Chapter 2:

Mechanism.

In which there is preparation, a pillow,

a bit of swearing, names in a sphere

and a blasphemous embrace.

Bonnie Markovitch, District 12.

I stared up at my cracked ceiling, listening to my roommates breathing and mumbling in their sleep. Today was the day, wasn't it?

Yes it was.

I ran a hand through my blonde hair and sighed deeply. It was weird for a Seam kid to have blonde hair; my brother, Milo and I always got weird looks when we told people what part of town we're from. Being fifteen, my name has been entered in the ballot three times on my own, as was his, but both of us have been taking a tessaray each year since we were twelve, so that puts us at… six names each. A bit of a high number, if you ask me. The community home says they feed all their children, but that's just a bunch of bullshit. What they actually do is live off the tessaray they force the kids to collect the day they turn twelve. Mind you, these aren't my words; I don't cuss. That's just what Milo said. He could be a little temperamental sometimes, though I couldn't really blame him; living in an orphanage for seven years does a number on a kid's optimism.

I was stirred from my thoughts by the bell's harsh ringing out in the hallway and the groans of the other children, begging for three more minutes. Hell, how about three more years? Nobody wanted to get up today. I heard Milo grumble and roll over in the bunk beneath me, and I could practically imagine him drooling all over his pillow as he dreamt of food. That's all boys ever thought about around here. That and sex.

"Get up, Milo," I called to my twin brother, stomping down on the mattress, sending showers of dust down on top of him.

"Make me," he muttered amiably.

"Alright, sunshine, I will," I said as I chucked a pillow down at him. He let out a surprised noise and rolled over a little to far and fell off the bed with a dull thud. He lay on the floor, trying not to smile, and I laughed. He attempted to maintain a disdainful face, blowing his ashen curls out of his grey eyes. "Damnit, Bonnie, why do you feel the need to do that? I was having the best dream…"

I smirked. "About kissing miss Siobhan Hamburg?"

He stuck out his tongue and chucked the pillow back at me, but I dodged it with ease and lit down the ladder, helping him up when I reached the ground. Milo was medium height and lean, like me, with ashen blonde hair that fell across his forehead in loose, somewhat disheveled curls, and his skin was the classic Seam brand of olive.

"Do you have a nice shirt for the Reaping today?" I asked as I dug through our shitty little dresser, trying to find a proper dress.

He lifted a tee-shirt out of the bottom drawer, but his face fell when he saw the massive hole in its shoulder. He stuck his entire arm through it and grimaced. "Gee, how the hell did I manage to tear a hunk out of my favorite shirt?"

I shrugged, feeling relief crash over me when I finally found my old yellow sundress. "Probably when you were wrestling with Altus last week. Here, how about this one?" Since we shared a drawer, I was usually the one who kept track of both of our clothes. I held up one of his old button-ups, and he slipped it on over his undershirt and trousers. Milo waited for me outside as I slithered into my dress and he helped me tie my bonnet over my hair. As we walked to breakfast, he looked me over. "Well," he said. "You don't look like a scruffy little ragamuffin anymore. At least not as much as before."

I bumped him with my shoulder, almost sending him into the wall. "You don't look like a supermodel either, I'll have you know."

Several older kids jostled us as they hurdled towards the mess hall, slobbering like dogs and laughing like drunks, but I didn't really notice. All I could think about was the reaping. Still, when Milo bumped me back and took off down the hallway and shouted that the last one to the cafeteria was a rotten egg, I couldn't help sprinting after him and tackling him before he made it to the door.

I sat with my brother, his friend, Altus Cursor and my friend, Kipcha Paylor at our usual table off to the corner of the hall. Mess was a perfect adjective, for it was simply a larger-than-average room filled with several rows of shabby picnic tables with ruddy tablecloths, a couple windows and a hole in the wall that the cook could stick her ladle through and slop that night's meal onto the waiting plates. About thirty other children sat around us, their voices and occasional spurts of uproarious laughter filled the room like the constant hum of honeybees in their hive. I honestly didn't like the place, though it was better than living with abusive parents. I'd gladly choose peeling wallpaper and bad food over black eyes any day. But someday, we were going to get out of there. I was going to be a book-keeper or a teacher, and Milo was going to learn how to become a peace-keeper, and we'd get a house together. He would probably end up marrying Kipcha, and as for me, I wasn't sure yet. But that was OK; I was only fifteen, so I didn't need to think about that too much. As long as nothing really bad happened for the next three years, we'd be able to get out of this place when we were eighteen and everything would be fine.

...Right?

"Hey, isn't that my shirt?" Milo snapped at Altus, who grinned and puffed out his chest a little.

"I thought we agreed it was too small for you."

"I want it back."

"No."

Milo looked tempted to chuck his mashed potatoes at his best friend, but he refrained and sat back and crossed his arms across his chest. "Jackass."

"Ass-licker."

"Turd."

I could never understand the relationship between boys. It was amazing how they could insult each other non-stop, yet still be closer than ever. It was a mystery.

"Are you nervous, Bonnie?"

I turned my attention to my friend. Her slender face was contorted with concern and her big doe eyes were distracted. She was probably more worried for Milo than herself; those two were shamelessly in love. I sighed and shook my head sullenly, cupping my chin in the palms of my hands. "Yes. Every year, it's the same. Kind of sucks that our district's mentor is a drunk."

She nodded, trying to smile. "Haymitch means well… you can't blame him for drinking so much, after what happened to him. Even though it was twenty-two ago, it must have scarred him pretty bad."

I shrugged. "Yes, I know, but I still wish he would at least try to get us through. We've only had three victors; one is dead and the other is crippled, so he's our only option."

For a moment, a wicked little thought passed through my head. You shouldn't bad-talk him; there's a good chance that he could be the only thing standing between you and slaughter when you get picked. I frowned at the thought, scowling at it. Sticks to you, I told it and left it at that as I massaged my temples with my forefingers and tried not to cave in to my fear. I don't want to die.

Well, duh.

But still, it isn't an especially exciting feeling preparing yourself for the small chance of being chosen. When you're a community kid, an orphan or a throwaway child, it's everyone for themselves. Milo and I are an exception; we haven't been separated yet, and never will be if we get any say in the matter. We take care of each other, and even though we argue like a married couple and fight like… well, siblings, he's my partner and I'm his. While we don't have anyone to volunteer for us if we're chosen unless we get lucky and get one of the occasional trained volunteers, it's nice to know there's one person in the whole world that would die to protect you, as I would with him. Here, I'll paint you a small mental picture of the Markovitch twins, if you will:

Sunflower hair, dirt-smudged, heart-shaped faces, hungry eyes the color of fog. The boy is broad-shouldered and sinewy, the girl is slender like a whipcord and long-legged. His hair is curly, hers is straight. They are two parts of the same machine.

That was us. But as we strode down the cobblestone road towards Town Square, we looked less like a proud, finely tuned apparatus and more like two scrawny, scared shitless kids as we were jostled about by grey coats and bowler hats, mud-caked work boots trampling our toes, coal dust coating our lungs. Twelve was a miserable place, and as I looked at the decimated buildings, the first thing that came to my mind was the color gray. Everything… it was just… colorless. Never mind the women dressed in their Sunday best, what with their yellow sundresses and big hats who walked arm in arm with their husbands. Somehow, the kids lining up in the separation area just sucked the color right out of them. If I studied hard and let my imagination wander, I could almost see the colors leaking out of the women's faces; the pinks of their rouge, the vermilions of their lips, the turquoise of their bracelets, all dripping onto the blank concrete, forming a puddle of colors, mixing until they became brown. Even the gold heels, orange eye shadow and feathered hat of our escort, some lady named… something Trinket seemed to be caught in a permanent grayscale. Kind of like being trapped inside a black-and-white film.

I watched as the imaginary colors trickled down the gutters and into the storm drain.

"Bonnie. Bonnie. Bonnie!"

I blinked and shook myself out of my dismal reveries.

"Hello? Earth to Bonnie; we have to line up."

I glanced over at my brother. His olive face was drawn and his stormy eyes were concerned. I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. "Right. Sorry. See you when it's over."

He gave my shoulder an encouraging bump with his own. "Don't worry, it'll be fine."

He had no idea how wrong he was.

We separated into ages, and then again by gender, and as we stood in the center of town, I felt like a fish in a fish tank, stared down by distorted faces of people I thought I recognized, the world shaking as they tapped upon the glass. Mayor Undersee and his wife, a little wisp of a woman with fluffy hair and a haggard face sat atop the main platform, waiting for our mentor. Of course he was late. He was always late. The only other victor beside our active mentor also sat unobtrusively next to our new escort, his elderly face quizzical and curious. Sigma Forthrite was a spritely old man, still energetic at the ripe age of eighty-seven. He was wiry and vivid thing, with light, wrinkled skin, brisk hazel eyes and a slender face, and looked like he had been quite a handsome boy in his day. There was one more important thing about Sigma:

He won the first hunger games when he was only fourteen years old.

I honestly wished that he were our mentor instead of that lump of five o' clock shadow and bramble hair known as Haymitch Abernathy. When I had wondered aloud how on earth that man could have possibly won the games, Milo had answered simply and prudently:

"Maybe he threw up on all the other tributes after drinking himself into a stupor, and then they all drowned in his filth."

Oh Milo. His politeness had no bounds. I glanced over at my brother and saw him talking with one of the Mellark boys who stood with the sixteen's a row ahead of Milo. I believed his name was Till, and he and Milo were pretty good friends, therefore I had gotten to know the family. The mother was a troll, but their papa was nice, as was the youngest, Peeta, and the oldest, Ansel. Till was great, as well. Peeta was certainly the calmest; the rest of the boys were rowdy, and once during a routine berry-picking expedition several months ago, the two oldest got to arguing and soon all of us were sucked into one big, good-hearted wrestling match. I turned out to be pretty good at it, for when the dust settled, I had managed to get Ansel into a headlock. Since then, it was an ongoing joke between the oldest Mellark and I, and the eighteen-year-old often challenged me to arm-wrestling matches, though he almost always triumphed. But occasionally he would let me win and laugh as Till and Milo ridiculed him for loosing to a girl. Occasionally adults remarked how Milo and I looked as if we could be related to them, but that was what all non-blondes thought:

If two people were blonde, then they looked like siblings. Ha-hah.

But any Seam kid could tell the difference in a snap. Though my brother and I did have rather unconventional hair for low-class citizens, we were certainly no merchant kids. The hungry eyes and the olive skin could tell you that much. Ansel was tall and sturdy, with light blue eyes, flushed cheeks and pale blonde hair cut short by Till when he lost a bet. He was the even-tempered, levelheaded and stern one who didn't talk a whole lot unless he was with us or his brothers, much to the contrast to Till. Till was riotous and gregarious, always smiling and joking and throwing friendly punches at whatever poor soul that stood near him, and looked more like his younger brother, except for his rather willowy build and brown eyes. His face was homely and grinning, and his clumsy eyes were usually hidden behind a mop of blonde bangs. Peeta, on the other hand, was like a mixture of both. He was neither stocky nor slim, not stoic nor open, with big blue grey eyes and light hair. They were quite a group, and as long as they weren't giving me noogies or snickering, I enjoyed their company.

Finally, the people on the platform got to their feet when they caught sight of Haymitch. The man was still clutching his flask, taking pulls on it whenever he wasn't dragging on his cigarette, and he tripped several times on his way up the stairs. Our escort had a look on her vacant face that said, "Oh God. Here he is, just like every year" and Sigma just sighed and shook his head.

"Didja miss me, Effie darling?" Haymitch slurred, planting a sloppy kiss on her done-up cheek before staggering on to his seat and collapsing into what looked like a coma. Effie wiped the slobber off her face and attempted to regain her dignity before scampering over to the podium and turning on the microphone. The shabby television screens switched on and the news crews readied their cameras as she cleared her throat.

"Well," she tittered. "Now that everyone is present, we can go on with our big, big ceremony! Ladies first!"

"What a surprise," I heard Milo mutter.

The woman stuck a manicured hand into the sphere and rummaged around through the names. After a moment, she drew a slip of paper and unrolled it.

"Bonnie Markovitch!"

I blinked a few times. What? No, that wasn't possible.

"Bonnie Markovitch? Hello?" She called.

Suddenly, I saw my shocked face illuminated upon the cracked screens, and I managed to shut my jaw, which seemed to be hanging all the way down to the ground and step forward. I heard my brother shout my name, but everything sounded blurry and alien, as if I had just dunked my head into a pale of cold water. I walked to the center of the square and ascended the steps, waiting for the boys name to be called. I felt numb, as if it wasn't me standing here.

"Well aren't you a dear," Effie chortled, patting me on the shoulder. "You lucky ducky!"

I managed a weak smile and stared ahead.

"Alright, who's the lucky lad now? …Ronin Junning! Come on up here, darling!"

A small, thirteen-year-old boy stepped forward, his dark eyes wide and scared.

"I volunteer."

No. No! NO!

Oh!" Effie squealed. "Well, dear, I suppose that's alright. Nothing wrong with a few more eager souls to play in the games, am I right? What is your name?"

"Milo Markovitch."

I watched in horror as my twin brother advanced towards the stage, his face unbending, brows knitted together. The crowd let out a small gasp; twins! There were twins! As we faced each other, I gave him a desperate look that asked, "Why?"

As he brushed me to stand next to me, he leaned forward and whispered in my ear. "You've got my back, I've got yours, remember? You need someone to take care of you, don't you?"

I tried to hold back the tears as Effie called for applause. A few pitiful claps and some throat clearing was all to be heard. Before I knew it, the Mayor had finished the Treaty of Treason and told us to shake hands. We didn't. Instead, I lurched forward and threw my arms around my brother's neck, burying my head in his shoulder, and he held me tight, his arms forming a protective arc around me. I heard another series of gasps and shocked murmurings, but no-one tried to break us apart, and after a few moments, we pulled away from each other and faced our District, the cameras, the world. Haymitch made a snoring sound and mumbled something in his sleep, and I made eye-contact with the other victor. He bowed his head and lifted his hand, pressing middle and ring finger against his lips.

And so it has begun.