"It's choice - not chance - that determines your destiny."
Navaeh Astley, Victor of the Thirty-Sixth Hunger Games
District One
The mentors are in a good mood.
It is just an hour before the Reaping and we're having a sort of gathering, if you will. Chosen to be mentor this year for our female Career, I smile proudly at the photo of our chosen volunteer. Adelaide Marchal. She has been a rising star ever since she joined the Academy and cemented her position as the top trainee after several years.
But as much as I would like to say she is more than equipped with the skills and knowledge to win, I know how unpredictable the Games can be. No one expected me, someone who did close to nothing, to win after all. There were others to do the work for me. I had no reason to lift a finger.
"Navaeh."
I look up to see cold eyes and a thin pair of icy lips. Pasiphae.
She is different from me. She killed more than half the tributes in her Hunger Games. In spite of our differences though, we remain on good terms. I smile at her and look at the rest who are drinking. Non-alcoholic of course. As the Victors of District One, we do have a reputation to uphold on a day as important as this.
"Good luck on mentoring," she says as she sits beside me.
"Thank you! But I'm sure Adelaide won't disappoint."
We smile at each other. Looking behind her, I catch sight of Silicus who is resting on a chair. The oldest of us, he still looks younger than his actual age. He catches me looking and smiles. I return it. Favoritism is frowned upon in this district, but Silicus has always been the least grating victor. Compared to the rest, he is nurturing. Almost as though like a kindly grandfather.
Standing up, I decide to head over and mingle with the rest. An hour left before I have to get serious and get ready for my second mentorship. The first Career I mentored died and came in fifth. Though I try to comfort myself at times that her placement is not all that awful, the guilt that I could have tried harder still eats away at me. The what ifs swallow me up.
But I have a new tribute to mentor now.
I have to focus on her.
An hour later, I find myself seated on stage. The escort's theatrics have worn itself out on the second time. I pretend to pay attention. The atmosphere is alight with an excited buzz. We approach the Hunger Games with open arms for the most part. With the Career culture, except for the chosen two, none of us have to fear entering the arena.
Sometimes I wonder if things would be different if we did not have this concept of training for the Hunger Games. Most likely. We would be like the outer districts.
The escort skips over to the female Reaping bowl and plucks out the slip of paper. She does not even bother to heighten the tension knowing that there will be a volunteer. Reading out the name, the Reaped tribute shuffles forward. And true enough, a few moments later, Adelaide's voice rings out.
"I volunteer!"
She walks up to the stage perfectly poised, lips curved into a slight smile. Pride swells up in me.
"What's your name, darling?" the escort asks.
"Adelaide Marchal."
"That's a really pretty name!"
Considered a genius by the Academy's standards, she is expected to go far. I grip the hem of my blouse nervously. I hope I can deliver. It would be even better if she emerges as Victor. Looking over at Silicus, I wonder how he took his first tribute's death. I bite on my lower lip and look at the escort who has already taken the slip of paper with a male's name written on it. She calls it out and Cohen volunteers.
He walks up to the stage with a smile verging on a grin.
"Cohen Veridie," he announces.
The two district partners shake hands. Their smiles are genuine and the mood between them actually does come off as truly comfortable.
"Your tributes for the Forty-First Hunger Games, District One!" The escort declares.
The crowd bursts into rapturous applause and Cohen eagerly waves at them. Adelaide waves as well, but the cheerful, infectious energy of Cohen isn't to be seen in Adelaide. She's not a corpse, but she's not nearly as vivacious. Not nearly as riveting. Not nearly as eye-catching.
I will myself to think that a good thing.
The Peacekeepers escort them to the inside of the Justice Building and the crowd starts dispersing.
Standing up, I head over to Silicus and offer my hand to him.
"I look forward to working with you."
"Likewise." He chuckles and shakes my hand. "You don't have to be so formal."
"Nothing has to happen," I respond, dusting off the ruffles of my dress. "But they do. I'd like to be in control of what has to happen to me."
Celesto Rollins, Victor of the Twenty-Ninth Hunger Games
District Three
They don't clap this year.
Not that I'm complaining, but it's become tradition for me to ignore the muted applause of the people as I take my seat on the podium every year. Out of respect, gratitude, pity, or reverence, I never figured out, but it's gone now. The square doesn't acknowledge my presence with sound.
But there is a sight to see. Beady eyes of every color are locked onto me as I laxly sit on my designated chair on the podium. Whatever purposed them to thank me before has most definitely vanquished now. Many of their eyes adorn little but indifference. A select few still meet my eyes with a glint of kindness in their hearts.
And the others. The others regard me with a coldness that I suppose I've earned. They accuse me of doing what I've done, and I make no move to denounce that. There's no point in putting off what's bound to punish me anyway.
They accuse me of stealing their children away. Their anger is misplaced, but they couldn't care less. Frankly, I couldn't, either. And no matter how skewed their logic is won't affect the silent hatred that the eyes of parents speak here and now.
I brush off the glares as the ceremony begins. Better they blame me than someone who will do more than ignore their hatred. At least this way, no additional punishment will be thrown upon us. The Games are more than enough to ruin lives and tear a community apart.
Anything else will only tear more and more into nothing but shreds. Eleven is a prime example. Not even family bonds can always overwhelm the need to stay alive. The need to eat. The need to breathe. The need to live. Everything is up in the air when survival is part of the game.
The mayor stares at me peculiarly when I laugh abruptly during the escort's speech. Sounds a lot like another game.
Said escort shrills into the microphone as her electrifying presentation finally comes to a close. The monitors surrounding the square blacken quickly around us all, and the escort applauds. To my genuine surprise, she's not the only one clapping. Not nearly the only one. People and reapable teenagers alike clap alongside her. Dully, but nevertheless, they clap.
I frown as the clapping ends and the escort waltzes over to the girls' bowl, squealing all the way. When did Three become a lapdog?
"My ladies out there will be first!" she exclaims. She wastes no time in delaying the process, hurriedly snatching up the top slip and returning to centre-stage. "Letricia Kode!"
Withholding the roll of the eyes that begs to be shown, I watch as Letricia breaks into sobs. Her age's section awkwardly moves to avoid her path, but not one person reaches out to comfort the weeping girl. No one acknowledges it. Several have to look away to keep themselves at arm's length, but after all is said and done, Letricia has no one supporting her.
At least some things haven't changed.
Letricia rubs her red summer dress against her eye, leaving a tear stain on the dampened fabric. "Don't cry, dearest, we're on a time frame here," the escort whispers away from the microphone, gently guiding Letricia from behind. She stumbles as she makes her way to the stage.
The escort clears her throat into the microphone, bathing in the attention of the district once more. "Letricia, do you have anything to say?"
The sniveling girl begins to shake her head, but the escort thrusts the microphone to her before she can properly answer. "I… I didn't do anything." She averts her eyes, swallowing a sob weakly in her throat. "Why me? I didn't do anything," she whispers, hiccupping as the last of her tears slips off her cheek.
Unlike me, the escort makes no attempt of masking her distaste. "I'm sure you didn't," she mumbles lowly before making her way over to the boys' bowl.
"Theon Carter!"
Once again, not a single soul makes an attempt of helping the boy up the stage, but it's not needed this time. Theon raises an eyebrow as his name is called, but otherwise, isn't outwardly affected. After a moment's inquiry, the boy shrugs and paves his own path to the stage, ignoring the pointed glares he gets as he shoves a passerby or two on the way.
Once he's there, he grabs the microphone before the escort offers it to him. Based on her relieved smile, it doesn't really look like she cares all that much. "I just want to say this: don't miss me too much. I'll be back soon."
The escort doesn't hesitate to take her microphone back. "Cocky, are we now?"
"It's not cocky if you have something to back it up," reasons Theon as he takes his respective spot onstage. The woman motions for the two of them to shake hands, and Theon makes no delay in brusquely grasping Letricia's hand and tugging it before departing. Letricia shrinks away to his coldness.
I sigh. There goes any chance of them being allies.
It's none of my business, truly, but it's always a bit easier to work with two of them if they're just that – two, and not two ones. But just from watching them walk towards the Justice Building – from Theon's swagger to Letricia's shyness – it's blatantly obvious that they'll be working separately.
Yet their differences don't bother me. It'll cause issues for sure, but the more different they are, the better their chances. If both of them were brazen and impulsive, I'd have two dead corpses to come home with. If both were hesitant and meek, the same would be true.
This way, one lives and one dies.
Now just the matter of which.
Quinn Desential, Victor of the Twenty-First Hunger Games
District Eight
"Quinn, are you ready yet?" Faulkner's voices bares touches of worry around it's edges. It's almost like he thinks we won't get to the Reaping on time. Every year's the same, hurry up or they're going to start without us.
I understand why he does it, though. Despite how much he doesn't want to admit, a part of Faulkner will always be that small thirteen year old boy who was destined to be a bloodbath, another blank space on the list of those lost to the Games' clutches. Sure, he proved them wrong in the end. Even killed his district partner, Vera, who had been chosen as the one to bare all of the District's hope for another victor. The only person who believed that Faulkner would come out alive was him.
To this day, I'm grateful that it turned out that was all he needed.
"I'll be there in a minute Faulkner so please, for pity's sake, stop asking," I reply, sounding oddly like a mother scolding their children, fixing my hair so it's reasonably presentable. Unlike Polio, who I imagine is about two bottles deep into the alcohol haze at this point, I need to make sure I look strong. Not as some front, but to show that the Games didn't break me like they had so many others.
The face of Jon Kohl surfaces in my mind although I quickly swat it away. I need to focus on the now. In a couple of hours, I will be on another train back to the Capitol with all new tributes to mentor. Tributes, who if everything goes right, will be the ones telling me to hurry up next year.
Standing up from the seat at my vanity, I stroll over to the door and pull it open to reveal Faulkner in the hallway of my home. He wastes no time in racing down the stairs because he must still need to persuade the bottle out of Polio's hand. Soon enough, the familiar swearing that makes up most of Polio's vocabulary begins to bounce off the walls as I make my way down to join them.
"Polio, just give me the bottle. We need to leave now," Faulkner asks, trying to be polite as he can be under the circumstances.
Polio responds with something along the lines of "Fuck you." before taking another large swig.
The youngest victor made a move to try again but stopped when I move past him. Within a few strides, I'm beside Polio, tearing the bottle out of his hand. He goes to swear at me, to call me a bitch or a whore or some other word I've heard a thousand other times when he was drunk. I cut him off.
"This is all we ask you to do. Go to the Reaping, sit for ten minutes and then go back to the village so you can drink away what you've done. I'm sure Faulkner would love a year off from journeying to the Capitol, if you would rather not."
Twenty minutes later, we're all sitting together on the stage as Mayor Pollock finishes her speech. The sound of the forced applause echoes throughout the area, it managing to make the uncomfortable air even more unbearable.
Our escort, Larissa, either doesn't notice or doesn't care as she walks up to the girl's bowl, confidently and quickly. She never likes to waste time. She told me one year she despises coming here year after year. Safe to say, she wasn't happy when I told her that she better get used to it.
Her hand rummages around in the bowl for a few seconds before picking a slip out from the center. Needless to say, Larissa opens it with haste.
"Tarryn Cheverly."
A few seconds pass and the peacekeepers being to look at each other, nevertheless, a girl who must be Tarryn emerges from the sixteen year old section. She keeps her head down as she stalks up to the stage, her hands remaining stubbornly tightened into fists for the entire time. Even when Tarryn has taken her place on the stage and raised her head, her fists remain clenched. Her eyes may be teary, however, they are not falling and they are not important right now.
Those fists show that she has fight inside of her. Me and Faulkner didn't have much to our names when we were tributes. One of the few things we did have was fight and look where that has brought us.
Larissa blinks impassively at Tarryn. Then she moves to the boy's bowl and repeats practically the exact same thing she done for the girl's bowl. The slip is in her hand before you could blink and it is opened before your eyes are opened.
"Ren Ardaine."
This time, the chosen's section doesn't wait for the tribute to make its way as it, it being the seventeen year old section, parts almost immediately, revealing a dark haired boy. I wonder for a moment if he is going to be one of those ones that freezes and doesn't react to anything. He proves me wrong though as he puts on this odd sly grin that makes it seem like he planned this. Ren doesn't remove it by the time he reaches the stage. He stands next to Tarryn as Larissa unethusanticly announces the ending of yet another reaping.
Polio leaves without saying a word, only a barely audible mumble that not even I could understand. I turn back to the two tributes who are about to be taken off to the Justice Building when Ren leans down to Tarryn's ear. Whatever he whispered to her, it didn't take long. That grin is back on his face when his head surfaces, he even gives a Tarryn a wink which leaves her oddly perplexed.
"Who do you want?" Faulkner questions. I think about it for a moment.
"I'll take Ren," I answer. "It'll be easier for you to handle Tarryn. She's got determination, and you work well with determination."
Faulkner says nothing in response. We walk together to the Justice Building in silence, just like we had done every year since he had won.
No one could have predicted that two thirteen year olds would win, never mind from the same District. That is what we do though. We beat the odds in order to gain victory, and we came out better for it.
All you need is determination to succeed in the Games. If you don't possess that, you are destined to become yet another blank space.
Corbin Pentier, Victor of the Thirty-Fifth Hunger Games
District Twelve
"This'll be the year."
Holland turns to me with glossed over eyes. Her lips quirk disapprovingly as she readjusts her body in her chair. "It could be," she deadpans, picking at her nails dully. "It always could be."
"But it will be," I urge, and Holland only sighs to herself. "If we don't have any hope for them, who can we expect the tributes to have hope?"
"Their lives are on the line," she retorts, no longer monotone in voice. Her expression flashes with agitation as she continues. "If they can't hold out hope for themselves, they don't deserve to make it out of the arena in the first place."
Not one to be beaten, I turn to face Holland directly. "You're saying that you never had a moment of weakness in the arena, in the Capitol – at the Reaping. Not one stroke of helplessness, not one second of fear?"
"It's not about me anymore. Nor is it about you." She hesitates, before adding, "The Games change. There is no sort of tribute that does consistently better. Daring helps you one year. Intelligent helps you another."
"And this year, it might be cowardice that leads a tribute from Twelve to victory," I reply smugly.
"Unlikely."
"Unlikely," I agree, "but very much possible."
She runs a wrinkly hand through her graying hair. Despite being younger than mom, Holland could pass as my grandma. The Victor Effect, they call it. "Anything is fair game for the Games. Just because something is possible doesn't mean it's probable. They could make the arena a cake and no one would bat an eye.
"If you're saying that the arena will be a cake before Twelve wins again, I think we should consider putting you in an asylum."
Holland glares, but her eyes twinkle in amusement. She'd never say it aloud, but she's glad I'm here. For one, she's finally not alone in this mentoring business, and two… I think she's happy that she finally brought someone home. Thirty or so years passed, and she had nothing to show for it. And now, I'm here and suddenly, her work isn't for naught anymore.
The thought makes me shudder. Will I have to wait thirty years for my work to pay off?
"You're missing the point," she mutters, throwing a sloppy shove my direction.
"You're not providing a point."
She opens her mouth to spit back, but both of our attentions are stolen away from our banter to the stage as the escort bids hello to the district. Niko Vallant is just the newest face for Twelve, surely to be replaced within the next year or so. Twelve is pit-stop for the escorts to stop by at and move on from as their career starts.
It shouldn't bother me, but it does.
I do my best to contain the annoyance as the mayor finishes his speech and hands the microphone to the twat. "Thank you, Ms. Latell," the purplish man says, clasping hands with the now elderly mayor of Twelve as he accepts the microphone from her hands. He pauses until the low rumble of the crowd dies down entirely before he speaks. "District Twelve, it is an honor to serve you," he proclaims, bowing, then grinning like a lunatic.
"I'm not going to waste your time," he begins, "but this is no waste. All the way from the Capitol, we have a presentation from our President herself!"
A collective sigh is breathed from the crowd as the overly dramatized production stirs on the screens around the square. The propaganda is laced with sound effects that jolt the dozing people from their naps, but otherwise, it doesn't serve much of a purpose. Even Niko fights a yawn halfway through.
Niko hastily moves for the microphone as soon as the presentation dies down. "Wasn't that riveting?" A stray voice responds with a resounding 'No', but the Peacekeepers are too busy laughing to be bothered to deal with the situation. Niko purses his lips.
"Our ladies, first!"
He slips his hand into the girls' bowl and allows his hand to swim around in the countless names before finally selecting the fated tribute. He clears his throat.
"Aline Carron!"
The front section of the girls open up to reveal a thin girl with dark brown hair, tied into a bun behind her head. She stumbles at first, and her entire body is visibly shaking, but by the time she's hit the stage, there's more control. She's not completely reined in the tremor in her hands, but Aline hasn't let one tear slip off her face. Not once does she cry out, not even as the Peacekeepers usher her forcefully to the stage once they decide she's not moving fast enough.
Not yet.
"Do you have anything to say, Aline?"
Aline's lips quirk into an ugly frown before she straightens it out entirely. "Not particularly."
I raise an eyebrow. "They always say something. Bitter, happy, even indifferent – everyone has something to say."
The corner of Holland's lip twitches upward. "Maybe she has the good sense to not say it."
"The Capitol won't like her. Or remember her."
Holland smiles now, not bothering to suppress it like she usually does. "But the Gamemakers will."
Niko wastes no time in announcing the obvious. His hand plays up the same idea as it did with the girls; he takes his good old time sifting through names, deciding which unlucky boy will have the great fortune of being selected to die.
A slip from the very bottom appeases him. "Duke Holloway!"
Once again, the eighteen-year old section shuffles to the sides of the pen as Duke squirms out. The silence that ruled the square is broken as a woman from the outskirts screams out. This time, Peacekeepers do move to apprehend her, but they don't do any physical damage to her. A female Peacekeeper simply collects her in her arms and walks off.
But Duke has no such fear coming from him. Act or not, Duke hops up to the stage with a steady grin and a steadier bounce in his step. Niko picks up on his jubilance. "Duke, my man, how's it hanging?"
Duke shrugs, still clinging to the grin that's plastered onto his face. "It's alright. Nothing too big, I guess."
Niko plays up their banter for what it's worth before drawing it to a close. "District Twelve, your tributes, Aline Carron and Duke Holloway!"
He motions for them to shake hands, and Duke pistons his hand upwards to Aline. The latter considers his hand with a cold glare before shaking it briefly and stalking off to her awaiting pack of Peacekeepers.
"I want the girl," Holland murmurs, watching the two of them make their way to their final goodbyes.
"Who said you get to pick first?"
She sneers at me. "Please, if it weren't for me, you'd be a corpse. I get first pick. Always."
"That hardly seems fair," I mutter playfully, slapping on a pout for good measure.
Holland laughs. "Fair? You of all people should know better."
A/N: Second batch of tributes has come and gone. Last batch is coming up soon. After that, tribute POVs will start with the Train Rides.
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