Iris had been sloppy. Maybe it was due to the stress of the impending reaping, maybe it was simply her own incompetence – but the fact was, she'd never made a mistake like this before. And now she would pay.

They'd found the drugs. She didn't know how, exactly, why they had picked her out of the crowd of workers for a body search, but the why didn't matter anymore. The Peacekeepers didn't care about the why, or the how, the only cared that she had tried to defy them. And as she cursed herself for being so stupid, sitting in her filthy cell, she realised that no matter what the Peacekeepers did to her, whatever Boris did would be worse.

Maybe due to the reaping being the very next day, no-one came in to question her. Iris wondered why – perhaps they didn't need her, perhaps they simply didn't care. Perhaps they simply thought she was just another zombie, maybe they hadn't realised the drugs weren't technically hers. And they weren't, not if you thought about it. Iris hadn't made them, hadn't bought them, wasn't going to use them. She was just transporting them. But something told her that the Peacekeepers wouldn't care about the technicalities. And neither would Boris. He would only be interested in knowing why the drugs would not reach their destination.

Iris could kick herself. She didn't even know how they'd found her out. She'd been doing it for years, smuggling the drugs onto trains, where they would be taken to the other side of the district to their forever homes, the veins of District Six's many zombies. This shipment had been the largest, the most important they'd had in a while – sales always peaked around the reaping.

She hadn't even been able to say they weren't hers. They were in her clothes, the vials strapped to her arms and legs underneath expertly, her experience in this career path made obvious by how efficiently they were positioned. She was quite obviously trying to get them somewhere. She had quite obviously done this before. There wasn't a single word she – or anyone else – could say in her defence. And so here she was. Shivering in a cement box, the night before her last reaping.

"There's nothing you can do." The voice came out of the darkness, sudden and loud in the silence, and Iris jumped. Tally appeared, melting from the shadows.

"Tally," Iris said.

Tally tutted. Iris wondered how she had gotten in, but it didn't really matter. "Boris is mad," she said in an infuriatingly sing-song voice.

"I know."

"He's going to kill you."

Iris looked down at her feet, which she could only barely make out. In the darkness, they were shapeless blobs attached to her legs. "Yeah, I know." Boris wasn't one for quick executions, something that everyone who worked for him knew. All the new recruits were made to watch what happened to people who messed up. It was likely Iris would soon be one of those people.

"And then he'll kill your brother," Tally giggled, tapping on the bars with her curved, greyish nails. "Or maybe he'll do that first, make you watch."

Iris clenched her fists, even more angry at herself. She hadn't even thought they'd target Jordie – but of course they would. If there was one thing Boris didn't have, it was mercy. "What can I do to redeem myself?"

Tally hummed, and then shrugged. "I don't know."

"Why are you here then?" Iris snapped.

"I am here to bring a message." Tally's smile stretched, and Iris knew she was loving every minute of this – they'd never gotten along. She'd fought with many of the other members, but she'd butted heads with Tally the most often and the most viciously. That was almost certainly why Boris had sent her, of all people; to rub Iris' face in her mistake a bit more, to remind her that she'd fallen from grace. "To remind you that if you say anything about the organisation, your brother's death will be long. Painful."

Iris glared at her, and didn't say anything. Tally was cruel, but like she said, she was only the messenger. There wasn't an original thought in her head, and knowing that made Iris feel a little better. Because she knew, whatever happened, she'd always be better off than Tally, because she had a functioning brain. "Whatever, Tally," she said, as flippantly as she could. "I don't care. Fuck off and let me wallow in peace."

Tally grinned at her again, mouth stretching wide, showing off her broken, rotten teeth. She didn't say anything before disappearing into the shadows again.

Iris wondered what she could do. Once upon a time, she would have been able to bribe a Peacekeeper or two – they were some of the highest buyers in the district. High being the key word. Boris, wanting to protect his best smuggler, would have agreed to the bribe. There was no chance of that now. That was before her mistake. Before she'd made herself expendable. She knew she had to accept her fate, whatever it would be.

But she didn't want to. She didn't want to lie down and accept what happened to her, like her father had done after her mother's death. She didn't want to turn out like him. She'd rather die than turn into a zombie.

Mind whirring, Iris smiled to herself. Maybe there was a way.

/

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because when she woke up the morning sun had fought its way into the cell. For the first time, Iris saw the tiny window at the top of the wall, so small it was barely more than a crack. She was surprised that they let her have a window at all. It seemed much crueller to deprive prisoners of their senses, leave them blind and terrified in the silence. That being said, she was glad to have some idea of the time after being awake for most of the night, not knowing how long she'd been there.

There was a clank. The barred door slid open. A Peacekeeper gestured for her to stand, and snapped a pair of handcuffs tightly around her wrists. "You are to attend the Reaping, and are to be brought back here immediately afterwards. Any bad behaviour will be officially written up and added to your sentence."

Iris only smiled at him. She didn't intend on setting foot in the cell ever again.

They left the handcuffs on her, escorting her directly to the eighteen-year olds' section. The girls around her gaped, and for the first time Iris felt a pang of embarrassment. No matter what happened in the next few minutes, the whole of Panem would see her like this first, chained up and helpless. She straightened up, trying to hold herself the ways the Careers did – with confidence bordering on arrogance. She was aware she probably looked ridiculous, but that was better than being vulnerable.

Pomponia Eglehart bounded onto the stage, this year dressed in a pale lavender pantsuit. The suit itself was possibly the least offensive thing Iris had ever seen someone from the Capitol wear, but the hat made up for it. Huge and decorated with garish neon ribbons, it dwarfed Pomponia's already small frame. She'd swapped last year's blue wig for a cherry red one, Iris noted.

Iris didn't listen as the escort went through the regular formalities. She was beginning to feel nervous. Last night, in her cell, she had felt so confident in her decision – but now doubt began to creep in. She wasn't as sure as she had been that it was the right choice. Logically, she knew that whatever Boris had in mind would be far worse than the Hunger Games. A year ago, she wouldn't have even considered volunteering – she would have laughed at the thought. A small part of her still did.

But the part of her that wanted to live – that stubborn, possibly stupid part – reminded her that it was her only option.

And so when Pomponia's hand clasped around a slip of paper in the girl's bowl, Iris prepared herself, arranging her face in a way she hoped would conceal her doubt.

"Elda Peterson," Pomponia read, her voice ringing out across the square.

A small girl emerged from the fourteen-year-old section. Elda Peterson was tiny, her eyes unnaturally large in a way that told Iris she'd relied on morphling at some point in her development – possibly her mother had used the drug while pregnant. She didn't have any signs of active use, but anyone with a pair of eyes could tell that she was malnourished, probably from the slums. Her hair was stringy and brown, tied back in some attempt to conceal the fact that most of it was falling out.

Elda Peterson mounted the stage.

"Are there any volunteers?" Pomponia said, the boredom in her voice obvious. She knew, from her years of being the escort for District Six, that there wouldn't be.

She was wrong.

Her mind made up, Iris stepped out of her section. The girls around her watched her warily, eying the cuffs. Iris took a deep breath, before thrusting her hands in the air, stretching them over her head. The cuffs protested the movement, but she ignored the pain, held herself tall and proud. "I volunteer as tribute."

She wasn't going to let anyone but herself choose her fate.