District 2 Pre-Reapings

TW: Contains mentions of suicide, self harm, depression and bullying

Disclaimer: The song lyrics in Mia's POV are adapted from Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift, although I tweaked them slightly to reflect how they might've changed over centuries due to errors in passing down the lyrics. I do not own the song or anything to do with it, full credit goes to Taylor for the song.

MAXIMON VULCAN (17)

DISTRICT TWO MALE

You have to do whatever it takes to be the best.

His father had drilled that into his head from a young age, never letting him forget it throughout his time at the Hadley Academy. Daily reminders of what needed to be done were fed into his mind, constant orders to complete tasks that were of the utmost importance, neverending urges to unleash an arsenal of fury if it meant getting his way.

And while Maximon didn't always heed them, he knew that from time to time, his father might just be right.

He grabbed the rusted, steel doorknob of the front door, located not too far away from the sofa-bed he normally slept on, and twisted it, creaking the oak door open and unleashing a sudden blast of frigid air that hammered right into his face, the loud swoosh of cool wind rattling through his eardrums. Zipping up his jacket, Maximon took a deep breath as a small chill crept up his spine.

But it was not because of the cold.

The chilly, mountain peaks of District Two came into view as Maximon stepped forward, into a world that was frigid and mysterious even in the midst of a summer that seemed to be unfashionably late to the party, a world that was shrouded in ghost-grey mist, a world where the blackness of the night reigned supreme, with its only opponents being the dimly-lit oil street lamps that lined the winding mountain roads. The roads, unpaved with the exception of the ones closer to the base of the mountains, stretched further beyond what the eye could see, all the way up to the peaks that were like a row of sky-piercing arrow tips. Tonight was a foggy night, the soupy haze swirling across the sky, a spirited shield from the blazing stars above. The moonlight was not spared from the fog either, and for the first time in a while, Maximon failed to find any trace of the moon, which had seemingly been struck down by the fog and could not greet the people of Two with its presence.

A quiet, intimidating scene, where shadows ruled and secrets thrived.

Certainly, a walk through these roads in the dead of night, a night in which even the crickets had gone silent as if in abject fear of the haunts that lay in wait, it was not a task for the faint-hearted.

But Maximon adored such blissful silence.

His house was a ruckus, the five loud brothers that roamed within the cramped rooms never quite being able to shut up, the loud clamour and rowdy, raucous mayhem pulsating for what seemed like an infinite eternity before night fell and their energies were drained away, lulling them into a quiet slumber.

These were the times when Maximon could truly be at peace.

It was also a time when Maximon could sneak out of the house and carry out the plan he had crafted in his mind a few days ago, when that horrible jock Alvaro Creed had been chosen as volunteer ahead of him, the rightful nominee. After all, Maximon had worked hard, he had obeyed the rules, followed instructions, and had by far been the better trainee.

But Alvaro and that foul little bastard Lysander had ruined his golden moment, his childhood dream of being chosen as the volunteer.

All it had taken was a substance spiked in his drink for Maximon to erupt in a severe vomiting spree right in front of the less-than-impressed Victor and head of the Academy, Draco Hadley, who quickly berated him for his lack of self-control and absence of discipline and forced him to run twenty laps around the track, a punishment that would take the fight out of him ahead of his final clashes against Alvaro and Lysander that were set to seal the crown of the volunteer.

He inevitably lost in a furious burst of anger, and the position of being the 'third-choice volunteer' was one that wasn't exactly met very well by the people around him.

Maximon passed by the old, rotting fence that led to the shabby old cottage, one filled with overgrown armies of moss and fungi, and yet recently bought by a Capitolite woman by the name of 'Duske Lindelof', who Maximon had neither seen nor heard of before, nor had he heard any word of her ever since she'd bought the place. According to his brother, he'd heard from Lyme, Two's most recent Victor, that she was a dark, moody person with a thirst for vengeance.

Well, they had something in common, in that regard.

Maximon's foot brushed past the fence, the old shingles of wood brushing against his skin, causing him to finch. The small vial in his jacket began to wobble dangerously, and Maximon had to bite back a curse as it took a swan dive out of his pocket and towards the rocky ground below.

NO!

That vial was his only hope, his one chance of getting that coveted volunteer spot. Breaking it would mean the end of everything as he knew it. He reached out a hand, diving to the ground, a frantic look blazed across his normally calm, calculating face, his heartbeat pausing its work for a second to look on in fearful anticipation. His foot stumbled against a loose rock and he tripped, but not before his fingers closed around the bottle, just inches away from the gravel. Maximon tumbled to the ground, landing right next to a street lamp. He resisted a groan whilst lying on his back, his ankle covered in cuts after landing on some thorny plants, but that didn't matter to him.

The vial was safe.

He brought it closer to his eye level, squinting slightly to block out the faint glare of the oil lamp right above his head, examining the precious contents within that held the winds of fate in their chemical composition.

This had taken him weeks to prepare, a special concoction he had crafted in the off chance he lost to Alvaro and Lysander.

The liquid itself looked dark and gloomy in the dead of night, a potion befitting one of a ruthless mercenary, an elixir that had been given unprecedented powers over fate. In the daylight, it usually took on a less sinister appearance, bearing the sunny, cheerful colour normally associated with orange juice, a favourite amongst young teens in the Career Academy who were below the legal drinking age of fifteen in Two.

A favourite amongst most, except for Maximon.

A bitter mark ebbed in his heart as he got to his feet and continued along the road, his lips pursing when a certain memory was unwillingly given passage into the showreel of his mind.

It had been Maximon's first day at the Academy, a moment that most in Two would regard as the happiest day of their lives, being greeted personally by the legendary, revered icons known as the Victors, who often had to make long trips to far-flung townships just to visit each and every Academy; being able to step into the hallowed halls of their local Academy, filled with pride and a treasured past full of honour and glory; having the opportunity to partake in fighting classes for the very first time, a step in the right direction for the would-be killers.

But for Maximon, it was an experience marred by The Jocks.

That was what Alvaro and his clique called themselves, and in truth, they were the very definition of a stereotypical jock group. There were five of them, Alvaro, Lysander, Lupin, Esmerelda and Helena, five towering, muscular young children, five foul-breathed beasts who exhaled confidence and arrogance, five titans in possession of incredible looks and charisma. They were the kings and queens of the cohort, the ones often being given special training and attention, the ones who dominated and tormented the other children, the ones who never allowed themselves to show even a bit of weakness.

The cruel beasts who made sure to drench Maximon in orange juice and chuck it up his nose in front of all the recruits on that horrible first day.

Maximon gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on the vial. A lingering voice in his head told him that if he applied any more pressure onto the fragile glass, it would shatter, along with his hopes of a future. Hastily, Maximon stuffed it back into his pocket, right beside the small pouch containing another key ingredient in his master plan.

A fragment of a sneer bloomed upon his face.

Oh, they weren't going to be ready for him.

Alvaro's house was within sight now. Maximon quickened his pace, but also took special care to ensure he didn't shuffle his feet or draw too much attention to himself. The lights were still on, the brute of a dumbass having forgotten to switch them off yet again before prancing off on one of his nighttime runs to Brutus's tavern, where the famed Victor still worked and performed to entertain the masses. Admittedly, Maximon had taken a liking to Brutus, who unlike many of his Career counterparts, seemed like a genuinely nice person, one who cared deeply about his wellbeing and had expelled Lupin, Esmerelda and Helena from the Academy a long while ago after numerous reports of bullying, reducing the power of The Jocks to a mere whimper of what they had once been. He never ceased to be able to make a crowd laugh, and Maximon had to confess that he would once in a blue moon allow an extremely rare giggle to escape his lips at one of Brutus's jokes.

But the tavern was not of concern right now, and neither was Brutus, who wouldn't be mentoring this year.

Maximon checked his watch. 10:30 p.m. Perfect, he thought to himself, edging closer and closer to the house, its window left wide open as usual. If his calculations and pattern observations were accurate, Maximon deduced that Alvaro would not be back home for another forty-five minutes.

That gave him ample time to execute his plan.

Giving the surroundings one last cautious glance, he climbed into the low window and into the small house where Alvaro lived, alone, in a comparatively quiet and serene place. Jealousy began to drip into Maximon's heart, intoxicating it with green envy. To be able to afford a house of your own, away from your parents, in a less crowded part of town, where everything was nice and quiet, with no siblings or merchants poisoning the air with their loud noises, now this was a lifestyle he wanted to lead.

You'll get that life once you become a Victor, he told himself firmly. Now don't be an idiot and focus.

Maximon hopped onto the floor of the living room, taking a quick glance around, his eyes scanning the fairly large area, filled with sporting equipment of all shapes and sizes. The air was rife with the putrid stench of unwashed clothes after a long day at the Grand Gymnasium, the floor littered with wastepaper and food wrappers, the tables stacked with crude doodles of Alvaro being portrayed as the greatest sportsman of all time, a title that had been self-given, and one that Maximon never ceased to have a nice, long laugh at.

His arrogance was truly a remarkable work of art sometimes.

Having hailed from a family with profound wealth, Alvaro had been orphaned at the age of twelve, although he had never once taken any time to mourn or grieve his parents' demise, and there were rumours circulating the air that it had been the young, reckless Alvaro who had done the cold-blooded deed.

Maximon himself believed in them. After all, how else could Alvaro have explained the specks of blood on his shoe the morning after their murder was announced? A bit of evidence that may have evaded the eyes of most, but Maximon was sharp as an eagle.

Now, Alvaro would feel true pain, just as his parents had all those years ago. Maximon marched over to Alvaro's coffee table, three chairs placed around it, two of which would never again have an occupant. On top of the table was a small chalice, one that was hand-painted by the rather artsy Lupin. The paint had flaked over time, but the intricate depictions of scenes in past Games were still clear enough, a small window to the past when Two had tasted victory in combat. Maximon could identify Draco triumphantly holding up his spear, Brutus sprinting across the bamboo forest, Freya barking orders as she duelled a pack of mutts, and many more grandiose drawings, all laid out on this one, singular chalice.

But it was the liquid within that Maximon was concerned about.

An orange concoction, with tiny strands of pulp floating about like tiny bits of white driftwood, the liquid swirling about in tiny whirlpools, unleashing a fragrant aroma that invaded Maximon's lungs.

The perfect place to pour his poison into.

Maximon did what had to be done, and then quietly slipped away into the shadows of the night, making sure to sprinkle strands of Lysander's hair, collected over a month and sealed within a plastic bag, so that when the time came, a culprit could be caught.

As Maximon ran off towards his house, a small smirk brimming with cunning malevolence flashed across his lips.

He had done what was necessary to be the best.

MIA KELLER (18)

DISTRICT TWO FEMALE

Mia was picking up the pieces of her life.

She was still, by all means, a broken soul, one whose inner being had been shattered from past trauma and events that a little toddler should never be faced with.

But slowly, steadily, the cracks and wounds inside her heart were beginning to heal, as if a spiritual tonic had been injected into her body.

She glanced to her side at Alyaa, her adopted sister, who was humming quietly to herself as she scrubbed a ceramic plate, her hair left unbrushed as usual, her eyes weary from a long day at the Training Centre, her hands moving swiftly with an air of elegance about her movements.

Mia could still remember the day Alyaa had first stumbled into the Training Centre, a gaunt girl with a pallid, bleary-eyed face. She was covered in bruises, and her clothing was haggard, something those jerks Alvaro and Lysander had quickly picked up on.

But one feature in particular caught Mia's eye. It was the way Alyaa looked frightened to talk to anyone, the way she flinched whenever someone came too close, the way her eyes widened at certain cues and triggers, all of it added up to one, singular conclusion.

Trauma.

A feeling that Mia had known all too well.

Alyaa had stuck out like a sore thumb as she staggered in, straight towards the Main Office, where thankfully both the over-patriotic Draco and stern Freya were absent, having left the more kindhearted Ragnar and Scipio in charge.

She didn't make it far.

Alvaro had pounced on her, like a hunter taking advantage of wounded prey, and he began to torment her, dishing out his most appalling arsenal of insults and curses, pushing her about like she was a rag doll, dumping orange juice until she was soaked and shivering, her clothes utterly ruined by the liquid.

Lyme had to tear them away from the poor, sobbing girl, but by then half of the Academy had begun jeering at her, making a crude mockery of the little girl.

Mia knew she simply had to step in, to put a stop to all of this.

Years later, she had sealed their official sisterhood, two orphaned children walking on the broken glass of their torrid past, hand in hand, a duo that would last the ages. With proper care, Alyaa had grown to become a strong, capable, fourteen-year-old girl with a knack for stealth and spear-throwing. A volunteer in the making, Ragnar had remarked that morning during training, although Mia had caught a glimpse of an unusual sadness in his eyes as he uttered those words.

He and Reyna were probably just going through a tough time, Mia decided, her thoughts drifting to momentarily to Reyna, the toymaker Victor who had been forced to volunteer by her trainers, and had never quite recovered from the guilt of killing children, the very people she had sought to care for.

But Mia, on the other hand, wasn't just a volunteer in the making.

She had already been selected as District Two's female volunteer for the Fifty-Third Hunger Games.

A fantastic honour that had been bestowed upon her, a moment of pride and jubilation for both Mia and Alyaa, as all those years of hard work, all the blood, sweat and tears, all the times she had pushed herself to the brink of collapse, it had finally paid off.

She could finally sink into the thought of having reaped the fruits of her labour.

And yet, the haunting ghosts of the pasts, the manic screams of her parents, the desolate reminders of her suicide attempts, they lingered on in the back of her mind.

Mia roughly shook her head, her jaw clenching with gritted teeth.

Tonight was not the night to dwell on those.

No, tonight would be a nice, peaceful night of enjoyment with her dear sister, before the Reapings tomorrow morning.

"Mia? Is everything alright?"

Mia looked down and realised that her sink was almost flooded.

Bloody hell.

She had zoned out yet again, lost in the Labyrinth of her thoughts and emotions, and had left the tap running as she was rinsing a cup, one that had once belonged to her dearly departed mother, a sentimental relic of the best moments of Mia's childhood. She hastily closed the tap and put the cup on the drying rack, taking a brief moment to stare at it for a while, admiring the words that had been engraved onto the cup, lyrics from an old song her mother had sung to her as they sat on the stump of a tree, gazing out at the sun resting over the tall, picturesque mountains, a scene that could have been plucked right out of one of Mia's old storybooks that her mother had fondly read to her before bedtime, a moment that would fill her mind with the most beautiful of dreams.

Shoot, she was zoning out again.

Blinking back a longing tear, she forced herself to smile as she turned to Alyaa, who donned a concerned expression as she wiped a soaked plate. "I'm fine," Mia reassured her sister. "Just a little tired from training, that's all."

Alyaa scoffed, crossing her arms in an irritated stance. "I told you, you shouldn't have pushed yourself so damn hard. You could've gotten injured or sick before the big day tomorrow, you idiot."

Mia chuckled softly, giving Alyaa a slight eye roll. "Don't worry about it, I'm fine."

Alyaa sighed, putting the plate onto the drying rack. Mia's eyes drifted towards it, and once again, she could feel her mind slipping away from the present, launching itself unwillingly into the endless maze of broken feelings.

Just three days ago, on a sleepless night, as the old clock down in the living room struck midnight, Mia had raised that same plate to her head, ready to smash it against her temple, a painful prelude to the leap that she was almost ready to take, a final soar into the night for the girl who had been told stories of fire-breathing dragons on the night her mother had jumped off this same rooftop.

Only Alyaa's ringing laughter resonating like chimes in the folds of her mind had saved her.

She cursed herself for even dwelling on that horrible moment, for even bothering to slip off into the trudge to a potential suicide that dreadful night, when she had allowed the voices within to seize control over her.

"Mia, you coming?"

Once again, Alyaa's voice, now sounding a little impatient, awoke her from her trance. Alyaa had gone over to the creaky, wooden staircase that led to their bedroom, one they shared together, although neither minded one bit. Mia pinched herself, biting her lip hard so the pain would block out any more traumatic flashbacks.

Hopefully, she would have fewer of those in the Capitol, where there would certainly be fewer triggers.

She followed Alyaa up the staircase, their steps producing a cacophony of creaks upon the old wood.

Once Mia could be crowned Victor, they would reside in a bigger, better house, with staircases that weren't creaky.

Mia nearly lost her balance as her foot stepped on a tiny puddle of orange juice on the floor of the landing, her own fault since she was the only one in the house who drank the popular beverage for teens. Alyaa preferred berry juice, a much more expensive commodity in The Fanatic, the crowded main bazaar of the city, however they could make their own berry juice using berries harvested from the nearby Marjorie Lake, a relatively short trek from the Academy. Going on trips around the vast mountain ranges of District Two was something both Mia and Alyaa had always enjoyed, and they savoured all the blissful moments they could enjoy together, cherishing the respite from the endless assault of trauma that they were faced with on a daily basis.

And going camping in the woods was a lot better than standing on the roof contemplating suicide.

Alyaa hopped onto her mattress, one that was quite worn out, but it didn't matter since they would be getting brand new ones once Mia was a Victor, ones that were of premium, superb quality, imported straight from the Capitol, a luxurious indulgence that was fitting of a Victor.

Mia sat beside Alyaa, a warm, gentle smile painted on her face as she watched her sister pull her thin blanket over her body, her legs shivering from the cold, mountain air that howled relentlessly outside, as if they were phantoms of their dark pasts seeking to haunt them. Alyaa shuddered, the look in her eyes contorting with fear as the winds continued to echo through the night. Mia put her hands over Alyaa's ears, and her expression softened.

The winds had howled in a similar manner on the night Alyaa's parents tucked her into bed for the final time, singing one last lullaby to calm the little girl terrified of the ferocity of the winds.

Not ten minutes later, they would be torn away from their wailing, screaming daughter by the Peacekeepers, the very people who were supposed to protect them.

The winds had never failed to unsettle Alyaa ever since.

After a minute or so, the winds subsided, quietening to a soft whoosh, a more gentle tone about it as it swayed the trees outside their window. Mia slowly removed her hands from Alyaa's ears, and her younger sister flashed her a grateful smile. "Thank you."

Mia gently stroked her sister's immaculate brown hair, the colour resembling that of the trees that stood tall and mighty around this District. Her hair was rather pretty, cascading gracefully in willowy strands down Alyaa's back. The light and energy dimmed in Alyaa's eyes, and she let out an exhausted yawn, one she tried but failed to hide from Mia.

"Time for bed, Alyaa," Mia whispered softly.

"I'm not tired," Alyaa protested, her eyes glinting like daggers, but the fight was quickly draining out of them, as sleepiness and fatigue began to seep in.

Mia sighed, shaking her head slightly. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths as she readied her voice for what was to come next.

"I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you drown," she sang, her voice soft, mellow, wistful, conveying the song that she had heard her mother sing once upon a bygone time, one her mother claimed had been passed down for generations upon generations in Salt Lake City by word of mouth. The exact origins of the song were unclear, to say the least. Not even Ragnar or Reyna knew, and they were Victors who Mia expected would have access to exclusive Capitol documents regarding Panem's history.

Apparently not, she thought to herself, recalling the puzzled looks the Victor couple gave her when she asked about a time before Panem was founded.

At any rate, Alyaa's ears instantly pricked up when she heard the song. It was as though she had heard a piece of great news, with her face lighting up like the lights around town during the Winter Festival, an annual holiday celebrated throughout District Two on the twenty-fifth of December, once again, with unclear origins. A smile spread across Alyaa's lips as she joined Mia in singing the old tune.

"When all their shadows took away your life. I remember you said don't leave me here to drown. But all your friends have flown and passed, tonight…"

Their voices sang in perfect harmony, even if Mia's was just a bit off-tune. Alyaa, on the other hand, possessed a wonderful, angelic voice, one that was so incredible, it felt like charmspeak at times. The pair continued to sing the rest of the song, and Mia grabbed the tiny ukulele sitting on a dusty corner of the room, and she did her very best to attempt to play it, even if she had never been good at playing any sort of musical instrument. Alyaa couldn't either, the little girl possessing even less of an ability when it came to the ukulele than Mia. Yet, they still kept this item, one that could have been sold for a high price at the Fanatic Bazaar, since it was one that had belonged to Alyaa's father, a man who frequently performed it at local taverns in exchange for tips from the impressed crowds that often flocked to watch him play.

The sentimental value was too much for them to let it go.

Soon, two voices became one, as Alyaa drifted off to a deep slumber, her eyes conceding to weariness and shutting, her muscles relaxing as she curled up on her mattress, quietly snoring.

Mia felt a warm glow emit in her heart as she watched her little sister sleep. For the second time that week, she could hear nothing from the voices that regularly plagued her mind, nor could she feel the deep throbbing and aching of her permanently wounded heart.

Maybe her life was finally piecing itself together.

A/N: How far can Maximon and Mia go? Who do you want to see featured in the Goodbyes? And what do you think of the Victors from Two (since they feature a fair bit here)? Let me know your thoughts in the reviews! Thank you to EvanPengu for Maximon and MeTheFanatic19 for Mia, they were both great even though I had a bit of rustiness to shake off as I was writing their POVs, which I apologise if it shows here. I'm really sorry for the lack of updates or a good schedule, life has been really busy and over the week I had a headache after an incident while playing football, so I had to push back the update date. I'm so so sorry and I'll try not to do that again but unfortunately, I can make no promises. Hope you enjoyed this nonetheless, and just a heads up, there will be a check-in in the next chapter, I really do need to gauge how many people are still reading and who they are, for future purposes. Anyway, that's a wrap for today, stay cool, stay safe and I'll see you guys next time for District One, the final Pre-Reapings! Cheers :)