"There's never a beginning to eternity."
Demetrius Saxon, Victor of the Thirty-Third Hunger Games
District Two
Never did it sit right with me.
Training, volunteering, killing. None of it brought me joy. None of it brought me satisfaction or fulfillment. In fact, it brought me nothing but a sense of remorse and emptiness that continues to ebb away at me to this day. However, the emptiness lessens whenever I remember why I did it. I didn't volunteer for myself, I volunteered for my family. Whatever way it turned out, we would all still be together. Either in the warm security of the Victor's Village or in the ever encompassing dark of death.
In all honesty, I didn't know which one I wanted. And I still don't.
Either side of me, I'm surrounding by Victors. From Armia and Cobble to Minet and Cynthia. From Elisia and Grant to me and Lorayn, we make up the greatest number of victors from a single District. Only one thing connects us. We all went into the Games to kill. Sure, it was for different reasons but it still connects us, and it needs to. This is the only slither of a bond we have to share. Without it, we would surely implode.
The mayor is still carrying on with his speech which could be summed up with the words 'Let's become the first District to have three victors in a row!'. I lean over to Ellisia, who sits to my right as she has already began to turn away to try and ignore me. Nevertheless, I carry on.
"I still don't like this," I say hurriedly.
"We know that, Demetrius, but you saying it isn't going to change anything," Ellisia replies. "You didn't like it when the brothers told us they wanted back-to-back victories, you didn't like it when we chose Lorayn because we thought she would be a good stepping stone for Payton and you don't like the fact that we're sending Grant and Lorayn to represent us in the Capitol."
I bite my tongue and let Ellisia face me unopposed. Something akin to barely contained anger contorts her face until the point when her lips move in a snarl.
"We've been over this time after time and we are not discussing this anymore," she grinds out.
Not now am I going to back down. It's only be a matter of minutes until I can't do anything else. I've got to try.
"I don't care about tradition. We can't let Grant take Lorayn, at least not without someone else there," I fire back, my own fury rising to the surface.
Ellisia stares me down for a moment before she takes in a deep breath. She turns back to face the front of the stage and lets it out again. An odd, wistful look enters her eyes as I acknowledge the applause that follows the end of the mayor's speech. Another deep breath and a soft voice appears.
"If he kills her, then so be it."
I bite down hard on my cheek, allowing the familiar taste of blood to flood my mouth. I need it to keep me grounded, otherwise… I don't even want to think about it.
My eyes are focused on the back of the escort whose name somehow manages to slip my mind every year as they reach into the girl's bowl, their hand quick in sniping up a piece of paper that lays on the top. Just as they've unfolded the pale yellow slip, a voice cuts out above the tension.
"I volunteer."
The eighteen year-old section parts like it does every year and out from it, steps forward a lithe girl wearing a dark blue dress embroidered with silver thread. A gift from the academy no doubt. As she makes her way up the stage, wearing a light smile, I acknowledge how much she looks like she could be from District One, what with her striking blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.
Ms. Escort gives the girl a little bow and waits patiently for the return gesture before asking the question everyone in the Capitol is dying to know.
"Hello there, would you mind telling us your name?" She asks politely before handing the microphone over when the girl makes the motion with her hand. The blonde takes it, then twists around to face the crowd, her face all smiles and confidence.
"My name is Shalia Avani," her voice is just the same; all smiles and confidence but there's something else. A softness, a caring edge that makes her words all the more endearing. "I would just like to say it's an honour being chosen to represent District Two, and I hope, that between me and my District Partner, we can succeed in bringing home another Victor."
The crowd stays silent. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Cynthia nodding her approval at what I presumed to be her chosen trainee's words. Ever the patriot.
Ms. Escort continues to wear a smile as she makes her over to the boy's bowl. This time however, she's barely reached her hand into the bowl when another voice manages to interrupt her movement with a loud shout.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
Suddenly, the boys in the eighteen year-old section are not so much moving apart as they are being forcefully pushed apart. Within a second, a boy emerges from the front with a huge grin on his face that stubbornly refuses to leave as he gallops up to the stage and onto the steps. On the stage, he's no less enthusiastic, ripping the microphone out of Ms. Escort's hands before she has the chance to do anything.
He stands on the edge of the stage, grinning for everyone to see.
"I'm Priston Thames," he starts off strongly and while he's taking a pause, he looks at Shalia who gives him a look of pure confusion.
"I'm Priston Thames and this year, District Two, I will be your victor!"
I doubt there is a single person in the whole of District Two who isn't utterly confused right now. Sure, there have been tributes who have been a bit too up for it, none of them had this air of childishness to them. None of them seemed this sincere. It's almost like Priston actually believed he was going to win for sure. Not out of confidence but out of naivety and ignorance. It was odd. Surely the Capitol is already tripping over itself over him.
A blanket of awkward tension falls over the district when it becomes clear Priston isn't going to hand back the microphone, instead keeping it loosely gripped in his fingers. Ms. Escort seems conflicted about what to do so I suppose it's good when Shalia steps towards her District Partner. Quickly, she reaches for the microphone and gently pries it from his hand. He offers no resistance, only a quizzical look as Shalia gives it back to Ms. Escort whose gratitude falls off in waves.
In the hand which once held the microphone, Shalia inserts her own and gives Priston's a little squeeze. I'm unsure whether it was to reassure herself or Priston or neither. Perhaps it was just a gesture of District loyalty to show the other tributes they are together. A united front that will sweep through the Games just like they have done before.
Ms. Escort pays her thanks and the crowd take that as their sign to leave. The two of them are still holding hands as the Peacekeepers move to escort them to the Justice Building. The other victors make their individual journeys down the steps, done for the Games for another year. I can't help but linger and look hopefully at Grant and Lorayn as they remain seated.
Grant has just murmured something about wanting to take Shalia when I feel something wrap around my wrist. I turn around and Ellisia's face fills my vision. After a few seconds, she makes a small motion with her head, one that means we need to go now. The urge to pull back my hand is there but I ignore it. Instead, I nod back and with that, Ellisia starts pulling me along by the slight grip she has on my wrist.
It would be easy to break it. Nevertheless, I no longer feel the need.
There's nothing left that I can do now. I just have to let it happen.
What will happen, happen. And if that is death, then so be it.
Vixen Callaire, Victor of the Thirty-First Hunger Games
District Six
The sickly air seems heavier today.
Seated on stage, I watch the people slowly enter the pens for the Reaping. Their drawn faces and tight-lipped expressions remind me of ten years ago. Except, ten years ago, I had entered the city square with the confidence that I would not be reaped. I wonder who else enters with that confidence. Looking at the crowd again, I catch a few smiles here and there. Not only did I get reaped, my brother was too.
The grief has dulled down somewhat but at times like this, it becomes as fresh as the day he sacrificed himself for me. It threatens to drown me today.
I look to my left and see our mayor talking to Argeliba. The former's face is rosy – a sign of health. Unlike Anya's who was saggy and yellow. She died a number of years ago to Morphling overdose. No one mourned. No one ever does. I doubt anyone was surprised too. I doubt anyone was aware of her death. Even with our new mayor, Morphling is still a problem.
"Dreary day isn't it," Argeliba quips as she comes over to me.
"Makes me think it's going to rain," I answer.
She throws her head back and laughs.
"Maybe today will be the day we can get a potential Victor."
"Oh, darling, everyone can be a potential Victor." She looks at me. "I didn't expect you to win after all."
Or Liam.
I avenged him but vengeance isn't as sweet as some people make it out to be. It does not bring people back to life after all. And in the Hunger Games, it only adds to one more thing that could break you.
Argeliba on the other hand, she is a true Victor. In the sense that she came out of the arena strong. Unbreakable. Me? I left the arena mourning. Not quite broken, but nearly there. The rips in the seams of my own sanity tear farther and farther with every waking second.
"The Reaping is starting." My fellow mentor states.
Tuning out the usual proceedings, I observe the possible tributes. An eerie silence has now descended over the square though not everyone looks on in rapt attention. Constantly seeing propaganda gets tiring after a while. It numbs people and turns them into cynics. About ten minutes later, Argeliba nudges me in the side. I stop spacing out and wince at the escort's shrill voice.
"Ladies first!" she cries out, her blue beehive-like hair bouncing up and down.
She prances over to the glass bowl and her left hand dives into it, searching for the slip of paper that will seal someone's fate. Gingerly taking it out, she prances back to the microphone and unfolds it.
"Scarlet Marlowe!"
There is some shifting in the twelve year old section. A freckled girl walks out, her manner composed. Her expression seems almost…bored. No, resigned. But she is not wailing or crying, and her eyes hold a threatening gaze to them. As if daring anyone to help her onto the stage. Back straight, she comes to stand beside the escort. She coldly regards the escort's offering hand, glaring at her until the escort retracts her arm and scuffles onto the next bowl.
"I like her," Argeliba muses. "Criers are never my favorite."
I twinge to myself. I had cried.
Scarlet's reaction is no pretense. She does not shake, her bottom lip does not quiver, and even from here, I can sense she is calm. Not even an inkling of fear or anxiety contorts her face. Only a dull expression smothers her.
"I like her, too."
Better than me who was a nervous wreck when I was called. Before breaking down completely when Liam's name was called out and no one volunteered.
The escort skips over to the male Reaping bowl and takes out the slip of paper without hesitation. At the microphone, she reads out the male tribute's name. The fourteen year old section parts for him. Clearly, he is well-known among them. He walks out looking as though he is desperately trying to hold himself together but that façade is falling apart. He is about halfway to the stage, eyes desperately searching out someone who will take the rep for him. A few moments pass, a few steps nearer to the stage, and someone calls out:
"I volunteer!"
A dark-haired guy moves out from the sixteen year old section. There seems to be a slight tension to his expression as he hurriedly moves up to the stage. The reaped boy very nearly collapses in relief.
"Ooh, a volunteer! What's your name?"
"Thorin. Thorin Robiquet."
The escort beams at him and spins to face the front. Thorin stands tall and true in front of the district that analyzes him curiously, befuddled of why he did what he did. But they find nothing, and he only stands complacently as the escort beams on and on. They don't know what to look for. Behind his back, Thorin fidgets his hands, scuffing his left wrist with his right palm.
Only now do the burn marks come to my attention. Thorin halts abruptly as the escort begins to speak and lets go of his wrist.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our tributes for District Six! Scarlet Marlowe and Thorin Robiquet."
I can practically feel the sighs of relief that it is not them. Or for the eighteen year olds, they have finally escaped the ominous loom of the Hunger Games.
The two turn and shake hands before the Peacekeepers come in and escort them to the Justice Building.
"Scarlet is mine," Argeliba announces as she watches them pass us.
Up close, Thorin is a little frazzled. But it does not seem directed towards volunteering as he keeps looking behind him at someone.
"I'll take Thorin then," I reply once they disappear behind the doors of the Justice Building.
Arly Paci, Victor of the Seventeenth Hunger Games
District Nine
"Arly?"
The first-aid kit falls to the ground in a clatter as I frantically try to stuff the gauze and antiseptic back into it. Gasping, I throw myself against the bathroom door. The lock broke a few weeks ago. I haven't found the will in me to get a locksmith to fix it.
"Arly, come out, please," Cassian pleads from behind the door.
It is pathetic.
My Hunger Games finished years ago but I have not changed one bit from when I came out. My family tells me to seek help but I refuse time and time again. Turning my back to the door, I slump against it and look at my bleeding wrist, at the multiple scars that line it. I bury my face in my hands. A failure.
I should be ashamed.
I am ashamed.
"Arly-"
"What are you doing here, Cassian?" I interrupt.
"I wanted to see you before the Reaping."
He frequently comes over just to talk to me. My parents died six years ago and my sister has long given up on me. Orson, District Nine's other Victor, does not bother with the two of us. We're weak in his eyes apparently. Needless to say, I do not bother talking to him. But he is kind at times. Times like today. We all share the same burden of being a Victor and needing to put up that glorious front after all.
I stare at my wrist.
But sometimes, I cannot quite take it anymore.
"Arly!"
The door moves behind me and instinctively, I move away. Cassian comes barreling in and wordlessly, he bends and starts taking the gauze and antiseptic to dab up the cuts. He never says anything about it but I know he worries.
"I'll be fine," I try to assure him.
"You always say that," his voice breaks.
Shaking my head, I try to answer him, but the words catch in my throat. My throat tightens and a lump forms in it. Bowing my head, the tears start escaping and I break down.
I was never meant to survive my Hunger Games.
"How long 'til the Reaping?" I ask through my tears, trying to find something to focus on.
"Two hours."
Two hours later, I am seated on the stage and staring out at the faceless crowd before me. The palpable tension in the air starts getting to me and I avert my gaze. The yellow stalks of grain and wheat wave gently in the breeze a distance away. I always liked going there before I was reaped. When I came back, the fields provided little comfort. The pale blue bedroom seemed better though it never did help.
"Arly, Cassian," Orson greets once he reaches us.
"Hello," I answer.
Smiling is too much of an effort right now. And he knows how I feel towards him.
"Hi," Cassian replies softly.
"Good luck with mentoring," he tells us.
"Thanks."
And the conversation ends there. We rarely talk much though a sense of camaraderie binds us at times like this. I relax against the back of my seat and patiently wait for the Reaping to start. Part of me dreads going to the Capitol again. It is not so much the thought of the cameras though that is one part of it, but I am reluctant to leave my home.
I have to do what has to be done though.
Fifteen minutes later and one screeching feedback from the microphone later, Amar walks up the stage. Our escort is as uppity as always and his hooked nose hardly helps with his snobbish disposition. It does not take long to arrive to the main event that everyone has been waiting for.
He wastes no time in taking out a slip of paper from the female bowl.
"Kiefer Callistus."
The pen for the seventeen year olds part, presenting a straight path to the aisle for her. No one seems particularly remorseful or sad over her being chosen.
And despite the circumstances, neither does she. The young woman walks out and I observe her carefully. Cassian and I have already decided beforehand that I will take the female. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line, hands balled up into fists, but her fierce expression does not waver as she walks up to the stage. It looks to me that she is trying to hold her tears in though.
But it's good.
Better than crying at the very least.
"Kristopher Runes."
And, like how everyone parted for Kiefer, the boys do the same for Kristopher. Except they give him a wider berth. He strolls out of his pen, lips tugged up into a smile. He is completely unaffected by the fact that he has been reaped for the Hunger Games.
Amar merely sniffs once Kristopher is beside him. Taking the microphone, it squeals again and I wince.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he drawls, "your tributes for District Nine!"
There is no raucous applause. Just a very light and polite one if only because of the cameras. Tossing his extravagantly long purple hair, Amar makes haste away from the two tributes.
"Good luck," Orson says as we stand. He off-handedly dusts his hands on his pants and cocks his head to the side. I try not to notice the superiority gleaming in his eyes.
"Thank you."
He inclines his head once more and walks away. Cassian and I share a look and I offer him a weak smile.
"I suppose this is the part where we go back," I say loosely, sighing as my hands subconsciously wrap around the uncouth strands of hair around my shoulders.
"Yeah," he murmurs, and I know without seeing that his eyes are trained on me worriedly. Every move has become a potential to turn the lost cause to a dead one. Every step I take is one step closer to my grave in his eyes. Any sudden movements, and I'll be gone for good.
I don't have the heart to tell him that I'm already gone.
Avella Ratier, Capitol Mentor
District Eleven
They called them unsalvageable.
In truth, that's all anyone would see from the outside. Unruliness runs through this district like wildfire, and poverty is commonplace. Crime is more prevalent than the absence of it. Nothing in this district runs as it should. Far too many problems plague this district for anyone to fix, and anyone who has tried has failed, quickly and painfully. It's pitiful, but it's what's here.
It's a good thing I want nothing to do with that. I have no desire to interact with any of them, save the two tributes who will represent not only this district, but me.
Us, I correct internally. Winona coolly gazes into the crowd of children, looking through the rows of potential tributes with an analytical glare. One mentor hadn't been enough to uphold this mess, as the Capitol realized after the first suicide. I do my best to look at her and not through her, but these days, it's hard not to. With all the assistant mentors that come and go, it's hard not to see them as a temporary secretary rather than an equal.
But something tells me she'll be here for a while. Winona's eyes flicker from one impoverished child to another, and she does nothing but blandly sigh as she turns to me. "Which one would you like?" she says neutrally, as if she was regarding an animal, not a person. It's probably better to think like that, anyway.
"Whichever you don't," I answer. "Does it matter in the end? We're on the same team here. As soon as one wins, we're out of this dump."
Winona considers this for a moment and shrugs. "Do we mentor them together, then?"
"That's not a decision for us to make," I state, and Winona nods behind me. Good. The last mentor I tried to work with seemed to have disagreed with every word that left my mouth. At least Winona knows her place. "Let's see if they're compatible before anything else."
A familiar face wraps up his address to the people. District Eleven runs through escorts as it runs through mentors, but Natalia has been around for the past three years, one short of being around as long as I have. Eleven has had some close calls in the finales, but ultimately, we're still here.
Wallowing in the failure of these people.
It's hard not to blame them, but it's hard to do so, as well. They're born in this dirt and aren't given a chance to leave it. But neither was Twelve. Or Nine. Or Six. If you want to leave what you have, you have to get up yourself. You're not given a way out.
It always feels like the people before me are still waiting for someone to give them a helping hand. More than once families have come pleading and crying, begging for me to do everything in my power to save little Collin and poor, innocent Vera.
I can never decide if they disgust me or if I pity them.
Natalia approaches the microphone, humming in the silence that looms over us. Ever since restlessness began to stir, Peacekeepers have practically ruled the district entirely. Not a single person dares make a noise lest the hundreds of guns trained interspersed throughout the balconies locate them.
"We'll start with the girls," Natalia announces calmly, dipping her sky blue hands into the bowl. For a moment, her hands sift through the hundreds of slips before she selects one and returns to the microphone. She unfurls the folded paper without so much as blinking.
"Elora Valeyn!"
A willowy girl emerges from the seventeen-year old section, clad in a white, lace gown and a necklace of pearls around her neck. Unlike the others around her, Elora's skin is tan, but not dark, and her appearance is something out of District One.
Elora approaches the microphone with a winning smile and an airtight mask latched onto her. An outcry stops her in her tracks as an older woman – her mother, presumably – weeps. Hundreds of guns swerve to find the voice and lock in on her before a young man speaks sense into the woman.
The cameras had swerved alongside the guns towards the momentary disturbance, and in this moment, Elora's grin falters, and she hastily wipes her eyes against the sleeves of her dress. Not even Natalia besides her notices.
It's hard to see what you're not looking for.
"Do you have anything to say?" Natalia offers the microphone to Elora, who accepts it with an appreciative nod.
"I'm grateful for the opportunity to represent my district," Elora says calmly. The steadiness in her voice shocks even me. "It's no secret that we're not portrayed in the best light. I just have to disprove that."
Murmurs of disapproval flood the square, but the cocking of a gun silences that altogether.
Once absolute stillness has been restored in the square, Natalia approaches the opposite bowl with the same cheerfulness in her eyes. "Onto our boys," she chirps, once again humming as her hands seemingly argue with which slip will be chosen.
Natalia daintily grasps a slip from the top this time. "Abner Demerath!"
After the instinctive relief that betrays the faces of many, the heads in the district collectively turn in an attempt to snatch a look at whichever poor boy is destined to die now. Yet no one steps forward. A full twenty seconds of silence fill the square before a movement in the fourteen-year old section draws my attention.
A thin boy mouths to another boy of similar stature, and the latter trembles in response. Before either boy has a chance to do much of anything, the Peacekeepers decide it's high time to settle the issue for themselves, and they advance toward the two.
The first two apprehend the second boy, the shaking one. "By the reaping ordinance of Panem, you must accompany us." The boy remains still and silent, either unaware or unaccepting of the words being read to him. "Young man, I insist you follow us or we will make you."
It's only as the other Peacekeepers latch onto the first boy does the situation clear. They pull him farther and farther away from the first boy, and he struggles unintelligently. "Stop it!" he barks, limply swinging his arms and legs. "Don't hurt him, he can't hear you!"
By now, the Peacekeepers aren't listening, of course. The deaf boy has been thrown over of the Peacekeepers' shoulders like a rag doll and taken to the stage as such. At the stage, the Peacekeeper unceremoniously dumps him onto the wooden platform.
Elora rushes to his aid, pulling him up without once dropping her smile. Abner meets her eyes with a faint smile before rising with her assistance.
Natalia claps their backs. "Well, I suppose you've already shaken hands. My job here is done," she announces, promptly making her way offstage as the crowd also begins to disperse. Winona and I watch as an impenetrable block of Peacekeepers escort Abner and Elora to the Justice Building.
"I want the girl," I say as I watch Elora shake hands with the Head Peacekeeper before entering her respective room.
Winona grins. "I wanted the boy, so I guess that worked out well."
I raise an eyebrow in response. "Why would you want the handicap?"
"Some things surprise you, Avella. It's not always the strongest or the most able that come out on top," she reasons.
I don't bother arguing with her. So long as she knows her place, she can believe in whatever she wants to. The same goes for the tributes, I suppose. I don't care who they were or what they believe in. I don't care who they are at all.
My job isn't to know them. My job isn't to sympathize them.
My job is to make them win. No more, and no less.
A/N: This is the first of three reapings, four districts per reaping. This way, we can breeze through them while still creating an idea of each tribute. A happy median.
Not much to say this time. The three of us would collectively love it if you reviewed (they're fun to read). Reviews don't have to be massive, but it's nice to see you care enough to leave a word or two. As Light Up The Sky is coming to a close, expect faster update speeds.
Which of these eight tributes stood out the most to you?
See you soon!