.

—-—-—

honor

—-—-—

My tires squeal in the weeds, my bike coming to a short stop in Avari's front yard, and I let it teeter over on its side against the wall. "Tie it to something," Avari says, leaning her head out the front window. I loop a lock around the handlebars and notch it to the fence, then come meet her at the door.

"You're early," she says simply, toothbrush dangling from her lips. "Cas and Khione aren't here yet. You can come in if you want."

I step into a dimly-lit living area as Avari illuminates it, tugging at the blinds until they open, showering the room in light. She reaches between the slats to tug the window shut, but the noise from the road is still loud— she lives right by the tracks.

"I think we should leave in about twenty minutes. It takes about that long to walk to the station, then the train's coming every ten minutes today. Should get us there with time to spare."

"Good."

"And if you want anything, some toast or fruit or whatever, there's stuff in the other room. Dad had to head out early to help set up."

Truthfully, my stomach's sated with the excitement of the day's main event. But Akello's pressure hangs heavy in the back of my mind, and I grab a slice anyways. "Thanks. What are you wearing?"

Avari leads me down a narrow corridor to her room, a tight space that's still somehow open, and nearly spotless. A few outfits hang from an external rack set up along the opposite wall, and she pulls a top and pants from their hangers to set them on her bed. "Just this," she says. "Nice and simple. These pants are my absolute favorite, though. And vertical stripes are supposed to make you thinner on TV, you know."

"Sure," I say, although truthfully I have no idea. If they do, all the more reason for me not to wear them. Every time I pass a mirror now, I take in my fragile-looking limbs, stringy arms, too-long neck, a chest and torso that are far too thin, not strong. Even today, in the rising warmth of the late morning, I've wrapped myself in an evergreen sweater that makes me look a little less feeble. "I like it."

"Thanks," she says off-handedly, like my opinion couldn't possibly matter to her. There's a creaking from the other end of the house, the sound of unoiled hinges squealing and resisting stress. "Cas!" she calls. "We're down here!"

There's a drumming of boots along the wood floors before Cas and Khione appear. Cas' hair is still dewy from a morning shower and he's dressed neatly in a pale blue button-down. I find myself wishing I'd gone with the cerulean romper I'd debated wearing instead, just so I could have made fun of him for trying to wear the same Reaping outfit as me, but that appears to be a bust.

Khione comes in first, ducking in under the door frame. "I'm here too, you know."

"Yeah, I could smell you from down the hall," Avari says.

"Listen—" Khione starts, as Cas shuffles in behind him. "We can't smell as fresh as Cas here, alright? It's a losing battle."

"Toast is in the kitchen," she says, clearly not listening. "I'm going to go change. Feel free to go out there instead of stinking up my room."

When she's gone, though, Khione comes further in, settling at the end of her bed while Cas leans against the far wall. "How are your mornings?" I ask, trying to spur conversation. "Any excitement?"

"Nah." Khione yawns loudly. "Well, actually, yeah. Hadrian and I got back late from that thing Elias was throwing for Cyrus' last night here and I'm running on maybe twenty minutes of sleep." He curls up sideways, his lanky frame definitively not fitting along Avari's narrow mattress. "Tell Avy I'm napping here until we leave. No one wake me."

"First of all," Avari says from the next room, "I've said this before. You don't have to shorten my name when it's already five letters."

"Give me a break, Av," he groans.

Avari comes marching back in her room decked in a delicate blouse and those striped pants she was going on about. "I'm serious. No nicknames. And get off my bed."

"But I'm tired."

"And that's on you for going out the night before the Reaping." She drops her other clothes neatly into a corner basket. "Cas and Scout, come grab some food, for Panem's sake. Khione, fix yourself."

Khione drags himself back upright, his hair flat on one side. "Yeah, sure thing, A."

She just glowers. But as she passes Khione as he tails towards the bathroom, I swear I catch her mouth twist up at the side.

We pull up chairs in the kitchen, Cas plucking another piece of bread from the center tray while Avari goes to fill herself a water glass. I take another piece too and smother it in preserves. I take a courageous bite and am rewarded with a face full of sticky fruit.

"Smooth, Scout," Cas says.

"Thanks," I say, my mouth full of bread.

Avari peers over her water glass at me, eying the jam-drenched half of toast with disdain. "That's a lot of sugar, you know."

I frown. "And?" I take another messy bite, but this one tastes too sweet, somehow. "It tastes good."

"Looks like it," she says. She goes to the sink, her water glass already empty, and scrubs at the lip with a sponge.

Cas grabs for a remaining strawberry, ripe and red in the early summer. As he holds it to his lips, I can't help myself. "That's a lot of sugar, you know."

I earn a quick "Shut up, Scout" from Avari and a snort from Cas for that one. Worth it.

"Alright, you," Khione announces, marching into the kitchen, his hair no better than it was before. "Are we leaving, or what?"

"Who's 'you'?"

Khione jabs his thumb towards Avari. "Her. That one."

"Honestly, that's better than a stupid nickname," Avari says, propping her glass upside down on a towel. Aside from her single glass, the counter is clear and clean. "And yes, we are."

"It's actually the ultimate nickname," Khione says, motioning for Cas to toss him a berry. "I actually ran out of letters to trim off your name, so now you don't get one. No, leaves off, dude. I'm not a fucking rabbit."

"I'm not peeling your strawberries for you."

"Then why are we even friends?"

"Do you want it, or not?"

"Not anymore," he grumbles. "It's just gonna taste like betrayal."

"Hey, I'll toss you one," I say, pulling the stem out of the overripe one I've drawn from the basket. "Ready?"

"Scout, if you get strawberries on my floor—"

"It's not going on the floor," I say, before launching the berry into Khione's face. It splatters against his cheek and he recoils like I've actually slapped him. "Oops. Thought he'd catch it."

Khione picks it up off the ground and eats it anyway. "See? No mess. Scout, hit me again."

"Why—"

"Maybe we should leave before you two give Avari an aneurysm," Cas suggests thoughtfully. "Or before Scout goes crazy thinking about the Reaping."

"I'm not—"

"You've been bouncing your leg this whole time."

I catch myself. "Oh. Yeah."

Avari sighs, hinging over to grab her bag. "Make sure you guys have everything for Cas' after, yeah? Scout, you can come get your bike after, but that's it."

"Got it all," Khione says, taking a handful of berries.

Avari stares. Khione puts a single berry back.

"Perfect," she says finally. "Alright. Let's do this."

Even on the side streets outside the city center, the energy is notable, palpable.

We pass families dressed neatly, donning sharply ironed tops and smooth pants, respecting the occasion, dressed in appreciation for the tradition. Anticipation festers in the streets, sizzling in the heat of early District Two summer. My stomach leaps in genuine excitement that I haven't felt much of since the early days of training.

Colored banners swing above us, and shop doors are open to release aromas of fresh-baked bread, of sweets, of roasting meat. There are shop stalls set up in their entryways, introducing enticing displays of candles, ribbons, coats, and other goods. Some shopkeepers are placid, but most smile up at us as we pass. "Happy Reaping Day!"

"Happy Reaping Day," we repeat, dodging slow-moving walkers in the street.

The square is teeming with activity, crowds already pressed together along the outside of the pens. If the mood on the streets was jubilant, here it's hungry, anticipatory. The stage is newly set up, rows of chairs lining its entire right side, and in front of it stand already thousands of kids, younger twelve-year-olds to massive eighteen-year-olds, some unmistakably standing with that air of confidence, nearly arrogance, that suggests they're members of the Atheneum.

The four of us fit in line behind a throng of other teenagers. Despite the masses, there's still a sense of control; the process, at this point, is like a well-oiled machine. There are no tears, no resistance, no disrespect to the Peacekeepers that ensure our safety, and that this day runs smoothly. Most of them are ours, anyway, born and raised in Two and developed to protect it.

I keep an eye out, just in case my brother is among their ranks today, but I doubt it. He's in training, so more likely he's out among the crowds.

I wonder if Dad's found him, yet.

"Surname?" a Peacekeeper requests as I come to the front of the A through C queue. Her voice is hard and sharp.

"Caverley."

"Year?"

"Fourteens."

She marks my name off as a second Peacekeeper pricks my finger. I press the blood spot to the page, hardly feeling the ache of my split fingertip. When they wave me ahead, I move forward into the crowd, stepping past older teens who head the opposite way, to the front pens, and between younger kids making their way shakily to the very back.

Avari gets to the fourteens section just before me. It wouldn't have been a competition, except for as soon as we both see each other coming out of our lines, our steps speed up too instantaneously for it to be accidental. "Beat you," she says, shooting a winning smirk my way.

"Whatever." I peer around a hundred heads, craning my neck to look for any familiar ponytails. "Who else is here?"

"I saw Elissa on my way in," she says. "But she's way too far back there."

I don't recognize any of the girls in our immediate area. They're not from the Atheneum, and they're not from around school, either. It's not too surprising; Flavia Solva is one of the smaller towns in an already comparatively small region. Still, it's only really on Reaping day that I get a sense for the sheer size of the district, appreciate that for as many people as I can see and talk to on a daily basis, there are tens, hundreds of thousands more out there, all in different villages but all part of the same Two.

It makes me feel small. But that's not a bad thing, necessarily.

"There she is," Avari hisses, and I look up towards the spaces between the pens. Up ahead, a girl with sleek black hair steps away from the attendance line, striding heavily up towards the eighteens pens. I'd know her form anywhere— she's the tallest of the eighteens, with a stern attitude commanding, no, demanding respect. Jasira's been in the top three of her class since she started back in twelves. Most volunteers tend to be.

"Do you see Cyrus?" I'm trying to look out towards the pen furthest from us, at the eighteens males, for the male volunteer. He isn't so striking, though, and there are a lot of boys— he could be any one of them.

"Not yet, I—"

"Oh! Shh!" I stop her. Because there's activity on stage. My watch gives me ten minutes before the ceremony officially starts, but the rows of chairs onstage that were previously unoccupied are now being filled in strict order, from back to front. There's a reflexive, venerable hush as Neo, our most recent victor, comes to take his seat first. He was a trainee the year just before I joined; I've never trained alongside a future Victor, even if most of the trainers were champions in their time. He dons a stiff suit, fit neatly to his rigid frame. Even from here, he appears characteristically tense.

Easton, next, just two years before Neo. With her deadliness and her flawless appearance, she's long been a favorite in the Capitol. She nods to him as the applause mounts, but they're the first of many.

Kijana, victor of the 72nd Hunger Games. Then Slater, from the 70th, who became Easton's mentor. Easton was her prodigy, her first and only mentorship, but they sometimes seem even a bit closer than that. Not that I really know what's going on between them. Three years before her was Garrick, and four years before that was Rodoin, both of whom have effectively vanished from the Career scene. Not interested in mentoring, not interested in training. But they're here, of course, and I know they both go to the Capitol when they're invited. They fill the last two seats of the second row.

Then come our trainers, four all in a row. Kova, victorious two years before Rodoin. Nell, six years before him. Then Urban and Valerius, filling out the second row. Technically, it's not common knowledge that the Atheneum deals in much more than tutoring and food help for poorer kids, but if our Peacekeepers really wanted to police us, they would. As a result, it's these four that get the loudest cheers— not just because the most people know them, but because those who do are the emboldened, the strong, the fit, confident trainees in the front row. Used to existing in loud environments. And so they adapt by being even louder.

"They look so mean," one of the girls next to us titters.

"Definitely mean," another goes, and they giggle like children. I frown. What's so funny?

Avari's eyebrow lifts, her face contorting into her branded look of disdain. Immature, I almost mumble. But that would mean bowing to their level, and I'm not about to lose focus based on some base-level irritation. I try to tune them out; luckily, they've quieted down some, eager, it seems, to get this over and done with.

I'm just eager for it to start.

In the meantime, I refocus on our last batch of victors. Or, rather, our first. Our five eldest, surviving victors. Gunnar, Aelia, and Cyprian fill three seats in a row in the very front of the stage— fittingly together, having won three years out of four straight, the 30th, 32nd, and 33rd. Aurelie follows in behind Cyprian, and for some reason I've always had trouble remembering which Games were hers— 27th? 28th? Finally, Lyra makes her way steadily to the stage, spine bowed in age, but still on two feet. She's our only living victor who won before any sorts of academies were set up— that much I can remember. The two before her, Septimus and Casimir, did the same. But as Casimir made his legend by being the first victor in the Games' history and Septimus has been dead since before I was born, Lyra fills her role as somewhat of a living legend around Two. I don't see her much, but when she makes a rare visit to the Atheneum, training seems to stop for a moment and we make a point to recognize her presence.

The chairs on the left end of the stage are filling too, but with more of Two's elite— government figures and the like, who I've never had much reason to care about. Soon enough the crowd is back to its excited chattering, no one more than our section, it seems. Amidst a myriad of quick-lipped conversations, I catch a few phrases from the girls who commented on the victors just a moment ago.

"And Sama's got that thing later, we were just going to go over there—"

"Who's coming?"

"All of us," she says, "and Consus, and Jules—yes, shut up, Callie—"

"Oh, no," one of them groans. "My parents don't want me all the way out in Myonia all day."

"She's not from Myonia," a fourth says, and then there's more laughing. "No, Sama just says Myonia 'cause it sounds better because she's so close. She's in Osso."

"Same difference," the other says, as if it couldn't matter less to her. The others seem to mind, though, trying to catch the attention of another girl on the other side of the same pen, calling out Sama, Sama, Sama in mocking tones.

"Oh, Panem, just shut up," Avari grumbles, low so only I can hear her. At the very front of the pen, the ropes heavy against our legs, it's not hard for her words to go unnoticed. "Can't we get this going any faster?"

"Soon," I assure her. But if I didn't know there was such strict appreciation for time, I'd be worried we were going over, too. I'm itching to see the volunteers on stage in all their glory, then maybe, if we're quick enough, to catch them at the station before they go. "You're sure Cyrus is coming?"

"Just because I didn't see him doesn't mean he's not here," Avari says, irritation plaguing her tone. "Besides, you can't skip the Reaping, Scout. You know that."

I feel myself flush, overtaken by some instantaneous combination of embarrassment and irritation. I can overlook her condescension when she's talking to someone else, but to use it against me stings so much worse, somehow. "I know," I defend myself, although I'll be the first to say it sounds a bit weak. "I was joking."

The rest of the wait feels heavier, though, with the weight of lingering embarrassment. Avari doesn't think I'm that foolish, does she?

It shouldn't matter, but it does. Even when the lights on stage blast on, that untraceable guilt lingers like residual darkness.

The crowd mutes, the camera crews shift. In moments, it's game time. I straighten my shoulders. Forget about that. This is what you're here for.

At one-thirty sharp, the doors open at the back of the stage and out emerges our mayor, a tall-standing man whose most dominant feature is his ability to drain the life out of a crowd using only his words. He has to know— he must— that there's but a handful of attendees who really care what he's saying. Perhaps he's simply trying to remain relevant among a people who care more for bravery and fierceness than diplomacy by maintaining our attention as long as physically possible. Joke's on him, though, because by the sounds of chattering picking back up, no one's really listening. Most of this— the history of Panem, and our gratitude and service towards the Capitol— is taught in school, anyways. Or at the Atheneum. Or both. He even makes the brief overview of our nineteen Victors drag on before, finally, he goes to take his seat on the left side of the stage. Polite applause follows him, as is customary, but I'd be willing to wager a good amount that somewhere in that second row, Nell or Valerius are making comments— or at the very least, sending him dirty looks.

Then the doors behind the stage open once again, this time with a bit more flair and to a great deal more fanfare. "Good afternoon, District Two!" cries Valencia Lavode, her painted features overwhelming an otherwise young and simple face. Her accented greeting rings out through the plaza for only a moment before she's drowned out by shouts and cheers from all directions. "Splendid, as always, to be back in my favorite District, and I hope you'll join me in giving the warmest of welcomes to the young man and woman who will be representing you in these eighty-first annual Hunger Games!"

Perhaps warm isn't the right word for it. But it's boisterous, and powerful, and almost overwhelming. The energy in the crowd is vicious now, ravenous. Excitement is too tame a term. It's fervor that powers Valencia forward, stepping aside towards the girls' bowl.

There are thousands of names inside, only three bearing mine. There are rules that state if you're Reaped, you have the right to your own place— that is, to accept it in place of a volunteer. But, no— I'm not prepared yet. There's plenty of time to be selected in future years when I'm stronger, better.

Only if they don't make me quit, first.

Valencia's spindly fingers curl around in the bowl, summoning a tension that arguably doesn't make much of a difference to what's to come. Because the name called isn't mine, it's— "Lovina Kester!", who makes her way unsteadily to the stage from the thirteens pen just behind ours. She's no trainee, that much is evident by the way her tiny frame trembles ever so slightly, the waver in her step, as though she's worried that no one will step up in her place.

In any other district, she'd have every right to worry. But not here. When Valencia calls for any volunteers, Jasira's voice rings out, bold and unmissable. "I volunteer as tribute."

There's a roar like a tidal wave that breaks among the crowd as Jasira steps forward to replace Lovina, her footfall heavy and pronounced on the steps up to the stage. As Lovina skips down the stairs with her tail metaphorically between her legs, Jasira accepts the microphone that Valencia offers her. "Jasira Monroe. District Two."

To be Jasira. The thought sends chills across my arms, even in the stark July heat. Jasira is commanding the entire district now. No one here could forget her name or her face because she's our tribute, one of our two strongest fighters. She commands respect. She demands recognition.

To be Jasira.

"And now, for the males." Valencia wastes little time before dipping her hand into the boys' bowl, drawing a name from the very center. She peels open the folded slip and reads, "Casimir Lamot!"

I actually choke. Avari's screeching laughter overwhelms the murmuring around us but I don't break until I see Cas peel out of the boys' pen, striding up to the front while trying to look as tough as possible. Meanwhile, Khione is literally howling from behind him. "Get up there, champ! That's you! Go get 'em!"

"I can't— I can't breathe—" Avari wheezes, doubled over. "Cas— I swear to Panem—"

And yet, amidst my own laughter, as Avari wipes actual tears from the corners of her eyes, it's the sight of Cas on stage in front of the entire district that strikes me most. He's only there for long enough to allow Cyrus— yes, he is here after all— to take his place. But the image remains burned in my mind, even as Cyrus and Jasira shake hands, the anthem blares, and they vanish through the doors behind the stage. The pens begin to empty. I keep seeing Cas where I feel like I can only dream of seeing myself, at the front of all of Two, at the front of everyone's minds.

Would I have let Jasira take my place, after all, if that had been me instead?

I twist the key in the lock, and the door handle yields easily under my grip. I glance around before stowing the key back in the bushes, but no one's around to witness it. Mom doesn't mind keeping a key out front, but trusting me with one is too much, it appears. In case I lose it, in case someone at the center tries to steal it— really, the ways in which I can mess up are endless. Better to keep it safe in the dirt.

The warmth from the day— racing to the station to see Jasira and Cyrus off, then to Cas' to watch the recaps, mock him for actually getting Reaped, and then have dinner with my friends— has already deafened some just on the long journey home, and even more now that I'm back inside. It's me who flicks on the light in the hall, locks the door behind me. I don't call out into the house, just set my shoes neatly on the rack next to Nico's trainers, Mom's polished shoes, Aris's work boots. It takes me eight steps into the hall— exactly the amount it takes me to get to the kitchen doorway— to realize: Aris' boots. They haven't been here in months.

It's only now that I register the muffled discussion happening in the far depths of the dining room, giving me no time to prepare before I'm in front of all three of them, Mom and Dad and Aris. Or the first two, at the very least. Aris sits facing the far wall, but even if I hadn't seen his boots, I'd know the back of his head, the view of him turned away from me, almost anywhere.

"How was Casimir's?" Mom says.

"It was good," I say. I watch Aris, but he doesn't turn. Dad's face reads strain and heartache and he hardly looks at me, trying to pull something out of Aris that he's not likely to get. I struggle for a moment, trying to build up the courage to say something, until I finally get out, "Hey, Aris."

"Hi, Scout." His voice is low and lifeless, stony to muffle the shame that makes his shoulders hunch, his fingers curl. Even without his gaze, I feel him judging me, and I'm suddenly so much more aware of myself than earlier, even, with cameras tracing our every move. Because even then it was easy to get lost in the crowd, for better or for worse. Mom and Dad are here too, of course, but it's me who stands in the open doorway, framed like a portrait but somehow, unseen.

I was always so aware of the way I presented myself in front of Aris. I guess some things never change.

"We're just talking for a bit, Scout," Dad says, by way of dismissing me.

"No, I'm heading up anyway." I pause, almost unsure, and let the awkward moment linger. Then, when it's clear no one wants me there, I turn and go.

My room's the last one upstairs, down the hall and on the right. Even if I were in Nico's space at the top of the stairs, I don't think I'd be able to hear their conversation. There's a sense of subtlety in their behavior even without the muffled tones. I wanted to know, but now I'm sick of being left in the dark. It's not worth wanting what I can't have.

Instead of closing myself in my bedroom, I make a left for the bathroom and lock myself in. The single lightbulb over the sink hums and flickers, illuminating my bare, shivering skin in washed-out flashes. I crank the shower on until it's hot enough to scald and let it hiss against my back, flatten my curls against my neck and shoulders, rinse the last of my lingering excitement from Reaping day down the drain. When the water goes cold just two minutes later, it's already been long enough. I stand in the center of the bathroom and tug a ragged towel around my limbs until, at least externally, I feel back to normal.

Tomorrow is back to reality. But in a much more real sense, so is tonight. The square, the station, the comparative exuberance of Cas' home, that's all just a cover-up for the cold iron honesty of that scene in our kitchen, reeking of missed opportunities, of failure. Aris wasn't supposed to be done with training until November. Unless he's injured— and I didn't see any wounds— he's simply been discharged. Booted. Didn't make the cut.

Everything he wanted of himself, that Dad wanted of him, is gone.

I hug the towel around my body until I'm back in the safety of my room, then replace it with a pair of soft shorts and a sweatshirt that I wrap around me like the long, loose arms are any sort of consolation. Maybe they aren't, but one thought is: even if Aris has lost his dream, I still have mine.

I stretch my arms to either side, trying out that sore spot again, as I do most nights. It's almost unnoticeable now. Aspra's made it crystal clear, though, that just because I'm feeling almost perfect doesn't mean I'm ready to go just yet. There are rehabilitative exercises to do, strengthening that's meant to prevent this from flaring up again. But for what it's worth, I like being responsible for my own fate.

Because it means no matter what happens in training, or what I come home to— the quiet tension of my own four walls, if you can truly call them my own, or the way Mom never really looks me in the eyes anymore, or the way Dad's always got ample time for Aris and Nico but seldom for me— that doesn't matter. What matters is what I make of what I've got.

Two's done that for years. We're resilient, bred tough as stone. Any hardship's meant to weather, not crack. When we're worn down, we build ourselves back twice as strong. I owe it to my district, then, not to bow, not to break. To my trainers, to our victors, to the Capitol, to all of us who took to the square today to celebrate our newest tributes. I owe it to them to be my best.

I don't need to be like Aris. If I follow him into the dark, I'll fail as he did. That may have been where this started, based in some naive desire to impress him, back before I was old enough to understand the nuances of patriotism and duty and saw training as an activity, not a purpose. But it's not where this ends.

Amongst my family, training is what sets me apart. Amongst my district, it's what connects me.

I know my role, now. I know my duty. And at any cost— I'm determined to fulfill it.

agreatleap. weebly .com

I've decided to stop being a perfectionist and just post my chapters without editing the living life out of them.

Kidding. But I'm trying to get better, I swear.

Two important shoutouts are in order for this chapter: first off, a HUGE thank you to the lovely FlawlessCatastrophe for commissioning the cover for this story— definitely take a look if you guys haven't already. I'm still absolutely stunned at how amazing it turned out. Secondly, a two-chapters-overdue thank you to miss optimisms, the actual love of my life and beta for this fic. So much love for you, my dear!

Thanks to everyone who's been reading and giving support via reviews, DMs, PMs, smoke signals, carrier pigeon, telegram, voicemail, Twitter fleets, messages in bottles, telepathy. I really appreciate it!

I keep saying I'll keep weekly updates going, but turns out I'm Frankie Muniz and Amanda Bynes in 2002 because I'm a Big Fat Liar. So see you at some point for AGL IV!