Reapings.

Sorry Mom and Dad, I did something bad.
Please don't get attached, there's no coming back.

Pippa Alvera, 16
Citizen of District One

"I don't like it here!"

My friend Ginger shuffles uncomfortably next to me. "I need a sedative," she mumbles.

I look at her as if she's insane – which truthfully, she probably is. "What the hell are you talking about? I need more coke."

"I'm talking about coke, you loon." She shudders uncomfortably. "I've been up all night. I couldn't sleep. I can't tell if it was because I was so freaked out about everything going on today or the fact that I just got a new bundle from Castellan and snorted, like, half of it in the span of four hours."

"How unhealthy."

"How invigorating," Ginger berates, "but yes, I'll probably catch a heart attack at twenty for that one."

"Whatever. Being old would suck anyway. Old people are ugly."

"Sure."

"I need to see Castellan after this, though." I hug myself tightly, watching as the escort mounts the stage in all her blue-haired glory. "I ran through my supply a few days back and Mom's been too up my ass. I haven't been able to see him. Might sneak out tonight or something."

"You seriously haven't seen him around? That kid's everywhere. I literally saw him last night in the alley near my house. What a sewer rat."

My mind flashes with the prior events of the morning: the terrible trio catcalling me from the sidewalk. I absent-mindedly rub the pink velvet of my dress between two fingers, inwardly hating them for the power they hold, but admiring it through the resentment. I've got to hand it to the hydra. They know how to play the game. They know how to keep their peers around, no matter how shitty they treat us. After all, I'm literally itching to get my hands on a fresh bundle from Castellan. I might kill for it.

"Happy Hunger Games!" announces our escort, falling on deaf ears.

"I think I'm going through withdrawal," I moan lightly to Ginger.

She shakes her head, still vibrating on the tips of her toes. "Don't say that. The Dupree triplets just got hospitalized a few days ago off that shit. And I trust you remember Jacklynn's funeral?"

"Her fault," I mumble. "If you're stupid enough to consume fake coke, that's on you."

"I think it was laced."

"Girl was a bitch anyway." I sniff, desperately wishing there was something around to sniff. "But I'll say it. Their supply has been a bit sketchy as of late."

"Heidi's probably too busy fucking around with our boyfriends to play the role of quality assurance."

That gets a snort.

As if we had boyfriends.

"We'll begin the day with the girl to be Reaped!" the escort announces, and my ears do perk up now. I've no worries of it being me – for me to be voted in, that would require people from my district to actually pay attention to me. I've flown under the radar enough. Sure, might've accidentally pulled the school's fire alarm once, but that happens to everyone, yeah?

"Wonder who the unlucky bitch is gonna be." Ginger shudders again.

There's only one slip in the large glass bowl designated for females – the girl from our district who attained the most votes out of everyone else. A sick feeling stretches over my stomach as I watch the escort tug it out of the bowl, unfurling it with no small deal of embellishment.

"Marcie Astrup!"

My stomach drops.

Judging by the way Ginger audibly gasps, hers did too.

"They voted fucking Marcie?" I whisper. Murmurs emerge throughout the entire crowd as the girl sidles her way up to the stage, prim and proper in a lavish dress. Her face is evident as she looms on the stage, eyes wide and mouth parted in a flabbergasted expression. Shit always goes her way. She's never had something not go her way.

Marcie sways on the balls of her feet, eyes flickering across the entire district before she remembers where she is. Almost instantly, her mouth clamps shut into a tight-lipped smile, but the steely expression in her eyes is easy to read: fuck this district.

"Now for the boys – Castellan Isenya!"

"No fucking way," Ginger gasps. "No fucking way."

Castellan mounts the stage beside Marcie, his usually pale skin flushed bright red with anger. They lock eyes, give each other a curt nod, and her hand seeks his out. They stand side by side on the stage, wearing similarly enraged expressions of disbelief, hands locked in unity. If I wasn't so angry it could almost be funny.

Through my flurry of emotions, I wonder if the Capitol can tell they're partners in crime.

"It's whatever," I whisper out. "I'll just… buy from Heidi or something. It'll be okay."

"Just you wait," Ginger murmurs.

"Time to select this year's random tribute!" The escort is all too cheery to walk to the bowl on the far side of the stage – once more, containing a singular slip. The random spot, as far as I can tell, is devoted to the tribute with the second-most votes for either gender.

Maybe there's a boy somewhere out there that garnered more votes than Heidi would've. After all, it's not like she was the bitch in charge, or the runner. I've always just kinda seen her as the ditz on the side, sleeping with all their clients for fun.

Yet as the escort utters Heidi Adelard's name into the microphone, all my worst dreams have come true.

I'm out a fucking coke dealer.

Heidi's knees knock as she marches her way up to the stage from the seventeen-year-old section. Her shapeless dress poofs around her thin legs as she climbs the stairs, and it doesn't take long for her to grab Castellan's other hand. Whether it's through an act of unity or genuine terror, I can't tell. Her eyes are wider than the rest as she gazes out to the masses of her peers. Her bottom lip quivers, like a lamb about to bleat out for help. Yet she remains silent, the three blondes united with linked hands.

The square is alive with life, people clamoring and chattering amongst themselves. Somewhere in the back, where the adults stand, I can hear sobbing. Mostly though, it's laughter, applause, cheering. The district recognizes exactly who these three kids are, and they're delighted with themselves for making this happen.

They've cut off all three heads of the hydra.

Allegius Ono, 46
Head Peacekeeper of District Three

"You've secured the borders?" Nikolai nods. "And the attendance booth has their records matched?"

"Just a few straggling elders," Nikolai says, muffled behind his black helmet. "And the hospital population and those who called for a sick Reaping confirmation form. Our doctors are searching their homes right now to ensure they're actually sick."

"Excellent work." From behind the black screen of my own helmet, I scan the seventeen-year-old section for my own Nahla. To my surprise, I pick her out quite easily in her modest navy dress – she's staring directly at me. I raise my hand in a welcome, moreso to reassure myself more than she. With a curt nod and a moment of hesitation, she does the same.

"Your daughter's a special one, Allegius." Behind me, Nikolai watches us. "Got a good head on her shoulders. The Peacekeeping Academy would be more than happy to have such a bright girl on our team next year."

"That's the plan." I nod. "That mind, paired with her training from our days back in Twelve, makes her a formidable asset to the upcoming group. Carrying on a legacy, really."

As if on a cue, my wife sidles up to my side in a matching uniform. She tucks the baton into the harness at her side, outstretching a hand to me in greeting. Nobody can differentiate Peacekeeper from Peacekeeper except those of our own breed, trained to look for the identification badges on the fronts of our uniforms. But somewhere within that helmet of hers is a head of unruly black hair, a pointed nose, and sharp eyes – sharp enough to catch any mistake I might make.

Not that I intend to make any.

"Allegius," she says politely.

"Candace."

"Are you two prepared to go to the stage?" She turns to Nikolai, and I can almost see those quick eyes of hers darting down to his identification badge. "We've got right."

"Absolutely."

Taking the lead, I stride onto the stage, where Tabitha Grant and the newest victor, Alexis Challant, are seated on our side. Tabitha offers a smile that's too wide. Alexis looks fed up.

Candace settles into my left, Nikolai on my right, and we take our positions in front of the district. "Do you see him?" Candace mutters.

"Alquist?"

"Yes."

As much as I can without causing disturbance, I crane my neck to peer over at the eighteen-year-old male section. Even if I knew the face I was looking for, I wouldn't be able to find him in the ever-moving tangle of bodies, all fretting and nervous in preparations. I settle back into position, offering a barely perceptible shake of the head.

No matter the fact that I know not his face, one thing is for certain: I'll be seeing his sorry ass on the stage soon enough. This district should know it well enough by now: Three never forgets. An eye for an eye. You fuck up, you make enemies, you become hated, and you're screwed. And if you're not screwed, well… you best hope you have no descendants to reap what you've sown.

The escort mounts the stage, breathing a welcome into the microphone, and I keep my eyes glued to my daughter. Her head stays high, shoulders back, prim and proper just as we've instilled within her. She stares at the stage, stony, lips pursed.

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

One hand goes into the male's bowl – switching it up, apparently. My eyes rake over the eighteen-year-old section once more, ears perked to hear the Alquist boy's name.

"Silas Garamond!"

Judging by the way Candace's helmet turns sharply to the side, just the slightest bit, I can tell she's staring at me. Why wasn't Alquist called? What's going on?

Silas Garamond emerges from the eighteen-year-olds, a hulking boy who seems to be retreating further into himself. As he slinks past the female sections, though, they begin to cheer. Girls from each age range jump up and down, whooping and hollering, clapping their hands and making as much noise as they can muster. Is this what teenage girls think is attractive these days? I grit my teeth, both in annoyance that it wasn't the Alquist boy and for the raucous nature of these girls.

My one consolidation is that Nahla stands still amongst them all, still unmoving and stony as a statue.

As Silas joins us on the stage, the escort attempts a hug. He brushes her off quite easily, with no small deal of irritation. Undeterred, she flitters over to the female's bowl, drawing forth the singular slip contained within that bowl.

"Nahla Ono!"

My stomach falls into my feet.

Candace's helmet does snap to me now, and mine to her. My heart drops; maybe it splinters. Helpless from my stance, desperate to help my daughter in any way I can, I'm powerless to watch as she takes her time coming up the stairs. It feels as if the walk lasts eternities. Her face is steely yet, but I can see the glimmer of tears that prick at her eyes.

Act like a woman. I clench my jaw. It takes everything within me not to call out to her. Head high. Eyes bright. Control yourself, Nahla.

"This can't be happening." Candace's voice is small at my side.

I swallow thickly, unable to muster up a proper response. Somewhere, deep inside me, is the realization that this was a targeted attempt. She's kept her head beneath the water ever since we moved to this district; it can't just be coincidence that she's the only descendent of the Head Peacekeeper and his wife.

The entire time we've lived in Three I held the Ono legacy strong, upholding Nahla to the same ideals and morals as Candace and I. I believed it to be familial allegiance. I was blind to the fact that perhaps the rest of the population considered the Ono name to be a curse destined for death.

"Venec Alquist!"

As my mind spins, I barely register the Alquist boy's name being called out. So the collusion was successful, a voice in the back of my head murmurs out. I should be trying to hold back a grin as a lanky, pale boy mounts the stage, mouth gawping open like a fish out of water. Yet now, everything I've worked for to get him up here means nothing.

He takes a stand next to my daughter, shrouding her in his lanky shadow. Candace and I are frozen, powerless but to watch.

The escort begins a round of applause for the district, though the female Reaping pool hasn't stopped their banshee cheering ever since Silas's name was called. Numb to every sound around me, eyes glued to my daughter's stiff form, finally do I bow my head.

Three never forgets. An eye for an eye. If you're not screwed, you best hope you have no descendants to reap what you've sown.

You better kill the Alquist boy yourself for what his family's done to us, Nahla.

Aston Lamar, 15
District Six Victor of the 10th Hunger Games

"I can't believe it's been two years already."

Garrett stares stonily out at the crowd, already filed in and waiting tensely as our escort fumbles around the stage. I frown slightly at his grim expression.

"You mean since I came home?"

"Exactly."

I shrug, keeping a close eye on the section I'd otherwise have been occupying – the male fifteen-year-olds. I see my friends, my comrades, my housemates joking around and shoving each other. For a split second, I wish I was down there with them. Joking around, being the district child that I should be right now. But I know that I'd have gotten voted into these Games in a heartbeat, anyways. I should count myself lucky.

But if I think about it, what exactly is lucky about slaughtering two other kids in cold blood, parading myself around the district as a victim and champion intertwined, and counting the sleepless nights with each shot of morphling my friends take?

"It's crazy," I murmur, more to myself than to Garrett. "It sort of feels like it only happened just a week ago. Hard to fathom that it's been two entire years."

Do I feel as if I deserved it? Not in an instant. Garrett, however, is entirely devoted to telling me the contrary.

"You say you feel slimy," he'll tell me whenever I come to his Victor's Village mansion with red-rimmed eyes. "But you don't realize that the sliminess, that deception, that slipperiness is exactly what kept you holding on for longer. You didn't hear what the Capitol was saying when you were in the arena about you, but I did."

"What did they say?" I'd often ask, only to hear him repeat the same old song and dance he seems to have memorized by now.

He'd wave it off, always. "Better to be blind to their scorning," he'll say. "If you listen to everything the Capitol tells you, you're better off dying in that arena."

Sometimes I nod in agreement. Sometimes I shake my head. "Sometimes I think it'd have been easier to be dead on the first day. I didn't do anything to deserve it."

And without fail, Garrett would always stoop to my eye level, serious as a stone, intimidating as I ever saw him. "If I didn't think you didn't deserve victory, Aston, there's no way I would've sent down those pills for you. You realize the entire district was on your team even after you pushed Arden, yeah?"

"I don't understand why."

"In those moments of desperation, of betraying your district partner, they saw a fighter." His eyes would always glint. Tears? Anger? I could never tell. "They saw someone who would fight as long as it saved their own ass. And that's what this district needed to bring home a victor."

Despite all he told me, I never truly did get it. In a way, I feel like he was protecting me from the harsh reality of what was going on outside the arena. Why would a district root for a scrappy thirteen-year-old hooligan who betrayed his own district partner? Why would they sponsor me? Nothing ever adds up, and I live in discomfort of the truth to this day.

But then again, maybe it's better to be blind to it all.

My mind drifts away from those memories, far far away, crashing back to reality and the impending issue at hand.

"It does get easier," he murmurs, eyes still on the crowd before us. "That's what they keep telling me. I'm just waiting for the year it comes true."

The escort, a woman of tall hair and even taller heels, leers out at the crowd. She doesn't speak, and she doesn't need to. Everyone knows the drill. Nobody says a word. Nobody is safe in a district of rioters, thieves, criminals, poverty, and fraud.

She moves to one of the bowls, unfurling the slip and baring her teeth. "Estrella Villon!"

A collective gasp falls over the female section as girls part like the sea, making room for a smaller girl with shimmery jewelry bedazzling her upper body. A quiet chatter emerges as she strides up the stairs: though her face is concealed, I can tell she's not crying or anything of the sort. In fact, when she brushes a lock of hair behind her ear and shoots a look towards Garrett and I, I can see there's just no expression on her face. If anything, she looks hollow.

So she was expecting this, then.

"Am I supposed to know who this girl is?" I whisper off-handedly to Garrett, Estrella still staring us down.

Garrett shrugs. "Looks like she's famous."

Though the crowd isn't done talking their shit, our escort's clearly ready to move on. She moves toward the next bowl, this one tinted blue for the boys. I watch, a pit in my stomach as she closes her fingers around the singular slip.

Maybe it'll be fucking Pablo. I voted that bitch in. Where has he been all these years, anyway? Probably under a bridge off his head, sucking his thumb somewhere.

Or maybe my brother. God, I hope so. He deserves some comeuppance.

"For the boys, Felix Agrippa!"

Well, manifestation sure doesn't seem to be my strong suit.

There's less of a stir than with Estrella, but the mention of Felix's name still induces a few more stricken gasps. The name even sounds familiar to me, and I've been a recluse to most people for quite a while. I crane my neck, scanning, searching for any clue that could tip me off to who this kid is.

My heart sinks when I realize he's older than me. He doesn't quite tower over Estrella, but even from the side of the stage I can recognize he's tall. And that face looks familiar too, even with the black eye he's got going on, but I can't place it. Considering the crowd I used to hang around before I invited my closest confidants to live with me, I wouldn't be surprised if we've had a run-in before.

My suspicions are almost confirmed when Felix turns his head to match Estrella's piercing stare and narrows his eyes directly at me.

I don't even realize that the escort has tugged the random slip out of the remaining bowl until she's off and screaming the final name. "Vanilan Surana!"

This boy emerges from the same section that Felix did, though rather than striding up himself, he's escorted by a Peacekeeper's glove tightly looped around his wrist. He struggles to yank himself free, but a flash of the Peacekeeper's baton silences him pretty quickly.

Vanilan takes his time on the steps, head hanging low. In the wake of the final tribute being Reaped, now the audience feels it appropriate to give their sighs of relief, their incessant chattering, even a few sporadic cheers – after all, why would they feel bad for the three most "hated" children in the district?

I do feel bad, I realize as my heart sinks further. Vanilan doesn't dare move his eyes from the ground. His fists are clenched at his sides, shaking as he takes in the noise from the rest of the district. He's completely shut down, though his fury is evident. Estrella hasn't budged her gaze from Garrett and I, though her eyes look more pleading, softer than they did a few moments ago. And Felix is a statue: frozen to the spot, jaw clenched, looking absolutely ferocious at absolutely everyone in sight.

The escort makes a motion to end the Reaping, but Felix has other plans in mind.

He loops a hand around the microphone, startling the escort enough to shriek entirely. Moving it to his lips, he extends a middle finger with his free hand.

"I just wanted to give a big fat fucking thanks to this entire district!" he snarls. "If you think people like me are the scum worthy enough of being voted in by fucking everyone, you should have a look at-"

A Peacekeeper smacks Felix cross-side the head with a baton, sending him into the arms of the next. Garrett turns to me, shaken.

"So I assume you don't want Felix."

I swallow thickly, watching as they unceremoniously drag his dazed body off the stage into the Justice Building. "I think you might be right."

Dev Brennan, 21
Citizen of District Seven

Something kicks me.

I open bleary eyes to find the shiny helmet of a Peacekeeper staring me down. "On your feet, kid."

The world spins. My stomach feels like there's a tornado going through it. And my head, fuck, my head feels as if it's being split open. I move to my feet slowly, clutching my stomach in a feeble attempt to not vomit all over the cobblestone. The sunlight burns deep into my eyes – it's hard not to squint as I try to gather my bearings and remember where I am.

People around me move solemnly, some kids giving me the time of day with a disgusted-looking glance. How long have I been at City Square? My mind reels. Is it the Reaping day already? I couldn't have been unconscious for that long.

I gather the cloth bag at my side, nodding to the Peacekeeper and staggering in the direction of the main stairs. The last thing I can recall is popping that pill with Diyoza, running around midnight to the Square to have a rest, falling under a side alcove of the bakery, and then… sleep. And judging by the way I woke up completely and utterly alone, Diyoza woke up quite some time before me.

I come down hard on the stairs, trying to catch my bearings still and watching the stage through a lens of harsh sunshine. Two, three, four days it's been since I knocked myself out. Damn – honestly, I wonder how I'm still alive.

It's obviously a tense day for my entire district. Families gather before me, watching their children in the crowds with worried eyes and hushed words. It almost feels like a funeral, and for some I suppose it is. A death sentence, the final day in their district before they're sent to inevitably get their Adam's apple sliced. In another world, I'd be in those pens, heart hammering out of my chest and vibrating with anticipation. In a world where I was born just a few years earlier, no doubt that I'd be the one voted in this year.

I've done things – unforgivable, a blemish not only to the district but my own family. My family. I haven't seen them in years, cast out by my own shame and escapism. I doubt they'd even recognize me if they saw me. A few years will do that to you. It's been eternities since I've been clean-shaven, even longer since I've been clean, period. My matted hair curls around my jaw, a wiry beard coursing its way down my neck. The only thing they might be able to pick out from the stereotypical mess of a vagrant is my eyes, and even those have changed. Darker. More feral. More afraid.

Adeline Kopak, our sole victor, stands solemn on the stage next to an equally somber escort. I scrub at my eyes, wincing as microphone feedback hits my ears. Voices become a blend, a cacophony of hysterics and whines. I don't even register the first name until I see the face on the stage.

It's her.

Ruhi, I think, startled, suddenly more sober than I've ever been. Somewhere, my heart aches, but I'm powerless to do anything. My mind swirls.

Why her? I let out a low moan, startling a pair of elderly women on the steps next to me. It can't be her, no – she's done nothing to this district, nothing to warrant a vote, nothing except…

Being my half-sister.

Her knees knock together, and even from this far away I can see her biting her lip as hot tears make her cheeks glisten. I take a shaky breath in, willing her to conjure up any strength she can. Would she even care for a well wish from me? Not after all this, right?

She doesn't deserve this.

"Kadrium Hawtrey!"

The next name cuts through my train of thought. Miserably I watch the next selected tribute make his way to the stage, head high and jaw clenched in, no doubt, anger. And yet I can't hate this boy for whatever he's done to warrant being voted in. I can only watch Kadrium as he stands next to my own blood, glancing down at her with a sense of unfamiliarity.

Protect her, I find myself wanting to cry out. But no words come to my lips.

"Madoc Sonders!"

Or him, I think to myself as I swipe away at another impending tear. Definitely him. While Kadrium is a big boy, Madoc towers even over him. A bit chubby, no doubt, but still sizable enough to scare off anyone that might come in the direction of District Seven. He shakes like a leaf as he approaches the stage, even trips over a stair. There, I nod to myself. Maybe people will underestimate him, and in doing so, underestimate Ruhi.

The three of them aren't a typical trio that would be voted in – no way. But maybe there's more that meets the eye. Maybe Madoc is vicious, maybe Kadrium is sly, maybe they'll both find it in their hearts to protect the small girl trembling between them.

And as the escort begins wrapping up the ceremony, I find my feet taking me to the front of the Justice Building.

I might've disappeared for years, but there's just no way I can allow my sister to fully slip out of my grasp without saying anything. Will she recognize me, will she hate me, will she acknowledge that I'm the reason she's about to be trucked away from the district? Never have we ever been close. It's more likely for her to spit in my face and leave without further assembly. Does she hate my guts? Does she forgive me? Questions swarm my mind, but I shove them all aside as I approach the front of the stage.

My sister, my soul.

Octavia Cavelle, 29
Gamma Trainer of Victory Simulacrum Training Academy

"Welcome to the Reaping ceremony, District Eleven!"

The excitement within the square is axiomatic; not a single face is somber, not a single person isn't positively buzzing with anticipation. Reapings are always a bonanza for the entire population, but most of all for the training center. On our designated side stage, myself and the ten or so other trainers survey the kids beyond, hearts in our mouths as we anticipate the three names to be called.

"Odds on the male being Bellamy."

"Odds on the male being Alpheus."

"I'll double that."

"Odds on the male being Gersheim!"

"To Alpheus!" I crow out over the rest, a drowned voice in a sea of evanescent zeal. To be fair, I'm not much of a gambler myself. But the drama of it all is what makes it the most fun.

To my side, alpha trainer Brix is the only silent one. I jab his side, quirking the corner of my lips upward. "C'mon, you're not gonna pal around with us?"

He's stiff. "I'm not a gambler, Octavia. Besides, I'm more concerned on who actually is getting called than the speculation of it all." His eyes flitter to the rows of trainers behind us. "I'm surprised that you all are joking around about all this, considering we've poured our guts into a class of kids that likely won't get picked this year."

"Come on." I roll my eyes. "It's all in good fun. Besides, you've still made your paycheck."

"You know, some people care more about actually winning the Games than doing it just for an income." There's that stereotypical, uptight Brix I know. Our relationship since I've become beta trainer has been nothing if not anfractuous over the past few years, and while I admire his drive and shit, at the end of the day it does bother me. We're District fucking Eleven. If not here for a rager and a good time, then what is this all for?

"Yeah, but you only live once-"

Brix raises his hand to silence me, obviously done palling around. "Focus on the stage. You should want this, too, Octavia, I know how closely you've been working with Bellamy, Alpheus, and Gersheim."

I settle back in my chair, grinning at the kids pounding the edge of the stage in anticipation. The escort, thrilled at the response, draws the sole slip from the male's bowl.

"Alpheus Baker, for the males!"

"Yeeeeessssss!" Behind me, I can hear zeta trainer Manchester screaming. Someone's just earned a bonus.

I clap along heartily with the rest of my district as Alpheus jogs to the stage, a toothy smile spreading across his entire face. Well-deserved. Besides being near the top of his training class - kid's a menace when it comes to throwing knives – he's got a complex about him that could easily make him mayor one day. It's hard to dislike the kid, with handsome manners and an outgoing nature to boot.

Alpheus takes the stage, snagging the microphone and announcing a few words of pride to the screaming crowd beyond. "Thank you, thank you! It will be my pleasure to bring home the crown for District Eleven this year – I hope I'll have your full support!"

More screams. Kid's a crowd favorite already.

The escort beams at her newfound tribute, dipping her hand into the female's bowl and unfurling the paper with exaggeration.

"Odds on the female being Clara."

"Odds on the female being Chianti."

"Odds on the female being Luena."

"Odds on the female being Sherry."

"Odds on Chianti!" I sing out, slapping hands with Manchester as he laughs heartily.

"Luena Glacelle, for the females!"

Another shriek from a trainer behind me, and my heart leaps as I strain to see our newest tribute. I've parried around with Luena a fair amount – while she's not a training center regular, per say, she's made herself quite the figurehead in the district ever since the Quell was announced. She's similar to Alpheus, in a way. I wouldn't be mad if I ever saw her take the role of mayor, hell, even president.

Luena bounces up to the stage, ethereal in a glimmer silver dress and ringlets of platinum. She clutches her heart as soon as she's faced with the crowd, gives Alpheus a hug, and grabs for the microphone.

"District Eleven, what's up!"

The girl's a star, and judging by her rosy cheeks and beam brighter than the sun, she knows it already. Both she and Alpheus have been going around the district, making connection, playing the role of everyone's best friend. I will admit, it does feel right to have them both on the stage, clutching hands, already playing up their loyalty to the district, and in doing so, each other.

"For the random!"

"Fuck! Odds on Pagan."

"…Yeah, Pagan."

"Odds on Bellamy!"

"Pagan!"

"For the random slot, Pagan Corneal!"

Once again, I'm unsurprised – it appears that each of these kids were shoe-ins. Pagan moves slower than the rest, but they're allowed to. After all, they're the grand finale. Pagan's lips split into a cryptic smirk as they approach their new district partners, towering over them both and soaking in the sunlight on their skin.

They all know each other already. Victory Simulacrum Training Academy forms such connections.

The escort jabs the microphone near Pagan's head, obviously looking for a comment. They glance down at the microphone with a note of confusion, before dipping their head down and breathing into it. The roar of the crowd softens for a moment, ears strained to hear whatever the mysterious teen has to say.

"…I'll see you all in a few weeks!"

Custer Oreal, 25
District Twelve Victor of the 3rd Hunger Games

"Look at 'em," Cornelia mutters from my side. "Bunch of savages."

The kids in the pens below twist and turn each which way, writhing in a collective mass of sweaty bodies and teen spirit. I allow myself a laugh as I survey the hundreds of potential tributes, competitors, victors. One quick glance to Cornelia tells me that for once, we're not on the same page.

I trace a finger over the bones of her hand. "Penny for your thoughts."

She jerks her hand away. "I'm not in the mood."

My hand flies to hers once more, this time interlocking our fingers so that she can't release her grip. Icy blue eyes pierce mine with confusion, and I settle into a glower. "Be in the mood, darling dearest," I say lowly. "We've got eyes from the Capitol on us right now."

"And I'm tired of this," she growls out. "You're expecting me to be happy with this Quell? The tributes that we've got to put up with for the next week, they're not even going to be trained. We're not Eleven. Nobody has their shit together enough to campaign for this shit. It's just gonna be weird. We're gonna get a pedophile or animal abuser or something, I'm sure of it."

I merely shrug. "I believe in you and me," I whisper, barely perceptible from above the roar of the crowd. "Besides, like you're said, we're not Eleven. Fuck 'em. The kids here live for this shit. Anybody here fain would accept."

Cornelia sits back in her chair, sullen, with a huff. The escort's talking to the district, but I don't care for a word they've got to say – any other year, Cornelia and I would be shouting to the crowd, lapping up their praise, commanding the bellicose volunteers to run forth. She'd look me in the eye with admiration. Maybe even bare her teeth in that way she knows I like. We'd be a united front, glistening idols to our community and to the Capitol.

…I guess a lot of things have changed from last year.

"For the girls!"

"If it's not a trained girl, I'm going to jump off the stage," Cornelia huffs.

"And I'd jump right after you," I growl.

"Campbell Seavey!"

Cornelia comes to her feet. "Nope. Never heard of her. Can't do this."

"Shut the fuck up and come back here."

Hesitantly she drags her feet back to the mentoring ring; with unfavorable eyes we watch a lanky, dark-haired girl stagger up to the stage. She's got a glint in her eye that catches mine when she looks over; rather than run to kiss my feet as I'm sure anyone else would have, she lifts the corner of her lip in a snarl.

"A little fire to her," I muse quietly as she finally makes her way up with us, arms crossed belligerently. "You can have her. I'm sure she'll put up a good fight."

"Or I'll have to bully the bitch into it," Cornelia mutters.

"For the boys, Ilias Laghari!"

"This one I do know," I sigh, jabbing a finger to the elder sections. This kid's reasonably tall, though he ducks his head as he makes his way to the front. Already drawing into himself? That's definitely got to be altered. "Dropped out of training when he was fifteen. I've seen him a bit with our recent trainees, though – maybe he's still got connections."

Cornelia watches sullenly as Ilias climbs the stairs, shaking like a leaf and flittering his gaze around like a lamb to the slaughter. "What a a fuckin' pussy," she says loudly.

Ilias takes note of her words, judging by the way his cheeks suddenly flush bright crimson.

I clutch her hand tighter. "And you're twenty-five years old and still act as if you're fourteen," I snarl. "Save that energy for when we're not being broadcasted nationwide on seventy different cameras, yeah?"

"Custer, you were so much more fun when we were young," she huffs. "This is an embarrassment."

We watch in silence as the escort draws the from the final bowl. It takes an agonizing moment for her to uncrumple this piece of paper, and for not only Cornelia's sake but my own do I hope that we recognize the name on the slip.

"Greta Malvey!"

"Oh," Cornelia breathes out, "I guess she trained for a while, too."

Well, if Her Bitchiness semi-approves without even seeing her physically, that's gotta be a good sign.

The girl strides up with an air of aggressive confidence, white pantsuit glistening in the afternoon sun. Her braided hair sways lightly by her sides, and her shoulders are pushed back in a way that offers she might consider herself to be above everything. "I like her," I say. I moisten my lips with my tongue, watching carefully as she strides up the stairs. "Got a bit of hidden drive in her. Look at that walk."

Cornelia wrinkles her nose as Greta climbs next to the escort, offering a curt handshake and a tight smile to the crowds of children groaning that they weren't selected. "She thinks she's the shit," she says shortly. "You can tell. I guess you have a type. You can have her. I'll take Campbell, if this is what we have to work with."

"What," I smirk, "… you jealous that I think she's got a chance?"

"Jealous." Cornelia scoffs. "Considering you'd fuck a rock if it gave you the time of day, I don't take your interests at face value."

I tighten my grasp on her hand and she squirms – if the cameras weren't watching me and my little prodigy so closely, I swear I'd grab her by the jaw and force her to apologize. After all, she knows better than to mouth off at the person who offered her the world. But I know self-control better than my Cornelia does. She's the spitfire; I'm the simmer.

"We're doing well this year," I murmur, never moving my expression from anything other than sphinxlike. "We'll be a united front. Just get through two more minutes of being on camera and we can talk some more about our angle."

Cornelia grits her teeth as she plasters on a bright smile, clapping along with everyone else as they hoot their approvals and distastes. "Two more minutes, Custer, and I'm beating your ass for trying to keep this positive."

"Two more minutes of this bitching and moaning, and I might beat you."

"Wouldn't be opposed."

Charming. I bring my hands together, harder than she. "That's hot."

Her sidelong glance tells me she's unamused. "We're in for a fun few weeks, you and I."

A/N: Tantrum by Ashnikko.

Tell me why writing six Reaping POVs were easier for me than three Pre-Reapings… I don't get it either!

Yeah this update was pretty fast and I won't lie I'm proud. Let's hope I manage to keep this energy over the next few weeks before school. I'm working again! Not that I was able to get unemployment money because Miss America hates me but at least I'll be making seven dollars an hour again xx… I love minimum wage and livin on the brink… yeah I hate it here more than you! Try me!

Let me know what you all thought of the Reapings and all that, I luuuuvvvvvv seeing reviews they brighten my mf DAY! Next up is Capitol stuff and you'll be hearing from One, Three, and Eleven again. Good stuff. Can't wait.

Who stuck out to you most?

What's your favorite district rn?

Stay safe, wear a mask, do what makes ya comfortable, yeah yeah yeah have a good one!