Chapter Text
District Three - Technology
“Logan Crofter! Come on up, sweetheart!” Rang that Capitol accent he despised so much. Logan’s world stopped for a second, a moment frozen in time for what seemed like ages to the boy. The odds were in his favor. He avoided putting his name in extra times for commodities. He was young- young enough that his name was only in the ridiculous large glass bowl three times.
He was only fourteen.
This wasn’t supposed to happen to him.
There were hundreds of names in that bowl, and they chose his. He blinked in astonishment. He’d never even considered that he’d be chosen. That he’d be a tribute.
He wasn’t built for the Games. He was tall for his age, lanky, nothing but hypothetical skin and bones. There was no chance of him surviving a physical altercation. He was both literally and figuratively doomed. He knew death came for everyone eventually, but he couldn’t comprehend meeting his own demise. The thought of his consciousness coming to an end sent him into an existential crisis.
“Logan? Sweetie?” The Capitol woman called out his name once more.
The crowd of kids stepped away from Logan as if he were contagious, forming a circle around him as he made his way through the crowd. He swallowed thickly and straightened his navy tie, correcting his posture and holding his head high.
The Capitol would not make a fool of Logan Crofter. They wanted him to be hysterical, to cry, to run- Logan would do none of these things. He would go with dignity and respect. He would die as he lived (‘Die? Yes, I suppose I will, now…’). As he ascended the stairs to the stage, he felt his heart shatter as he heard his mother’s cries.
‘I will not cry. They will not break me.’
District Nine - Grain
“Cole Warren!”
“I volunteer!” Roman shouted, locking eyes with his longtime friend whose name had just been called. The blonde walked over and gave him a tight hug before marching bravely to the reaping stage.
“My, my! A volunteer! What is your name, child?” The over excited host cooed.
“Roman. Roman Prince.”
“And how old are you, Roman?”
“Seventeen.”
“Well, how about some applause for this brave soul, hm?” The crowd clapped weakly, none in the crowd willing to meet the gaze of the newest tribute.
“Was that your brother you volunteered for? A cousin, perhaps?”
“No, he’s my- my friend. My best friend.”
“Well, well! By the looks of it, you two are a little more than friends, yes?”
Roman remained silent, but the deep blush on his pale cheeks said everything the cameras needed to know.
“Well, there you have it, folks! The tributes of District Nine!” The host gestured for them to shake hands. Roman turned and faced his new opponent. He wasn’t sure of the kid’s name, but he knew enough: this was the enemy. If Roman wanted to see Cole again, this nameless boy would have to die.
District Eleven - Agriculture
Patton Candor was not ashamed to admit that he cried before, during, and after every Reaping. He mourned the loss of each and every tribute before they were even gone. It was safe to say he had a big heart that was overly empathetic. The loss of brilliant life was too much for him to handle some days.
But the day they called him to the stage, not a tear was shed. He did not mourn the potential loss of his own life. He had nothing to lose, unlike most tributes. His parents were gone, his friends abandoned him, and his life was not necessarily worth living at the ripe age of just thirteen.
Nothing was keeping Patton tied down to life except for birdsong and sunshine.
He shuffled to the stage, shook hands with the other boy, and made his way inside the old government building. No one came to see him before he got on the train, but he didn’t feel bitter. He’d never given anyone a reason to care for him, so he wasn’t surprised when no one showed. He sang softly to himself and twiddled his thumbs as he waited for the Peacekeepers to transfer him.
As he boarded the train, he took one last look upon the open expanse of his home district.
‘Goodbye, I suppose. Mom, Dad? I’m on my way.’
District Twelve - Medicine
Virgil sat in the courthouse’s finest room. He couldn’t help but laugh at that.
‘Nothing but the best for the poor bastards of District Twelve…’
Virgil Shae always knew his name would be drawn, not unlike a lamb chosen for slaughter. That was just his luck. It was something he’d prepared for the same way his senile neighbor prepared for a third rebellion. (It was ludicrous to think about and taboo to speak of, so Virgil just shook his head and moved on when the old man began his ramblings).
The sixteen-year-old spent every spare moment preparing for a life in the Games, even though it was technically illegal to do so. He analyzed plants in textbooks from school, learned how to set traps and gut fish in the meadow, and even learned how to purify water without chemicals from the black market.
He wasn’t confident he’d win, but he wouldn’t go down without a decent fight. He’d been watching the Hunger Games every year for as long as he could remember. He’d gone as far as to take notes on what makes a Victor.
Stay away from the Cornucopia. Find water. Hunt. Climb. Avoid. Run.
Oh, running. The one thing Virgil was confident about. He’d joined his school’s competitive racing team in anticipation of his Reaping. He was the fastest kid in his age group and could even outrun the elder students if he pushed himself.
There was a knock at the door and he looked up in surprise.
“Uh, hey.” A familiar face made his way in the room. Thomas Sanders. District Twelve’s only living Victor. “I know we’re going to meet on the train, but I didn’t want you sitting alone. I remember how scary it is.”
Virgil shrugged and scooted over on the couch, making room for the elder male. The two sat in comfortable silence for the allotted time. When the Peacekeeper called time, the two stood together, avoiding eye contact as they exited the room.
Virgil didn’t look back at his drab district as he boarded the train. He ignored the crowd of District Twelve elites who came to see him ushered away to his demise. He wished he was allowed his special zip-up hoodie, but you were supposed to dress nice for Reaping Day, and nice and expensive are not synonyms in the Seam where everything costs more than it’s worth.
He took a seat and sighed heavily. The weight of the day was finally getting to him. Exhaustion quickly overtook him, the smooth train ride lulling him to sleep.