and two tributes from Seven have reached the Final Eight. The Careers are hunting. Four minutes ago, they finished torturing the girl from Twelve. (She's lying in a puddle of her own urine, feces, and blood. They couldn't even find the mercy to kill her.) Now they're chasing the Sevens: Amy Lamont, a resilient sixteen-year-old who already murdered both her other allies, and my brother. It's barely a fight: Amy takes a swing at the District Two male and receives a clean stroke across her neck. The boy from One grabs Carter and rips him apart limb from limb. I'm forced to watch twenty minutes of torture before the retching starts and I'm excused. (After all the journalists get their perfect shots, of course.) This time, I swear that I will run away to One and set the entire District on fire.

When you make a promise, the gods expect you to carry it out.

I'm a hundred percent sure that I've been Reaped for this exact purpose: I said that I would be the person to kill the Ones, and now my honesty is being tested. Every person in Seven receives a challenge from the gods. It could be two minutes after you're born, it could be ten seconds before you die. But it always happens.

This is mine.

I can already feel the tomahawk in my hand, smooth against my skin as I sneak up behind the Careers. I cock my wrist back, narrowing my eyes. The wind rushes past me as I release the weapon and —

"Please!" someone shouts. There's a commotion in the hallway outside my room. I scramble to my feet and rip the doors open to find my family scattered outside. My mother is pleading with the Peacekeepers, gesturing wildly at my remaining siblings, who are crowded behind her. Evan, my stepfather, holds them back with one arm and a reproachful stare. "We just want to say goodbye to her, as a family, please."

"Sorry, ma'am, but there is a limit of five at once."

"How can you expect me to choose who gets to see their sister before she . . . " Suddenly, Mom's eyes lock with mine, and she changes her question. "What if Evelyn comes out here?"

"Against protocol, ma'am."

Another guard steps forwards. "You're taking up your minutes. If you move quickly, it's possible that you can fit the entire family in the allotted frame. You have thirteen fifteenths of an hour remaining."

Frantically, Mom grabs the hands of my youngest siblings, yanking Rowan and Lily inside. There is a quick scuffle over who will follow, and Ash and Birch end up winning.

Mom lets Birch close the door as she cups my face in her hands. "My sweet flower. My garden."

Whenever my mother uses these strange pet names — relics left over from her childhood — Ash cracks a sarcastic remark. I almost wish he would make one now, just to help us all feel normal. But he doesn't even nudge Birch, or snicker behind his hands.

Rowan climbs onto my lap; Lily squats next to my knee.

"You have such deep roots, Evelyn, such a strong trunk."

Gods, if Ash doesn't laugh, I'm going to.

"You soar like a bird, run like a coyote."

The giggles bubble up in my throat. Rowan places his hand on my twitching chin and snorts. His fingers tickle my skin, and it only takes that for me to start heaving with laughter. Then Birch joins in. Ash just stares, shaking his head incredulously. He took Carter's loss harder than any of us; I think he wishes he volunteered.

My mother is scandalized. "Evelyn. What . . . why in the world are you laughing?"

It takes me a moment to think of a good answer. "Because what else is there to do, Mom?"

She kisses me quickly, once on each cheek. "I love you, but I can't watch this." The second she leaves the room, Ash takes that as his cue to do the same. Birch nods at me, solemnly, before following suit. Willow and Fern replace them.

"What's so funny?" Fern wants to know as she takes a seat in an armchair.

I shake my head weakly. "Nothing, Fern. Kids, calm down." I pat Rowan and Lily on the head a few times, and they settle into their spots. "I just . . . I don't know what to say."

"That you'll miss us while you're away in the Capitol?" Lily suggests.

"Of course, Lil. And you, Rowan. And Willow. And Fern."

"Why am I last?" Fern demands, pouting.

If I say I was saving the best for the end, Lily and Rowan will have tantrums. "Because that's how the leaves fell, Fern."

She sticks her tongue out at me, then winks. "Good luck, Evelyn. I'll send Daddy in."

I smile at her, then lift Rowan and Lily off of me so I can hug Willow. I don't pick favorites, but mine would be her. "Thank you so much. For everything."

Willow knows exactly what I'm talking about. "I'll take the kids," she says, and leads my youngest siblings out of the room. Rowan waves his sticky fingers at me, and Lily blows a kiss.

Evan makes his way in. The triplets are with him.

"What a day, hon," he says softly.

"Yeah," I agree, just as quietly. I'm tired, and I think my stepfather knows that because he only utters a few more words before adding, "I'll let the girls say goodbye. You know how talented you are, Evelyn, and I'm sure you're aware of your gods-assigned duty."

I worry my lip between my teeth as I exhale. "Yes."

He smiles at me. "That's all you need. Think of us when you're in trouble, think of the gods. You have nothing to worry about, Evelyn."

Raina, Layla, and Brooke are three mockingjays in a nest. They're in perfect sync as they flounce to the couch opposite me, settle in, and smooth their coarse brown skirts over their legs.

Layla has always been their elected declarer, and today is no different. But instead of speaking in chirps, as she is wont to do, she sighs. "Are you ready, Evelyn?"

What can I say to three thirteen-year-olds? "As I'll ever be."

"That's not true," Brooke pipes up. "You'll have three days of training."

"You think I'm showing off my skills in training, silly? Look, don't be disappointed if my score is low. I won't be sharing anything spectacular; that'll be saved for the Games. Tell the others."

She sits up straighter, happy that I've given her something to report to the rest of the family. "I will!"

Layla is the first to give me a hug, but the other two quickly do the same. As prissy as the triplets can be, they're absolutely amazing at sharing love when it's needed. An aura of comfort surrounds me. "Thank you. I love you."

A Peacekeeper shoves his head inside. "Time's up. There's a group of kids waiting outside; they've only got half an hour total. Make it fast."

Once again, I look out. It's my boyfriend, along with the three teenagers I call my best friends. I don't know how to pick, and thankfully I don't have to. Connor runs past and shuts the door quickly. He's sweaty and his green shirt is untucked, but his dark eyes glimmer with joy.

"I was going to propose to you after the Reapings, Evelyn, but I think I'll have to do it now."

My heart drops from my chest to my stomach, then leaps into my throat. My hands fly to my mouth as he drops to one knee and supplies a tiny box.

"It isn't much, but," he opens it, revealing a thin band of copper, "will you be my wife when you come back?"

It's an enormous step. There's a very real possibility that I won't be returning to District Seven, and Connor won't ever be able to marry again. In Seven, it doesn't matter whether or not your spouse is alive; the Book Of The Gods states clearly that one may never wed more than once. "Are you sure?"

There is the world in his eyes as he looks into mine. "Do you think I'd have asked otherwise?"

And my lips are on his and he's falling with me onto the sofa and my dress is pulled over my head and suddenly everything is happening too quickly but it's also gorgeous and wonderful and he's everything that I ever wanted and of course I'll marry him because there's no other choice.

"You wouldn't be the first," a voice mumbles irritably a while later. "Now pull yourself together, young man. This tribute has exactly three minutes to bid these people farewell."

Annoyed, Connor redoes his belt and adjusts my dress. His hands slide over the small of my back. "I'm in love with you," he whispers, and then he's gone.

Rose, Cate, and Reo file in quickly.

"We know what you were doing," Rose teases, smirking.

"Yeah, you would know all about that," I retort, staring pointedly at her hand, which is entwined with Reo's.

"Let's not hear any more about their relationship, please," Cate begs. "Gods know it's all my parents talk about. When will you be with someone like Reo? Why has Rose had twice the amount of partners as you?"

"Ah, Cate, they're looking out for you. It's sweet. I wish my parents would do that," Rose says.

"The grass is always greener," I shrug.

"I can't believe you're leaving." Rose's grin turns upside down. "What if we never see you again?"

She's the first one to acknowledge the subject head on, to my face, and I can't help but be grateful. "You'll know that it's okay. I'll be going to meet the gods, and I'll be fulfilling my challenge."

"Really?" Rio's eyes widen. "What is it?"

"To kill the tributes from One, of course."

"The train will leave in five minutes," the Peacekeeper declares. "I must ask all visitors to return to their respective positions."

Even before they've departed, my daydreams consist of murdering the Careers brutally and with no remorse at all.


I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was a bit difficult to begin writing in the tributes' points of view, but once I started it became much more fun than writing through Claudia's eyes. (Though I will be revisiting the Capitolites from time to time, as the story will focus a fair bit on them too.)

Also, a quick note: I've changed all of these tributes' characteristics at least a little, and I will be altering the rest. Some will be more different from their forms than others. I warned you about this when you submitted, and everyone accepted the terms. If you have a problem with the circumstances that I've tweaked, feel free to PM me and I'll see what I can do. (Don't leave it in your review, though; don't let all the readers know secrets about your tribute!)

If you do decide to review, here are some questions: which one of these three was your favorite? Which do you think has the most chance of winning? Which is your least favorite? Which has the least chance of winning? Which character do you like the best and why? Which point of view was written the best? And, as usual, what do you think of the story as a whole?

Thank you so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows. I do know I nag a bit, but I love so much hearing from all of you. Please, please keep it up!

Joyana