Soya Orlando, 14, D11F:
I woke up before the sun today. In fact, I'm always up early. It's usually easier to steal from the merchants at dawn, when they're still drowsy and unattentive. This morning the russet tones of the sunset hang low above the orchards that flank the central plaza. Springy moss, the kind that thrives in the shade, blankets the ground in a thick green carpet, ready to soak up any spilled milk, to the dismay of the man who runs the dairy. His clumsy son often knocks over the jugs when he goes to market. Right now I can see his stand propped up under a sprawling garden trellis with peppercorn vines weaving in and out.
This particular boy is not my favorite, always making a ruckus with his friends, so I'll steal something from him. I constantly search for weaknesses that I can exploit in the people I meet, ways to take from them and get the things I want so I can sell them off. I could easily distract him and sneak a jug or two of milk or even good cream, but where's the fun in that? No, I want something valuable. Something that will be fun to steal, that I can pawn for a high price and get me enough money to support my family for a long while. I take a good look at him, searching for the most expensive item in his possession and zero in on it right away: a slim golden cross dangling from a thin chain on his neck.
I could snatch something off his table and pass it off to a younger child, then loop back around and chase him, but that would cause a huge fuss and there's no guarantee I'd actually get the necklace in time. I could try to cajole him into taking it off for some purpose and then run as fast as possible, but that's too risky and he might not want to take it off at all. Instead I go for plan three, which is the simplest of them all. I walk up to his stand, pretending to be interested in buying some milk, rubbing a couple coins together in my hand. I haven't thought of a script to follow, so I decide to wing it and pretend to just be socially awkward, approaching him with a hunched-in walk and a nervous look on my face.
"Um, hi, my dad sent me for some milk."
"What sort of milk do you want? We've got lots of types!" As usual, he's far too cheery for the early hour.
"Uh, he didn't specify…" I look to the side, as though praying for my father to show up and buy the milk himself. "What sort would he have meant?" I give myself some time to plan as he sets out his wares. He indicates the pitchers already up on the table.
"Well, that there is whole milk. That's the normal kind that most people get! This one is skim, it's a little less expensive but still has great taste! He points to another jug. And that's half-and-half, if you've got money to spare. Half whole milk, half cream!" He says everything so animatedly, waving his arms about and nodding his head as he praises the quality. He's too wrapped up in his own sales pitch to recognize the trick I'm about to pull.
"What about all cream? I've got money," I say a little timidly.
"Damn girl, you're a fancy one!" He guffaws. He turns around and leans down to search for the cream, which, being the priciest, is most likely to be stolen. That's why they don't keep it in full view. While he's busy, I extract a pair of pruning shears from my back pocket and snip through the thin metal of the necklace. I freeze, holding on the ends of it, until he reaches out to swat a branch. When it gently swings back into his shoulder, I yank the chain fully off his neck and pocket it along with my shears. He comes back up, lugging the jug of cream, and I examine all the varieties on the table.
"Dada gave me enough for the cream but I think I'll just have the whole. I don't think he'd like it if I spent all his money on special milk!" I give a tiny laugh. "And I suspect he meant most of it to be for groceries." I give him a few coins in exchange for the milk, and walk leisurely towards the other end of the market so he assumes I'm going to buy more food. In actuality, I'm heading towards the house of a very rich girl called Audreyana Guava. She's a year older than me, and extremely, extremely popular.
She lets me in through the back door of the Guavas' townhouse near the larder. An array of delicacies grace their white-painted table as a scrawny man in an apron places about a bushel of ripe strawberries into a marinade of honey and lavender. He ignores our arrival entirely, and we pass him to get to the staircase. Audreyana leads me upstairs to her room, which is as garish as can be found outside of the Capitol itself. She sits on the bed as I stand before her and claps her hands together. "Alrighty now! What have you got for me today, Soya?" I reach in my back pocket and spool the necklace out into her palm. She appears disappointed. "Really? It's awfully thin. You know I like my gold in the largest quantities possible."
I probably should bite my tongue, but that's just not the sort of person I am. "Well if you don't like it, I'm sure I can sell it for more elsewhere." She suddenly looks horrified.
"Oh Soya, I'm sorry! I still want it you know!" She fishes around in a chest of drawers and produces a fistful of bills. I count it. A very good payday, but I think I can haggle for a little more.
"Is that all you've got? I had to spend some of my own money buying stuff so I could trick the vendor I stole it from. Surely there's a little more still coming my way?" I phrase it like a question, but we both know it's a demand. I'll start removing links from the necklace if she doesn't pay me what I want, and then I'll sell them off to other rich people. She slowly removes more money from the dresser, giving me another fat stack of cash. I count it, and it's one of the best prices I've gotten in a long time. So I decide to push my luck a bit more.
"And because it's Reaping Day I'm charging extra. That'll be another thirty or so." She scoffs at this, yanking me onto the bed next to her and tucking an arm around me as she faces the floor-length mirror.
"Oh, Soya. We both know that's not happening. I mean, look at me..." She gestures to herself. She's got the usual District Eleven looks, but she's especially stunning. Deep brown skin, dark eyes, coily black hair woven in two braids. She's also wearing a nice dress and some makeup, already gussied up for the Reaping. She sports lots of jewelry too, and the dimples in the plump apples of her cheeks make her even prettier. "...and look at you." In comparison, whether to her or District Eleven in general, I stick out like a sore thumb. I've got pale, sallow skin and my dark hair is wavy. My eyes are deeper set and at a sharper angle than hers. Even though I don't care very much about my looks, I still feel ugly when put next to her, especially in my patched, plain clothing. She does it to make me feel inferior when I overstep my bounds. "You know you're not getting extra money today, you pathetic little thing, but happy Reaping Day nonetheless!" She shooes me out quickly.
I make the trek home to the poor sector where I live, slamming down my bottle of milk and wad of money on the table in frustration. My father, who isn't as nice as the fake, rich version I made up for Milk Boy, sits on the couch, complaining of a headache. That's no shock to anybody, considering he drinks so much I wouldn't be surprised to hear he pisses straight brandy. He mutters quietly to a worn photograph of a dark-haired woman. "Micheala, doll," I hear him whisper to it. It's of my mother, who ditched us the minute she gave birth to my little sister. Rather than acknowledge this, I walk by him silently and head straight for the room all three of us kids share. Inside, Devon is helping Sefiani into her skirt. Her tiny five-year-old feet wiggle in a pair of his old shoes, which are the closest we have to her size even though they barely fit her.
"Hey Dev," I say as I make my way to the crate where my clothes are kept. "How's your morning going?"
"Tough. Sefiani's as stubborn as you are!" He tries to coax her into a coat, but she wriggles away from him, sticking her tongue out and blowing a raspberry. I scoop her up and get it on her with no problem. Devon's twelve, so this is his first year at the Reaping. He's bound to be nervous, but he doesn't say anything about it, and I don't bring it up. I wish I had time to see my friend Kenizie too, but we're already running late to the Reaping (Sefiani has somehow managed to chew up an extra hour in what seemed like only five minutes) so instead we wave goodbye to Abraham (I refuse to call him Father) and head to the Reaping. The Peacekeeper gives me a funny look as I check in with Sefiani sitting on my shoulders, but we've nowhere else to put her. District Eleven just has one big area fenced in, where everyone of Reaping age can intermingle, so I clutch Devon's hand and prepare myself for the worst.
Griffin Jagger, 17, D11M:
When I wake up and clomp to the kitchen in the boots and rumpled clothes I slept in, Mom is standing in the kitchen. Her curly hair spills out from under a straw hat. She's wearing a dull pink dress, the bodice still unlaced. The small room is warm from the fire she has going, where she's cooking barley in a pot of water for breakfast. She gives a light laugh when she sees me. "Why do you insist on sleeping in your shoes?"
"I dunno. They're comfy, I guess."
"Really? I'll bet you're just too lazy to take them off!" She smiles at me, with only a touch of exasperation.
"Yeah Mama, whatever you say," I tease her. It's going to be a terrible day, but neither of us are prepared to acknowledge that yet. I have to volunteer whether I like it or not, and believe me, I don't. In fact, I can think of nothing I'd want to do less than volunteer for a sadistic reality television show that involves two dozen kids, including myself, being murdered, but the alternative is Mom being killed, and that's far worse.
It's because my parents were rebels. They hated the Capitol. Last year, my father died when a building fell on top of him. It was deemed an accident, but we all know the truth. The Peacekeepers themselves told us. They burst into our house a few weeks ago, whacking everything with their batons, pointing guns at Mom and me, telling us they knew about what Mom and Dad thought of the Capitol. They said they'd killed Dad and they were going to kill Mom too if I didn't volunteer. I finally kicked them all out after snatching one of their weapons, and they swore I'd better do as I was told.
I really don't have an option. Unless I want to watch them kill Mom, I have to volunteer today. I'll probably die, but I still need to fight. If I can win, I might just be able to do something about the corrupt Peacekeepers. I'm already planning out what I need to do in the arena to survive, but I know it would probably upset Mom to talk about it right now, so instead I follow her outside to the grassy knoll in our backyard. Wildflowers grow on it sometimes, but right now it's too hot.
She serves up the barley and looks at a birds' nest in our neighbor's apple tree, so I try to remember all the things I have going for me. Strength, first off. I'm tall, just like my parents, and working odd jobs has made me pretty fit. I change jobs a lot, it bores me to do the same thing for more than a couple of months. My dad was a bit like that too. I remember a time from when he was alive. He, Mom, and me were all having a lazy day outside until my dad said something very worrying; he had mentioned that if something bad happened to him, it was because he had disobeyed the Capitol and that he never intended to put us in danger. It had ruined the cheerful mood and we all went home with a pit in our stomachs. His death was a couple years after that.
He had always hated staying in one place, and he was doing a stint building houses when he was crushed by the foundation of one, which the Peacekeepers orchestrated. I worked building houses for a while and liked it too, but after six or seven weeks I got antsy and switched jobs. When he was alive, Mom always said I was just like him, but now she looks so scared whenever I say something about him. And a bit wistful too, like she has great things to tell me but isn't quite ready to talk about it.
I've got another advantage too: charm. People in the Capitol are really stupid and laying it on thick is a surefire way to get some sponsors. Flattery, compliments, those are the ways I'll impress the ditzy, donkey-faced morons just waiting to throw money at anyone who knows how to hold open the door or has a dazzling smile.
Then there's my resourcefulness and adaptability. I don't make fixed plans and I like moving from place to place. I can conform to my environment without too much trouble and can deal with pretty much any situation the Gamemakers throw at me. I'm pretty smart too, and being both smart and strong can get me pretty far. I'll need something else though, something that makes the Capitolites adore me and simper quietly to one another that they're thinking of helping me out in the arena by sponsoring me or ranking me at the top of the betting odds.
Is this how Careers think? Even though I don't want to kill anybody, we're both going into the Hunger Games with a presupposed strategy that's been thought out carefully. We've both taken stock of our strengths and weaknesses before having to actually depend on them. They want to fight, though. They planned because they want to kill for fame, and I planned because I can't get my crappy situation off of my mind.
Mom takes my bowl from me when I've finished eating and tells me to get dressed properly. She can sense that I'm not very talkative today, so she mostly leaves me alone. I wash my face and get dressed in my only button-down shirt, some beige shorts that look like khakis even though they're not, and an old pair of my father's shoes. They're brown, soft from so much use, and shiny because he polished them with a greasy rag every time he took them off. They still smell like him, the breezy summer air and the herbs and flowers he'd collect and put in mugs of water around the house for Mom to admire.
I push all the sentimental thoughts out of my head and put the shoes on too. Mom walks me to the Reaping, chattering about all sorts of nice things in an effort to take my mind off the horrors ahead. I have to interrupt her at some point, cutting in abruptly. "Sorry Mom, but that's not really helping." She nods her head in understanding.
"That's alright, honey. I suspect I'd be feeling the same way. Are you sure about this though? Even with me gone, you can manage pretty good for yourself. We've got a warm house and firewood and the root cellar is-"
"Yes, Mom, I'm sure." She hugs me goodbye and leaves me to my own devices at the check-in booth. The Peacekeeper working it seems nice enough, but in a couple of years he'll be as mean and nasty as the men who threatened to kill my mother if I didn't volunteer. I wander around the pen, trying to find a spot that'll give the cameras a good angle of me. My first impression on the Capitolites is going to be very important.
At last, the escort steps out onto the stage. He's young with a bright yellow buzz cut and tanned skin, wearing an obnoxious pinstripe suit with no shirt underneath. His speech is fairly short, mainly a 'yay woop woop for agriculture, very important, uh huh uh huh now on to the reapings so we can all go home' sort of deal. He picks the female tribute first, a very short fourteen-year-old. She's carrying a toddler and she passes it to a boy who looks related to her. She walks up to the stage angrily and starts shouting abuse at the escort, who backs up a bit in shock. Peacekeepers leap up and hold her still, but she continues to yell and make obscene gestures.
The escort, a bit taken aback, pulls out a slip and reads off a name I don't know. I yell that I volunteer and walk up a bit cockily, smirking as I do so. I wave too, both to the audience and the cameras filming the ordeal. I reach out my hand to shake the girl's, but she tries to wrench three of my fingers back so the escort steps between us. "Alright," he chuckles nervously. "Thank you to District Eleven and may the odds be ever in your favor!" He bows once before leaving, so I mock-bow several times, winking at the audience. He snatches my hand and drags me along with the girl to the Justice Building, sighing heavily. "Oh dear Panem, I can't wait to go back home! This is so exhausting!" Even though he's awfully stiff and preppy, I can't help but agree with him. I'll be back soon, Mom.
Hey y'all! This was a pretty tough chapter to write and I couldn't get the tributes right for quite a while, (which isn't the fault of the people who submitted them, some tributes are just tougher than others), but I've been procrastinating by planning out some events for the Hunger Games itself and begun compiling a list of Bloodbath casualties. I also have all the alliances put together, and my vision for this story is really starting to take shape! Thank you so much for reading, offer comments and criticism if you'd like, and Merry Christmas if you celebrate it!
~LC