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Chapter Text

                --M--                                                                --F--                                                                         --DISTRICT--                                                             

D1 - Aurum Felis                                                        Brocade Ouvert                                                                   luxury

D2 - Temple Etchman                                                 Marble Brooke                                                                     masonry

D3 - Silica Hallivan                                                     Olo Dinne                                                                            electronics

D4 - Fletch Odair                                                        Nacre Marris                                                                        fishing

D5 - Regis Volte                                                         Irene Plus                                                                            power

D6 - Way Paver                                                          Denise Blitzer                                                                       transportation

D7 - Axel Tallow                                                         Hazel Willows                                                                       lumber

D8 - Beade Weasel                                                     Lace Cottonflower                                                                 shien workers

D9 - Scythe Kanter                                                     Reed Sower                                                                          grain

D10 - Yak Slaughter                                                   Calff Herder                                                                          livestock 

D11 - Dionysus Cardin                                                Persephone Cardin                                                                agriculture

D12 - Micheal Amaranth                                              Carrie Hartford                                                                     coal 

       --------THE MENTORS:--------

D1- Ermine Uris

D2- Brutus Gunn

D3- Wiress Wright

D4- Mags Flanagan 

D5- Nathaniel Watts

D6- Forge Shatterbelt

D7- Attika Tallow

D8- Chemise Swan

D9- Harriet Bale

D10- Mica Doffman

D11- D'Lise Antebellum

D12- Haymitch Abernathy

                                                                                                                                                                             CONTINUE . . .

Chapter Text

   Today is July 4th. The reaping dawns in 9 hours. I am Carrie Hartford.

   I stir slowly as the dawn draws me out of slumber. Pulling the rough sheet of the flour-sack quilt over my head, I try to drown out the flooding craw of the rooster from my ears. The outside is still dark, broken only by a soft blue din on the horizon. As much as my head begs to stay, there is no time to go to waste. If only for one more day, I must provide for Cassie and Cole. Today is my last year in the Reaping.

  By candlelight, I dress myself in a too-loose clover dress with lace on the collar, then hide it beneath a thick coat that will conceal me within the morning mists. Slipping on my bag, I carefully tiptoe to the door so as to not wake the twins. In their shared bed, their soft faces glowing in the warm light of the flame, I sigh, knowing that I may never see them again. When I first took them in, the two made such a racket I found it seemingly impossible to care so much about them. Now. . . in hopes that the oil and grain from the Tesserae may help my family survive, my name has been submitted a total of fifty times for the reaping. If the odds are against me, which I’m sure they are, I must plan accordingly to spare them from starvation in my absence. I’ve grown to know that survival comes with sacrifice in District 12.  

   I leave early like I always do, extinguishing the candle, and slipping away into the gusts. The Seam is cold and damp, the flying gales of wind bite against my face. I look both ways often before crossing to avoid the Peacekeepers. Thankfully though, the pattering of rain masks the sound of my footsteps. Even in the dense fog, I know my way through the streets, turning where I must, and taking care to walk in the blind spots of the cameras. I pass through the Extraction Zone, which is deserted aside from a few maintenance crews working on the mineshaft elevators, in which the air is heavy with the smell of minerals. Avoiding the square, I sprint quickly under the canopies of willows around a towering clump of machinery and arrive at a decommissioned coal warehouse shrouded within the woods; The Hob. It’s barely about five in the morning, but the market is already jammed. Pressing myself through the dense crowd, I bump and shove my way to Lady Sae’s stall way in the back. She’s one reliable companion of mine– tender-hearted, graying hair– I know she has what I need. Digging my hand in the pocket of my coat, I fish out a single copper circle and firmly plant it onto the counter.

   “Eggs?” I ask softly.

Sae blinks calmly at me, with fine-lined eyes greeting me nicely, “Carrie, starlight, it’s you.”

   “Good morning Sae. Do you have any?”

She sweeps the coin into the delicate folds of her hands and retrieves a small basket, “I have a nice selection of goose eggs I saved just for you. Take what you need, dear.”

   “Goose? Where did you get these from?” I say as I reach in and inspect two of the large eggs.

   “That kind girl. . . Aubergine I think was her name. She brought them in yesterday.”

I recall the name to a girl, about a year older than me, who I would see infrequently at the schoolhouse, “Clerk Carmine’s kid? With the geese?” 

   “Yes, that’s the one.” She replies, crouching down and scavenging behind her counter for something, “I know her little brother performs sometimes in the late evenings.”

The boy. I’ve seen him before. About to my shoulder in height, snowy pale. . . not at all like the tanned skin of his relatives. Definitely adopted.

   “That’s nice of them both.” I say to the empty space where the aged woman once was.

Sae’s head pops back into view like she’s a weasel emerging from the ground. In her hands, she’s holding a small bouquet of katniss and marigolds. 

   “For you, Carrie. My treat.” She holds the bouquet out with one hand.

My eyebrows twist in confusion, the flowers fresh and dainty against the soot-ridden backdrop of the Hob, almost too pure for District 12.

   “What’s the occasion?” I ask cautiously. 

   “To your last year of the Reaping.” She smiles. “The odds have been in your favor.”

I wince at those words, since the odds are definitely not in my favor. The bouquet of flowers is like putting a sparkly bandage over a gaping wound. Knowing that Sae’s gift was obliviously sincere, I thank her and quietly accept the blossoms, using them to cushion the eggs within my bag.

   “Thank you, Sae. I’ll be going now.” I say and walk away. She waves to me as I disappear amongst the low chatter of the crowd.

   I walk from the woods out into the Seam wordlessly, methodically stepping as to not shatter the fragile shells. When I return home, the twins are still asleep, and the door to my room is still half-open. The sun has just broken fully through the horizon as I set down a plate of scrambled eggs onto the small table. The sheer size of the goose eggs means that today’s breakfast might actually be filling. I top it off with a few chopped katniss stems for good measure. I leave the stovetop to smoulder until the embers die. 

   “Cole. Cassie. . .” I say, pulling the half-torn linen sheet from their bed, “There’s food.”

The twins perk up almost simultaneously, and rush for a seat at the table. Hope glitters in their eyes, that the hard days will finally be over, because they know that if I make it past tomorrow, a job will secure our stomachs’ satisfaction. I split the egg equally among the three of us.

   “Carrie?” Cole asks, her mouth full, “Did you find these eggs?”

   “No, Old Lady Sae sold them. You remember her, yes?” I reply.

   “Old Lady Sae!” Cole’s voice pitches higher, and she forks more egg into her mouth. 

Cassie hasn’t spoken at all, but she gives me a nod of satisfaction to signal familiarity with Sae. She even sticks her little thumb up.

   I look down at the two of them, and I remember just how little and fraile they are. Both barely eleven, only one year away from the Reaping. Time is ticking. The Tesserae arrive tomorrow. Please.

. . .

   The clock strikes once. The sun is directly overhead. The twins have spent several hours braiding the flowers into my hair. I help them dress into clean-enough clothes, and take the heavy coat off my back. I read a poem to them to pass time, then come two loud knocks on the door. Peacekeepers. They’re here for the non-eligibles first. Attendance is mandatory for all citizens, so they’ll be roped off from the tribute pen. Kissing them both on the forehead once, I hand them over to the armored demon and watch them disappear before my eyes in real time. I wait ten minutes, then set off to the square myself. Outside the sun is glaring, the roads slick with water, and the streets filled with mourning houses. Shutters closed, curtains drawn, chimneys vacant, a sight all too familiar with me. I pass through the Extraction Zone, and step willingly into the square. The Justice building has been decorated, like always, with hues of purple that flourish against the bleak surroundings. Onstage is the Mayor, seated neatly on a plush chair, contrasted to the single drunken victor, Something-Abernathy. I walk with confidence, trying to fend off the contracting anxiety in my gut, but I knock into a chalky-haired boy and drop my persona immediately. “Watch it!” I call out. I am filed in a line, have my DNA scanned and documented, and am sent into the pen

   I barely have time to think before the Capitol Anthem blasts aloud. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray.

   Today is July 4th. The reaping dawns in 4 hours.. I am Micheal Amaranth.

   I stretch my arms, trying to rise, but discovering I am glued from the aged, creaking framework of my bed. The fresh blue rays of late-morning filter through the ragged drapes hanging down panes of multicolored glass belonging to the Covey home. Condensation from the morning fog beads at my window, dripping down in long, terrible streaks. I have slept in.. on the day families will die.

   Feeling the cold air rushing to my skin as I stand, feet planted onto the uncushioned floor, my body screams for the warmth of the sheets. Silence roars in my ears, Aubergine is absent from where she would usually be slamming the keys of an accordion to rouse me from slumber. My mind seems to fail me as I remember that she is now nineteen, and has already been shipped off to work. Downstairs, I hear Uncle Carmine shout profanities at our flock of geese, and I know it is time to leave when the gang begins honking wildly at my window. I try to undress, but I am so out of energy that just standing is a chore. Taking flight to the bath with the best of my ability, I find the tub– which had already been filled with icy water by someone– and scrub my skin until it is pink. I comb my fingers through my hair until my hands are sore and trembling. I try to splash my face with water, but my eyes sting from shampoo and tears. I lay in the water until it is lukewarm, too tired to move, staring into the ceiling awaiting something, perhaps death, to take me far away from District 12.

   I remember Uncle Amber’s burial, sometime when I was in my more vulnerable years, someplace far from the Seam, even farther than the Meadow, in a woody clearing somewhere remote, dotted with etched rocks marking burial sites. His headstone was not particularly grand– a heap of granite sparkling with lichen, but I do remember Uncle Carmine showing me a rock belonging to an ancestor of the Covey, engraved with the poem I was newly named after;

         “With others round them, earnest all and blithe,

     Would Michael exercise his heart with looks

          Of fond correction and reproof bestowed. . .”

   It’s a boring poem. But my name is one of the few possessions I truly own. Micheal is all I know to respond to.

   I gaze at myself in the chipped mirror, skin pale, torso skinny, I might as well be a skeleton. On Reaping day, everybody is anyways. Coming back to the bedroom, dripping and shivering, I pry Uncle Amber’s old mandolin from a hatch in the floorboards and sling it over a simple cotton blouse and trousers. Talking about possessions, the instrument, carved from juniper, tabs worn lighter than the rest of the wood from years of playing, inlaid with a seashell design of a butterfly taking flight, I have spent many of my days slaving away to the art of the ballad. My memories consist of serenading people all over District 12, from the miners to the Hob-shoppers, young and old alike. This singular instrument has lived within the household for generations of players, about as old as rocks, and has probably witnessed every single reaping ceremony since the first. Shortly, it will soon witness its fifty-eighth. I strum it once, the soft harmony reverberating from my room down into the halls. Then the tranquility is broken by Uncle Carmine's discordant shouting.

   "Micheal, are you awake? The geese are stealing your breakfast!" He hollers, almost scared, as if the geese are threatening to take him next.

It's not common that I get to wake up to a hot meal, so the very word 'breakfast' alleviates all my pain instantly. "Coming!" I say, already storming down the stairs.

On the table I see it: a real pancake, topped with a raspberry spread and a single flyway feather. I don't want to know how much this cost. If anything, i'm sure Aubergine found a way to finesse the vendors at the Hob. Uncle Carmine has just re-entered through the backdoor, finally banishing the geese away when I have shoved two-thirds of the dessert in my mouth.

Feathers fall from his jacket onto the down-covered floor, "Woah kid, looks like you found your Reaping day surprise. . ."

   "Thanks for the prize!" My mouth is still full of starch and sugar, "I almost forgot I'm going to die today!" I say, I little too brightly.

Uncle Carmine chuckles, "Don't thank me, thank your sister. She managed to score flour and a jar of jam with our leftover eggs."

I relish the flavor for a minute more. Maybe this morning isn't that bad after all. I imagine Effie Trinket eating pancakes on the daily, laughing in her ridiculous Capitol accent, and wearing an even more ridiculous wig.

   "When Aubergine homes come tonight, make sure you save some jam for her, alright?" He says.

   "Sure!"

   Even though the pancake satisfies my stomach, time passes with a tense energy in the air. The fog leaves without word, leaving a clearing within the clouds for a sliver of sun to shine through. The clock barely strikes one before two knocks land on the door. A Peacekeeper arrives for Uncle Carmine. In the square, he'll be roped off with the rest of the non-qualifiers and watch us in the pig pen. I say my goodbyes to him quickly under the burning gaze of the guard. I make a quick gesture with my hand to my mouth, a signal for promising more forbidden goods from the Hob if I return. It's a quick and simple understanding between us three. While Aubergine scores the big-ticket items, I usually bring home sugar or spices, since the vendors gift small sachets as thanks for the shows I put on for the market. Bed and breakfast are two necessities, but entertainment is a rare blessing here. One last hug and the group is walked away. I see Uncle Carmine disappear into the distance.

  With nothing but my instrument secured on my back, I start walking alone. The Covey home is an outlier on the Seam, meaning the walk to the square is lengthy. The streets are barren and damp from rain, and the earth smells of petrichor and oil. A small puddle splashes against the heel of my boot and nearly causes me to slip into a thicket of bushes. Like rolling thunder, a troop of Peacekeepers, loaded with rifles, sent on a mission to ensure all eligible kids for the Reaping don’t try to escape, march down the alley with a ferocious aura. As one eyes me down, I whistle an old song continue striding forward, kicking the settling coal dust back into the air to shroud me. I press my arms against my side to stop me from quivering. Slowly, the relict houses disappear into the woody foliage and I am soon engulfed in the machinery of the Extraction Zone. To my right, several barrels lie bent and rusted, oozing with rainwater. Overhead, a crane screeches and swivels angrily. Somewhere ahead, glimpses of a train blazing forwards with an entourage of carts marked 'CAPITOL COAL' peek from the brick and rubble.. Unlike the eerie silence of the Seam, the place swarms with miners, many decrepit with age, while others are fresh and keen. An elevator whirrs to life and lowers men into the darkness. Some look expectantly my way, recognizing my face as the bright little Covey boy, but I make a brief greeting before stepping into the Square. The miners do pay well— as far as District standards are concerned— and they offer the occasional leftover to take, but the Peacekeepers are swarming today. Attendance is mandatory, and the punishment is severe.

   I've made it just in time. The Justice Building is grand, decorated with copious amounts of red and gold banners, as one giant shimmering and glittering thing. A large flag with the Capitol seal flies proud in the air. Beneath it, the words 'OPPRESSION IS PEACE' is written in bold letters. Two sides of the Square have been roped off with velvet, and the crowd organized boys on left, girls on right. The absence of the streets is explained by the bustling mass of children clumped into the dusty space. A stage has been constructed atop the steps of the building, and two large glass bowls glimmer with a sinister beauty upon two pedestals. Each filled with hundreds of paper slips– Inside only 4 have my name scrawled out in delicate script. Dazed by the cloudy mist of terror, which is without a doubt being filmed in front of a live Capitol audience, I nearly fall as I stumble through the crowd. I cannot see Uncle Carmine, and Aubergine is still nowhere to be found. I realize it soon, and it hits like a sledgehammer. I am truly alone. No friends to keep me company, barely enough wit to stand. I knock into a girl with flowers in her hair, and she threatens, “Watch it!”. I can only hope that it passes by quickly and easily. Life is not pancakes and sunshine. I am filed in a line, have my DNA scanned and documented, and am sent into the pen.

   The Capitol anthem blares in my ears. I clutch the mandolin until my palms are white.

Chapter Text

   Today is July 3rd. The Reaping dawns in 19 hours. I am Persephone Cardin

   Mama kisses me on the forehead once and then pulls away. Two men in white walk her away into the night. I hope I will see her again. My gaze falls onto my braids, each tied off by a rainbow of ribbons, and I remember her nimble hands shaping my hair into something beautiful for the day coming. Tomorrow is my first ever Reaping, but she won't be there for me.

   My free hand is taken by big brother Dionysus, he ushers us back into the house. Inside feels much darker than usual without her, and the fleeting sunlight barely enters the window. As if by miracle, on the table is a feast; an apple, a bushel of grapes, and real bread. All things that would've been sent to the Capitol. There is enough to feed the two of us, and send us to bed with happy tummies. Dionysus doesn't remark, his face is stony and unreadable, even though we've been hungry for at least two days now. It takes all of my will to not jump over and devour, so I sit calmly at the table and clench the edge of my chair in anticipation. The table has three wooden seats, but one is left solemn. Dionysus finds a jug of water and fills a pair of cups to the brim. 

   "Drink all the water first, then eat." He instructs.

   "Why? I'm not thirsty." I reply.

He sets the cup in front of me, "It makes you full, so we can save more for later."

   I sigh and comply, quickly drinking the cup until it is empty. His hands work diligently to break the crescent-shaped loaf into half, divide the grapes equally, and split the bright red apple into slices. For the evening, we eat. It is my first time eating fresh fruit. The gentle skin of the grapes burst in flavor beneath my teeth, the crisp apple sends sugary juice down my chin. The bread is warm and filling, dotted with poppy seeds that crunch with every bite.

   "Persephone? Don't eat so fast." I hear a voice call to me from across the table. I do not reply.

   At the moment, I completely forget about the looming threat of the Reaping, all about Mama, and allow myself to be carried away by the indulgence of the fruity nectar. My mind recalls a moment from the previous year's ceremonies, glimpses I saw of the Justice building while was climbing into the high branches of the Orchard Ground, hearing the speech explaining the Games' establishment, and the riches given to the Victor once they Triumph. The name lady, with the funny-looking outfits, picks two kids to participate in the Games. I can only imagine her life in the Capitol-- fruit every day, fresh milk, sugarcanes and desserts-- If the Victor can have that all, then . . .

I know what I'm going to do. Who doesn't like playing games anyways? 

   "Persephone, are you alright?" My brother's voice bursts from the silence.

   "Mhm."

   "You're daydreaming again?"

I look at him, sweetly saying, "Just thinking 'bout stuff."

   "Never had food this good hm? I remember my first apple."

   "How long ago was it?" 

   "Yeesh, years," He chuckles, "One day, I'm sure we'll be able to afford the scrappy fruit."

Sure, I think, Or maybe I'll give us the very best. 

   "I'm full." I say.

   "Alright. . ."

Dionysus takes the leftovers and stores them safely in the farthest cabinet. "We'll have these in the morning."

   Night falls, I hear the owl's call looming loudly outside my window. Dionysus tucks me into my little bed, but it's not the same as how Mama used to. He disappears into another corner of the house. On the table where we ate, he has laid out both of our outfits; one shabby dress shirt, and the new dress Mama made from a pair of curtains. I feel myself drifting off, but the unusual sweetness churning in my stomach makes me yearn for more. Tomorrow will come, and I'll make sure that the funky woman takes me away to the Capitol. We'll be happy there. My eyelids droop. . . I can't remember falling asleep that night.

   Morning comes, I sleep in. The Reaping dawns in one hour. When I finally get out of bed, Dionysus and I eat the rest of the food. I have barely slipped into my dress as two loud knocks arrive at the door. Another man in white. Dionysus answers it, and soon, I am being escorted with a group of kids to the square. There are so many eligibles in District 11, that dozens of troops of kids are being marched from all over. To the right I see the flowery trees of the Orchard Ground peeking above the buildings. On my left is Field Two, where Corn grows high and green. The walk to the Square takes about Thirty minutes. I am then filed into a line, have my DNA documented, and am sent into a large crowd of girls. My seat is in the very front. 

   I look up at the stage, bright and blue, and I see the funny woman sitting in the shade of a parasol, enjoying a dainty cup of juice. I hold my head up high and wait.

    Today is July 3rd. The Reaping dawns in 19 hours. I am Dionysus Cardin

  Mama hugs me tight, and kisses little Persephone on the forehead. Two Peacekeepers grab her by the wrists and escort her away. I know I will never see her again. I try not to cry, but my eyes are watery and betray me. My hand lowers, and I grab Persephone's palm. Her hand is nearly as big as mine, meaning that she is now old enough to die. Tomorrow, Persephone's first, and my fifth. 

   I take her back inside, the dark and dingy home that was once lively with Mama's presence. On the table is a curse; a stolen feast. One apple, red as blood, a clipping of grapes, and a single crescent roll. These are all foods that should've been sent to the Capitol. . . but Mama knew we were hungry. In District 11, smuggling crops is cruelly punished, but stealing a Capitol Package? Mama has probably been shot already. Thankfully the Peacekeepers had the decency to escort her to someplace remote, as to not traumatize Persephone. I look over at her, gleaming sunlight in her eyes, oblivious to the circumstances of the meal before us. She's as fragile as a baby bird, innocent as dandelion. I can't bear to tell her, so I suck it up and decide to forget it for tonight. I hide it all beneath my mask.  

   An old trick I learned, drinking water to trick your body into becoming fuller from less, is necessary to keep us from going wild on the petite spray of food. Filling two cups up, and set the both on the table and sit across Persephone on the table. 

   "Drink all the water first, then eat." I say to her, holding the glass.

   "Why? I'm not thirsty." She whines.

I set the cup down, "It makes you full, so we can save more for later."

   She doesn't hesitate to drink, gulping the water down with ferocious speed. While she chugs, I separate the portions equally; one half of bread, 12 grapes each, and four apple slices. Before I can even set the small blade down, she's stuffing her face with the fruit. I can't blame her however, because it is her first time eating fresh fruit. We've also been starving for the last two days. . . so that too.

   "Persephone? Don't eat so fast--" I say, but am interrupted by a pang of hunger. Who cares anyway? I eat too.

   I try to ignore the threat of the Reaping arriving. Never before have I been so close to death, on the porch in the evening, and soon on the porch in the morning. There are close to thousands of eligibles in District 11. My name is in the bowl five times. Persephone once. Anything that happens will be nothing short of divine intervention. In less than a day, I'll be forced to watch Chrysanthemum Lockett in a ridiculous gown, with even more ridiculous eyelashes, struggle to pull an envelope from the oversized Reaping bowls. At least for the night, we are safe, and there is food.

   I look up at Persephone, dazed and lost in her own mind. This happens sometimes. She's a daydreamer.

   "Persephone, are you alright?" I ask.

She replies softly, "Mhm."

   "You're daydreaming again?" My voice is slightly condescending, just like Mama.

   "Just thinking 'bout stuff."

I try to distract myself. "Never had food this good hm? I remember my first apple."

   "How long ago was it?" 

   "Yeesh, years," I chuckle a little, "One day, I'm sure we'll be able to afford the scrappy fruit." 

   "I'm full." she says.

   "Alright. . ." I scoop up the scraps and hide them in the back of a cabinet. "We'll have these in the morning."

   Night comes sooner than expected. I open the closet and lay out our Reaping outfits; Persephone's handmade dress, and my only nice shirt. At Nine, I tuck Persephone into her too-cramped bed, just as how Mama would've done. I try my best, but I know it's not the same. I leave to my room, making sure that Persephone has long drifted to sleep before I allow myself to cry. In the darkness, the call of the owls are the only thing to comfort me. I curl myself into bed and try my best to sleep. Of course, my mind crafts the finest nightmares for me to enjoy. The night is longer than it should be.

   Morning comes. Sun shines in my eyes and I know it is time to get ready. The Reaping dawns in two hours. I get into my outfit, prepare a small breakfast from the leftovers and leave it on the table. Before I wake Persephone, I go into Mama's room, which is still heavy with her scent. On the dresser, there is a single item out of it's place; Mom's silver ring. I decide to take it for luck, slipping the small circle onto my index finger. She will accompany us to the Reaping. I wake Persephone and we eat. Two knocks come pounding on the front door, causing me to jump a little. It is time. Behind the door is a Peacekeeper waiting to take us away. We walk to the square in a pack of tributes, old and young, to the square. Behind us, is Field Three, where I would've been slaving away to the tomato bushels on any other day. The walk is long, but I can practically see the decor of the Justice Building from miles away. Bright blue, shimmering silver, draped from head to toe with the Capitol seal. A stage is even more grandly decorated; and Lady Chrysanthemum sits snugly between two giant glass bowls filled with thousands of paper slips. D'Lise Antebellum, one of the victors, is solemn and sits carefully on a chair. I am filed into a line, have my DNA documented, and am sent into a crowd of boys. My seat is somewhere in the middle. 

   It could start at any minute. I hope we will be safe. I clutch the ring to my chest with hope.

Chapter Text

   Today is July 4th. The Reaping dawns in 4 hours. I am Calff Herder. 

   We don't starve in District 10. Our battles are greater than the lack of food. The constant sunshine is what we worry about-- much more than minor threats like the Reaping. As a Cowkeeper, Ol' Sunny is a personal enemy of mine. Lucky dicks in the Poultrykeeper portion of 10 get to slave away in the shady coops with real sunscreen, while my unprotected skin sizzles redder by the day. If these year's games take place in another frozen tundra, I'll be damned if I don't volunteer. 

   I'm not longer toiling away under the shade, instead in the field. Unlucky for us, work doesn't sleep during Reaping Day, since Capitol Beef don't walk itself. Mams is teaching me how to wrangle, lasso, and manage the herds of cattle, all while on horseback. These are all outdoor activities demanded by my soon-to-be position as a cow herder. Last month, I became eligible for a different kind of game; Horse Privileges. The District Stables is a towerin' building of concrete and iron-wrought grates, holding an army's worth of horses for practical use. While all the Peacekeepers get the swift and haughty horses, the Cowkeepers are allotted the slower. . . dumber horses. My horse isn't that spectacular, being shorter than average, dotted with several bald spots in its mane-- but it sure is mine. The stableboy feeds it alright, so maybe it'll grow soon.

   The day is hot and muggier than usual in Grass Valley. Together, we're sporting wide-brimmed hats to guard our heads. Mams has already set a small portion of the cows loose into the greenery. 

   "'Aight now, you remember what I taught you now?" She says, demonstrating how to hold the reins properly. 

I settle the soft leather straps into my palm, "Yes ma'am.", I reply.

   "Listen to your horse, kid. Don't go hurting yourself on Reapin' Day. . ."

   "How will I walk possibly on stage with a sprained ankle?" A sarcastic wave sweeps my shoulders back.

Mams glares back at me, "Get the damned cows."

Ok. . . 

  I maneuver the horse where I need it to, while not as precise and coordinated as her, and probably sitting on the saddle all wrong. I see herding as a game, circling around our yellow-tagged cows, and steering away from the others. The barn is my goal, each cow another point for team Calff. I've grown from the first time i've ridden, reducing the collisions to almost zero, and knowing how to not yank the horse's head backwards. Though the herd is small, it takes me an hour to coax them all into the little holding. When I am finished, I reunite outside the barn's door, where Mams has been watching the whole time.

   "How'd I do? I didn't trample the youngin's this time." I say.

   "Better, but you's still got a long way to go." She replies, a little less gritty than usual. 

An almost compliment? Is she sentimental today or am I really great at this?

   "Thanks Mams." I say smoothly, "We should get goin'."

She latches the door shut with a grunt. "You get home, I'll take the horses back. Best get dressed for the Reapin' now."

   "Are you sure you don't need me to come along?" I ask.

   "I'm just goin' to visit a friend there. You know how it is." She says, hobbing into the open cellar and pulling out a crate from below.

   "What's that?" I say, nudging the lid of the box with my knuckles.

Mams unlatches the lid of the small box. Inside, two bottles are filled with distilled agave, tinged pink with wild kalypsroot; Alcohol.

   "You're day drinkin'? Really?" I say.

   "It's a gift, sugar. Get to the house." I know she clearly wanted to.

Ok. . .

   I trudge through the heat, inching my way back to Copper Cliff, the Cowkeeper residential site. Unlucky for me, Mams took both horses, so I'm left to wander among the mirages for 10 hot minutes. Once I'm finally within the privacy of our house, I waste no time and rip all of my sweaty garments away. I have about two hours to get ready, so obviously I spend half of it soaking in a cold bath. I float in the water for some time, spending more time thinking about the fields than the actual Reaping. In an hour, I'll be stuck under the oppressive heat of both the sun and the Capitol, forced to stare at Mrs. Udders-for-tits Cranberry for another hour. If all Capitol ladies look like that, I hope I'll never have to witness it firsthand. 

   The clock chimes urgently, DING DING DING . . . It is now twelve. Mams has just come back, thankfully uninebriated and helps me into a handmade dress of hers. A multicolored patchwork of several cowfeed sacks, carefully cut as to not have COURTESY OF THE CAPITOL aligned along my back. I weave a small crown of marigolds and top my colorless head with it. Somehow, even with the simplicity of the outfit, I may as well've strung a sign saying 'LOOK AT ME' on my front. You can't paint a poster without color, I guess. I help Mams braid her hair into three even parts, tying them off with little ribbons. 

   Two knocks come on the door, sturdy and loud. Non-eligibles first to be collected. I hug Mams once, and ship her off to the Peacekeeper at the door.

No. . . Peacekeeper isn't the right word. They look more like bowling pins, with their giant AC jackets.

   I sit and wait in the darkness of the home, waiting for another Pin-keeper to escort me to the square. Let's get this whole thing over with, so maybe I'll share a cup with Mams and the cows. I don't like waiting. To pass the time I have a small meal of stale bread and cheese. By thirty minutes, they return. Two knocks send me flying off the bed to the front door. I am soon taken into a small collection of kids and scurry away to the District's square. On the walk, I see several other Pin-keepers marching in neat formations, practically begging for a ball to be thrown and knock them all over. Already, the sweat I have just scrubbed off comes rising on my skin. The square has been neatened, all the manure scrubbed clean and decorated with bronze colors and stars everywhere. I am filed haphazardly into a crooked line along the shade of irregular canopies abovehead. Onstage are two bowls, the mayor, and the one Victor, Mica Doffman, lying almost as defeated as me in the heat. My DNA is scanned and documented, and I am sent into the sea of tributes.

    I'm doing good enough. Tomorrow I will ride my horse again. I feel it in my soul that tomorrow will be cooler in celebration.

   Today is July 4th. The Reaping dawns in 3 hours. I am Yak Slaughter.

   District 10 is hell on Earth. The sun has been sweltering during summer, sending deadly rays to beat down like knives. Us on the Cowkeeper side of 10 have tan lines on our arms so devilish, it's akin to wearing gloves of leather. Unlike us, the Swinekeepers are lucky enough to have mud to protect their skin, and the Poultrykeepers receive so much cash from the Capitol, they can afford real sunscreen. Fuck all that though, since the warmth has been so unbearable that all of us are more concerned with evading heat stroke than the Reaping. 

   From horseback, I can see the entirety of Grass Valley; A walled space where we allow the animals to graze freely. Our fields are teeming with cattle, dotting the landscape with spots of black and brown across the golden canvas of reeds. On each cow, the Capitol seal has been branded neatly onto the hind. Time slows within this oasis, it seems, for both us and the cows. Though try as it may, it does not stop the herders from wrangling another bull into a cattle-cart and shipping it off to the slaughterhouse.

The animals need constant attention. Work does not stop on Reaping Day.

   My older brothers, Sol and Hantuck, are currently butchering, defeathering, and gutting all sorts of animals in the factory, Mother is off delivering baby calves, and I'm stuck in the District Stables all day. . . because I'm weak. I choose to be an apprentice ranch-hand, because I'd rather haul 50 hay bales before clearing the insides of a cow's birth canal from my arms, or force myself to cut clean through a pig's neck. Losing your dignity is better, it it means you take the easy way out. I make the occasional coin shovelin' horse turd, so who cares anyways?

   The day is busy in the stables, since I'm caring for the herder's Horses in Sector A. I scurry between the beasts like a mouse, pitchforking hay into troughs, working beneath the overhead din of leaky pipes and carbon bulbs. I'm technically not supposed to work, but my apprenticeship master writes it off as 'experience training', so it's a synonym for unpaid child labor.

   Hours slip from me. By the time the wretched sun has crawled away to the summit of the sky, I am ungently reminded of the chaos awaiting back home with word of Peacekeepers beginning to patrol. I hook the feed-room door closed in a hurry and store my apron away. Before I can leave, however, I see a familiar face, Missus Herder, awaiting me beneath the lip of the barn door. The lady's a seasoned cow-herder. . . as the name would suggest-- meaning that she's a regular dependent on the horses, so I see her often. Even earlier today, when she brought her daughter. Despite her bein' about as old as rocks, she's aged finely, and stands sturdily. A clinking crate nestled in her arm demands my attention.

 Before I can even raise a question, she's already shooting me a deadly glance. "Yak? Where y'goin?"

 Huh? Is she okay? 

   "Home, ma'am. . ." I say, with a tinge of suspicion. "Today is--"

   "Reapin' Day. I'know." She says.

   "Well, I--" 

She cuts me off, blocking the exit with her body, "I'll say it again. Where you goin'?"

   "Bein' Reaped?" I say, even doubting myself.

    "Nuh-uh." She speaks, her voice is a menacing growl, "You're going to live."

My eyebrows crinkle at her words, "Pardon?"

She shifts her weight onto another leg, "You're goin' to the Reapin', and you's going to live."

Is this . . . a threat? Or a farewell?

   "I'll try."

   "Y'better." She stands up tall, towering over me with nothing but the force of her voice, "Because. . . You're my damn best handiest lil' stable boys ever!" 

Missus Herder's demeanour changes in a snap, dropping the ruggedness in change for the syrupy sweet emanation more befittin' of a woman like her. It's rare that I get so see her without her spiky armor, so it's surprising when she pulls me in for a desperate hug.

   "T-Thank you. . ." I manage to speak, but my breath is constricted by her grip.

   "Lemme say, it sure is hard to come across a hard-workin' kid like you." She smiles, and releases her arms from around me.

I chuckle a little, "It's better to scoop shit off the floor than scraping placenta from your hair."

   "Your mams is a soldier, I guess it runs in the family."

    "Sure does." I say.

It doesn't.

She hands the crate into my arms, and I hear something clink around on the inside. 

   "When you come back, we'll share a bottle of. . . cider, yeah? With the cows." She says.

   "If I do, that's a reward I'll look forward to." I say, letting my gaze falls onto the floor.

She smacks her lips at me, "Don't let lil' nancy nag in your head. . . Y'ain't going to the Games."

   "Well, as Crazy Cran says, . . ."

We both imitate Allinda Cranberry's hideous Capitol accent, "May the odds be ever in YOUR favor!" . . . Maybe they will.

   We say our goodbyes, and take a horse away into the dusty hellscape. Copper Cliff, the dessicated collection of District 10 houses, is wobbly in the curtain of heat on the horizon. Judging the Sun, I'd say it's about 12:00-ish, meaning that I'll probably have enough time to change into something presentable. The crate is ratting with the sounds of glass the whole time there. Covering my skin as best as I can beneath the brim of my hat is hard, especially while maintaining the reins, but I manage. I arrive home hastily, tying the horse into it's little stable, and rushing inside the house. Empty. The Peacekeepers have come for the non-eligibles first. I strip and plunge myself into a tub of water, soaking for barely 5 minutes before throwing the cleaning thing I can find in the closet; A brown pair of pants with strips of leather cascading down the leg, and a white button-up with maroon stitching along the edges of the arms, bound together by a bronze-starred buckle belt. I have accidentally picked the most LOOK AT DISTRICT TEN outfit ever, but I don't have enough time to care. It is barely when I slip back into my boots when two loud knocks erupt from the door.

During the hot months, the Peacekeepers in 10 wear huge white coats with built-in cooling systems, making them look like stupid eggs. "Damn eggs. . ." I whisper to myself. 

   I open the door, and I meet the intimidating glare of a Egg-keeper on the porch. I join the cluster of kids, and follow the man as he and the other 11 eggs from the dozen-carton march us into the town square. The Sun doesn't hesitate to continue beating down on us all the way until disappearing above the canopy covering the Justice Building's golden-bronze stage. Lady Cranberry is nowhere to be seen, meaning that the crowd could at least be spared from her hideous "surgically enhanced" breasts. I scan the non-eligible crowd, and single out my family from the mess. At least they're here. I am led by the egg into a line, have my DNA scanned and documented, and am sent into the pigpen of tributes. 

   Frankly, I'm too hot and tired to be scared. . . I sigh heavily and wait in the muffled heat.

Chapter Text

   Today is July 4th. The Reaping dawns in 7 hours. I am Reed Sower 

   Gold surrounds me from all sides of the horizon. Summer's whispering breeze dances through the wheat sea.  Days have been longer, the skies clearer and brighter, bringing unto us the promise of a good harvest. Father has been spending more time at the Justice Building, planning preparations as the Games have been drawing nearer, while I have occupied myself under the sunlight. The Wild Bowl of District 9 is the nickname given to the untouched farmland North of the Square, where the earth is too rocky to sow, but fertile enough to grow grasses and wildflowers. Here, I lie in the plants and carry all grievances of the Reaping away. 

   It's morning. I can tell by the perfume of rising dew filling my nostrils. It seems as though in the warmer months, I spend more time sleeping with the wheat than within my own bed. Without a doubt, my hair is a mess, and Miss Hattie will fuss endlessly about it as she preps me for the Reaping. I step up from the greenery and slip back to the house under the low morning light. The insides are busy, swarming with District officials and planners from the Capitol, the entryway a maze of boxes and silver. Knowing that the prodding eyes of the outside world are inside my own house forces me to sneak as quickly as I can back upstairs. It isn't a good look for Mr. Sower's daughter to be coated in dirt and grass, and I don't want to hurt Father's already decaying reputation. 

   I climb up the steps wordlessly, knowing that I'm probably leaving a light dusting of grain and condensation behind me. At the top is the narrow corridor, a long hallway with two doors on the left, and my room's door all the way at the end. I try running, my door the only thing I can see, but I am stopped as one of the doors on the left flies open, and I nearly crash into Crynn Quill's turquoise gown. 

   ". . .Oh dear?!" A voice cries out.

  We lock eyes for a moment, from her perspective, I know I look like feral dog. She's bent over, a gloved hand extended down to me, and the plucks me up from the floor as if I were a paper slip from the glass bowl. I've never seen her so close before.

   "Are you alright girl?" She says, her voice filled with an artificial Captiol sweetness.

I nod my head, "I'm fine. . . Thank you."

Her bright eyes widen as she examines my face, "Ah! You're Mayor Sower's daughter!"

   "Nice to meet you." I reply, and stand presentably.

   "What happened to you? Did you fall out of your window?" 

I nearly forgot my head is sprouting wheat.

    "I-- yes. Yep. I fell out. Silly me?" I try to chuckle it away.

I step carefully around her, sliding past the open door to the rest of the hallway.

   "Oh, well. . . it was nice seeing you! Goodbye dearie!" She waves her hand at me and leaves.

   I slip myself back into my room and shut the door. I hold my ear against the wood until I hear Crynn's heavy heels click down the steps until I'm certain she's downstairs. My breath escapes my lungs in a heavy sigh. I'm left in the silence of my room, with the soft murmur downstairs' affairs to accompany me. Miss Hattie, wherever she is, is nowhere to be seen. It will be at least an hour before she helps me into the special dress sent from the Capitol, since she is stuck serving juice and crêpes to the others. So instead, the little gray heap of velvet sits empty on my bed, and I sit and watch the outside from the window. The sun half-stuck in the horizon, a lemon-yellow wedge against the blinding beige. From here, I see the grey of the wall in the furthest reaches of the land. 

Three knocks in rapid succession-- Hattie?

   I walk to the door, opening it slowly, meeting face-to-face with a stranger. She is not Miss Hattie, not Capitol, probably not even of District 9. She's wearing a thorned cage around her head, and a bandage is tied around her mouth to the neck down, silencing her. Who. . . what is this? I blink once, only then realizing it by the deep rumble of a man's voice erupting from the downstairs radio, the voice of President Snow. Somebody has brought an Avox from the Capitol for me.

   "Who are you? Where's Hattie?" I ask.

The servant says nothing. Her gaze is empty. In her hands is a silver platter of brushes and makeup. She motions to the dress on the bed, as if to say; Let me help you get dressed.

   "I can get ready by myself. . . I'm okay."

Her eyes flicker with urgency, and she offers the tray incessantly. I must help you get dressed.

   "You don't have to." I say.

I have been ordered to.

   There are no words to describe my disdain for the Capitol practice of Avoxes. I hate the very idea. Having Hattie as a housekeeper bothers me enough already. . . but this poor girl? I can't say no. I can't condemn her to be punished. I know she has endured enough already. In a few hours, she'll be shipped back to the Capitol anyways, so I might as well make this morning easier for her. 

   "Come on in." 

   She rushes into the room, shutting the door with a silent submission. She sits me down at the small vanity against the back wall of the room. The girl brushes my hair until it is as fine as sand, then sprays an unfamiliar concoction that makes my hair bounce into flawless curls. She wipes my face down with a mint-scented pad, and all of the dirt vanishes into thin air. She slowly plucks away any stray eyebrow hairs, hues my cheeks with pink, varnishes my face with gloss. I slip the dress over my head, and she expertly laces the back all the way up to my shoulders. For the first time, I don't see myself in the mirror. There is no human on the other side of that glass. I look like hard plastic, artificial almost. I'm not District anymore. 

   The girl leaves hastily, gathering all of the tools and shuffling out the door before I can even say anything. I turn away from the mirror as soon as possible. The clamour from downstairs has mostly subsided, as decorating the Justice Building's stage has become the main priority. As much as I wish to actually fall out the window and lay in the fields, I do not want to put the hour of decorating to waste. I decide to waste away and wait for the Reaping instead, with only the lull of the wind to accompany me.

   Father arrives at my room as the clock gongs 12:00. He takes me downstairs, and I climb into a Peacekeeper vehicle. Inside, two mirrored benches force me to stare at Vice Mayor Deusa and Crynn Quill the entire ride, as I squeeze beside Father and the one aging victor Harriet Bale. Crynn's gaze feels heavy on me, knowing that we both have the mutual understanding of our surprise encounter. I try my best to block it all out. We arrive at the square, slowing steadily in front of the entrance, now decked in silver streamers. I am the first person in line to have my DNA scanned, and I walk myself to my spot. Though the grass is below my feet, the hard leather soles of my heels block all sensation and it feels like I am being strangled. 

   I sit on the ground neatly and wait. The silver gleams terribly into my eyes. Above all, I want to run back to the Wild Bowl.

   Today is July 4th. The Reaping dawns in 9 hours. I am Scythe Kanter.

   I am awake before the rooster craws. Out in the field, I am one with the shadows until dawn. The wooden grooves of the sickle have melted to fit my palms, and every slash along the wheat has been perfected through years training. I do not fear the Reaping, instead the ever-looming threat of malnutrition from low-quality sustenance is the collective fear of those in District 9. The Tessarae trucks bring us only the lowliest of the crop, and some days, there is less grain than stalk. Today is my second-to-last year, the next, I'll be thrown out into the real fields and work to keep my family alive.

   The field of gold is not yet shining, cast black in the night. To warm up, I run one lap around the smaller rye field, then climb up the trunk of an old maple in the Wild Bowl. Within the dense canopy, concealed by the embrace of the leaves, I begin a warm up for the mind. From a hollow within one of the branches, I retrieve a leather-bound journal and a handmade pencil. Since paper is a hard commodity to find here, books are rare and expensive. This one, I managed to nag from Mayor Sower's trash. 

   Each line is compact, scrawled tiny as possible to save space. Each morning, I give myself a question. The following day, I will answer, and leave another. The paper is dim, but readable enough with the blue glow of the approaching sun. 

Why is wheat cut? To quell the growth.

What is a sickle? A tool.

What are we? A tool.

What is the Capitol? An enemy.

   Today, the Scythe of yesterday has brought me a hard question.

What is the Reaping?

   I've asked myself this question many times before, as have many across Panem. At school, they lecture all about the founding of the Games, and all other loads of Capitol propaganda that try to convince the Districts that their violence is justified. What is the Reaping? Is it an adjective? Horrible, inhumane, terrifying. . . or is it a noun? Death, control, power. . . all words that can describe the Games as a whole. None of them are perfect however. Every day becomes a test, every second a bargain. The Reaping is grief, in all of it's stages; anger, depression, and eventually submission. The Reaping is. . .

Game; A waiting game. 

  I pen the answer down, satisfied with the result. By now, the smallest sliver of the sun peeks through the trees. Looking through the gaps in the leaves, my gaze falls southwards towards the Square, where the Justice Building stares me down with its heavy concrete gaze. Unknowingly, my hand betrays my mind. As I look back down at the page, I have already written tomorrow's question.

Will the sun rise tomorrow? 

  Challenging. Future me will deal with this tomorrow. I stash the journal and pencil back into the hollow within the branch, and pull my body out from the embrace of the tree. Scaling down the tree is easier today than usual, and I finish the morning's warm up with a set of push-ups. Next on my schedule, return to the house for any scraps and try to pull together a simple breakfast.

   As I walk out of the unkempt greenery, I try my best to ignore the question. It's burning my brain like a wildfire. I try my best to not ponder about my questions during the day, but today my mind is in a rebellious rut. I can't be afraid of the Reaping, we're not privileged enough for that. The walk is long, as all the homes here are sparsely built on the edge of the mile-long fields. Peacekeeper activity is low, so I take a shortcut through the long red blossoms of the amaranth field home. 

 A bright and yellow sun reveals its full face by the time I reach home. The backdoor swings open with an upset groan as I step in, announcing my presence to the entire house. 

   "Hey!" a voice calls out from within. It appears Andy has let himself inside the house and is playing with a stray cat in my living room.

   "Andy, what are you doing in my house?" I say.

He stands and walks towards me, the cat he held in his lap jumps down and scurries by his feet.

   "I'm here to drop off a present."

   "A present? Why?" I ask.

   "It's a good luck token. For both of us." He says, retrieving something from his pocket and holding it out towards me.

It's a box. Small, encased with black leather, and wrapped with a dyed twine bow. Handmade. 

   "You know I don't really like presents, right?" I say, trying to downplay the way I feel about gifts. Too much effort to ever repay.

   "You'll like it, promise." Andy's eyes are expectant.

   "Did you see my parents?"

   "What. . . no?"

   "Does your dad know you're here?"

   "Scythe." He interrupts, his voice is steady and calm, "Do you need me to open the present for you?"

   Andy's eyes dig a tunnel through my head and the stubborn shield falters. Sighing and taking the box from his palm, I untie the little bow and open the lid slowly. Gold, solid and pure, meets my eyes. A single ring, like the color of the wheat sea, sparkling even though the room is dark, is unreal to the eyes. I look back up at him, and he's grinning at me with a terrible smirk. He knows exactly what he's doing. 

   "It's. . ." 

   "Crazy beautiful?" He says, flashing another gold band on his finger.

I slip the ring on, and bring my hand to meet his, "They're matching?"

   "I made it from an old pair of earrings." He says, "The Sowers really throw out a lot of good stuff, huh?"

   "They sure do."

   We laugh together for a while. Andy scoops the cat into his arms and sets it loose into the house. One hour later, everybody in the house is awake and eating. While I would've been in the fields by now, the surprise visit has caused me to stay home for the rest of the day. Andy's dad drops by and brings us a loaf of dense rye bread for us to enjoy. The liveliness of the space is great to distract us all from the impending doom of the Reaping, though soon the question bubbles deep in my stomach with every bite. I feel it burning in my eyes as I see both of us in our good clothes. I can feel it creeping into my lungs and cutting out the oxygen. Why does my head have to think all the time?

   Two knocks arrive on the door, loud as bullets, and I can feel my blood run cold from the shock. My parents, Andy's dad, and his siblings, all disappear with the Peacekeepers-- ineligibles first. Even though I am alone with Andy, the golden ring mocks me until I can only see the fuzzy outline of everything around me. I shouldn't be scared, I never have. Why am I scared? To calm myself, I grip his hands as hard as I can.

   "Haha, Scythe you're. . . like actually hurting me."

   Two more knocks sound. Our turn. I walk with Andy to the door, inhaling hard before stepping out to the Peacekeeper and following the herd all the way to the Square. The town clock strikes once, and I can see the glimmer of silver shining from the Reaping stage. Soon, we are filled into a line, and my DNA is scanned by an attendant. She sends Andy and me into seperate parts of the crowd, and I lose sight of him. 

   I can only stand in silence. This fear in my gut is new and strange. Do I. . . have something to lose now?