Chapter Text
District 1:
It was the third time he had been twenty-one, the third time he’d been forced to let his name enter the crystal bowl, risking his life and his reveal. Walking through the streets was peaceful for a Reaping Day, a few people risking small waves to the small kind-hearted man. The life of luxury was a blessing he praised each day as it let him have an easier transition into this hell. Reaching for his necklace, a token from his past, he stroked the cool faded metal, making his heart beat at an easier rate as he made his way over to the square.
“Hey, Flash!” someone called from behind.
His hand immediately dropped from his necklace, and he turned around, only to be greeted by a bright smile and kind brown eyes. He sighed in relief, “Oh, thank heaven. Hey, Flare.”
Flare’s hand rested on Flash’s shoulder, steering him back around to continue on to the square. “You ready for our final year in the Reaping before the real luxury begins?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Hey,” said Flare, moving in front of Flash and causing them to stop.
“What?” Flash asked, eyebrow raised.
“Aren't you excited?” Flare’s eyes gleamed with joy at the idea of no longer having his name in that damned bowl.
Flash sighed in response. “Yeah, it’s just,” he shrugged.
“Just what?” Flare piqued, pulling them both forward so the crowd could keep moving.
“Just,” he reached for his words, not really wanting to explain how this wasn’t his first time having his name ‘leave’ the bowl. And how it probably wasn’t his last. “I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about how sad all of this is, you know?”
Flare silenced him, nodding slightly, “Yeah, but we shouldn’t dwell on that. It’s also not safe to, you know.” He stated more than asked.
It seemed as if Flash was leading an export in sighs as compared to fancy soap and minerals today.
They finally made it to the square and waited, conversing quietly until the Capitol’s representation made their way on the stage.
District 2:
Stringent and his sister, Sinestra, made their way over to the Reaping ceremony being held in the town square. Everywhere people were getting themselves pumped up, ready to volunteer if they saw themselves as a better option to win the games. They only stalked along silently, repelling the festive mood and expelling their own chilling spirits that caused them to have a two-foot radius of space between them and the other citizens. As he walked along, he smiled at the attitudes of the people around him, creating merry with the preparation of the 85th annual Hunger Games. His own version of joy managed to steer more people away from him and his sister rather than have them invite the two to join in on the amusement.
After finally reaching the outskirts of the gathering , they waited for the representative to make their entrance and enlighten the audience as to whom was going to enter the games. The silence between the siblings ensued, hatred filling their hearts as the anthem played.
District 3:
Work was being let out early, and thank whoever above for that since Beadz was about to pass out from a lack of sleep the night prior. And falling asleep in the auto factory isn’t a smart idea when you focus mainly on welding.
It was a surprisingly cold day for mid-July, yet Beadz didn’t have a jacket in his possession, a shame, but not something that was considered uncommon. Everyone rushed by, trying to clean themselves up from the car oil and grease that stained every and all outfits, a sign of working in the factory.
Holding his arms closer to his chest, he brushed past a couple trying to calm down their child who was breathing heavily, fogging up his glasses as his hands covered his mouth. “Poor kid,” he muttered into the wind, thinking of his own little brother, wishing he had done more to help him, make sure he had made it out of- his heart clenched and his thoughts seized to continue as tears rimmed his eyes.
He heaved a sigh and pushed forward. He had to move on, keep living; it's what his brother would have wanted, for him to live, make sure that he experienced life for him. As he walked along he saw people stare at him; this was also something that wasn’t uncommon in his district. Sure, a lot of people were pale due to having to work inside constantly, yet Beadz was, well, really pale. With red eyes. And that caused people to stare. Often. He, of course, was used to this as it wasn’t anything new, in fact, it was centuries old for him. He smiled, thinking back to the times that when people stared, he would gore them in the name of Christ.
The anthem began to ring throughout the district and Beadz hurried his pace, allowing more heat to warm up his freezing body; along with hatred running through his veins.
District 4:
A warm breeze blew across the sea as Michelle ran her toes through the surface of the water. The bobber floated on the water, rocking along with the waves. It was just so peaceful. A real shame that it was Reaping day.
A slight tugging was felt through the string and Michelle slowly reeled in her catch, pulling in a small blue catfish. Peter tugged on her sleeve, admiring her catching ability. She smiled softly at the praise yet wished that he would be able to take in his own catch. They had been here how many years? And didn’t he fish when he was on that oil rig he bragged so much about at dinner as they basked in their memories of old?
She shook her head and sighed, looking at Peter’s line. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked closer. “Peter,” she interrupted the young looking boy, getting him to look where her eyes rested. “Did you put a bobber on today?”
“Of course, I always put my bobber on, silly.” He said smugly, pointing to himself and standing a little.
“Then where is it, hm?” She retorted, looking back up at him, a smug look crowning her face as his fell.
“What?”
“It’s gone, Peter,” she said, pointing at the sea where his line met the water. A sudden noise caught their attention, the scream of the reel as the line was pulled further into the sea, bending the old wooden pole over the pier.
“Oh gosh!” He shouted, jumping at the pole and pulling it back. “Help… me…” he gasped out, struggling with the fish on the other end.
Michelle sighed and stood up, reaching around Peter to get a good hold on the pole, gripping tight. “Dang,” she huffed. “This fish is putting up a major fight.” Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, finally an exciting catch! Maybe it was one of the rare sharks that swam into the bay on occasion, they could definitely use the money, seeing as they provided for themselves. They hadn’t been lying technically when they were found (for the fifth time, being young forever was hard work and involved dying a lot), and claimed themselves as orphans.
A fin broke the surface below the pier and Michelle gasped. Finally! The adrenaline coursing through her body encouraged her to pull harder, the big stupid fish slowly but surely giving up. The sound of feet pounding across the pier went unheard until the owner of said feet crashed into the pair, almost sending Peter off the deck and causing the duo to drop the pole, allowing their catch to escape. Michelle turned on the clutz, rage in her eyes. “What the Hell?” she roared, causing the small man to jump back. “We were just about to CATCH a SHARK, you worthless piece of-” Peter held her back, one hand on her mouth to prevent her from cursing off on the man.
The man held up his hands, backing up slowly. “S-sorry, its just the reaping is going to start soon so…” he nodded his head in an apologetic manner, almost as if his head were trying to catch the small waves below them but with an expression that said ‘I tried to be helpful but I didn’t know I’d actually be more trouble than good…’
Michelle sighed and looked back to the water, the pole and the fin both lost to the sea. She turned back and found the space the man had once stood in empty. Damn, she thought, we really could have used the money.
She straightened up the rest of their things, leaving them on the pier so they could return to them later. She straightened Peter’s shirt as he fixed her hair back into their red bows, and together they walked off toward the main trade square to find out the fate of two innocent people, destined to die.
District 5:
Info N/A
District 6:
He sat in the main office building, basking in the air-conditioning. His eyes remained closed as one hand remained wrapped around his drink. To anyone looking at him as they passed would think he was trying to forget his time in the games, and that would be reasonable, his had been especially bloody. But no one would understand that he was trying to forget something even more horrifying than his games. The way the sun shone on that blonde hair, his expressive blue eyes looking at him, inviting him to join in on whatever sport he had been playing.
A sigh escaped his mouth as he itched at his brow, he needed to get them plucked again soon or- well, he didn’t really remember at the moment or care. You go alcohol, his mind rooted, you’re doing your job well.
The shuffling of feet could be heard outside the room yet he didn’t turn to the door, not even when it gently swung open, the hinges creaking slightly. “Um, sir.” The mayor, he recognized that shy voice, always trying to make sure not to enrage or startle the frequent drunk.
“I know,” Haulard replied, voice raspy from yelling at his dreams last night.
“Alright, be there when you’re ready,” and he shut the door.
Haulard knew that meant be there in five minutes but it was still nice that he didn’t want to directly rush the victor.
Sighing again, he took the shot, letting the feeling of alcohol further the burn in his throat, distracting him more from the pain in his heart and mind, and he headed off to greet more failures and prep them for doom. He definitely felt the odds in his favor...
District 7:
Sweat glistened on his skin in the summer light, cooling him off slightly as he wiped a hand across his forehead, dragging away the offending liquid and offering little to cool his skin further. He lifted the axe off the ground, leaving a slight indent where the blade sliced into the forest floor. Sun reflected off the steel as he hefted it into the air, swinging it down with incredible force that took years to H, slicing through the rest of the wood that took decades more practice to grace.
The stalk of wood creaked as it fell, leaving Coppice to watch it as it fell down to the earth, taking a few branches off of the trees surrounding it. One hand held the axe as it rested in the soft ground again, the other rested above his brow, covering his eyes from the light so he could have a clearer image of the wood as it crashed. A loud thump was heard throughout the area as the basswood crashed into the ground. Coppice let out a deep breath, preparing him to carry the wood out to the clearance zone. After stretching a little to prepare his muscles and chaining the axe to the tree so he wouldn’t have to make two trips, Coppice began making the journey to the clearance, sweat pouring out of him as he carried the heavy lumber.
Everyone believed that Coppice just trained a lot with the wood, allowing him to carry the trees on his own. Others believe that he was trained to do this kind of labor since he was a babe. In reality, which no one would believe, even if he admitted it true, was he just had a lot of leftover strength from being what was once a very tree riddled nation. As he traveled on across the dirt-packed terrain, leaving an imprint in the ground behind him, Coppice thought about his old home and its beautiful forests that once graced the land. He hoped dearly that one day he would be able to return to his land, but he saw it naught to be able to come true, so he made up for it by constantly working with the trees, pretending he was home, and that his friends were there with him, just playing a really good game of hide-and-seek.
Coppice sighed, continuing to drag the lumber through the earth, thinking about his old copper-haired friend and how he tried to entice the blonde man on more than one occasion to skip work and play the silly game. That was before- he sucked in air, holding back the tears that begged to fall. Before he realized how precious that time with him was.
Breathing hard through his nose, he pushed on, trying to forget the pain, but remember the joy he had once felt so rarely. His throat tightened, the muscles beginning to itch for a release, his vision becoming blind as he trudged on. His breathing became uncontrollable, his lungs heaving air in and out, he finally dropped the tree, falling to his knees, and tugged at his hair painfully. Sobs racked his body,causing him to fall further to the ground, a hand covering his mouth, trying to contain the pained gasps escaping his mouth. The flash of auburn crossed his vision, but he knew it wasn’t really his friend, it was just his mind, or a bird. He started to see more red, but it pooled on the ground, his vision grew darker, like he was in a cell. Screams echoed around a room, the stench of copper familiarily filled his nose; ash coated the room. The echo of a sharp cry filled his hearing until he realized it was his own, and he forced himself up, breathing hard and raggad. A hand went through his hair, the other patting at his sticky shirt, making sure that is was sticky from sweat and not from- he couldn’t afford to think about that. He wiped fiercely at his eyes, drying them quickly, trying to forget his episode as soon as he could.
After another five or so minutes, Coppice found himself following his little trail once more, dragging the tree behind him, going toward the clearance once again. He really needed to wash himself and change before the Reaping began, he thought, looking toward the sky to determine how much time he had left before he needed to be at his final Reaping.
District 8:
“You know,” began Betsy, for what seemed around the hundredth time to Cecil. “When I heard of this place I had such great hopes for it.” He stated, pulling the almost finished shirt onto his lap, away from the machine it was supposed to be under.
“Mhm,” hummed along Cecil, focusing on the stitch he was finishing.
“So, when we like, got here,” he continued, “I thought we would have the greatest clothes, right?” Cecil hummed again, motivating Betsy to continue his rant. “I didn’t know we would be making them for other people. I thought that like, we would be able to keep them, or at least some cute fabric. But no, instead we wear these,” he said, tugging at the baby blue uniforms, a disappointed look plastered across his face.
“I know,” replied Cecil, as he always did when his friend got to this point.
“I mean like,” he continued on, ignoring the comment, “it’s totally ridiculous. And a disgrace to mankind. Why should I, of all people, be forced to do this labor? I like, totally deserve more respect, right?”
Cecil looked up at his partner, thankful that they worked in the corner away from the guards and surveillance so they could talk quietly about whatever they pleased.
Betsy only stared back, a look of ‘well, fuck you too,’ slipping onto his face. “Anyway.” Damn, he sure was a chatter mouth, but at least he started to sew again, thought Cecil. “It’s a real disgrace, me being in this garb.” He sighed, chin resting on his open palm, foot still pressed on the pedal, sewing everything together. Cecil raised a brow and opened his mouth, about to make a remark on how Betsy would have to start over, but was interrupted again. “I wish we were back home.”
At that moment the doors of the factory slammed open, the shadowed figure of their boss in the doorway. “Reaping is going to start in ten-minus 30 minutes, get going.” His voice boomed across the room, halting all the workers from sewing their garments. Everyone began to stop work and pack their bags, planning to stop at home to change into more presentable attire.
“Thank God for that.” breathed Betsy, looking at the mess of a shirt he created.
Cecil snorted, and stood up, grabbing his bag and looked back at his long-time friend. “Ready?” he asked, holding a hand out for him.
“Yes, thank you.” Betsy replied, grabbing it to stand up.
“No problem,” said Cecil, walking ahead of the duo to the doors so they could head home and change. There was a reason everyone thought they were together, thought Cecil with exasperation. But he was still pleased to have someone who understood his pain with him. Together, they walked out the doors and into the district streets.
District 9:
Info N/A
District 10:
Running was usually an experience best felt after a good stretch, thought Antonio as he ran. He didn’t exactly have that privilege at the moment, after all, this had been pretty sudden. His feet carried him across the trampled earth, the sound of thunder behind him. Adrenaline pumped through his very essence, pushing him along. Even as his breathing became ragged, he moved along, not wanting to getting trampled by the heavy body masses chasing after him. He knew he should just dive out of the way like the people on the terrain in front of him, but he couldn’t pull himself away, it had been so long since he enjoyed this. Encierro. The running of the bulls. He noted, of course, that it was a couple more than the traditional number of a dozen, but he didn’t care, his heart was filled with the sense of pursuit and absolute joy, his air trying to force itself in and out of his lungs.
Passing by a fence, he noticed that there were a few girls sitting around, wondering what was going on. Once they saw him they either got a look of terror to see the apple of everyone’s eye running for his life or they got a look of praise and desire, encouraging him to move along, rooting at his every footfall that pulled him ahead of the bulls. As he went by, he winked and did a slight wave, causing one girl to faint and the others to fall back and clutch their breasts. He chuckled as he continued on, loving the praise he got and the memories of centuries of runs filling his head.
Making his way to the city he thought about how much he wished his tomate precio- mierda. His heart skidded a bit and he ducked into an alleyway, evading the bulls as they would have caught up with him.
Noises of crashing and screams filled the streets as the bulls continued on their journey, and Antonio laughed, tilting his head back onto the smooth concrete wall. He sniffled as he thought of his tomate. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, wishing that he could have been there to see him run, maybe even tackle him into a hug and spin him around, chanting about how he survived the dreaded Encierro. He wiped tears away from his eyes as walked into the street, shoving his hands into his pockets, the adrenaline and joy of the run wearing off.
“Well,” he thought, “might as well head to the square, Reaping will start soon anyway…” And he trudged along; both the men and the women who saw him felt pity grip their hearts as the usually bright man walked slowly down the street.
District 11:
Chhht! The branch shook slightly, the pull that released the peach causing its quake. Checking the fruit for any bruises and bug burrows, he shoved the fruit inside his bag, continuing to climb after relieving the branch of its yield.
“Going higher, Grist?” someone from below called up.
“Yeah,” he shouted, looking below him for the caller, “what’s it to you, bastard?”
“Wouldn’t talk to your peace-keeper that way if I were you.” He called back up, shaking the bottom branches of the tree slightly.
“I can speak however I please since I get food for your table.” He retorted, resuming his climb to fetch more fruit.
“Tch,” Grist could hear the other mutter below.
“Don’t know how to comeback, now do ya, bastard?” He said, pulling another fruit from the tree.
“Maybe,” he mumbled. “How many more you gonna get before we head over to the square?”
“How many more do you need for me to be free for the day?” Grist called back.
“If I say that you’re free today can we go back?”
Grist mulled it over, picking another fruit, but this time, shoved it in his pocket, hiding it from any prying eyes. “Sure,” he finally replied, starting to climb back down.
Once on the ground, Creel, the peace-keeper in charge of guarding him, grabbed his elbow, took his bag, and led them both out of the orchard. He wasn’t as forceful as some of the other guards that had been in charge of him before, but that didn’t mean Grist liked him. “I can walk myself, bastard.” He said, trying to pry his elbow free.
“I know, but I’d rather not have to beat you like last time.”
“Tch,” he replied, remembering the bruises the damned stick had left, “Then let me walk until we get there.”
Creel heaved a dramatic sigh and released Grist’s elbow. “But,” he pointed at Grist’s pockets, “I get one.”
Another dramatic sigh ensued, but this time from the other party. “Fine.”
The pair continued to walk to the town, Grist having his elbow privileges taken from him until further notice when they walked in. The other guards only nodded, as they passed, making sure the safety was able to be removed efficiently if needed. They stopped at Grist’s hut before entering the town, allowing him a chance to change for the Reaping, and for him to hand one of the peaches over to Creel, who stuffed it in his own pocket. After storing the rest, they walked into the town and waited for the ‘ceremony’ to start.
“Only one more year after this,” sang Creel.
“Yeah, yeah. Until you’re rid of me. That’s all everyone wants.” Grist bitterly replied.
“I was saying until you don’t have to do this anymore.” He retorted just as bitterly back. “And you’ll never be rid of me, no matter what, you stupid shit-stain.”
Grist smiled. Even if it was pathetic, with his only friend being his ‘probation’ officer, but at least he still had a friend after all these years. He would never tell him that though, ‘cause fuck that bastard.
District 12:
The damned rooster needs to die, was the first thought that ran through Quarry as he pushed his stiff body up, adjusting to the still brisk dawn, joints popping and bones creaking as he stretched. He heard a shuffle next to him and he tried to be more quiet so as not to wake his brother, who somehow managed to sleep through the rooster call, even though it was his idea to get it. Taking a deep breath, he hoovered his bare feet above to floorboards, mentally preparing himself for the cold.
It wasn’t enough. They really should invest in thicker socks, thought Quarry, yet he knew that they needed to pay for bigger and more important things like food and medicine for their patients. Well, not his patients, but they still needed medicine. Getting herbs used to be easier a little over ten years ago, but then again, they had a different head in charge.
Stupid Katniss, what did she think, only she and that Gabe or whatever kid used the forest? It was a major provider of their herbs and supplies like that. Good thing she’s gone, can’t cause any more trouble for us here, he remarked silently.
As he boiled some water he and his brother had stored, he pulled on his jumper, placing his boots on his feet and helmet on his already dusty head. Turning the fire off, he thought about what a shame it was that Katniss disappeared after her Quarter Quell went to shit, mainly for her family, who gave up medicine, allowing Quarry and his brother, Curey, easier access to making money by being one of the only ‘doctors’ left.
He checked on his brother’s sleeping form one last time before walking out of their small hut, heading toward the mine to make at least a little bit of money before the Reaping took away his workday.
-
The sun hit his eyelids and he woke up with a start. Why didn’t he hear that damned rooster? They should probably kill it since it wasn’t doing it’s jo- well, it sorta was, Curey thought out, realizing his brother had already left for work. There was a slight heat in the room and he walked into the kitchen, braving the dirty and cold wooden floor, and found water already heated for him. He smiled softly, telepathically thanking his brother.
He would never say it to his brother’s face but he did make life a lot easier for Curey no matter how much got in their way. After the fence remained electrified, even after the death of their skeptical victors (except the drunk one), Quarry managed to get the needed herbs for his brother to continue his practice of medicine to make some money. How he did it he didn’t know, nor did he want to know, but his brother also managed to get that damned rooster, and some chickens so they could sell eggs. His brother had done a lot, and despite his egotistical past and self-proclaimed heroism, he truly was a hero. One who sacrificed so much, even after his own country had been stolen from him, from the harassment to the direct bullet, he sacrificed so much.
After making some more paste to cure fevers, he heard a soft knock on his door, alerting him of his first patient that day. Upon opening the door, he saw a small girl of possibly seven, carrying a boy no older than what appeared to be three. “Please help,” she whispered. Curey ushered her in, taking the smaller child from her arms and placed him on the extra cot (another sacrifice Quarry had made to get for his practice), he then guided her to the small table that had taken a month of building to get (also built by Quarry, who stayed up late just to make it).
As he got a smaller pot out and dunked it into the water, the girl sniffled silently, letting tears roll down her face. Noticing the tears, he placed the small pot down, started a quick fire on the stove and walked over to her. “So, why did you bring him?”
She looked up, gray eyes pooled with tears, hair matted and frizzed. “He won’t get up, and he has a fever. Has had one for a few days.” Her voice barely carried two inches in front of her, but Curey could hear her, having had that problem before.
“Alright,” he said, adding some animal fat to the water to create a broth, mixing in some mint leaves as well to add a slight coolant for the fever. He grabbed the paste he made prior the girl’s arrival and walked over to the boy, adding a heavy dosage to his forehead and a damp cloth to drape over the paste to keep it from running. He returned to the broth, pulling out two bowls to fill and give to the children. He turned and handed one to the girl, and when she refused he placed it on her lap gently, and told her to eat, placing a slice of bread beside her on the table.
As he went to feed the small boy, he heard her slurp down the broth, spoon forgotten in her lap as she ate greedily. He smiled and sat the boy up slightly, so as the child would not choke on the broth.
Eventually the child woke up, his fever broken, and the kids were able to leave, making it back to their home in time to prep for the Reaping.
The door opened slowly and Curey looked back to see his brother saunter through, waving what looked like a small pouch that jingled as he shook it in Curey’s face. “Look at what I got!” His brother bragged. There was the old spirit, the one that brought back the past, making them forget the present.
“Is it your pay?” Curey inquired, returning to cleaning the bowls the children had used, hearing the tinkling of coins go into the small jar they owned, full of their savings over the decades. Thankfully the money never changed, sadly, neither did they.
“Yup!” His brother replied, pride beaming on his face. “Any patients today?”
Curey nodded, “A couple children, one had a fever and wouldn’t wake up.”
Quarry nodded, concern on his face, “Are they alright now or?” He didn’t finish his thought.
Curey turned, finishing drying and returning the bowls to their spots, “They’re fine, the boy woke up and now they, well. You know.” Quarry nodded. Being ill didn’t excuse you from the games. Only death did that.
“I’m gonna get ready.” Quarry announced, heading for the small basin they had for washing themselves. Curey only nodded, heading to their dresser to get dressed himself.
-
Quarry tried to tame his hair, always struggling with the nantucket, and finally gave up. He didn’t care though, it just reminded him of the glory days. As did his glasses, the lenses basically nonexistent in some of the corners, the rims faded and the holders ready to fall out of the screws any moment.
After they both finished dressing up in their blue button ups and matching faded jeans, they walked out the door, down to the square. “I still think that it’s bullshit they increased the age to twenty-one, and all because of the damned Quarter Quell,” Quarry whispered to his brother as they neared the square.
His brother only sighed, “At least its our final year, eh?”
Quarry huffed, “Yeah, but for how much longer? When will we need to hide again? Wait until we aren’t remembered and then come back, only to find out that starting over is harder than before?”
Curey didn’t have any reply, nor should he, for if he did, his brother would only get madder. He found it a little weird how when they first saw Katniss he claimed her a hero, someone who could help them. Now he blamed her for everything, even though all she probably did was die after launching that arrow, causing the games to end suddenly. Curey continued to walk on in silence as he and his brother got their fingers pricked; even as they waited for the ceremony to begin he remained in silence while dread filled his heart. This was gonna be a long day.