A/N: Well, we're at the halfway mark on Reapings! I hope you enjoy them so far. Also, random question: would any of you be interested if I had a go at another fic (well, for a given value of 'fic') that was like an instruction manual for making tributes? I know it's been done, but I was thinking about it anyway. So, yeah. That's a thing.
Thanks for reading!

3 - Lay Me Low

Even by comparison with Three, District Five looks grimy and dark. Coming as it does directly after the shining shores of Four, the contrast is even starker. The vast power plants dominate the sky, which is smoggy and dark even at high noon; on the ground, the streets are wide and open, but blackened by pollution.

Unlike Three, though, Five has a Representative who understands how to make himself look like he fits. Auralio Goldfeather is a master of effect, and the effect he gives off is that the darkness and gloominess of the background is designed purely to show him off more. His gold hair is coiffed, his dark skin glittering with some kind of silver dust which catches what little light there is, his red-gold suit making him shine in the dim, grey light.

He's older than most of the Representatives. It doesn't show in his looks, which have been carefully fixed until he could be anywhere between fifteen and fifty, but it shows in his voice; under the trilling accent, it is deeper and more resonant than the others'. He smiles constantly as he talks, enthusing about how glad and how honoured he is to be here for yet another Reaping, in this beautiful District. He even manages to say that without a hint of irony. Then, at last, he steps up to the Reaping balls. He doesn't dig around in the ball of names, like most Representatives do; instead, he swirls his fingertips lightly over the surface of the names, his fingernails flashing gold in the lights set up around the stage, and grabs a name between thumb and forefinger like a bird catching a fly.

There's a moment of quiet. His smile has faded, his bronze-coloured eyes scanning the audience slowly. There's a faint rustle as he unfolds the paper, and then raises his voice, calling out the name: "Robyn Buzz!"

She's paying attention. She's always paying attention. Even so, it takes her a long time to realise that the name he called was her own. Her body realises before her mind catches up, and her chest constricts, her eyes widening slightly. For a moment, on the edge of panic, she begins to hyperventilate, then takes a hold of herself and gives herself a good, hard, metaphorical shake. The cameras are on her. She can't panic. Nor, for once in her life, can she hide.

What do I do? Figuring out other people is easy, but figuring out what she should do... that's much harder. She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, a rabbit in headlights. All right. Wrong approach. What do they want me to do?

Deep breaths, keep steady. One foot after the other. Imagine you're just walking down the corridor in school. No, not like in school. You need your head up. UP. Yes, that's better, maybe add in a little smirk? There. That's it for now.

One foot after the other, head held high, breathing deeply, she walks slowly up to the stage. Her eyes don't flick to either side; she looks straight ahead, to the stage and Auralio. If she turns her eyes, if she reminds herself that the crowd and the cameras and the Capitol are watching, it'll all break down, she knows it will. She can't hide here. There's no crowd to melt into on the stage, no shadowy corners to obscure her. Just Auralio, shining like the sun, and the cameras.

Swallowing painfully hard, Robyn reaches up to push her reddish hair back behind her ear. It's a struggle to keep that slight smirk in place, when all she really wants is to break and run, but she manages it. She even manages to shake Auralio's hand, although the warmth and solidity of his bony fingers makes all this that little bit more real, that little bit more terrifying.

It isn't even the dying that scares her too much. It's that this is only the beginning. This – standing here in the middle of the town square, with everybody in District Five and everybody in the Capitol focused on her, with the cameras recording for all the other Districts to watch tonight – this isn't the worst it will get. This is only the beginning, and even if she wins, it won't end until she's dead. Privacy, secrecy, being the Chameleon... it all ends here.

Up here, in the harshly artificial light and under the unflinching glare of the cameras, there's nowhere to hide.

Even as she steps away, Auralio is already moving to dip his hand into the boys' names, his dazzling smile back. He moves with balletic grace, no hesitations or doubt. Again, his fingers barely skim the papers before he makes his choice.

Again, that brief silence. Again, the faint rustle of paper.

"Jayden Taevyn!"

And Robyn, for the moment, is forgotten.

All at the same time, the eyes of Five turn on him. He's hardly even aware of their stare; his brain, usually so quick and ready, has ground to a halt. He stands there, small and fragile - a little boy with wide green eyes and a horrorstruck expression, his breathing shallow and quick – and nothing comes to mind. No aphorisms, no pithy quotes, no facts and figures, only the spreading silence.

He moves slowly, the world deadened around him as if he's underwater. There's a roaring in his ears and an unfocused blankness to his eyes; he doesn't hear his own footsteps or the sounds of the people around him. And still, there's nothing. No words, no thoughts, no histories to call on. Vaguely, distantly, he's aware of mounting the stage on shaky legs that don't quite feel like they belong to him. The world has turned into static, white noise; his mind is empty.

At the back of the stage, his father makes a little sound, a protesting noise that's poorly hidden and doesn't go unnoticed, and half-rises before Simeon touches his arm and persuades him to sit back down. Jayden turns his head to look, and his lip trembles slightly. He has to be steadied by Auralio, who catches him in such a way as to make it look like an enthusiastic handshake, and in that moment, everything crashes back into place.

He stumbles, although he's standing in place, and almost falls as reality thunders in like a wave. His legs will no longer hold him, and even from the crowd, his trembling is visible. He's going to die. He's going to die. There's no question in his mind; he's going to die.

Somehow, he manages to keep his footing after Auralio lets go of his hand. Even more miraculously, he manages not to cry, staggering back a couple of steps to join Robyn at the back of the stage. Somewhere, he finds the strength to keep standing, although he's clearly terrified, paler than ever, still apparently caught in a moment of shock. As the unsteady, doubtful applause fills the square, the words finally come to his mind, all in a jumble.

...Theirs not to make reply he stoppeth one of three theirs not to reason why sometimes you didn't want to know the end lay me low into the valley of death there is nothing left...

I'm going to die.

The mayor takes several long minutes to recover. Nobody in the District can blame him; even Auralio looks somewhat sympathetic. But the time ticks on, and at last, Mayor Taevyn staggers to the front of the stage, eyes on Jayden. He has to clear his throat several times before he can begin the Treaty, and his usually steady voice is strangled, cracked, reedier than usual. The cameras focus in on his face; his green eyes glittering with unshed tears, the slight tremble of his lips as he speaks, the bobbing of his Adam's apple. He's been Mayor long enough that he must know the Treaty of Treason upside-down and inside-out, but he stumbles slightly over the words, eyes still flicking every now and then to his son.

At last, he manages to finish, stepping back. His tongue darts out for a moment, wetting his lips, before he signals for the two children to shake hands. He looks almost as frightened as his son as they clasp hands; of the three at centre stage, Robyn is the only one who seems able to keep up the illusion of strength.

The anthem strikes up, and the Mayor withdraws, leaving the camera to focus on the tributes. Both are young – at fourteen, Robyn is still a year Jayden's senior – and small for their age, and if Jayden is pale, he looks positively tan next to her. Both are skinny and frail-looking. Her eyes flicker over the people on the stage – Simeon, Graham, Mayor Taevyn, Auralio, and Jayden – while his are closed tight, and he looks like he might be seconds from a full-blown panic attack. However Five does, it's clear that they don't have the advantage of strength.

As before, the cameras pan away, taking in the crowd and the city – and, peripherally, the Mayor, who's having to be led offstage – before the scene changes, the greys and blacks of Five blending seamlessly into the greys and browns of Six, where a different Mayor stands on the stage and speaks of the history of Panem. He has no children. No doubt, when he watches the recaps tonight, he'll be glad of that.

He speaks at length, and finally gives way to the Representative. Livvie Samite is small and delicate, with the sharp bones of her face picked out by dramatic makeup, and she moves so quickly and lightly that her high heels barely seem to touch the ground. She talks with the same quick, light air, trilling more even than most Capitol citizens as she enthuses about how exciting it is, how transported she is with joy (pause for laughter, like every year) to be in Six for this Reaping. And then, with a sing-song "May the odds be ever in your favour!" she darts to the girls' ball, and digs her small hand deep into the papers before pulling a name out. No hesitation here, no building of tension, no fussy throat-clearing; she simply shakes the paper open and smiles out at the crowd.

"Wren Cronin!"

She doesn't think about it immediately. People are looking, people are expecting something of her, so she does what she always does; she makes out like that was her plan all along. She gangles her way out from among the sixteen-year-old girls, and she's halfway out of the stockade before she starts to actually think about it. The Games. She's going to the Games. She's going to die a horrible, painful death, live for everyone's entertainment.

No!

Her mind rebels, her steps slowing until, halfway to the stage, she stumbles to a stop. No, no, no! This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I won't LET this be happening. I'm not doing this. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, and I'm going to wake up any minute and the real Reaping will happen and it won't be me, it CAN'T be me...

I can't be going to die.

She doesn't seem to realise that she's stopped dead. She just stands there, stock still, muddy brown eyes wide and startled, like a fawn that sees the hunter coming. The Peacekeepers share a glance, then step forwards to try and chivvy her on, but she just stays there, frozen in place, barely blinking. With the frizz of brown hair, the gangly build, and the solidly unmoving position, she looks rather as if somebody's decided, out of nowhere, to plant a scarecrow in the middle of the town square.

At last, when she still refuses to move – or maybe 'refuses' is the wrong word, since she seems incapable rather than unwilling – the Peacekeepers turn to extreme measures. Two of them step forwards, a man and a woman, and hook their arms under her bony elbows. The toes of her smart shoes scuff on the ground, running long unbroken trails as she's carried bodily up onto the stage.

Still, she doesn't move. She doesn't move when they let go of her, stepping back to the edge of the stage; she doesn't move when a rather disconcerted Livvie tries to draw her out with bright, enthusiastic chatter; she doesn't even move when Livvie tries to persuade her to step back out of the way. It's like the cogs of her brain have ground to a halt, stopped by the attempt to reconcile with a reality that's impossible for her to accept.

This isn't happening. I'm not going to die.

Livvie clears her throat, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second as she steps around the motionless Wren to get to the boys' ball. "Well," she says, with transparently fake cheer, "isn't this exciting? And now, our male tribute... a big strong boy to join our, um, our interesting girl! Don't be shy, don't be shy, I'm sure you're all just breathless to find out who it is. And that big, strong boy is... Joshua Freeman!"

It's really not Livvie's year. It's not her fault, of course, but it can't really help that her 'big strong boy' is the Joker. He stands at the back of the stockade, twelve years old, gangly and bony, and about as far from big and strong as they come.

There's fear, somewhere. A level, above that, of resignation. And, above that, a more familiar feeling; the bubbling, light amusement with which Joshua faced everything in his life. It's not his fault, he just finds it funny – funny that he's a 'big, strong boy', funny that the girl onstage still hasn't unfrozen herself, funny that he'd have his name drawn five minutes after joking about having his name drawn. He snorts, a smile plucking at the corner of his mouth, and marches up onto the stage, arms swinging loosely at his sides until he's up on stage beside her, when he flexes his almost non-existent biceps.

"Big, strong boy, at your service," he remarks sarcastically. Nobody laughs. There's a feeling in the air, like one giant frown as people try to work out whether he's serious. It doesn't bother him, of course; he's used to that response. He looks at Wren, still standing there like a statue. There has to be a joke in that, he thinks, and opens his mouth to crack one, but Livvie's clearly had enough. She cuts in before he can speak, her lipsticked smile wavering more than a little now. "Joshua Freeman, ladies and gentlemen!"

It isn't often he actually gets applause. Maybe, he thinks, soaking it up even though he knows they have to applaud whoever it is, maybe there's some good stuff in this.

They stand side-by-side as the Mayor reads the Treaty. Wren looks even taller and lankier next to Joshua, although he's gangly himself; she's still frozen, horrorstruck and unresponsive, and it has to be admitted that it's kind of funny. Joshua certainly seems to think so; he keeps glancing sidelong at her and dissolving, for a moment, into silent laughter before he manages to regain his composure. At least he can see the funny side.

Several people have to suppress a nervous laugh, too, when Wren has to be physically moved before she'll limply shake Joshua's hand. It's funny. Of course it's funny.

That is, it's funny if you don't think about it too hard.