Author's Note
I do not own the Hunger Games.
d8f
The day of the usual reaping comes.
They sit on the bedroom floor and brush each other's hair.
One, two, three, four, until they reach one hundred, and then they plait it and smile at themselves in the mirror, twin reflections. Her dress is slightly distorted at the skirt from her fall the other week; that's how they know each other apart. Even after she repaired it the pink thread could still be seen amongst the pattern.
Imperfect.
She's always been imperfect.
They sit for lunch and eat chicken and potatoes, a rare treat.
A knock comes at the door.
d11f
They come for him as he eats lunch with his grandparents and ask for him by a name he no longer uses.
He barely recognises they are asking for him.
His grandmother is crying, no, no, no, don't take my baby.
All he can do is sit and stare at his plate of beef and roasted carrots.
He's not hungry any more.
He wants to cry.
He's going to die under a title that doesn't fit him.
He's going to die under a name that isn't his.
He's going to die far from home and alone.
He's going to die.
d1f
She's one of the few that asks for it.
They come for her sister, and she's barely fourteen, tested only once, ecstatic but terrified.
"You've been reaped," they say, and her sister looks between their impassive masks while her heart pounds in her chest, because sure, they've trained at Revlon, but that was for the fitness and popularity and beauty, not because they ever wanted this.
"You need to come with us," they say, and her sister begins to cry.
She opens her mouth.
"Can I Volunteer?"
She could.
So they come for her sister, but they leave with her, and the worst part is she doesn't know which is worse.
d9f
She has spent the last two months trying not to panic.
There are eight children in her family, and all of them have tesserae for all of them.
Their odds have always been high.
And now fate might strike at any moment.
It strikes as she breaks up another fight between her brothers and tries to clean up her sister's spilt drink.
She listens to them say her name and walks from the house with her head held high.
She won't give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
d2m
He has trained his entire life.
He would have a good shot at becoming the Chosen tribute next year.
But they come for his neighbour, and he's sixteen, a clumsy, scrawny, weaselly looking boy who cries as they drag him from the house with the District watching.
He's an embarrassment to District Two.
He'll bring shame to their lives.
So he jogs across the street and calls for them, and his neighbour babbles his gratitude, and he ignores him as the car drives away.
He's getting his shot a year early.
He doesn't plan on wasting it.
d12f
She's at school when they come for her, and all her schoolmates get to watch her burst into hysterical tears. Her brother tries to run across the playground to get to her, but she's already being marched through the gates and there's nothing he can do.
There's nothing anyone can do, and she cries harder knowing he's going to have to go home and tell their parents what happened.
She sits in the car, trembling, and no one speaks to her.
She wonders where she will be in two weeks.
d4f
She has always known this day would come.
She doesn't know things any more, not like she once did, but she has always known about this. Once, when she was very little, she had been told it was a nightmare and accepted that, but as the Quell twist was read out on screen she had known.
So she puts on her second best dress (because there's no point wasting her best), and stands at the door to wait. Her mother smiles vacantly and pats her head; her eldest brother calls her to help with the little ones, and the doorbell rings.
She opens the door and steps out. "Are we going then?"