Lucent Saccharyn POV:

Every last person in Panem waits with bated breath. Twelve year olds in the outer districts swallow their fear and dutifully walk to the Reaping squares with their parents, adults with stern faces and bags under their eyes fearing for their children who are still so young. Future Careers try to choke down a few bites of their luxurious breakfasts, stomachs full of butterflies and hashbrowns as they eagerly wait for their chance to volunteer. Capitolites pack the public viewing areas and exclusive lounges, purses in their laps, ready to place a bet at any moment. I weave my way around throngs of people on my way to a luxury outdoor gazebo, which is elevated on a gorgeous grassy hill just above the viewing square. Only a few people rest in the comfortable shade under the canopy with me: Jessiah (who has since moved in with me temporarily), Hortensia, and Chris. I wanted him to be here to take on-the-spot notes about the tributes as they're Reaped. Gil unfortunately can't join us, he has to give a bunch of Presidential speeches from his balcony during the course of the day. Jack Cannon, the Master of Ceremonies, had expressed interest in joining the rest of us today but he has to conduct official business as well. He has the nearly impossible job of entertaining the entire Capitol between the Reapings. Each one is about thirty minutes in length, but that's mostly just the showing of the Dark Days video and the introduction of past victors, plus a few words from each escort. It takes an awful lot of dramatics to keep everyone occupied. The Reapings will be staggered all day today. District Six will kick them off at nine sharp. District Ten will have their Reaping at nine-thirty. District Two will begin at ten. Things will proceed down the line, all the way until we end at two-thirty. Chris hands me a tall lemon spritzer and flips open his tablet. It's programmed with his shorthand system, translating symbols and abbreviations into words as he scribbles them down. It's eight fifty-nine, only one minute until I start getting to know my players in this exceedingly dangerous game.

Amiee Smith, 13-D6F:

"Here you are, sir. Is there anything else I can get you today?" I ask the man sitting in the booth. Most people in our district would get a beer instead, this is a pub after all, but this particular patron just wanted a fryup.

"No thanks, miss. Good luck today, you'll need it." The red-haired man pays the check, then palms me an extra five-dollar note under the counter. Normally tips are pooled with the other workers, but the man must have felt bad for me because it's Reaping Day. The Reapings are a frightening prospect in District Six, and not one we like to acknowledge, so we deal with it the way we all collectively do. We're so good at dancing around uncomfortable topics in conversation it should be a spectator sport. It's just the local culture: we all ignore it in our own separate ways. Some drink themselves into a stupor. Others hire female companions and get down to business. Still others get into morphling and never stop because getting jazzed both helps them ignore their problems and gives them some temporary happiness. Unsurprisingly, Reaping Day is the busiest time of the year, and being a young thirteen-year-old waitress has its advantages. People try to kill their guilt by drinking their pain away, then when that doesn't work, give me money because they feel bad I have to suffer through the ceremony. It's not the best coping mechanism but it works out okay for my brother John and I. Well, half brother. But he's been my only family member since Nathan disappeared when I was seven and our parents died four years ago. We don't have a lot of money but we're relatively happy in our little flat above the pub I work at. My shift ends in a few minutes, luckily. I have my red uniform apron on, and I step through the swinging kitchen door before removing it and hanging it on a hook. I'm not allowed to take it home, unfortunately. I'm now left in just a white t-shirt and a denim skirt, ready to go to the Reaping like all the other teenagers.

My boss yells from behind the till, "Amiee got a tip this day?" He's a large rotund man with a bushy gray beard and ruddy cheeks. He's not particularly careful with his words but he's very nice.

"Not many, Mr. Schork, just this." I hold up a couple dollars that I plop into the shared jar. It's an unspoken rule that because he has to report everything to the owner of the pub, who then pockets it, we lie to him when we need to keep our tips, each putting two or three dollars in the pot to look convincing. He lets it slide, he always does. He knows very well we do it but he hates the owner as much as us waitresses. Mr. Schork might not have a good mind for words but he's very sharp at math. So am I. The teachers at school taught me, and I really learned to really like it. I quite like this side of the pub. It's nice and calm, even with the drunkards. I walk through the considerably dodgier nightclub side to the employee exit, where I join my best friend Marry, who is also thirteen but considerably shyer and more skittish. I can't blame her. That's what District Six does to you. She frets all the way to the Reaping Square. I wish John could get off work to be here but it's just not possible. He's worked for years in a transport factory, and he's trying to qualify for a long-awaited promotion. Today he and a few other workers training to become mechanics had to go on a field trip to the tribute train to check it over and make sure it's in good condition. It's less to make sure the train is okay and more to give them some firsthand experience, but it's a mandatory qualification he needs to get his raise. He said his goodbyes to me at the apartment this morning.

Marry and I get our fingers pricked by a Peacekeeper and walk into the pens together. We chat for a few minutes until the new escort takes the stage. To my surprise, it's the same red-haired man who got breakfast in the pub this morning. I guess the Head Gamemaker did say something about a tour of the district to learn about its culture. He gives a nice happy speech about how fascinating it was to visit us, then shows us the Dark Days video. He takes his time selecting the tributes. He begins with the girls' bowl and Marry and I clutch each other's hands. He picks a slip right off the top, breaks the seal, and I grit my teeth as he reads the name. "Marry Rourke, would you please come up here?" Marry gasps and detached herself from me, a tear falling down her cheek. I can't bear to see her like this, so I do the unthinkable.

"Wait! I volunteer!"

Quentin Aramdale, 17-D6M:

"You stupid boy!" Mrs. Wallstone sneers down her nose at me. "Can't you do anything right? No, of course you can't, because you're retarded!" I look down at my beat-up shoes.

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Then why did you manage to screw up something so simple!?" I remain silent, looking down. I know it's a trap. "Answer me!" she shouts.

"Well ma'am I-"

"Shut up! Who gave you permission to speak?" Mrs. Wallstone turns away as if disgusted. "What a useless boy," she says bitterly. "I can't understand for the life of me why my husband keeps you on the payroll." I'm beyond grateful when she stomps out of the room, muttering about useless housekeepers who forget to dust the good dishes. The Wallstones are probably the only people in the district who can even afford an extra set of "good plates" that they never use. Mr. Wallstone, unfortunately, didn't marry his wife for her personality. As bad as it is working for them, I need the money too badly to complain. When I was younger, my father worked for Mr. Wallstone and we were more or less wealthy. My big sister and I played all the time with the Wallstones' son Julian. But when my sister died tragically, my parents slipped into morphling addiction. As their minds caved in, they outlived their usefulness, and Mr. Wallstone fired them. They blew all the money we had on drugs in larger and larger qualities, which Mr. Wallstone was only too happy to provide. I'll let you hazard a guess as to his primary source of income. My parents sold our possessions, our furniture, and our house, all to get more drugs from their former boss. I had to start working as a housekeeper for the Wallstones in exchange for a measly sum of money each week and lodgings in a tiny one-room shack at the back of their property. Most days my parents do drugs and laze around in the shack all day while I get up early to clean the Wallstones' manor. I have to work twelve hours a day, from four-thirty in the morning to four-thirty in the evening. I get a "paid" fifteen-minute lunch break, but Mrs. Wallstone forces me to work fifteen minutes of unpaid overtime to make up for it. And don't even get me started on their son Julian. When we were younger we got along, but after the death of my sister and my family's decline in status, he grew into a bully. He has nothing better to do all day than pick up girls, shove me around, and sip glasses of watered-down illegal moonshine with his mother. It hurts even more because I used to really like him. In fact, I liked him a little more than is acceptable for a boy to like another boy. It's not like I could ever admit that though. That's unacceptable, not just in my family but everywhere. Being found out as a deviant is my biggest fear. Well, maybe my second-biggest fear, because today is the Reaping. It'll take up a huge part of the morning, so Mrs. Wallstone demanded we come to work a half-hour earlier than usual, in our formal wear. Mine is just a pair of dark jeans and a navy polo shirt a few sizes too small for me. The Reaping begins at nine o'clock, which is good because it's 8:50 right now. I can brave a long boring speech and near-death experience if it means I get a break from work. I continue working over the old grandfather clock with a cloth soaked in polish, making sure the ancient wood gleams bright. It's a difficult task because the clock is huge and oddly shaped, and I have to go with the grain of the wood and be careful not to blot too much polish in one spot. I'm thankful my work is almost done for the time being but Julian and his posse of thugs, party girls, and other assorted lowlifes show up before I can finish. Julian catches me from behind, clamping an ironlike hand on my shoulder.

"Well look who we have here! A little maid dressed like a ragamuffin. How adorable," he drawls. "Such a pity your sister can't see you like this. She did always love playing dress up. Oh well, at least your daddy can't be disappointed by you if her brain's turned to mush." It's torture to hear him say that sort of stuff and I wish I could say something, but I can't. He can beat me and insult me all he wants with no repercussions. I have to be extra careful with my word choice, in fact, because he's expecting some sassy back talk that he can go whine to his parents about. I can't ever fight back, because his friends will of course say that he was defending himself after I attacked him. "Oh, does the little dimwitted maid boy not have anything to say? Huh? Too bad your mommy couldn't pay for some proper clothes for you. I suppose she's too busy taking her own clothes off to get morphling money." I stay quiet. I can't make a fuss, can't give Julian a reason to hurt me. "What? Cat got your tongue?" he simpers. "You really don't want to give us a piece of your mind?"

"Hey jackass, answer him!" The shout comes from one of his friends and the rest take up the chant like it's a battle cry.

"Yeah! Say something!" A boy with a grey jacket yells.

"What are you, an avox?" A larger girl says scornfully.

"Stupid twit. Probably doesn't even know what an avox is!" A short blonde scoffs.

"Hey, I got an idea. Let's make him an avox!" A slim boy jeers.

Julian puts a hand on his arm and purrs with all the benevolence and grace befitting of the king he thinks he is, "Oh no, we'd never go that far. We're not barbarians, after all! We just want to have a little fun with you. Never fear, you poor stupid boy. Never fear." His laugh is harsh and cruel. We all know what's coming next. His slap catches me across my cheekbone and my head whips to the side. Someone slams a foot into my ribs and my whole side erupts in pain. That's sure to bruise. I try to break away from the boy whose fist smashes into my stomach but another one catches me and backs me into a corner. A girl jackhammers my shins with the jagged ridge of her boot. I try to twist away and duck to freedom through the gap between her and her boyfriend but another girl grabs a fistful of my hair to pull me back. Julian laughs loudly. Now that I'm sufficiently tired and afraid, he can finish the beatown his friends started. The cluster briefly separates so Julian can safely weave through with the wooden bat he's found. I see a knife flash in the hand of the girl who was kicking me. The boy in the gray coat flips a broken glass bottle in the air before catching it with a flourish. Julian's bat catches me right in the knee and I crumple to the ground. Gray Jacket bludgeons my shoulder with the broken glass bottle, which thankfully doesn't shatter. Knife Girl promptly stomps on my face, then leers at me and kneels down, ready to rake her knife across my face. I gasp involuntarily. They're usually horrible to me but they've never gone this far before. Julian steps in front of her and snatches the knife away before she can cut me, then yanks me up by my battered arm. "Run along now before she gets the knife back," he orders. Even his kindnesses are condescending.

I stagger off to the square before he can change his mind. Even the Peacekeeper who pricks my finger looks sorry for me. "You should get some ice for that bruise," he suggests. I realize my too-small shirt has ridden up, exposing the quickly forming splotches of purple against the pale of my skin. I tug my shirt down and hurry to my section. Julian glares at me from a few rows away. I ignore the escort's speeches and the video he plays. This is my only break today, and bending and twisting to finish polishing the grandfather clock is going to be even more torturous than usual. The escort selects the female tribute. Her friend volunteers for her, walking shakily up to the stage with a worried smile. Then it's time for the male tribute. I don't know if dying in the Games would be better or worse than putting up with Julian for the rest of my life. The escort now reaches his hand into the boys' bowl, mixing around the slips before choosing one. It takes a moment before the words sink in.

"Julian Wallstone, would you come up here too?" I quickly work out my options. Let Julian go and he won't be able to hurt me, but I'll have to watch my old friend die on live TV and there won't be anyone to stop his friends from actually killing me. Volunteer and I'll also die, but at least I'll die a good person and not have to suffer for the rest of my life. So I make the best choice I can.

Lucent Saccharyn POV:

Well that did not go as expected. As cruel as it may seem, I was looking forward to getting rid of that nasty little pustule. But the boy with the busted lip volunteered for him. I watch in real time as the volunteers introduce themselves: Amiee and Quentin. That's definitely going to spice up the Hunger Games this year. It's pretty clear the girls were friends and Amiee did it automatically, but the boys I'm less sure about. They might know each other, they might not. It felt like an impulse decision on Quentin's part. Whatever the case, two volunteers from the same non-Career district will certainly both garner a lot of attention among those of us here in the Capitol.


I'm so sorry this is a bit late, my parents made me go to bed early last night so I finished this morning. Goodness, everybody's giving me tributes! That makes me really happy because I can write more Reapings. Please continue to submit tributes, either via review or PM, I still need a lot more. Feel free to review and tell me what you liked or disliked about this chapter, I love getting feedback about what y'all think!

~LC