Intros 8: Judgement Day

a/n: It is finally here!

Tabitha Declan, 13, District Twelve Female, Reaping Day

Is it wrong to be excited for Reaping Day?

Really none of us in the home are that worried for ourselves. More for our brothers and sisters here, but they only make the eighteen-year-olds take out tesserae and Tristan is not old enough yet, just ten.

Today is the day Ms. Vellin lets us into her special makeup cabinet, and even though there are about forty of us girls here and one measly cabinet, we treasure it. Me and Dulcie do our makeup, make pretty swirls using the dark shades of black that might look ghastly, but we would never know because we have never seen this stuff before but once a year and as far as we are concerned, we look radiant. We can cover up our bruises without using masks and bonnets and instead the coveted concealer.

Colorful ribbons adorn our hair, kept to the shoulder by Ms. Vellin. In deep contrast to the generic, identical gray dresses she puts us in on nice occasions, our faces are flushed, shocking red, pink, blue, and yellow bows adorning our hair.

This is the one day that I feel pretty. This is the one day that I want to be noticed.

"What do ya think, Tristan?" Duclie asks my younger brothers as we walk into the boys' barracks with the other girls who have brothers. Of-course the boys are never allowed in the girls' room.

"Tabby, Duclie, you look wonderful!"

As we approach Tristan, I notice a new bruise on his forehead that wasn't there last night. Nevertheless, he smiles with his subdued excitement and energy, and I know if not for this he would be bouncing off of the walls. He hugs me, and even though we are three years apart, only an inch separates us.

Dulcie meanwhile sticks her tongue out at some of the older boys laughing at us. "Take a hike, dipwads," she tells them. Most of the concealer between the two of us went to her. She's the loudmouth.

In comparison we are fairly different. Me, the shy, quiet girl who likes Capital fashion, and Dulcie, the tomboyish rulebreaker who shouts a lot. Dulcie is a natural leader. I think we blend so well because I am a natural follower, and I know it. I hate talking loudly, arguments, anything like that.

Maybe that's why Dulcie took me under her wing when me and Tristan came to the home five years ago.

I don't blame Mommy for what she did, she just gave in, she couldn't handle it. She was a perfectly good mom, she nurtured us and fed us, but it was just too hard after Daddy got stuck in the mine. She never made it out either.

"Tabby," Tristan begins, drawing my attention back from one of my potential spirals, "do you think one of the kids from the home will be Reaped?"

"That isn't a nice think to dwell on, Tristan." I turn to Dulcie. I know that she is the one responsible for this.

"I told you not to get into the betting circuit like last year. You still have the bruise from where Ms. Vellin walloped you with the paddle."

"Come on, Tabby, it's just a little game to keep things interesting."

"Girls, get out, and let the boys get dressed!" Ms. Vellin stands in the doorway, tall and imposing with her hair in a taut bun and always in that cold, black, dress.

"Bye Tristan," we say as we leave.

"Let's meet up outside after luncheon," he calls back over the hustle and bustle of the boys changing and girls scurrying out hurriedly.

Me and Dulcie continue our conversation in the girls' room.

"You don't need to keep things interesting, Dulcie. Two children are being selected to die. It's demented and insensitive and an insult to their memory."

Despite my anger, I can't raise my voice, and it comes out in a strained whisper.

"Okay! I'm sorry!" I cover my ears as Dulcie yells to shut off my tirade.

"I need you to take this seriously."

"I'm sorry," Duclie says, softer this time.

"Duclie, can I ask you something," I whisper as we sit close in our corner. No one is listening.

"Ask away."

"Can I ask you to look out for Tristan if I get Reaped?"

Dulcie looks pale despite the copious amount of blush she caked her cheeks with.

"You aren't going to get Reaped."

She looks at me, as if to say not to think about it, as if that will magically make it impossible, as if it is inconceivable that I, who have to slips in the glass bowl, will be Reaped.

"Just in case. I don't want him to lose himself in here. And don't let anybody pick on him either. Make sure he stays alright."

Struck dumb from the abrupt change of tone from just a few minutes ago, Dulcie nods.

"I will."

"Thank you, Dulcie."

And then I lean in and hug her, because despite her occasional annoying remarks and bad comedic timing, she is the best friend I could ask for.

"Get a room, scum!"

A girl who looks about sixteen or seventeen throws a pillow at us and cackles with her friends.

"Fuck off, bitch!" Dulcie snaps back venomously. "Mind your own business!"

I'm not a lesbian, in case you were wondering. Neither is Dulcie.

"I'd like to see her get Reaped," Dulcie says to me as we slip off our pajamas and slide into our bland, bleak gray dresses. "Like to see the look on her face. See who's laughing then, huh?"

Like we said, we meet Tristan outside as we begin the short march from the home to the Square. It's already in view.

Tristan is shaking.

"Nervous?" I ask so that only he can hear.

"Yeah. Just a bit. For you. Be careful."

We both know me being careful has nothing to do with it, but I still say "I will,", and I hold his trembling hand in mine, also shaking.

And in this miserable and austere walk to the Square, with all but certain death looming over our heads, I can't help but appreciate the beauty in life, so short for two of us. The way the sun shines out from behind the clouds and the robin's egg blue sky spans around in all directions up above, and the little dandelions blossoming out from cracks in the sidewalk, and the makeup, because even though Dulcie does look a bit ridiculous as we share a glance, that is beauty all the same.

There is nothing left to do but walk to the Square, so I might as well enjoy what I have while I have it.

Carroll Heinback, 16, District Six Male, Reaping Day

The sky is iron grey, matching perfectly with the grimy, gritty, depressing streets. Not a good sign.

A clap of thunder is heard above, making me jump. Far off a streak of lightning touches down. No, definitely not a good sign.

Rain has not yet fallen, which is good, since it would suck ass to be standing out in it, adding that to the already miserable affair.

"Carroll!"

Mom arrives at the open door, breaking my trance as I stare out into the ominous clouds of impending rain.

"Whahh-uhh-yeah? What is it?"

She sighs and hugs me. I feel myself subconsciously relax. I didn't even realize I was so tensed up.

"I think about her too, sometimes, sweetie."

"It just… it makes me scared, even though I know it's only a one in a million chance."

"I know. I get scared too. But we must be brave."

She releases me and looks up into my eyes. "Uggh, why did you have to get so tall so fast. I was hoping I would at least be able to wait until you were fourteen."

I tower over my mom by almost a foot. I'm pretty tall, at six foot one, not as tall as Dad, but still up there. It helps for my goofy appearance, and I'm okay with it. Much better than being short.

"Don't worry about today," I say to Mom. I can see the tears welling up in her ears, the nerves that she must be suppressing. "It will all be okay."

"Oh, I know. I just… I don't want to lose you too."

"You won't."

"Oh, I love you Carroll." She pecks me on the cheek.

"Love you too, Mom."

"Now, you better get ready for the Reaping."

"I will, I will, I'm just going to stop by the hospital first. It won't take long. I just want to see some of the patients, say bye to 'em just in case."

"Carroll, you don't have enough time!"

She yells as I'm already in the front lawn, if you can call a cement sidewalk and an expanse of dying grass enveloped in weeds and blackening from the smog a lawn and abandons her foolish attempt to bring me back. I couldn't stand not being able to see some of them for one last time.

"Just be back as soon as you can. You can't be late," she screams over the cranking of a motor rolling past us on the street.

"You know I will!"

The sky is further darkening with the passage of time. I must hurry.

The hospital, fortunately, is nearby, since we are more well off than many other families. Mom has a job as an architect, one of the few white-collar positions in the district. Dad isn't so lucky, him being one of the men that actually lay out the track for the new railroads Mom plans.

The building is tall and somewhat imposing, and the windows are tinted with years of smog so you can't see in, but I know who is facing out of each and every one or would be on a normal day. The entrance is flooding with children I know, all in Reaping age, walking or being wheeled to the Square, only a few miles away.

I say hello to many of them as I walk in, but I know my favorite isn't old enough yet. I know I'm not supposed to have favorites, but Daisy is hard not to fall in love with.

The woman at the front desk knows she needn't ask for my ID, she knows who I am. I slip into my clown uniform on the third floor: A loud neon pink and white checkered shirt with orange and red pants, a red ball nose, massive yellow shoes Carmichael likes to joke aren't too far off from my actual foot size, and a straight blue wig I've grown somewhat attached to. I wear it every day, so I feel comfortable in it.

Daisy's nurse opens the door and welcomes me in. I barely peek in, and then in one lengthy leap hop to her bedside and pull out some flowers of her namesake I picked earlier. "Your flowers, miss."

Daisy laughs. It always makes me smile to see her do it. She is only eight, with dark chocolate colored skin and big brown eyes, and her skinny frame would weigh sixty-five pounds dripping wet, but the pure happiness I see on her face is so beautiful, in contrast with her sickly countenance, suggesting there was nothing wrong.

"Carroll!"

She delicately takes the flowers and puts them to her chest. These are her only contact with the natural world, nature, and I would give almost anything to see her see the grass, the trees, the flowers.

"How's my number one patient doing today?"

"Good," she says. "How are you?"

"Perfectly splendid."

She smiles, but now I can see there is something biting at her from the inside.

"Carroll?"

"Yes, Daisy?"

"Are you worried about today?"

Fuck. Today.

"Well, sort of. It would be crazy not to. But you always gotta look on the bright side." I can tell now is not the time to crack one of my corny puns.

"Okay. Do you think I could be Reaped one day, or you could be Reaped?"

"Well it's entirely possible, but not in any way probable. It doesn't do to dwell on things you can't control, just to try to improve the things you can." In a way that is sort of hypocritical for me to say when I find myself crying every third night, for Daisy, or Emmett, or LaKia, or Diesel, or Sprint, or any of the other children. And then for Helen, but God knows no one could have controlled that.

Me and Daisy spend the rest of the time talking. I crack jokes to make her laugh, like I always do. We pass the time easily, and it flies by fast.

Eventually, after what could have been an hour of fifteen minutes, Daisy's mother pokes her head in.

"Excuse me, Mr. Heinback, I think it might be best for you to get going."

I look up at the clock on the wall. The Reaping is in twenty minutes. Shit.

"Oh, Daisy, I gotta go."

"Ok, bye Carroll, I love you."

"Love you too, in case I don't see you."

"Don't dwell on that, do what you said."

"I will!"

I have no time to change, no time to run home and walk to the Square with Mom and Dad. This will be bad. And embarrassing. I just hope the camera doesn't find my electric blue head over the other boys'. Maybe it would be better to be short. And oh God. What if Petra sees me?

It is finally coming down outside, a mist of small drops, and booms echo across the sky like cannons. Oddly ironic.

I finally make it to the pen, and just in time. I don't need to find Carmichael, he finds me.

"Seriously?" he asks.

"I didn't have time to change."

"You better take that wig off."

"Right."

I do, releasing my black curls.

Carmichael is a good friend, and normally not this rude. He also works at the hospital entertaining kids. He paints pictures of them and sings to them. We make quite a pair.

The escort walks on stage. Theodora Powwa, a famed Capital model, steampunk enthusiast, and alternative rock singer. Today she wears a grey dress made of bits of metal with boots of the same shaped like lightning bolts and a cloth over the side of her black hair, contrasting with her unnaturally pale skin. She has been with Six for years, and oddly seems to take pride in us. I guess she just thinks it fits best with her aesthetic.

As always, the standard video plays, blurred by the rain, but it doesn't impede Theodora's loud, screechy voice.

First, for the ladies!

She heads to the bowl of sodden bits of paper and pulls one out with her leather gloves.

"Keeley Axel!"

A tall, slender, and very attractive girl emerges from the thirteen-year-olds' section. Her face is ambiguous. At some points she looks like she wants to punch somebody, at others like she wants to burst into tears. I feel. For her.

"And now, for the boys!"

"Carroll Heinback!"

Oh my God. It happened. Now my clown attire is the least of my worries. The crowd begins to laugh, the homeless folks with no one they care about. I can feel tears dripping down my cheeks as I realize: I'm probably going to die.

"No!"

Mom screams from the adult section and Dad holds her back with tears in his eyes.

I drop to my knees. Someone far, far away shakes me. Carmichael.

"Get up, Carroll. You need to get up." His voice breaks on the last word.

The walk of shame up the path to the stage is the one of the worst moments of my life only second to when Helen died, or when some other patients died. Oh no, Daisy!

Everyone laughs, or points, or looks on with infuriating, devastating pity. Mom and Dad scream still.

As I make it on stage, the girl, Keeley, whispers to me, "Get a hold of yourself. Don't make it too easy for them." She still hasn't started crying.

I wipe my eyes and nothing drips out further. I look out into the stands. There is Mom, and Dad, and the two of us lock eyes, and I nod my head, and he knows it means I will fight. Carmichael has tears falling. Blaze in his wheelchair screams no fair from the twelve-year-olds' pen and Corolla bawls in her bed from across the path on the girls' end. My eyes finally find Petra, staring at me, her eyes wet. It empowers me to see that.

I will not cry anymore. I won't cry, not for the ones I hate but for the ones I love.

Elior Kidlat Gobel, 15, District Five Male, Reaping Day

The maids set down the heaping plates of breakfast in front of us. Sizzling strips of bacon, buttered blueberry pancakes dripping with syrup and laden with cream, fruits of every kind, eggs done in every way imaginable.

"Reaping Day calls for a feast!" Father says as he scoops up his ginormous helpings, as does Faraday, leaving me and Mother to pick off the scattered yet plentiful remnants.

Around here, every day is a feast.

I slowly gather my food together -I'm not that hungry- and look up across the lengthy dining room table to stare into my father's eyes. A greedy sneer meets my gaze, a smug one, and we don't break eye contact as he stuffs his face with bacon.

"Come on, son. Eat. You must to stay healthy. You need to put on some muscle. You need to get strong."

Hypocrite. If he is healthy, we're dirt poor. His buttocks sag out of his chair, squeezing through the armrests like goo; if that is his version of muscle I would like to see his version of flab.

He knows I try to eat with him, he does. He knows, and I know that he knows by the cocky way he looks me in the eye as I reluctantly stuff food in my mouth. It goes nowhere. I'm not anorexic or anything, I'm just skinny. Five foot six and 108 pounds, which is approximately only about five thirds of a pound per inch. Pathetic.

"Good boy, Faraday," he says, looking over at my older brother.

He looks up, apparently being caught unawares, torn away from his precious breakfast. "Thank you, Father."

Faraday is not overweight or chubby by any means, just not skin and bones like me. Sometimes I fantasize about being larger in my room, like all of those handsome, charming heroes I read about. It would be nice to have a girl to save, too, someone to impress, to woo, to love. To have a happy ending…

"Elior!" I look up at my Father, brought back to reality. "I said eat! Didn't I, Arendella?"

Mother, who hasn't said a word all morning, looks up at Father. "Yes, Avery." She gives me a pitying glance, the kind someone would give you if you tripped in public and everybody laughed, not the kind a loving, defensive mother would give, and goes back to fearfully nibbling on a strip of bacon.

I quickly go back to stuffing my face. The food makes a disgusting squelching noise that sends goosebumps up my skin every time, and yet I still do. Bite after bite after bite after bite after bite. By the time I finish, finally, I feel close to puking.

"Ah, that's good," Father says. "Should beef you up," implying it is my fault, and also that it won't actually work, and also that it is the former that the latter is true.

We all stand up and push our chairs in. As I head off to brush my teeth, Father looks at me.

"Son, come here for a minute," he tells me. I feel nauseous as I wobble over to him.

"You need to be taught a lesson. You need to get strong like me. You need to pack a punch, show those pitiful street mongrels who has power. Good God, you look like one, now. You have a lot of transforming to do."

I glare into my father's eye, knowing full well what is on the impending.

"Hit me. Hit me with your best shot."

I clench my bony fist into a ball, my knuckles poking out under the skin like needles, rear back my arm, and punch him in the forearm as he resists. He doesn't even flinch.

"Son," he says, "you need to get stronger. You need to be shown how it is done, what to live up to. I can't go around have a little weakling half-pint for a boy, now can I? Can I!?"

"No."

"Good answer. Now, watch and learn."

And with that he swings back his arm with a speed that would surprise anyone but me and punches me full on in the chest.

I fall to the floor with a dull thud. Everything is spinning, I can't breathe and yet my lungs are working overtime to take in air, I am on the verge of puking.

"Watch and learn!"

Father delivers are heavy kick to the side, and another and another, and tosses me up against the wall with ease. "PATHETIC!" he yells in my face.

I feel my eyes wet with incoming tears, and Father sees them. "You miserable little girl, you embarrassment of a son! Get ready or else!"

And with that he lets me go. I teeter to my room. Fuck, it hurts. It really fucking hurts.

I look in the mirror on my door. I hate myself. Father is right, I am worthless. I lift up my shirts to look at the bruises on my chests from yesterday and the countless days before. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know why, but I rear up my fist, and I punch that stupid mirror as hard as I can, even harder than I punched Father, with all of my hatred.

It shatters. Glass cuts my hand open, and I use my top blanket to staunch the blood flow. Mother and Father won't be happy.

Oddly, it sort of feels good. And I didn't think it would actually break, either. It wasn't my intention.

Maybe that Elior can be broken, too.

I look on my desk as I prepare to brush my teeth. On it is a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Sometimes, when Father gets angry, he sort of reminds me of Uncle Vernon, with his purple face and rotundity. In fact, he reminds me of him in every way, Faraday being Dudley. The scumbag doesn't even care to intervene.

Maybe I can be like Harry. Maybe I can have a happy ending. Be strong. Get a girl.

But I know that would never be possible as I look into my bathroom mirror. I don't have the strength to punch it. I am pathetic. I could never be strong. No girl would ever want me. I can't have a happy ending like all in all of my favorite books.

I am pathetic.

No one wants to be near me in the boy for the boys aged fifteen. They all know where I come from, even without the fancy clothes that Father and Mother force me into wearing. The rich boy. They only feel hate and resent towards me and aren't afraid to tell me.

"Hey skeleton," one boy says to me. "Hope you get Reaped, do us all a favor."

"Can't wait to see your rich, fatass parents cry about it."

"Hope you get torn apart by the mutts!"

"Don't be silly, Neon, there's no meat to tear!"

They all join in the chorus of raucous laughter and push me around until the Reaping starts.

The escort, Jacques Striker, skips up to the stage in his typical attire: Skintight black ballet tights, a shockingly yellow suitcoat, and a vibrantly shirt and tie underneath, with a spiky and highly gelled afro, black on one side, yellow on the other. Apparently he is some acrobat or something or other in a circus that uses static electricity for his stunts

"Why hello, District Five, my favorite district of all!" he screeches into the microphone in a horrendous French accent, which coupled with the loud siren echoing from the mic creates a mixture that makes my skin crawl. I bend down as I cover my ears. Damn, it is hot. Why Father insists I must where three layers of shirts plus dress pants I do not know. I feel a wave of sickliness wash over me. I feel like shit.

I unbutton the top few buttons of my dress shirt, exposing the white tee underneath, and loosen my navy tie.

On and on he goes with his yearly dreadful monologue including an unentertaining slight-of-hand trick and a demonstration of electrical principles that we have been shown since third grade, all culminating in the Dark Days video. I hardly pay attention, I feel so faint. Just get it over with.

Finally, a girl is Reaped. It feels odd to get happy at this part. At least it is almost done with.

"Konani Sowka!"

A girl from the section adjacent to mine stops fanning herself and presses her hands to her chest, going completely white. She is skinny, like me, very skinny, yet still very pretty. She looks about my height, with straight brown hair, and of mainly Caucasian descent, though she looks to have some Asian in her.

A girl calls out her name from the crowd of those not eligible. A boy in my section who looks like a male version of her is frozen in shock, tears trickling down his cheeks. One tall boy from the seventeen-year-olds section runs out of his pen and meets her, giving a hug.

"NO!" he bellows. "You can't take her! Pick someone else!"

"No, Ziv, no, I have to do this, I'm sorry." Her voice breaks, and all of a sudden, they both burst into tears, holding each other in a tight embrace. Something about the way that they touch tells me that there are siblings.

"No, Konani! You can't die!"

Peacekeepers fire their rifles in the air, creating a cacophony of booms and bangs. I feel for this girl, I don't want to see her go. The men in white grab her older brother, Ziv, and push her up the steps, though she goes voluntarily as her brother riots. Tears trickle down her face, glistening in the harsh rays of the sun.

"Whooh, that was an ordeal, wasn't it folks!" Jacques goes unacknowledged, and pouts his way over to the boys' bowl.

"And now, for the men, oooooohhh." He picks a name. "Elior Gobel!"

Despite the sweltering heat, I feel like I've been doused in a cold bath of ice. Like a bowling ball has just dropped in my stomach. I feel dizzy, and cling to the railing. This can't be happening! I haven't lived any yet! I need to have my happy ending! Forget what I said, I need my happy ending!

Peacekeepers seize me and throw me to the ground. My legs are too weak for me to stand. They pick me up like a rag doll and carry me to the stage, tossing me onto the stage where I lay limp. And then the image of me lying on the ground, a corpse, lifeless, flickers in my brain, and I can't get it out, and-

Everything from breakfast comes out. All of it. And maybe even the decadent dinner from last night to. The escort shrieks, the crowd looks away in disgust or laughs, but nobody cries, nobody is sad for me.

"There, there, just let it all come out, it's ok."

A gentle hand rubs my back, soothes. Everything becomes a bit less painful and scary. I look up into the eyes of my district partner. They are still puffy, but she seems comforted now, at ease.

"It's a perfectly natural reaction. Just breathe. Take deep breaths. Don't panic."

She rubs my back some more. I hope she can't see me blushing under my already flustered face from the sun.

She helps me up to my feet, and on command shakes my hand. She only comes up short on me by about an inch. Her eyes, they are chocolate brown, I feel like I could lose myself in them, in a carefree world.

And then she breaks away and we are being escorted into the Justice Building.

Maybe I may still have my happy ending.

It's finally over! :D

I cannot wait to get into the Capital phase, I don't know about you guys, but intros are always the most boring part of the story to me. Anyways, what do you think about the cast? About the final three tributes? (Ironically, Elior and Carroll were my twenty third and twenty fourth tributes respectively.) I think this is my longest chapter to date btw, coming in at a whopping nineteen pages and five thousand words exactly! *o* Please review, PLEASE! Give your thoughts, I want to know your listening. It's not mandatory, but I am basing placements somewhat on submitter-activity.

Question time!

Who are you most excited to see going forward in the pre-Games? (Both out of these three and out of all of the tributes.)

What book does Elior have resting on his bathroom counter?

The next chapter should be out by the end of the week since I only have one POV to write. We're checking back in with our old friend Odysseus from the Betting Center. Remember him, all the way back from Chapter One EIGHT MONTHS AGO! How has it been that long? Once again please review and have a nice morning/afternoon.

-Mills