Lev Muyskens, 15
"There's a world of possibilities out there, just waiting for me."
In Lev's perfect world, there would be dragons. Probably elves, too. Definitely magic—real magic, not just the sleight of hand stuff. Although, Lev does love the sleight of hand stuff.
Another thing Lev's perfect world would have is no age restrictions on who can go into the taverns. They're mostly for the Peacekeepers, anyways, but Lev isn't interested in the alcohol. His birth parents were probably drunks, and he doesn't want to take after them at all.
No, what Lev is interested in is the performers. There's a girl about his age who performs with her parents in this one tavern nearby. They're amazing. Lev could watch them forever—when they do magic, it's like they're really doing magic, not just tricking you. They make Lev believe magic is real again.
But in order for them to do that, Lev needs to get into the tavern. He knows that going in through the front door doesn't work. He looks like too much a little kid, even though he's fifteen. He certainly doesn't pass for eighteen, and he doesn't have any kind of ID. Still, this isn't Lev's first rodeo. He's snuck in here loads of times. One day, he's going to have seen enough of their shows to replicate their tricks perfectly, he just knows it.
Careful to stay out of sight of the front door, Lev ducks into the alleyway beside the tavern. Sometimes, there's a window into a back room left open. It's high up on the wall, but there's usually boxes stacked beneath it, and Lev can wiggle his way through it. It's always a tight fit, and sometimes Lev is afraid he's getting too big for it, and he'll have to find another way inside.
Today, the window is closed. Lev wonders if the owners have caught on. No matter. He'll just have to find another way in. Again, not his first rodeo.
Lev goes around the back, where a man is smoking a cigarette on the stoop. As he approaches, the man looks up. "What do you want?" he says.
"Nothing," Lev mumbles.
In Lev's perfect world, he would be more confident. He would have walked right up to that man and demanded he let him inside, or else face the consequences, or whatever it is that confident, intimidating people do. He knows that his heroes from his favorite fantasy stories would have done that if they needed to get inside.
Sometimes, Lev likes to imagine himself as the star of one of those stories—after all, so many fantasy heroes are orphans, right? But they usually aren't taken in by loving families. In the stories he loves, the kids are orphans who grow in Community Homes, and that's why it's no trouble for them to answer the call to adventure and leave home. Lev wants adventure, sure, but he likes his life here in Three. He has his twin, and his adoptive little brother, and his girlfriend, and two parents who love him no matter what. He doesn't need to leave.
But. Lev lies awake at night imagining something more. Not just dragons and elves, but heroics. A world where Lev gets to save people, be special, be admired. He can go on fantastical adventures, make true friends, wield real magic, and be a hero.
Whenever he tells Niko about this, Niko says that Lev already is a hero. He spent their years in the Community Home defending Niko from the bigger kids, the ones who had to take their anger out on someone and thought the sickly blind kid was an easy target.
Lev knows that's not the same thing. He wasn't doing heroics. He was just doing what anyone else would do.
"Look, kid," Cigarette Guy says, startling Lev from his thoughts. "Are you just gonna loiter out here all night?"
"No," Lev says quietly. "I mean, no. You're gonna let me into the tavern."
The man snuffs out his cigarette, looking at Lev like you might look at a puppy that just did something weird. "And why I am gonna do that?"
"I'll…" Lev says. "I'll pay you?"
The man raises an eyebrow. "How much?"
"Um," Lev says, fishing out his wallet. His parents give the three of them some spending money every week, but it's not very much. Lev really only ever uses it to buy books, and those have been scarce recently. He's got a good amount saved up, but he's not really sure how much people usually give out as bribes. "I have…fifty caps. Fifty-two caps."
The man shrugs. "Good enough for me."
Lev hands him the money. He steps aside and lets Lev go into the tavern.
That was incredible! Lev made his own way into the tavern, and he did it non-violently. Not that Lev would have ever hurt that guy to get inside. He wants to be a hero, after all. Not a bad guy. But he did it! He confronted that guy, he got what he wanted, like he actually has confidence or something.
Lev slinks through the back of the tavern, trying to exude some more of that confidence and act like he belongs here. Niko once said that you can get into anywhere if you act like you're supposed to be there. He walks into a little backstage area, where he spots her.
She's just about the same height as him, with short black hair and the sort of look about her that she knows something you don't. She knows a lot of things that Lev doesn't. Mainly, she knows all about magic.
He should go talk to her, tell her how much he admires her skills, how much he wants to learn how to do tricks just like her. He should do it. It would be so amazing just to speak with her, to tell her how amazing she is. Lev's been watching her perform for years, and he's never been this close to getting to talk to her before.
But she could get mad at him. She could kick him out. She could tell him he's stupid, and would she really be wrong? God, of course he can't go talk to her. She's going to hate him. Why would he ever think it would be a good idea to talk to her?
He doesn't think he would survive her telling him that he's stupid. He admires her way too much for that.
Carefully, Lev skirts around the people gathered backstage, and steps out onto the tavern floor. He finds himself a seat far away from the stage. As the show starts, he takes out his notebook, and starts to write.
One day, he's going to write a book. He just has to figure some stuff out first. Like, who his characters are, and what they're doing, and where they are. Once he figures that stuff out, he's golden.
For now, he just writes about his own life. It's not particularly interesting stuff, but it's important to him. It's all of the little things he never wants to forget. Maybe one of these things will give him the inspiration he needs to write a book.
Melody and I are going out on Thursday. Niko seems to be feeling a lot better, but I always have to worry about him. It's my duty as the older twin. Mateo told me he's failing math, so we've planned a tutoring session for Saturday, and he made me promise not to tell our parents. So long as I can help him get his grade up, that shouldn't be any problem.
Lev looks up from his notebook as Aderyn comes on stage. The other performers are amazing, sure, but he think he's the most impressed with Aderyn because she's a kid too. Maybe if Lev were just better at learning, he could be as good as she is by now.
Her performance is brief, but Lev enjoys it nonetheless. He enjoys all of the performances. How could he not? It's like seeing magic come to life.
In Lev's better world—not even his perfect world, because his perfect world wouldn't look anything like this one—he would be as good as the performers are, and he would have the confidence to get up there and perform too.
Lev puts away his notebook to enjoy the rest of the performance. He'll be there one day. After all, he's got a lot of life ahead of him. And he's going to figure that novel out soon, he just knows it!
Briar Marston, 14
"Take some advice, because I'm not using it."
The hill behind Briar's house is steep and rocky, but it gives an incredible view of the grain fields. At this time of day, the sunlight reflects off of the endless wheat fields and the whole valley dances. Briar watches the wheat tremble in unison with the wind and wishes she could just enjoy it in peace. But when does she ever get what she wants?
Well, that's not a very good way to put it. She gets what she wants a lot. Just today, for example, she got what she wanted by not being Reaped.
She glances out of the corner of her eye at Fiadh. The wind is messing up her hair. It distracts Briar for a few seconds.
"Do you ever wonder what our lives would be like if we were born in the Capitol?" Fiadh says.
"No. I like it here in Nine."
"Hm. I guess," Fiadh says. "But if we lived in the Capitol, we would never have to worry about money. You must've heard Dad and Papa the other night."
"I heard them," Briar says. "I'd rather stay here than live in the Capitol. There, we'd all have ridiculous names."
Fiadh laughs, just a little, as if she doesn't find it very funny, and then says, "I'd at least like to get out of Hampton. Go back to the city. Do something other than harvest grain for all of my life."
Briar shrugs. "I'm happy in Hampton. It's nicer than the city."
Well, she's pretty sure it's nicer than the city. All she's ever seen of it is the path to the Justice Building for the Reaping.
Regardless, the conversation seems pretty pointless to Briar. It's not like they'll wake up tomorrow in an alternate universe where they were born in the Capitol. It's just a waste of time thinking about it. Their lives are the way they are, and they'll always be like this. If anything, they should be considering what the future looks like for them, not what the past could have looked like.
"Yeah." Fiadh looks down at her lap, and Briar purses her lips, frustration appearing suddenly in her gut. Listen, she loves Fiadh more than anything. She's so glad to have Fiadh for a stepsister, but god, sometimes it drives her insane the way Fiadh dances around things that are bothering her.
"Alright, out with it," she says.
"What?" Fiadh says, head snapping up to look at Briar.
"I know you want to talk about my mom," Briar says. "So let's get it over with."
Fiadh opens her mouth a few times, as if she can't quite find the right words to say, so Briar snaps, "Come on! It's not that big of a deal."
"It was your mom," Fiadh says in a small voice. "It should be a big deal."
Briar just doesn't get what the big deal would be. So, they saw her mom while in town for the Reaping. So what?
"She's not my mom," Briar insists. "I don't have a mom. I have two dads."
"Yeah, but…"
"But what?" Briar says. "Shouldn't we just be happy that we made it through another Reaping?"
"We're thirteen years old," Fiadh says. "We've never taken tesserae. We weren't going to be Reaped."
Briar shrugs. She's never really been concerned with what ifs, but she thinks the Reaping is an exception to the rule for everyone. Everyone worries about the Reaping. That's what they should be talking about, not bumping into her mom afterward. She made peace with the fact that she didn't get to have a mom when she was eleven. She doesn't need to be hung up about it forever, but everyone seems to think that she will be.
"We can talk about it, you know," Fiadh says. "Your mom."
"What is there to talk about?" Briar says. "She's a deadbeat. She got so high on morphling that she couldn't take care of me. That's that, and that's it."
"Doesn't that…I don't know, make you sad?" Fiadh says.
Briar stares down the expanse of wheat fields. When she was little, she used to ask her dad why her mom didn't want her. He always told her that it had nothing to do with her; her mom just had too problems of her own. It didn't really make her feel better, but Briar doesn't care anymore.
"No," she says firmly. "I have all the family I need, right here. I have you, Dad, and Papa. That's all I need."
It's true. She doesn't need her mom in her life, and she doesn't want her here, either. In fact, she would prefer if her mom would just drop off of the face of Panem, just so people would stop bringing her up. It's sad, she gets it! But that woman is nothing her. She gave up being something to Briar when she was a baby, and they both accepted it years ago. If everyone else could accept it too, that would be great.
"It makes me sad," Fiadh says. "I just—you aren't jealous, right?"
"Jealous?" Briar says, the word so out of left field that she doesn't even know how to compute it. "Jealous of what?"
"I get to see my mom," Fiadh says. "She lives a few blocks away from us, and gives me a present for my birthday. Sometimes I worry that it might hurt you—"
"You know, I think I'm going to go inside," Briar says, getting to her feet. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," Fiadh says, following Briar back toward the house. "I know it's a tough subject but—"
"No!" Briar says, whirling around to face Fiadh. "You don't know, because it's not a tough subject. I made my peace with that woman two years ago, and seeing her in person doesn't change that. Okay?"
"Okay," Fiadh says. "Sorry. Do you…do you want to talk about the Reaping?"
"Not much to talk about there, either," Briar says. "Like you said, it's not like we're going to be Reaped."
There are thousands of kids in District Nine. The two kids who got Reaped today didn't even come from the same town as them, let alone the same school or street. Briar knows the statistics—that it's likely that in her entire life, she will never know someone who is Reaped. That certainly silences those pesky what ifs.
"Girls!" Papa calls from the back porch. "Dinner is ready!"
Briar gives Fiadh a look somewhere between a glare and a grimace and heads inside. Dad and Papa's relief is palpable when she enters the kitchen. She knows they worry themselves endlessly (and needlessly) over the Reaping. But Briar and Fiadh have made it through their second year, and they'll make it through the rest, too.
"Hey, Dad," Briar says as she sits down at the table. "How's our money situation?"
Dad stares at her with his eyebrows raised as he joins her at the table. Fiadh comes in a moment later, and Dad says, "I'm not sure that's a great dinner topic, kiddo."
"Well, if we don't talk about that, you're going to want to talk about something else," Briar says offhandedly.
Dad grimaces. "I wasn't intending to talk about anything unless you wanted to."
"Awesome!" Briar says. "I don't want to talk about it. So tell me about our money."
"Our money is fine," Papa says as he comes in.
"Is it?" Briar says. "Fiadh and I heard you talking the other night."
Dad and Papa exchange a strained look. Briar feels a tiny bit of satisfaction over the fact that Briar and Fiadh found them out. It doesn't really outweigh everything else. "Everything will be fine, kids," Dad says.
"Are we going to have to take tesserae?" Fiadh asks.
"Of course not," Papa says. "We won't let that happen."
"It will never come to that," Dad adds.
Briar relaxes as she lifts a spoonful of soup to her mouth. She knows that this family is all she needs. She refuses to ever get hung up on the past like Fiadh. Really, the future is the thing to worry about—and she believes her dads when they say they'll make sure hers is bright.
Roland Richardson, 18
"Rebels. The Capitol. What's the difference? They aren't me."
And they say money can't buy happiness.
Roland has everything he could ever want now. A nice house, plenty of food, heating in the winter. It doesn't matter that his nice house is empty, that he has too much food to eat all by himself, that the house still feels cold no matter the temperature. Roland is finally happy, and all he had to do was sell out the only people he'd ever known to the Capitol.
It was surprisingly easy, actually. It wasn't like he was ever actually friends with anyone in M74. He was just there because Hawk was there. Once Hawk wasn't…there, anymore, there was no point in putting himself in danger for people he didn't care out. So he went down to the Peacekeepers Headquarters, and reported the lot of them. They gave him all of this money for his information, and he conveniently forgot to mention how exactly he came upon all of those secrets.
Probably helped that he didn't believe in the cause. Not like the rest of his family. Roland has never found a cause he found worthy to die for. He's not sure that one even exists.
So, here he is. Wealthier than he could have ever imagined he would be, free from the shackles of M74, and so incredibly alone that it might be crushing him.
The key word there is might. It's not actually crushing him. Sometimes it just feels a little bit like it might maybe be crushing him. And, sure, doing all of this may have cost him the last living member of his family, but Pam was a jerk, anyway. He doesn't care. He cares so little he puts everyone else to shame.
Roland kicks back and relaxes in the plush chair in his living room, curtains drawn, Hunger Games prep playing on the television. His final Reaping is coming up in a few weeks, and then he'll be home free. It certainly is nice to know he won't die young for a pointless waste of a cause.
He sighs in contentment as Treble Cleff—absolutely ridiculous name, by the way—interviews the head of mutts Hunger Games arenas. It's a beautiful early summer evening outside, although Roland tends to avoid going out after dark. So it's also a great night to stay in, have a drink, and watch some uncomfortable tv.
And then a brick comes crashing through his window.
Roland is on his feet in a second, slamming backward into the wall, creeping toward the stairs. He can hurry up the stairs, go to his bedroom, and climb through the window. He put a trellis along the siding of the house for this express purpose, to make sure he could get out if he had to—
"Fuck you, traitor!" someone outside his house shouts. He hears several people laughing, and a car driving away.
Still, he stays crouched against the wall, halfway on the staircase, for several more minutes. Just in case, you know? It's a…it's a good fighting stance, what he's got going on. You know, if someone came in right now, he would be so prepared to fight them. He wouldn't want to run and hide at all.
After a while, Roland uncurls from the wall. He crawls over the brick, because there could definitely be more people outside with worse weapons than a brick. As he approaches the brick, he realizes that he can't touch it with his bare hands. It could be covered in poison or soaked in human blood or something insane like that. Rebels are crazy. His own brother blew up a bar filled with Peacekeepers, and died for it. How is that not crazy?
So, he gets up and creeps into the kitchen. Without turning on any lights—so no one can follow his movements through the windows—he gets himself a pair of clear plastic gloves.
Carefully, ever-so-carefully, Roland picks up the brick. A piece of paper has been rubber-banded to it. He gingerly removes the note.
WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID. WE'RE COMING FOR YOU.
He should report this to the Peacekeepers. No, no, he should just get a new house. Yes, that's what he needs to do. He has enough money to sell this place and get a new one, even if he likes the house. It's not safe here anymore.
He thinks that he shouldn't spend the night here. But where else would be go? The few hotels in Eight are only open to visiting officials and the occasional, delusional tourist. It's not like he can go wandering back into M74's building and ask for asylum.
Besides, in order to go somewhere else, he would have to leave the house. Even if he climbed down the trellis, there could be people in his backyard, waiting for him to try to escape. His whole house could be surrounded right now.
So, he's not leaving tonight. He'll just have to spend the night somewhere no one would think to look. He has a small cellar, but it's detached from the house. In order to get inside, he would have to leave the house. So, that's out. He can't sleep in his bedroom. That's too predictable. He doesn't have a guest bedroom, but he has a bathroom upstairs. It's across the hall from the bedroom, so not that far away from the trellis. He could dash into his bedroom, grab his comforter and pillows, and sleep in the bathtub.
Whatever it takes to be safe from the maniacs who threw a brick into his house.
He hurries upstairs, still in the dark, and takes all of the blankets off his bed in one swift motion. Within thirty seconds, he's in the bathroom across the hall, door shut and locked. There's no windows in here, which means that no one can sneak in from outside, but also means there's only one way to escape. It will have to do.
The comforter goes right in the bathtub, and he works to get everything in a relatively comfortable position. He settles down in the bathtub, still breathing hard.
This sort of thing has never happened before. Sure, he's gotten dirty looks on the street, the occasional refusal of service in a store, but he's never been targeted in his own home before. He knows that whistleblowers are often harassed, but come on! This is ridiculous. Honestly, he can't believe that this is happening. He's never really understood what the big deal was. Sure, he got a bunch of people executed, but they were going to end up executed sooner or later. M74 had a pretty high turnover rate, because they were terrorists. Of course, a lot of people would die. The ones who didn't die during the attack usually got caught and executed. So, all he really did was hurry things along a bit. It shouldn't be that big of a deal.
He just can't believe that he's been targeted for speeding up the deaths of some crazy, misguided people. That's the thing about rebels—he understands that most of them are just misguided. Hawk was. Hawk grew up with parents who hated the Capitol, and he wasn't strong like Roland is. He took the whole story their parents told them to heart. During Roland's time in M74, he met a lot of people who were just lashing out. They didn't really hate the Capitol. They just wanted to make other people hurt.
And how did they find out where he lives? Roland has been extremely careful to not let anyone know where he lives. He makes it his business to not talk to anyone for any significant amount of time. You never know who might be a rebel.
It doesn't matter. None of it matters. Tomorrow, Roland will report this to the Peacekeepers, and he'll sell his house. He'll find a new place to live, and be even more careful next time. Maybe the next place should be smaller. That way, he won't feel the lack of other people around quite so strongly. Yes, he should definitely look for a smaller place. More unassuming. He'll have to leave the house less and make sure he isn't followed. That's probably how they got him. Someone followed him home. He just has to be more vigilant.
Roland wraps a blanket around his shoulders and decides to leave the light on. Someone could come through that door at any second, and he wouldn't want to have to fight them in the dark.
Cadius "Cady" Trippolus, 17
"Luck doesn't pick favorites, but I'm her exception."
So, Cady likes a bit of a gamble. There's no fun in anything if there's no risk involved. His family's whole empire is built upon taking a risk and earning a reward. Growing up like that, Cady couldn't turn out any differently. He's spent his whole childhood on betting floors, watching his father play good hand after good hand, bringing home even more wealth for his family. He knows how to take a risk.
But.
When Cady is out there gambling, he's gambling on money. At most, he's gambling on his family's reputation. Six months ago, he placed the lot on Ashe Illyrian's victory, and people thought he was insane. There was no way either of those little girls would ever beat big, strong Shad Marcum of District One, right? It was practically treason to even bet against their own. Look how that turned out—everyone knows that Cady knows what he's doing. District One's elite is finally starting to respect him as himself, not as his father's son.
The thing is, when he's out there gambling, there's no real risk. His family has so much money that he could bet thousands of caps and lose, and nothing would change. Others might look down on him a bit, but nothing would change.
Cady's life is never hanging in the balance. It's not about his life. It's about his money.
Not this time. He's standing on the stage in front of the entire student population of Court Academy, and they're saying he's going to volunteer for the Hunger Games. He can't decide if it's terrifying or exhilarating.
Exhilarating because it's the thrill of the game, right? It's the ultimate risk. Cady will be gambling on much more than his money and his reputation. Just the thought sends a shot of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Gambling on just money gets old after a while. He's got to keep finding ways to keep things interesting.
Terrifying because it's the ultimate risk. Cady isn't afraid of anything. He's not. He's not afraid of snakes or the dark or losing or definitely not dying. But there might be some teeny-tiny part of him that kind of hiccups at that thought.
Shocking, too, because he's seventeen. They never pick seventeen-year-olds unless the eighteens really suck, and they don't. Not this year. Cady has watched them fight, bet on the outcomes, even fought some of them himself. They should have been good enough. Cady didn't even go out for the spot with the intention of actually getting it. All of the seventeen-year-olds partake in the trials, not because they're actually going to be chosen, but so they know what to expect when their time comes. It wasn't supposed to be him.
It fucking sucks, too, because he totally bet a bunch of caps that Glisten Barrows was going to get the spot. He would have never thought to bet on himself.
The crowd of students is cheering for him and his district partner—an eighteen-year-old named Copper Prowess—so Cady waves. The spotlight is where he belongs, so he manages to banish his misgivings and just enjoy the audience's fervor. It's only going to get better once he gets to the Capitol.
Because he's actually going to be going there now. He's going to be competing in the Hunger Games. He might die.
No, of course he won't die. He's Cadius Trippolus, and Trippoluses don't lose. They're made of stone. That's what his dad has always said. But it's more of a poker face thing than a can't-be-murdered thing.
Regardless, it won't happen to Cady. He has luck on his side, and better yet, he has skill. Cady is going to go out there and prove himself, he just knows it. Everyone in Panem will see that Cadius Trippolus is not someone to mess with, and not just because he's Lady Luck's favorite.
He imagines it—the risk, the adrenaline, the screaming of the crowds as they chant his name. It's going to be glorious. They're going to love him. Cady will have the whole Capitol wrapped around his finger in an instant, and they'll stay that way until Cady dies.
Which won't happen in the Hunger Games. He'll die in seventy years of old age after a long, happy life. Cady knows it. He knows it. He does, okay?
The ceremony ends, and Cady heads out into the audience to greet his adoring fans. The younger kids crowd around him, all of them wanting to hear how he got picked, what the best weapon is, how to make sure they get to be like him in ten years. Cady basks in it. It's going to be like this every day when he wins.
Because he's going to win. And he's going to volunteer. No doubt about it. Nuh-uh. None whatsoever.
God, where are these feelings coming from? Cady is a Trippolus, and they aren't afraid of anything. Cady has never been afraid before. When he was little, there were no monsters under his bed or in his closet. He never cried over spilled milk, never wailed because he scraped his knees. Cady is better than that.
He's not afraid of anything. And he's going to make sure that no one can ever forget it.
There's supposed to be a party in the gymnasium, but Cady has something more important to do. He slinks his way out of the academy and races downtown. He skips past the elite gambling clubs, heading straight for the seediest of the seedy. In his hand is a golden medallion emblazoned with the number 154. They give them out to all of the volunteers, and once Cady has won, his will be worth a fortune. He's got to bet it on something. Because he's going to win. Because Cady doesn't lose. Ever.
The door slams against the wall when Cady bursts into the bar. He marches right up to Gem, the old man who takes all of the bets. He slams the medallion down on the countertop and says, "What do you have on?"
Gem eyes him for a moment. "Where did you get this?"
"It's mine," Cady says, as if he would ever sink so low to steal. "I was just given it an hour ago."
"What use is it to me?" Gem says. "It's only worth somethin' if you win."
"When I win," Cady says intensely. "It will be worth a fortune. Come on, think of the money you could make from it."
"Ain't no guarantee that you're gonna win, kid," Gem says.
"Yes, there is," Cady says. "What, you don't believe in me? I've got this in the bag."
"Who're you trying to convince, kid?" Gem says. "'Cause it doesn't sound it's me."
"Just take the damn medallion," Cady says. "What bets do you have on?"
Gem sighs. "I got some horse races."
"Excellent," Cady says. Gem slides him the rosters of the races, and Cady feels his anxiety and his worry and all of those emotions he doesn't have ebb into nothingness. He's in his element now. Nothing else matters until he picks the perfect bet. What the hell is he thinking, anyway? He loves a good risk, and there's nothing riskier than the Hunger Games. The thrill is all in the chance, right? No bigger bet to make than with your own life.
Yeah, he's going to be fine. "Gem," he says. "I'd like to bet this medallion on Golden Caviar."
"Alright," Gem says, taking the medallion from him. "You seem calmer now."
"Oh, yeah," Cady says. "Got it all figured out."
"Huh," Gem says, and then he wanders off.
Cady sits at the bar, angling toward the TV. They're playing Hunger Games reruns. Perfect. He watches the screen for a moment, before realizing that it's not really a rerun. It's a montage of the most gruesome District One deaths.
He watches a few kids who look just like him—perfect skin, perfect blond hair, perfect everything—get chopped up and burned and beheaded, and he calls to Gem, "Hey, could you change it to the horse races?"
Gem nods and goes to find the remote.
It doesn't matter. None of it matters. Cady is fearless, and even if he didn't want to volunteer, he has to. Talk about ruining his family's reputation. Chicken volunteers practically get excommunicated from the entire District. He's seen it happen before.
Cady is not a coward. He loves risk, and this is perfect for him.
Gem changes the channel, and he watches Golden Caviar race to an easy victory. A weight lifts off his shoulders, although he doesn't remember it being there before. Gem gives him back his medallion and a whole heap of caps, and Cady's going to be alright.
Lady Luck is on his side. He's going to go out there, and prove to everyone that he can do this. He's untouchable. All of those kids who died made mistakes, and Cady just won't do what they did. He smiles to himself as he leaves the bar, knowing that nothing bad is going to happen to him.
After all, Trippoluses are made of stone.
A/N: long time no see. it's the six year anniversary of the youngest among us today so I figured it would be fitting to get this out.
You might notice that we have a new District One Male. Unfortunately, Davian's form was deleted and I was unable to get another copy, so we ended up having to replace him.
With that, we're done with intros. We're moving into the pre-games with the goodbyes, where we'll see Denver, Alastor, Roland, Des, and Colson. It's already partially written so it shouldn't be too long.
-Ben
