Loot Lewis

District Six- Male

Courtesy of Dreamgazer86

Gnawing on the end of a chicken bone, the rat greedily rips off the tinier bits of meat and swallows them without a thought. Its instinct is to feed and worm its way from nook to cranny to find whatever scraps it can. The rat is hardly ever seen, they are feared though, as the disgusting vermin they are. However, on closer inspection, the rat is much like the depraved. The indigent do not have food, they do not have what others can call a home. The rat is same in this manner; it slinks from alleyway to high rise to find any means of survival. As this particular rat, the one consuming the rotting chicken, finishes its meal, it is discovered. Not discovered in the sense that his identity has been aroused, his ambitions ousted, but where he is. A black boot, the tatters licking the muddy ground, stomps near the rat. Startled, its pink nose twitching in excitement and fear, the rat dashes away.

If you were to ask me if I wished I could have a home, if I could be with my family, the answer would be no. There are some in the community home that cling to the possibility of having a family someday. They play house in the bedrooms. I think it's because their parents died, their parents were subjected to capitol torture or their parents have fallen victim to poverty. However, what separates their wishes from my style is that at the time of their departure from a life of relative comfort, they were still loved. I don't know if I was ever loved. The thought plagues my mind from time to time, but I don't have much time to time. As I walk through this dilapidated building, my weathering boots sinking into the wet ground I think about love. It's something I never understood, until I met Blakely.

I don't love her intimately; there is no hot passion that draws me to her lips. Blakely is my sister, by devotion not blood. How I met Blakely was probably the luckiest day of my life, and there haven't been too many of those. When I was young, my parents abandoned my sister Ebony and I. I don't know why, Ebony told me she was going to tell me when I was old enough, but she never got the chance. Ebony and I were thrown into the life of the street rat, and she swore that she would protect. Dodging peacekeepers left and right, not wanting to be sent to the community home, Ebony and I stole and cheated our very breaths. I have a knack for thievery, something I wish I hadn't been able to discover. We managed, it was tough, but with Ebony by my side, I thought we could make it. I was wrong. When I was ten, without any warning, Ebony was plucked from my life. Reaped, is what some woman in the town square told me. I know what that means now, but then my mind still hadn't come to terms with how cruel the capitol really is. I didn't know what to do; I went off the map, hardly ever coming out to see sunlight. In the end, Ebony never returned and I know why. My sister, the only thing I had left, was murdered by someone as desperate as us, fighting to see their family, because they still had someone left. I only made monthly excursions, sneaking out at night to hunt for scraps in the marketplace or abandoned orchards. It was a night about six months after Ebony's reaping that once again, the life left my body for a few moments.

After a night of purloining the various shopkeepers of their left behind spoils, I was rather content. I was so focused on my loot that I didn't notice the shadowy figures coming my way. All of a sudden, I was knocked flat on my back, the wind stolen from my chest. Holding the bundle of loot high above my head, some sneering jerk winked at me. Laughing to his buddies, he looked down at me again and spit on my face. I don't fight, I thought I was done for, but then Blakely arrived. A small figure, built for speed, came out of nowhere and delivered a swift kick to the groin of the scum ball that held my loot. I couldn't make her out from the ground, but I did know that after a minute or two, I had my loot back. Blakely helped me up and that was when I noticed how bad her condition was.

A zombie, her bones can be clearly seen under her thin white skin. A gaunt face, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks looked back at me. She looked very frail, but by the scuffle I had just witnessed I knew how deceiving her looks were. Stringy black hair came down in tangled knots from her scalp and nearly black eyes looked out at her world. She stuck out a hand, and taking it as invitation for partnership, I shook it.

What I thought would be a simple partnership in order to get by quickly turned into the best thing so far since the day my parents abandoned me. Blakely is fiercely protective of me, and once she sets her mind to something she is determined to accomplish it. She discovered I was oblivious to the dangers of the Hunger Games, and although I knew Ebony had been 'reaped' I couldn't tell her why. Blakely just wanted to protect me, she didn't think it would do me harm, so she decided to keep my knowledge limited. When I turned twelve, the peacekeepers must have assumed me dead, decomposing in the streets somewhere. I shared my loot with Blakely and together we lived in abandoned buildings, dodging peacekeepers and living on whatever we could find. It was before the more recent reaping, when I was fourteen years old, when they found me.

"Hey, it looks like we've got a little street rat sleeping on our corners. What do you say we teach him a lesson," the peacekeeper grinned from ear to ear, looking down at my sleeping body like a meal.

I was dragged from our hiding spot, Blakely watched me go, but I motioned for her not to follow. I could see the heartbreak in her eyes, fearing that our days as 'siblings' in our messed up little world were over. I was flogged, my back burned red and the skin fell of in stinging chunks. The red blood cascaded down my sides and trickled to the ground. The beating was supposed to instill some sort of sense of selflessness in me, but it didn't work. I was shipped off to the community home, but I escaped within the first week. I found Blakely on the streets, waiting for me. I wasn't gone for long, but her figure had declined in the short amount of time and I realized that although she was small and fast, she needed my expertise to get by. I don't even know how she managed to survive before we met.

The day of the reaping isn't different from most. The weather follows the same pattern of the week and the people still rise every morning like they normally do. There is no grim reaper knocking on doors or an angel of death painting the town. Reaping days are unseen; their wings shroud the whole district, covering up our hopes for a few tiny hours that could shift the entire frame of a life, or lives. I've learned that skipping reaping days isn't too good for the back, so Blakely and I make our way down the street to avoid attracting attention again. The shops are closed on reaping days, which makes them the best for stealing. While everyone is worrying over their sons and daughters, and making their way home to pray and love one another for not being reaped or whatever the hell families do, Blakely and I storm the shops. It's not hard when no one is in the square, we can basically take what we want as long as we avoid the detection of the scarce amount of peacekeepers. No one suspects anyone to pull anything on reaping days, which is exactly why we do it. So as Blakely and I make our way down the path, we begin picking out what stores to hit up.

"I could use some new boots," I point to my tattered shoes.

"Alright, well our top priority is food, and blankets. I also want to stock up on medicine, just to be safe," Blakely went down the list. A few months ago, I had cut my foot on a jagged rock and the blood poured out like a waterfall. Blakely freaked out, and the infection set in. It really looked like my foot would need to be amputated, but Blakely had run to town and pleaded with the local pharmacy. It made me so mad, I yelled at her for taking the risk. I know she's older than me, but that doesn't play into anything, we're both on the same level. If anything like that ever happened again, Blakely wanted to make sure we could handle it.

Continuing down the street, we reach the district square. District Six's square is plain, and the stage sits on the threshold of the Justice Building. We are a little late, as the mayor is beginning his speech. The peacekeepers shoot us dirty glares, but they let us in regardless. Blakely hugs me tight before we depart.

"I'll see you in a bit Loot," she promises.

I give her a reassuring smile, never sure of the way these reapings will play out. We split up, and I watch her as she heads to the eighteen-year old girls section. It's her last year eligible and after today we only have to worry about me getting by. Once that's done, we can live the life of thieves forever. The mayor wraps up his boring prelude and our district escort makes his way to the podium. He's dressed in a more simple design than most capitol citizens, wearing a gray suit with a ruffled white shirt underneath. A black bowtie hugs his pudgy neck and dark shades rest on his nose. The only thing that really points him out as a capitol citizen is the neon green faux hawk that rests on his otherwise bald dome, and the intricate tattoo that works its way up his face.

"Good morning District Six, I'm going to keep this short and simple," he cut to the chase. "Out of all of you, one boy and one girl will have the lucky opportunity to represent District Six in this year's Hunger Games!"

No one cheers.

"Alright then," he was already aware of the normal reception, "Let's do the boys first shall we?"

Reaching his hand into the bowl, he dances it over the countless slips. Dipping way down to the bottom, he removes a piece of paper. Walking back to the podium with the paper in hand he unfolds in front of the crowd and reads the name into the microphone.

"Loot Lewis!"

My initial reaction is that I'm dreaming, but when the Peacekeepers start and I pinch myself I realize that I'm not. It can't be me; Blakely and I are raiding the square this afternoon. I'm frozen and since no one knows my name, the peacekeepers aren't given any clues as to who they are looking for. I finally make some giveaway movement, and they swoop down like harpies. Grabbing my arms they drag me up to the stage, my feet making trails in the dirt. The shock has claimed me; I don't even know what to do. I don't cry, I don't make a sound, I am stunned.

Our district escort's name is Tiger, because he tells me that when I get up on stage. He smiles at me, I don't know what he's trying to do but it unnerves me. Our previous victors, I don't know their names, look at me pitifully, as if they already know I'm going to lose. Six doesn't win much, and when they do it's not because of someone with my scrawny build. My black hair is getting in my eyes and I strain to find Blakely in the crowd. There she is, and I can see the silent tears rolling down her pallid face. She nods at me, and I understand. She won't come and see me in the Justice Building, she can't. I swallow the truth; it would be too risky if they knew she had connections with me. The peacekeepers don't know my name, but they know my face. If they knew that Blakely was a street rat too, I don't know what they would do to her.

In all my thoughts I don't hear the name of the girl who is reaped, but it's not Blakely. Everyone down in the crowds look up at us with somber eyes, I don't know why they are grieving for me, but I think it's because they know that soon, I'll be joining the ranks of Ebony. The only thing I have to remember her by is the small silver locket she gave to me before her games. It's in my pocket; I don't wear it because I don't want anyone to take it from me. Not even Blakely knows about it. We could sell it for some serious coin, but I'm not willing to sever my memories for money.

The peacekeepers are about to take me to the holding room but I speak up,

"No one is coming," I say.

The two men exchange weird looks and shrug, they lead me to the train instead, and whoever the girl is, she is led away. I board the train, my mind clouded with thoughts of Ebony and Blakely. I wonder how Ebony felt when she stepped onto this train five years ago, was she sad or was she happy to leave the life of the poor. I don't find that out, but I know one thing is certain. I have to win for Blakely, she can't survive without me. She can scavenge and steal but not as good as I can. If I die, Blakely will go with me.

These are the thoughts that cloud my mind as I enter the train, my dirt and grime leaving specks of black on the floor. I hear the girl boarding as well and after a few moments the train chugs away. And then in that moment I learn how Ebony must have felt, leaving me behind while she rode to her death. It's the same exact feeling I have in leaving Blakely behind, like she won't survive, there is no one to save her. Ebony thought that way, but I was saved, I survived. I realize that there is always hope, and instead of mourning my departure I smile, because I know that no matter what, Blakely will survive.

Aston Jeffries

District Six- Female

Courtesy of Saltey

Legend tells, in the days of the rebellion, long before I was even a thought conceptualized in the brains of my mother and father, that District Six was heavily bombed. As punishment for the outbreak of rebellious seeds in our little garden of thought, the sky bled from the cuts the airplanes ripped in its robin's egg skin. The bombs looked like the seeds of a watermelon, small and black, zipping through the stratosphere and tumbling down in their free fall. I do not know what it was like, but legend tells that on that day, the screams of the broken rang in your ears forever.

Being a district focused on the construction and destruction of transportation, the industry was crippled beyond repair post-bombing. The glimmer of hope lodged itself in the eyes of the foolish, because if you really looked at it, it was hopeless. Our economy bled from its throat, something we still haven't recovered from. However, from time to time an individual will come along who views the horrible explosions of district six not as a day to be remembered by weeping and grave-tending, but as a business adventure. One such individual was my grandfather, Archibald Aston Jeffries. Archibald was supposedly the man who rebuilt most of the damaged infrastructure and sequestered the finances to realms undiscovered by those who used to manipulate the aftermath of the bombings for purposes that didn't align with pure profit. It worked, because I've seen it work. The monorails are running for the most part and the factories are pumping out train tracks and automobiles for the comfort of the capitol.

However, despite his success, on the day after the reopening of Platform 34, the first train station to be shelled, my grandmother Verna Jeffries died of lung failure. My grandfather, terribly stricken with the loss went insane and lost the fortunes he had been compiling after the events of the war. Finally, ending the torment of being separated from his wife, by grandfather left my father a single garage to build trains with. My father, abandoning this wish much like his father abandoned, turned to the race track.

District Six has a marvelous collection of motorcycles that run the dirt courses of the tracks outside the main hub of town. Leaping over trenches and kicking up foul dust in their wake, these babies have got some kick. My dad loves them, and he spent his days fixing up the bikes of those who were rich enough to afford them. My dad became somewhat of a bike mogul, all the bikers came to him to get their fix up and refuel their rides. That all changed when one day, operating on the underside of a motorcycle, the structure collapsed and crushed his legs. Wheelchair bound permanently, my father's dreams of building the motorcycle empire he had imagined were cut short, much like the life of my grandmother and the fortunes of my grandfather.

As his only child, my father devoted himself to molding his girl into the bike-building champion he had so wanted in himself. So now, on this morning before I play Revolution Roulette with the capitol, I sit on the ground of the cold concrete floor of the garage and work my calloused hands over the metalworking. Shaping the ends of the rod with my own wrench, I grimace as the nut on the mainframe stays tightly lodged in its place. Giving an extra dose of oomph, I pry the fixture free and am able to oil the rusting piece. Wiping the band of sweat off of my brow, I can hear the spindles of my father's wheelchair groan as he moves himself into the garage. Leaving a black smudge on my forehead and flipping my gloves over my shoulder, I high-five him as he wheels up.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

"Umm…," I begin, not sure whether he was talking about me or the bike.

"The bike sweetheart," he mumbles, "I know you're not ready," reaching up from his handicapped position, he wipes my forehead with his thumb. The black smudge rubs off onto his fingers and he smiles.

"The shower is running for you, I'll meet you by the door," he says as I walk into the house, retracing the footsteps I laid out on my way to the garage earlier this morning. Reaching the bathroom, I strip my working clothes. The gray jumpsuit falls to the floor, with it my tool belt and wrench. Wearing some blue shorts that only reach my mid-thigh and a white tank underneath, I take those off as well and remove the rest of the clothing. Stepping into the shower, the water is warm, something I pleasure and savor. Father must have drawn the warm water this morning, something to savor in case the worst happens. By black, cropped hair is short on my neck and it plasters to my darkly tanned skin as I lather and rinse the grime off of my body. After a few minutes, I turn the steaming knob and step out of the shower. I'm not one to spend much time getting ready; there are more important things to attend to.

Stepping out of the shower and wrapping the grey cloth towel about my waist, I find what my family designates as "reaping clothes" laying on my bed. A simple blue dress, with a lace band around the waist to tie it in place greets me. Simplicity at its finest, I slip it on, and looking in the mirror am actually pleased to see myself in a dress for once. I know the occasion that permits my hidden beauty is a gruesome one, but I can't help but smile.

Passing by my mother as I head into the kitchen, her head is busily bent over a pile of papers and her fingers are punching away at a small calculator. Sweat is on her brow, something I don't normally see. Concern sneaks into my tone and I say, "What's the matter mom?"

Startled, she didn't even know I was there; she raises her head quickly and studies me in my dress for a moment.

"You look nice," she states dryly.

I take her compliment as a method of dodging my question and I retire my battle before I fight it. I shove a few pastries that are out on the counter into my mouth and noticing that a few hours still remain before the reaping, I tell my mother goodbye and slip out into the morning sun. I reach a small field, delicate grass crying under its cumbersome load of morning dew. I run my fingers through my hair, the blue dress sways around me. I am waiting; I guess for my friends, I don't really know who. Resting against a wooden fence pole, I see them round the corner, laughing.

It always seems criminal to me, to laugh on the morning of a reaping. We do every time though. We can't help it. My friends and I, though we may not have the best of lives or roll in the filthy wealth of the capitol, make it work. It helps that they're all guys.

Bray, Trayton, and Apollo, each one possessing a close spot in my heart. Bray reaches me first, he always does. Knuckle-pounding me and shooting me a toothy smile, he says, "Hey Aston."

"Hey Bray," I reply.

"Wow guys, such liveliness," Apollo chortles. I shove him, and he whistles back, looking my dress up and down. Trayton shoves him in return, and soon we're all running about the field, trying to catch whoever we can. My dress doesn't tear or dirty, some sacred part of me doesn't work to keep it pristine but it manages anyhow. Before we even started, we are lying in the grass breath loud and savored.

"I guess it's time," Trayton breaks the mood we had been trying to preserve.

Bray helps me up, tenderness in his grip. I hate when he treats me like a girl, like I'm not a part of the group. I shy away from his hand and he scowls. Bray puts on the older brother charade from time to time, but recently I've been thinking there's something more in his glances at me. The four of us walk side-by-side and reach the square, the fear starting to settle in our bones. The chances are slim, slimmer than anything. But still, we crouch in the corners, all of us, and pray we are not picked. The Peacekeeper pricks my blood sample and waves me over to the seventeen-year old girl section. Trayton and Apollo shoulder each other over to the seventeen-year old boys section, but Bray lingers. The look in his eyes is protective, something I don't like.

I stare at him for quite some time, passing over the mayor's introductory speech and Tiger's boring soliloquy. His eyes bat over the crowd, the capitol flare injecting the common horror in all of us. I continue to look at Bray though, who is watching the escort move carefully across the stage in an expression of capitol love. The Hunger Games are a spectacle there, whereas here, they are a death sentence.

"Loot Lewis!"

I wasn't even paying attention, but the first reaped draws my gaze back in. A twelve-year old, my heart sinks. He is so small, so frail, so unfit and ill-prepared for the Hunger Games. My insides moan at the prospect of such a young soldier being sent to battle for District Six.

"Now for the ladies," Tiger tries to make his presentation cute.

Diving into the bowl, his powder pink fingers run over almost every single paper. Snatching one up in a dramatic fashion, he reads the name once he brings the open sheet to his eyes.

"Aston Jeffries!"

The sensation is funny almost. It's like when your parents say, "If you do that again, you're grounded." You do it again anyway, and you don't expect the repercussion to follow because it never does. Then one day, "Wham!" A brick soars into your stomach and the wind inside of you leaves faster than a flickering flame. Hysteria creeps up your nervous system and your brain can't comprehend the situation.

"Aston Jeffries!"

I can't describe feeling helpless. Perhaps if you were a field hare, heart palpitating in haste as you try your best to escape the hungry fox behind you. Your leg snaps, the teeth of your pursuer clamps down hard. Floundering in the wake of the own dust you kicked up, your eyes glaze over with absolute and impenetrable fear. The fox has caught you, and your own crimson blood trickles down your neck and in that instant you know there is nothing you can do.

"Where is Aston Jeffries?"

I fidget a dead giveaway as to who I am. They surround me, like a flock of vultures ready to pick the lingering meat off my bones. Arms, strong and forced grab my shoulders and cart me up to the stage like a lamb to slaughter.

"Ladies and gentleman of District Six, I give you your tributes for the 49th annual Hunger Games!"

I am in a room, my mind is a haze. The past ten minutes have been a blur. I think that's my father, and my mother. They are saying something. I nod. Someone hugs me tightly, they tell me to never give up. I nod. My mother, I think, plants a kiss on my cheek and she lets out a scream as the Peacekeeper drags her away. I am on the verge of letting the hysteria take my sense as its victim, when they walk in.

Apollo hugs me first, tells me I'm strong. Trayton follows suit, the two gab about how I can win this, I'm the toughest girl they've ever met. I nod once more, and that does it. The first tear, shaped like half a heart, rolls down my cheek and past my neck. Bray wipes it off my neck and orders Apollo and Trayton out of the room. They leave, obviously understanding his mission.

"Aston," he begins.

I look up, wondering what he will say to comfort me, nothing will work.

"I love you."

You have got to be kidding me.

"Now!" I blurt out, almost in a scream. "Now you want to love me?" It is sudden, but I deliver a left hook to the side of his face. He cries out, thinking his mid-crisis bombshell would go over smoothly.

"Aston, what's wrong with you?" he innocently cries.

"What is wrong with me? I've been reaped for the Hunger Games and you decide to confess your feelings for me now? What is wrong with you Bray?"

My words sting, his plan crumbles and he hangs his bruised head in defeat. But I do not relent.

"I can't believe this."

My finality is stunning to him, he must have pictured me being reaped would make me fight for him or something along those lines in the arena. He leaves, and I cry. My tears roll down my face as I sob and plea for things to go back to the way they were when I looked at my reflection this morning. My dress was so beautiful, I was so beautiful.

If only I had known.

Wow. Writing these two was probably the most emotional chapter yet for me. Let me know what you think, as we make the halfway mark in our reapings! I know, this is taking a while, and excuse my long pauses but I just want to make these good. Seven is up next, and a pair of very interesting tributes are to come…Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor!