IV.
Hosea Valdez, 18
District Ten Male
The journey to the square feels akin to a funeral procession.
He remembers doing this when he was younger, walking hand-in-hand with his mother to watch the older kids file into the pens like herded cattle, dusty and wide-eyed, some clinging to each other just like he did on the outside to his mother's arm.
He knew what the Games were, wasn't young enough at the time to obtain blissful ignorance on the subject and pretend that nothing bad would happen to the two kids they took. Most years those kids didn't come back. The yawning hole they left behind grew bigger and bigger each time, like some sort of black hole, and it was only Ten's sprawling lands that kept them from all being drawn into it.
It had been closed for so long, now, or at least further away. The square felt like the heart of it and Hosea was trying his best to stay grounded, to not float away into space like so many people before him.
Two of them would be dragged into it regardless today.
Hosea just had to hope it would be him.
In the very least, it just had to be anyone that wasn't named Galvin Ortega. Anyone that wasn't his best friend, the last person here who deserved to die like something out of a slaughterhouse. He was still by Hosea's side as they packed into the square—him on one side, his mother on the other, shadows under both of their eyes, bodies looking thinner than normal.
Galvin's parents were nowhere to be found; they had no idea what their son had done, what he suffered to get to this point.
His best friend turns towards the short line leading into the pens and gives him one last, pleading look before he departs, as if hoping Hosea will save him. As if hoping anyone will. Galvin doesn't want to die anymore than the rest of them.
That's why no one knows what Hosea has done either.
He squeezes his mother's hand, just like he would do when he was a child. "I'll be right back."
"Where is Galvin—"
No idea. She has no idea. Blissfully ignorant.
It's all falling into place.
He ignores the two boys that have filed into the line behind his best friend and shoves past them up until he reaches Galvin's back. "What are you doing?" Galvin hisses. "You can't come in with me, you idiot—"
"That's rude," he informs him, and then gives him a nudge. "Get going. 'keeper's waiting for ya."
"Hosea—"
"Go."
And he does, fishing out his ID to present it to the Peacekeeper with a worried look in his eyes, like he knows. He probably does. Galvin's no idiot, even if he calls him one. Hosea isn't following him out of some inane desire to stay by his side up until the last second he's chosen—he needs it to be him. Wants it to be him. He's watched his best friend be tormented for far too long to have allowed this to happen, day in and day out, people like Bennett and Kamari torturing him at school and on the walks in and out, never letting up until all Galvin wanted was to be gone.
"You didn't," Galvin says under his breath. "What about your mom?"
"You'll have to check in on her for me," he says. "Besides, what about yours? Your Dad? Your sister? They need you too. We're not letting a few attack dogs from school beat you, you hear me?"
"You don't know that they're picking you."
No. No, he doesn't know that. But Hosea looks around at the boys surrounding him, a rather small crowd, and knows his odds. He's capable. One of the few older ones. That coupled with the case he made in that damn application, practically pleading for his life to be taken instead of his best friend's... they don't have much of a choice in their selection.
He doesn't have very many people, and he won't lose the ones he does. Besides, he's enjoyed what he's gotten so far in his meager little existence—getting up early to feed the chickens every morning, swapping out making breakfast with his mother every other morning so that one of them could sleep in, getting Galvin good and drunk every once in a while so he didn't have to think about going to school the next day. So Hosea didn't have to drink alone like he did most nights.
He hasn't had a drink in three days, and his hands are practically itching for one.
It can wait, though. It can wait.
Galvin's repeated swallowing is an audible thing, harsh and nervous, throat bobbing as he wrings his hands together. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you."
"What will you do if it's you?"
"Come back," Hosea says, as if it's obvious. Shouldn't it be? There's no other option—he puts his head down and gets the work done, like he always has. It's better than the alternative of it being Galvin, who won't fight back because he doesn't know how to.
Although everyone around him is shuffling on both feet, uneasy like animals who already know their fate, Hosea feels oddly calm. The storm is out there, somehow, on the horizon and fast approaching. While everyone else will take shelter he'll have no choice but to stand in the downpour and let it soak him. Embrace the future—you know, the future that he didn't think could get any better. And maybe he's still right.
Could it be, if he comes back? He's not sure he even believes that. But if this is what was meant to be, then so be it.
Hosea knows in the past that his mother has prattled on about fate and superstitions, what's written in the stars and what just happens. He can't decide where this decision belongs, only that he's made it and come crashing through the other side.
"And our male volunteer for this year is..."
Beside him, Galvin's hands tighten into fists. He closes his eyes. Hosea takes a single, even breath. He really needs a drink.
"...Hosea Valdez!"
Yeah.
He really needs that drink now.
Devan Del Rio, 18
District Four Female
For the seventh time since they've settled in the square, though she's absolutely not counting, Iden jabs her hard in the ribs.
For the seventh time, she jabs him back.
In the very least it's somewhat of a sufficient distraction from the rather boring and distasteful on-going events around them. The escort is on the stage chirping about—you can take the Capitol out of the looks, but not out of the attitude, apparently. At least she seems nice.
Iden jabs her again and this time Devan nearly trips over sideways. "Fuck off," she growls at him. To her left, Jerric starts snickering like some off-brand, bad horror movie villain. If Tate even starts, she's disowning all of them.
Devan stomps hard on Iden's toe and he swears, bumping directly into both Mom and Dad. She's sure that he's on the receiving end of two equally chastising looks but she's too busy looking away, an innocent whistle poised on her lips.
"You're such a bitch," Tate whispers, though it seems staged. Everyone in a ten foot vicinity hears him.
"Tate," their father says, voice disapproving. Devan scratches idly at her nose, making sure her middle finger is pointed straight at him. Past him a gaggle of her friends have collected; her only wish is that they get this over with, and fast, so that they can move on. Taeja somehow secured invites to Kei Tavarro's party later tonight—probably because they're screwing, but that's none of Devan's business—and like hell she's missing that.
Sure, a prissy rich boy from across the District probably isn't going to have the type of party she's going to fit well into, but since when has Devan given a shit? She'll make them all like her. They will like her.
Aline and Dalina both offer similar, cheeky waves when they catch her staring. She scowls, but that only makes them laugh. Of course she's stuck over here with parents that don't trust her, or her brothers for that matter, to not make a scene.
"Is she going to get on with it, already?" Jerric mutters. "Fuck's sake, this is takin' forever…"
She pokes a finger into his cheek. "Shut up already. All the stupid's falling out."
Devan lunges away under Iden's arm before he can get a good smack in and instead it connects square with Tate's back, who just about hits back judging by the look in his eyes.
Vilya-what's-her-name is still up on stage talking, but she's got the envelope now. You know, the magic one, about ready to doom two kids to their gruesome, bloody fate. It's a shame, really, that so many kids are just buzzing about it. She has a faint memory of Taeja giggling about it, the bitter scent of vodka on her breath, but Devan had been several shots deep in it herself, so the memory is hazy at best. Aline had been egging someone on and Dalina had been passed out already, she's sure, easy rational Dalina. The only one who wouldn't laugh about it.
Devan vaguely hears the name called for the boys but recognizes him, at least, when he stumbles out into the aisleway, nearly keeled over in his raucous laughter.
"Isn't that the doping kid?" Tate asks.
"Oh, c'mon, you don't really believe that, do you?" she fires back. Since when do they believe words that come out of pursed mouths with a snotty attitude to boot? Tristan Adair is about as full of shit as the next guy. Devan would know—she looks at something similar in the mirror every morning.
That's called self-awareness, alright? She's not an idiot.
"Remember when I asked for your opinion?" Tate questions, nudging his shoulder into hers. Not strong enough to start a war, though. It would be Devan's fault entirely if she did.
Devan blinks. "You didn't?"
"Exactly. Shut up."
She finds herself grumbling under her breath again, far too soon after the last time. "Y'know, sometimes I wonder if Mom and Dad cooked you up in Eastport Marina," she mutters under her breath. "I mean, there are a lot of accidents that happen there…"
"Devan," her mother hisses, eyes narrowed. Oh, too far with that one, apparently.
"You can admit it, Mom, it's okay." If Devan could reach over to pat her arm, she would. "You can admit it. Tate can handle the truth."
"Devan Del Rio!"
"What?" she asks wildly, nearing exasperation. It takes her a heartbeat too long to realize that her name hasn't come out of her mother's mouth again. In fact, it hasn't come out of the mouth of anyone around her, not her father or her brothers, even several of her friends not so far away.
The whole crowd is silent. Someone could drop one of those cute, little touristy-esque seashells on the ground and you would hear it clatter across the cobblestone from a mile away. The Peacekeepers at the edge of the pens are looking around, almost frantically, but not finding the person they need. Devan knows the looks of those around her are far from fantastic—her mother's mouth is agape, her father's tense shoulders towering over her.
"What the fuck?" Iden says quietly, voice hardly a whisper.
"Devan Del Rio?" Vilya repeats into the microphone, almost hesitantly.
Oh fuck.
"Um," she manages. "No thanks."
No can do, apparently. The second she speaks there's a Peacekeeper headed in her direction—Devan just manages to back away from his outstretched hands. "Don't you dare," she snaps, but there are more coming from her. She needs to breathe. Breathe, and focus. Why are they calling her name? Does it matter? She has to get up there, doesn't she?
Another one reaches for her. "I got it," Devan says, aware of how badly she's seething. She takes a few steps forward through the crowd just as Taeja bursts out of it to her right, eyes wide.
"I didn't think you actually did it, Dev, no, what the fuck—"
One of the Peacekeepers shoves her friend back and she has it well in her mind to hit him—he's not even looking, she could do it, knock that stupid fucking helmet right off his head. Another one grabs her before she can and pulls her into the aisleway, further and further. They release her once she's on the stairs. Vilya offers a hand and she avoids it, stepping around her. The stage creaks underfoot.
Despite the show Varrik just put on, everyone is staring at her.
Well, this is one way to get noticed.
Devan smiles. Tries to, anyway. She's well aware that it comes off as more of a grimace. A million thoughts are racing through her head, but Taeja's words keep coming to the forefront. That memory… it was more than she thought it was. They were giggling for a reason. The person Aline was egging on was her. A joke. It was a fucking joke. Devan doesn't even remember doing it. Hardly anyone else did, either, judging by the reactions.
Breathe, she reminds herself. No fear to be seen here, folks. Devan totally isn't worried about dying, or anything, why would she be worried about that?
When she glances over Varrik's face is just this side of too manic, but it's welcome. That shit ain't ever scared her and it isn't going to start now. "Howdy, partner," he says lightly, tinted with one of the worst accents she's ever heard in her life. "We're certainly the pair, aren't we?"
Devan can't help herself—one of the most awful, choked laughs she's ever heard in her life escapes her throat and echoes across the near-silent crowd. Predictably, Varrik starts laughing with her.
Well, it could be worse.
Micah Rossier, 18
District Eight Male
Micah had been trying to count the number of boys standing alongside him when his name had been announced.
It wasn't high. It wasn't low. Upon first glance it looked like a safe number. Many of them he recognized from school or the neighborhood streets—you know, where the rooves always always leaked in bad weather and everyone's shoes had holes in them.
None of them looked it today. Even he fit the part. One of his father's old button ups, a pair of second-hand but clean dress pants, and freshly shined shoes. It was the faces that gave it away; tired, prematurely wrinkled, an unnatural crease to their brows. Micah had always prided himself in not allowing that to be something that weighed heavily on his mind. He could smile with the best of them, look untouchable, be alert and bright-eyed no matter how early he got up for a shift. It was worth it when he made others do the same even if he couldn't maintain it behind closed doors.
All of a sudden Micah felt alien. A stranger in his own District. His body had been invaded by something foreign. No longer was he smiling. As hard as he tried it wasn't working.
Not alien, then. Perhaps just broken.
He was preparing for his inevitable state.
Although the Peacekeepers weren't dragging him along like they used to with the tributes of former days, he still felt trapped. They weren't taking him to the Justice Building, he realizes. They were herding him to a nearby waiting car, his District partner's blurry face visible on the other side of the window.
No goodbyes. No nothing.
He was just supposed to go.
"Micah!"
The cry made him stumble. One of the Peacekeeper's caught him by the arm before he could go crashing to the ground. Another smaller yet just as powerful force crashed into his side, arms wrapping tight around his waist. Unexpectedly Renata—she's not the fastest of the triplets, nor the biggest, but apparently today she's the most determined.
And she's not letting go of him.
"You can't," she chokes. "I didn't think it would be—"
Him. Yeah. Him neither.
With her came the rest of them. Next Leighton, her status as the second oldest giving her special privileges in navigating the crowd. Then Amora and Blaise, Finnian on their heels. Arie and Joelle both hand in hand with his mother, Regan trapped up high, safely in his father's arm.
Micah wasn't going to last.
He pulled away from Renata as best he could, brushing some of the tears from his sister's face. "It's okay, it's gonna be okay."
A lie. A bold-faced one, even, and Micah had often been told by his mother that he wasn't good at it, but it felt like the only thing worth attempting right now. Even if he could convince them of the lie, nothing else mattered. Micah didn't have to believe it. He could sit down later and plan, think things through… maybe then hope would seem rational.
He was confident he could get there. For now, though, it wasn't him that mattered.
"Take a deep breath, alright?" Micah requests. Tears are still streaming down Renata's face—most of them are crying, in fact, something that becomes more jarring when Micah realizes he isn't.
Not yet, anyway.
Around him, the Peacekeepers already look slightly perturbed by the miniscule hold-up.
He turns Leighton towards him. It's on her, now, and it's not fair. She's sixteen; too young to have this much burden placed on her shoulders. Micah did this because he thought the cycle had to be broken. There had to be something more. Instead of an answer it's his sister being put in his place instead, a third provider that has no shot of anything more.
Deep down inside, he never thought it possible. Micah thought he would be going home tonight.
So many other numbers and names, people who were looking for meaning just like he was, and it was him.
Fate is a twisted thing sometimes.
"Leighton, listen to me," he instructs gently. "I have two shifts tomorrow. They'll probably take you, if you go instead. Mr. Strickland will have a cheque for me at the bakery on Friday. All of the others are taken care of except the market, but that won't be until next Tuesday. It's—"
"That doesn't matter right now," Leighton interrupts, teary-eyed. "Why the hell are you talking about that?"
"The paperwork on the counter, remember, the envelope I showed you?" he continues, ignoring her. "You have to fill that out and send it to the address on the back. They'll start sending the stipend next week now that I've been chosen."
"Micah," she whispers, heartbroken. Why did he do this to her?
Not himself, but why her? Why all of his siblings, and his friends, and his parents, Mr. Strickland and everyone else he works with…
It's too many people.
For the first time since his name echoed across the stage he smiles—really smiles. Artificial like those holiday lights they put up in the square in the winter but believable nonetheless. They don't have to know what he's really feeling.
When he's dying maybe he'll regret this. Or maybe he'll have a revelation later and decide he won't die, not at all.
"Everything's going to be okay," he says yet again, quickly wrapping Leighton in a hug. The rest of his siblings are still clamoring about his legs, waiting for similar attention, but Micah doesn't think he has the time.
Instead he faces his parents properly for the first time, possibly the last. As long as they don't think like that, Micah can handle it.
"Don't worry about me, alright?" he asks of them. "Worry about things here."
"But—"
"But nothing. Just take care of things." He hauls them both in with each arm, Regan trapped awkwardly between them. Despite the arms clinging to his legs and waist, his mother's trembling arms and father's sniffles, he takes every second of it and holds it tight. Before he pulls away he makes sure to wipe away the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, plastering what is surely a worrying smile on his face before he looks his mother in the eye.
Her hand frames his face, thumb smoothing over his cheek. "Sweetheart…"
"We gotta go, kid," the Peacekeeper says. "No more hold-ups."
Of course they do. Micah keeps smiling, squeezing his mother's hand.
Just one more time.
"I love you, mom," he says. "All of you."
With all of his lies, at least that's the truth. They don't have to know about everything else. With the Peacekeepers taking him away they won't have to see him cry or fret. His family has suffered enough throughout the years; they don't deserve more hardship.
Micah leaving is almost a blessing. One less mouth to feed. One less lie to spread day in and day out.
He's not happy. He never has been.
Maybe something out there will make him so, before he dies.
Marigold Voss, 16
District Nine Female
She's watched this happen before.
Marigold has seen some of the tapes. She's seen some of the ceremonies from the earlier Districts already this morning. None of that prepares her for the feeling of actually standing on the stage.
And none of that prepares her for the aftermath.
The Peacekeepers are more gentle than they were during the real Games, the ones everyone was used to. Though, she realizes, these are just as real now. Everyone has just softened. The Escort—Marigold has already forgotten her name, is all smiles as she ushers them to the stairs. That's unlike her. She doesn't forget people's names. Marigold attends so many parties and functions that the ability to memorize has been practically drilled into her head.
Never in her life has she been the center of attention before, but now, as she and Ren are led side-by-side off the stage, everyone parts around her like she's all that matters.
Technically, right now she is.
It's relieving to have someone next to her because Marigold is oh so used to it—Taryn or Roarke, even his parents. Any number of their little circle of friends, all dressed to the nines and her now matching them. It's easy to keep that image in her mind and therefore her head up, a slight bounce to her step that everyone around her watches with unveiled curiosity.
She knows none of them understand.
Marigold tries to imagine that she's just at another party, giggling with Taryn under her breath about some of the more unfortunate outfits in the room, stubbornly refusing to change her opinions on the tragic hairstyle of the treasurer's wife. That's how it always was, at least until Roarke came over and laced their hands together, a sunny smile on his face.
How she missed that hand in hers. Where are they all now?
Surprisingly, or not, Marigold catches sight of her own parents first. They look so much better these days, dressed in better clothes, a healthy glow to each of their faces. A healthy glow, but an unhappy one, currently. There's no blaming them on that front.
Her mother looks close to tears. She can't remember the last time she saw her cry.
They've been happy a long time. Their family always made it work, and now that Roarke's family has chipped in on their finances and given them higher-standing jobs, it was like a fairytale. Marigold got to move into a big, fancy house in the nice part of town with the boy she loved and her family got the best of the way he lived. Everything had slotted so neatly into peace.
Until now. In one move Marigold has shattered the illusion and... and for what?
She just wants to be like everyone else. She wants people to look at her like this all the time, the way they always look at Taryn and Roarke and his family.
She wants to be a star in an otherwise empty galaxy.
Her parents don't quite manage to get through the crowd, though her father tries. Marigold knows that it's only a matter of time until someone succeeds—Nine has never been the biggest of places.
A hand catches at her elbow, a normally frightening thing, but she recognizes the gentle touch immediately. Roarke. Though it's not protocol, and Marigold is nothing if not good at following that, she stops in the center of the square. Everyone can wait for her. They have to now. She's what they want, what they need. They can give her a bit of extra time.
"This is a mistake, right?" Roarke asks quickly. "They meant to pick someone else."
He looks so distraught, so lost. The pain is written all over his face, in words too plentiful for Marigold to make sense of. She cups his cheek in her hand, smiling.
It's still not as bright as his.
One day it could be.
"It's real," she says. "It's okay. I know what I'm doing. Think of it as a little adventure—I won't even be gone for that long."
Roarke shakes his head. "I don't—I don't get it, okay? Why are you doing this?"
She loves him. She really does. Marigold was one of the lucky ones in this life to find someone she could love and care about so quickly, someone with such a good heart. All of those things, however, don't add up to him getting it. Roarke has never had to struggle to be in the spotlight; he was born in it, thrives in it. Occasionally he drags her into it, but people never really care about her.
Marigold was born to make people happy, and he was born to be made happy.
For once, is it wrong to want their situations reversed?
"I love you," she reminds him. "We're going to get married, remember? It will be the greatest thing Nine's ever seen."
"Will we?" he asks. "My parents are furious. Do you know how much money they've given to your family, not to mention the jobs? This isn't going to work the way you think it will, Mari, please—"
She can't back out now. Their choice was her. People out there actually wanted her.
It doesn't matter if there were limited options.
"Don't let them be mad," she pleads. "I'll come back, and we'll make them understand."
"I love you," he says, as if finally answering her. "Was that not enough?"
If only that was ever enough.
Marigold wishes it was.
She wraps her arms tight around him and his hands curl around her, one on the small of her back and the other tangled in her hair, running his hand through strands mussed about by the wind. He's shaking, faintly. Marigold leans back and kisses him, sweetly, just long enough to really mean something. "I love you," she says again. "Tell Taryn I'll miss her, and that I'll see her soon. Your parents too, okay?"
"Mari—"
She pulls away from him. Her eyes are wet—she didn't really expect to cry. Looking at him like this is horrendously difficult, however, worse when she thinks about how her best friend is still somewhere out in the crowd and how she can't hear her voice one last time before she goes, or Roarke's parents, everyone else who loves and cares about her...
In the long run this decision can only make their life better. She will finally feel right in her place and belong where she only was lost in the shadows before. Her and Roarke will get married. Their parents will all be there, and Taryn will be the best and most beautiful bridesmaid in the world, and it will all be perfect.
The world will finally be as it was intended to.
No one can complain about that.
"Are you okay?" Ren asks as she backs away. His arm extends halfway and she grabs onto it without thinking, fingers leaving marks on his forearm. The comfort he radiates is immediate, almost overwhelming in its strength. Who knew that such a friendly face could mean so much?
"Awesome," she answers, wiping at her face. He smiles, bright as can be. She smiles back.
Just for a moment, everything feels right.
This is essentially a double upload at this point because I only managed to re-upload the last chapter like, Thursday, but I don't think there are any complaints on that front. With this we're officially two-thirds of the way through our intros and will be moving into the Capitol within the month.
Feel free to let me know what you thought of Hosea, Devan, Micah and Mari if you would like, but if not I'll see you next week!
Until next time.