Chapter Fifteen: Lurking in the Shadows

'Twas the Night Before Reapings

Fox Angel, District Twelve Female

When I took on this job, I was given three rules.

One, I was not to take anything from the premises. The man wanted nothing missing from the crime scene that could turn up later and become suspicious.

Two, I was to be as quick and efficient as possible. Get in, do what I had to do, get out. No detours, no wasting time, no anything.

And three, in case, by some freak accident, someone figured out it was me who did this, he wanted our connection as distant as possible. Thus, I was not to collect my payday for the job right away. Instead, I was to go to a back alley he'd shown me in exactly three weeks, where he would supposedly give me a jacket that had the rest of the money stuffed in the pockets.

I really hope he's doing it just to make any connection between the two of us as distant as possible. Because he wouldn't be the first person to stiff me. And I can't call an impromptu job with him as my target, he's too well-known in the District. The person I was given as a target today is a nobody. Very few people, if any, will miss him. But this guy? He's got extended family everywhere (a few of them have hired me in the past for other jobs) so they know who I am and what I can do, and they're the type of people who will give a big reward to the lucky searcher who finds me. I can't have that much of a spotlight on me.

But, no time to think about that now. I actually have to follow the advice I'm given. Get in and get out.

That would be so much easier if my vision wasn't so terrible. There's no moon tonight, and even if this was a guy who normally slept with their lights on, the electricity is completely unreliable here. Thus, I'm feeling my way around for the most part, hoping that there isn't a trip wire or something that'll set off an alarm. However, this is District 12, where people are more focused on getting food to eat than not getting murdered, so neither of those things happen to show up. After a few minutes, I can finally follow the sound of breathing into the bedroom.

My vision is a little better now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, but I can still barely see for crap as I take in the room's surroundings. No windows- otherwise I would have come in through one of them. The bed is not a bed- just a cot with filthy sheets on it, covering an equally filthy person, who's blissfully unaware that he's not alone in the room, even as I approach.

I pull out the knife. Time to do this quickly. My success or failure rides on the next fifteen seconds or so.

I hover it over his neck for a second. Then, in one quick movement, I slash his throat, leaving a gaping opening in its place.

The next five or so minutes are all a blur. First, it's a mad scramble to escape the house, where I seem to have forgotten the way to the entrance I just used. Thankfully, this guy's not a screamer, but in the summer, where there's always a person or two outside for some reason, the risk of getting caught in the act is much higher.

Then, it's a frenzied dash through alleys and back routes, making sure to stay well out of the way of the town center. Even with the terrible vision I've been crippled with since birth, I'm still covering ground remarkably quickly. After about ten minutes, I arrive at a small lake I frequent. Once I get to the water's edge, I stop and throw the knife as far as I can. It spirals through the air before landing in the center of the lake with an audible splash.

I've been trained for scenarios like these my entire life. And the one thing my parents always used to tell me runs through my head:

Cover your tracks.

When my parents were still around, and before I was ever a hired killer, I used to be a daughter.

My parents were full-blown rebel stereotypes, especially before I was born and when this mysterious President Snow was in power. I haven't lived long enough to remember he things that he did, but apparently he was far worse than the current President could ever hope to be. However, even when he finally died and this new president took power three weeks later, my parents didn't stop. They thought that as long as we were subservient to the Capitol, we still hadn't attained the status we needed.

However, three years ago, there was a massive internal crackdown on rebels in each District. Some of it was orchestrated by the President, but most came from the Districts themselves. They thought that there wasn't really a reason to rebel anymore, since President Snow was dead and gone. However, whenever someone told them that, my parents used to shrug their heads and tell me, "Just because it's better by comparison doesn't mean it's good."

So, they'd trained me. They were part of a small rebel coalition designed to seek out and eliminate specific targets. So, once I turned eight, they taught me everything they knew, as fast as possible, not knowing if someone was plotting to kill them at the same time that they worked on getting rid of their targets.

One gray and cloudy morning, about a year after my training started, my parents came into our shared bedroom with a large box. It had enough food and water for a few days, a sharp knife, and one little pill. "So you don't have to use the bathroom," they told me.

"Wait," I'd said, "That's for me?"

"Yes," Daddy had said, "It's not safe for you to stay here anymore. We have to make sure you don't get hurt."

"But-"

Then Mommy turned to me with tear-streaked eyes. "I'm sorry, sweetie, but we have to make sure your connection with us is as distant as possible. You know how the Peacekeepers treat people like us."

"Time to put your skills to the test," Daddy had said. Then, I had gotten into the box, not because I wanted to, but because I had to.

That was the last I ever saw of my parents. They carried me to the train station that night, and put me on the first train that pulled in. Since most trains went to the Capitol, they assumed I'd end up there, where plenty of people (even the president) would be willing to hire (and pay handsomely for) a trained assassin, especially one as small and unassuming as me.

However, I ended up in District 12. Maybe they needed new sacks to bring up their coal in or something. I'll never know for sure.

But what I did know is that my old life ended and my new one started the moment I took my first inhale of the thick, choking air of District 12.

Fast forward three years, and you'll find me here.

Currently, it's only a few hours until the Reapings. I've been waiting for the market to open for a while, so I can actually have something to eat before standing in the square with everyone else before the Reaping. It isn't like I'll get picked or anything- as far as the District is concerned, I don't exist. I even snuck into the mayor's office one night a few weeks back to be sure. No public records, no instances of my name that I could find on the cobbled-together computer that stored the entire District's information, no nothing. Meaning I don't have any slips in the bowl.

I don't plan on taking tesserae, even if I'm desperate- I don't want to have my name in a file somewhere in case I get caught on a job. Thus, I've had to resort to eating scraps the wealthier citizens have thrown out when I'm in between jobs, or, in this case, running a little low on funds.

However, I have enough money on hand to make it through a couple more days before I'll have to go there. Again.

I could, of course, head outside the town proper and into the woods to kill some time, but I don't want to do that today unless I absolutely have to. On this day in particular, the woods are swarming with Peacekeepers who are trying to catch people hoping to skip the Reapings. And I don't want to test my odds against a Peacekeeper in the middle of the night, especially since I'm at the age where this would be my first Reaping.

I can already tell it's going to be an absolute scorcher, with heat baking the dusty ground in waves and not even a stifling breeze to break it up. It'll probably even worse down in the mines, considering they don't get any fresh air and every breath they take is choked with coal dust.

Even though no one knows I'm here, I'll probably still be forced into the mines at some point if this keeps up. I don't know how those workers do it. Just from the amount of horror stories I've picked up from hearing conversations in the market, I never want to enter the mines, let alone spend twelve hours each day in them.

The first workers begin to trickle into the market to their respective stalls, in whatever ways they can. Some hobble, some limp, some are helped by friends just to make it the short distance. The only reason they can even work up here is because the mines have chewed them up and spit them out. Everyone here is a cripple. Probably forever. There are only three reasons an adult has for not working in the mines: they either run a successful business for the upper class, have children who can't care for themselves, or they physically cannot work down there due to their various disabilities. Most people here fall under the third type.

I decide to give them a few extra minutes- going into the market the second it opens automatically makes people dislike you. I don't care about many things, but staying on good terms with the people who keep me fed (for the most part, anyway) is one of them.

The place, thankfully, is pretty empty today, for most people are concerned about the Reapings, not whether or not they'll run out of something and have to make a quick trip to the market. And most of the people who work there just stay home today- they know they're barely going to make money today, if at all, because there aren't going to be any buyers.

However, there are two workers there today: a lady who I've never seen before, and a guy the entire town just calls The Old-Timer. I've never seen him miss a market day, ever. Even when there was three feet of snow on the ground last winter, he managed to wade his way through to the market, where he stood for two hours before someone saw him and said, "The market's closed today! No one's coming. Get inside before you freeze to death or something!"

Thankfully, he did listen, otherwise he probably wouldn't be standing here today. I know that for a fact, because the only reason I survived that winter was because I spent most of it after that fateful day huddled in a slightly-warmer-than-outside cave just outside the (supposedly) electric fence with a stockpile of food, only kept from freezing by a thin coat that held up against the elements surprisingly well. I could have just gone to the orphanage if I really needed to, but again, I desperately wanted to avoid putting my name into a database.

About ten minutes after the market opens (and it still being pretty empty) I make my move and stride up to the stand being manned by the woman I've never seen before. Not being recognized by anyone will help me keep my identity a secret, as no one will know exactly who they're looking for information about.

The lady is pretty nice, all things considered. With my last bit of money, I manage to get enough food that I can probably make it last for a week if I do a good job rationing it. As for the other two weeks- I'll do something. Pick apples just outside the fence, eat flowers, catch bugs- I may be hungry a lot, but I've never come close to starving. Food here is plentiful if you know what you're doing.

So, I duck into a space between two houses, well it of sight of the average person, and scarf down a small portion of raw vegetables before quietly storing the rest of my food in a little bag gifted to me by an employer after one of my jobs.

Then, I notice the first people beginning to trickle into the town square. The Reapings must be a lot closer than I thought. Again, not that I'll ever get picked (because as far as I'm concerned, no one even knows that I exist) but I still need to go through the motions and stand in the square with everyone else when the escort picks our tributes.

Again, the Peacekeepers here are the type of people that you want to be around for as minimal a time period as possible.

So, as everyone begins to cluster into their respective groups in the square, I decide to try and find the section meant for twelve-year-olds. Could I pass for someone who isn't eligible? Probably. Do I want to take any chances? No way. Not here.

There aren't that many kids in this section yet- only a couple. All of them are nervous. Some are trying to hide it by chattering away like their life depends on it. At least two are crying. One kid is rocking back and forth, not saying a word, holding her head. Normally, I'd think that they all look ridiculous, considering their odds, but I've seen enough of the Hunger Games to know that three of the four kids picked in the last two years were thirteen or younger. And none of them cracked the final eight, either. We're not exactly known for sending in contenders every year.

Soon, the square is full almost to bursting. Everyone is wearing a uniform expression of despair. Most of the parents are sobbing, even more so than the kids. In fact, most of the kids seem like they're taking this better than their parents. Sure, most of them are probably terrified out of their minds too, but at least they're doing a much better job at masking it.

But what do I even have left to fear at this point? The Capitol has already done their worst to me. Even if I somehow hit the Hunger Games, all it will do is give me the opportunity to hurt them the way that they hurt me, and presumably my parents. (While I have no idea whether or not they are dead or alive, I don't have the nerves- or the technology- to be able to look up their names in a database and check.)

Everyone else- besides these parents- seem to share that same mentality. They're all world-weary, beaten down, and sick of life. I know I'm already all three of those things, and that's disconcerting coming from a twelve-year-old.

Any minute now, the escort's going to manage to drag their sorry self out onto the stage, and go through the motions of the speech and the name drawing and everything else. If anything, they're just living proof that anything that comes to District Twelve instantly gets any sense of fun and whimsy sucked out of it.

Including me.

So, even though the kids around me are nervously talking, I'll still be the outlier here. In fact, I can sum up my emotions right now in one word.

Whatever.

Author's Notes:

-Sorry for taking an eternity and a half to come out with this chapter. I got hit with a nasty case of the flu, and thus, I've been sidelined up until today, so I could finally finish. I'm going back to school tomorrow and it looks like the next week is going to be quite busy when I take in all the work I'm going to have to make up and the tests I'm going to have. I'll try to create time to write, though.

-Thanks to jupiter101 for sending in Fox. Coming up next is their second tribute, the D5F. That will be followed by the D5M, D6M, and D11F.

-Thanks for sticking it out. See you next chapter!