Chapter Title: 03. Plans (D8 Reapings)

Chapter Subtitle: 03. In Which Something Happens but Nobody Really Knows What It Is

Description: District 8 has a queer pair and a volunteer this year. Which leaves everybody very, very confused.

Summary: "I volunteer. Yes, you heard me right. Now shoo, outta my way."

Rating: T for Twisted scenarios

Main Characters/Pairings: Ally W. (D8F), Will J. (D8M)

Genre: Horror, Friendship, Humor, and Whatever the fuck this is

Disclaimer: I really don't own anything. But I feel like I should. But I don't. WHY AM I EVEN ALIVE?

A/N: Okay, this chapter is going to be a bit weird. But the submitters of these tributes also gave them an interesting plot that I was willing to write about. Some of this probably won't make any sense right now, but it would be explained as the story continues. *crowd going ooh*

Okay, so, after I wrote the 6 reapings, I found out that nobody really knew what the tributes looked like, except that Aella-whose-name-I-have-no-idea-how-to-pronounce has one arm. I really didn't want to go full cliché (You look at the mirror—and oh, how your lovely brown hair falls down to your shoulders! You're defiantly a looker. Looking like this, you'll rock this reaping.) and make the tributes appreciate how they look like in the mirror before the reaping. Though I guess I should mention their looks from now on… (And I'll mention how the 6's looks like in later chapters.)

I have to warn you guys this beforehand: the tributes' +1 skills would be very powerful, almost absolute. So some might seem almost supernatural—okay, not that much, but still. Tell me if things get out of control, but I'd really like it if you just enjoy it.

And…Right. I decided to write four reapings instead of three. You shall generously deal with it.

3rd Person POV this time, people. Read and review.

Confession time: I've thought of a major twist for this story, and damn, I spent all day grinning manically at a wall thinking about it. *proud (evil) smile* Let's roll.

ToVibeFive: I love both of your tributes so much, thank you, guys! Though the plot you wanted for them was very weird...It turned my mind into scrambled egg to understand what sort of complex psychology you wanted me to write. In the end, I just gave up and interpreted it in my own way. (BUT SERIOUSLY THIS PLOT IS AWESOME.)

To Elle S Goudie: Thanks for clearing that a/an SYOT problem for me. Like, wow, your explanation was awesome. (To everyone else who tried to help me out as well: A thousand kudos to you all!)

Here's to Amber1015, for tolerating my rambling presence nonstop, and for being a kickass beta.

William "Will" Jackson (15), D8M

"He looks fine. Doesn't look so hopeless, at least. I'd say he has a chance."

"I hate to say this, but I actually agree with you this time, Dean. But, he's still very young. We'll have to train him well."

"You mean I will have to train him well. You haven't trained a tribute since, what, the 70th Games? Dunno, but my dear good ol' dude, the excuse that your heart is failing you is getting boring. Can't you like, have some awesome evil sick condition that makes you—I don't know—spit at Snow?"

"You…are…a pain."

"Lighten up, my dude. I know you've dreamt about it."

"Why don't we focus on the boy."

"Sure, whatever floats your boat. The boy…might be a good Mockingjay, too—defiantly has spunk. I'll go inform Cecelia."

"If only he could survive, you mean. You always tend to jump to conclusions."

"Yeah, yeah. That's kind of how I won my games. Cecelia's in the next room. I'm gonna go."

"It may be best if you let me do it. You might trip over your own feet trying to get to her as fast as you can."

"Ha, very funny. You keep an eye on the tribute, Woof. Just remember, I went through my own share of the Hunger Games as well."

"I'd never deny that; you sure did."

~.~.~

Will has always loved the library building.

Made of oak, painted in a rusty, ugly blue color, and heavy as hell—the signature District 8 look.

Well, District 8's buildings are mostly made from concrete these days, but not this—his library. His family had been living in this building for centuries, and they had stubbornly been refusing to rebuild the ancient poor-excuse-of-a-building.

Being stubborn. One of the greatest traits of a Jackson.

The heavy door creaks open—he has to open it with his whole freaking weight—and he breathes in the rather humid air, tinted with the smell of rotting wood.

Ah, home, sweet home.

"Hey, dad." He gives a little salute to the man sitting behind the small wooden desk at the entrance and starts running down the long aisles. Will barely makes out the short man waving at him before he disappears from sight, behind the rows of bookshelves.

Living in the largest building in the district (besides the Justice Building, of course) has its perks. It's the only place he can run around without any restraint from those damn peacekeepers. When he was young, he and his brothers used to race, wrestle, and dance in this space, basking in the fact that when they grow up, they would not go work in the clothes factory like the majority of District 8. They won't come home with calloused hands from sewing and working machines. They won't have to go out on the dusty streets every day and night.

They would work in the library, with all those tedious books that they always get tired of.

Oh, how Will loves his life. (Yeah, the Hunger Games looming over him like a giant rainstorm is only just a plus. And yeah, that was sarcasm.)

His feet carry him to a section of the library almost unconsciously as if he's pulled over there by a magnetic force. It's almost out of habit, his feet slowing down to a walk, as he approaches the restricted section of the library where he knows she'll be sitting, her nose in one of those dusty old books.

The restricted section is strictly forbidden to all citizens. Not even the mayor can read any of those books. His family barely has permission to even manage the section full of 'dangerous books.'

(Hence, Twenty-One Reasons Why Panem Should Rebel, The Snow Dynasty; When Will It Finally End and How to Build Up Courage to Fight Against Men in White Suits and Bloody Full Lips, and so on.)

He's surprised to see the section empty.

His peach skin lights up a sickly color of yellow in the barely glowing light of the closed-off room.

Will waves away the awkwardly empty feeling in his stomach. She's not here, so what?

However, it is weird. Ally never failed to show up in the restricted section every day. He frowns. Nudging the old, old rug with the tip of his (also) old shoes, he starts examining the area, looking for any clues. He soon stops. Observing and reasoning was never his strong suit.

He plops down at the corner of the section and stares at a book strewn across the floor. Really, Ally should be subtler about reading things like this, he thinks, as he picks it up and puts it on a random bookshelf. Even though the girl never had any intentions on planning a revolution, or anything of the type, she loved reading in the restricted section.

"Really," she'd say in her dreamy voice when he'd expressed his concerns. "I've read all the books in the library except in this section. Plus, the whole restricted idea makes it all so tempting." And then she'd literally shove her nose in the book again.

He didn't get her, but what other choice did he have? She was like, the only visitor in the whole district.

(Maybe his only friend too, but voicing that would be too sad.)

Shoving down his hands in his orange pants—he knows being a District 8 citizen should make him at least a tad bit fashionable, but let's face it, he's a dude who has librarians for parents—he stares at the rows and rows of books.

He's really missing Ally by this point. Spending the mornings of the reapings alone is not very ideal.

He chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully and leans back on the wall.

What a wicked coincidence that he and Ally both managed to get into the 'special children' category, who would be eligible for the reapings this year. It was almost as if someone had been watching them all along—prancing around in the restricted sections and had told the Capitol on the first chance to get rid of them both.

Though it was not like they were totally talentless.

He was fast, really fast. He could cover the whole library in less than a minute (three floors, plus the attic). And Ally was very…convincing. Maybe her 'special talent' for the games was specified as knowledge, but he knew that her real talent lay somewhere else (really, her knowledge was incredibly random, due to her mostly dreamy state and her supersaturated involvement of reading books). She had a very special talent. A talent that nobody but the two families knew, and could probably be really useful in the games…

He thinks about his brothers, who tried to cheer him up by making horrible jokes about being the 'special' one in the family (their eyes were genuinely sad, yes, but they hid their relief so well, it was like, totally unnoticeable—cue the eye roll) when he slumped down on the reading couch (it made a dangerous groaning noise when he made contact with it).

The funny thing is, Will knows that his brothers—one sixteen, one eighteen—are both faster than him.

He runs a hand down in his sandy brown hair, making it even more tousled, and grins. A mischievous little lopsided curve of the tips of his lips.

The Capitol wouldn't know what hit them if everything goes as they had planned.

~.~.~

Ally West (14), D8F

"…!"

"Oh, what—?"

"!"

"Wow, Woof, I've never seen you so speechless."

"Did she just—?"

"Yeah, it pretty much looks like it."

"Is she—?"

"Hm, let me see. Yes, she seems sane. Just kind of dreamy and unrealistically serene. 'I volunteer. Yes, you heard me right. Now shoo, outta my way.' Yes, I'd love to meet her."

"Oh, god."

"Hey, Woof, you know what? I'm gonna be her mentor in this game. No buts. This girl is awesome."

"Awesomely committed suicide, that's what you mean."

"Aw, c' mon, Woof. She can win. Maybe. No need to do the evil eye. She just needs awesome mentoring—from me—maybe I could enhance her skills and—"

"No—"

"Look, there's nothing you can do about this situation, dude. Plus, you said the word awesome. That should literally count for something, right?"

"Dean."

"No need to sigh. It's just another Games. We teach, we try, we drink, we have nightmares. Only that this time, we'll try to bring down the Capitol as well. Now, lighten up, and let's actually try to win this thing, mate."

~.~.~

"Remember the drill?" Her mother asks her again, and she smiles lightly, as always.

"Yeah," But her eyes are already unfocused, and her big pale green orbs are already staring into space, and her face lit up dreamily.

There are a few seconds as her mother contemplates on what to do next in the presence of her eldest child. The mother soon makes up her mind and goes downstairs to her two other children to take care of them—like she always does on a normal day.

Ally really doesn't care nowadays. There was a time when she felt like dying from her mother's negligence towards her, but now, she's got some other things to focus on.

Like restricted books, for instance (ah, the thrill of doing things you really shouldn't). Oh, yes. And the Hunger Games. But the latter really shouldn't take up a lot of her focus. She had to perform the drill, and she really didn't want to dwell the rest of her (soon to be very short) life wondering why the hell she should even execute it.

Because she was in debt, and she promised.

End of the story.

Ally's mind wonders to what she'd read about some science book she probably wasn't supposed to read. Before Panem had stood, the so-called 'scientists'—obviously the meaning of the word had changed over the century—had been obsessed with the moon and arriving there as soon as possible. She imagined what it was like years before this country had stood, in this very spot.

Her eyes suddenly open wide in realization. Shit, she'd forgotten about meeting Will in the library.

Damn, she hoped that it hadn't made a dent to their plan.

~.~.~

"We love her," Ally's mother whispers to her husband, but it sounds as if she was rather convincing herself. "We don't want anything bad happening to her. But, we have promised, and we will have to let her go."

Ally's father sighs and runs his hand in his hair. "It kills me that she would probably die thinking that we never cared about her."

They were sitting in the living room table—there weren't many customers yet—and talking about the day, today, when they would have to say goodbye to their only daughter, whom they were sure she was reading a book in her room upstairs to her final day in District 8.

"But that's not true, we love her so much," Ally's mother says in a trembling voice, and she knows this time, that she completely means it.

"I know, but we were horrible to her."

They sit there for who knows how long, nursing their teas with tears streaming down their faces.

"But we must stay strong for her…She wouldn't want us to fall into a coma or depression because of her. She's…a good kid." Ally's father finally speaks, his voice barely audible.

"A good kid, yes, completely." His spouse wipes her eyes one last time.

~.~.~

"Four pieces of bread," the customer argues hotly, holding up his old, rusty, mental watch like a weapon, rather than a piece to trade.

"Two and a half," growls Ally's father, a hint of impatience sneaking in his voice.

"Look, it's reaping season, and I want my son to have the best meal—it may be his last," the man says, his hard features softening as tears threatened to spill out of his eyes.

"Like I haven't heard that one."

"Fine," The man sighs and drops the watch on the wood counter with a final-sounding sort of a thud. "But I haven't got anything to bet on this year. I mean, everyone knows that the Patterson kid is going to be reaped, I've got to bet on something—"

"That is enough."

"Four," the man demands.

"ALLY!" Her father calls his daughter without further ado.

The man stares. What kind of weird bread-counting method was ally?

Then, a shuffle comes from upstairs, a yelp as Ally dropped the book on her toe, and there she is, standing like her mind's not in this world, swaying slightly. Her patched up originally dark blue overalls—now they're almost a whitish-blue—adds to the effect, making her seem slightly further away from the present.

She blows her hazel hair out of her eyes. "Hmm?" she asks.

Without a word, her father points to the man with the watch, who had started to stare at her.

She smiles and nods to her father, who has a proud, sad look in his eyes as he stares at his daughter, which she probably fails to catch.

"Four, you say?" she dreamily asks the man in a business sort of tone (yes, she makes it work), and starts to turn on her skills.

~.~.~

A COMMENT FROM THE CAPITOL:

A girl wearing something other than a dress! On a reaping day!

(Barbarian!)

Q & A

Question 1: Do you love Fridays more than you hate Mondays? (Because I most certainly don't.)

Question 2: What kind of SYOT tribute stereotypes do you hate the most? (I'd say Miss-Quiet-And-Kind-But-Is-A-Killing-Machine-In-The-Arena are the worst.)

No points, but I'm just curious: Do you prefer short chapters and fast updates, or long chapters with slower updates? (Say the quality of the chapters are the same.)