Lizbeth "Liz" Tulle-17 (District 8)
Six Weeks Before The Reaping
"Are you sure about this, Liz?" Meesh asked, their voice barely audible over the buzz of the clippers. "Getting your nose pierced was one thing—you can take the stud out, and your parents will never know you have it," they mumbled, pointing to the little gem in Liz's left nostril. "But you can't hide a shaved head."
"I'll worry about that later, Meesh," Liz cooed, her voice shaking as she tried to sound confident despite the butterflies in her stomach. "Do it," she said, grabbing Meesh's hand and closing her eyes while their friend Gibson placed the clippers on the edge of her hair and slowly dragged them back across her head.
A few minutes later, it was over. Liz's long, soft, ashen blonde hair lay in a pile on the floor, and she was the proud owner of a brand-new buzz cut.
She did it. She really did it. Her mom was going to kill her. But she did it.
"So, how does it look?" she asked nervously, her fingers shaking as she reached up and gently ran them over the short, spiky remnants of her once long and luxurious hair. "Be honest."
"It looks great," Gibson said, smiling as he admired his handiwork. "I did a fantastic job. Didn't I, Meesh?"
"It's OK," they cooed sarcastically, doing their best not to smile as they stood there and watched Liz explore the new her like a curious toddler. "Do you like it, Liz?"
"I love it," she whispered, a massive smile on her face as she sat up and wrapped them both in an awkward hug. "You guys are so awesome," she squeaked, her eyes brimming with tears as she buried her face between them and let out a soft, strangled little sob. "Thank you. I couldn't have done this without you."
"Sure, you could have," Gibson laughed. "It just would have taken longer because you have short little T-Rex arms," he smiled as he punched her in the arm playfully.
"I do not," she scoffed, trying to sound offended even though she was smiling. "You take that back," she growled, laughing as she swung wildly at his head. "Take it back, Gibson."
"Make me," he teased, duking under her wild swings and sliding behind Meesh so he could use them as a shield.
"Bad choice, Gibson," they laughed, their eyes sparkling with mischief as they quickly backed him into the wall and pinned him there so Liz could get to him. "Get him, Liz," they cheered, their face lighting up with laughter as they watched her whale on Gibson playfully.
"Take it back, Gibson!" slap. "Take..." slap. "It..." slap. "BACK!" slap, slap, slap.
"Fine. Fine. Fine. I give. I give," he squealed, his face red with laughter as he gently pushed Meesh away. "I'm sorry, Liz. You don't have little T-Rex arms," he laughed, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance.
"And?"
"And I shouldn't have said you did," he smiled, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm.
"Apology accepted, Gibson," she cooed, her voice soft and sweet as honey as she glided across the dank, dingy little room they were in and plopped down on the couch next to her drums with an exaggerated sigh. "Now that that's settled, why don't we do something fun?"
"Like what?" Gibson asked, motioning for Meesh to follow him as he disappeared into the kitchen.
"I don't know," she groaned, a sly smile on her face as the two of them returned from the kitchen with beer and snacks in their hands. "But this is a good start."
"I thought you'd like it." He grinned as he tossed her a beer before setting the snacks down on the rotting piece of wood he used as a table.
"Well, duh," she laughed, rolling her eyes as she twisted the cap off her beer and tossed it on the table as Meesh plopped down on the couch next to her and reached for a bag of chips. "I'm always up to party." She shook her head as she put the bottle to her lips and took a swig. "God, Gibson, this tastes like warm piss."
"Sorry, princess, but not all of us have rich parents," he growled sarcastically, grimacing as he let the first sip of amber-colored swill slip past his lips before passing the bottle to Meesh. "And it's not that bad."
"Not that bad?" Meesh groaned, dry heaving as they struggled not to puke from the aftertaste. "This tastes like warm piss mixed with the sludge from the dye mixer in the factory."
"If it's so bad, why are you guys drinking it?"
"I'm not. And Liz is only drinking it because she'd rather be drunk off shit beer than sit through a board meeting with her parents sober."
"Meesh has a point," she laughed, her eyes watering as she shotgunned the rest of her bottle and set it down on the table before reaching for a second.
"You've got a board meeting tonight?" Gibson asked curiously.
"Yeah," she grumbled, her voice low and angry as she twisted the cap off her second bottle and downed half of it in a gulp. "We're supposed to talk about expansion opportunities with some investors from the Capitol."
"And you're going to be drunk for that?"
"Please, I'm not dumb enough to show up to a board meeting drunk, Gibson," she scoffed playfully. "But I will show up buzzed."
"You're crazy, Liz."
"It's all part of my charm," she laughed, her words slurring together as the booze finally started to hit her. "But I can worry about that later," she mumbled, her head swimming in a warm, foggy mess as she slid off the couch and stumbled over to her drums. "Right now, I want to have fun with you two before my parents ruin the rest of my day."
She scowled as she plopped down on the little stool behind her drums and grabbed her drumsticks. "Are you guys gonna play with me or not?"
"I'm game," Gibson laughed. "Meesh?"
"I can't let you guys play alone," they whispered, a playful smile on their lips as they slid off the couch and grabbed their base. "We sound like three dying cats trapped in a washing machine as it is. I don't want to know what the two of you would sound like without me to balance things out."
"We don't sound that bad," Liz laughed, her words slurring together as the booze slithered its way into the depths of her soul. "Do we, Gibson?"
"Of course not." He smiled as he plugged his guitar into his amp. "Dying cats trapped in washing machines have rhythm. We don't."
"Our lack of rhythm is part of our hook." She laughed as she rolled her eyes in amusement. "It's what makes people want to hear us play."
"It's also what got us booed off the stage half a song into a six-song set at our last gig," laughed Meesh, a sarcastic smile on their face as they bent down to plug their base into the amp.
"They've got you there, Liz."
"No, they don't," she laughed sarcastically. "And you know it." She smiled as she grabbed Meesh's mostly-full beer off the table. "Now, let's play," she yelled as she shotgunned the beer and smashed the empty bottle on the floor. "One ... Two ... One, two, three, four!"
~SIX HOURS LATER~
"And if you look at the graph on page eighteen, you'll see that we project your return on investment to be as high as one hundred and forty-five percent within two years of the plant opening, Mr. Tulle."
Was it possible to die from boredom? That was the question Liz had been asking herself ever since this boring man with a ridiculous purple face and lizard eyes had shuffled into the board room and started rambling about the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity Crane Enterprises had for them.
And, to be honest, his pitch wasn't bad in a vacuum. His company had identified an untapped market in the Districts that could—in theory—buy their products and make them and their partners a lot of money. All they needed was someone with the means to help them expand quickly before someone else snatched the opportunity out from under them.
There was just one problem.
They had vastly overestimated the size of their market.
Only a handful of people outside the Capitol had disposable income, and even less had enough to waste it on something as stupid as Capitol Fashion Lite. And they weren't going to buy enough of the crap for the venture to break even, let alone turn a profit. And anyone with half a brain knew it.
But she couldn't say that unless they asked for her opinion. And neither of her parents was in the mood to do that.
So, there she sat, fighting back the urge to gouge her eyes out so she wouldn't have to look at this clown while he droned on about a deal she knew was a loser.
At least she was still buzzed. Thank god for Gibson and his shitty beer.
"Thank you for the presentation, Mr. Starr," her father said, his cold, even voice snapping her out of her stupor as their guest rose from his seat. "It was... enlightening."
"It was my pleasure, Mr. Tulle," he stammered, bowing politely. "If you have any questions—"
"I think we're good, Mr. Starr," her mom said. Her voice was curt and professional, her face an unreadable mask of polite indifference. "We'll need some time to discuss your offer. We'll have an answer for you shortly."
"Of course, Mrs. Tulle," he said, smiling as he quickly collected his papers while one of the company's guards waited to escort him out of the room. "Thank you again for your time."
They all nodded politely as an awkward silence settled over the room while he slowly shuffled toward the door.
Her mom glared at her in anger—she was super pissed about the haircut and couldn't help but show it now that they were alone—while her dad watched as his guest exited the room before nodding to the guard, who quickly secured the door with a soft but audible click.
"So, what do you think, Lizbeth?" he asked as he pushed himself away from the table and walked over to the bar.
"Why are you asking her?" her mom scoffed. "She wasn't paying attention to anything he said, and you know it."
"Yes, I was," she whispered defensively. "Just because I was bored and didn't bother to hide it doesn't mean I wasn't paying attention, Mom."
"Good," her dad cooed, a hint of an approving smile playing on the corners of his lips as he poured himself a glass of scotch and sat back down at the table. "Then you should have no problem telling me what you think about his offer."
"You want my opinion?" she asked calmly.
"I do," he mumbled, smiling as he took a sip of his scotch before sliding the glass across the table to her, drawing a reproachful glare from his wife as she turned toward her husband in disgust.
"Bast?!"
"Lighten up, Dimity," he groaned. "It's one sip, not the entire bottle.
"Go ahead, Lizbeth."
Liz's eyes lit up at his words as she took a sip. The smooth, smoky flavor lingered on her lips as she savored the taste before sliding the glass back to her dad while her mom sat there and pouted with her arms crossed.
"Good, isn't it?" he asked, a knowing smile on his lips as he took another sip before continuing. "So, tell us what you think, Lizbeth."
"OK," she sighed, taking a few seconds to collect her thoughts before answering. "I think Mr. Starr's presentation was good, and his offer is sincere," she said carefully.
"But?" he pressed, unwilling to let her off the hook that easily.
"But," she said, pausing for effect. "I don't think we should invest."
"Why not?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand as he swirled his scotch absent-mindedly.
"Because they don't have the market they need to turn a profit, and we'll lose any money we invest in it."
Her dad nodded, a small smile on his lips as he leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink. "That's the conclusion I reached as well," he said passively. "Dimity?"
"Lizbeth is right," she sighed, her eyes fixed disapprovingly on the scarf her daughter wore to hide her new haircut from prying eyes. "They've got a solid proposal, in theory. But business isn't conducted in theoretical terms."
"So, we're in agreement?" he asked.
"We are," her mom mumbled as Liz nodded.
"Good." He smiled as he turned toward his daughter. "You can give Mr. Starr our answer in the morning."
"Why do I have to do it?"
"Because you're going to run this company someday, Lizbeth." He smiled. "It's time for you to start acting like it."
Oz Channer-17 (District 3)
Six Months Before The Reaping
He had waited for this day for a long time.
OK, maybe a long time was a bit of a stretch—it had only been three weeks. But for someone as impatient as Oz, three weeks was an eternity.
His parents might have raised him to believe that good things come to those who wait—and that patience was a virtue—but Oz learned at a young age that sentiments like those were just as fluid and flexible as his morals were.
Patience might be a virtue for some. But for others—like him—it was a hindrance. And he was done pretending it wasn't.
He wanted who and what he wanted. He wanted Genevieve. He wanted her now. And he was tired of waiting for her.
"It's beautiful up here, Oz," she gasped, her big brown eyes sparkling with wonder as she looked down on the outskirts of District Three as the sun slowly sank below the horizon.
"It's not as beautiful as you," he mumbled sheepishly, a shy smile on his lips as he glanced down at his feet and tried to look embarrassed.
He wasn't. But his plan would work better if Genevieve thought he was. So he would be.
"I'm sorry if that was too forward," he mumbled, his hazel eyes twinkling softly in the fading light, the gentle evening breeze tussling his already messy dark-brown hair as he gazed longingly into Genevieve's soft doe eyes.
"You have nothing to apologize for," she whispered, her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she smiled shyly. "I think what you said was sweet," she mumbled, her voice trembling with every word.
"But?" he asked, turning toward her.
"But I can't figure out why you said it to me," she giggled nervously.
Oh, this is almost too easy, he thought. His eyes locked on hers as he reached out and pulled her into his arms.
"Because you're beautiful, Genevieve," he whispered, pouring every ounce of charm and manipulation into his words as she let out a surprised giggle. "You're the sweetest, kindest, most beautiful person I've ever met."
"Every time you say something like that, I have to resist the urge to look around for who you're talking to," she laughed, her face an even deeper shade of red as she slowly melted into his arms. "It's hard for me to believe someone like you really likes me."
"Why?" he asked softly, his eyes sparkling with fake joy and love as he let her pull away just enough to look up at him.
"Because popular guys like you don't fall for nerds like me."
"Well, I did, Genevieve. And I fell hard ..." he whispered, his voice fading into oblivion as he swallowed nervously.
"You did?" she asked nervously, her body trembling under the intensity of his gaze.
"I did," he whispered, his breath catching in his throat, his body tensing as he stood there and waited for the perfect moment to declare his love.
But he never got the chance. Because Genevieve—perhaps sensing where this was going—popped up on her tiptoes and pressed her trembling lips to his in a feather-soft kiss.
And that's when he knew he had her.
~THREE WEEKS LATER~
He thought he'd have more time. More time to plan. More time to woo Genevieve and her family. More time to make sure everything was in place before he took this step. But he didn't. His parents had seen to that.
It had been years since either of them had shown genuine interest in his personal life. And on the rare occasions that they'd pretended to, it had been the—who is that, where are you going, and when will you be back kind of interest. Not the, we'd like to meet this young woman you're spending so much time with, kind.
That was new. And even though his mom had sworn they weren't up to anything, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. Not that it mattered.
His parents wanted to meet Genevieve. And since he had no logical reason to say no—and she was just as eager to meet them as they were to meet her—he had no choice but to introduce them.
He was trapped, and he hated it. He hated it more than anything in the world. And it was hard for him not to show it.
"Is everything OK, Ozzy?" Genevieve asked. Her voice was soft and sweet as honey as she slipped her hand into his and squeezed it reassuringly. "You look like you're upset."
"It's nothing," he lied, trying to sound as awkward and uncomfortable as a love-struck teenager should without letting his anger seep through. "I'm just a little nervous."
"Are you sure?"
He shook his head, forcing himself to smile as he pulled her in and kissed her cheek softly. "I'm sure. I'm just really, really, really bad at being nervous," he lied. "Is it obvious?"
"Just a little," she giggled, her eyes lighting up with love as she leaned up and returned his kiss with a soft peck on the lips. "But that's OK. I think you're cute when you're nervous."
"I'm glad one of us does." He grumbled, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he sighed internally. She'd bought it. He was safe for a few more seconds.
"Don't be that way," she sighed. Her voice was soft and reassuring as she reached out with trembling fingers to cup his cheek. "I'm just trying to help you relax. There's no need to pout."
"I'm not pouting," he said a little too quickly. His body tensed as he silently kicked himself for slipping up again.
It was almost like he was trying to screw this up. What had gotten into him?
"Yes, you are," she whispered. Her voice was soft and dreamy with just a hint of sadness as she looked up and smiled. "And normally, that would be OK. But only one of us can be a nervous, pouty wreck at a time. And, since we're meeting your parents..." she trailed off.
"That's not fair," he laughed, his body relaxing, a sense of ease washing over him as he took a breath. "When did we decide that?"
"When you invited me to dinner with your parents," she cooed, her tone light and teasing as she rolled her eyes at him before letting out a soft giggle. "That's just the way things like this work, Ozzy."
"Well, it's still not fair," he laughed, his eyes twinkling in the late afternoon sunlight as he leaned in for a kiss. "But I guess I can suck it up this once and let you be the nervous, pouty wreck. But just for tonight." He smiled into her lips before pulling back and wagging his finger playfully. "Nervous, pouty wreck is my default setting with you, Genevieve. And I'm afraid that if I change that, you won't like me anymore."
"We both know that's not going to happen," she laughed, her eyes lighting up with love as she smiled at him. "I don't like you because you're a nervous, pouty, awkward mess when you're around me, Ozzy. I like you because you're you." She reached up to stroke his cheek, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she struggled not to cry.
"Please don't cry, Genevieve," he whispered, his fingers shaking as he reached up and cupped her cheek.
"Too late," she sobbed as twin rivulets of soft, clear tears seeped out of the corners of her eyes and dribbled down her full, rosy cheeks. "I'm sorry, Ozzy."
"It's OK," he whispered, his voice shaking as he reached out with a trembling hand to wipe the tears off her cheeks. "You never have to apologize to me for anything, Genevieve."
She smiled up at him, her big, soft, brown eyes still brimming with tears as she took his hand off her face and laced her fingers through his. "What did I do to deserve you?"
"You're you," he whispered, the lies flowing from his lips like water from a stream as they stood there and held each other. "That's all it took to make me fall madly in love with you."
"I love you too, Ozzy."
She reached up and pulled his face down to hers, their lips meeting in a soft but passionate kiss as the door to his house swung open, and his mom let out a shocked squeak.
~THREE HOURS LATER~
Dinner with his parents had gone surprisingly well. It hadn't gone as well as his dinner with Genevieve's parents—where Oz had charmed and enthralled them like he had their innocent daughter. But it had still gone well. All things considered.
His mom adored Genevieve. She couldn't stop raving about her. And his dad—while a little harder for Oz to get a good read on—seemed to have been just as enchanted with her as his mom had been.
He didn't want to admit it. But it looked like he had gotten himself worked up for nothing.
"Ozzy, will you help me with the dishes, please?" his dad asked, his voice slightly strained as he tried to balance a small tower of plates and cups in his hands while inching toward the kitchen.
"Of course, Dad," he cooed, a soft smile on his lips as he leaned over and gave Genevieve a chaste little kiss on the cheek before sliding out of his chair and following his dad into the kitchen.
They spent the next few minutes in silence, his dad watching the sink fill up with warm, soapy water while Oz grabbed a rag to dry, opened the cupboards, and waited for his dad to hand him a dish.
"So, what do you think of Genevieve?" he finally asked, his voice low and curious as he leaned against the counter. "She's amazing, isn't she?"
His dad didn't answer. He didn't even glance in Oz's direction.
He just stood there and stared down at the sink—his face an unreadable mask of indifference—and waited for it to fill before sliding the plates into the soapy water and pushing the still-running faucet to the other side.
Only then—with the soft clink of the plates echoing through the room—did he answer his son. "She's a beautiful young woman," he mumbled. "And she doesn't deserve what you're doing to her."
His heart dropped through the floor, his stomach leapt into his throat, and a cold chill ticked down his spine as he turned to look at his dad. "Excuse me?" he mumbled, his voice soft and confused as he took the plate from his dad and dried it before putting it in the cupboard.
"You heard what I said," he growled, his body shaking as he struggled to keep his voice down and his anger in check.
"I did." He swallowed nervously, a cold knot forming in his stomach. "But I don't know what you're talking about..."
"Yes, you do," he snapped, his eyes never leaving the sink. "So cut the shit, and let's talk about this like men."
"Dad, really don't know what you're—" he paused. The look on his dad's face made it clear that he wasn't buying it. He knew—something. Oz wasn't sure what it was—and he honestly didn't care.
What his dad knew didn't matter—how he played the rest of this conversation, did. He needed to be careful. "How did you know?"
"I'm your father, Oz. I've known there was something—off—about you for years. But I never imagined you could do something this cruel and manipulative."
"You're being dramatic, Dad," he said, his voice calm and even as he grabbed another plate out of his dad's hand and dried it. "There's nothing cruel or manipulative about our relationship."
"Yes, there is, Oz. And I want you to stop."
"Stop?"
"Yes, stop. Do the right thing and break up with Genevieve while you still can.
"It'll hurt her, but not as much as stringing her along like this will."
He was trying to appeal to Oz's morality. And he was doing a decent job of it. But it was no use.
Oz had put way too much time and effort into his relationship with Genevieve to end it now. No matter how immoral and manipulative his dad thought it was.
But he still needed to be careful. If he didn't word his refusal right, his dad might grow a conscience and ruin everything.
"I can't do it, Dad. I won't."
"Oz, please," his father begged. "You need to do the right thing. Don't be selfish."
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are," he snapped, his patience wearing thin as he quickly washed and rinsed the last plate in his stack. "And if you don't do the right thing, I will."
"That's your decision to make, Dad," he said, sighing as he took the last plate from his dad, dried it, and put it in the cupboard before closing it softly. "But before you do, you should know something.
"Genevieve doesn't just love me; she worships me. I'm her whole world. And taking me away from her like that would destroy her." He turned and shuffled slowly toward the door. "And I'm not willing to do that." He stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Are you?"
Bellatrix Harvey-18 (District 2)
Six Years Before The Reaping
Bellatrix had waited for this day for as long as she could remember. And that wasn't an exaggeration. Her earliest memory was sitting on her dad's lap in the front row, dreaming of being on stage with her mom as District Two welcomed home yet another conquering hero.
That was how Bellatrix saw the strong young men and beautiful young women up on stage who were about to take their rightful place in District Two's pantheon of Hunger Games heroes.
She never saw the scars they kept hidden or understood the emotional and psychological toll that winning the Games had taken on them. All she saw was the glitz and glamor that came with winning. And Bellatrix wanted that for herself.
Falling in love with the Games had been easy; waiting for the chance to start training for them had been hard. But the wait was over. Today was the big day. And she couldn't have been more excited.
"What's taking so long?!" she growled impatiently, her soft blue eyes brimming with anger as she waited by the front door for her parents.
"Calm down, sweetheart," her mother called from the other room, her voice soft and sweet as she glided around the corner with her husband a few steps behind. "You don't have to yell." She smiled as she reached out and stroked her cheek. "Your father and I are right here."
"And you're still not ready," she shrieked, her frustration bubbling over in a spectacular temper tantrum as she stomped her feet and threw her arms around wildly while screaming at her parents. "Dad doesn't have his jacket, you're not wearing any shoes, it's almost like you don't care that—"
"That's enough, Bellatrix!" her father snapped. His face was a dangerous shade of red, his steel-blue eyes were burning with anger, and the veins in his neck and forehead throbbed with rage. "I don't care if it's your birthday. You will not talk to me like that. And you sure as hell won't talk to your mother like that. Do I make myself clear?!"
"Yes, sir," she whispered sheepishly. Her body went slack as she looked up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she sobbed, praying that her quick and total submission would be enough to defuse his legendary anger.
And fortunately for her, it was. But only because her mom stepped in and helped defuse the situation.
"It's OK, Calix," she cooed, her voice gentle and soothing as she placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it softly. "She's just excited." She smiled as she ruffled her daughter's hair. "This is a big day for her."
"I know that, Amethyst," he growled, his face returning to its natural color even as his anger lingered in his eyes. "But that's not an excuse for her to be disrespectful."
"Of course, it's not, dear." She smiled as she moved behind him and started to work the tension out of his broad, muscled shoulders with her soft, deft hands. "And Bellatrix knows that. Don't you, sweetheart?"
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat and wiping away the tears in her eyes while her mom slid her dad's jacket over his shoulders before slipping on her shoes.
"Alright, I think we're all set. Where's Calista?"
"Who cares?" Bellatrix snarled, bristling at the mention of her older sister on what was supposed to be her special day. "She's not coming with us. Is she?"
"Of course she is," her dad sighed. "We can't celebrate your birthday without her. Can we?"
Bellatrix couldn't believe what she was hearing. How could her parents do this to her? Today was supposed to be her day. Why were they trying to ruin it by making her share it with that selfish ditz?
She knew she shouldn't feel that way—Calista was her sister, and she loved her. But she couldn't help it.
They had nothing in common besides a last name and their mom's blonde hair. And even the hair was a bit of a stretch. They may have been almost identical when they were young. But that changed as they grew.
Calista's had lightened to a soft ash-blonde, while Bellatrix's had darkened to a rich honey blonde. And that wasn't all that had changed.
Bellatrix had grown into a strong, lean, passionate, driven, and determined young woman, while her sister had grown into a soft and beautiful young woman with a relaxed personality.
Bellatrix lived for the Games—they were the most important thing in her life. Calista lived for stupid, superficial shit like make-up, fashion, and, more recently, boys.
That last one had really confused Bellatrix. She couldn't understand how anyone could care about boys more than they did the Hunger Games, especially when they were the daughter of a victor. And she didn't want to.
She had always been more than happy to let Calista waste her life on stupid shit like that without ever understanding why. And she still was.
Bellatrix had her sights set on bigger things. And no one was going to stand in her way.
"Hurry up, Calista! We're going to be late!"
~THREE YEARS LATER~
She had been in her element today.
Every move she made was flawless. Every parry fed perfectly into the next. Every dodge placed her in the perfect position to strike. And every strike shattered her opponent's defenses and opened them up for a killing blow.
She had collected seven so far and hadn't had to work for any of them. It was pathetic.
Her most recent opponent—Athena Stone—had been a year older than her. She had also been the top female tribute in her year and the betting favorite to be the volunteer for the Ninety-Ninth Games. But none of that had stopped Bellatrix from picking her apart with ease.
Athena was good. But Bellatrix was better. And she loved proving it.
"Excellent work, Bellatrix," her trainer cooed, his voice booming with pride as he hopped down into the battle bowl to congratulate her. "That was an impressive display."
"Thank you, sir." She smiled, her face dripping with sweat as she bowed before sliding her rapier back into its scabbard. "Though I have to admit, I was hoping for more of a challenge," she laughed, her eyes lighting up with glee as she stood there and watched Athena struggle back to her feet. "Is there anyone here who's actually worth my time? Anyone at all?"
"I'll go," said a cold, confident voice from up in the stands.
Bellatrix's blood ran cold as she watched the gaggle of trainees in the stands melt away as a lone figure emerged and stood on the edge of the bowl.
It was her, the only girl in the academy whom Bellatrix had never been able to beat. Helena Valentine.
Helena was the best tribute in their year, and everyone knew it.
She was the living embodiment of District Two perfection and the only thing standing between Bellatrix and her dream of volunteering for the Games.
"Not so cocky now, are you, bitch?" growled Athena, an amused smile on her lips as she shouldered past Bellatrix while Helena dropped down into the bowl.
"Kick her ass, Helena! Put the princess in her place," the other tributes shouted, their voices giddy with anticipation as they fought for a better view.
"She can try," Bellatrix growled, her eyes burning with anger and disgust as she watched Helena calmly take her place in the middle of the ring. "She can fucking try."
"That's the spirit, Bellatrix," her trainer whispered, his voice low and even, his eyes shining with pride. "Give her hell."
Oh, she would. She had been waiting for this chance since Helena broke her collarbone on their first day at the academy. And she wasn't going to waste it.
It was time for some payback.
She smiled at her instructor as he hopped out of the bowl before turning to face Helena. Her face was an unreadable mask of indifference; her spear rested lazily across her shoulder as she stood there and waited for Bellatrix to join her.
She couldn't wait to put that bitch in her place.
"FIGHTERS, TO YOUR MARKS!" an official screamed, her voice ripping Bellatrix back to reality as she stomped to her line. "FACE THE FRONT! BOW! FACE EACH OTHER! BOW!"
Bellatrix had to win this fight. She had to take Helena down a peg and show everyone that she was better than her. She just had to.
"BEGIN!"
Bellatrix sneered, a low, angry growl slipping past her lips as she slid her sword out of its sheath and dropped into a defensive stance.
Her breathing slowed to a minimum. Her muscles tensed as she stalked around the edge of the arena. And her eyes drank in every detail they could as she waited for Helena to make her move.
And she had to wait. Moving first had been her mistake last time, and she wouldn't make it again.
No, she would sit back and wait for Helena to make the first move. And when she did, Bellatrix would be ready.
And then it happened.
Helena dropped the tip of her spear and exploded across the floor. Her body knifed effortlessly through the air as she spun and drove the butt of her weapon into Bellatrix's stomach before exploding up and slamming it into her jaw.
And that's when the lights went out.
Sentri Baroslav-16 (District 9)
Six Weeks Before The Reaping
Sentri still didn't know what happened. One minute, they were talking about going to the park. The next, they were breaking into an abandoned plant on the outskirts of town. And he couldn't figure out how he got talked into doing it.
OK, that wasn't true. Sentri knew how he got talked into it. He just didn't like how easy it had been for Farro to do it. But that was his fault, too.
Saying no had always been a problem for Sentri. It wasn't that he didn't know how to do it; because he did. He said it to himself all the time. But he'd never felt comfortable saying it out loud to someone else. He just wasn't wired that way.
The therapist at school called it a defense mechanism. Sentri called it common sense. And they were both right. It was a defense mechanism born of necessity and common sense.
No one had ever really cared what Sentri had to say, and speaking up had always caused more problems than it solved. So, he learned not to do it.
He learned to smile, keep his head down, and do whatever he had to to fit in and keep the people he was with happy. Life was easier that way, even if he didn't always like the results.
"What did I tell you guys?" Farro asked. His voice boomed off the empty walls and the cavernous ceiling above as he swung down from an overhead railing and landed with all the grace of a sack of flour in front of Sentri and their friend Sunnoria. "Is this place cool or what?"
"It's OK," Sunnoria huffed, her dark green eyes drinking in every detail of the dark, dank, dust-covered factory floor. "What kind of plant was this?"
"It was a wheat processing plant," Sentri mumbled absentmindedly. "My dad worked here before they closed it down."
Sentri remembered that day vividly. It had been raining, and he had been sitting in the living room with his mom when his dad barged in in a rage. He was drunk—Sentri could smell it on him—and he was screaming about how they were all going to starve because the good-for-nothing Capitol had closed the plant down and hadn't chosen him to work at the new, fully automated one on the other side of town.
Why they would have done that, not even his dad knew. But that didn't stop him from screaming about it and demanding that someone get him a beer before tripping over the couch and nearly crushing Sentri.
Things only got worse from there, as they often did when his dad drank, and Sentri wasn't interested in reliving it.
"Why are we here, Farro?"
"Because exploring old buildings is fun," he laughed. His soft blue eyes twinkled with mischief as a playful, shit-eating grin spread across his freckled face. "Isn't it?"
"Not really," mumbled Sunnoria, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she traced random patterns in the dust on an abandoned machine. "But it's better than people watching in the park."
"True," he laughed, his face lighting up as he picked up a bolt off the floor and hurled it into the darkness. "I'll never understand why you enjoy that so much, Sentri. People watching is boring as shit."
"What can I say? I'm a boring person with boring ideas. That's why I need you in my life, Farro. To balance out the boring with a little bit of crazy."
"And what about me?" asked Sunnoria, her voice low and disinterested despite the curiosity in her eyes. "Why do you need me in your life?"
"To make sure his crazy doesn't get us in trouble," he said, nodding in Farro's direction as he bounded off into the darkness to find his bolt while Sunnoria rolled her eyes.
"That's a full-time job." She smiled. "Maybe I should start charging you guys for it."
"You mean our scintillating company isn't payment enough?" Farro shouted from somewhere in the darkness. "I'm hurt, Sunnoria!"
"You'll get over it!"
"That's what you think. But I've been known to hold a—"
His voice died, and an eerie silence fell over the factory until a blood-curdling scream ripped its way past his lips.
"HELP!"
~FIVE HOURS LATER~
"What the hell were you kids thinking? Breaking into an abandoned factory like that?"
"We weren't thinking, Mom," Sentri mumbled, his eyes glued to the wall in front of him while his mom sat there and glared, and his dad paced back and forth like a caged animal.
"That much is obvious," she snapped. The anger in her voice caused Sentri to shrink down into the safety of his seat. "You wouldn't have been in there if you had."
"I know," he whispered. "Breaking in there was stupid, and I'm sorry."
"Sorry isn't going to cut it this time, Sentri. You're sitting in the Head Peacekeeper's office."
"He's not here for breaking into the factory, and you know it, Vana," his dad mumbled. "He's here because of what they found in the factory."
"Why he's here doesn't matter, Misha," she snapped back, her voice dripping with anger, her eyes burning with rage. "All that matters is that he is."
"That's not exactly true, Mrs. Baroslav," said a strong, confident voice from somewhere behind them. "There are a handful of good reasons for someone to be sitting in my office," the Head Peacekeeper said, a warm smile on his face as he glided past the three of them with a folder in his hand. "And this is one of them.
"Your son and his friends stumbled across a family of wanted fugitives. And now that we have them, justice can finally be served."
"We did?"
"You did," he smiled as he dropped into his chair and slid the folder across the table to Sentri. "See for yourself."
He took the folder and opened it. Inside was a wanted poster with pictures of the five people they had found hiding in the factory.
The pictures were old—the man looked nothing like the happy, smiling husband and father he was in the picture when they found him. And his wife and three young children were well-fed and clean instead of malnourished and covered in dirt. But it was them.
He couldn't look at them. "What did they do?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him for what might be the first time in his life.
"I can't tell you that. All I can say is that it was serious."
That could mean anything from they killed someone to they had the audacity to steal flour to make bread so they didn't starve. And, since no one had heard anything about them or their crime before today—even though they had been on the run for weeks according to the file—Sentri was willing to bet their crime was closer to the latter than the former.
"Can you tell me what's going to happen to them?"
Oh, for the love of—why did he ask that? He didn't want to know the answer.
The Head Peacekeeper grimaced, his body tensing as he leaned back in his chair and sighed. "It depends. If it was up to me, they'd pay a fine, and the parents would do a few weeks of hard labor. But it's not up to me, and the Capitol has been cracking down hard on the crimes they're guilty of—"
He trailed off, leaving the actual punishment unsaid as Sentri fought back the urge to cry. The Capitol was going to make an example of them, and it was all his fault.
"You did a good thing, kid," the Head Peacekeeper said. "You should be proud."
"I am," he lied, expertly molding his response to the people in the room even though what he really wanted to do was scream. This was wrong, and he knew it. But he couldn't stop it.
He wanted to throw up.
A/N: Hello everyone. It's been a while since I've updated, but I hope you're all doing good and the New Year is treating you well. I want to thank pioneer9, HumanWiki, Butter-bluetack, and ladyqueerfoot for sending in Lizbeth, Oz, Bellatrix, and Sentri. I had a lot of fun bringing them to life and I hope I did them justice in your eyes this time around.
So, as you can see, I made a change to the way I write the story. I was struggling to write the story in first person, so after talking with a few people I decided to switch to third person and I like it a lot better. It's a lot easier for me to write the story this way and I think it'll be better for it and me in the long run. How do you all like it? How do you like the four amazing tributes we just met? Let me know and I look forward to seeing you all at the next update. Which, hopefully, won't take me as long as this one did.