Mint Catalan

Mentor, District Two

Victor of the 12th Hunger Games

King dick Roman leads the way. I follow, with Striker trailing behind me. Roman's the Victor, and not just in Two; he won the very first Hunger Games without a single ally. I don't think anyone actually expected to fight that year; the tributes from Four, Eight, and Eleven sat down on their plates, refusing to move. The rest ran. Roman on the other hand went straight for the Cornucopia. He took out the pacifists with a serrated sword, then packed up some provisions and headed out to hunt the others. It took him a while to track them all down, but it was a good, clean victory. It might be the only good, clean victory on record.

Jasper from Five won the 2nd Hunger Games; that year was the year of the Bloodbath. Every tribute was aware of the cost of non-participation, and the prizes that were waiting if they won - no one held anything back. He bludgeoned a few girls to death with a hand-fitting rock, and hasn't been that popular since; not in his District, where killing your District partner is frowned upon, but in ours he's used among our own Victors as an example to follow. Jasper got shit done.

Briella is all over Roman. I huff and my bangs fly up; it's so hot they stay there. Fixing my hair to hide my burns – got to keep those stylists happy, I elbow him out of the way and shoot Briella a look that says, 'really? Again?"

She looks properly chastised and shakes Striker's hand without causing a scene as I pass her on my way to our seats.

"She means well," Roman reminds me.

"She means to eat your face, Roman; I thought you had higher standards – my mistake," I retort, and fold my arms to look out into the crowd.

Lich is easy enough to spot; he's massive, even for an eighteen. His gold hair is slicked down with something that glitters in the sun – way to stand out. His shirt is simple enough: white with two buttons undone – just the right amount of teasing. His friends are taking our choice pretty well, though it's doubtful they'd do anything else to his face; Lich's a little creepy. I can't wait to see how he'll play the game.

"You're still sure about her?" I ask Striker.

"Who else is there that's on par, Mint?"

"Kohle, Esse, and Cheval for a start" I snap.

"We've been over this, Mint. Kohle's agility isn't where it should be, Esse, however talented, is scared to death of her father – he doesn't want his only child competing, and Cheval is seventeen. We can put her forward next year if she still wants this. This is Finial's last chance," he rattles off, a little disinterested in my constant questioning of our decision to nominate Finial. I see that the others have their heads up their arses; I'm aware how helpful a little humility can be. I had some myself, once. I had a lot of things before my Games.

I sigh, and put my hands in my lap so I can pick at my cuticles.

I wish I knew her better; even the people that "know" her don't claim to know her. She's unpredictable, prissy, and sometimes? Sometimes you're talking and she's looking at you like she doesn't see you. It's not frustration, or disinterest, or some kind of ocular defect; we've had her tested. It's - I have no idea what's up with that. I have no idea what's up with her. I'm glad I have Cheval in my pocket. I'm glad for another Hunger Games.

If Lich doesn't win, maybe we'll have better luck next year.


Lich Bier

Male Tribute, District Two

It's so bright. I'm trying not to squint in case a camera passes me by, but it's hard. I'm the tallest in our age group; there's no one to use for cover. Martillo offers to shield my eyes with his hands, but I shoot him a look that says, 'are you fucking kidding me?' and he shuffles a couple of inches closer to Acero, who pats him on the back, and offers me a wilted smile. They're so well suited for the Peacekeeper force; I don't think either has ruffled a single feather all their life.

Feathers seem to be all the rage in the Capitol this year. I'm glad Mint and Striker are happy for me to be myself; I don't have to suffer Briella's stifling embrace, and I won't be suffering Briella's stifling embrace. That's not a very Lich thing to do. Roman weathers it pretty well; he's softer than the other trainees are willing to admit. He did what he had to in his Games, but I'm not sure he enjoyed it.

The mayor has spoken without me as audience – I have better things to review, and he's now taking his place on a chair slightly out of line with the Victors. He's a few inches behind, and I'm glad to see it. He should come second on a day like today.

We're loyal in Two, but I make exceptions for brain-dead ornaments.

"Hello citizens of District Two! What a beautiful day for a reaping, am I right?"

A few people feebly clap; one or two loners chance a cheer. She quickly moves on.

"Let's start with the ladies, shall we?"

She shakes her plumage, which doubles as hair, and golden feathers ripple down her back as she totters over to the golden bowl directly to her left. She puts a hand down flat, palm level with the thousands of slips of folded paper. Then she takes a breath, and pushes it down till it disappears in the sheer volume of names. The pieces higher up cascade over her hand, and build back up to her elbow when she pauses. Her hand must clench like a claw because a second later it flies up into the air victorious, scattering the names of lucky girls on the tarnished wooden floor at her feet. Bringing it back down, she squints a moment in the glare, and steps up to the microphone.

"Herminia Brenner!" she bellows.

Herminia is a thin girl from the sixteens. Her hands start to shake, so she shoves them in her pockets as she leaves her section. Her hair is black and ruffled; there are bags under her eyes. The tears start to fall as the climbs the stairs, and I groan.

What a stupid girl. There's no chance she'll be going into the arena.

Brielle gently takes her hand and whispers something in her ear. Herminia hiccups, and stands up a little taller than she has been so far. The tears are drying up.

"Is there anyone out there who would like to take dear Herminia's place?"

"Me! I volunteer!" shouts Finial, but she's not the only one scrabbling for the stage. Another girl in our class is struggling to make her way forward, but she's in the fifteens; she has further to go. Just far enough so her father has the chance to yell and barrel forward, taking her hand and scolding her in full view of the whole District. He'll regret that.

Finial looks over her shoulder at the base of the stairs, searching for Esse probably – seeing if she's still on her heels. Satisfied, or scared that she's got this, she takes the steps slowly, one at a time, and is quickly enveloped by a relieved Brielle who is happy she's got a more promising female tribute to command.

"Marvelous! And what is your name, dear?"

"Finial. Finial Spire," she replies. She doesn't need any encouragement to stand tall; Finial is proud, and she should be. It's no secret she's the girl the Mentors agreed on. That's an achievement in and of itself - I admit that. It's also the last achievement she's going to be able to claim for her own. There's no prize for second place.

Today is the start of something great for me.

For Finial, it's the beginning of the end.


Finial Spire

Female Tribute, District Two

Brielle disentangles herself as I pluck a feather from where it's stuck, smack bang in the middle of my forehead. It's pretty, but I let it fall all the same. I don't need it. What I need is for her to get on with this. I settle with wearing a warm smile, and link my hands behind my back. Hurry up.

"And now, it's time to choose a young man!"

It looks like Brielle's sticking with her approach. She places a hand palm down at the line the names reach in the big golden bowl. I think she thinks this choice matters; maybe she has to pretend it does for the sake of everyone watching in the other districts; everyone here knows Lich Bier is heading up there any second now.

"And our male tribute is, Julius Tipica!"

A boy in blue denim work pants and a black sleeveless tee shirt leaves the seventeens and makes his way to the stage swiftly. He's not from the academy; from the look of him he works in one of the technical shops town; maybe a mechanic – he could repair tools, or machines. Why do I care? He'll be gone soon enough.

And so will I.

Brielle gingerly puts a hand on one of his thick sweaty shoulders, and turns to the crowd.

"Is there anyone who wants to volunteer for Mr. Tipica?"

"I do," says Lich; he doesn't need to yell. All his 'friends' part around him. In this moment I'm reminded of little fish keeping a safe distance from a lethal shark. He looks around slowly before making his way to the stage. They'll pay for that if he makes it home. He's the kind of guy that has no problem making people sorry.

"And your name?" enquires Brielle, when he's up and standing next to her; she doesn't dare embrace him – good choice there.

"My name is Lich Bier: soon to be Victor, Lich Bier of District Two" he replies, before turning and leaving her gaping like goldfish as he takes his place beside me. He doesn't look at me once.

Maybe it's ok he thinks he's better.

Maybe then he won't see me coming.