CHAPTER VIII:
MUNIFICENCE
"I like the way you fool yourself, and make believe there's no one else;
I like the way you stand in line— and beg salvation from empty skies."
Chapter content warnings: Ableism, alcoholism, bullying, variations of classist thinking, drug usage and overdose, multiple references to a mass shooting, suicide and suicidal thoughts, unwarranted violence against a woman and general "dystopian hellscape" vibes.
The day is bright and warm, for being just past noon. The sun, beaming down from a cloudless sky, would almost be pleasant if not for the circumstances. If it hadn't been the Fourth of July, Lush Rochambeau might be inclined to enjoy the weather. As it stands, no sane person in One enjoys this day. Least of all, herself.
Perhaps Euphoria Devore, One's longstanding escort, does… but she is alone in that excitement. She always has been. Her enthusiasm for the Games places her on an island in a sea of fear and trepidation, isolated from those before her as if she's a mime in an imaginary box. For the last twenty-nine years, Euphoria has stood onstage with her too-wide grin and too-gold accessories, flashing in the sunlight with her every animated gesture. The glare of her jewelry only serves to amplify the unsettling image of a woman in her seventies, with a face altered enough times to become a caricature of itself. Lush can hardly look at her.
The Mayor's wrapping up her speech— the same droning address Lush has heard every year since she was a little girl. All two-thousand-odd eligible children in the square are dead silent. Their families, around the perimeter of the plaza, are as still as statues. Lush knows from experience that most of them will stay that way, thanking their lucky stars only once they've been spared another year, and those Reaped are whisked away into the Justice Building.
On the other hand, Euphoria is bouncing up-and-down on her heels, giddy with the anticipation of reclaiming her annual spotlight. For a fleeting moment, Lush wonders what the woman must do during the rest of the year, when she becomes another face in the Capitol crowd.
When the Mayor finishes her speech, Euphoria makes a grand gesture of shaking her hand and thanking her profusely. Lush doesn't miss the way she wipes her hand on the gold satin bodice of her dress afterward, as if she's just touched something filthy.
There are five chairs on the stage. One for the Mayor, sitting back down. Four for their victors, and only three occupied. One empty— a reminder of the man who had once filled it. Marquis should be here. He was the first. The best of them, once.
(Lush won the year before the Quell. When it was announced, One's victors before her— Marquis and her own mentor, Zircon— had taken a distinct honor in mentoring the elected. The night after the tributes launched, a group of insurgents stormed the training center. Most mentors didn't survive the slaughter. Some did, for one reason or another. Lush has heard all of the rumors swirling around the catastrophe. Marquis had died protecting Zircon, giving him just enough time to flee their apartments. By the time he returned to One, he was never the same.)
(The Capitol's prized Quell victor did the unthinkable after they won. Wrapped up their post-Games interview with a few haunting words, then killed themselves onstage. The nation was in upheaval— they had experienced so much carnage in one year. So much death. What was the point of it all?)
(Lush killed to secure her victory. She's done far too many things she isn't proud of since. Far too much obedience. Far too much acquiescence. Victory was a legacy already riddled with suicides. The Quell massacre drove home the point: even though they'd won, they were still expendable. The Capitol would never care about them. But is it really her place to say so?)
"—our glorious victors," a beaming Euphoria breaks through her train of thought. "Zircon Lamour. Lush Rochambeau. And our most recent addition to the pantheon, Valor Novikov!"
Halfhearted applause fills the Plaza of Justice, a tepid response from a district so prideful. Most can't see the handful that survived without seeing the scores of annual waste they represent.
"Wonderful!" Euphoria says, gleefulness barely contained. "Now then. It's time to select our tributes, who will have the distinctive honor of competing in this year's marvelous competition!"
Euphoria begins her march across the stage, completed with long gold-manicured nails dipping into the large glass ball in front of all the district's eligible girls. "For our female tribute…"
She takes a slow, dramatic step forward, her gold satin dress trailing across the rough cement of the Justice Building stage. "Darling DeLuca," she calls, her voice smooth and elegant. There is no hesitation on such well-spoken lips.
A faint gasp sounds from somewhere in the middle of the venue— Lush is quickly able to find her newest tribute. The girl's face has drained of all color, and she's trembling. She supposes it's an appropriate enough reaction to the Games. She had been in the girl's shoes, once.
Then, before the girl gets a chance to process the luck of her lottery, a voice rings out from the front row. Four small words, spoken with undeniable impact: "I volunteer as tribute!"
Wrestling with surprise, Lush leans forward in her seat to scrutinize the new tribute. The girl is of an average height, with a deceptive musculature to her frame. An eye untrained with physical fitness might think her slender, even weak. Strawberry-blonde hair falls just past her shoulders, framing freckled skin and steely blue eyes. Her face is neutral, if coming across slightly haughty. Lush likes this girl— she certainly has a chip on her shoulder. Something to prove, perhaps.
"Ah, a volunteer," Euphoria drawls, her voice sweetened with the honey of appraisal. "Tell us all your name, miss…?"
"Lyrani," the girl answers into the microphone, her tone flat and resolute. "Lyrani Boyle."
"Everyone give it up for Miss Boyle," Euphoria trills, clapping her hands together as best she can while still holding the microphone. Applause follows shortly, though scattered. Lyrani passes behind the escort and stands a few paces away from her Reaping ball.
"Now, for the male tribute who will have the equal honor of competing alongside Miss Boyle," the escort announces, her fingers working to quickly unfold the piece of paper she's selected, "we have… Revel Larioux!"
Barely has the name left her lips when another shout rings across the square. "I volunteer as tribute!" a strong voice sounds, from where the rest of the eighteen-year-old males stand. A very tall boy pushes his way to the front, an intense look held within his green eyes. His figure is muscular, his brown hair cut neatly. If Lush hadn't been so taken aback with his admission of volunteering, she might've appraised his physique instead, and the way he, like Lyrani, seems to carry himself with a certain dignity. The crowd around him murmurs. Euphoria looks like she's on the verge of keeling over from shock.
A boy with long blonde hair tries to drag him back by the shoulders, but One's second volunteer quickly disentangles himself, giving the other boy a stern look. He makes short work of the distance between himself and the stage, and snatches the microphone from elderly Euphoria, who looks as though she might swoon.
"My name is Kyden Winters. You may know me as the Head Chef at The Elegy, and I am going to win these games and bring glory to this district!" he shouts, the words rushed but forceful.
Lush can barely conceal her frown. Even she has been clued into the rumor-mill surrounding that restaurant. None of the gossip is particularly good news. The plaza's blanket of silence has turned eerie as the crowd processes what has just happened. One has seen its own fair share of volunteers across the years, more than any of the other districts have. Never before, however, have both tributes voluntarily chosen to enter the Games.
The escort clutches at her pearls. The shock has morphed into a strange, manic excitement. For a woman in her seventies, this could become a lasting impression on an already successful career.
(All Lush can feel, however, is dread.)
She's the last pillar remaining of that career, a dynasty of Victors that have all been Capitol favorites. One's other winners, flanking her on either side, are hardly present anymore. Lush even helped mentor their latest, and still doesn't know what to make of their placidity. They've barely spoken since Valor's return to One six months prior, a stark contrast to their behavior before and during the Games.
Lush, alone, will have to ensure that such a historic year doesn't spiral into chaos. Marketed correctly, this could be an enormous selling point in ensuring that One remains the Capitol's favorite. For years, they've been in good graces. They've reaped the benefits of victory, and it shows. Lush would like to continue the trend. For the people of One, her legacy will decidedly be one of mercy.
It's a shame, then, that neither of these tributes seem to share that sentiment.
In spite of Two's unyielding bleakness, the mountainous region is sunlit, and hardly overcast for once. The clouds that dot the skies are pale and fluffy. Crete Myrick hardly expects rain— at least there's something to be grateful for on such a somber occasion.
Summers in Two are rather hit-or-miss. Storms move fast across the windward side of the Rockies, but on the leeward side, where all the quarries are located, the climate is often bone-dry for weeks. Wind snakes through the monumental town square, it's bite sharp and venomous. Crete fights the urge to shiver, and instead layers his thick forearms across his stomach.
Two's Mayor is currently reaching the end of their annual Treaty of Treason speech, the words to which he could recite in his sleep. He's only heard it a casual twenty-three times now since his victory, and eight before it.
The Capitol banners snap lazily against the ornate grandeur of the Justice Building, their insignia distorted with the movement of the fabric. It is the only sound in the square aside from the Mayor's speech. Everyone else is silent— the world has come to a standstill.
Seated between his fellow victors, Crete stares out at the thousands of eligible children. Each wears a mask of stoic blankness on their faces, standing in tight rows and columns as if they were military cadets having platoon drills. He knows some of them likely are. For two of them, this may be the last they ever see of their stark homeland. Though Two has beaten the odds more than most, the Reaping is still a likely death sentence. Panem knows, he's seen his fair share of the dead in his time as a mentor.
The Mayor ends their speech and steps back, turning on their heel at an impressive speed to stalk back to the first of the thin row of seats on stage. Crete inclines his head, and is met with a grim smile from the head of their government. None of them particularly want to be here.
But duty calls. It's all a game of duty and honor, for Two— no matter how much they dislike the notion of sending two children to die, it's their obligation. Nothing more, and nothing less.
The square earns exactly fourteen seconds of complete silence before the large oaken doors of the Justice Building are thrown open, revealing Two's flamboyant escort. Napoleon Rosier is a shocking contrast to the austere facade of the building. His outlandish electric-blue hair is styled into extravagant spikes that defy the wind's casual assault, and his garish mismatched clothing billows around his reedy frame, the picture of sartorial excess.
(Crete would liken him to a diamond in the rough, if he had the personality for it. The oppressive pallor of grayness that seems to permeate everything in Two doesn't touch him; the buildings, the landscape, the clothes. He looks like a shiny gem compared to their stone.)
With a flourish, Napoleon raises a hand, commanding the attention of the masses. His unctuous voice cuts through the wind, amplified by crackling speakers set on either side of the stage to ensure Two's enormous group of attendees can hear his every word.
"Welcome, citizens of our fair and mighty District," he proclaims theatrically. "Today, we gather to fulfill our duty and select two tributes for the Thirtieth Annual Hunger Games!" Though Napoleon seems to try his best to match the district's tone, his excitement is obvious in his vocal inflections. "Let us not falter in our resolve. We do so in service of the greater good."
"To my right, our most magnificent victors! Nero Harlow, of the first; Crete Myrick of the eighth; Megara Serrer of the nineteenth and our latest, Lysandra Wythe of the twenty-third! Let's hear a round of applause for those who brought glory and honor to our district, hmm?"
He doesn't mistake the way Napoleon skips over the three empty chairs on the stage. There should be seven of them— and were, for a brief period in time. The two who died in the Quarter Quell shooting were celebrated. The public mourned; both the district and Capitol. Crete prefers not to think ill of the dead, but he can't help but feel anger for what happened after the Quell. Fornax Zamara played perhaps one of the best Games in existence. They would have brought immense favor to the district, but instead ended it all the night of her interview.
The burial was private. Five years has not been long enough to forget— their actions have cost the district dearly since. The government frowns upon Two. Works harder than ever before to ensure their militant population stays in line.
(He's grateful to have Lysandra by his side. Nero has aged, and has never been able to adapt to the subtleties of the Capitol. Megara has been unfit to mentor since her victory, gone mad from the hell she endured in the arena. Even at half his age, Lysandra is a pillar of support. They've done this together, now. They'll do it together again.)
The applause, mildly substantial in nature, subsides. Napoleon's unnatural grin stretches across his face, his bleach-white teeth almost frightening. "Now," he begins, emphasizing every word for the dramatics of it all, "we will select our champions for this year's edition of the Games."
He struts across the rough concrete stage, well-worn by the boots of thousands of soldiers. A peacekeeper lifts the glass lid off of the first Reaping bowl, and Napoleon wiggles his fingers as he reaches down into it, sifting around for a slip of paper.
He unfolds the slip of paper, the wind threatening to snatch it from his fingers. "Our female tribute who will have the honor of competing in this year's Games is… Velyra Lacuna! Where is Velyra?" he queries, butchering the girl's name on his second go-around.
"Oh, hell no," a voice groans from the first few rows. "I—" Two's newest tribute begins, abruptly stopping themselves from speaking. She spits into the gravel, clearly fuming at the circumstances. Crete admires the dignity they hold themselves with, shoulders squared as they step out into the middle aisle. She keeps her head held high, but neutral— chin not too far up as to be looking down, nor too low as to appear shy. He can see her fists clenched at her side, the wind blowing her dark curls out to the right behind her back.
Crete can tell in the way they carry themselves that Velyra is a soldier. It's in her shoulders, her musculature and in the impervious neutrality of her facial expressions. He's impressed by the way in which they turn heel on stage to stand next to Napoleon, raking back their long black hair, brown eyes unflinching as they gaze out at the crowd.
Napoleon seems equally unfazed by her display. "Our male tribute who will have the honor of competing alongside her is…" he reaches into the bowl, this time reaching elbow-deep to take a slip from the bottom. "Taurus Falcon!"
(For a brief moment, Crete tries to remember where he's heard that name before.)
If Velyra's reaction was slanted into anger, Taurus' is pure shock. From somewhere in the rows of seventeen-year-old boys, he starts to move forward, his mouth hanging open. He quickly scrubs his face with his hands, struggling to collect himself. He's the same height as Velyra, just built stockier, with thick muscles and broad shoulders. His black hair is cut short, curling over a furrowed brow. The boy swallows, clearly understanding the gravity of the situation, and makes his way to the stage, fighting to keep his expression as neutral as he possibly can.
As he ascends the stairs, Crete notices his eyes seem fixed on a peacekeeper standing at the Mayor's side. He only looks away from the man when he reaches his spot beside Velyra, then turns to face the crowd, his stance equally rigid. It is then that he places where he recognizes Taurus from— Falcon is the name of Two's peacekeeper general.
(That makes two. Unprecedented— Crete is almost morbidly interested to see how this goes.)
"Our two glorious tributes for District Two!" Napoleon cries over the wind, raising both arms and splaying his hands out. "May the odds be ever in their favor!"
Typically, summer days in Three aren't so hot. It's just their luck, then, that today's ocean breeze seems to be bringing nothing but an oppressive wave of humidity into the district's equally oppressive landscape. Go figure, right?
Everything feels so run-down and gray. Eisa Veral can't stand how impoverished Three feels— built among the ruins of an ancient city, everything has a makeshift quality. She supposes she'll never know quite how the skyscrapers were built, only how drastically larger they make the city feel. The constructions, all crumbling concrete, rusted rebar and fragmented glass— are silent sentinels that keep an ominous guard over Three, almost as if they're left waiting for something.
It's easy to feel small here. Inconsequential, really, especially in terms of how hierarchical the district's intellect has made things. A focus on being the cutting edge of Panem's technological front has made them into nothing short of a geniocracy. Eisa finds that she hates the concept. It makes her peers far too jealous, secretive and competitive with one-another. Keeps them divided from the inside-out, always forgetting that the real enemy doesn't live among them.
(Five years, and everything that happened during the Quell seems to be swept under the rug. If it didn't impact Panem's everyday people, why should they care about it? Why should her district care if she barely survived the shooting? They never bothered to ask her. She never bothered to tell. As it stands, the truth of where she had been would be far too damning.)
(So, Eisa will keep her mouth shut. What else can she do?)
The soft white hum of gathered voices begins to die down once Three's Mayor takes the stage. Eisa folds her hands in her lap, staring out at the thousands of eligible teenagers. She wonders which two will be selected. Which two she'll be forced to watch die this year, as she always has.
The district holds its Reapings just outside of its only functioning university, an intellectual luxury no other district has. The school's old sports stadium is just large enough to hold all of its attendees, organized meticulously through a series of government-mandated tickets. All of the eligible attendees are on the stadium's only horizontal edge, facing the stage erected amidst the rubble of the opposite side. Her hypothesis is it was destroyed in an airstrike— but there's no real way to prove it, aside from the occasional black streak. It's just a working theory, anyway.
Their parents and family members— the ones lucky enough to win tickets anyway— are situated along the curved sides of the stadium, and everyone else is supervised outside. She's seen enough tapes now to recognize only Three, Five and Six have this feature— every other district holds their Reapings in a plaza surrounding their Justice Building, or a field behind it.
There is a part of her that finds that convenience charming, but the size of Three's population doesn't allow for it. She finds the less intimate setting to be initially freeing, anyhow. When Eisa stares at the thousands, they begin to blur together. She can't focus on any individual expressions of fear, anger, or sadness. It makes it easier to ignore them all, until two are chosen.
She knows that Three's escort, Europa Dalis, feels the same way. They tend to share the same views on a lot of things, actually. Europa began escorting just three years before Eisa won the eighteenth, and in the years following they have developed a strange sort of friendship. But humans are odd that way. They often find camaraderie where they least expect it.
(Who could have known that the woman who had Reaped her, all those years ago, would become her closest confidant? The only person who bothered to treat her with any real respect?)
Europa stands just behind the Mayor, her hands clasped in front of her chartreuse dress. The hem is conservative, but still cropped just high enough to not drag on the ground, and make a showing of her matching heels. Eisa knows that Europa's icy expression is mistaken for haughtiness or hatred amongst her districtborn peers, but the escort has a serious case of resting bitch face. It has nothing to do with her excitement for her job, nor the level of discontent she has found with the Hunger Games as of late. It makes her an outlier, in the grand scheme of things. But she's not statistically significant enough to bring about any kind of meaningful change.
Once the Mayor has wrapped up his speech, Europa takes his place. "Thank you, Mayor," she acknowledges. "And welcome, District Three, to the Thirtieth Annual Reaping for the Hunger Games!" Her falsetto enthusiasm is not matched by the crowd, who stares stonily at her in return.
Europa doesn't let it deter her. After all, why should she? Eisa watches her friend sashay across the stage to the large glass bowl on the right, trying to ignore how loudly the Mayor is breathing beside her. She finds her tolerance wanes with every appearance he makes in her life.
"This year's female tribute is… Stati… Curren," Europa enunciates, her words clear and unmistakable.
Eisa scans the sea of faces before her. She only finds Stati once she's standing, her initial shock melting away into a forced stoicism. Eisa's newest tribute seems on the shorter side of fifteen, and thin. She holds her head high, frizzy black panes of hair bouncing around her shoulders as she descends the stairs. Her hands tremble at her sides, and her wide, round eyes appear almost too large for her face. Eisa's heart sinks as this girl makes it to the bottom of the stands, trying so hard to look composed while she's shaking like a leaf.
It feels like it takes forever for her to reach the stage, taking her place beside Europa, who gives her an almost-sympathetic look. Eisa knows her longtime friend will never truly understand the fear that the girl must be feeling right now. She'll never know the feeling. But she tries.
Europa reaches into the second glass bowl, sifting through the slips until she finds one that's arbitrarily satisfying. "This year's male tribute is… Victor… Benedict."
This time, her tribute is quicker to stand. It still takes him a moment, but once he does, Eisa finds herself impressed. If not for his height, for the elegance of his movements and the composure with which he carries himself down the stairs. However, the closer he gets to the Reaping stage, the more unsure Eisa feels about her initial assessment of him.
He has a fine bone structure, with a gaunt face and circles under his eyes so dark they look purple. Below thick eyebrows and a mess of brown hair on his head, Victor's eyes hold a distant fixation on a point beyond them— whether at the distant university, or at nothing, she can't quite tell. He has a tortured look about him that sticks with her, even once he's turned his back to her to face the remainder of his peers in the stadium.
(She's seen her fair share of afflicted academics. But there's something about his gaze, so far removed from reality, that haunts her.)
Europa begins to delicately clap her manicured hands. Members of the stadium follow suit, albeit halfheartedly. This reciprocation brings a smile to the escort's face, and she nods at Three's newest batch of tributes. "Shake hands," she instructs, almost like she's speaking to dogs.
Stati and Victor do, though as far as Eisa can tell, neither seem too happy about it. A set of peacekeepers steps up for each of them, and directs the tributes toward a large sport utility vehicle with its windows completely blacked out. From there, they will be escorted to Three's Justice Building and placed on a train, speeding toward the Capitol. Toward death, most likely.
"Thank you all for your cooperation. The only way Panem can move forward is if it is unified."
By the time the Reapings begin in Four, the sun has already begun to sink ever-so-slightly in the sky. Ketch Lachlan fidgets in his seat— he's been feeling antsy all day. Though the Recap never makes it obvious to the millions of viewers in Panem, they're the last district to hold the ceremony, late into the afternoon. While it gives the fisherpeople of Four plenty of time to go about their daily routines, it leaves a lingering dread across the entire district.
That fear is as palpable as the stormfront rolling in. Dark, swollen clouds drift at the edge of the horizon, and the Capitol's top meteorologists are suggesting it'll be a storm full of rage. Ketch would rather remain behind in the district to deal with torrential rains and flash-flooding than be on his way to the Capitol in half an hour, but he hasn't been in control of the hand he's been dealt ever since his name was called eight years prior.
No one ever is. They own him. The same way they own Chantara Kamari, and the same way they owned Four's earliest victor, whose name is held in such contempt by the older generation that he's never learned it. Their death was ruled a suicide— and as a result, Four didn't receive their due spoils of victory until Ketch himself brought them home a win, many years later.
The camera crews have nearly finished setting up their equipment. Rather down to the wire, if you ask him, but he supposes the job is as stressful for them as for him. Four, being the last district to hold their Reapings, always has its footage sent to the Capitol newscasters without a chance to heavily edit the footage. Everything has to be perfect. There is no room for error.
Ketch looks over at his protegee, and offers her a reassuring smile. Chantara has been the pearl of the public eye ever since she won— the rising star whose fame has quenched the flames of all the Quell nastiness. She has been the Capitol's panacea for their worst Games, and he knows it hasn't been a kind four years to her. But they'll get through it together. They always do.
He squeezes her hand and watches as Four's Mayor rises from his seat— two down from Ketch, with an empty one in-between for their lost victor— to give the Treaty address. He zones out as the woman speaks, unable to care. It's an unreasonably long speech, and heard every year.
He remembers the fearfulness he felt standing in the plaza before the Justice Building, as all of Four's eligible do now. Back then, he clung to every word. Each was another second to delay the inevitable. Now, he focuses on straining his ears to hear the roar of the aquamarine surf, just a few blocks away. The brine of the ocean breeze keeps him grounded. To be without it is the part he dislikes most about mentoring. Though the Capitol is situated around a great saltwater lake, the breeze never carries the scent to the training center. One year, he made his way down to the waterfront and shattered the illusion that it would be similar at all.
Chantara gives him a pointed look as Kosmos Allura, Four's long-standing escort, bounces on his heels. He's far too excited to be here, as usual. For the last twenty years, he's escorted Four's tributes to the Capitol, and has never once seemed to truly care about their well-being beyond the prestige that the job brings him. Tributes from Four often do well— they just don't win.
It's a maddening reality, that he and Chantara are exceptions to that rule. For all of the relevant skills, outdoor experience and abundant proteins that their district provides, many don't have the killer instinct that winning the Hunger Games requires. That is the truth.
Every year, Kosmos does the same. He wears the same custom-made tuxedo, black with patches and gradients of dark blue and purple, a scattering of silver and white flecks dispersed about the suit. Ketch knows it's meant to mimic the galaxy, but all it does it piss him off. Especially when paired with the man's greasy, slicked-back hair, the sides of his head shaved to accent his electric purple man-bun. It doesn't help that the escort has a boisterous manner of speaking, all but snatching the microphone away from the Mayor the second her speech is over.
"Welcome, District Four, to the Thirtieth Annual Reapings! I am so excited to be here, as I'm certain you are too. Today, we have the distinguished honor of choosing not one but two tributes to compete for the honor, glory, and achievement of winning the Hunger Games!"
When no one matches his enthusiasm, he all but pats himself on the back before moving on. "Here we go," Ketch mutters to Chantara, who squeezes his hand back tighter. It's never easy to mentor, especially knowing that the odds are certainly never in their favor. Ketch has often found himself putting too much into his mentees— to the point where even on the eve of the Quell, he was still attending sponsor parties, looking to bolster his tributes' chances.
(Thankfully, such dogged persistence had spared him from the massacre. For as bad as life as a victor is, it beats death, where Ketch is concerned.)
Kosmos makes a grand showing of selecting a slip of paper from the first Reaping bowl, swirling his hand around until he selects a paper that he fancies. "Our female tribute for this year's glorious games is… Lorelai Marinee!"
Ketch hardly blinks before things spring into action. In the fifteen-year-olds section, a girl is cursing up a storm, being held back by an armed official. But among the seventeen-year-olds, Four's newest tribute struts confidently toward the stage, her steps measured and powerful. She's of average height, and lithely muscled, with long, dark hair salted with the sea. She's wearing an odd grin on her face, almost forced but certainly charismatic, and she waves at the nearest camera as she ascends the stairs of the Justice Building. Once Lorelai has cleared the top step, she turns around and does something wildly unexpected.
Ketch doesn't believe his eyes when she blows a kiss to the cameras.
"My, my," Kosmos grins, his teeth nearly sharklike. "You're certainly… confident."
Lorelai returns his smile, teeth and all. Ketch notices the strain in her neck, trying to keep up this clear facade of bravado. "Someone has to be," she shrugs, winking at him. All of the Reaping attendees filling the city of Triton's Cove are silent enough after this exchange that Ketch swears he could hear a seagull cry from the waterfront.
Kosmos bobs his head as he rummages through the second Reaping bowl, eerily manic in his zealousness for finding the Capitol's latest victim. "Our male tribute for this year's glorious games, who will compete alongside the lovely Lorelai is… Cassander Beck!"
For a moment, the same silence reigns. Then, a sixteen-year-old boy moves forward from a crowd of his peers, all of which give him a wide berth as he steps into the aisle. He's taller than his district partner, though his slouch doesn't make it obvious. He has a mess of wavy brown hair obscuring part of his forehead, and his expression is strangely blank. If Lorelai was the picture of confidence, Cassander's face is as tumultuous as the looming stormfront. Ketch can't tell if the boy is fearful, as he should be, or if he's… relieved.
Slowly, Ketch formulates his own ideas. Both of these tributes seem to be hiding secrets. They're just hiding them in vastly different ways. Lorelai's forced confidence and Cassander's strange relief, alongside the way everyone seemed to flinch back from him, leads him to believe he and Chantara might be in for an interesting year.
When Cassander finally climbs the stairs, he gives Lorelai an empty look. Only when Lorelai reaches out to shake his hand, unprompted, does he see the recognition in her face. Somehow, they know each other— or at least, the girl recognizes the boy.
"Loving the eagerness," Kosmos crows, nearly tone-deaf in light of Cassander's reaction. "That's it from me, dear Panem! If there's anyone you should cheer for, it's these two right here!"
The afternoon in Five is arid, and all-too bright. The stiff desert dryness feels especially palpable at the apex of the day— the sun hanging high overhead basks the stadium in an inescapable heat.
Thankfully, her ensemble has been tailored to withstand the heat. She wears a pale blue rayon dress with a squared neckline and gorgeous bishop sleeves. She even bought a pair of mule heels to match. The fabric is to die for— it's light, luxurious, and most important of all, makes dealing with Five's arid heat more tolerable. Though the district is just an eight-hour train ride from the Capitol, if taking a direct route, she finds the difference quite noteworthy.
But it's no matter of importance. Today is the big day— as Five's escort, Myrsine Solis could not be more excited. This year marks the third decade of the Capitol's rule over Panem. The thirtieth annual Hunger Games. Though the Quell was… well, it was a flop, to say the least, this is a big deal. At least, everyone in the Capitol seems to think so. She'd hedge a bet that most of the districts wouldn't bother to make such a distinction. The thought makes her crinkle her nose, and then she stops, remembering that doing so could give her wrinkles in the long-term.
Myrsine reminds herself that the job is worth it. Since she was a little girl, she had always dreamed of entering the cutthroat entertainment industry. Though she never found success as an actress, being referred to the role of an escort for the Hunger Games means her face is on national television. Not just Capitol television. She couldn't have accepted the role faster.
So what if she doesn't escort for a fun district? At least she doesn't have to travel out to one of the double-digit nightmares. Myrsine thinks of herself as rather tenacious. She can handle Five. Well. Most of it, anyway. The tributes are usually respectful of her— she's heard horror stories from her colleagues— though it may be in part due to Five's uniformist culture. It's Five's only victor that causes her a great deal of irritation.
There is a part of her that hates Polaris Landry. They're rather useless in their misery. He would much rather prefer to ingest whatever synthetic garbage he can get his hands on then play any role mentoring his tributes. Myrsine detests him for that. Allegedly, Polaris was out schmoozing their way through a sponsor party the night of the Quell shooting. Allegedly. She hasn't seen him lift so much as a finger in the last five years to help any of Five's tributes.
(How is she supposed to find any pride in her work, when as a team all they have turned up is bloodbaths and pre-Feast eliminations? Five has had a longer cold streak than anyone: twenty-three years. All of it, she has decided, rests on Polaris' incapability to properly mentor his tributes. Not to mention, they didn't even have an exciting Games. She watched the tapes.)
(So fuck him. Myrsine will overstep as much as she wants to. It's not like Polaris cares.)
As Five's dullard Mayor wraps up the Treaty of Treason speech, Myrsine takes a couple of deep breaths and prepares herself for her performance. Though her role has multiple functions throughout the Hunger Games, a scant few are actually televised. She takes pride in knowing that all of her friends and family will be tuning into the Reapings broadcast just for her.
"Hello, District Five!" she croons into the microphone. She ignores the way none of them smile back at her. They never will. They don't deserve her, really. "Welcome to the Reaping of the Thirtieth Annual Hunger Games! I am so ecstatic to be here with you all today, as we select two challengers for the crown of victory!"
She claps her hands together as quickly as a jackhammer, the noise as refreshing as rain in the drought of her audience's approval. At least the Capitol adores her. She brings a much-needed cheeriness to Five. Much-needed. Smoothing the front of her dress, she lifts the microphone from its stand and beelines for the first Reaping bowl, taking great care to show off her dress.
With as much dramatic intention as possible, Myrsine churns the little folded slips in the bowl until she finds one that just feels right. Extracting it from the bowl, she unfolds it slowly, savoring the way she can feel her audience's suspense. None of these kids want it to be them. She, of course, can't wait to begin showing off another tribute to the Capitol.
"Helia Remiel," she reads, the name rolling off her tongue smoothly. A strangled cry, diluted by the wind, arises from somewhere in the furthermost stands. Myrsine frowns at the implication. She's held this job for five years now and never Reaped a twelve-year-old. How was one even supposed to market a pre-teen to the Capitol audiences? How could she possibly—
"I volunteer as tribute!" a strong voice rings out from closer in the stands.
Myrsine nearly falls over from the shock. She scans the crowd fervently, searching for Five's latest anomaly. The volunteer is seventeen, and quite tall. Not to mention delightfully athletic for a Five tribute. The girl has gorgeously styled, clearly natural blonde hair that almost makes Myrsine jealous, and her blue eyes match the sky. Looking at this girl, Myrsine is excited at her marketability. The Capitol is going to love her.
Strangely, however, there is no bravado in this girl's showing. Though Myrsine is electrified by her choice to volunteer… the humility that she exudes climbing the stage is far less exciting than the swagger and delusion that the Capitol audience has typically seen from past volunteers.
"And your name is..?" she prompts the girl, who has already turned to face thousands of her stunned peers with squared shoulders and a stoic expression.
"Celestia Hemingway," the girl responds, her voice serious and sharp.
Myrsine bobs her head dramatically. She knows the motion will make her glittery eyeshadow pop in the sunlight. "No relation to… oh, what was her name… Helia?"
"None," Celestia says. From his seat, Polaris barely turns his head toward her. If Myrsine had to guess, he's either already on something today, or still recovering from yesterday. She masks her anger with excitement, forcefully gripping the girl's shoulder.
"A volunteer! From District Five, I have to say this is quite rare. May I ask why you've chosen to represent our district?"
"Yes," Celestia responds, choosing her words carefully. "I believe I am capable of winning the Hunger Games, and want to partake in this great honor on behalf of the Capitol."
Myrsine squeals with excitement. "Well, let me be the first to tell you: we're happy to have you!" She lets go of Celestia's shoulder and makes her way over to the second Reaping bowl, feeling almost giddy in her excitement. What an excellent showing thus far. Not wanting to lose any of the momentum she's gotten, Myrsine takes the first slip of paper her fingers touch.
"To join the wonderful Celestia… we have one magnificent Thalys Saroléa!"
If Celestia was her picture-perfect idealization of a tribute, Five's latest is the exact opposite. She can hear him swearing from the front of the stands. He's taller than Celestia, but built lanky and awkward. She absolutely loves his mullet, though; Thalys' dark curls sit perfectly on the top and back of his head. As he jogs up the stage, Myrsine fights the urge to wrinkle her nose again. He vaguely smells like permanent markers— nothing the stylists can't fix, of course.
"Day before my birthday, dude," Thalys grumbles at her, surprisingly unshocked by this turn of events. "This shit is bananas!"
An angle is an angle, Myrsine realizes. If he was almost ineligible for the Reapings, perhaps he'll fight harder than anyone to make it back to his life. With this in mind, she appraises him with an eye of approval instead. Maybe she can work with this… unluckiness.
"District Five, your tributes!" Myrsine exclaims, invigorated by her newest prospects. "Shake hands, you two. And may the odds be ever in your favor."
There are two things Pollux Verona hates. Rain, and District fucking Six.
It's a shame that today, he has to deal with both. He's had this escorting job since he was twenty-nine, and perhaps wrongfully assumed he'd receive a rapid promotion to a better district, nevermind that his change in career is the envy of all his friends. District Six never provides any entertainment value. The work is prestigious, yes, but it's boring. He spends a full year being a micro-celebrity just to spend two weeks or less watching gutter scum die.
Part of him blames Six's incompetent population for a lack of promotion. The rest of him blames the government— the job is divided starkly between longtime favorites and the new blood, escorts who were hired after the Quell incident to districts that needed a little extra help. Aside from District Twelve getting a new hire after old Triphonia finally croaked, the pool has remained stagnant for the last five years. He's heard his colleagues— the new crop, anyway— complain about it for years now. Nobody wants districts that don't win.
The past twenty-nine Games have produced a single victor from Six, long before he snagged the job. Pollux remembers briefly that skateboarding had a mild resurgence into the mainstream culture of Capitol neighborhoods around the time of Atlas Gaskill's victory. His little brother Castor couldn't stop begging his parents for one. He and his high-school friends tried hanging out at skate parks, until the losers who actually frequented the area chased them away.
News of Atlas' death spread to the Capitol the day after Pollux turned eighteen. He had never been a particularly popular victor, but those who favored the guy had been distraught at the news. His snarky personality and spiteful resilience had made him the Hunger Games' biggest rising star. Then he went and overdosed— nothing like throwing away a burgeoning legacy for nothing but a quick high. How embarrassing.
(Six is full of losers. It's full of flunkies and junkies, hurtling into oblivion high. He hates them all much more than he cares to admit. All eight of the tributes he escorted were useless and unpopular among the entire Capitol. How is he supposed to move onto a better district when Six keeps producing such waste?)
Pollux always gets antsy waiting for the speeches to get wrapped up. Six is on the tightest time schedule, given the massive number of eligible children. He stares out at all of them through the rain, faces gray and stony as they stare back at him. A collective, unblinking mass. As usual, they're a rather dull crowd.
"Welcome, District Six, to this year's Reaping. It's an honor to be here," he says, the word strained in its untruth. "Today we will select two tributes to compete in the Thirtieth Annual Edition of the Hunger Games. May the odds… be ever in your favor."
With no small amount of self-aggrandizement, Pollux twirls his mustache up— a rather futile gesture in the pouring rain— then swirls his hand around in the Reaping bowl. Six's eligible population is massive. Nevermind the fact that most of them take out tesserae, too. In years past, they've had mathematicians scale the slips down proportionally to fit in the bowls. The Capitol does love tradition after all, but this year, at least for the first bowl, it doesn't matter.
(Every slip says the same name.)
Once he feels he's been showy enough with it, he delicately extracts a waterlogged slip of paper and unfolds it, his eyes lifting to the crowd before him. He even knows where she's sitting.
"The female tribute for this year's edition of the Hunger Games is Jiyana Koba," he reads, practically spitting out the words. She's far away enough that he can't make out the details of her expression, but it's much less emotional than he expected, and—
"I volunteer!" a voice cries out from beside her. Pollux snaps his head to the girl at her side so rapidly that his neck hurts. "I volunteer as tribute," the girl repeats firmly, looking as pale as a ghost once it settles in what she's just done.
Behind him, he can sense the anger radiating off the Mayor and his district's garrison of goons. But all Pollux can feel is glee— since when do tributes from Six ever volunteer? He doesn't live here. Why should he care if Koba gets to do a little more drug-running?
(Honestly, as far as he's concerned, Six can stay a cesspit as long as they keep pumping drugs into the Capitol. Makeup isn't the only powder that makes its way onto his face.)
Koba seems to make a half-hearted attempt to grab the volunteer's hand, but peacekeepers have already located and flanked her, hustling her down the stairs. Once she hits the field, the volunteer seems to draw in on herself, head-length dyed-blonde hair matted to her face and shoulders hunched, wearing an expression of abject worry beneath her furrowed brow. As the peacekeepers march her across the soiled football field, she tries to manage a veneer of confidence that, in his opinion, only serves to make her look worse.
"And your name is, dear?" Pollux asks, his tone venomous as he assesses the newest prize horse in the stable of his tributes. He wishes she was taller, and not so skinny, but something in her stance makes her feel as imposing as if she had been. He can work with a mixed bag.
"Nova Sonata," she replies, her words clipped and even. She shivers in the rain, folding her arms against her chest protectively.
"No relation to Miss Koba?" Pollux asks, feigning confusion. He really couldn't care less.
She hesitates. "None."
Sensing he won't get much else out of her, Pollux shrugs theatrically and makes his way across the stage to the second bowl. With any luck, her district partner will be just as interesting. As it stands, a volunteer marketed correctly might put him on the right track to being promoted.
The next slip of paper is a bit harder to read. Pollux tells himself that he'll personally ensure next year that Six's Division of Justice uses a printer ink that's waterproof. "The male tribute for this year's edition of the Hunger Games is… Beaumond Puttman," he declares, lifting his gaze to squint through the rain at the stadium full of teenagers in front of him.
Only once the peacekeepers have located the boy does he realize that he's read the name wrong. That's Beaumont Pullman. He'll need to rectify such a careless mistake— by getting waterproof ink. He swears sometimes it's like this district hates him as much as he hates it. How hard can printing be? Seriously?
Even by the time his newest tribute has descended the stairs, he still looks surprised by the news. Why, Pollux will never know— why wouldn't you attend the Reapings expecting it to be you? When he comes to a stop next to Nova, the boy's head is angled slightly toward the sky. Pollux surmises he must be some kind of freak rain enjoyer. He's shaking a bit, maybe due to the cold, or some kind of perverse enjoyment of the situation?
(He's skinny too, but at least he's on the taller side. The mop of curly black hair on his head will certainly be changed by his stylists. Overall, he's seen this district produce worse.)
(Not once does it cross Pollux's mind that he's afraid.)
"Incredible! Put your hands together for our newest tributes representing District Six: Nova Sonata and Beaumont Pullman!" Pollux shouts. They shake hands awkwardly onstage. There's a forced applause from the crowd, though he suspects less than half bother to participate. The noise is like a distant thunder, somewhere in the gray skies above them.
Neither of his newest tributes bother to look at him. Pollux waves jauntily to the cameras, and ignores the crowd as the camera crew begins to sign off. He sidesteps the Mayor as peacekeepers march Nova and Beaumont down the back of the stage to a humvee with blacked-out windows, sitting on the well-worn turf like a panther waiting to swallow them whole.
He hurries along to join them, almost tripping on his own feet in his eagerness to get out of the rain. Once the passenger door clicks into place beside him, Pollux releases an exaggerated sigh.
Panem above, he can't wait to be back in the Capitol.
A light drizzling of rain taps against the canopy of leaves, each drop a faint echo beneath the watery afternoon sky. The air smells of damp earth, and pine, scents stereotypical of District Seven and yet present altogether, fighting with the bitter taste of inevitability in her throat.
The park is well-shaded. Towering pines cast long, dappled shadows over the crowd of citizens gathered along the perimeter, some of their faces prematurely hidden with hoods and umbrellas. The district's eligible, of course, are afforded no such luxury. There are a little over two-thousand of them, standing still, like statues. Each, a potential tribute.
(Each a future death in the making.)
Senna Moreno sits at the front of the park, on an old bandshell that has since lost its raincover. Her arms are folded neatly across her chest as she watches the proceedings— after nearly ten years of mentoring, she knows the drill by heart. The camera crews scurry into place like wood-mice and within moments, they are no longer making any sound.
The park is still. Still enough to hear the wind in the trees; the tapping of the rain like a volley of gunshots aimed at the children, waiting to die. Reaping days still bring a familiar, unsettling tightness to her chest. Senna has grown used to the spectacle, but it still haunts her nonetheless.
(At least here, there are no screams. No blood, no violence— just tears and anguish and suffering, because that's all the Capitol has ever wanted to show them.)
Seven's escort takes the stage, standing tall in a sharp green suit that almost seems to mimic the foliage surrounding them and the effects of the light playing against it. Lavinia Hummingsworth, or Birdie as she's collectively known to the Capitol, has been Seven's escort since the inception of the Hunger Games. Her wealth is as apparent as her obsession with nature, and even at sixty-six there is an intimidating vitality to her presence.
Despite the drizzle, Birdie's wide-brimmed sun-hat remains perched firmly atop her graying head. Her blue eyes are bright and sharp, like chips of ice, as she surveys the gathered in an almost predatory way. Senna has grown to know the woman since her victory in a way she never really expected to, when she was a child watching her older brothers from the perimeter of the park. Birdie has her moments. She is a human, after all.
But she's also Capitol. And patriotic to her core— every conversation Senna has had with her about the Hunger Games has been had walking on eggshells. The elderly woman seems to think of it as blasphemy to call child-murder anything other than fine television.
It's something she and Oren discuss in the rare moments when Birdie isn't hovering over them like her nickname would suggest. Skies, it's good to have someone to mull things over with.
(For two years after Senna's mentors perished in the Quell shooting, she had been utterly, crushingly alone. The Victor's Village had never been so empty— not by her metrics, at least. Oren's like her little brother. Having someone who understands the experience of what she went through might be the only thing keeping her sane.)
"Good afternoon, District Seven!" Birdie calls, her voice carrying across the park as the crowd murmurs uneasily with her words. "It's a pleasure, as always, to stand in the shade of our beloved pines. Let's hope the rain doesn't pick up, hm?" Her laugh is shrill but genuine as she pauses, allowing the silence to stretch an uncomfortable length beneath her gaze.
Senna shifts uneasily in her chair. She knows what's coming next. She has seen it with her own eyes seventeen times since she brought home a victory, and knows what it means in such a close-knit community as Seven to have a family torn apart.
Though Seven ties with One for the second-most victors, it's impossible to ignore the numbers. Fifty-four children have been taken from these forested hills and died far from the trees, the earth, the shade. Some in environments without sunlight, without sky— all for what? To settle some grudge?
Birdie raises her hand and gestures grandly to the crowd as she plucks a slip of paper from the first glass bowl. "First, the female tribute," she announces. Without hesitation, she unravels the paper. The rows of eligible children shift, a nervous energy sweeping through all of them. Senna's eyes narrow, watching them. She knows the odds better than anyone.
All within the span of a heartbeat, Birdie has decided on the Capitol's latest victim. She screams the name aloud: "Juniper Alpine!"
Senna feels a twist in her gut as the girl stumbles from out of the sixteen-year-old section into the central aisle, her eyes as wide as saucers. She seems to falter with every step as she makes her way to the stage, thick black twists shifting off of her shoulders with each awkward movement.
When she reaches the base of the bandshell, Juniper opens her mouth as if to speak, but the words won't come. Her lips close, then part again, nervous babbling spilling out in a jumbled mess. "I— uh, I–I–I— I didn't—" she stutters, hands trembling at her sides as she looks up at Birdie.
As peacekeepers lift her onto the bandshell, Birdie gives her a tight smile, chock-full of falsified pity and practiced kindness. "It's alright, sweetheart. Take a deep breath," she nods, patting Juniper's shoulder as she steadies herself. "It's such an honor to be chosen."
Senna watches closely, biting her tongue. It's not the girl's nerves that worry her, but her fear. It's clear that Juniper Alpine is scared out of her mind. Senna can see it in the way she stands; how her body tenses with every movement from the people around her.
Senna exchanges a glance with Oren. His face says it all, sitting next to her with a furrowed brow and a similarly bitten tongue. They're not supposed to say anything. Their roles as mentors begin when they board the train— until then, Juniper is on her own.
Before she can think on it further, Birdie has already flounced across the stage and found her next slip of paper. It almost looks yellow against her milk-white skin. The tension in the park thickens as she scans the paper, palpable like the holding of a collective breath. "For this year's male tribute, we have… Shawn Xylander!"
For a long moment, Shawn doesn't move. For a beat, Senna wonders if he heard his name called at all. But then, slowly, the seventeen-year-old pushes himself forward, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he steps out of the crowd. Her tributes this year are tall. She notes that though he has the build of a lumberyard employee, his cheeks still carry a hint of baby fat that is sure to make him well-liked in the eyes of the Capitol.
The look on his face isn't the same as Juniper's— there's no babbling, no panicked hesitation. He looks downright detached, as if moving through the motions of a life he is no longer in control of. Senna's seen this before, too. Shawn's stuck on autopilot. He might look at peace with the hand fate has dealt him, but Senna was the same way. If he's anything like her, he's screaming inside, and every step closer to the bandshell feels as if it's locking him further into a nightmare he wants nothing to do with.
"Hello, sweetheart," Birdie coos, giving him a quick, insincere pat on the arm. "Are you excited to be a hero?"
Oren's hand finds its way to her own, giving it a tight squeeze. Shut up, the movement seems to say. Birdie is aging, and with any luck the next escort Seven receives will be more sensitive, or carefully-worded at best. Though given the Capitol's track record, she wouldn't hedge a bet on it.
Shawn doesn't answer her. Instead, he wordlessly locks his eyes on the far end of the park. Senna wonders what both of these kids' folks think of them now. Today might be the last time either of their families get to see them in the flesh, without a screen separating them.
Neither of these kids are going to be heroes, fighting tooth and nail to survive a system that has already stacked the odds against them. They're just going to be kids. Isn't that fucked?
The only thing First Lieutenant Urbanax hates about Reaping Day is just how ungodly early it begins in District Eight. He supposes it's fitting that it begins at eight-sharp in the morning, but not a single soul looks awake or alive for it.
Everything else, he loves. It's retribution, pure and simple— the districts deserve to suffer for everything they did to the Capitol. Many are far too willing to put the Dark Days behind them. The many forget what the few remember, and Urbanax remembers everything. He was barely eighteen when the bombings started. A fresh recruit for the military, straight out of school.
War made him do things he's not proud of. But war is a culture. The districts made sure he was never given another choice other than to eat, sleep and breathe it.
He does his best to ignore the shallow puddle of water beneath the left toe of his boot. It rained overnight, and though the disarray bothers him ever-so-slightly, he has a job to do as the leader of Eight's peacekeeping garrison. He is to maintain order, at all costs. Nothing more, nothing less. The Reapings present a unique challenge in herding all of the district's eligibles into the tightly-packed Plaza of Justice, a space he's spent enough hours in that he knows every cobble in the ground. You run enough drills in a place and it becomes familiar, after all.
He does even better ignoring the victor to his left, seated on the other side of the Mayor in one of only two chairs on the stage. Call him a hater if you must, but Fabricia Eisengarn's continued existence is a personal bane on his life. Urbanax was as distraught as most when news broke about the Quell Shooting, but there are days he wishes she was one of the bodies they counted.
Instead, she had been the only one to survive not on pure luck, but by actually fighting back against the insurgents. Urbanax hears both of the insurgents that tried to assassinate her had been stabbed a cumulative total of one hundred and forty-six times. Fabricia had only been shot once.
(Perhaps she was vicious because she had a seven-year-old son to return to. None of the other victors have children, bar the Harlow clan of District Two. He doesn't happen to have any booger-eating monsters of his own, but he assumes that has to be the reason for her experience, and her outward anger at the Capitol ever since.)
(Cut and dry: she's a problem. Being outspoken with a platform as large as hers makes her a threat, and Urbanax is simply biding his time, waiting for the bitchass government to get up and do something about it. Panem forbid they've already lost enough of their victors— what's one more? It would be bliss to get rid of the thorn in his thumb. He's long since grown sick of her rallying and complaining.)
The Mayor's wrapped up his speech, and Urbanax refocuses his attention away from his hate. A hard task, admittedly. He knows himself to be a bit inflexible in his judgment of others. Instead, he focuses on Octavia Belcourt, who has been Eight's escort since the Hunger Games' inception. All he's ever learnt about her from her various appearances over the years is that she associates Eight with fashion. That's why she wanted to be assigned here, and apparently she has no issues with spearheading the district that turns out some of the worst showings every year.
Every year she wears something more garish and more ridiculous. This year is no exception. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she's a washed-up old crone, but it's safe to say Urbanax has never been a fan. He's waiting on her graceless exit, too. Eight clearly needs the breath of fresh air with how smoggy and disgusting it is as it stands.
"Thank you all for joining me here today," Octavia begins. "Lovely as usual. I hope you'll all share my excitement of today's Reaping. The Capitol smiles upon you all— and may the odds, of course, be ever in your favor. Let's get started, shall we?"
She takes a series of short, tottering steps over to the first glass ball and reaches her hand in with all the grace and shakiness of a woman well past her prime. She stirs the papers once and comes up with one she apparently likes, and unfolds it, holding the slip extraordinarily close to her gemstone-bedazzled spectacles.
"The first tribute that has the glorious prestige of competing in the Hunger Games this year is… Aurora Viscose!"
It doesn't take long for Urbanax's soldiers to locate the girl, though they hang back to allow her to make the trek up to the steps of the Justice Building herself. She's seventeen and on the shorter side, with long auburn hair styled into a neat bun at the base of her neck. There's a healthy bout of shock written all over her freckled face, and as the severity of the situation fully dawns on her, she becomes clearly overwhelmed.
His soldiers extract her from the mass of bodies, and she's hanging between them shaking and teary-eyed. Urbanax is unflinching and unfeeling as they march her up to the base of the stairs and gently release her, prompting her to make the climb on her own.
She does, and from behind the black visor of his helmet, he watches her glance around. Aurora's eyes settle on Fabricia, as if silently begging her for help. The woman's brows knit in sorrowful solidarity, but thankfully she remains seated.
"The second tribute to have such glorious prestige alongside Miss Viscose is… oh, dear me… our very own Toga Eisengarn!" she shouts, surprised by the winner of the lottery. Urbanax bites back a laugh. It would be cruel to find joy in such a twisted turn of fate, but he finds it deliciously ironic that—
To his side, Fabricia lunges for the bowl, a strangled cry escaping her lips.
"Cut the cameras!" Octavia screeches, holding onto the train of her dress in fright. If she had wings, they have no doubt the gaudy old bird would take flight.
He starts forward toward her, catching her shoulder with a gauntleted hand before she can reach the bowl. He's got no idea if her kid was rigged in or not, but what Fabricia Eisengarn doesn't know won't kill her. Even if she damn sure seems hellbent on making it try.
Without a word, Urbanax smashes his other fist into her jaw. Fabricia screams— a loud and disgustingly guttural sound. He doesn't know if it's fear, or anger that propels her to spit at him, but a bloody spray of saliva splatters across his visor and true to fashion, all he can see is red.
He backhands her across the face, eliciting a satisfying crack that sends the woman sprawling across the concrete stage. Murmurs of dissent escape from the crowd. He raises his voice above Octavia's useless, squawking calls for order to make one of his own.
"Hold the perimeter. Those in the aisles, to the stage. Now!" he barks, satisfied when he hears the sound of boots drumming against the cobbles. "And bring the kid."
Surveying the crowd, he sees some of the older children in the front are outraged. Others look bored, sad or scared. They're vermin. All of them. Eight's full of fucking rats and it's a shame the Capitol won't let him exterminate them all and be done with it.
"Get off the fucking ground," he hisses at Fabricia. He's furious. Never before has he seen such an inanely open display of rebellion. Not from District Eight. "Apologize to these fine people, and then you and I are going to take a little walk inside. Understand?"
If she was one of his soldiers, Urbanax would have her dishonorably discharged on the spot. It's a charge as good as treason— and one that carries the full penalty of such an action, too. When she doesn't comply, he drags Eight's only victor to her feet.
Then, she mumbles out a weak apology, voice ragged and tired. "I… I'm so sorry," she whispers. It's not lost on him that she directs this to her son, and only her son, who's been escorted to the front by a pair of soldiers from his garrison. Between them, Toga only stares back through the red lenses of his photophobia glasses, unblinking and silent.
(So he's albino and stupid, it would appear.)
"Take her away," Urbanax commands, signaling the two nearest soldiers to drag her into the Justice Building. He briefly stares down the tributes. While Toga remains unchanged, Aurora has folded in on herself throughout the altercation, and cringes as he steps past her.
"Octavia, you can get the cameras rolling again. Let the kid walk up to the stage unassisted. We close out like normal, and if anyone has a problem with that… we deal with them. Yes?"
Nods from everyone around him. The camera crew gets back into position. The line of soldiers in white holds around the plaza, which has fallen into a deadly quiet. Urbanax sneers at all of them behind his visor, adrenaline and straight hate coursing through his veins. "Carry on."
It's not even noon yet, and Messor Pitchford has already decided he needs a drink.
The sun is far too bright— blinding, even— and causes him to sluggishly shield his eyes from its onslaught. The rolling plains of District Nine offer little respite from the summer heat. What few trees they have are scattered, and whoever designed the Plaza of Justice didn't seem to think shade was a basic necessity. Instead, they got dry, packed dirt and brutalist concrete.
Nearly fifteen hundred eligible children are packed together in neat, straight rows. The plaza isn't very large, and there's not much room to move. Messor has always hated Reaping Day— he's used to staying in the Victor's Village. Used to being alone. Here, he feels exposed. Like everyone can finally see him.
He swallows. His mouth is far too dry. A drink would probably help.
His tributes always die. Always. The plaza is full of dead ends; children that are thin, and dressed in simple, dull clothing. No one ever pays Nine any mind. It's in the middle-of-fuck-all-nowhere and it's flat, dull and boring. Messor gave up trying to get sponsors years ago. At least Twelve is viewed as an oddity; there are those in the Capitol that fawn over how strange and backwoods it is. Nine is dry, dusty, and uninteresting.
He runs his hands along the inside of his forearms. The skin is slick, and clammy. His headache, not just from the world's longest Treaty of Treason speech, threatens to stick with him all day. He needs a drink. He's tired of mentoring. He just wants to be left alone.
The Capitol won't, though. They never have. Perhaps it's one of the many reasons for his animosity towards Nine's latest escort. Volutina Naveau doesn't know how to leave him alone. She's always asking him to do far too much, as if she's forgetting what he's already tried.
She's a few years younger than he is, but with her wardrobe, it's hard to tell. Her fluorescent pink dress is so incongruent with her drab surroundings that it's otherworldly, like shimmering glass. It's fitted at the waist and flows out in dramatic folds. Her hair is elaborately done up, a mess of curls, ribbons and delicate pink pearls. It's a far cry from Nine's sparse and practical style; a blatant contrast to the plainness of the nervous crowd before her.
Messor watches her with a detached interest. She's practiced grace, poised like she isn't aware of how absurd she looks standing in front of all of them. He wouldn't be surprised if somewhere in that airy head of hers, she's completely rationalized what's about to happen.
"Good mor-ning, District Nine!" Volutina trills, her sing-song voice light and chirpy, as though she's hosting a garden party. "I hope you're all staying hydrated out here in this beautiful weather. You all look wonderful. Very demure, very mindful," she gestures with her hand as the crowd shifts uncomfortably. "Are we excited for the Reaping?"
Messor shakes his head ever-so-slightly, and fights the urge to take out the flask hidden in the interior pocket of his work jacket. A drink would help. He's already tired of listening to her talk.
Volutina reaches into the glass bowl and pulls out the slip for the female tribute. She golf-claps her hands together in a morbid excitement. "The female tribute who will have the splendid distinction of competing in this year's annual Hunger Games is… Maisie Flax!"
At first, nothing. Then, a strange commotion from the middle of the girls' side, where the fifteen-year-olds are. It becomes incredibly clear which is Maisie— all of the girls around her have pulled sharply away, as if she carries some kind of plague.
A few of them even giggle, causing Messor to wince. Somewhere, dully, he feels a righteous anger that there would be those who could take a death sentence so unseriously. Maisie stares, wide-eyed at the stage, looking trapped like a deer in the headlights of a transport truck.
Irritated, Volutina calls her name out again. A few peacekeepers break away from the perimeter of the plaza to aid in bringing this girl to the front. Maisie blinks rapidly, her fingers trembling as she clutches a small blackboard to her chest. As the peacekeepers grab her upper arms and steer her into the aisle, she drops a piece of chalk from her hand. The air is silent enough that he can hear it, and he can hear the girl on the end— the one who laughed the loudest— kick it away.
Once they've let go of her, she takes small, hesitant steps toward the stage, as if the ground might swallow her whole. She's small, and mousy, with dull, ill-fitting clothes and an awkward gait. Her dirty blonde hair is bluntly chopped at the shoulders, the clear handiwork of a father with no experience cutting hair, and sticks out in all directions. She looks lost— and the blackboard does little to shield her from the judgment Messor is sure the Capitol will impose on her as well.
He watches, chest heavy. A drink would be nice. She won't survive the Hunger Games. None of them do. He's only brought home one tribute. Ten years after his own victory in the Eleventh. Nineteen lives claimed by the Games. He had been so proud of Gaia Hollier— she could have been the one to turn Nine's luck around all by herself.
(She was bright, cheery, and altruistic beyond her means. When she was reaped just a year younger than Maisie, many in Nine had been upset. She had been well-known and well-liked by her neighbors, and didn't let the monstrous nature of the Games sink its claws in her.)
(At least, so everyone had believed. Messor will never forget the train ride back home, knocking on a bathroom door that she would never open.)
"It's so nice to meet you, honey," Volutina smiles, leaning down to envelop the girl in a stiff hug that lasts less than two seconds. Messor wishes he could erase from his mind the way the girl looked fearfully to him for help. To his understanding, most escorts are dying to get promoted to districts closer to the Capitol. Wealthier districts. Ones with more promising tributes.
As far as he can tell, Volutina gets off on flaunting Nine as some charity case she can seem generous and benevolent for helping. The only thing that would help him is a drink.
"And now," Volutina begins again, an eerie smile on her face, "the male tribute who will have the spectacular honor of competing alongside her in this year's annual Hunger Games… Ender Caelan!"
This time, the reaction is immediate. He laughs.
Not the nervous, weak laughter of someone trying to mask their fear, but a full, genuine chuckle— as if the absurdity of it all is just too much. Mirroring the outburst, Messor hears a choking sound from a sixteen-year-old girl across the aisle and wonders fleetingly if they're related, or dating. Not that he cares. There's only one thing his mind is really after.
Ender pushes his way out of the throng of sixteen-year-old boys, wiping tears from his eyes. His messy brown hair falls over his eyebrows and he shrugs thin shoulders as though he's already accepted whatever fate awaits him. He jogs up the stage unassisted and dodges Volutina's insincere grasp, instead giving her a defiant glare.
She pouts, pretending to look hurt. "I can't say I've ever heard a tribute laugh before," Volutina tells him. "Are you excited for the Hunger Games?"
"What else is there to do?" he queries in response. To that, Messor would say: not much. Ender ignores her second question and instead gives Maisie a strange look, as if there is some sort of unspoken familiarity between the two.
"Well." Volutina sniffs. "I know the two of you will make us proud." Turning to the assembled crowd, she poses for the cameras and gives them a final address in that same sing-song tone of voice. "Give it up for District Nine, everybody! May the odds be ever in their favor!"
Messor doesn't say a word. Not even when the tributes have been whisked into the Justice Building, and the camera crew has finished taping. He doesn't look at his newest tributes. He's seen his fair share of tributes over the years and the same thing always happens. They die. They die every time, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.
He fishes around in his jacket for the flask. The cool metal surface is reassuring to the touch. Once he enters the Justice Building on their heels, he unscrews the cap.
In District Ten, the early-morning sun has already begun its oppressive rule of the day. Though it hasn't yet reached its scorching zenith, the heat is heavy and thick in the air. It sticks to his skin, making it feel like he's lived a life outside air conditioning when in reality, it's only been thirty or so minutes. It doesn't help that the whole town reeks, either.
An amalgamation of rotting meat and tanning chemicals hasn't stopped assaulting his nostrils, not to mention the disgusting metallic undertones, as if he rubbed a bunch of coins between his fingers. He finds it hard to imagine how none of them seem to notice.
Ambrosion Roche, put simply, is not a fan of District Ten. Born during the Dark Days, he grew up watching the Hunger Games. Not once can he recall rooting for one of their tributes— not even the two who managed to bring home a crown and the spoils of victory.
The Quell Shooting was a big deal. It had been covered by news outlets for nearly the entire year following its aftermath; the fallout swept through Panem like an uncontrollable wildfire. Some were incensed at the loss of some of the nation's biggest celebrities. Included in the death toll: both of Ten's lousy victors. Ambrosion thinks they must have left their survival instincts back in the arena— how soft and pathetic could they be if they couldn't even save their own lives?
A steady breeze stirs the dust along the town's main street, but it's not enough to cool the heat. He fights the urge to sneeze. That would be demeaning and unprofessional. The sooner the Mayor wraps up her lengthy Treaty of Treason speech, the better. The only things holding this godforsaken district together are cowshit and spite, and he certainly doesn't care to linger.
The crowd of eligibles is gathered before the district's Justice Building— which he has never dared to step foot beyond— a squat concrete structure that looks as out of place here as a marble column on even the most picturesque barn. He can't help but feel a flicker of distaste. If he had been in charge of designing it, it'd be gorgeous. Instead, it's as functional as the people it serves: cold, utilitarian, and utterly unremarkable.
Nearly two-thousand kids stand in neat rows, all dressed up in their finest. Faded, but clean. A mixture of pleated hand-me-down dresses and starched white shirts, pressed slacks and polished boots. Simple and utilitarian. Even on his worst days, you couldn't catch him looking like that— but compared to some of the other districts he's watched on television, at least Ten makes an effort to look presentable. Even if being presentable requires a healthy dose of plaid.
The Mayor wraps up her boring speech and finally, thankfully, it's his turn to dazzle them all. He steps forward, adjusting his waistcoat with an air of practiced grace. All of Ten's eligible stare at him like a flock of lost sheep. Fitting, he thinks— but entirely unexciting. He's certain they all know they don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of winning. Smart, but again, he finds it rather unexciting that they have such a self-awareness of their capabilities.
"Good morning, District Ten!" Ambrosion's voice rings out across the plaza, too bright and far too enthusiastic. He is a performer at heart, after all. "As you know, today is a most important day. Two of you will have the honor of joining us in the Capitol and engaging in the noble sport of the Hunger Games. Today, two of you will be chosen to represent this… fine… district!"
The crowd's collective silence is as thick as the heat. His smile only widens in response. Silence doesn't discourage him. It means he has their attention. He lengthens the pause for effect while rummaging through the glass bowl beside him, selecting the first slip of paper that really catches his fancy.
"For the female tribute," he announces, unrolling the name and flashing the paper to the cameras, "Tarni Buckskin!"
A ripple of hushed whispers move through the crowd, perimeter included, and Ambrosion can see recognition firing in some of the eyes up front. He doesn't, obviously, recognize the name, but the sudden buzz excites him. A name that draws attention?
Perhaps the sponsors will find her just as riveting as her district seems to. Ten may not have a winning record, but their tributes typically leave impressions. He decides in a split-second that this is worth getting excited for— invested in, potentially. It isn't often that he feels there is something to work with. The last eight tributes he's been saddled with were beyond bland.
He watches as a sixteen-year-old girl steps forward. She's on the taller end for her age, with a commanding presence that immediately sets her apart from the rest. Her expression is fixed; a measured calmness that contrasts the unruly waves of her hair.
In fact, she doesn't seem rattled at all. She takes a deep breath, sure, and her eyes are locked uncannily on the stage— save a brief glance to a friend, perhaps?— but her movements seem calculated with ease. The mark of someone wholly aware of their presence, he knows. Perhaps she is well-known for some kind of performance art. Everything seems to point towards it, from her unique awareness of the camera crew to the firmness of her resolution.
(He likes this girl. She is in control here, and he's certain the Capitol will be able to tell. Briefly, Ambrosion imagines her screen presence. Tarni is the type to make something out of nothing.)
Tarni says nothing to him as she ascends the stage, but once she has turned around to face her peers, he notices she seems focused on one boy in particular, not too far from the front row. There's some sort of nonverbal exchange occurring between the two— and while Ambrosion can't read lips, he swears she mouths a "no" to the boy.
Brusquely, Ten's escort moves on. "And now, our male tribute: Carmine Malinovski!"
Eagerly, he almost leans forward, excited to see the face of this next tribute. He's caught off-guard when he realizes this boy is standing in the very front, just to the left of the bowl his name has been drawn from. He looks anything but prepared. Downright shell-shocked; his eyes lock onto the escort's own and yet he remains in place, as if his legs were frozen.
Mercifully, Carmine is tall, though he's got a lanky build. There's an anxious tension in his shoulders, and his strawberry-blonde hair is as wild and unkempt as the girl's. His grayish eyes seem lost, and for a long moment it seems as if he might bolt away into the crowd. But slowly, reluctantly, Carmine begins to move toward the stage.
Every step he takes is painfully slower than the last, as if he's trying to draw out the moment. He looks behind his shoulder at no one in particular, as if waiting for someone— anyone— to volunteer. For a brief moment, Ambrosion silently begs for the mystery boy to volunteer. As far as he can recall, such a boring district has never seen such a historic event. It would be history in the making, not to mention far more interesting to have two tributes who actually know each other. Drama sells, and he's one of the finest purveyors.
But no one does. With no more options in sight, Carmine ascends the stairs, his face taut as though he's struggling not to cry. It takes all of Ambrosion's strength to hide his disappointment with the outcome.
"Well, there you have it!" He shouts, ignoring the way the boy scans the perimeter of the plaza, looking for someone. "You two should probably shake hands," he suggests, if only to see the awkwardness of the boy falter under the girl's unflinching resolve.
"District Ten, these are your champions," he begins. "Remember to support them as best you can. A victor would be most excellent," he nods, speeding through his words in an eagerness to board the train back to the Capitol. He knows these kids will bring the district-smell with them, but on the bright side, the rest of the journey should be lavish and pleasurable.
"It has been a pleasure," he lies, "to say the least. I'll see you all for the victory tour!"
Contrary to many of her peers, Osmanthe Monte actually loves the District Eleven heat.
It's thick and oppressively full of humidity, curling around everything like a living thing. Sweat beads across her forehead, but she makes no move to brush it away. A cool breeze blows steadily through the trees ringing the field, slicing through the heat like a deliciously cold kiss.
Late in the afternoon, the sun has reached its peak. A soft rustling sound permeates the air as the breeze dances among leaves, adding an eerily peaceful feeling to such a tense atmosphere. She always hated how quiet the Reapings were— not that noise would be tone-appropriate, of course, but the Recap, broadcast to the entire nation, is always full of music and commentary. The Capitol is a city that never sleeps. She's not accustomed to the silence.
Nor the wind, really. The city is like a circuit-board of skyscrapers. The only way to catch a real breeze is if you live in one of the lavish lakeside sectors, or if you're lucky enough to have a penthouse high enough to catch a stray draft. Unfortunately, Osmanthe lives in neither of these conditions. Her air conditioner works just fine, but it doesn't come close to the natural thing. What a beauty that Eleven gets to listen to the psithurism of the trees every day. She'd be willing to bet they don't even notice it anymore. Thankfully, she is there to appreciate it.
Osmanthe was hired for the job five years ago, when she was merely twenty years old. After the Quell nonsense made it impossible to attend press of her favorite victor— Eleven's own Nepeta Thornton— she had sought the job immediately upon the relief of its former holder. Why not escort for her favorite district? Give back to those she finds herself rooting for most often?
Hollow speeches and vapid congratulations aren't enough. It's fun to attend Games Events regularly; all sorts of watch parties, press conferences, sponsor parties and galas. But it's far more fun to be as close as one can get to having their boots on the ground. The Hunger Games is the most exciting program Panem has to offer. Why not enjoy it from a unique angle?
She loves being here. She's traveled plenty of times in the off-season, and many of the officials know her not just by name and face. Some may call her tendency for tourism quirky, but there are worse things to waste her money on. She loves District Eleven, and now she gets to help them too. Make a difference. Have a real, undeniable impact.
(And yet, the year before last, something unprecedented happened that sent the district into a spiral. She had been so proud to bring home her first victor— one incredible Summer Tillson— only for the Gamemakers' Victor Recovery Unit to fail in stabilizing her. Pissed doesn't even begin to describe Eleven, who had watched his ascent to victory with more verve than they had had in years. The Capitol rushed to amend their mistakes— increasing peacekeeper presence, doubling the spoils of victory, funding programs in Tillson's name. The works.)
(And it worked, but not because of the reactive actions the Capitol had taken. It worked simply because the peacekeepers had guns, and Eleven didn't. Osmanthe can still feel that layer of resentment laying bitter just beneath the surface. They've never truly recovered from the loss. Victorhood was supposed to be guaranteed; a reward for their unwilling participation in the Games. Losing both Nepeta and Summer back-to-back was unforgivable.)
So Osmanthe will smile more. Be more charming. Channel her excitement in being here. Show that she's truly excited to help, to bring home another victor to a district so desperately in need of a pick-me-up. Osmanthe, on cue with the Mayor finishing the droning Treaty of Treason speech, clears her throat and steps forward, her heels thudding hard against the erected wooden stage.
"Good afternoon, District Eleven!" her voice rings out, light and practiced. She rehearsed and said the same words every time. They're hollow, and vapid, but she means them. She cares— she really does, and no one can take that away from her. "What a fine day we have before us, in spite of the heat!" she jokes. "I know I'm thankful for that breeze."
"Today, as our Mayor has said, it's business as usual. I will do my best to prepare Eleven's finest for the Games, and if the odds are in our favor, we'll do just fine. Nothing to worry about in the making of another hero," she smiles. "Are we ready?"
No response. It's not atypical of her crowd. And it's fine, it really is— they surely show their gratitude for her in other ways, behind closed doors. She draws the first slip of paper from the bowl on her right. The names, thousands and thousands when factoring in tesserae, have been scaled down. She knows they'll still worry that she will pick them. But Osmanthe will do her best to help them. She always does, and always will. It's why she's perfect for the job.
"Our female tribute is Geneva Ellery!"
Osmanthe first finds the girl by the look of pure horror on her face. Recognition for what's about to happen is plain as day on her features— a recognition that Osmanthe hates. She should feel nervous, yes. But not scared. Not as long as she is here to prepare Geneva for the Games!
The girl is eighteen, and just three rows from the front of the field. She's taller than most, with pale skin and brown hair tied back into a loose, nondescript bun. She flinches as one of Osmanthe's helpers puts a gauntleted hand on her upper arm to steer her into the aisle. For a moment, she worries this girl might collapse.
But Geneva gathers herself quickly, and forces a weak, shaky smile for the cameras. It's the kind of futile attempt to mask everything she's truly feeling— and though Osmanthe would never say it to her face, the only person she's fooling is herself. Poor girl.
Her steps are measured, as if she's trying to make herself inconspicuous. As if she's slow enough, no one will notice her and let her go home. When Geneva finally stands before Osmanthe, her head is slightly lowered and there's something resigned in the way her hands are clasped before her. Osmanthe wants to reach out and give her a hug, but it would be frightening and unprofessional. There will be time for hugs and reassurance later.
Osmanthe sighs quietly, turning to retrieve the next slip of paper from the bowl on the left side of the stage. One of her heels almost catches on a nail that hadn't been properly hammered in, and Osmanthe is forced to quickly right herself, giving the camera crew her winningest smile in response to the near-tragedy.
"Our male tribute is Mint Rainfall!"
It takes them a long, painful moment to locate the boy. It seems, though she cannot see him initially, that he froze up and became as still as a statue. Only once her helpers came to his row, to drag him out into the aisle, is the Reaping made good on at all.
He's clearly underfed, with too-long limbs, sharp elbows and knobbly knees. He wears his hair in long, thin cornrows and his eyes are a deep, dark brown, like tilled earth. Mint's expression is pinched and fearful, like a small animal trapped in a cage.
At first, he doesn't move forward. His lips press together tight, like he's afraid of opening his mouth. His eyes dart nervously around the field, full of dread. Then, it's like something clicks in his brain and the boy quickly makes his way up to the stage, trembling slightly. His arms hang limply at his sides and he hunches his shoulders, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the wooden stage at his feet as if it is the most interesting thing in the world.
If Geneva had made her heart break, Mint's reaction makes Geneva feel so sad. He looks so afraid; like having everyone's eyes on him is the worst thing in the world. She'll be sure to shower him with the affection he deserves for his sacrifice.
"District Eleven, your tributes! Happy Hunger Games, and let's make it a great year!"
The morning in Twelve is overcast, moderately rainy, and aptly gloomy for Reaping Day.
Not that Twelve isn't already a gloomy place to be, but the atmosphere of the morning adds nothing positive to the experience. Corporal Nesulla would know— she spent the entire morning with her squadron rounding individuals up from the far-reaches of the district to bring them here, into Twelve's main town.
Every face in the perimeter of the crowd is haggard and browbeaten. Twelve doesn't treat its denizens kindly, both by nature and by way of life. She's only been stationed here for a year, but it's been long enough to know that's the only truth to their existence. If starvation, wild animals, or winter supply shortages don't already make their lives harder— or outright kill them— the coal mining industry provides plenty of opportunities for one to catch blacklung.
But aside from the obvious misery of its populace, Nesulla finds Twelve has its charms. It's a bit rundown, sure, but it's quaint and above all, quiet. For someone who grew up in a household with four other siblings in one of the Capitol's lowest-income sectors, she finds that to be a nice change of pace. Even the barracks here are quieter than when she was training in Two, waking up at odd hours of the night to drill alarms and a bunkmate's night terrors.
The camera crew has just finished getting its gear into place as the Mayor finishes his reading of the Treaty of Treason. Nesulla knows every word by heart— she's got all of the internal literature memorized, actually— and has blankly followed along, trying to ignore how frightened most of the children in the square look. She loves her job, most of the time. But not when it comes to the Hunger Games. Nesulla thought being a soldier would help her make a difference. It's why she readily accepted shipment to Twelve in the first place.
(She didn't realize the occupation would be so keen to make her contribute to… this.)
The Mayor folds his sun-spotted hands and sits down in the only chair on the stage. From where they have been impatiently waiting before the Justice Building's door, Twelve's brand-new escort practically skips into the centerstage.
They're young, maybe one or two years older than some of the oldest teenagers in the square. They're dressed quite aptly for Twelve as well, though Nesulla doesn't agree with the fashion choices. Morganite Mercier has long jet-black hair, black eyeshadow, black nails, a black dress with a chemically-frayed jacket and knee-high boots. They look every bit as out of place as all the other escorts do, no matter the color palette.
(And as Nesulla assumes correctly, their inexperience makes them stand out of place, too.)
"Yurrr, whaddup y'all! It's your monarch, Morgz, live at the Thirtieth Annual Reapings, yo! I'm here to make District Twelve just a little less boring… boring… oring… oring…"
Reverb from their microphone screeches across the square, and quickly pitches down into a tonal silence. Nesulla stares at the teenager on stage and winces. She doesn't know who gave him this job— but if she had to guess off of first impressions alone, he won't be advancing in it next year.
Then, shattering the silence: "Let's fucking GOOOO!"
Morgz thrashes their long black hair around their head and raises both fists in a victory stance as they scream this. Then, they strut over to the first glass ball and start mixing it around with their long black nails. "We're gonna lottery two out of the seven-hundred-eleven of you to come hang out with yours truly on the train to the Capitol… and to compete in the Hunger Games! How fire is that? May the odds be ever in your favor, yo!"
Not for the first time, Nesulla's glad her visor obscures her face from everyone. She's positively cringing at this absolute butchery of the Reapings— an event that should be conducted with the utmost respect and professionalism, especially in Twelve.
They finish mixing the bowl around, and lift a paper with eager haste. Twelve is the only district to reap its male tributes first, a tradition Nesulla finds strangely breaks the uniformity of the Capitol's procedure. They unfold the paper and declare its contents with a manic grin.
"This year's male tribute for the Games is nuh-nuh-nuh NEMO Velascus!"
Behind Morgz, Twelve's Mayor, alone on the stage bar Nesulla and her unit of peacekeepers, is steepling his fingers across the bridge of his nose. Clearly, he's unhappy with the situation. Nesulla doesn't blame him— District Twelve is already the worst place in Panem to live. With Morgz at the creative helm of this year's Reaping, it makes a mockery of a situation that's already been a shitshow.
Morgz is unrelenting. "Can we find Nemo, please? Not really sure which one is him, haha…"
Moments later, one of the few fourteen-year-olds has entered the aisle. He's six feet tall, incredibly tall for his age, and has wavy brown hair that reaches down just to his shoulders. His eyes are narrowly focused on the stage and his mouth is agape, hanging open in surprise. Halfway down the short walk to the Justice Building, he sighs and hastily recollects himself, smoothing the front of his shirt as he takes his place onstage.
"Aha, what's up little guy?" Morgz asks him, offering a high five. The boy stands an entire foot taller than their new escort. "Up top? No? Okay," they say, defensively spreading their hands. "Moving on to our next kickass representative!"
They rummage for a short eternity in the second glass ball, standing on the tips of their toes to scoop a name from what seems to be the very bottom.
"This year's female tribute for the Games is eh-eh-eh ERIDANI Marcellus! Congratulations and please come up to the stage to claim your prize, aha…"
This tribute is quicker, but Nesulla finds her actions strange. There is a flicker of anger across her features, almost imperceptible, replaced with narrowed eyes and a gaping mouth. Though the rain has plastered some of her hair in front of her eyes, she makes no move to brush it out of the way. Halfway through her journey to the stage, she seems to drop the charade. When Eridani takes her place next to Nemo, Nesulla notices that she smooths the front of her dress down the same way that Nemo smoothed his shirt down. Very strange.
"Up top?" Morgz offers her a high five. "No? No way, no takers? No reality television fans here? That's okay," they shrug it off, whirling around to meet the cameras again in a pose that Nesulla can only describe as 'getting their fifteen minutes of fame.'
"Well alrighty then, yo!" Morgz cries from onstage, stomping their boots and raking their rain-soaked hair out of their eyes. "That's gonna be a wrap for this year's Reapings, please remember to like and sponsor these two tributes here, I know I'm going to be spending some of my hard-earned credits on them— so you should too. Deuces, yo!" they shout, flinging the microphone off to the side of the stage, where it comes to a rolling halt at Nesulla's boots.
Nemo glances at Eridani, whose gaze remains fixed forward, as if to say: 'is this for real?' and Nesulla can't help but agree. The camera crews hastily begin disassembling their gear to prepare for the tight train schedule ahead, and Nesulla closes her eyes to take a deep breath.
In, and out. She's going to get a nice cup of coffee with her squadron after this, and they'll all take the day easy after that. She deserves it after experiencing this garbage at eight-thirty in the morning, after all. Morgz stalks into the Justice Building, all but pushing the Mayor and the tributes aside to be the first in through the doors. For a brief moment, Nesulla's grateful she won't be on the train with them.
For another, she recognizes the well-masked despair in the tributes' faces, and for a fleeting moment, wonders why the Capitol bothers with its sham munificence at all.
ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀᴍᴇᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɪɴꜱᴛɪᴛᴜᴛᴇ: ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀʟ ᴛʀɪʙᴜᴛᴇ ᴏᴅᴅꜱ
ᴛ301ꜰ(ᴠ)— ʙᴏʏʟᴇ, ʟʏʀᴀɴɪ— 8:1
ᴛ301ᴍ(ᴠ)— ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀꜱ, ᴋʏᴅᴇɴ— 8:1
ᴛ302ɴ(ʀ)— ʟᴀᴄᴜɴᴀ, ᴠᴇʟʏʀᴀ— 8:1
ᴛ302ᴍ(ʀ)— ꜰᴀʟᴄᴏɴ, ᴛᴀᴜʀᴜꜱ— 8:1
ᴛ303ꜰ(ʀ)— ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴ, ꜱᴛᴀᴛɪ— 36:1
ᴛ303ᴍ(ʀ)— ʙᴇɴᴇᴅɪᴄᴛ, ᴠɪᴄᴛᴏʀ— 28:1
ᴛ304ꜰ(ʀ)— ᴍᴀʀɪɴᴇᴇ, ʟᴏʀᴇʟᴀɪ— 22:1
ᴛ304ᴍ(ʀ)— ʙᴇᴄᴋ, ᴄᴀꜱꜱᴀɴᴅᴇʀ— 24:1
ᴛ305ꜰ(ᴠ)— ʜᴇᴍɪɴɢᴡᴀʏ, ᴄᴇʟᴇꜱᴛɪᴀ— 30:1
ᴛ305ᴍ(ʀ)— ꜱᴀʀᴏʟᴇᴀ, ᴛʜᴀʟʏꜱ— 28:1
ᴛ306ꜰ(ᴠ)— ꜱᴏɴᴀᴛᴀ, ɴᴏᴠᴀ— 42:1
ᴛ306ᴍ(ʀ)— ᴘᴜʟʟᴍᴀɴ, ʙᴇᴀᴜᴍᴏɴᴛ— 42:1
ᴛ307ꜰ(ʀ)— ᴀʟᴘɪɴᴇ, ᴊᴜɴɪᴘᴇʀ— 18:1
ᴛ307ᴍ(ʀ)— xʏʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀ, ꜱʜᴀᴡɴ— 16:1
ᴛ308ꜰ(ʀ)— ᴠɪꜱᴄᴏꜱᴇ, ᴀᴜʀᴏʀᴀ— 42:1
ᴛ308ᴍ(ʀ)— ᴇɪꜱᴇɴɢᴀʀɴ, ᴛᴏɢᴀ— 132:1
ᴛ309ꜰ(ʀ)— ꜰʟᴀx, ᴍᴀɪꜱɪᴇ— 42:1
ᴛ309ᴍ(ʀ)— ᴄᴀᴇʟᴀɴ, ᴇɴᴅᴇʀ— 38:1
ᴛ3010ꜰ(ʀ)— ʙᴜᴄᴋꜱᴋɪɴ, ᴛᴀʀɴɪ— 32:1
ᴛ3010ᴍ(ʀ)— ᴍᴀʟɪɴᴏᴠꜱᴋɪ, ᴄᴀʀᴍɪɴᴇ— 28:1
ᴛ3011ꜰ(ʀ)— ᴇʟʟᴇʀʏ, ɢᴇɴᴇᴠᴀ— 44:1
ᴛ3011ᴍ(ʀ)— ʀᴀɪɴꜰᴀʟʟ, ᴍɪɴᴛ— 64:1
ᴛ3012?(?)— ᴍᴀʀᴄᴇʟʟᴜꜱ, ᴇʀɪᴅᴀɴɪ— 102:1
ᴛ3012ᴍ(ʀ)— ᴠᴇʟᴀꜱᴄᴜꜱ, ɴᴇᴍᴏ— 120:1
A/N: Song is Reckoning Day from Megadeth.
I hope you all enjoyed this comprehensive overview of the tributes! Sorry the length is so disgusting but I got to do a little worldbuilding in this chapter as well, which was pretty fun. If you have any questions about it feel free to ask. I'm always happy to clarify.
I would greatly appreciate hearing from readers who I haven't heard much from yet. As this marks a turning point in the story, I am beginning to finalize my pre-Games plans and conceptualize arena plot. Fair warning: am admittedly far more likely to favor the tributes of those who have shown interest in the story's direction after submitting.
The second half of intros will be ordered and posted into the Discord. Once intros are complete, I'll write chariots from a non-tribute perspective, and then we will move into pre-games proper… bed, bath, and beyond. I hope y'all are as excited as I am! —David