A pair of sacrifices, missed by few,

Culled to stand in the bloody queue.

District 10's tributes walk weighed down by past and future.

District 10 | The Reaping of Brystol Welles

It's quiet.

The silence breaks me from my coma of sleep. It startles me, the absence of sound. I'm so used to the eerie moaning of cattle miles away, or the soft shuddering of Cooper's sleeping body warming my own. Instead I'm greeted by chilly nothingness.

My hands reach out and search the perimeter of the bed, but there's no sign of Cooper. The sheets are still warm though, which means he hasn't been gone for long.

I prop myself up on one elbow and run my fingers through my hair. My room is dimly lit by moonlight, letting me know that Zander opened the window. I don't know how long it is until the sun makes its debut, but I'm positive that going back to sleep is out of the question. After all, it is the worst day of the year.

My breath comes out in a stream through my puckered lips, which makes a noise that's close to the snorts of horses. It's not an attractive sound, but it's a habit I can't seem to break. When I was younger I spent almost every day in my father's barns, where I would mimic the sounds they made. I haven't seen any of my mares in months.

I sigh quietly and kick my legs out of the nest of blankets that have cocooned around my body. As my toes touch the cold wooden floor, I hear a rustling outside the window and my body tenses. Every muscle in my being is frozen, other than my rapidly thrumming heart.

Peacekeepers are wandering around tonight, swarming like clusters of flies to make sure no child attempts to run into the nearby woods for an escape from tomorrow. Or today, rather. I don't know what time it is, but I'm positive it's past midnight.

A familiar face pops into view, and I gasp before I let myself relax. It'd be suspicious to anyone else, if I was dragging myself out of bed at this hour.

"Brys. Are you awake?" his voice is stern, with a touch of worry.

"No, Zander, I'm sleeping." I bite sarcastically, making sure to keep my voice low. I don't want to wake Grams up. "Is Cooper with you?"

At the sound of his name a black head hops up, just clearing the window. Then he disappears, too low for me to see him once more.

"Hey, buddy." I creep over to the window and scratch behind the Labrador's ear. His tail thumps the ground repeatedly, and the slacking of his jaw and tongue reveal his glee.

It's much more difficult to read Zander's emotions, especially in the limited light. His dark hair hangs over his eyes, which is his way of closing the curtains against the world. After all, the eyes are said to be the window to the soul. I haven't seen Zander's eyes since my parents' death.

His thin lips tilt down in the corners, but I recognize this feature. It's normal.

Every time I study his face too long, I regret it. Guilt wells up inside of me, seeing his struggles so clearly displayed on his features. If I've taken a beating these last couple months, he's been dunked in a volcano and dragged a mile across a bed of nails.

"Why are you awake?" I let my voice get so soft; it almost gets carried away by the wind.

"You really have to ask?" I imagine his eyebrow arching, but I can't see anything above his cheekbones. Sometimes I wonder how he can see.

The answer to his question would be 'no'. I don't have to ask. I'm sure ninety percent of Panem's children haven't gotten a wink of sleep tonight. It's a miracle I've embraced whatever unconsciousness came to me over the past few hours, without writhing in horror from nightmares. I get those bad dreams occasionally. Sometimes I hear my mother scolding me for what I'd done to her, sometimes it's my father holding his lifeless hand out to me as he's engulfed in flickering flames. Other times it's Zander and Grams going through the same pain repeatedly. Every dream has two similarities, though: They always involve fire, and they are always my fault.

"It's your last year." I clear my throat, pulling my mind back into the moment. My saying this is supposed to sound comforting, but it could also just be salt in the wound, reminding him he has to endure today to live the rest of his life.

"I know." The silence that follows is just as eerie as the silence that woke me up.

I clear my throat, breaking the quiet. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Almost six," He mutters. I know that we're both counting the hours in our heads.

Four. Four hours until my brother is free forever.

I decide to do the quick math in my head. Eight thousand, seven hundred and seventy hours until I am also free. Math has always been my strong suit in school, but right now it's only making me realize how much longer I have to suffer.

"You okay?" Zander shoos Cooper away and climbs through the window. I realize that my lack of a response is still hanging in the air.

"Do I look okay?" I snap. I don't mean to be rude, but he knows me well enough to know that my wit only hides my insecurity and fear. He's one of the very limited people in my life that tolerates my attitude.

"No need to be worried." He places his hand on my shoulder, and I bite my lip as I look up at him. He's a few inches taller than me, even though I'm pretty tall myself.

He's right about not needing to be worried. We've never needed to take tesserae, never had to submit our names more than the minimal amount. But just because we are the deceased mayor's children doesn't ensure our safety. There's still that nagging in the back of my mind, taunting me about the number of names that are swimming around in that bowl… Six.

There are six slips of paper with the name Brystol Welles scrawled on them, and with chances like those I should be sound asleep, curled up in a tight comfortable ball next to Cooper. Instead I'm shaking, being pulled into my brother's arms, wrapping my own around his thick torso.

Zander is big and strong. Even if he was thrown into an arena with twenty-three other tributes, the odds would be in his favor. They might even be in mine, considering I'm not small or weak. But it all depends on the other tributes, how desperate they are to return home, how bloodthirsty they are for fame. A shudder runs through my body, and Zander pulls me closer. I bury my face in his shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut before tears threaten to make an appearance.

We stand like this, his chin balanced on the top of my head, until the first signs of sunlight begin to peak over the horizon. My room is lit up in shades of orange, everything reflecting the rising sun. I peel myself away from Zander's arms and stand in the light that streams through my window, staring out.

The view isn't something to brag about. We live on the edge of the trees, which are so scarce in District Ten. Most of them have been cut down so that the livestock have more room to… well, to moo to their heart's content. In this District, it seems as though the animals are more important than the humans.

Empty farmland stretches for miles and miles. The smell of manure never really leaves your nostrils, unless you hold your face underwater. I don't advise this.

Despite the dull atmosphere, this is my home. I would much rather be knee-deep in manure than be in a Capitol constructed arena. I am determined to stay home. I will stay home.

"I'd better wake Grams." Zander gives me one last pat on the back before leaving my room. The moment he opens my bedroom door, Cooper takes his place beside me, blinking up at me happily. He has it easy, being a dog. So oblivious to what the rising sun of today means.

I pat him on the head before throwing on some new clothes and brushing my hair. After I'm presentable enough, I make my way down the hall to the source of the aroma of meat and eggs.

The kitchen is the one place where Grams seems truly alive. When she's on the porch or in her bedroom, there's a distant look in her eyes. You have to yell her name to get her attention, and even then you only have a fifty percent chance of her recognizing you.

Here, she is vivid and lively, bursting with personality and vigor. She practically dances around the room, tossing spices and peppers into a simmering pan.

"Good morning, Grams." I chime as happily as I can, although I sound as if I'm lacking conviction. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Mornings are so pretty. Good morning, Carolyn." Her voice is sing-songy, child-like. As usual, she calls me by my mother's name. She never really processed my parents' death. Half of the time, she thinks that I am my mother. But neither Zander nor I have the heart to sit her down and explain it to her.

"Sausage?" I breathe deeply, adoring the smell. My mouth waters, and I find my stomach rumbling. Meat that hasn't gone rancid is a rarity in our District, even for my family. We always have enough; Zander and I inherited enough money to ensure a life of luxuries such as sausage and eggs. This was the only good produced from our orphaning.

"Yes, yes! Piggies for breakfast!" Grams sings. I smile solemnly at Zander, who is chewing on his bottom lip.

"Sounds good to me," He shrugs, lurching forward to help Grams scoop mounds of food onto two different plates.

Zander has to feed my grandmother, because her hands are incapable of wrapping around utensils. She opens her mouth as he scoops a spoonful into her mouth, and attempts to sing a song with her mouth full.

"Today," she swallows, a frown replacing her grin. "Today is a bad day."

Zander looks at me inquisitively, and I know that the question running through both of our minds is 'Does she know?'

"That's it. It's going to rain!" she breaks into another toothless grin, and a breath I hadn't realized I was holding escapes my lips in another horse whinny.

"It might," Zander attempts to feed her once more, but she bats his hand away with both of hers.

Suddenly, my appetite leaves me, and I push away my plate as well. My hunger is quickly replaced by nausea. My mind hops from one thing from the next until it lands on one haunting thought that I know will resonate in my mind until I'm safely back at home in my bed tonight. What would Grams do without me and Zander?

They'd probably deem her useless as both a worker and a guardian, and send her to the slaughterhouse with the cows. I've heard this rumor many times, since the infirm do nothing but take food from our District. It would make sense, if you were looking through the eyes of a heartless dictator of a worthless community.

Instead I see her through my own eyes, the eyes of her only granddaughter. I almost tear up when I think of her alone. Once she got out of the house at night, and we found her wandering around the pastures wailing about our government. We quickly silenced her and practically dragged her back to the house. It's too dangerous to be talking about things like that in public, even in the dead of night, but she doesn't know any better. Without us, she'd be more lost than a sheep without a shepherd.

Before I know it, it's time to be preparing for ten o'clock.

I retreat to my bedroom, my heart beating out of control. I try to calm myself down, but my heart rate and my lungs seem to be having a race.

I grip everything tighter than I need to: the fabric of my white dress, the handle of my hairbrush, my mother's mirror… everything seems to be turning my knuckles lighter with tension.

I stare at my reflection for a minute or two, practicing my 'I-don't-give-a-shit' face. When I'm satisfied with the outcome I set the mirror down lightly and take a deep breath. I look too pale; too feminine.

"You look pretty," I twirl around to face him. His hair still covers his face, but he's adorned in a semiformal button up shirt and ironed pants. He looks better than usual, which brings a small smile to my face. I'm almost positive it's the only smile in all of Panem today, not counting the outrageous grins of the Capitol people.

Zander offers me his arm, and I loop mine through the crook of his elbow.

Then begins the trek to town.

Grams isn't required to attend today; actually, the Peacekeepers prefer if we keep her under house arrest as often as possible. The last time she was in a large crowd of people, she went completely berserk and sunk her teeth into the nearest person's flesh. I'm sure she would've been punished, or worse, if she hadn't been the only guardian of both Zander and I. There are already too many orphans that are in need of governmental support in District Ten.

We arrive on the outskirts of town all too soon. The dirt road melts into cobblestones and asphalt, and every building is taller than two stories. It makes me feel smaller and more vulnerable, being so trapped between walls in every direction. I hate this feeling. In my opinion, civilization is overrated.

After all of the walls of brick and cement comes the even thicker wall of human adults. The crowd is overwhelming, and I find myself fighting to keep the nausea in my stomach.

This is where families wait. This is where, perhaps, one father and mother will watch their child stiffly take their place on stage, a cow being lead to the slaughterhouse. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Our population is too large to have everyone crammed into one simple roped-off area. Instead, the people that are excluded from the chances of being a tribute are kept separately, wrapping around the area for the less lucky adolescents.

After plowing through that crowd, we hit another wave of human beings. This crowd, however, is made up of the petrified, the horrified, and the dramatic. This crowd is the children.

They're all different shapes and sizes, all with different skin tones and levels of strength. The range of appearances, however, is surpassed by the varying emotions. Some children have masks of absolute terror, while others show no emotion to the point of looking bored. I hope that I am coming off as the latter.

Zander drops his arm from my grip, and I know that it's time for us to split up. My lungs threaten to stop working for a moment. I take such a deep breath that it hurts my chest.

"See you soon," He mutters reassuringly. His voice is almost inaudible above the sounds of the thousands surrounding us.

"I hope so," I hug him before searching for my age group. I'm sixteen years old, turning seventeen in a few days. The first day of the actual Games, to be exact. It's unfortunate, having a birthday so close to the Reaping. If I had just been born a week earlier, I would only have to face one more Reaping. Instead, I have to endure this one, as well as the ones for the next two years. That is, if I make it through today.

I can't help but be pessimistic in this situation. It's the only time of year in which even the most optimistic of people cannot be themselves. The Reaping turns normally sane, stable people into psychotic messes. A clear example of this is the girl lined up in front of me. She's the smartest girl at my school, but at the moment her high IQ is worthless. She's bawling her eyes out, quivering uncontrollably, and leaning on a nearby comforter to keep herself upright.

I feel a bit of pride in myself, being able to gather my emotions. It's not even taking that much effort. I'm surprised at my own level of self-control.

Somehow I've been pushed and shoved up to a table where Peacekeepers are drawing blood. I look away as the needle pierces my skin, but after two milliseconds I'm able to melt into the crowd of Sixteens once more. It's remarkable really, how they're able to systemize this event.

It takes about ten minutes after I arrive for the real events to begin. It leads with the anthem of Panem, followed by the over-played video of our country's history. It's sickening, how close to other festivities this day is. For every child from age twelve to eighteen, today is not a day to celebrate. At least not for the next half hour. After the names are drawn, I have the chance to finally let myself breathe at a normal pace.

I don't pay attention to the video. I've seen it at least thirty-two times before. I could probably recite every line of the excruciatingly drawn out presentation. Instead, I let my eyes wander over the many heads around me.

When we're all gathered in one place like this, it's really amazing how large our population is for having so much empty space. Out my bedroom window, I can see no other sign of humanity. Our own house is settled at least a mile from the nearest building. This is apparent by the condition of the shoes I'm currently standing in. They're scuffed up and covered in a layer of dust, but today is the first time I've ever actually worn them. After only an hour of putting them on my feet, I've broken them in fifty times over.

Yes, being able to walk is necessary in this District. Unless, of course, you're Duncan Banter.

I think seeing him stroll across the stage is the first time I've seen him do something involving any physical ability in years. Whenever he's out around town, he's always sitting on his horse, or being chauffeured around in his very own car. He makes me sick; not because of his wealth, not even because of the way he spends his wealth, but because of how he spends his time.

This man, who doesn't care if his tributes make it home at all… He is the mentor for District Ten this year. It's ironic, really. Having a mentor that will not mentor. I'll be surprised if he even takes notice of the two children that are Reaped this year, even gives them a single word of advice.

And then there's the escort, following the same footsteps as Duncan did, flaunting across the stage in an unashamed manner. Trevor Watson. Such a simple name for such an eccentric man.

As Trevor takes his place behind the microphone, I study his enlarged face on one of the projected images. He looks like a normal Capitol man, strange and pompous. But there's something else in his heterochromatic eyes. Something that even Duncan lacks. Instead of having vacancy in his different colored irises, like most Capitol-natives do, there's something soft and determined.

I don't have more time to gape at appearances, however, because the next thing I know Trevor's hand is swirling around inside of the giant glass bowl marked 'Female'. Anxiety begins to swell inside of me, but I manage to stuff it into the inky recesses of my mind.

It's as if everyone in the entire world is holding their breath, all eyes trained on those five fingers that dance through the paper slips.

I have to admit that I'm afraid during these moments. I'm afraid that it will be the small girl, clinging to her best friend in front of me. I'm afraid that it will be the one who sits next to me in class. I'm scared that it will be my elementary school bully, the one who used to yank the bows from my hair.

My fear for the others, however, seems to have been misplaced. The name that is called is Brystol Welles.

"Of course." It's like a punch in the gut. A stupid, ironic, really hard punch in the gut.

Everyone that recognizes me turns to stare at me so I immediately put on a small smirk, as if amused by this strange turn of events on my part. My feet move forward towards the stage without my permission, but that's alright. The longer I wait to step up the stairs, the more vulnerable I will look.

As I wander up the steps I try my best to look leisurely, relaxed, and completely unsurprised. I try to choose a pace of walking between a terrified sprint and a petrified stumble, both of which are common at Reapings.

My shoes echo off of the floor, the only sound in the area for a few awkwardly silent moments. When I reach my position, my arms cross over my chest but not too tightly. Every nerve in my body wants me to squeeze myself into a tiny ball and roll away, but instead I chew on the inside of my cheek and raise an eyebrow at Trevor, as if to ask, 'What the hell are you looking at?'.

"Onto the men, then!" His voice is all too cheery for this occasion.

His hand drops into the 'Male' bowl, his fingers imitating the movements he did through my own glass bowl.

This is when I let my eyes find Zander. He's in the back of the crowd, surrounded by other eighteen year old boys. He's staring at me, I think. His head is dipped down, his hair shielding his eyes, but his mouth is open in the way it does when he's shocked. My stomach churns, and I begin to think of what I'm going to say to him at our goodbye. But… what if he's chosen as well? What if we're forced into the arena together, the last two to survive, and one of us has to murder the other? What if he volunteers for the boy's spot, as an attempt to keep me safe? I begin to feel bile rising in my throat.

Then I remember I'm supposed to be keeping my calloused look on. I push Zander from my mind at the moment, and focus on Trevor.

Trevor. Focusing on Trevor. Only Trevor. Focus, Brys, Focus. Trev- "Styx Algal!"

The name of my decided competitor. The name of the boy whom I have to kill to survive. His name is Styx.

To my absolute glee Zander does not volunteer, and neither does anyone else.

I've never seen the boy who looks so utterly bored as he climbs the steps to stand opposite me. He pulls off careless and confident so easily, I'm afraid he's made my whole act look like an act. I know it's immature and judgmental, but I already don't like this boy. I don't trust anyone who can appear amused at the sound of being sentenced to death. But wasn't that what I was just trying to pull off?

I catch his eyes, and he gives me a small, sharp nod. I refuse to nod back. I refuse to acknowledge him at all, except to size him up. I will absolutely refuse to become acquaintances with this Styx Algal boy.

"District Ten, these are your tributes for the 34th Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!" Trevor sings, the last part directed towards us two tributes.

I want to laugh out loud, scoff at the saying, make the entire legal system look idiotic, but instead I'm dragged backwards into the building behind me.

I've been in this building before. After all, my father was the Mayor not five months ago. I've been to so many parties here.

The irony continues as I'm tossed like a rag doll into a windowless room full of flamboyant furniture and plush colors. This is the same place that I was given a time out in when I was five years old. My mother locked me in this very room for hours on end, because I had 'accidentally' placed a custard-filled pastry on my father's dining chair. His formal attire from then on had a stain in the shape of a squashed turtle plastered onto his buttocks.

The memory brings a small smile to my face, but it disappears as the door to the room is flung open. I'm pulled into Zander's tight grip, failing at the simple task of breathing until he's let me go.

"Oh, God, Brystol, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I can do to get you out of this, but I swear I'll try my best." He gushes, panting through his words.

"It's fine, Zander." I say, reaching out and touching his cheek. He grabs my hand and holds it for a moment before letting it go, along with sobs that rack through his body. I hold him close to me, my heart shattering. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I laugh at this image. I should be the one losing my mind, gripping to my brother for dear life. Instead I'm nursing his fragile state, trying to coax his face from my shoulder.

"You've got to do this." He pulls away, cupping my face in both of his hands. Tears drip from his chin, splattering on my dress. "You've got to win, Brys."

"I'll try." I smile sadly, trying to calm him. It works a little, and his sobs reduce to shudders.

"Try." He whispers, snorting slightly. He knows what I know. They all try. Only one tries hard enough.

"Grams. You've got to take care of Grams. Keep her out of trouble." His emotions are starting to come off on me, but I know I can't cry. It's physically impossible at the moment.

"I'll try." His voice cracks, and he chuckles darkly. I pull him back into my arms, knowing our time is almost up.

"I love you, Zander." I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing myself to keep calm.

"I love you too, baby sister." He kisses my forehead before being ordered out by the sadistic Peacekeeper guarding my door.

I know that there will be no more visitors for me. Zander and Grams were technically all I had. With this thought, I wonder if I should even try, if there's a point to killing the others. They probably have families they want to return to, mothers and fathers. Zander can easily take care of Grams, and he never has to work for money. But I told him I would try. I will try to ruin other families, so that I may return to my own.

I wonder if Styx has a family to worry about. If his leaving will hurt anyone else. I wonder if he has friends that are rooting for his return, whereas I have a depressed brother and a psychotic grandmother.

I'm sure he's in the room opposite mine, just across the hall, and my theory is proved correct as I hear him yell. I wonder who his visitor is, who he has to raise his voice for.

The Peacekeepers come to get me soon, which means neither Styx nor I had many visitors.

Maybe we're a good pair for tributes, the two of us. Neither will be missed by many. Our deaths will be celebrated, as they are every year for each of the other dead tributes. We will make our little notch on history. We will take the spot of the innocent girl, the fearful boy, and do our very best to return home to this hot, dry desert of a District.

When I was younger, I went on a field trip with my school to the slaughterhouse. Our teacher told us that ninety percent of the cattle that are raised on our land are send to the Capitol for food.

"I'm just another cow." I mutter under my breath with a sly smile, "So… Bite me."

District 10 | The Reaping of Styx Algal

Gold wisps of sunlight filter through the window as I groggily open an eye. Reaping Day means nothing to me. It's a tick on a calendar, one step closer on a march of vivacious futility. It's only the poor saps who wring their hands over such trivial concerns as "life and death" that worry about today.

Such emotional entanglements are for the weak.

The air's warm as I lift my head up from the stone-hard mattress in this hovel of a home. It's dusty air, to be sure – it always is dusty in District 10. The dust pervades every inch of every space, seeping between building foundations, blankets, even eyelids. It's impossible to avoid the stuff, but those who have grown up with it have come to accept it as a part of life. I don't mind, really. Why worry about something as small as dust? What does it do to me – or better yet, for me? Worthless.

I blink and look about the half-lit room I call my own in this house; it's small and insufficient. Creaking wooden planks climb like vines up the wall to a roof that needed replacement years ago. There're very few things here; I have no need for such things. Only my stack of clothes and a pail of stagnant, dust-coated water catch my eye. I should look nice today, dress decently – will, rather than should. I have little choice in the matter, as it's customary for everyone to do so. Besides, I can milk such appearance later on after the Reaping for what I need.

And should I get Reaped? No concern, then. Adapt and thrive. It's the way of nature.

The money from winning doesn't entice me in the slightest. It's the knowledge that would pay off from winning the Hunger Games, although I do well on my own now. In such a stratified society we live in, physical goods mean nothing. Very few in District 10 own much besides the landowners on their ranches, locked away in their ivory towers as 99% of the district starves. I don't care for my fellow man, but even I can see that humanity has failed when that's the case. No other species destroys its own so – no other burns out its niche like a virus. Humanity is an invasive species of the highest order.

My feet hit the wooden floor, creaking as I wrap a pair of threadbare woolen socks about my callused limbs. A pair of tan trousers that match the color of everything else in the dusty world follow. They're thick and can withstand damage – something critical for thriving here on the prairie. A pair of thick workman boots I shifted off a stiff and a basic white shirt finishes my morning attire. I'll change when I come back.

Why do I come back? Why bother? I should move out of this shithole. The thought sounds even more appealing as I stride into the "guest" room, hearing my mother shifting in her sleep elsewhere in the house. She's useless, a drunk and a prostitute. She finds indulgence in money, even when it's not very much. Only she could be so stupid as to delight in being underpaid for her rancid work.

I don't know if most teens consider their parents to be burdens, but I sure do. My father left me a long time ago; he's dead in a ditch somewhere, rotting for who-knows-how-long. My mother gave birth to me and my dead sister, who was even more of a burden.

Stupid git, bumbling about as if she were three years old despite her being only two years younger than me. Her name was Lyla; people I know in town say she was pretty with her cow-like brown eyes, albeit stupid. She died a year ago due in part to my mother's idiocy. I was out engaging in my usual business when my mother returned, drunk as a skunk, and proceeded to beat the ever-loving hell out of Lyla, inflicting nasty internal injuries.

No big deal to me. Big deal to her, since she died a couple days later.

All it did was reinforce what I already knew: This species must be some sort of natural error, unequivocally flawed in every way, from the physical to the psychological. I have yet to see a steer or pig or sheep get drunk and lay themselves open for every Peacekeeper to get some, finishing it off by slamming their young into pink mush. Well, that's humanity.

"Bummer, huh?" I whisper to myself as I scoop up a bag, slinging it over my shoulder and opening the door to the street. "You were born unlucky. Boo-hoo."

Boo-hoo. Dad runs and dies and Mom kills your idiot sister. Boo-hoo.

The street's empty for five-thirty in the morning. That's good for me; I can scavenge and deal without concerns. The Peacekeepers will be patrolling the outskirts of the district today, so I can operate with a little more leniency. District 10's huge, covering a vast amount of prairie that's needed for cattle and horse-raising. That's the rancher concern, and that's why they run the economy here on the plains – they're the landholders.

I don't live in the Ranching Ward, however; I don't even live in the Shepherding Ward. No, I live on the edge of the Dairy Ward, since that's "technically" where my mother works (although she spends considerably more time whoring.) It's bad, although a slight bit of respect nicer than the Slaughterhouse Ward. That's the poorest section of District 10; it holds the residential quarters of all the butchers and meatpackers, the last end of the supply chain that runs from the animal husbandry workers all the way down to the killing. Ironically, it's the people who process the stuff for Capitol consumption who get kicked around the most. There's something funny about that; it's like the Capitol is asking for salmonella outbreaks.

The Slaughterhouse Ward may be a dump, but it is a lucrative dump for someone like me who trades in information and basic commodities. I'm not focused on monetary rewards, no; since my waste of a mother has never given half a hump about me, I've eked out my own living. I trade what I learn – and I learn a lot – and what I can scavenge around town for further information and useful stuff such as food and clothing. It's what I need to do to survive, and frankly, I'm quite good at it.

It's not glamorous, but I'm certainly not the only kid who does this stuff. The butchers have words for our kind: Gutter Rat. Broker. Middleman. Scabber.

It's all the same. If I committed to making money instead of commodities, I'd probably be richer than them.

The Peacekeepers in District 10 don't care. We barely impact their lives, and the place is too big to focus on one or two residential wards when there are far greater things to police. They're concerned with keeping the economy and industry in line, and that focuses heavily on the husbandry workers and shepherds. To me, those are the "feudal serfs" – they're the "employees" of the ranchers, and are supposedly in the upper half of District 10's lifestyle. It doesn't look that way to me, however. They may have more stuff than those of us who slum about as scavengers, but they certainly don't live with anywhere near the freedom of movement. They're the ones who end up swinging in the town square if they slip up.

Me? No, if I get in trouble, all I need to do is slip a Peacekeeper a little something. Maybe it's a tidbit of information that will earn them praise from their superiors, or maybe it's something special. Either way, it's not a huge concern.

Undoubtedly a few hopeless wrecks have drank themselves to death last night, so I need to scrum about the Dairy and Slaughterhouse Wards before 8 to check for corpses. I have to be at the town square at 10 for the Reaping, so I have four hours of flexible business to attend to before that. That's more than enough to learn some things, find some useful stuff, and negotiate. Profitable morning, if I do say so myself. It beats those scummy people crying tears over how their "babies" have a miniscule chance of being selected for death.

As I kick aside a rock in the empty, dusty street, letting the warmth of the early-morning sun hit my face, I have to wonder why people give so much of a shit about death. It's a natural thing; an inevitable, cosmic force. It's a road we all have to take. Why worry if it comes now or when you're old and struggling to even breathe? Once again, most humans are idiotically emotional creatures.

I am in luck this morning! Some dumb husbandry worker – by the looks of his shirt – came into the Slaughterhouse Ward during the night and offed himself. He's in a dirt gutter at the side of the road, and the Peacekeepers haven't picked him up yet. I'll have to work fast – the Peacekeepers might not give a shit about what we do, but some of the moral crusaders who live around here might care.

Still, five minutes is enough for me to make my move, strip the corpse of everything I want, and then hightail it. It's a nice haul; the man's shirt alone will reap me a decent reward. It's actual cotton, which is crazy as hell to see around this ward. I leave the pants but take his boots, his cap, the little money he had on him, and something curious – a small pink ribbon. What the hell? I'm confused enough of why he has money on him still, but the ribbon is weird. It's almost…

Bam!

Lyla's dancing around the room as I come home, tossing my school sack on the ground. I don't care for school, but the knowledge is useful. What the hell is my sister doing? Brain-dead idiot.

"Styx, Styx!" she laughs as she plays with some figment of her imagination. "Come dance!"

It's her usual babble. If I thought I was born unlucky, something horrific cursed her. She doesn't hold a lick of intelligence – or even sanity – in that addled, rotten brain of hers.

"Beat it," I spit on the floor. "I have things to do."

"Nooo," Lyla coos, completely misunderstanding my intent. Her ponytail bobbles around her head as she dances, swinging with the pink ribbon she's tied (poorly) to keep it in place. "Come play! Play with me!"

"Look," I round on her, irate. "I don't care what your pea-sized brain thinks, but you have royally pissed me off. I don't want to play with you and whatever the hell you think is there."

She stops, looking at me with something between fear and confusion. It's a face I've only seen a few times – usually when dealing with our mother.

"Are you gonna run away like daddy?" she asks.

What?

"Are you leaving? Is that big train gonna take you away?"

The hell is she talking about?

"Don't leave me with her, Styx," she pleads, her cow eyes wide and round. "She hurts me. Please."

"What do you want?" I demand. "What are you trying to even say?"

"Don't leave me! Don't make me get hurt…"

I snap back to the dusty street and the cooling stiff I robbed. The heck was that? I remember the first half…but Lyla never said anything like the second part of that. How was I slipping into these stupid thoughts, anyway?

Your mind's playing tricks on you, I think. Don't let it obfuscate your grip on today.

I agree. Time to get back to work.

I stuff the ribbon in my sack and hurl the thing over my shoulder, shrugging and moving on. Can't get lost in the past…no, certainly not. Lyla never meant anything to me, anyway. Why am I even thinking about her, besides the faint memory of a ribbon?

Before the next hour's out, I've scrapped up a decent haul from people's leftovers. The stuff from the stiff; rotting bread that an idiot threw out into the street – it might be poisonous, but it'll lure delicious rats, and someone will pay for that – an old, long piece of leather; a raw, threadbare rag; a dead cat; and bits of scrap metal. I've done well for this short time, and the Slaughterhouse Ward has rewarded me for my diligence. Time to make good.

Since District 10's so large, it's impossible for any policing force of Peacekeepers to do much to hinder behind-the-scenes action. A considerable black market has thus grown to service what everyone in the Dairy and Slaughterhouse Wards need, and I'm a regular supplier. It's good being at the top of the supply chain; although I may be a Gutter Rat, I provide a useful service. That's supply and demand at work.

The black market isn't stupid, so it operates in a decentralized web. Sticking everything in one market would be sure to attract attention, and instead I make rounds, passing by the homes and locales of people who I know will partake in my wares. First up is the heart of the infection.

The primary slaughterhouse in District 10 is colloquially referred to as the Guillotine. It's packed to the brim with workers usually, but today the foremen have suspended work until two – after the Reaping is over. I can make good, however; two of my familiars are already loitering against the giant, steel-sided square building, picking prairie grass out of their teeth and spitting on the dusty ground. On the right stands a tall, lanky man of around thirty-three with a mane of blonde hair. Named Boone, he's one of the people I've come to rely on as a commercial workhorse. If anyone's a middle man, it's him: He'll snap up stuff like the rotting bread I've found, using it to procure even more resources and selling those on to the merchants. He's a smart businessman I could probably learn a lot from.

The red-haired, well-built man to his left is fairly new to me; I've only met him once. He's named Crockett, works in the dairy mill; his intact clothes show that he's wealthier than the Slaughterhouse Ward denizens. Good news for me; Crockett will likely pick up the stuff I pinched off the stiff.

"Already had a Broker come this way wit' tootin' cheese," Boone spits on the ground as I approach, wiping his mouth with his frayed sleeve. "I ain't buyin' no hoity-toity shit if ya' found'it, Styx."

Many people have a local accent in District 10 – I can tell it's an accent since the Peacekeepers don't have it – but Boone's is ridiculous. It's often hard to follow him through a finished sentence.

"I'm no elitist," I spit back. It's important to act tough around guys like Boone; it's all they respond to. "I got actual stuff you can use. Can't do nothing with cheese but wipe your ass with it."

"Mmm," Boone nods. "It be the best ass-wipe I ever done, though. Beats my finger."

Crockett grunts as I dump the contents of my sack out onto the ground. Nobody cares about the dust and its effect on the goods; we all might as well eat dust, anyway. It gets into everyone's food, even that of the Peacekeepers and ranchers.

"That'a bread?" Boone pushes the rotting loaf with his shoe. Good – he's gone for it. "How mucha want fer'that?"

Here comes the haggling, and strangely enough, it was school that taught me how to handle this part. Boone abides by the classic case of an indifference curve – once you figure out what he wants, you only need to figure out what he has, and how much he values that. Get those down and you can price your own goods considerably in your favor. I've done well with my regulars, but Boone may be the easiest. He's not too smart.

I don't pretend to be intelligent myself, but I know how to understand people's motivations. Boone isn't different from anyone else. The tough ones – particularly the ones who try to flaunt their muscles like some sort of evolutionary calling card - are always the easiest to run rings around and cheat. It's like being paid to outsmart steers.

Boone doesn't value what he perceives as "elitist." Some of that comes in the form of food he gets from other Gutter Rats – and I'll gladly profit.

"Pinched any milk off the dairy plants?" I ask him, knowing he wouldn't spare a turd for something as "elitist" as milk. It's not as if Boone has a family. The thought is laughable. "I'll give it you for a half-gallon."

He grunts in displeasure, but I can see the gears churning in his admittedly-small brain. Stealing a half-gallon of milk off of the dairy plants is easy work for anyone with a minute of experience in theft and smuggling. Considering the volume that District 10 puts out per year, that's child's play – and it's an amount I can convert into serious goods with the merchants, who would rather commit ritual suicide than steal. Damn moral knights.

"Where'd you get that shirt?" Crockett asks, investigating the stiff's clothing with his eyes. "I'll toss in for that and the boots."

"That's premium. Ranch-hand stuff," I go for the hard-sell. "It'll go for four loaves of bread, two pairs of pants, some fine stuff, anything in between that."

Boone sniggers at "fine stuff." Figures.

"A'ite," Crockett sighs, pulling something out of his pocket. "Gotta hand off the good stuff."

I almost wet myself at what he produces. It's a knife – and a damn good one. As lax as the Peacekeepers are, they would blow their stacks at finding weapons, which makes them extremely valuable commodities on the market. Where the hell did Crockett get this – and is he really that desperate as to trade it for the stiff's clothes?

Jeez. It's a good morning.

"For all this?" I ask, trying my best to appear suspicious and containing my giddiness. "I'll take the knife…but toss in some food and I'll throw in the rag and the leather. You can make some clothes off that, too. Rag can clothe an infant. New parents will buy that."

It's amazing where a bit of salesmanship and playing to emotions can pay you. Crockett considers my point and pulls out a small container from his other pocket, laying it on the ground and pushing his spoils towards him with his foot.

Holy hell, that's alcohol. Did he kill somebody to get this stuff?

"Happy to do business," I grunt, appearing disgruntled as I excitedly scoop up my winnings and wonder why he values the clothes so much. "Either of you know where I can sell the dead cat?"

"Try th' apothecary," Boone grunts as he inspects the rotting bread, picking at the mold. "They'all use the oil, y'see."

"I wouldn't try there," Crockett says somewhat cryptically. "They've had a little…run of bad luck."

Oh. I guess that's where the alcohol came from. Clever man, selling stolen goods; however, beggars can't be choosers. I'll gladly sell that knife and the alcohol and earn what's mine.

By nine, I've done extremely well for a mere three-and-a-half hours. The knife turns into two loaves of bread, preserving yeast, four lengths of cloth, and some extra money from one of the ranchers. They're all paranoid about security and will willingly trade with us Gutter Rats if we can string up stuff that makes them feel "safe." I don't tell them that safety is a lie conjured up to make them relaxed; that would be bad business. The alcohol and cat go to a notorious drunk in the Dairy Ward for a pair of boots that he doesn't need anymore. I can't sell the scrap metal, but I'll figure something out during my afternoon run. Hell, someone can make a new knife out of that, I guess.

I'll turn the ribbon in to one of the merchant families this afternoon who have a kid who makes it through the Reaping. Maybe the bakers; they have a cute fourteen year-old girl they dote on. That makes more money, which I can go use for even more bartering.

It's a virtuous cycle, alright – and the opportunistic succeed.

I toss the sack onto the floor of my house when I get back. My mother's farting around and clutching her head – the idiot's hungover again. It's a constant struggle for her I guess, but it's still pathetic.

"Ain't you supposed to be gone from here by now?" she groans at my general direction. "Christ."

I've never figured out what "Christ" means, but seeing that most of the poor toss the word out as an insult or disgruntled remark, I've attributed it to the same things. "Maybe if we're both lucky, you'll die before some other kid gets Reaped today," I retort.

"Or maybe you will. That'd save me a spite of trouble," she spits at the floor. "Fuckin' useless. Maybe I could trade you fer Lyla."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you beat her to death," I chuckle. Dumb cow.

My mother hrumphs and walks away, leaving me to change. I don't spend much time here, simply slipping into a slightly nicer shirt and a pair of respectable brown pants. Even I know when it's time to be presentable.

I don't spend much time thinking about the Reaping; I have more important things. If I'm Reaped, whatever. I take tesserae, but just for myself. I couldn't care less about my mother, so my name's in a decent amount of times. Plenty of other kids, however, have it far worse. They actually have parents and siblings who count on them, a notion I openly mock.

Now the streets are packed. Figures. I weave my way through traffic, pacing over the avenues I've walked a million times. Some kids walk in groups towards the town square, holding each other and crying. I have some people I'd call "friends," sure…but I certainly wouldn't be doing that. I have no need for anyone I refer to as friends on a day like this, anyway.

Besides, my best friends are the ones who pay me. They're the people like Boone; the ones who keep me going. That's far more profitable than some emotional support piece with no quantifiable result.

Peacekeepers have erected giant screens across the dusty streets that lead into town; it's from here that most of the adults and workers of the District will watch. They need nearly the entire square for us, the Reapable-crowd. District 10's just too big to cram into one small area like they do in the small districts every year. Already, groups of parents and other concerned relatives have begun to cloister in groups. They're the ones who have stakes in this game.

Me, I go about my business.

The Capitol attendants checking everyone in don't seem to be having a good day. As I make my way through the legions of kids, the attendant who takes my record of attendance grabs my finger roughly, smashing her blood-drawing needle into it with a painful lurch.

Asshole, I think.

I'm checked in quickly and move through the crowd, shuffling into the seventeen year-old area. One kid I'm friendly enough with is there; he's the son of two dairy workers, named Fannin. He's actually tolerable…most of the time.

"Think it's your year?" Fannin seems unconcerned as we clap hands. "Can't say I'm really sweating it out."

"Same," I say succinctly. "Not really a big deal. If I get Reaped, cool. If not, I have stuff to do."

Fannin laughs, the morning sun shining off his blonde hair. He's a better-looking guy than I, no doubt, even if his tall, lanky frame lacks the build of my upper body and shoulders. Still, he'd probably stand a good chance in the Games. We both would; neither of us are the weepy type. I'd give myself the edge, of course; I'm willing to bet I've got the physical advantage on Fannin, and certainly the adaptability one. Can he outthink me? He's a smart guy…more intelligent than me, but I'm not sure he has the imaginative edge necessary to outwit the brawny volunteer idiots from Districts 2 and 1.

The Capitol escort, Trevor, is the same tool they keep bringing back. He's peppy and his words convey all sorts of enthusiasm! and vigor! in this year's class. He's way too optimistic, gassing on about how he's got the utmost confidence in District 10's chance of winning. I wish he'd shut up; neither Fannin nor I are really paying attention much.

A video they play every year goes on next, spewing weak rhetoric about a "motherless child" and "one man and women" – standard propaganda. I'm not sure why they waste their money on this kind of thing, but hey; that's why I'm not president.

I take the time to look over at District 10's latest victor. Duncan Banter looks bored as all get out; he's the son of two husbandry workers and notoriously looks down at both the wealthy and the poor. If there's a District 10 middle class, Duncan was it. Now, of course, he has more money than he knows what to do with, so he instead has transformed into a wasteful hedonist. He controls his famiy's attention, supposedly, but no one else really cares for him. Duncan only won because of his year's crop of extremely stupid tributes. I certainly wouldn't call him an ideal mentor; his final opponent was stupid enough to walk into a bear cave without even checking out the surroundings. With that kind of competition, who wouldn't win?

That's not skill. That's blind luck stemmed from rampant idiocy.

Finally we get to the juicy part. The escort goes for the girls first, digging his pudgy, soft hand around the glass Reaping bowl before finally digging out the name of one Brystol Welles. She's an attractive girl, confident and seemingly with her thoughts elsewhere as she climbs the steps of the stage. I've never seen her before; looks like she could be a rancher's daughter.

I size her up before Trevor gets to the guys. She's tall – probably just an inch shorter than me. Medium-colored hair, greenish eyes – I think – and an athletic build make her a darn good looker.

Still, I don't really spend much time thinking. I'm considering my afternoon when Trevor digs his hand around the Reaping bowl once more, pulling out the second name. It's some guy named Styx.

Oh. That's me.

If you watch the Reapings every year, you might think all tributes not from Districts 1, 2, or 4 collapse into piles of tears and depression. Frankly, I'm not really all that bugged by this setback. If nothing else, it means I don't have anything to do this afternoon.

Beside me, Fannin doesn't look too concerned either. We both have come to accept things – when you're relatively poor, life's hurdles aren't ever too big. It's the wealthy and weak who typically spend their time worrying about issues like this.

I stride forward, bored and ready for this to be over with. Hell. I don't want to shake Trevor's hand. How's this for Capitol excess – the guy has two different colored irises, one green, the other brown. Really? Is that necessary?

"Come on up, come on up," he says cheerfully as I climb the steps with ease. Hedonist and hedonist – that's my mentorship crew. Fuckin' swell.

Brystol is considerably more interesting. I give her a curt nod as I take my place on the stage; frankly, if there's anyone here worth talking to, she seems to be it. Already I'm planning the next move, my mind hurtling forward into the strategic battleground. Idiotic tributes die due to a lack of planning and a lack of tactical skill, neither things I suffer from. First things first: making myself socially attractive.

Why's that important? It's massively important: I'm not stupid enough to think I'll need to rely on sponsorship gifts, but they'd be nice. Already I've done a decent job setting an angle without even thinking about it: confidence, even the cold type I usually convey, isn't something the crowds normally expect from people from the outlying districts. That's a nice perk.

Of course, confidence is the least of my concerns.

Brystol and I are shuffled through the massive, stone façade of the Hall of Justice behind us. This time is supposedly delegated for people saying good-bye to us, but I already know I'll have no takers. Nobody cares about a Gutter Rat unless they're engaging in business. My failure of a mother is the last thing I'd want to see anyway.

The solid-wood paneling and scarlet silk carpets make the waiting room a nice wait. I kick my legs across one another, reclining against the couch I'm positioned on and wait out the hour. It'll be a long hour.

As it turns out, I do have a visitor. It's not who I think.

Out of the blue my head starts to hurt. It's a fuzzy thing, almost dizzying as I lean back further into the couch. It's when I open my eyes that I see things have changed.

Hanging from the ceiling, her limbs contorted behind her like hooks, is Lyla.

She's not the stupid sister I've always known, however. Her eyes are blacked out, things of horror that stare at me with an awful emptiness. Her mouth hangs open like a gaping maw, spewing unsaid words of hate upon me. Her skin has turned bleached white, the shade of a corpse. Lyla's hair hangs down in a frazzled mess, white and frayed.

When she finally speaks, her words are straight from the mouth of madness: "You may hide your fear behind your walls of lies, Styx, but being Reaped terrifies you, doesn't it? All the bodies and blood every year…you know what happens, no matter how hard you try to forget it."

Gahhh. I find myself compelled to reply: "Get out…Lyla's dead. Get out!"

She laughs, a horrible thing laced with acid: "I see the cracks in your armor, Styx. They'll break when the time's right, send you straight to a bloody death. And when they do…I'll be expecting you."

Writers for this chapter: Brystol Welles written by Ambs15 | Styx Algal written by 13ASB