*DISTRICT 8*
*KARIN MONA LOUVRE*
*FOURTEEN*
"Please, people, can we focus?" Karin yells over the buzz of nine sewing machines. Nine young girls, most of them eight or younger, turn their gadgets off and look up innocently at Karin. "What I am I paying you guys for? Stop talking and work!"
"Stop yelling," contradicts the oldest child, a ten-year-old with deep brown hair and golden-green eyes. "The only reason I work for you is because I'm too young to sew in the actual textile factory. But in two years..." She claps her hands together, and dust careens to the floor. "I'm outta here."
"Well, right now, you're not out of here until 10:30. That's another hour." Karin sits back down and picks up the pieces of paper she dropped, reading them through again, circling prices and totaling sums.
Normally, Karin isn't bossy. Normally, she cares about people. Normally, she's sunny and creative. But right now, her father's monthly checks sent from the other side of District 8 (where her grandfather died) have suddenly stopped arriving, and Karin's mother has no way of finding out why.
That was why Karin started up this dressmaking business. Not only did it keep her busy, but it was fun, something to do. And then she discovered she was good at it. But her classmates laugh at her, tease her for being the only girl her age not working in the factories. She pretends her mother makes her work as a seamstress. But in truth, Karin loves the delicacy, loves being able to just put all her attention on the pattern and let all the bad stuff wash away.
She misses her dad, but maybe someday he'll be able to come back.
She swallows down that issue and focuses on the problems in front of her. Scrunching up her forehead (she's never been good at math), she bites her lip and stares down at the numbers that swim in front of her eyes. But finally, she has it. And she realizes that she is actually making a profit. A real profit.
Karin claps her hands loudly. "Ahem! Thank you for your help, girls! That will be all for today!" As her helpers line up at the door of the workshop, Karin hands them each a slice of fresh, warm bread.
"Good luck at the Reapings," they all reply solemnly.
Karin shrugs. She doesn't like to think about things that make her unhappy, and her name is only in the bowl three times. What's there to worry about?
*MARSHALL CLIFTON*
*EIGHTEEN*
"Hey, Liz," Marshall greets his best friend, Elizabeth Kindall. "Aren't you working today?"
"Nah." She shrugs. "No point. It's Reaping Day. They'll let me off. And if I get Reaped, I'll be such a hero when I get back that it won't matter."
Marshall knows she likes to dream of winning the Hunger Games. And a District 8 Quarter Quell Victor? Unbelievable, and not implausible.
In the first Quell, the Victor was from District 8. He was a tough guy by the name of Zachariah, who brutally beat anyone he came across. Even the Careers were scared of him. The District 1 tributes both died arguing over who would fight him, and by the time they were done, the other two Careers were so wounded that they bled to death, leaving Zachariah as the winner. He'd died about twenty years ago, in his forties. An average lifespan by District 8 standards.
So, yes. Winning the Quarter Quell? Not impossible.
Marshall, himself, though, had no hopes of coming home alive. He wasn't skilled in combat, always placed his trust in the wrong people, and was generally only good at two things: playing instruments and talking, neither of which would bring him home from a battle to the death.
Yeah, of course he'd fight. He'd defend his life as valiantly as possible, aiming to bring down the toughest competitors in hopes that the unfortunate smaller children wouldn't die gruesome deaths. But he knew he'd be gone by the end.
*DISTRICT 8 REAPINGS*
Lynrd Crais is a tall, tall man, almost eight feet, with a pinched face. He looks imposing, scary, and most of the kids run in fear when he stooped to pat them on the head. But underneath that, Lynrd is a sad, misunderstood man, with a longing for a wife and a family. He hates pulling out tributes for the Games. But he does. It's his duty.
He shuffles over to the first bowl in his metallic gold shoes and coughs. "Um... Karin Louvre. Karin Louvre?"
"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" The cry came from the older children, specifically, from a girl with short dark hair and dull eyes. That's Gin Martson, who has never had anything to live for. But Karin knows that deep inside, Gin is such a good person. She won't allow that to be broken by the Games.
"I won't let you!" Karin screams. "I keep my spot as tribute. No volunteers!" She waves Gin down.
"But... I, I don't matter. You do."
"You matter too, Gin," Karin says softly. "Everyone does."
Lynrd doesn't know what to make of this. "Marshall Clifton!"
A boy with slightly greasy strands of wavy dark hair looks up in awe, but then changes his face to a set grimace. He sets off for the stage at a rapid pace, and nods once, his hazel eyes sweeping the crowd with certainty that he feels none of.