District 10 Justice Building
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.
Laelia Lantbruk, 18
District 10 Female Tribute
This POV contains the following trigger warning: Fatphobia
Fifteen seconds. I get fifteen seconds alone before my cousin Gania barges into the room with her large, leather purse filled with cosmetics.
"How could you not wear any make-up today?" Gania hisses, throwing her purse on the table between us and rummaging through it. "It's the one day the Capitol has cameras lined up throughout the district, and you chose to go with an au naturel look." She pulls out a bottle of liquid foundation, plastic cases of rouge and highlighter, a few brushes, and a make-up sponge. "You are so lucky the cameras never zoom in during the Reaping. Otherwise, you would have lost every sponsor that you would've already gained from being my cousin."
"Sorry," I deadpan.
She rolls her eyes. "Whatever — it's your life, not mine."
I frown, but Gania either doesn't notice or doesn't care. (The latter, most likely.) Instead, she leans forward, comparing her foundation to my fair white complexion. It must be good enough because a moment later, she pours it on the back of her hand, swirls a brush in it, and starts applying it to my face.
"At least you wore the black dress I bought you," she continues. "It shaved off a few pounds; made some of your fat look like muscle." The brush tickles my nose. "But if you actually sucked in like I told you, you could've hidden even more of your stomach fat."
I glare at her. "You know this dress is too small. You bought it!"
She replaces the brush in her hand with a make-up sponge. "Well, if you went on the diet I've been suggesting for months, it would have fit you perfectly."
"I would've still had to suck in."
"Well, duh." She dabs the make-up sponge one more time on my forehead before tossing it in her purse. "You're not going to just lose a hundred pounds in three months. Unless you finally agree to have li—"
"Nope." I shake my head. "Never."
"Your loss." She holds up two shades of rouge: a bright pink and a dull beige. "Which do you want? Flamingo shimmer or apricot matte?"
"Why does it even matter?" I raise my brow. "I thought the cameras stop when the Reaping ends."
"Usually, yes." She opens the pink shade of rouge. (I guess my lack of response means that she gets to choose.) "But the Capitol is already raving about your Reaping."
"Why?"
She beams. "Because we had a volunteer."
Since the reestablishment of the Hunger Games, District Ten has only had two volunteers: Armin and Destry Torkili, the co-victors of the 3rd Hunger Games. We might have the same number of victors as the Career districts, but our aversion to the arena parallels that of the other outlying districts. It's an unspoken rule that whoever is selected will go into the Games; not even family members are under any false sense of obligation to volunteer for the selected tribute.
"Hopefully, this will become a trend," my cousin continues. "We're like honorary Careers at this point. But if we actually start volunteering, maybe they'll let us become official members."
I doubt it, but I don't say anything.
Although the Careers have accepted tributes from Ten every so often, they're still a very insular alliance. If they accept any tribute outside of One, Two, or Four, I doubt the decision is made lightly. The tribute most often needs to offer something to the alliance — knowledge, strength, agility. In some cases, though, the Careers will accept someone they fear, someone they want to control in the arena. After all, it's easiest to quell a threat when you always have eyes on them.
Regardless, the alliance often helps the accepted tributes more than the original Careers. All the victors from Ten, my cousin included, were accepted into the alliance. My district might not have a single victor if it wasn't for the Careers.
"Close your eyes," my cousins says.
I glance at the eyeshadow palette in her hand. "Please don't do a weird color."
She frowns. "But you're already wearing black! We need to add color somewhere."
I narrow my eyes at her.
"Fine," she pouts. "You're no fun."
"I don't care." I close my eyes. "I just don't want to look like a clown."
"As if I would ever do that," she huffs with indignation. "If you look terrible, it'll reflect poorly on me. I can't have the Capitol think I'm from such a… 'districty' family."
I bite back my response because I know that she will ignore it.
Gania wasn't always like this — egotistical, materialistic, insensitive. Three years ago, she was sobbing and clinging to her mother in this same room. When the Peacekeepers told her she had to board the train, she almost threw a tantrum. (And not because she had to fix her make-up.) Like most tributes from Ten, she assumed that she would die in the arena. Nobody here wants to willingly go into the Games.
But somewhere between her first train ride to the Capitol and her final kill in the arena, she changed into a Capitolite wannabe.
Gania continues talking about the Capitol and the Hunger Games and some other mindless stuff, but I tune her out. When she finishes applying the eyeshadow, I hear her uncap her liquid eyeliner. I doubt she'll do anything more elaborate than a winged design — even she prefers basic eyeliner.
"Laelia!" My cousin snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Wake up!"
"What the hell?" I lightly push her away from me. "I'm not asleep."
"Really? Because I asked you to open your eyes and you just sat there."
"Sorry," I mumble and open my eyes.
"Whatever." She shrugs. "I know fat people get tired easily — I just assumed that you knocked out."
I frown.
"Anyway, do you know the volunteer?" She dips her mascara wand into its tube. "His name sounded familiar, but I don't know why. Is he like your neighbor or something?"
"He's your boyfriend's brother." Upon her confused expression, I elaborate, "Taneli, the volunteer, is Calton's brother."
"Calton wasn't my boyfriend," she scoffs. "He was just my 'arena fling' — someone to help me get more sponsors and offer a warm body whenever it was a cold night."
"But you told him you loved him."
"Because of the cameras." She rolls her eyes. "How could I fall in love with someone in like two weeks? I didn't even know he existed before the Games, even though we apparently went to the same school."
"Oh…"
"Yeah." She finishes applying the mascara and reaches for a tube of lipstick from her purse. "Y'know, you never answered my question: Do you know him? Taneli?"
I hesitate, but she doesn't notice. "Not at all."
Although Ten is regarded as the livestock district, it earned a secondary industry in muttations when the Hunger Games were reestablished. Most citizens were pleased by this expansion. More industries means more sources of income. Instead of being trapped in a life of solitude on a ranch, we are able to learn genomic sequencing and pursue a career as a scientist. Sure, there are some people that still prefer the ranch lifestyle, but at least we have options now. I don't even want to imagine what it was like before the Third Rebellion.
Over the past year, I have interned at a laboratory specializing in canine muttations. I planned to continue my studies this autumn at university. With strong recommendations from both my teachers and semi-renowned scientists, I was almost guaranteed to get into whichever school I wanted. But they don't—can't—send acceptances to 18-year-old applicants, or anyone else eligible for the Reaping, until mid-July.
I always thought the policy was stupid, but I can understand it now. Even if I survive, I'll be tied down with victor responsibilities for the next year. Now, my spot can go to someone else, someone who may actually be able to attend.
Sonya Soledad, my best friend and the only other 18-year-old intern at the C9-Mutt Lab, walks into my room.
"Please tell me you didn't—" She pauses. "What happened to your face?"
"Gania." I grimace. "Is it bad?"
"No," she answers hastily. "I was just surprised. You weren't wearing any make-up earlier. It actually looks good."
"Don't let Gania hear you say that."
"I won't. Her head is already too big for her shoulders."
I snort. "What were saying? Y'know, before you saw my face."
"Ooh…" She blinks. "You didn't tell Gania about Taneli, did you?"
"No." I raise my brow. "Why?"
"Because she was talking to the Torkili twins about trying to set up a showmance between you two. And if she knew that you already had a history…" She stares directly at me with hardened eyes. "You cannot get back together with him, even if it is just for the cameras. He was toxic and manipulative — he should be the last person you would want to associate with in the arena."
"I know." I sigh. "But what if… Do you think Taneli would say anything? About our history?"
"No." She shakes her head. "If he does, it would turn into a fight between his word and your word. Your cousin may be narcissistic, but she would side with you. And if she sides with you, then the Torkili twins would side with you. So if Taneli decides to bring up your history, he would lose all his possible mentors. There's only so much you can do in the arena without any outside help."
"I don't know," I mumble. "Gania was ecstatic that we had a volunteer."
"But would she really choose him over you?"
"Maybe she will, maybe she won't." I shrug. "I don't know if I want to test it."
Sonya frowns. "Your cousin sounds awful."
Taneli Masarie, 18
District 10 Male Tribute
There's a streak of blood on my leather boot. If I wore my dark, full-grain leather boots, nobody would've noticed it. But this is nubuck leather. And everyone who works at a slaughterhouse in Ten knows that blood stains are practically permanent on nubuck leather.
I should've changed my shoes after I hid the mace.
I changed everything else. I switched my ripped jeans to khakis; my olive henley to a red-and-black checkered flannel; and my itchy, wool socks to a navy, cotton pair. I even showered and trimmed my beard because I felt blood splatter across my face. Yet, when I left the house for the Reaping, I instinctively slipped on my tan, nubuck leather boots.
Maybe that's why my request to go immediately to the train was ignored. I have a "visitor," they said. But this feels more like I'm waiting for an interrogation rather than a heartfelt goodbye.
The door opens slowly, and I'm greeted by Mayor Agustin.
"Mr. Masarie," the mayor greets me with a nod. "I heard you wanted to go straight to the train. Did you not expect your parents to come visit you?"
"Nope." I shrug. "They didn't say goodbye to my brother. Why would they come see me?"
He hums. "So when was the last time you saw them?"
"Last night." I raise my brow. "Why?"
"You didn't come with them to the Reaping?" He narrows his eyes. "You didn't find that unusual?"
"We stopped going to the Reaping together when I was twelve."
"Were you home at any point today? Nothing seemed unusual?"
I shake my head. "Haven't been home since last night. My entire class got together to celebrate our graduation and our final Reaping."
"You celebrated your final Reaping before the Reaping?" He raises an eyebrow. "That sounds a bit hasty, wouldn't you say?"
"Most people weren't eligible." I shrug. "It sounded like a good idea at the time."
He hums. "Anyone that can verify your roundabouts?"
I point toward the door. "Just walk across the hall. Laelia saw me there." I cross my arms. "Are you going to tell me why you're asking me all these questions? Or do I just have to guess?"
"This morning, you parents were found dead in your family's barn." He stares at me intensely, trying to gauge my reaction. But I planned for this – my facial expressions give him nothing. "They were murdered," he continues. "Their heads were bludgeoned to a pulp. We're still looking for the murder weapon, but we expect to find the club or the bat or the mace soon enough."
"And I'm a suspect?"
"Nothing appears to be stolen, nor were there any attempts to steal anything." He leans back in his chair. "Paired with how they were murdered, it seems more like the suspect was carrying out a personal vendetta rather than anything else. Immediate family is always the first suspect for a crime like this."
"Well, my mother wasn't exactly the most likable person in this district." My tone is laced with sarcasm. "Anybody she put in prison could be a suspect."
"We considered that," he admits. "But none of them have been released recently. And those that have are still on parole and accounted for."
I raise my brow out of genuine curiosity.
Journalists across the district have extensively covered yesterday's scheduled release of Fénix Tiziano, a man who spent the past two decades imprisoned for uxoricide. He might have been released early for "good behavior," but nobody actually believes that he changed. He knows how to manipulate people. If genetic evidence wasn't presented at trial, I doubt the jury would have figured out that the same man who was weeping and lamenting about his lost love was responsible for bludgeoning her head with a mace.
"What about Fénix Tiziano?" I ask. "He was released yesterday."
"He's dead. Couldn't have done it."
I blink. That was not a part of the plan. "What?"
"He tried to flee the district – his parole officer shot him on site. By the time your parents were murdered, he was already in the morgue." The mayor folds his hands and leans forward. "Our working theory is that your parents' murders were premeditated. The suspect likely timed it for when Fénix was released and used a mace to try to cover their tracks."
He pauses. "Regardless, there were a couple flaws with the attempted cover-up. Fénix's parole officer was with him the entire time—"
"Yet he still fled."
"True," the mayor concedes. "It also doesn't look like your parents put up a fight. They have cameras throughout the barn. If the suspect was Fénix, your mother would have called any of the detectives she's worked with. Instead, it almost looks like they approached the suspect."
"So you're back to thinking it was someone close to them." I nod. "It sounds like you're running yourself in circles."
He huffs. "Why don't you tell me why you volunteered."
"Because Laelia was reaped." I knew exactly how I would answer that question as soon as our escort, Ignacia Torre, read the selected female's name. I couldn't have planned it better if I tried. "We're sorta dating."
"Sorta?"
"It might be more accurate to describe it as 'complicated.'"
"Ah, complicated. I see." He doesn't look impressed. "Let me tell you what I think: You murdered your parents and planned to pin it on Fénix. When your cover-up went amiss with Fénix's death, you volunteered to try to avoid any blame."
"That's an interesting theory." (I must admit that I'm impressed with how close he is to the truth.) "But I didn't know Fénix was killed, and I doubt it's even reached the news yet. Why would I volunteer if I tried to cover it up and I didn't know the cover-up failed?"
The mayor grunts. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time someone volunteered to try to avoid murder charges."
I raise my brow. "There's only been two other volunteers in Ten."
"Exactly."
When I was younger, I admired the Torkili twins, the first pair of victors from Ten. My mother was gifted a DVD recording of their Games for her work toward "bettering" the district. Although she stored it in its original casing with our family heirlooms, I was already familiar with the lockable closet. (It was a great hiding place.)
For years, I watched and rewatched the twin's rise to victory. Armin was the warrior, the one who shed blood without hesitation. His brawniness earned the pair a spot in the Career alliance, and his performance in the arena proved his value. But it was Destry's strategic planning and ability to read others that guaranteed their victory. He devised the Careers' bloodbath strategy to prevent other tributes from getting essential supplies; he foresaw the Careers' betrayal and countered their attacks; and he figured out the location of the finale so the two were in an ideal spot when the moment arose.
Whenever I felt weak or broken, I sought fortitude in Armin's strength and Destry's intelligence. Like most children, I thought my role models were flawless and honorable.
It's weird to look at your role models when you know their darkest secret.
"You murdered someone." I stare directly into Armin's eyes. There's no doubt in my mind that he's the murderer; Destry wouldn't even kill an animal in the arena. "Before the Games, you murdered someone."
Armin doesn't even bat an eye. He continues to sit in the chair across from me with nonchalance. "The mayor told us about your parents, so you should get rid of that superiority complex of yours."
"I used to look up to you!"
"So?" He raises a brow. "You can't blame us for your apparent daddy and mommy issues. We're not the ones who murdered them."
"Armin!" Destry admonishes, standing awkwardly by the door like a worried parent. "The boy is clearly emotional right now. You shouldn't antagonize him."
I grit my teeth. "I'm not emotional right now."
"Good." Armin smirks. "Because I want to hear how you did it."
"I never said I did it."
Armin turns toward Destry with a raised brow. The two seem to engage in a silent conversation until Destry sighs and looks at me.
"You did." He gestures toward my foot. "The blood on your boot is pretty incriminating."
"It's cattle blood." (Even I can admit that, out of all the accumulating lies, this one's a weak one.) "I forgot to change into my other boots."
"Really?" Armin scoffs. "That's what you're going with? Cattle blood?"
"It's the truth."
"Sure it is." He rolls his eyes. "Then why'd you volunteer?"
I'm grateful for the change of topic. "Because I'm in love with Laelia."
He snorts. "She said that she doesn't even know you."
"Really?" I raise my brow. "Because we've been practically dating for two years. Actually," I correct hastily, "I think I defined it as 'complicated' to the mayor. Regardless, she knows who I am. Intimately"
Armin hesitates and turns toward his brother. For each second of silence, I feel myself regaining more and more control of this conversation.
"Why should we trust you over her?" Destry eventually asks. "What proof do you have that you two know each other?"
"She has a birthmark on her left hip, but it's usually covered by her underwear." I smirk at Destry's surprised expression. "I used to tell her it looks like a cornucopia."
Destry leaves the room in a hurry.
"For your sake, I hope you're telling the truth," Armin says with seriousness. "Otherwise, I'm donating all of your sponsor money to Laelia."
The smirk doesn't leave my face.
End of Chapter 8.
Current Tribute List:
District 1
Lorcan Estrelle, 15
Veira Faustus, 17
District 2
Xolani Satine, 18
Honoria Brantlie, 16
District 3
Skagen Matisse, 13
Eulalia Psy, 17
District 4
Tycho Searling, 17
Mayuri Odelle, 18
District 6
Kaia Palani, 15
Lark Devereaux, 16
District 7
Juniper Anatole, 16
Bryony Linden, 17
District 9
Havan Thorpe, 14
Farah Cybele, 16
District 10
Taneli Masarie, 18
Laelia Lantbruk, 18
Author Note: Thank you for reading this chapter! If you want to skip the POV containing fatphobia, you can find a summary of the chapter on this story's website. The link is available on my profile.
Anyway, two-thirds of the tributes have been introduced! The final eight will be introduced via Train POVs.
Q: What do you think about Laelia and Taneli?
Next Chapter: Now or Never (D5 Train Ride)
