District 8

"Urgggh….. Huhhhh…. Uhhhh…. Faster….. Faster…."

"Fuck, Cece…."

"HARDER! Fuck me harder!"

Cotton and the others could hear Cecelia and her husband Bert practically shouting as they shagged from all the way downstairs. In between all the groans and the cursing, the creak of the bedsprings was an underscore of metronome-perfect time, in case anyone was still left to their imagination over what the couple was doing. Looking over at her surrogate niece, Cotton could see Cardella (at 15, Cecelia's eldest and only daughter had been given the talk regarding the birds and the bees) biting her lip.

Seated on her lap, Aaron, the middle child at age 10, tugged on her sleeve. "Auntie Cotton? What are Mommy and Daddy doing?"

Cotton cringed as she bounced the inquisitive little boy in her arms. "Mommy and Daddy are…. are playing a game," she improvised lamely (she could feel Cardella's wince from clear across the room).

Aaron's eyes shone. "Can I play too?"

"NO!" Cotton squeaked, a little too sharply, and Aaron sat back, frowning and blinking, feeling left out. She kissed the top of his head. "Not until you're older, sweetie." She made herself shut up while she was still ahead, lest she risk traumatizing the boy accidentally.

A gurgling sound made everyone's eyes snap to baby Milo, crawling around obliviously on the floor. He was 2 and teething, but a happy, curious little boy. Once he scooted close enough, Cardella silently picked him up and drew him into her lap. The teenager's eyes were still wide with fear, and Cotton couldn't blame her.

The minute Snow read the card, Cecelia had stood in a panic, shaking like a leaf. "Can't go back… won't go back…" she had warbled out, gasping, before bursting into wails and drawing her three babies close, kissing each of them fiercely. The moment mandatory programming had ended, she had nearly jumped Bert's bones right there too, granting herself just enough self-control to drag him into Woof's bedroom upstairs before having her way with her husband.

As if on cue (which would have been a first for him, Cotton thought wryly), Woof himself appeared, bundled in a parka and with a shovel over his shoulder.

"Woof? Where are you going?" Cotton asked in a deadpan, bracing herself for a wild answer.

"Shovel the steps…." Woof answered without even looking at her, seemingly voicing the response for himself as much as for her. "Shovel the steps…"

Cotton glanced out the window. March had come in like a lion, and clearly wasn't going to go out like a lamb, intent on leaving District 8 in the death grips of winter until the bitter end.

"It's 20 degrees outside!" she gawped. "And the middle of the night!"

Woof had a perplexed look on his face, and even pulled back the sash from the window over the kitchen sink, as if to make sure Cotton was right. "Oh," he stated almost mildly. "Where has the day gone? I'd best make supper…."

"We already had supper, Grandpa Woof," Cardella stated patiently. "Remember? Before we watched the mandatory programming."

Woof blinked rapidly for a moment. "So we did." Another pause, and then: "Wait, when did you get here?"

Sighing, Cotton set Aaron down, turning to Cardella. "Honey, why don't you take them into your room and get them dressed for bed?"

Cardella nodded, scooping up Milo. Wanting to look like he was doing something, Woof corralled them. "Always did like having houseguests passing through. Come on, be good children, the guest room is this way…"

"We're not houseguests, Grandpa Woof. It's me, Cardella. Your granddaughter?" Cotton heard the teenager saying.

"Oh, of course, my dear! How could I forget?"

Dementia. That's how, Cotton thought tragically as she stood and turned out the living room light, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. Crossing to the window, she stared out at the snow flurries coming down in a torrent; even through the blizzard, she could make out the single light, bobbing like a sentinel, in the Tribute Graveyard at the edge of the Village. The light was never supposed to go off, after being placed there six months ago at Cora Shutter's funeral.

Cora. Eight's second Victor and the winner of the very first Quarter Quell half a century ago. By the State, what would she make of this fiasco? No doubt she would volunteer for you and for Cece, even if the Reaping probably would have been rigged to send her back in.

Cora, the fierce old lady who had loved Cece's babies like they were her own flesh-and-blood grandchildren. Cora, who had given away Cecelia at her wedding and held her hand through every birth.

"FUCK!" A particularly piercing wail wafted down from upstairs, and Cotton cringed again. She and Bert had better try keeping it down; the little ones were trying to sleep! All the same, she could hardly fault her former mentor. The twist had compelled Cecelia to need to have somebody, to feel, to forget…. And she loved Bert more than she loved anybody. The man had apparently needed to ask her seven times before she agreed to a first date. When he had proposed, he'd only needed to ask once. They were a lovely couple, if also a little eccentric. They weirdly suited each other.

And now, a wife had a 50-50 chance of being Reaped for the arena again. A mother had a 50-50 chance of being taken away from her babies. Poor Woof had a reservation for the arena already in his name – an eighty-year-old grandpa, forced to compete again after more than six decades… it was indecent! It was unjust! It also reflected on how shameless the Capitol could be. The thought of how District 10 would have a Reaping problem identical to theirs, how Districts 5, 6 and 12 would go through pretty much the same but with the genders reversed, didn't make Cotton feel much better.

Panem alive, how she wished Cora was still here! If she was, the old lady would be tapped again, and probably old Abernathy in 12 would be fixed in right along with her – the prospect of the past two Quarter Quell Victors meeting in the arena again would have been too good to pass up. Some talking head in the Capitol somewhere would bring it up and bemoan this tragically missed opportunity.

If Cora was still here, she would go in before she ever saw Cece or Cotton herself go back, and all these problems, all these thoughts, would be solved.

For as she listened to the continued creak of the bedsprings (though these were quieting), Cotton knew that only eight years on the outside for her was not enough. No amount of years would be enough before she would ever be ready to go back. So, as cruel as it was, Cotton desperately wished that Agrippina Flutter would call Cecelia's name at the Reaping first. If she, Cotton, was called, she was fairly certain that Cecelia wouldn't volunteer willingly, letting her former tribute take the fall. Cotton couldn't resent her for that possibility if it did come to pass.

But that didn't stop the guilt from lacerating her insides as she thought about what she would do if Cecelia's name was called this summer. Or, more accurately, what she would not do.


To District 8's credit, people wept openly when Woof was called, even though the outcome had never been in doubt for months.

Then Agrippina turned to the women's bowl and Cotton squeezed her eyes shut tight.

"Cecelia Rheys!"

Cotton exhaled, and stood back.

Cecelia was starting to take her place, when three little heads of hair rushed the stage, sobbing and clinging to her. Cecelia spoke to Cardella, Aaron and Milo as tenderly as she always did, trying to tell them that Mommy had to go before clinging to them all the tighter.

Cotton's conscience throttled her. It still wasn't too late. She could volunteer right now and halt this truly macabre scene. But her mouth couldn't form the words.

And then it was too late. Cecelia took her place, and she and Woof Barton were introduced as the tributes for District 8.

As the pair of Victors walked into the Justice Building, a distraught Cardella glared at her, and Cotton ashamedly turned her face away, the tears glistening.

You're a coward, Cotton Rivers. You're a godammn coward.

She would make up for it, though. She would mentor Cecelia and Woof every step of the way until they both went down in the Bloodbath. Then, when Katniss Everdeen destroyed the forcefield and everything went to shit, Cotton would help evacuate as many Victors as she could, guiding Haymitch to Plutarch's personal hovercraft while the old drunk had to practically carry Connor Murphy over his shoulders. Then, as the ship took off, she would go out in a blaze of glory, blowing up the landing platform and taking a battalion of those Peacekeeper fuckers with her.

Cotton may have been a coward when it mattered most…. but she was also a hero when it counted.