Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.
Note: Just your friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies during the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good match.
Thank you to The Lunar Lioness and unbroken cliche for Maeren and Lyre, respectively.
District Ten Reaping
Anything At All
Glenn Chester
District Ten Mentor
He couldn't wait for it to be over.
Glenn quickly scanned the crowd. Just a few minutes until he would meet his newest tributes. Just a few hours until they would leave for the Capitol. Just a few days until the Games. Just a few weeks until the Games were over.
A few weeks that he would spend hoping, wishing, begging that this would be the year. That one of these tributes would make it home. That District Ten would have its first real victor, a victor who wasn't a fluke, a victor who hadn't survived simply because the other tributes – and even the Gamemakers – had ignored him until he was the only one left.
He was grateful they had ignored him, of course. Grateful that he was alive. But these next few weeks – they were always rough. Worse, in a way, than his own Games. He'd been alone during the Games. No allies. No attachments. He hadn't lost anyone.
Until his first year as a mentor.
And, as much as he knew it was better not to get attached, he couldn't help it. He couldn't help caring for them, and remembering them all. Clement and Kira. Elias and Morgana. Galen and Hazeline. Amos and Waverly. Wulfric and Libby.
Two more names. But maybe one of them would finally be the lucky one. Maybe.
Maxillum Denrig, District Ten's escort, ignored Glenn as he made his way to the first reaping bowl, drew a name, and unfolded the paper. "Chenoa Kinsella!"
The sixteen-year-old section parted around a pale girl with shoulder-length brown hair and a dark blue dress. But, before she could start to make her way to the stage, a girl darted forward out of the fourteen-year-old section, waving her hand and shouting, "I volunteer!" She was short and slender, with brown hair that hung a few inches below her shoulders, a pale blue dress, and beige sandals. She was onstage before anyone could react, but, as she turned back towards the crowd with an intense look in her blue eyes, Glenn could see the look of dread on the face of the girl she had replaced.
And then the younger girl smiled.
"My, my, what an eager young lady," Maxillum gushed. "And what's your name, my dear?"
"Maeren Kinsella," the girl answered, still smiling.
Sisters. Glenn stared at the girl, baffled. How could she be smiling? Didn't she realize what she had just done? Her sister was sixteen, rather average in her height and build. Not particularly strong, to be sure, but at least she would have had a chance. The girl in front of him now was short, thin, fourteen. Her chances were…
No. No, he couldn't do that. Couldn't give up on her just like that. Last year's victor had been fourteen, after all – and rather small and thin, on top of it. He had won. So who was to say that—
"Lyre Fairfax!"
Glenn's attention snapped back to the reaping. The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a sky-blue button-down shirt and khakis. For a moment, the boy stood perfectly still. Frozen. Slowly, his lips began to quiver, but, just as the sobs began to escape him, another sound joined them. Laughter. It took Glenn a moment to realize the laughter and the sobbing were both coming from the same boy. In an instant, the boy was on the ground, clutching his stomach, crying and laughing uncontrollably.
As Glenn stared, dumbfounded, two Peacekeepers approached the boy and quickly dragged him up to the stage. By now, he was a complete mess –his shirt wrinkled, his orange-red hair mussed, his bright green eyes full of tears. Glenn hurried over before they could drop him and caught the boy, who immediately started crying into Glenn's shoulder, roaring laughter still intermixed with his tears. Glenn stood there for a moment, holding the boy in an awkward half-hug, before doing the only thing he could think of.
He pulled Maeren in for a hug, as well.
Lyre Fairfax, 15
District Ten Male
He had no idea what he was doing.
Lyre buried his face in his hands as his family – his parents and three older siblings – gathered around him. Ever since the reaping, he hadn't been able to stop crying. And now his family was crying, too, which certainly wasn't going to help.
But he also hadn't been able to stop laughing.
"It's not funny!" Lyndon insisted. "What are you laughing at?"
Lyre shook his head. His brother wouldn't understand. But he opened his mouth to explain, anyway, and, after a moment, he stopped laughing long enough to get the words out. "Yesterday, at my booth, there was this guy – about my age, maybe a little older – and, you know the deal, make more shots than me, win a prize. Well, this kid was terrible, and, after he was done, I said to him – I said, 'Well, I hope you never get reaped, because you'd probably end up taking yourself out with your own slingshot.'" Lyre rocked back and forth for a moment, giggling uncontrollably. "But he didn't get reaped – I did."
"Yes, you did," Lyndon repeated, grabbing his shoulders to hold him still. "Lyre, listen to me, you have to focus. There are going to be kids in there who want to kill you!"
Lyre nodded. He knew that. Of course he knew it. But he didn't want to think about that yet. He didn't want to. He had time. He would figure it out later.
Later.
Finally, after his family had gone, Lyre managed to get his laughter under control. He was still crying a little, but that was all right. You were supposed to cry when you were picked for a fight to the death.
Death. Another thing he didn't want to think about – his or anyone else's. He didn't want to die. But he didn't want to kill, either. He had felt bad enough at first killing the birds he occasionally used as target practice. If he had to kill a person…
No. No, he wouldn't think about that. Not yet. There would be enough time for that later. More than enough. Days, in fact. More than enough time.
He just wished he could postpone it forever.
Maeren Kinsella, 14
District Ten Female
She knew exactly what she was doing.
Maeren knew most people wouldn't think so. They would think she was insane. Suicidal, maybe. Or, worse, stupid. Fooling herself about her chances of winning. Delusional enough to think that coming home with the victors' crown would be easy.
It wouldn't be. But it wasn't impossible, either.
Chenoa's death in the Games, however – if she had let it happen – would have made an even more important victory impossible. How could Maeren ever hope to win her parents' affection if her competition – her sister – was gone forever? If her parents had lost Chenoa to the arena, she would always be first in their minds and hearts. Nothing could ever surpass their love for a lost child.
That was the key. If she was the one lost to the arena, then she would finally win. Her parents would finally favor her. And, whether she came back or not, she would always be the girl who had saved Chenoa. Who had sacrificed herself so that they could keep their daughter.
Surely that was worth something.
It didn't seem like it now, of course. Not when Chenoa was gripping her tightly, as if by hugging her hard enough she could keep her out of the Capitol's grasp. Their father was holding them both, trying to console Chenoa. But Maeren's eyes were on her mother. There was grief in her mother's eyes, but also relief. Unmistakable relief. Either of her children going into the Games was unbearable, but, if she had to choose one…
When the Peacekeepers came, their father had to tear Chenoa off of Maeren and drag her away. That gave her mother a moment. A moment to come closer and hand Maeren a small, compact mirror. Then, quietly, almost inaudibly, Maeren heard her mother whisper, "Thank you."
As soon as her mother had gone, Maeren let out a sigh. "Thank you." Those two words meant more than her mother could have imagined.
She had already won.
"I love kids. Anything at all can and does happen."
