A/N: Delian fights for his chance to volunteer: not against other volunteers, but against the victor that devastated him. Critias, acting out of extreme spite, has disseminated an embarrassing film depicting Delian. Delian pommels Critias the victor with plenty of rebellious spirit during the Reaping Ceremony to get the two things he wants — to get back at Critias and to volunteer for the Games.

It was Reaping Day, the twenty-sixth time its dreaded echoes have resounded in the confines of District 2. Despite having produced three victors, which is better than what half of the districts can boast, the experience was particularly traumatic. For the first twelve editions of the Games, District 2 produced nothing; then, three victors landed in District 2 in succession; after that, nothing again.

Two reaped, and one volunteered. For all three victors, all the working residents of District 2 have expressed their gratitude by giving up a half-day's wage towards an expensive blue cloak, made of the finest furs, coloured with the most premium dyes, and studded with jewels imported from District 1. It was a small price to pay for a significant rise in wages, and it temporarily remitted the tensions between the social classes in the District.

Delian never knew what was the cause of the animosity; he was altogether too young to understand its origins, or the arguments on both sides, but he was old enough to know to take sides.

"Never play with the kids who live on the west side of the Square or on Blue Mound," his parents admonished him, "or they will eat you alive."

Being eaten alive is a sufficient terrifying prospect for Delian, so he accepted these premises without question, for at least the first few years of his life. Then, came the victors, who all lived on Blue Mound. The people of District 2 were originally adverse to the Games, but after realizing that victory in it meant increased wages, they gradually grew to accept it, especially after its better effects were demonstrated by the triple victory in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth games. To Delian, this meant a few more pieces of candy each week.

But the victories stopped after three happy years, and Delian's parents stopped giving him candies. It was also at this juncture that the Games became more competitive. In the fourteenth edition, it was discovered that volunteering was allowed, and the natural development from there is that training of a volunteering was at least not systemically prohibited. With three victors, District 2 was in a premeable position to explore this new dimension of the Games. Soon, the victors, who were remembered as heroes, pooled their resources together, and started what is known as the Academy.

To the quarriers of District 2, the Academy was a symbol of dashed hope. It held all the promise, but it failed to deliver. To the adults, it was to be guarantor of increased wages; to the very young, a source of pieces of candy. With the moments of glory, the honour of the podium, and the lavish life in the Victors' Village, three times demonstrated, many youngsters itched for it. Compared to the squalour of the quarries and the encampment next to it, it was another world, on another pane of existence. Hence, as soon as the Academy was declared operational, there was no lack of applicants to it, even if eventual participation meant almost certain death, and the Academy failed to deliver.

The first face of the Academy was Critias, the last of the three victors of the primodial age. Critias was also the District's first volunteer, and he was the face of disapproval from the Academy. Drooling after the glamour of victory, many quarrying teenagers hiked miles into the centre of town, only to find that there is no such place as the Academy. Perplexed, Delian wandered into the Victors' Village, where Critias, the mythical principal of the Academy, lived. If Critias had denied the existence of the Academy flatly, it would have been less disappointing for Delian: he was told he couldn't join the Academy. He couldn't be the one wearing the blue cloak. He couldn't be the one to bring everybody increased wages. It was still under this condition that the Reaping for the twenty-sixth happened.

"To join," Critias dismissively retorted, "you have to be invited."

"Invited by whom?"

"You'll know when you're invited."

It was perplxing because under the old system, at least everybody had a chance of entering. With the introduction of the new system, it seems like there's something sinister, oligopolistic happening. All the worse, after the Academy was established, the victories stopped. It seemed as though the Academy, which was supposed to bring District 2 prolonged success, was instead the very thing that made the District's luck go sour, but Critias was the owner of the Academy, and one didn't simply challenge Critias. And that was exactly what Delian was going to do this year. Critias had it coming for him.

It isn't pure foolhardiness that motivated Delian to wreck Critias' show on the stage today. The victor had betrayed signs of weakness already, and weakness wasn't a desirable trait to have in District 2, especially in the quarries. If you could carry a 30 kg block, you're better and worth more than someone who could only do 29kg. It's a very plain and utilitarian logic, but it was the order of the quarries. Critias said the vase in his study was heavy and asked Delian to hold it with two hands. There are two possible interpretations: either Critias is not strong enough to hold it with one hand, or he was mocking Delian by implying he couldn't hold it with one hand. Delian sincerely hoped that it was the former, or today might be his last. Delian remembered seeing Critias cutting two wrist arteries in three seconds. The signature move was torrential; you could be alive and well one moment, and after he dashed through, you were dead within a few minutes. It was especially eerie because the corpses betrayed no great leision.

Rhaios smacked Delian out of his trance.

"You sure about this, mate? Critias won't be fucking around. Castor won't be fucking around."

Delian chuckled at the thought of Castor, but shuddered at the thought of the menacing Critias would do everything to defend the candidature of Castor.

"Castor is peanuts. He's thin enough to be a paper airplane, and light enough to fly too. I'll just sort of toss him off the stage… as long as the guy I think is Castor is Castor, and there is only one Castor, and that Castor is the Castor I think is the Castor Critias picked."

"You're not making any sense… no, make sure you do it first thing. Once Critias gets to Castor, it's game over for you," Rhaios intimated.

A long silence ensued, when they were crossing the drawbridge. The dawn was approaching, and they were just on time to go in town.

"How over do you mean when you say game over?" Delian asked his best friend, with a rather morbid tone.

"If Critias sits where he usually does, and you lift yourself on stage, he's going to react within five seconds. Once he gets to you, there's no telling what he does. Fuck, he's victor, he could tear you apart on stage, and the peacekeepers won't bat an eye."

Delian made a sound by creating a vacuum in his mouth and letting air rush in rapidly, as his friend reminded him of another obstacle.

"Shit, peacekeepers. What about them?"

"Well, they could blast you to District 4 with their laser guns."

"The peacekeepers may not do much, but… I don't want to die like that, mate," Delian confessed, forcing a "you know, I complain every day in the quarry, but… there's something attractive about the arena, in a lethal way, I guess."

"And even if you make it to the Games, it's still a one-in-twenty-four thing," Rhaion further analyzed.

"But Critias did that to me. The entire District now regards me, like that. I can't just let him off the hook," said Delian, who flashed something in his sleeve.

It's a dagger. Rhaios grabbed onto the arm concealing the dagger and looked the other direction, scanning the locale for any potential observers.

"That's totally a bad idea. If you fought him honourably, you might be let off; if you use a dagger on him … yeah… murder becomes rebellion," Rhaios mustered something on his face that couldn't be recognized as a grin.

Delian didn't say a thing more before giving the dagger to his friend. Rhaios and Delian go way back, and you don't give incriminating evidence to anyone but your most trusted in District 2.

"Besides, if you do toss Castor off, what's to stop someone tossing you off?"

"Well," Delian flashed his grin instead, "there's only so much you can hope for at one time. I want Critias, even if it's just one punch. I'll make it count. I'll make it hurt," Delian growled, balling his fist in front of him.

Fights were not uncommon where Delian grew up. It's the unruly part of District 2, where the government only ever asked if they were producing their quota. They didn't care about the crime rate or the working conditions. Unfortunately, the unruly part was most of District 2, and law and order were a privilege of the town. To survive in the quarry encampment, a decent reputation for propensity towards violence is needed — infamy, in fact. As fashion statements changed in the Capitol, new quarries had to be founded to export the desired stones. Encampments were set up by the quarries, and families lived in tents, in the sweltering heat of summer and the penetrating frost of winter. The men's job was exhausting, and the women's keep was demeaning. Boys were inducted into the quarries as young as 12.

The town was in sight, and the morning fog was lifting. Except for the few rows of houses in town, there were no real streets in District 2. In the encampment, tents were pitched wherever their owners felt suitable, and it seemed the houses share the same ethic. The square is a massive public edifice, covered in gravel. The gravel was made out of waste stones that the Capitol didn't want, which were split and crushed to pave the spaces between houses. Instead of cleaning the streets, the government simply paved new gravel; however, since gravel doesn't wear out easily, the road surfaces grew higher yearly, and by now some houses were half buried in gravel.

Delian and Rhaios stepped into the Square, which had a centre area closed off, reserved for the subjects of the Reaping. It was divided lengthwise into two halves, the boys on the left, and girls on the right, with an avenue in between. Ropes served as the divisors for the age groups. In District 2, the oldest stood in front, and the youngest at the back. Unlike in other districts, peacekeepers could sometimes be seen with their helmets off, inviting salutations from their friends or relatives. It was rare that a peacekeeper rotated into District 2, so they valued the opportunity to interact with their estranged family and friends. For the Reaping, however, their helmets were uniformly on and visors down, since they'd be televised.

The 18-year-old section was almost directly adjoining the scaffolding of the stage, with the front row simply plastering their faces against the black fabric that concealed the skeleton of the scaffolding. Delian joined the front row and tested his reach. He reached the edge of the stage easily, but he couldn't hoist himself up just now or test that reach. While this was a good position on which to jump up, it's a bad position because he couldn't see what's going on on the stage. Appraising his proximity, he knew most of the boys in the same age group, and several girls too. He didn't tell his plans to the girls though, since they couldn't be trusted with secrets. It seemed to Delian all girls did was talk all day, and when they ran out of subjects, there go secrets. Misogyny runs deep in many families, and it's especially apparent in Delian's heritage, since he has no female siblings. Even though Delian would never call a girl a "fucktoy", that's what he thought and how he treated his female friends. The quarries were a very masculine place, and a very primal definition of masculinity was rewarded. Any deviation from that was punished ruthlessly, not by quarry management, but by peers.

It's out of this perverted sense of humour that they came up with an intolerable jingle that haunted Delian. It made Delian's life exceedingly miserable. It wouldn't go away. Every shift, when he came into the changing rooms and showers, this jingle is bound to be there. It was so terrible that Delian went four days without showering, but ultimately the complaints from his own family forced him to face the humiliation again.

Delian dancing with his lady fair,

So fair she's made out of air.

Delian wearing his flowery hat,

So flowery that it was a vat.

His masculinity had taken such a hit, beating up his coworkers won't help. He's taken out eight or nine others who led the chorus, bloodying their faces or choking them until they almost died, but one down, one more takes his place. He has to beat up someone special, like a victor, or, better still, the very victor who invented all this trouble out of thin air.

Delian dancing…

"Fucking stop!" he bellowed, just as the mayor was about to start reading the Treaty. The sheer volume of his voice surprised the mayor, but he just ignored Delian, a lowly quarry boy. He didn't even want to see who was reciting it this time. Even the girls had the nerve to sing this dastardly rhyme, and Delian taught her something she would never forget. She stepped out of line. She deserved the punishment. She deserved to have it shoved down her throat, in public.

The Treaty went as quickly as it came. The mayor must be quick, since it was over under 20 minutes. The District did not need to be reminded of the Treaty. Trying very hard to look straight upwards, Delian spotted a new escort. Pity that old escort, who scored District 2 just after the triple victors, thinking she couldn't have found a better district. She led the District threw ten starving years. It's now time to present the previous victors.

There's Agason, the very first victor. Agason seems so detached from reality, for some reason that eludes the grasp of Delian's capacity for reason. Clemmy was somewhat better, but she's still not one of us. Both spoke with a foreign accent. The word "hunger" sounded like "hung-guh" when Agason said it, and some of the boys chuckled at that, because it resembled something naughty. Dirty jokes were a necessary victual in the monotony of the work in the quarry. Not only did the boys take refuge in them, so did the men.

"…and to conclude my message," he said with perfect pedantry, "I exhort you to maintain faith in the Capitol and their boundless gifts, and to make all necessary sacrifices, for the good of the entire nation. I am merely a humble pursuer of that lofty idea, and at all times we may find instances where we all fight for and enjoy victory, sometimes great, sometimes small, but victory one and the same."

Agason's speech was simply stifling, and it seems he recycles his speeches. Same message, just re-arranged paragraphs. He didn't even bother correcting the grammatical mistakes. Clemmy speech was marginally more tolerable just because she's a woman, and from Delian's position, her profile was easily appreciable. Clemmy makes liberal refereces to passages in Agason's speech, and there's an unmistakable impression that the two of them prepared their speeches together, which makes perfect sense, since they're married to each other.

Now, it's Critias' turn. After what he did, listening to Critias speaking makes Delian seathe with wrath.

"I wish to declare my faithful loyalty to the Capitol and pledge my service to this District. To put everything in a nutshell, District 2 will continue to fight for the Capitol and bravely answer the call for peace, and, as I am sure, our tributes this year to the Games will fight for their District with the highest honour and the most impeccable prudence."

After a good two hours after the start of the Ceremony, the national anthem is played again, as the escort takes centre stage.

"And now," she shrieked, "for you District 2 tributes. Ladies first."

She marched over to the balls before the females in such an increcible gait, it certainly was meant to mask her uncertainty about the future of the District. She sank her hand into the glass ball and, in concordance with the newest trends, wades her palm in the sea of potential tributes. She finally picks the slip of choice, but not that it mattered. Critias has a volunteer chosen; none whosoever other than the volunteer herself knew who was volunteering.

This doesn't happen in District 1, so why here? They got a couple of victors.

The volunteer was a girl by the name of Cynthia, and Delian couldn't believe his eyes. She is decidedly unremarkable. There are prettier people around. There are stronger people around. There seemed to be smarter people around as well.

Things that don't make any sense

Next up, boys.

"Rhaion Tier," exclaimed the escort, "do we have a Rhaion Tier?"

A jolt of electricity crackled in Delian, but soon he realized that there's a volunteer, who promptly pats Rhaion on his shoulders and waves upstage, all with his head hung, almost as though he was saying, "just get this over with". The entire ceremony had a putrid lack of energy, with involuntary volunteers and bad speakers.

"Your names?" asked the escort.

"Cynthia," recited the girl mechanically.

"Castor," surrendered the boy.

"Well," the escort concluded, "there you have it! Your District 2 tributes, Cynthia and Astor!"

Then there surfaced an expression of pure disgust on Castor's face, presumably for mispronouncing his name. He tried to whisper to the escort that his name began with a consonant, but the escort couldn't get the right consonant.

Before the escort asked the pair to say a few words, I knew I had a destiny to stop this tragedy. I took a deep breath, and lunged forth for the stage, latched my hands onto the edge of the stage, and flung myself up. This is how I moved in the quarries, how I moved from boulder to boulder. The podium at 10 o'clock. Escort and two tributes behind podium. Critias to the far left. Mayor next to Critias. No peacekeepers on stage. It could hardly be better.

I sprint forth in a split second and seized Castor. He's not quite light enough to be a piece of paper, but not heavy enough to trouble my arms. He's akin to two blocks, and I could move three or four. I dragged him by his collars to the edge of the stage, and shoved him down. There was still no reaction from anybody, so I walk with purpose in mind to the podium, grabbing the microphone, announcing myself.

"I'm the actual volunteer, my name is Delian, nice to meet you all. So, yeah," I said something that I wouldn't regret to be my last words.

Still no reaction, that is until I noticed Critias is missing. I thought about this, whether I should duck or take the blow like a man. I scrunched my eyes together in anticipation for one that would knock me out cold, or even worse, punch through me. It's something you expect from Critias. He doesn't fuck around. You don't win the Games by fucking around. You don't get the highest training score in history by fucking around. I am taking the blow, and, surely enough, it came.

You really had to use two hands to lift that vase, right?

"That all you got, Critias?" I sneered through my nose, and I was feeling incredibly empowered, "because, I've got a lot more coming for you."

For some reason, I didn't feel the need to shout those two statements. I am in control now. I make the decisions. I love this feeling.

I opened my eyes to see Critias panting, almost like he's got a case of asthma.

You almost made me feel bad. Just almost, but so very close.

I readied myself, and Critias seemed too stunned to follow up with another punch. I adopted a wider stance to transfer mass, and I followed through with my fist. I felt my blow connect with Critias' flesh and skeleton. And, seconds later, he's flying. It felt fucking good.

Critias then regained his footing and sprang up, and I was momentarily feeling baffled. None of my mates could spring back up after taking a punch from me, and this was an unfamiliar situation. But fuck fear, because I'm already fightin him. I've punched him. There's no way back. Critias may not have a powerful punch, but he has swift, sharp punches, with very little pull-back to forewarn us of the volley, and they're hard to fend off. He always lands punches, and he's dodging my punches well. He's pushing me back, and his face still radiated confidence. Those uppercuts! Using a quick movement with his left foot, he somehow trips me and has me floored. His fluffy blue cloak was ruffling my face, and he was holding my neck. I'm running out of tricks. Was all my upbringing in the quarries not enough to last half a minute against this victor?

Then, I remembered.

Delian virtually sang his way back home, and he couldn't wait to tell the news to his friends at work. He was ready to be the District's hero, when he was suddenly confronted by his friend Rhaion.

"Hey man, I feel so sorry for you. Whatever did Critias do to you?"

Delian was confounded.

"Man, you live under a rock? Look at the television sets. There's you!"

Delian saw a shirtless Delian spent almost a half hour dancing circularly, terribly out of tune, and making all sorts of sexual innuendoes, sensual firtations, and lustful grasps at the air, all done with a vase on his head and a completely satisfied expression on his face.

For the rest of the month, people placed traffic cones, dildos, and other objects of their heads to mock Delian.

With all that hatred rushing back into me, I sat up with a roar and ripped Critias off me like I flick off a bug. He landed on his back again, and I leaped and landed on him. I held his arms down, and this is the end. He has no escape. I'm too heavy for him. He's pinned. He can't dodge anymore. What usually follows in the quarry is a flurry of punches and more punches.

"Clemmy!" he shouted.

Clemmy rushed forward, but she wasn't sure what to do with me. It's natural, really; most girls I've seen don't know how to handle someone like me in a rage. Clemmy is quite human, after all.

"Kick him in the fucking balls!" instructed Critias, who correctly identified my only weakness. But fuck, it takes two victors to take down a single 18-year-old? I'm making history. I'll take on Clemmy. I turned behind me and saw the bewildered Clemmy, and I said something I reserve for the sluttiest bitches. I hate to bring Clemmy into this, since she had no part, but she's a victor too. I hate victors, for today.

"You want my balls so bad? Well you can have my balls, my fucking balls in your fucking mouth!"

Did that just repulse Clemmy? Because I don't see her anymore. She's rushing from the scene. A single line to send a victor fleeing, another achievement. There's just one more. Yeah, I'm taking down all the victors today. None of them escape today.

"Agason! Dare you come save your little —!"

Something hit my head hard, but not hard enough to stop my glare that digs holes into Critias. Agason had torn the wooden podium off its bolts and smashed it on me, but that wasn't even close to the amount of force that would dissuade me from punching Critias even more. Then, Agason tried to pry me from Critias.

Not good enough, buddy. You think you can lift a 220-pound quarry kid up from his sworn enemy? You think you can somehow do that just because you hid in a tree for the entire duration of the Games and have a fancy hat on your head and District 1 clothes on your body?

"Cynthia! Escort Cleopatra! Come help Critias up!" yelled Agason desperately at the idle bystanders.

"I am not touching that person," said the escort, shying away from me in abject terror.

Still punching Critias in the face, while laughing. It was starting to get bloody addicting.

"Critias, just let him," Agason suggested in a futile attempt to restore the peace.

"N…no!" Critias replied between punches, "my choice was Castor! And you… elected me principal…"

"Principal… Is that you? Critias," I muttered, "if so you're a fucking horrible principal."

"Castor!" he demanded, "come up… and go with the escort… I'll deal with this madness myself…" he said, as I punched his forehead against the hard floor.

"Escort Cleopatra," Agason stepped away to address the terrified escort, "please call the Capitol if Castor may be released and another volunteer substituted."

I finally stopped the merciless punching, but I still sat flat on Critias. He's done. I barely heard the escort on the phone.

"Yes, head game maker," she spoke into the receiver, "yes, I understand."

She whispered something to Agason, who came over to me and told me I can go. Then she said something about the ceremony being over. Ceremony.

You dangle something in front of me, it's mine. You don't get to snatch it away like that. That's not how things are done here.

Peacekeepers approaching, alert. They didn't do anything to me. They couldn't. I'm now their tribute, and tributes are precious. Tributes are more precious than victors, because there can only ever be two tributes, and there are three victors on stage. They just asked me to stand up, with a stretcher in hand ostensibly for Critias.

But my victory is yet incomplete today. He completely humiliated me. I will humiliate him, which is pretty much done, and I'll take something dear away from him. Critias was close to passing out at this point, so I picked up his shoulders and smashed his head against the stage. Come on, victor. I just want a little something from you. Something that would make you cry, that's all.

Critias' matte black hair was drenched in sweat and blood at this point, after such exertion and having taken an inhumane beating. It left a messy impression of the contours of his head on the stage.

"Are you…" Critias rasped, "trying to kill me?"

"No. I want you to suffer the same infamy, only worse, that you made me suffer," said I, "and the longer you live, the better."

I think I made a wise decision, because the peacekeepers would be forced to do something if I actually tried to kill Critias. He's still not hurting enough, and somewhere in his dark eyes, I still see determination glimmering. Victors don't bow down easily, even when they're powerless to resist. That's when I realized that I haven't completely humiliated him yet.

"Fuck this," I rubbed in his face, "you're going through the same thing that I did. It's only fair, right?"

I stood up tall to look more menacing, while keeping a foot on his windpipe. He didn't need to be held in place now, and his body's close to being limp.

He's just biding his time, waiting for you to lose steam.

So I picked him up by his collar, and I'm thankful that I'm tall enough to do it like nabbing a kitten at its neck, then I ripped his cloak off and tossed it in the blood in disgrace. I snatched the cone from behind me and handed it to him.

"You know what to do."

"You want me to wear this cone like an idiot in front of all these people?"

"Yeah, I do. I wanted to see you in pain, and you're probably now in a lot of pain, so that's good. Now, you're going to suffer some shame."

He didn't even want to look back at me and quickly put the cone up on his head.

"Satisfied?" He demanded swiftly.

"No, I'm so not satisfied, and you don't get to call the shots. You're just an asshole. If you don't do as I say, I can punch you until the cows come home in District 10."

Even if I can't see his face from behind, I knew what he was doing. He's surveying the atmosphere. He's assessing the situation. He's looking if anybody will come to assistance, and if there aren't, he'd just bite the bullet and pick his best option. That's Critias, the pragmatic victor.

"Now dance! And take your shirt off while you're at it."

Critias finds no support in the District, and not even his fellow victors are stepping in to help him. And so, he unbuttons his shirt button by button and did a quick number at the edge of the stage. I was somewhat afraid of his finding sympathy with the kids below the stage, but luckily, he found none. Instead, he found the District laughing away at him, just as they had laughed at me.

"What… do you want… now?"

"I want to punch a hole in your perfect face," I answered.

I picked up his cloak, wrapped the luxurious fabric over his bloodied face, and dragged him to the edge of the stage. There, I teased him by letting him drop a little and pulling him back up.

"No…no…no…" he said from behind the cloak, "don't drop me off… haven't you done enough already!?"

"And what do you say when you're asking for a favour? Were you raised in a barn?"

"Please don't drop me off…" he said unemotionally.

"Yeah… like you won't let my join the academy, I won't not drop you off."

I am not in a mood for mercy today, so I gave him my best punch. He flew off the stage, emitting a loud scream, and made a satisfying thump when he landed. That felt fucking good. That sounded fucking good. It's the first time I remembered he ever showed that he couldn't take the pain. I had broken him.

"Well done," Agason, who hasn't done a single thing to help his fellow victor, said, "so well done. You just beat your own mentor to a pulp before you step into the most dangerous place in the world."

Finally, I turned to face the escort and my fellow tribute Cynthia, both of whom had faces drained of colour, as though I'm a monster or something. I looked at the girl, and she avoided my gaze. Maybe I stared instead of just looked at her.

"Agason," I clamoured, and he stopped without turning back, "can I have you as mentor instead?"

"No," he said, in a snide imitation of my accent, "you get Critias, if he lives. If not, you get nothing."

What was Agason trying to say?

"With you, it's like we're back to zero victors again."

I don't get it.