Chapter Text
Prologue
What very few people understand about the Games is that they are incredibly formulaic. Most kids remember watching their first Games around age six or seven, so we have each seen at least six of them before we're even eligible for the Reaping. Some Tributes could have feasibly seen a dozen of them before being Reaped on the older end.
And yet every single time, 24 kids are chosen and it always seems like all 24 of them forget everything they obviously already know about the Games from watching so many of them and then watching the recaps and then watching the reruns. Things will probably be poisonous. Mutts will probably show up. The weather will probably change. There are constants to this whole affair that people let go of entirely. I heard once about a Victor saying that they were so overwhelmed and crazed and in-the-zone during their Games that they really did, more or less, forget everything they knew. They entered into killing mode and came out of their daze when the final cannon blast shook them back to life. Sounds more like a trauma response if you ask me.
That's the other thing that all of the Tributes who become Victors forget: life as a Victor absolutely sucks. It looks horrendous. Paraded around and dressed up and ogled at. Haunted by your own memories while being exploited for them. I'd sooner be dead than be a Victor.
Reaping Day
Being one of the middlemost Districts, District 6 is perpetually cursed on Reaping Day by being squished in the middle of ceremonies from Eleven and Three. We're not the first to appear on the screens of Panem every July 4th, so not everyone in the Capitol will be tuned in out of pure excitement by the time they get to us. But soon after us comes Nine, then Ten, then Two, and then One. That means that all the people that sponsors actually want to see and size up will appear on screen for the first time about a half hour after us. If I'm being honest, I probably wouldn't pay too close of attention to the District Six Reaping if I lived in the Capitol. We so barely churn out a Victor that we're almost certainly not worth betting on.
Not only are we stuck in the middle of a bunch of other Districts, but we historically have one of the fastest Reapings. It's almost like people want to forget about us before they even know we exist. There was one year that the entire District Six Reaping took two and a half minutes. I'm being so serious! In Fannie we trust.
Fannie Prinkus, of course. She's the District Six Escort with knots of golden hair that hang down to her ankles (she always insists it's not a wig, but she is fooling no one). She has been our District's Escort for as long as I've been watching the Games, so at least a decade. Most of the other Districts' Escorts are all smiles and roses and jittery joy; ours is dry and banal and lifeless. Last year my friend Monroe did this great impression of Fannie right before the Reaping started that kept me laughing the entire time. Admittedly it was an odd demeanor for the event, especially since last year's boy was someone I actually knew.
Perhaps sensing that my friends and I are nothing but goofy trouble, the Peacekeepers split us all up when we arrived this morning. Instead of Monroe, I'm standing next to Telpher Stowell, who is so deep in thought that he hasn't looked up from the ground once. He's barely even blinking. Maybe he had to take tesserae this year and has his name in more times than normal? He has a younger brother, right? Maybe it's the first year his name is in the bowl? Some kids get really quiet on Reaping Day as if uttering a sound will immediately draft them into the Games. Maybe Telpher's just trying to survive the next hour.
Watching the Reapings in the other Districts is mandatory, but since we're all crammed into the Hub waiting for our own turn, we have to watch it on the gigantic screens they have erected by the Hall of Justice. Telpher isn't exactly the best watching comrade, so I'm stuck making prolonged eye contact with Monroe and Concord, who are at opposite corners of the 15-16 year old boys' section. Monroe rolls his eyes every time an Escort makes a bad joke and I can practically hear his laughter in my head as the Panem seal appears on the screens.
District Twelve is up first. Some girl named Nickel is Reaped first. She doesn't look like she's the most formidable foe, though. She's not emaciated like some of the kids from Twelve are, but she won't be snapping anyone's neck with those arms. She's not crying, though, which is a step up from last year. A boy named Dustin is called up next. He looks like he's on the lower end of Games eligibility. Two more Bloodbath casualties, I'd reckon. Dustin and Nickel both look out at their friends and family stoically as the Panem anthem plays and the screen fades to black.
When it comes back to life, we're looking at District Eight. They have a male escort this year, which is rare. His name is Westiss Flugrand and he can't be more than thirty years old. He looks nervous but focused. An older girl named Esther is Reaped first, and I consider for a moment whether I think she could have a shot at winning. It really depends on who else is Reaped today, but she's tall and solid and doesn't look like a pushover. I wouldn't want to be face-to-face with her and an axe or a sword, that's for sure. An incredibly average looking boy named Quill fills District Eight's second slot and I mentally jot him down as a Bloodbath casualty.
Monroe, Concord, and I have turned the Games into a bit of a challenge this year. We're each going to rank the Tributes and rank where we think they will end up placing. Yes, one could argue that this is morbid and tasteless, but we are forced to watch every moment of it anyways. Why not make it a little more interesting? We decided the loser will have to train surf all the way to the District Six boundary.
District Eleven is next for the Reaping, which means we're on deck. Fannie is already standing at her golden microphone and appears to be doing some kind of vocal warm ups with flappy lips. It would be a shame if an Escort didn't look pristine and perfect, right? I'm watching her more than I'm paying attention, so by the time I look back to the screens, another older girl named Lavender is standing on stage. Sometimes the kids from Eleven are, like, alarmingly well-built. Usually the boys, but sometimes there's a girl who looks like she could eat me for breakfast. Lavender stands with a confidence that I rarely see on a Reaping stage. I can tell from the look in her eyes that she is already calculating whether or not she can actually win. A younger but incredibly gruff looking boy named Orion joins Lavender on stage. They take hands and hold them up as some sort of District solidarity moment. I roll my eyes and make a mental note to assess how they do in Training before ranking them.
Suddenly, I see the cameraman in front of Fannie start to count down from five. Everyone in the crowd stands up a little straighter, keenly aware this is our District's one moment on camera for a good long while. Last year they didn't even show August Braun's stop in District Six on the Victory Tour coverage, so some people see this as the only chance we get each year to prove that our District is strong and healthy and thriving. I see this as the only chance we have to show the rest of Panem that we're real people, not just train conductors' kids and engineers' brothers. Our District isn't huge and we're not the most amazing at, well, anything other than running the trains. But District Six is home and I'm pretty sure I am supposed to have some deeply-rooted pride for being from here.
The camerman reaches one and points dramatically towards Fannie, whose dress immediately lights up in a shimmering cacophony of gold, yellow, and orange twinkling lights. She looks more like a warning sign than an Escort, but to each their own.
"Hello, District Six! So wonderful to see all of you!" Fannie proclaims as if she has not been standing here for a half hour. "Welcome, welcome, let's hurry. Panem: I am coming live to you from District Six for the Reaping of the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games! This year's Tributes from District Six will be..."
She struts with a rushed attitude over to the bowl with all the girls' names. Everyone in the crowd holds their breath as she fishes out a small paper. She walks back to the microphone and makes a show of opening the folded note with an off-putting sharpness. I can feel the nervous energy emanating from the girls' side of the Reaping corral across the aisle. They're waiting to see which of their own we are sacrificing this year.
"Piper Fenmere!" She calls out. I see a lot of shoulders relax as I scan to see who is now stepping forward. A young girl from the front walks up on stage, which means she is probably only 12 or 13 years old. She is short as can be and has yellow-ish hair. She looks dreadfully nervous and scared. The youngest kids almost always look like this--they see the writing on the wall as quickly as the rest of us do.
"Piper Fenmere, ladies and gentlemen." She says it more confidently this time and leads a curt round of applause before sticking her lips to the microphone once again. She does a little shimmy in her dress to make the lights really shine. "Joining Piper will be..."
Another strut, another pull, another baited breath. Fannie nearly trips as she walks back to the microphone, but that makes sense since her heels are at least six inches high. Recovering quickly, she smiles at the camera as she unfolds the second paper. I feel my heart skip a beat like it does every year in these few unbearable seconds. Someone's fate is already in Fannie's hands; we're all just waiting to be told which one of us we're slaughtering for entertainment.
I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. It's a jagged thumping that threatens to send me into some sort of death spiral. I blink and look up, seeing Fannie open the small slip of paper. But when she opens her mouth, it's just a jumble of sounds. My heart pounds so loud that I can't even hear and I'm getting some sort of tunnel vision that's preventing me from looking around and seeing who moves forward. I look to Telpher, thinking his lifeless stare might ground me a bit. But he is looking up for the first time all day...but he's looking directly at me with wide eyes that project equal amounts of panic and pity. Pretty soon, all of the boys around me are laser-focused on me and I feel my heart sink into my stomach. Surely Fannie didn't say my name, right? There's no way I am the sacrificial lamb this year.
"Arling Lockwood?" Fannie apparently repeats, although I feel like I'm hearing it for the first time. My legs feel gelatenous and weak as more eyes close in on me. By the time I see my face on the screens, I look like I'm about to be sick. It takes another split second for this to all register in my brain. My name was called, which means I need to start walking. But my feet are glued to the ground. I shake my head and Fannie laughs.
"It's not optional, dear. Come on up." She beams with a small chuckle and the screen splits into a dual view of her and myself. "But you never know, Panem. Sometimes the least likely Tributes still take the crown."
A pair of rough hands pushes my shoulders from behind and I stumble out towards the center aisle of the corral. A Peacekeeper intercepts my arm and forcefully drags me up towards the stage. By the time we get to the stairs, I have just enough sense to put one foot in front of the other so I'm not carried up here against my will. If any Sponsors are watching, they won't be too keen about a boy who can't even walk up some stairs. Fannie intercepts me at the top of the stairs and ushers me over to a small X on the stage that I presume marks where I should be standing. I feel the immediate need to express confidence, but once I end up in my spot next to Piper, I only feel weak. I'm a gangly kid from District Six. What the hell am I going to do in the Games? Am I going to have to kill Piper? Let someone else kill Piper? Wait until I'm killed myself so I don't have to be the one to do it?
The idea of being a Victor enters my brain with a newfound urgency. I always swore it seemed horrible, didn't I? Winning the Games and having to come home to face the family of whoever you went in with and lost somewhere along the way? No thank you.
It's odd to accept death in front of everyone you know and the entirety of Panem, but I feel my face scrunch up as I reach the conclusion that I will probably be dead within a few weeks. It's a sobering thought that chills me down to my bones. I'm positive my face has curled into a frown as the anthem plays and I see the cameraman signal to Fannie that we're done.
"A little more oomph would be appreciated, my dear," Fannie says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Do you know how hard it is to get you kids Sponsors? You could at least smile."
I shoot her a shit-eating grin. She looks unimpressed.
"Cameras are off," she observes, "don't waste it now." Another patronizing tap on the shoulder.
I resume my frown and look back out at the crowd. I have been so stuck in my head that I haven't even realized this is their last time seeing me, too. Well, for most of them. Friends and family get to visit the Tributes. That's probably what comes next. Everyone is looking up at me with expressions that range from dismay to relief. I scan the crowd of parents in the back but can't see my mom or my dad. I quickly try to find Monroe or Concord to equal amounts of non-success. It feels like I'm already all alone out here.
A Peacekeeper and Fannie lead Piper and I through the doors of the Hall of Justice. We're in a long, ornate hallway with harsh lighting. We are brought about halfway down the hallway to meet two Peacekeepers who stand next to each other in the middle of the hallway with guns drawn. I blink at them, wondering if I'm about to be murdered here and now, but then both reach their arms out to the doorknobs on either side of the hallway.
"Piper, to your left. Arling, the door on your right."
The now ajar doors and creaking doorframes taunt us both. Walking through those thresholds means this is all actually happening and we're about to say goodbye to our families and friends and everyone we've ever known.
"Go on in." Fannie says, patting us both on the shoulders again. "Let's make it snappy and keep it happy."
Easier said than done, Fannie. Especially when you're organizing the logistics of your own funeral in your head. Will there even be a body for my parents to bury? Sometimes the Tributes get so ripped up during the Games that the Capitol just sends back locked boxes in place of coffins. Perhaps that's my fate; nothing left of me but a stone with my name hastily carved into it and a box with a padlock to convince everyone that I am somehow laid to rest.
I take a hesitant step into my room and hear the door slam shut behind me right away. The eerie silence of the room makes my skin crawl. I look around and see a pitcher of water with some cups, some tissues, and a pad of paper with a pen. A rational, sane Tribute would probably take this opportunity to organize their thoughts in the notebook--start planning out how they're going to win the Games so that they can get their friends' advice on strategy. But instead of doing that, I bury my face in the pillow of the deep purple couch on the near well. I keep the pillow pressed to my face as I scream until my throat hurts.