Thanks to Lisan Al Gaib, critixu, amadeusss9, CrocodileReader431, ladyqueerfoot, Dani H. Danvers, FrostyShadow, dyloccupy, Singular Scissor, livinginadream0, & Cori Anna for the reviews! Responding to them today! Sorry for the delay on that, I've been blasting through these Reapings!

Enjoy!

Chapter IV The Reapings Part 4

District 7

"BREACH!"

An explosion rocked through the defunct lumber mill, causing an equally loud explosion of voices from the vagrants, homeless, and outcasts of District 7 who called it home. Many had been on the ground near the double wide doors, caught up in the initial blast. One person, an elderly man, was screaming as shrapnel from the rotted wooden door pierced his body. Another kneeled over, rubbing her eyes in vain to banish her blindness from the blast. A third and fourth were dead, shrapnel and the shockwave piercing their bodies at the right angles and causing death.

Werifesteria Grosvener's eyes were open immediately, on her feet and looking for the explosion's source. It was downstairs, at the main entrance. Peacekeepers were storming in, rifles raised and in combat attire. They made their way through the breach, screaming garbled orders that nobody could make out until one broke through.

"Round them up!"

Fest was immediately in survival mode.

Everyone was fleeing, even if they had no reason to. Peacekeepers couldn't be trusted to be discerning or merciful. A raid was a raid and they'd take anyone they pleased. Thanks to some planning, Fest was in an optimal position to escape. She had claimed a small corner of a former office on the second floor, which overlooked the main work floor and had access to an exit out the back. She had planned her exit six days ago when she arrived, a common theme as she remained on the run.

And she'd need it. The fog from the explosion and Peacekeeper's smoke grenade was clearing, and Fest was able to make out their features and, worst of all, their orders. Projecting from their rifles were hologram images, the latest new toy for Peacekeepers from District 3. Projecting faces of those who were Wanted by the law, making it easy to find them and match. Even from a distances, Fest could see one of the rotating images of a young girl, fifteen years of age, black straight hair and blue eyes and horrible burns that covered her body.

It was her without her disguise.

She was running now, making her way towards the back of the building and to her escape route, her feet clattering against the metal panels beneath her on the raised balcony. As she fled, Peacekeepers were cuffing and battering people below, immune to their pleas and screams. Fest was too, focused on her own survival. As she fled, someone was running up the stairs, trying to go for the same exit as her.

Not a chance in hell.

A metal pipe, discarded from whomever, was laying nearby, Fest quickly snatched it up and cut off the fleeing man.

"Move! Plea-" The man managed to get out, before Fest slammed the pipe squarely into his chest. The man puffed out a breath and fell backwards down the stairs, slamming into pursing Peacekeepers.

Enough time for Fest to escape their notice.

Into another room and out a window, Fest flung herself out and onto a rickety, sheet metal roof. She ran across it, ignoring the screams from inside the abandoned mill, and jumped down to the ground, grunting in pain from the height of the jump. She limped away and fled into the surrounding forest, out of breath.

Eventually she made it far enough that the sounds of conflict vanished and she could only hear the cries of birds and the light drizzle of morning rain against the branches above. She settled down underneath a tree before checking out her leg. She gently massaged it, happy it didn't feel like anything was broken or twisted.

She slammed a fist into a tree root, furious with her current predicament. A month ago she had been living in the lap of luxury and had everything she wanted. Then the Peacekeepers suddenly decided that a bunch of gang members who died under "mysterious circumstances" were the most important people in the world and went about messing up her life. Now she was stuck in this stupid forest running from the stupid Peacekeepers.

She closed her eyes, escaping into her past briefly. She wasn't one for flights of fantasy, but that morning she needed it. Just a month ago she had been in her late adoptive father's home, sitting by the fire and drinking an expensive alcohol he had smuggled into the District. Her vengeance had been complete, life was good. Then, Peacekeepers arrived and she had to flee. Through the rumor mill she figured out the reason and cursed them all.

This was no way to live for her though. None at all. So, she had a plan.

It was a horrible, rotten plan.

But it sure beat running for the rest of her life.

And the noose.

It was odd, Wolf thought, how life and time worked. Most days it was just a struggle, wake up, scrounge something up to eat, work, eat again, and then sleep and repeat. Nothing felt special about the day to day. Nothing unique. Yet, eighteen year old Wolfram found that everyone had invisible markers that they lived their lives around. Before and after points that defined how a person was and where they were going.

For Wolfram Fray, his were dictated by his father's.

The hounds were out in the yard, yapping up a storm. A fight was breaking out in one corner of the yard. Teeth gnashed, growls grew pitched, and biting followed. One combatant, bit in the leg, yipped loudly and submitted, the dominant one barking harshly and asserting his strength. The dogs around them scattered, sufficiently cowed by him.

Wolf made a note of the fight. The winner would be up for a hunt soon. The Fray's were the kennel masters for the Peacekeepers of District 7, responsible for the dogs that Peacekeepers would use for guard duty and hunts in the forest for fresh meat. The breed in the yard today however wouldn't be used for anything so pedestrian. These hounds were bred for the purpose of hunting Mutts that had been deployed in the Dark Days against rebels and left unchecked afterwards. Every now and then the Peacekeepers would head out and hunt a bunch, taking back the twisted pelts as trophies.

Wolf was convinced they could just wipe all the Mutts at once if they wanted. But having Mutts out there, and District citizens unarmed and unable to defend themselves kept people in line.

The dogs used for Mutt hunts were hardly dogs themselves, bred over three generations – with the evolutionary "nudge" provided by Capitol scientists – to be perfect hunters and respond to only certain commands. These dogs had no fur, walking around the yard in thick, pink skins and with claws and teeth too large for normal dogs. Wolf thought they yelled so much because they were in pain or, if he was feeling particularly melancholic that day, knew on some level they were unnatural and lamented their tortured existence.

Wolf hated looking at them. But he also hated looking at the normal dogs. It had been them after all that had so messily shred his life into "before" and "after" and forever tied his life to them.

"Hey."

Behind him, Bernie was approaching. His younger sister never snuck up on him when he was around hounds, knowing how it spook him. She sat down next to him and handed him a dented cup with makeshift tea in it. He took it gladly and sipped, not minding the heat. It was a weak tea, made from water boiled for too long and little bits of root from around the District, but it was still nice.

"They're terrifying." Bernie commented.

"Yep."

"Who's your favorite?"

Wolf pointed to the hound in the corner who won the fight. "He'll be tearing Mutts to shreds soon."

"The Head Peacekeeper will love it."

"He'll give a bonus if I can get a "true alpha" from this litter." Wolf informed her.

Bernie raised an eyebrow. "Is he aware that an "alpha" isn't a real thing among dogs?"

"Nope."

Bernie laughed while Wolf just grunted. He was glad his sister could still laugh though. Her and the twins. That's what made working with the dogs worth it.

"Father's still asleep." Bernie told him.

"Hmph." Wolf mere grumbled. He never wanted to talk about father. Let him drink off another bender and deal with his rage alone. At least he wasn't a violent drunk and only shouted at Wolf.

Having given the update, Bernie turned to something more fun. "I saw Boone walking around." She told him. "Seems like a nice guy."

Wolf shifted uncomfortably, sipping more of his tea. Bernie gave him a playful nudge. "What?" He asked. It came out harsh but Bernie knew him better and that he meant nothing by it.

"Just, you know, Wolfie… Me, the twins, even father, don't have an issue with it." Bernie said lightly.

Flustered, Wolf fell back on a comfortable response. "Hmph."

"Ok, just wanted to let you know, you grump. I'm going to get the twins ready for the Reaping. Want me to lay out your clothes?"

"Please. I'll be another hour." Wolf told her.

She let him be, wandering back to their home just a short distance away from the kennels. For a moment, Wolf allowed himself to indulge in thinking about asking Boone out. He had no idea what people did for date nights or really fun. His whole life was spent looking after the dogs, a life that should be his father's but had been thrust upon him. But, he kept food on the table for his siblings, a roof over their heads, and steady income. That's more than a lot of people could say.

He started making his rounds to the other yards, checking on the dogs. He knew the place well having spent his whole life here. He was a third generation kennel master at this point. His grandfather had been a Peacekeeper who, after his twenty years of service, decided to settle down in 7. Why he chose 7, Wolf and his father had no idea, but grandfather found a wife and a passion raising hounds for hunts and Peacekeepers. Wolf's own father showed the same aptitude and met his mother at twenty and married shortly afterwards.

Wolf whole life had been these kennels. He had no friends beyond them. No real reason for living beyond them either. The barks and yelps of the hounds, generation after generation, were his future and his grave would be a short distance away. Next to grandfather, grandmother, and his own mother.

His final stop, like always, was the yard eight. The hounds were out and Wolf gave the signal to bring them in. He tried not to look into the yard, still remembering the sights in there. The blood and tissue strewn about. He had grown numb to it, that's what he told himself and everyone, but he still didn't like to be near it. He didn't think it was that weird to not want to spend time around the sight where your mother was ripped to shreds by dogs.

He called the dogs in, caged them, and went on his way.

One final Reaping awaited him now.

Fest was surprised that nobody seemed to recognize her. She guessed a month on the run and her dyed blonde hair, also grown out and curled, did wonders. Still, if anyone saw the burn scars on her it'd be a give away. She never had friends, but everyone knew what had happened to the Grosvener family home and how she had been the only survivor.

The Reaping line was moving slower than usual, no doubt in part due to the rain and the mud it brought. It was insane to even be doing this, but Fest felt it was a good risk. A safe bet.

In front of her, a pack of girls were holding each other and crying. Fest observed them cooly, unable to muster sympathy or much of anything. Her whole life Fest had never been burdened by emotion, a gift she thought. Sure there was joy in vengeance, but fear? That wasn't something she knew, even when she was on the run.

When it was her turn, she approached the Peacekeeper casually and offered her finger without hesitation. A prick, a drop of blood, and her face popped up for check in.

Followed by nasty red letters with a warrant warning and one clear word: Homicide.

The Peacekeepers had her pinned quickly, shock batons out and primed. But Fest threw them a curveball before they could tase her.

"I'm volunteering for the Games!" Fest got out, voice raspy from damage.

This presented a conundrum that the Peacekeepets on site couldn't solve, so they passed it up to the Corporal in charge, who also vexed by it and sent it up the ladder until eventually the Head Peacekeeper had to get involved. He met Fest, who remained handcuffed and under guard, in a humid guard post next to the Reaping field.

The Head Peacekeeper flicked through the holograms in front of him, reading her warrants. He let out a whistle as he finished. "That's a lot of dead bodies." He commented. "Your own daddy too?"

"Adoptive father." Fest corrected.

"Still your daddy, girl. And now you wanna go into the Games? You're crazy."

"Enough to win." Fest replied, voice deep and distorted.

The Head Peacekeeper shrugged, unimpressed. "I'm from District 2. You know how many of my idiotic peers ran to their deaths in the Games convinced they'd win? But hey, I don't mind cheating the hangman. And if you win, you owe me."

And that was that. Fest was brought into the Reaping yard with three Peacekeepers on her and then forced to kneel in the mud next to the fifteen year olds. The Reapings proceeded and when the girl's name was called the Peacekeepers knocked her into the mud, gun to her temple.

"Well go ahead, killer." The Head Gamemaker mocked.

"I volunteer!" Fest roared, furious to be in such a weak position and how her voice sounded so weak as it rasped out the words.

The Head Peacekeeper, infuriating patronizing, leaned over and pat her on the head. "Such a good girl." He whispered to her before standing up. "Get her to the stage."

The other Peacekeepers dragged her up from the mud and to the stage where a befuddled Escort and her stupid looking umbrella waited for them.

"S-so, what's your name, sweetheart?" she asked.

"Werifesteria Grosvener."

"Wer-…. Way… huh?"

"Fest is fine."

"Oh good!" The escort sighed in relief before rushing over to the boys' bowl. She pulled a name and read it off, equally frustrated by the name's bizarreness. "You all could have interesting names, you know? The male Tribute for the 59th Hunger Games is Wolfram Fray!"

After a minute, an angry looking boy stepped out from the eighteen year old section. He had a fair amount of muscle on him, with curly brown hair that fell to his neck. To her surprise, Fest spotted some tattoos on his arms and piercings – rare for the District. Not surprisingly, Fest had no idea who the boy was. District 7 was massive and the it's settlements spread out, no way she could have known everyone.

The boy took the stage, his anger palpable as he drew closer. The Escort once again introduced them to the District, stumbling over Fest's name again, and had them shake hands. They did so, and the boy gave her a tight grip. Fest noticed that he had some scaring on his hand that appeared to be from a bite and other scars along his arm that she couldn't identify their source.

"Wolf." He said. "What did you do to piss off the Peacekeepers?"

"Killed a bunch of people." Fest replied nonchalantly. "They had it coming. Well, most of them."

Wolf blinked in shock at the confession as they were whisked into the Justice Building. For a moment, Fest took a moment to appreciate the irony of life. Last year's female Tribute had everyone convinced that she had killed her ex-boyfriend only for that to be completely wrong.

This year though, District 7 was sending in a real killer.

District 8

The heavy thump of cash on the table drew Raveni Algernon from his concentration, looking up at his twin sister Tasha with surprise.

"Where did you get that?" He asked, referencing the bag just dropped.

"Got another job." Tasha said casually. "It's for you, to buy new supplies."

Rav blinked, letting the quilt drop to his knees. "That's really nice. But, how? Did mom give it to you?"

"No. Why are you asking so many questions?" Tasha demanded. Even after so many years, Rav was surprised when his sister spoke with such an attitude. He could still remember the little girl he protected on the streets, who would hide behind him whenever strangers approached and would cry whenever the cockroaches got too close to their cardboard beds.

"Just curious." Rav said, not wanting to fight. Something had been going on with his sister for months yet he couldn't figure out what it was.

"I thought you'd be happy!"

"I am, Tash." Raveni said, falling back into his roll of soothing his fiery sister. "Thank you. This is really nice."

Satisfied, Tasha sat next to him at the table, looking at his work. "It's beautiful." she commented. "You were always better at the Weave then I was."

"You have talent." Raveni assured her.

"Eh. I'm fine leaving it to you. Are you hungry?"

"Already ate. I think I'm dropping this off before the Reaping."

"Need me to come?"

"I'll be fine. I'll meet you and Nemus there for check in."

Tasha rose and went to the kitchen, looking for anything edible. Meanwhile, satisfied with the quilt, Raveni got up too and went to their adoptive mother's room. She was inside, relaxing on an old rocking chair, working on her own quilt. She smiled as he entered, waving him over.

Rav loved her as though she were his and Tasha's real mom. In fact, she was their godsend. They had lived on the streets since their parents passed. Then, one day, she came, saw them, and adopted them. Neither of them knew why, but Rav found there was a great sadness in her. Rav had long suspected some sort of dark motive, but their adoptive mom had been nothing but kind. A real parent. Everyday, Rav awoke knowing he and Tasha were lucky.

And, she had shown him one of the greatest joys in his life.

"The quilt's done." He commented.

"Do you want to drop it off before or after the Reaping?" HIs mom asked.

"Before. Just in case." Rav said. He never believed in tempting fate, especially since he was eighteen. So close to the end of his time being Reaped. He went to show it to her but his mom waved him off, confident his skills.

As he left the apartment, Raveni passed by Nemus, his mom's biological kid, in his room. The door was slightly open and Raveni saw him scrambling to hide… books?

"Hey! Rav!" Nemus said, trying to sound too casual. "Another shroud done huh? You're the best!"

Raveni left, confused by the books. Nemus wasn't much of a reader, though nobody in District 8 was. In fact, besides last year's Tribute, Raveni couldn't think of a single bookworm in his life.

The walk to his drop off wasn't far, but the summer day was hot enough for Raveni to start sweating through his Reaping clothes. He arrived at the apartment complex and was thankful his destination was only on the second floor.

He knocked on the door softly and waited. A minute later an older man, diminished by grief, answered. He looked at Rav and, noticing the quilt in hand, let him in. Inside the small apartment, a small crowd – a family really – gathered round an elderly woman, the late matriarch of the family no doubt. All eyes looked to him, tears and grief covering them all.

Rav said nothing, knowing the ritual. The family part as he approached and unfurled the quilt, a person's final clothing. The quilt was a patchwork of different fabrics, all meant to symbolize life and death of the woman.

Rav began to carefully wrap the woman in it, his touch gentle and respectful. District 8 believed that just as a person came into this world wrapped in a blanket, one should leave in one too. In a District of fabrics and clothing shops and factories, fabrics were a plenty and, over the generations, the colors and designs had taken on meanings. The family looked over the qualit, taking note of the colors and schemes and nodding solemnly as they remembered her, taking comfort in her memory.

This was Rav's task. The task that his adoptive mother taught him. To care for the dead and help their families. With these secrets he learned to carefully, beautifully weave embroidered quilts; not for the living, but for the dead to be ceremoniously buried with them. He learned to be an ear to the grieving family and friends. He learned how to help make the eotld s little better.

As he finished wrapping the woman tightly, he stood and left, leaving the family to their prayers and lamentations.

There would be many more in the years to come.

Rav was ready for them.

"Comfort" wasn't something Blakey Katz did well, but for her anxious and currently fatalistic girlfriend, Wren, the seventeen year old Katz was willing to try.

"You'll be fine." Katz try.

"Not a chance. I screwed up!"

"It's not that bad."

"Yes it's bad!" Wren whined. "And most of us aren't you! Damon doesn't just let it go."

"Why don't I talk to him?"

"No! That would just make it worse." Wren said. "I'm… I'm scared."

"If something does happen, we'll hide." Katz told her. "Together."

Privately, Katz thought that idea was dumb. If you had a problem, Katz found that it was best to face it head on.

"Where?" Wren asked, desperate to buy into an exit. "Damon controls this District."

"Not all of it. Plenty of territory with other gang control."

"Who will kill us!"

"Not with me there to kill them first." Katz replied.

"You can't fight them all." Wren whispered.

"For you, watch me."

Wren held Katz's hand and began to cuddle her. Promises of safety weren't made lightly, and Katz meant every word. Safety, comfort, loyalty, those words meant little to the girls, who'd been sold to a local gang when Wren was eight and Katz only a babe. Comfort to them became not getting beat. Loyalty meant do whatever the Boss, Damon, said or you'd get beaten or killed. And safety, well there was none of that in District 8's underbelly. But the girls had each other. For what it was worth.

Wren eventually calmed down enough hat she went back to her room to change for the Reaping. Before doing the same, Katz took a detour.

The gang's "base" was a dilapidated four story apartment complex, abandoned during the Dark Days, bombed by the Capitol hovercrafts, and its bones used as shelter for the homeless afterwards. Then, gangs moved in and the structure changed hands, bloodily, for years to come. Currently, Damon's gang had controlled it for twenty years, making its ruins the only home Katz had. It was her understanding that she'd been sold as a babe to the gang by parents unable to raise her – though Katz had no idea if that was true or not. She knew better than to trust Damon's word, who viewed himself as her father figure.

That didn't count much either to her. What good were dad's when her own sold her off like third hand salvage?

Damon was situated on the third floor, the only one where all the walls remained intact, safe from the elements and stray bullets or daring assassins with climbing equipment. The guards let her pass easy enough and she found Damon in his "living room", sprawled on a moldy couch in just his underwear. In the corner, a bleary eyed woman was preparing some sort of moonshine concoction, also barely dressed. Typical.

"Damon." Katz began.

The Boss looked up, smiling and patting the couch next to him. "Kat! Come sit!"

She hated that name but complied, stepping over a zonked out woman and the Morphling needle next to her. Classy.

Once settled, Damon gestured up at the TV projection on the wall in front of them. "Excited?" He asked.

Katz looked up. It was Pre-Hunger Games coverage. A pair of Capitolite idiots, Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith to be precise, were babbling to a Gamemaker about the upcoming Games. "Sure." Katz replied.

"I always liked the Games." Damon mused.

"You like the bets and money you can make."

"Nah! I'm an idealist!" Damon said, beating his chest. "Romantic even! I admire how the Games simply life. There's something refreshing in just kill or be killed."

Katz could appreciate that too, in a way. Maybe once she was done with the Reapings she'd wax poetically about the Games too. "I wanted to talk to you about Wren." Katz said.

"Huh… she must be good pussy." Damon scoffed.

"I'll clean up her mistake." Katz said, ignoring the comment. "You have my word."

"Word don't mean much." Damon shrugged, voice lowering. "I tell you – tell anyone – to do something, I expect it done."

"Wren's a thief, not a killer. I am. Let me-"

For being drunk, high, or whatever else, Damon moved fast. His hand slammed into Katz, smacking her in the face and sending her reeling to the ground. She hit it hard, landing next to the Morphling girl, who giggled.

"Earthquake!" She laughed, reacting to the thump Katz made.

Damon was less giddy, standing tall over Katz. "She is what I tell her to be!" He roared.

Katz stayed down, knowing it was better. Blood filled her mouth, but she was used to it. "Yes, Damon." She replied.

"You're a killer, Kat. I trained you to be. And we all know you're good at it and like that blood on her hands. But don't forget. Don't ever forget. You may be a killer, but I'm a monster. And I got a special plan for Wren. Now get out and get ready for the Reapings."

Katz was on her feet and left quickly, escaping her self-proclaimed father.

As expected, a dad proved to be nothing good.

The last Reaping he'd have to participate in was going by fast. The mayor's speech was short, the Escort hot and ready to escape the heat, and the name being called for the girl's called quickly.

"Wren Dessa!"

A shriek from the girl's section caused Raveni to lower his eyes, feeling awful for the young girl and a bit ashamed of himself by just how pleased Tasha's name wasn't called. But his eyes, along with everyone else's, lifted when another cry came out.

"I volunteer!"

Excitement from the crowd bubbled up as two girls, one bawling and the other stone faced exited the girl's seventeen year old section. An argument was ensuing between them, which the stone face girl won as Peacekeeper collected her, the other girl falling to her knees and crying.

The girl made her way up to the stage, putting on a brave face. She was a shorter girl, with brunette hair cut at her shoulders, light brown eyes, and some muscle on her arms. Above one eye was a scar, and there was a fresh bruise on her cheek.

"Name?" the Escort demanded, sweating through his makeup.

"Blakely Katz." the girl replied evenly.

"Great. Boys, your turn!"

A name was pulled and read off quickly that if his name hadn't been so distinct for the District, he wouldn't have believed.

"Raveni Algernon!"

Next to him, Nemus gasped and then started to raise his hand and open his mouth. Raveni was quick to stop him.

"But Rav!" Nemus insisted.

"Don't. Its ok."

He exited his section and waved over the Peacekeepers, eager to get to stage before Nemus had a chance to volunteer for him again. He couldn't let Nemus do that. In the girl's section, Tasha had fought her way out and was looking at him horror struck. He gave her a smile, like he did when they were little and she was afraid, and whispered that she'd be ok.

He made his way to the stage, passing by hundreds of pairs of eyes, all looking at him. Many of them knew him as a Weaver, a source of comfort. And, to Raveni's surprise, many kids bowed their heads as he passed, showing respect.

He couldn't cry now. But at least, it seemed, he'd made a difference in people's lives.

That was something to hold onto as he walked to his death.

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Up Next: Districts 9 & 10