And now onto District Six!
Rhodia Meyers, 16
Some would call it a silly little niche, others would lambast it as betrayal to District Six. For Rhodia, it was simply her passion. It wasn't her fault that the Hunger Games was the pinnacle of fashion in Panem, nor that her mind overflowed with outfit ideas that she could envision seeing tributes - or, Keepers blessed, the Victor - wearing them. The outfits she designed were pretty too - unless her mother was lying to her. Unlike the ones that the Capitol stylists crafted, her envisioned outfits had no malice behind them, no real intent to prop the wearer on a pedestal for such a short while.
She, simply, wanted to create stellar garments.
There seemed to be the trade-off for the Meyers family; one daughter was the perfect engineer, a prodigy of District Six's industry and the other, in consolation for no engineering prowess, designed the most beautiful garments ever seen. Such a deal went down poorly with their father who constantly asked why Rhodia could never be an ounce more like her sister, Cassie.
Rhodia glanced over at the small bookshelf in her room, lined with the different coloured spines of her sketchbooks. Without checking, she could take any from the shelf and know what garments laid unwoven inside. When the two sisters weren't at odds with one another, Cassie would sometimes spend hours in Rhodia's room, thumbing through the many designs. That had always been a small pride that she nursed attentively; creating things even the most brilliant-minded still were enamoured by.
Designing her reaping outfit was a project born of love; the brainchild of her mother for the two of them to do something as Cassie, was off with their father talking about the trains and hovercrafts. Rhodia had jumped to the opportunity all those months ago, mostly happy to spend quality time with her mother but with the dash of being relieved of the math element of it all. That, thankfully, had been something her mother had eagerly offered to do.
Sewing the finishing details on the dress, Rhodia turned and smiled at her mother. As she always did, and as Rhodia could always trust her to continue to do, Rhodia's mother smiled back with nothing less than warmth and affection. She, unlike her father, supported Rhodia's strides in fashion so long as it brought happiness and a sense of fulfilment. She had long since stopped comparing her two daughters, instead imploring them to succeed at whatever they put their minds to.
"It certainly looks like three months worth of work," Her mother said, accompanied by an airy laugh. "You'll never fail to amaze me, Rhodia."
Rhodia smiled shyly, shrugging a little. "I couldn't've done it without your help... maybe."
Her mother raised an eyebrow, her lips curling to an affectionate grin.
It were the times like this that Rhodia loved life more than anything. It were the times like this where she feared it'd be snatched away from her, one way or another.
...
"Remind me to ask you to design my wedding dress. Shit, that's so gorgeous Dia!"
Time spent with Beth came easy to Rhodia. Incomparable to anything, except her mother's company, Rhodia found herself more at ease amongst her best friend. Though they couldn't be any more different if they tried, she felt more at ease around her. They had always joked they were platonic soulmates; Beth would use her brains to buy them a house in the nice sector of Six and Rhodia would design the nicest clothes to get them invited to live in the Capitol. They had planned every detail to a T as a joke, yet Rhodia sometimes found herself silently hoping her life would go in such a direction.
"You really think so?" Rhodia didn't necessarily undermine her abilities in fashion, but a life of being compared to an engineering genius of a sister who followed neatly in their father's footsteps had allowed doubt to creep in. Sometimes, craving reassurance was needed.
Miles Perow, 18
"Paper's always dry on reaping day," Barnabas said gruffly, closing the paper with a huff. "The good stuff comes tomorrow."
Miles knew that 'the good stuff' meant recaps of all the tributes for the Hunger Games. It had become an annual occurrence - Barnabas lamenting about the lack of anything worthwhile in the paper and, then, the next day being more satisfied and giving his predictions on how far the tributes would go. Last year had been some sort of half-victory for the Peacekeeper; he had correctly guessed that Six would lose it's tributes in the Bloodbath but failed to peg the girl from Five as the Victor. It was an odd comfort for Miles to have come accustomed to but, mostly, it was a way to keep track of the year.
Perhaps he'll have better luck this year. Half-victory to full?
Like clockwork, Barnabas thumbed through the pages to the puzzles section, handing it to Miles through the archaic steel bars. As he did every day, Miles began to work through them, glad his mind was getting some sort of exercise beyond the thoughts that tormented him otherwise.
"Feeling lucky this year kid?" Miles had learnt that the Peacekeeper had come to enjoy his company and seemed to harbour a soft spot for him, seemingly not wanting to see him shipped to the Capitol. "Think you'll get through the final time?"
"Statistically, yes." Miles had run the numbers more times than he enjoyed admitting. He, compared to many his age, had less slips and that included the mandatory extra he supplied as a juvenile delinquent. "But betting on the Odds seems less than plausible as of late."
Barnabas commented something about his life choices, but Miles ignored him. Choosing instead to focus on the puzzles, he refused to let his mind wander to all the thoughts he had exhausted. He wanted to give himself a break, just for the day of the reaping.
...
Though the Peacekeepers of the juvenile centre had long since considered it interesting, Miles found himself fascinated with the District's gang wars on the morphling supply. Two years ago, when he had been free, he remembered the gangs that controlled the drug. The animosity and war between the Fiskers, Wormwoods and Pontiacs had bled into the classrooms of the district; children and teens alike either betting on which would claw their way to victory or even fighting for the one their family was aligned to. It was times like when the arguments would break out that he was, and continued to be, thankful that his family lived away from the mess.
The juvenile centre mostly suffered from the costly morphling war. Overcrowded with the teenagers who had been roped in to be traffickers or low-levelled thugs, resources were stretched far and thin. Not to mention the encroaching addiction that the drug lent itself to teeming throughout the area. Though he had yet to see it, Miles had heard stories from Barnabas that inmates would get into fights for the slightest ounce of the thing.
Even with seeming abundance of inmates of the juvenile centre, Miles somehow remained the most feared. Even those who had gleefully killed for their stash of morphling seemed hesitant of him, inching away whenever they got the chance. Though he hardly blamed them, Miles couldn't help but feel cheated of some sort of comradery with the others. Whilst they were all able to find some sort of common ground with one another and share forlorn stories of years passed, he had to sit and interact on his own. That had, mostly, been because he was sectioned off alone, deemed too dangerous to be quartered with the other teens. Even as he was allowed to roam the centre during his free time, Barnabas was never too far away.
As his section filled up, the other three cells becoming occupied, Miles found himself with some sort of company. They, like him, had been convicted of the worst crimes. Their trials, much like his, had to be postponed but everyone knew what the outcome was. There was a reason their cellblock had been nicknamed the 'Murder Quarters.' Miles knew, retrospectively, that he should've been fearful of them. The other guys had much more concrete evidence linking them with a string of murders, unlike his own slithers of hope that he could crack the perplexing fabrications of his own case. Seeking some sort of interaction with those his age, however, Miles had grown to enjoy their presence. Not close by any means - he had to protect himself, after all - but cordial enough to have easy conversations.
As the two years had progressed, however, they slowly left with their cells remained unfilled. Barnabas had told him rumours of the district planning to scrap his quarters, fearful of what sort of evils now inhabited the area because of them. Had he believed in the supernatural, perhaps he might've agreed and shuddered along but Miles knew better. Keepers, he even thought the other three, like him, were just dealt bad hands in life.
There was Hondrix, a member of the budding Duncano family. He had been coerced into being the main hitman for the group, exploited for the gift of being sturdy like a Career tribute, and eventually took the fall. The day after his eighteenth birthday, Miles had watched Hondrix's televised execution. Then there had been Fordham, a member of the Fiskers who had everything the gang did pinned on him. With little ground to stand on, he too had been executed shortly after turning eighteen on the grounds of being a danger to the district.
Cooper had been the final inmate of the 'Murder Quarters.' He, unlike Hondrix and Fordham, was more of an acute danger. To the eyes of many in the juvenile centre, he rivalled Miles as the most dangerous inmate. His body count was only one less than what everyone believed Miles' to be. Even now, as Cooper had been shot multiple times for good measures and had long since been burned to ashes, Miles shuddered as he recounted his time with Cooper. It might not have been bad had Cooper recounted some of his experiences and thoughts - anything that could give Miles some insight on how serial killers worked. Instead, the boy remained soft spoken and choicely in his words.
Miles was pondering the most recent departure from the juvenile centre when he heard the distinct sound of Barnabas approaching his cell. Reaping time.
"Better savour this last reaping Miles." Perhaps it was the light, but Miles saw a hint of sadness etched into Barnabas' smile. If he were optimistic, Miles might've guessed that the Peackeeper had come to the conclusion that he was innocent. Part of him hope so, if anything to have a familiar face on his side. "The Boss thinks your trial'll happen come the crowning ceremony."
Miles felt his stomach lurch, the familiar sense of dread encroaching through his body. He had long since resigned himself to the nerves and panic that came from trying to refute the allegations of being a serial killer, yet dread was something new. Barely a month was no time to construct his evidence, not fully. With the big question of who? remaining unanswered, he knew what his fate would be come the end of August.
Venting such thoughts to Barnabas would be nonsensical - not only would the man brush it off but Miles knew better than to willingly place his words into a scenario where they could be twisted. He liked Barnabas, but scarcely trusted him.
Instead, he nodded. "Will do, sir." His voice felt foreign, throat encapsulated with dryness. Miles swallowed, hard, letting his mind begin to whir into overdrive as he thought of the month ahead.
Rhodia Meyers, 16
Rhodia smoothed some of the ruffles in her dress as she waited for the boring, monotonous elements of the reaping to be done. She took pride in the outfit she created, albeit now stood amongst everyone else, she wondered if it was too much or too unlike her. Standing out had been the suggestion of Beth; a way to show those around her that even if she wasn't like her sister, she was still a marvel in her own way. Rhodia's mother had loved the concept, easily rolling with it and, before long, Rhodia looked as if she had just stepped out of District One. Look did people do - some even did double takes as they, for the first time, recognised Rhodia as her own person; someone formidable, even when next to her sister.
"Regrettably, District Six had a rather... unspectacular showing last year." Sylleena's voice was devoid of any real emotion, only fake sympathy that even those full to the brim of morphling could see through. Being the escort of the district who was a staple in the Bloodbath wasn't easy, yet it wasn't any easier to live in that District. "Perhaps this year we'll be more fortunate?"
If she were particularly jaded or of her grandparent's generation, Rhodia might've felt sick at the obvious hope in the woman's voice as she looked to the Games. Hopes of rebellion had long since died, however, replaced with complacency. That had been an unspoken trade off between Capitol and Districts, years ago; better presidents than Snow, less complaints. So far, it had worked out well enough. Instead, she just rolled her eyes and looked instinctively to the large screens. The film they played year by year hadn't gotten any interesting, even with the addition of some mention of the Second Rebellion. Rhodia, like many amongst her, had learnt to tune it out; after all, it only heralded the beginning of the arduous part.
"As always, we'll start with the lovely ladies of District Six!"
Sylleena had long since resigned herself to being the only thing entertaining about District Six's reaping from a Capitol perspective; near prancing around the stage to give a show of any kind. The people of District Six found it amusing, if only because it was the only thing worth paying attention to beyond hearing if your name was called. People at school, near the reaping, often joked about if the escort would amp it up and try to outdo herself from the year before. Some even mocked the way she delivered the news of how District Six's tributes did the year prior.
It was a cruel game that Sylleena played with District Six, taking her time to choose the name. For the youth who had yet to be corrupted by the grasps of morphling, surviving the reaping was among the most important parts of their lives. Toying with it, as she had done for years, was a subtle reminder of how in control the Capitol were. Or, at least, that was what some of the more radical at school spouted.
Rhodia simply ignored it, blocking out everything. It had never been her and, likely, it'd never be her. She knew too many others who would go there in her place. That had been one thing that she had found it easier to assert herself in, against all the jovial jabs of her inability with machinery. As she did every year, she closed her eyes and repeated the same mantra.
It won't be me. It won't be me. It won't be me. It won't -
"Rhodia Meyers!"
Rhodia felt the heat drain from her body, fear uncompromising in it's grip.
Her mind began to whir at a speed far too fast, shooting through a plethora of thoughts before landing on the inevitable. She, for a moment, tried not to think about the all too possible outcome. Tried not to imagine in what sick, twisted way she'd die and have her face plastered in the sky. She tried, failing as she felt her breath bubble in the back of her throat. Instead, Rhodia willed an expression of indifference - braveness, if she was lucky.
Maybe people'll see me as someone to look out for.
Her thought was sardonic, merely something to try and ground her. She couldn't have a panic attack or compromise anything from her strength. The boy from last year, Forden, had broken down and was targeted first at the Bloodbath. She had enough sense, enough willpower in the body that seemed eager to betray her, not to repeat his mistake. Rhodia forced her legs to begin to move towards the stage, going as fast as the Peacekeepers would let her. The sooner she was at the stage and, then, in the Justice Building, the sooner she could indulge in the emotions she was adamant to hide.
Rhodia gave a silent thanks to the disinterested reaction District Six gave. Before, when she had watched the tributes walk down the aisle, she had found it somewhat harsh that Six seemed not to care; the way the older citizens were more concerned when their next dose of morphine was coming or the way the reapees were glad to be safe for another year. Now, as she walked towards the guarantee of entering the Hunger Games, hope of someone volunteering diminishing by the second, she was glad. Having people's attention diverted made it easier to convince herself that she wouldn't be broadcasted to all of Panem later on.
No sooner had she begun to ascend the stairs, was Sylleena dragging her by her side. Rhodia attempted a smile - simply something to show the sponsors in the Capitol that she wasn't completely hopeless - but it felt unnatural. She made a conscious effort to look away from the crowd; to ignore the way fear had warped Beth's face into a transfixed expression of dread, the way her sister fiddled with her hands as her brain whizzed to come up with a solution. Rhodia even looked past her parents, her father's paled face and her mother's onset tears.
Miles Perow, 18
Miles felt sorry for Rhodia; he could see that her façade of bravery was fighting with natural reactions of terror. He was used to them - after all, he was sure he looked the same when he was labelled a murderer. She looked at the crowd with trepidation, almost as if she was imagining the Capitol crowds she was to face. Miles supposed the difference between the district crowds and the Capitol's own weren't too dissimilar; both were quick to bet on how long she'd live.
Sylleena looked content with Rhodia. Unlike last year where she scowled at having to bring two emaciated teens to the Capitol, one of which had been a morphling carrier at juvie, she at least had someone who looked... normal. Not strong by any means, but not a weakling.
"And now for Miss Meyers' lovely duo!"
He watched with intent eyes as she made her way over to the bowl of male names, ignoring the flounce in her step. She had been spurred on by her first tribute, unashamedly eager to have another of a similar calibre. Part of Miles hoped she would; competent tributes meant a better chance of winning. A victory meant more money pumped into District Six. Then, and only then, could the crime begin to be addressed.
That had been his dream once, to be part of the force that made District Six exemplary. He hoped, despite every twisted thing the trial had thrown at him prematurely, he'd still have a chance -
"Miles Perow!"
- Perhaps not.
At first, silence settled over District Six as they took in the name of their male tribute, people naturally seeing if they recognised the name and trying to judge their chances of a Victor. Maybe, in another reality, an eighteen-year-old being reaped was somewhat favourable. In this reality, the one Miles was reminded of every day when he awoke in his cell, his name caused outrage.
Some people were jovial; what better place for a serial killer to die than in the arena at the hands of a Career? Perhaps justice would finally be served. Miles could hear how some people yelled that they'd sponsor District Two's tributes, giving them instructions to go berserk on him. Others were in shock and awe, expressing horror for the other tributes. They called it a sick, twisted move of unfairness on already tormented teens. They asked - demanded, even - if it was allowed.
Is it allowed?
That was Miles' main thought, resounding around his head as those around him eagerly swarmed away. They had been reluctant to stand near him before but his reaping was an open invitation to isolate him. Unlike other reapings - unlike even Rhodia's - nobody tried to hold onto his sleeve, to catch a last second touch to bestow good luck to him. A silent, subtle protest of the Peacekeepers taking them to die. No, for Miles, they nearly pushed him to the aisle into the Peacekeepers, as if they were ready to be rid of him.
Not even the sight of Barnabas' chipped vizor to his left as he was escorted to the stage could tear his mind away from the complications of it all - what it meant for him and his reputation.
He trudged with heavy footsteps to the stage, head downcast slightly as he continued to fret if him being reaped was allowed. He was, after all, due to be on trial - the reaping period had been the last short period of grace. His mind wanted to indulge in the possibility of the Peacekeepers and investigators finding out they had been wrong - that he had been wrongly set up and accused, demonised for no real reason. Such a thing would be irredeemable and, really, disposing via the Hunger Games was an impersonal affair.
For the sake of his own mental resolve, Miles forced those thoughts out of his head. Instead, he moved to look up at Sylleena, determined to not be unnerved by her predatory grin.
"Your case is a big hit in the Capitol," Miles remembered Barnabas telling him once, showing him the Capitol newspaper he got imported in. "Tilly Highfeather's debate show on it lasted thirty-seven hours with no conclusion."
Sylleena, spurred on by the protection of Peacekeepers around her, had no qualms in taking his hand and leading him to his position next to her. He wondered if the people of Six found it amusing in a twisted way; one murderer shaking hands with another. It was all wrong - they were wrong - but the truth hadn't mattered for the past two or so years... why would it now? He knew he could hardly contact the mayor and request to be pulled from the reaping for his trial, lest it became an admission of guilt.
Instead, he let his eyes cast downward, consciously trying to stop the nervous blinking some of the Peacekeepers had taken to mean a sign of guilt.
Miles hadn't remembered the last time a non-Career District had been so dissatisfied with one of their tributes as he heard the mutterings of those beneath him. 'Keepers, he hadn't remembered the last time District Six made any reaction to their tributes. Naively, some may have taken it as a good sign but the shouting of the age-old accusations were a stark reminder that it wasn't the case.
"District Six! I present to you your tributes for the One Hundredth and Fifteenth Annual Hunger Games! Rhodia Meyers and Miles Perow!"
He didn't miss the way Rhodia hesitated to shake his hand, the way she slowly presented it but looked as if she was ready to run at any given point. He tried to remind himself that it wasn't her fault, not entirely, as they shook hands briefly and lightly.
And here we have Rhodia and Miles! Thank-you to ShadowMoose and Gomex for Rhodia, and grey-flower for Miles! I hope I did them justice!
This chapter has a lot of worldbuilding and some fun little Easter eggs, totally not because of my love for random knowledge coming out. I know Miles' first PoV is perhaps a little too worldbuildy but I can't spill all the secrets about him to begin with, can I?
I think updates, in general, will begin to slow down after this one; I'm starting a new job and I definitely need the time to establish a work-life balance! That being said, I might get some inspo and crank out a whole chapter.
We are, however, at the half-way point of the reapings! We've met half of our tributes and I'm excited for you all to meet the rest. Next up will be District Ten!
I hope y'all enjoyed!
- Oli