~Chapter One: Reaping Eve~

"And what would they be scared of? There's nothing to fear in a perfect world, is there?" ―Catherine Fisher, Incarceron

The months after the Quarter Quell announcement passed quickly.

Too quickly.

My daily activities – which consisted of school, working at the paper mill a few days a week, and occasionally having some free time to spend in relaxing in the forest behind the house or seeing my closest friends—never took me by the town square in front of the Justice Building. We lived on the fringes of town, while the Justice Building was in the south-central area. The only time we ever went that direction was for Reaping Day, or to buy something at the large market nearby, if we weren't able to find what we were looking for at the smaller market nearby our house.

Nearly everyone at school was talking about it, though -the increasingly frenzied activity going on in and around the town square and Justice Building as they prepared for the Quarter Quell Reaping Day.

Our town square was pretty huge – it had to be, as it was required to accommodate nearly the entire district on Reaping Day. Normally though, the front half of it would be used for all of the children of Reaping age to gather near the stage, so that once two names were called, they could easily make their way up and into the Justice Building. On a typical Reaping Day, the market stalls would be closed and the rest of the people of the district would cram in the sides of the square and behind the tributes in a mottled mess, stretching so far back that quite a few ended up straggling outside of the area. Everyone was required to attend, of course, and quite a few Peacekeepers patrolled to make sure every able-bodied resident was present for the Reaping. All eyes, though, were on the tributes of Reaping age…normally.

I wasn't sure how on earth they would handle it this year. With probably ¾ of the district-somewhere around fifteen thousand people -being eligible to be chosen as one of the last two tributes, I wasn't sure how they'd organize it to where it wasn't just absolute chaos. The Peacekeeper presence had increased even more over the past few months, and people at school had said they were bringing in a lot more equipment and infrastructure to ensure everything went smoothly. At least that explained why the Capitol had given a few months' notice for preparation and planning. Other districts were likely going through something similar.

To think of the funds that were going into all of the effort necessary just to have a smooth, operational Reaping Day…typical Capitol waste.

Apparently, they were in the process of "temporarily relocating" the entire central market to make space. From what I'd heard, it was being moved a short distance outside of the town square, encroaching on one of the nearby residential areas. I had no doubt the Peacekeepers weren't being particular friendly or gentle about it. It's not like they cared about disturbing the peace or day-to-day operations of the district. Unfortunately, that was how a lot of citizens earned their income and conducted their trade. Several kids had been out of school for a few days in order to help their families, who worked at the market, sort out the mess. One small boy had shown up with a huge, mottled bruise across his face. He had refused to talk about it. It had made me glad, in a twisted way, that I lived on the fringes of town and that compared to others, I was lucky that the changes before the Quarter Quell weren't really interfering with my daily life.

Of course, there were still all the extra Peacekeepers lurking about, liable to snap at you if you were out even slightly close to dark. I avoided them as much as possible, but a few weeks ago I'd almost come close to getting a good smack across the face when I glared at one of them who reprimanded me for hurrying home so late after my shift at the paper mill. I'd only barely managed to put my head down and skitter away like a scared mouse. As much as it wounded my pride, I knew I couldn't defy a Peacekeeper.

Unfortunately, the days and weeks began to blend together, with the frantic energy of preparing for the upcoming day starting to permeate the entire district to the point where it felt like the whispers about the upcoming Quell never stopped.

And then, finally, it was the night before Reaping Day.

…

Once again, I sat in my favorite tree in the woods behind my house, but I knew I wouldn't be there for much longer. There was still a couple of hours before dark, but soon I'd be joining my brother, two cousins, and a couple of close friends for our yearly tradition on "Reaping Eve", as we called it.

It wasn't quite time for that, though, so I stole this last moment of peace and quiet where I could.

The forest seemed even quieter than usual, if that were possible. I closed my eyes as my head leaned against the familiar bark of the tree behind me, taking a deep breath and letting the soothing scents of the forests wash over me. The smell of pine and damp earth could almost relax me enough where I could forget what day it was.

But not quite.

I opened my eyes reluctantly, glancing to my left. Barely visible was part of the inner fence of the district.

District 7 had two electrified fences – one inner, that loosely circled the residential areas, sawmills, paper mills, and related infrastructure. Then, far out in the wilderness somewhere was the outer fence that ran around the district as a whole. I had never even laid eyes on the outer fence, nor had anyone I'd ever known. Our district was very large (perhaps the largest, I thought) and the land that far out near the outer fence wasn't even settled. There was a considerable amount of wilderness, wild animals and other dangers between the inner and outer fences.

People went in and out of the inner fence frequently, of course. So long as they were properly authorized. The area between the inner and outer fences was where the lumberjacks and other workers went to chop down the trees, load them on trucks, and transport them back to the mills. Because of that, there were various entry points along the inner fence that people used daily for work.

I, myself, had visited the area beyond the inner fence plenty of occasions, when I was much younger. Like many small children in District 7, I had spent many afternoons after school helping my parents—or for me, just my father—with his work, before being assigned to a specific task when I was older. I wasn't built to be a lumberjack, which was my father's job at the time. I was too small. But in District 7 it was mandatory for all children to at least observe and assist with one of their parent's trades until they were old enough to be assigned a more permanent position.

Between the ages of nine (or was it eight? That period was a blur after my mother's death) and twelve, I "helped" my father and got to travel outside of the inner fence with the other lumberjacks. Of course, I was nowhere near old enough or strong enough to help chop down trees. My job had been to help one of the other workers measure the widest point at the base of the trees to ensure they were a proper size for felling, as trees that were too narrow were typically not cut down. Trees that met the size requirements would be marked for the others to fell. We often left large swathes of trees untouched, in order to avoid greedily chopping down too much of the woods and subsequently creating problems down the line. I was too young to really understand it, though I greatly enjoyed being out in the wilderness, especially with my father around. It was even better once my brother started tagging along, as well. I knew that some children helped their parents with their work at an even younger age than we were.

Then, at the age of twelve, I was next assigned to the sawmill, which coincided with my father's promotion into a more supervisory role there. For a little over two years, I was then entrusted with the task of attending to the logs that had recently been brought to the sawmill and piled in the outdoor yard, specifically with the job of cutting the smaller twigs and branches protruding off of the sides. The bigger branches had already been cut, but a child's nimble hands could be useful in removing smaller obstacles. A lot of children did this task at some point in their lives. There were always dozens of us climbing over the piles of logs, removing the small branches and growths off the sides before they were carried in.

It also helped me get familiar with an axe, which was an integral part of that work. I was so happy the day I got my own axe to carry to and from work.

Sometime between my fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays, I was moved over to the paper mill. Although I was wiry and had developed some callouses on my hands and strength in my arms by this point, my smaller size and short stature didn't really lend me any skills that could be put to use at the sawmill. The paper mill was more ideal for someone with less overall strength, but deft hands.

Sometimes I missed working with an axe every day, though.

I sighed heavily, blowing a strand of long hair out of my face as I still stared aimlessly at the inner fence.

I fought down a sudden rebellious urge to run at it, climb it as fast as I could, and leap over. It wasn't the first time I'd ever had that thought. Usually these thoughts conveniently coincided with Reaping Day.

Naturally, I would be electrocuted if I tried. I'd seen enough small animals get too close to it over the years to think otherwise.

It was still a bit tempting, though. Better to go that way than to take a sword to the gut during the Hunger Games.

Stop thinking like that. Your name is only in there seven times, I mentally chided myself. I knew the chances of my name getting picked were slim. I could never fully chase away the fear, though. Wasn't that the point? To make every child live with this fear for seven years of their life?

Or maybe more, seeing as how almost every citizen could be Reaped this year.

On that cheery note, I decided to climb down the tree. It was about time for all of us to gather at the Stump – to partake in our yearly tradition on the night before Reaping Day.

I shimmied down and headed back towards home, a light breeze caressing my skin. It was summer now, but it didn't usually get too hot in District 7—especially not at this time of day. We had a few absurdly hot days per year, but usually, the weather during the summer season was pretty pleasant.

As I exited from the copse of trees, I made a right towards the massive, old and gnarly tree stump—which we had all ingeniously nicknamed "the Stump"—that was situated about midway between my neighbor's house and the woods behind it.

Coincidentally, our neighbors were also family. My father's brother lived in the house next to ours, along with his wife and my two cousins, Glenn and Brooke. They were a couple of years younger than me (fifteen and sixteen respectively) but we had all been close since we were children. I loved my aunt and uncle, but I was even more grateful for my cousins. Easygoing and mischievous (especially Glenn), they were almost always a good time to be around.

Glenn had gone through a somewhat annoying phase when he'd first started to hit puberty, but it seemed like he was at least trying to grow out of it by now. Both he and his sister were already standing near the Stump, as was my brother and one of my good friends from school, Brett; they all turned at my approach.

"June!" Brooke called over to me, tossing me a sunny smile. She was the only one out of all four of the Ainsley cousins without the dark brown hair common to my family and my district. Glenn tossed me a small wave, then turned back to my brother to continue whatever conversation they'd been having.

"Hey guys," I responded easily. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"What else is new?" Brett teased. Brett was one of only two people that I regularly spent time with outside of my family. Originally he had been my brother's friend, despite being my age, but over the years I'd gotten close to him as well. Now, I viewed him as a second brother. Brett was fairly short, for a guy from District 7, but much stockier than my brother. He definitely had the build to join the lumberjacks full time after he was done with school.

"Yeah, yeah. Are we ready to start yet?" I surveyed the group, realizing we were missing one. "Where's Ivy?"

"Not coming this year," it was my brother that answered. "Her parents don't want her leaving the house this close to dark."

Ivy was my only other real friend from school. Her parents had gotten much stricter since the increased Peacekeeper presence after the last Hunger Games. She hadn't been able to hang out with us too much anymore, despite her house being a pretty short walk from here. We used to hang out around the Stump at least once per week before everything, and Reaping Eve was a very important tradition to all of us; now, she probably only came to the Stump about once per month. Fortunately, I still got to spend a lot of time with her at school.

I glanced at Brett; he looked slightly put out. I felt a small smirk form on my face. It was no secret that he was into her, and had been for years. Recently I thought the connection had started to become mutual—I was happy for them if so, but I'd still give him shit.

"Aw, it's okay Brett. You can stay up all night pining for her instead of getting sleep in before Reaping Day," I said snidely, turning my smirk on him.

"Jealous, Junie?" He retorted, knowing I hated that nickname. My smirk turned into a scowl.

"Jealous of what? All the extra sleep I get every night because I'm not fantasizing about…?" I trailed off suggestively, waggling my eyebrows.

Brett arched an eyebrow. "See, now you're the one fantasizing. You're fantasizing about me fantasizing."

"That would be a weird thing to fantasize about," I rolled my eyes.

Brett pretended to contemplate. "You're right. You probably spend your time fantasizing over Aiden."

The disgust on my face must have been obvious, because Brett burst out laughing and my expression drew chuckles from the others. They all must have known how much that loud, horribly-mannered boy repulsed me.

"This is all well and good, but can we get started?" Glenn asked impatiently, balancing on the balls of his feet as if he couldn't stand still. My cousin was one of those types of people that fidgeted constantly, and always had to be moving or doing something to stay entertained.

"Sure, sure," I replied good-naturedly as Brooke agreed. I turned to my brother. "Rowan, did you bring my axe?"

He nodded, and jerked his head towards the side of my cousins' house where a few axes sat next to each other, mostly obscured from my brother standing in front of them. Grinning, I made my way over to my trusty weapon, picking it up and testing its comfortable weight in my left hand. My brother and I were both left-handed, an unusual trait that we had inherited from our mother.

The others similarly made their way over to the side of the house, each of them grabbing an axe. As far as I knew Brooke didn't have her own, so she was probably borrowing my uncle's. My dad, aunt and uncle all knew about the regular occurrence of all of us using the Stump for an axe-throwing competition – especially on Reaping Eve.

Almost every child in District 7 had become accustomed to using an axe at some point. It was as natural here as anything. Usually, though, our axe knowledge was focused on the obvious – chopping or debarking wood, cutting small branches, or something in that capacity of dealing with lumber. There wasn't really any specific reason to learn axe-throwing growing up. I was sure plenty of children in the district did, though. I didn't exactly talk about it with the other kids at school, but with the Reaping looming over all of our heads, I wouldn't be surprised if plenty of other parents taught their kids to be prepared.

Our particular axe-throwing tradition had started when I was thirteen, my brother twelve.

That Reaping Day, a twelve-year-old had been chosen. That child had been a friend of my brother's. I still remembered his tiny, pale face as his name was selected, the way he had shaken like a leaf on stage. I had cried then, unable to help myself, remembering how he had sat at our dinner table just a month or two earlier.

He hadn't made it past the bloodbath. One of the Careers had thrown a knife into his back as he ran.

The day he died—publicly, in front of our entire district—my brother had fire in his eyes. It had been one of the only times I saw Rowan truly furious. He had still been small back then, but he had absolutely radiated fury.

As soon as the Hunger Games were over and there were no more mandatory viewings in the evenings for awhile, I found him in nearly the exact same spot I was standing in right now after school, hurling his axe at the Stump, over and over. He was missing most of the throws, the axe going wildly over or to the left of the Stump, but he kept trying. His face had been tear-streaked, nose red and runny. But he persisted. He was definitely throwing the axes from way too far away for just starting out, but he persisted.

Even back then, we had already been using the Stump as a gathering place with our friends for a couple years (the big, knotted and twisted tree that once stood here had been cut down when I was a baby, and the Stump had become a common landmark for the people living in nearby homes). But we had never used the Stump for target practice, until that day.

I'd asked my brother what he was doing. He had said he wanted to become stronger. That he wanted to be able to defend himself. That knowing how to carry an axe and chop wood, even coupled with the few small skills we'd picked up from our father over the years, wasn't enough. Rowan had insisted that plenty of the bigger kids knew how to throw axes. That if he were ever Reaped – he wanted a fighting chance. He wanted to put an axe right through one of the smirking Career's faces.

I had understood. I, too, was angry about the Hunger Games, and an unprepared twelve-year-old being sent in to his death. I had joined Rowan, using my own axe. I was equally as terrible as him. We missed most of our shots, given our youth and inexperience and relative lack of upper body strength at that age.

When our cousins found us out there, they had wanted to join as well. They were even younger than us, and it must have looked comical, seeing a bunch of children throwing axes at a stump and usually missing.

Our father and uncle eventually came out to see what was going on – Rowan had stuttered to defend our actions, but we had all expected to be reprimanded and sent inside. It wasn't exactly safe, allowing a group of kids to hurl axes around. Then again, most children were exposed to the weapon at a young age in 7, so maybe it hadn't been that jarring to them at all. I'd wondered if they did the same thing when they were young.

But my father and uncle had only shared a long look, then my father had returned to our house and returned with a couple of spare axes. "If you're doing to get decent at this, you'll need a lot of practice," was all he'd said. Neither our father or uncle were prodigies at axe-throwing, but our uncle had given us a few tips, and forced all of those not throwing the axe to stand far behind and enough away that nobody could get hurt in an accident.

And then it had become tradition. Once or twice a week, the four of us would gather and practice our axe throwing for a couple of hours, using the stump as a target. For a long time at least one adult would supervise us, until they realized that we really were trying to be as careful as possible. Either way, seemingly my father and uncle decided that us learning a small skill, and gaining a tiny amount of peace of mind, was worth the risk.

None of us acknowledged that in the (admittedly unlikely) unfortunate event that any of us were ever Reaped, these skills would only go so far, and we'd never be able to keep up with a Career- we'd need luck on our side. Not that there was such thing as true "luck" in the Hunger Games.

Regardless, over the years, other friends came and went and joined us, Brett and Ivy being the latest additions to our group. After a while, we carved a target on the side of the stump, so that we actually had a "bullseye" to aim for. We learned to start fairly close to the stump, then move backwards as we got comfortable.

Our throws got stronger as we got older.

We practiced throwing from different angles, instead of just a dead center approach to the stump.

After years of this, we all got pretty good at it. And then it became even more of a competition.

The Stump didn't move, of course. We didn't have practice on a moving target, and I doubt we ever would. It wasn't like any of us could measure up to the skill that someone like a District 1 or 2 kid would have after training at the Academy all their lives, probably using plenty of moving targets. But by our standards? For a ragtag group of children practicing on a massive tree stump in the backyard, mostly unsupervised? We felt pretty good about ourselves.

My brother was the best of us, he hit more bullseyes than anyone, and had the most consistency at the longest range. But I, to my great pleasure, was second best, at least in terms of accuracy. Brett and Glenn could both throw harder than me (Glenn not by much) but I hit more bullseyes than they did.

"Who's up first?" Glenn broke into my thoughts, still practically bouncing from foot to foot. The way we usually did this was each person would throw their axe, and the one to land it furthest from the bullseye on the Stump would have to run around the yard or do some other annoying or menial task. We would do multiple rounds from multiple distances and angles.

"You seem pretty excited, why don't you go?" I said dryly; Glenn practically radiated nervous energy.

He didn't need to be told twice. We all stepped back several feet as he lined up in front of the Stump, only about ten feet away to start, though we'd move quite a bit further by the end. Glenn pulled his arm back, took a deep breath, then threw. The axe whistled through the air then sank into the wood with a clean thud. Not a bullseye, but close, just a few inches to the right. A good throw.

My brother was up next. Bullseye – naturally. A small smile appeared on his stoic face.

Then Brooke went. She was always the weakest thrower of the group. However, she did sink the axe in the target, though it was basically on the outer ring near the bottom of the Stump, nearly missing the target carved on the Stump entirely. She rolled her eyes, clearly knowing she'd probably be the one doing the lap around the yard.

"Look at it this way Brooke – that would've practically chopped someone's foot off. They wouldn't be going anywhere after that," I teased with a grin.

"Don't patronize me June," she responded, but there was no heat behind it. She was used to our jibes, as she usually lost almost every round of the competition. Brooke had always been a remarkably good sport about it.

It was my turn next. I stepped up, honing in on the target. Although all of us had practiced two-handed as well as one-handed throws over the years, most of us tended to use a two-handed throw for these competitions, to get more force behind it. I spread my legs apart slightly, one in front of the other, and gripped near the bottom of the axe with both hands, my left higher on the handle than my right. I breathed in, raising my arms directly above my head and leaning back slightly, the axe arcing up and behind my head. Then I threw my arms forward, taking care not to flick my wrist at the end, and released the axe right as my arms were level in front of me.

It slid easily into the target with another thud. I loved that sound. It wasn't QUITE a perfect bullseye like Rowan's – but only about an inch or two to the right, essentially the same thing. A killing blow, regardless. I smiled widely. No matter how many times I did that, it was always satisfying.

Brett was last to go, and while his axe sank deeper into the wood than anyone's, it was a couple of feet off of the bullseye. Brett hadn't been practicing as long as we had, and he went for power more than accuracy.

With a heavy, resigned sigh, Brooke pulled her long dark blonde hair into a low ponytail to keep it out of her face, then began to take a lap around the general backyard area.

It would probably be a rough evening for her, I thought wryly.

And it was – she lost every round except one, as we threw from multiple distances and angles over the next hour.

I usually came in second or sometimes third, though I did have one pretty bad throw. I somehow managed to beat my brother once (which I would probably gloat about the rest of the evening). I was pleased that I didn't miss the target a single time, though after practicing once or twice per week for several years, I should hit the target nearly every single time.

My one bad throw, however, barely made it inside the target; it was hurled from one of the more difficult angles, at the furthest distance we tended to (safely) practice from (Brooke missed the target entirely on that throw). I definitely needed to work on that angle.

But the important thing was that this kept all of our minds busy, kept us distracted from the danger looming ahead. Sinking into the familiarity of tradition helped stave off the nervousness and panicked thoughts, for now. Until I got home after dark, I could ignore the churning in my stomach. For just another hour or so until night fell and curfew was imposed, we were able to relax and have fun, and almost forget that four people from our district would likely be sent to our deaths tomorrow.

...

As I expected, I could not easily fall asleep that night. Dinner had been a quiet affair, the scraping of our spoons against the small dinner bowls being the only sounds to break the silence for a couple minutes at a time.

I had tried a couple of attempts at small talk (I was never good with long stretches of silence), but I could tell my father was too stressed to fake an attempt to be lighthearted. And none of us wanted to address the lingering issue causing tension in the room- that any of the three of us, however unlikely, could be Reaped tomorrow.

I sighed, drawing my blanket up to my chin as I always did when I wanted some semblance of comfort.

I glanced over at the bed across the room from me – Rowan was facing away from me, but his breathing was even. At least one of us had managed to fall asleep.

My eyes returned to the ceiling, tracing the familiar wooden beams supporting it. I had the same circular thoughts that I'd had every year since I was twelve; the same circular thoughts that most children probably had before Reaping day.

I could be sent to my death tomorrow. Rowan could be sent to his death tomorrow. Glenn and Brooke could be sent to their deaths tomorrow. Brett and Ivy could be sent to their deaths tomorrow.

My father could be sent to his death tomorrow.

I knew that statistically, any of us had a chance to win even if we were Reaped. District 7 had a few Victors over the years, though nothing in comparison to Districts 1, 2, or 4. But even though there was a chance, it was a small chance. Though our district was hardy and many of us could use axes or knives to an extent, we usually just could not keep up with the Career districts. They trained their tributes to be brutal, merciless killing machines. It wasn't their fault that they had been raised that way, I supposed, but at the end of the way it made them basically inhuman.

Unbidden, thoughts of the 74th Hunger Games popped into my head, and the Career tributes from last year.

The boy from District 1—Marvel, I remembered, because it was such a ridiculous name—had used a spear. He'd killed the small girl from 11, the one that the Girl on Fire had befriended, by spearing her through the gut from range. I wasn't even involved but it had been hard to watch, and even harder as the Girl on Fire had sung to the small girl as she died.

The girl from District 1—Glimmer, an equally obnoxious name that stood out in my mind-had been blonde and beautiful, showing off her looks for sponsors. She'd died horrifically after being stung by a next full of tracker jackers. Though she had been obnoxious and cruel, I'd thought that it was a pretty harsh death. Her body had been unrecognizable.

The girl from 2 had been obsessed with knives. Clove. I repressed a shudder; she had been creepy to watch. She was so small and shifty, but she looked borderline deranged every time the camera showed her up close. She was merciless. I'd never seen someone perfectly hit a target with a throwing knife from so far away.

Her district counterpart had been the standard District 2 male tribute: brawny, arrogant, confident in his ability to win, no mercy in his dark eyes. Quintus, I thought his name had been. He had made it until the very end of the games, when the Girl on Fire had shot him in the hand as he tried to choke the boy she loved, resulting in Quintus falling straight into the jaws of Capitol mutts. She had put him out of his misery as he hovered on death's door, I remembered, showing him kindness as he suffered.

Mercy. A rare thing in the Hunger Games. The Girl on Fire had still retained some sort of honor, even after everything. She'd still been defiant, threatening to give the Capitol no victor if they wouldn't let her and her district partner win. I admired her, though I wondered if she'd later come to regret her decisions. Snow can't have been happy with them.

I sighed heavily, turning onto my side to where my back faced my brother's bed. I'd already thought about the last Hunger Games over and over during the past year, especially after the Quarter Quell approached. There was no need to dwell on it now.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force my breathing to be deep and even, stilling my body as much as possible.

Your name is only in there seven times, I assured myself, hoping my stomach would eventually settle.

Only seven times.

Only seven entries.

Only seven…

I repeated the mantra over and over, until eventually, I fell into a sleep plagued by restlessness and nightmares.

...

A/N: Next up, the Reaping! Sorry if this felt like filler, but I really wanted you guys to get to know the main character a bit.