Sondheim Anybodys, 16

It was like they were stuck in the middle of the entire world, being pulled in every direction. They were used to feeling that way on the inside, though. They just never thought it would become so literal.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep this up," they say, their voice ringing with anxiety while they toss the ball against the wall. "It just feels like it keeps getting further and further out of hand."

Bernstein nods his head, their best friend catching the ball as it bounces toward them. "It's gotten pretty crazy."

"It was hard enough with all the different gangs, but now that the Peacekeepers are involved. . ." they sigh exasperatedly. "I don't know what to do."

"It isn't your job to keep everything together," he says. "I know you're like, the biggest perfectionist in the history of perfectionists, but this isn't your fight."

"But I do have to. Because if I don't, then who will? If I can have the chance to help people, but I don't, what does that make me? Just a worthless failure."

They're both quiet for a little while, the only sound in the room being the constant thump of the ball as it bounces off the wall and into their hands. Bernstein turns to Sondheim. "Did anything happen this morning specifically?"

They shake their head. "Nothing too out of the ordinary. Bernardo called me in and made me run some messages for the Lions. Then I ran into Anita and she had me run some messages for them and made the same offer as always."

"She's still trying to get you out of the Lions and into the Seam Alliance?"

They nod their head. "Yeah, but I don't care about that. I don't want to be in any of their gangs. I just want to stop them all from killing each other."

But that's easier said than done. The whole thing is a big, complicated mess. It all started with what Sondheim calls the haven. A big patch of land just outside one of the weak spots in the fence filled to the brim with berries, nuts, roots, herbs, and small game. It's a dream come true for anybody in District Twelve, where over half the district was starving. The only problem is not everyone was willing to share. Before long there were four gangs fighting over the haven. Leo and the Spice Gang gathered the poor merchant kids, Anita leads the Seam kids, Eco's West Faction of girls, and finally, Bernado created the biggest gang of all, an all-boy group called The Lions.

When they first found the haven, Sondheim was thrilled. They thought that they had finally found a way to help their parents out and help bring food to the table. Their dad worked all day and night at the Pharmacy while Mom slaved away in the mines, and Sondheim just wanted to help. And well, they got their wish, but not in the way that they wanted. Bernardo found them and forced Sondheim to join the Lions, not caring one bit that they insisted they didn't care about gender as he told them they were a boy.

And now fast-forward a few months and Sondheim is stuck in the middle of everything because they are in the middle of everything. They're not a boy or a girl, they aren't merchant or Seam, and even if they were any of those one things they still would want the same thing they want now. For this all to just come to an end. For nobody else to have to get hurt just because they wanted some food to keep themselves and their families alive.

"You okay, Sondheim?" Bernstein asks, looking at them oddly.

Sondheim looks down. The ball is still in their hand, nearly popping from the pressure he's putting into squeezing it. They shake their head, dropping the ball and leaning back so that their head faces the ceiling.

"I just don't know what I'm supposed to do. Peacekeeper Krupkee keeps on hounding me about the haven. He doesn't know yet that I know where it is, but there's only so much longer I can keep lying to him before he finds out. And then what? I don't want to give everyone up, but what'll happen to my family when he finds out?"

"I don't know," Bernstein says simply.

Sondheim closes their eyes and takes a deep breath. It's okay, they tell themselves. It'll all turn out okay. You'll figure things out, and nobody else is going to get hurt. It'll all work out.

They open their eyes and suddenly the squeezing feeling in their chest is gone, all the stress starting to fade away. The colors around them brighten and the air feels easier in his lungs.

"It'll be okay," Sondheim says out loud. "I don't know how yet, but I just have a feeling it's going to turn out fine."

The Reaping is always so sad. The celebratory banners and redecorated town square can't do anything to cheer up the atmosphere. The stage just makes it all that much sadder. Mayor Undersee is sitting up there and looking at the empty chair beside him where our only living victor should be. It isn't much of a surprise, though. Every year he's late and every year he comes drunk.

The escort is the only other person up there, with her looking like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Her bright yellow hair and clothes don't make her look very sunny, not with the look of disgust and discomfort she has every time she looks out at the crowd.

The Pens are filled and have been for a while, the thousand or so kids in the district waiting to see who will go into the arena to die this year. That's something that even Sondheim had trouble being optimistic about. While he wanted to believe that this year one of their two kids could come home as the victor, history didn't agree with that belief. Their first victor happened so long ago nobody even remembers her name, and their only other is Haymitch Abernathy, a whole 18 years ago.

Eventually, the man of the hour makes his appearance, stumbling onto the stage and into his seat with less grandeur than usual. The mayor looks grateful for that much at least and takes the microphone to begin his usual speech. While he reads the Treaty of Treason, Sondheim looks around the Pens to see if they can spot any familiar faces. Eco, Anita, and Leo are nowhere to be seen, lost in the crowd, but Bernardo isn't far away, surrounded by a bunch of other Lions.

It's hard for Sondheim to not wish for Bernardo to be reaped. It would make things so much easier. His gang is the biggest, the most brutal, the one instigating the most fights. Things wouldn't be peaceful, not even close, but it would be much easier to negotiate peace between the merchants and the Seam without the Lions constantly harassing all of them.

But Sondheim can't wish that on anybody. Nobody deserves to have to die, certainly not like that, with the whole country watching you and treating your life like it's just a meaningless part of a game.

Mayor Undersee finishes his speech and hands it off to Effie Trinket, her entrance met to not a single measly clap from the whole of the district. Even though it's only her second year here she already seems used to the lack of enthusiasm and trucks in with a plastered-on smile.

"Welcome, District Twelve, to the reaping for the 68th Annual Hunger Games! As always, ladies first!"

She picks out the slip, heads back to the microphone, Sondheim calm the whole time, not remembering that their name is in the bowl until the moment they hear it called out to the whole district. "Sondheim Anybodys!"

Their heart drops into their stomach. "Hold on!" Someone yells from the crowd. Sondheim looks over and sees Bernardo stepping out, arms raised in frustration. "You messed up with the names, Sondheim isn't a girl, he's a guy!"

A flurry of murmurs runs through the crowd as Sondheim slowly pushes through to the stage, the whole world spinning around them as their breath quickens with each step closer to the stage.

Effie looks confused and turns to Sondheim as they approach. "Is this true? Are you actually a boy?"

"I—"

"Sondheim isn't a boy, he's a girl!" Someone, presumably Eco, shouts out.

"So you're a girl?" Effie asks.

Sondheim looks around exasperatedly. "No. I mean, I don't—"

"It's certainly hard to tell just by looking at you," she says, pulling them up the stage and looking at Sondheim curiously. "Let's make it simple, what pronouns do you use darling?"

They look at her with a look that must express how confused they feel because she quickly clarifies.

"Pronouns, dear. You know, he or she or they or—"

"Any of them, I guess," Sondheim says uncomfortably. "I don't know, it doesn't really matter much."

"Ooh!" She squeals excitedly, tussling their hair. "How exciting! Genderfluid is so in right now in the Capitol, they'll love you, adorable little thing that you are."

"I—" Sondheim starts, but before they can respond or protest or question or speak in any sort of way, she's already off to go pick the second tribute.

Now that the barrage of questions that Sondheim barely knows the answers to has stopped, they're given the time to think about what just happened. They were reaped. The fear of the Hunger Games is one thing. They don't have it in them to kill, they know they don't, so how are they supposed to survive? But they also have to, because with them gone, who will be there to stop the gangs from all killing each other?

They feel grateful for the distraction that's brought when Effie reads off the other name. "Our male tribute this year will be Lucian Harroway!"

From out of the eighteen-year-old section steps just about the most Seam-like kid that Sondheim has ever seen. Coal-black wavy hair, gray eyes, a sharp jawline, olive skin flaked in coal dust. He's tall, and while he's a bit bony from malnourishment he's got a little bit of muscle on him too, and he's got knicks and cuts all over him to compliment his calloused hands which shake as he makes his way upstage.

He doesn't seem like he's entirely there as he takes his place next to Sondheim, his eyes a bit cloudy and his voice silent to Effie's compliments of his appearance. That doesn't seem to take down the escort's mood, though. She beams at the two of them and motions for them to shake hands.

They follow her instructions, and Sondheim offers a smile to the unfamiliar boy, grateful that he isn't anybody that they know but sad for the person that just had their life flipped as far upside down as they did. He offers a tiny bit of a smile in return. It doesn't seem genuine, more a sympathetic courtesy than anything else, but Sondheim decides that can be meaningful too.

"Well, District Twelve, I don't know about all of you, but I for one am certainly excited about this eclectic duo! Give it up for your tributes for this year's Hunger Games, Lucian Harroway and Sondheim Anybodys!"

The applause is quiet, barely anything compared to the rest of the districts that Sondheim sees on television. But it's louder than usual. That's enough to make Sondheim smile, and cling on to the tiniest bit of hope that they can fix things. They can win, and do it without having to kill. And once they do that, they can fix everything.

Dawn Maconson, 18

She has the day off today. It's the first time in a while. Derrek has been giving her more and more time off lately since the one-year anniversary of her family's deaths, and Richard told her to take the Reaping Day off to herself. She didn't ask either of them for that, though. She doesn't want to be left alone with nothing to do today, but that isn't her choice to make.

That leaves her with plenty of time to run chores and take care of her grandmother, at least. She takes the soup off the stove and hastily drops it into a bowl, dropping a mostly-washed spoon in as she pushes through the bedroom door where her grandmother spends her days.

"Good morning, Dawn," she croaks in a sickly voice. At least she can remember who Dawn is this morning. Most days aren't as kind to her.

"Morning, grandma," Dawn replies, kneeling down and placing the soup on the bedside table. "I got to go run some errands and then I got the Reaping afterward, but after I come back I have the rest of the day off. We can play some mancala or something."

She smiles, but in her eyes is that same downtrodden sadness that's always there. "So sweet. You remind me more and more of your mother every day. Sweet, sweet little Hibiscus. . . ."

A pang of pain bounces off the inside of Dawn's skull. She quickly stands up. "I'll see you later, grams," she says, biting down the anger that bubbles inside of her.

She doesn't wait for any response, getting out of the room as fast as possible and closing the door shut behind her. As soon as she's on her own she reaches into her pocket and takes out the familiar spool of black thread. The wool unravels and in a moment it's wrapped around her pointer finger, Dawn squeezing it tightly until the circulation cuts off from her finger and all she can focus on is tight pain and numbness.

After a few minutes like this, the feelings pass, and she unravels the string, carefully rewinds it, and shoves it in her pocket. There's no point dwelling on the past or living in regret, that's what she tells herself time and time again. If only that was as easy to believe as it was to say.

Dawn grabs a bag and heads out the door. It's sweltering out, the District Ten heat cutting through her clothes and leaving her sapped of energy. There's nothing she'd give to be in the water at this moment, the cool feeling on her skin, the ability to submerge beneath the surface and have the whole world fade away beneath the ripples of the surface.

The markets are quieter than usual, but there's still enough activity. A few Peacekeepers walk by on patrol and Dawn nods at them tersely, the trio returning the nods in kind. Otherwise, she keeps to herself. The errands don't take long to complete, just a few odd things she needs to buy for her or her grandmother. While she isn't rich, money isn't an issue, so haggling doesn't take away too much time from her morning. Her morning work at the ranch pays as poorly as all the other jobs in District Ten do, but her night job is a bit more lucrative.

Not that the money is the reason she got into it. She did it because she thought she would be making a difference. Making things safer, better. She just wanted to contribute to the district in a positive, lasting way. And sure, most days she does. All days, maybe even. But that doesn't stop the guilt from creeping its way into her thoughts every time she suits up for work.

She pushes aside the thoughts again. It wasn't her decision, or her choice, or her mistake. She just did her job, nothing more or less. They couldn't pin the blame on her for what happened, how could anybody? Richard has told her as much himself, and he's not the type to lie or sugarcoat. He's as straight a shooter as they come.

Dawn looks at her full bag, then looks up at the sky to check the time. Still plenty of time before the reaping starts. Maybe that thought of heading to the lake wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.

It's finally her last reaping. Everything in her life seems to have started with the reapings, and now they'd finally be over. It was five years ago now, watching the Hunger Games and hearing the horrible stories the District Ten kids told about the injustices that had happened to them back home, that she had first set her mind to doing something to change her district. What a path that ended up being.

While she waits in line a slight commotion starts behind her, some cocky-looking eighteen-year-old shouldering his way through the line towards the front. He's tall, a few inches over six foot and even more muscular than Dawn is, so nobody stands in his way, but when he gets to Dawn she holds out a hand and stops him in his track.

"Get out of the way, chick," he says, the nostrils of his crooked nose flaring in anger.

"Make me, pighead," she replies. Her hands tighten into fists, anger swelling inside of her. She doesn't let people walk over her, but today of all days especially, she is not about to let him walk all over her.

He looks just as ready for a fight, eyes crossed in anger even as his lips turn into a crooked smile. "Gladly."

Neither of them gets a chance to continue the fight, the sound of an extending baton stopping them both in their tracks. "Crispin!" A Peacekeeper shouts out gruffly. "Back of the line. Now!"

Crispin looks over to the masked Peacekeeper and snarls, but listens to the instructions regardless, sauntering back away from her. Dawn just shakes her head and continues to curl and uncurl her fists in frustration. Peacekeeper should've minded his own business. That kid could have used a good beating to teach him some manners.

When she goes to check-in, the Peacekeeper looks ready to say something to her about it, but stops in his tracks as a flash of recognition seems to go through him. Instead, he says nothing, though it's hard not to notice that he jabs her finger with the needle far deeper than necessary.

It's no skin off her back, though. She moves on, finds her spot, and sleepwalks through the rest of the proceedings. Mayor's introduction, treaty of Treason, new escort introducing himself, all of it barely registers as a blip on her radar. She's just ready for this all to be done with.

Then the escort goes to the reaping bowl, takes out the slip, and returns to the microphone to read out the name. "Our female for this year's Hunger Games will be. . . Dawn Maconson!"

Anger. That's all that she can feel. Fury, rage, any other sort of word to describe it and it wouldn't be enough. Why her, of all people? That thought is spewed out in frustration only for it to be met with a numbing answer a moment later from deeper inside of her that spews out with guilt, yelling at her that this is only fair.

That feeling is enough for her to bury her anger underneath the surface as she makes her way upstage, guilt and fury counterbalancing each other and leaving her feeling a mixed bag of nothingness with each step. She makes it on stage and the escort asks her a question she doesn't hear, but the microphone is in front of her so she feels the need to say something.

"Ginger and I should've traded places," she says, her voice hollow. "The hangman's noose should've been around my throat instead."

The escort doesn't seem to know what to make of that and quickly walks away to pick the other tribute, and as she's left with her thoughts she starts to feel a sense of peace overtake the anger and self-hatred. If she can win, then maybe that could be her way of fixing everything she's done wrong. She isn't even sure how yet, or why that makes any sense, but it just feels right. This is her chance to rectify things, her only chance.

She hears the escort shout out the name, "Crispin Kane!" The cocky boy from earlier shouts out and storms to the stage, full of unbridled anger as he pushes away from the Peacekeepers who go to contain him, and Dawn almost cracks a smile.

The Head Peacekeeper finally gets a hold of Crispin and drags him up by the collar, throwing him into a trio of Peacekeepers who hold him in place on stage beside her. As he lets Crispin go, he locks eyes with Dawn, and through his mask, she sees the familiar dark blue eyes of Richard Hoffman.

He nods at her tersely, and she returns the nod, the world coming back into focus as if she was resurfacing from the bottom of the lake. But the cheers, the applause, the stifled laughs of the crowd, the escort shouting out their names, none of that is what she locks in on. All she hears is the thought in her head, repeating and reassuring, giving her the first glimpse of hope in over a year.

This is how I make things right.

Hi Everyone! This chapter took me much longer, I'm sorry about that! School started again and they gave me a huge writing project right away so all of my daily writing has been going towards that. I'll do my best to keep on writing as much of this as I can in my free time though! I love these characters and feel really really good about this chapter, so I hope that it was a good one! Thank you to Victoria the Bipolar Tribute, Paradigm of Writing, HumanWiki, and King Blackfyre for Crispin, Dawn, Sondheim, and Lucian!

-Avery