Mercurie Anselmetti-Favero
The stars, with their ageless twinkling, have a way of dragging Mercurie's thoughts to the remnants of the old world. Amid the endless inky blackness above, he wonders if the Americans of the past envisioned their nation succumbing to what Panem is now. They weren't a great people, but Mercurie gives props to them for not making reality television where kids murder each other. At least, he doesn't think they did.
His hands glide through the water, breaking its stillness, and he bobs gently on his back. The dam serves as his sanctuary for contemplation—a place where the endless darkness envelops him, and his thoughts echo undisturbed. In winter, the water is way too freezing, but the summer water blankets him in its perfect, cool embrace. While many kids play in the dam during the day to escape the relentless heat, nighttime grants Mercurie the freedom to let his mind wander. Here he's allowed to think beyond energy production and the games. Occasionally, he'll encounter couples seeking seclusion for their trysts, prompting him to roll his eyes and retreat to the mayoral villa.
Running his fingers across his pruney palms, he decides he's been here long enough. Swimming to the walkway, he pulls himself out of the water, the cold metal handrail biting into his thighs. Clothes clutched in his hands, he tiptoes off the site and behind one of the pumping stations near the wall, slipping into his clothes. Shoes, however, remain in his hands; damp clothes are one thing, but wet feet in socks are a discomfort he refuses to endure.
A nocturnal chill runs down Mercurie's spine as the night air whispers. Tension hangs in the air, reserved for three distinct occasions— the Reaping, the Hunger Games, and the Victory Tour. Peeta Mellark and the District 12 team are just weeks away. It's challenging to summon much care when neither Norris nor Mia made it far. Mellark appears amiable, charismatic, and handsome; the district will offer their obligatory respect before attempting to bury the memories until the reaping revisits them in six months.
Mercurie kicks a pebble of concrete across the ground, its impact against a brick wall reverberating as it spins a couple of meters away. As he walks, he takes a few more strides, sending the pebble farther down the path. A distant alarm punctuates the air from the smokestacks piercing the sky. On most nights, the settlement streets buzz with activity; workers populate the area, socializing with neighbors on their day off. The air alight with chatter brighter than any of the light they provide across the country. Tonight, the deserted streets amplify the siren, five times louder than usual in the absence of the daytime buzz.
There's a Capitol car waiting to take the Mayor's family to the square when he arrives home in the early morning. Mercurie has taken this trip eight times before and assumes it's like this for other Mayoral families in the other districts. Stepping outside, he inwardly groans. Today is hot. He strips his sweater off and ties it around his waist. His father gives him a look, which he ignores. The journey to the square takes about ten minutes, followed by a passage to the stage through the back of the Justice Building, where they enter through massive double doors.
Upon stepping through the doors, the refreshing coolness of the Justice Building's air conditioning is immediately lost to the withering heat outside. Mercury settles into his seat at the far end of the right side of the stage. His family are separate from the victors, a reminder that his fatehr was elected from a pool of the Capitol's picks, whereas the other side of the stage belongs to the people who fought to be here.
The people of District 5 appear to wrestle with the oppressive heat of the day. Mercury averts his gaze guiltily. It's not his fault, but he wonders if, surely, his father could do something like setting up large fans around the square's perimeter. After all, he was once one of these people. The square is packed with citizens, some even spilling out into the non-designated areas.
His mother swats away a couple of pestering flies from her eyes, her brows furrowed with frustration. It's not the kind of heat that makes you sweat; rather, it's a dry, oppressive heat that invites flies to buzz around, making you feel more irritated than you've ever been in your life.
Mercurie glances at his wristwatch; it strikes two, and the doors of the Justice Building swing open. Six months ago, the building had taken two teenagers from the Red Sector. Today, it releases a stout, blonde baker from District 12—Peeta Mellark. He's only the second person from District 12 that Mercurie has seen, devoid of the familiar dark features he associates with the Games. The first had been a girl from the games when he was much younger. Peeta's blue eyes and pale skin stand out starkly amidst the sea of District 5's brown skin and hair of copper and black. On the large screens in the square, Peeta's startled expression is broadcast to the assembled crowd.
After a moment to compose himself, Peeta Mellark lifts the cards in his hands and speaks into the microphone. Below the stage, Norris Crawford and Mia Chavarra's families huddle, their eyes brimming with tears as they look up at him. Though Mercurie can only see the back of the victor's head, it's evident how tense Peeta is. There's not much to say about either of them—Mia died at the Cornucopia, and Norris succumbed to dehydration after three days. Neither even reached the halfway point.
"Mia and Norris represented District 5 with honor until the very end," Peeta concludes. "I'm sure you're proud of your citizens."
The crowd gives a dutiful applause as is expected. Mercury's father thanks Peeta Mellark, and hands him a bouquet of flowers and a bronze plaque. Peeta graciously accepts, and he's led back into the Justice Building by a pair of Peacekeepers.
After Peeta has entered the Justice Building, Mercury and Russ trail behind their parents amidst the District 12 entourage. The crowd has already begun to spill out of the square, dispersing to wagons and trams heading toward the main city where the parade will take place.
Tonight, Peeta and the rest of District 12's team will dine at the Justice Building, but for now, they're all to join the crowd heading into the city. Mercurie manages a quick glance at Peeta as he exits. Peeta doesn't appear thrilled; he mutters something to Katniss Everdeen, who simply shrugs in response. Peeta leans in closer, but Mercury's eyes flit away in fear of being caught eavesdropping.
During the car ride to the city circle, silence envelops the Anselmetti-Favero family. Mercurie's father doesn't really 'chat' with his family anymore. Russ and their mother maintain an air of tension between them. Mercurie longs for the days before his father's political career took precedence, when his mother found joy in her work in Geology rather than in maintaining appearances and keeping up with Capitol fashion. They used to be happier when they lived like everyone else. Now, they attract attention that they don't want. Mercury is tired of the way kids at school treat him like some kind of celebrity. He despises being on stage every year for the victory tour, exchanging pleasantries with victors who couldn't care less about his family. District 5 is just another stop on their tour.
The parade around the city circle unfolds predictably. Citizens dutifully clap, eager to conclude the spectacle and relax for the rest of the afternoon. Peeta Mellark waves patriotically to the crowd. Despite the sun having long set, the lingering afternoon heat remains unwelcome. Mercurie is grateful to vanish into the Justice Building for dinner, seeking respite from the exhausting display.
Sirena Salacia
Sundays for Sirena are spent at the markets with her mother, father, and brothers, preparing for the week ahead. Just off the square, you can find anything you need: thread, groceries, jewelry, furniture. These stores have been thriving for decades, and everyone in Catalina comes at least once with their families. Sirena loved coming here as a child. The sea-salted air, the bustling crowds bartering, the joy simmering in the atmosphere. Coincidentally, she stopped looking forward to Sundays around the time she turned twelve and her first slip went into the reaping bowls. The place lost its spark, and the happiness she once felt vanished.
Now, she's learned to appreciate it again. Being back in Catalina is restoring. As she marvels at a coral bracelet, she can't help but acknowledge how foolish she was for ever seeing this place as anything but delightful.
The old woman manning the stall shuffles up to her and gives her a gummy smile. "Just ten panars for that, love. The coral was harvested way out, so it's a little pricier than other pieces, but this isn't just any ol' catchpenny bracelet."
Sirena smiles faintly at the woman and tucks a loose strand of her black, wavy hair behind her ear.
"It's alright, I'm just looking."
The woman leaves her alone after that, keeping a vague eye on her as she pesters other shoppers. Sirena moves on to the exfoliating stones, leaving empty-handed. She rarely buys anything, saving as much money as she can for when she finally moves out. There's no specific goal in her mind yet, but her mother taught her that it's important to be prepared.
Sirena runs into a couple of kids from school and exchanges niceties with them. Marleen Felix graduated two years early from the training program the year Thames went into the arena. The other girl, Dewie, is pretty quiet; Sirena's only seen her a handful of times playing soccer in the courtyard next to the canteen.
"You're graduating this year, aren't ya?" Marleen drawls.
"Yeah," Sirena nods. "A lot of kids dropped out early, though. My classes are tiny."
Marleen looks confused for a moment. "Oh, nah, I meant from the program."
Sirena shrugs and eagerly changes the subject. "I'm not really focused on the program anymore. School's more important to me now. What are you doing for your final year? I heard from Angele Cleary that you're considering joining your dad's net-making business?"
"That's what he wants me to do, anyway. Keep the tradition alive. My dad got the job from his dad, and he got it from his mom. Up the line. Not many choices in 4 anyway unless you volunteer for the games. I'm not interested in risking my life to become a celebrity, no matter how poor I get. Especially after seeing Thames in the Quarter Quell."
Sirena's face must darken at the mention of Thames.
"You knew him?" Dewie asks, breaking her silence.
Sirena nods. "Yeah, we were pretty good friends."
No one offers a follow-up, and the three girls just look at each other uncomfortably for a few moments.
"Well," Marleen eventually says. "Dewie and I can't be here for much longer. We'll see you around?"
"For sure," Sirena replies.
Sirena tries not to leave too quickly, not wanting to seem like she's fleeing. She wanders for about ten minutes before bumping into another conversation. Her mother is in front of a table carving place, chatting with Callista Olmos.
"Sirena! Come here!"
Dread creeps up her chest and into her throat as she joins them. It's been two years since Thames' death, and Callista looks to have recovered well. The shadows once beneath her eyes are gone.
"We were just discussing how you're graduating this year," her mother says.
Sirena shrugs uncomfortably. "Yes, once I'm out of school, I'll be working on Uncle Merdan's boats full-time."
If Callista is hurt by the reminder that her adoptive son never got to graduate, she doesn't know.
"Oh," She says. "You're a smart girl. I thought you'd do something more like marine sciences."
Sirena shakes her head. "I don't think they'll take me. There are better students."
Sirena's caused another awkward silence, and she mentally kicks herself. No one likes someone who mopes around everywhere like a raincloud.
"Whatever you do, I'm sure you'll excel," Callista says graciously. Sirena thanks her, and her mother cuts in, turning the conversation into safer discussion. After a while, Sirena excuses herself to go to the other stalls. She keeps walking until she's out of their sight, then she sits down on the sea wall, putting her head in her hands and staring at the pavement.
A lump forms in Sirena's throat. Seeing Callista at the markets has upset her deeply. Why? Maybe it's because Callista, someone so close to Thames, seems to have moved on so well. Sirena has seen kids from District 4 die year after year, even vaguely knowing some of them. Everyone since Annie Cresta seven years ago has died in the games, so why is she so displaced by his death, which happened two whole years ago?
The obvious answer is that they were friends. It's idiotic to try and act stupid. His death left Sirena with hardly anyone else she truly connected with. The kids from training are fine, but she clicked with Thames in a way the other kids don't get. Sessions down at the beach haven't been the same since. Sirena knows she's lucky to have so many people around who are willing to be there for her, but she still feels so alone. So many times she's been invited to hang out. More often than not, she stays home to uselessly do homework. For no reason, because she wasn't lying when she told Callista that she's nowhere near the top of her classes. Not the ones that matter. What does P.E. do for one's resume when applying to be a Marine Biologist?
Four hours later, Sirena walks home, hands full of bags with appliances, fabrics, and non-perishable cans of food. Her parents and older brothers chat about a neighbor's baby, a curly-haired little girl, while Sirena remains in her own little bubble.
"You okay, love?" her mother interrupts.
Sirena blinks, caught off guard. She had been watching a flock of seagulls struggling against the wind over the port.
"Hm? Oh. Yeah, I'm okay."
"You're quiet. More than usual."
Sirena shrugs nonchalantly. "A lot of changes the past few years, I guess."
Moving harbors, classmates dropping out of school, the death of a friend.
"When I was a girl about your age, my parents, my siblings, and I had to move from the harbors to the factories for a couple of years, just to get back on our feet. District 4 was facing a lot of economic crisis thanks to dirty fish oils leaking into Umpaqua Port. It was painfully boring, but we stuck it out."
Sirena tries not to feel like her mother is invalidating how she feels. She has the awful habit of doing so occasionally.
"Whatever happens," her mother continues, "you'll get through it. Nothing would matter if everything stayed the same. You can appreciate the memories you made in Catalina, and you can create new ones in Sandeego."
The Tribute Graveyard is about an hour's walk from the markets, nestled near the sea cliffs where mourners can gaze out over the ocean as they navigate between graves. Almost one-hundred-and-fifty tributes rest there. Sirena excuses herself from her family unit. Thames' grave is near the back, in the row for the eighth decade of the Games. Every tribute from District 4 has died this decade, from the seventy-first to last year. Annie Cresta's district partner caps off the row for the seventh decade. Drina Juan opens up the next row. Twelve fresh graves. He's beside last year's tributes, their bodies now likely very decomposed. She stares at the ocean for a while, then finally she moves.
"I wanted to say thank you for being my friend," she says to the tombstone. The Capitol's decorated the stones with nothing but names and games numbers. All it reads is 'Thames Reed, #75'. Nothing else to remember him by but a number and a picture. Callista, Edwyn, and the boys have laid flowers, but other than that, the grave remains untouched.
She kneels down beside the flowers and places her own; beautiful tigerlilies, who's colours remind Sirena so much of Thames' hair.
"I don't have a lot of friends, and when my parents sent me to the training sessions, I was too shy to talk to the other kids. You were in the same boat, and it felt good to have someone like me in a place like that."
She stares at his name engraved on the stone. It's hard to muster any other words. There's nothing else to say. She just misses him so much. They weren't that close, but his presence is sorely missed. So much has changed since the Quarter Quell, and Sirena misses what her life was.
None of the kids in their training group have been close to anyone who died in the games. The closest is when Angio Marquez's brother's friend got decapitated in the seventieth games. Training at the beach is nothing but morbid nowadays. No one's into it anymore, especially because this year's their last in the reaping. These are the final weeks before they leave their teenage years behind and join the workforce full-time. Get married, have kids. Wait for them to age out of the Reaping. Sirena can't say she'll really miss her fellow trainees, but it's still the end of an era. The future looks pretty bleak. She thinks about her parents. They love each other, but they married as soon as they both aged out of the Reaping. Marin was born just a year later. The boys Sirena passes in the halls are severely unimpressive. She can't see herself marrying any of them.
She pulls herself off the ground and wipes the dirt off her knees.
"See you later, Thames."
She leaves the graveyard, waiting for a desolate future to crash into her.
Atticus Rosseau
"What mistake did Glimmer Rambeau make here?"
"She ran into a fucking tree."
Radiance Browne purses her lips, waiting for the eruption of laughter to die down. Atticus offers a sheepish smile.
"Hand up next time, Mister Rosseau, or I'll be docking your Prestige. But yes, she panicked and paid the price. Not to mention, she swatted at the Tracker Jackers with her bow. Had she wasted less time batting at wasps and focused on reaching the lake, she might have lasted longer."
Radiance switches the clip to last year's games. The classroom watches as Peeta Mellark, heaving from exertion, pushes a cluster of rocks onto Wonder Briggs, who had been chasing him up the side of a mountain in the dead of night. By this point, the games had been dragging on for three weeks, and the remaining six tributes were desperate. Wonder had been on a downward spiral since the early implosion of the Inner Alliance and Sophistication Wagner got speared by the boy from District 4.
When Radiance asks what Wonder did wrong, Atticus raises his hand. She gives him a second chance.
"He chased a capable tribute in the dark, a risky move. Wonder couldn't have known Peeta Mellark had night-vision glasses, but he should've considered the possibility. Being lower on the mountain was another mistake. Waiting until morning and approaching Mellark's cave stealthily would have been smarter."
Radiance nods. "Correct. Never underestimate an outlier. It's one of the first lessons here, yet it's often ignored. The three most recent victors—Everdeen, Coumbassa, and Mellark—were all outliers, and they proved deadly. Everdeen's resourcefulness, Coumbassa's unwavering resolve, and Mellark's strength were all underestimated by the Inner Alliance, and now those tributes are six feet under while the victors enjoy their new houses. Outliers are like cornered dogs; push them too far, and they will bite."
As the bell rings, signaling the end of class, the victor of the Fifty-Sixth Games gathers her blonde hair into a hair tie. "Next lesson, we'll categorize all of District 1's one-hundred-and-forty-one deceased tributes by their causes of death and delve deeper into why they're decomposing in the graveyard."
As Atticus' fellow cadets filter out of the room, Radiance stops him at the door and pulls him aside. At first he thinks it's about his misbehaviour earlier.
"Mr. Lancaster asked to see you after class." Radiance says. "Don't keep him waiting—trust me, he doesn't like that."
Atticus' heart leaps into his throat, but he thanks Radiance and rushes out the door. Only two months are left until the seventy-seventh games, and a call to Luster's office only mean one thing. He hesitates at the office door. Luster, now in his sixties, isn't some hunched-over senior. It's been forty-seven years since he won the Hunger Games, and he's still as straight-backed as the day he walked out of the arena.
Atticus knocks softly. Luster's voice, clear and commanding, echoes down the hallway.
"Enter."
Atticus steps inside, carefully closing the door behind him. He stands before Luster's desk, watching the man inscribe beautiful letters onto lined paper. The handwriting is impossibly eloquent; he must have been trained. Atticus becomes fixated on the handwriting, his brain desperate to calm the anxiety rising into his chest.
Luster looks up, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Atticus. He gives him a brief once-over.
"Congratulations, Mr. Rosseau. You're among the top five in this year's graduating class. Come July, you'll have the honor of making the dash to the stage."
Atticus almost reveals the back of his throat, but he manages to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. He's not completely surprised, but hearing Luster Lancaster say he's in the ring of names hits differently. His heartbeat crawls up his throat, and he suddenly has a bad case of cotton mouth.
"Thank you. So much."
Luster inclines his head. "Don't thank me yet. You've got four other boys to beat to the stage. There's no smooth sailing."
Atticus nods. It's redundant. He understands how the system operates in District 1.
"Off you go now," Luster says, peering down his nose at Atticus. "I've more pressing matters at hand."
Atticus practically skips from the room, brushing off the sting of Luster's indifference. Wandering through the hallways, he's overcome with giddiness. His dedication has finally paid off. Luster Lancaster recognizes his potential to triumph in the Games, to bring honor to District 1. With recent disappointing performances, Atticus now has the opportunity to prove to the nation why District 1 deserves respect.
He finds his way to his next class, but even as the instructor drones on about inedible plants, he struggles to concentrate. His mind is consumed with thoughts of the Hunger Games and what awaits him in the arena. Deep down, he's confident he'll outperform the other boys and make it to the stage. Known as one of the top runners in the DAEYD, coupled with the advantage of being eighteen and so close to the stage, he feels like a sure bet.
The smell from the perfumeries permeates every crevice in Coppertown. The scents he encounters at the academy are pleasant enough, but living in District 1's slums has soured Atticus on fragrances for a lifetime. Out here, he's happy just to smell the rust, without the extra assault on his senses.
Coppertown, the nickname given to District 1's lower class, doesn't have an official name due to its small size compared to the rest of the district. In a place where the lower class is essentially non-existent, Atticus wonders about the origin of the name. He suspects it probably came from the ever so intolerant Great Houses.
Kids from Coppertown don't compete in the Hunger Games. By the time tesserae was introduced for the Reaping, District 1 was already producing volunteers. A girl named Olivine Ayers died in the Twenty-Sixth Games, but other than that, no other teenagers from this place have earned the right to compete.
It's evident in his demeanor, a wave of excitement emanates from his chest. He's the second Coppertown kid ever to enter the arena. Despite the need to remind himself that reaching the stage isn't guaranteed, everything seems to align perfectly. Visions of riding through the City Circle during the opening ceremonies swirl in his mind. Imagining seizing the Cornucopia at the first gong. Picturing himself overcoming tributes from Districts 2 and 4 when The Alliance fractures after the initial skirmishes. District 12 just won twice in the span of three years, anything feels possible.
The gravel crunches underfoot as he navigates the quiet streets of the village. By the time he returns home from the academy, most shutters have closed for the night, rendering the streets empty and safe enough for him to walk alone in the darkness. He notices there's literally no one else out and about. As he reaches the front door, he conscientiously removes his shoes to avoid bringing gravel inside—his mother would scold him severely otherwise. Testing the door, he finds it opens easily without needing to use his key. His father is still at work, but the scent of perfumes lingers on his mother as she welcomes him home.
"Hello, Mother. It was good. Working hard?"
If only she knew. He wants to tell her immediately, but something holds him back. It takes a moment, but as he carefully removes his shoes, he realizes that once he shares his news, everything will change. Their lives will be different. He'll forever be known as someone who had the opportunity to bring honor to District 1.
"Doing my best and then some," he replies finally.
He retreats to his room, changes out of his uniform, and collapses face down on the bed, letting the darkness and fabric swallow him. His heartbeat quickens. There's no point in delaying it. The sooner he tells someone, the better it will be for him.
When he steps out into the main area, his mother is engrossed in a book. He starts to say he needs to talk, but she holds up a finger, signaling for him to wait. She finishes the chapter, then carefully places her bookmark between the pages and shuts the book.
"Mother," he says, pausing to steady himself. "I've been selected to volunteer. Luster called me into his office today and told me I'm one of the top five boys in our graduating class. Come July, I'll have the chance to sprint for the Reaping bowl."
His mother's joyful scream echoes through the room. She leaps up from her armchair, jumping with excitement. Her blonde hair falls out of her hasty bun and bounces around her shoulders.
"We could live in the Victors' Village! We're going to be clinking glasses with the Boleyns and the Delacroixs! I'm so proud of you!"
Atticus can't help but laugh as she takes his hands and spins him around.
"I know, Mother! I know!"
She hops onto the coffee table, knocking off coasters and books, and does a little dance on the spot. Atticus's mouth hurts from beaming at her.
"Just wait until you tell your father. Our baby is worthy enough in Luster Lancaster's opinion!"
For the rest of the afternoon, Atticus's mother shoots excited glances toward him, mumbling under her breath and singing happy little songs. He tries to do homework, but it's hard to concentrate when he's giddy with excitement. His mother's bliss is contagious. When Atticus's father returns from work, Atticus gives him twenty minutes to decompress. Then, when he's sitting in his chair with a glass of cheap wine, he comes over to the man and sits across from him.
Mother's head peeks around from the hallway, and she gives Atticus a big thumbs up. Father raises an eyebrow. "What is it, son?"
Atticus clears his throat. "Luster called me to his office, and he told me... well, he told me that I'm allowed to volunteer in July."
It takes several seconds for his father to register the information. Then his face transforms through a myriad of emotions before he erupts with joy, shouting, jumping up and down, and clapping Atticus on the back. Taking his son by the hands, he spins him around like they used to do in the park—what they called daisy chains. It's been years since they've shared this kind of moment, and seeing his father so jubilant is a rare sight indeed.
Netta Maekawa
Netta's mother glares at the radio, nostrils flaring in disdain. "What is this crap?"
"It's just music," Netta replies, though she turns the dial down.
"It's an earache, that's what it is. The Capitol's idea of entertainment barely qualifies as such."
Netta tries hard not to notice the glob of oatmeal clinging to the corner of her mother's lip. It's unfair to call one's mother disgusting, but that bit of food turns her stomach. She turns away, lining packets of strawberries on the shelf, anything to avoid the mess on her mother's face. Today's been busy, and her mother doesn't handle stress well. Everyone's stocking up for the post-reaping celebration, splurging because their children will be spared another year. Except, two families will have wasted that money for nothing. She can't really blame the woman for her snappiness, but she always takes it out on mundane, useless subjects.
Netta is destined to inherit this grocery store when her mother retires, just like her mother did when her grandmother hung up her apron for the final time. It's a bleak existence, but it pays alright. Their lives are a little better than others. Netta sees the poorer kids at school, with hunched shoulders, sunken faces, and dark circles under their eyes from late nights at the factories. As Netta places package after package on the cooler rack, she listens to her mother grumble about anything she can latch onto. This is typical. Netta's not sure when her mother's irritating habit of complaining began. She might've always been like this. But after seventeen years of having no choice but to hear it, Netta's truly at her wit's end. Is this how she'll turn out after two decades of dealing with idiots from the street?
Once it hits 5 PM, her mother rolls down the shutters with a bang and disappears to the tills to count the money. Netta's shoulders relax without her presence, and she sits back on her heels, allowing herself a moment to look at the floor.
Her family lives above the shop, accessible through a staircase in the back behind the office. It's near the dumpster, and it reeks just a bit. It's not uncommon to find poorer kids clawing through the trash, but Netta never reprimands them like her parents do. What's the point? The food is spoiled. As she sinks into her bed later that night, her spine thrums with a slight sharp pain. Her mother's got her working unreasonable hours, and it's taking its toll. Netta stares up at the gray ceiling, wondering how she'll put up with this being the rest of her life. Money is good and all, but there's no excitement. Her parents do the same thing every day, and they've done so since she was born. She could get a job in the factories, but that's not much better. At the base of it all, she guesses she's just sick of District 3 as a whole. A city painted blinding white, as if it will create a facade of sterility to hide how miserable and unwell people really are.
Overcome with stir-craziness, Netta leaps out of bed and slips into the bathroom. Maybe she can walk the streets tonight. A couple of friends live close by, perhaps they'll be available. The pain in her back has lessened. She reckons she can tough it out for now. She splashes her face with lukewarm water and ties her brown hair back messily in the mirror. She tries cleaning it, but the layer of grime is just pushed around when she wipes it, so she gives up. Her parents always hit the pillow early, so when she tiptoes into the common area, she's surprised to find her father sitting in his armchair, reading.
"Can't sleep?"
Her father looks up slowly, his eyes struggling to focus on her face. His sight gets worse every year. "In a way."
Netta sits on the end of the couch closest to him. "What's that?"
"Some trashy romance novel from the Capitol. Mr. Loewe from the post office got a shipment last week, and I bought one. I suppose a lot of people here are so sick of looking at numbers and screens that they like to lose themselves in paper during their downtime."
"You've never struck me as the 'trashy romance' type," Netta says playfully. "Aren't you a little old to be branching out?"
"You're never too old to read crappy novels. Everyone has the right to enjoy the musings of some twenty-year-old with blue hair."
"Cerulean," Netta corrects.
"Ah, yes. My apologies."
Netta's father closes the book, not bothering to mark his place. He sits in silence for a moment, then gets up and turns on the radio.
"Your mother's snoring away. How about we enjoy some of that crap she hates?"
Whatever's coming from the radio, Netta isn't sure it can even be called music. It's nothing like the tunes from District 3. Routa, a friend from school, once mentioned that her factory makes a lot of the electronic instruments and techno music for the Capitol. In her opinion, it's not worth the fuss. Here in District 3, getting music from before the Dark Days is relatively easy, though there's not much of it. Maybe it got lost during the Catastrophes, or perhaps it was never produced in great quantities. The Capitol hasn't tried to hide it—given the amount of data workers sift through, any such efforts would be pointless.
Netta's always felt that other districts aren't so fortunate, so she figures it's one small advantage of living in this stark metropolis.
Aaranay Varma
You think you'd get used to the stench of the factories, but being so close makes Aaranay realize he'll have to endure the smell for the rest of his life. Why are the markets situated so close to the factories anyway? Surely it drives away business.
He watches carefully as the baker finishes at the till. She's a squat woman, sort of like a cane toad. She's nice enough, which is why Aaranay feels a little guilty about having to steal from her. When she disappears into the back, Aaranay glides soundlessly through the front door. He's malnourished enough to slip through the barely opened door without sounding the bell.
The baker keeps her till well-kept, perfect for her constant opening and closing throughout the day. Unfortunately, it also means Aaranay can slide it open without a sound. He takes a pile of notes from the far right section and a handful of coins, then makes a run for it. Just as he turns the corner and passes the alley beside the bakery, a steel-gripped hand closes around his wrist, yanking him backward.
"Hey!" he starts to shout, but a hand clamps over his mouth. It's strong—whoever's got him has a lot of muscle. Aaranay doesn't allow himself to panic. His mind races through escape options: biting, scratching, throwing his weight back. The hand unclamps, and Aaranay swings a fist without hesitation. It connects with a man's muscled forearm.
"What the piss do you think you're doing?" a raspy voice spits.
Aaranay steps back and looks up at the man. He seems vaguely familiar—hazel eyes, brown skin, black curly hair. He has the general look of someone from District 9, why is he important? The man's eyes bore into Aaranay like a silo of grain, relentless and suffocating.
"Careful, kid. The Capitol likes to shove kids like you into the arena."
Aaranay frowns. "How would you know?"
The man runs his tongue across his teeth, considering Aaranay carefully. "Because I've mentored eight kids exactly like you. When you get stuck in the arena and die, the Capitol doesn't have to worry about you."
Aaranay blinks, a beat of silence passing.
"You're a victor," Aaranay says.
Aaranay has only ever seen District 9's victors from a distance at the annual Reaping. They rarely leave the Victors' Village, never visit the schools. Teachers play the tapes every few months, but 9 hasn't had a victor in thirty years, and they look different now than they did as teenagers. Aaranay never paid much attention to the tapes after the first few times. The only reason he recalls this man's name is that it's at the tail-end of the list the mayor reads before the names are called.
"You're Hector Norton," Aaranay remarks.
Hector puts his hands on his hips and stares down at him. "What are you doing, stealing from the baker? She barely makes enough to get by."
"How'd you know that's what I was doing?" Aaranay mutters. "I was buying something…"
Hector scoffs. "You're good, kid, but not that good. Trouble is written all over your face."
He pries the money from Aaranay's hand and shoves him. "Go on and get. I don't want to see you around here again."
"Why are you down here?" Aaranay hisses. "You and the others never come out of Victors' Village."
"We have family, just like everyone else. Just like you, kid."
Aaranay sends the victor a bitter smile. "Fuck you." Then, he runs.
It's a short trip to the orphanage. He only stays in the area when he steals. The whole way back, Aaranay fumes about Hector Norton, the audacity of him thinking he runs the place when he barely comes down. Thankfully, Aaranay shoved a fistful of cash in his back pocket. Aaranay finds himself indifferent to the fact that he was just manhandled by a victor. He thought meeting one would be some kind of awesome experience, they're technically celebrities. But no. He just wants to punch Hector in the head.
He enters the rickety orphanage through the back door and creeps into the boys' sleeping quarters. He taps the door closed with his foot, careful to stay quiet as he weaves through the room, navigating the maze of sleeping bags and beds. The one downside of sleeping against the far wall is the careful journey it takes to reach his bed. Twice, he nearly steps on someone's head, but finally, he reaches the back wall. He slips the money between the seams of his sleeping bag and turns it over, lying on top of the little pocket he cut out a couple of years ago when he began stealing.
Other than a few lumps on the floor, the room is empty of kids. Curious, Aaranay heads to the common area, where most of the others are gathered. House Mother doesn't acknowledge him, her nose buried in the newspaper.
"What's going on?" he asks one of the kids.
"An announcement from the Capitol," she says.
"What do you think it could be?" a younger girl asks. "Something about the games?"
Aaranay shakes his head. "Nah. The Quell's already passed, probably just another victor kicking the bucket."
Last year, when a victor from District 8 died, it was all over the news. An old guy named Woof who won way back, before even the first Quarter Quell. The Capitol seemed genuinely upset, which struck Aaranay as odd. They salivate over kids getting murdered every year, yet they were distraught over some old guy from before most of them were born. The room hums with chatter, but as the program shifts to the announcement, a hush falls over everyone. House Mother doesn't have to tell anyone to quiet down.
The screen fades to black, the Capitol seal emblazoned in gold. The anthem plays for three minutes, then the image changes to a blonde, middle-aged woman standing on the presidential balcony. Confusion flickers across Aaranay's face, but then he recognizes her: Aurelia Snow, President Snow's firstborn. The camera zooms in, revealing her decrepit appearance. He realizes what's happened just a moment before she says it.
"I regret to inform the nation that my father, Coriolanus Crassus Snow, beloved president by many, has passed away."