District 4 Reaping
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.
Tycho Searling, 17
District 4 Male Tribute
On my fourth birthday, my grandma brought me to the beach. We walked along the shore, collected seashells, built sand castles, dipped our toes into the cool water, and watched boats glide across the horizon. When the sun began to melt into the ocean, I didn't want to leave. I was drawn to the pink, purple, and green dancing along the water. Ever since, the ocean has become my haven.
How could I not feel safe around such beauty?
"You never told me that before," Iris says. She sits across from me in an inflatable raft. A paddle rests on her exposed thighs. "Is that when you made your seashell necklace?"
"It's the only thing I have left from my grandma." I reveal the homemade jewelry hiding under my tank top. Its string is frayed and some seashells are cracked, but I wear it every day. "When she died, my dad got all of her stuff, and I haven't seen him for years."
"I'm sorry." She squeezes my knee. "I'm glad you shared this with me."
We sit in silence for a few moments, basking in the morning sunlight. After being friends for thirteen years, it's no longer awkward when we don't speak. Words are meant for getting to know someone, for comforting them when they're upset, for making plans, for revealing unpleasant truths. People who speak with no intention are the parasites of language.
"You didn't only bring me out here to watch the sunrise, did you?" Iris whispers. "You brought me here to have The Talk."
I tense.
In District Four, The Talk is a common tradition for people who plan to volunteer. Although the volunteer only needs the approval of their family, they often ask their friends and other loved ones for their opinion.
"Yeah," I confirm with a slight nod. "My step-father thinks I could win."
"And you believe him?" She scoffs. "Why do you think Verne volunteered last year? Because he wanted to?"
I purse my lips.
Verne was my best friend for over a decade. We were inseparable. People often thought we were brothers due to our sun-kissed olive complexions, dirty blond hair, and grayish-blue eyes. After I had The Talk with him and Iris, the two begged me to reconsider, but my decision was made. When Verne volunteered with me, I was enraged. If he wanted to volunteer, he could've just told me. It hurt when the escort selected him. But I couldn't be mad at him for long. He died during the initial rounds (a part of last year's twist), and it felt wrong to hold a grudge against a dead person.
"He volunteered to protect you," Iris continues. "Your step-father wants you to die."
I snort. "I might not get along with him, but I wouldn't say that."
"Was he upset when Delta died?"
I don't respond.
Delta was my older brother who volunteered a few years ago. He was a typical Career: strong, charming, and unsympathetic. When he reached the final three, his two former allies teamed up against him. Even he couldn't overpower a pair of trained Careers.
Iris sighs. "You're letting yourself be manipulated. How can you not see that?"
"What if I said that I think I could win?" I grit my teeth. "Would that change anything? Or would you still try to convince me not to volunteer?"
"Tycho, I've known you forever." She sounds defeated. "You can't keep hiding behind this stupid, macho façade."
"It's not a façade!"
"Really?" She snorts. "You didn't cry at Verne's funeral, even though he was your best friend. You wear your mom's heels and eyeliner—"
"When I was twelve!"
"But you won't tell your parents you're gay," she finishes. "Are you going to lie to me and say that isn't toxic masculinity?"
I scrunch my eyebrows. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"And now you're being defensive," she huffs. "I want you to tell me the truth, to tell me how you're really feeling."
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me! You're not even giving me a chance to understand!"
"Because you wouldn't get it, okay?" I shout. "My step-father won't accept me unless I win the Hunger Games. I can't tell him I'm gay because I know he's homophobic. If I come out to him and he disowns him, I lose my mom. I've already lost my grandma and my father, and—" My voice cracks. "And I can't lose her, too. I wouldn't have anyone left."
"Tycho, I'm—"
"I'm not even his real son, you know?" I continue. "We don't share blood, so I'm nothing to him. I'm dispensable."
"You're not dispensable." Iris squeezes both of my knees with her hands. "Verne wouldn't have volunteered if you were."
"Please don't bring him up." I look away. "If it's true… I can't deal with that guilt right now."
"Either way, you still have people that love you. If your step-father disowns you, there are so many other people that would be there for you and accept you."
"It's not the same," I whisper.
"Besides, why would you lose your mom, too?" she adds. "You're her son. She wouldn't choose her husband over you."
"I still don't want to put her in that situation."
"I know, I'm sorry." Her tone is so genuine that my eyes become watery. "Is there anything I can do to comfort you?"
"Can we just sit here for a bit?" I stifle a sob. "It's nice feeling like I'm away from everything."
She holds my hand. "For however long you want."
This POV contains the following trigger warning: Homophobia
We leave the beach an hour later.
The sand turns into grass, the grass turns into granite, the granite turns into concrete. It's not until my feet start to burn from the scalding sidewalk that I realize I left my sandals at the beach. But I don't bother turning around. I won't be wearing sandals to the Reaping, and if I win the Games, I could buy all the shoes I want.
Before I know it, I'm turning onto my street. Iris hugs me without saying a word, then continues toward her house a few blocks away. I wait until she's out of sight before walking into mine.
I live in a modest, two-story villa with a stucco and limestone exterior. Each room has a wall of large windows, allowing it to be illuminated by natural sunlight during the day. Since the house doesn't have many interior walls, it appears more spacious than it is. The backyard contains a stamped concrete patio, a peanut-shaped pool, a floral garden, a screened-in gazebo, and a circular fireplace area. It's a beautiful house, but it's not as luxurious as most in Four.
"Tycho, is that you?" my mom calls as I close the front door. A moment later, she appears in the foyer wearing an apron and her reading glasses. "I was wondering where you went. Keahi wanted to speak with you."
She uses my step-father's name with more affection than mine. I ignore how much that makes my heart ache.
"I think it's about the Reaping," my mom continues. "He's waiting for you in your room."
My blood turns cold. "Why, uh… why is he in my room?"
"Because he wants to talk to you?" She frowns. "Honey, you have to get over this obsession with your personal space. Family doesn't have any secrets or boundaries."
"Yeah, yeah, okay," I say, more to end the conversation than in agreement.
Everyone has their secrets for a reason.
She opens up her mouth to say more, but I ignore her and rush up the stairs.
When I reach my bedroom, my step-father is sitting at my desk with his eyebrows furrowed, staring at my computer screen.
"What are—"
"You're gay," he interrupts. His tone sends a shiver down my spine. "Alaia's father called. He said you broke her heart yesterday, which is weird because I thought you were going to propose to her. Like a normal volunteer would do."
He turns and glares at me. For a moment, my heart stops.
"Is this why you broke up with her?" he continues "Because you're some queer anomaly?"
"No, I'm not—"
"Don't lie to me!" He slams his hands against my desk. "Do you think I'm that dumb?"
"I—"
"What else have you been hiding?" He stomps over to my closet and begins ransacking it. "Do you have some dresses in here? Or maybe some purses? Steal any of your mom's heels?"
"Stop." The word catches in my throat. I try again with more assertiveness. "Stop! Just stop!"
He freezes.
"Why are you doing this?" I hold back my tears. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"
"Are you even going to volunteer now?" His tone is composed yet venomous. "Or are you such a big abnormality that you want to keep disappointing us?"
"I'm still going to."
"Good." He walks toward me. For a moment, I think he'll hit me, but he just keeps talking. "If you come back, you will marry Alaia. You will apologize. You will tell her that you were scared and you didn't want her to worry. In the meantime, I'll tell her father you didn't mean it."
"But I—"
"No." He raises a hand to silence me. "This is a 'phase.' You'll thank me later for saving your love life."
I wait until he leaves my room before I let the tears fall.
Mayuri Odelle, 18
District 4 Female Tribute
A maroon, long-sleeved dress lies on my silver comforter. Its taupe turtleneck and cuffs make it distinguished and sophisticated. Judging by the vibrant colors and its pristine stitching, it has never been worn before. I imagine that it was made for a celebrity in the Capitol or maybe a powerful socialite in Four.
It definitely wasn't made for me. But that doesn't stop me from putting it on.
The cashmere dress brings out the tan in my golden pink complexion, and its tight sleeves emphasize my lean biceps. A feeling of self-esteem bubbles in my stomach; I feel sexier in this outfit than I have in years. I consider putting on red lipstick to complete the look, but the thought of my mom calling me a "whore" holds me back. Instead, I settle for my usual makeup: winged eyeliner to accompany my narrow eyes and subtle highlight to accentuate my sharp cheekbones.
"Do you like it?" Aunt Adelphia asks, leaning against the doorway. Although she's a few years older than my mom, they could be twins with their tiny figures, black hair, and narrow eyes. "I got it a few days ago, but I wanted to surprise you."
"Who'd you get it from?" I ask.
In this family, it's a question about who, not where.
"I'm not really sure." She scrunches her nose. It's her instinctive tell that she's lying. "I just snatched it off the streets."
"Please tell me you didn't steal it from the mayor." My aunt gloats about her heists unless its related to him. He's a sensitive topic for my family. "Because if you did—"
"I didn't!" Her tone is high-pitched. (That's her second tell.) She clears her throat. "Seriously, I didn't."
I raise my eyebrow. "Did you steal it from his daughter?"
She purses her lips.
"Why risk it?" I ask. "You know what happened to my parents."
A year ago, my parents were were caught stealing from the mayor's mansion. Their plan was foolproof, but somehow, the mayor anticipated it. As soon as they grabbed the first piece of jewelry, they were surrounded by Peacekeepers. They avoided public execution, but they'll be in jail for the rest of their lives.
"Mayuri, there's a risk involved in everything we do. You can avoid it as much as you want, but the riskier things are usually the most fulfilling." A wistful look dances across my aunt's face as she looks at the dress. "If you don't like it, you don't need to wear it."
"I'll still wear it." I sigh. "Just… be careful."
"I always am." She smiles. "Anyway, there's turkey sandwiches in the kitchen. Try to eat one before you leave."
I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Meat always hurts my stomach. But my aunt never remembers that I'm a pescatarian.
"Oh, and if you're able to drive Leilani to the Reaping, that'd be great,"she continues. "She's getting on your uncle's nerve again. I'll go insane if I'm stuck in a car with those two."
I snort. "When are those two not annoying each other?"
"Never."
I drive an old-fashioned sedan—a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday—to the City Square. Leilani sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window with a withdrawn expression. It's unusual for her to be so quiet, but I don't question it. She'll talk when she's ready; I'm not one to push her. In the meantime, the radio fills the silence.
"Do you think my dad's ever going to be proud of me?" Leilani whispers. Her eyes are still locked on the window, watching the passing terrain. "Like actually proud?"
I expected this conversation. We have it almost every week.
Before I can interject, she continues, "It's just—it seems like he wishes I was more like Kelila."
Kelila was her older sister who volunteered for the 19th Hunger Games. She abandoned the Careers in the bloodbath, but she survived over a week by herself. She was killed during the feast, where she was mutilated by her former allies for dissenting. Her death rattled the family; I don't think my aunt and uncle have fully recovered from it yet.
"Like, maybe he wants me to volunteer?" Leilani continues. "He was happy when she did."
"He wouldn't want you to."
"Why not?" She glares at me. "He sent me to Pritchson. If he didn't want me to volunteer, he would've sent me to regular school."
"But you shouldn't volunteer for him. You should only volunteer if you want to." I pause. "Do you want to?"
"Do you want to?"
I shake my head.
She frowns. "Have you ever thought about volunteering?"
"No." I've been eligible for many Reapings, but I never considered volunteering. Even the lure of money is not worth the risk. "Never."
"Then why do you even go to Pritchson?"
I don't respond. Her question wasn't meant to be offensive, but I feel attacked.
My parents were the ones who sent me to Pritchson Academy, one of the Career Academies in the district. I was never passionate about it. I'd rather learn how the Capitol politics work than how to throw a knife. I thought about dropping out when my parents were arrested, but it seemed pointless. I missed my opportunity for a normal education; there's nothing I can do about it now.
The rest of the drive passes in silence, neither of us looking at each other.
Since the Square is crowded when we arrive, I park a few blocks away. Leilani jumps out of the car in a hurry, and I notice her join a group of friends nearby. But I don't mind. I'm more than comfortable walking alone.
When I reach the check-in counter, the line is short as the Peacekeepers rush through the last children. A Peacekeeper takes my blood, confirms I'm eligible for the Games, and directs me to the appropriate section.
Within minutes, the escort appears on stage with an entourage of people.
"Welcome, citizens of this beautiful district!" It takes me a moment to realize this is a new escort. (Our escorts always dye their hair blue to represent Four's fishing industry, so it's easy to confuse them.) "My name is Xevera Lethe, and I've been given the privilege to select this year's tributes!" The audience's cheers match her enthusiasm. "Before we begin, let's have the mayor present the Second Treaty of Treason."
I tune out the mayor as he begins his speech. Instead, I stare at the girl's purse next to me.
When I was young, my mom taught me that the Reaping was the easiest place to steal from people. Everyone's in tight quarters and focused on the stage, ignoring their personal belongings. If they notice something went missing, they're more likely to believe they dropped it rather than assume someone stole it.
These thirty minutes are a thief's dream.
There are two simple rules to pickpocketing: always misdirect your prey from the target, and never use your thumb. According to my mom, our thumbs use too much pressure when grasping something, so a person must use their other fingers—their pointer and middle digits—to go undetected. It's a helpful tip, something that has never failed me.
During the mayor's speech, I manage to steal a silver bracelet, an unopened tube of lipstick, and a small bottle of perfume. The items look expensive; I could make hundreds of dollars from them. As the escort approaches the microphone, I slide them up my wrist, hiding it in my sleeve.
"Thank you, Mayor Blythestone. That was beautiful," Xevera says with sincerity. "As President Quain announced, this year's twist limits the eligible Reaping pool. It reads: 'Tributes must be connected to a tribute or victor of a previous Hunger Games, as determined by familial bloodlines and explicit mentions—of them or their ancestors—in the tribute's will.'" She smiles. "And now, without any further adieu, I will select the female representative!"
The crowd holds their breath—some out of fear, some out of excitement—as Xevera walks to the Reaping bowl and pulls out a single, white slip.
"And the selected female participant is"—she pauses for dramatic effect—"Mayuri Odelle!"
I shrug and walk toward the stage. Someone will volunteer.
The worst part will be standing so close to Mayor Blythestone. He's been targeting me since my parents were arrested, waiting for me to mess up and get caught red-handed. But I haven't been careless yet.
My eyes flicker toward the mayor. He doesn't even try to hide that he's staring at me. But as I approach the stage, it becomes clear that his eyes aren't focused on me like I thought; no, they're focused on what I'm wearing.
Time freezes as the realization hits me.
I'm wearing his daughter's one-of-a-kind dress.
He caught me being careless.
He won.
His eyes remain trained on me until I stand beside Xevera. I cringe when he whispers something into his suit jacket. He must have a hidden microphone sewn into his lapel. He's probably talking to Peacekeeper, getting ready to detain me after the Reaping. I'm going to be in prison by the end of the day.
Unless…
"Are there any volun—"
"Actually, uh, I decline volunteers," I interrupt.
I've seen how prison changed my parents. Happiness is foreign to them. At least I have a chance to earn my freedom in the arena. If I don't make it… I'd rather die in there than a prison cell.
"Oh, uh, okay," Xevera mumbles. She doesn't know what to do. People never decline a volunteer. "Well… Uh, I guess I'll select the male representative." She pauses for a moment, then turns back toward the microphone. "Unless there is anybody determined to volunteer."
Three boys shout in unison.
Xevera smiles and selects one of the boys in the seventeen-year-old section.
The boy is attractive with sun-kissed olive skin, a chiseled jawline, and styled sandy hair. Judging by his defined biceps, he's trained for the Games for years, but he doesn't look familiar. (Then again, there are a lot of Career Academies in Four. It would be unlikely for us to go the same school.) When he smiles at the escort, I hear the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. He won't have any issues earning sponsors.
His name is Tycho Searling, and his brother and best friend—two separate people, he clarifies—volunteered for the Games. I wonder if either of them went into the same arena as Kelila, but the odds are slim. Still, I'm surprised he volunteered. The two must have died within the last five years, but he seems unfazed.
When we shake hands to congratulate each other, I notice the minor puffiness in the corners of his gray eyes. He must've cried recently, but he didn't want anyone to notice it.
Maybe he's more fazed by his brother's and his best friend's deaths than I thought.
End of Chapter 3.
Current Tribute List:
District 1
Lorcan Estrelle, 15
Veira Faustus, 17
District 2
Xolani Satine, 18
Honoria Brantlie, 16
District 4
Tycho Searling, 17
Mayuri Odelle, 18
Author Note: Thank you for reading this chapter! Because Tycho's 2nd POV in this chapter contained homophobia, I included a trigger warning. If a POV contains any triggering content, I will include an italicized note at the beginning of the respective POV. Usually, I try to avoid triggering content and/or make it less triggering, but everyone has their own limits, so please read at your own discretion. The only triggering content I will not specify is deaths and bloodshed, as it will be expected in the Hunger Games.
If you want to skip any triggering content, you can read a summary of the chapter at the link on my profile.
(Note: The summaries for chapters with a trigger warning will be available as soon as the chapter is posted. However, the summaries for chapters without triggering content may not be available right away.)
Q: What do you think about Tycho and Mayuri?
Next Chapter: Memories (D6 Reaping)
