The Reaping: District Two

Cosmo Marlisan

I walk through the front door of my father's house in the Victor's Village without bothering to mute my footsteps. It's nearly dawn, and I'm sure that my father is still asleep, but there's no way he'll wake up through the fog of alcohol that I'm sure he's shrouded in.

To be fair, I've had a few drinks myself tonight, but I'm not really drunk. Besides, I'm volunteering for the Hunger Games later today, so I feel entitled to some libations. My crew felt the same way last night, so they broke into the home of the man who sells the strong spirits that are technically illegal to bring me a future-victor present.

It's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done to me.

We spent the night carousing, much like most other nights, and I practiced my combat skills on whatever passersby I found. Usually, I leave a few to Dustan, but he was being rather charitable. He is and always has been my favorite.

I clomp up to the bathroom to wash the stench of liquor off of me, and dress myself in an ordinary outfit because, really, no matter what I wear, people will see only one thing: a victor.

I pass my father's bedroom on my way to the kitchen and hear his drunken snores. I should wake him up, because attendance is mandatory, especially victors, but I can't quell the contempt that rises inside me when I think of his passed-out body. So I don't.

I find a heel of bread that was left out on the counter, and grimace at its staleness. Sure, we're one of the wealthiest families in the district, but that doesn't mean that my father can be bothered to buy fresh bread. I complement my meal with beef jerky—the only other food in my house that I can trust hasn't gone bad—and eat in silence.

From my seat in the kitchen, I can see the sunrise and watch the shadows of the mountains shrink. I could almost be content while I'm sitting here, but there's a thud coming from upstairs, and I can hear unstable foot steps. There's no need to be around that.

Maybe Dustan is still out.

I barrel out the door, slamming it behind me, and begin walking through back alleys to the Justice Building. I trace the path that I think we walked last night. The broken glass and blood spatters on the ground tell me that I've found it. Surely enough, I see his lean figure propped against a stone wall.

I gesture to the bottle he has held loosely in his hands and say, "Hey, is there anything left in that?"

He slowly shakes his head and then presses his free hand against his temple. I suspected as much. I didn't really want a drink. I'd be an idiot if I showed up drunk to my own Reaping, but I had a strong feeling that the majority of the bottle had gone to Dustan that he confirms with his sluggish behavior.

"How about you get rid of that?" I suggest, holding my hand out to accept the empty container. He ignores my hand and lets the glass shatter against the street.

He's not in very good shape at all. His eyes seem like they're more red than white, and he reeks nearly as bad as my father. "Did you go home at all today?"

Dustan still doesn't say anything, but he shakes his head no. I'm getting sick of his attitude, so I punch him in the arm and ask him what the matter is. I honestly wouldn't be interested if he were anyone else in my gang, but I actually sort of like Dustan. Or, I don't mind him. He's usually good for a laugh, at least.

"'M just wondering what's gonna happen to the gang without you," he says quietly.

"What do you mean? I'll be back in a few weeks."

"Probably," he mutters under his breath.

I'm dumbfounded. Does he think I won't win? "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just, even for you, one in twenty-four isn't a great statistic," he fumbles.

Before I can restrain myself, I punch him in the jaw. Who's he to say that I don't have good odds? There's no one bigger, or meaner than me. To prove my point, I knock him to the ground and punch him again. "You want to say that again? You think that you or anyone else can take me on? Can kill me?"

I'm wailing on him, and he's too drunk to put up a fight. I start screaming obscenities at him, and it feels like hours later that I realize I'm screaming my father's name instead of Dustan's.

Immediately, my adrenaline fades.

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm just really stressed out right now. Don't worry about the games. I'll come back. I'm trusting you to keep the guys in line until I get back." My voice has lost all traces of my anger, and it mostly sounds tired.

Amazingly, Dustan is looking at me trustingly. He nods in affirmation. With his blood all over his face and my hands, he's still a faithful number two. Maybe this is why I like him. I look at my knuckles and see that part of one of his teeth is imbedded there.

"Smile for me, Dustan," I say sarcastically, and he grins anyway. I see it was one of his incisors. He doesn't appear to be in any pain, but it's probably the alcohol numbing it. I grab his arm to pull him to his feet. In the distance, I hear the manic cheering that signifies the Reaping, and I know I have to speed things up.

"You're going to be sore tomorrow. You should skip the Reaping. Just steer clear of any Peacekeepers," I'm a little worried about his cognizance, but 'steer clear of Peacekeepers' is such a common practice for us, that it's probably as natural to him as breathing.

"Yeah, I will. You… win fast," he mutters through his bloody mouth and spins around to walk away from the Justice Building.

I begin to run, because I feel like I'm cutting it really close. When I get to the crowded square, I have to shove my way through the entire population of my district before I get to my destination. I see that the girl tribute has already been chosen, and I get there just in time to hear our district escort call out Dustan's name.

I almost laugh at the coincidence, but I volunteer instead. No one fights me as I climb onto the stage, and I don't blame them. Everyone knows these are my games.


Zero Mythica

I have been training my whole life for this.

That is my waking thought this morning. Nothing about nerves, or fear, because I've been perfecting my body and mind for the Hunger Games since my father handed me my first knife and had me stick it into a sandbag with as much force as I could. It took a week for me to pierce its canvas skin. By the time I was seven, I could rip a hole in the dummy that would have disemboweled a human. My birthday present that year was a bone-handled dagger. It is my most prized possession.

My parents are of the mind that, as their only child, it's my responsibility to bring honor to our household by winning the games. I agree, and when I was twelve, I wanted to volunteer so badly that my parents threatened not to let me go to the Reaping at all. It was an empty threat, obviously. Attendance is mandatory. It did the trick, though.

We came up with an agreement that year, because I didn't think I could wait until I was eighteen to volunteer. They told me that I could volunteer for my sixteenth birthday, which was last month. This is the best birthday present that I've gotten since my dagger.

I roll off of my mattress, and brush my shaggy red hair. My dirty blond roots are beginning to show again, but I'm sure that my stylist will take care of that once I get to the Capitol.

My dress for the Reaping is already laid out, because I wanted to look at it while I was trying to sleep. It's a skintight silver dress with a slit up the thigh, and I just know I'll dazzle a few rich Capitol citizens with it. I pull the article on and zip it up, and admire the way it clings to my firm muscles. I've got more muscle mass than any girl I know, which is just more proof that I don't need to wait until I'm eighteen to volunteer.

I decide that I look acceptable, so I go to find myself a loaf of bread and a cup of tea before I go to the Justice Building.

My mother is already sitting at our kitchen table, and she is beaming at me. Before I can greet her, she jumps up to put a kettle of water on the range to boil and asks me what kind of tea I want.

"Mint is good," I tell her. There is already a small loaf of rich bakery bread on the table, so I slice off a piece and eat it.

"I just can't tell you how proud I am!" my mother cries excitedly. She stands over me and tousles my hair while I'm eating. I would have minded before I got my spiky haircut, but her hands don't really mess anything up now.

The kettle screeches, so she bounds away to retrieve it. Shortly after, shortly enough that I'm sure it was the kettle that woke him, my father walks in. He kisses my head quickly and says good morning to my mother.

She places the steaming mug in front of me, and I can smell the mint leaves. I leave it to steep a little while longer, and eat another slice of bread.

My father gives me a warm smile and says, "I'm so glad you talked us into letting you volunteer early. I'm not sure I could have waited another two years to be the father of a victor."

I couldn't agree more, but I don't say anything because I've started drinking the tea, and my mother's added just enough milk and honey. It goes really well with the spices in the bread.

"Do you want anything else, Zer?" my mother asks. "I could cut up a peach for you, or maybe you'd like a few eggs, or—"

I cut her off before she offers to make me a soufflé, because I really don't have enough time for anything else.

"I'm fine, thanks Mom." I give her a smile before draining the contents of my mug. "Alright, let's get going then!"

My parents run around trying to find a camera. They waste several minutes searching until they notice that I am tapping my foot impatiently at them.

"Sorry, honey. We know you're excited. Let's just leave now," my father suggests.

I couldn't agree more, so I push through the front door and into town. I live in the wealthier part of the district, so the square where the Reaping is being held is only a short walk away. Still, I am impatient, so I bolt to the clearing. I say good-bye to my parents, and move through the crowd to stand in my assigned spot. While I walk there, dozens of people who think they're my best friends call out wishes of luck, or compliments on my looks, or just say hello. Sometimes I'd just like to scream out that they don't know me. But I never would.

Finally, I make it to my destination. I'm early, though, and my only real friends have yet to make an appearance. I spend the time talking to a girl in my year in school about how great it is that I'm volunteering so young, and that I'm sure to win. The conversation is so generic that I'm nearly bored to death by the time that Amethyst taps my shoulder.

"Hey, Zer. Killer dress," she says, and squirms about to find a comfortable way to stand in the mob.

I laugh gaily and answer, "Let's hope so, it could save me some trouble."

Several girls around me that I didn't know were listening burst into hysterics, and I can feel the annoyance on my face. It isn't until I see Amethyst's knowing smile that I calm down. As long as I have a real friend around, the fakes might as well disappear.

"What's so funny?" Diamond asks as she worms into our circle.

I hug her in greeting. "Nothing, really. I just said something fantastically witty."

"Same old, same old, then?" she asks me, grinning.

We chat like that for a while, until our escort, the flamboyantly orange Lypso Breen, takes to the stage. I have dreamed of his voice calling out my name for years. I know it's not likely, and that I can always volunteer, but it would've been nice.

He calls out "Ladies first!" before dipping into the Reaping ball and drawing out a slip. He reads the name of a girl I've never met, but I can hear wailing coming from the twelves. It's kind of dumb that she think no one will volunteer for her. Amethyst's elbow touches my ribs, and I know this is my cue.

I saunter to the stage, savoring the moment and yell "I volunteer!" for all of the District to hear. Lypso welcomes me to the stage and proceeds to the boys' Reaping Ball. I'm not actually sure why they even have those for our district any more. I can't even remember the last time a tribute from our district wasn't a volunteer.

I'm lost in thought, grinning out of habit, and a very large, sullen-looking boy comes to stand beside me. When we shake hands, I notice blood on his knuckles.

I won't say that I'm nervous, but I do have to wonder—who is this guy?

Sponsor Points:

Deadline: 5/4
From now on, I will give 5 points for correct second guesses. (This is not retroactive and does not apply for questions in previous chapters)

Vigilante legend Zorro used a thin, long sword to leave his trademark "z" and to defeat his foes. What kind of blade was it?