"Deep in the human unconscious is a pervasive need for a logical universe that makes sense. But the real universe is always one step beyond logic."
Marisa Carlisle, Victor of the Thirty-Eighth Hunger Games
District Four
The cameras never stopped.
From the moment she left the arena until today, three years after, the Capitol hadn't hinted at finally getting their heads out of her ass. Their bloodlust was kept at bay with the not-so personal lives of their victims. But Marisa had long learned to tolerate her own torment. They followed her, and she glared back. It was how things worked.
But it wasn't herself that she was worried about. Marisa was a big a girl. She didn't need to be babied; she could take the paparazzi. Mags, however, couldn't. Her fellow victor tripped up and fell down a slippery slope, hitting every bump along the way.
The cameras sure didn't help her fragile condition.
So as Marisa firmly made her way up the stage, met with applause from the audience and flashing lights from the forsaken cameras, she hoped with all her heart that Mags would be there. Sober. Clean. Respectable. The woman the district renowned as their Victor, their gateway to becoming a trained district. But all she was met with was Talise's smirk and an empty chair.
Some things never changed.
Marisa spoke behind a painfully forced smile while she took her seat beside Talise. "Where is she?"
Talise laughed aloud, toying with her painted nails with vigor. "Do you truly think I know? Or care, for that matter?"
Marisa shot a sour glance at her counterpart. "That woman saved you from the arena."
"In another life, maybe. That woman, the one who could get up on her own, she saved me. Not the pathetic excuse of a human that you're always tending to," Talise muttered, scowling.
"You don't mean that," Marisa whispered back. "She's lost people. Her sister. Her son. She's suffering.
Talise, however, was far past whispering. "And you think she's the only one suffering? She's showered in riches, praise; she has it all! People are dying of starvation and she has the nerve to cry in her mansion!" Talise's eyes glimmered with a flash of pain before her indifferent, flippant mask returned.
"A mansion that she lives in, alone," Marisa returned calmly. Her eyes flickered to the cameras, which were thankfully not trained on the two bickering victors. "This is for another time, Talise."
"Isn't it always?" Talise laughed bitterly, shaking her head as she straightened the ruffles of her summer dress.
Marisa opened her mouth to respond, but wisely chose to close it. She had overstepped the line with Talise. Her flippancy was her mask, her coping mechanism, and Marisa had managed to get her off it in less than two minutes. Marisa wasn't one for masks or facades; hiding wasn't her strong suit. And because of that, she never did see what people hid underneath theirs until she shattered it.
A habit of hers, so to speak.
A light cough into the microphone silenced the rowdy crowd. Marisa smiled with something akin to pride. Obedience was drilled into her trainees to the point of memorization. They would sooner forget their own names than act against an order. Talise rolled her eyes beside her, but Marisa paid it no mind. The Academy was her child, reborn and redesigned after her victory.
This was her coping mechanism.
"District Four, greetings from the Capitol!" the new escort cheered, raising a purplish hand in revel. The district applauded and whistled back, putting a smile on the young woman's very purple face. The Treaty of Treason was recited in a chirpy voice that somehow made the dreary speech tolerable.
As the escort enunciated the last syllable, her bored expression quickly returned to one of her normal cheerfulness. "And now, let us meet our tributes!"
Marisa twitched in her chair slightly. Decisions were made just a week ago of who showed the most promise, and there was more than a little unappreciative reactions to her choices. She only hoped her trainees wouldn't lose their heads over this.
"For our boys, Parry Mathilde!"
A young boy from the front had just enough time to set his first foot into the aisle before a calm voice echoed through the square: "I volunteer!"
The eyes of the district flocked to the back of the roped section as the crowd parted for a boy with dirty blonde hair and an indifferent expression. Marisa breathed a sigh of relief as Vice Chevalier made his way to the stage and announced his name for the crowd. One down, one to go.
Vice answered any and all of the escort's questions – no matter incessant they were – with an unwavering expression and the calm that drove Marisa to side with him above all else. She didn't need muscle or brilliance. Marisa only wanted obedience and order, and Vice more than met that requirement.
The escort let out an exasperated sigh as her final question yet again fell flat with Vice. "Why so glum, Mr. Chevalier?"
The corner of Vice's lips tilted upwards before straightening again as he cleared his throat. "Not glum, Ms. Vartin. Just focused on what's to come, that's all."
Within moments of Vice's selection, the escort pranced to the second bowl, filled to the brim with slips. The tesserae system didn't exactly function as planned with the introduction of training. Marisa let herself smile slightly. Just another benefit of the Academy: screwing the Capitol over.
The escort yanked a sole slip from the bowl and recited the printed name into her microphone. "And for our girls, Ivanna Paralian!"
How convenient. Marisa raised an eyebrow in amusement as the younger Paralian sister stepped into the aisle before a firm voice cried from the back: "I volunteer!"
Aelia Paralian irritably brushed away a Peacekeeper as he made his way to intercept her. The two sisters made brief eye contact before they passed one another and Aelia ascended to the stage. The escort jubilantly interviewed her on the spot as soon as Aelia's name left her mouth.
"Oh, dear, was that your sister?"
Aelia pursed her lips. "Gee, what gave it away?"
The escort laughed sharply. "Oh, how I love the cheeky ones!" Her humor died down slightly. "Did you volunteer for your sister, my dear?"
Aelia's eyes hardened with resolve. "Actually, no. I volunteered just for myself."
The escort cocked her head to the right. "And what do you hope to accomplish by doing so?"
For the first time on the stage, Aelia hesitated. A flash of something that didn't look to be her usual, conniving self appeared in her eyes. Aelia shook her head, mumbling back into the microphone something that Marisa didn't bother to listen to.
Because Marisa knew what that emotion in Aelia's eyes reminded her of. She remembered who she saw that, who she remembered that from.
Herself.
Krynne Harper, Victor of the Twenty-Third Hunger Games
District Five
It was dying.
The rain that fell in sheets onto the already grey town square only highlighted what had been building for years. The hope that Krynne felt, that Mirella felt, that the entire district felt, if only for a moment amidst the constant dread that they lived in, it was on its last legs. The Academy that stood proud and true in the center of the city only served as a cruel reminder of their failure.
Of her failure.
Mirella read her like a book as she walked up the stage and took a seat beside her. The audience didn't find the energy to applaud or even acknowledge their Victor. Not that Krynne blamed them. She would've done the exact same.
"Stop beating yourself up," Mirella reassured softly. The faint notes of doubt in her own voice were painfully obvious to Krynne. To anyone else, Mirella would appear firm and doubtless, but the two had built the Training Center together. They had lived through thick and thin with the other to kick them in the side when they were acting foolish.
Krynne knew Mirella better than Mirella knew herself. No white lie was going to get past her, and Mirella knew that. But there was no harm in trying. The younger Victor didn't bother pointing out the obvious; the unmoved scowl on her face said it all.
"Even the experienced Career districts face lulls," Mirella reasoned.
Krynne shook her head. "This isn't a lull. This is a failure. It's been seven years, Mirella, and we haven't gotten close to bringing someone home." Her own calloused hands rubbed against her face. "We're killing off the few trainees that come to us without so much as getting them to the finale."
"Perhaps," Mirella conceded, "but we're giving them their best chance. We can't go in there and fight for them. The trainees that we had at first were desperate. No normal person would sign up to volunteer their life away unless there was a reason – poverty, illness, depression. These trainees aren't what we're looking for."
"And what if we never find it?" Krynne returned, feeling the pent-up anxiety and frustration build up in her. "What if all we ever find are trainees that don't meet the Games' standards? Do we tell their family that they just weren't good enough? That they put their faith in the wrong people?"
Mirella placed a hand on Krynne's shoulder. "All it takes is one. One victory, and we have all the proof we need. Can't you see, Krynne? Maybe we're not pushing them all the way to the finale, but we're pushing them somewhere. They're out of the bloodbath, most of them. It's a start."
"And until one finishes, all we'll have are false starts."
Mirella's latest excuse was cut short as District Five's escort – Darren Elricks – approached the microphone and took his place besides the first bowl. Whatever minimal discussions throughout the crowd died down within a moment or two.
Receiving a signal from a cameraman, Darren listed off the Victors, quickly followed by the Treaty of Treason. Through it all, the people were impassive. Unaffected. The people of Five never cared for glamor or show. Krynne could relate with them on that, at least.
Better than nothing.
Without making much of a fuss at all, Darren made his way to the girls' bowl and plucked the nearest slip off the top. "Saviana Larack!"
The crowd shifted slightly for a girl of seventeen or eighteen to unsteadily shuffle towards the stage. Her fiery red hair hardly matched the tears that already stained her cheeks or the trembling hands that fumbled around each other for comfort that would never come.
Stop it, Krynne chastised herself. From the hair to the nerves that clearly ate at the young girl's head, she matched this girl to a tee. And she found the nerve to criticize her. Because she's not good enough. Krynne hadn't been, either, but she found her footing. She got lucky.
And apparently, she was the only tribute from Five to do so.
Just as Saviana took the last step up the stage, a scuffle broke out in the crowd. A young girl with tousled, blonde hair made her way to the center before shouting in a surprisingly powerful voice: "I volunteer!"
Krynne failed to fight off the smile that made its presence known on her face. She chose not to meet Mirella's 'I-told-you-so' expression that was surely smothering her annoying face; instead, she watched as the girl approached the stage with a tenacity that was hard not to admire. Saviana hugged the girl as they crossed paths with one another, but the latter only brushed her off.
And to top it all off, Krynne recognized her. That spunk, that determination; it was unmistakable. She was a trainee of hers. "Metris Plaquerd," she answered curtly after Darren plainly asked her for her name. Metris turned to the crowd with a hard stare, and the crowd glared right back. "Don't look so happy. I only just saved a life."
Darren took that as a cue to quickly push things along, ushering Metris into her designated spot onstage before quickly moving to the boys' bowl. The hurriedness leaves his actions here as the threat of Metris denouncing the district had simmered down some.
As usual, Darren wasted no time in getting his job done. A thin slip from the top appeased him. "Bellamy Glover!"
A quiet pause loomed over the district for a moment before an older boy with meticulously placed brown hair and tattered clothing pushed through the crowd. For a moment, Krynne mistook him for a volunteer. Another step in the right direction. But as Bellamy took his place beside Metris with only a nod to Darren, it became blatantly obvious that he was, in fact, not one of hers.
It didn't bother her. Not too much. Bellamy certainly was no Saviana. He was tall, toned, and intimidating with little emotion seeping through the mask of glares and indifference. Darren inquired a thin question towards the boy – part of the job, Krynne supposed – and Bellamy only glowered in response.
"I suppose you want the girl," Mirella said, a hint of satisfaction in her voice.
Krynne hesitated, but immediately relented. "Yeah, I'll take her." Even if Metris had previous training, Bellamy was easily the bigger competitor. At least from here. But Krynne wanted to send a message. She wanted the District to believe in her. Believe in the Academy. For that to happen, Metris had to win.
And Bellamy had to die.
Lambert Carter, Victor of the Twenty-Sixth Hunger Games
District Seven
Some things never changed.
Like how Iona still trembled day after day, a cheerful smile as her disguise. Or how Adam's gaze was as piercing as ever. And Wava as illusory as she always had been. They gathered here together every year for the Reaping acting as though they could at last get a tribute who would make it. Who would come back as Victor.
But it was such a farce.
And they all knew it.
The district had to keep on believing their child could come back though, and it was up to them as Victors to help with that belief.
Lambert chuckled to himself.
Everyone knew how much of a lie it was. But sometimes, delusions were much better, right?
He watched Wava converse with the mayor's son, her touches light and fleeting. The mayor's son seemed rather enthused by those touches though, and Lambert looked away to spare himself the sight of their flirting.
Iona stood a slight distance away with Adam. They chatted quietly. And he, alone, stared out at the vast space before him. He could see the forests in the distance, the evergreen a stark contrast against the dullness of the buildings.
"I don't know if I can do this."
He was fifteen. So terribly unsure and uncertain of his own power.
"Believe in yourself. You can."
He was thirty. So terribly sure and certain of his own power.
But it was not enough to bring back even one tribute for the last fifteen years. Sure, he might not have been mentoring every year but each time he did, each failure, it remained with him.
Even he clung onto that tiny spark of hope. And hoped it would blossom into something more, and materialize as reality.
He could still hope.
"You look deep in thought," someone called out to him.
"Wava," he replied mirthlessly. "Weren't you more interested in flirting with Connor?"
She tossed her blonde hair back and laughed. Had he been any less tense, he would have laughed along. It was undeniably infectious. As it was, he cracked a small smile.
"I suppose I can assume how that turned out, then."
All he got in response was a coy smile.
"You should smile more," she added. "It fits you."
"You're not trying to flirt with me, are you, Wava?"
The voices from the other two mentors grew ever louder behind them.
"You should know what to expect, Lambert." Wava's dark brown eyes glittered with something unreadable. "We've been mentoring with each other for quite the number of years already after all."
Some things never changed.
Some people never changed.
"Wava, Lambert," Iona gently called out from behind them. "The Reaping will start soon – we should head out."
There was a chorus of assent and they headed to the stage together.
The beginning of the Reaping was the usual. Before, when he sat on stage, the gazes trained on him used to unnerve him but he had since grown accustomed to it. He watched the district's escort walk up to the microphone, teetering on her heels. Juria had been Seven's escort for a number of years already, and she seemed to be getting more and more disgruntled with her job as the years passed.
She tapped once, twice, on the microphone. The squealing feedback made Lambert cringe. From the peripheral of his vision, he noticed Iona freeze up, and Adam's hand going to hers to give it a comforting squeeze.
"Tributes," she drawled. Her derisive tone irked Lambert. They were only livestock in the eyes of the Capitol. "Welcome to the Reaping of the 41st Hunger Games."
Cutting right to the chase as she always had for the past six years, Juria headed for the girls' reaping bowl and took out a slip of paper without much fuss.
"Maisyn Alvera," she read into the microphone.
A few seconds passed before said girl emerged from her pen. She strode up confidently to the stage, lips curled into a ferocious smile. The escort called the male tribute up next.
"Halvard Asbjorn."
The first thing Lambert took note of when he stepped out was how bulky his build was. Physical strength – that was a good thing. But how much of an advantage could it be against the trained Careers?
"I like this year's pair," Wava remarked.
Lambert observed Halvard, noticed how he did not once waver in front of the cameras, confidence quietly oozing out from him. He and Maisyn shook hands. The escort announced them once more, then the Peacekeepers came to take them away to the Justice Building.
"I do too. I'll take the girl."
Wava laughed and withheld her snide comment.
"Then the boy is all mine."
Boys and girls, huh?
They would become adults by the time they entered the Hunger Games. This world had a way of making its people grow up quickly.
Brit Carlowe, Victor of the Twenty-Four Hunger Games
District Ten
Brit arrived at the stage at what was probably the last possible moment. Just before the cameras turned on in order to broadcast the Reaping since, despite what people say otherwise, the Reapings only last ten or so minutes and that was at a push. There was no point in arriving early. Not for him anyway. Brit would have to wait and while he didn't have any problem waiting, it was a courtesy he only gives to things that deserve it, and under no circumstances did the Reapings deserve any sort of politeness.
It was one of the few things that him and Katari truly agreed on. It sounded odd to anyone that knew the only female victor from District Ten - the only that was still alive and didn't commit suicide that is - since Katari was well-known to be a very agreeable person. Ever since she arrived back from her Games, Katari had made it her duty to avoid conflict. Her interactions held this constant feel of false agreement. She parroted the opinions of her peers, not because it was what she believed but because her belief lied solely in letting those around her live an unchallenged existence, one which would clearly be damaged by her showing even the slightest bit of backbone.
It was always so obvious to Brit. Even as a tribute, he couldn't fail to notice that Katari's lack of proper suggestions of what to do. Of how to conduct themselves in training or in the interviews. The arena didn't get any sort of guidelines either. Katari just agreed with what the tributes wanted to do. She nodded her head and say, "That's a good idea. You should probably do that.". Maybe it was because she had mentored both tributes that she couldn't give any definite choices.
Sure, at this point, Daisy was still alive. Nevertheless, she wasn't there, not really anyway. Katari told him later on that she hadn't been here for a long time. For fleeting moments since then, Brit had wondered if Daisy had actually left the arena or if she had just been frozen in this permanent state of death that many had mistaken as living. To be honest, the only thing that truly made Brit wonder was why it took her so long to fall off the edge.
All any of this had done was reaffirm to Brit about his intelligence. His prediction of Daisy's suicide and his accurate profile of Katari were great boasts to his ego. In fact, it was only when he arrived back in District Ten and went to visit his new home in the victor's village did he realize that perhaps that was the point of Katari's attitude. She made the tributes more confident in themselves by reassuring them about their decisions. She didn't question them or doubt them. She gave them the support they needed to make it to the Games at which point it is mostly out of her hands. When Brit confronted her about this on their first Reaping day together, the only one he had ever arrived in good time to, Katari just smiled. Her face graced with a knowing look that gave Brit his answer. For it was a look that read "Well, it worked didn't it?"
Katari sat on the stage, her hair being wound around her finger. A gesture that subsided as Brit made his way towards her before dropping down onto the empty seat. As soon as he touched the seat, the mayor rushed up to the podium so he could be ready for another recitation of the same old speech.
Brit fiddled with his fingers while the mayor rambled on about honor and doing your best for the District since the former just happened to more interesting to him. Not surprisingly, the crowd stared apathetically back at the poor old food from beginning to end. No one from District Ten had made it home in fifteen years. Thirty children left, never to see the sprawling fields they grew up in again.
The mayor welcomed the escort onto the stage when he finished his excuse for a district address. The woman's bright, almost crazed smile didn't leave her face as she walked up to the girl's bowl. Brit fought the urge to roll his eyes, preferring to leave a scowl on his face instead. Thankfully, it didn't take long for the escort to pick and open a slip, her shrill voice ringing out from speakers was a painful experience for everyone listening.
"Arleen Gavelle."
However, for that girl's family and friends, their world was now crumbling down, shaken to its core by the mere articulation of her name. To her credit, the red haired girl wasted no time in making her way to the stage having appeared out of the eighteen year old section. Safe to say, the anger inside her was about overflow and spill if her shaking fists and furious expression had anything to say. Brit watched as Arleen took her place on the stage, her head moving over to look at the escort who did the worst possible thing imaginable. She smiled that insane smile of hers.
"Stop with that fucking smile," Arleen's voice was harsh and blunt. It caused the escort to waver for a moment. Arleen took this opportunity to continue with her tirade.
"No one else here is smiling, which makes yours even more annoying so get it off your fucking dumb face."
There was no sound in the square apart from a few stifled giggles. Brit found himself trying to suppress a smile as the escort shuffled towards the boys' bowl under the weight of the female tribute's glare. It was not hard to tell that Arleen was District Ten born and bred; the people who tended to the livestock have always had this certain way of speaking. One that managed to have its own... special charm.
This time, the escort made no attempt to search through the bowl. Instead, she just whipped one right off the top and before anyone had realized, she'd already spoken his name.
"Declan Whittacre."
The seventeen years all seemed to move at once, shifting back and forth on their feet in order to locate the now reaped boy. Soon enough they found him. They parted graciously so he could have a clear walk to the stage, although the blonde boy doesn't seem to react at first. The peacekeepers had just begun to move when Declan took a short, unsure step forward. And then another. Soon enough, he was beside his district partner who Declan reached out his hand to. Brit raises an eyebrow at this. Typically, the escort had to at least suggest, if not force, the tributes to shake hands. To see him offer it to Arleen, whose first instinct seemed to be some kind of doubt before she reluctantly took it, was different. It was rather unusual in all honesty.
Brit acknowledged he had his features set in his 'thinking face'. He couldn't help it even as the tributes were being taken away. Arleen seemed to be trying to keep distance between her and Declan who gave her nothing but an honest glance in return. Brit stood up from his seat, cracking his neck when he reached his feet. He turned down to see Katari who was still starting at the tributes.
"I'll have Declan if you don't mind," Brit said matter-of-factly for he knew Katari wouldn't give him any opposition.
"Sure, that sounds fine," Katari answered. Nonetheless, Brit could tell her focus wasn't on them. No, it was on the figures surrounded by a mass of peacekeepers. After a short silence, Katari also rose from her seat. She made eye contact with Brit.
"Arleen probably won't want to ally with Declan. She seems like she's too angry, too doubtful. And he's too honest. Are you going to be okay with that?" Katari waited for him to reply. Brit paused, then a grin broke onto his face.
"Of course I'll be fine with that. It's more of a question if you will be okay with it, Katari."
Her face lifted up a little. Brit turned and made his way down the steps. He didn't bother him at all if his tribute allied with Katari's or not. He wasn't supposed to try and help her home. That wasn't his job.
He only had to do one thing; get Declan Whittacre back to District Ten. Let him hope that it will be sixteenth times' a charm. Brit knew though. He knew that it wouldn't happen.
This time next year, it'd be thirty two children staring back at him on Reaping Day.
A/N: Long wait, sorry. Blame school. And Netflix. And Once Upon A Time. And Food. Also, we switched to third person for various reasons, mostly because the majority of us are more comfortable with third person.
Which tribute in this batch was your favorite?
Which tribute overall was your favorite?
Leave your thoughts in a review! Even if you're behind, don't feel the need to... remain hidden? Answer the questions, go over the POVs; do whatever you're comfortable with. It's nice to here back from y'all.
See you soon! (We mean it this time.)