Lucent Saccharyn POV:
The last ceremony was about as calm as I'd predicted. The tributes seem a little stronger than usual, actually, but I doubt either one will have a significant impact on the Hunger Games itself. District Five is likely to be about the same in terms of interest, but they'll probably be a little more skilled. In the past decade or so, District Five has been developing a sort of nightlife, with clubs and hair dye and music.
Over the years, they've been exposed to radio and colorful compounds from the Capitol, and those clever citizens thought up ways to expand on them. The Peacekeepers there are instructed to be more lax. Whereas District Three citizens are good at puzzle recognition and book learning, District Five is more about the kind of ingenuity that manifests naturally, and they're one of the only districts that might put up a fight if they decided to rebel, with their mastery of electricity and access to corrosive chemicals. President Mikhail has been slowly increasing restrictions, but for now, the nightclubs are here to stay.
As a result of these things, District Five tributes have smarts that come in handy in the arena. Most of them have been in a fistfight or have handled dangerous materials. They understand the world around them, and although they can't stand up to the Career tributes, they have some potential to be contenders. I'm expecting a fairly boring Reaping here as well, but I'm certainly excited to see what skills they'll have to offer.
Amethyst "Thys" Kurono, 16, D5F:
I didn't have to wake up this morning, because I've been working all through the night. I'm a guard at some of the nightclubs in the area, sometimes several at once. The club owners pay me to make sure nobody gets into fights or hurts the staff. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that people do really stupid things when they're drunk.
District Five citizens have long ago discovered that fermenting and distilling various sorts of berries from the woods would produce weak spirits. Blackberries were about the best you could get, until they stumbled upon juniper and discovered that although it was very bitter, it made for a very potent liquor. Now that liquor, known as sevit, is sold and consumed in every darn club in the district.
People seem to like being at clubs. They like listening to loud music, they like dancing with strangers, and they really like drinking sevit. People get into disputes, then get belligerent and try to pick a fight. My job is to stop them before they can seriously hurt another customer or a staff member. A shocking amount of people try to beat up bartenders who cut them off, so me and a few of the other guards have got to keep the peace and make sure everyone's safe. Sometimes that involves me having to fight them, and I've gotten pretty good at it.
Last night was super busy. Today is Reaping Day, and nobody enjoys thinking about the possibility their children might die in the near future. I had to kick more than a few people out of the club, and I've got a couple of fresh bruises, but nothing too serious. Normally I work all night and sleep during the day, but the Reaping means I can't do that, so I'm more tired than usual.
I get home super early this morning, but the Old Man already has breakfast waiting for me. He truly is old, nearly in his seventies, and he's been taking care from me ever since my mother died when I was eleven. I lay my suit jacket down on the back of the wobbly chair, aware that I'll have to put it on again soon. It's probably the most valuable item I own, but it doesn't even belong to me. It's a uniform provided by the club that all the guards have to wear.
The Old Man and I silently eat a meal of watery grain and flavorless jerky. Later, we'll have a hot, filling Reaping Day dinner. It'll be the same tomato soup as usual, but we might be able to afford some good bread and parsnips to go along with it. I lazily play with the pendant around my neck as I eat. It's a USB stick, holding all the music I've made. Only the best musicians get to play their stuff at the clubs, but it's probably my proudest achievement. Once in a while I get a short gig, not that I get paid for it, but I swear it makes my whole year.
"Music again, huh?" It's the Old Man. He looks up from his dish.
"Yeah. Do you think I'll ever go big? Play in the clubs and be able to pay for our bills with all the money I'll make?" It's a long standing dream, one that I know is unlikely to ever come true.
"I think you'll bring joy to a lot of people with your music. I think you're already doing a great job of paying our bills, though. I know we don't always have enough, but you-"
"Eddie!" The shrill screech cuts through the quiet of our apartment, all the way from the one directly below ours. It belongs to Tressa, the landlord. She's a middle aged woman with golden-brown hair usually up in curlers, and her noisy, misbehaving children keep the Old Man up at night on a regular basis. She's rich too, and fat from eating the good cake at the bakery. Aside from the hair, she looks exactly like a naked mole rat. Also like the naked mole rat, Tressa has reproduced with three different mates and doesn't know which of her offspring come from which man.
Neither of us like Tressa very much. Sure, we're short on rent every now and then, but Tressa harasses us about little things so often. Right now I can hear her loudly berating the Old Man for daring to have a conversation in our apartment "You're so damn loud!" She shrieks. "Why must you disrupt my children and I by talking about your foolish pleasures in life? Some of us are trying to have a relaxing morning!" There's a familiar thudding noise. She's whacking a broom handle on her ceiling to try to punish us.
There are other sounds too: people being roused from their sleep, stumbling out of bed to the pounding of her broom, assorted grumbling and cussing. One man from a floor above us yells, "For Pete's sake, Tressa! Why do you insist on waking us all with that incessant banging?" Tressa stops pounding, and after a minute of thinking (her two remaining brain cells needed time to find each other in her empty head), she shouts back weakly.
"It's not my fault!" It very clearly was, but the broom whacking has stopped, so the other residents don't bother to set her straight. I swear she does nothing but eavesdrop on us and get angry when we speak. The Old Man sighs heavily, collecting our empty bowls and setting them in a crate. Later we'll go downstairs to wash them. He looks at my jacket, which has fallen on the ground, and then back at me.
"You should probably get dressed. You have to go to the Reaping soon." I pick up the jacket and go to my bedroom, closing the flimsy door behind me. I put on some jeans and my usual work boots. For my top, I have a dark purple button-down shirt, which I throw the black suit jacket over. I look confident, and a little tough. The Hunger Games don't scare me, but I wouldn't offer myself up in the place of a complete stranger. The Old Man locks the apartment carefully, to defend against Tressa in case she tries to tamper with our stuff, and walks me to the Reaping. His knees are bad so it takes us a long time. He drops me off at the check-in booth, where the Peacekeeper pricks my finger and makes sure to check it against the machine before letting me in.
"Good luck!" he says cheerfully.
"Thanks." I walk to my section, but I don't see any of my friends. They're of different ages than me, so they're in different pens altogether. The escort is in a slim purple dress that balloons into ruffles at the shoulder and is hemmed with what looks to be large gold bulbs strung on a purple ribbon. She wears a large gold cap as well. I haven't seen her before. Our old escort must have retired.
"Welcome, District Five, to the 400th Annual Hunger Games!" she announces. "We will commence this national event with our individual Reaping ceremony. We do not have to watch the Dark Days film this year. Instead, we can proceed directly to picking the tributes." She reaches into the bowl at her left, plunging her hand in and latching on to the first slip she touches. "Your female tribute is Amberlie Xochi!"
I know Amberlie. Well, I know of her. She's the daughter of one of my fellow guards, who I happen to be pretty good friends with. He's always gushing about his thirteen-year-old daughter, and how much he loves her. Amberlie stands frozen still, bursting into tears. Poor thing, she doesn't deserve this. Her father, Nicola, watches anxiously from the crowd. I can't let this sweet girl go into the Hunger Games.
"Screw your pick, I volunteer!" The escort looks curiously at me as I hurry up to the stage.
"Lovely, a brave volunteer! What's your name, young lady?"
"Amethyst Kurono."
Ryan Ritz, 14, D5M:
I wake up cold and hungry, just like usual. The only thing that sets today, Reaping Day, apart is that in addition to being cold and hungry, I'll also be fearing for my life, courtesy of our oh-so-lovely Capitol. Exciting, right? The bed I'm squashed in is far too small for me. I doubt anybody taller than four feet would comfortably fit in it. It's actually cushioned, which is nice, but the straw is filled with various rodent burrows and I'm ninety percent sure there's an entire cockroach colony in it somewhere, judging by the amount of the filthy little things I see.
Most of this can just be chalked up to living in an orphanage. I'm grateful for any bed or mattress I can get my hands on, and I would never fault the proprietor for not having one in my size. It would be too expensive to get bedclothes for every child, and some of the older children might have to go uncovered. Insects and other pests populate the whole district, and it makes sense that they'd be drawn to a place with warm, dry straw in which they can make a nest. I'd love to be able to explain away everything wrong with the orphanage, but I can't, and the utter lack of care put into running it can be summed up in one sentence: the Kitters are cheapskates.
Mrs. Kitter is particularly terrible. Her husband is neglectful on a good day and borderline abusive in a bad one, but she's next-level awful. The Kitters are rather young, in their early thirties, but they take very bad care of us. There's usually not much food, and we all have to do lots of unpaid chores in return for living here. The Kitters are actually rather well-off, but they never even repair the holes in the roof. Mrs. Kitter has been known to send one of the twelve-year-olds to patch it instead, and also whack them around with a rolling pin if they don't do it fast enough.
Needless to say, we're not very well looked after, and us older kids end up having to be responsible for the younger ones. There was nobody ever looking out for me at the orphanage when I was five years old and my parents had just died in a house fire. In fact, Mrs. Kitter is probably the least capable guardian I could ever imagine. She used to make us touch the fireplace and cook in the cast-iron vat. I could barely lift it when it was empty, and yet when I wasn't even knee-high, I was doing basic cooking while she griped in the corner about how lazy us kids were.
I usually have so many chores around here, even without the extra time I spend watching over the younger children, I couldn't pick up a normal job. There'll be no saving money until I move out, and besides, anything of value must immediately be handed over to Mr. Kitter for 'safekeeping', which means in this case means he'll put it in a safe and he'll be keeping it.
Fortunately, I have a good friend here. I was lonely all on my own, isolated with nobody else in my age group, but when I was ten, a new boy named Anthony moved in. We hit it off right away, and I started to borrow some of his mannerisms. He was from the center of the nightlife sector, and had the colored hair sometimes found among people from that area. (Dyes can be made from some of the chemicals found in the power hubs, and they're pretty easily and cheaply found if you know the right folks). I adopted some of his slang, and most of his look. As a result, I now sport a purple Mohawk hairstyle, although the sides are a little choppy and uneven from cutting the hair with garden scissors and it doesn't stick up very well, usually flopping to one side. Now at least I have someone to goof off and occasionally prank the adults with, talk to, and help take care of the kids.
I really do feel responsible for the younger kids. It's tough taking care of them, even with Anthony's help, and a couple of fourteen-year-old boys don't really make fit parents. It's up to the two of us to make sure all the kids get fed and to ensure that they stay safe while we're at the Reaping. Anthony speaks up excitedly after ducking into the main house. (The Kitters live in a separate building that actually receives repairs). "It looks like they're still asleep!" This is great news, because it means we can at least make breakfast without Mrs. Kitter yelling at us.
Anthony rummages around in the larder for something to make soup with while I rouse the kids eligible for the Reaping. There are five or so twelve-year-olds and nobody thirteen or older, so it's quick work. Aside from that, I wake up the one person who can be counted on to watch the soup in the kitchen. She's only eleven, but she's the closest thing we have to a responsible adult at the moment. She's really mature for her age, but unfortunately that means she gets more than her fair share of the work. "Lumen, get up," I tell her, shaking her shoulder. I explain that while we're at the Reaping, she's in charge of the pot on the fireplace. She yawns loudly but compiles, climbing out of bed and going into the kitchen to take care of the food.
Anthony and I forgo a morning meal, throw on our Reaping clothes (a short-sleeved button-down short and my regular pants) and shut the house up, locking the door and instructing Lumen to only unlock it when we get back so nobody bad can get in. We walk to the Reaping quickly, because we don't want to be late. If there's one thing I hate, it's bullies. People like Mrs. Kitter, who abuse their authority and try to squeeze money from people weaker than them or prove their strength by beating on people who never stood a chance in the first place.
It's no wonder I hate the Capitol, it's the biggest bully of all. I wouldn't consider myself a rebel exactly, but the Capitol exploits that power balance to the extreme. One way they flex their muscles is by randomly selecting two tributes from each district every year to fight to the death in the Hunger Games, which is even crueler than if they just killed them. It's like the whole system is designed to produce as much fear as possible.
I wouldn't personally say I'm afraid of the Hunger Games though. I've had to consider my own mortality more than once when Mrs. Kitter's gotten into a violent rage. Also when the Kitters refuse to buy food and I've almost starved. And once a man with a butcher's knife came barging in through the door when Mr. Kitter stiffed him out of his pay for a repair job. I've had my fair share of near-death experiences, so the prospect of being killed doesn't much frighten me anymore.
The Peacekeeper at the check-in counter gestures for me to give her my hand. She pricks it with the automated needle and smudges the blood on a piece of cardstock and only after checking the readout and confirming it's me does she wave me through. District Five Peacekeepers are generally pretty chill, but they're very strict about the check-in process. Probably because most of the people here work with dangerous solutions and machines and they want to keep very careful track of us all. Yet another tactic of the Capitol.
Anthony steps into the pen after me and, lucky for us, the escort is just taking the stage. She's definitely better than the last escort, because her speech is short and she's not forcing us to watch the usual propaganda reel of people getting blown up. She pulls a card for the girls, and surprisingly there's a volunteer. She's introduced quickly and then the escort goes to pick the boy tribute.
I can feel a collective fear wash over my section, dozens of boys praying they don't get picked. Anthony tenses up next to me, and I'm sure I do as well. Even if the Reaping doesn't truly frighten me, it's easy to get swept up in the anxiety of it all.
"And your male tribute is...Ryan Ritz!" exclaims the escort. The boys around me begin to move away, not wanting to be associated with me now that it's clear I'm the tribute. Anthony grimaces and shoots me a look of pity, but he inches away too, to the safety of the crowd. I really can't blame him. I walk up to the stage calmly and while the escort says a few final words, I assess the girl in front of me. She volunteered for a younger kid, which is definitely something I can support. I can see her bulging arm muscles fill the broad shoulders of her jacket well, but her smile is warm. I think I'll get along just fine with her.
"Thank you, District Five!" concludes the escort. "Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor!"
Hey y'all! I am so excited to be nearly finished with the Reapings! Just District Nine remains, and that chapter will hopefully be out in a week. I've been working on a comprehensive outline for this story all the way up until the bloodbath, and you should definitely check out my profile to see new information about that as well as the sponsor system!
~LC