One Week Before the Reapings
In each district across Panem stands a fountain in the center of an ever-growing graveyard. The names of one-hundred-fifty-two years' worth of tributes, dead or alive, grace these graveyards. Rows upon rows of graves, all curving around the fountain in the center, which bubbles with constant water. Each fountain is covered in carvings—the names of each district's Victors, no matter how many or how few.
This little tradition started decades ago, maybe even a whole century—the pair of this year's mentors take a trip to the Tribute Graveyard. Some use it as a reminder of how they survived over so many that could have, and that is why they deserve Victory. Some see it as a burden, a horrible reminder of what is lost with each passing summer. Each Victor sees this tradition differently; it is like the old saying coined by one Deasia Marquis, of the First Annual Hunger Games: some wear it like a crown, some wear it like a weight.
…
Twenty-one names on their fountain. Almost enough for their own Hunger Games. Neapolitan has their names memorized. He would memorize the names of all two-hundred, seventy-eight tributes District 1 has sent to win and lost, if he could find all of the names. Some graves have sat here for so long they are no longer readable, their inscriptions washed away with the endless void of time.
Spirit. Iolite. Crown. Morganite. Eris. Axelle. Brandish. Emerald. Satin. Silver. Silvera. Him. Sunstone. Nerissa. Peridot. Pyrite. Jacinth. Alexandrite. Cattler. Money. Vin.
It's quite a list. But it's not long enough, not by any of the living District 1 Victor's standards. Neapolitan can't help but think of each tribute he has lost since his Victory; he can still remember many of their names, but more have been lost in the haze between each Games. After all, this is the second time Neapolitan has mentored since the One-Hundredth, Thirty-Second Games, when Pyrite won.
Neapolitan quietly traces his finger along his own name upon the fountain, slightly weathered with age. After all, it has been thirty-three years since it was carved. He knows there is an upkeep crew for this very fountain—a separate, less punctual one for the graves—which comes in every morning to polish each name, but even that cannot stop time from taking its toll.
Time has taken its toll on Neapolitan as well. He no longer feels the same when he looks upon his wife, Ametrine. He no longer feels the same well of pride when he looks upon his daughter, his son-in-law and his grandchildren. It no longer feels the same way.
It is an understatement to say Neapolitan misses the good old days. Back when he and Ametrine were still young, practically children themselves. Back when his daughter was unmarried, free as the wind, running through their backyard excitedly. Those days are long gone, but that doesn't mean Neapolitan doesn't wish they were still here.
Life before the Games is even harder to remember. As he draws his finger along the words Peridot Nero, 127th Hunger Games, he remembers the days when he trained at Court, unknowing of the future that awaited him. Young, naïve little Neapolitan Gregorovich, with such hope in his heart as he trained for something he later found out he didn't really want.
The crunch of grass makes Neapolitan look up to see Vin slowly making her way through one of the rows of graves, her hands wrapped tightly around a steaming mug of coffee. Her face is drawn and tired—as always, Neapolitan has noted in his time living down the street from her—and she looks as if she just woke up.
But Vin did not just wake up. She has been awake for hours. Sixty-three, to be exact. (And yes, she has been counting.) That's one of the problems with trauma—everyone deals with it differently, and one of Vin's favorite ways is to abstain from sleeping until she passes out on the way to get more coffee.
Vin is, for once, too tired to even feel mad. And Vin Faust is always mad about something. Currently, she knows she should be mad about each grave she passes—pointless deaths, pointless, pointless, pointless—but she simply can't muster up the energy for it. That's a first, she thinks vaguely as she walks past each grave. Name after name after name of long dead people—children—but Vin doesn't feel bothered for once. She has been here before. She has read the graves until her vision blurs and her head pounds, but today feels different. Today is a first for many reasons.
"Hi, Neapolitan," Vin greets quietly, silently dropping onto the edge of the fountain beside Neapolitan.
"Hello, Vin," Neapolitan says cordially. Vin knows Neapolitan doesn't like her. It's clear to see. Not that Vin is very popular around District 1—what with being the reason Rowena Gemmings didn't get to volunteer, winning when her one job was to die, and just generally being a rebel—but she has always known the others Victors from one dislike her, resent her, even. It's nothing new to her. "How are you today?"
Vin shrugs a little, staring down her reflection in the water of the fountain. "I'm fine."
"You look awfully tired," Neapolitan notes. Vin can't tell if the concern in his voice is fake or real.
"I'm fine," Vin says again, her voice more firm this time. "I'd just rather be at home." She carefully takes a sip of her coffee, squinting slightly at her reflection. "This isn't exactly my definition of a good time."
"It's not mine, either," says Neapolitan.
Vin looks at him, but Neapolitan either ignores her or doesn't notice. She fears it is the former. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Neapolitan looks up, surprised. "What do you mean?"
"You're a Victor, you're a loyalist! This should be great fun for you, right?" Vin says, unearthing the absent anger from earlier but finding it is rather unwanted. "What's more fun than sitting alone in a graveyard that is literally honoring our continued existence?"
Neapolitan heaves a sigh and shuts his eyes. "Vin. Just because I won doesn't mean I condone the Hunger Games."
"Bitch, please! You volunteered, willingly, for the Hunger Games!" Vin growls, the lack of energy and vehement anger at the Hunger Games fighting for dominance inside her head.
Neapolitan stands up and walks a few feet away. "You're assuming an awful lot of me, Vin." With that, he walks away, silently leaving Vin alone in the graveyard.
Vin stares blankly into space and takes another sip of coffee. It's gone cold.
…
Will can't remember the exact number of Victors District 2—can anyone?—but he knows it's more than there probably should be. Not to say their tributes should just go into the arena and throw themselves to the mines, but they have taken it too far. Training in the eventuality of being Reaped is one thing, but training for the purpose of volunteering disgusts him.
And, sure, once upon a time, Will was a trainee at Stander. Not by choice and not by blood, though.
Will doesn't consider himself a true citizen of District 2, because he almost isn't. No one knows exactly where Will came from, or where what happened to him before he showed up in District 2. Not even the best technology the Capitol has to offer could jog his memory, so as a ward of the District, Will was sent to train.
And then came Alana van Stelen. The Goddess of Stander, some trainees had nicknamed her. The obvious Victor. And of course, when everyone is certain someone else is going to win, no one wants to volunteer. The academy had to choose someone they could afford to lose who wasn't going to stand a chance in the arena, yet still give the Capitolites a good show.
The obvious choice had been the amnesiac asshole that Alana just happened to despise with the passion of a thousand suns. And so Will had been sent into the arena as a sacrificial lamb, a sheep led to the slaughter, an accessory.
Yet here Will stands in the place of Alana van Stelen. He knows everyone in 2 resents him for killing his own District partner—considered a taboo by some—but it's not his fault. They wanted an accessory, but Will just wanted to live.
So live Will does. Unfortunately he has to take a break from living happily like a relatively normal person because Hestia can't handle spending a few weeks in the company of Varen. Of course, Will doesn't really blame Hestia for hating Varen, but at least Will can talk to him without screaming like a drunk banshee. Hestia's hatred for Varen is almost comical, especially when compared to every other Victor from District 2. None of them like Varen—they can all agree he's a cocky, arrogant asshole—but Hestia hates him especially much. Maybe it's because she lives next door to him, and therefore can hear him having his wonderful, very… vocal, for lack of better word, orgies in the middle of the night. Will can certainly agree with hating him because of that, but he doubts that's the main reason. Hestia just seems to hate most people. Varen just has a special place on her hit list, which Will does not doubt is a real, tangible piece of paper that Hestia has tucked away somewhere. He can only hope he is not on it.
A name on one of the passing graves catches his eye. Alana van Stelen. He feels, after everything she did, that she hardly even deserves a grave here, but such is the nature of District 2 to honor her, even decades after the fact.
Will can feel the hatred of the people around him when he walks down the street, but he doesn't care. It's been a long, long time since Will really cared—sometimes he wonders if he ever did, even when he lived his old life—and he's not about to start. Especially not for people who resent him for daring to win the Hunger Games.
Yes, how dare he kill Alana van Stelen? How dare he actually try to win? It's an utter travesty, a horrible thing for someone to want to win the Hunger Games! He should be forever shunned for this horrible act he committed decades ago!
Long story short, the people of District 2 really know how to hold a grudge. He wouldn't doubt that when he inevitably dies, they'll deface his grave. That is just how much he is hated.
"What in Panem are you looking at?"
Will takes a deep breath through his nose and looks up to meet Hestia's eyes. She stares back at him from a few rows away, leaning casually on a gravestone. She is really short, Will thinks first. She's also leaning on someone's fucking gravestone! he berates himself, inadvertently starting to glare at Hestia. "Hi."
"Why'd we come here again?"
"Because it's tradition?" Will says, his eyes darting around confusedly.
Hestia has been mentoring since she won, and seeing as she had always been accompanied by Varen, she assumed it was something Varen made up. "Like, we did it last year, but that was only because Varen insisted on coming along. Why did we even fuckin' show up? I could be at home right now. Doing literally anything but standing in this fucking graveyard."
"Okay? Cool?" Will says, shrugging. "We're here now."
"Yes, I can see that, oddly enough," Hestia deadpans. She starts to head toward the fountain. Twenty-eight names proudly engraved in it. Hestia would never say this out loud, but she often comes here in the middle of the night, just to trace her own name. Because she fucking did it. She did what two-hundred, seventy tributes from 2 couldn't do. She did what Alana van Stelen couldn't do. She did what Silvanus Seacrest couldn't do. She did what Evander Steid couldn't do. Hell, she did what her district partner, perfect little Lyon, couldn't do! She damn well killed perfect little Lyon, and she fucking enjoyed it.
Because Hestia won, damnit! She deserves her place on this fountain, more than any of those two-hundred, seventy rotting corpses buried in this graveyard! She deserves this more than Craft Armstrong, more than Adriani Romano, more than Juno Caspari, more than Sybil Mune, more than Zephyra MacAvoy, more than Hera MacKay, and way fucking more than Varen 'Asshat' Alexander. She deserves to stand here, alive over so many who could stand in the same position.
She fucking deserves it, and she's willing to shout it from the rooftops.
Hestia smirks, kneeling at the fountain and tracing her finger along the engraving of Hestia Olympia, 146th Hunger Games. She dreamed when she was little of seeing her name on this fountain, and here it is. In all of its glory, fading slightly with age but there nonetheless. Can Lyon say that? No! Lyon can't say anything, because he's fucking dead.
Satisfied, Hestia slowly stands, turning to find Will still staring at the same grave from before. "Hey, fuckface!" she yells to him. "I'm going to get coffee, wanna come?"
Will glares at her. "Nice nickname," he notes. "But sure."
…
Rocket is, well, tired. But he's used to being tired. He's always tired anymore. Maybe that's because he spends so many nights getting plastered so he doesn't have to think. Getting alcohol poisoning would just be a happy bi-product.
A silent existence in one that Rocket Sanchez has always lived. Born both deaf and mute, everyone took one look at him and said, "Welp, he's a lost cause." Rocket would have yelled 'shut up!' to all of them if he had actually seen them say it, and could actually say it aloud. But no, Rocket is stuck thinking it forever.
And so obviously, when little twelve-year-old Rocket Sanchez was Reaped for the Hunger Games, once again, everyone said, "Welp, he's a lost cause."
Aside from Thalia Eames. Thalia, the only remaining mentor in 3, did not lose faith in Rocket. And so Rocket also did not lose faith in Rocket. He fought through a silent arena, killed three Careers and an outlier, and came out as the sole survivor.
For years, Rocket lived happily. All through his teens, he was happy, unless you count those first few months when he nearly drank himself to death. He had a girlfriend. His younger sisters were safe. His mother was doing better. Life was finally, finally going right for Rocket.
But recently, he has fallen into old habits. His girlfriend broke up with him a few months ago. His mother succumbed to cancer just a week after said messy breakup. The Games are fast approaching. Suddenly, Rocket's life seems to have fallen back to pieces. His carefully sewn stitches have been ripped to shreds, thrown into a trash compactor, burnt to ash, and then thrown into an ocean.
So he turns to the only friend he has left.
Alcohol.
Currently, as he stumbles through the rows upon rows of old, crumbling graves, his head pounds, his hangover evident. Maybe not to a random passerby, but perhaps to someone who knew Rocket well enough to see when he is hungover. Like right now. But alcohol is something to lean on, a way out. Rocket doesn't really mind feeling awful the next morning, especially since he'll probably just do it all over again.
Rocket has been trying to stay sober until the Games are over. But that is certainly easier said than done. What can he say? He likes his alcohol a little too much.
Well, not really the taste, per say. He actually finds the taste of most beer to be downright repulsive. No, it's the affect that Rocket so desires that allows him to choke down such disgusting liquid. He forgets when he drinks. He doesn't think when he drinks. He simply lays around, not really awake but not really asleep either. That's exactly what Rocket wants. He doesn't want to die; maybe one day things could get better. But for now, he needs a way to cope. No matter how unhealthy that way is.
Maybe one day I'll change, Rocket muses as he drifts through the rows of graves. But that day is certainly not today.
The gate creaks as Thalia enters the graveyard, immediately spotting Rocket from within the mass of headstones. If he were in the middle of a crowd, he would be immensely easy to lose. But seeing as he is the only one in the graveyard, and is stumbling a little, Thalia can't miss him.
Rocket, of course, remains blissfully unaware to Thalia's presence. With his back turned to the gates, there's no way for him to notice her.
Thalia sighs quietly, but the sound seems to echo loudly through the cemetery. She hates to see Rocket like this. He was so happy just last year, and now look at him. Depressed. A drunk. Hungover. She wants to help him, but knows he doesn't accept help easily. It practically takes an act from the president to get Rocket to acknowledge, out loud, that something is wrong. She knows he knows that the way he lives isn't right, yet he takes no action to remedy it. It's maddening.
All Thalia wants is the best for the people around her. She wants the best for Rocket. She wants the best for her dying father. She wants the best for each and every one of her tributes, no matter how awful they may be. Everyone deserves a chance, even the worst of people. Thalia firmly believes there is good in everyone, and that there is a way to find it.
But even someone like Thalia has her limits. She has mentored tributes before that she knows there is no hope for. Take Jaz Tammel from three years ago. She wasn't even planning to bother. Thalia had known that there was nothing she could say that would save Jaz's mentality about the Games. It was a lost cause, and she would only be wasting her time.
And so every time Thalia has laid eyes on Rocket in the past few months, her heart aches. He looks worse and worse each time she sees him, and she can only imagine what goes on in that silent head of his. He has hardly any way to voice his concerns, aside from writing or sign language.
Thalia stands silently at the gates, looking at Rocket's back as he walks crookedly toward the fountain in the center of the graveyard. She sighs, slightly disappointed, and starts to walk after him. He swore he'd stay sober until the Games were over, or at least until both of their tributes were dead. He swore. Thalia always keeps people to their word—if they said they'd do something, they had to do that something. It was common courtesy. Yet here Rocket stands—or stumbles, rather—hungover, having broken his promise time and time again. Thalia doesn't really know why she expects it of Rocket anymore—he was so happy just a year ago, and now look at him—he goes from high to low in a few seconds. One moment he'll be gushing about one of his little sisters, and the next he'll be sobbing and drinking himself half to death. That's just the way Rocket works. And no matter what Thalia tries, she knows, deep down, that that is not going to change any time soon.
That may be the saddest part of it all.
Thalia has never liked feeling helpless. She is so used to being able to do something, anything, to help those around her. She extends the hand of kindness whenever she can, but sometimes that hand is broken. And in Rocket's case…well, it has practically been ripped off and thrown in the garbage.
…
The Graveyard of Great Sacrifice sits just off the beach in District 4. Chance comes here more often than he would like to admit—it's a good place to think, a good place to remind himself of what he could have lost. The sound of waves crashing against the shore makes him think of the tropical island that he almost lost the love of his life in, over a decade ago now.
He stands with his arms resting on the short fence, facing the ocean and breathing in the beautiful smell that District 4 has alone. He remembers his Victory Tour vaguely—resentful faces, saddened families staring him down, meaningless speeches, horrible smells assaulting his nose in each outlying District he passed—but he doubts he could ever fully forget it. It was the first time he'd ever seen the other districts in person. It had made him long for the ocean, the clear smelling air of District 4 even more than he had in the cave-system arena he had fought in. That place just smelled like dust. Some of the outlying districts had a distinct scent of death, poverty, and just general human misery.
As Chance watches the waves rolling in and out of the beach, a small family comes out onto the beach. The pair of children, a boy and a girl, sit down in the surf and start to draw in the sand, blissfully unaware that their creations will be washed away the next time a large wave comes in.
Sure enough, a few moments later, a wave comes crashing over the shore and the drawings disappear. The girl, who appears to be the younger of the two, starts crying and runs for her mother, while her brother just remains seated, staring at the water as if it has done him great personal wrong.
Chance sighs and turns around, heading for the fountain in the center of the graveyard. Waves can wash away pictures in the sand, but there are too many things that Chance's love for the ocean can't fix. It can't fix his own trauma. It can't fix Alec's fear of the dark. It can't fix…well, any of Arthur's issues, since that is one of his main ones. It can't wash away all of the things Chance has lost in his few decades of life. Waves can't wash away anything of note. In a year, those children will never think of these drawings that were washed away. But Chance will think of the things that water can never fix.
The fountain bubbles cheerfully in front of Chance as he approaches it. He quickly locates his name, situated just beside Alec's and just above Arthur's. It stares back at him as if daring him to look away first. Chance stares at it for a moment, willing it to sink back into the stone. But of course, it doesn't. It was a choice Chance made as a fifteen-year-old tribute, when he could have let the girl from 9 kill him in the finale. But he didn't, and most of the time, he doesn't regret it. He doesn't regret working his ass off to make sure Alec got out of the arena, either. He doesn't regret helping Arthur escape the arena.
(Although sometimes he wonders if Arthur would have been happier dead.)
Chance glances out toward the rows of graves, wondering if maybe he himself should be buried among them.
No, he decides. He fought tooth and nail to stand here, and he has never wasted it before.
Chance continues to stare off into the seemingly-endless ocean, wondering where Arthur is. Arthur said he'd come, and Chance is one to hold someone to their word. He can kind of understand Arthur not wanting to come to a graveyard and be reminded of his Games, but at the same…Chance comes here every year. Alec did too, before Arthur won. Reyes and Saior and Lycora did it as well.
He breathes a sigh of relief when Arthur appears down the path, his head down and his hands in his pockets.
Time has not been kind to Arthur Singlewave. Chance knows it. Alec knows it. Hell, even Saior, Reyes and Lycora know it. Chance often finds himself wondering if Arthur knows it, however.
Arthur silently extricates his hands from his sweatshirt pocket, careful to not jostle the cat scratches on his arm. Coat Hanger had knocked over the milk carton earlier that morning and scratched Arthur in anger.
As Arthur nears the fountain, passing through the newest row of graves, the names of tributes he knew, that he fought with, against, and mentored fly past his eyes.
Marina Galindez, Seventeen-years-old. Placed sixteenth in the One-Hundred-Fifty-First Annual Hunger Games.
Reef Baywater, eighteen-years-old. Placed tenth in the One-Hundred-Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games.
Stella Winters, eighteen-years-old. Placed second in the One-Hundred-Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games.
Arthur pauses by these three graves. These three graves hold so many memories below the ground with the bodies they mark. Marina, the girl in the hot-tub who laughed and joked with him. Reef, the insecure boy who had no idea where he was going, but knew he would get there eventually. Stella, the one still in mourning, determined to bring home Victory for her deceased sister. They were real.
And now they are just dead.
Every grave in this cemetery marks a real person, who is now nothing but a corpse. The oldest graves mark nothing but bones. The newest ones would still largely look like a human being—of course, nothing like Reef or Stella. But there would still notions there to remind you that, yes, once upon a time, that was a living, breathing human beings with thoughts, feeling and aspirations.
Arthur can't stop thinking that he should be buried beside Marina. Two years it's been, and it still feels like nothing has changed.
Finally he steels himself and starts toward the fountain again, his eyes drifting past Chance and landing on his name, carved into the fountain.
Arthur Singlewave, 151st Hunger Games.
If anyone doesn't deserve to be on that fountain, it's him.
…
Ave remembers each and every tribute she has ever mentored. Never once has won managed to take Victory. Twenty-seven years it's been, and yet she and Solaryn stand here, all alone. Nook had passed years ago, although his grandchildren still come by now and again. Lloyd only died a few months back. Laurens caught a fatal disease half a dozen years back. Now Ave and Sol stand as the last testament to the Victors from District 5, a feat they fear may never be repeated again.
It hurts to lose two tributes, year after year after year. Ave has a notebook full of their names, paired with little notes about each tribute. There are no placements. There are no kill counts. They are not tributes. They are—were—people. Even Hydra Bekkar has her own space. Ave believes everyone should be mourned, no matter who they were in life—no one deserves to be forgotten in death.
This notebook lays open on Ave's lap as she sits beside Sol, the fountain bubbling merrily behind them. Ave slowly drags her finger along the spine of the old notebook, looking at the half-filled page in front of her. Each name, lovingly written in remembrance of who District 5 lost that year, surrounded by little notes of who they were in life, makes Ave's heart ache as she looks at it.
Her eyes skim the page before they pause by two names; Wren Willodean, 12 and Kiran Comaydos, 12. Two rows below sits the names of last year's tributes.
Kenessa Washington, 18.
Corrin Willodean, 16.
The last Willodean to fall. The last person around to remember Wren as who she was, not who she became. The last person who could say anything about her childhood, who knew her for more than a week before she disappeared, off to the slaughterhouse.
Last year was a year of many legacy tributes. A reminder of the last Quell, as if the Capitol wanted to scream in their faces, "HEY. REMEMBER THE SIXTH QUARTER QUELL? NO? WELL, HERE ARE SOME SIBLINGS OF THE TRIBUTES TO JOG YOUR MEMORY. ENJOY."
Ave did not forget. The names in her notebook stand to prove that fact. How could she forget?
But Ave doesn't want to forget, either. She is content to remember the horrors of the arena, to remember each tribute that she failed to save. It may be difficult, but Ave has never been one to give up easily.
Wren was a tribute Ave thought, honest to Panem, could have won. Maybe should have won, but Ave doesn't hold grudges. Not against anyone. Her anger dissolves too quickly.
She doesn't blame Macy Barker. She doesn't hate Macy Barker. Ave understands wanting to win, and being willing to do anything to get out. After all, she had been in Macy's shoes once, fighting tooth and nail to return home. She knows how it feels, and therefore can't blame anyone for winning the Hunger Games, even if they deserve it less than someone else. Ave's twin sister, Nue, always says Ave doesn't have it in her heart to be bitter about anything. "Someone could walk up to us, right now, and shoot me in the head, and you would forgive them."
Ave can't exactly say she's wrong.
As Ave pages through her notebook of deceased tributes, Sol rests his head on her shoulder. Twenty-five years it's been since they got together, and Sol hasn't regretted a second of it. Seeing Ave smile makes his heart practically explode. He loves her more than anything else in the world. He loves her more than his sisters, Soleil and Spark. He loves her more than his brother, Lumen. Ave brightens his life every day. Every moment he can be around her is a moment well-spent.
Sol stares off into the graveyard as Ave hums a song quietly, still paging through her notebook. He can understand Ave's insatiable need to remember every tribute they mentor, both the good and the bad, but he has never seen a reason to do so. Sol doesn't fear being forgotten. He doesn't fear death. He doesn't really fear much anymore. One can only fight so many battles, kill so many people, shed so much blood before they feel less and less afraid of having to do it again. His games, twenty-eight years ago, the fifth Quarter Quell, had four times the tributes fighting in its ranks. Eight tributes from each district, four boys and four girls, making almost every tribute just another face in the crowd.
Those Games lasted a grand total of fifty-one days, seven hours, nineteen minutes and forty-two seconds. A whole nine tributes died in the first day, because the entire arena had been pitch black. No one could see a thing, meaning no one could kill a thing. Then one day, the lights had inexplicably turned on, showing the tributes that they were lost in a deep cave system.
Sol had escaped the arena with twelve kills to his name. The other eighty-three were all committed by the arena or a previously deceased tribute.
To this day, Sol doesn't know how he managed to kill that many people and not bat an eyelash. Maybe it was just because he so desperately wanted to get home. Maybe it was just because he wanted to prove his worth to all of Panem, to prove that he wasn't just another face in the crowd of tributes. He was so, so tire of being overlooked, and this was his chance to show everyone that Solaryn Duke-Dare was not someone to pass by.
And you know what? Maybe Sol hates the fact that he killed so many people, but he doesn't regret it. He doesn't regret winning. After all, if he had never won, he never would have met Ave. They never would have gotten the chance to be happy together. He never would have known what it felt like to be the most important thing in someone's life.
And, well, if that's not the best feeling in the entirety of Panem, then Sol throw himself off a bridge.
…
(TW for suicide.)
Two-hundred, ninety-seven.
The largest number in all of the districts. The biggest graveyard, one of the only places across all of District 6 with green grass that Slums can get into without breaking the law. The gates are always open to mourners, Victors and random citizens alike. Of course, graves have been defaced. Water has been stolen from the fountain (not that it can ever be proven; it is water, after all.). The place has fallen into disrepair, time and time again, but someone always makes sure it gets cleaned up eventually.
Name after name after name Kasumi passes as she walks to meet Dixie at the fountain, emblazoned with just five names. It should be six, Kasumi thinks angrily, clenching her fists as she walks. If it were not for Arthur Singlewave, there would be six names. The name Warren Oto should be beside her own, not on a lifeless gravestone beside that of his sworn enemy.
In places like 1 or 2, the fountain is covered with names. Their Victors are crammed into corners, shoved here and there just so each gets a place on the Fountain of Victory.
But in District 6? Those six names hardly have to fight for dominance. Each of their Victors were special in their own ways; Maverick, the first Victor from 6, the last district to gain a Victor. Carsten, who shocked all of Panem. Aspen, the first volunteer from District 6. Aksel, the first twelve-year-old to win the Games. Dixie, who dedicated her life to fixing District 6's problems and still has yet to succeed.
And Kasumi. The angry girl who gets attached to tributes far, far too easily.
Certain names jump out and grab Kasumi's attention as she passes. Chevelle Harper is the first one to scream at her. Maverick's district partner. The daughter of arguably the most notorious drug lord in all of District 6, Martin Harper. Of course, he has been dead for decades, but his legacy still carries on in the form of Salvo Mitsui.
When Kasumi comes upon the most recent graves, she shuts her eyes and lifts her head toward the sky. She doesn't need to look at them to remember what they say.
Brandon Hughes, twelve-years-old. Placed seventeenth in the One-Hundred-Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games.
Tesla Mercedust, twelve-years-old. Placed sixteenth in the One-Hundred-Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games.
Mercy Mitsui, sixteen-years-old. Placed seventh in the One-Hundred-Fifty-First Annual Hunger Games.
Warren Oto, eighteen-years-old. Placed second in the One-Hundred-Fifty-First Annual Hunger Games.
Destine Macleod, fourteen-years-old. Placed twenty-fourth in the One-Hundred-Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games.
Roderick Castellan, eighteen-years-old. Placed thirteenth in the One-Hundred-Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games.
Kasumi clenches her fists tighter as she stares into the empty, cloudless sky. The sky in 6 has a tinge to it—a constant reminder of the pollution they are always putting into the air. It's so thick that you can't even see the stars at night. That is the only reason Kasumi likes train rides. She can see the stars. You can't see them in 6. You can't see them in the Capitol, either.
She remains standing there for so long her legs begin to go numb, just staring blankly at the graves before her. The words on each headstone blurred together. Kasumi couldn't tell if it was because she had been staring for so long or there were tears in her eyes.
These three pairs of graves stand as a reminder of Kasumi's failures. She knows District 6 doesn't just win the Hunger Games. But she still feels terrible. Because she failed her tributes by not doing more. She doesn't exactly know what she could have done, but there must have been something. There must have been something she could have done to stop Arthur Singlewave for breaking Warren's head in. There must have been something she could have done to stop Nyroc Cousteau from stabbing Destine in the stomach.
"Kasumi?" Dixie asks, concern in her voice and face as she approaches Kasumi from behind. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Kasumi says tightly, but Dixie knows she isn't. Kasumi gets too easily attached, gets too hopeful when it comes to their tributes. Kasumi has managed to beat herself up every time one of their tributes die, and Dixie doesn't see much of a reason anymore.
Sure, Dixie has regrets too. But she has been at this for much, much longer than Kasumi has. Forty-eight years, to be exact. She's getting on in her years. She knows she's not long for this world. District 6 is notorious for many things beyond a huge drug and gang-violence issue: mainly, there is so much pollution that everyone dies early. The air isn't clean, and no one does a single thing about it. 6 is beyond the notice of everyone else in Panem, unless they happen to win the Hunger Games every thirty or so years. Sometimes it's more. It's never less.
Dixie can admit that life doesn't have the same quality as it had a few decades ago, but she has never felt the need to take drastic measures. Nothing like Aksel Bauer.
Two days after Dixie had returned to District 6, celebrating her newfound status as a Victor, Aksel killed himself. It had been his plan all along, Dixie knew. He had been waiting for the day he finally, finally brought someone home so District 6 wouldn't go Victor-less once he ended everything. Dixie knew Aksel had a lot of mental health issues, but she never thought he would do something like that.
And so Dixie had made it her mission to make sure no one else ever felt that way. She started with the Community Home, where Aksel had grown up. She donated money. She made friends with the children who lived there. She was tired of seeing sad, drawn faces on little kids, who should be lively and animated, living their lives with enthusiasm.
That feeling has dulled as of late. Dixie has done so much. The Community Home in 6 is much, much better than it had been when Aksel lived there. The residents were happy, living with much fuller stomachs than before. Dixie had done what she had set out to accomplish. So maybe the fire isn't quite there anymore, but Dixie is happy with where she landed.
She's happy. Maybe Kasumi isn't happy, and Dixie always wants the best for those she cares about, but for now, Dixie can revel in her happiness before she dies. After everything she has done for the welfare of District 6, everyone can agree she deserves some time to rest.
…
When Macy won, it was sort of like a switch was flipped in Larken's head. Suddenly it became apparent that he could actually bring someone home, that he wasn't just going to keep losing tributes until the day he died. It was the best day of his life when Macy won; he had accomplished something! He could say he helped bring someone home! He was riding high off that happiness and was ready for another group of tributes to mentor.
But after two years of straight bloodbaths, that feeling of euphoria is starting to wear off.
Monk was no surprise. Vanye actually had some hope to her, but Larken has never thought the Games were fair. It was no surprise when they both fell in the Bloodbath, no matter how much Macy hated it.
Now, Beckham and Mae were a different story entirely.
Larken had really seen promise in them. Both of them were eighteen. Both of them were strong, capable lumberjacks. Both of them were perfectly mentally sound. They had promise, drive, spirit. Everything a Victor needed to possess. They seemed so perfect for it, too. Both of them were prepared to take on the mental strain being a Victor posed. They were ready, and they both wanted it. Mae had a girlfriend, and so did Beckham. They had families. They had lives they wanted to live. But since when has the Games been fair?
It was the third year in a row an alliance had been formed between the 7s.
Larken is starting to wonder if that's a taboo or something.
Beckham had fallen first. Twenty-first place, if Larken remember correctly. Of course, Beckham's lifeless grave is less than twenty feet away from him, but the sound of the bubbling fountain is making him tired and he just…really doesn't want to get up to check. It's just too far away for him to bother. He can make sure on the way back to the Victors' Village. Or he could not. He doesn't really care what placement Beckham ended up in. Twenty-fourth is just as dead as second is.
But anyways. Beckham took a knife to the side, courtesy of Nyroc from District 2. He lay there for a few minutes, slowly bleeding out before Mae came upon him. She had stared at him with haunted eyes before quickly slitting his throat and putting him out of his misery. Killing your district partner used to be a taboo, but all Mae had done was put Beckham out of his misery. She knew he wouldn't survive. He knew he wouldn't survive.
Mae had got up and started to run away from the Cornucopia, a backpack in tow and an ax in her hand. Larken could imagine this entire exchange on screen during the Victor's Interview, Mae sitting there looking broken about having to kill her own district partner. It seemed so perfect. She seemed like such an obvious Victor.
And then Nyroc Cousteau cut her head off. It had toppled to the ground, her eyes wide open with shock, blood splattering onto the grass as her body followed her head.
Larken had just sighed and followed Macy out of the mentoring room, leaving the others behind to bicker amongst themselves.
It's amazing how quickly life can be snuffed out, Larken thinks tiredly. Just to think, Mae was alive one second and headless the next…she could have been a Victor, but she wasn't.
The soft sound of the bubbling fountain slowly lulls Larken to sleep. His head droops back against the fountain with a quiet thunk, his eyes shut peacefully.
When Macy pushes open the gate and spots Larken asleep by the fountain, she shakes her head and smiles. Maybe if she had come from anywhere but Sprucen's house, she would have gone and rudely awakened Larken, but that warm feeling she gets whenever she sees Sprucen is still present.
She could stay here with Echo's mismarked grave (they didn't even have the courtesy to bury him under his real name), the headstones of Vanye and Monk and Mae and Beckham.
Or…alternatively, she could…go home.
Yeah, that sounds a lot better than staying here. It's June. It's hot out here. There's air conditioning back home. And if Larken was awake, sure, Macy would stay. But seeing as he isn't, and Macy doesn't feel like waking him up, she sees no point to sit in a graveyard with a few hundred decomposing bodies and a sleeping dude. That's just…weird.
So Macy turns around, quietly shutting the gate and starting back down the path. The Tribute Graveyard in 7 is one of the most beautiful places in all of District 7. Not just because it's planted in the middle of the forests, but because it feels natural. Macy remembers visiting the Graveyard in District 3 on her Victory Tour. It was a lifeless, gray place. She couldn't imagine being buried there.
But in District 7, the graves are not situated in rows. They sit in little clumps, delegated in decades. The fountain still sits in the middle, and although the base is still engraved with the names, the actual pool is covered in the same few words:
We will never forget your sacrifice.
Over and over again it is carved, and if you were to look into the water, you would hardly be able to make out what it says. But everyone in District 7 knows exactly what it says. Macy is unsure whether it means the sacrifice of those who lived or those who died. Maybe it's both.
The crunch of the dirt path beneath her feet makes Macy forget the graveyard with its confusing words and lifeless headstones. Instead she focuses in on Sprucen. Perfect, beautiful, amazing Sprucen. People always say falling in love doesn't make all of your problems go away, but it sure does help. In the time that Sprucen has been in her life, she just feels lighter. She feels a human being again. It's an amazing feeling.
(It's also a feeling she didn't realize she'd lost until she got it back.)
…
Koren still finds it funny that Travers waited for so long to ask her to marry him. They have four children, all of which are over the age of twelve, and only got married two years ago. Of course, she could have asked him herself, but where's the fun in that? She has never doubted that Travers loves her back, not after four kids and decades of dating.
Their oldest, Magdalene (or Maggie, as she prefers to be called) is almost out of Reaping age. She has just two more Reapings to escape, but that doesn't mean the fear isn't real.
Their only son, Waylin (or Lin, as he is often known as) has three more years to survive. But any of three Reapings could lead to him fighting (and likely dying) in the Games. It's a thought that Koren doesn't want to think, but it is always there, in its own corner of her mind.
Their second daughter at fourteen-years-old, Akilah (or Aki, as Koren lovingly called her as a toddler and never stopped) fears being Reaped possibly more than anything. She has seen both of her parents fight in the Games, and she knows what would happen if her name came out of that miserable glass bowl.
Their last child, just thirteen-years-old, Henley (who manages to be the only one of their children without a nickname), does not fear the Reapings. She does not fear death. For a thirteen-year-old, that is quite the feat, but Koren can't help but admire her youngest daughter's resolve.
And so she and Henley slowly make their way down a row of graves as Travers and Maggie laugh by the fountain, Lin and Aki back home in the Victors' Village. Koren can't blame them for not wanting to tag along on this particular adventure; the Tribute Graveyard is one of the most bleak places in all of District 8. Koren imagine burying one of her children here.
"Did you know that one?" Henley asks, pointing to a gravestone marked with Cloey Alston, seventeen-years-old. Placed sixth in the One-Hundred-Thirty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games.
"Yes," Koren says. "Although I believe Travers mentored her; I took her younger district partner that year."
"Oh," Henley says. "Cool."
Koren shakes her head at her daughter. Henley has no fear of death, but she also has no respect for it.
"What about that one?" Henley asks, pointing to another headstone further down the line, engraved with Alexzander Turiel, eighteen-years-old. Placed second in the One-Hundred-Thirty-Ninth Annual Hunger Games.
"Yes, I mentored Alexzander," Koren answers dutifully.
"Oh. What about—"
Koren cuts off her daughter and says, "Hen, I love that you're curious about these kids, but we can't stay here forever."
"Oh. Right." Koren starts toward the fountain, glancing behind her to make sure Henley is following. Henley lags behind slightly, carefully inspecting each grave she passes, but Koren doesn't really mind. As long as Henley stays in the graveyard, she can go wherever she wants. But the streets beyond are dangerous, especially for girls around Henley's age.
Travers grins at his wife as she approaches. "Henley keeping you, huh?"
"All the graves sure pique her curiosity," Koren agrees, taking a seat beside her husband and nodding to Maggie.
"The names are what interests her most," says Maggie off-handedly. "People around here are either really creative or really basic."
Travers nods in agreement. "You're either going to find a John or a Xzayvian around here." He likes to think he and Koren managed to choose relatively normal names for their children.
(Although their multitude of nicknames beg to differ.)
But Travers is grateful to have one of the biggest worries in his life be if he gave his children normal enough names.
(Although the fear of them going into the Games never quite leaves his mind.)
His Games lasted a whole three days, and he only landed one kill through the whole thing. It was hardly a traumatizing experience, especially since Travers had killed people on the streets of 8 before he'd ever been Reaped.
(Although it hurt more with that girl from District 10.)
However, when Travers looks upon Maggie or Henley or Aki or Lin, all of those thoughts disappear, replaced with an overwhelming feeling of pride. He likes to think he has raised his children well, that they will all do some good in the world.
(Although for them to do good in the world, they have to make it through their teens, and everyone knows that is easier said than done.)
Travers knows one day he'll be gone, and so will Koren. The life expectancy in District 8 is not high. He knows one day it will be up to his children to remember him and Koren, even though the Capitol will surely be somewhat sad, he and Koren have never been very popular Victors.
(Although, if they were to die tomorrow, he has no idea what Henley would say.)
He loves his children, he really does. Maggie is headstrong. Lin is passionate. Aki is sweet. But Henley…Henley is different. Death has always interested her, making her a rather strange, morbid girl.
(Although one day she would get to understand death; Travers just fears what she might do in order to understand earlier.)
…
You would think by the time Gracyn is in her thirties that Capitol men would no longer want to sleep with her. That they would have moved on to younger, more attractive prey, such as Kasumi, Brice or Arthur.
But noooo.
And frankly, Gracyn is done with it. She's been done with it for years. And to make matters worse, the disgusting Capitolites can't leave Iara alone either. She stills vividly remembers the first night Iara came to her after an 'appointment'. It was during Brice's Games; both of their tributes were already dead. Iara had walked off the elevator, disheveled, and whispered to Gracyn, "I'm not a virgin anymore."
It's disgusting, it's appalling, it's absolutely sickening, yet Gracyn and Iara both know they cannot refuse. Gracyn's father and sisters were already killed as a punishment for her insolence.
And yet, Gracyn had still had the audacity to hope it would change when Graciela took office. Maybe Graciela would stop prostituting the Victors for their monetary benefit. Maybe Graciela would have some mercy, some sympathy.
But you can't be president of Panem without being an utter asshat, no matter how many cats you own or awkward jokes you tell. If you aren't, Capitolites will walk all over you. They'll just use you to get what they want, and then they'll throw you out in favor of someone with a stronger will. That's what happened to old Broderick Evangeline; he got soft, so they got rid of him, replaced him with Coriolanus Snow.
Gracyn lets out a sigh as she stares skyward, the sun glistening off the rolling fields of grain that surround this park.
Yes, in District 9, their graveyard is a park. The fountain still stands in the middle, still with the rows of graves, but only half of it is technically a cemetery. The other half houses some playground equipment and picnic tables for the rich families of District 9 to enjoy.
Gracyn has yet to decide whether it's sweet or awful that small children play in a graveyard. It's sweet to think that there can be upsides to anything, even a graveyard, yet a graveyard should be a place of mourning. It should a place where people go to pay their respects to the dead in silence, not while small children run around, laughing and playing. Gracyn can see both sides of the argument, but it's not like there's much she or anyone else can do about it.
She swings her legs back and forth like a bored child, waiting for Iara to arrive. The bench she sits on looks over the playground. A few girls and boys run around, playing tag and screaming about cooties. Gracyn remembers those days. Those days when she was a child, running around this very park with her sisters, Reese, Eliza and Terrah as her father watched them. Or sometimes it was a nanny. They had a lot of those, since her father was so often away on some sort of business venture.
At last she spots Iara entering the playground, looking tired but not unhappy. Iara is rarely truly unhappy. Oftentimes, she just hasn't been sleeping well.
Iara definitely has not been sleeping well. She has gotten in a solid three hours in the past four days, making her practically a walking zombie. But, this is a tradition she is determined to uphold. It means a lot to Gracyn, and it means a lot to her as well.
She flops down on the bench beside Gracyn. She should have brought coffee. Coffee would be helpful. Maybe she should go get coffee after this. There's that one really bakery that also serves coffee down by the market. She really should have stopped there on the way here. They have that one really good brew that they only serve in the summer…
"Iara," Gracyn says suddenly. "Don't fall asleep on me now." She laughs, but Iara can tell she's only half-joking.
"I…fell asleep?"
"Yes, I," Gracyn says, still laughing.
"Oh. Sorry about that. I just…haven't been sleeping much at all recently," Iara admits. "I'm just nervous about the Games. I don't want to watch another pair of tributes go in and die. Lia, Quentin, Alexandria and Rie were bad enough. Valentine and Cornell was worse. And then Flourish and Rylan…and Cinnamon and Angelis…and now another pair of tributes off to the slaughterhouse."
"Don't think like that," Gracyn chastises. "Think positive. Who knows, maybe this will be our year."
"Maybe," Iara amends noncommittally. Personally, she doesn't agree with Gracyn. It seems unlikely that they'll ever get lucky enough to take Victory, but it will surely happen again. It always happens again. Seeing as the Games will likely never stop, District 9 will always find a way to gain another Victor, no matter how morbid. Iara doesn't know if she loves that or hates that. She loves it because it means one less tribute from 9 being lost, one less family to watch grieve. She hates it because it means the continuation of the Games. She hates it because that means it twenty-three other kids have to die. The Hunger Games is always a lose-lose.
Iara pulls her legs to her chest and rests her forehead on her knees. She is really wishing she had that coffee right about now. "…hey, Gracyn?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you wanna, like, go get some coffee? I know this really good place by the market." Iara crosses her fingers, hoping beyond hope that Gracyn will say yes. Right about now, she needs some caffeine in her system more than she needs air. And besides, hanging out at a half-graveyard, half-playground isn't exactly Iara's idea of a good time.
"Sure," Gracyn agrees casually.
"Cool," Iara says, jumping to her feet. She wobbles a little (courtesy of her lack of sleep) before grabbing Gracyn by the wrist and pulling her out of the graveyard. She can get that sleep when she comes down from her caffeine high which will surely ensue soon.
…
Celinda's head pounds as she stumbles through the graveyard, her head clenched tightly around a bottle of some sort of alcohol. She didn't bother to check what it was before she grabbed it on her way out of the house. She doesn't really care what kind of alcohol she drinks, as long as it means she doesn't have to think. The quicker is numbs her senses, the better.
She vaguely notices Rhett sitting on the edge of the fountain, staring at her with a bewildered yet unhappy look on his face. She pays him no attention. She pays the gravestones no attention. She pays nothing any attention. Celinda stopped paying things attention a long, long time ago. More than ten years it's been since Celinda was really, truly addicted to her alcohol. It took her a little over two years to become completely dependent on it, and she highly doubts that's going to change any time soon.
The sun beating down on her back is far too bright. She does have that bottle of anti-hangover stuff back home, but she put it in some cupboard and hasn't bothered to look for it since. She just stays in a constant state of hungover, yet still somehow drunk because she is. Always. Drinking.
"Celinda," Rhett says quietly, his voice slightly monotone. They've this conversation ever since the first year Rhett mentored. "Are we really going to do this again? Can't you just stay sober for five minutes of your life?"
"You try it," Celinda slurs, plopping down on the ground beside Rhett's legs. She lets her head loll back and rest on the cold stone of the fountain and takes a deep breath. She still smells the slaughterhouse she woke up in two days ago. "I been havin' alcohol fer so long…"
"All grammar mistakes aside," Rhett says tightly, his eyes fiery with anger. "You promise. Every year, you promise to stay sober. And every year, you don't! Every year you stumble in here with a bottle in your hand, complaining of an awful hangover! When are you going to learn this isn't how you should live your life?"
"Don' go tellin' me how ta live m'life, Rhett," Celinda says, rolling her eyes. She pulls the lid off of her bottle and takes a long swig, satisfied with the slight burning sensation it leaves behind in her mouth. "I can live howeva I wanna live. You're not my mom. My mom's dead."
Rhett purses his lips, silent for a moment, apparently choosing to ignore the remark about Celinda's mother. And yeah, Celinda's mother is dead. So is her father. They both caught some sort of disease when Celinda was nine, and bang, bang, they're dead. "It's not healthy. One of these days, you're going to give yourself alcohol poisoning. Or maybe you'll just drink yourself to death."
"Hope I do," Celinda murmurs. She lifts her bottle and takes another drink, savoring the taste before she swallows thickly.
"You can't just die, Celinda!" Rhett exclaims, making wild hand gestures. "You can't just keep drinking until you don't wake up!"
"Why can't I?" Celinda asks, her eyes half closed, her head still facing the sky. Just…not waking up sounds like a pretty damn good deal to me.
"I don't want to be left alone in the Victors' Village with no one to keep me company but Maes, Tierra and Salen! You can't—you can't just—die!" Rhett cries angrily.
"Not like it'd matta much." Celinda takes another long drink. No one would care if she died. Rhett said it himself; the only reason he doesn't want Celinda to die is because he doesn't like District 10's other living Victors. It's clear to see that Celinda doesn't matter to much of anyone.
"Goddammit, Celinda!" Rhett shouts, angrily snatching Celinda's bottle from her hand and throwing it at the nearest headstone. It smashes on impact, spraying the nearby ground with the still-unnamed alcohol. "You have no idea how much I would miss you if you died!"
Celinda has no fucking clue how much Rhett doesn't want her to die. She's his only friend left in the world, and he doesn't like to watch his friends suffer. To watch Celinda slowly waste away every day, drinking herself half to death each night. He hates it. Celinda is his friend. Rhett's friends shouldn't have to suffer. He knows Celinda saw a lot of shit in the arena, but that doesn't give her the right to make everyone around her watch her life this.
"Hey!" Celinda exclaims, slightly late on the uptake. She stares at the shattered remains of her bottle and bolts to her feet. "Thanks, Rhett. Ya just wasted some perfectly good alcohol." She shoves her hands into her pockets and starts to stumble out of the graveyard, quickly taking her hands back out to steady herself.
Rhett watches her go, his anger quickly dissipating. He's a terrible friend. Celinda is the only person left in the world who sees him as equal. Tierra and Salen see him as an accomplishment. Maes can't even see him at all. The Capitolites see him as something to fuck and then throw out. His family sees him as a money-making tool, a way to dig the Rileys out of their pit of debt. But Celinda has always seen him as an equal, as a friend. Celinda still cares for him beyond the obligation Tierra, Maes and Salen have toward him, beyond his clinical relationship with his mother and father. Celinda still means something to him, and this is how he repays her. Sure, she's always drunk, but she's also always open to listen to him vent. And Rhett would be lying if he said he hadn't gotten plastered with her a time or two.
Sometimes it felt good to forget. Sometimes it felt good to just…not have to think. But Rhett isn't nearly as addicted to the feeling as Celinda is. He still has a life to live. Celinda threw that down the drain years ago.
…
Brice has been wearing a mask for so long he can't tell it apart from his own face anymore. The longer he wears it, the less human he feels. He's just an actor, constantly putting on a show, never getting an intermission or even a moment to rest. He is always something he is not, and he has been that thing for so long he can't tell if he is or isn't.
He can't stop thinking of what led him here, to sobbing on the floor of his bathroom, having his weekly mental breakdown.
See, way back when Brice got Reaped as a terribly-abused fourteen-year-old boy from District 11 for the One-Hundred-Forty-Eighth Hunger Games, he made a decision. He was going to be the underdog that no one ever expected. He was just a stupid, chatterbox fourteen-year-old, definitely not a threat. Yes, that's what he was.
And now Brice can't tell the difference. He talks and he talks and he talks, and he hates it. But this is the image he has to uphold, and if anyone ever found out he was lying, well…he doesn't want to see the consequences.
He learned a long, long time ago that no one had any interest in what he had to say. But instead of falling silent, he talked more. He talked and he talked and he talked, and no one ever heard him. He could walk into a room full of people, loudly declare he had just committed mass murder, and everyone would just say, "That's good, Brice."
The old Brice Kylar is dead. But Brice doesn't really understand the new one either. The fake, chatterbox, shell of a human being who was horribly traumatized before he was ever forced to kill someone. And he's such a good actor that no one ever notices.
But Brice doesn't know if he's acting anymore. He's so used to going unheard that he talks about anything that comes mind, and everyone just tunes him out. He's talked for hours about all the things his parents did to him when he was younger, and all Meadow has said is, "That's nice, Brice." Or "Mm-hmm."
He's invisible, but he's not. His mask is there, people can see it, but they don't see past it. They assume he's just a stupid, one-dimensional human being who talks about puppies, kittens and rainbows all day.
He's not.
Or maybe he is.
Brice doesn't know anymore.
He doesn't know anything anymore.
Late at night, when he's alone in his house, he breaks down. He sobs in the darkness of the hallway closet, trying to piece together his broken psyche, but he knows there is no hope for it.
Maybe it's best if he just stops thinking and becomes the dumb chatterbox the Capitol fell in love with six years ago. Maybe he should just sink into that oblivion and stop fighting to take this mask off, to find some way to make people listen to him, why will nobody ever listen to him?! Why do his words always have to fall on deaf ears, why does he keep talking when he knows no one will ever hear his words?
So, yeah, that's the reason Brice called Meadow earlier and told her he has the stomach flu. And, yes, he did throw up earlier, but not because he's sick. At least, not disease-sick. He's sick of life. He's sick of pretending. He's sick of acting and hiding behind a mask that is slowly becoming his face. The longer he hides the less easy it will become to take it off.
And that is how the great Brice Kylar, killer of five tributes, two of which were Careers, ends up on the floor of the upstairs bathroom on the left of the staircase in his house, sobbing violently and occasionally throwing up in the toilet. He's not okay, and he's said it before, but no one listens.
No one listens. No one ever hears. Even Meadow, who has a helping hand extended at all times, extends it to others.
Because everyone knows the cute little chatterbox is just fine, don't they? Yes, he's fine! Why would you ever worry about him? He's just talking about puppies and running through flower fields. He's definitely not talking about his horrible traumas from his childhood or how he has weekly mental breakdowns.
Yes, Brice Kylar is fine, can't you tell? What? He's screaming? Oh well, he's probably screaming in joy. That's kind of Brice's thing, right?
Meadow Quince can definitely tell. Brice is the least of her worries. Because her little girl, Floryn, also has the stomach flu and is sick in bed. She's secretly grateful that Brice came down with it too, just so she can stay home with her daughter. Not only is Floryn sick, but she's been being bullied at the park, which Meadow will never stand for. But Floryn is adamant that she can handle it, that she's tough like her mother.
So here Meadow sits on the couch while her daughter sleeps fitfully upstairs, idly flipping through T.V. channels.
The first shows off an impressive birds' eye view of a golden forest in what appears to be District 1. It's some sort of documentary about District 1's Victors.
The second channel is some Capitol talk show. The woman on the left, dressed in a rainbow blazer and tank top, is in the middle of saying how she just can't wait for the Reapings next week. Meadow stares her down for moment, knowing full well that the rainbow woman can't see her, and that this was probably pre-recorded. Meadow just can't imagine being excited about the Games. Next year, Floryn will be eligible…the thought sends a shiver coursing down Meadow's spine.
The third channel is showing a tour of the Tribute Center. A voiceover is currently explaining what the tributes do on the climbing course, complete with someone acting it out.
Meadow changes the channel a few more times before settling on a locally made one about gardening. She's sure it's strictly monitored by the Capitol, probably made by Capitolites, just filmed in District 11, but at the moment she doesn't care. She just wants something mindless to play in the background while she rests.
Maybe I should go check on Brice, Meadow wonders, but eventually decides against it. If Brice needed something, he would call. Brice may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he is independent enough to figure it out if something goes wrong.
Satisfied for the time being, Meadow relaxes against the couch cushions, only half-listening the gardening show on the T.V., but hearing enough to catch, "And these beautiful geraniums, courtesy of our lovely Capitol…"
…
Kalina hasn't gone to the graveyard before the Games in decades.
No, instead she makes a trip when she returns from the Capitol. Or shortly thereafter, once the funerals have been held and the tributes have been laid to rest.
She goes to apologize.
She goes to their graves, tells them she's sorry she failed them, sorry that she didn't do more. She promises she'll be better next year.
But then next rolls around, and nothing changes. Kalina is stuck in a sick cycle that has lasted almost fifty years. She promises she'll try harder next year, and then she inevitably doesn't.
Kalina sits on her porch, looking up at the starry sky. It's quite late, since the sun sets late in the summer, but Kalina doesn't regret staying up. Looking at the stars is much more worth it than staring at a lifeless fountain surrounded by hundreds of graves. Stars are pretty and full of life. Cemeteries are just a reminder that Kalina always fails.
One day, she supposes, District 12 will have to win again. But she's sure that by time, she'll be long dead. She's already sixty-seven. Even with piles of money at her disposal, there are only so many places in District 12 to get medical care, and Kalina doubts that she can just call a train to take her to the Capitol.
A gentle wind blows through the air, making the evening slightly cooler than usual for a night in June. The smell of general death and misery that wafts from the Seam doesn't reach the Victors' Village. (Or just Victor's Village, as it is in District 12). Instead, Kalina can smell nature. It doesn't smell like coal dust. It doesn't smell like human suffering. It smells like a camping trip high in the mountains, looking through the trees to the stars.
Kalina takes a deep breath, rocking back and forth in her chair. It's a peaceful night, here in the Victor's Village of District 12. Kalina may be all alone, but she is no stranger to that. She doesn't mind the isolation, and she can always just go into town if she wishes. Not that she often does, she gets the most pitying looks when she does.
That makes her angry. Those people from the Seam, who are literally starving and dropping like flies every winter, have the audacity to look at her with pity in their eyes! Sure, she's old, but that's more than anyone else in the District 12 can say. They all die before they turn thirty from coal dust inhalation or mine collapses. Kalina has never once stepped into a coal mine, and she never plans to. She has no need to; she's not just filthy rich, she's disgustingly rich. She used to give money to people from the Seam when she was younger—they are her people, after all—but she has since stopped doing that, save for a few close friends.
Kalina isn't a hero. No one has ever called her one. But she has never liked to see so many people starving and losing family members so quickly and easily. She never had the money to help them while she was a child, but the moment she won, that was what she was going to do with her money.
And she did. For a time. Now, she's more or less retired from the great monetary savior job. She's just the old lady who no one is sure if she actually won the Hunger Games or not. It's not like anyone in 12 who saw it happen is still alive.
A/N: So I'm going to guess most people just scrolled down to view the tribute list (and I don't blame you, I'm guilty of doing it) but please do read the chapter. I put a lot of work into this one. Also, the math on how many tributes have died are probably wrong, because I didn't do anything special for the Quarter Quells where there were more tributes :/.
1. Favorite mentor? (excluding Arthur and Macy)
2. Least favorite mentor?
3. If one of your tribute(s) got in, do you think they'll get along with their mentor?
4. Thoughts on our mentors in general?
Random Question of the Chapter: are you excited for the Reapings to start?
My answer: I mean, I guess? Reapings are more interesting than prologues, but I'll probably burn out quick. That's what has happened in years of past.
(and yes, Ave's parents did name their twin daughters Avenue. Why? I don't know.)
Okay, okay, here's the tribute list. Do be sure to check the whole list, as many tributes had to be moved to different districts. In case you're wondering, mentor #1 mentors the girl, and mentor #2 gets the boy.
List:
District 1:
Female: Calista Abbey, 18 / Team Shadow
Male: Shad Marcum, 18 / Tyquavis
Mentor #1: Divinity 'Vin' Faust, 13
Mentor #2: Neapolitan Gregorovich, 51
District 2:
Female: Scoria Primer, 18 / AlexFalTon
Male: Wonder Hammerfort, 12 / 20
Mentor #1: Hestia Olympia, 25
Mentor #2: Will Slade, 38
District 3:
Female: Lana Meadows, 14 / SchroedingersKneazle
Male: Darwin Abner, 16 / Thorne98
Mentor #1: Thalia Eames, 42
Mentor #2: Rocket Sanchez, 24
District 4:
Female: Ottilie Blackwell, 15 / EvilPencilBox
Male: Bayou Hacksom, 18 / Thorne98
Mentor #1: Arthur Singlewave, 18
Mentor #2: Chance Rovaeny, 28
District 5:
Female: Liesel Leenheer, 17 / Dospacito
Male: Sterne Colvin, 14 / Tyquavis
Mentor #1: Solaryn Duke-Dare, 45
Mentor #2: Ave Samenfield, 42
District 6:
Female: Jayce Dotter, 18 / LordShiro
Male: Larch Tyre, 18 / DragonoftheStars1429
Mentor #1: Kasumi Karakara, 20
Mentor #2: Dixie Spoke-Wheeler, 66
District 7:
Female: Eris Rowan, 13 / DarkColdSummer
Male: Mercury Harrigan, 16 / Dospacito
Mentor #1: Macy Barker, 15
Mentor #2: Larken Atkinson, 36
District 8:
Female: Lyndie Franklin, 12 / Of Myths and Men
Male: Navarro Lune, 12 / 20
Mentor #1: Koren Smitty-Perez, 50
Mentor #2: Travers Smitty-Perez, 47
District 9:
Female: Ainsley Platte, 14 / EvilPencilBox
Male: Everett Reed, 17 / Tempus Time
Mentor #1: Iara Clarion, 22
Mentor #2: Gracyn Rupsis, 32
District 10:
Female: Tamarah 'Tam' Colt, 16 / Thorne98
Male: Afandina Hariri, 17 / LordShiro
Mentor #1: Celinda Oxford, 27
Mentor #2: Rhett Riley, 25
District 11:
Female: Ashe Illyrian, 14 / Team Shadow
Male: Quinn Bayers, 17 / Guesttwelve
Mentor #1: Meadow Quince, 40
Mentor #2: Brice Kylar, 20
District 12:
Female: Ishtar Marmaduke, 18 / LordShiro
Male: Geo Stryker, 15 / Tyquavis
Mentor #1: Kalina Nightingale, 67
I'm honestly sorry if your tribute didn't get in, but keep in mind that I literally had fifty-two submissions for this story. That's thirty-eight subs that I can't take. Besides, I chose tributes I look forward to writing and think I can write well. So I do apologize if your tribute(s) wasn't taken.
Speaking of tributes not getting in; on November Fourth, I will delete all the forms that weren't accepted. If you would like your form back (for a tribute that wasn't accepted!), PM me before November Fourth and I'll send it to you.
