District 6 Reaping
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.


Kaia Palani, 15
District 6 Female Tribute


District Six is not a beautiful place.

Its manufacturing plants pollute the sky with a thick smog, keeping it in an eternal state of darkness and destroying its limited flora. Its "fresh" air is tainted by a lingering stench of gasoline, which clings to clothes better than any perfume or cologne. Its ongoing issue of opioid addiction is spreading into the adolescent population, especially those in poorer communities. Its blemishes go on and on.

The district's only—and let me emphasize, only—redeeming quality is its diversity.

Although our main industry is transportation, everyone is able to explore their talents and pursue their passions. My parents are renowned doctors who study addiction and its effects on the brain. My older brother, Myles, is a politician who is fighting for improvements in our district's infrastructure. My younger sister, Sienna, is a singer who has gained fame in the Capitol for her soulful arias.

I often feel like an outsider in my own family. Not because I'm talentless, but because my passion has a more secluded lifestyle.

I love painting.

I was enamored the moment my parents brought me to my first art show. Its monochromatic, sentimental pieces engulfed me into the artists' worlds. I could see their pain, their regret, their anger, their joy. My emotions were intertwined with theirs; we became one person. At that moment, I knew I wanted to have the same impact on someone.

I stare at my latest piece: a painting of two girls having a tea party. They sit at a foldable, white table with matching chairs and a fake china tea set on top. A golden teddy bear sits between them, sunglasses resting on its black nose. One girl—a younger version of me—has a light terra-cotta complexion, which looks warmer with the myriad of freckles on her forehead, nose, and cheeks. Her wavy, auburn hair is pulled into youthful pigtails, yet her silver nose ring betrays her childishness. The other girl has pale pink skin, black hair pulled into a low ponytail, and narrow eyes. Underneath the table, encased in a red heart, are the words:

Kaia and Clio

A twinge of sadness swells in my chest.

It's my favorite childhood memory, the last one I have before I dealt with the harsh realities of the world. We were so young, so pure, so naïve. Our biggest concern was homework, and our biggest enemy was broccoli.

"We're going to be famous one day!" eight-year-old Clio said. "And then, we're going to move to the Capitol and be rich!"

Her dream was to become a fashion designer. She loved the Tribute Parade as much as I loved art galleries. If she gained enough popularity, she hoped President Quain would permit her move to the Capitol to become a Hunger Games stylist. (Despite popular belief, people in Six have moved to the Capitol before. We're on their good side for an unknown reason.)

However, she'll never see her sketched costumes in the Parade… assuming her ideas ever do reach the Capitol.

"Kaia, promise me something." Clio held my face with her hands.

We were in the Justice Building with tears streaming down our cheeks. I had never seen her so scared in her life.

Between the sobs, I barely muttered, "What?"

"Promise me that you're going to keep my sketches. And when you make it to the Capitol one day, you're going to make sure someone uses them."

"Clio—"

"Promise me," she demanded. "Please, just say you will."

"You could come back—"

"No, I won't." Her face became contorted with grief. At that moment, I knew she accepted her death. "Please, don't let people forget me when I die."

Like a true designer, she wanted her pieces to carry her legacy. We often talked about how our bodies would decompose one day, but our art would keep us alive in others' minds.

I couldn't be the one to let her fade from existence.

"Kaia?" She held my face between her heads. "Please."

I nodded. "I promise."

It's a promise that I will keep until my death. I still don't know when I'll have a chance to bring her sketches to the Capitol, but until then, they're safe in my makeshift studio.

She was a talented, humble person.

She deserved so much more than she was given.


There's an array of intricate breakfast dishes on my dining room table. My brother's fiancée is the owner of a modest diner in the center of the district, a feat she accomplished before the age of twenty-five. For every special occasion, she prepares a feast of "experimental dishes"—things she wants to add to the diner's menu, but needs to sample first.

I didn't realize the Reaping is now considered a special occasion.

"Kaia!" My older brother smiles at me in greeting. "You have to try these pancake bowls. I don't know how Mariella made them, but they're delicious."

His fiancée blushes and rolls her eyes. "Well, save some room. My signature blueberry muffins should be done soon."

Sienna squeals, and my brother raises an eyebrow. "The ones with the cinnamon and sugar crumble on top?" she asks with sparkling, brown eyes. "Those are my favorite!"

Mariella smiles politely. "I remember."

I suppress a groan. Even though Mariella has dated my brother for years, she still tries to butter up my family whenever she has the chance. But between baking my sister's favorite treats and giving my parents expensive presents, I don't remember the last time she's done anything for me and only me.

It's like she's seeking everyone's approval except for mine.

The night sky was a dark and lifeless void, the home to a lonely moon. Because of the ever-present lights near Downtown, I never saw any stars out my bedroom window. I could see the moon, listen to its wails of misery, feel its desire for companions—but never any stars. But out there, in the vacant field near Clio's house, the stars were countless and filling the void with light.

The moon had friends, but they were hidden behind the artificial lights.

"Do you ever feel forgotten?" I whispered to eleven-year-old Clio. "Like everyone else are these bright, colorful paints and you're the covered pencil sketches?"

Clio hummed in agreement.

I sighed. "Like… I'm not as smart as Myles. And I'm not as outgoing as Sienna." The corners of my eyes prickled with unshed tears. "I think… I think my parents wish I wasn't their daughter."

"Don't say that." Clio squeezed my hand for comfort. "Your parents love you."

"But not as much as they love Myles or Sienna," I whispered softly. "I'll always be in there shadows."

"Kaia—"

"Don't." I blinked back tears. "You wouldn't understand. You don't have siblings."

She scoffed. "That doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything," I argued. "You don't have siblings that are more successful than you, that make you look like a mistake. You don't have to fight for your parents' attention, for their love—you'll always be at the top of their list."

"You really believe that?" Clio sat up and stared at me, her brown eyes filled with ice. "Because you couldn't be more wrong."

I glared at her. "Like I said, you wouldn't understand."

"No, Kaia, you don't understand." She pointed her finger at me, accusingly. "You have the perfect life, but you can't even see it. You can't see that other people have it worse than you. That I have it worse than you." She turned away from me. "Not everyone can live Downtown or come from a rich family."

"This isn't about money!" I screamed. "It's about how your parents are better than mine!"

"My parents are heroin addicts who can barely remember my name! Yours are doctors who—you think—might love your siblings more! How can mine be better?"

"Because—" I cut myself off as her words registered in my brain. All the fight went out of me in a shuddered breath. "I didn't… I didn't know that," I mumbled. "Clio, I'm… I'm so sorry. I wouldn't have—"

"It's fine," she said, but her tone suggested otherwise. "Let's just never talk about it again."

"But—"

"Let's never talk about it again."

We never did talk about it again.

"Mom! Kaia is spacing out again!" Sienna shouted. "I don't think she took her meds this morning!"

I blinked and looked around the table. Everyone's eyes were on me—some filled with concern, some with irritation, some with indifference.

"Is that true?" my mom asked. "Did you not take your meds this morning?"

"I ran out."

"She flushed them down the toilet," Sienna told my mom. "I saw her do it last night."

"Brat," I mumbled under my breath.

"Why would you do that?" My mom looked at me and frowned. "They're supposed to help you get better."

"You're the one who invented it. You know the side effects!" I pointed my finger at her. "I can't even think when I'm on them, so how can I be functional?"

"You aren't functional with your flashbacks."

I crossed my arms. "I do just fine."

"Not for a healthy person."

"Maybe I'm not a healthy person!"

"Everyone can be a healthy person if their sickness is treated." My mom turned to my dad. "We'll renew the prescription after the Reaping."

He nodded and reached for a blueberry muffin.

The rest of breakfast passed in silence.


Lark Devereaux, 16
District 6 Male Tribute


A steady drizzle falls over the City Square. I can feel the light pomade in my hair lose its hold, its stickiness dripping down my forehead. Umbrellas aren't allowed at the Reaping—they've been banned by the Capitol for an unknown reason—so everyone in the City Square is drenched and miserable.

It's fitting, in a sense.

Nobody in District Six enjoys the Reaping, and it's more pronounced this year. (We might be one of the Capitol's favorite districts, but we aren't exempt from the Games. Not yet.) Most of the eligibility pool has seen someone they loved die in the arena—that is, unless they're related to our district's sole victor—and we're all traumatized from it.

Broken tributes are going into the arena this year. How could the Capitol enjoy that?

"What do you think about the twist?" my brother asked me last year.

Although we were fraternal twins, we looked almost identical with fair beige complexions, wavy dark hair, bluish-gray eyes, and sharp jawlines. Our only noticeable difference was that I had freckles on my nose.

"Having to fight against your district partner before going into the arena seems intense," he continued. "Don't you think?"

"Eh, it could be worse." I shrugged. "You're just saying that 'cause we're eligible."

"We were eligible last year."

"And you said the same thing then, didn't you?"

He pursed his lips. "So you're not nervous?"

I sighed. "Of course I'm nervous, Cisco."

At precisely 10 o'clock, the doors of the Justice Building open, and a collective silence falls over the crowd. The escort leads an entourage of people—the mayor, her husband, and the district's sole victor—onto the stage, his bubbly demeanor in stark contrast to the graveness in the rest of their faces.

My eyes linger on the escort for a moment longer than they should. His name is Amadeus Vogue, and he's been our district escort since the 19th Hunger Games. He has wavy, green hair with a few locks that cover his right eye and curl near his lip. Although his smile seems absurd on a drab day like today, it reveals his charming dimples hidden beneath his light stubble.

I hate to admit it, but he's attractive.

"Greetings, ladies and gentlemen of District Six to the Reaping of the 21st Annual Hunger Games!" Nobody responds, not even with a little clap. "As is customary, we will begin with a speech by Mayor Kendry."

"Do you still have a crush on him?" Cisco whispered, pointing to Amadeus. "Or was he just, like . . . your 'sexual awakening'?"

"Please, never say that again." I massaged my temples. "And no, I don't like him anymore."

"You're blushing."

I elbowed him in the ribs.

"Hey, no judgment." He raised his hands in surrender. "I'm just saying, I read an article about him. Apparently, him and his boyfriend broke up this year. Sooooo… He's available."

"And?" I raised my eyebrow.

"You could, you know…" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"You're crazy." I shook my head. "Nothing is going to happen between us. It's just a celebrity crush; it'll pass."

"Whatever you say." He patted my back. "But for the record, you two would be cute together."

My cheeks were on fire. "Thank you."

"Thank you, Mayor, for that beautiful speech," Amadeus says as he steps back up to the microphone. "As it was previously announced, this year's twist 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.'" He clears his throat. "And now, I shall select the female representative for this year's Hunger Games!"

"This is my least favorite part," Cisco whispered. "The girl's name is always the hardest."

I nodded in reply.

"And the female representative is"—Amadeus pauses for a dramatic effect—"Kaia Palani!"

The crowd, as a whole, gasps.

It takes me a moment to understand why. Sienna Palani, the twelve-year-old singer adored by Capitolites, shares the same surname. Everyone in the district knows Sienna, but I assumed she was an only child. Is this Sienna's sister?

When I catch a glimpse of the reaped girl, it's apparent that she's an older version of Sienna. They have the same freckled complexions, auburn hair, dark eyes, and petite statures. I feel a pang of sympathy when I notice her trembling hands, but her face maintains a stoic expression.

Nobody volunteers, but nobody ever does. Except for last year.

"And the male representative is"—another pause for dramatic flare—"Lark Devereaux"

I was frozen when the escort announced my name. My brain couldn't process anything. My legs couldn't move. My arms couldn't stop shaking. I felt like I was struck by lightning, and the electricity was still pulsing through my body.

Everyone around me stepped back to create a path to the aisle, except for my brother. Cisco was as paralyzed as myself. The lightning struck us both.

The Peacekeepers started to move toward me. They stayed in the aisle, but if I didn't move soon, I suspected that they would use any force necessary to bring me to the stage. But I couldn't get my body to cooperate.

Cisco broke out of the stupor first, and he did the one thing he did best. He protected me.

"I volunteer!"

"Well, I'll be damned," Amadeus mumbled, voicing the opinion of the entire crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like District Six has its first volunteer since the revival of the Hunger Games!"

But this year, nobody volunteers.

I'm going into the Hunger Games.


A shiver runs down my spine as the Peacekeepers open the door to my room in the Justice Building. It's the same room as my brother, the last place I saw him—in-person—alive.

Cisco wrapped his arms around me as soon as I entered his room. "Don't cry," he whispered into my ear. "Because if you do, I'm going to cry. And I can't have the cameras catch me with puffy eyes."

A surprised laugh escaped my throat. "Shut up," I mumbled.

Cisco pulled back and smiled. "Why? You're laughing."

"I shouldn't be laughing. You're going into the Games."

"I'll be fine."

"You don't know that!" I shouted. Did he really not care for his life? "There will be Careers, people who have trained for the Games their entire lives."

"Lark, we've trained for the Games our entire lives."

I tensed. "No, we haven't."

"Yes, we have." He raised his eyebrow. "Why do you think we took Cormac's self-defense classes?"

I stared at him like he was an idiot. "For self-defense."

"In case we were reaped," he corrected. "Normal self-defense classes don't teach you how to throw knives."

"There's more to the Games than just killing. You don't know anything about survival. You don't know how to hunt, how to identify edible plants, how to find shelter—"

"I can learn during training," he cut me off. "But it takes years to master a weapon."

I scoffed. "You still don't know how to survive."

He massaged his temples in frustration. "Are you trying to say that I'm going to die? That you want me to die?" He glared at me. "That there's no hope I'll make it out of the arena alive?"

I shook my head. "Of course not."

"Then why do you keep saying we haven't trained?"

"Because we're not the Careers!"

"We're not the Careers," he agreed. "But that doesn't mean we haven't trained. We trained to be prepared; they trained to become killers."

"You'll become a killer in the arena."

"For survival, not for fun."

"Doesn't make a difference."

"It makes all of the difference."

I'm not surprised when Cormac enters my room. His green eyes remain sharp and analytic, but his posture is more rigid than usual. Despite the laxness in his bushy eyebrows, I can see that his lips are clenched underneath his unruly beard. I can't tell if he's trying to compose himself from fear, anger, or sadness.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him before he gets a word out. "Why?"

He blinks with confusion.

"Why did my parents hire you to train us?" I clarify.

"Because I trained tributes before." It seems like that's all he wants to say, but I gesture for him to elaborate. He sighs. "During the first decade of the Games, the Capitol hired a citizen from each district to train the tributes. In the Old Generation, they would have Capitolites train the tributes until there were enough victors to mentor them. But because of the Third Rebellion… it was best for district citizens to assume that role."

"Why did they choose you?"

"I don't know." He shrugs and breaks eye contact. I can tell he's lying, but I don't call him out on it. "They kept everything very secretive, not even the Capitolites knew about the mentors' identities."

I raise my eyebrow. "Then how did my parents know?"

"Because of their wealth," he says. "You aren't the first rich family I've been asked to train."

I take a moment to consider this. It's a plausible explanation, yet I can sense that there's more to it. But I decide not to ask him more about it. I predict that I'll keep getting half-truths.

"So what do I do?" I ask.

He raises an eyebrow. "As in…"

"How do I survive?"


End of Chapter 4.


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

District 6
Kaia Palani, 15
Lark Devereaux, 16


Author Note: Thank you for reading this chapter! With this chapter, a third of the tributes have been revealed! I'll be moving onto goodbyes in the Justice Building for the next third of the tributes, so you don't have to read so many Reaping chapters. (I also get incredibly bored with writing Reapings, so this is my way of avoiding that.) Please note that each introduction chapter will be around the same length (an edit from my original version), so you should still get a good glimpse at each tribute regardless of whether they have Reaping, Justice Building, or Train POVs.

Q: What do you think about Kaia and Lark?

Next Chapter: Shadows (D3 Justice Building)