Alrighty everyone! First intro/reapings, and with this I can close submissions! I'm still waiting for two of them forms to be finished, but they've secured the spots with what I've been sent so far anyway! You can find the list at the bottom of the chapter and I'll hopefully update the blog with their info soon!
06 – FASTEN YOUR MASK
Calico Hemingway, 17, District 8
Reaping Night
They'd really called her name.
It was all a blur, but at the same time it happened too slowly. A snail's pace, yet strikingly supersonic in its motions. No sooner had they turned out the lights to sleep, tucked themselves into bed for the night, Peacekeepers slammed on the front door and screamed for people to come out of their homes. Reapings were supposed to take place in the morning, yet the Capitol's enforcers acted as though it was overdue. Like everyone had ignored the call to present themselves. Clad in pyjamas, tired and confused, the twins were dragged out of the home before their own parents could even have a say.
Every child gathered in the town square was confused. Chambray was the first to come to her senses, holding him close by her side as they never even bothered to separate them all by age and gender. The children were just forced into a crowd, almost gathered up like livestock to be herded into a shed, and Calico's awareness had barely any time to return before the old woman onstage—the old woman he recognised from the victors' village—called out a name.
No sooner had they been pulled away from their homes, the crowd of children parted and led the Peacekeepers to their spot. It took Calico a while to figure out what was going on. What was happening as Chambray let him go and climbed up on the stage, pale and breathing heavily. They'd reaped her. She was the unfortunate soul going into the Quell. His Chambray.
District Eight was solemn. Filled with chatter and frantic adults, all begging to know what was going on, all of it so hard to keep up with. When they finally let Chambray off the stage, she sprinted past the Peacekeepers and flung herself at Calico. The hug was tight and uncomfortable, partially due to his own aversion to touch under most circumstances, but it was Chambray. His perfect other half. How could he not hold her when she was about to be taken away to the Capitol? Peacekeepers didn't see fit to separate them—instead, almost as a mercy, they were allowed to walk together back to their little house further into the District. Chambray didn't let go of his hand the entire time, and he never let go of hers.
"It's okay," he whispered, voice shaking despite himself as he clutched her hand tightly. Chambray nodded along, pale-faced and lips pursed tightly into a thin line. They had to tell themselves it was okay. Someone would volunteer soon for her, he figured, and maybe Chambray wouldn't have to go in.
As they walked into the front door of their home, their matching pyjamas making it hard to tell them apart, both their parents ran to them and embraced them tightly.
News had spread fast. Despair had spread faster.
"I'm so sorry," Organza Hemingway sobbed into Chambray's hair. Her husband, Poplin, could only weep uncontrollably against Calico. They weren't the worst-off family in the area, but they were definitely part of the majority who had to take tesserae. It was a matter of time before one of them was reaped, but at the same time… They were almost eighteen. They were so close.
Chambray was so close.
"You have ten minutes to get anything you want to take with you," one Peacekeeper informed them. "Say your goodbyes properly in that time as well. You may want to find and bring a token with you, alongside a clean pair of clothes for the reapings in the Capitol."
He could see how it was happening now. He and Chambray walked hand-in-hand to their shared bedroom, where they spent many nights just existing and being content with life. Nights where they'd soothe each other when stress skyrocketed, when tragedy struck. When the foreman at the factory had fixated on Chambray far too much for comfort, Calico had reassured her he would handle it—even if, by handling it, so many had died in the fire along with the man for the sake of Chambray's safety. And when Calico, in his desperation to not be exposed and get in trouble for his work, had accidentally killed one of Chambray's friends… She'd held him as they'd laid in bed and told him she would keep his secret, take it to the grave, despite losing a friend because of him.
Now he would be alone in here. Calico didn't like it.
The Peacekeepers guarded the door and let them shut it behind them, and Chambray opened the closet to go through their shared clothes. Switching places tended to have its benefits, and sometimes sharing the clothes got tiring, but it was nice that they both had the same sense of style when it came to dressing up. Not too conservative, but not too drastically different to suggest they didn't get along. Matching tones really did give off the impression that the twins were best friends above anyone else.
"It'll just be one career from the Districts," Chambray reminded herself. Possibly Calico, too, but her hushed whispers were certainly her own reassurances now. "Only three to handle. Capitolites don't train. I'm… I'm strong enough. I should be."
She held up a dress, a faded blue with floral patterns, and Calico recognised it as one of the reaping clothes he'd sewn something into. He panicked, swallowed thickly, but reminded himself that no one else with the mixtures he made had been found out yet. Chambray would be no different.
But just in case…
"Lemme take it and make sure it's in one piece," he told her. Chambray looked over her shoulder at him. She nodded, a pained smile on her face, and he wondered if when he came back he should tell her about what he'd put in her dress. Would she use it? On whom? Herself, or on someone else? Calico could feel the sweat beading on the back of his neck as he took the dress from her and draped it over his arm.
"Can you bring my flats? I had Mom fix them up yester—today, I mean."
"They always go well with this dress," he mumbled. Chambray nodded again and, with a hefty sniff, collapsed onto the bed weakly. Dazed at the sight of her, the buzzing in his mind slowly rearing back up, Calico spoke almost monotonously as he went on, "We'll figure something out."
He had ten minutes. He didn't like the idea of Chambray taking her own life with the poison he sewed into her dress. It was only a precaution, he'd told himself when he'd done it. It really was just a safety net. If you prepared for it, it was less likely to happen. That was what everyone said, anyway. He had to get the poison out without the Peacekeepers seeing.
The door opened and closed silently. The Peacekeepers looked down at him, and in his daze he mumbled, "Need to see if it needs any fixing up."
"It can be done on the train," one of the Peacekeepers said. Calico shook his head.
"It'll only take a minute. We're quick here."
They obliged him. But as he moved towards the sewing room, in hopes of finding something to cut open the hem of the dress, the Peacekeepers followed him. Through the mental fog, a sense of danger prickled at his spine. They'd see him remove the poison. They'd hurt Chambray for it. They'd punish her for his mistake.
With shaking hands, he sat at a work bench and checked over the dress like normal. No stitching needed to be done, nothing to trim off or mend. The ruffles were still fine, the dress having been unused for the better part of a year anyway. The Peacekeepers hovered over him, didn't give him even a second to sneak in a quick removal.
He had to pray they didn't notice when she got to the Capitol. He had to pray someone else would take her place by the time they reached the train.
Calico sucked in a deep breath. He could feel himself leaving his body, his hands numb as he stared down at the dress. With a tired expression, he turned in the chair and let out a shaky breath.
"Is there enough time for someone to volunteer?" he asked, voice hoarse like Chambray's. It was obvious he was going to cry any moment now. His throat was practically closing up.
The Peacekeepers looked to each other. They looked at Calico.
"I'm… afraid not," the female Peacekeeper told him. "Even if someone wanted to, word has been sent to the Capitol already. There's no stopping this."
He could almost see the expression he made. The way his face scrunched up. The way his lips trembled. The way his whole body went rigid and his fingers almost tore through the fabric of the dress. His face was soaking wet, his breathing heavy and full of hiccups. But he didn't make too much noise. They'd make Chambray suffer if he made it difficult.
It should've been him. He should've snapped out of his little out-of-body experience sooner, raised his hand to say he wanted to go in Chambray's place. He didn't want to go into the Hunger Games, but Chambray deserved that fate far less than he did. Chambray was good. Chambray was kind. Where Calico made mistakes that literally killed people, Chambray was a beacon of light and hope that never blamed him. She knew he just wanted to help.
The male Peacekeeper awkwardly shuffled on his feet. "Um. Shoes. Are there shoes for the dress?" he asked Calico.
Calico nodded. "M—Mom…"
"With the mother," the female said. "I'll handle this. Go get them."
He was slipping more and more. Everything felt so unreal, like it was a dream. Maybe it really was a dream. Yes… Dreams ended eventually. If he just went with the flow of it, he wouldn't turn it into a nightmare and panic even more. He never was fond of dreaming, of the false hopes and strange messages they held. He would never be fond of this dream, either.
The Peacekeeper, reluctant to touch him, helped him out of the room. He'd almost be thankful if it weren't to see off his sister. It was too late for himself to even volunteer—part of him had hoped, prayed that they'd say he could volunteer if he wanted to. It was a child from the same family. It was her twin. How much of a difference needed to be made for the Capitol? Did they have to prepare for a female tribute? Calico didn't mind. Gender wasn't the first thing on his mind when it came to things like this, and he was used to playing the role of the girl who delivered flowers. He was used to not being himself.
What was the problem?
When they got to the main area of the house, shoes were pressed into his hands to take. Calico hiccupped and wiped at his face with his free hand, and as soon as he pulled his hand away both his parents were on him again. Sobbing, begging, wishing him luck.
Organza pressed something into his hands alongside the shoes. He stared, blinking but unseeing, at the satin lace choker he'd been handed. He didn't realise until far too late that this was the heirloom Organza had held onto for the twins. He didn't realise, as he stared at the seed pearls, that this was to be his sister's token. The last piece of home she'd ever have.
His eyes were so clouded with tears and grief that he hardly registered that he was being moved around again. He couldn't bring himself to calm down, to be rational, to think of a way out of this. There were too many eyes—too many ears. It was a wonder the two Peacekeepers had even let Chambray have this time alone for peace and quiet. His feet continued to stumble along the wood floor of the house, and then his toes dug into the dirt outside. Calico sucked in a deep breath, tried to steel himself, but all he could figure out was that he was outside now. Were they letting him see her off at the train? Something else?
The more his feet moved, the more he slowly pulled himself from his daze. This wasn't protocol, was it? They never let tributes in the past say goodbye beyond the rooms of the Justice Building. Was it because it was a Quell? Because there was only one tribute? What use was this mercy if they didn't keep her here at all?
And then it hit him. The brief exchange between the Peacekeepers as he finally noticed just how far they'd walked from his house. How far his family was from him.
"Brother was still locked in the room and crying," the male Peacekeeper said.
"Poor thing," the female said. "It is hard, losing a twin. I hear twins are closer than most siblings."
"Such a shame. Almost feel bad for the boy."
Calico stared at the dress, the shoes, the choker. He sucked in deep breaths, slow and steady, and glanced up from the ground. In front of him, a street full of people were watching and, when his gaze hit them, avoiding his eye with shame. Ah. It made sense now. No wonder they'd followed him when he'd tried to remove the poison from the dress.
They thought he was Chambray.
Relief washed over him at first. His shoulders relaxed, his lungs emptying in a sigh, and he could feel a weight lifted from his chest. This was better. Being mistaken for his sister was better. Now she wasn't the one who had to suffer.
No one questioned it when he walked on the train. No one stopped him when he went to the small room he was assigned to change into Chambray's dress. No one dared ask if they'd grabbed the right twin as District Eight become a speck on the horizon.
Not until morning, when the mayor called in a frenzy, did someone think to check. And when Medea Crane caught wind of this, Calico was treated for a front-row seat of a stressed, frantic president trying to fix her staff's mistakes.
"You grabbed the wrong one!?" she snapped through the screen. The sun was beginning to rise. Calico just stared out the window, expressionless as he played with a pearl on the choker. "How do you fuck up that badly!?"
"He didn't say anything!" one of the Peacekeepers tried. All eyes turned to Calico, dressed as his sister, and the accusation was thrown his way. "Why didn't you say anything!?"
Calico didn't answer. He just stared out at the sunrise as the gates to the Capitol opened. What they did from here was their problem now, not his. All he cared about was that Chambray didn't have to take her place in the Games now that the mistake was caught.
This was for the best.
Gossamer Wormwood, 18, C-District 8
Reaping Day
If looks could kill, his thousand-yard stare would commit mass murder.
While it may have been an unfortunate coincidence, the fact that it happened at all was building up a rage within him. He was above this. He knew he was above this. So why did that fool—freshly graduated from university and wasting everyone's time—draw Gossamer's name? He didn't want to be in the Hunger Games, and he certainly didn't want to be under the tutelage of the Capitol's favourite Whammy Hammy and her mute tribute.
So as Gossamer stood by Celestine's side, the Capitol mentor very smoothly running through the script and introducing Gossamer to the crowd, he waited. He waited for his followers, his underlings, for someone who knew he would be out for blood if they failed him to volunteer. He was Gossamer Wormwood. He was powerful. There were consequences to not throwing away your life for the sake of his own.
Yet no one did, at first. No one he knew, at least.
He didn't know who the girl who volunteered was, and he didn't care. He just knew, as he stood next to Myrtle Hamilton onstage, that someone he didn't know was taking his place. Everyone else was going to suffer the consequences of trying to let him go into the arena. How dare they, he thought as the girl took his place. He moved back for the seat he'd risen from, his so-called friends all sweating and avoiding his gaze. None of them looked directly at him. None of them deserved to anyway.
Gossamer clicked his tongue as he sank into his seat. To the one closest to him, he muttered, "I'm very disappointed in you all."
The young man next to him let out a squeak. He sank into his chair and avoided Gossamer's gaze even more when Gossamer looked to him. The others along the row did the same.
The girl who volunteered introduced herself and, to Gossamer's surprise, left a pleading cry for someone they knew to wait for her to meet them. Volunteered for someone else in the Games, he wondered? That would make for an interesting plot point. He'd have to keep an eye on the other six Districts before this one to see who it was and how worth this girl sacrifice they were.
She was given a brief applause for her noble sacrifice, and Gossamer barely clapped along with the others. If he had to guess, this little side plot would result in a total Romeo & Juliet situation, probably early into the Games too. Not entertaining enough for him to pay attention to.
The proceedings carried on, a brief pause before the next District was announced. Gossamer wasn't familiar with reapings like this—they were one of a kind right now, the first of their kind—but he was certain that both should have been ready to pick a tribute among them at the same time. But Eight was late, the escort chosen to oversee the reapings in this area sweating bullets as they glanced backstage frequently. Gossamer reclined comfortably in his seat, brows raised but his expression otherwise idle. They were letting the Capitol mentors draw their own tributes, and as far as he knew it was the problematic Tully Wright mentoring for the District this year; not to mention, no announcement was made about the actual tribute themselves, no matter how troublesome they may be. So which of the three on that team was making the escort so nervous?
The curtains were swept open with a flourish. All eyes darted to the figure that walked out, three others behind them and yet none of them teenagers. They were Peacekeepers, Gossamer realised as he watched them escort a man in shackles to the stage. What was a prisoner doing at a reaping, with an entourage no less?
The head Peacekeeper reached up and, in one gracefully swift movement, peeled his helmet from his head. The brunet hair that fell in waves around his face and that familiar, charismatic smile made his heart sink as he sucked in a deep breath and gripped the arms of his seat tightly. To hell with asking why a Peacekeeper was taking the stage—why was it his own brother? Wasn't Velour supposed to be in Eight right now? Fuck, he wasn't mentoring, was he? No, no, he was too proud to waste time on a sickly kid from the boonies for a shot of glory. Velour liked having better chances than that.
The man in shackles, then? Gossamer squinted down at him as the other teens began to chatter around him. If they'd just shut up and let him think, he'd place that emaciated face somewhere.
"Isn't that the criminal President Crane held a huge manhunt for?" someone from a row in front of him whispered. Gossamer's eyes darted down to them, their faces pale and nauseous, and one of them even trembled a little.
"Th—That's the double defector?" the other whimpered. "What's he doing here? They're not letting him mentor, are they?"
As soon as they called him that, a name was placed in Gossamer's mind: Laurent Fille. History's most unpredictable man, as some news stations called him. But right now, he was supposed to be on death row—tortured for information and confessions to other undiscovered crimes, even. Gossamer was no longer reclining as he adjusted his position. He was just as alert as everyone else to what ungodly plot twist was being thrown into the mix.
Velour seemed to sweep his gaze over the crowd before pausing on Gossamer. His charismatic smile seemed to turn into a smirk for just a moment, but it was back to his public face without anyone noticing.
"Alright, settle down," he scolded the teens. The rows grew quiet again, no one daring to whisper or squeak. "I'm sure you all recognise this pathetic face behind me. Due to certain arrangements I cannot disclose under President Crane's orders, the murderer and traitor Laurent Fille will be mentoring for this Quell. Rest assured, however, he will have myself and my own squad keeping a close, close eye on him."
No one seemed to have an issue with that. The disappointment beside him even muttered that he was relieved Velour would protect them from Laurent. Gossamer was the only one to remain apprehensive.
It was Velour. There had to be a catch.
"Furthermore," Velour went on, "I'm afraid our guests from Eight are running a little late. A slight… hiccup has forced the Gamemakers to make some changes to official records. I'm ashamed to say it was my own trainees who made that mistake. But they've been dealt with."
Gossamer's hand twitched. A phantom ache from being dealt with when he was younger brought him an unwanted nostalgia.
"And so, I will handle the affairs of District Eight for the duration of this reaping," Velour finally informed everyone. "This year's tribute was supposed to be Chambray Hemingway, but due to such gross negligence in the Districts, it is instead her brother, Calico, who will be going into the Games. One would think even an idiot could tell twins of the opposite sex apart regardless of how alike they looked, but I digress. Moving on."
A small wheeze sounded from behind Velour. He didn't even look back at Laurent as the gaunt man bowed his head and huffed out laughs loud enough for Velour's microphone to pick up. Gossamer crinkled his nose at the sight. Right, if he was going to pick between the obvious shitshow that was going to be Eight's team, or the stupid Romeo & Juliet plot Seven was going for, he was pretty content not seeing his brother's face for a minimum of two weeks. Alright, Cher-whatever, this was your one chance to be entertaining.
"Since our despicable mentor behind me won't be able to reach into the bowl, all chained up like that, I'll take it upon myself to reap the Capitol tribute for District Eight." Velour once again looked over in Gossamer's direction. Once again, that smirk flickered across his face.
This had better not be the catch. This had better not be the fucking catch.
Velour's hand barely even dipped into the bowl onstage. He just plucked what looked to be the closest slip of paper to the very top, unlikely to be the same one that had had his name on it thanks to the reshuffling of the bowl, and he barely even looked at the name on it as he spoke.
"Oh my," Velour drawled, trying to feign despair but failing miserably with that broad smile on his face. "Gossie, come here, won't you?"
He swore his nails tore some of the leather from the armrests. Gossamer sucked in a deep breath, the other teens confused by the nickname and looking around for who would stand, and he fixed his golden hair with a careful sweep of his arm.
Bastard was going to pay for this. Velour knew the odds of Gossamer being reaped twice were near-impossible, and he wasn't even trying to hide how unsurprised he was by it. Of course he'd read out the wrong name on purpose. Hell, Velour probably didn't even see a name on the paper at all.
But as he rose to his feet, all eyes on him and jaws dropping in awe, shock and disbelief, the anger melted away. It was like he had cast aside a peeling skin in his chair, stepped out into the fresh air with new eyes. This wasn't bad. It wasn't ideal, but it wasn't bad. Whatever punishment Velour was cooking up for whatever he felt Gossamer had done to wrong him or offend him, this wasn't even close to what would've been effective. Velour should've stuck to the physical punishments rather than branching out to the psychological variety. Only a coward with something to hide would overlook something as blissful as this.
All eyes were on Gossamer now. Not Laurent Fille whose crimes were many, not Velour Wormwood whose presence was supposed to inspire hope; only Gossamer, the teenager who was not only reaped twice in one day, but by his own brother too. It was unheard of, but it was happening right in front of them—history being made, and it would be Gossamer's name they remembered over everyone else's.
He was almost disappointed that, as he strode confidently back to the stage with a smirk of his own, Velour wasn't seething or barely holding back some kind of anger. The brothers just gave each other their own superior grins, both believing that the other had fallen for their own ruse, and the crowd just stared in silence.
Velour leaned forward, away from the microphone, as Gossamer approached. "Maybe you'll actually earn back the pride you lost for the family with that ridiculous lifestyle of yours," Velour muttered. It wasn't exactly an insult—but it was definitely an order. You will win this Quell and you will stop being unsightly.
Gossamer barely missed a beat. With his voice raised, confidence reaching the microphone and booming through the crowd like a royal decree, he responded.
"Stand aside, jester. It's the king's turn to speak."
Another wheeze of a laugh from Laurent. Velour's expression didn't move, not an inch, and his muscles didn't even twitch. But the silence, the way he staunchly held his expression for so long, he was clearly itching to deal with Gossamer in front of everyone. But Velour's restraint was impressive, for once, as he stepped back and allowed Gossamer to take the stage.
No one volunteered. He didn't expect anyone to, regardless. His only disappointment was, upon the final farewells onstage, Velour preventing him from announcing his displeasure to everyone in the room and comparing them to Laurent—flip-flopping sides for the option that suited them most. Laurent may have been a killer, but he stayed on the winning side and knew when to jump ship. These fools? Well, they were all well and fine following Gossamer like sheep until a wolf entered the paddock and demanded only him to eat. So easily had the cattle betrayed their shepherd for a predator that would turn its gaze to them in time.
As they disappeared behind the curtain, leaving a stunned audience in their wake, Laurent finally spoke without wheezing or laughing. He just smiled, bemused, as he looked at the brothers in contemplation.
"Blondina Bixbite," Laurent declared. Gossamer didn't even glance over his shoulder, didn't ask what he meant by the name. Velour simply pulled a lighter from his pocket and, as he guided the Capitol half of District Eight's team to the pickup area the train was to meet them at, he swiftly set the slip of paper alight.
"Lovely name," Velour responded. "But that's where the praise must end, I'm afraid."
Gossamer stared ahead. He kept his expression neutral. For all intents and purposes, Blondina Bixbite's name was never drawn from that bowl.
Only Gossamer existed in that reaping.
Sorrel Gallomark, 16, District 11
Reaping Night
They practically flipped her out of her bed when they came to get her.
There were screams all throughout the neighbourhood, the sounds of adults begging and children crying echoing through the air. What was normally a night filled with the cries of cicadas and occasional metal screech of machines settling into the earth was now a night of chaos and panic—a night of despair and hopelessness.
The Peacekeeper who'd collected her had her hoisted over his shoulder, and she watched as other children were given the same treatment. It wasn't far to reach the Justice Building, not from her house, but the arrival was just as abrupt as her awakening had been. Sorrel was dropped without warning onto the dirt like all the others, mud sticking to her clothes and face, and her mother and younger sister could only watch from afar in horror.
She wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but when it was announced by the mayor that the reapings would take place now, not in the morning, a crevice opened up in her chest.
Out of habit, Sorrel gravitated towards the younger kids being dumped in the town square. They were all crying, panicking and trying to run back to their parents, but Peacekeepers kept them separated with brute force. Sorrel even took one boy, who had just turned thirteen, into her embrace and let him cry against her shoulder. She sucked in a deep breaths, steeled herself as she pushed her own panic down to focus on the boy she held, and she whispered reassurances to him as his sobs slowed to hiccups.
It didn't take long for her to spot Sol, who had at least grabbed a nightgown to share with anyone who needed it. It was thin and had holes in it, but it was more than nothing.
"What a way to wake up," they sighed to Sorrel. She took the nightgown from him and wrapped it around the boy. Another younger kid, probably in her first year in the reapings, was quickly ushered under the material with him. "You seen Robin?"
"Not yet," Sorrel said. "Are you okay? They didn't throw you around, did they?"
Sol shook his head. He offered a hand to Sorrel. She took it, letting them pull her to her feet properly now that the younger kids were huddled together. "You look like they did, though. I'm gonna throw rotten fruit at their houses when this shit's over."
Sorrel shook her head back at them.
"I'll go look for Robin," Sol eventually sighed. "She's gonna freak out if she doesn't know we're okay."
"Hurry," Sorrel insisted. "This all probably reminded her of Rose."
Sol hummed in agreement. He probably thought the same thing. Not even two years after Rose's turn came, and the Capitol had to do something that would shake Robin to the core more than anything. Then again, their mayor was one of those senseless types—they already knew no one else would care if he didn't.
Sorrel was able to dust off some dirt from her knees by the time Mayor Rhodes and Cullen Liddel climbed the makeshift stage. She stared up at them, doing her best to hide her distaste for the rushed reaping, and waited for the horror to begin.
"I'm so, so sorry to all of you," Cullen announced as he reached into the bowl for a name. "I hope we never, ever have to do things this way again."
So did Sorrel.
She rubbed the back of one sniffling teen, older than her she realised but with a whole hand missing up to his mid-forearm. One side of his face was horribly scarred, half a Chelsea smile on the other. She swore she recognised him from that big fight that broke out a few years back between Peacekeepers and orchid workers. He didn't even look at her, just nodded in understanding. It took Sorrel a moment to realise that she'd patted him with her own mangled hand, though hers was nowhere near as bad as his.
Cullen pulled a slip from the bowl and unfolded it with as much anxiety as everyone else. He licked his lips and, for the briefest of moments, there was no sound carried by the wind.
"Sorrel Gallomark?" he called out. Cullen scanned the crowd for the first person to move, but Sorrel herself wasn't the one to get his attention. She was frozen on the spot, no longer patting the older boy on the back to reassure him, and she tried to gather her wits as she registered her name.
But Robin certainly got everyone's attention. As did Sol.
"That's not fair!" Robin screeched. She was closer to the front of the group, closer to the stage. Sorrel watched, heart in her throat, as Peacekeepers weaved through the crowd.
"Let go of her! She's not Sorrel!" Sol shouted over Robin's cries.
Sorrel panicked at the idea of Robin being dragged onto the stage because they thought she was Sorrel. Her voice cracked as she called out, "I'm over here!"
The Peacekeepers flanked her, held her by the shoulders as they shoved her onstage. Sorrel flexed her hands at her sides, paced her breathing—swallow it down, she told herself. Swallow it down and deal with it later.
No one volunteered for her. As much as Robin and Sol cared for her, she didn't blame them for not volunteering. Honestly, if Sorrel had been in their shoes, she'd hesitate to volunteer too. It didn't make them any less her friends, especially when your own life wasn't something to hold over someone for some kind of reward. Cullen offered her the microphone, giving her a chance to say a goodbye publicly, and Sorrel wanted to say that. God, she wanted so bad to say she didn't blame anyone and that they were valid in their fears to not volunteer.
But all that came out when she did speak, much to her frustration, was, "It's okay. I'd do the same. I get it."
Sorrel hated how poorly her words came out. Sorrel hated how the wince she held back festered among the fear and panic she'd swallowed down. Sorrel hated how the Peacekeepers rubbed salt in the wound by letting her go home to grab a change of clothes. Sorrel hated how, amidst all the stress and pressure being loaded onto her shoulders as Robin screeched in the distance, her mother and sister could only hold her and cry under the watchful eyes of Peacekeepers.
Bay's big eyes were glassy and her face was covered in snot. Almost like a last act of tenderness to remember her by, Sorrel grabbed a nearby hanky and wiped Bay's face down like a good older sister should. Cicada watched on between her fingers, her face otherwise hidden in her hands as Sorrel gathered up her clothes.
She swallowed it down. Swallowing it down was what she was good at.
If Sorrel had to make a guess, this was probably all being done ahead of time so the Capitol could do their reapings on the actual day. She didn't notice any camera crews or an escort on her way back to the Justice Building, nor did anyone seem to be paying close attention to the official proceedings like normal. It really all seemed to be rushed, kept behind closed doors, and it piled on to the slowly-growing mound she was storing. She supposed the Capitol would try to cheat, she reasoned, and this was a good idea to curb cheating—but a warning for the Districts would be nice, if even a kinder awakening.
Only Cullen was there to greet her on the train. He stared up at the ceiling, barely even greeting her, and the mound grew higher. Swallow it down, she scolded herself. This was normal for Cullen, holding someone at arm's length and waiting for them to die. He did it almost every year, or at least on the ones he mentored, and there was no need to hold it against him.
He was just waiting for her to die next. That was all.
The small room they gave her to sleep in didn't have anything to do any harm to herself with—not that she would, but that small detail was something she never anticipated or thought of before. It was a prison cell, more than anything. Just a chair and a desk, a single bed in one corner that had a window to gaze out at the stars. Her first taste of luxury, she thought with a scoff, and it was a prison to prevent her from depriving the Capitol of entertainment. Sorrel dumped her clothes on the bed, the frustration leaking through with how hard they landed, and she ran her hands down her face.
Swallow it down, Sorrel. You're the responsible one. Swallow it down—
Sorrel screeched at the top of her lungs. When no one came into the room to investigate, she grabbed the clothes from her bed and threw them, one piece at a time, across the room with angered shouts. It wasn't fair. She wasn't the only one who had to take tesserae, and so many others had to take more than her! How did her name come out this year? The odds were higher, for sure, but Sorrel was surely part of the massive median in the bowls who had less than some younger kids and more than some older!
Why did it have to be Sorrel? Why did it have to be Sorrel!
No one even came in when she finally grabbed the chair and tossed it across the room, a loud slam echoing through the room as it bounced off the wall and hit the floor. Sorrel slammed a fist down on the desk, her screeches turning to pained cries, and she dropped to her knees as the tears finally came forth. Sorrel leaned her forehead against one of the desk legs and gasped for air. With the floodgates open, there was no use swallowing anything down.
She was going to die. She was going to get sent into that arena and she was going to be murdered. Someone like her, who tried to keep the peace and diffuse conflict at every turn, was never going to be sponsored or supported as a victor. Sorrel didn't want to die. She wanted to live so, so badly. But she wasn't going to rock the boat and break rules to live. Not when it could kill her all the same anyway.
Sorrel finally, after an eternity of clinging to the desk, flopped onto the floor and curled in on herself. She still cried, face buried in her hands as she wiped at her tears clumsily, but the fear was slowly making itself be acknowledged and leaving her gut at last. All that was left for Sorrel was to face it, and there was nothing to do but face it until she reached the Capitol.
Sorrel wanted to live. But she wasn't going to rock the boat. She couldn't afford to rock the boat. Her family already had trouble with the law because her dad was in a relationship despite being a Peacekeeper in the Districts. They couldn't afford more trouble because of Sorrel.
"I'm gonna die," Sorrel hiccupped. "Just like Rose."
By the time Sorrel had cried herself to sleep, the train well and truly on its way to the Capitol, not a soul had come in to see if she was alright. They let her be with her grief, let her mourn herself, and ignored every peep that came from her room.
Rainard Carnes, 17, C-District 11
Reaping Day
He'd been so close. So close. There was only one month to go and he would be free—free to do what made him happy for once. But since when did things ever go the way he wanted anyway?
Trimmed nails scratched at his arms as though bugs crawled under his skin. Ray sucked in one deep breath after another, trying his best to recall Asim's techniques from all their sessions and progress they'd made. But it was difficult to keep those techniques in mind the more he went over what had happened out there. His mother had shoved him into this stupid monkey suit, Carrol Spitz—the Carrol Spitz, whose food Ray always wanted to try whenever his mother wasn't looking—called his name, and now here he was on a train. Across from him, a girl with vitiligo stared blankly at the breakfast they'd served her. His partner, though she was just as enthused as him to be there. When Ray had seen her up close the first time, her face was swollen from obvious crying prior to arriving in the Capitol.
Ray didn't feel like crying, particularly, but he did feel like something of a reaction.
"I need to make a call," were his first words since entering the train. Carrol glanced at him, brows raised, and she gestured to a Peacekeeper to approach. Ray was escorted to his room, handed a phone, and the only condition to making his call was to keep his door open.
Well, there was no point saving face for this. He'd earned his anger at the situation.
Ray pursed his lips when his mother answered his call. She hadn't even been at the reaping, treating it like a red-carpet debut. "There's my star!" she greeted him.
"Are you proud of yourself?" he snapped. Lucia Carnes let out the world's most clueless sound. "Cut the shit, I know you had something to do with this."
"Rainard, sweetheart, look on the bright side of this," his mother cooed. "This is the redemption you needed to get back into the people's good graces! The opportunity of a lifetime!"
"Sure, if my lifetime is whittled down to a week!"
"I just don't see why you're so angry, dear. Look at all the good it did for that Amos girl—this is just what the doctor ordered for your little hiccups!"
His little hiccups? Ray felt his anger rise to a boiling point. Did she seriously reduce his overdose and bulimia, all caused by her, to "little hiccups"? The Peacekeeper watching him from the doorway kept a straight face as he sucked in a deep breath and—very poorly—attempted to control his voice.
"I would never have had those fucking hiccups if it weren't for all the shit you had me do!" he yelled. Lucia let out a scandalised sound.
"Young man, I am your mother—"
"Then act like one! What kind of mother sends her kid into a death match!? What kind of mother calls almost losing her kid to an overdose a hiccup!? Do none of my issues matter to you right now? Are you so starved for attention that you have to send me into the Hunger Games just like you sent me into a stupid modelling career!?"
Lucia Carnes scoffed at him. That was a resounding yes to all of his questions, Ray thought. "I am looking out for your future, Rainard Carnes. You should be grateful for all the things I gave you!"
He laughed so loud and almost dropped to the floor in bemusement. The Peacekeeper began to sweat at the display. It probably looked like a manic episode the poor man wasn't equipped to deal with, but luckily for him, Ray was more beside himself than manic.
"I am so grateful you took me out of rehab early, Lucia," Ray drawled. "And I'm so thankful you ignored everything my case worker said about my recovery. Oh, and did I mention I'm so thankfully you're trying to kill me before I turn eighteen so I don't take my fucking wealth and run from your bullshit. Hey, why don't you go get knocked up and do it all again with a second kid? Last I checked, you had a few years before menopause—or is all that surgery to keep looking like my sister instead of my mother catching up with you?"
Lucia was silent for a moment. Ray took that as a sign to keep going. His hands were shaking, and he took the phone away from his ear to put it on speaker. As he set it down on the desk nearby, he ran his hands through his hair and began scratching both arms fervently.
"You know, I was doing great until this shit," he went on. Lucia scoffed again on the other end of the line. "No, I genuinely was. Not having a camera shoved in my face? Holy shit, the peace I never knew I could have being by myself. And not having someone tell me I'm too fat or too skinny, least of all you? My self-esteem was actually flourishing. But I guess someone was too impatient to wait for her one and only son to recover from his trauma and decided to go out in one big explosion. Cast me in the perfect climax of a film, didn't you? Saw that opportunity and you leeched right off of it. I'd love to know how you did it. Rubbed salt right in the wound with a chef whose food I wanted to try when I was better. You just have to ruin everything for me all at once."
"Have you even stopped to ask me if I had anything to do with this?" Lucia's question was as ludicrous as her entire personality.
"I don't need to ask! You goddamn psycho, you cheered when you picked up the phone! You already knew I was reaped!"
"I will not be spoken to this way, young man—"
Ray scoffed back at her, turning her own little dismissal against her. "Y'know what? Since I'm gonna die anyway, I might as well announce my little plan for next month. The one you clearly suspected I had in mind since you pulled a stunt like this."
By the time he'd shouted that at the phone, he noticed the District mentor was standing in the doorway next to the Peacekeeper. His expression was hard to read, but Ray swore he saw the look in his eye darken every time Lucia spoke.
"I was gonna take my wealth, lovingly earned by me because you couldn't give up on a pipe dream," he declared. "And I was gonna run away to where you would never find me. To where no one would find me. That year in rehab was the best year of my life. And all I did was fucking garden. So, Lucia—"
"You will call me Mother!"
"Don't fucking interrupt me!" He waited a few seconds to make sure she remained silent. "Lucia, I'm going to draw up a will while I'm in the Games HQ. And I'm gonna make sure you get nothing from your selfish games. Hope those eighteen years were worth it. Let's call it the reward of a job well done instead of monetary gain."
Lucia began screaming as he hung up. Ray let out a long, tired breath. He reached down to scratch at his arm again—but it felt sticky, and his stomach dropped to the floor. Hell, this stressed him out so much he'd torn open some scars. Ray swore under his breath, suddenly all too aware of the eyes on him, and he tried to push up his sleeves with his clean wrists.
Footsteps approached. Cullen Liddel's hands batted away his own and helped him roll up his sleeves to keep from dirtying them.
"Get some bandages. Hold off on the painkillers," he told the Peacekeeper. When he looked to Ray, he added, "Can you hold out till we get to HQ for some proper treatment?"
Ray pursed his lips. "They're just little sores."
"I know. But you didn't mean to break the skin that hard."
He snatched his arm away. "I'll be fine with just bandages," he grumbled.
Cullen nodded. He let out a slow breath and, after stroking at his stubble with a tired look, Cullen leaned against the desk and glanced at the phone.
"Shit like this makes me almost regret giving my son away," Cullen muttered. Ray stared at him. It wasn't uncommon for District kids to get adopted by rich Capitol families. He considered asking if he'd done that, if Cullen had to give away his child and if he was worried his son was a brat or something, but from what he could see… Cullen didn't have any disdain towards Ray's behaviour during the call.
So Ray just hummed in agreement. If those kids who were adopted into the Capitol had to go through the same as him, he'd almost wish they stayed in the Districts. There was really no winning between the two options.
The bandages were delivered, and Cullen let Ray do them himself after checking if he knew how to. Ray had cleaned up his own messes in rehab, so naturally he learned how to care for himself if he slipped up. Asim always wanted him to be able to pick up the pieces that chipped away under the pressure.
When his arms were bandaged up, Cullen pushed himself off of the desk and glanced at the window. They were almost at Games HQ, Ray's call having taken up more time than he'd anticipated.
"Sorrel's a good kid," he told Ray. "Short temper, but she tends to put others before herself. She'll probably mother you a little if you let her. My recommendation is to help each other until you know you have other allies. You're… weirdly alike. Kinda uncanny."
Ray let out a slow breath and nodded. "I'll consider it."
"It's better than a no." Cullen nodded for the door. He walked towards it, letting Ray follow, and as soon as Sorrel was within sight Cullen let out a bellow of, "Alright, shooting stars, let's get this circus over with."
Call this the screaming chapter cuz it's all internal and external screaming. Big thank you tooooooo shiftseveny and geologyisms for Calico and Gossamer respectively, and another big thank you to Pengu54324 and TheEngineeringGames for Sorrel and Ray respectively! And now for the list!
D1 - Midas Macedonias, 18 - submitted by kremit1000
C1 - Perseverance "Percy" Bon Vivant, 18 - submitted by ladyqueerfoot
D2 - Cicero Bastille, 18 - submitted by david12341
C2 - Juan Labuyo, 18 - submitted by Platrium
D3 - Anala Carteline, 17 - submitted by 30777
C3 - Anakyn Skyavich, 18 - submitted by ShunKazamis-Girl
D4 - Acacia Genhart, 18 - submitted by lexi486
C4 - Lyralei "Lyra" Vandenburg, 18 - submitted by lexi486
D5 - Calysta Omega, 17 - submitted by Treble-Notes
C5 - Quatra X, 14 - submitted by goldie031
D6 - Finnegan "Finn" Styx, 17 - submitted by david12341
C6 - Jolene H. Waterloo, 18 - submitted by geologyisms
D7 - Yarrow Kelly, 15 - submitted by daydreamer626
C7 - Wilhemena "Cher" Helfenbein, 18 - submitted by darthnell
D8 - Calico Hemingway, 17 - submitted by shiftseveny
C8 - Gossamer Wormwood, 18 - submitted by geologyisms
D9 - Ares Barley, 14 - submitted by kgeesy
C9 - Persephone Barley, 16 - submitted by kgeesy
D10 - Miles Way, 18 - submitted by AmericanPi
C10 - Madonna Mirone, 18 - submitted by ladyqueerfoot
D11 - Sorrel Gallomark, 16 - submitted by Pengu54324
C11 - Rainard "Ray" Carnes, 17 - submitted by TheEngineeringGames
D12 - Cole Aish, 12 - submitted by goldie031
C12 - Candice "Candy" Muscova, 12 - submitted by Platrium
And that's our cast! I hope to see you guys in the next chapter!