Very Far From Fine (Reapings)

"I don't wanna fall, fall away.
I'll keep the lights on in this place,
'Cause I don't wanna fall, fall away.
I'm dying and trying, but believe me I'm fine
But I'm lying,
I'm so very far from fine"
- Twenty One Pilots

Exodus Laviere, District One Male (18)

My gaze travels upwards to the zinc colored sky, the first raindrop escaping a dark cloud and falling to the ground like a tear.

I sigh and crack my knuckles. Glancing down, I admire the way my black dress shoes contrast sharply against District One's pure white concrete.

Dress shoes. A suit. Tie. Styled hair. The proper attire for Reaping day; "In order to be a Victor, Exodus," my mother told me as she tied my tie this morning. "You must dress like a Victor."

I lift my head and lock eyes with a tall, curly-haired blonde with sparkling green eyes. She grins at me and waves with one slim hand, as though she knows me.

With no hesitation, I grin right back and nod my head in recognition. Sapphron? No, she's a redhead. Maia? Brunette. Victoria? Blue eyes. A switch in my head flicks and the blonde's name comes to me.

"Hey, Blaze," I mouth to her with a wink.

Blaze's face goes red and she turns to her friends. I hear the squealing from here; they buzz and jump up and down excitedly.

With a shrug, I turn my attention to the people around me. I've positioned myself at the back of the eighteen year olds for two reasons; to be alone and to take my sweet, sweet time as I stride up to the stage when I volunteer.

The guys around me chatter excitedly about the Games, and occasionally shoot me jealous glances. When the Academy announced I was the chosen volunteer for District One, there was a bit of an upset; they say I'm not the sharpest knife in the Cornucopia, whatever that means.

But I am better than them, I know it. I'm more than just a handsome face. I can win the Games. I can prove to them I'm better. I am smart.

The stage is covered by a pastel blue tarp, the raindrops splashing off of it with tiny explosions. The drops slide off the plastic and onto a group of grumbling twelve-year-olds, who express their anger loud enough that even I can hear.

Finally, District One's Mayor, Miss Velvetine, takes the stage. She's old enough that wrinkles cover her face, but young enough you're still able to know that she once was pretty.

Miss Velvetine ignores our applause and cheers and hurriedly reads the basic rules of the Hunger Games, launches into a brief history of Panem, and ends by exhaling a deep puff of air.

"Copperwood Weaver, our beloved escort, please take the stage."

The fluorescent lights shining on the stage dim, and the speakers blare a patriotic little tune. I find myself clapping to the beat and moving my body to the rhythm.

A flash of orange drops down onto the stage. I squint my eyes through the rain to see the shindig on stage.

Our escort of five years, Copperwood Weaver, is wearing a black poncho and leather pants. An olive green cape flaps behind him in the wind. Copperwood's hair is dyed a fresh orange; a strip of white in the center.

"Gooooood evening, District One!" Copperwood shouts into the microphone. When the crowd cheers back, Copperwood cups a hand over his ear, as though he can't hear us. "I said, goooood evening, District One!"

My ears ring with the noise we create, me included. I cup hands over my mouth and shout right along with the crowd.

"Are you ready for the moment you've been waiting for all year?" Copperwood is buzzing up and down in his olive pointy shoes, giggling like a schoolgirl.

Our escort bounces on his toes to the bowl, dips his hand in, but before pulling it out, looks at the crowd with his mouth in an 'O' shape. "Can I get a drum roll?"

I start to pat my knees, but quickly stop when I realize nobody else is and instead a drum roll is piped in through the speakers.

Copperwood scoops a big handful of slips and prances over to center stage. He makes a show of throwing all but one off the stage, into the crowd of rain soaked twelve-year-olds.

"Azure Brooks!" Copperwood shouts.

We all look around for the girl Copperwood has called, squinting our eyes through the rain and looking around. Someone points to the fourteen-year-olds, where a redhead girl dressed in a silver dress emerges.

Azure struts onto stage, blowing kisses into the camera and flipping her hair over her shoulders. I haven't seen Azure at the training center, but her body seems fit enough. It doesn't matter, of course, because she isn't going into the Arena.

"And now," Copperwood giggles. "Who is our lucky volunteer? C'mon, ladies!"

The crowd is buzzing with excitement, searching this way and that for Amber Rush, who was announced yesterday as this year's volunteer.

I spot Amber in the eighteen year olds, but she sinks backwards into the crowd, staring at the ground.

The cheering falls, not even Copperwood is hooting and hollering.

"I volunteer," a stony voice announces. I crane my neck to see a girl with blonde curls emerging from the other end of the eighteen year olds.

No sound is heard as the girl keeps her gaze straight, mounting the stage.

Tempera Petros; the daughter of Cashmere Petros, esteemed Victor of District One. Niece of Gloss Petros, the late Victor of District One.

Copperwood stares at Tempera as she crosses the stage, making her way towards him. She's wearing a short white dress that swishes as she walks; the swishing and the click of her heels against the stage are the only noises in the Square.

It's even a shock to me. Tempera Petros is considered a gem of District One; she is untouchable. Unbreakable. Unreapable. A diamond.

Copperwood blinks a few times before letting out a hearty laugh. The rest of the crowd uneasily begins to laugh, too.

This awkward laughing goes on for a few moments before more upbeat music is piped in thruogh the speakers.

"Hello, little lady," Copperwood bats his orange eyelashes at Tempera and throws an arm around her. "What's your name?"

Tempera's jaw clenches for a split-second, and it looks as though she's going to sock him in the jaw, but she drops into a curtsy and a smile spreads on her face.

"Tempera Petros," she announces into the microphone. "Daughter of Cashmere Petros. Niece of Gloss Petros."

Copperwood claps his hand on her shoulder and laughs happily, pretending he didn't know who she is. Everyone in Panem knows who she is. "Oh, a child of a Victor! How lovely!"

He struts towards the other bowl of slips and poses next to it. "Alright, District One, we've got our lady, let's see who our gentleman is. He's gonna have to work to top Miss Petros!"

Us boys stomp our feet and yell as Copperwood dives his hand into the bowl, coming out with a crisp slip.

I don't give Copperwood a chance to announce the name before lunging forward and announcing, "I volunteer!"

A strike of confidence hits me and I run a hand through my hair, grinning into the camera. "I Volunteer as District One's next Victor."

While I make my way to the stage, I can hear giggles from the girls' section bubbling. I ignore them and climb the stage, splashing up rain that has gathered on them.

I walk over to Copperwood and shake his hand, patting his shoulder with the other.

"My name is Exodus Laviere," I announce into the microphone before Copperwood has a chance to shove it at my face. "Try not to forget it," I add with a wink. This causes a burst of cheers to rise from the crowd.

Copperwood grabs one of Tempera's hands and one of mine and thrusts them into the air. I get a glance at Tempera's face and see her narrowing her eyes at me, then turning away and shooting a big smile at the cameras.

Our escort puts our hands together and as I give Tempera's hand a gentle shake and squeeze, he announces, "District One!"

The chanting begins. "Tempera! Tempera" rings in my ears.

But "Exodus! Exodus! Exodus!" rings even louder.

Willow Thorne, District Seven Female (17)

"I can't believe this day has finally come," Daphne tells us. She glides back and forth across the stage, dragging her lavender dress across the wood.

Bullshit, I think, tugging at my brown dress. This whole thing is bullshit. A joke. A goddamn joke.

Opal twirls a peachy pink curl around her finger and bats her eyelashes into the camera. She does a little twirl, her lavender dress forming a tiny tornado at her feet.

I groan inwardly. Oh, for god's sake, I cringe as Daphne turns the stage into her catwalk, strutting left and right. This is a train wreck.

Apparently, Ash Birck, a Victor, finds Daphne's behavior just as annoying as I do. He shouts something at her that's not picked up by the microphone, and Daphne spins around, raises her fist, and shouts back.

The two shout at each other for a few minutes, completely unheard by the crowd, save for a few twelve year olds who wince at their words and turn away. Finally, Daphne seems to realize that the Reaping is televised and she faces us once more, smoothing out her dress and fluffing her hair.

"Well," she clears her throat and smiles at us. "Let's cut to the chase, shall we? Let's find out who our brave, lucky, courageous, extraordinary lady will be."

Yes, let's, I muse in my mind, crossing my arms over my chest.

Unlike years past, Daphne doesn't make a big deal out of plucking a slip from the bowl. Most of her energy, it seems, has been used up on her shouting match with Ash.

She takes the first paper her fingers come in contact with and parades to the microphone. Daphne unfolds the paper, smooths it out between a thumb and forefinger, and announces,

"Willow Thorne!"

I nearly choke on my own spit.

This is impossible. I only have 5 slips. 5 slips. This is rigged. This is rigged. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I'm going to the Hunger Games.

Someone shoves me forward and I begin to stumble to the stage. I smooth out my dress and keep my head tipped to the ground.

You can get through this, Willow. You just need an alliance. A sponsor. It's not a matter of strength, it's a matter of wit.

I mount the stage and take my place next to Daphne. I have to shuffle slightly every time Daphne moves as her dress threatens to trip me.

Willow places a hand on my shoulder and faces the crowd, gesturing towards me and showing off my body.

"Any volunteers?"

There aren't any. I saw this coming, but that doesn't stop my stomach from churning and me biting down so hard on my tongue I taste blood.

Thankfully, Daphne removes her hand from my shoulder and doesn't talk to me again. She is now the boy tribute's problem.

I stare at my feet while Daphne retrieves a slip from the bowl and brings it back to the microphone stand.

Daphne clears her throat before calling out, "Garrick Layton!"

I know him, I realize as my stomach drops. Garrick is in my grade. He was my chemistry partner last year.

I close my eyes and exhale slowly, hoping there is more than one Garrick Layton in District Seven and I won't be put it an Arena with my former chemistry partner, expected to kill him.

When I open my eyes, Garrick Layton isn't standing next to me. Nobody is.

"Garrick! Garrick Layton!" Daphne repeats. "Garrick, are you out there?"

I lift my head for the first time and search the crowd.

There!

A small gap has formed in the seventeen year old boys' section, the boys have parted to reveal a frozen Garrick Layton.

Two Peacekeepers cock their guns and merge into a well rehearsed position, advancing towards Garrick.

Something seems to snap in Garrick and he begins to stumble towards the stage, just before the Peacekeepers reach him.

I watch with narrowed eyes as Daphne catches Garrick by the wrist before he trips. "Hey, there," Daphne giggles and helps Garrick stand upright.

"I'm so sorry," Garrick looks mortified. His eyes flicker everywhere, to Daphne, to the crowd, to the ground. His face is beet red. "Y-Your dress is really pretty."

Daphne squeals and gently slaps his shoulder. "Oh, Garrick, you certainly know how to charm a lady," she spreads the bottom of her dress out and curtsies. Daphne turns to a camera and winks into it. "Ladies, I'd bet on this one if I were you."

Garrick stands next to me after bashfully accepting Daphne's compliment with a shrug of his shoulders. I feel his shoulder brush up against mine and I inch away awkwardly.

"District Seven, I present to you, Willow Thorne and Garrick Layton!"

Instead of shaking my hand, Garrick suddenly envelops me in a hug.

I hear Daphne shriek for the cameras to zoom in as she claps eagerly.

Don't get too comfortable, Garrick, I think as Garrick pulls away from our hug and looks at me with sympathetic eyes.

Gareth Foster, District 6 Male (17)

"Are you ready?" Conor grins at me as he hands me a large brown box that twitches in his hands. "This is gonna be so epic."

I glance up at the stage, where our pudgy Mayor is speeding through his speech. His shoulders sag and the bags under his eyes are more prominent than ever. The Mayor's son eats lunch with us, Lilan's his name. He's a good kid, and says that his dad only gets an hour of sleep each night.

A prick of guilt hits me, but I quickly shake it off. The Mayor will be done with speech by the time I start the plan, anyway.

'Sides, I'm Gareth Foster and Gareth Foster doesn't back out on anything.

I shake the box in my hands. The worms, spiders, centipedes, and one dead rat jiggle about. Yeah, this will be epic. Sure, the Escort might lose a few years off her life, but who cares?

"Let's do this," I wink at Conor and slink away from him, shuffling towards the edge of the crowd of seventeen year olds.

The plan is to throw the box of creepy-crawlies right when the Escort announces the boy's name. This'll show our hatred for the Games and the Capitol better than if we threw it when the Escort gets on stage; this shows we aren't happy about one of our friends being taken.

Across the way, I can see my girlfriend, Lydia, glaring at me from the girls' section. She's shaking her head and crossing her arms.

Lydia's what we like to call a Fanc in District Six. Her family is well off, since her dad somehow hit it big and owns three train companies.

She isn't in support of the Games, but she doesn't see anything wrong with it. "We deserve it," Lydia told me the first time the subject came up. "We rebelled for no reason. Got what's comin' to us."

Therefore, Lydia wasn't thrilled when I told her how I'm going to chuck a box of creatures at our Escort.

I tuck my box under one arm and blow a kiss at Lydia, followed by a wink.

Lydia makes a disgusted face and flicks the 'kiss' away. She opens her mouth, about to mouth something to me, but all of a sudden the Capitol's music blares.

We both look up at the stage, where our escort, Pippa Potts, literally hops towards the microphone.

"I feel a haiku coming on!" Pippa squeals into the microphone in that exaggerated Capitol accent, causing all of us to groan.

She closes her eyes and spreads her hands. "I love District Nine, it is so, so fine, and I am so glad it's mine."

Pippa opens her eyes and scans the crowd, checking to see if anyone is clapping. When no applause is heard, the speakers begin to pipe it in anyway.

"Thank you!" Pippa falls into a bow. "Now, let's jump right into it and pick out our lady!"

Pippa places a slender hand into the bowl and grabs the first slip her fingers make contact with. The excitement seems to be too much for her, as she doesn't head back to the microphone, she screams the name at the top of her lungs.

"Portia Lit!"

A frail looking blonde thing emerges from the fifteen year olds. She looks like she's about to piss herself; her legs are shaking and she's making a sour face.

Portia climbs onto the stage with Pippa, who greets her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Any volunteers for Miss Portia, District Nine? Not that they're needed; Portia looks like a fighter!"

A hesitant voice suddenly cries out, "I volunteer!". It sounds much more like a question than a statement; the voice was shaky and confused.

"Yeah, um, I volunteer as tribute," the voice says, not sounding much more confident.

A girl walks out from the sixteen year olds, short blonde hair flapping in the breeze. She's wringing her hands together, cracking her knuckles and picking at her nails.

"What a twist!" Pippa giggles with delight and practically pushes a relieved looking Portia off the stage. "Come on up here!"

The blonde shrugs and does as she's told, walking uncertainly up the stage. Pippa grabs her hand and drags her closer, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

She shoves a microphone in her face and asks for the blonde's name.

"Savera Beaumont," the girl responds.

More like Suicidal Beaumont, I think. Who in their right mind would volunteer? This girl's a goner for sure.

Pippa doesn't seem to share the same thoughts I do, as she squeals and pulls our new Volunteer in for a hug that makes Savera's face turn purple.

As soon as Pippa pulls away, she makes her way towards the other bowl. Conor nonchalantly coughs, my cue to get ready to throw.

I get ready to throw the box, pulling my arm back. Pippa's walking back to the microphone, slip in hand. A few more seconds. . . She opens her mouth. . .

"Gareth Foster!"

"Fuck!" I drop the box and it bursts open immediately, all of the creatures beginning to make their escape.

A few of the guys around me step back and make disgusted faces. Lydia whips her head around and stares at me with wide eyes.

"Oops," I laugh and start walking forward. Tiny bodies crunch under my feet.

Calm. Confident. Calm. Confident.

I walk up the stage and take my place next to Savera. She points at my shoulder. I look down and see a spider perched on it.

Gritting my teeth, I flick the insect off of me and step on the body when it lands on the stage.

I'm fucked.

Myra Pendle, District Five Female (14)

"It's fine, Josh," I whisper awkwardly to my brother, patting his back. "Go back to your friends."

Josh's blue eyes are filled with tears. "I'm scared, Myra. Let me stay, they won't be able to see me."

It's Josh's first Reaping. Just like him, on my first Reaping, I was sobbing an ocean. However, I had to suck it up and stand with the other twelve year olds. Why should his experience be different?

"Josh, listen," I decide to get on my knees, like I've seen my parents do a few times. How do they do it? It's so uncomfortable. "You'll be fine. You've got one slip. Don't be so worried, okay?"

I can hear a few of the bullies from school giggling at us. Biting down on my lip, I try to block out the words I hear everyday. Freak. Moron. Worthless.

Josh throws his arms around me and nods into my shoulder. I freeze, unsure to react. My arms hang limply by my side, my back stiff.

Fortunately, this awkward display of affection doesn't last too long as Josh unclings himself from me and treads off to the front, with the rest of the twelve year olds.

I exhale slowly and stand up again, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. I love Josh; he's my brother, I have to. But the kid can't take a hint. I don't know how to act towards him, why doesn't he get that?

"That was smooth, freak."

Dina Orsirio.

I stand firmly and focus on the stage, waiting for the Mayor to step onto it. Ignore her. Ignore her. Ignore her.

"It's kind of sad, really. You can't even talk to your own brother. Doesn't that make you feel bad, freak? You're that useless."

Ignore her.

"You're a failure, freak. A waste of space, really."

Ignore her.

The Mayor finally steps up onto stage and begins his speech. Dina whispers through it.

"Are you excited for the Reapings, freak? Me and Vida have a little theory. Wanna hear it freak? We think you're a sadist. Y'know what that means? It means you get pleasure from watching other's pain."

I clench my fists at my sides, digging my nails into my skin. Ignore. Ignore.

"...And with that, ladies and gentleman, let's give a warm welcome to our Escort, Nate Formar!"

A man with a surgery-sculpted face steps onto the stage, wearing a sight that mimics metal. The sun's light bounces off of it, making it gleam and shine.

Nate doesn't say hello to us, and doesn't make a show of how excited he is like last year's Escort, Pippa Potts, who recited a haiku.

"That guy's a bit like you, freak," Dina whispers as Nate crosses the stage to the girls' bowl. "A big ol' freak. You'd fit in at the Capitol. Fingers crossed you get reaped."

Nate reaches into the bowl and digs his hand around, moving some of the slips before finally grabbing one. "Myra Pendle!"

I intake hard and nearly throw up. Myra Pendle. Myra Pendle. Myra Pendle. An overwhelming mix of emotions hits me. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to run. I can't do any of those things.

I'm frozen in place, staring hard up at Nate, practically begging him with my eyes to choose another slip. This is a mistake.

A snicker and a hard shove to my back from Dina reminds me it's not a mistake; Nate has chosen me for the Hunger Games.

I begin to walk towards the stage, trying hard not to cry or scream or both. Last year, the girl from Five was a sobbing wreck. She was all snot-nosed and sobbing, and ended up being the first one to die in the Games. I won't be like her. I won't cry. I can't cry.

Nate offers me a hand when I climb up the stairs, which I gladly accept. I feel like I'm going to fall over. He gently pulls me to the microphone and puts an arm around me, rubbing my bicep.

Normally, this sort of contact would send me into a stage of awkwardness, but right now the only emotion I can feel is fear.

"Myra Pendle, everyone," Nate says into the microphone. "Don't underestimate her, I've got a feeling Myra's a fighter."

The praise should make me feel more confident, but I barely register it.

Nate releases me and heads to pick a slip for the boys. While he does so, I force myself to stand straighter and put my hands behind my back. I don't let myself look down to look at Josh.

Josh, I think. How ironic it would be if he was chosen. How ironic.

It isn't Josh; it's a boy named Donny Impulse. When his name is called, a lanky boy with brown eyes that I figure are usually filled with bright confidence but now filled with fear, swaggers out from the seventeen year olds.

I can tell he's like me in the sense he's trying hard not to freak out right now.

"District Five, I think we've got a good set this year," Nate laughs dryly and nods for us to shake hands.

Donny's hand is shaking hard. I try to steady it with my own, but mine is even shakier.

"Good luck," Donny murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.

I'll be needing that, I muse, pulling my hand away and allowing the set of Peacekeepers to guide me and Donny off stage. But so will he.

Darius Orson, District Two Male (18)

I turned eighteen just two weeks ago.

I s'pose if I lived in any other District, my family would be celebrating that this is the last year I'm applicable for the Reapings. Maybe I'd get a big breakfast on Reaping day. A hug and a kiss before heading out for the Reaping.

Heck, maybe I'd even get both; my loving mother would bring me a tray of breakfast in bed, and my smoking hot girlfriend would give me a kiss and escort me to the Reapings.

However, I live in District Two, and I lack both a loving mother and a hot girlfriend. I was also not woken up with a tray of breakfast; I was woken up with a bucket of ice cold water being dumped on my head by my not-so-loving brother, Marcus.

I wasn't escorted to the Reapings by a smoking hot girl; I was escorted by a pudgy man, Mr. Okin, who owns the Academy.

"And when you get to the Capitol," he told me as we took the long way to the Square. "You're to go for the cunning angle during Interviews. I've already informed your Mentor. Speaking of Mentors, do as he tells you."

Being chosen to Volunteer would be the highlight of some District Two citizen's lives. It is a mere page in mine. One way or another, I truly don't care about the Hunger Games. It's stupid and cruel, sure, but there's nothing to do about them.

Therefore, when Mr. Okin approached me with his 'great' news, I plastered a fake smile on my face and faked happiness.

The only true great news he told me was the fact that our Escort this year is Mellie Brito. Mellie's overly upbeat attitude is endearing and hilarious. If this is my last Reaping, I'm glad Mellie is hosting it.

"Before we start the Reapings," Mellie puts on a serious face and places her hands on her hips. "I have to say; who recommended the mint banner? It. Is. Fabulous!"

We all look up, where a mint green District Two banner is hanging, flapping in the breeze. I s'pose it does compliment the stony-walls of Two.

"Since I see the death glares some of you ladies are sending me," Mellie sends her own glare out into the girls' section. "Let's get on with the true Reaping."

This earns some cheering.

Mellie trots over to the bowls and dives her hand in. She makes a large showcase of it; digging all the way to the bottom, grabbing one, putting it back, mixing them up. . She finally grabs one and pulls it out, marching back towards the microphone.

Mellie smooths the paper between her fingers, clears her throat, and announces, "Silver Montel!"

Laughter surfaces from the crowd, and even I'm fighting back a grin.

Silver Montel is somewhat of a laughing stock at the Academy. It's not that she's a bad trainee, so to speak. It's merely the fact that she's about 5', 80 pounds when dripping wet, and yet she claims she's the next Victor of the Hunger Games. That, and the fact that she's an absolute maniac.

When Silver was 12, and I was 14, she threw a knife at a trainer, slicing off one of his fingers. She got off with a warning, claiming it was an accident, but we all see her grinning and giggling when she prepared to throw it.

The she-demon herself emerges from the sixteen year olds, a smirk tugging at her lips. She's dressed in all black, which looks a bit strange against her pale skin and black hair.

Silver takes her time going to the stage, sending smiles and waves to who I presume is her family.

When she finally climbs the steps and joins Mellie, the contrast between the darkness of Silver's outfit and the overwhelming pink of Mellie's laughably ironic, Silver pushes Mellie away from the microphone.

"Nobody volunteer," Silver says into it. Her eyes are bright, a smile on her lips. "Nobody. Volunteer."

Mellie, flustered and bright red, manages to push Silver away and swats her arm, scolding her. "How rude!"

Realizing that what she said was caught by the microphone, Mellie's face darkens even more. "Sorry, but that's just what I think! Any volunteers, ladies? C'mon, where's the District Two I know and love?"

For once in 84 years, there is no volunteer.

"Hm, well, okay! If you're all sure. . ."

She pauses, waiting and waiting for a girl to leap forward and volunteer. Nothing.

Mellie clears her throat and bounces to the other glass bowl. The twist has clearly upset her, as she doesn't waste any time plucking the first slip she touches and carrying it to the microphone.

"Gerard Stump!"

I glance over at Mr. Okin, who's nodding his head, encouraging me to volunteer.

Let the Games begin, I think to myself with an exaggerated sigh. I raise my hand up, step to the side so Mellie will see me, and announce, "I volunteer!"

Mellie squeals with excitement and points to me. "See, District Two? That boy hasn't lost his Panem spirit. Come on up here!"

I resist the urge to laugh as I do what Mr. Okin told me; I walk through the Square and radiate confidence. My head is lifted, chin tilted up towards the sky.

When I step up on stage and find that I tower over both Mellie and Silver, I resist the urge to laugh. Mellie looks up at me with eyes as big as her smile.

"What's your name?" She asks as as shoves a microphone up to my face, standing on her tip-toes.

I lower my head to speak into it and announce, "Darius Orson."

"Well, Darius, thank you for being the only one around here with some Hunger Games spirit!" Mellie glares out at the girls.

I shrug, unsure if I'm actually supposed to respond.

Mellie glues Silver and I's hands together, telling us to shake. While I shake Silver's hand, she glares at me. I guess I should feel intimidated, but I can't help but laugh a bit. She's almost two feet shorter than me, and I have to squat a bit to make my hand connect with hers.

Y'know, if all the tributes are this dang short and scary, I might just have a chance.

Caine Holloway, District Eleven Male (18)

I pinch my arm in a weak attempt to keep myself awake. My eyes are at half mast, and I can feel my body swaying back and forth with exhaustion.

When a yawn escapes my mouth, a Peacekeeper makes eye contact with me and hefts his gun up, resting his finger on the trigger. I roll my eyes instantly.

It's a miracle that I was even able to get myself out of bed today. The Peacekeepers should be glad I even made it here. Sure, I'm in pajamas. Sure, I haven't bathed in a few days. But I'm here, aren't I?

While the Mayor takes a seat on a wooden chair towards the back of stage, I wipe a bit of drool from the corner of my mouth and watch our flamboyant escort take the stage.

The Escort, Eunice she introduces herself as, is like something from my dream. She looks like she's made of cotton candy; puffy pink hair, a bubble-like dress. I have to rub at my eyes and pinch myself to make sure I'm not asleep.

"Gooood morning, District Eleven!"

I nudge the guy next to me and mimic Eunice's face. He covers his mouth in his hand to stop himself from laughing.

"I am honored that, due to popular request, I am back!" Eunice does a poor attempt at jazz-hands and does a little twirl.

Someone from the side-lines shouts, "Nobody wanted you back, you absolute ditz!"

Immediately, three Peacekeepers cock their guns and take off in search of the voice. Eunice, up on stage, claps her hands and smiles.

"This is exactly why I love you, District Eleven!" she says dreamily. "You're like my own personal reality show!"

Literally. My eyes flicker towards the camera hung up on stage.

Eunice heads over to the girls' bowl and grabs the slip at the top. "I think this is a winner," Eunice winks and unfolds the slip as she heads to center stage.

"Drumroll please!"

Fortunately for Eunice, said drum roll is piped in through the speakers.

"Salome Byrne!"

A little girl steps out from the fourteen year olds. The only reason I know she's fourteen is because my younger sister, Pepper, grips onto the girl's arm and immediately begins crying.

I wince and look away. Nobody in Eleven likes when someone younger than sixteen gets Reaped. They're just too young.

Salome frees herself of Pepper's grip and tries to look as dignified as possible. As dignified as a fourteen year old with a dress that hangs off her body can look.

When Salome passes the seventeen year olds, just a few feet in front of me, a girl grabs her arm and pulls her back.

"I volunteer!" The older, blonde girl says. She shoves Salome behind her.

Eunice nearly faints.

"Get up here, you pretty little thing! This is so exciting! A volunteer!" Eunice hops in place and claps eagerly. "Gosh, I love District Eleven! See, they all tried to convince me to interview as Escort for District One, but I told them no; I wanted District Eleven. This is exactly why!"

The blonde twirls around and hugs the girl, who I assume is a relative. She whispers something in her ear and it sends Salome into a crying fit. I watch as Salome runs back to her section and into Pepper's arms.

The blonde watches wistfully and I can tell she's trying hard not to cry. Her jaw clenches and she walks with firm steps to the stage, where Eunice is trying not to pee her pants.

"What's your name, you sweet angel?" Eunice gets up close to the blonde, smiling like a maniac.

"Honor Byrne."

Honor sticks out like a sore thumb in Eleven. Her skin is tan, sure, but it's not dark like the rest of us. Honor's hair is blonde and smooth; her eyes are dark green. I've overheard some of the guys in school call her hot, but honestly, she looks like a mutant to me.

Eunice's eyes widen as she looks Honor up and down; she clearly sees potential in her. "Was that your sister? Don't even tell me; my heart can't possibly take that much!"

Honor nods, but Eunice is already preoccupied with choosing the boy's slip.

Our Escort scurries back to Honor and shoves the slip in her face. "Since I like you, I'll let you read the name." Eunice winks.

Ouch. I inhale sharply. That's really gotta hurt. Reading the name? God, what if it's your friend? I knew Eunice was dense but really? Making someone else read-

"Uh, Caine Holloway?"

A stream of curses escapes my mouth. That bitch; she read my name. I stomp towards the stage angrily, shaking my head and sloshing mud up onto my pajamas.

Eunice makes a sour face when I get to her. "Well, it's clear who's proud to be here."

I glance over at Honor's outfit; a lavender dress that must of costed a fortune. I snort and roll my eyes. "Let's just get this over with."

Eunice narrows her eyes at me and opens her mouth like she's prepared to say something, then thinks better of it and closes her mouth.

I stick my hand out and Honor follows suit. Our skin contrasts in a way that almost makes me laugh.

Great, I think while covering my mouth with my other hand, yawning. Now I'll be an Arena with kids that want to kill me, and this suicidal mutant.

Roxi Kallan, District Four Female (18)

"Oy, Roxi," Shelly whispers during the Mayor's speech. "You ready for your big break?"

Although I don't turn around and keep my eyes locked on the stage, my lips twitch into a smile. "I was born ready," I say sarcastically.

Truth be told, my fascination with volunteering did begin when I was born. I've dedicated every moment since then to training.

Cassidy joins in then. "You're gonna be like the female Finnick O'Dair, Rox."

"Except not as good looking," Shelly whispers.

At this point, I'm forced to stop attempting to pay attention to the Mayor. "Oh, fuck off," I whisper back to Shelly. "I'm much better than Finnick."

Cassidy and Shelly murmur at the same time, "In your dreams."

I make a not-so-nice gesture with my finger behind my back, which sends them both into an annoyingly-girlish fit of giggles.

Somewhere during the three of us' fight, our Escort has stepped on stage. She's a woman with a straight figure and peach skin. Although fairly normal looking compared to some Escorts we've had throughout the years, she is by far trying the hardest.

With her blue bra and underwear, covered by a net draped over her entire body, it's far too obvious she is attempting to get into the 'District Four spirit'.

I can practically hear the sarcastic jokes Shelly must be thinking of as the Escort prances about the stage towards the microphone.

The Escort takes a large whiff of the air and grins widely. "I just love the smell of District Four," she sighs.

Desperation, psychopaths, and salt. A great scent, I agree.

"I've been dreaming about this moment for months," She informs us with a little flick of her net 'dress'. "Let's get right to it!"

What's the point of having Reapings? I pick at my nails while she makes her way to the slips. We already know who's volunteering.

Nonetheless, we all have to come out to this sweaty, sticky town Square and listen to the same speeches and the same moronic Escort make a fool of themselves.

As soon as the Escort reads out the name (River Something, how creative), I lunge forward and place my hands on my hips. I ignore the giggles from Shelly and Cass as I shout as loud as I can, "I volunteer!"

River sinks back into the crowd and I emerge from it. With confident strides, I take the steps two at a time and take my place next to the Escort. The Escort puckers her lips when she sees me, her eyes scanning my body.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," I snap automatically.

She smiles brightly at me. "Don't worry, sweetie, you'll have plenty of pictures taken of you."

I roll my eyes and cross my arms. "Get on with it, sweetie."

For once, the Escort listens to me and she trots off to grab another slip. Unfortunately, she doesn't get the chance to read aloud the name, because Stone Merrick is already sprinting forward in all of his bastardness.

"I volunteer!" He announces. Stone winks at me and I turn away, gagging. "I volunteer as tribute."

The Escort seems to take interest in him, as she's motioning like crazy for him to saunter up to stage. When Stone gets on stage, I notice her scoot closer towards him and tug a bit on the netting of her outfit.

"I present to you, your tributes for the 84th Hunger Games..." Her accented voice trails off when she realizes she didn't ask for our names.

Smooth.

Stone steps in. "I'm Stone Merrick and that's..." His face contorts with confusion and he shrugs his shoulders, signifying he doesn't know.

Of course he doesn't remember my name. I think with disgust. "Roxi Kallan."

The Escort slaps our hands together, and before I can wriggle away she throws them into the air. "Stone Merrick and Roxi Kallan!"

I ignore Stone's warm hand in mine and smile and wave at the crowd. If District Four has a Victor this year, it won't be Stone Merrick. It will be Roxi Kallan and her baby.

Fyzit Vinillian, District Three Male (13)

Standing in the Square on Reaping Day makes me nervous. I'm also a nervous eater. Which is why I position myself at the back of the thirteen year olds and nonchalantly shove piece after piece of pink taffy into my mouth.

With a little laugh, I realize that the taffy is almost the same color of the Escort's hair. And skin. And outfit. Our Escort, Hawk Lionel, has gone all out with the color this year.

He looks a bit silly, I think to myself while plopping another piece onto my tongue like a conveyor belt. The pink is too bright for District Three. He should be in black, or grey, or maybe a dark blue.

Or maybe he shouldn't be here at all, and the Reapings won't have to take place, and I can go home, I smile at the thought. Yeah, that'd be nice.

"Okay, District Three," Hawk's voice is mysterious. "I'm going to ask you to do a little favor for me. Those of you who want to do ladies first, clap your hands. Those of you who want the gentlemen to go first, stomp your feet. Ready?"

I nearly choke on my taffy. He can't be serious! This is ridiculous!

When Hawk signals for us to begin, nobody makes a sound. He laughs nervously and I feel a bit bad for him.

He's just doing his job, I swallow, beginning to feel bad about my last thought.

Hawk wrings his hands together and heads to the girls' bowl. "I guess we'll just do ladies first," he murmurs and picks the slip at the very top. "Kill me for trying to be creative."

Maybe I can give him a piece of taffy later, I'm thinking as he unfolds the paper. I bet he likes taffy. They're all about candy in the Capitol.

Hawk clears his throat and shouts, "Tella Skipster!"

Oh no, I think. Poor Tella. I like Tella. She's very smart and very pretty. Tella's not very good at making friends, and I feel bad for her. I even invited her to my birthday party tomorrow. I guess she's not gonna be able to make it.

Much to my surprise, when I turn my head towards the eighteen year olds where Tella is, she's sauntering out with a big grin on her face. She looks relieved, almost.

Oh no, I think again. Tella's gone crazy. I make a note to give her a piece of taffy, too.

Tella takes large steps towards the stage, and when she gets there, she looks excited, almost. She positions herself close to Hawk, that grin still on her face.

"I'm all for a little Hunger Games spirit!" Hawk pats Tella's shoulder and smiles at her. The grin that Tella has wares off even Hawk, however, as after a few seconds of looking at her expression, he scoots away.

"Let's move along," Hawk continues. He walks to the boys' bowl much faster than previously, and takes a bit of time maneuvering his hand around in it. "Perfect," he purrs as he snatches a slip and walks back to the microphone.

Hawk scoots the microphone over a bit, closer to him and farther away from Tella. "Ah, Fyzit Vinillian! Come on up, sir."

I drop the bag of taffy on the ground and feel my eyes begin to fill with tears. N-no. I don't.. I don't take tesserae. My name.. twice..

Tears begin to stream freely down my face and I feel my body begin to shake with sobs. "M-m-mommy!" I hear myself cry out. "D-Daddy! I-I want my mommy and daddy!"

The boys around me have shifted away, leaving me alone surrounded by pieces of taffy. That doesn't stop me from crying even more. "I don't wanna leave! Mommy! M-Mommy! Daddy! P-please, don't make me go!"

Nobody else is making any noise, not even the older boys who usually laugh and make jokes when I cry at school.

I feel two pairs of hands shove me forward, and I know it's not my mommy and daddy's. Through my tears, the unmistakable white of a Peacekeeper's uniform is next to me, dragging me forward.

"No!" I protest as they guide me to the stage. "Mommy!" I shriek. "Help, please! Someone help! I want to go home!"

When they toss me onto the stage, I search the crowd for my parents. They're standing at the sidelines, my mother's face buried in my dad's chest as he holds he close. They both look away from the stage. I see tears streaming down daddy's face, which surprises me.

Tella is looking away from me, too. The smile has left her face and she stares at her feet.

"My birthday is tomorrow," I look to Hawk, to the Peacekeepers, the Mayor, anyone who will listen to me. "I-I can't go to the Games. Please, please, let me go home! I want.. I want my mommy and daddy! Please!"

Hawk places a comforting hand on my shoulder and rubs it. "There, there, Fyzit. I'm sure you'll be home soon and you can celebrate your birthday then."

I can almost smell the lie.

"District Three, say goodbye to Tella Skipster and Fyzit Vinillian, your tributes for the 84th Hunger Games!"

When I look to the crowd, they all stare back at me with pain in their eyes. Some of the adults have tears.

Nobody claps or cheers or laughs. The entire Square is silent.

Goodbye, District Three, I think with a sniff. I'll miss you.

A/N:

Fun Fact: This chapter was written while I listened to the Hannah Montana 2/Meet Miley Cyrus album and watched High School Musical. So there's that.

Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed. Who's your favorite tribute from this chapter? Out of both chapters? Least favorite? Let me know!

I still have a few spots open (all of them are guys, I believe). In order to write the next chapter, I need all the spots filled, so feel free to submit.