TW/CW: Tom's POV has a quick mention of child abuse right at the beginning (it's in the italicized paragraph and can be skipped over as needed); Brielle's POV has some substantial depictions of attempted kidnapping by a creepy dude of a teenage girl as well as some icky, fundamentalist takes on female sexuality; Beemo's POV has some themes of fatphobia.
Tom Leary, 16
Logging Quadrant C, Seven
D7M
July 1, 329 AEDD
Tom Leary knew all about the world, and never one to mince words, he'd describe it as "more or less a massive heap of shit." For someone in Tom's situation, and with Tom's trauma, this view was a perfectly natural one, but it wasn't like the people in Tom's life were aware of that. To them, Tom was an absolute crackpot, skulking around in the woods to avoid people, talking to the plants and animals like they were human, and, when in public, constantly ranting about how awful the people of District Seven treated the environment.
Tom wasn't a particularly good person, at least according to most people's standards of morality, but Tom didn't care about the needs or wants of anything as useless and fickle as a person. He cared about the needs and wants of nature. And he always had, ever since he was a small child.
Michael's rough, meaty hand wrapping all the way around his wrist, cutting off all chances of escape. The telltale clicking noise of him snapping open his favorite jackknife and the "Get over here, boy!" that followed. He was angry, angrier than usual. The desperate prayer, the dripping maw of the monster as it leapt from out of the shadows, and then nothing at all.
Tom owed a debt to nature. It had saved him, so he had to save it. And unfortunately, that meant that it was up to him to rid nature entirely of what had plagued it for so long: humans. It wasn't a simple mission, but Tom could do it. Tom was determined to a fault and believed in the power of human passion to the point of being quixotic. Somehow both an incurable cynic and an unabated optimist, Tom was a tough nut to crack at the best of times, even when you didn't factor in the ecoterrorism and human sacrifice.
Well, actually, you could. Nobody would have ever found out about his secret methodology if he hadn't gotten chosen for the Hunger Games, so let's back up to the day that happened.
First of all, Tom Leary was poor. He had grown up poor and he had remained poor. He was fine with that. He worked as a waste collector because it was beneficial to nature, not because he thought it would make money. Tom had very little interest in money. He didn't make enough money to live, and it showed in his body. His jutting, skeletal frame displayed his obsession from every angle; with the way the skin kept flush to the bones and the distinct lack of flesh in all the places it ought to be, it was clear that his fanaticism was a suicide mission that had stolen all the softness out of him. Today, the vermillion flesh was peeled back from the knobby bones, knuckles split open from one too many punches. Willow eyed him cautiously as she took his injured hand in both of hers, noting the hungry, glazed-over eyes that had long since lost their sparkle. The sharpness in them wasn't lost on her. He was on high alert, primed for attack in the subconscious, but his thoughts were somewhere far away, where unknown forces had molded a scared little boy into a reactionary supersoldier bent on driving away everyone who wanted to help him. She smiled at him. "Where did I go wrong?" she murmured to herself. "Why won't you let me fix you?"
"I don't need your pity!" he snapped, batting away her hand.
"Darling, I–"
"Leave me alone. Give me the gauze and just leave me alone."
So Willow gave him the gauze and left him alone. Willow was one of the other kids at the orphanage, the only one who had read Tom's file and actually knew what had happened to him (or at least what the government believed had happened to him), and she hadn't stopped mothering him since.
Tom hated her. The pet names, the condescending tone, it was all a reminder of how she just saw him as a broken doll who would be all better with a little "tender loving care". What Tom actually could have used was a few years of therapy and some consistent acceptance and encouragement, not a random girl to treat him like a plaything.
Tom's life was a hard one, and it wasn't something so simple that it could be fixed with empty words. He was used to hardship, though, so that was okay. It would certainly be a frustrating, time-consuming process to wipe out all of humanity to rescue nature, but he had no choice but to do it. It meant fighting every day for the difficult deeds he was preparing to someday perform.
The orphanage was a shabby building in the middle of the least urbanized section of the most urbanized town in District Seven. It was run by a couple of older women who spent most of their time chasing after the youngest children and had too many other things to do to bother keeping tabs on the comings and goings of the more independent teenagers. Tom shared a long dorm room with other boys his age, and had a tiny cot and one shelf, which contained his only real possessions. It was a spartan lifestyle, and with an almost Thoreau-esque perspective on simplicity, Tom wasn't much bothered by it. He didn't need a whole lot to feel emotionally satisfied other than time in nature. He spent most of his day serving the earth, sorting and disposing of garbage, and then venturing into the forest to carry out his nature-given missions.
He was not a milquetoast protestor, nicely asking the Capitol via picket line to be more environmentally conscious. He was smarter than that. If drastic action was not taken, the world was going to reach a tipping point sooner or later, and it was his responsibility to make sure that never happened.
Tom acted like he had it under control. He acted like he was prepared, even though he absolutely was not and had nobody to depend on. He had never heard of someone trying to eliminate the entire human race by themself, and it wasn't like he could just ask one or two of his acquaintances for advice.
But today he had more on his mind than his destiny, because today was the day of the Reaping. In truth, Tom had mixed feelings when it came to the Hunger Games. They were an excellent form of birth control, that was for sure. People didn't want to have kids if they thought they might have to watch them get brutally killed on television. However, in Tom's opinion, to be truly effective in dissuading people from breeding so humanity could die off, the number of children chosen had to grow from two per district to something like eight or ten, or potentially even higher. That was it. A one in twenty-four chance wouldn't work nearly as well as a one in one hundred twenty chance.
Tom had respect for the Capitol in one sense, because the Hunger Games were truly a stroke of genius, but on the other hand, he despised the way they treated nature. Things in the Capitol were made to be disposable, crowding landfills, and ridiculous amounts of natural resources were stolen from the bowels of the earth in order to build the stone architecture that gave the Capitol its recognizable air of grandeur. But that wasn't half as bad as the makeup. One day a few years ago, Tom had stumbled upon an old book about what was actually in all those powders and creams.
He had decided to go on a fact-finding mission, and backpacked into nature all by himself for a week. District Seven was massive, with its major settlements close to the western border–the rest of the vast forest lay mostly untouched by man. Tom had walked east, towards the other border. Four days in, by pure chance, his foot caught on something and he faceplanted right in the pine needles.
It was an old, threadbare sack filled with dusty books with ancient publication dates. There was, for instance, one about how the Capitol's use of amphibious submarines helped in win the war in the Dark Days: Maritime Warfare: The Downfall of the Rebel Stronghold in District Four published in 3 AEDD. There was another about the intricacies of haute couture as the Capitol strengthened post-war, called Style for Luminaries, published in 16 AEDD. The one that really captured his attention when he read it, though, was dubbed simply Cosmetics, and was an internal manual from a lipstick factory in 21 AEDD about what actually goes into the product (crushed beetles to dye it red and porpoise blubber to give it a smooth, buttery texture).
Tom had been disgusted about makeup ever since. He thought the killing of animals for something as inconsequential as making yourself look prettier was appalling, and he ever since, he felt he was torn about whether the Capitol was more good than bad or more bad than good.
He needed to prepare for the Reaping. He washed his face and ran a comb through his hair, then pulled on a pair of trousers that had been laundered semi-recently and didn't have any visible dirt on them, then donned his favorite denim jacket over a plain gray shirt. He walked briskly to the Reaping, ignoring the fact that Willow and her brother were tagging along behind him, and comforted himself with thoughts that they would soon be gone anyway, what with all the exciting progress he'd been making in his plan to end humanity. If they got on his nerves too much, he'd always be able to make them a priority when that beautiful anti-Armageddon came.
He eventually reached the square, which was thick with people. Disgusting, ruinous people who would all disappear someday soon, thank Mother Nature. Tom prepared himself for an arduous half hour.
The Reaping made Tom angry, but most things made him angry. He checked in at the Peacekeepers' table, then went to the appropriate section. The escort was waiting onstage. He was frustratedly checking his watch every few sections, as though if he only looked once more, the ten minutes until the Reaping would magically elapse and he would get to say his piece sooner.
Tom wasn't a very big fan of the escort. He had been a fixture in District Seven since long before Tom was eligible for the Games. He was impatient, vain, and deeply loyal to the Capitol, which Tom disliked. He wasted a lot of time, which Tom also disliked. And like all the other Capitolites, he wore the mangled-animal-corpse makeup, which Tom disliked most of all. Tom stood and waited calmly, silently judging the increasingly fidgety escort. Eventually, it was time for the ceremony. The escort played the film, which, per usual, contained disturbing footage of the Capitol setting fire to trees and destroying the environment with bombs. Tom deliberately averted his eyes in order to avoid feeling sick. Then the escort launched into a long speech about how great the Capitol was, but that was almost laughably unfounded, so Tom ignored it.
He started paying attention when the escort began to choose the tributes. When the boy's name was announced as Thomas Leary, at first Tom didn't think anything at all except oh. Then it hit him that this might interfere with his commitment to nature, and that was the actually crushing realization. Well, not totally crushing, because then an idea began to blossom, and Tom realized that this would be the perfect opportunity to startle the nation into action. He would win, and easily, because the central challenge of the Hunger Games was nature, and nature was on Tom's side!
(Apparently somebody had forgotten that the Games were made by, well, the Gamemakers, and the Gamemakers didn't do nature–they were Man-Made Materials through and through.)
Twyla Behring, 13
Flesh-Regenerative Aerosol Laboratory, Three
D3F
July 1, 329 AEDD
Twyla loved the rats. They were only lab rats, intended as test subjects for the prototypes and variations of the flesh regeneration aerosol the Capitol wanted for its usual vapid cosmetic purposes, but they were deeply intelligent creatures. It was Twyla's responsibility to look after them. They were almost pets to her.
It made her sad that they were experimented on and augmented, even if it was a necessary process to make sure that the products were safe for humans. Taking care of the rats had taught Twyla just how friendly and unique each one could be. They all had distinct personalities, and even though she was taught to refer to them in official capacities by the numbers on their ear tags, she'd taken to giving names to the standouts. The small tan-colored one that liked to use the handle of her coffee mug as a pillow when she let it out to clean its cage was her favorite, a gentle female rat that she'd decided to name Holly. Holly was the closest thing Twyla had to an actual pet, not that the rats were anything like pets. They were too smart for that.
They were test subjects, even Holly, but Twyla was grateful that she got to spend so much time with them. She had a full-time job minding them, and she got paid for it too, almost as much as her father got paid for his janitorial work. He'd hoped she'd do better in school than he did, well enough to get a guarantee of a research job as an adult.
Children in District Three had their first serious round of exams just before they turned thirteen. Those that scored exceptionally high got fast-tracked into the Premiers, a small category of elite specialized schools for the truly erudite that came with the promise of a prestigious scientific position down the road. The high scorers of a slightly lower level were placed in the most challenging classes, where there was still a fair chance of getting a good job if they made up for it in the next year's round of exams. Twyla had scored in that level, and even though she knew her father worried if she'd improve enough to score in the top category the next time around, she knew she was on track to make it, and besides, she enjoyed devoting her after-school hours to working with the rats. When she reached the top category, she'd be forced to spend it on an internship instead.
It had been the math that sunk her. Twyla was good at it, but she needed to go slowly, and on a timed test, three questions on the math section left unanswered meant taking a huge loss in partial credit. When they'd given her the graded test back, she'd gotten every question in the section correct, except for the three blank ones that she ran out of time for. She'd been filling out practice tests ever since, methodically trying to increase her pace, and her instructors had assured her that her progress was more than adequate, even though it didn't always feel like it.
In the meantime, her afternoons remained pleasant. The rats, particularly Holly, were generally affectionate, and were positively responding to the aerosols being tested on them. The cages had to be cleaned, the food and water restocked, and the rats required regular cognitive stimulation through play, so it was also Twyla's responsibility to keep them entertained with games. Even though they sometimes got agitated and scratched her, other times they behaved splendidly, and then Twyla was really and truly satisfied with the prospect of caring for them forever. Even if she never made it to the upper level, she had a comfortable life ahead of her.
Her father had his job as a janitor, and his older sister, Twyla's Aunt Bianca, and her husband, Uncle Chip, worked jobs of the same nature. Their three children, her cousins, all worked too. With seven people's income, they could afford a spacious second-floor apartment in a nearby complex, where Aunt Bianca ran a tight ship. The Behring family was a happy one, something for which Twyla was endlessly grateful. Even though living in close proximity to so many other people could get frustrating from time to time, it was never intolerable, moreso undesirable, but Twyla knew her family was luckier than many.
If she had been born to one in a more dire situation, she might've had to drop out of school and start working in the factories to make money. And since that would've been a much harsher childhood, she tried to stay on task and learn to be grateful for all the things she did have, like an enjoyable job, a loving extended family, a father who supported her wholeheartedly practically the instant she came out, a good shot at an even better job if she did well at school, which, while challenging, was also fun. Twyla loved pushing herself and doing work to completion. Laying down her pencil after performing a difficult calculation or draining the sink after she finished washing the dinner dishes made her feel accomplished.
Twyla wasn't an egotistical person by any means, but she took satisfaction in the little things that she did. She was proud whenever she got to check something off of her to-do list, and that was where her near-endless motivation came from. Her to-do list was pretty long in general, since Twyla was a busy person in general, but that only made each accomplishment more satisfying. Every time her teachers put her work on a pedestal, every time Aunt Bianca praised her progress, every time the biologists commented on her care of the rats, she felt herself swell a little with some sort of emotional fulfillment she had yet to find the right word for. Every day, it felt as though she was just a bit closer to having her name announced, in a tone clear and crisp, as the latest student to make the top track.
But there was a less joyous occasion where her name might be called, and she had been thinking about it constantly for weeks. When she boxed it out, focused as hard as she could on some lesson or duty to force it to fade from her mind, it would pop right back up again the moment she finished, a splinter in her psyche, lurking just below the surface, taunting and stinging, but too slippery and small to quite rid herself of for good. At best, she broke it down into tiny pieces that irritated her to eventual numbness, but it kept stubbornly drawing her attention anyhow, swollen, ruddy, itching to be addressed.
Twyla Behring was thinking of the Reaping, and to be perfectly honest, it took the piss out of her.
Twyla was an expert at control. She kept uncomfortable, unimportant emotions tucked safely away in some cobwebby corner of her brain, neatly compartmentalized day after day, micromanaged herself until her the bright, childish feelings she'd once known had been neatly filed down into some stubby version of passion and quiet contentment in her work. This new sensation was a foreign body, something odd that had invaded her inner sanctum, her thoughts.
Twyla had been forbidden from watching the Hunger Games, growing up. Her father had given her a euphemism-riddled summary each night, to keep her curiosity sated.
"What happened to the tributes today, Daddy?"
"Nothing much. Our boy found some water. The Five girl is gone. The Eight kids were chased by the big inner-district kids. It's not important, sweetie. What did you do today?"
Then she turned twelve and became eligible. Her clearest memory was of her father taking her to the Justice Building and getting her a special certificate so she wouldn't get Reaped as a boy if her name was called, and so that it would be the right name if it came to that. The ceremony itself had been kind of exciting, if in a bland way. She had been gifted a starched brown dress to wear, a hand-me-down from her cousin Belinda, and a pair of shiny new shoes, and she'd enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the Reaping itself. When the names of the tributes were called, she looked at their faces and was confused about why they both looked so utterly scared. She had wondered if they were afraid of letting District Three down. She knew she would be, especially because of how much the escort, Delta, had talked about the honor and responsibilities of being chosen.
Then her father had taken her home. He'd sat her down in front of the tiny hatbox television, with the remote in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. He'd gently explained the reason he'd never allowed her to watch the Games—he didn't want to traumatize her for no reason, but since she was of Reaping Age, she needed to know what really went on, and what exactly the tributes were chosen for. He read her the Treaty of the Treason, and she'd gasped a little when she heard the phrase "fight to the death until a lone Victor remains." She'd watched that year, but since the Reaping was long over and the boy and girl selected weren't anybody she knew, it was easy to tune out the bloodshed and block the horror from her mind, at least temporarily. Neither child made it past the Bloodbath, and she'd never even seen the other tributes, so it wasn't as hard as it might have been. But when Griffin Cadbury was crowned Victor, she remembered how he'd killed a girl four years his junior from her own district and wondered if the same fate would befall her someday.
The fear had been distant ever since, but today it dug in sharp and clung, pinpricks turning her skin to gooseflesh as she walked to the Reaping, despite the sweat beading at the nape of her neck from the summer sun. She stood, worrying the corduroy of her dress between her thumb and forefinger as she lined up behind her big cousins and waited for her turn with the Peacekeeper.
This year, she knew what to expect. That usually was a good thing: if she knew what would be on a test, she could study for it, but this wasn't the kind of trial she could prepare for. She had power over nothing but her own reaction, and she told herself in a calm, stern tone that she would be conducting herself in the same adult manner as always, no matter what happened.
Delta wore a ballgown the previous year, she remembered, but this time, they had on a blouse and sleek pleated trousers. Twyla permitted herself to be distracted by the film and the speech, not wanting to put off the moment of truth since she knew she would only get more anxious the longer it dragged on, but at the same time wishing desperately that it would never come. She caught herself wringing her hands, and chided herself mentally, pinioning her arms to her sides and gripping the hem of her dress.
"Ladies first!" Delta was saying. Delta was a very bouncy person, Twyla noticed, springing and swaning, moving with little hops. Bright blonde hair, tall, slim but muscular. Young. They looked like they were probably eligible for the Games themselves, if you put aside their status as a Capitolite. Delta jaunted over to the glass bowl containing Twyla's name, and because she now knew what its removal from the bowl would mean, she was intensely fearful. "Miss Twyla Behring, would you please come up here?"
Twyla froze, petrified. She refused to look at her relatives, refused to acknowledge their fear for her. There would be time for that later. For now, they weren't important. What mattered was getting to the stage. She mustn't shake. She mustn't cry. She struggled to get her footing, to escape the press of people's bodies all around her, but one Mary Jane shakily followed the other, and she's at the stairs, and she's questioning how to take them, quick or slow, because the agony of the process is weighing on her and the last thing she wants is for the smooth soles to fly out from under her, but the other last thing she wants is for this whole walk of shame to carry on any longer than absolutely necessary. Somehow, she reaches the stage, where Delta's there to receive her, murmuring something and pointing to a line of neon yellow tape on the ground. She stumbles over to it, toes touching it, perfectly symmetrical, and then Delta's drifting back to the microphone, leaving their newest charge to the mercy of the cameras.
Danny Maddox, 18
Grimstone Alley, Six
D6M
July 1, 329 AEDD
Danny Maddox was the kind of boy who really could've benefitted from some parenting when he was younger, as opposed to a couple of random adults trying to take charge of him when he was already grown up and steeped in the angst of a decade and a half spent being bullied, kicked to the curb, and emotionally neglected.
The problem had kind of started when he was born. Mommy and Daddy didn't want him, so they'd dumped him off at the local orphanage fresh out of the womb, and the orphanage proprietor had been drinking. He'd taken one look at Danny, swaddled in a stained pink tablecloth, assumed he was a girl, and given him the name Dana Madison, which hypothetically wasn't a bad name at all, except that it was a girl's name, and Danny was not a girl.
He'd been bullied for his name all his life. School, the orphanage, it was all misery, so at the age of eleven, Danny had decided to make it all stop, to become so widely feared that people would be cowed into respecting him and the name he'd chosen for himself. He'd developed an interest in crime, and, naturally, came to the conclusion that he ought to drop out of school, run away, and become a mugger.
Unfortunately, his career had been fairly unsuccessful. Easily embarrassed, deeply fearful of authority, and highly allergic to consequences, he had decided to start by mugging small children and the elderly. He wasn't a bully by any means, though, he was nothing more than a little fish in a big pond trying to hunt some kippers to stay alive through the rough winter, make it to the plentiful spring. In other words, Danny had hoped that it would give him the practice he needed to make it as a real mugger, building the skill like he would any other, namely, by mastering the easiest version and then the progressively harder ones until he was an expert.
He picked out the easiest possible target for his first ever mugging attempt: an autistic five-year-old girl skipping home from kindergarten. He'd sweated, cried, said his lines in anticipation, and tried to bring himself to hold her at knifepoint, but he'd felt like saying the words "Give me your money!" would make his heart literally tear apart, and so he'd put his shank away and bought her some candy instead. He was far from the great outlaw he'd set off to be. He hadn't even managed to ask for anything! Oh well. He'd get accustomed to it eventually, right?
Wrong. Attempt number two was equally unsuccessful. Danny had opted for children again, a whole pack of elementary schoolers. Somehow, he found himself officiating a kickball game instead. Number three had involved helping a little old lady across the street. Number four should have been easy pickings. A blind man had actually dropped his wallet on the ground, and by some miracle, Danny had wound up handing it back to him. It wasn't until the sixty-third attempt (Danny had done one each day since he began, except Saturdays and Sundays, because he respected the sanctity of the weekend as much as any other boy) that he actually said the phrase while pulling out his weapon, and the kid had simply wandered away, totally disinterested. Danny had wanted people to fear him. It wasn't working.
In fact, had he followed a different course of action, he probably could've become a successful teacher, or nurse, or even an orphanage proprietor. He liked children, mostly. Just not the cruelty they subjected him to for his name. However, he had stubbornly carried on with his mugging, day in and day out. Sometimes people gave him food or valuables, but only ever because they felt sorry for him, which wasn't his favorite thing, of course.
Believe it or not, he did once contemplate a change in career path, which ultimately culminated with something the people of District Six referred to only as the Garbage Can Incident. His morale had been low, and he had thought to try his hand at vandalism, which required significantly less courage than mugging. Again going for a soft start, he had pushed over a garbage can by the Peacekeeper station. One of the Peacekeepers came over to scold him, and he had quite literally dropped to his knees and begged for forgiveness. The Peacekeeper had felt so uncomfortable with his actual bootlicking that she'd issued immediate punishment: a fine of one Panemian dollar to be paid on the spot.
It was the lowest point of Danny's life, and rest assured, he'd had a lot of low points in his life. He was just grateful that nobody outside of District Six knew about it. Little could capture the burning humiliation of it all, how his cheeks had flamed, how he'd been an object of pity for so long that people in the street baby-talked him from time to time, as though he were a child in need of consoling. He wanted to be insulated from all of that, for someone to talk to him as Danny, not Dana, for someone to care, to acknowledge his personhood. Danny was human enough all on his own.
Danny couldn't stand being fussed over. The people doing the fussing were usually the Rourkes, an elderly couple who never shut up about how he was going down the wrong path and whatnot. As a young man, Pete Rourke had tried to become a famous criminal, much like Danny, but experienced a change of heart following a flogging courtesy of the Peacekeepers. Nancy Rourke, his wife, mostly talked about how he needed to eat more, and occasionally bought him a treat if she could find the money, but she, like Pete, would constantly lecture him about his lifestyle. And of course there was Addison Ross, whose parents owned a patisserie and considered him a worse pest than the vermin that besieged the dumpster behind the shop. Addison snuck him leftovers from time to time, but her kindness had a price too. She demanded that he complete her schoolwork in exchange. Danny wasn't very book-smart, due to being a dropout, but Addison seemed oblivious to that fact. Either way, Danny stuck around strictly for the foodstuffs.
And speaking of food, there was one thing that Danny hated as much as, if not more than, being called Dana Madison: the taste of porridge. An unhappy coincidence, Danny was too poor to afford anything besides porridge, so he had to struggle through three heaping bowls of it each day just to stay alive. The porridge-heavy diet had never done much for his physique, and he was rather scrawny as a result, but it had enough nutrients to keep him relatively healthy. It was impossible for him to bulk up on it, and he was always a little underfed, but not exactly malnourished. If his body were truly starving, it would consume his muscle to live, but despite the thin physique, Danny had a wiry strength to him. Ribs and biceps alike jutted out against his paper-thin skin. Had he been a Capitolite, they would've called it "striking" and slapped his photo on a magazine cover. However, he wasn't Capitol, he was District, which meant that nobody saw it as anything other than kind of intimidating (if you didn't know what a failure of a criminal he was) or just plain odd (if you did).
Dana woke up in Grimstone Alley, face mashed against the cold cobbles. In daytime, it was his mugging ambush spot of choice, but at night, it was relatively insulated from the roving gangs and other hijinks that went down during the wee hours in more urbanized places like where De ro t Station stood. He changed clothes behind a stack of rusted-out bicycle parts, scarfed down a bowl of watery, rancid-smelling porridge, and shambled along into the main street, joining a parade of other urchins and assorted wastels, falling in step with them until they all reached the District Square.
After getting his finger pricked and being directed to his pen, he waited for the escort, Aurelius, to take the stage. When he finally arrived, he strode purposefully towards the microphone, and Danny felt almost relieved by the steadiness of his presence. Aurelius was predictable. Video, blah blah blah honor and valor, reading off the names of the district's Victors, yada yada yada very lucky to represent Six on the world stage, some boring-ass statement to prime the twelve-year-old newcomers for the proceedings, and then Aurelius was announcing that the time had come to choose the fine gentleman who would have the glory of becoming the male tribute in the 329th Hunger Games. Danny, in the eighteen-year-old section, was close enough to the podium to hear the ominous shuffling noises as Aurelius delved into the glass bowl. He had on several rings, each with a diamond big enough to choke a horse, and Danny listened to the gentle clink as they bumped against one another, the hand finally coming away with a lone slip between thumb and forefinger.
"The male-classifed tribute," Aurelius said, "Shall be the ever-fortuitous…Dana Madison!" Weird. Ain't that a girl's name? It took a few seconds for Danny to realize that he was technically the bearer of said girl's name, which was a few seconds too long for the impatient Peacekeepers marching towards him. Desperate and cornered, Danny stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, looking for an escape. Ever-fortuitous, as Aurelius had declared just moments before, he came up with his third-best shank. Well, it would have to do. He had no other way of protecting himself.
"Stay back!" Danny shouted, bringing the knife hand forward and dropping his hips into a fighting stance. "Stay back or I'll, I'll, um, I'll…" He grappled for a threat, and his other hand instinctively lashed out for the boy nearest him, snatching him close and bringing the shank around to his throat. "...I'll hurt him real bad!" He tried to outrun the Peacekeepers with his newly acquired hostage, but the boy, apparently wise to his lack of preparedness, made to bite him and Danny released him instinctively.
The Peacekeepers fell on him, unsheathing batons and approaching with riot shields thrust forward, just in case he tried anything else. His shank was snapped out of his hand, and he was immediately trussed up by six different officers at once. His arms were wrenched behind his back. Metal cuffs encircled his wrists. His feet, too, were chained together, with the steel looped around one ankle so he'd hobble himself if he tried to run. He was unceremoniously picked up and tossed over a Peacekeeper's shoulder. Despite the armored vest they wore, Danny beat their back as hard as he could with his fists, kicking, jabbing, and screeching his head off. He was carried up the stairs to the stage and dumped on the ground next to the escort, and the Peacekeepers retreated to the sidelines, apparently grateful that he was no longer their problem.
Aurelius, (who, unbeknownst to Danny, was a parent, and had dealt with his fair share of childish tantrums) got down to his level, sitting back on his knees. "It's okay," he offered in a calm voice. "We only have a few more minutes to get through, and then you can get some privacy in the Justice Building and they'll take off the restraints. Don't worry, Dana." Apoplectic with rage, Danny mustered up all the pain of being a laughingstock for years, distilled it into one facial expression, and glared coolly at Aurelius with an unnerving intensity. "My new name is Danny Maddox!" he declared, hurling the acrid words at Aurelius's face as though they were a pail of acid.
"Okay, Danny," Aurelius replied, ever unflappable. "I'll make you a deal: pull yourself together and nobody calls you the wrong name again."
"Fine. Deal."
Brielle Rawlings, 16
Kiarra's Corner Tavern, Seven
D7F
July 1, 329 AEDD
Reaping Day meant that the tavern was busier than usual, running at well past full capacity. In the kitchen, Brielle was falling behind on orders, as Kiarra ran back and forth with new tickets for her to fill. The diner mostly catered to lumberjacks, primarily older ones of the male persuasion. Since any restaurant that served alcohol to a bunch of rowdy men occasionally got a little yikes-y, Brielle had been worried when she'd first started working there, but she trusted Kiarra, who said that she had nothing to worry about.
Kiarra was the nice middle-aged neighbor lady who had adopted Brielle after her mother had died, who had given her a job at the tavern she owned and breathed new life into her. The customers, as it turned out, quickly became Brielle's favorite part of the job. The regulars, in particular, quickly grew to adore her (and her cooking), and she'd quickly gone from being an orphan with a new guardian to having a family of a fun aunt and several dozen grandfathers who would heap praise on her, teach her everything she needed to know, and shower her with love.
Six years in, things were going well. Brielle wasn't rich by any means, but she was certainly never in want of food, and she had a warm bed to go home to every night. Sure, some of her fellow cooks and other back of house staff were annoying and hard to work with, but Brielle was pretty sure that irritating coworkers would pop up in any profession, and that being in a cozy kitchen all day, inhaling the savory aromas of delicious, homemade food was far superior to braving the icy rain outside, contending with forest beasts like bears and wolves, and scrambling to meet quota every day in hopes of scraping together just enough money to afford somewhere to take shelter at night.
Long days of being a lumberjack became long years of meager pay and subpar working conditions. Eventually, a person could save up enough to have a family, as Brielle had learned from the customers, but still, those men were in their seventies and still working, albeit for slightly higher wages than they'd started out with. They'd likely work until they died, even if they could afford to eat at a restaurant for most of their meals. Sure, retirement was an option, but it would involve cheap, bland food, and few possessions. Working provided more comforts.
Brielle, over the six years that she'd been the head chef at the restaurant, had developed something of a reputation among the diners. She swore, frequently, and even though she looked unassuming, she was fully capable of booting creeps and cheats out of the tavern, either by brute force and hauling them out by the collar, threatening castration with her wicked-sharp chef's knife, or whacking them around with a cast-iron pan until they shaped up a bit. Reaping Day was the time of year when the most strangers came into the restaurant, looking for food, drinks, and an escape from the bleak reality of Panem, so it also tended to be the time when Kiarra, and by extension Brielle, had to be most concerned about their patrons' safety.
There were a lot of unfamiliar people. In particular, men. Brielle hated Reaping Day because of the amount of Hunger Games-based fear it brought, sure, but she hated it mostly because it was when her father came looking for her.
When Brielle was twelve, he'd shown up for the first time. She'd thought he'd died in the fire that took her mother, but apparently not. He was dirty and unshaven, but he still looked like the man she'd grown up adoring. He'd barged into the kitchen, snatched her by the hair, declared himself to be her kin, and tried to take her home with him, saying something about her being of Reaping age and the need to reunite the family, whether she wanted to go or not. Kiarra and the various grandfathers had rescued her, but every year since, on Reaping Day, James Rawlings showed up at the hostess booth and demanded to be given what was his, and every year, on Reaping Day, Brielle tucked herself in the cabinet under the sink, locked it up tight from the inside, and wedged herself between bottles of detergent and rat poison, plugging her ears, as her new family fought for her.
She wondered when he'd try to get her that day, when he'd make his appearance, what new, gross thing he'd say. He'd demanded for Brielle to be homeschooled when she was a child, focusing on all the things she needed to do in order to be labeled as a good daughter, and someday, a good wife. He'd talked a lot about her maidenhead, and how she needed to save it for when she reached marriage age and he found her an appropriate husband to surrender it to. He'd never been her favorite parent, that was for sure. Her mother had always been a docile, plain, homemaker type who was content for her husband to make the decisions. Looking back, Brielle couldn't remember James ever really demonstrating much love towards her mother. She wondered if he had set the fire on purpose.
Someone banged on the staff door. Brielle remembered that one of the busboys had gone out for a smoke break, and saw that the doorstop had been left inside. He'd accidentally locked himself outside. Foolish, she wanted to mutter, but she stripped off her food prep gloves and opened the door anyway.
James's hand was already clutching her throat. "Daughter. We reunite at last." He pressed at her, putting his weight up against her body, backing her further into the kitchen. She tugged at his chokehold with one hand, sputtering as she fruitlessly tried to pry his fingers away. Her other hand crept towards her knife block, but James saw where she was going and drew his own blade. "Careful, little girl," he leered. "Well, not so little anymore. We all know what being sixteen means, don't we? I think you ought to come home with me, darling!"
"Fuck no." Something in James's eyes darkened at that.
"Good girls obey their elders."
Brielle came out swinging with the rolling pin, cracking him across the temple. At just over five feet tall, she didn't have the luxury of fighting fair. He crumpled, and for a moment, Brielle was terrified she'd killed him. Then he started to stagger to his feet, so she took one look at the fryup blackening on the stove and fled the kitchen, running for Kiarra.
Kiarra kept a hunting rifle hanging above the door—bears sometimes attacked restaurants to get at the food—and quickly retrieved it. She disappeared into the kitchen while Brielle stole underneath the bar counter for protection. There was some angry shouting, and sounds of a struggle, and a shot, and a scream, and then some pained noises, and then Kiarra came back with the rifle and the busboy, who appeared to have been tied up and gagged, and informed her that James had successfully been warded off for another year.
It was the closest call she'd had since the first encounter at age twelve. Kiarra's apron was spattered red and the rifle had a missing round, and Brielle was trying her very best to not think about the implications of those facts. Then a scorched smell began to fill the air, which Brielle suspected had come from the cremains of the fryup, and Kiarra informed her that it had been a tough morning and she was very welcome to go get ready for the Reaping a little early, which reminded Brielle that, oh, yeah, it was almost time for the less perilous of the annual tribulations.
She was more than happy to shrug off her uniform and sink into a barrel of lukewarm water, eager to cleanse away the lingering feeling of James's hands on her. She spent a long time working herself over with the scrub-brush and soggy lump of bar soap, trying to forget the whole interaction. Instead, she thought about the Reaping, which was still bad, but at least a different kind of bad. The previous year, one of the regulars had lost his grandson, a strapping boy of seventeen named Liam Barnett. Brielle had idly thought he was handsome when she'd seen him from time to time. He'd never spoken to her except to compliment her hickory-fox soup, but it was still odd to know that someone she'd interacted with was dead.
Liam had been a young lumberjack, boisterous and confident, as so many were. District Seven had hoped he would pull it off, since it was dearly in need of a new Victor, but he'd been killed anyway. He'd placed fourth, which wasn't half bad, but first place was the only one that mattered, and Brielle remembered how it had felt to see how easily the Two girl had thrashed him six ways from Sunday, toying with her prey before she put him out of his misery with her spear. If Brielle was unlucky enough to be chosen, she didn't have a chance. Had James wanted to kill her earlier in the kitchen, instead of just kidnap her, she'd be dead. She had some strength, but she was comparatively small and flimsy. She would be Career fodder.
She managed to put on her dress, put up her hair, and slide on a pair of scuffed loafers. Kiarra had changed too, shedding the white, bloodstained apron for a fresh, clean one in robin's egg blue. "Reaping?" Kiarra asked.
"Reaping," Brielle said agreeably.
They walked to the Reaping together. Brielle was certainly no fan of the Capitol, but she couldn't help but feel cowed into submission by the unusually large Peacekeeper presence. Dozens, if not hundreds, of Peacekeepers lined the roads, shepherding children into long, serpentine queues for the check-in booth. As the line inched forwards, Brielle migrated towards the front, and eventually found herself across the table, with the white-suited Peacekeeper seated on the other side, positioning a needle above her outstretched finger.
Kiarra had to stand on the outside edge of the fence that penned Brielle in. Unfortunately, Brielle was trapped in the middle of the pen, so Kiarra wasn't even visible to her. The escort, Valerian, wasn't quite the kind of person Brielle would think to place in charge of two children being taken to their deaths. He was fussy and had a nasally voice that made his Capitol accent even harsher on the ears than it would have otherwise been.
First of all, there was a long video reel about the Dark Days, beginning with the initial uprising, then Katniss's rebellion, then finishing up with the Treaty of Treason. Then, Valerian immediately began pontificating, which Brielle did her best to tune out, and at some point, he actually got around to picking out the tributes.
The boy was selected first, somebody named Thomas Leary who Brielle had never seen before. There wasn't anything too special about how he walked up to the stage, and Brielle stole a glance at the male mentor, Mahogany, wondering what he thought of his new tribute. Thomas seemed unbothered by his selection, possibly even pleased, and Brielle would have liked to know what exactly his thought process was, but then Valerian said that the female-classified tribute was going to be Brielle Rawlings, and all thoughts abandoned her.
When they returned, the first one was pure fear for her life. She was going to be fattened up in the Capitol for a week, paraded around in pretty dresses for the amusement of the viewership, and then given the bare minimum of wilderness survival education before being tossed into the arena without a second thought, where the real fighters would battle for the right to finish her off.
She composed herself, knowing that even though her fear was warranted, she had to produce a good first impression so she wouldn't be discounted by the sponsors. She swallowed, pulled her shoulders back, and began walking towards the stage. Chin up, she commanded herself. They need to see my face. Valerian forced her to shake hands with Thomas, who had a comfortably firm grip, but whose hands were littered with injuries.
She made a mental note to ask him about them at some point, but then she heard her name. Kiarra was waving at her. She waved back, looking over her shoulder as Valerian walked her and Thomas to the Justice Building.
Beemo Hudson, 13
Premier Academy of the Life Sciences, Three
D3M
July 1, 329 AEDD
Beemo had mixed reviews of the elite boarding school he attended in District Three. Having passed his first round of exams with flying colors, his parents had been overjoyed to send him to the Premiers, and given the choice of staying at the school full-time or going home every evening, they had decided that it would probably be best for his education if he stayed overnight, so he'd be around for the instructors' office hours and be able to get additional help. Beemo actually quite liked the school in terms of the academic programs. What he didn't like was the bullying.
Beemo was fat, and like most fat people, he was aware that he was fat, but his fellow students seemed oblivious to that, and not only reminded him of it on a daily basis, but actively harassed him for it. This hurt Beemo's feelings more than he liked to let on, especially because he generally ate healthy foods and actively tried to slim down. There were a few reasons for this, but Beemo's chief motivation was the girl he liked. On this particular Reaping Day, she was sitting three lunch tables away in the cafeteria, facing him, flanked by two of her best friends.
Holy cow, she's pretty. Self-conscious, Beemo pushed the scrambled eggs around his tray, prodding them with his fork and deliberately not eating them. The girl, who was named Techie, smiled at him. Cautiously, he smiled back. Techie was among the few students who had never made fun of him. She was funny, and smart as a whip, and skinny. As one of the most bothersome bullies had told Beemo, girls like Techie didn't go for boys like him. He'd never be able to win Techie's heart if he was fat.
He tried his hardest to lose weight. Mrs. Snodgrass, the gym teacher, could empathize with his situation, as she'd been bullied for her name as a child. She and the school medical staff had taught Beemo how to manage his asthma when exercising, and what kinds of exercises were best for losing weight. The nurse had drawn up a diet plan for him, which involved eating three meals a day, while cutting out empty calories, and Beemo had adhered to it with a fervency Mrs. Snodgrass had rarely seen in her years as a teacher. Beemo was truly committed, and despite his appearance, he had built up some strength and was making considerable progress with his weight loss goals. Recalling Mrs. Snodgrass's lesson on why self-starvation actually hindered weight loss, he ate the scrambled eggs, a bran muffin that tasted of cardboard, and a small dish of pear slices.
Beemo's parents, Teach and Carol Hudson, were naturally big-boned. They'd done their best to hammer home the point that weight wasn't everything, and what mattered more was eating the right foods and getting a moderate amount of exercise, something that Mrs. Snodgrass had tried to reinforce. Teach had said time and time again that if Techie was the kind of girl who was cruel to fat people, she wasn't the kind of girl Beemo ought to be with anyway, but Beemo had insisted that she was nice.
It was true. She was nice. On the Hudson parents' frequent visits to the school, they'd seen Techie numerous times, and Carol had once gotten the opportunity to speak to her, gleaning the information that she hoped to become a medical examiner. This, naturally, was thrilling news, since Beemo's parents were forensic scientists who specialized in getting innocent people acquitted. Learning that their son's love interest aspired to a career in criminology seemed to be a good omen. For many years, Beemo had hoped to become a forensic scientist like his mother and father, who had met in similar circumstances when they had attended the school as teenagers, and now he sometimes fantasized about going to investigate a crime scene with Techie by his side.
His proudest memory involved criminology, naturally. He and Techie were in Intro to Postmortem Analysis, a first-year course that was designed to weed out the lazy investigators who weren't cut out for the job (criminology was one of the most glamorous fields a pupil could aspire to). The class had been provided with a series of mock crime scenes and instructed to determine precisely how each "victim" had been killed. Techie and Beemo were given different victims, which was sort of lucky for Beemo, since he didn't think he could handle being in such close quarters with her without getting awkward. His group mates had come to a consensus: the poison used was Tetrodotoxin. Beemo dissented. His group mates had accused him of faulty laboratory procedure and basing his conclusion on conjecture. In reality, the victim had been killed with an aerosol poison when outdoors, and Beemo knew that Tetrodotoxin didn't transmit effectively enough outdoors—but similar-looking Abrin did.
Beemo had been correct, and won bonus points, praise from the instructor, and most importantly, a compliment from Techie. She'd sidled up to him in the corridor afterwards and smiled, which was, without question, the best experience of his life thus far. "Your work ethic!" she'd enthused. "You did the extra reading the professor recommended!"
"Did you too?" Beemo already knew the answer. Of course she did.
"Of course I did. Only a few people get careers in criminology, and I'm going to be one of them. And you will too, right?"
"I sure hope so."
"Me too. You know, my mother says there's nothing better than a boy who does the extra reading, because he'll go above and beyond for you." There was a moment of meaningful eye contact that Beemo completely missed the point of. "I'm inclined to believe her."
"My mother says to always do the extra reading if I want to be the best. She raised me properly."
"I like your mother."
"So do I. Yours sounds as smart as mine, I think I like her too."
"She is smart. It's weird, because she never mentioned that the ambitious boys are the handsomest too." There was a second moment of meaningful eye contact, that Beemo also completely missed the point of. "Well, I'm glad you got the bonus points."
"Thanks!"
When Beemo had relayed this conversation eagerly to his best friend, Hopper, he had laughed in his face. "Beemo, how do you not see it? She totally likes you!"
"She does not."
"Come on. She was flirting with you. Girls don't normally say things like that to boys unless they like them."
"Techie isn't a normal girl."
"Let me guess, she's better."
"Yes! Well, not necessarily. But yes. The point is, I'm fat and she's so pretty. I got called a lardass twice today. Techie's never been called a lardass in her life. She probably hates me."
"As I recall, she's never called anybody a lardass either. In fact, as I recall, she actively tells off anybody she catches insulting you."
"Techie doesn't like me, man. It's not going to happen until I sweat it off and start being a normal person."
"You are a normal person. You are a normal loser dork who's completely oblivious to the fact that the girl he's crushing on is in love with him."
"Information must be peer reviewed before it can be called a fact."
"I'm your peer and I reviewed it. The conclusion is that you should ask her to eat lunch with us."
"Hopper, first of all, that's not what peer review is. And second of all, not in a million years!"
"First of all, I was making a joke. And second of all, you could always ask to sit with her instead."
"Fine. I'll consider it." And Beemo really had, for a long time, but he was always too shy to give it a shot.
The conversation had been rehashed fairly often since then, with middling success. Hopper was always insistent that Techie liked Beemo, Beemo was always insistent that she didn't, and neither of them made much headway in convincing the other. In fact, it was Hopper's choice of breakfast chit-chat topic most days, but since today was Reaping Day, both boys had plenty more to worry about than girls.
"What do you think the arena will be this year?" Hopper was asking. He dreamed of becoming an ecologist, and despite his hatred for the Capitol and their spectacle of child murder, he always looked forward to seeing what new world the Gamemakers had created.
"Not a forest. They had one last year," Beemo said. Hopper nodded agreement. "True. Do you think they'll go for something ocean-y? It's been a few years since they made the tributes swim."
"They might. The Careers will get an easy win, though, just like last year. I think the Capitolites might get bored if there's not a real threat for the Careers. I think they might just go totally inhospitable this year. A giant slab of ice. An arid desert. Somewhere with no food or shelter, to force them to fight it out for the Cornucopia offerings."
"Mhm. If I were a tribute, I'd like that option least."
"Who knows, Hops. You might be a tribute."
"Or you might be a tribute."
"Let's hope nobody we know gets picked." Most years, that was the best Beemo dared to ask for. Yearning for a Victory, or even just praying to god-knows-what that the tributes didn't die in particularly awful ways made him feel like he was tempting fate too much.
The school bell rang, loud and tonal. The students all rose as one, leaving their trays on the tables for the cleanup crew, collecting their belongings, and filing towards either the dormitories or the front exits, depending on whether they were or not they were boarders. Beemo and Hopper roomed together, so they headed upstairs in step with each other. Upon arrival, they quickly refreshed themselves by washing their faces, combing and gelling their hair, and putting on their Reaping clothes, which took a surprising amount of time, since all the other boys on the floor were doing the exact same thing, crowding up the hallways and communal bathrooms.
Exactly thirty minutes after the bell that had dismissed the students from breakfast, another bell rang, dismissing them to the Reaping. Beemo's residential advisor, an eighteen-year-old preparing to graduate to a fieldwork training program as a synthetic biologist, took roll and led the long, wobbly centipede of boys to the district square. Each one was checked in at the Peacekeeper booth, then directed to his section. Beemo and Hopper, being thirteen, were towards the back.
Beemo counted himself lucky for having a good escort on the off chance that he did get selected. He'd heard horror stories from his parents about escorts that prattled on for hours without really saying anything, were hazardously stupid, and whose glitzy, ditsy, empty vperonalities drove away the few sponsors who had approached the limp napkin that was District Three in the Hunger Games. They were ranked eleventh in terms of overall Victors, but they were dead last when it came to who'd won most recently. The two living Victors, and thus, the mentors, sat next to the mayor at the back corner of the podium. It had been thirty-three years since Klicka Mendel's Victory, but copious amounts of facelifts had kept her looking young. If you squinted. Astrix had won thirty-five years ago, and looked his age a little more. He'd had exactly one mentoring success: Klicka. In the time since, nobody had even come close to the Final Six. If he got picked, Beemo didn't like his chances.
Delta, the escort, did all of their usual escort things, Beemo supposed, although he wasn't really so much watching as letting his eyes glaze over as he stared blankly at the stage and imagined all the ways things could go horribly wrong.
They picked the female tribute. Beemo didn't know Twyla Behring, and for that he was grateful. She was on the tall side for a girl her age, which happened to be thirteen, same as Beemo. She hadn't cried, which Beemo was also grateful for. She looked nice, and normal, and exactly like every other District Three Bloodbath kid that had ever been Reaped.
"And for the gents, Beemo Hudson! Beemo, come up here too, please." Delta smiled down at him from over the top of their microphone.
Beemo was pretty sure his brain had just shorted out. He didn't, couldn't, do anything except stand and try to stay grounded as an animalistic fear took over him. Hopper gave him a nudge, then a bit of a shove. "Beemo. Beemo, come on. You've got to get to the stage before they send the PK's out to drag you up there instead."
Beemo nodded blankly, something finally connecting. He stepped forward into the aisle and began walking. Was this how Twyla had felt? He was sure he'd had that deer-in-the-headlights expression when his name had been read, the one that Twyla seemed to have avoided. How had she avoided it? She had been so collected on her march to death, and Beemo decided that he would have to ask her about it at some point. He mounted the stairs and stood next to Delta, who beckoned Twyla forward and instructed them to shake hands. They said something into the mic that Beemo didn't really notice, and then Delta turned around and began guiding him and Twyla towards the Justice Building. "I'm Twyla," Twyla said.
"I'm Beemo." His throat felt dry.
"Allies?" Twyla asked.
"Yes. Allies." Beemo agreed. He knew almost nothing about Twyla, but she was very nearly all he had at the moment to help him survive. She had a placid earnestness that made him feel like he could trust her, and besides, thirteen-year-old Three kids had to stick together.
Delta led them inside the building, and the doors closed, separating Beemo from his home for good.
Vica Madsen, 17
De ro t Station, Six
D6F
July 1, 329 AEDD
Victoria Madsen ducked into the black market just as the sun began to creep over the mountains outside of the old station, backlighting the remaining five letters of the sign with a warm glow. De ro t Station was the location of District Six's many black markets, gambling dens, and assorted criminal enterprises. The only people familiar with it were the criminals themselves and the occasional skittish customer who wanted goods of an unconventional nature. Victoria belonged to the former category.
The hardcore gangsters, hitmen, and drug lords that resided deep in the hollow caverns considered pickpockets to be the worst of the district's criminal element, slimy little scuzzballs who committed petty larceny for the game of it, but when it came to the pickpockets, Victoria was one of the best. Pickpockets typically banded together in little gangs of their own, but Victoria worked alone.
Most solitary pickpockets ended up that way because they'd tried to screw over the others in their syndicate, but Victoria had made the deliberate choice to avoid others. She had learned the hard way that being connected to other people was only a good way to get hurt, so she'd learned to shun the people who streamed her way. Of course, the best criminals were the ones that remained truly anonymous as they robbed their countrymen blind, but that wasn't quite possible in District Six. Sometimes it felt like the streets had eyes. Even though her name was still a secret to the masses, the scum and villainy populating De ro t knew that she was the master thief in town.
Like all the famous criminals, she had something of a cult following, and became something of a celebrity. She was an actress, something she'd discovered as a young girl. She stole from the laymen, who knew nothing of her reputation, and just enough to live semi-comfortably. She'd learned early on that if she managed to behave in certain ways, she became much less suspicious.
People, especially cocky men, liked to believe that they were smarter than everybody else, especially teenage girls. As a teenage girl, Victoria often found that she was underestimated. It was equal parts frustrating, since Victoria disliked being underestimated and talked down to, and useful, because she could take that assumption, wrap it around her shoulders like a cloak of invisibility, or at the very least, camouflage, and infiltrate places where she'd otherwise be looked at with suspicion.
A soft, self-conscious smile quickly became the default tool in her bag of tricks. A disguise or elaborately curated web of lies could only get you so far, but putting on a face of innocence, carrying a convincing prop, and pretending to be surprised and offended if anyone questioned her intentions was a whole lot easier, and more effective to boot.
Victoria wore said smile on the morning of the Reaping. Peacekeepers tended to stay on high alert circa Reaping Day, so she wanted to fully insulate herself from any scrutiny. She ventured deeper into the passages of De ro t Station, eventually reaching her hideaway (although she occasionally referred to it as the Lair, because, frankly, she thought it sounded cool). She had been out and about for the entire night, pretending to be an innocent street sweeper, which was a fairly common job for working class girls, and managed to successfully pickpocket several passers by, then bought herself a single precious nectarine with the proceeds. She'd been ramping up her stealing for about a month in preparation for the feast she wanted to gift herself after the Reaping.
It was her annual tradition. Vica hated the Hunger Games. Many residents of District Six got a holiday off from work on Reaping Day, their one vacation every year, and saved up money for a special meal to celebrate their families' success in remaining intact, untouched by the cruel hand of the Capitol, at least for one more year. She could take a vacation whenever she wanted, since she had no boss to tell her she couldn't, but she had still needed to accumulate money for the grand layout she wanted. Once the Reaping was over, she'd have only one more to go, and then she'd be free.
She'd begin with a salad of fresh vegetables and tiny sandwiches with real butter, and then a choice cut of meat, heartily seasoned, followed by her precious nectarine, in slices, and finally, at long last, a few coveted tablespoons of her favorite food in the world, ice cream. She'd have to make it last, digging into the tiny mound with her spoon and placing the frozen chunk onto her tongue, savoring the cold, creamy deliciousness, letting the syrupy taste fulfill her wish for happiness for at least a few minutes. Then, when the last bit had melted, a puddle in the bottom of the bowl, she'd tip it back and drink it, determined to glean all she could.
And then she'd get to thinking about how Cooper had loved ice cream even more than she did, and she'd screw her eyes shut really, really tight, drown her guilt with a jarring cup of strong black coffee, and forget she ever used to have a family.
No, no. Thinking about family was a taboo of Victoria's own creation, a self-preservation tactic to keep her spirit buoyant. Getting in her head too much meant that she wouldn't be able to keep it above water, and as always, it was of the utmost importance that she survive and stay focused on her mission. Family matters were none of her concern. At least, not anymore. Business matters were the only ones that mattered, and right now the prime order of business was stashing her spoils and getting ready for the Reaping that would precede the meal she was preemptively salivating over.
She shed her street clothes and donned her Reaping outfit, a worn skirt and blouse that were a family—never mind that. She donned her Reaping outfit, a worn skirt and blouse that were…rather threadbare, but fit her, kind of, and would be more than suitable for the occasion. Wearing clothes that were too nice could garner attention from the wrong people, and looking too clean in the land of smog and urban degeneration was a good way to make yourself instantly stick out like a sore thumb to every criminal, Peacekeeper, and ordinary passerby. She made sure to put up her hair in a ponytail, tying it up with a headband from a dusty bandana to make herself look different enough so that at first glance, the other De ro t folks wouldn't recognize her in the line for the check in booth.
She set out on foot, winding through the tunnels of the Station, and left through a decrepit maintenance exit, then made her way onto the more populated surface streets and fell in step with a gaggle of other girls that were dressed similarly to her. She followed them to the booth, where she raised no visible suspicion as her finger was pricked, and found the section for the seventeen-year-old girls, up near the front. The escort, Aurelius, came onstage, and thorough as ever, quickly ran through his list of tasks, from talking briefly about the importance of honoring the tributes for their selflessness to nodding faithfully and mouthing the words of the yearly propaganda video. After more talking, he selected the boy, which was where the fireworks began.
Of course Victoria knew who Dana was. He'd been in the year above her at school (when she'd gone to school, like him, she'd called it quits at a young age) and she had many memories of his antics. He was a joke, as far as her and the other real lawbreakers were concerned, although not a very entertaining one. Muggers were even more looked down upon than pickpockets, according to De ro t's population of actual professional crooks. What surprised Victoria was how he seemed to have become more brazen, even taking a hostage, but what she wasn't surprised to see was his colossal tantrum on the world stage. That was a classic Dana Madison maneuver, as far as she had seen (and she had seen entirely too many of his antics as a child).
Aurelius actually didn't do that bad of a job handling it. He was the first person Victoria had ever seen engage in a productive conversation with Dana that resulted in him doing what he was supposed to be doing, which in this particular case meant standing still as the girl tribute was chosen.
"And the female tribute will be the lucky…Victoria Madsen!"
That's not ideal. Victoria knew better than to let her reaction show on her face. The Capitolites would be rewatching the Reaping footage over and over again to decide who to bet on, as well as who to consider for sponsorship. She needed a high predicted placement. She needed to look unruffled and grab their attention, and she needed to be quick about it. Immediately, she pasted a bemused smile onto her face, raising an eyebrow as if to say Reaping me? Delightful, but aww, you shouldn't have. She nodded solemnly, as if acknowledging the great prize she was being graced with, then made her way up to the stage.
Aurelius prompted her to shake hands with Dana, who she learned she was supposed to call Danny now, and then they were both shooed into the Justice Building, where upon Danny peeling off to find a visitation chamber, Victoria immediately began grilling Aurelius for advice.
"Excuse me," she began in a pleasant tone, "But I need some strategy advice."
"Already? Well, fire away. I like inquisitive tributes." Thank goodness.
"I'm going to create a persona for the benefit of my competitors, and for the audience. How exactly do I successfully pull that off?"
"Well," Aurelius said, thrilled to finally have a proactive student to tutor, "You need to establish a character. Someone that will become an intimate friend of the viewership. You need to give her a backstory different from your own, and a nickname, and discrete traits to mask your own. I get the feeling you're not quite what you want people to see you as. Come up with a convincing cover that shares enough of the real facts to make your alter ego seem realistic. I think she should be like your older sister's friend who's mysterious and cool but still has inside jokes with you, because she's just that darn nice."
"That sounds perfect. I think I'll name her—or rename myself—Vica. If that's possible."
"It sure is. Any reason behind the name?"
My family used to…
"Playground. Victoria's a little long for name games."
"Aurelius was too. Those silly little jump rope rhymes never came out right."
"I know the feeling."
"Yeah, right. I don't believe you, Vica."
"Huh?" How did he know?
"Saying 'I know' or "I feel you' makes you sound like a liar, even if you're telling the truth. Either change the subject or offer an example. Either way, a tangent makes a good distraction. Never spin an elaborate fib on the spot, chances are you'll panic and it won't end up tracking with the other things you've made up. You're always being interviewed. Every time you chat with someone in Hunger Games, you're putting yourself under scrutiny. Play it safe. Don't lie unless you absolutely must. In every lie, include a kernel of truth. The simpler the lie, the more believable it is."
"Thank you for helping me."
"It's my job. I'm happy to coach you, but I won't be with you in training, or in the arena, so I hope you're a fast learner."
"I am." Vica was thrilled with the outcome of the discussion. Subterfuge had never been her forte, she had always favored hiding in plain sight. Unfortunately, the flash of the cameras would leave no room for errors, and direct fabrication would be her only route in the pre-Games, at least unless she wanted everyone to know her, and not Vica, the patsy she'd be masquerading as. The more friendly supervision she had, the smaller the likelihood of her making a mistake and spoiling her hard work.
Vica Madsen might not have had a family, but by gum, she would have a Victory.
Flossie Merveilleuse, 38
Gamemaker Control Room, Capitol
Chief Tribute Coordinator
July 1, 329 AEDD
Flossie hadn't kept her job for this long by asking questions, but as Nikolai Fassnacht sat her down and placed a note in a familiar code in front of her, she couldn't help but inquire, "Why are you showing this to me?"
"Anadyr said you could be trusted. They told me to bring it to you, so I did."
"I'm assuming that they decoded it for you."
"Yes. They said you would recognize it."
"I do."
"What does the first line say?"
"ANADYR, BE A DEAR AND TELL NIKOLAI FASSNACHT THE FOLLOWING, VERBATIM:."
"Correct, carry on."
"INVESTIGATE CONDUCTOR TWENTY-THREE
PLACE FAITH IN THE ALBACORE DYNASTY
AND I VOW TO ENSURE YOUR LEGACY
PREVAILS WHERE IT HAS ETERNALLY STOOD
FOR IVAN HAS INFORMED ME THAT IT'S HE
WHO IS BOTH O'ER AND 'NEATH THE SILVER HOOD
AND OPPORTUNISTIC DUMOUCHELS COULD
SET UP KAZIMIR'S COMPANION WHICH WOULD
POTENTIALLY BE YOUNG WILL'S GAME CHANGER
ENTER THE WORLD OF TREACHERY FOR GOOD
PREPARE TO PUT JOHN DOE IN DEEP DANGER
BECAUSE POLITICS IS SUCH A CIRCUS
AND YOU ARE ABOUT TO BECOME THE FOOL.
SINCERELY,
KAIYA ALBACORE."
"Now, I'd like to know how you learned this code. It could be important."
"Alright, so this is a common District Four cipher. It's traditionally taught to Academy trainees in case they need to communicate with each other in the Capitol without the Ones or Twos knowing what they're talking about. I've intercepted a lot of notes over the years, and I consider it a priority to know what the tributes in my care are discussing at all times, so I learned it too. It's par for the course for the Fours, but I've never seen a tribute from another district use it. I wonder how it got here."
"Believe me, so do I. I already figured out the Conductor 23 part, since that's a Peacekeeper ID factor, and I understand the John Doe reference. I get the circus/fool pun. You know, like a clown? But what I can't quite wrap my head around is why she used circus and fool as descriptors when there are so many other ways to describe falling into a political trap. I know all about Kazimir and his companions. I understand the bit about my legacy and what she's implying. And I understand the silver hood part too. What I'm not sure about is the middle section about the DuMouchels. Do you have any idea what that's meant to say?"
"Me? No, why would I?" Flossie lied.
"You're lying," Nikolai said in an only slightly accusatory tone. "Come on, Flossie. Tell me what you know."
"I don't know anything."
"Don't be coy. Tell me what you heard."
"Fine. You got me. I heard that Konstance is planning to overthrow Willoughby, claim the presidency for herself, and kill you and everyone else from the current administration."
"And you didn't tell me."
"It was only the cook who said it! Eurydice brought her staff to make the food when she was over here using the conference hall for meeting the mentors. I was over here for a bit to check in with Konstance about the Reaping schedule, and well, the chef was being gossipy, I guess. It was only what, two days ago? I got shot at. There were other things on my mind."
"Flossie."
"I'm sorry, I really am. But there's one other thing he said. You won't like it, and it's probably unrelated, but as long as you brought up this guy, I mean…"
"Flossie. Spit it out, please."
"He was laughing about beating one of Eurydice's Avoxes." Nikolai took a deep breath.
"Alright. Thank you so much. You've been very helpful. You're free to go. Have fun fixing up the tributes' rooms, okay? I know you love arranging the cushions."
"I do love arranging the cushions, thank you. Have a good day."
"You too." Flossie obediently rose from the table and began heading for the Tribute Center. Nikolai Fassnacht had been one of her colleagues for a long time, and she had a great deal of respect for him. They trusted each other, but she wouldn't say they were friends. Each wanted something out of the other that they weren't willing to give up, and that meant a strained relationship.
It had all started with two gloves that had once belonged to Flossie. There was the white one with the red lipstick print and the red one with the little white pills. There was the sabotage. And then there was the fight.
And then, so many years later, there was this mysterious message that made the long-forgotten things start coming back to her. She delved deep into the confines of her memory-prison and paced the perimeter in slow circles. She heard her shoes click on the stone sidewalk of the pedestrian path as she made her way to the center. She arranged the cushions in the tribute suites and fished around in her mind for a takeaway, and bit by bit, it dawned on her that the center of the issue was Ivan Cardozo. Ivan was collecting information useful to both Nikolai and Konstance, and was waiting to see which side would turn out more favorable for him before taking action. Ivan was a turncoat in the making, and that made him dangerous, so Flossie had to do something about that.
The solution? Lobster. Clearly.
Flossie wasn't stupid. She needed someone on her side. She didn't want Eurydice or Will. She didn't want Nikolai or Pandora. She didn't even want Konstance. What Flossie needed in an ally was someone with extraordinary influence and minimal oversight. Willoughby Shakira was the perfect person. But Flossie was getting ahead of herself. She had to stop Ivan Cardozo from lording this power over everyone else before it was too late, and she had to act fast. But before she did that, she needed to make sure that everything was set up for the tributes.
All of a sudden, her comm system lit up with activity. Jacqueline Muriel's voice crackled over her earpiece and her electronic wristband dinged with the sound of a document transfer. She watched as the loading bar began to fill up. "Tributes have been selected for Twelve, Eleven, Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, and Three," said Jacqueline. "Connecting you with escort Stefania, District Twelve, for confirmation of tribute profile info." The audio cut as the call transferred.
"Hello, this is Stefania. Tribute Twenty-Four, legal name Nikita Valeta, preferred name Nikita Valeta, classified as male, self-labels as male, slot name District Twelve Male, age eighteen, confirmed. Tribute Twenty-Three, legal name Aspen Silvius…" The wristband dinged again, the document opening automatically. The first thing Flossie saw was the header Tribute Twenty-Four, followed by a rather blurry, unflattering picture taken by a Capitol photographer of the Valeta boy's face as the escort walked him to the Justice Building. There were more notes below it. Relevant observations: On Peacekeeper deployment in District Twelve. Originates from District Two. Panemian standard sizes approximated as following: Shirt–Med-Large Slim. Trousers–Large Slim. Shoes–Eleven Reg. Tribute mood at present: appears calm but displays mild signs of positive anticipation. Temperament and behavioral notes: Particularly well-mannered compared to former tributes of the district; I believe this is due to his more civilized inner-district upbringing. Tidy eating habits. Fondness of order. Explicit support of Capitol. Positive response upon lottery selection at Reaping Ceremony.
There was a second portion of the document as well, labeled Tribute Twenty-Three, with an even more unflattering photo of Aspen mid-faint, being carried by a Peacekeeper. Relevant observations: Experienced anxiety-induced unconsciousness episode during Reaping Ceremony, has since come to. No medical intervention necessary. Panemian standard sizes approximated as following: Shirt–Med Reg. Trousers–Med Reg. Shoes–Eight Reg. Tribute mood at present: currently inactive but visibly displeased. Appears concerned, presumably for self. Temperament and behavioral notes: Seems to bottle up her stronger emotions. Pessimistic. A known rebel. (Yes, I am certain; I checked with Local Head Peacekeeper Albertine.) Has the lack of etiquette we've all come to expect from District Twelve's tributes. Unfashionable.
Flossie leapt into action. "Yes, Stefania, the doc came up. Thank you. I do apologize, but Cake is waiting, and I need to beep her. Yes, kiss kiss, buh-bye. Hello, Cake! Yes, I am here. No, I haven't received the incoming doc popup–oop, I lied, it's here now. Tribute confirmation?"
"Tribute Twenty-Two, legal name J. Pace, preferred name Pace, classified as male, self-labels as nonbinary, slot name District Eleven Tribute, age twelve, confirmed. Make a note, please, that Pace uses they/them pronouns and would rather be referred to mononymously. Tribute Twenty-One…"
Flossie took plenty of notes, because Flossie was a professional. It wasn't her place to make judgements about the tributes. It was her place to provide them with spacious, homey, and tasteful accommodations, well-fitting clothes, timely transportation, delicious and nutritious food, and all the possessions they needed to have a comfortable stay in the Capitol during the pre-Games. She knew that she'd receive more information, both through the escorts and the mentors, stylists, and prep teams who would help guide them, but at the moment, she took special care to write down and record the things that might require particular treatment or care.
Nikita was used to a high quality of living, had good manners, and seemed Career-ish in nature, because of his childhood in Two, so he had to be treated as such.
Aspen was a rebel with an attitude problem, which, if left unchecked, could turn into a PR nightmare.
Pace needed to be gendered correctly, and knowledge of their pronouns needed to reach everyone who might refer to or interact with them.
Xanthe seemed to have some kind of strange spiritual thing, so an inquiry had to be made into any potential requirements for prayer, dietary restrictions, or the like.
Fahad was a drunkard and threw up at the Reaping, so that meant addiction medication, to prevent Potential PR Nightmare 2.0.
Mare was a natural in the spotlight, so Flossie decided that information should get passed on to her stylist and prep team sooner rather than later.
Jeremiah had his own weird deal going on, but he was much larger than most tributes, so Flossie sent a memo of advance warning to his stylist and prep team too.
Maize was shy and got nervous at large gatherings, so the Social Anxiety Protocol had to be set in motion.
Kenny was also a known rebel, and Potential PR Nightmare Number Three, so something had to be done about that as well.
Ash didn't present a whole lot of problems, but she did seem tired, so Flossie spontaneously decided to put a weighted blanket in her room in case it might help.
Tom was terribly underfed, and required some serious fattening up, as well as medical attention for his raw knuckles.
Danny, otherwise known as Yet Another Potential PR Nightmare, could definitely not be referred to as Dana Madison, ever, so he'd get the same treatment as Pace.
Vica was another apparently low-maintenance tribute, but had apparently gone straight for the ice cream the escort offered, so Flossie figured a sundae bar at dinner would be nice.
Aran's escort had specifically requested extra-nice and extra-special treatment for him, and Flossie wasn't going to ask questions. (She hadn't kept her job for this long by asking questions.)
Amy clearly had a love for luxury also, so that was fine and convenient, extra-special treatment for the both of them.
Beemo was also largely unremarkable, but unusually overweight for a District Three kid, so Flossie went the Jeremiah route and sent another memo of advance warning.
Twyla was also unremarkable, but not overweight, so Flossie decided to just be grateful that her last tribute for a bit was another easy one.
Then, of course, it would be time for the Careers, usually the most demanding of the whole lot. She sat down and sent an Avox for a glass of water. By the time it arrived and she tipped it up to her lips, her wristband was dinging again and her earpiece crackled with the voice of Sterling, the escort for District Four. "Flossie? Flossie, you there?" She cleared her throat.
"Yes, Sterling. I am here. Tribute confirmation?"
"Tribute Eight, legal name Nathaniel Lewis…"
: D