Dayana Atruius (District 8 Escort)
How anyone can live in a place like this is beyond me. The world is supposed to be soft and beautiful — the Capitol is a perfect example of this. Big, airy, open spaces — light, soft, happy colors — sleek, elegant, architecture — and the perfect blending of technology and nature all combine together to make a world that everyone wants to live in. District Eight is not the same.
The buildings are cold, hard, and angular — the people are sad, dreary, and unforgiving — and the only color on the pallet is gray. There's no beauty in this District — there's no light — and there's no hope. And I don't understand how anyone could allow themselves to live in a world like this. Thank god they have us to show them how to do it right.
Of course, we can only help them if they'll let us, and they haven't been all that interested in letting us do that here in Eight. Which is why — in addition to living in one of the coldest, dreariest, ugliest districts in Panem, second only to District Twelve according to most people — it's been over a decade since one of their tributes has made it past the bloodbath.
And, based on the look of most of the girls currently filing into the square for the reaping, that streak is about to get a year older.
"Cheer up, Dayana," says my partner, Garron, a wide, unsettling grin on his face as he tosses another peanut into his mouth. "You're making me sad."
"I'm sorry," I say, not really sure how I'm supposed to respond to that or if he even wants me to.
"No, you're not," he says, his voice low and just a little on the threatening side as he leans in closer, his nasty, peanut breath hot on my cheek. "But that's ok. I forgive you."
This guy creeps the hell out of me. He's just so — weird. How he got to be a mentor is beyond me. And I refuse to believe that — out of forty students in his mentor academy class — he was one of the twelve best. All he did was sit around and leer creepily at his female classmates — and don't get me started on how he acted around me and the other female escort trainees. He's a grade-A creep, pure and simple. And I'm stuck with him until he either mentors a tribute to victory or crosses a line and gets fired.
Of course, the only people he could conceivably cross a line with are our future tributes, and not even he's disgusting enough to do something like that. Is he?
I don't like where this is going — especially since the more I think about it, the more I start to like the idea of him having someone else to creep on for a week. We've only spent two days together, and I'm already so done with him that I'm ready to throw one or both of my future tributes to the wolves to get away from him. It just makes me feel so — dirty. I don't like it, and I definitely don't want to think about it. I'd rather think about how drab, dreary, and boring this place is.
Fortunately, it doesn't sound like I'll have to do either of those things —because it sounds like the mayor is just about ready to wrap up the pre-reaping festivities. Which means I'll be out there on stage contributing to the safety and greatness of Panem by reaping my first ever tribute in just a few short minutes.
The excitement is honestly killing me. I'm about to save two precious young lives by giving them the chance to compete in the Hunger Games. Even if they die in the bloodbath, which they probably will — and they have to put up with Garron for a week, which they obviously will — it will still be the single best thing that has ever happened to either of them.
Who knows, they may even thank me for reaping them. Once they get a taste of how good life can be outside of the crushing confines of this drab, gray hell.
"... pleasure to introduce the young woman who will help our tributes navigate the unfamiliar waters of the Capitol while trying to fill the Centaura sized hole in our hearts. Dayana Atruius!"
Showtime! I think, my eyes shining with excitement as I bound out on stage and race over to the podium. My eyes quickly scanning each of the cold, drab, frightened faces of the potential tributes packing the square. Each of them silently begging me to pick them, to save them from the waking nightmare that is their life and allow them to experience true greatness at least once.
I wish I could save them all, but I know that I can't. So, I'll just have to settle for saving two at a time every year for the next few years — starting now.
"Good afternoon, everyone," I say, pouring as much sympathy and warmth as I can manage into my voice as I can continue to scan the faces in the crowd.
"And welcome to the District Eight reaping for this, the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games, and Fourth Quarter Quell.
"Now, I'm sure you all remember what the quell twist for this year is. But, on the off chance you've forgotten, here is a short reminder. Courtesy of our wonderful new President, Caspian Ashwood." I say, taking a couple of small steps back and bowing my head respectfully as the dozens of small screens sprinkled throughout the square flash to life and begin to play the selected clip from the President's quell announcement speech.
"To remind the districts of the Capitols mercy and fairness, for this, the One Hundredth Hunger Games and Fourth Quarter Quell, one gender from each district will be exempt from the Reaping this year.
"However, to ensure adequate district representation in the quell, the gender not exempted from selection must supply their district with a second tribute for the games."
It takes me a couple of seconds to compose myself once the clip ends. Fortunately, the crowd is just as big an emotional wreck as I am, so no one really notices. And, after a few seconds, I'm just as happy and smiley as I was before the President's powerful words shook me to my very core. "That was absolutely breathtaking, wasn't it?" I ask, my voice quiet and breathy. "I can't tell you how proud I am to be here with all of you. To be taking part in such a historic and life-changing quell. But I would like to try and show you.
"And the easiest way for me to do that is to select the first lucky young woman who will have the honor of representing District Eight in the quell."
I'm so excited that I'm shaking — it takes every ounce of restraint that I have not to scream like a little kid as I make my way over to the hollowed-out spool of thread they're using as a reaping ball. And even more than that, not to snatch up the first slip of vibrant, violet paper I see. Which means that I've fully exhausted my limited supply of self-control by the time I finally thrust my soft, delicate, expertly manicured hand into the middle of the papers and give them a good mixing before coming back with the slip I wanted.
"The name of our first tribute is … Pallas Arguatha!" I say, my voice dripping with excitement, my eyes burning brighter than the sun as I happily scan the faces in the crowd in search of the one whose life I've just changed for the better.
And there she is, carefully weaving her way through the crowd with a surprising but welcome smile on her pretty face. And I don't use that word lightly — especially in a district like Eight, where pretty is such a subjective term, and the majority of the girls who bear the title are thin, gaunt, ravenous little shells who just happen to be slightly better off than their peers. But that's not the case with Pallas. She really is pretty.
It would be hard for someone with soft, pale skin — beautiful, vibrant, green eyes — and a head full of sandy-blonde hair that she has pulled back in a stunningly intricate-looking ponytail to not be considered pretty. I'm sure that Garron is back there drooling over her like the disgusting pig he is. I'll have to make a point of not leaving him alone with her if I can help it.
Oh, she's just about to the stage. I'm so excited! "Welcome, Pallas," I squeal, my voice hitting an octave I haven't come close to since I was a child. "It's a pleasure to meet you," I say, throwing my arms around her neck and pulling her in for a big hug.
"I'm sure it is," she laughs, rolling her eyes and returning my hug before slipping away and starting for the empty seat on the far side of the stage next to Garron.
"Where are you going, dear?"
She stops, looking back over her shoulder at me with a confused look on her face before nodding in the general direction of Garron and the empty chair. "Over there. Isn't that where I'm supposed to go?"
"Well … yes, it is. But only after we've talked for a bit. It would be awfully hard for me to introduce you to the rest of Panem if you're all the way over there."
"Oh, right, silly me. I was just sooo wrapped up in the moment that I must have forgotten that you need to ask me all kinds of pointless and embarrassing personal questions before I can be shipped off to the Capitol to die."
Oh great, she's one of those. I should have known that it was stupid of me to hope that my seemingly normal and pretty tribute would have the good sense to be thankful for the gift I've just given her. "That's an … interesting take on things."
"No, it's just the correct one. But please, ask away. I'm sure everyone is just dying to know all my dirty little secrets."
What have I gotten myself into with this girl? "Right, so, we don't have a lot of time or anything ..."
"Of course, we don't."
"... As I was saying … we don't have a lot of time, so instead of asking you a bunch of questions ..."
"A bunch of stupid questions."
"... I'll just give you the opportunity to tell everyone a little about yourself. Who is Pallas?" besides a sarcastic bitch who doesn't appreciate a good thing when she sees it. "What makes you, well, you? Why should we be watching out for you in the arena?"
"Well, for starters, I am a six-hundred-foot-tall fire-breathing platypus with dragon wings."
"OK, that's enough," I mumble, ripping the microphone out of her hand and tossing it back on the podium. "It's obvious that you have no intention of taking this seriously, so I won't waste any more time with you than I already have." I spit, grabbing her by the wrist and gently dragging her over to her seat.
"By the way," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Be careful around Garron. He fancies himself a charmer and has trouble keeping his hands to himself."
"Why are you telling me this?" she asks, her eyes suddenly filled with angst and concern.
"Because you're my tribute," I say, dropping my voice another octave as we inch closer to Garron. "And no one should have to put up with his shit. If he's ever — inappropriate — with you in any way, let me know. I'll take care of it."
She nods her head in understanding, the fear still plain on her face as I pass her off to Garron — who can't help but leer at her like a pig as I turn my back on the two of them and head back to the podium. Stopping for just a fraction of a second after I hear Pallas whisper something that sounds incredibly angry at Garron. But I don't catch what's said, so I try to push it out of my mind while making a mental note to ask Pallas about it later.
"Well, that was certainly … something," I say, scooping up the microphone and doing my best to stay happy and upbeat as I make my way back over to the ball so that I can reap a district partner for Pallas. Who will, hopefully, be just as physically marketable as she is without all of the sass and disrespect.
But I'm not going to get my hopes up on that. This is District Eight, Pallas is probably as close to perfect as I'm going to get, and it's going to be impossible for me to sell her as anything more than a joke who might be able to accidentally her way into a top twelve finish. Maybe I should just hope for one of those quiet, sullen little things that spends all her time sulking and eating like a beast. At least then I won't be disappointed.
That's such a lovely thought, settling for a tribute that I know has zero chance of competing because I don't want to put up with another smart ass. It's amazing how quickly one difficult tribute has changed my outlook on this. I almost don't even want to reap a second tribute.
But I know that I have to. So, I carefully slip my hand into the mass of papers for a second time — giving them a couple of soft, almost inconsequential stirs before closing my fingers around my chosen slip and carefully withdrawing it and my hand from the ball.
"The name of our second tribute is … Lizbeth Tulle!"
I recognize Lizbeth's name, or at least her last name — but I can't for the life of me figure out why and where from. I don't know anyone out here in Eight, so it would have to be from the Capitol. But that doesn't make sense — no one of importance in the Capitol has a name like Tulle. And I only know important people.
This is going to bug the crap out of me. Though, I guess I could always ask her about it once she gets up here. That would be the easiest thing to do, and it would save me from having to give her free reign to talk about whatever she wants like I did with Pallas.
Yes, that's what I'm going to do, I decide — smiling softly to myself as I begin to scan the faces in the crowd in search of Lizbeth. I'm just about ready to call her name for a second time when I finally lock eyes with a shocked, scared young woman carefully making her way through the crowd towards me.
She's not as pretty as Pallas is, though if she grew her hair out a bit and got rid of that hideous nose piercing, she might be close. Though, there's no way to fix her nose, which has obviously been broken at least once and healed crooked, and not in the endearing way that it could have. Everything else about her is fine. Her soft, mousey blonde hair is in that fuzzy, in-between stage you get when you let it grow out after being buzzed — her eyes are a soft, grayish-blue — and her skin is pale with just a hint of rosy color and a light dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks.
She could be pretty if she wanted to be. I'm just not sure that she does.
"Welcome Lizbeth," I say, pouring every ounce of energy I have left into trying to be as happy and bubbly as I was when I met Pallas. She deserves that much at least. "It's a privilege to meet you. Though, I can't seem to shake the feeling that I already know you."
"You probably recognize my last name," she says, her voice calm, pleasant, and respectful. "My family has owned Tulle Enterprises here in Eight since before the Dark Days."
"Of course, Tulle Enterprises, purveyors of the finest luxury textiles in all of Panem. Or at least they used to be. Your family had a bit of a financial scare a few decades ago. If I remember correctly."
"We did," she says, looking down sheepishly at her feet. "But my mom and dad have been working really hard to help the company recover. We're not back to where we were yet, but we're getting closer every day."
"I'm sure you are. Just like I'm sure winning the Hunger Games would be a major boost to that effort."
"Without a doubt. That's why I'm going to try my hardest to win."
"Well, isn't that sweet? The heir to a once-mighty company struggling to find its footing is about to go into the arena to help bring it back from the brink. You are the heir, right?"
"I am. I'm the only child of an only child. If I make it out of the arena, which I hope I do, I'll inherit the company one day."
"And that's as good a reason as any to try as hard as you can to win," I say, motioning for Pallas to join us as I take a step towards Lizbeth to whisper something to her. "Though, I think you'll have your hands full with Pallas. She seems just as — determined — as you are to come out on top."
"I hope so," she says, turning her attention towards Pallas, offering her her hand with a smile on her face. "She would make a pretty poor ally if she … oops. I guess I should have asked you if you were open to an alliance before saying that. Sorry, Pallas."
"There's no need to be sorry," she says, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. "I'd be more than happy to be your ally, Lizbeth."
"Would you look at this, Panem? They've been partners for less than five minutes, and they're already allies. I hope you're all taking notes because Pallas and Lizbeth mean business." I say, placing myself between the two of them, my hands clasped firmly around theirs as every camera in the square zooms in on the handshake that sealed the first formal alliance of the Fourth Quarter Quell.
"I would wish everyone else luck, but I don't think it will help. So instead, I'll wish you all a Happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
Pallas Eve Arguatha-18 (District 8 Female)
Dayana wasn't kidding about Garron — the perv refuses to keep his hands to himself. It took him all of thirty seconds to start groping my ass, and the only reason he stopped there was because I told him I would scream if he tried to touch me anywhere else.
So, he didn't — he just kept touching, and pawing, and groping my ass until the reaping was over — sending me off to my goodbyes with a final, degrading slap and a pinch that made me feel so disgusting that I nearly cried.
But I didn't. I didn't cry — because crying is a sign of weakness. I didn't tell Dayana what Garron did or ask her to take care of it — because trusting her to do something about it, to take care of my problem for me, is a sign of weakness. And I refuse to be weak.
That's why I can't figure out why I agreed to ally with Lizbeth — or Liz, as she insists I call her — instead of going ahead with my original plan. It would be so much easier — not to mention safer — for me to go it alone until I can find some brain-dead kid who only thinks with the little brain in his pants to ally with. But that's not what I'm going to do. I'm going to ally with Liz, and I can't for the life of me understand why.
Ok, so that's not entirely true — I understand why I want to ally with Liz — I just don't like it. The reality is, I'm going to be dead in a little over a week — I accept that for what it is. Part of me is actually looking forward to dying — I've been as good as dead for a little over two years already — but I don't want to die alone. Evie was alone when she died — or at least she might as well have been — since mom was passed out drunk on the couch like always, and I was too busy hanging out with Caitlyn to come home and check on her even though I knew she needed me.
I trusted our mom to be there for Evie, just that once, and she couldn't do that. My baby sister died scared and alone, and I can only imagine how terrified she must have felt when — when — no, I'm not going to think about this. I can't think about this.
Evie's death destroyed me once already — I can't afford to let it destroy me again. Not when I'm so close to finally seeing her again. That's what I have to focus on. Not how terrible all of this is — or how hard it's going to be for me to keep Liz as an ally once she realizes how much of a trainwreck I am — but how close I am to seeing Evie again.
That's the prize that matters. It's the prize that makes two years of snarky, angry hell worth living through. It's the prize that makes two years of sleeping with anything that moves in search of an emotional connection that makes me feel alive and worthwhile somewhat bearable. And it's the prize that takes away all of the pain and loneliness and replaces it with happiness and love. I haven't felt happiness or love in two years — ever since I found that stupid note on the floor next to Evie's lifeless body — but I'm ready to feel it again. I just have to hold on a little while longer, and I can.
Lizbeth "Liz" Tulle-17 (District 8 Female)
"What did your father and I tell you about making a decision before you have all the facts?"
"Not to do it unless I absolutely have to, and even then, to make sure I leave myself an out just in case I need one," I respond, meekly, doing my best not to look my mom in the eye as she continues to scold me.
"Then why did you ask that Pallas girl to be your ally? She's a trainwreck, Liz, her whole family is. That's why her grandparents cut them off — because they were out of control."
"That's not what happened, and you know it, dear," says my dad, an annoyed sigh escaping his lips as he leans forward in his chair and gingerly massages his temples. "Besides, it's a moot point now. Liz and Pallas are allies — that's all there is to it."
"I will not have my daughter galivanting around the Capitol with a whore, Bast," she growls, glaring at me the same way she did when I accidentally spilled a glass of wine on one of dad's business partners a few weeks ago.
"It's not up to you, Dimity. It's up to Liz. And she's made her decision."
"And she'll unmake it as soon as she gets on the train. And again, I won't have my daughter consorting with a whore like Pallas. It's not a good look for her or us."
Ok, this is the point where I tune my parents out. They're not talking about me anymore, they're talking through me, and I refuse to take part. This isn't about them — it's about me. MY life has been shattered into a million tiny pieces, and all my mom can think about is how my choice of allies reflects on HER? Seriously?
Fortunately, I've become something of an expert at ignoring my parents without them knowing. It's one of the many talents I've developed after years of being dragged to pointless board meetings and business lunches. It's not something I like to do all that often — because the longer I do it, the harder it is for me to hide the fact that I'm doing it — but in short doses, it's an absolute lifesaver.
So, I bust it out. I slide into the chair directly across from the couch my parents are sharing — lean back — cross my legs — lace my finger together — and watch.
I watch for what feels like an eternity — until, at long last, a peacekeeper walks into the room and tells them it's time to go. Or at least that's what I assume she says — I'm still not really listening. And I don't start until my mom has left the room and my dad turns around to say what might very well be the last words he'll ever say to me.
"Just ... try to remember what we taught you about risk management and leadership. It might come in handy in the arena," he says, shifting awkwardly for a second as he tries to find a way to say the one thing he's never been able to say in my entire life. But he can't find the words — he's not capable of finding them. So instead, he just nods his head and whispers, "Good luck," before walking out of the room — stopping just long enough to offer up a polite thank you to the woman charged with putting me on the train for the Capitol death games before disappearing down the hall.
He's quickly replaced by someone I would much rather spend my time with. "Gibson," I say, throwing my arms around his neck and pulling him in for a hug. "I didn't think you would come. I figured you and Meesh would be busy trying to replace me in the band."
"We could never replace you," he says, flashing me his trademark smile that's closer to a sneer than it is an actual smile. "We wouldn't sound the same without you."
"True," I say, rolling my eyes. "Replacing me with someone who can actually play the drums might make the band sound … what's the word … good?"
"Hey, we sound just fine with you on drums. Thank you very much."
"No, we don't. We sound like three dying cats caught in a trash compactor."
"How many times do I have to tell you this? That's our sound. We're supposed to sound like that. It's what makes us … well … us."
"It's also what stops us from getting gigs," I say, plopping down on the couch and putting my feet up on the expensive little coffee table. Leaving a small but noticeable scuff on the highly polished face that I'm sure my parents will be billed for as soon as I'm on the train.
"No, it's not. But if you're really concerned about it, you could always take your drums home and practice when you have free time between board meetings."
He knows I would love to do that. If I could get away with it, I would spend every free second I have practicing. I love playing the drums, but I can't do it at home. My parents have been willing to let a lot slide in recent years — but the buzz cut and the nose piercing were the final straw. And the only reason they let those slide was because I could take the stud out and cover my head whenever someone important was around.
But telling them I play the drums in a punk band — they would disown me for that. And, even though crossing that line gets more appealing by the day, I'm not ready to cross it yet. We still need my parents' money to fund our more radical projects — there are plenty of anarchist artists out there willing to tag up the town about an upcoming underground punk concert — or a small vandalizing spree in the rich part of the district — but none of them will work for free.
"You know I can't do that, Gibson."
"I know," he replies, sticking his hands into his oversized pockets and looking down at his feet in mock embarrassment. "But you can take this with you to the Capitol," he says, fishing a small case out of his pocket and handing it to me.
"What is it?" I ask, giving it a quick once over before dropping it on the couch next to me.
"A data stick from our last concert. Meesh and I want you to take it with you so you can play our songs while you're in the Capitol. Introduce your tool of an escort and that creepy dick of a mentor to some real music."
I can't help but smile at the thought of Dayana and Garron listening to this with me. They would probably shit their pants in the first thirty seconds. "I'm sure they'll love that," I say, rolling my eyes as I pick the case back up and stuff it in my pocket.
"Probably not, but you never know. You didn't think you would like it the first time either but look at you now.
"Oh, and by the way. Take this with you too," he says, fishing something else out of his pocket and tossing it to me as he starts for the door. "You know, for luck."
It takes me a couple of seconds to realize what it is, and by the time I do, Gibson is already gone. Leaving me to sit there in silence as I stare at his favorite guitar pick. The one he was using the first time I met him — the one he used to play our first gig — and the one I know he expects me to return after I win the Hunger Games.
A/N: First, I'd like to give a special thank you to pioneer9 and KitKathy520 for submitting Lizbeth and Pallas. They were incredibly fun to write, and I hope I did them justice. Also, I know Pallas's pov was on the shorter side, there was so much more I wanted to write, but none of it felt natural. It felt like I was adding stuff in for the sake of extending the POV, and I don't want to do that. I'm actually trying to cut back on the unnecessary stuff a little bit, so expect to see less pointless fluff and more important stuff in every pov going forward.
So here we are, eight down, four to go. We're officially in the home stretch of the Reapings, and I'm starting to get super excited about the rest of the story. I have so much planned that I can't wait to show you all, and I hope you're all as excited about it as I am.
That's really all I have for right now. As always, I'd love to hear what everyone thinks of Lizbeth and Pallas, as well as where you think they fit in the hierarchy of tributes we've met so far. Other than that, thank you all for reading, and if you have any questions, comments, concerns, or advice, please, feel free to drop me a PM. My door is always open for advice or help. And I'll be looking for all of your happy faces at the District Nine Reaping :D