It's well before sunrise when Embelia is abruptly awoken from her restless sleep. She was having a nightmare, she thinks. But before she can hope to remember it slips away and is instead replaced with the loud voice of a peacekeeper alerting her that work begins in fifteen minutes. She looks up at the crack in the ceiling, seeing the newly blue sky and closing her eyes tight for just a moment, wondering if maybe her nightmare was a little bit more desirable than her real life.

At least if she were being chased by a giant monster or something similar she might be able to escape.

She sighs, sitting up and pressing a kiss to her sleeping mother's temple before getting out of bed and preparing for her day. Embelia's life didn't change from day to day, it was monotonous, but at least it was consistent. She sometimes wonders what life might be like if it were full of surprises. But then she remembers that wishful thinking had only given her disappointment in the past. She tries not to imagine a better life anymore.

Embelia can see the sunrise from her doorstep when she steps outside. It rises over the orchards each day, and Embelia considers seeing it the highlight of her day. She steps away from her home and joins the sparse line of people making their way to work, finding herself walking next to an older man who she often spoke to during their work. He does not look as optimistic as he usually does, and this makes Embelia frown.

"It's a brand new morning, Bay," she tells him softly, the very phrase he tells her each morning she looks sad. "Yesterday's troubles are behind us."

Bay looks to her and gives her a sad smile, the corners of his eyes wrinkling just a bit more with the expression. "If only that were true today," he says. Embelia understands just what he means and nods. Just yesterday Bay was whipped.

Ten lashes, and one more to drive the message home. A small bit of orange juice had spilled onto his hand while picking the fruit in the afternoon and he'd popped his finger in his mouth to clean it up on reflex, as anyone would. The peacekeepers on duty didn't seem to appreciate it.

"It still hurts?" She asks, earning a nod in response. "Come by my place after the reaping, my mom will fix you up alright."

He shakes his head. "I don't need you and your mother worrying about me today, you have much bigger things to concern yourselves with."

Embelia supposes he's right.

"How many times is your name in that bowl?" He asks.

"Twelve." She answers. It's certainly not many compared to others, as it's only her and her mother she needs to feed. But it's enough to cause her mother anxious fits.

Bay nods in understanding. "Still enough to worry her to death, hm? I'll tell you something, don't worry about me for today. If it's still hurting tomorrow, then I'll drop by in the evening. I don't think I could resist another day. She's got magical hands, your mother."

Embelia lets out a small laugh at that, shaking her head. "Why don't you ask her out on that date you've been thinking of?" She's been trying to set up Bay and her mother for a few months now, thinking the two of them would make each other happy. She also, a little selfishly, thinks Bay would make a good father for herself.

Bay has no children of his own, nor a wife to speak of. Embelia remembers he had a son once, a small, sickly little boy who she went to school with when she was young. She also remembered that one day during the fifth grade he stopped showing up to school. She was smart enough to figure out what happened, but her mother had sat her down anyway and explained to her that the boy had died. When she looks at Bay and hears him speak, she's not sure she can tell that he lost his son, but he does carry a sadness with him that anyone can see.

"Ah, if only I were good enough for your mother. How could I ever measure up to the woman who raised such a lovely young lady, hm?" says Bay, earning a playful eye roll from Embelia.

When they reach the orchard, Bay's smile falters and he seems to remember the state his back is in, and just how painful the day ahead would be.

Embelia looks at him and frowns. "Please come to my house tonight?" She says again. "You'll be in pain, mom can help."

Bay looks to her and sighs. "Fine," he concedes. "I'll be there."

It's late morning when Embelia stands in her home, doing up the last button of her cream linen dress. She can hear her mother humming a soft lullaby from beyond the rickety partition that separated their bed from the tiny kitchen. It helped make their single room home feel more divided, less like a shack.

She steps out from the partition, looking to where her mother is setting down some tessarae bread. She looks up, her round face lighting up with a sad smile.

"I knew we should have re-braided your hair," she says as she approaches Embelia, smoothing down some coarse hairs that had slipped from the two tight braids they always sat in. "Oh well, no time now."

"We can do it after," Embelia offers quietly as she eyes the bread on the table, her gut twisting at the sight of it. She doubts she could keep it down, even with the deep, hungry ache burning in her core. "We don't have to work for the rest of the day."

Her mother smiles sadly once more, dark eyes that Embelia once remembered shining with love and hope now dull and defeated. "Yes," she says. "We'll do it then. Now eat, get your fill before we have to leave."

Embelia scowls a bit at the idea, but she knows not to argue with her mother. So she sits, and picks up the grainy bread that she's always hated, and she eats.

-

Embelia can't decide what she hates most about the reaping. Maybe it's the crowds, maybe it's the blistering heat. Maybe it's a combination of the both, all these bodies so close making sweat bead uncomfortably at her brow. She wonders why she bothered bathing at all when she would only sweat through her nicest dress.

In reality, it's none of those things in particular. It's all of it. The whole damn concept. But this is the last time, and then she can move on with her life. She already promised she'd never have children, so then she doesn't ever need to worry like her mother does.

She's quiet like always as she stands amongst the girls her age. Some of them are old friends, but she doesn't work with any of them now so she doesn't have time to maintain the friendships that were so easy to keep during school. She still likes the girls, but no one wants to make small talk on today of all days. It just feels wrong.

She looks up at the podium, seeing their mayor sitting and waiting for the escort. There's peacekeepers flanking him on either side. The man thinks he's in constant danger.

A deep, dark part of Embelia likes that he's so afraid, enjoys that the cruel man is constantly looking over his shoulder in fear. But mostly, she's just afraid of him, so desperately afraid of messing up and facing his mercy. Like Bay, who had only wanted to clean his hands and ended up with his back torn open.

It's a little while before the escort comes out of the justice building and Embelia is a little surprised. It appears the escort that's been present for the last 5 years has been replaced - or disposed of. Embelia can't find it in her to wonder which.

The new escort is a woman. Embelia thinks she looks a bit like her mother, if her mother were an insane person. She has the same dark skin and round face as her mother, and she's probably about the same age, but that's where the resemblance stops. A circle of white is painted on her face to make room for makeup that likely aims to make her look like a porcelain doll but instead makes her look like a clown. She also wears a heavy looking blue dress that appears as if she went to a fabric factory and draped the first thing she saw on herself before arriving in 11.

Embelia already doesn't like her. But she knows that, at least, she'll only have to see her once a year, and that's only if the woman lasts through this year's games.

Her microphone screams as she steps up to it, tapping it rather obnoxiously and signaling the start of the reaping. Embelia's stomach drops to her feet.

"Hello," the woman says all too eagerly, a bright smile on her stark white face. "And welcome to the reaping of the 68th annual Hunger Games!"

Embelia's ears begin to ring as the ceremony begins, and the video plays. She turns her head to watch with unseeing eyes, having memorised every word by this point. Half way through, she glances over at the escort on stage, who appears to be mouthing every word under her breath.

It's not the fact she's doing it that makes Embelia feel so sick to her stomach - she can see a few of the girls around her doing the same - it's the giant grin on her face as she does so. Bile rises further in her throat, threatening to throw up her tiny lunch with every passing second.

The video ends, and the escort lets out a pleased laugh, commenting something that Embelia didn't hear over the ringing of her ears.

Twelve.

What are the chances? There's hundreds of thousands of names in there. There's only ever been a small amount of her own.

She watches numbly as the woman's hand dips into the bowl of girl's names.

Ears unhearing, eyes unseeing, she stares up at the podium with the expectation she'll have to watch another poor girl go up there, and she'll be able to go home and help her mother with Bay's back.

She sees the escort mouth the words what feels like minutes before the sound hits her. She prays she might've been seeing things.

"Embelia Hackett!"