The Reapings Part I- Surprises

Year 274, Reaping Day, seven days before the start of the 32nd Hunger Games

District One: Pyrope Stevenson, Victor of the 13th Hunger Games

The sky is already wine-dark when One gathers for the Reaping. Emerging from the cooled shelter of their homes only now that the sticky heat of the day has been chased off by a breezy night, the crowd starts as a steady trickle that rapidly becomes a tirade as the bells call them out. Arriving in the Square, the groups cluster, growing, merging and spreading out to cover the marble slabs while the air hums with the natural buzz of the many. Yet it is no excited babble- there is no laughter, no cheer, no celebration in the voices. The faces caught under the unforgiving spotlights are homogeneously grim, as sharp as the Spires and as pale as the snow that rests on their peaks; it has been like this for months, ever since the word went out. There will be no Volunteers in One this year. Our Tributes shall be Reaped like the meanest Outliers and while there are few here that truly remember how that feels, they see the Reaped die every year and the fear comes naturally, perhaps even more piquant for the rarity.

Zhoiste and I had hoped we could at least mitigate the damage. When the word first came, we threw the doors of the Academies open. Every child of Reaping age that we could reach was brought in and taught, the original Trainees swelling the Instructors' ranks to manage the hundreds of new cadets. For seven months we worked, putting daggers in the hands of meek, scared, unfit kids who were never meant to kill so that should they be unlucky, they would at least have a better chance than the Meat they joined. But it was never more than naïve hubris, even if we chose not to realise it. We couldn't cheat the Capitol in their quest for entertainment and our 'quaint' attempts have been cause for Vanillas's sneers and derision from the moment of his arrival.

The knowing smirk when he complemented us on what 'tragedy' we would provide this year and how the Capitol 'would just lap it up' still plasters his face, now that he readies to announce our Tributes.

The Capitolite makes for the boy's bowl first, strutting across the stage. On either side of me there's a collective stir, the Victors restless as the Escort flamboyantly reaches in, swirling his hand through the slips to pick just one. My heart flutters in my chest, a long suppressed nervousness coursing through me as I wait for the Capitol's chosen one to be called. Out of old habit I force myself to calm, stopping myself from reaching for the sureness of Zoiste's hand. Tell myself there is still a chance our work wasn't entirely for naught.

We may have managed to reach the unfortunates picked, may have unknowingly taught them exactly the skills they will need.

It is a small hope, but it's there. And even if not, we can cope. We are One.

"Trypho Aleto."

Vanillas's voice rings out through the silence, clear as crystal. There is a pause when no one moves, no one says anything, and then the Peacekeepers march in, converging on the fifteen-year-old boys and plucking Midas Aleto's son out from them.

Trypho Aleto is best described as rotund- short and pudgy, he stumbles along next to his herculean guards who only serve to underline his lamentable physique. He's crying, the tears plastering the famous yellowy-white hair to his glasses but he makes no sound louder than a meek whimper; at least until he reaches the stage, when he turns suddenly, garbling at the crowd to save him, calling for help and a Volunteer that he knows cannot come to replace him. It's for naught though, only getting him a sharp, clinical blow from the guards before they drag him up the stairs, a hand clamped firmly over his mouth to stop another outburst and a curl in Vanillas's lip as he turns away from the sorry lump to make his next announcement.

But the Escort reaches not for the Reaping Bowl, his gloved hand instead slipping inside his jacket for the deathly white envelope within. The Peacekeepers are moving before he even starts speaking, hunting for their target and beside me, Zhoiste slumps, knowing that whatever Vanillas says, we shall have two corpses this year.

"The Hunger Games were created to punish the Districts for their rebellion by choosing two of each of their children and causing them to fight to their death."

Vanillas begins, struggling to hide his excitement under the official layer of disgust. Below us, the guards have easily found the girl. She shares Trypho's light hair and cornflower blue eyes but she is taller; lean where he is chubby and cold where he is friendly. There is no fear in her eyes as she is carefully surrounded and a pair of cuffs slipped about her wrists.

"They are not a tool for organised murder, not a way for private citizens to rid themselves of those they felt were undesirable. Diatima Aleto is guilty of attempting to cause the Reaping of her brother Trypho Aleto. In penance for this, she shall receive the self-same fate she had planned for him and will be District One's female Tribute this year."

Chaos erupts as the Peacekeepers haul the girl up to us. Now free of the crowd she fights them every step of the way like a trapped rat, twisting every way to free herself but eventually they have her on stage. The grip on her loosens fleetingly and she snarls, flying towards her brother but the hands rapidly descend again, and she is carried into the shadows of the Justice Building, leaving Trypho behind.

The boy hasn't moved since they called his sister's name, I expect out of fear or shock, but as he turns to follow her, the Peacekeepers hand slips from his face to show a surprising fierceness. Gone are the tears and the wallowing self-pity, now there is only anger in his. Anger and a thirst for vengeance.

District Two: Bastion Hills, Victor of the 20th Hunger Games

The Square of Redemption is set well into the rocky crags that back Marble, casting a welcome shadow across the Reaping Stage where we Victors sit, waiting for Cardellia Spats to begin. Trapped in the oppressing midday heat of District Two, everybody is a bit fidgety, eager to be done with the day's necessities. Well, the unrest from Hero and Tarran is just displeasure in wasting time in what they believe to be a purely ceremonial gesture- as far as they know both of our Volunteers were picked months ago. For the older Victors, there's an edge to it. The hint of restlessness, the corner-of-your-eye catches of worried glances and the compensating aggressiveness that in an Untrained would be seen as fear. They don't like surprises, don't like not knowing who their Tribute is going to be. It's been ten years since the last time this happened and there's no debate about how badly it went for the Reaped girl that time.

Eventually, Spats decides to start. Gushing about how wonderful it is to be back, and if we're ready to see if our next two Tributes have what it takes to win, our Escort spins out the introduction far longer than she has before. Every time we think she's finished, there's something else and every time Ares spits out a curse that makes his old mentor Alkali glare at him. Only when Spats pulls out the first name does he stop.

The girl that's called wouldn't make too bad a Tribute if needed, I think. Eighteen, tall and muscular, with a wind-beaten face resting under sensible brown hair, Litha Seward is quarry stock. It's unlikely she would have trained- but then the snow and rocks of the mountains do as well at making fighters as the Centres and even as she waits agonisingly long for her Volunteer she shows nothing but a tight smile and cold eyes to the cameras.

It doesn't take Spats long to start getting impatient. She wasn't here when Prima was Reaped and she seems to take this as a personal insult- why should we dare deny her her glorious Victors-to-be? As the allotted minute passes, she hastily calls again for Volunteers and the realisation that there is no official Volunteer dawns in the ranks and one or two hands finally shoot up. Spats calls the quickest of them up, a lithe seventeen year-old with slate-black hair. She hasn't bothered to pretty-up for the cameras, her shirt's practical- similar to what the Trainees wear, up at the Centre but a dark navy blue rather than our black- and it's muddied and torn down the side. She obviously impresses the normally meticulously clean Spats however, as the Escort squeals, awkwardly embracing the girl before presenting her bloodied hands to the audience.

"Looks like we've got a real scrapper this year! What's your name?"

"Seccdi Denver," Seccdi pauses, "and I shall avenge the fallen Tributes of Two or die trying!"

It takes a moment to sink in but it's naturally Dacite who realises first, his eyes flashing with anger. Ten years have somehow transformed Prima's little sister- a small, sweet bundle of innocence- into this leering shark. Down the line I catch some surreptitiously guarded looks between the two oldest Victors but they don't say anything and they even hush Tarran when she asks what's happening.

"Later."

Alkali promises, quickly turning back to Spats who for once, isn't hanging about, racing to cover for lost time. She's already dismissed Litha and is reaching for a slip from the second bowl. I don't have to look at Ares to know the man has suddenly started fidgeting furiously, terrified that Cad's been too thrown by Seccdi's Volunteering and will mess this up. Every little muscle in this mouth will be quivering as he waits agonisingly and I don't blame him for being worried. It's always tough waiting to see if the months of hard work will pay off. However, he doesn't need to doubt his boy because as soon as Troy Carson is on stage and Spats makes the call, Cadfael's hand is up and he's said the words.

"I Volunteer!"

Cadfael's shout is of course undisputed- as is his right- and the few kids in front of him part for him to stride up to the stage. He's several inches shorter than Seccdi but roughly as much broader and stockier too, his crisp white shirt hiding a body honed by years of rigorous training. The girl's not intimidated by him though, not even knowing what advantage he has over her and grabs his hand to shake before he can introduce himself. A momentary frown flickers across his face, too quick to suppress but then he's smiling again and turning to the crowd to introduce himself.

"Cadfael Slater. Your honoured representative."

The cameras switch off, their screens going blank and that's it. The Tribute spins, thundering away from his partner, storming to his Mentor- the man who is supposed to guide him, the man he has to literally trust with his life and who has already seemingly failed him.

"Who is she?" Cadfael demands, all pretence of calmness gone. "Where's Enyo? Where's my Partner?"

That's all he gets out before Alkali seizes him, pulling him into the Hall of Justice, Ares following behind.

District Three: Feyn Baird, Victor of the 21st Hunger Games

Reaping Day comes with rain, drizzling uncertainly from murky, off-white clouds. The droplets are fine- dancing through even the best of Eight's waterproofs- and they bleed into my undershirt, which in the artificial humidity is sucked onto my skin, the soft fabric now uncomfortably clingy. When I eventually discard the coat, my old Mentor harrumphs, a quiet but satisfied rumble growling in his throat.

"Given in?" Enn probes "I would have thought you too stubborn."

"I'm not stubborn, just determined." Behind me Everett snickers but Enn is too cynical to react. "Will you be able to give a straight answer on our Tributes chances?"

"It's not possible."

Bored or defiant, he turns away, ignoring me. I am however content with letting him sulk and instead of pushing it, I turn to Everett. While we've been talking, the last of the crowd has arrived- the grey factory workers trudging in, heads bowed- and the man is already prepping to begin. "Make it a good one okay?"

The Escort flashes a smile, a wide, conspiratorial grin. "We'll get you a Victor soon."

I settle in my seat as he struts forward. The crowd is quieting now, the wave of fear rolling over them as the choosing draws near. Out there are two Tributes-to-be. One of them will be mine- my potential Victor. In the ten years I've Mentored, I haven't had a single Tribute survive past 6th; really this is the first thing I've failed at. Though a lot of it is down to the terrible kids we get- always too scared and weak to seize the opportunity they've gotten.

This time however, will be different.

"Elyssa Beader."

I don't bother looking for the girl he calls myself, letting the Capitol screens do the work for me. It's often faster- and has the benefit of giving me the same first impression as the Tribute's potential sponsors. The cameras are fast and quickly scan the crowd, zeroing in on a pair of sixteen-year old girls. They're clinging together; the smaller sobbing into the chest of the auburn-haired Elyssa. But the Peacekeepers aren't forced to intervene as even as they loom over her, Elyssa smiles, whispering something to her friend and then gently pushing her away to stride up to the stage.

There's a calm look of acceptance in the languid set of Elyssa's face as she takes her place next to Everett. Solidly built, she's nearly as tall as the man and the fresh, well-made shirt and trousers she wears sets her out as of a Merchant family. She could stand a chance- she won't be one of the spectacular wiz-kids the Capitol loves until their too-complicated plans backfire and kill them- but in an actual fight, against some scrawny Outlier, she could win. With good allies, she could win.

Only, the façade of strength shatters as Everett reaches for the second slip. As he calls 'Bitz Luzi" the girl throws herself forward, running to the edge of the stage.

"Don't do it Will!" she cries, wet droplets welling up at her eyes "Don't throw your life away."

I don't know whom she's calling too but it's obviously someone close- someone who she fears might Volunteer to join her. Someone she expects would throw away their life either for or with her. It's weak and selfish and naïve and the Capitol will love it. I don't believe the boy will come but someone shouts 'I Volunteer' and the girl crumples onto the rough wood of the stage to be fussed over by Everett.

For a moment, I'm surprised.

Then I'm not.

Even if Elyssa is too pre-occupied to notice, this cannot be Will. Tall and lean to the point of almost skeletal, with keen white eyes that are too bright against the dark, sunken face, the boy that replaces Bitz is clothed in the thin grey coveralls of the Mancipium factory workers. He is here to throw away his life- but not for her. No, he's here for the quick death, one that doesn't involve years of slowly wasting into nothingness. They turn up occasionally but most are far more expressive than this one, who will only reply curtly and economically to the Capitolite when greeted.

"Wyatt Abalone… Sir."

"And it's wonderful to have you."

Enn hums beside me, his eyes following the pair as Everett leads them inside. Elyssa is hastily wiping her face, dabbing away blotchy eyes with a sudden determination that pleases me- there's still some backbone in her. But the focus of the shrewd look of the older man is Wyatt- which is good as there's no way I'd waste my time on a corpse. Elyssa will be my Tribute, my next chance at success. And she'd better not disappoint.

District Four: Iakoi Wake, Victor of the 10th Hunger Games

Konach is already seated when Piaris and I arrive to take our places on the Reaping stage.

Lounging in his chair, the younger Victor has a detached look of disdainfulness as he disregards the scene before him. His eyes don't linger on the ash-faced crowds, as grey as the dust that still splatters the ground, shot into the air in pale puffs by the trudging feet; nor does he see the hollow skeletons of buildings, gutted and blacked nor does he see the gaps in the crowd where children should stand, nor the scalding red burns smeared across those that remain…

Nor the disorderly pile of charred meat that the Capitol cameras desperately try to avoid showing.

The boy dares ignore the work of his own hands, the destruction he has wrought on his own District. He has killed and burned and hunted and he has the gall to smile and bask in the cameras like a hero.

I can feel the hairs on my neck rising. A deep, long-buried primal urge to destroy returning. I got him through his Games and this is how he repays me- by dragging Four into the Arena and destroying us in a quest to exterminate a load of Capitol-imagined Rebels. Four was good before he won- Four was recovering. We were almost there, the towns had been rebuilt, the schools were filling up and some prosperity was returning. And he destroys it all for a ghost hunt…

"He's not worth it."

Piaris catches my shoulder, his papery hands still more than strong enough to squeeze painfully.

"But he…"

"I know."

I'd never been so glad to see the old Capitolite as I was this morning. It's been a more than a decade since he last requested Four and in his place we've had the normal ever changing line up of egoists and idiots. They would never understand if they were here. None of them would be bothered by the deaths Four has already suffered this week. They wouldn't notice how much tenser the atmosphere is, the entire District on the edge as it is forced to lose at least another one of its children. We've lost too many already and an unfortunate word from an ignorant Capitolite would only fuel the fire for Konach to light on his return. No, we're lucky to have Piaris again. He remembers the Rebellion and he will never see the Games as just a game. There's always an air of respect and regret in his soft voice and he never prolongs anything, making the Reaping as precise and painless as possible. There is no flamboyancy as he reaches into a Reaping bowl and pulls out the first slip he touches, clinically unfolding it and announcing the name.

"Murdith Sculler."

The thirteen year-old girls shuffle, hastily ejecting a tomboyish specimen. Thrown out, Murdith stumbles, catching herself before she hits the concrete slabbing and righting herself to curse at the conspirators. The Peacekeepers are just starting to intervene, hurrying the child up towards the stage when the call comes.

"I Volunteer." The voice is fast and uncertain, wavering on the last syllables but the same girl calls out again and the shakiness is gone. "I Volunteer as Tribute!"

"No." Murdith spits, spinning around to try to spot the new girl. But the Volunteer hasn't emerged. "I don't need your pity."

"Then you'll die."

The Volunteer appears from the seventeen year-olds. She's thin and petite but still a head taller than Murdith and with a long ragged braid of sandy-blond hair where the younger girl has an even more unruly mess of black curls. Her right hand is stuffed in the deep pockets of her shorts, hiding something from the crowd but as she passes through the Peacekeeper ring to stand next to Murdith, she grazes one of them and the hand twitches, raising just enough to show the edges of a set of bright red lines, burned into the bronzed skin of her wrist. She's Praelia… one of Konach's kids. Murdith obviously notices too because her mouth opens, ready to shout something when Piaris intervenes timely.

"Are you refusing the Volunteer?"

Piaris asks quietly. Murdith's face scrunches up, the girl thinking quickly. "No, she can go."

The Peacekeepers immediately resume escorting the Tribute to the stage, only now it's the Volunteer that comes, leaving Murdith to scamper back to her peers. Once the Volunteer is on stage, looking down at the disorderly stage with something that borders on loneliness and regret, Piaris softly prompts her to introduce herself.

"Aisling Rekved…"

"Well then, thank you. Now for your partner."

Piaris strides across to the accompanying bowl, hastily plucking out a slip.

"Kodiak Caisson."

Immediately, there's a clamouring in the previously ordered ranks of the Peacekeepers at the back of the Square. Konach springs up from beside me, bellowing at Head Peacekeeper Bennett that he has to intervene- that Caisson is supposed to be ineligible- but the man ignores him, engaged in a rapid exchange of queries with his superiors. And the subject of the chaos sprints to the stage while everyone is distracted. He reaches Piaris, only for the Capitolite- who is completely unsurprised by the events- to throw him at me.

"Get him inside."

I steady the boy before he can crumple on me, the shock and adrenaline wearing off quickly and together, we stumble into the Justice Building. It's here that I get my first proper look at my new Tribute. There's a bloody crust coasting his face, matting dark hair into scabby cuts. His left eye is sealed shut under a large purple welt that spreads across a freshly crooked nose. And about his wrists hang a crude set of iron cuffs, the flesh below sore and oozing.

He's one of Konach's Rebels.

Slightly late I know- the laptop appeared to have broken, thankfully it hadn't.

Couple of notes:

-Yes, Vanillas did admit that the Tributes are picked ahead of time. That doesn't mean most Reapings aren't random though, the Gamemakers just want to be able to do full background checks on the kids. Then particularily troublesome picks can be dropped and personal information can be used in early Games planning. His is the most obvious of the references to it but there are subtler hints elsewhere.

-Reapings aren't conducted in District order, One is actually last to go. It's better for the Capitol broadcast, spacing out the Career Districts.

-Currently open spots are D9, D11f and possibly D8m and D12f, form is on the profile, PM me submissions.

Next update will be Monday 31/08/15.