A/N: Sorry this took a while. I had some real writer's block on Bailey. But I spent the whole time I was writing her wondering what her district partner would be saying. So after I spent about three days trying to get her right, I knocked Alonzo out in about an hour. So a long wait for you guys, but you get a 2-for-1 chapter.

Hope you guys enjoy!

Also, just a warning, this chapter contains some strong language and is a little bit gross. The best kind of chapter!

CHAPTER TEN – FEAR AND LOATHING IN DISTRICT NINE

Bailey Cleaver

Reaping Day is the worst. The worst. I thought last year was bad, my first year. This year is worse. Maybe it should be better, since the odds actually are in my favor this time. After all, even with tesserae, my name's only in there 5 times. My siblings all get their own tesserae, after all. If anyone's going to be reaped, it'll be them. Anyone can be reaped this year. Anyone. My chances are almost nothing. Nothing. I tell that to myself, over and over, as I stand in the square for the reaping. No chance. No chance. A part of me hopes that my sisters, my mother, my brothers, and my father will all be safe, but mostly I hope that I'll be safe. I have to be safe. I'm only 13, and anyone can be reaped. Anyone. I'll be safe.

I shift from foot to foot as our Mayor reads the Treaty of Treason. I just want to get this over with, to go home, eat dinner—usually the best meal of the year, since everyone's so relieved. This will be Tasha's last reaping, since next year she'll be 19. We always have an extra big dinner on the years someone escapes for good. I bet this year my parents will even break out the beer, since this year the entire family will have escaped. Assuming we escape, of course. But of course we will, of course we will.

The escort gets up on stage and I can't even look at her, her clothes are so bright. She's got a neon checkered leotard that keeps changing from pink to green, with electric blue tights and yellow heels. It's a horrifying clash of color that sticks out like a sore thumb from the gray of District 9.

"Good moooooorning, District 9!" she yells. "I'm your escort, Mimi! Let's get this party started! Ladies first!" She reaches into the reaping ball and draws out a name. "Bailey Cleaver! Let's hear it for Bailey Cleaver everyone!"

I can feel my stomach drop, and I can't help the tears welling around my eyes. I don't want to cry, I don't mean to cry, but tears roll down my cheeks anyway. This was not supposed to happen! I was supposed to be safe! There was no chance.

I have no chance.

No chance.

Alonzo Alves

Ugh, why is it so bright? Why do we have to get up so damn early for the damn reaping? And will my freaking sister ever just SHUT UP? Ugh.

I pull my comforter further over my head, trying to block out the ridiculous sunshine. Okay, it's not like it's really bright out or anything. District 9 is really pretty gray most of the time, since the factories throw shadows all over everything. But still. It is way too early and bright and loud for this right now. I am not in the mood.

And okay, yeah, maybe I shouldn't've gone out with Al and Ansel last night. That was probably a stupid mistake. But it was the night before our last reaping, y'know, and that calls for a celebration! And okay, yeah, maybe we should've waited for tonight to celebrate, when we're actually, you know, free. But it was two for one night at the local pub, and how can you pass that up? The pub was full to bursting, too. I bet there's a lot of folks with aching heads this morning, as they were all in there, drowning their fears and sorrows last night. Whatever, today'll be fine, and by tomorrow I will be freaking free from this stupid Game. And that's totally worth the way I feel right now.

With that resolved, I sit up. Which was probably a mistake, as my head immediately begins to throb, and my stomach rises into my throat a little bit. I swallow and close my eyes, determined NOT to let this hangover get the best of me. I just have to get through the next, what, hour and a half? Maybe? And then I can crawl back into bed.

I manage to get some clothes on, I don't even know what, and start moving, very slowly, toward the door. I open the door to a barrage of sunlight that almost makes me vomit. But I hold it in and move carefully down the street. No sudden moves, and I'll probably be okay.

Al and Ansel are already waiting for me at the green gatepost like usual. Al looks about as bad as I feel, but Ansel, who I swear has never had a hangover in his life—lucky bastard—is alarmingly peppy.

"Hey fellows," he crows. Al and I wince. "How 'bout some hair of the dog?" He holds out his flask, an 18th birthday present from his dad. I take a swig and immediately feel worse, almost unable to hold it down. After a minute, though, the warmth spreads through me and I take a deep breath.

"Whew, what the hell is that stuff?" I ask.

"Dunno," Ansel says, "Just some stuff I found in my dad's cabinet. Whatever, gets the job done." That it does.

The three of us make our way to the square for the reaping. We've been friends all our lives, pretty much, since our dads are each the foremen of the biggest factories in town. We look pretty similar, but then so does most of District 9: brown hair, brown eyes, pretty freaking blah if you ask me. I'm the best looking of the three of us, if I do say so myself—my brown hair has a touch of copper, my brown eyes a touch of hazel. Ansel's definitely the worst, as he's kind of universally beige. Serves him right, the chipper bastard.

Looks like we've got a new escort this year. The lady is, I'm just going to say it, freaking enormous. Legs like tree trunks, shoulders that throw shadows for miles. I'm surprised the whole platform doesn't shake when she walks. She's wearing some day-glo outfit that's searing my eyeballs off, and I feel my headache come back. And then she opens her mouth.

"Good mooooooorning, District 9!" She bellows. "I'm your escort, Mimi! Let's get this party started! Ladies first!" Holy shit, does this lady have to yell everything? My head is pounding. I wish she'd shut up.

She calls the female tribute, and a girl who is, I swear, beiger and more boring looking than Ansel climbs on the stage. She's crying, and my stomach roils in disgust.

Or maybe it's nerves. It's time to call a guy's name, and it could be me. My stomach is turning over and over. I really want to go back to sleep. Well, vomit and then go back to sleep.

"Alonzooooo Alves!"

Oh. Shit.

My stomach is really really unhappy now, and my brain is banging around my skull. I start to walk up to the stage, but I have to move pretty slowly.

This is terrible.

I make it up there. Nobody volunteers, I think. It's hard to tell, what with concentrating so hard on keeping last night's drinks down. I should have had some more water before I stumbled to bed. I always forget the water.

The other tribute is holding her little beige hand out to me, but turning toward her turns out to be too much for me.

I can't help it, I double over and let the contents of my stomach—yep, there's that green stuff that really put me over the edge—onto the stage, splattering the feet of the escort and tribute, as well as my own. And maybe a little bit of the people in the front row.

At least my stomach feels better.