Masie Sheldon

Reaping day is a quiet affair in our household.

That's probably not abnormal. I mean. People don't really like the Games. I know people who fought in the Rebellion. I know people who've lost family to the Capitol. My own Grandma never lived to see her kids grow up, cause she was too busy fighting and dying for what she believed in, which, incidentally, ended up accomplishing all of nothing, so. Maybe "fighting for what you believe in" is just another way of saying "too stubborn to be happy".

Even the folks who play the Game on its own terms, well, they don't really like it anymore than the folks who grumble endlessly about in in the marketplace but are too scared to ever actually do anything about it, you know who you are. I sure don't, my sister sure doesn't, and we're a couple of what they're starting to call Careers. Kids who aim to make their living off winning the Games, cause you know what, they pay you a small fortune just for surviving and, well, if it's gonna happen then someone might as well profit, you know what I'm saying?

Nobody wants to be the loser, not in the Games, not in life.

I don't want to live the rest of my life in the same tiny shack my Gran lived in, and her Gran before her, eating the same old slop and fishing for the same old company, year after year after year until whoops, I'm dead dead dead, after thirty or forty or fifty years of working and working and working for no other reason than because "it's what you do in D4".

I don't want to be the loser.

People on the street look at me and Jules like we're fucking monsters for even trying, but hell, there's nothing wrong with making the most of a shitty situation, and you can't ever win if you refuse to even play the game, so. Maybe people should stop being so judgey, is what I'm getting at here, if you feel me.

Anywho, quiet mornings full of angst and whatnot.

My parent's method of coping with the stress of the Reapings is normally ignoring it in favor of quietly and preemptively attempting to replace whatever kids they might lose in their room with the door closed and a towel politely shoved through the crack to stifle any errant moans, so at least they're considerate about it. But not today. Today is special because Julia, dear sweet obnoxiously perfect Julia is going to Volunteer, so they at least have to make an show of supporting her.

Which is why we are all sitting on our motley collection of waist high debris that passes for a living room, clutching bowls of lukewarm porridge to our chests, and pretending that we function as a unit.

There's only so much awkward silence a girl can bear. I mean, come on. I shift my eyes from mom to dad to Jules and back again, and sigh heavily.

"So, Jules. Volunteering, yeah? That's big. Hope you, yunno, make it or whatever." I volunteer.

Julia scowls a bit at the nickname, but that's replaced soon enough with her perfectly modest smile. "Oh, it's not so big a deal. I'll be home in a few months, I bet," she turns to mom, "and when I get back, we can maybe fix this old place up a bit. Would you like that, Mom? Dad?"

Mother dearest nods stiffly, and makes a effort to smile, but her hands are shaking a bit. Dad stares grimly into his porridge and does not comment. I bite my lip, and focus on my own bowl.

Jules, disappointed at the lack of praise her gracious offer has garnered, turns her attention onto me.

"And, if I volunteer, then there's no reason for Masie to risk it, right?"

God what a cunt. Thinks she's just the best thing since sliced bread she does.

I paint a bright, slightly psychotic grin on my face and reply, "Well, gawsh, I guess I wouldn't! I mean, it's not like all that time and effort I put into training means anything to me! I'd love to sit back and let you feed me your table scraps for the rest of my life, Jules! Nothing would make me happier!"

She purses her lovely red lips, not even a little chapped from the wind or the getting regularly hit by stupid brutes, into a thin line that somehow still manages to be attractive, and says "Masie, please. There's no need to be-"

I stand up abruptly, and toss my bowl in the general direction of the sink, before marching my sweet ass right the hell out of there. I mean, come on. A girl can only put up with so much, you know?

Ignoring the low mutters and halfhearted chastisements just barely audible over the reshuffling of debris that occurs with my every heavy step, I shove my shoulder up against the door, jolting it out of it's awkwardly warped embrace with the doorframe with a rusty squeal. Paint chips wrench free of their confines and settle on my patchy old jacket, as eager to escape this armpit of a hovel as I am.

The general clutter of the inside of our apartment seems to have spilled out onto the surrounding landscape, or maybe it's the other way round, 'cause I swear you can't walk two feet in the low-rent neighborhoods without stumbling over someone's splintered furniture and rusty engine parts, whether you've got a roof overhead or not. There's an old saying my Da used to say, back when he still talked, some malarky about how todays junk was tomorrow's really-important-possibly-life-saving-thingy, or something. The point being, don't throw away your shit, cause you just might need it to fertilize a plant you just found, and boy wouldn't you feel stupid knowing you coulda used that busted ass motor as a stovepot or whatever.

Da's kind of an idiot, but then, so is just about everyone in D4. I think it's the ocean, endless and deep. Does things to your head, it does. Does things like make you as quiet as a corpse, makes you complacent. Makes you cling to a life that does naught but wear you down and make you miserable.

That sea air, yeah. It's enough to drive a girl mad, it is.

Nicolai Hubersmith

Sometimes I think I might be the only sane person in all of D4. Heck, maybe even all of Panem. I've never met anyone who wasn't from D4, mind you, and probably never will, but all that really means is I can't possibly be proven wrong, doesn't it?

Not really. That's a really dumb idea. Sorry.

I just get upset sometimes, is all. There's a lot of people in D4. Not as many as in places like D10 or D11, mind you. But a lot. A lot of dim, grey, people. Not in coloration. We're more brown than grey. In attitude I guess. Maybe not all year, either. Maybe just now.

Now's a grey time, is what I guess I was getting at. Sorry that wasn't really clear.

So, the people aren't insane on average. The time is.

Nobody's happy about the Games.

And they shouldn't be, probably. That'd really be mad, wouldn't it?

So, maybe I'm not the only sane one at all. Maybe I'm the mad one. I'm grey all year round, after all. I don't need the games to make me go all foggy.

I'm standing on the borders of a crowd right now. Not on the borders, really. More like I'm my own little crowd, broken off from the main cluster, like a wisp of fog that rolls off the ocean and clings to the shore.

The crowd shuffles in sync, it seems, and I'm the only one to not pick up on the rhythm.

That's about how it goes, usually.

Haha, wow. That's really lame. I'm really lame sometimes.

The fog should burn off by the times the Reapings get underway. The real fog, I mean, not the metaphorical one. That one shouldn't lift for at least a month or two, depending on how long the Games last. It'll go, though. Eventually.

And return too, eventually. Life's kind of cyclic that way, sometimes.

All roads in D4 end at the Capitol Building if you follow them long enough. Our district squats like a spider on the coast, the mass of the main town spreading lanky tendrils all over, reaching out to encompass all the little crags and coves that we settle on, like debris clinging to the shore. Nothing's a straight shot, nothing's simple. Most people don't travel by foot, anyways. Which can be nice. I spend a lot of time on land. Lots of Careers do.

Sometimes I think that everyone feels as disconnected as I do, but I can't help but recognize that that's not the case. But the Careers do. They must. At least some of us. We're so different from the rest of D4's fishermen and butchers. Land bound, educated, unworking kids, kids who choose to while their lives away on a dream.

There must be people who feel like me.

But what if there aren't?

It's not the kind of thing you can just ask about.

Bells are clanging. The Reapings are close at hand. Crowds shudder and pulse, voices going quiet, then loud again. There's a chorus of hurry up's and we'll be late's. I let myself slow a bit, watching people scramble down roughly cobbled roads. It doesn't matter if I'm late or not.

What can they do to punish me when I'm gone?

AN: So. I woke up one day, looked over my shit, and decided that I actually kind of liked doing this. So. I can't promise that I won't lose interest again, but. I mean, I'll give it a shot. Sorry for the wait, and well. The general lack of quality.