A/N: Putting this at the beginning since it's been so long since I've last updated. I know it's been a super long time, and I'm really sorry! I've been caught up in school and other commitments, and I simply haven't had time to write. Rest assured, though, I haven't disappeared, and I'm going to continue this!
If you are still following this story, please, please, please review to let me know that you're still reading. Otherwise, there wouldn't be any point in continuing to write, would there? Anyway, I'll be updating sponsor points soon.
One more thing- I desperately need a D9 male tribute. I don't care how many other tributes you've submitted- just PM me if you're willing to submit. You don't even have to fill out the whole form if you don't feel like it, I just need a tribute with a personality and a backstory.
Thanks so much for your continued support!
District Ten Reaping: To the Grave
Lynnelle Maryas, District 10
A hard hand rapped twice on the door. Mabella Maryas frowned and gingerly pulled the door open only to be greeted by a group of ten Peacekeepers, stark white uniforms perfectly crisp, guns slung at their sides. "Wha—what do you want?"
The leader spoke, his face composed in a tight, emotionless mask. "We are here to seize Darrel Maryas. He is under charges of breaking and entering and thievery. Any resistance will not be tolerated."
Mabella paled noticeably, turning white as a sheet. "I'm afraid he's not here. He's… working."
The man folded his arms. "Then we will find him, wherever he happens to be. If we find that you have not been truthful, punishment will be inflicted on your family."
Mabella began to tremble slightly. "What will happen to him?"
The Peacekeeper's mouth was set in a hard, thin line. He didn't reply.
Two figures stood entwined in the dying light; one large, one small. A father was embracing his child.
Eleven-year-old Lynnelle couldn't stop herself from crying. She had lived in District 10 all her life. Long enough to know what happened when the Peacekeepers came after someone. She clung to her father with a vicious grip, unwilling to let him go. Unwilling to let the moment pass. She knew that it would be over all too soon, and later on she would replay it in her head, regretting all the words she had left unsaid.
Darrel, too, drank in the moment. He gently pried his daughter's arms from his shoulders and held her at arm's length, studying her every feature. She had pleasant features, many of which had been inherited from him. The big blue eyes. The slender nose and oval-shaped face with a pointed little chin. However, her hair was raven-black. Its color created an eerie effect when combined with her light eyes.
He wanted to commit her face to memory. To take it with him to the grave.
The faraway sound of boots clomping against the ground came into earshot, and Darrel paled, squeezing Lynne's hand.
"Don't go, Daddy!" she screeched, eyes frantic with fear. "Don't let them take you!"
"Shh, shh," he quickly hushed her. "You need to listen to me right now, Lynne. You're strong. I know you are. So I need you to help the family when I'm gone. Don't let Mom and Eve starve. Do you understand me?"
She gave a small, tight nod, her teeth clenched against her lip.
"Good." He gently swept her hair out of her eyes and lightly kissed her forehead.
The Peacekeepers came into view, a sea of white against the backdrop of the pink-tinted sky. Their marching feet beat a deadly rhythm on the cobblestone road. They grew closer and closer until their leader seized Darrel's arm.
"Go home!" he screamed to Lynne, desperation in his blue eyes. He couldn't let her see this. "Run home to Mom and Eve!"
Sobbing, Lynne obediently rushing off in the opposite direction, tangled hair flying into her face and she sprinted along. She tripped numerous times, scraping her stubbly knees against the ground, but she didn't care. All she knew was that she had to run, to do what her father had asked.
She didn't run far enough. Not far enough to escape the sound of a lone gunshot echoing through the streets.
A girl crept along the streets, the long shadows obscuring her slim figure. Darting from storefront to storefront, she moved lightly, her small feet silent against the pavement.
She always remained several yards behind the overweight man dressed in extravagant clothing, biding her time. There was an art to her craft, and it required a good deal of patience.
There. A pushy merchant was stepping in front of him, shoving her wares in his face. Lynne ran towards the man, bumping into him from behind. "Oops, sorry," she breathlessly apologized.
Looking harried, the man barely even noticed her interruption. That was the idea. He paid her no heed as she scurried away, back towards home.
Later on, he might notice his missing purse and remember her.
But by then, it would be much too late.
Eve and Lynne were sitting at the table finishing up their homework when Mabella Maryas came in, looking weary. She was fortunate enough to have a job tending to livestock in the pastures, but it still worked her to the bone.
Lynne shuddered, wondering how she would stand it if a member of her family worked in the slaughterhouse like most of the district. It was easy to tell who worked as a butcher—the smell of blood clung to them, staining their clothing and sticking to their skin.
"Long day?" Eve asked their mother.
Mabella just groaned. "You could say that again. They also didn't give me my wages, even though I was supposed to get paid today." She sighed. "I'm afraid that we'll have to go without dinner tonight."
"Actually, I don't think that'll be necessary," Lynne said quietly. Her mother and sister's heads swiveled to her questioningly.
Lynne casually dangled the purse in the air. "I found this lying in the gutter this afternoon. It's got a decent amount in it—enough to buy us food for the week."
Mabella gasped. "That's amazing! We can—" she stopped abruptly as common sense got the better of her. "Oh, Lynne. Don't think that you can trick me just because I'm tired."
"What are you talking about?" she snapped defensively.
"I know you didn't find a purse filled with money lying around in a gutter."
"Maybe I did," Lynne muttered. "Maybe you shouldn't question good fortune."
"Lynne," Mabella sighed. "When will you learn to stop stealing? You know what can happen. You know what happened to Dad."
Hot tears burned at the corner or Lynne's eyes at the memory. But that's just it, Mom. You don't understand. He's the one who taught me to steal—and I promised him I'd take care of you guys. This is the only way I can do it.
She kept the thoughts bottled up inside her. "I know. I will. But just this once, can't we use it? The person who had it before doesn't need it. We have to eat."
Mabella bit her lip as she stared at her daughters' skinny frames. At the bones that poked out everywhere on them. "All right," she reluctantly agreed. "Just this once."
Flint Hamilton, District 10
The moon was long out and glowing white when the boy sat up in his bed, hurriedly getting to his feet and changing into suitable clothes. Moving quickly and quietly, he slipped out of his room and into the hallway—and nearly ran into the slight figure of a young girl.
Her white-blond hair hung in thin strands past her shoulders, pale in the moonlight, and her light blue eyes pierced through him accusingly. Her mouth, set in a tight line, quivered slightly.
Flint started, staring at his younger sister. Quickly gathering himself, he plastered a huge fake grin on his face. "Becca! What're you doing up?"
"I could ask the same of you," she breathed innocently, her voice sweet as honey.
Flint cursed under his breath and ran his fingers through his short blond hair. "You know what's up."
Rebecca didn't budge. "Sure do, but Mom and Dad don't."
"Fine," he sighed reluctantly. Heading back into his room, he rummaged around in his closet until his fingers found a crumpled plastic package. "Here you go. The frosting is gonna glue that little mouth of yours shut, okay?"
Her eyes immediately lit up, and she grabbed the package from him, pulling two thin cookies coated with an excessive amount of melted frosting out and shoving them into her mouth. "S'all good," she mumbled through the mouthful of food.
With a satisfied smirk, Flint silently exited the house.
Flint heard the noise almost as soon as he stepped out of the house. The clamor of voices shouting, laughing, chattering, and singing immediately floated into earshot, causing him to wince slightly. Couldn't they be a little more subtle?
He quietly followed the sounds until a dark figure burst out of the shrubbery in front of him, causing him to stumble backward in surprise.
"Flint!" The figure burst into laughter, slapping an arm against his back. "It's about time."
"Did you have to do that, Trev?" Flint complained. "And sorry. I got held up."
"C'mon. Everyone's here already."
Trevor dragged him into the wide clearing, and the people came into view. Someone was playing the guitar, and people were laughing, dancing, talking. "Dang," Flint murmured. "Nice crowd tonight." There had to be almost a hundred kids—the largest party Flint had seen.
Trevor nodded. "Yeah. Maybe it's the timing—night before the Reaping. Could be the last time you get to see your friends."
Flint punched him on the arm. "Way to be morbid."
Trevor just gave him a mockingly predatory grin.
A group of guys headed over to them, joking among themselves. "Hey Flint, Trev," greeted Mike, a tall 15-year-old with a mop of red hair. "This is Brayden—it's his first time, so be nice, 'kay?"
He gestured towards a scrawny, nervous-looking kid beside him. "Hi," Brayden said, fidgeting slightly. "Um… you guys sure that we're not gonna get caught or anything?"
"Course not," Trevor airily reassured him. "We've had dozens of these before, and nothing's ever happened."
"I dunno," Brayden shrugged. "Couldn't someone hear?" Suddenly he paled. "Do you guys hear something?"
"Uh, people talking?" Trevor snickered. "You're delusional, kid."
But then Flint heard it, too—footsteps, lots of them, clomping on the dusty path. "I think he's right."
"Aw, c'mon, you too, Flint? Don't tell me Brayden's getting to you."
Flint didn't answer; his senses were on overdrive. They were getting louder, louder—
Then the first group of Peacekeepers emerged from the trees. Garbed in their usual white uniforms with guns hanging at their sides, they looked rather bedraggled from being woken in the middle of the night. But their expressions were steely, and Flint knew that there would be no mercy that night.
As the Peacekeepers spread out and advanced, people started to scream. Trevor paled and swore under his breath, darting off in the opposite direction. Kids were fleeing through the trees, Brayden was wringing his hands and whimpering, but Flint stood rooted to the spot, frozen.
How could this have happened? Someone must have raised a noise complaint, or they might have heard us—He immediately snapped out of his reverie as a Peacekeeper latched onto his arm.
Flint cried out in fear and surprise, trying to wrench his arm away, but the man's grip was like iron. Flailing and kicking desperately, he caught sight of Trevor's dark head as his friend ran away. "Trevor! Help!"
Trevor's head swiveled backwards, but there was unspoken apology in his eyes. He turned his head back and kept running.
"No," Flint whispered brokenly, crumpling to the ground. Of course he would be the one to get captured, out of everyone else. He'd always had rotten luck.
Maybe a dozen other teenagers hadn't escaped, and as a group of the Peacekeepers pursued the runaways, Flint and the others bowed their heads in misery.
Flint's cell was decent enough, not that that was any comfort. It had a smooth floor covered by rough carpet and concrete walls with a cement bench. He was sitting, pressing his hands against the cool surface, as millions of thoughts raced through his head.
He wouldn't be kept in jail for long—maybe a few weeks, tops. He was probably on charges of disturbing the peace or something of the sort, but charges didn't make any difference to the Head Peacekeeper. Though the man was relatively fair, Flint could be kept in jail until he was released. There was no sentence, no trial, no leniency because of his age.
Flint reluctantly curled up on the hard bench, trying to get some rest, but he couldn't sleep.
The Reaping. It was the next day—or technically that day, seeing as it was certainly past midnight—and all children between the ages of twelve and eighteen had to attend, regardless if they were currently in jail or not. He would be released for the hour or so that the Reaping lasted, and he would probably be able to see his parents. Had a Peacekeeper alerted his family about his arrest yet? His cheeks flushed in shame as he imagined how disappointed and upset his parents would be.
Then another thought rushed through his mind. The Reaping… he remembered that the tributes who were usually chosen were never model citizens. They were always the troublemakers—the drunks, the ones who loudly insulted the Capitol, the ones who landed themselves in jail. Were the Reapings rigged? And if so, had they already decided whose name would be pulled out of the bowl, or was there still time to pick a recent prisoner?
His heart began to race as he imagined the possibilities, and soon his body was covered with a thin sheen of sweat. He could see the escort reaching into the bowl, pulling out the slip of paper, reading the name—"Flint Hamilton."
Needless to say, he didn't get a wink of sleep that night.
Lynnelle Maryas, District 10
The morning of the Reaping, bright and early. For once, Lynne's stomach wasn't rumbling with hunger—they had eaten much better than usual the night before, thanks to the pilfered purse.
In the bed beside her, Eve stirred. It would be her older sister's last Reaping, and Lynne couldn't help but feel slightly envious. Eve would have it easy after today—no more worrying and waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, no more living in fear of being reaped.
Sighing, Lynne got to her feet, picked out her clothes, and stepped into the bathroom to change. She pulled on a purple blouse (one of Eve's old ones, it was worn and fraying) and a plain black skirt. As always, she wore her dark brown combat boots, which she had meticulously polished a few days ago. It made for a strange combination, but she couldn't care less.
Stepping back, she glanced back into her bedroom at the sleeping forms of her mother and sister. Inwardly, she prayed the day would go well.
With that, Lynne stepped out the door into the fresh morning air. She would go acquire a few more wallets to calm her nerves before the Reaping.
"The time has come to choose our tributes," Kyote's voice blared over the microphone. She was just as… striking as all of the other escorts, with bright, neon green hair and green tattoos swirling across her whole body, but she wasn't as gushy or enthusiastic as the rest. She actually frightened Lynne—when she spoke about the Games, a ferocious glint would creep into her catlike eyes.
"I'll pick the male tribute first." Lynne sucked in her breath as Kyote walked to the huge glass bowl in her pointy heels. "Flint Hamilton!"
All eyes turned to a pale boy with spiky blond hair in the sixteen-year-olds section. A hush fell over the crowd as Flint sucked in his breath and wobbled up to the stage.
"Oh," Sable, Lynne's closest friend, breathed in her ear. "He was one of the ones who was arrested last night."
Lynne blinked at Sable. "What?"
"Didn't you hear? There was a party, and the Peacekeepers came and broke it up. They arrested about ten kids."
"Oh." Lynne winced, suddenly glad for her aversion to parties. "That—" she quickly shut her mouth as Kyote reached her hand into the other bowl. "Lynelle Maryas!"
Time stood still. Lynne couldn't breathe as every fifteen-year-old's eyes swiveled sympathetically to face her.
Go up, some distant part of her mind willed her. She could feel a sob rising in her throat, but she forced it down.
"Congratulations, Lynne," Kyote said, grinning wickedly. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you your District 10 tributes!"
Everything went by in a blur as Lynne was escorted to the Justice Building and bade tearful goodbyes to her friends. But then Mabella and Eve came in, and her hands suddenly began to shake violently as they cried and hugged her. All she could see was her father, holding her in her arms and giving her final instructions.
"Lynne, you're strong. I know you are. So I need to you help take care of the family. Don't let Mom and Eve starve. Take care of them!"
He told it to her over and over again. Then the Peacekeepers were dragging him, pulling him away from her, holding a gun to his head, and he was screaming. "Take care of them, Lynne! Don't let them starve!"
How was she supposed to do that if she died in the Hunger Games?
As soon as the last of her visitors left, she was escorted to the train, where Flint was already seated. Lynne was in no mood to talk.
He was still pale as a sheet and trembling slightly, muttering under his breath.
"What the heck are you doing?" Lynne asked him shakily.
His head shot up, and his light blue eyes piercing through her sharply. "They're rigged," he hissed vehemently. "The Reapings are rigged!"
Lynne just stared.
"I was arrested yesterday, and because of that, they branded me as a troublemaker. So of course, they pulled my name out of the bowl."
"Well, isn't that sort of your fault?" Lynne snapped, more snidely than she'd intended.
"My fault?" he snarled. "There were a hundred other people at that party. It was just bad luck. And don't go telling me that you're a perfect little angel, darling. After all, you were reaped, too."
Lynne pondered his words in silence. Was Flint right? Had she been reaped because the Peacekeepers had somewhat gotten wind of her thievery? Had they remembered what happened to her father and chosen her because of him?
Sighing, she rested her head in her hands. It didn't matter why she'd been reaped.
All that mattered was that, by some miracle, she had to win the Hunger Games.