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ONE

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𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐃. In their home and then on their walk to the fields. It settled deeply in their guts, weighing them down as they patted down the dirt path. The animals in the field responded to their noises and the siblings waved to the farmer leading cattle towards the slaughter house.

The whining cry of the animal being lead on thick restraints cooed and called around them. They always fought towards the end, they always knew what was to come.

It was not the siblings' job to do the killing. Sometimes, if it was asked of them, they would follow the butcher and observe and maybe even take the knife themselves, but they tended to the fields. They made sure the goats and chickens were getting plenty of feed, they shoveled cow shit, they repaired the fencing in the pens.

The eldest sibling, her job was to herd the cattle when the old farmer's back was acting up. She would then chop the wood for fireplaces of the farmer and the butcher. The butcher needed to prepare the daily packages of fresh beef, chicken, pig, goat, and the occasional venison.

The eldest sibling was taught to hunt for the deer because it was a special prize here. District 10, her home, was known for their livestock. That meant the normal types of meats and animals which they supplied for the Capitol, but it didn't count the animals in the forests or the ones that would creep up on their cattle and scare off their chickens.

When she was just eleven years old, she set a trap just outside the cattle pens. It was a simple snare, meant to snag the leg of the creature killing their only chance at earning money for food. When the next morning came, a coyote was caught in the trap, yipping and howling.

She set it free and earned a scolding from the farmer. The coyote would just come back again, it would sneak back up on their goats and chickens and drag them away as prey. It was just one of the many lessons the farmer set upon her young shoulders.

This is how you tie a proper square knot and this is bowline.

If you know you don't have the kill shot, aim for the legs. It'll slow it down.

Shovel with your legs, not your back.

Swing high, dodge low. Use your legs, use your strength!

And so on and so forth.

The farmer was a nice man and took in the girl and her brother when she was seven and her brother six. There had been an incident which took the lives of their parents.

There were things children should never have to see, and the bloodshed which rained around them when the storm swept through their District was as if God's angry fist had come crashing down upon them.

The Lykaios family was its intended target, as if driven by fate alone. It tore through their home, breaking the beams supporting their roof. The eldest sibling, holding her brother to her as tightly as she could, watched the roof collapse upon their parents as they raced to their children.

When the storm settled and there was only rain and light wind, the sun threatening to peak out from behind no longer dark and thick clouds, could the girl and the boy see what was left of their home and family.

Aggie Lykaios was dead when the girl found her. Her skull was cracked and bleeding from falling bricks. She was crumbled underneath a high beam and pressed against one of the three walls still standing. Her arm was bent backwards and a bone was protruding from her shin when the girl was able to move the beam with the help of the boy. There was nothing left of her but vacant eyes and blood that looked so dark it was nearly black seeping from her head.

Demetrius Lykaios didn't die until two hours after he was found. Speared through the stomach by falling debris, a home turned knife. He could barely speak, coughing and spluttering on his blood. In the end, it wasn't the spear that killed him but the blood that was slowly filling his lungs, turning his breath to sludge.

With the help of the farmer, they buried them under the great live oak tree between their home and the farmer's neighboring home.

They didn't sleep that night, or the night after.

They couldn't sleep at all in that house, not with all the debris and blood.

The farmer let them move in with him and his wife, and shortly after he put them to work. At first, it was easy, just cleaning up the house and tending to the little garden the wife liked to spend her days in when she wasn't in the fields with her husband. Then, of course, as they grew, the farmer sent them out to do real work. They needed to provide for their District, they couldn't just sit around and doing things kids do like play and wrestle and pick flowers.

District 10 was not wealthy. Every animal they tended to was money from the Capitol once it was killed. Every little package of meat was just another way to earn coin and although they had livestock, it wasn't enough.

The siblings wore the farmer and his wife's old clothes. The girl's brother rarely ever wore shoes and when he did, it was old loafers with growing holes in the soles. They were lucky, of course, to be with the farmer but even then, they had less than they did when their parents were alive.

Aggie and Demetrius had land and lots of land meant homes for animals. They had been in the process of breeding their cattle with the farmers when the storm took out half their herd.

Both families had gotten screwed in the process.

They lived in the heat towards the southwest of Panem. Their land was mostly flat, save for the mountain regions where the trees grew tall and large and bushy. They rarely ever got true winters but when they did, they were harsh like a god had let loose its frozen breath. But the weather didn't stop the District from working. They wrapped their hands in cloth and whatever they could to continue shoveling, to continue feeding and tending to the animals. In the summers, it didn't matter if the sun was melting them from the inside out and their skin was on fire and red.

They needed money and if that meant risking their health, then so be it.

She'd heard it was similar in District 12, notably the poorest of the Districts. She couldn't imagine living there, where they were constantly fending for their next meal and forced to barter and trade.

Don't get her wrong, 10 did their fair share of trading, but it wasn't as life or death. Not yet, at least. She was sure in the next few years, it would fall into a pit the same as 12. They were all bound to fail in order to allow the Capitol to rise up on their weak shoulders.

The great and beautiful Capitol, the home to the rich and the luxurious. There were times when she was asleep where she'd dream of getting drunk on bubbling champagne, eating pastries the color of pastels. They were living entirely different lives and she dreamt of something better for her own family. Her brother didn't deserve to live this life and neither did she, so she kept shoveling and kept hauling in deer and rabbits.

She was the killer in their home, hunting her prey like the predator she was meant to be. She had to be one in order to survive, to keep their little wealth, to keep their reputations. With a good reputation came better coin and better coin meant better meals and better meals meant they were safe.

Well, safe for now.

Nothing was ever safe for long. Not really.

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Keres Lykaios was eighteen, only three weeks before her nineteenth birthday, when she knew her name would be reaped. She knew and she was not afraid.

She knew the odds of Cloelia pulling her name were great, far greater than she'd let anyone know. There was nothing greater than the risk of knowing her name would be drawn.

Her name was entered fifty-seven times. Or was it more? She couldn't remember.

She's a liar. She knew exactly how many times and more.

Adding her name, over and over, so her family could eat through that hard winter. The cattle had failed them, their heifer had died and rotted before they could slaughter and secure. It had been long, the ground hardened with cold and ice. When it snowed, it snowed. Usually they could get by, nothing terrible, but it had turned for the worst as it always did.

But she knew this time that her name would be pulled even before she opened her eyes to the day. And she was not as afraid as she should have been made to be.

It wasn't sunny. There were heavy clouds in the sky, thick with rain for the afternoon. A good summer wash would water down sometimes around the time Arlo and Rayla would begin prep for dinner. They never went with them for the reaping, they didn't need to.

But, even as she looked through the thin curtains and out into their fields, she had a feeling they should come. They needed to be there to witness what they all knew was inevitable.

She washed herself slowly in the basin, scrubbing the dirt from out between her toes and under her fingernails. She'd been in the gardens all day yesterday, picking beans and uprooting carrots. She wanted one last day of something normal and sweet.

Watching the slaughter had been part of it. The stripping of meat, ligaments, bones, and muscle all breaking and tearing and yanking apart. Cutting chuck and shank, wrapping and sealing it for the Capitol who would come for it after the Reaping.

The Capitol is going to eat you alive.

Not before you eat them first.

Keres scrubbed a little harder until her skin was red and she felt the burn come across all her flesh. She wouldn't be here tomorrow morning to scrub, to run her own fingers through her hair and wash what she wanted with her plain soap that smelled like the lavender from the garden.

It was going to be okay. It was going to be fine. The odds of having her name called were still slim, but she couldn't exactly remember how many times she went and dropped her name just for some fresh food or for fun. Fifty-seven felt right but not exactly there.

She's lying again. She's getting used to the role she will play.

When she dressed, she dressed in the black dress her mother had once worn when she was young. She didn't have much from her parents but the dress and her father's watch, which went to her brother. So much of it had been lost in the storm.

She remembered her mother's eyes the most. She saw them every time she looked in the mirror. Hazel, nearly green, nearly brown. A kaleidoscope of colors, all born from her mother's vision. The gods had given her a taste of something sweet and gifted her with a soft earthy rainbow.

She had her mothers dark hair, her father's nose, both of their smiles combined. She was a mixture of all the soft and hard edges. But she was also their secrets, their mischief, their need and want.

They named her after the evil they'd seen in their world. They named her after their own God, their own monsters. It would be a heavy name to carry but they knew she could, they knew she would have to.

You do it for them. You show this world what they made.

The only shoes she had were her boots and she carried them with her on her way outside. The air was humid, clinging to her skin, and she knew she'd sweat through her dress before it was even time to leave. Arlo had let her sleep in and the midday sun was attempting to break free from behind clouds.

This would be her last perfect day, she was certain of it.

"Do you remember when she was reaped?" Elma whispered. She was so close, Keres could feel her breath on her cheek. She was lying in the grass, limbs stretched out and wide, like something caught in a spider's web. "How she went kicking and screaming?"

Keres plucked a few strands of grass. "She died the same way."

"That could be us, you know." Keres began to shake her head but Elma finished with a curt, "We all end up lambs to the slaughter. You know that."

She looked up as the goat bleated behind the gate. It was looking right at them, Keres thought, right into their very eyes and soul. Black, sharp, clearly rotten from the rest. A loner. It bleated once more before blinking its undead stare and leaving.

"Holly did the best she could in those games," murmured Keres. "She tried her hardest."

"She was the fifth to die."

"Better than first."

Elma was reaped the following year and died second. Better than first but always a lamb to slaughter.

Keres knew she would be following in her friend's footsteps. First, it was little Holly who'd only been fourteen and then it was Elma, seventeen and nearly done with all this madness.

Elma screamed, blood spewing from broken lips. The knife lodged deeply in her throat but her eyes were still blinking, she still cried as she fell to her knees.

It was only after the knife was torn free did she die.

Keres looked down at the old crosses. Painted with cheap white paint, cracking and splintering, they were weathering from age. The live oak hadn't protected them much with its big branches and thick bundles of leaves. All things lived and died, no matter the cost or type.

The Capitol sent children to die. They sent innocents to fight their own battles, to fall and trip and bleed for money and giggles and flutes of champagne. Outrageous outfits, food, and events all for the circus. The parade of dead children all wearing the dead faces of those before them.

Dropping to her knees in the soft grass, she bowed her head to her parents and hoped that she would make them proud. She just needed to make it through the first round of killing, she just needed to make sure she didn't go first.

But can you kill another?

Yes, she thought.

She could bring a knife down, a sword, an ax, a trident. She was capable, only because of what she'd seen and learned from but she knew it didn't come without a cost. Elma, dying, bleeding and frothing. Holly suffocated under great big hands that had been forged for the decade prior.

"Thinking of them, huh?"

Helios came to lean against the tree, his voice startling her. Her brother, just seventeen and far older than he seemed. Elma was so different at his age, so light and soft and innocent. She'd wear crowns of flowers, weave them in and out of her hair. When she looked up at her brother, she met his dead eyes.

"You're thinking about today."

"And if I am?"

He let out a scoff, shaking his head. His hair was nearly to his shoulders now. "Thinking you'll be reaped is just playing into their games. They want us scared, Ker, they want us like little whimpering bunnies. We're easy to control that way, fear is control."

"We both know the likelihood of my name being called," she murmured with a shake of her head. Her hair was getting long now, too. She'd coiled it into a long braid down her back and it was thick like a rope against her neck.

"It's almost like you want to be called."

Elma sobbed as they brought her on stage. She couldn't meet her parents' eyes but she could meet hers. She could always meet hers.

"And if I do?" countered Keres, spitting venom. "And if they all deserve to pay for what they did?"

"They didn't–"

"They set them up to fail!" snarled Keres, getting to her feet and leaving her shoes discarded in the grass. "We're the poor districts, Hel, they never want us to win. They train 1 and 2, they prepare them and make sure their fucking gods before sending them on us."

They are the pack of wolves and we are the prey. We always will be.

Hunted for sport. Killed for laughter.

Helios shook his head, crossing his arms tightly. He was dressed in his best gray slacks and button up shirt. He wore no shoes. He was already sweating, trickling down the side of his face. But, from where she could stand, she could see the clench in his jaw and the tightening of his fists. He could sense the wrongness too, they all could.

It'd been brewing for far too long.

"We aren't strong enough here," he whispered, finally, after a long beat of silence. "We saw what happened to the Henson girl–"

"Holly."

Little for her age with stubby legs and fingers, they'd been broken so many times climbing and falling from trees it was easy to lose count. Keres was three years older than her but it felt like a bigger gap. She would forever be fourteen, lost in a world where she could've and should've been someone different.

"Holly," Helios corrected. "Gave her the lousiest getup for that damn parade they do. She didn't get enough sponsors, she didn't even get a good score. A five. A damn five, Ker. How do you know they won't just do the same to you? Screw you over?"

"I don't."

"But you're just...willing to go if they call your name?"

She nodded. I don't have a choice unless someone volunteers for me and we all know they won't. "If my name is called, I'll fight. I'll..." Destroy them from the inside out. "I'll do whatever I can to bring honor to this family."

"You aren't strong."

"Love the optimism you have, brother."

He rolled his eyes. "I just think it's dumb to think you'll be called. Other families had it just as bad, we both saw the Lee family trading names for fresh cutlets. We're all tied for the most unlucky."

She eased back on her heels, feeling the tension rise and fall through her body. A body she'd been training and prepping for a year. It wasn't much but a year can change you, it can cut and slice you into someone new. "Are you not nervous you'll be named?"

He shook his head, flicking a bug off the tree near his face. "The Reaping is just another day, it doesn't mean anything unless you're called first."

"First?"

"You and I both know that if you go," he met her eyes, "I go, too."

"Helios–"

"We die together, Keres. We've promised this." He pulled a small knife from behind his shirt, holding it out between us. "Blood promise, remember? We did it as kids."

Knives. Cutting. Little whispers.

"You're twisted."

"Just as you, sister."

Only seven and six did they swear to never leave the other. After the deaths of their parents, both taken out together like the gods intended, they swore to do the same. If one went, the other would follow. Never to live without the other.

Little feet pattering across the uneven floorboards. Small hands opening the door and creeping out into the backyard. Bare feet stomping through the soft dirt that never wronged them.

"I don't want to live without you."

"You won't have to."

The dull kitchen knife was passed between the hands. They had to grip the blade tightly in their fist to draw blood. The cuts were jagged and unclean.

"Together and forever?"

"We die together."

Hands pressed firmly together, they shook and kissed their thumbs. Sealed like a promise. Sealed like a death wish.

"You're really not afraid of all of this, are you?"

"No," said Helios, shaking his head. "Are you? Really?"

She stared into his eyes and saw her own life reflected in them. She shook her head. "A game is just a game. If I die, I die."

"And if you somehow win it all?"

An unspoken moment where they shared a look, knowing if she won it'd be because she broke a vow. It would be because he didn't follow her, or he was waiting for her on the other side.

"I won't."

I'm not that lucky. I'm not that eager.

"And if you do? You somehow come out on top?"

"Then I make sure they know what a mistake they made by allowing me into their charade."

Elma clung to her tightly in the little room they were spared a moment to speak in. Her shirt was wet, as were her sleeves. She had been sobbing, snotting in her hands on the podium for the world to see.

"Promise me," she whispered into Keres's ear, desperate to be heard, "that when they kill me, you remember what they did."

Keres could only nod as Elma continued her quick speech.

"They're killing us here. Starving us out, forcing us to enter ourselves for their own entertainment. Remember what they're going to do to me, what they did to Holly, to Tanner, to Elijah and Mauve. They're sending us to slaughter, Keres, they're sending us to their little pets. We're the bait, we have been every year. Us, eleven, and twelve, even goddamn three and five. We're nothing to them but the chum and slop for feed. You know this, Keres, you've seen it. We're all just entertainment shock value."

She pulled back to look into her arms. Tears slipping down her tan cheeks, her eyes white and wide. There was fear but a knowingness that was passing between the two. Something shared that hadn't quite happened yet.

"You go and you fight," whispered Elma, her black hair sticking to her sweaty, wet face. "When they draw your name, you show them just how big of a mistake they've made by choosing you."

"And you–"

She shook her head. "I'm not like you. My family are milkers, we don't handle cattle or–or weapons." She wiped at her face with both hands, pulling her cheeks back and turning them red with her pressure. "I was dead the second they reaped my name, Keres. I'm already dead."

Keres took her brother's hand and, together, they headed back into the home. It was just as warm inside as it was outside. The kettle was on and squealing and the smell of eggs and bacon were cooking on the stove.

"Oh!" Helios said with a hearty laugh. "Why'd you get the good stuff out? You were saving all this for–"

"Better now," said Rayla, handing him a plate to take to the table. "Biscuits are waiting for you at your seat." The older woman, who's long white hair was pulled away from her face and in a low descending tail down her the base of her skull, white just as her skin and clothes. "And yours."

The plate passed from her hands to Keres and it felt like there was something else there. Another strange knowing moment where they knew more than they were leading on to. The universe was fickle that way, gifting others with intuition and cursing those with mischief and hope.

"Fresh jam for you, too."

Keres nodded a thanks and went to sit down across from Helios who was already eating like a pig. Both hands moving at once, one slathering jam onto a biscuit while the over shoveled an egg deep within his open maw.

When Keres sat down, Arlo slowly lowered the book in his hands to look at her. He was slow in his movements but deliberate. He wanted her to watch him.

"In one week the games begin."

Both siblings nodded.

"Peacekeepers are patrolling. Have been since last night."

Keres had seen them from her spot on the fence row. All white, moving in sync, batons in every hand. They were ready to beat and curse and whip.

"You're both still of age."

They nodded again.

"You understand what will happen today, correct?"

Nod. Nod.

Arlo bowed his head for a moment, as if overcome, before looking up and looking between the two. "I'm proud of you both. You'll do the right things today."

Keres wasn't so sure about that but she picked up a biscuit, lathered it with jam, and ate. The sweetness filled her mouth and she cherished these last moments at home with her family. They were, of course, her family. Blood didn't matter, not all the time.

"You'll be staying here."

"Here?"

The farmer nodded, holding the door open to the small room made up with cots and an old lantern for light. "It's not much but it's what we got for now."

Keres nodded, holding Helios close to her. He was six and didn't need to be coddled, which is what he always liked to say but she always liked to ignore it. "This is nice."

The room was warm when they entered and she helped Helios sit down, tucking a blanket around his legs. His hair was still wet from the constant rain, from sleeping under a house with no roof or walls.

She patted him softly, meeting his eyes and giving him a little smile. Both smiles were toothy and whole.

When she looked back at the farmer, she whispered so her brother wouldn't hear, "How long can we stay?"

He gave her a blank look as his wife appeared in the door, dumbstruck by the child's words.

"Mister, for how long?"

"Well," he rubbed the back of his neck as his wife touched his shoulder, "I'd say for however long as you like."

'For however long you like' turned into eleven years. He never bothered asking them to leave and they never bothered asking to stay. If it was meant to be, it would just be.

Alro took a long sip of his water, the sound of him swallowing being heard even over the kettle squealing for a second time. Rayla was still tending to the stove, the whistle just white noise. The farmer set his glass down and picked up his book and said, "We'll start heading over in an hour, there's going to be long lines. You remember how it is."

They wished they didn't.

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Keres left the house as soon as brunch was over with. She crossed through the yard and into the path between fields, heading towards the tree line of the forest. It would be the last time she was here, on this land that had shaped and built her.

She made sure to dig her hands into the soil near the end of the field to feel the warmth and softness of it again. She'd been born against this dirt, inside of it, like a worm. The earth was hers and hers alone when she was working and plowing. But nothing would ever be the same again.

You didn't escape the games, not even after you win or you die. It haunts and chases you and Keres knew the second her name was pulled, it would haunt her into her next life.

She'd seen the dead looks in victor's eyes during their tours, forcing smiles and waves to crowds of people's children they'd slaughtered to get on their podium. Keres didn't think she wanted to fight during the games but she knew, if it came down to it, she'd stop at nothing to achieve her goal.

Make them suffer. Make them pay.

Elma had died as a prop, as a secondary character to the plot. She was nothing but a little toy and the top districts knew that as well as the Capitol did. Keres had seen it as her friend dropped to her knees and people sat glued to their seats to watch. It was a tournament for the greedy, money hungry, monsters of the Capitol and for the sick people who enjoyed a good competition, which was more than likely everyone who didn't have family or children to risk.

Keres climbed the fence, careful of the parts that were running with current. The Capitol thought they could keep them out, to keep them fences in on their little properties but they were wrong. Nobody liked to be caged in.

Her dress billowed up as a breeze shot by her. A storm was coming, faster than before. She could feel the wetness in the air, pressing back against her dress and face. This would be the last wind she'd feel against her body, her flesh would forget this if she died but she hoped her mind wouldn't. The wind carried scents and feelings, it carried little memories and bits of people's lives.

Even as she closed her eyes for a moment to savor this feeling, she saw her dead friend's eyes staring back into her.

She wanted to kill the people who hurt her, who threw money and laughter towards her when she sobbed for her mother. How she'd shed tears during the parade of tributes and they laughed and booed for ruining her makeup. The Capitol didn't want tears, they wanted money and grandeur.

But she could play at their games. She could be weak and small, she could be big and boisterous. She could be anything they wanted. How many times did she practice her wave? Her great smile? She was poison under the tongue, hidden in kisses and teas. She was the slippery snake they thought wasn't venomous, she was a true beast in the making.

Or that was what she wanted to be, at least.

Elma had been her start. She'd seen her friend die, she'd seen her stripped of everything she had once been. There was no girl who played with flowers and sang little songs in the meadows, there was no girl with the doe eyes and freckled skin, there was no girl who would tend to the fields in nothing but a thin dress with no sleeves to catch as much sun as she could. There was no girl there at all, just a district flag, another death marker.

Keres had memories of her friend, so many memories that she could regale anyone these tales a dozen times over with the same ferocity but there was none left. Just a memory. Just a moment ruined and changed by a dictatorial government. President Snow, oh glorious, President Snow. With his white hair and crisp mustache. With his sweet roses and dainty granddaughter. So flawless, so perfect and king-like.

Keres wished he was dead every single day. She wished he would die a gruesome death and she would be in attendance, wearing all the dead faces before her.

She climbed one of the big oak trees, scouring up thick branches until she was looking nearly through the leaves and at the gray sky. Tomorrow, she would be in the Capitol. Tomorrow, she would be groomed and looked upon.

But today, she was home. Today, she was someone else entirely.

And home was so beautiful. Even in the grayscale of the clouds rolling in for rain, her district was lovely in every way. There was something about the flatlands with their golden fields and grassy hills. There was wildlife everywhere here, good and bad. The cattle was their statement piece and they roamed the fields, grazing and sunbathing. There were wildflowers in every meadow, in every garden, surrounding every home. They were impoverished here but there was still beauty in things some didn't find conventionally attractive.

But Keres could see it all and she'd remember every part of it until she died. She'd had it memorized since birth and she hoped, even after death, she'd still remember it then too.

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Keres had her finger pricked roughly by one of the Peacekeepers. He snatched her wrist, exposing her palm and pulled her finger taut until the pad was stabbed and blood was squeezed free from the tiny incision.

When they pressed her finger to the scanner, she saw it light up green. The Capitol was ensuring she was who she said she was while simultaneously counting the population. Still too many people, still too many hungry, but what are they to do about it? Actually give the districts the food they've been hoarding and stuffing down full gullets? Send money and clothes and supplies to those who really need it?

No. Never. What a waste.

She followed the crowd of girls towards their designated spots. Since she was part of the eldest class, she stood near the front. But before she could separate into her side, Helios found her, like he always did. It didn't matter how far they were, he was always there. His hand slipped into hers and squeezed before his grip vanished and she watched him split away from her. Mischief twinkled in his eyes, his lips bunched in a knowing smirk.

He disappeared into the crowd and she watched him fade.

The screens by the stage turned on and Keres watched as the faces of her district began to play as cameras circled around. Images of Peacekeepers filtered in between shots of girls barely twelve years old flooded the screens, men in white escorting children to their places.

Thunder crackled above their heads and it was fitting. This would not be a happy day.

Keres watched Cloelia Hemera walk out onto stage and the crowd silenced. The echo of her heels were loud enough to be mistaken for a heartbeat. Her hair was orange this year, bangs cut an inch above her thin arching brows. She stopped before the microphone, tapping it three times and a pumping beat shushed even the birds in the crowd.

"Welcome," she crooned, her lips painted a shade deeper than her hair. "Welcome, welcome, welcome!" She looked out over the children, her eyes bright in the darkness of the overcast shade. "Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor."

No one dared move or blink. The only response was from Cloelia rustling skirts, all the same awful orange. Bright, neon, and off color with her skin tone.

"We have a very special film to watch," she said, the smacking of her lips flashing between each word, "brought to you all the way from the Capitol!"

The same video every year. Keres blocked out the noise of President Snow's narration. Always the same, nothing different. Snow spoke about the war, thirteen districts fighting each other until the Capitol was able to bring peace by defeating them.

"Honor, courage, sacrifice," murmured Cloelia along with the film, wonderment struck in her eyes.

They try to make it seem worth it, that you'd be going in to fight because this was the right thing to do to keep the districts together, that you would earn riches and prizes beyond your wildest dreams if you won. But the Capitol was only pretending, trying to show worried parents, mothers and fathers and grandparents and siblings, that it was okay to send their children to die. It was a worthy cause.

But how could children dying be worthy of anything? How could it be seen as a gift?

It was about control and fear. No one would stop them because the Capitol was powerful, they had weapons and numbers and the districts had nothing. Except for 1, 2, and 4. They were better off than the rest, better off in general.

They crafted warriors and gods amongst children, Careers meant to tear teeth and limbs from others since they were born. Keres had grown up watching them on the screen, shredding victims and slicing away with just the graceful swing of an arm.

"Look at her!" laughed the tribute from 1. "She's still trying to crawl away!"

Elma was almost to her knees, using the tree to help her stand. There was a knife stuck in her calf, blood smeared and running down her pant leg and into her boot. It was so dark it looked black, like oil and tar leaking from the Capitol's puppet.

"How long do you think she'll last?" purred another, a tribute from 2. "We could let her die from infection, or maybe blood loss? Cut the artery that's right there in the ankle, it'd be fun to watch her crawl."

"No," said the boy from 1. "Let her stand, we'll kill her right off. No need to be out here any longer."

The Gamemakers had made it snow that year and flurries were beginning to fall from the sky. There was a light dusting across the grass but not enough to stick but as Elma stood, snow sticking to her like ash, it came down harder.

The tributes laughed, the girl from 1 pressing a hand to her mouth to suppress the noise as she mumbled, "It's just so pathetic, it's like she's putting on a show! Come on! Dance, monkey, dance!"

"I'm tired of this," snarled the boy, pulling out his knife.

Elma was grabbed from behind, thrusted forward like a prize. She didn't get the chance to speak one final time, she didn't get the chance to defend herself.

Elma's body would not be recovered until two days after she was killed. The boys from district 1 and 2 dragged her corpse with him as a trophy. As a warning to any other tributes in the area that this would be them, they would get them next.

Propped up beside them at fires, pale and oozing. Eyes and mouth still open, hardened by rigor mortis. The girls giggled and made fun of the way she looked, the way she smelled. They all would've tried to take fingers as souvenirs if they hadn't been run off by tracker jackers.

"Now, let's select our courageous young man and woman who will be representing this...wonderful district at the 73rd annual Hunger Games." 73 years of terror, 73 years of starving, 73 years of murder. "As always, ladies first."

Keres wanted the glass bowl to bleed red. It stood like a harrowing ghost on either side of the microphone. She remembered when they called Holly's name, when they called Elma, when they called the poor girl who'd just turned twelve the week before, the boy who was only thirteen. She could see all their faces, all of them standing up on the stage waiting and watching.

Cloelia dipped her clawed nails into the bowl, tapping the glass in thought. She marinated for a moment before sinking her fingers into the slips of paper.

She could see her name burned into the paper, oozing and cursing and wailing.

This was never going to be a happy story. She knew that. It was never going to end any other way than burning, propped up like a martyr. As Cloelia pulled her hand from the glass, Keres's heart didn't stutter nor did she lose her breath.

The escort opened the small folded piece of paper and readied herself before her microphone. There was a smile on her face, all too knowing.

"Keres Lykaios."

Static. A screeching sound in her head. Metal grinding on metal.

She'd known the fates had chosen her long before she woke that morning. She knew they had spun their web, their threads had been coating her skin since she'd watched Elma be dragged away, since she'd threatened and cursed the Peacekeepers who took her. But that didn't stop the white noise from building up in her ears like rushing waves of a beach she'd never seen.

She was going to die. But didn't you want this? I do, I do, I do.

The girls on either side of her took small steps back, isolating her near the front of the group.

"Where is she, hmm?" called Cloelia, looking through the crowd as more girls stepped back. "Ah, come now, don't be shy."

Keres looked up slowly and met Cloelia's eyes and began the greatest act of her life.

Little actress, little girl, devastated that her life's about to end.

"No," choked up, strained, whispers of a voice, "no, no–"

She shook her head, throwing it back and wailing, trying to scamper past the girls as Peacekeepers came from either side of the crowd to reach her. She had tears running down her cheeks as they grabbed her roughly by either arm, wrenching her into the aisle between groups and forcing her up onto the stage.

She'd taught herself to cry on command. Stabbing herself with her nails, pinching her skin to force the burn to her eyes. Sitting alone in the dark near the edge of the woods, she would wail and sob for hours to get the sound just right.

Thrusted onto the stage, made to stand beside Cloelia, Keres looked out over the sea of faces. Not a single soul seemed to believe she could face this, there were furrowed brows, bunched lips, tight jaws, and fearful eyes. Her role was just beginning.

"There's nothing to be so scared about," cooed Cloelia, holding the microphone out. "You're going to be the face of this district. You're going to be famous!"

The dead were never remembered.

"Now, let's see what brave young man will be accompanying you on this most splendid tour!" The woman wasted no time dipping her hand in, playing about the papers, and pulling one free. She didn't even get the chance to read the name when there were shouts from the crowd.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

Helios stood in the aisle, breathing heavily as if he'd had to fight his way through. By raising his hand and forcing those words out of his mouth, he was committing suicide. Volunteering in districts like theirs, 11, and 12 meant death, it wasn't glorified or promising a victory in other districts. Here, it meant imminent death.

Cloelia made a gasping sound and choked out, just like the actress she'd been made to be too, "My, oh my! Please, come to the stage, young man. What a spectacular display, everyone. How brave and how shocking!"

Everything she said sounded fake, like a script running through her head.

Helios was escorted to the stage and was presented before the district. Small, young boy. Not even six months close to his eighteenth birthday. Cloelia held the microphone out to him and said, "Tell us your name."

"Helios," he said, "Lykaios."

Cloelia let out another gasp, covering her painted lips with a pale hand. "Brother and sister?!" She turned to the crowd. "What a powerful display we've seen here today. Siblings who wouldn't dare be parted." She raised her hands. "Can we get a round of applause for their courage?"

Helios took Keres's hand. The district was silent and from the back, Keres could see Arlo and Rayla and their slow rise of hands. Three fingers, raised to the sky. She'd seen it before, mostly used in District 12. But Arlo used it now, signaling them.

Thank you. I admire you. Goodbye.

Today, it meant goodbye. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE━━lot's of world building oops hehe

but also wanted to get the reaping out of the way fast so we could get to the good bits LMAO ill probably go back and rewrite some of this bc it felt rushed and not great lol but anywayssss hope yall liked it <333 (all unedited)

pls pls vote/comment !!!