Hello, everyone!
Here is the first chapter of our tribute introductions! *tosses confetti* I'm so excited for you all to meet the characters as I have received so many incredible submissions.
I've chosen each tribute for each chapter very deliberately based on how I think they would best be introduced. For these 3 tributes, I chose them because I think their backstories would be difficult to convey effectively through any way except showing you.
~ Meghan
"It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience."
- Gaius Julius Caesar, 100 BC - 44 BC, Roman Republic
The Penultimate Day.
...
Finnegan Armani - 18 y.o.
...
- District 1 -
Finnegan sat straight in the velvet-lined chair as he pretended to listen.
"You are the future of this family, Finnegan. I remember what the Armani name used to mean for District One."
He practically had all the words memorized by this point.
"I grew up in an age you can't imagine: a world where I had to sleep in a bunker for fear of my life and hear the bombs the rebels dropped overhead. You can't imagine the chaos before the Capitol brought us all back to order. The Games were a stark tournament back then, one so much different from the Games today. They were tossed into an old amphitheater still wearing the rags they'd been taken to the Capitol in. But I tried my best to begin training back then, because I knew - what did I know, Finnegan?"
Without hesitating, Finnegan turned to the blonde-haired man sitting across the polished table. He didn't point out that his father had barely been a toddler during those years, barely capable of memories - the man would just talk his way around it like always. "You knew that honor comes from trial, Father."
Willem Armani's lips curled into a smile that didn't quite reach his blue eyes. "Very good."
"Just imagine," Rivia Armani said. There was a look in her green eyes that Finnegan used to take as her love for him. But over time he'd realized that it was really just the way those in the Capitol looked at their prize horses or show dogs. "We'll have a victor in the family."
Finnegan nodded politely. "Of course, Mother. I haven't trained for twelve years to let you down."
She sighed happily, tossing a lock of platinum hair over her shoulder. Finnegan clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to touch his own hair to make sure it was still the same cardinal auburn as before. It had only been a month since he'd gone to the hair salon one evening, probably a little too angry for his own good, but he knew what he was doing. The auburn color had been his mother's before she'd dyed her hair that platinum blonde, trying to fit the family she'd married into. Finnegan's own hair used to be the same bright pale as his father's - as his brother's - but now it was the same bold shade that his mother tried to hide.
It had had the effect he'd wanted. His father's eye had twitched and he'd hurried off to smoke a cigar, and his mother had pursed her lips and vanished to read something spiritual. Neither one wanted to lecture their Golden Son on an act of rebelliousness when it happened to be one like this.
Finnegan almost smiled at the memory, but he kept his face placid as always around his parents. The hair had been a bastard move, sure, but it was deserved.
"Arturo would be proud," Mrs. Armani said. She dabbed at one of her eyes.
His father reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a black ring box. He stood up, walking over to Finnegan's chair, and set the box on the table in front of him. "We wanted you have this as your token in the arena, son."
Finnegan peered at the thing. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."
"It's important for you to remember your family," Mr. Armani said. He waved a had adorned in two glittering rings at the box. "Go on."
Swallowing a sigh, Finnegan ran his fingers over the soft velveteen material before opening it. Instead of a ring like those on his parents' hands like he'd expected, a small rock sat on the creamy satin bed inside.
He raised an eyebrow, but kept quiet, waiting for one of them to speak first.
Mr. Armani smiled proudly down the stone. "It was your bother's. It was one of his favorite keepsakes. Little tyke found it one day near the jewel mines and took it everywhere with him."
Finnegan hated it immediately. He smiled at his parents. "Thank you both. This is a treasure that I will cherish. I'm honored."
Mrs. Armani smiled with a nod. "You'll make us proud, darling."
"I wouldn't dream of anything else," Mr. Armani said. He settled a hand on Finnegan's shoulder.
"May I be excused?" Finnegan said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. "I'd like to get in a few more hours of practice."
His father smirked, shaking his head. "You take after me. I see it clearer and clearer every day. Go ahead, make it count."
Finnegan stood, pushing his chair back. He walked around the glossy dining table, still laden with their empty breakfast plates, and kissed his mother on the cheek before heading out of the room. Once he'd gently closed the door behind himself, he rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, messing up the locks his father chided him to keep tidy.
He turned down the staircase, hurrying along the steps as fast as his legs would carry him. As he walked across the plush purple rug of the main hall, he paused at the large, framed photograph near the front door. Morning sunlight fell through the glass door, slashing across the image of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed toddler.
Anyone who came in the Armani house could mistake the boy for a young Finnegan. But he and his dead brother couldn't be more different.
"I hope you're happy," Finnegan snapped.
The boy's blue eyes gazed back out.
"Still hate you," Finnegan sighed. He ripped open the glass door, keeping himself from slamming it shut.
The Armani house wasn't a modest estate, but it also wasn't one of the biggest in District 1. Mayor Amberdust's house probably dwarfed it by four, but at three stories it wasn't exactly a hovel. Though, there were a few things that only someone who lived there would notice, like how the flowers in their vases were all fake instead of real, how seat cushions were flipped to hide stains, and how the ceiling was cracked in certain corners.
There was money in the Armani family, but they weren't the top-tier socialites his parents loved to pretend at.
Finnegan kicked a rock out of his way on the cobblestone path, starting down the hill towards the center of town. He checked his silver watch: quarter past ten. Despite it only being morning, summer in July was brutal in District 1. The buildings lining the street provided a bit of merciful shade but he always had to be careful with what fabrics he wore walking around. Silk showed sweat like a beast, which probably explained why his mother refused to leave the house without a parasol in the summer. But this was his last full day in 1 before volunteering. It needed to count.
Finnegan waved to passerby's as he hurried down a lane and turned at one of the stoops of a small house painted lovingly in a soft sapphire blue.
He lifted the bronze knocker, hitting the door the usual five times. As he waited, Finnegan straightened his amber linen shirt and double-checked that the subtle cologne he'd used that morning was still around.
Just as the door swung open, he gave his most charming smile.
"Well, hi there, Finnegan," Mrs. Eckert said. She beamed at him, her kind green eyes crinkling. She turned, calling "Gabriel!" into the house. Footsteps sounded quickly before a familiar seventeen-year-old appeared in the doorway.
Finnegan gave a teasing smile once Mrs. Eckert was gone. "Really, Gabe? Still in your pajamas?"
Gabriel gave a mock-hurt scoff. He picked at the collar of his old shirt. "These are couture, obviously, Finnegan Armani. Besides, there's no class today. The Academy has already chosen its star this year." He gave a joking bow like one of the Capitol escorts.
Finnegan laughed. "Get your ass dressed and let's go. It's a busy day, we've got shit to do."
"Make sure Mom doesn't hear that language," Gabriel warned with a smile. He shut the door and reappeared ten minutes later dressed much like Finnegan, running a hand through his un-brushed hair.
Finnegan always envied how little was expected of Gabriel despite being in the Academy with him. He never saw Mrs. Eckert breathing down Gabe's neck about what a potential disappointment he might be.
Gabriel noticed Finnegan's silence as they started walking down the sloped street towards town. "What's wrong?"
"Parents," Finnegan said simply.
"What was it today?"
"The usual," Finnegan said through clenched teeth. "They won't stop talking about the fucking Reaping. I'd like at least one more day where I don't have to hear about it, but they couldn't even let breakfast go."
Gabriel shrugged. "Good thing you have a best friend who won't pester you about it."
Finnegan gave him a wry half-smile. Gabriel wasn't wrong. The two had been best friends for years, ever since they had a spar during training class. Finnegan had expected to beat him in twenty-seconds flat like he always did with his classmates, but Gabriel nearly had him with a well-timed sweep to the legs. Nearly.
"I do the training for the fitness aspect," Gabriel had admitted to him after. There hadn't been any shame in his voice. "I know I'm not cut out to be a victor."
Finnegan decided in that instant he wanted to be his friend. The two had been thick as thieves ever since. Gabriel was one of the few people he could trust, someone who always kept his secrets, one of the few people he'd cried in front of.
"So what's on the list for today?" Gabriel asked.
"I told my parents I was going to do a training session, and I do actually need to. I want to fit in an extra one tonight. But there's some things to attend to first," Finnegan said. He ticked off his fingers as he spoke. "Get as much whiskey as we can. I can't go to the crash that's being thrown in my honor tomorrow-"
Gabriel laughed. "And Amethyst's honor. Miss Popular is throwing a whole party tonight for herself."
Finnegan shook his head. "Yeah, of course she is. Fine, alright, the one in our honor tomorrow. I'm going to enjoy today. Also, snow cones. We're getting them. I don't want to hear any complaints. Then we-"
"Finnegan!"
The two looked up as three girls a year below Gabriel in school ran up the street as they crossed into the bustling main square.
Sheen giggled. "Happy Reaping Eve. We just wanted to wish you good luck tomorrow. So amazing."
"So amazing," Facet echoed.
Gabriel bit back a smile. Finnegan fought a grin of his own as he watched his friend glance shyly at Lacey.
"Thanks," he responded. "It's shitty I'll have to go all summer without seeing you at the Academy."
"So shitty," Facet said.
Finnegan turned to Lacey. "You'll be at the party tomorrow night, right? The one after the Reaping?"
"Oh," Lacey said, blushing. "Yeah, I am."
"Gabriel will be there," Finnegan said. He nodded at his friend. "I can't make it tomorrow, you know, I have some previous engagements."
Everyone laughed, and he wasn't sure for a moment if he'd miss this, being surrounded by classmates.
"Promise you'll keep an eye on him for me?" Finnegan said.
Lacey pulled on one of her black corkscrew curls, peering over at Gabriel with a grin. "Of course."
"Thanks," Finnegan said. He turned to Gabriel, who'd gone beet red. He opened his mouth, but his eyes snagged on someone in the town square over his friend's shoulder, a boy standing by the bubbling fountain and watching the group curiously. "Um." Finnegan took a step back. "I have to go say a word to Mrs. Inchcape over there. Her husband had that accident in the jewel mines last week, you know, so fucked up."
"So fucked up-" Facet began, but Finnegan was already leaving.
Without waiting for Gabriel or one of the girls to add anything else, he turned on his heel and headed towards the coffee shop where patrons sat outside under umbrellas, enjoying the warm day.
Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the boy at the fountain hesitate as if he wanted to come say something to Finnegan.
Lionus Nording was known throughout the Academy now as the recruit that Finnegan beat out for the volunteer spot this year. Lionus was promising, of course, everyone knew it. But Finnegan was better. Everyone knew it.
They didn't know about the time three years ago, right after Finnegan had turned fifteen, when he and Lionus spent a night drinking posca that Lionus' father had gotten from the Capitol. Finnegan wasn't quite sure how it happened, but one second they were laughing and then the next they were kissing. They'd kept things secret after that when they saw each other, and Finnegan made sure his parents never heard a whisper of it. He hadn't even told Gabe, who knew everything else about him. It ended when Lionus left him.
"I know you can't be who you want," Lionus had said. He'd looked down at the ground of the alley they were in. "I can't do it like this, Finnegan."
Ever since, Finnegan had kept him at an arm's length.
But the words that Lionus said after losing their final spar at the Academy hit him like a sucker punch.
"Congratulations," Lionus had said. "I hope you make yourself proud in the arena."
For the first time since he'd won, Finnegan felt a sliver of doubt creep into his mind. Just as fast, he smothered it to death, burying it beneath all the smiling faces of his Academy friends and his trainer, Morris, who - if Finnegan was being honest - was an even better kisser than Lionus. This was it. He was going into the Games, and nothing Lionus or anyone else said could stop him.
The Hunger Games was the one way for him to be independent from his parents. It wasn't the purely honorable event that his district painted it as, that his parents made it out to be, and he knew that. But it was a chance to be free. He was ready to die trying.
Finnegan turned his back on Lionus.
Marina Fischer - 17 y.o.
...
- District 4 -
Marina felt a bead of sweat snake down her temple.
She pulled her shoulder blades back, the oars following suit as the wooden skiff cut through the water. All around her, the ocean glimmered in deep blue hues underneath an even brighter blue, cloudless sky. The day was perfect. It looked like something from a painting, like one of the pre-Dark Days masterpieces that hung in the Justice Building. Those paintings, though, Marina knew, were from a time before the Reapings.
But today wasn't that day. Not yet.
Marina took a deep breath as she rowed the skiff out further and squinted against the dazzling sunshine. Summers in 4 were splendid, but the heat out here could be unbearable. Still, the cool water made up for it. She eyed the beautiful sea and pushed the oars through the water, streams of sunlight falling through the depths until she lost sight of them. Sometimes people were afraid of what was beneath the water, what could be lurking out of their line of sight, but it never frightened Marina. The ocean was part of her, and she was part of it. She never had to be afraid.
Finally, with one last stroke, Marina pulled the oars from the rowlocks. She tossed them into the bottom of the boat, bending over to pick up the steel anchor at her feet. It fell into the water with a splash, the rope cable following suit.
Marina waited until the rope stopped running. The holding ground here was a solid one. She should know, it was one of her usual spots to come swimming.
She stood up, breathing in the smell of the salty air, and leapt off the bow, diving into ocean in a graceful leap.
The cool water enveloped her, bubbles fizzing at her ears and tickling her face. She opened her eyes, used to the way the salt stung, watching as the green-tinted surface moved above her. The bubbles rose up like a dancing plume. Her body started to float up higher - she always hated how that happened - before she kicked her legs and swam further out. She counted out four minutes before she rose up to take a breath.
When she was little, Marina used to pretend she was a mermaid sometimes, staying underwater like she didn't need air until her head popping out of the water while a glittering tail stayed hidden. Being born in District 4 next to the sea was pretty close to coming from the ocean. But being a mermaid would be even closer.
"You swim like you were born in the sea, Marina, " her father always said.
And she had to agree. It was home.
She spread her arms out, letting the sun and water kiss her skin. This was living.
A shadow moved beneath her.
Marina drew in a breath, slipping back beneath the surface, and watched as another shadow joined the first. They moved in tandem, slipping further into the deep darkness before coming up closer. They could sense her, she knew, kicking her legs above them.
A gray fin emerged from the darkness.
Marina threw her body up above the surface, stretching her arms and kicking her legs furiously until her muscles ached, straining a hand towards the skiff-
The dolphin's nose flew from the water, bumping into the boat's salt-roughened stern. The dolphin sank back beneath the surface, swimming towards Marina and nuzzling her shoulder, squeaking.
She laughed, reaching out to pet his smooth head. "Yeah, yeah, I know, Rudy, you always win."
Another bottlenose dolphin appeared, circling around Marina and flipping onto its back.
She giggled, spinning in the water to follow, shaking her head. "Hello, Marge."
The dolphin squeaked in her usual high-pitched way.
"Yes, I know it's tomorrow," Marina responded softly. She sank forward in the water, running a hand along the dolphin's curved, gray fin. This one was her favorite, though she wouldn't dare tell the other dolphins. Marge was always the one Marina would hear the most, even more than the others, and was always recognizable from a quick glance with her eyes being a bit smaller than usual and her blowhole a bit larger.
Marge squeaked again, poking Marina gently in the stomach.
Marina twisted her lips to the side and then sighed. "I can't come tomorrow morning. Papa would kill me if I went to the Reapings smelling horrible."
A third dolphin emerged, and then a fourth, and Marge squeaked.
"No," Marina laughed in response. "I'm not saying any of you smell bad. But you know how it is. I can't show up in the Capitol reeking of saltwater. They have poor taste there, we both know it."
She listened to Marge's laughter before smiling herself. With a quick kick, Marina floated up on her back. She drifted on the ocean's surface, closing her eyes and letting the afternoon sun warm her face, feeling her dark curls fan out in the water around her. Marina sighed contentedly. The dolphins swam around her, chattering away like usual, lovingly bumping into her as they passed. She could stay like this forever.
"Mar-iiiii-na!"
Or, almost forever.
She didn't bother to open her eyes. She knew who the voice belonged to, even all the way from shore. Marina tilted her head back, letting the cool water wash across her face before wiping the saltwater from her eyes.
"I have to go," she told the dolphins.
Marge squeaked, bumping her in the wrist with her nose. The other dolphins moved around her, willing her to stay.
"I know, but I have to." Marina leaned forward, kissing Marge's rubbery nose. "I'll see you all when I get back." She swung around, latching an arm on the skiff and reluctantly climbing back inside. As she sat back down on the center thwart board, Marge stuck her head out of the water, small black eyes staring.
Marina forced herself to smile. "I'll miss you too."
"MARINA FISCHER!"
Marina pulled up the anchor and grabbed the oars, placing them back in the water and reluctantly rowing her way from the dolphins. She didn't care as the saltwater dripped from her tangled hair, or as the sun beat down on her olive legs. She just wanted to stay. But she couldn't, she knew that, and tomorrow was the day she needed to volunteer to leave home, even if it was only for a month.
By the time she reached the docks, she was sweating again and her shoulders were exhausted.
The young, pigtailed girl waiting for her had come prepared. She held out a cup of clean water. "I thought you couldn't hear me out there."
Marina took the cup with a grateful smile. "I was with them." She drank the fresh water in one gulp, savoring it. "Thanks, Shelly."
"No problem," Shelly chirped, giving a bucktoothed smile.
Marina hopped out of the skiff, turning and pulling the boat close to the docks. Without having to be told, Shelly grabbed the bow line while Marina went to the stern line, and they both got to work tying them to the wooden pilings at the dock edge. Marina quickly wove the rope into a cleat knot, standing up to watch Shelly finish the same knot five seconds later.
"Ugh," Shelly said, glancing over with a grin. "I'll beat you one of these days, Mar."
"I know," Marina said, beaming. A mischievous look crossed her face and she grabbed a handful of her dark curls, shaking the saltwater off at Shelly.
Shelly screamed, laughing and dancing away from her older sister. "I'll tell Papa!"
Marina smiled. "Is he still at work?" She wrung out the hem of her cotton romper. Her bare feet burned a bit on the sun-drenched wooden dock, but she didn't mind. She would miss this in the Capitol. They probably didn't go barefoot much there.
The girls started walking down the creaking docks. As they did, Marina tried to memorize the place with the sound of the water lapping against boats, seagull feathers fluttering as they skimmed overhead and sat on the pilings, even the rough wood of the dock beneath her.
"They always let Papa off early the day before," Shelly said with a shrug. "But Papa got this new order in for a couple of trawlers, so he's been busy sketching that up with the workers. He didn't see why any of them should have to go early. None of the workers have any relation with the two kids that are supposed to volunteer this year." Shelly grew quiet, fiddling with her thumbs like she did when something was bothering her.
Marina could guess what it was. But still. "Something on your mind?"
Shelly opened her mouth before closing it like a fish. "I just... are you still going to do it?"
"Yeah, Shelly, I am."
"It's just... you're only seventeen, so there's always next year."
"I have to this year." Marina swallowed. She could still hear the dolphins squeaking in her memory. They told me to. They said I'll succeed. "My mind is already made up."
Shelly glanced at the dock as they stepped down on the sandy shore. "I know. I just don't want you to have to go."
Marina sighed. She stopped walking, bending down on one knee to be eye-level with her ten-year-old sister. "I'll be back before you know it. You'll see me on the television, and, you know what, I'll even say hello to you during the interview."
"Really?" Shelly murmured, eyes wide.
Marina nodded. "And on the morning after the Reaping, I want you take your board and go out surfing. Don't sit inside and miss me."
Shelly nodded slowly. Her bottom lip trembled.
Before she could cry, Marina pulled her into a hug. "Don't, Shelly. I'll be back soon. We can move into the Victor's Village and you can see Miss Mags every day. We can get tons of surfboards, and you can have the biggest cake for your birthday. We can even use the prize money to have lots of clean-ups at the beach."
"And protect the turtles during nesting season," Shelly said. She snuggled into Marina's shoulder. "I can make the plans while you're in the Capitol."
Marina pulled back, smiling. "That sounds perfect."
Shelly reached into her sundress pocket, pulling out a pale sand dollar. She gave a watery smile. "I went and got this for you this morning. I found it on the beach. I thought... I thought you could take it with you. As a token."
Marina forced herself to take the sand dollar, pinching it between two fingers. All she could ever think about when she held live ones was how icky it was to hold them. Sometimes, it almost seemed like they'd piss on someone's hands. Professor Dorsal always said during class that it was probably just a chemical from their pores, but Marina couldn't get rid of the revulsion. Even holding dead ones like this, she still felt her stomach churn.
Still, she gave Shelly a kiss on the forehead. "Thank you. It's lovely, just like you."
"Hey, you two!"
They both glanced over to see Arthur Cresta stumbling his way through the sand, a fishing rod in one hand with a tacklebox in the other. He squinted a sea-green eye in the sunlight and gave a smile, but with the sun in his eyes it just ended up looking more like a grimace.
Marina bit back a laugh. Arthur was a funny kid. He was their neighbor, just a couple months younger than Shelly. Apparently his mother had been friends with Crystal Fischer, but Marina didn't particularly like to think about that - she didn't want to think about her mother today. Anyway, Mrs. Cresta passed away a few days after Arthur was born. Almost a year after that, Marina's own mother vanished out at sea.
Marina stood up, shoving the thoughts from her mind. "Hi, Arthur. Going out fishing?"
"Planning on it," he said. "Last time I tried, I got the hook stuck in my hair. Took Grandpa like two hours to get me untangled."
Marina shook her head, smothering a grin, but Shelly burst out laughing.
Arthur smiled shyly. He motioned a pale hand to his hair. "Yeah, it was stuck right here! It had the fish lure on it and everything!"
"That's the funniest thing I've heard!" Shelly laughed.
For the third time, Marina forced herself not to start grinning like an idiot. For whatever reason, Shelly had developed the biggest crush in Panem on Arthur this summer. She kept going on and on about how they'd get married one day, and what she'd name their kids. "If it's boy," Shelly would say, following Marina around the house, "I want his name to be Jonah. Or maybe Sail. And if it's a girl, I think Anne would be nice."
"You could call her Annie," Marina had offered one day, playing along.
"Annie," Shelly echoed. "I like it." She'd sighed dreamily. "Marina, once you're the victor, we can have a big celebration! Arthur can come over, and I'll wear the prettiest dress, and he'll fall in love with me."
"I can't wait to see it," Marina had giggled.
She nudged Shelly now, nodding further along the beach. "Sorry to interrupt, you two, but I have to get home. Big day tomorrow."
Arthur cocked his head. "Oh, are you friends with the kids that are volunteering? What're their names... Kelpie and Marlen, right?"
"Something like that," Marina said, shrugging.
She started walking across the warm sand, heading for the dunes not too far away. Their house was just a ten-minute walk from there. She'd need to shower, and then plan out how to say goodnight to their father. He was part of the complications of volunteering tomorrow. She hadn't told him yet.
Marina didn't want to picture it. Cargo Fischer had spent his life designing ships. Some of Marina's first memories were in his shop at the harbor in the fishing district, sketching boats and playing with sails. She couldn't picture his face, touched by the sun with warm skin and chapped lips, and watch it crumble. She touched a lock of hair on her shoulder, the same dark curls as him.
A silver glint caught her eye.
With a frustrated exhale, Marina hurried over and snatched the empty tin from the sand. It was probably a makeup case, no doubt, or some kind of other trash from the Capitol that had found its way to the beach, like usual. She turned, shaking her head. Something rough poked at her foot. Marina sprang back, dropping Shelly's sand dollar in shock.
A piece of white coral sat in the sand.
She leaned down, picking it up gingerly. It was dead, she knew, from how sun-bleached it was. But it was still beautiful with its many patterns and prickly pieces. Something straight from the ocean.
It's dead, Marina thought. But Mama's not.
She tucked the coral into her pocket. It would be a reminder in the arena. A reminder of what she was fighting to figure out. Marina started to walk ahead again, turning to look at the blue ocean waves as she went.
Out in the deep water, a dolphin jumped above the waves.
She could almost hear it.
Trip Hewitt - 18 y.o.
...
- District 6 -
Trip watched the man's skull slam into the cement.
The crowd roared, some passing betting slips between each other, some beating on the edge of the pit and screaming that the fight wasn't over, that the man needed to get up, take the beating, and win.
But Trip knew it was over. He sighed, watching as the man rolled over the ground, pressing a hand against the bloody wound blooming on his forehead. Trip had guessed it from the start. The man feinted too much to the left - it was predictable, and predictable always got them hurt.
"He should've taken the hit when the other guy's hair got in his eyes," Chuck said lowly.
Trip just shook his head. "You know I don't like dirty fighting."
"I'm just saying," Chuck said, like he always did when they argued about this. "If he wanted to win, he could have. Some of these guys care too much about their honor for where they are."
"Yeah, yeah," Trip said, giving his stepfather a half-smile before standing up and swinging his long legs over the pit's cement edge. He dropped down the 3 feet to the base and nodded to the victorious fighter standing and nursing a bruised jaw. The man on the ground was still groaning. The blood from his wound trickled down to mingle with the rose tattoo on his neck.
Trip bent down next to him. "Tough luck."
"Tough luck?" The man eyed him warily before huffing. "Shut up, Hewitt."
Trip grinned, standing up and waving a hand towards the man left standing. "Match over - Geer Moton, the official match winner!"
The crowd burst into wild cheers again, screaming and slapping their palms against the pit edge. Someone accidentally slammed their fist hard enough to smash a bottle of amber liquid, spilling it across the already-filthy ring floor, and sent the bitter smell of alcohol around. Trip didn't mind. It was a welcome change from the usual tang of sweat and smoke.
Still, he pointed at the crowd. "And no drinks for the fighters! You fight, you do it fucking sober! I don't anyone want anyone vomiting in the pit! Well," he conceded, "no more than usual. Now who's next?"
He turned and climbed out of the pit, leaving the two fighters to make their amends - or not, he didn't particularly care - and clear out to make room for the next pair. Trip sat down on a rusted metal chair next to his stepfather as the next two - a giant guy with one eye and a skinny guy with a twitchy look - started to negotiate terms. It was one of the last fights of the night, so these were usually the calmer ones.
It was always the fights at the beginning of the night that were the best, in Trip's opinion.
Those were the ones where the patrons came straight from work, stripping off uniforms and clenching their fists. It was a chance to get out anger from the day, away from the factories and the noise of District 6. Here in the underground club, everyone was an equal around the pit. The only thing that mattered inside the pit was how well you could keep yourself from getting beaten to a pulp. It wasn't expensive to do it. No exorbitant fees, no registration line, just a place to let off steam. Even the Peacekeepers joined in occasionally.
Trip glanced around the abandoned warehouse that once held sheet metal used for hovercrafts. After several bad termite infestations, the building was abandoned and left with its skeleton of eaten wooden beams and siding. The whole thing was on the outskirts of town, near the dump with all the toxic sludge that the factories produced, so it wasn't a popular hotspot.
But Chuck had changed that.
"We want sticks!" the skinny, fidgety man snapped.
Trip jumped up, grabbing a couple of stained wooden stakes, and tossed them to the two fighters. "No face shots. We can't have anymore dislocated eyeballs bouncing around the pit. Otherwise, have at it."
The fidgety man smiled. Trip singled him out as the winner, no contest. The other man was bigger, but this guy was unstable. Those were always the cagey ones. He had learned the nature of the fights pretty soon after he started working as Chuck's referee two years ago, right after he turned 16. Chuck had just married Trip's mother at that point, and Trip followed Chuck one night, finding the club.
He had been coming back ever since.
"Your ma's probably going to want you back soon."
It took Trip a second to realize Chuck had spoken to him.
Chuck nodded at his stepson. "Your mother, Trip. You know she's going to want you home early tonight."
Trip turned away, watching instead as the fighters both took their stances across from each other. The crowd began to hum with anticipation, screaming at the two fighters and placing even more bets among one another. "I'm fine here," Trip finally said, not bothering to look at Chuck.
"Trip."
"Chuck."
His stepfather made a disapproving face. Trip didn't have to look to see it. He could tell from the tone. "You know she doesn't like you being out late on... on tonight."
"Reaping night," Trip said. He shrugged. "You can say it, you know. It won't make it not happen by beating around the bush."
He stood up. The two fighters turned to him.
"Begin!" Trip shouted, and the fighters started to move towards one another, tense with white-knuckle grips on the sticks. He loved this moment. There was always a special kind of buzz in the air right at the start of the fight, that moment of tension before someone made the first move and snapped it. It was exhilarating.
A strong hand pulled him back from the pit edge. Chuck's muscular arm formed a bar behind Trip's back and gently pushed him towards the patched-up door of the warehouse.
"Home. Now." Chuck raised an eyebrow. "Don't let me find out you tried to sneak back here. I can finish things up by myself tonight. Now go see your mother."
Trip sighed heavily. He opened his mouth to argue, but his stepfather pointed a finger at the door. The industrial lights shone off the man's bald man's head. They looked absolutely nothing alike, so it was always obvious that they weren't blood-related. Chuck's skin was light and he had a bald head already in his early fifties. Trip looked like his opposite with dark skin and short, black hair. But they were more alike than people realized.
"Fine," Trip snapped. He threw up a hand gesture his mother would disapprove of, but Chuck just laughed.
A crack sounded from the pit, and Trip's stomach sank with disappointment at missing the fight. But he forced his legs to move and shoved aside the metal door of the fight club. He closed it back on the rowdy crowd, barely able to hear the din of the audience as he started away from the warehouse.
Trip stretched his arms over his head as he walked. The air in 6 was balmy with summer and the sound of distant insects singing. This sector - called the Scrap - was where all the fun went down at night. The fight club was just one of many bars and other kinds of dives spread throughout. The Peacekeepers weren't exactly known for being strict in 6, though Trip wasn't sure how they were in the other districts. Here in the Scrap, anyone could find everything from drinks to parties to morphling. They were always in full swing, but tomorrow night they would be silent. It was only one night that everyone in 6 stayed indoors. One night for mourning.
A flash of fear shot through Trip's ribs.
He gritted his teeth, walking faster. Stupid. His name was only in the bowl 7 times. This was his last year, and then he was done. No more Reaping Day shit, no more standing with shaking kids, no more hearing his classmates mourn the dead kids in school. There wasn't any reason to be afraid.
He walked faster.
"Hey! Hey, Trip! Slow down!"
Trip stopped just as his foot touched the cracked asphalt leading to Steelwork Street. Down the road, one of the gray, square houses glowed from inside. Trip turned, glancing at the messy-haired kid in an oversized shirt running up to him, cheeks red even underneath the dim lamplights.
The boy doubled over, panting. "Why do you walk so fast?"
"Probably because I'm six-foot-four and you're half my height," Trip deadpanned.
A blonde girl skidded around the corner, huffing, a glare on her face. "I told you to slow down, Roed!"
"It's not my fault you're slow, Trolley," Roed snapped.
Trip folded his arms. "I have to get home." He went to turn.
"Wait!" Roed said quickly. His eyes glowed in the murky streetlamps. "When is Chuck gonna let me fight in the ring?"
"You're barely fourteen," Trip said, shaking his head.
Roed sighed in disappointment. "I can do it. I want to. I know some other kids that would, too." He opened his mouth before closing it again, looking down at the ground in embarrassment. "Everyone could let off some steam on Reaping night."
Trip rolled his eyes. "Right. I'll remind Chuck to make a pipsqueak division." Before Roed could interject again, he nodded at Trolley. "You're twelve this year right?"
The girl nodded. A grimace flashed across her face.
"You should spend tonight with your parents," Trip finished. He motioned to their house - across from his - and gave a humorless smile. "Hope neither of you get picked."
Roed made a face. "Why ya' gotta' be like that, Trip?"
"Just saying it like it is," Trip said. He pivoted and headed home, waving behind himself at the neighbor kids. By the time he reached the stone steps of his house, he could already hear a warm voice singing. It was almost enough to make him smile. His mother wasn't the best singer in Panem. Well, she wasn't even the best singer in District 6. But she always sang with her heart.
Trip knocked on the metal door as he pushed it open. "Ma! I'm home!"
A pot clanged and the singing stopped. Mrs. Hewitt emerged from the small kitchen, a relieved smile on her face. Still, Trip could see the way her dark skin puckered at her forehead, the telltale sign that she could never hide when she was ruminating.
"Hi, sweetheart," she said, gliding over and reaching up to press a palm calloused by factory work against his cheek. "Thought you were forgetting about me."
"Never," Trip said. He closed the door on the night. "Smells amazing in here. What is that? Cinnamon? And thistle?"
Mrs. Hewitt beamed. "I know you love it. I thought we could all have a late dinner together, and then your favorite dessert. I've planned a nice thistle pasta, and then some cinnamon-"
"Some cinnamon frosted cookies," Trip finished. A smile snuck across his lips.
"Only the best for my baby," Mrs. Hewitt said. The crease between her eyebrows deepened.
Trip swallowed a sigh. This happened every year. Next year, though, he wouldn't have to see his mother anxious for days like this. Not anymore. "I'm not a baby anymore, Ma. I'm eighteen."
"I know, I know," Mrs. Hewitt said, holding her hands up placatingly. "But you'll always be my baby." She turned, heading back towards the kitchen. "Where's Chuck? I thought he would be coming back with you."
"He, uh, he got tied up. Talking to the Waltons. You know how chatty they are," Trip said, the lie tumbling off his tongue in a well-practiced way.
Mrs. Hewitt sighed. "I love that man, but how many times have I told him to speed-walk past the Walton's house when I want him home early?"
Trip stifled a laugh. He walked across the gray carpet, stepping around the creaky part that they kept saying they were going to fix. His mother had a full spread of ingredients out as the pasta started to boil in a pot, cookies already baking in the oven under a golden light. It wasn't every day they spared some sugar rations. But Reaping night was special.
That fear shot through his ribs again. Trip clenched his fists, shoving them in his pockets. There was no reason to be afraid. He wasn't the trembling little twelve-year-old he used to be. In the next twenty-four hours, he'd come back home, and the three of them would have dinner again together, just like they always did. His ma, him and Chuck. A family pieced together just like the way they bolted together the metal plates on the trains, the ones his parents spent their workdays making. Home.
For the first time in a while, Trip noticed the streaks of gray that were mixing in his mother's dark hair.
She glanced over, a curious grin flitting across her face. "What're you looking at, sweetheart?"
Something twisted in Trip's stomach that he couldn't place. "Nothing, Ma. Nothing. Just glad to be home is all."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and glanced out the window instead, watching the night settle over District 6.
Hi again!
I really hope you liked the chapter. If I wrote from one of your character's POVs, feel free to PM me about how I did with the tone and portrayal! If there's something I did well or something you'd like to see changed later in the story, I'd love to hear that.
So, sponsor stuff. I honestly don't want this to be too complicated (for me and you, because I suck at math.) Like many SYOTs, actions you do can earn you "points" as sponsors that you can choose to send to a tribute, be it your own or someone else's. Everyone gets 20 points already for submitting a tribute. I'll keep a tally of your points on my profile.
1. Leaving a review: 10 points.
2. Answering my question(s): 5 points.
For this chapter, here they are:
Question 1). Which tribute's POV did you enjoy the most, and why?
Question 2). What is your favorite district, and why?
The sponsor point tallying will begin now, so this chapter date - the 21st - marks the beginning.