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AELLA KHERA

17

D12F

Betting Hall No. Five, District Twelve

were you set free?

The Kheras weren't the kind of people who normally had to worry about the Hunger Games. No, scratch that. The Kheras weren't the kind of people who were supposed to worry about the Hunger Games. Running District Twelve's one and only proper gambling enterprise made sure of that. The Kheras made out like thieves, the Peacekeepers turned a blind eye to their favorite hangout spot being technically illegal, and as long as the Capitol got its cut of the profit, everything proceeded according to normal.

Reaping Day was a rare anomaly. Reapings and whippings, that was when Aella remembered that the immense power of the Panemian government wasn't just something that trickled down to her family, and on her eighteenth birthday, her. The Capitol also possessed the power to destroy. Aella didn't think it was going to destroy her, but Reapings cast a heady shadow of doubt over the district.

Aella's was strangely turgid that morning. The scum of Twelve, packed into one building, trying their luck at making a few coins by making predictions about the unfortunate tributes-to-be. As Aella passed through it, jostling the bettors, a man with greasy blonde hair stopped her by pressing a fistful of money into her palm. "Twenty that the girl's Merchant. Brunette Merchant."

Aella looked at him, almost disappointed. "Cousin, you know that's not in the cards. All the Merchant girls are blonde."

"You ain't."

"I also ain't most girls, end of. But dark-haired Merchants don't come along very often."

"I'm blonde Seam. Not situation normal, is it? Take the money, little miss. And tell your pa I says hey. Used to go to school with him, back in the day. Back in President Shakira's administration. We saw Tanya Thorne win together on the schoolyard, yes we did."

"My dad died when I was a baby," she said flatly.

"Oh. Oh, my sympathies. He was a good man. It was his lungs, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," she said, faintly surprised. "How did you know?"

"It's them miner's lungs. They'll kill ya."

"He didn't work in the mines."

"Nah, but you spend enough quality time with the mine air and it don't matter where you work. Your moms looks good, though. Healthy. She healthy, girl?"

"She's healthy." Aella couldn't help but feel disquieted by this man. "Who are you?"

"Erec Loomis. And I ain't seen you around here before. Your grammy and grampy keep you inside, huh? I'll bet they're training you up to take over. You feeling up to the task?"

"I'm learning." In truth, Aella didn't feel ready whatsoever. Oh, she could put up a confident front, but running six betting halls spanning the district was no simple feat. She could handle the social aspects, the networking, the finances, but all of them, all by herself? Of course she wasn't feeling up to the task. Only an idiot would be, and despite the occasional bout of self-doubt, Aella knew she wasn't an idiot.

Aella looked at the crumpled bills. "Twenty on a Merchant brunette?"

"Yeah. Call it a hunch." She collected the money and later, as she visited the powder room for a few personal touch-ups before the Reaping Ceremony, she turned it over in her mind. The man had fascinated her. There was something hard and final about how he spoke to her. All Aella knew was that if he was right about it being a brunette Merchant girl, he'd be getting a lot of money.

He didn't seem like he bet on losing dogs. Or winning dogs, as it were. Sure, she felt bad for whoever would be chosen, but life could suck and people could die. All people. Even brunette Merchant girls and fathers. It wasn't like the journey there made much difference.

As Aella made her way to the Reaping, she thought about positive things. She was trusted with the responsibility of managing pieces of the business, even though she felt unsure about her handling of it. She was lucky to be among the well-off, even though she still had to attend the Reaping like everyone else. Her family was wonderful and loving, even though being the future head of it came with burdens to bear. She had plenty of friends. She had enough blessings.

At least until the new escort took the stage and the proceedings began. When it was time for the tributes to be chosen, Aella watched as the male name was read. It was an older boy, kind of short, who looked unhappy. As the escort went for the female slip, Aella thought idly about whether Erec's prediction would come true. And as the escort said her own name, she stepped into the aisle with what she hoped registered as confidence, thinking the whole time about how eerily he'd called it.

GENESIS MARTI

18

D9F

Reaping Square, District Nine

a cup overfilled.

Genesis Marti was hooked on proving the point. She was right a long time ago when she was first standing up to her older siblings, and she'd been right on everything ever since. She was determined not to make a bigger deal out of Reaping Day than was necessary, so that's how it went. Yes, it was her final year. Whoop-de-fucking-do. The Martis were just fine, please and thank you.

Genesis came from a Townie family, upper-middle class, and had been raised on a diet primarily consisting of walleye (because the Martis were fishmongers) and bread (because they lived in District Nine). Adelina and Leandro claimed they were sick to death of fish. She, however, had no such qualms, and every time they scooted a beady-eyed fish carcass onto her plate at the dinner table and her parents started talking about waste and good sense and looked at her with pride, she felt a little more right. Righteous, even.

Being the youngest was hard. Her older brother and sister were a year and a half apart, close enough to grow up in tandem. She was always the baby compared to them. The runt of the litter, even. She was short as a child, and now, on the cusp of adulthood, she was still short. Not as small and weak as she used to be, though.

That had changed quite a bit. The realization that they didn't actually care what she could and couldn't do cut deeper than it should've. They were just teasing her, going overboard, whatever. It shouldn't matter, she sometimes told herself. It was in the past. But even though it might have ended, it had steered Genesis onto a path of ravenous ambition. She wanted to be the best possible version of herself, the strongest, the smartest, the most knowledgeable. She didn't know where it would take her, but she knew she'd be going places.

Just maybe not the festival. Genesis was too old to go now, since she was eighteen, but it had been a source of deep satisfaction for her when she was younger. Beating the other kids at the games, making sure she won every event, every age group, every weight class, every thing. Even if it didn't happen totally organically, she had done it.

It was a little bit like the Hunger Games, she supposed. Some tributes got extra training, extra sponsors, all kinds of extra advantage, because life wasn't fair. Adjusting the circumstances to even out the playing field was how Victors were forged. Genesis wanted to maximize her experience in life. She wanted to be the best, and that meant using every resource at her disposal.

Unsurprisingly, it was both not enough and way too much. She put in an almost embarrassing amount of work only to come off as a little less effortless than she imagined, and it had been eating her up for a lifetime. Perfection wasn't enough. She wanted to be enviable. She wanted to be the one people looked up to, the one everyone associated with positive qualities like strength and intelligence. She never wanted another person to be able to tell her no ever again on account of her size or inexperience.

As she sculpted herself to the ideal, like any good artist, she thought about her audience. The audience in the crowd at the Reaping, where she now stood, was full of girls like her. Smart, resilient girls with rotten insides, trying to find a way to sell themselves as who they wanted to be.

People said hello to strangers on Reaping Day, but everyone always said hello to Genesis whenever they saw her. Her friends would describe her as popular, whip-smart, confident, and outgoing. Her report cards praised her determination and studious nature. Elsewhere in the crowd, Genesis could only imagine, was an identical girl, with an identically bright future, who lacked the opportunities she'd been able to leverage to her gain. But that was just it, right? If things were unfair, you either had to shut up and sit down or do something about it.

The unfairness was visible front and center when the male tribute was chosen. It was a malnourished, bewildered-looking boy of maybe twelve or thirteen, stumbling to the stage like a newborn foal. A Bloodbath fatality, she already knew. At least it would be over quickly. But then the escort, Phoebus, turned to the female bowl. "And Ciel's district partner, our stunning young lady, will be..." He paused for effect. "Miss Genesis Marti!"

In a breath, Genesis had her smile on, her nose in the air, and her feet in the aisle, and her future was snapping into perfect clarity with each step closer to the podium steps. The Hunger Games were an unfair business, but what wasn't? She could handle it.

CHALLIS BRADEN

18

D8M

Reaping Square, District Eight

how's that for a happily ever after?

Not for the first time, Challis began Reaping Day wishing he could cut his hair. There were worse problems to have, which he acknowledged, but his stepmother was adamant that a longer style was essential to his brand. He couldn't really complain considering his status, but for an almost nineteen-year-old boy, he chafed at the restriction.

There were lots of good things about being the heir to a Capitol-funded textile empire. He had to admit that. He never had to worry about getting food on the table, and he could have as many new clothes as he wanted. He had a loving father, three aunties who spoiled him, and stepmother all the way from District One. She came with a Capitol fashion education, Capitol manners, and a plan to raise Challis as though he was a Capitol citizen, and the only trouble with her plan was that Challis wanted more.

It grated at him. He didn't want to be ungrateful. He knew that he was at the top of the pile, fortunate enough to be a member of District Eight's razor-thin elite class, but as he aged into adulthood, he found his mind wandering into the future. When would he be allowed to choose his own pursuits? Would his brand always involve shaggy hair and silk shirts and physical fitness? He understood that he had opportunities most people could only dream of, but the world had to hold more than the flat splendor surrounding him.

Painted cardboard. That's how it felt. Luxurious at a distance, shabby and peeling when you got closer. District Eight's smokestacks reached high in the sky, belching steam from the machines of industry, as people scurried through the factories, watchful, ever watchful, like ants running from a garden hose.

But you couldn't outrun what was orders of magnitude larger than you, and Challis knew that it was impossible for the denizens of District Eight, grubby and sickly and starving, to stand up to the Capitol. His family comforted him when he told them this. His relatives fretted and soothed and said it wasn't that way for him, because the Bradens were good, the Bradens were special.

They didn't have anything to say about the masses of people being overrun. It didn't surprise Challis, although it did disappoint him. He just wanted to prove that there was something more to be had in the world, which was where the idea had germinated. He was going to enter the Hunger Games on purpose. He would prove that his district was not weak, not frail. No, Eight was steely and strong. He'd been offered the best education status and money could afford him, and he'd taken full advantage of it. If nobody made the sacrifice, nothing would happen, would it? Someone had to be first, and it would be him.

He'd been tutored by Peacekeepers in self-defense. He'd been tutored by scientists in human anatomy. He had decent endurance and good agility. A fit body and a fit mind combined to make a strong tribute. He'd always been likable and popular, and he would present well on television. The Capitol favored tributes who represented the best of their districts, and Challis was definitely the kind of competitor an audience could get behind.

Reaping Day was the beginning of a better way of life. Challis knew he was an optimist, but how poorly could this go? He'd regret it forever if he didn't try. He let his aunties fuss over his outfit, let his father explain once again how he was going to be a man soon, a man who would inherit the company, who would grow to be responsible for the wracking poverty of the districts, crushed by the ever-present thumb of the Capitol. The new Braden generation would feign loyalty and pretend that all was well, and everyone was just where they belonged. When he was finally delivered to the Reaping Square and checked in, he found a place near the front of his pen. He needed to have a good angle for the cameras, right?

The video reel played, and Challis couldn't help but see the emaciated children from the footage in the crowd around him. Hundreds of years, and what had changed? The mayor made a speech before the escort took over to perform the selection. Loyalty, courage, blah blah blah. Yeah, Challis got the memo, thanks. His only goal in life was to accomplish everything he could, as he'd be proving plenty soon enough. The female tribute was chosen first, but just as the escort was getting the name out, someone volunteered. A scrappy-looking girl with her head high, who made her way to the stage with a drive that almost felt like a dare. Even better. Two volunteers, confidence in tandem, to prove Eight had what it took. They'd do great things together.

When the male name was read off, Challis interjected with pride.

CHARLESTON PITT

18

D11M

Pitt Residence, District Eleven

I'll see you in California.

The prizefighting ring was shutting down. That was the bad news. The good news was that Charles had earned a whole lot of money in his probably-final match the night before the Reaping. His family had been happy to hear it, albeit saddened by his loss. There was no need to be sad, he assured them. He had agreed to throw the fight for the extra cash offer. This was the kind of money that could keep his family afloat for several months if they stuck to their normal, meager portions at mealtime and didn't make many unnecessary purchases.

It was important to make it stretch. The Peacekeepers were cracking down on illegal activity, and Hunger Games season was a poor time for taking risks. Just the other month Charles and Talia and Rafael and the rest of them had gotten caught at a bout. They'd lucked out. The Peacekeepers that found them were off duty, fresh additions from the training bases down in Two, and they were more interested in the excitement of their new home than rounding up a bunch of underground fighters and hauling them in for punishment. They'd been let off with a citation for a week's hard labor in equipment maintenance and a stern warning. "We really will have to detain you next time," the lead Peacekeeper kid said, "So please lay low, at least until the heat calms down."

That seemed like sensible enough advice. It was one last job, Charles had told himself. Everyone was saying it was the last night of fighting for a long time. He'd taken the dive as assigned, and everything had been fine, but as the morning of the Reaping dawned, the Pitt family took a moment to breathe. Charles was the oldest of three children. Harold was fifteen; Unity was thirteen. After today, Charles would be safe from the Reaping for good.

After preparing a meager helping of tesserae grain for breakfast, Charles walked softly to the good bed, the one his parents shared, where his mother was lovingly unpacking his Reaping outfit from its glossy paperboard box. She looked up when he entered. "Charleston, honey, good morning."

"Morning, Mama." She gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Then she seemed to think better of it and attacked him with several more all over his face.

"Oh, sweetheart, it's your last year."

"I'll be fine," he said.

"Of course you will." Charles got dressed and went to help wrangle his siblings. Allegedly they were capable of getting themselves ready on time, but it wasn't worth taking the risk. More importantly, it gave him something to do other than thinking about the Peacekeeper crackdowns and the looming fear of escalation. It had been bad, but he knew it could get worse. Everyone did. Without his extra income, life would be harder for the family.

But the Reaping loomed first. Despite having the most slips in the bowl, Charles wasn't worried for himself. He couldn't imagine how he would react if his younger siblings were Reaped. What would happen to their family? Fear tightened a sickening fist around his chest as his mother and father, in their usual plainclothes, led the way to the Reaping Square. It hit him that next year, he wouldn't need his Reaping clothes any longer. They'd be shut back up in the box for when Harold hit his growth spurt and outgrew his current set, and Charles would, for the first time, join the crowd of fearful relatives and worried neighbors ringing the plaza, watching on the big projector screens as he took his turn hoping the family's streak of good fortune continued and someone else's unfortunate baby brother or sister got picked instead of his.

It drove him to distraction. Into the queue, into the pen, onto the speeches. He didn't particularly care about it. He normally had a knack for finding a way to twist even the districts' subjugation into something humorous, but he didn't have anything funny to say when he was already teetering on the lip of luck. Math, he thought. He'd never been any good at it, but he knew that there were lots of slips and only three Pitts in the pool. How likely was it that they were picked, out of all of the possibilities? Not, he thought helpfully. Not likely at all. But everyone else was looking at the very same small probability, and one boy and one girl would still end up in the Arena.

The girl was not Unity. The girl was a tall, scrawny-looking stranger with a ginger bob. She did not react to the news, just kind of smiled dolefully once onstage, like she'd been expecting it all along. That was one Pitt in the clear.

Then the name "Charleston" tumbled rudely out of the escort's mouth, like he was scorning him, and yeah, it was his last name, and yes, he surmised, this was actually happening.

Someone choked in the crowd. He turned and oh, god, it was his father, burly frame collapsed onto his wife's shoulder, like every bit of the sinew he'd developed in his thirty years of agricultural work had suddenly given out. He turned to Harold, in shock, and Unity, brimming with tears.

Terrified, he laid a hand on the shoulder of the blank-faced boy next to him, nudging him to the side so he could move towards the aisle. "Sorry, man. I think that's me."

FIRENZE MALLOCH

18

D2F

Reaping Square, District Two

i will never forgive you.

District Two was beautiful this time of year. The mountains cradled the valley in a scorching hot caress, where motes of silty dust flicked through the light breeze and shimmered in the sunshine. The Nut loomed large in the distance, a grand sentinel beyond the southwestern edge of the metropolitan bubble, where an old Academy building was undergoing renovations. The Reaping Square bustled with people and parade floats, and the air smelled dry and clean.

Firenze spotted a few children waving orange Academy pennants and. A little girl, maybe eight or nine, rode on her father's shoulders. Firenze studied her face. Her fine hair was swaying in the breeze, her hazel eyes gleamed bright, and Firenze saw that she was waving a sienna envelope. "I did it!" she was exclaiming. "I got in!" Firenze saw herself in the girl, if only for a moment. Running up the porch stairs with her envelope, throwing it down triumphantly on the table ("Papa, look!") and waiting for someone to congratulate her.

She found herself transfixed. The girl seemed to notice that Firenze was staring, and she pointed at her. Firenze walked over, Malachai following behind. The girl seemed starstruck. "Hi!" Firenze said. "What's your name?"

"I'm Claudia. Congratulations on getting the Volunteer slot!"

"Thank you! I see you got your Academy acceptance. Do you know where you're zoned for, once they finish construction?"

"The unnamed one. It'll be Malloch if you win, right?"

"Yes. I anticipate I'll be seeing you there as one of my students, come autumn." Claudia grinned bigger than Firenze had thought possible.

"Can I get an autograph, please?"

"Of course." She handed over her envelope and Firenze took a felt tip pen from her purse. She signed, large and loopy, and bade Claudia and her father well.

This was her future now. It was already coming into existence. Malachai looked at her with something unreadable in his eyes. "You won't necessarily win, you know."

"That's not the confidence I wanted to see. What? Are you getting cold feet?" She flashed him an appropriately pleading look. She had spent four years on him. He had killed for her. He couldn't possibly be thinking of passing this up.

"Baby, rogue volunteers aren't exactly appreciated. Of course I'll do it, but you have to cover for me with the Ones and the Fours."

"I know. I will. We've been over this."

"I just can't believe it's finally here." Malachai's smile was bright and nervous, and Firenze was stricken, not for the first time, by how much she loved him. He was hers, all hers, and part of her wanted a softer version of that without the Hunger Games.

"Me neither." But not most of her. It was that special time of year again, and this time, the Games were hers for the taking. Malachai stood over her left shoulder, strong jaw tensed. That was unlike him. She needed him to do this her way, needed him more badly than ever before. Firenze let her fingers latch onto his a little tighter, turned, rested her small frame against him. She breathed in the good Malachai smell that made her nostalgic for easier years, familiar notes of vetiver cologne and the same 3-in-1 shampoo he'd been using as long as she'd known him.

He picked her up, slinging an arm around her waist and elevating her to kissing level. The look in his eyes was almost regretful, and she didn't understand why. He brushed his lips over her neck. "We're gonna be so good together, baby." Firenze made a little noise of agreement and privately wondered why he seemed so, well, sad about this. What had changed in the few moments since his smile? She wondered if she'd done something to hurt him, but no, the rest of him was still the same. She chalked it up to the Games, to the anticipation of volunteering.

"Wanna check in?"

"Anything for you." The usual friends slid by on the outside of Firenze's vision, offering congratulations to her, but she only had one person in mind today. Together, she and Malachai hit up the booth, and he planted a kiss on the bridge over her nose before they separated off into their sections.

Firenze looked at him, crazed with love. "I'll see you at the altar, Malachai."

"Until we meet again," he promised.

The Reaping festivities passed and her heartbeat thrummed so hard it threatened to burst from her chest. It was here. She was here. When the escort says "Ladies first," and draws a slip from the bowl, she straightens her spine and locks eyes with the cameras.

"I volunteer as tribute." A hum of approval. Applause. She makes her way to the stage and the escort moves towards the other bowl.

"And for the gentlemen…" Firenze finds her boy in the crowd. "...Phillipius Dicesare."

Time freezes. Malachai with his eyes downcast and his arms crossed, the sound of a disruption as someone else volunteers in his stead, the rattle of manacles as a tall boy flanked by Peacekeepers is dragged up next to her in disgrace and she's informed that his name is Memphis Dydrich.

She does nothing but look at Malachai, heart rended in two, as she stands alone on her pedestal, the hem of her dress swirling around her ankles as the breeze stirs it. She stands alone, sickened, shocked, as the blood rushes in her skull and a thin whistle of panic rises.

He looks guilty as sin, but what's done can't be undone: Firenze Malloch, jilted.

CHERRY LAFLEUR

15

D7F

Reaping Square, District Seven

you may be gone, but i still have a stomachache.

Cherry didn't think she would ever stop resisting time. It passed nonetheless, awash with flavors of anger and shades of gray, saturated with a complexity she disliked. Pushing two years later, she still didn't understand how it happened, even though she had accepted Asher was back for good. He aged out of the Reaping. She aged further into it. She aged into adulthood, replaced him at the helm of the family structure, got a job at the lumberyard, and yet nothing changed. There were too many distinctions and never enough differences to go around.

She stayed frozen amidst it all. District Seven pulsed around her. In the end it didn't matter. Trust was a non-renewable resource. She learned how to scrimp and how to cope. How to drag herself out of her cot every morning and take a dawn shift splitting wood into chips for the paper mill up on the north settlement. How to come home and sit up with Leigh in the kitchen while her parents went to bed.

Cherry understood the slow creep of stasis. She saw the way the sparkle leached out of Leigh's bright eyes the longer she and Asher remained distant. Together, they cultivated an emptiness in the Lafleur home. There would always be something horrible and hollow permeating the fiberglass-insulated walls, something that dulled the shrill pitch of Leigh's voice in the sun-streaked mornings.

Reaping Day held spaces both better and worse. Better, because Asher was now nineteen and therefore safe, and worse because this time of year was perhaps the only occasion when she could feel his love reach her. Yes, love. She was sure of it. It could have passed for pity or fear, but she was too familiar with him to misinterpret it. She felt the weight of his thousand-yard-stare boring into her back from across the kitchen, and she squeezed her eyelids shut and trapped the tears behind them..

She swallowed each bite of thin porridge with a well-masked disgust. Leigh looked up at her, watched her, imitated. It was gloopier than usual, and yet more watery, with a distinct sawdust flavor. Cherry pretended that she had not brought this upon herself, stretching the porridge, but she had been saving up some money for a nice Reaping dinner for Leigh and her parents. Everything came with a cost. The feast required that she stretch the tesserae rations, and so she did. She couldn't afford to let sweet Leigh go without, growing up deficient of happy family memories. She had three years. Three more years and then she too would age into the Reaping, perhaps undertake more responsibility, sneak behind Cherry's back and take tesserae.

Cherry had made that sacrifice so Leigh wouldn't have to. And before her, Asher had made it, before everything went wrong. Leigh was old enough to understand the realities of life in Panem, but Cherry just wanted to give her a better life. She'd had to drop out of school and find work, but Leigh, always the smartest one, would get a shot at a real education, with the possibility of a real future.

When breakfast finished, Leigh followed Cherry to the basin and stood there while she did the washing-up, asking how she would do her hair for the Reaping, asking if they could buy cheese from the cottage market on the way back. Cherry found the patience to banter with her. It was sharper than usual on Reaping Day because at the time of year when Leigh needed the most comfort, it was Asher she gravitated towards. It had always been Asher. And Cherry struggled with the weight of Leigh's preference, because Asher had walked out. He walked the fuck out and left Cherry to take care of it all on her own, and then when he came back, it was like nobody else remembered the time that had passed. Just Cherry, who had coincidentally been pulling double duty since he was gone. And who had idolized him the most.

She told him to stay home for Reaping Day. He didn't listen. He came with Leigh and their parents and stood in the crowd while Cherry made her way through the queue at the check-in booth and entered the crowd, and Cherry refused to think about him when the video reel of the Dark Days played, even as she saw a piece of burning debris section off a girl from her older brother and ached as her muscles remembered the way things used to be between them. She waited listlessly for the male tribute to be chosen, and once he was, she thought of the people who depended on her and hoped that the escort would select some blissfully unknown name so she could stop at the cottage market and buy Leigh her cheese and keep on with life.

When her name was read instead, she felt a flush of anger on her cheeks, flooded with the sense of indignation and helplessness she remembered from Asher's departure, and wondered why she couldn't seem to catch a break. She still couldn't help looking back, finding his face, and looking at the person she loved most.

Somehow, his regret made it worse.

Final set of kiddos and final set of Lovelace banners. Gonna be real with y'all, life has fucking sucked lately, but we'll be rolling with Goodbyes later this week. I just needed to write and throw away like a hundred drafts of this chapter first—oops?
Anyways. What do we think of our last batch of tributes? And for five invisible cool guy points, tell me what your tribute would order at a coffee shop. My kind beta reader is a busy buttercup who has graciously taken time away from midterm studying to check this over for me, and therefore we will collectively ignore any lapses in grammar and spelling and simply say "Thank you, JD." Updates coming soon. Until then, thank you for sticking around!

Smiles,
LC :)