District 5

Mars Clayme

I wish I wasn't in District 5 right now. The Capitol doesn't have to compete in the Games, but the Districts do. How is that fair?

The answer, of course, is that it isn't.

Our escort reads the Dark Days speech for the trillionth time, and all I can think about is how if we're dying, they should be dying too. They seem to want to replicate the war, and I distinctly remember Capitol citizens dying right along with the rest of us. Fuck them, fuck their politics, and fuck the reaping bowl with my name in it.

I'm fifteen this year, so I've got a few slips in there. I never took tesserae, and I never told anyone how much I despise the Capitol, so my chances shouldn't be too bad.

"Mars Clayme," the escort shouts across the entire city, and my chances drop to zero. Or one hundred, depending on what you define as 'chances.'

I take the stage and stare at the thousands of faces looking at me. Nobody looks upset, except maybe my own family. Instead they're relieved, happy it isn't their son this year who's going to get slaughtered. Some still are apprehensive, probably for their daughters, but nobody actually cares about me.

They'll cheer for me on screen, of course, but it's more tribalism than genuine support. It's a great honor to have a victor from your district. You get food and parties and reupped morals for next year.

Our most recent winner was twenty-seven years ago. Twenty-seven boys, twenty-seven girls, never to return. And that's not counting the ones before that who didn't win either. We need a winner this year.

But I'm pretty sure we won't get one.

Persephone Quinn

I don't hate reaping day as much as some of my peers. Obviously it's a tragedy for those picked, but I think I could probably survive alright. My parents always prepped me and Ophelia for survival, just in case. Not to the level of the Careers, and never openly, but if I were dropped in the middle of the Bloodbath, I might be able to make it out.

I run a comb through my unruly hair and pull it back into a ponytail. It's always best to look put-together for the reaping, even though I never look as sharp as Ophelia. She got all the neatness genes, I think.

Lucky her. If she gets reaped one year, she'll get sponsors for sure. We're literally identical twins, and she still manages to be a thousand times prettier than me. Some things in life aren't fair.

This becomes even more apparent when I reach the center of town. It's really easy to tell who's taken tesserae and who hasn't. Just about all people in District 5 have enough these days, but those who haven't really need support. So most kids who've taken some have taken a lot, making them much more likely to be reaped, and the fear is obvious on their faces even from several feet away.

Ophelia and I join the sixteens and steel ourselves. We've agreed that if anything happens to either of us, we'll do our best to forget the other ever existed. It's easier on the mind that way. I don't want to forget her, though. She better not get picked.

The escort picks the boy tribute first, like always. It's some skinny fifteen-year-old with a tangle of curly red hair. It almost looks like my own, except his is less curly and a bit brighter. He glares at the audience, and I wonder if he remembers that they have to be there just like he does. It's not their fault he's up there.

And then the escort picks the girls. "Lettie Malborn," he shouts, and I watch as the tiniest girl I've ever seen starts to leave the twelves section.

Fuck, I think. District 5 needs another winner soon. If we don't get one in the next couple of years, we're going to lose all hope, and that makes it so much harder to ever win again. It's already been decades. And with Mister I-Hate-Everything and Miss Eighty-Pounds-Soaking-Wet, it's not going to be this year.

So I put my hand up. "I volunteer," I say, and I head up to the microphone on stage. I take a deep breath. "I'm Persephone Quinn, sixteen, and I'm your female tribute."

I don't regret it. I'm my district's best chance to ever have another winner at this rate. I'm the closest thing we have to a Career, and since they've won eight of the last ten years, I don't think my chances are that bad.

Of course, I don't have their alliance or their weapons training or anything else that makes them actually a Career… Oh well. You only live once, right?

Mars Clayme

Mom and Dad look at me with such pity during our short meeting. I don't know if they're sad because I'm going to die, or if they're just upset I won't be able to work and make more money for the family, but either way, it hurts me to see their faces.

Dad gives me a wooden ball he carved before the Dark Days, back when things like wood were easily obtainable in District 5 and we didn't have to burn every scrap for warmth. I don't know how the ball survived that phase of our lives, if I'm being honest.

He folds my hand over it and stares me down. "I want you to have it," he says in a low voice.

I try to give it back. "No," I say. "It isn't waterproof. What if it rains? I don't want it to be ruined."

I don't mention the real reason I'm thinking of. If it isn't waterproof, then it isn't bloodproof either.

Dad makes me take it, though. I know the ball means more to him than I do, but the gesture is nice.

Persephone seems interesting. We never get volunteers, not really, so someone who would go out of her way to save someone who has no chance is someone I should probably get to know. She might be a good ally.

Or maybe it's an act, and she'll stab me in my sleep. Who knows.

Persephone Quinn

Dad picks a piece of lint off my cotton dress and gives me a harsh look. "Remember what I've taught you," he says. "You know how to make a snare?"

"Yes," I reply. "I can make a snare, and a half-dozen other traps. You taught me well."

"I didn't teach you so you could volunteer," he says, and Mom bursts into tears next to him. She leaves the room without saying anything, just a quick glance back at me through her hands.

I swallow hard. "I'm sorry, Dad," I say, and look at the ground. "But I can win this. I can."

"I'm glad you think so." He hugs me close. "We're all cheering for you. Please come home."

I nod and turn to Ophelia. "What we said still stands," I say. "If I die, I want you to forget about me."

She shrugs. "If it comes to it, I'll think about it then. For now, I'm going to assume you'll live."

She reaches behind her neck and unclasps her necklace. It's fancy, made of pearl and silver thread. "For you," she says, and hands it to me. "For the arena."

I put it on. "Thank you," I say. It's beautiful, and for once I feel as pretty as she must all the time. Maybe it will win me a sponsor or two.

I step onto the train and consider Mars for the first time. I think he's insane. He seems so resentful, so hateful of the Capitol. I think he thinks he's hiding it, but it's even more obvious in person than when he was on stage. That boy is pissed off at the circumstances that brought him here. I can't really blame him for that, but he's going to have to conceal it better if he doesn't want mutts unleashed on him day one. I'm great at hiding my own hatred for the Capitol. Not even Ophelia knows about it, even though I think she secretly feels the same way.

I want nothing to do with Mars until he fixes his demeanor. We're on the same side, but I'm not risking the wrath of the Gamemakers just for an alliance.

District 6

Cemeron Locksbee

Amelia Share is the best thing in my life. People in District 6 never have enough food, but I always make sure I've got some for her if she asks to come over. She's over a lot these days.

She's safe from the Games, at least. Her birthday was last month, and now she's nineteen, beyond the grasp of the reaping.

Not me. My birthday is next month. Too late.

She rolls out of my bed and gives me a kiss as she gets ready. It's a day off work for both of us, but that doesn't mean we can sleep in.

I button up my shirt and slide on a navy blue silk vest. It's the best article of clothing I own. It used to be Father's, before he passed. And now it's mine. I hope it'll be luckier for me than it was for him.

I join the eighteens in the town center, as close to the adults section as I can manage. Amelia gives me a little wave, and I wave back. If I can make it through today, we'll be able to spend the rest of our lives together and be happy. At least until our kids are old enough to get killed, but that's a problem for future us.

Mallorca Mirren, our escort, puts her hand in the reaping bowl and dramatically swirls the papers around. She does this every year. I'm convinced she relishes our terrified faces as she drags it out.

And then she calls my name, and the world stops spinning. I'm reeling. This isn't happening. Amelia and I were supposed to thrive, to get married, have kids, and now it's not going to happen.

Amelia's eyes go wide from off to the side, and I step up to the stage. I can't breathe. I want to live. I have to survive, I will survive this, I will come home and I will win. And I don't care who I have to kill. Amelia will not be left alone.

Vallora Share

Amelia isn't at home again, so the house is empty as I get ready for the reaping ceremony. I pull on a simple dress and don't mess with my hair too much. If I get reaped, they're gonna see the real me. It's who they'd get in the arena, anyway.

I head to the town center and join the seventeens. I tune out the Dark Days speech and scan my peers. They all look scared. I don't blame them. It's scary business, the reaping.

Mallorca pulls a name out of the boys' bowl, and I do a double take. Cemeron Locksbee. Why do I know that name? And then I see Amelia in the adult's section, looking horrified. Of course. He's her girlfriend. That really sucks for her; I know they're close.

Mallorca moves over to the girls', and my heart skips a beat. She slowly unfolds the slip of paper, and reads. "Vallora Share."

No. No! Why me? I want to scream at the world, tell them I'm not playing their fucking Games, that they can kiss my ass. I will rake my fingers down their faces until I draw blood and spit in the wounds, bury them alive in a prison made of my fucking bones. I will curse them and their children and their children's children until there is nothing left of the Capitol, nobody to remember them, and District 6 is in charge of Panem. I will raze their kingdoms until Ozymandias has more than them, I will turn them into the dust that covers the land like a blanket, I will rip out my own heart and turn it into their breakfast only to poison it with the worst toxin I can find and happily watch them die in agony.

But if I do that, I won't even make it to the start of the Games.

So instead, I try to look optimistic as I trudge up to the stage. I push everything down and bottle up my rage to use once I'm in the Games. I'm strong, and I'm capable. Cemeron throws a bit of a spanner in the works, but he's no real obstacle. I can survive the arena. I do want to talk to Amelia first, though. I'm going to miss her. She's going to have it rough these next few weeks. Not as rough as me, of course, but it's going to be hard to lose her boyfriend to the Games. And that's assuming I survive.

I will take no chances with my life. I will do what it takes, no matter how brutal it seems. I want to come home.

Cemeron Locksbee

Amelia comes to see me before the train. Me, not Vallora.

I can't meet her gaze. "I'm sorry," I say.

"For what?" she asks, and strokes my hair.

"Because in the best-case scenario, either your sister or your boyfriend doesn't make it back." I sigh. "And I know family means everything to you. I want you to know that I will not blame you for wanting her back."

Amelia touches her finger to my lips to shut me up, and I close my mouth. She pulls out a simple gold band, and I gasp. "You are my family," she says softly.

"It'll never be official," I say, and push it back to her. "We don't have the paperwork."

"We're old enough," she replies, "and you know these meetings are monitored. Our marriage will be official if I push enough for it."

I look her in the eyes for the first time since the reaping. "I think you should keep the ring and sell it. I love you, and were these different circumstances, I would accept in a heartbeat. But you're going to need the money to survive on just one income."

"Cem," she says, her voice firm. "I'm not selling this ring whether you accept it or not. By the way, I do expect you to come home and give me a nice wedding ceremony with your Victor's salary."

I bite my lip. "Okay," I say finally. I slide the ring onto my finger, and it fits perfectly. I wonder when she found out my ring size. It doesn't matter. It's going to be my token in the arena, and I don't plan to take it off for the rest of my life. However long that is.

I step onto the train and see Vallora right away. She looks so much like Amelia. They have the same grey eyes, same long, straight blonde hair and the same button nose. I don't know how I could ever kill her, or look at Amelia the same way if I did.

I hope she dies right away. It's better that than knowing she had a chance.

Vallora Share

Amelia doesn't come to visit me. She must be with Cemeron, then. How dare she? How could she just leave her sister, her own flesh and blood, to be alone as she goes off to die?

Maybe she's wishing him goodbye and telling him to keep me safe, to send me home. I hope that's the case. If she's favoring her boy toy over her own fucking sister to survive, I don't even want to come home.

I fumble with the gear in my pocket. It's kind of always been there, ever since Amelia gave it to me her first day working on the trains. I'd start working there next year and replace the gear with one from whatever I'm working on to make it more personal, but now that's never going to happen. Either I'm dead, or I'll never need to work again. It'll be a fine token, and it's all I've got since Amelia certainly isn't bringing me anything.

I beat Cemeron onto the train, and he looks at me strangely. He's probably figuring out how to kill me. I'm gonna get him first. Amelia will root for me, or she won't root for anyone.