Reapings
Overture


Overture: An orchestral piece at the beginning of a composition.


Phoenix Pace, 22
District One Mentor

Phoenix relaxed a little when they saw the size of the crowd. They recognized a lot of the first few rows – some of Raven's classmates from the academy. She had decided not to volunteer, yes, but there had to be someone out there who would be willing – probably even eager – to take her place. There were so many of them. All well-trained. All perfectly capable.

Phoenix's eyes found their sister in the crowd as District One's escort, Aubrielle, made her way to the first reaping bowl. She dipped a hand in and pulled a name immediately. Almost carelessly. After all, this was District One. How often had it really mattered which name she had chosen from the bowl? There was always someone ready to volunteer.

"Rita Dufour!" Aubrielle called out quickly, clearly expecting to be interrupted at any second. But no one interrupted. For a long, long moment, there was silence. Phoenix could see Raven shifting uneasily in her section. If no one volunteered, would she change her mind, just to spare the unlucky person who had been reaped?

Phoenix wished they could be sure she wouldn't.

"I volunteer!"

Phoenix couldn't help a sigh of relief. The voice had come from farther away than they had thought – from all the way back in the fourteen-year-old section – but right now, a volunteer was a volunteer. The girl who stepped out of the crowd didn't look familiar, but Phoenix didn't know all of the younger students. There was still a chance she had some training, and she looked confident enough. Right now, that was what mattered.

The girl's smile didn't waver as she neared the stage. She was about average height, with pale skin, long blonde hair, and blue eyes. There was a long scar of some sort above her left eyebrow. Maybe she had been training.

Or maybe they were grasping at straws.

Phoenix shook the thought from their head. It was done. She had volunteered. Raven was off the hook. Sure, her trainers might be a bit miffed that she hadn't volunteered, but at least someone had. And fourteen wasn't that young. Hell, last year's Victor had been fourteen.

Aubrielle, for her part, looked simply delighted. "And what's your name, my dear?" she asked, handing the girl the microphone.

"Opal Granite," the girl announced, still beaming back at the fourteen-year-old section, where some girls who were probably her friends were watching, wide-eyed, as if they hadn't expected her to actually volunteer.

"Congratulations, Opal!" Aubrielle gushed, as if she'd fought off a slew of other hopefuls to make it up to the stage. "And now for the boys." She swirled her hand around a little bit in the bowl, then drew a name. "Baoba Pitblossom!"

Once again, there was silence. But this silence lasted longer. At last, there was movement in the seventeen-year-old section. "Isn't anyone going to volunteer?" asked a voice, loud enough for Phoenix to hear from the stage. "Come on. You've got to be kidding me, right?"

Phoenix shifted uneasily as the Peacekeepers started to stir. But before they could make a move to bring the boy to the stage, he came stomping up on his own. He was a few inches taller than the girl and a good bit heavier, pale-skinned with bright pink hair and sunglasses. As he stormed up to the stage, he removed the sunglasses and stared out at the crowd with glaring yellow-ish eyes. "Seriously? This is ridiculous! The year I get reaped is the one year no one wants to volunteer? What are you so afraid of? Every other year, you're practically dying to get up here. What's the matter with you?"

Opal turned to Phoenix. "Aren't you going to do something? He's making us look bad."

Phoenix shrugged. "No, he's making himself look bad. So what are you going to do?"

Opal's mouth formed a little "o" as the words sank in, and she whirled around to face her district partner. "What's the matter with you? Don't you have any idea what an honor this is? Any other year, your name would have been called out and then immediately forgotten. This year, everyone knows who you are. You're representing District One in the Hunger Games. Act like it!"

Baoba glared, muttering something about how he'd rather be alive than recognized, but then fell silent. Maybe he'd finally realized no one was going to volunteer, no matter how much he complained. Aubrielle visibly relaxed as the Peacekeepers took a few steps away from the stage. "Well then, shake hands, you two," she instructed cheerily, as if the previous exchange hadn't taken place at all.

Still staring each other down, Opal and Baoba shook hands. Phoenix caught a few sympathetic looks from the other Victors, and shrugged a little in response. At least Opal had the right attitude, and Baoba had some fire, too, if they could just manage to channel it in the right direction. Sure, they both needed some coaching, but that was what Phoenix was there for – for a little while, at least. Eventually, though, they would be on their own.


Lyric Arkose, 20
District Two Mentor

Lyric shut off the recording of District One's reapings, shook her head, and headed for the square. A fourteen-year-old kid and a reaped tribute who wouldn't stop complaining. At least she could be sure District Two's reaping wouldn't turn out like that. Well, at least half of it wouldn't turn out like that. She was certain about Octavia, but the boys…

Maybe it didn't matter, really. Only one tribute could make it out, after all, and she and the other trainers had known for weeks – maybe even months – that Octavia was their best chance. Maybe it was best if they didn't lose another promising volunteer, and if someone was reaped instead to go in with her.

Lyric shook her head. She was rationalizing, and the worst part was, she knew it. And she knew why. She wanted Octavia to come back. The truth was, she'd enjoyed the one-on-one training time they'd spent together recently. And Octavia had seemed to enjoy it, too. You've always paid me more attention. That was what she'd said. Had she been … flirting?

Or was that just wishful thinking?

Focus. If Octavia won – if she came back – they would have time to figure that out. She would have time to sort through her feelings. And if Octavia died…

Well, then maybe it was better if she never knew.

Lyric took a deep breath and plastered a smile on her face as she joined the other Victors onstage. Raiden gave her a friendly punch on the arm. "Took you long enough."

Lyric tried not to flinch. Raiden didn't know his own strength sometimes. Or maybe he did. He certainly knew that he was strong enough to snap people's necks. That had been his first kill, during the bloodbath of the 25th Games. The boy from Ten, the one the Capitol had fallen in love with, the one who had been dating his mentor Inastasia. The one who had clearly been distracted by whatever she had told him the night before the Games.

Stop it. That wasn't going to happen to Octavia. She wouldn't let it. All she had to do was keep her big mouth shut, and Octavia would never know. Unless she already knew. Unless…

Breathe.

District Two's new escort, Sylvester, beamed at the group of Victors as he joined them on the stage, clearly proud to have finally made it to a district with so many Victors. Eight, to be precise – more than any other district. He gave a quick speech, then dipped a hand into the first reaping bowl. The one that certainly wouldn't matter…

"Grace Shimmer."

The name had barely left his lips before Octavia called out, "I volunteer!" Lyric could practically hear a sigh of relief course through the crowd as Octavia took the stage. She was about average height, her skin tan from hours of training outdoors, her curly hair pulled back from her face with a headband, the sleeves of her dress just short enough to show off her toned arms…

And then she flashed Lyric a smile, nothing but confidence in her grey eyes, and Lyric relaxed. What had she been worried about? Of course Octavia would survive. She had to. She had been born for this.

"And what's your name, dear?" Sylvester asked.

"Octavia Branshaw."

That was it. No boasting. No promises of glory. She knew why she was there, and so did they; there was no point repeating it. Sylvester nodded, satisfied, and turned to the second bowl. "Quintus Delgado."

Nothing. For a long moment, there was nothing. Lyric's gaze scanned the crowd, but most of the boys avoided her eyes. So she had been right. No one was going to volunteer. They were afraid of what had happened last year. Hell, maybe they were even afraid of Octavia. It didn't really matter why they weren't stepping up; all that mattered was the result.

And the result was a little flicker of motion in the thirteen-year-old section as the crowd parted around a pale, gangly teen in a plaid shirt and a skirt. They were about as tall as Octavia, with long brown hair that was drawn back in a ponytail. Slowly, glancing from side to side as if still hoping someone else might volunteer, they made their way to the stage, nearly tripping over the last step but catching themself at the last moment, grey eyes wide and full of terror.

But no tears. That was good. Or maybe it just hadn't sunk in yet. The kid whispered something to Sylvester, who nodded and turned back to the crowd. "Quint Delgado, everyone, and they've asked me to double-check and see if there's anyone out there who would like to volunteer."

Nothing. Sylvester turned back to Quint and shrugged, probably just as disappointed that no one had come forward. Quint nodded reluctantly, biting their lip to hold back the tears that were probably coming, and held out their hand to Octavia. Octavia shook it firmly. Professionally. No point in getting attached, but no point in being rude, either. As soon as the cameras clicked off, however, Lyric was sure she saw Octavia wink. At least there was one tribute she probably wouldn't have to worry about.


Archimedes Kuiper, 20
District Three Mentor

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Lois asked as the pair of them headed for the stage. "I could always mentor for another year or two if you don't think—"

"I can handle it," Archimedes insisted.

"I didn't say you couldn't." Lois' voice was gentle, but she couldn't hide her concern. "It's just that…"

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. He could imagine how it would have ended. It's just that you were fifteen, and terrified, and spent most of your Games hiding. It's just that you only killed one tribute, and that was only because you arrived at the finale so late, the other two had practically finished each other off, and you just had to kill the one who was still breathing. It's just that I'm not sure they'll take your advice seriously. It's just that I'm not sure they should.

Archimedes nodded as the two of them joined Fiona onstage. He was a fluke. He knew that. Hell, so was Fiona. Lois was the only one who had one fair and square, without any trickery, without hiding, just facing the competition and fighting, the way the Games were supposed to be played.

But if he had played the way he was supposed to, he would be dead.

"Hello, District Three!" their escort, Jazlyn, boomed into the microphone, which squeaked a little from the feedback. "I am so excited to be here today! I don't know how many of you know, but it's already been a very interesting Reaping Day in One and Two, and I can't wait to see what happens here in Three!"

Archimedes raised an eyebrow. He hadn't watched the other reapings; there would be plenty of time for that later. But 'interesting' in the Career districts usually meant things hadn't gone according to plan. Maybe the wrong person had volunteered, or there had been a fight about who would get the 'honor.' Archimedes leaned back in his chair. Careers. He was just lucky the only one he'd ever had to face had been lying on her back, already bleeding out.

Jazlyn dipped her hand into the first bowl and drew a name. "Angelica Fritz!"

"I volunteer! Over here! Me! Me! Pick me!"

What?

Archimedes turned towards the sudden movement in the fifteen-year-old section, where the volunteer was already sprinting towards the stage, grinning widely, sandy brown ponytail flapping along behind. She was short and thin, with pale skin and brown eyes that shone as she raced to the stage.

Jazlyn didn't bother concealing her delight at the fact that Three had a volunteer. "And what's your name, young lady?" she asked.

"Fermi Schoenberg. And sure, young lady, young man, young person, whichever takes your fancy."

Jazlyn didn't miss a beat. "And your pronouns are…?"

Fermi shrugged. "They, she, he, whatever. What difference does it make?"

For a moment, Jazlyn looked like she was about to explain exactly what difference it made to her, but she apparently thought better of it. "And would you care to tell us why you volunteered today, Fermi?"

Fermi giggled. "I just thought it'd be fun."

Archimedes blinked. Fun. Even Careers didn't usually spout any nonsense about the Games being fun. Glorious, sure. Exhilarating, maybe. But fun?

Jazlyn, however, didn't seem to think this was anything out of the ordinary. And maybe it wasn't in the Capitol. They certainly had fun watching the Games; maybe it wasn't as much of a stretch for them to imagine someone having fun in them. Jazlyn was grinning as she dipped her hand into the second bowl and chose a slip of paper. "Eddie Hyde!"

There was a shuffling noise in the crowd, and Archimedes could see someone on the edge of the fourteen-year-old section turn to the crowd outside, gesturing frantically. Before he could make a break for it, however, two Peacekeepers stepped in, each of them taking the boy by an arm and half-leading, half-dragging him to the stage.

"P-p-please, you d-d-don't understand," the boy pleaded. "You d-d-don't know wh-what will h-happen. You h-have to p-p-p-pick someone else!"

There were tears in the boy's brown eyes as the Peacekeepers dumped him onstage. Slowly, he got to his feet. He was a little taller than Fermi, thin and pale, with dark brown hair and thick, round glasses. "P-p-please," he begged, turning his pleas to Jazlyn instead. "You c-c-c-can't let them s-sent me into the G-g-games. It's n-not s-s-s-safe."

Fermi giggled. "That's kinda the points, silly."

"No, I m-meant it's not s-s-safe for e-everyone else. M-m-my alter e-ego w-w-will—"

Archimedes shook his head. "Look, nice try, kid, but you can't get out of this by pretending—"

Before he could finish the sentence, however, something happened. Some sort of change. The boy straightened up, the fear fading from his eyes, and lunged at Archimedes. His chair toppled over, and Archimedes could feel the boy on top of him, clawing at him. "Pretending?" The voice was louder, the stutter gone. "Who says I'm pretending? I'm here, and I'm here to play! Just watch and see! Just wait and—"

Thud. Archimedes looked up to see Lois standing over the pair of them, what was left of his chair in her hands. The boy slumped forward onto the ground, and Archimedes squirmed out from under him. Fermi was clapping his hands, grinning madly. "That was great," they squealed with delight. "Oh, I'm going to love having him as a district partner."

"Great," Archimedes mumbled, dusting himself off. "Thanks, Lois."

"Are you sure—"

"Yes." No. No, he wasn't sure at all. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with these two. But he did know that he had to try.


Brooke Transom, 22
District Four Mentor

There were always a few stragglers. Brooke couldn't help a chuckle as the last few kids took their places in the crowd, some sopping wet, some hurriedly pulling on slightly more formal clothes. The ones who had gone out for a morning swim, or perhaps a boat ride, and lost track of the time. It was an easy thing to do. And as long as they made it on time – or even just a little late – no one seemed to care too much one way or another. That was just how the reaping went.

It certainly didn't seem to faze their escort, Gaelan, who had been waiting patiently for the crowd to fill out. One or two of the other Victors looked annoyed at the delay, but Brooke knew they were probably just nervous. And after seeing how the reapings had gone in One and Two, she couldn't really blame them. Only the girl from Two could really be considered a typical volunteer; the rest were a mix of younger kids and reaped tributes.

Brooke turned her attention back to the crowd. A little chaos in One and Two might actually be good for Four's chances if they could muster up some strong contenders. She knew the former mayor, Mr. Banks, had been pressuring his kid to volunteer, but had no idea whether the boy actually meant to go through with it. As for the girls, she'd seen some promising trainees, but most of them were sixteen or seventeen. If they decided to wait another year…

Brooke shook the thought from her head. If they decided to wait, someone would be reaped. It was as simple as that. It had happened before. Sure, it was less common recently, but that didn't rule it out. And two of their own Victors – Mags and Bastian – had been reaped, so it wasn't as if it was automatically a death sentence, either.

After finishing his speech, Gaelan dipped his hand into the first reaping bowl and chose a slip of paper. "Corin Palmer!"

After a moment, the fourteen-year-old section stirred, parting around a small girl, allowing her to step out of the crowd. She had tanned skin and shoulder-length dirty blonde hair with bleached ends, pulled back in a ponytail. Her hazel eyes were wide with surprise, but she quickly made her way to the stage, taking the last few steps two at a time. By the time she took her place next to Gaelan, a smile had spread across her face.

Good. At least she knew what the crowd wanted to see. Gaelan grinned and held out his hand for a high-five, which Corin delivered. Then he turned back to the reaping bowls and drew another name. "Landon Holmes!"

"I volunteer!" This time, the call was immediate, and a boy rushed to the stage. He was tall and muscular, with curly medium brown hair and blue-green eyes. He bounded up the stairs and snatched the microphone from Gaelan. "Sebastian Banks here, but most of you probably already knew that." That earned him a few chuckles; most of them knew his father, not him, but the name still meant something. He clapped Corin on the back. "And I'm telling you, you better watch out for this one. She almost skewered me with a spear earlier when I snuck up on her boat!"

"You were about three feet from me," Corin hissed under her breath.

Sebastian handed the microphone back to Gaelan. "Yeah, but they don't have to know that," he whispered back. "For all they know, you can spear a goldfish from twenty yards away. They don't care. They just want a show."

Corin took the hint. "No hard feelings, right?" she asked with a smile.

Sebastian shook his head. "None at all." Then, loud enough to make sure the crowd heard, "In fact, I'd say that qualifies you for the Career pack this year, if you think you can cut it."

Brooke raised an eyebrow. It was an unusual offer for a fourteen-year-old reaped tribute, but by making the offer now rather than waiting, Sebastian was bypassing the need for the others' approval. If District Four appeared to be a team, rather than the fractured mess in One and Two, that could make them look stronger. That meant a lot as far as the pack was concerned. And as a mentor, it would certainly make things easier for her.

Besides, if the reapings were anything to go by, competition to remain in the pack wouldn't be nearly as fierce this year. If, as seemed likely, both of the reaped tributes from One and Two bowed out of the pack, they might even be looking for an outer-district tribute or two to fill out their numbers, putting anyone who had joined at the start in a better position once the pack started to fracture.

Brooke leaned back, aware that none of this was probably going through Corin's head. She was concerned about her chances, and being a member of the Career pack was a definite plus. It meant not having to look for other allies. It meant access to the cornucopia's resources. It meant food and weapons and supplies and sponsors. There really wasn't any choice at all. Still, Corin made a show of considering for a moment before holding out her hand. "You've got yourself an ally."

Sebastian shook it. "And you've got yourself a pack."


Wade Larthey, 22
District Five Mentor

He still wasn't quite used to the cheering as he took the stage. Wade smiled out at the crowd and gave a little wave, his hands safely hidden under his gloves. Melvin nodded as Wade took a seat beside his mentor. "They love you, you know."

Wade rolled his eyes. "I bet they cheered for you, too."

Melvin shook his head. "Not really. They're still a bit uneasy about Mini." District Five's previous escort, Minerva Masters, had retired last year and moved in with Melvin … after announcing that she was pregnant with his child. They'd gotten married shortly before the baby had arrived, and while the Capitol had eaten it up – they loved drama in any form – the people of District Five were a bit slower to accept a Capitolite living in Victors' Village.

The two of them fell silent as their new escort, Dariel, made his way slowly up the stairs. Maybe the Capitol had figured an eighty-year-old escort was less likely to have an affair with one of the remaining Victors. That was probably a safe bet, since the other two options were Penny, who was already happily married, and Wade, who was quite uninterested.

"Hello there, District Five!" Dariel gasped out as he approached the first reaping bowl. Wade had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes. It wasn't as if the air in Five was that bad. Okay, maybe it was, but at least it wasn't Six. Or maybe he just didn't notice because he'd been breathing it his entire life. Still…

After a speech that was fairly short despite the pauses for Dariel to catch his breath, the escort reached into the first reaping bowl and drew a name. "Neon Flash! Ooh, what a bright name. Come on up, Neon."

Wade glanced sympathetically around the crowd. Flash. It was one of the community home names. That was the common practice these days; if a kid came in without a last name of their own, they got the name of the community home. Flash, Wayne, Stark, Banner – most of them homes he'd helped refurbish and named himself. So whoever had been picked was probably an orphan…

"Wait!" A stir of motion in the fifteen-year-old section was interrupted by an echoing one among the sixteen-year-olds, and a short, thin girl made her way through the crowd to the section in front of hers. There was a whispered conversation that seemed for a moment was about to blossom into an argument, but then the fifteen-year-old nodded and took a step back.

"I volunteer!" the sixteen-year-old called, making her way forward. As she made her way through the twelve-year-old section, there was another flicker of movement, but the girl from the fifteen-year-old section caught hold of a younger girl to stop her from racing forward. The girl who had volunteered kept her eyes on the stage, her face carefully emotionless as she approached Dariel.

"Fantastic!" Dariel announced. "And what might your name be?"

The girl reluctantly took a step closer so the microphone would pick her up. "Aurora Flash, but most people call me Aura."

"I see. Flash? So was that your sister?"

"Yes."

Not biological, I'd bet. But Wade didn't say it. Pale, blonde pixie cut, blue eyes … no, the girl didn't resemble either from the crowd, although the other two were probably related by blood. But that didn't matter. Close bonds formed between some of the kids at the community homes – close enough, maybe, to be worth risking their lives for.

"Brilliant. And I bet that's your younger sister there in the crowd, too. Oh, this is so exciting. When was the last time Five had a volunteer?"

"Certainly not my year," Wade mumbled. No one had even thought about volunteering for him or his district partner, despite the fact that he'd been twelve and Emerson had been thirteen. Neon was certainly lucky to have someone who cared.

Wade shook the thought from his head as Dariel reached into the second reaping bowl. It didn't matter that he hadn't had anyone to volunteer for him. He had won. He was safe. It was these two he had to worry about now. Aura and…

"Dario Baretti!" Dariel called out. "Oh, isn't that nice? Your name's almost like mine. Dario, Dariel. Come on up, Dario!"

Almost immediately, a boy stepped out of the eighteen-year-old section and made his way quickly and calmly to the stage. He was tall – taller than Aura, and quite a bit taller than Wade and Dariel, as well. He had the muscles to match, and a number of scars on the parts of his pale face that weren't hidden by his beard and mustache. His dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he was glaring as he approached Dariel.

Dariel, however, couldn't take a hint. "Well hello there, Dario! Don't you think that's a wonderful coincidence? Dario and Dariel being so much alike? I—"

Whatever the end of the sentence was going to be, it was cut short by Dario's fists. The first punch caught Dariel squarely on the jaw, and he went down while the second jab caught him in the stomach. Dario kicked him squarely in the ribs and was about to deliver another blow when several Peacekeepers finally managed to subdue him, quickly cuffing his hands behind his back. "We're nothing alike," Dario spat as several other Peacekeepers carried the escort off the stage. Dariel was still breathing, but certainly in no condition to finish the reaping.

Wade glanced around hurriedly. Crap. What was he supposed to do now? He could see Mini stirring in the crowd – maybe making a move to step in as an escort, which would mean that Melvin would want to mentor. But they had a baby. Wade leapt to his feet and snatched the microphone from where it had fallen. "Well, that was quite a show! Looks like someone's already eager for a fight! District Five, let's hear it for Aura and Dario!"

The crowd clapped. They actually clapped. Whether they were clapping for him, or for the fact that someone had finally punched an escort in the face, he wasn't sure, but at least they were clapping, not rioting. As the cameras finally, mercifully, clicked off, Wade caught Melvin's gaze and gave him a thumbs-up. Melvin nodded gratefully as the tributes were led away, and Wade made his way to the train. He would just have to figure this out on his own.


Tabatha Fender, 15
District Six Mentor

Bertie had certainly been right about the reapings being unusual so far this year. Three reaped tributes from the Career districts, as well as volunteers from Three and Five, of all places. And a boy who had attacked his mentor, and another who had attacked an escort. Tabatha leaned back in her chair onstage, hoping for a little peace and calm in their district, at least, especially after what had happened last year.

After what she had done last year.

Bertie gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze as their escort, Noel, joined them onstage. They flashed Tabatha a smile, but Tabatha was sure they were really just grateful she had made it back rather than Todd. Noel's smile wavered a little as they dipped their hand into the first bowl, clearly hoping for things to go a bit more smoothly than last year – or perhaps more smoothly than the first five districts. Had they already watched the reapings, too?

"Vicarys Flask!"

Tabatha's gaze swept through the crowd. The name wasn't familiar, but that didn't really mean anything. Six was a big district; there were plenty of kids even around her own age that she didn't know. Sure enough, it was the fifteen-year-old section that parted, allowing a girl to step out of the crowd. She was fairly average-looking – average height, average build, bronze skin, and wavy, chaotic black hair that flapped about in the wind, hiding part of her face as she made her way to the stage.

Maybe because of that, it took Tabatha a moment to realize the girl was chuckling, trying to hold back laughter. "You've gotta be kidding me," the girl mumbled under her breath as she climbed the stairs. "Well, doesn't that just take the cake?" She brushed her hair out of her face long enough for Tabatha to catch a flicker of amusement in her black eyes. Then she turned to Noel and shrugged. "Well, go ahead. Get on with it."

Noel didn't need to be told twice. They turned back to the reaping bowls and drew another name. "Silas Lind—"

"I volunteer!" a voice called out before Noel could finish, and a boy darted onto the stage. Tabatha blinked. Where had he come from? Sure, the twelve-year-old section was the closest to the stage, but he shouldn't have been able to make it up the stairs that fast. She was so surprised, she almost missed the obvious reason to be surprised.

He was a volunteer.

A twelve-year-old had volunteered.

The boy grinned, his dark brown eyes shining with amusement. Other than the unusually chipper attitude, however, he seemed like a perfectly normal kid. He was shorter than the girl and slim, with dark skin and dark, buzzed hair.

Tabatha glanced at Bertie, who shrugged. He seemed like a perfectly ordinary kid, so what was he doing volunteering for the Hunger Games? He hadn't even let the escort finish the name, so this had nothing to do with the boy who would have been going into the Games. He'd been planning to volunteer. He'd probably chosen a place right by the stage so that he could rush up here as fast as possible. But why?

Noel seemed a bit thrown off, as well, but remembered to ask the obvious question. "And what's your name?"

"My-name's-Percy-Allen," the boy rattled off, almost too fast for Tabatha to catch the words.

"And would you care to tell us why you volunteered this year, Percy?"

The boy beamed back. "Because-I-know-I-can-win!"

Vicarys smirked. "Riiiight, kid. Twenty-four tributes, and you're the one who's going to come out on top."

"That's-right. Just-you-wait-and-see."

Vicarys shook her head, still chuckling, but apparently decided to let it go at that. After all, Percy was the competition now. And he was younger – and probably more naive – than whoever's name Noel had actually picked. That could only be better for her.

"All right," Noel beamed. "Well, shake hands, then."

Percy held out his hand, and as soon as Vicarys took it, shook her hand up and down quicker than Tabatha would have thought possible. Okay, so he was fast. Maybe unusually fast. But the Games weren't always about speed.

Still, being fast wouldn't hurt.

Tabatha's fingers brushed the stump where her left hand used to be. What would have happened if she'd been a little bit faster during the bloodbath, if the girl from Two hadn't caught up to her? How much differently would things have turned out? Would she still have joined up with Todd? Would she still have won?

Percy flashed her another smile as he and Vicarys were led away, Vicarys still chuckling a little under her breath at the kid beside her. Tabatha shook her head as she turned back to Bertie. "What's he doing here?"

Bertie shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"What?"

"Once you're out of Six, it doesn't matter anymore why anyone's here. It doesn't matter who volunteered and who never wanted any of this. Everyone's headed into the same Hunger Games, and only one person's coming out. Once you were in the Games, did it matter that you were reaped, or that some of the others volunteered? No. They died. You're alive."

"Simple as that?"

Bertie nodded. "Simple as that. And they're all yours now. Do what you can for them, and see if they can do the rest." He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "And take care of yourself, too."


Marius Quercus, 45
District Seven Mentor

He hated that they'd fallen into a routine. Marius drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as he, Sylvia, and Dolores waited for the square to fill out a bit more. People weren't late yet; the three of them were simply early. Year after year, the three of them arrived together, hoping that maybe this would be the year they would add one more to their number.

But it probably wouldn't be – just like last year, and the year before, and the year before that, all the way back to the 19th Games, which Dolores had won. More than twenty years without a Victor. They'd started to rotate who was mentoring just so that the same person wouldn't be stuck dealing with year after year of not bringing home any tributes. They'd thought maybe that would help with the disappointment.

It didn't.

They were all sick of it. Sick and tired of mentoring, of watching their tributes die, of getting their hopes up only to have them dashed again. But they didn't have a choice, because it had to be one of them mentoring, and each of them cared too much about the others to let them be the only one dealing with it.

Marius shook his head as their escort, Homer, apparently satisfied that everyone was finally there, made his way to the first reaping bowl. The speech wasn't long. It never was. Maybe he was just as tired as they were, just as disappointed to be stuck in a district that was apparently in a rut as far as the Games went. Well, as far as the Games and everything else. It wasn't as if the rest of life in Seven was sunshine and roses.

Homer dipped his hand into the first bowl and chose a slip. "Ebony Timberough!"

Marius relaxed a little as the eighteen-year-old section parted. There were never any good choices for the Games, but it was always a bit better when the tributes were older, stronger, a little more prepared. The girl who emerged from the crowd was about average height and somewhat muscular, with dark skin and short black hair. She made her way to the stage without complaint and flashed a smile at the crowd – a smile that almost managed to hide the fear in her piercing dark eyes.

Good. In Marius' experience, it was the ones who weren't afraid that you really needed to be concerned for. The ones who were already too confident, or too reckless, or just to apathetic to care that they'd just been chosen for a fight to the death. Anyone who didn't have the sense to be afraid of the Games already had the deck stacked against them.

Homer quickly drew another name, but hesitated a moment as he read it. "El-em-en-o? L-M-N-O? Okay, then. Elemeno Pereira!"

This time, it was the twelve-year-old section that parted, and Marius couldn't help a sympathetic wince. The boy who emerged was short and scrawny, with light brown skin, black hair, and thick-rimmed glasses with tape over the bridge. For a moment, he stood there, gaping at the stage, but started moving before the Peacekeepers could make it to him, his expression hardening from shock into anger as he joined his district partner onstage. "One slip," he muttered under his breath, glaring at Homer. "Just one measly little slip of paper, and you had to pick mine."

Homer rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. "Well, it had to be someone."

"Of course it did, but it could have been someone older, someone stronger, someone like her." He gestured to his district partner, who was watching him curiously. "Why'd you have to go and pick me?"

"We could always see if anyone wants to volunteer," Homer offered helpfully. "How about it, District Seven? Any volunteers?"

The boy actually laughed. "Are you kidding me? You know you're in District Seven, right? Do you know how many volunteers we've had?"

"Well, none that I recall, but—"

"One. We've had one volunteer in more than forty years. You really think anyone is going to volunteer now?" He crossed his arms, sulking, only to realize that Ebony was holding out her hand, maybe trying to move things along before he embarrassed himself even more. He glared at her for a moment, but then shook it before resuming his sulking posture.

"Well, then," Homer said, recovering as well as he could. "Your tributes, District Seven! Ebony and Elemeno!" As soon as the cameras clicked off and the tributes had been led away, he gave Marius a shrug. "Could've been worse."

"Could've been better," Marius countered.

"You'll do your best with them. You always do."

Marius nodded. That was all he could do. He couldn't help it. After so many years, there was a part of him that wanted to just throw in the towel, crawl into a bottle while the tributes figured it out without him, and ignore every bit of the Games. But he couldn't. They needed him. So he would do his best. He would get his hopes up. And he would probably come away from the Games wanting to drink for a week straight. But he would get through it. He always did. And maybe – just maybe – this year would be different.


Isaac Moquette, 24
District Eight Mentor

They were late. They were always late. Hell, they might not even be coming. Isaac shook his head as their escort, Otto, glanced around the square, looking for their other two Victors. Warp and Woof, the sister and brother who had won the Games three years apart. Warp had been reaped, but three years later, Woof had volunteered, leading to speculation that maybe District Eight was on track to become the next big thing in the Games, maybe even a budding Career district.

It hadn't happened. Not for lack of effort on their part. The siblings had taken in several kids off the streets and started training them, raised them like Careers in the hopes that they'd volunteer. One after another, however, none of them had volunteered.

But that hadn't stopped Isaac from being reaped.

His foster parents had been delighted when he'd won, but to their dismay, he'd shown no interest in taking up the family business of training anyone else. Isaac had won the Games. He had killed. He had been good at killing. He simply had no interest in helping anyone else throw their life away on the off-chance that they might come home a murderer rather than coming home in a box.

Now he had a family instead. A wife whose last name he'd taken, rather than the other way around, just to distance himself from the other two Victors. Their daughter was almost three years old now. And he'd be damned if he'd let her waste one minute of her precious childhood training to take other people's childhoods away.

Isaac shrugged at Otto and made a circling motion with his hand. Just get on with it. The other two probably weren't even coming. After all, if no one was going to volunteer, what was the point? Otto shrugged in response and reached into the first reaping bowl. "Lucinda Tweed!"

Slowly, the fifteen-year-old section parted, and a girl made her way out of the crowd, muttering something under her breath. She was a bit taller than average, thin and wiry, with light brown skin and short, bleached blonde hair, with brown roots that had started to grow back. She was still muttering under her breath as she took the stage. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."

Isaac gave her a look that he hoped indicated that the microphones were probably picking her up by now, if he could hear her. After one more emphatic "Shit!" as she realized, she shut her mouth tightly and took a few steps away from the microphone, her fists clenched tightly at her sides, her warm brown eyes darting this way and that and finally landing on Otto as he drew a name from the second reaping bowl.

"Fabrion Morrison!" Otto called. For a while, no one moved. Or at least, no one moved towards the stage. Quite a few people in the crowd were glancing around, glad their name hadn't been called but looking to see who the boy was. Still, no one made a move towards the stage. "Come on out, Fabrion!" Otto called, almost playfully. "You're not going to be able to hide out there, you know."

Apparently, he did know, because there was finally a stir of motion in the sixteen-year-old section, and a boy stepped out of the crowd. He was a little shorter than the girl and skinny, with short, dark brown hair and freckles. As he got closer to the stage, Isaac couldn't help thinking he looked a bit like a rat – short, pointed nose, beady eyes, and large, pointy ears.

Immediately, Lucinda held out her hand – maybe wanting to appear friendly, or maybe simply wanting to get the reaping over with as quickly as possible. Fabrion eyed it distrustfully for a moment but then quickly shook it. The cameras clicked off, and the Peacekeepers were about to lead the tributes away when Lucinda took a hesitant step towards Otto. "Could … could I have the slip? The one with my name?"

Otto cocked his head but handed it over. "Want to make sure I called the right person?"

Lucinda smiled. "Well, it doesn't hurt to keep you honest, but no. I wanted it because … I don't really have anything else with my name. Nothing official, anyway."

Otto nodded understandingly. "Because last year I would have been calling a different name, wouldn't I."

Lucinda nodded. "From a different bowl." She folded the slip of paper. "Can I keep this?"

"It's all yours. But what are you going to—"

"For a district token?" Isaac asked.

Lucinda nodded, and turned to go. It was only then that Isaac realized Fabrion had been watching quietly. Funny, really, how easy it was to forget the kid was there, listening. As the two were led away to the Justice Building, Otto put the other slip of paper beside the reaping bowl. "Funny. Never really thought about what they do with all these afterwards. That's a lot of names."

Isaac nodded, half-listening. His slip had said Isaac Camlet. The first time he had written Isaac Moquette instead, there had been such a sense of relief. This was who he was now. Maybe it was who he had always been, and it had just taken some distance from Warp and Woof to realize it. Now he was almost glad they hadn't come, glad they had left him to do this alone. Maybe it was better that way.


Dawn Bergamot, 26
District Nine Mentor

She could be doing this for a long time, Dawn realized as she stared out at the crowd. It wasn't the first time the thought had occurred to her, but every reaping day drove home even harder the fact that she'd failed to bring either of the previous year's tributes home. Eight years. Sixteen tributes. And none of them had come home. How had Gerard done this for so long?

Dawn glanced over at District Nine's other mentor, who nodded as if he'd read her thoughts. He'd done it because he hadn't had a choice. No one else was going to do the job. And now she had to, for the same reason. Not because Gerard wouldn't mentor again for a year if she asked him, but because she didn't have the heart to. He had mentored for almost thirty years. He had brought her home. He'd earned some peace and quiet.

She just hoped she wouldn't have to wait quite as long.

Dawn forced a smile as their escort, Ophelia, practically bounced onto the stage. "Helloooo, District Nine! So excited to be here again! This is our year, I can feel it! I bet our next Victor is out there somewhere, maybe even about to volunteer!"

Dawn cringed. Ophelia just had to bring that up every time she got the chance. Yes, she and Gerard had both volunteered, but it wasn't as if either of them had wanted to kill. Gerard had volunteered in the hopes that the Capitol would be able to cure his illness. She had wanted to escape her father – and to help her mother and younger sister escape him, as well. The three of them lived in Victors' Village now, and the last she'd heard of her father, he'd been lying drunk in a gutter somewhere.

Dawn ran her fingers over the scar on her arm – the one from the last bottle he'd ever hit her with, the night before the reaping. The Games had given her what she'd wanted. They had been worth the price. But it was hardly an option she'd recommend for anyone whose circumstances weren't as desperate. The trouble was, District Nine was home to a lot of desperate circumstances.

"Squirrel Tail!" Ophelia called, snapping Dawn back to the moment. For a moment, Ophelia was certain she'd heard wrong. Squirrel Tail? That had to be someone playing a joke, right? But then a Peacekeeper dragged a girl out of the eighteen-year-old section. She didn't resist, but followed, confused, as he led her to the stage and gave her a shove in the direction of the stairs.

At first glance, the girl looked quite intimidating. Tall and muscular, she towered over Ophelia, Gerard, and Dawn. Her neck-length blonde hair was disheveled, her tan skin caked with dirt, her clothes worn and ragged. She almost looked like she'd already been in the Games for a day or two.

But her eyes … her blue eyes were confused. And not the usual sort of confusion that resulted from suddenly hearing your name called for a death match. She looked around from Ophelia to Gerard to Dawn, then settled back on Ophelia. "Yes?"

"Yes what?"

"You called my name. What do you want?"

Ophelia opened her mouth to respond, but Dawn was faster. "I'll explain everything later, Squirrel. Right now, you just need to stand there, and they're going to call someone up here to join you. Okay?"

Squirrel nodded. "Okay."

She watched curiously as Ophelia reached into the other bowl and swirled the papers around a little, then chose one. "Malachi Thorne!"

This time, the eighteen-year-old section parted on its own, and a boy stepped out and quickly made his way to the stage – maybe hoping to discourage the Peacekeepers from escorting him, as well. He was about as tall as the girl and muscular, with dark skin, close-cropped black hair, a short beard and mustache, and dark brown eyes.

Squirrel eyed her new district partner curiously. "So what do we do now?"

Malachi held out his hand. "We shake hands."

"Why?"

Malachi shrugged. "Not sure, really, all things considered. But I guess the Capitol likes to see it. And no point being impolite."

Squirrel hesitated a moment, but then shook his hand. "Now what?"

Dawn stood up to join them, but Malachi was already pointing to the Justice Building. "See that building? We're going in there for a little while. If anyone wants to come say goodbye to you, they'll get a chance to do that. Then we're leaving."

"Good."

Malachi raised an eyebrow. "Good?"

"Yeah. I didn't like it here, anyway." Her face lit up. "Do you think they have food?"

"Probably not until we're on the train," Malachi answered patiently. "But then you can eat as much as you want."

"Will they have meat?" Squirrel asked as the Peacekeepers led the two of them away.

"Probably."

Dawn shook her head as she approached the Peacekeeper who had brought Squirrel to the stage. "What's her story?"

The Peacekeeper shrugged. "We found her when she wandered into the district. Tried to feed us some bullshit about a pack of hunters living in the wild between the districts. Probably just playing dumb because she doesn't want to admit she ran away, but she said she was eighteen, so we put her name in the bowl." He shrugged. "Just bad luck, I guess."

Right. Just bad luck. But she knew better than to say it. They'd decided they didn't want to deal with their problem, so they sent her into the Games, instead. Neat and tidy – for everyone except Squirrel.

Dawn shook the thought from her head. If she could get over the shock of what she was being asked to do, the girl would have just as good a chance as anyone else. Maybe even better. Both of her tributes this year were eighteen. Both were strong. Sure, one was a bit clueless, but Malachi had seemed willing to step in and help her along – maybe hoping to secure an alliance with another older, stronger tribute. It made sense. They had a good chance, even. Maybe this really was District Nine's year.


Hector Barzona, 56
District Ten Mentor

Hector nodded to Trenton and Inastasia as he joined them onstage. Neither of them asked where he had been, or what had taken him so long. They knew. Every year, before the reaping, he visited his son's grave. Inastasia visited after the reaping. They weren't avoiding each other, exactly, but each understood that the other's grief was different. When Morris had died in the 25th Games, voted in by his own district, Hector had lost a son. Inastasia had lost a lover – and, a few months later, the child she had been carrying. And both of them had lost their faith in the people of the district.

He had tried to forgive them. And he could go as far as understanding their reasoning. Morris had been the son of a Victor. He had been dating a Victor – the previous year's Victor, at that. The voters – or enough of them, at least – had reasoned that the Capitol would love him. And on that count, at least, they had been right. The Capitol had adored Morris.

But that hadn't been enough to save him.

Hector leaned back in his seat as their escort, Everest, reached into the first reaping bowl. They chose a piece of paper, then turned it over, confused, as if looking for something. After a moment, they shrugged. "Arti. That's it – no last name. It just says Arti."

Beside him, Inastasia drew a quick breath – almost a gasp, but she caught herself in time. Hector resisted the urge to turn; that would draw more attention to her. His gut told him that was a bad idea, but why? What was she so upset about?

Then he saw the girl who had taken a step out of the sixteen-year-old section, and he knew. Sixteen. Yes, that would be about right, wouldn't it? But she had said—

But as the Peacekeepers pointed the girl in the direction of the stage, and the girl made her way up the steps, all doubt faded. With any luck, no one else would put it together, because the girl didn't look like her mother. The beige skin, the long black hair, the defiant brown eyes. No, she didn't look like her mother at all.

She looked like her father.

She looked like Morris.

Hector heard the chair move a little beside him, and he sprang to his feet, stepping between the two of them. The girl was doing her best to ignore her mother, but Hector knew without looking that Inastasia was not being as subtle. So he positioned himself solidly between them and held out his hand. "Hello there, young lady."

The girl blinked, confused. "Who are you?"

I'm your grandfather. He wanted to say it. Oh, he wanted to. But he couldn't. For whatever reason, the girl was trying to keep her identity a secret, and he had to do his best to help her. So he settled for, "I'm your mentor. Name's Hector, and I would be delighted if Everest here would wrap this up as quickly as possible. We don't have all day, you know, kid," he added, clapping Everest on the back.

Everest rolled their eyes. "Whatever you say, old-timer."

Hector bit back a response. He wasn't that old. But maybe Everest was quicker on the uptake than he'd thought. If they played this as him just being an impatient old man, the audience might not suspect there was another reason he had jumped up to try to get things moving along.

Hector slid back into his seat and risked a glance at Inastasia as Everest reached into the second bowl. She was doing her best to hide it, but there was panic in her eyes. Panic, confusion, and above all, terror. But bubbling somewhere beneath the emotion, there was a hint of gratitude to him for stepping in. After what had happened when she had mentored Morris, the stress of mentoring her own daughter – while having to pretend not to know her – would be too much for her to handle.

"Whisper Collins!" Everest called out. "Come on up, Whisper! Hector here's getting impatient."

"I'll show you impatient," Hector grumbled for effect, earning a snort from Trenton. Had he caught on? Maybe. Or maybe he was simply glad he wouldn't have to mentor. Had it been his turn or Inastasia's? Not that it mattered now…

Finally, the sixteen-year-old section parted, but no one made a move towards the stage. A boy stood standing there, terrified, as the Peacekeepers moved towards him. It didn't take them long to drag him out of the crowd and towards the stage. He didn't resist, but he was barely moving under his own power by the time he was standing next to Arti. He was a little shorter than her, with blue eyes that were partly hidden by his long, raven black hair. The hair wasn't doing much to hide the terror in his eyes, though, and his hand was shaking as he held it out to Arti. She shook it firmly and turned squarely towards the crowd as Everest called out, "Arti and Whisper, everyone! Your tributes for the 42nd Hunger Games!"

The pair of them were led away. The cameras turned off. Finally, Hector relaxed a little. But they still weren't safe. The cameras were gone, but there were always ears. So he gave Inastasia's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You two have been trading off for years now, so I figured it was my turn. I'll take care of these two."

I'll take care of her.


Aria Furrow, 48
District Eleven Mentor

One more year. Aria gave her youngest son, Preston, one last squeeze before heading up to the stage. His two older sisters were already safe, and this was his last year. His last reaping. Ever since Hector's son had been voted into the Quell all those years ago, she'd been terrified for her own children. And when Bertie's son had been reaped ten years ago, only to be replaced by a volunteer, it had been a sharp reminder of what could happen.

So she'd kept her head down. The whole family had. They'd been careful not to do anything that could even be misinterpreted as stepping out of line. They were the perfect Victor's family – but hopefully not perfect enough that the Capitol would want to send Preston into the Games just to spice things up.

Aria gave District Eleven's other Victor, Rosamund, a nod as she joined her onstage. Rosamund's siblings had aged out of the reaping without incident, and she'd shown no interest in either having or adopting children. Not having any stake in the reaping certainly didn't make the Games any better, but at least it didn't add any stress, and everything about Rosamund's posture said Just get this over with so I can go home. It was Aria's turn to mentor, so once the reaping was done, she was free to practically ignore the rest of the Games.

Aria nodded politely to their escort, Andromeda, as she joined the two of them and gave a short speech. The crowd listened quietly. They always did. They knew better than to do anything else. Once she was finished, Andromeda reached into the first bowl and drew a name. "Rose Thornton!"

Aria's gaze swept through the crowd, and her heart sank when she saw motion in the twelve-year-old section. Mentoring the younger ones was always heartbreaking, and the girl who finally stepped out of the crowd looked as young as they came. She was small and sleight, her dark hair wild and frizzy, her brown eyes wide as she took a few steps towards the stage. It wasn't far, but it seemed to take forever for her to make her way through the crowd and up the stairs.

At least the Peacekeepers were patient. As long as she kept making progress, they wouldn't step in. Making the reaping go fast wasn't their job. It was only their job to step in if someone refused to budge, or started to run, and the girl showed no signs of doing either. By the time she reached the stage, tears were brimming in her eyes – tears that began to spill as she looked out at the crowd, maybe realizing that out of all the older, stronger girls out there, no one was going to save her.

No, that wasn't going to happen here. Not in Eleven. Maybe in one of the other districts, but not here. Andromeda gave Rose what she probably thought was a comforting pat on the shoulder before turning her attention to the second bowl. "Nirel Jackson!"

Aria tried to hide a sigh of relief. Preston was safe. He was safe forever. Instead, the seventeen-year-old section parted, and a tall, athletic boy made his way forward through the crowd. He had curly brown hair and skin a few shades lighter. His brown eyes showed no signs of tears; in fact, he seemed more frustrated than frightened, as if he was annoyed that being reaped had interrupted whatever else he'd had planned for the day.

Still, he clearly knew better than to say anything of the sort. He took his place beside Rose without a fuss, doing his best to ignore the fact that she was still crying as he held out his hand. She shook it, her hands still trembling as she tried to dry her eyes. "Your tributes, District Eleven! Rose Thornton and Nirel Jackson!" Andromeda announced.

No one clapped. No one ever did. There was barely any applause even when a tribute did come home alive. It meant a little more food for the next year, but the truth was that most people in Eleven did their best to ignore the Games and just go on with their lives. Well, everyone but the tributes and their families, that was. If these two hadn't been reaped, they would probably be on their way home right now without too much thought for whoever had been picked, aside from being glad that it wasn't them.

But now it was them. Aria watched as the two of them were led away, silent and unresisting. They knew better than to try anything. Everyone in Eleven did. That was how the Games worked. That was how they'd kept going for more than forty years. Everyone agreed they were horrible, but until it affected them personally, the truth was that most people simply didn't care enough to want to risk trying to do anything about it. She certainly hadn't. She still didn't. It wasn't worth her life, and it wasn't worth her family's life.

So she would play her part, just like she always did, and then she would come back to her life, her home, her family. Maybe one of these two would come home with her. Probably they wouldn't. But the people who mattered – who really mattered – were already safe.


Prometheus Stoke, 24
District Twelve Mentor

Prometheus tucked the cat's bow into his pocket as he joined Ariel onstage. He hadn't meant to scare the girl away. He would just have to find her after the reaping. After all, it wasn't as if he couldn't buy his cat another bow, and she'd wanted it badly enough to chase the cat all the way through his yard.

Their escort, Yara, barely hid a snort as he took a seat. He was late. She'd probably already finished her speech. Maybe they'd even been waiting for him. But that wasn't the real reason she was upset. She was annoyed that he was there in the first place, that he was mentoring again this year. That he had made it through the Games.

Prometheus ignored the pointed look she gave him. What had she wanted him to do? Just roll over and die? It wasn't as if he would have been able to beat the Careers in a fair fight. And it certainly wasn't his fault the Gamemakers had decided to include a freaking cannon in the arena. That was just begging someone to set it off a few times, to make the Careers think there were fewer tributes left, that maybe now would be a good time to turn on each other. The deck was already stacked against anyone who wasn't a Career. All he had done was even the odds a bit.

Needless to say, there hadn't been any cannons in the arenas since then. It was a trick that would only work once. But that was the thing. It only had to work once. It had kept him alive. It had thinned the competition to tributes he at least had a chance of beating in a fight. He had still done the rest.

Yara shook her head as she reached into the first reaping bowl, maybe hoping to pick someone who had a shot at winning without trickery. "Aloe Brittle!" she called, already scanning the crowd, looking through the older sections for any hint of movement.

But it was the thirteen-year-old section that parted instead. Prometheus almost burst out laughing when he saw the girl who stepped out of the crowd. Well, at least he wouldn't have to go looking for her later to give her the bow. There was no mistaking her – short, thin, and pale, with a messy, light brown pixie cut and a dress that had a tear where she'd climbed over his fence.

And she did burst out laughing. Well, nervous giggles, but it had the same effect on the crowd. They took a few steps back to allow her through. She glanced around, her grey eyes searching the crowd, maybe hoping for someone to step in and volunteer. When no one stepped forward, she made her way to the stage, still fighting back a burst of laughter every now and then. When she saw Prometheus, she smiled a little.

He waved back. At least she wasn't crying. Laughter was an angle he could work with. He couldn't help a smirk at Yara as she reached into the second reaping bowl almost as soon as Aloe was onstage. "Lark Lucas!"

This time, it was the eighteen-year-old section that parted. That would make Yara happy, at least. And the boy who stepped out of the crowd certainly looked like what she would consider a more promising tribute. He was tall and somewhat muscular, with dark skin and curly black hair. His dark brown eyes widened a bit as the crowd stepped back, but he made his way to the stage without complaint.

"Well, go ahead and shake hands," Yara prompted, and the two quickly did. As they were led away, Yara turned to Prometheus. "Twentieth and fourteenth, in that order."

Prometheus shook his head. "Thirteenth and fifth."

"Not fifth and thirteenth?"

"Nope."

Yara shrugged. "Your loss. Usual wager?"

Prometheus nodded. "You're on."

Ariel cringed, which Prometheus ignored. He knew she disapproved, but where was the harm in a friendly wager? It wasn't as if he was going to sabotage his tributes' chances just to make sure he won a few drinks off their escort or anything. Anyway, he always made sure to bet that they would do better than she thought, just in case he was tempted. It was hardly a bad thing if betting made him want his tributes to do better. Besides, this way, it hurt less if they died.

When they died. In seven years of mentoring, he hadn't brought a tribute home. And he didn't really have any reason to think this year would be different. So anything that helped make the inevitable a little easier to manage was a good thing, even if it bothered Ariel's sense of decency. There were more important things than doing what was right. He would stick with doing what worked.


And that's it for the reapings! Here's the plan for the rest of the pre-Games festivities:

First, we've got the goodbyes, train rides, chariot prep, and chariot rides. Each tribute will get a POV in one of those four chapters, distributed at random.

Next up, there's training. Three days, 8 POVs each, randomly distributed.

Last, there's private sessions, training scores, interviews, and then the launch. 6 POVs each, randomly distributed.

So that's 3 more POVs for each tribute before the Games. After that, it's up to the simulator.

Lastly, just a reminder to send me your tribute's district token if you haven't yet. Whatever I don't have before the time training's over, I'll fill in myself.