NOTE: Although the D11 and D12 Reapings will take place concurrently for Lucent, they will still be two different chapters. This is the D12 chapter.

Lucent Saccharyn, Head Gamemaker:

I'm beyond excited for these next two districts! District Twelve is a very mixed bag for tributes. They're a very overlookable district and don't have much strength. They're also often very young, and die very early on in the Games, usually as early as the Bloodbath. However, they are nice, cute, and personable, which draws sponsors to them reliably. They usually provide a lot of entertainment, and get very emotional. Capitolites eat those dramatics up, which occasionally results in them sponsoring a District Twelve tribute who makes it further along in the arena.

District Eleven is generally a strong district. They work long days in the fields, farming crops, which makes them strong and fit. They learn to survive on very little food because of the poverty that surrounds them. They are physically and mentally resilient. They are perfectly suited to the Hunger Games, and more often than not make it very far. They also pick up sponsors but often fail when confronted with an armed-to-the-teeth Career tribute. They are strong tributes that can shake things up in the arena, and also possess knowledge of general outdoor survival skills.

These two Reapings will be taking place concurrently because of a delay with the broadcasting in District Eleven. The screen I am watching from is split in two, one half displaying each district's Reaping. I hope the audio comes through nice and clear, so I'll be able to clearly hear the names of each tribute. After all, this may just be the most important part of the day remaining.

Sorrel Harding, 13, D12F:

"Time to get up, young lady." Mrs. Stoker hovers over me, wispy gray hair flying around her face in two frizzy braids, faded derby hat cocked at an angle on her head. Her filthy apron has a long trail of spit stuck on it near an unexplainable stain, attached to a crying child clinging to her leg. She's an elderly woman, and she looks dead tired. I have no great love for her, but I suppose she does her best to care for me and the other orphans.

She doesn't like us very much, and I don't really understand why she's caring for children if she hates mess and disobedience, but she's alright. She feeds us and gives us a place to stay, even if we have to stuff old flour sacks with dry leaves for makeshift chairs. I get off my scratchy sleep mat, a torn up jute rug with a thin sheet on it, and look around the long room. Mrs. Stoker has moved on to other people near me, and I see a boy near me rubbing sleep from his eyes. He's not my friend, but we get along alright. I don't have any friends.

The orphanage is huge. Our room, although very large in comparison for a normal chamber, is one of the smaller ones. We're the twelve to fifteen group, a few dozen young teenagers living together in a confined space. We have to help Mrs. Stoker care for the younger children too, as well as take up jobs to make money. She does the bare minimum to keep us all alive and safe, but at least she's not abusive like some other people I know of. I, along with a few other people, parade outside to the washing block. There's a well with a fence around it at the center, to prevent the toddlers from falling in. The boys are usually put in charge of filling buckets of water and the girls like me haul it to a row of poorly maintained, shoddily built wooden cubes where we wash with lumps of brownish carbolic soap.

We all file out of the house to the well area, where we have to supervise the younger kids and make sure they bathe while Mrs. Stoker makes some sort of lumpy porridgey concoction for our breakfast. Nobody's exactly sure what she puts in it, but I suspect it includes more sawdust than oatmeal. I wait patiently in line for my turn to pick up my well water, dragging along a small child loudly complaining that she's hungry.

"Sorrel," she whines, "I wanna eat. When's Mrs. Stoker going to feed us?" She's riding on my shoulders, tugging on a stand of my matted hair.

"Quiet down, Bessie," I tell her. "We've got to wash up before breakfast. Then Mrs. Stoker will have our food waiting for us. Isn't that nice of her?"

"I don't wanna wash up! The water is cold and the soap feels slimy!" I sigh heavily. I like kids, but there's no negotiation or reasoning with them. I can't just explain calmly that something has to be done because they don't understand why we have to do it in the first place.

"Come on, let's go get some water. I think Tom has some all ready for us. What do we say to him?" I move to take the pail from his hands, adjusting it in my grasp to balance the weight with the girl perched on my shoulders.

"Thank you Tom!" she chirrups.

"That's right!" I praise. "Come on, let's go take a bath!" I wash myself hurriedly but thoroughly, preparing for the Sisyphean task before me. Getting Bessie clean is a battle of will. She screams hysterically when I try to scrub off the dirt from her face and arms, and even more when I rinse out her hair. She refuses to let me wipe the remaining suds from her face, so she ends up with some soapy film on her cheeks, which she then demands I remove. By the time she settles down enough to actually let me try, she's suddenly become distracted by a nearby squirrel. Because of course she is.

Mrs. Stoker runs breakfast smoothly, ladling out a fat dollop of gloop in each bowl and handing out chipped, bent spoons to eat it with. I swallow quickly, trying to avoid the bland taste. We eat almost nothing else. Normally I'd spend my day running errands for other people in the district, but today is Reaping Day. Nobody has any messages for me to send or goods for me to peddle so instead I'm leading a field trip of sorts.

I pick a child to be the "line leader" and one for the "caboose" and shepherd from alongside, directing them through the district. We stop by the markets to pet the goats there, and I speak to them about where certain types of food come from. They watch with rapt attention as I point at a tray of cheese and explain how it actually is made with goats' milk. A few look grossed out, but most just look intrigued. We speak to an elderly man relaxing on his porch while repairing a pair of boots and tell them that he is a cobbler, a man who makes shoes for a living. I invite them to respectfully ask him a few questions about his job, and he chuckles as he gives the answers. No fewer than three children eagerly proclaim that they want to be cobblers too. Then we walk over to the house of a younger woman who speaks about how she helps treat the sick using medicinal herbs and good habits. She heavily stresses the importance of maintaining cleanliness to prevent illness and I see Bessie scratch at the soap residue on her face.

We loop around the Seam and find a woody clearing, where I make everyone stop and learn to braid grass and make ivy crowns to play at being royalty. We return to the orphanage in high spirits, and I join up with other people my age. Off to the Reaping we must go. I have accepted the likelihood of being picked, haven taken out tesserae for all the eighty-six other orphanage kids, plus Mrs. Stoker. Last year that meant my name was in the Reaping bowl eighty-nine times. This year it'll be a total of one hundred seventy-seven times. The odds are certainly not in my favor.

Chip Maxen, 13, D12M:

My parents wake me up early this morning, even before the sun has risen. My father wears an apologetic smile, and my mother passes me a cup of hot tea. "Sorry for waking you up so early," he explains, "But I have to go in to work. I wanted to make sure I saw you today because of the Reaping." Ah, yes, the Reaping. I had forgotten that was today. I hate the Hunger Games. It's awfully unfair to send a couple of young kids into a death arena with full-fledged adults trained in weaponry and expect us to see it as fair. I really dislike it when bullies take advantage of those weaker than them, and it really seems like the Capitol does that a lot.

"...Anyway," Father continues, "The chance of you being picked is very slim, but I want to say goodbye just in case. I certainly don't think you will be, but I want to play it safe." He hugs me and ruffles my hair. "I love you, son. Good luck." He works in the mines, and he has to get up very early. I'm usually still asleep when he goes to work, but today I get to see him leave.

I can't really go back to sleep, so I drink the tea that my parents brought me and I look around our house. My little brother is still asleep in the next room, so I get up and pad quietly to the kitchen. Mother still has her hair in a linen bonnet from when she was sleeping, and she looks like she'd rather still be in bed. She, unlike Father, has one of the highly coveted office jobs, where she deals with coal inventory and such. She has the day off, so she's making a nice breakfast of hotcakes instead. We usually get special holiday meals on Reaping Day. She grabs the nice white flour, sugar, milk, eggs, and butter, and sets to work making a runny mixture. She then takes a tin pan and pours some in, holding it over the fire, swirling it around and flipping it over until it's nice and brown on both sides. A pot of strawberries and sugar bubbles, hanging from a chain above the fire. She's making jam too.

She sings a faint melody under her breath, and her brown skin glints under the light of the fire. I feel like I recognize the tune from somewhere, but I can't quite recall the name. Instead I listen to her and try to determine the lyrics.

"There is a time, there is a place, when love should conquer all. The rest of life is pushed aside as truth and reason fall."

I'm still not sure where it originally comes from, but I can remember that it's a song I've heard miners' kids sing on occasion. It's just an old folk ballad. My father tells me the miners sing songs to keep them hammering in the same rhythm. Maybe they taught it to their kids? I'll have to ask him later tonight. On second thought, I could just ask Mother where she knows it from.

"But only if that selfishness can lead to something good! I thought I knew you, princess, but I never understood. I don't know you… No, I don't know you…"

"Mom," I interrupt, "Where's that song from?" She turns around from the stove, startled.

"Oh, it's just a folk song. My parents taught it to me when I was young. They loved the old music of our district. Why do you ask?"

"It just felt familiar. I think the miners' kids sing it. How old is it exactly?" Mother rests the side of her face on her hand, making her cheek squish up. She thinks about it for several seconds before answering.

"Well, you know how language and books endure through time? We still talk the same way and tell the same fables as we did generations ago. Music is the same way. It's just a different sort of story. It actually probably comes from before the Dark Days."

"Do you know lots of old music?" I ask her. She tells me stories all the time, of patience and kindness. Also of heroes defeating villains. I always understood what she meant when she said those stories came from before Panem even existed. Does she have other songs too?

"Oh, yes. Of course, there's a lot of music, and some people today make up songs and stories too. But many of the old songs, the ones with people and place names-"

"Proper nouns," I say, remembering something my teacher once taught me in school. We're learning about more advanced writing terms now.

"Yes. The ones with those names are usually from before Panem was even beginning to form. Sometimes we lose the words, though."

"What do you mean 'lose the words?'" I ask, confused. Didn't she just say that we talk the same way we did ages ago?

"Well, we still know what those words are and how to say them. We just don't know what they mean. They are the names of inventions from long ago." It's a lot to wrap my head around, but we actually talk about stuff like this a lot. I'm naturally curious, and Mother knows a lot about history. We're some of the richer people in the district, and she got a lot of education when she was young. She also has a job that allows her to access old books and records that aren't available to most people.

"Can you sing me one of those songs?"

"Sure! Let me just go check in on your brother first." She bustles into his room and reappears. "I'll wake him up when the hotcakes are ready. I'll just have to sing quietly. What sort of song would you like to hear?"

"Maybe one with a simile or metaphor? My teacher's been talking about learning devices."

"Alright," she agrees. She takes a moment to think of one and starts singing softly. "Life is a waterfall, we're one in the river and one again after the fall. Swimming through the void, we hear the word, we lose ourselves, but we find it all! Cause we are the ones that want to play, always want to go, but you never want to stay. And we are the ones that want to choose, always want to play but you never want to lose…"

"What does it mean?" I ask. I have an idea, but I need to know if I'm right.

"Why don't you tell me?" she counters.

"Okay. Well, I think it's saying how we act as one most of the time but obstacles divide us. We find solace in groups, and we sometimes do things we wouldn't normally because we sacrifice pieces of our independence in favor of conforming to the standard the leaders decide. We like moving forward, reaching for more, taking risks, but we aren't always ready to think ahead about the consequences."

"And?" she nudges. "Which groups of people do you see that in the most?"

"Well, the rich people in the Capitol. They have stuff the poor folks here don't but they still want to get more money and stuff. They always want to look better even though it doesn't seem to make them any happier. They'd rather think about the nice stuff they have than how much better they could make things for others."

"Exactly!" Mother encourages. "Government has never distributed wealth evenly among people."

"But why are we richer than some other people? You worked hard to get a good job, right?"

"Well, yes, but only partly. People in power arbitrarily decided that some jobs are worth more than others. I was lucky to get a good education and had a family connection that helped me get hired. That's because my parents had good jobs. Wealth is hereditary. You'll probably have money and get a good job because I did, and I met people in the process that will give you an easier path there. Do you understand?" she asks.

"I think so. Money builds up. The powerful people make it easier for the same families to get rich but leave a lot of people behind. And nobody really addresses the problem because they need to conform to the norm in order to survive."

"Yeah. Let me grab your brother, breakfast is ready." Mother gets up abruptly, and returns with Zeke. She quickly starts dishing up. "You get now why there are so many poor people in our district, which brings us to the Hunger Games."

I dig into my food. "How?"

"We're smart people. Most don't say it outright, but the Capitol treats us like crud. Since there are more of us than the Capitolites and Peacekeepers, why don't we rise up? Because of existing fear. The Capitol, once a year, kills off a few people's kids and reminds us of how weak we are. We see the grief firsthand and remember the wars we lost against them. They rely on us for their food. District Nine could halt grain production and stop this whole system, but they won't. A few people get whipped or shot and everyone toes the line again because they don't want to die."

"I don't want to die." Zeke sits silently, listening as he eats.

"That's right! And that's the cruel brilliance of the Hunger Games. It reinforces the idea that we are disposable and that they can kill us randomly based on the actions of a small minority. Fewer people act out because they don't want to draw attention to themselves. They don't want to stick up for themselves because they know how little their lives are valued. The Capitolites have no reason to keep them alive, so they can kill them at any time. That creates a vicious cycle of fear, where nobody resists at all and simultaneously support and look down on rebels."

"Are we rebels?"

"No. We're not perpetrating any active resistance. We try to curry favor by buying ourselves into their good graces. We are also trapped in this cycle. We're just more aware than some of the others. Today you'll still be afraid of getting picked. And that's what they depend on. If nobody feared the Hunger Games, it would lose all effectiveness."

"That doesn't make me any less scared."

"I know. Speaking of, it's getting a little close to the Reaping. You should get ready." I do, hurrying off to wash and dress myself. I kiss Zeke and my mother goodbye. In a gray polo shirt, black dress pants, and my favorite blue jacket, I meet my friend Freddy at the Reaping Square and talk quietly as we wait. The escort appears. Teal-colored braids flop down on his forehead as he reaches into the fishbowl to select the girl tribute.

"Sorrel Harding!" he shouts. A slightly scruffy-looking girl makes her way to the stage with a neutral expression on her face. Like Mother was talking about earlier, she doesn't seem scared. Resigned, maybe. A little sad. But not scared. Now the escort's hand disappears into the boys' bowl. I know I won't be picked. I pray I won't be picked.

"Chip Maxen!" Yep, I was picked. I can actually feel my jaw having dropped. I walk slowly up to the stage, and I know exactly what Mother was describing about the fear. I can see the people in the crowd feeling a mixture of afraid and relieved. I'm just scared. I can feel the panic setting in already. Is this really happening to me?

Hey y'all! The next chapter will be posted by Monday evening. I have no real announcements, but if you're looking for other cool stories to read, I have a couple recommendations on my profile that you can check out.

~LC