CONTENT WARNING: I…actually don't know what to call this one, but I do feel I should have a content warning. Let's go with…"Unhealthy Relationship Dynamic; Please Don't Try This at Home." I'll hint at it in Kore's first POV; from there on out, you'll know what you're getting into.
Niko Tamaro | District 6 | 16
Autumn, 100 CE
If I'd wanted to be depressed, I think, I would have just shown Mamá my latest report card and gotten a head start on digging my grave.
I didn't particularly want to spend the day forty feet underground, but here we are. Believe it or not, this place, just through that gap in this concrete wall, once used to be a little slice of home. Hysterical, I know. I wouldn't call this a home, exactly; more like a bomb shelter that forgot which side of the shelter the bomb was supposed to be on. If I was a realtor, I'd run for the hills. At least the properties there have decent views.
But then you get a good look at the layout. With its crumbling columns, worn-away tracks, and telltale dropoff, even an infant from Six would recognize this as a train station. A particularly ancient, out-of-commission one, but a train station nonetheless. And if there's anywhere in Six that your average citizen feels almost as at home as, well, an actual home, it's a station.
I can almost see it. The haphazard row of tents along the platform, flaps wide open. The clotheslines strung between columns. The little electric lamps and campfires that filled the cavern with a glowing haze.
Almost. I can't actually see it. It's long gone. All that remains of those days is -
- a slug. In a wig.
If there were any remains of this station's former life—subway maps, train numbers, street names—all would have been painted over by a massive, fluorescent mural that splatters all the way across the wall behind the tracks. It depicts two high-speed trains in a spectacular collison. The impact is further emphasized by a starburst so colorful it hurts your eyes. Spilling from the sides of the train and out the mansion windows are dozens of cartoon animals of all varieties, some with little fashion accessories.
Exquisite bit of art, really. Makes you want to stroke your chin and think about deeper latent meanings and subtle political undertones, or something.
What a night it was—getting alternatively slapped on the back and sprayed down the front by complete strangers, running manically around with paint cans like a neon vigilante. Squatters on the platform behind us would crawl out of their tents to cheer us on and holler out commissions. I could hear corks popping and the fizz of carbonation, and though I knew in the back of my mind that someone had probably pulled something unsavory to get such luxuries, I didn't care. I was just along for the ride.
My friend Cruz, a full-time squatter in these parts, was the one to first press a can of spray paint into my hands, obviously under the impression that I possessed a vast, untapped artistic potential. Who was I to disappoint him? I painted a slug. I gave it a little wig.
The aching familiarity of it all strikes something inside me. I feel that old spark of adventure bloom to life for the first time in months. But Cruz is pulling at my sleeve just as I'm rising to my feet, shaking his head vigorously. He's also mouthing something. Dumbass, I think he's trying to say.
Something's wrong. What's wrong? Think, Niko.
Oh, right.
I can see.
A light protrudes from our hole in the wall. But not the inviting mesh of individual lamps. This light is blocky, harsh, almost like a solid object. These are floodlights.
Another memory surfaces, like a long-forgotten blister that's just started to itch again. A city street at midnight. A procession of torches, flashlights, firebombs, the shattered glass twinkling at our feet. Clutching a broken-off rail in sweaty hands, and inhaling the scent of iron through the folds of a mask pulled over my nose and mouth. A flock of bricks, railroad spikes, and homemade explosives in flight. The sounds of television static, explosions, a cacophony of hoarsening profanities, and—underpinning everything—a crescendo of footfalls keeping step in perfect time. A drumbeat threatening to bring order to a runaway orchestra.
Everything disappearing, replaced by a blinding tunnel of light, white walls obscuring my vision on all sides.
I didn't even hear the Peacekeeper say, "Freeze!" Believe me, it was implied.
Careful to keep to the shadows, I shift my position and peer deeper into the ruins. There, at the far side of the station, stand three Peacekeepers huddled together in conversation. A forth adjusts a spotlight to point down a train tunnel leading in the opposite direction.
My palms start to sweat. I throw a sideways glance at Cruz. He seems determined. Excited, even. He gestures through the hole and mouths something. Wait, what? I didn't catch that. What did he say? What are we even doing here? Something about…old stomping grounds? No, wait…that it's been too long since our last adventure? Or…something to do with possible salvage? Come on, mind, work!
One of the Peacekeepers angles their head just slightly in our direction. The lamplight creates a spot on their darkened visor like a sinister, glowing eye. Suddenly, my mind snaps fully awake, all-too-happy to process the single word that brings all other trains of thought to a grinding halt.
Nooooooooooope.
And without a second thought, I hightail it in the opposite direction.
I nearly get hip-checked by a small, speeding train on my way out.
"So much for pedestrian right of way," I grumble, unflattening myself from the tunnel wall. My heart still pounds against my ribcage. No wonder: the left half of my body was a hair away from a sudden 50 mile-an-hour joyride.
Cruz, Wells, Strada and I had been regular spelunkers in Six's underground railway for as long as I can remember. Supposedly, the foundations had been laid long before Panem even existed. Something called a Metro, if the faded lettering is anything to go by. The original network must have been much larger than the short, circular rail that exists today, since there never seemed to be a shortage of passages to explore.
I hear another set of footfalls in my wake. Just like old times.
"What the hell was that?" Cruz demands.
"What the hell was what? You're gonna have to be more specific, Cruz; I do a lot of stupid things." Actually, just then might have been one of my smarter moments, but I don't think my good friend would appreciate that just now.
"Look," I continue, with what I think is a good deal of patience, "whatever I signed up for today, it wasn't that. And last I checked, you also have a preference for not getting your head blown off."
"They had no idea we were there! You heard them talking. We could have—I don't know—eavesdropped or something." Cruz is clearly agitated, but his words ring hollow. "Figured out what they were doing, bring some intel back to the gang."
"What, like spies?" I purse my lips, pretending to consider. "Eh, I'll pass. I'd be the worst spy anyway. I can't keep quiet to save my life. And you know how distracted I get. Four peacekeepers in one room and all I could focus on was that stupid slug painting—remember that? I was thinking about it, and I don't think it properly showcases my artistic talent. Perhaps, if I had added a little more green—"
"You're derailing," Cruz growls.
"Train," I say in response.
Seconds later, all that's left of the second train is a light breeze. Cruz curses as he unpeels himself from the wall. I'm already at a light jog towards the nearest maintenance ladder.
"It's been grand, really," I call over my shoulder. Is it getting stuffy in here, or is it just me? Clearly I've been Vitamin-D-deprived for too long. If I could just find -
"Look," I hear Cruz say. The tunnel walls amplify how uncomfortable he is, and I suddenly think I would prefer to hear another train to whatever's about to come out of his mouth. "Yeah. It's been hard. I know we—we lost Wells."
I feel a chill. The breeze from the last train has long passed.
"And well, Strada, you know, doesn't leave her room anymore." He inhales. "You—you're the closest thing I've got to normal, you know? But if something's wrong..."
Everything. Everything's wrong. I want to tell him. Except—did I say everything? I meant nothing. Nothing's wrong. Everything is completely, one-hundred percent normal.
"I'm fine," I say breezily. Where is that stupid ladder? I feel my way along the coarse brick for an out.
"You say that." Cruz stands unhelpfully off to the side, unmoving except to kick an occasional stone in my direction. "I don't believe it. I just wish I knew what your deal really is."
My hand smacks against metal. Ah—there you are! With a shrug and a salute, I begin my escape to the surface.
"Sorry, Cruz. Guess you had to be there."
Kore Katsaros | District 6 | 14
I find Amarissa in the parlor. The little girl stands on top of the couch, wobbling slightly as she fiddles with the tulle tufts of her dress. She doesn't notice me at first; her eyes are fixated on a glowing television screen.
"Hello, my dear," I announce, at which the light of my life straightens and jumps excitedly with an enthusiastic cry of "Koey!" I sweep across the room and scoop her up in my arms. "And just what has you so distracted, hmm?"
Displaying on the screen is an exquisitely-composed shot of a burnt-orange sunset. Tall blades of grass refract the light back toward the camera. A beat later, a pair of broad shoulders enters the frame, one hand trailing along the grass that grazes his thighs, the other clutching a long, serrated knife.
A Hunger Games. And not just any Hunger Games. This was the ninety-eighth, which had taken place in a barren flatland that stretched for miles in every direction. Scarce patches of rocks offered protection, stretches of grass grew tall enough to engulf a person, and Gamemaker traps lay hidden within the folds. But especially in the first few days, when no one was yet familiar with the lay of the land, there was no hiding. There had been more brutal, bloody, hand-to-hand combat deaths than I remember seeing in any other games.
And this small, adorable child strains against my shoulder to see it.
"You didn't have this on the whole time!" I gasp. My widening eyes only make her smile—cheeky little thing. "This is absolutely inappropriate!"
I turn her around to face me and put on my best serious voice. "I cannot in good conscience allow you to keep watching. Not without proper guidance."
Ten minutes later, we are both engrossed. I've planted Amarissa in my lap, and my fingers absently braid sections of her hair as I narrate. Thank goodness I found her when I did; who knows what she might have picked up without my instruction?
"I want you to pay good attention to his stance," I say, indicating the boy from District 10 who somehow made off from the bloodbath with a steel katana. "Watch him sidestep; see how he crosses his feet? That's no good. It would be too easy for his opponent to throw him off balance, and then it's curtains for him. You want to shuffle. Light on your feet, but ready to plant if necessary.
"Now, him." I give a nod to the boy with the knife, District 2. "He has the disadvantage where weapons are concerned, but he doesn't let that limit him. See, with a knife, you have to stab to do serious damage. But his attacker has a sword, and a stabbing motion would leave him too vulnerable. So he mimics his opponent's attack patterns, but only blocking when necessary, because his weapon is lighter. And all the while he'll look for an opportunity to disarm."
That opportunity comes a moment later. The District 2 male feints an attack. His opponent attempts to parry, but District 2 jumps backwards out of the way, dragging his serrated knife edge against the other boy's side.
"Ouch," Amarissa whispers mildly.
"Exactly!" I beam down at my star pupil. "If pain is what you're after, serration is your friend. Most people aren't very good at dealing with pain. That'll be his downfall."
Sure enough, the boy with the knife takes swift advantage of his opponent's few seconds of disorientation to strip him of the katana. With a blow to the head and a fine mist of blood, it's all over.
Before I can offer further commentary on the merits of serrated and smooth edges, I am distracted by the echoing click click click of high heels tapping the polished stone tile.
"She was supposed to work from home today," I murmur dejectedly. Amarissa looks up at me, curious by my sudden shift in tone. "Oh, never you mind." I plop her down on the adjacent cushion. "I'll be right back. Just remember what I taught you. Don't go learning any bad habits, now."
In the main corridor the white tile floors are polished to a keen shine. The risen sun peers through the glass embellishments on the front door, casting tiny rays of color across the room. In the midst of these stands Zoella Winthrope, mistress of the house. She types smartly with a stylus into a PDA, blinking rainbows from her eyes.
As usual, she is flawless: black hair swept into a braided updo, perfectly-polished nails, a delicate but pleasant touch of makeup. Although—I do note that her cream-colored blouse hangs rather loosely from her slender shoulders.
She senses my presence immediately, or else must have known to expect me. "Kore," she says, "be a darling and help me finish zipping up, would you?"
"I guess they called you to the office?" I pout as I wriggle the zipper free from folds of fabric, my fingertips lingering against smooth skin as I slide it into place.
"Yes," Zoella sighs, none-too-happy. "Banks swears he's found another bug in my encryption algorithm. More likely than not he fat-fingered an extra semicolon trying to wipe sandwich crumbs from his keyboard."
"He sounds disgusting," I decide. "You should wrap his entire office in cellophane."
She laughs, and I feel a pleasant rush of pride: this laugh is reserved for me.
Zoella is utterly brilliant. She took over her family's security company when she was merely thirty. Though if you ask me, it should have been sooner, considering she's the only Winthrope to have cracked a cybersec book in at least three generations. Not only that, her work is vital. A crossroads of transportation and distribution, our district is a hotbed of smuggling and gang-related robberies. In an age where someone could just as soon hack into a schedule of arrivals as pry open a train car, Zoella's company keeps both at bay.
"The things I put up with to be taken seriously," she says wryly. She pauses to take in the sounds of blatant violence from the parlor. "Oh, Kore, I'd much prefer you pop in a movie. What about those old Capitol dramas you love so well?"
"Don't worry one bit about Amarissa," I say confidently. "I've been educating her well."
"Hmm," Zoella's lips are pursed, but her eyes betray her amusement. "I suppose there's something to be said for learning from the best."
"Only the very best for our daughter," I say.
So subtly that I must only notice because I know her so well, Zoella stiffens, her eyes darting over her shoulder.
Oh dear, I've made a mistake, haven't I? Of course not; I'm being silly. We're completely alone. This is simply a nervous reflex.
Though, a small, pointed part of me boils at the necessity of this reflex.
Zoella has composed herself. "Patience, darling," she says, and the look she gives me could melt steel. "I'll see you tonight." With that, she makes her exit, a trail of click clacks and iridescent sparkles in her wake.
Patience. If there's one thing I don't understand, it's her insistence on it. Why must we stop just short of perfect? It's like climbing a tree to its second-highest branch, reaching for the most beautiful specimen of fruit I've ever seen, and being told that I must wait to grow taller, instead of simply climbing one more branch, to pick it.
Our life is amazing. But it could be so much more.
Try as I might to coach her through the remainder of the Games, perhaps my dear Amarissa senses my heart is no longer fully in the moment. She's right, of course—a piece of it departed through the front door this morning. Eventually I decide to save the climactic battle for another time and, instead, carry her upstairs to play her favorite game: dress-up.
We use my own closet, of course; she loves trying on my dresses. They're several sizes too big on her, but I always cinch the waist and fasten up the sleeves. "Oh, what a beautiful ball gown!" I'll exclaim. This never fails to send her into ecstatic fits of spinning across the room, giggling as she trips over the train of her garment.
We open the door to my bedroom, where we are greeted by twinkling fairy lights, lush carpet that wraps around our bare feet, a collection of little paintings I've made—framed and mounted above my writing desk, and a surprise. Atop my bed is a slim package with a beautiful, golden bow. An envelope taped to the box reads:
For a flawless execution of your latest assignment. xo ~Zoella
My fingers trace the elegant "xo". How thoughtful she is, and how remarkably witty!
The envelope contains a sizable cash bonus, and I think of how happy it will make my family to find it in their mailbox next week. Kieran's portion will probably go straight into his college savings. Kennedy has been talking for ages now about a portable music player, and Kalliope desperately wants her doll to have a friend. Dad will be relieved to not have to worry about bills for another month.
The box's contents make my breath catch: a beautiful blue satin dress with off-shoulder sleeves and ruffles at the hem. A breathtaking piece.
I squeal and clutch the garment to my chest. "Your mother spoils us so!" I exclaim to Amarissa, who is delightedly trying to keep her balance in two different high heels.
Perhaps, I think, there are worse places to be patient, than an arm's reach from the very top.
Niko Tamaro | District 6 | 16
Day of the Reaping
Just when you think you hit rock-bottom, you find a shovel.
Not that my life was particularly cushy before. But we made the most of it, my crew and I. We had our fun. I'd even say most of it was enjoyable. But then last year's Quarter Quell was announced, and everything went south.
"Representatives from each District will be allowed to submit one design choice to be incorporated into this year's Arena."
Immediately, my two younger sisters, Kia and Raven, started to speculate on what this could mean for our District, and whether this could potentially give our tributes an edge. I merely yawned and leaned backward in my chair. "Would it kill you," I remember Mamá growling, "to do some critical thinking for once?"
"I don't see anyone from the mayor's office knocking at the door to give me a say in it personally," I remarked. This earned me another very vivid, spoken account of the nobody I'm bound to become later in life. But that's old news to us both.
Turns out, Kia and Raven did maybe have a point. District Six ended up pushing the bounds of this Quell twist further than I'd thought possible.
The mayor hired a cartographer to draw out an elaborate, multi-level system of tunnels with sharp twists and turns, hidden alcoves, and steep drops. Miraculously, the Capitol approved. Then came phase two. Copies of the tunnel system were quietly distributed to the District schools. We all received a copy on our desk at homeroom. Memorize it, we were told. Then burn it.
I gave up and tossed it in the fire that same day. Not for lack of trying. But if I'd tried any more, all I was going to get out of it was a headache.
The grim optimism our district brought to the Reaping was shaken slightly when the names drawn were both children with connections to rival gangs. But to everyone's shock, they put aside their differences, trained side by side, became an efficient and deadly team, and fought their way to the mountainside tunnel that promised home field advantage.
What the Capitol forgot to mention is that the tunnel would seal, and that the passage would fill slowly with lava.
The girl lost her head while trying to escape it. Literally. She fell straight into a pit that she should have known was there, with nothing left to do but wait as the lava poured over her head like a deadly waterfall. The Gamemakers drew out her partner's death for as long as possible. In the end, they had him pinned in a cavern where he stood atop a tall ledge, sweating and obviously hoping this would be enough, that the lava would recede.
It wasn't. It didn't.
Next thing I knew, Cruz was at my back door—Wells and Strada in tow—distributing masks and iron bars with jittery excitement.
"Ordo's united the gangs!" he exclaimed. Kenosha Ordo—leader of the railway gang called the Red Lines. Cruz's people. "Everyone's furious. They say our tributes got cheated. They're about to raise serious hell, and we're gonna be there when it goes down."
Sure! Why not? Sounded like my kind of party. High on excitement, propelled by a sort of righteous fury, this could have easily been our greatest adventure yet. But here's the thing we all sort of forgot. The more outrageous the party, the worse the party crashers.
And if there's a place you definitely don't want a Peacekeeper to grab you, it's dead center in a crowded city square with a mask on your face and war paint under your eyes; with a cry of "F the Capitol!" having just escaped your lips and a brick poised to launch into a second-floor window of the Justice Building.
Most of the gangs escaped. Wells and I were among the lucky few carted off to Peacekeeper prison camp, where we learned some very important things about ourselves.
You know how everyone wonders if they would break under torture? No one actually wants to know. Not really. I never asked to know. But for the record, the answer for me is no, so congratulations Niko, I guess.
After a month of being repeatedly asked in some extremely creative ways who our ringleader was, I was suddenly released. As far as I know, I was the only one to make it out. Maybe because I was the only one they caught who was underage.
Except for Wells. But they went a touch too hard on Wells.
Like an afterthought, Kenosha Ordo died two months after the riot. No Peacekeeper involvement, we're told. A gang fight, eyewitnesses would swear. I don't believe a word of it.
But what can you do? Time stamps the gas pedal whether or not you're ready. So I tried to find my way back to normal. And hey—some things never change! Mamá still reminds me on the daily how much of a failure I am…and…oh, I've still got Cruz! But he keeps being weird, trying to get the old gang back together.
Yeah, that's a bit awkward, because—let's think. Wells is dead, I'm scarred for life, and Strada's practically vegetative. See, she and Wells had been dating. She misses him to the point where she literally can't function. And not to steal her thunder or anything, but I know exactly how she feels.
All this to say—Peacekeepers? Kind of a bummer.
So when I hear my name read aloud at the second place you definitely don't want a Peacekeeper to grab you—the Reaping stage—I do the only, perfectly logical, thing that comes to mind. I run like hell.
I fight the urge to scream when gloved hands grab my upper arms. Please no, not again! I'm dragged backward through the square. Every muscle in my body tenses, draws back, prepares for the worst. Injections? Electric shocks? Simulated drowning?
But no, I'm simply plopped onto the reaping stage. The Peacekeeper vanishes into the background. The old memories fade. My brain resumes its usual function: namely, to latch on to the first shiny, distracting thing it sees.
Why are there two escorts? Is the first coherent thought that pops into my head as I stare blankly at my new companions. No, wait, my mistake. That's my district partner. She really is that rich.
Her bewildered expression is the thing that reminds me. Panem is watching.
I scan the crowd. Something about the collection of dour faces pulls at my heart. Just because my life is garbage right now doesn't mean theirs have to be. They all escaped the Reaping, didn't they? Why should they look so gloomy on my account?
I have to do something, lighten the mood. I reach gingerly past the memories of the past year and pull out a Niko from a happier time. A more carefree Niko. A jester. Someone who can always make light of the world. Surely, even after everything, I still have that in me.
I take a second to collect myself. Everything is fine, after all. Perfectly normal.
And then I face the microphone.
"Oh my gosh you guys," I say. "I have the worst sense of direction. I could have sworn the Capitol was that way."
It isn't much. At least no one groans. Hey—you can't kill a mood that's already dead. I think I even get one or two weak grins.
"Just look on the bright side," I continue, wiping my hands against my slacks. "There is no way my life could possibly get worse."
Yeah. Tell that to the shovel.
Kore Katsaros | District 6 | 14
I was eleven years old when I made my first kill.
There was a bus ride. It was well after dark. Each streetlight, diffused in the dusty windows, felt like a searchlight. There were no sirens, I had to remind myself. There were only two people in the world who knew my current whereabouts. Even so, I shuddered every time a new light swept across my eyes, wrapping my knife deeper still into the folds of my hoodie.
All the while I sat six seats behind my mark, staring at the back of his head as if he would vanish if I dared look away. In an hour, he'll be dead, I couldn't help but think to myself. In fifty minutes…in forty…
We were dropped off in front of a towering factory. Smoke from the day's activities still hung heavy in the night air. The surrounding buildings were in a sad state indeed. They had clearly once been residential, long-abandoned by those wanting to escape the factory fumes. Cracked glass and splintering wood were strewn down the road as far as I could see. Not ideal for homeowners. Perfect for drug dealers.
My target strode purposefully down the sidewalk. I crept silently in the shadows. He entered a home through the front door. I crept around to a back window. And there he was again, his back to me, lounging in a faded armchair. Every so often, he would check his watch.
I listened for voices. There were none. I quietly pulled myself through the broken window. I tiptoed around broken bits of glass. Muscles tense and trembling, I slid the knife from my jacket pocket.
And with one swift, pristine stroke, I slit his throat from behind.
I made nowhere near the same effort to be stealthy in my getaway. I ran straight home, my fake glasses askew, knife shoved clumsily in my back pocket, hoodie sleeves pulled over my still-dripping fingers. Forget the bus. I made it back to the mansion on pure adrenaline. Ten minutes ago, I killed him. Twenty…thirty…
I barrelled through the back door. I could hear Zoella call out to me, but it didn't register. I had one thought in my mind: Get to a shower.
I hadn't even bothered to take off my clothes. I just knelt, straddling the drain, staring at my hands that refused to return to their normal shade of pink. Brown hair dye trickled down my skin in rivulets. Before long, my hoodie was stained. The shower floor muddied. The blood remained. I think it may have even spread to other parts of me; how else was I to explain the acrid flavor in my mouth? Would I ever be rid of it?
But then Zoella's lips, warm and glossy from the shower steam, met mine for the first time, and I changed my mind utterly. If this was what blood tasted like, I wanted more.
And she was happy to oblige, seeing that I was trained in the art of stealth, of knifework, of poison—who knew there were private tutors for assassination? When I turned thirteen, Zoella snuck me in among the caterers of a fundraiser gala. I sprinkled a fine powder into a single glass of champagne and offered it to a sneering man with combed-over, white hair. He died an hour later in the arms of his waltz partner. Later that same year, I infiltrated a meeting of rival gangs in the district's underbelly. I provoked a fight by firing a blank, slipped unseen between brawlers, and stabbed my target in the back.
And this is no different, I tell myself. I sit, ankles crossed, on a chaise longue in the upper floor of the Justice Building. Just another set of marks, is all.
My family was ushered away ages ago. Zoella, the last to see me, was not far behind. The seconds since their departure stretch dreadfully. Shadows lengthen on the tiled floor, and I know it's only a matter of time before I am fetched for the train. But unlike the night of my first assassination, there are no nerves to unsettle my stomach. I feel no dread, no despair. Only drive.
My thumb absently traces the new diamond upon my ring finger.
Patience, Zoella always told me. She made it sound so easy, wrapping up the proposition in the velvet of her voice. Not yet, love. Once you're past Reaping age. Eighteen, fourteen, eleven, what was the difference? Eleven didn't stop me from slitting a man's throat. Why should something as trivial as age get in the way from something as simple as a betrothal?
With this ring, Zoella reveals the contents of her own heart. She may understandably have been concerned for her reputation, but at the end of the day, she chooses me. She dropped to one knee today knowing that she would regret, for the rest of her life, not having taken the chance to do it. Perhaps she was driven, in part, by desperation, by the chance that she would never see me again. But I won't let that happen.
This is my last Reaping, after all, is it not?
The door to my sitting room creaks open, and our escort, Azure Langlok, pokes her head through the crack. Her blue hair, woven with strands of tinsel, is piled ridiculously high atop her head. She wears spectacles that magnify her eyes nearly to the width of her face. But apart from that, she's dressed quite fashionably. "Hello Kore," she chirps. "I've come to fetch you. The train is ready to depart."
"Thank you," I say. I straighten gracefully from my seat. "I suppose I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Please, lead the way."
"So well-mannered," she cooes, a wide-spread, manicured hand rising to her lips. "I think you and I will get along splendidly." She's probably right, and I do look forward to learning more about this woman's life in the Capitol, maybe swap fashion tips or film recommendations. But I can't allow myself to lose focus.
This is a minor setback, I'll admit. But there's a bright spot to it. Before today, time was my burden, and I can't very well poison minutes into nonexistence. Now, the only obstacles I face are a mere twenty-three children, who are much easier to overcome with a disarming smile and a knife to the throat. Before, I had to be patient. Now, it is up to me, and not up to time, to complete the climb and reach my heart's desire.
I will get back to my perfect life. No matter whose neck I have to skewer to get there.
Author's Note:
And here we have District 6! We're still chugging along! :)
Shoutout to evilpencilbox for sending me—hands down—the most unsettling tribute submission form I have ever read—which is saying a lot—and to Jproductions44, for creating a literal living embodiment of "Wear heelies to escape your feelies." Fun fact: Niko's nickname/title ("The Rambler") tangentially relates to him in 3 ways, so I was particularly proud of it. Genius point to anyone who can name all three. :)
At this point, we are five districts deep into our Reapings, and you may have begun to develop a list of favorites. Which tributes are closest to your heart so far, and will there be room for more, with 7 more districts to introduce?
Finally, for those of you who may also be itching for a stake in these games, allow me to remind you that there are indeed a handful of slots left! First come, first serve, but I do reserve the right to work with you to get your submission to a point of detail that I can write well. Thanks to those who have cooperated with me so far in this!
And as always, feel free to drop a line. My inbox is open, as is the review box!
Take care, and happy reading!
Grey