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Pallas Tavoulari, eighteen years old
district four female
Three years ago…
My whole body trembles as my legs struggle to remain standing upright. My ankles scream for me to lean against the wall and relieve the pressure, but doing so would signal to everyone around me that I can't handle the demands of this industry. I can feel their bodies pressed against mine, their skin hot and clammy due to our proximity, as we are shoved closer and closer to the end of the hall on wobbly, heeled feet. There, an older woman whose face is freakishly unaged and pristine directs girls one at a time into the open doorway.
There, they are judged.
Some leave with packets of instructions for where they'll need to return, what times their fittings will be, and when they are scheduled for their next meeting with the agency. But those girls are rare. Most leave in tears, others with the aghast expression of someone who has just been insulted to their face. The girls cycle through so quickly it's impossible to feel sorry or happy for any in particular. We aren't individuals here. We're simply a canvas to be poked, prodded, squinted at, and if we're lucky, purchased by a brand.
Many of the girls don Capitol clothes, which brings me a pang of insecurity as I look down and examine my own dress—a hand-me-down from my mother. While it's beautiful to me with its pale blue silk fabric and seafoam jewels attached by my mother's careful stitching, it can't measure up to the luxurious pieces I see all around the room. I look a little frumpy and out of place like the piece wasn't intended for me. The other girls wear their fabric like a second skin.
We are getting closer now. Before I know it, the puffy-faced woman is grabbing me by the elbow and holding me in front of the doorway. As soon as the girl in front of me leaves the room sobbing, I'm forcefully pushed to take her place. My body automatically straightens out just like I practiced as I limberly step toward the center of the room, which has been arranged like a dressing studio with a large podium in the center surrounded by a few various judges on stools. Their clipboards are poised in anticipation of my arrival. I carefully make my way up the steps of the podium, making sure not to fall but also walking quickly and riskily enough to signal that I'm not afraid of tripping. Once atop, I leisurely and effortlessly assume a pose that I've been perfecting for months. All the while, my insides are in turmoil. I've never been this nervous in my entire life.
"Pallas Tavoulari," I state, trying to appear bored.
"Her name sounds French," says one of the ladies.
Another scoffs at her. "Hardly. That's about as Greek as a name can get."
I'm not sure what either of those words mean, but both carry an aura of elevation and mystique in my mind, which can't hurt right now. I'm younger than most of the other girls and I need all the help I can get.
"Do a spin for me," says a man whose thick head of black hair appears to be prematurely aging. I'm shocked a Capitol man would allow flecks of grey to taint his precious youth, given that so many others will go to great lengths to erase the passage of time from their bodies. Although in a weird way, it makes him look younger. The clash of the silver makes his flattering features more apparent. Maybe my dress will do the same. I abide by the man's request, completing a dainty little spin that flares out the bottom of my dress as it swoops through the air, dusting the tops of my ankles and revealing my sparkly white heels.
"I like her," says the lady who thought my name sounded 'French'.
"Too tall," says the other woman. I wince, regretfully looking down at my heels. I knew these were too big. But in my mind, a model should be tall. My mother thought so too when she helped me pick out this outfit. As I look up from my shoes, shoving down the feeling of insecurity, I catch the eye of the man with greying hair and realize my mistake. He saw my moment of weakness, and whatever unbothered front I've been putting on has now been shattered.
"I say we take a vote," someone says. As the votes trickle in, I stare down the man, trying to make up for my earlier slip. I straighten my neck, puff out my chest, and look down at him from the podium with as much outward strength as I can muster. He must be the leader because after the other votes end in a tie, he is asked to make a final judgment call.
He tilts his head. I pop out one elbow, even though it feels silly to do so. And before I can think of my next pose, he quips, "Send her away. Too plain."
A woman's veiny hand grabs my shoulder and pushes me toward the door. Her grip is so intense that I finally lose my balance, tumbling to the floor in a disastrous, ungraceful heap. I feel my dreams evaporate. And then reality kicks in. I didn't get signed by a brand, which means I only have one option to provide for my family, now.
The very next morning, I'm at the Academy's doorstep.
Present day…
The waves lap over my toes as I stand near the edge of the water, eyes closed, taking in the warm breeze of Four while I still can. The ocean has always been my place of refuge—the only place I'm not plagued by the fear of my father's canning shop finally going under. We've been scraping by for the past couple of years, but his luck is running out, and it's going to happen any day now. The Reaping couldn't be coming at a better time. My father isn't thrilled by my decision, of course, but he's had a few years to process it. Escaping poverty, to me, is worth risking my life for. But still, as I think about the looming ceremony, I can't help but acknowledge how scared I am. Deep down, I'm still the out-of-place girl in heels, desperately looking for any avenue to feed her family. Except this time, I'm better at hiding my weaknesses.
"Pallas," says a raspy voice. It's Gloria, a sweet old woman whose wrinkled, tanned hand now rests on my back. I didn't even hear her approach. You wouldn't know it from looking at her, but she's the Victor of The 259th Hunger Games. She's also my mentor.
"Hey, Coach."
"What's going through your head?" she asks. Her presence is so commanding that my eyes flutter open, allowing her to stare up into my soul. She has a way of finding out all my secrets before I decide if I even want to tell them. It's a little violating, but it's also why I trust her so much. She's never wrong.
"Just thinking," I say. Not a lie, but not what she's looking for.
"It's not too late, you know," Gloria says, "I'm not like your other mentors. I don't want you to do this unless you're sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt." My eyes narrow at the mere suggestion that I'm having second thoughts. As if sensing my hostility, she quickly says, "I know your reasons for going in. I'm only asking you to think about yourself for a moment. Is this what you want?"
"I don't want my family to starve."
"This isn't the only way to help them."
"Easy for you to say," I fire back, "You've never had to worry about money."
Gloria wraps her shawl tightly around her body, shaking her head. Then, she laughs. Her laughs always scare me because they sound like she's choking to death, and I need Gloria alive for as long as possible, as she's the one looking out for me while I'm in the arena. Finally, she says, "You remind me of myself. So determined. That's why I like you."
It's impossible to stay mad at her for long. "So, we're doing this thing?"
"Sure are," says Gloria, "You better make me look good, baby girl. You're my protégé, after all."
We stand there side by side, letting the waves crash up to our knees. Enjoying each others' presence. I use the last minutes of daylight to harden my resolve, willing myself to be strong for the next few weeks. Then, as the sun dips below the horizon, we turn around and head for town.
Kellen "Kel" Chromis, seventeen years old
district four male
It was a hard sell, but eventually, the Academy agreed to our conditions. Nothing like this has ever been done before, so it took them a while to come around to the idea. But then I reminded them of the purpose of the Academy—to bring riches and glory to District Four. What's more grandiose than a final duel to decide the volunteer? Since both parties consented, they had little reason to deny the district or the Capitol of this highly anticipated matchup. With two weeks until the Reaping, we were finally given the green light, and it was announced to the district that in three days, Creek Horace and Kellen Chromis would fight to the death in front of the entire nation.
"You know I love you, right?" says my younger sister, Ren. She grips my hand with both of hers as we walk toward the Academy at dawn on the day of the televised broadcast. I can feel the suppressed trembling of her body, but outwardly she tries to hold it together for me.
"Of course," I reply. "You know I love you, too."
"I wish…" her voice breaks, but she swallows painfully and continues, "I wish you wouldn't do this. I know it's not my place, but—"
"Ren."
"—you're just sad, which is okay! I'm sad too!" her measured demeanor evaporates and her voice begins to rise in pitch. She's desperate now. Then she says something unforgivable. "Mom wouldn't want this, Kel. It's not right. It's not you."
I yank my hand away and snarl, "Don't you dare bring her up right now! This has nothing to do with her."
"But it does, Kel! You're hurting."
I begin to run fast, and I mean fast. With her small limbs, Ren has no hope of catching up to me. I can hear her cries from a distance, but I don't stop for a single instant, refusing to even look over my shoulder at her as I speed toward my destination. I'm confident I'll be back to say a proper goodbye. Right now she's messing up my headspace when I should be readying myself for the battle ahead.
I've studied Creek's tactics relentlessly. I know he relies on brute strength and intimidation to pulverize his foes. As long as I don't hesitate, I can get an edge on him with my wit. Sure I'm strong, but I'm smart too. My mother saw to that. I think about the hours we spent planning dives, mapping underwater terrain, and processing the excavated relics we'd recovered from the sea floor. Never did we think my training as a scientist would play into such a violent scenario. But as I sat in her office last night, meticulously mapping out Creek's movements on the Academy tapes just like I'd map out one of our old missions at sea, I realized my brain is hardwired for optimization. It doesn't matter what kind.
There's a gradual shift in the air as I get closer to the Academy. I hear nervous whispers lining every street corner as people begin to gather around the district television screens. I ignore the feeling of eyes on me as I continue straight ahead. Once I arrive at the door I'm escorted to my prep room, where a few trainers begin to layer me with body armor to protect me from major injuries. It's a fight to the death, but whoever survives must be in one piece, so a good portion of our bodies are protected besides the lethal strike zones. As a condition of the fight, Creek and I agreed that if the winner is too injured to be fixed up before the Games, he will relinquish his spot to the next volunteer in line.
For Creek, it's a matter of pride. He hates me so much that he can't possibly go into the Games knowing he'll leave me behind to gloat. He could have ignored my antagonization and accepted the Academy's nomination and nobody would have blamed him. But when I challenged him to a duel for the spot, he had no choice but to accept or admit weakness. My reasons are hardly any better than his. I'm only seventeen—a year too young to be the Academy's chosen volunteer—but the moment my mother never resurfaced from her final mission is the moment I gave up caring about what happens to me. Of course, I'm smart enough to know that my sister Ren is right about my emotional state, but I'm past the point of being reasoned with. The Games are my only salvation from this agony.
Do I hope to die today? Maybe. It wouldn't be the worst thing. The worst has already happened to me. But the crueler possibility is my survival, and ultimately, my painful death in the Games, which would be more in alignment with my tragic life trajectory at the moment. No—something tells me I won't get the mercy of dying right now. Whether it's arrogance or cynicism, I believe I'll be standing over Creek's lifeless body by the time this fight is over. Plus, I'd still like to give Ren a proper goodbye.
We enter the outdoor training field, where the bulk of the Capitol cameras sit on the balconies, panning across the dirt-covered grounds as we walk toward our starting positions. A few more are on the battle floor, positioned a safe distance away from the action. We are each positioned about twenty feet from the center of the field, where a singular knife is dug into the soil, hilt pointing at the sky, waiting to be slid out of the earth and into a boy's flesh.
Creek is bigger than me, but only barely. As a lifelong Academy trainee myself, I'm still a formidable opponent in hand-to-hand combat, but I know I can't count on being able to overpower him. My success depends on getting to the knife first. And above all, I can't get into a straight-up physical brawl with Creek. Doing so would be a death sentence, so I'll have to remain one step ahead of him.
"Fighters ready?" bellows the announcer. We both nod. "Three…two…one…GO!"
I'm moving. I know Creek is fast, so I don't try to grab the knife. Instead, I slide, kicking it as hard as possible right before he has a chance to reach for it. As the shock registers on his face, distracting him for a fraction of a second, I manage to land a punch on his chin. He grabs my shoulder, but when his fingers begin to tighten, I contort my body in such a way that I'm out of his grasp, heading in the direction of the displaced knife. Now that I have a head start, I reach it first.
We circle each other, me with the knife, him with balled fists. He makes the first move, lunging for my armed side with such force that I don't get a chance to escape. His arms wrap around my shoulder, pinning the knifed hand behind my back. I rotate my wrist, trying to plunge the blade in Creek's back, but I'm met with nothing but air. I remember my rule of avoiding physical combat and it's clear I need to do something—and fast. I flick my wrist and hurl the knife, sending it clanging off a piece of camera equipment and the Capitol operators shriek, abandoning their post and fleeing toward the guarded exit.
Creek lets go of me and goes for the knife, but I'm in hot pursuit. I manage to keep up with him, so as he approaches the knife I lunge forward, tackling him from behind. He is crushed to the dirt ground and I position my legs around his waist, holding him down with my full body weight. His arms are under his chest and the knife is nowhere to be seen, so I brace myself for its reappearance. Sure enough, Creek's upper half rises and I see a flash of light from the blade's reflection. My hands grip his arms now and I prevent him from swinging the blade, trying desperately to keep it against the ground. While labored by my grip on him, he still manages to point the blade toward the sky and swing his arms up and down, trying to aim over his shoulder and land the blade in my exposed head.
His movements grow more frantic since my weight is preventing his lungs from fully inhaling. Suddenly, I know what to do. I bash my forehead into the back of his skull, sending his face careening into the dirt, right into the knife. A ceremonial cannon fires and I lift myself off Creek's body. He rolls limply to the side, revealing the hilt of the knife, buried deep in his eye socket.
Shakily, I stand up and am instantly met with a blinding, white-hot pain coming from where my forehead connected with Creek's head. At a minimum, I'm concussed. But the doctors can fix that. I walk away from his body and make my way toward the exit.
On to the next fight.
a/n: i feel like i have a good rhythm with these weekly updates, so i'll tentatively say that the reapings should all be finished by mid-march if i keep this pace. in the meantime, i'd love to hear your thoughts on the first eight tributes! it's been quiet in the reviews lately! if you're on the fence about giving this story a read, i do plan to finish it within the year 2025 since it's kind of a personal writing goal of mine. so it's unlikely that i'll abandon it barring any circumstances that prevent me from writing. anyways see you next week with district five! :)
