Disclaimer: Hunger Games and the world of Panem do not belong to me, but their rightful owners, I just borrowed it and don't make any money from it.

Chapter 10: Reaping – Feeding mind and body (District 3)

Capitol – Caesar Flickerman

"Welcome back!" Lifting a dainty cup to his lips Caesar Flickerman took a careful sip of the steaming hot liquid. "Perhaps you are like me, just enjoying a wonderful cup of coffee. And who do we have to thank for this? Well, District Eleven may come to mind, all right, but we already have seen the Reaping there. So, my dear audience, what next? Yes, right, District Three, the marvellous place which among other items of technology that make our lives so much better, also manufactures the coffee machines we have come to love so dearly. And I am equally sure that this year's tributes from District Three will be just as innovative as the technologies from that district. So let's join District Three! Though of course you'll also be able to follow up on District Seven's latest pictures with our beloved split screen." Another sip, followed by a cheerful grin and Caesar got the signal that the cameras were on District 3.

He smiled at the cup as he placed it on the studio's desk. It was good that the audience could not see the contents of his cup, because it contained nothing but water. For all his culinary passion, Caesar knew that he should not drink any coffee after four in the afternoon or he would have serious trouble sleeping at night. Of course for this he could just use one of the wonderful pills of their medical industries, but Caesar preferred to keep his mind clear. It was easier to survive in the shark basin the Capitol could be if one practiced a little moderation. Another benefit of this practiced moderation was that the caffeine in the coffee still worked well for him.


District 3 – Fancy Yeo, 17 Years

An almost incredibly huge mountain of vegetables lay piled in the middle of the large worktable. Most people would have groaned at the thought of having to scrape, peel and cut that mound, but Fancy just whistled contentedly as she took up one item after the other and cut it into pieces just as her father had asked her to.

Today was Reaping Day and this meant that the street vendors with their mobile kitchens would be in even higher demand than they usually were. The usual picture of District 3 was one of large production halls, where the population in unison with the machines and part-robots worked in three shifts to manufacture all the technological gadgets the Capitol asked for, as well as basic contraptions for the district population of the nation that went by the name of Panem. A lot of the people worked more than one shift, leaving them precious little time to cook, so as a consequence the District's structure had changed from a more individualistic one formed by families to that of a larger community where all worked together. In the case of food it meant that some families eventually had begun to cook more food than just for their own and sold it to the workers at the factories. As it meant that the other workers could spend more time actually working in the factories and were still well fed, the government and the owners of the large factories had come to see this concept as a good one, going so far as to even subsidize it in that they allowed families with children to convert tesserae grain rations into vegetable rations at a grocery bank, from which the street vendors could get their supply for a decent price. And for Reaping Day the bosses even donated some meat for the general celebration.

Of course life as cooking street vendor was still hard, with long working hours, and the whole family having to pitch in, but to Fancy it also meant a bit of freedom. Yes, they were still dependent on the system, even on the goodwill of the bosses and the government, but as cook she was not a slave to the time clock like so many of her class-mates. When those, after school, hurried to the factories to spend hours at a workbench to place screws into gadgets in rapid succession, she would go home, see to it that her food cart was loaded and then set out to a certain gate at one of the factories where she would then prepare quick stir fries to sell, as well as the stew her mother and father would have prepared in advance. After the lunch sale, she would hurry home to help prepare the next load and then set off again to sell the evening meal. But she loved it. She loved the interaction she got with the other people from the district, the little chats with her regular customers. And most of all she loved the fact that once she got home and had her food cart cleaned, her work for the day was done. There was no night shift for her. Her father would see to the midnight meal for the night shift workers and her mother would see to the breakfast for the early shift. Yes, it meant that they all slept at different times, but still, her family got to see each other for the preparation slot for the evening meal, which was more than most families could boast of in the district. Often the parents left for work before their kids had to go to school, and with double shifts and even the children often working in the factories, once they reached the age of twelve, most families saw each other only in passing.

So even if Reaping Day came along with about triple the amount of food to prepare, Fancy still loved her life.

Next to her, her father was carefully cutting the meat. They had been particularly lucky this year, they had gotten some beef and even some fish from the grocery bank and all of it was really fresh. Not like a couple of years ago when all that was there was old, stinking fish. Rumour had it that one of the milling machines had broken down – from age and neglected maintenance according to the workers; because of wilful sabotage according to the factory owner – and that the owner, who happened to be the one whose turn it was to donate the meat for the reaping, had decided to take out his wrath by supplying only rotten food which should by right have been sent to District 5 to be used as biomass instead. When the street vendors had seen the spoilt fish, they had decided to teach this factory owner a lesson of their own. As such, when next this owner came for inspection, he was served the customary grand dinner, however, the cooks who had been invited to do the honour, had all used spoiled meat for the occasion. They had warned the mayor in advance, even going so far as to supply him with some coriander oil, so that he could eat the food without suffering from the food poisoning which was sure to come for the factory owner. And as the mayor considered himself one of the district's own population, he had wholeheartedly agreed with the plan and had even called the food delicious, despite the suspicious odour of some of the dishes. Yes, District 3 was in many ways different from the rest of the nation, taking care of their own problems, and by keeping a low profile otherwise were mostly left alone, which suited them fine.

Fancy marvelled at the surety with which her father handled the sharp knife, as he filleted the fish. She herself was no novice in handling the kitchen tools, but her father's skills were of a completely different league. It served as a constant reminder to her that no matter how good she was, she could still be better.

Eventually all vegetables were cut up and it was time to get ready for the Reaping Ceremony itself. Fancy checked her food cart one last time to make sure that especially the gas burner was in good condition – she had had to do some impromptu repair works just the other day and it would not do for her burner to die while she was trying to meet the demands of a hungry Reaping crowd – and then joined her parents as they walked to the large square. The square was the veritable centre of District 3. One side was dominated by the Justice Building, another marked the beginning of the factory area, with the large halls standing next to each other, followed by a side which led to neat rows of low storied apartment buildings whereas the last side opened up into the green area of the district with green lawns and shrubs and trees, dominated by the glittering glass complex of the invention centre, where all the new ideas were worked on and prototypes created. Many of the regular factory workers dreamed of maybe one day making their way to one of the shiny offices there. And if not they themselves, then at least their children.

On a usual day one could see people from all four sides coming and going, crossing the square to head in one direction or another, but today almost all of them came from the same direction – the housing area. Many of them greeted the Yeo family, knowing them and their food well.

Fancy practically beamed with pride every time one of the workers singled her out with particular praise, while her parents smiled indulgently but also proudly at their daughter. They were well aware that while Fancy might not yet have her father's skills with the knife, she already surpassed him when it came to seasoning the dishes to perfection. It was as if the girl could already taste the food in her mind and know in advance whether a certain dried herb or a pinch of salt perhaps would be just the thing.

As Fancy signed in and joined her year-mates she tried to stop the worry, which slowly began to bubble up in her stomach. At seventeen she belonged to the group which was second most likely to be reaped, considering that with the food system being as it was in their district, almost all children took out the same number of tesserae. Only a couple of kids with parents at the invention centre in second or third generation did not feel the need to keep up with the community's convention that all should take out one or two tesserae to keep the odds in balance and assure food for all – another point in which District 3 differed from other districts. But as always, Fancy knew well enough that even with the odds balanced, it took only a single slip in the bowl to get reaped. And as much of a community as District 3 was, theirs was not a district of volunteers. So, should her name be called, no matter how much people liked her cooking, she would have to face the arena.


District 3 – Tybor Rejewski, 14 Years

By habit the first thing Tybor did upon waking up was to recite the multiplication table of 17 in his head. It was important to hone his mind in such simply mathematics, seeing that it was his weakest subject in school and what use was a future employee of the invention centre if he could make a decent enough rough calculation in his mind? He certainly had the logical skills and those told him that if he knew all the multiplication tables really by heart and all the basic formulas, he would easily see the patterns in the problems they were being presented in school and later at work. No, logic had never been his problem. Nor the technical drawing classes which had been added to the afternoon curriculum last year. In fact, he excelled in that latter subject. Even now he knew that this skill alone would raise him above the main working force which was assigned menial tasks. But it would only get him to the middle level in a factory, not above and certainly not into the invention centre. For this it needed more! And he owed it to his parents to reach this level. After all, they were working so hard to make sure that he could stay in school and take those extra classes in the afternoon which made all the difference ot which kind of job one could later look forward to. So, often he did not even get to see his parents the whole day long, simply because the double shifts they had that week were early and late shift and when they got home once the night shift had taken over, he was already in bed and his parents too tired themselves for anything other than sleep. When he had been younger, his parents had tried to get different shifts each, so that at least one of them was at home for him, but now that he was old enough to take care of himself, be at school in time and keep out of mischief, it was easier to sign up for the same shifts as then they could at least share breaks with each other. And depending on the shifts they had, Tybor would even join his parents for dinner at the factory.

But not so today, he realized with a sudden start. Today was Reaping Day! Which meant that the factories were closed and his parents at home! He thought of jumping out of bed and racing to the tiny, but separate bedroom of his parents to wish them a joyful morning, but on second thought he refrained from it. Just in time he had remembered that his parents were currently doing late and night shift, so waking them up now, no more than an hour after they had gone to bed, would not be a good idea.

Tybor sighed. At least Reaping was not till three thirty in the afternoon, so his parents could sleep in today. However, now that he was awake, he found that he could not go back to sleep himself. Sighing again, he pulled the hated math book over to his bed to study a bit before he would see if there was anything in the small and rarely used kitchen from which he could make breakfast for his parents and himself.

It was not before long that the figures and letters in his book gave way to a much more pleasant picture. One of lush green and glistening glass fronts and a house of his own with a small garden even. Tybor could see it, even smell and feel it, how he would walk the white tiled floors… so clean, even pristine… a far cry from the bare concrete floors of the workshops in the factories. And the light… Real sunlight on all floors, not only the top floor as it was in the factories. Tybor had heard rumours that in other districts there were at times power shortages, but this was never the case in District 3, not for the factories. There two thirds of the workshop areas were illuminated by a sickly, artificial yellow light. But in the invention centre with its huge glass fronts surely every office and every workplace was positively bathed in the fresh light of the sun! The thought of working there one day…

Tybor had seen the building so often from the outside that he was sure he could even navigate inside it without once losing his way. Barely a week passed that he did not feel the need to visit the Invention Park as he called the green lawns with the glass walled centre. It was a particular need every time he had had to write an exam in advanced mathematics, his most dreaded subject. So far he had always passed the exams, but every time he was a nervous wreck when he left the school building. Only a walk through the park could soothe his agitated state then. Soon, just a few more years, and he would be able to spend his breaks openly in the park instead of sneaking around and hoping not to be caught by one of the Peacekeepers who patrolled there to prevent the population from claiming the land to convert it into vegetable gardens or whatever… Really, sometimes Tybor did not even want to know what the government was thinking when they imposed such rules. As if anyone truly would want to convert the only beautiful place of the district into something as plain and ordinary as vegetable gardens. They had District 11 to produce vegetables!

A couple of hours later the whole family made their way to the square. His parents had been well pleased with the breakfast Tybor had managed from the meagre supplies they had had left at home, but the main and most important ingredient had been the time spent together anyway.

All too soon it was time for Tybor to part from his parents and join the other children of the district. "I'll see you for dinner," he said cheerfully.

The atmosphere among his year-mates was rather sombre. Not so much perhaps because of the upcoming Reaping, after all they were only fourteen years old and chances that one of the older boys would be picked as tribute were far higher, but because of the visible chasm that ran through their year. Theirs and the year in front of them showed it most plainly… the difference between scholars and workers… Working age in the district was twelve, same as in the other districts. But at twelve one would only get the lowest of low paying jobs, with barely a chance to ever truly rise above this station. So only the orphans and wards of the state and the children of the overly poor families began to work at the age of twelve. Most of them stayed on in school for the additional classes in the afternoon which qualified them for the better jobs. But as the years went on, more and more of them realized that they simply had not what it took to become a member of the invention centre and dropped out of the afternoon classes to work instead and earn some money. Or their families had agreed on the children only staying in school till they reached a certain qualification level. So in the lower years there were so few children working that old friendships from school still held on for the time being. Friends were loathe to let go of each other even if they no longer shared the afternoon together. Same it was with the upper years, where the growing interest in the other sex was enough to bridge the gap between workers and scholars, especially when there were so few scholars left. But usually by the age of fourteen and fifteen about half the year would be working while the other half would still attend school, forming groups large enough to stand for themselves. The workers would look down upon the scholars with the newfound importance of belonging to the part of the district's population who earned already money, while the others were mere schoolchildren in their eyes. The scholars in return would look down upon the workers with the superiority borrowed from any future job they would hold which would place them above the workers. The other sex was not yet interesting enough to bridge the gap and if one was interested in someone, the peer pressure was enough to ensure that one only looked among one's own group for someone 'suitable'. It was a time when even childhood friendships would break, the strain becoming too much. And the neat line of unoccupied space in the respective roped off areas bore testimony to this division.

Tybor looked over to the other half of boys of his year, searching for his onetime best friend Benvio. It had been only six months since Benvio had dropped out of the afternoon classes because his father had gotten ill and the family needed the extra income Benvio could earn, but to Tybor it felt like an eternity. Even during the morning classes Benvio now sat with the other workers and if Tybor saw him while having dinner with his parents at the factory, Benvio would only nod a short greeting but would not stop to exchange even a few words. Tybor missed his friend. And not just because Benvio was much better at mathematics than Tybor was and had sometimes helped him. He missed their jokes and sneaking through the park together.

So intent was Tybor on catching Benvio's eyes, that he nearly missed the beginning of the ceremony. But then again, it was only the History of Panem… time for Tybor to use his time better by reciting another multiplication table in his mind. Table of choice was this time 23. Once he had finished that he began reciting prime numbers as these ran on forever and he could easily stop when the real Reaping began.

He had just reached 977, when the escort walked over to the girls' bowl and called out a name he was vaguely familiar with: Fancy Yeo. He could not place it immediately, but when a girl from the seventeen year old section walked up to the stage he recognized her as one of the cooks manning the food carts at the factories.

Then it was time for the boys. Nervousness gripped them all as the escort unfolded the small piece of paper. "Tybor Rejewski!"


District 3 – Fancy Yeo, 17Y

I can do this. I can do this. Fancy repeated over and over in her head. Only if she convinced herself first she might be able to convince the others that she could win this thing. And others included not only her escort and mentors, but also potential sponsors, the trainers and gamemakers and even the other tributes. Especially the latter. Not so much that they would instantly hunt her down as the biggest threat, but enough that they wouldn't hunt her because they thought her an easy target to swiftly bring the number down.

Her parents came into the room and hugged her fiercely. Her mother was crying openly while her father looked very much like he wanted to cry but thought it unmanly.

"It's okay, mom," Fancy said, brushing the tears from her mother's face. "In fact, I'm pretty sure that I have nearly as good a chance to win this as any of the Careers."

Her mother only sobbed harder at this, clearly doubting her daughter. But Fancy was determined.

"Surely they'll be in for a surprise this year. They notoriously tend to underestimate the other districts and even if they look at me, I'm pretty sure they'll have me pegged as another tech-kid, who is helpless without some pretty wires and some power source. But you and I, we know that I'm different from that. I know how to wield a knife. How many tech-kids can do that? Surely the years of training for cooking will give me an edge," she reasoned. "And I know how to fix the food cart, so I'm sure I can also improvise something from whatever material I'm given in the arena to work for my purpose. You'll see, I'll be doing fine."

While her mother eventually allowed herself to be calmed by these words, Mr. Yeo looked at his daughter sceptically. "Darling, I know your skills. And while I agree with you that you'll most likely do better than some poor kid from District Six, you are no Career. And that is a good thing. I am glad you lack the ruthlessness of those tributes from District Two or the arrogance of those from District One or the natural carelessness of those from District Four. But just listening to you, it feels like you share their overconfidence. Fancy, those kids, they are trained all their life to kill other kids. You were at most trained to kill vegetables."

This attempt at humour, even though it was a weak one, went not unnoticed by Fancy, who gave her father a small smile.

"But don't you see, papa, that killing vegetables as you call it, will just be that? I know how much force it takes to break through the skin of a tomato, but I also know how to handle fish or even meat. I am not saying that I'll act like a Career and go out to actively hunt the other tributes. But I will be hunted. And I will defend myself. With a knife. And I will survive because I know how to wield it. It will take the Careers by surprise. As for the training… pulling the food cart certainly has given me the muscles and the perseverance I'll need for the arena and as cook I also know how to use fire to my advantage. You will see!"

"Oh Fancy!" Unable to argue with his daughter, Mr. Yeo again engulfed her in his arms.

"You will see," Fancy reiterated. "I will make you proud."

"Darling, I'll already be proud of you if you just promise me to do your best. As long as you don't lose yourself inside the arena. Not like that girl from District Two five years ago who went so far as to rip out another tribute's throat with her bare teeth."

Fancy shuddered at the thought. It had been the first year she had been eligible for the Reaping and although she had been spared that year, she could not help thinking all the time during the mandatory watching of the games that it could have been her facing that brutal girl. For many weeks she had woken up screaming as her mind had dragged up the pictures over and over again in her dreams. "I promise, papa," was all she could say and she meant it. No matter what, she did not want to turn into such a beast.

Her father nodded, then pulled a small object out of his jacket pocket. "Here, take this with you to remind you of who you are."

He handed her the object which Fancy identified as an empty pepper tin.

"Spices make all the difference between just nourishment and proper food. And just like this, it's our soul which makes the difference between beast and human. Don't forget that."


District 3 – Tybor Rejewski, 14Y

He had tried so hard not to cry, but the moment he was alone in the room in the Justice Building all dams broke. Tybor had always thought failing maths was his greatest fear, but this here was so much more… It was far graver, deadlier… He was going to die. And this alone was enough to keep the tears running down his face while his whole body shook. He had never been one to cry or sob out loudly, but it didn't mean his anguish was any less than that of anyone else. He didn't even care what everyone in Panem would think of him, when they later aired the pictures of him with a blotchy and teary face as he boarded the train. He would not pretend to be okay, because he was far from okay! And if this marked him as a cry-baby and easy target for the Careers, he didn't care either.

His parents came in, but he didn't notice them at first, so lost was he in his grief. Only when his mother put her arms around him and he instinctively turned in to her did he know their presence. Tybor felt like he never wanted to let go of his mother. But deep down he felt that this was not to be. So slowly he forced his tears to quiet down. Instinctively he knew that he did not want to waste the last minutes with his parents by only crying. He wanted to hear their voices and talk to them.

"I'm sorry," he eventually began, apologizing for his tears, his voice still broken and a little hoarse.

"Don't you dare," his father interrupted him. "There is nothing you have to be sorry for. Indeed, if anyone was to be sorry…."

A hand on his arm stayed Mr. Rejewski's words. Silently his wife shook her head. It would not do to draw further trouble onto their family by voicing thoughts in anger. Especially not in the government's own Justice Building. If they truly wanted to change something, perhaps even go so far as join the rebellion which was secretly biding its time in every district, as they had dreamed of when they were younger, before Tybor had been born, they would talk about it later. And certainly somewhere else.

"I still mean it," Mr. Rejewski said, focussing on his son again. "There is nothing you have to be sorry for. You were probably the best son these parents of yours could have asked for. So even if you go down in history as the first tribute from District Three to get zero points at the training scores, it matters not. We know your true worth. We know you have always tried your best and know you'll continue to do that till your last breath. That's all that matters. And we love you!"

A little overcome with his own emotions, Mr. Rejewski turned to the window, while Tybor allowed himself to be once more drawn into his mother's comforting arms.

Eventually the father joined the family again. He retrieved some shiny, clinking object from one of his pockets. "I had meant to give it to you tonight to occupy yourself while your mother and I dance the night away, knowing how little you care about dancing yourself." A glimmer of the teasing glint which usually marked Mr. Rejewski's humour crept back into his eyes. Tybor could not help but respond with a weak smile of his own. Dance the night away… Nobody in District 3 ever danced. But at the end of the feast following the Reaping, when everybody had finished eating, the working people would entertain themselves by entering in a friendly competition of describing with gestures the best failures of machinery, tools and other equipment encountered throughout the last year. A lot of this made no sense to the kids who did not yet work in the factories and had not seen such or similar failures first hand, but the grown-ups loved to laugh at the hilarious displays. Dancing had just become the concealing phrase for this sport, since it would not do to have the bosses suspect that their employees made fun of them, their policies, or their factories. Ever since Tybor had felt too old to simply sleep away much of this dancing, his father had provided him with some logic puzzle or other to solve while his parents made merry. This year it was a four piece metal construction, chained together and Tybor knew by just looking at the set-up that the pieces were supposed to be separated as solution, and then brought back together again.

"Take it as token," his father said and pressed the jingling pieces into Tybor's hand. His son hugged him gratefully.

A Peacekeeper signalled for his parents that it was time to leave and after a last round of hugs the family parted, with heavy hearts but settled minds.

Tybor tried very much to not start on the puzzle immediately, to keep it and make it last for the next couple of days, to give him comfort while he tried to sleep in foreign places, to take his mind off what lay ahead of him, so as to ensure himself at least some valuable night sleep, but the temptation was too great. Especially when he realized that his hour of goodbye was not yet up and that he'd have to wait some more till he would be taken from this room.

Folding the pieces over and trying to get a good look at the puzzle from all sides, he once more failed to notice that he had a visitor till he felt the sofa sagging next to him.

"Benvio!" he exclaimed delightedly, while he couldn't help feeling a short pang at his heart that it had taken being reaped for his friend to grace him with his presence again.

"Hey," came the hesitant reply. "See you got a new puzzle." With an awkward gesture Benvio nodded at the metal pieces in Tybor's hand.

Tybor nodded. "Token… since I'll now miss the dance." Not wanting his friend to feel worse than they both already felt, he quickly continued: "What about you, will you join the dance this year for the first time?" He wanted to let Benvio know that he understood his friend's decision, even if he was not fully reconciled with what it had meant for their friendship.

Benvio shook his head. "Half a year doing the lowest of low jobs will only allow me to show how to mishandle a broom." He grimaced, but being likewise determined to make an effort to maintain what little of comfortable atmosphere there was, he added: "At least it puts a little food on our table, even if it does not yet allow us to buy the medicine father would need."

"I'm sure you'll get promoted soon. You are clever. Most likely you just got into broom division because you started in the middle of the year," Tybor said encouragingly.

Benvio nodded.

There was a moment of silence between them, awkwardness trying again to creep up on them.

"Listen," Benvio said, "I'm sorry that it was you… I know I was a wretched friend those last months… but… well, I…"

"I know," Tybor said quietly. "You had to try and get along with those who could otherwise make your time at work a living nightmare."

"Still, it did not feel right to completely ignore you like this. And I missed our walks through the park… our dreams… Somehow it felt good to know that you still had those, that you still took those walks…"

"Then start doing it again," Tybor said with a new maturity in his voice. "Those dreams, they might be dead, just as dead as I'll be in a few days most likely. Well, I could always hope that twenty-three of them are stupid enough to get blown up before the opening minute is up, but I dare not count on that."

"You always had a wretched sense of humour." Benvio shook his head, but Tybor just shot him an unrepentant smile.

"What I meant to say is: The park is still there. So even if you are tired after work, take the time and walk there. You'll feel better, you'll see. And who knows, maybe I'll be able to come back as a ghost and then I'll haunt the park and you won't be alone."

Benvio nodded, all the while knowing that ghost or not, Tybor's spirit would forever haunt the park. At least to him. But he also knew that he owed it to his friend to go for a walk in the park, even if he was dead tired after work.


Capitol – Francis Leblanc

As he aimed his camera on Caesar Flickerman and listened to another inane blather the host tortured the audience with, Francis recalled last year's tributes from District 3. Especially the boy had been a pure terror to him. Fifteen, tech-kid… and so close to having Francis kick him from the studio, not caring for the fancy suit the boy had been wearing for the interview. But really, it was not any tribute's place to lecture him, the camera man, about the correct handling of his working equipment. If he used some cling-wrap for better grip on the sensitive handle with which to adjust the camera's angle, then this was something based on experience, something no factory-kid would ever have. They might manufacture those cameras, but they did not handle them. Which was why they were the tributes and he was the camera man. And if he used a certain filter to enhance a certain feature about Caesar and soften another, then he was doing this out of love for his job which was to make his boss – Caesar – appear in the best possible way. Even if it meant making the tributes look a little less than perfect. But didn't the kid understand, when he pointed out that the particular filter Francis had been using would make the girl tribute from District 1 look like she was wearing puke instead of puce, that tributes were replaceable? That just the next year there would be twenty-four new tributes, but that Caesar Flickerman would still be there? So making Caesar look good had certainly priority.

So really, Francis hoped with all his might that this year the tributes from District 3 were better behaved, even if the boy looked suspiciously like a tech-kid.

A/N: Thanks for reading.