Homesickness was the very least of Rayla's worries, but the bothersome, uncomfortable temper never abandoned her. Things were exceedingly different in the Capitol.

As a result of her being Kin (or as strangers of her Kin called it, an Untamed), Rayla was transported to the Capitol the day she signed up for the games. Apparently outside of District 12, nobody was aware that people like her were granted to live while omitting the Peacekeepers' eyes.

Although she tried to feign indifference, Rayla knew that her people were kept secret because they could give others hope to do what her Kin did: live on their own, with no reliance on Peacekeepers.

Freedom had no real meaning in the districts, Rayla discerned. Its definition existed to no-one, no matter what district they were in or what title they held. They were all the same. They could all be threatened.

The girl figured that the Capitol decided to transport her privately so they could give themselves enough time to conjure up a reason as to why "Untameds" were sanctioned in the first place. That and the fact that they wouldn't let her back out of her contract.

Rayla knew that she would pay for unearthing her Kin to the districts.

Until then, she resided in a heavily-guarded building constructed for only the tributes of every year's Games. Arriving almost a week before the official Reaping Day meant that she got to familiarize herself with the customs of District 1's population. Not the fancy weapons or preparing mentors, nor the books that could educate her on the previous Games. Just the people and food that District 1 offered her.

Going into this, Rayla had known that she would be leaving behind everything she knew. That didn't help the fact that she could physically feel how out of place she was, though.

Many of her stylists praised her for volunteering so early, as the extra week gave them enough time to tame her divergent characteristics. They waxed the hairs below her head, scrubbed away the dead skin that still clung to her body (they called this exfoliating), and gave her vitamins that claimed to pale the yellowish tint of her skin. For the most part, she bit her tongue and dealt with whatever changes they threw at her, reminding herself that she would long for this minuscule pain and vexation in the Games. Only after they trimmed her hair to fall just above her shoulder blades and attempted to cover up her emblems, did she speak out.

"Ye don't get to change these," she had hissed, slapping away the hand that threatened to conceal the markings her Kin had given her.

"When we cover your tattoos, you will fit into District Twelve's ideals more easily. People - sponsors - will recognize you as an orthodox girl."

"But I'm no' that type of girl. Even if I was, I would want to stand out. Anyone can tell ye tha' ye get sponsors by not fittin' in."

Nobody in District 1 was as close-knit as her Kin.

Days into her contract, Rayla woke up with lingering dreams about her old home. Runaan, Tide, Dhara, and her Kin were buried remnants of a life Rayla had chosen to say goodbye to. But sometimes even her mother found her way into Rayla's mind.

How would they react, when the Games commenced and Rayla was broadcasted throughout the districts?

Will they know that I'm doing it for them?

Most nights she fell asleep praying that they would.

Too soon, dawn rose on Reaping Day.

Rayla awoke at six that morning, knowing her home district's reaping would be aired precisely at seven, followed by District 11's reaping at eight, and so on. Thankfully she had the luxury other tributes did not: sizing up her competition from the moment they were chosen.

Even though there was only the gentleman's bowl up on the recently-constructed stage of District 12, there were still a boys' and girls' section herded before the Justice Building.

A fifteen-year-old boy named Kasef was drawn from Rayla's district.

District 12's volunteer had never come across him before, but she could tell that he loomed as a subtle threat from the moment the camera panned over to him. One second he was wide-eyed and trembling, the next his shoulders were squared and his grin was cocky. Rayla hadn't exactly seen anything like that before. While he walked up to the stage and answered the routine tribute questions, she searched for that petrified boy she'd seen, only to find what would surely be an overconfident, guileful threat in the arena.

When the time came, she wouldn't admit it to herself, but Rayla watched District 9's reaping closer than the others. Almost closer than her own district's.

Hailing from District 2, Opeli commanded the reaping without any show of emotion, which calmed Rayla to some extent. She watched her screen without blinking, not allowing herself to pause the program, but studying every male's face she saw with careful haste. (Not that she wanted to see her stranger in such a plight, though. If she could choose, she would have chosen to see her stranger's face brimming with happiness, not pinched in worry.)

As always, ladies were first, and Opeli drew a fourteen-year-old girl named Freya. This girl didn't hesitate to begin her walk to the stage, nor did she disclose any more emotion than Opeli. She had raven hair that was messily chopped above her shoulders, blank green eyes, and tawny skin from working long hours outside. In the end, Rayla fated that Freya was in shock, and therefore not responding with as much emotion as the previous tributes she'd seen.

Perhaps an easy target.

The next name Opeli called was "Ezran" and didn't ring any bells for Rayla. The camera focused on the group of eleven-year-old boys, and Rayla felt her heart sink. A boy fronting the right of the crowd began shuffling towards the Peacekeepers that were ready to greet him on the gravel road. He hung his head until something off-camera seized his attention, warranting Rayla to take in his features.

The bluest eyes she'd ever seen came into view. She noticed that he wasn't as tall as she'd initially presumed. His hair stood lofty and thick, adding inches to his height.

"Ezran!"

While Rayla's heart had sunk at the sight of this boy, it skipped a beat at the sound of that voice.

No.

Ezran was already surrounded by Peacekeepers who were marching him towards the stage. The camera neglected to show the audience who had yelled this boy's name so achingly, but after witnessing Ezran's forlorn expression, Rayla surmised it was family.

At once, her mind began treading a mile a minute. Ezran was staring ahead of himself, to a boy older than him therefore, not a family member behind him. Rayla remembered her stranger telling her that he had a younger brother. She could recall the selflessness that had affected his voice when he had talked about his own kin.

Was he selfless enough to get beaten by Peacekeepers just for hollering his brother's name?

The tribute's jaw was slacked just enough for Rayla to assume that he was saying her stranger's name, although the camera couldn't pick up any sound.

How she wished she had learned his name.

"I volunteer!"

The camera whirled around to a scuffle of Peacekeepers and a single civilian.

A single teenage boy.

At that point Rayla had no doubt in her mind who this civilian was.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

He stood tall, needing to be proud. One of his arms was thrust high in the air, palm facing the stage, shaking in too many emotions to count. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Something blurry rammed into Rayla's stranger. For a moment her breath caught, until she recognized Ezran's small frame and sky eyes. District 9's male volunteer crouched to Ezran's level, locking his shoulders in his grip, telling him things Rayla couldn't hear. Within seconds, the brothers were arguing and crying. She could see the resemblance between them. The way their expressions mirrored one another's, the restrained fear and unshackled grievances that betrayed their bearings.

And then the volunteer was pushing his brother away, in the direction opposite to the stage.

Ezran shouted a name Rayla had never heard before, a name she wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. She was inches from her screen now, inept to the fact that her fingers were hovering over the pixels of brothers.

"No! You can't! Please-"

Another barrage of Peacekeepers ensnared their way between brothers, dragging them apart.

"You said you would take care of me!" Ezran sobbed.

"I promised dad!" the volunteer screamed in response. "I will fight for you! I will live for you!"

A Peacekeeper jabbed Rayla's stranger in the gut, but he didn't stop shouting. Instead, his promises realigned to threats. Whoever was filming was doing this volunteer no good will. The camera focused on the spittle spewing from his mouth, it zoomed in on the abuse the Peacekeepers rewarded him with and the desperate thrashing that got him nowhere.

Rayla watched in silent horror.

Somehow four Peacekeepers governed Rayla's stranger to the stage. No longer was he spewing threats, no longer was he trying to fight back. In the same haze as his sister tribute, consternation spread out within the volunteer and crashed over him like an ocean's wave. He stumbled to his designated spot on the stage, joining the others in a void of emotion.

Opeli adjusted the microphone before him. When she announced Ezran's name, life sprang back into the volunteer. He rattled off information without needing heavy prompts.

Throughout the one-word answers, Rayla's stranger leveled his head to the audience, and Rayla felt something she had no name for.

The sight of him made her blood run cold. Her eyes focused on his face like this was truly the last time she would see him. There was something hard knotted up in her stomach, sinking lower and lower, growing too heavy for her to bear.

"Your name?" Opeli boomed.

Rayla's stranger was staring up at her, his eyes glossy from tears and shock. Only when she discerned that he was starting to get blurry, did Rayla realize she had to remind herself to breathe. Remind herself that she didn't have to stare so hard.

She would see him again soon, in the training center. In the arena.

I will see him die.

"Callum," District 9's volunteer answered mildly.

Rayla tried to inhale, but her throat was tight and her chest felt too compact for her lungs. Tears were building behind her eyes, hot and heavy, flooding her vision.

"Callum," she choked.