Ross Hickey | District 10 | 18

The Day Before the Reaping

Through the dusty windows of Ash's truck, we could see evidence of yesterday's storm all around us.

The twister had left behind a trail big enough to drive through. Whole reams of tall grass, which usually shone gold in the sunrise this early in the morning, lay limp and dirt-spattered in front of a backdrop of grey-green clouds. Wooden flotsam stuck out at odd angles in the fields. I tried not to think about those in the outlying ranches who had likely lost their homes.

As we crossed the main road, Ash's kids cried out and pointed at a power line whose supports had collapsed like dominos. The cable had tangled itself uselessly between them.

Ash spared it a glance and a cluck of the tongue before turning her eyes back toward the main road. "Looks like power's out for a while, kiddos. Don't expect the government to get on top of that one anytime soon."

The woman had no patience for dealings with the Capitol. It had taken her years to plead her case for simply owning this truck. And even now she had to keep a careful record of her driving and present bi-weekly for a thorough inspection of the mileage and her careful ration of gas.

Mr. Nye hmmed nervously from the passenger seat. "They'd better. That there's a fire hazard."

"They'll delay it as long as the ground's moist enough," Ash said grimly. "Just you watch—"

"Maaama!" came a cry from my left. It was Ewan, Ash's second youngest. While Ash herself and Mr. Nye sat in the front of her truck, the four of her children had to squeeze into the back seat, with me squished in between them. The oldest, Del and Dan, squabbled for a better view out the window to our right. Ewan was getting restless to my left. Pepper was asleep on my lap.

"Maaama!" Ewan cried again. Pepper stirred. "Where are we going?"

"We're goin' to go play a little game," Ash announced. "It's called 'Find Mr. Nye's missing horse.'"

Merriman Nye was the caretaker of the stables that had been closest to the path of the storm. By a proper miracle, his farmhouse had suffered very little damage. But he'd had to cut free all his horses before the twister hit, so they wouldn't be trapped if things took a turn for the worse.

Since the storm subsided, most of the horses had returned of their own accord. He'd found two or three lifeless bodies. Only one of his horses had not been within the five-mile radius of his search—one of his most powerful stallions, that he'd purchased only recently from a fellow rancher who'd been foreclosed. Hoping that this stallion was simply too new to have learned his way back to the farm yet, he'd then called on Ash for her truck and her veterinarian services.

After all, tomorrow was reaping day, and Mr. Nye had volunteered once again to take charge of transportation to the district centre (Year after year, the Capitol refused to take on the endeavor themselves—District 10 was huge but sparsely populated on the fringes, and they claimed it would be a waste of resources). With as many horses that had died or been injured in the storm, Mr. Nye needed every one of his remaining horses pulling wagons the next morning.

We swerved to a stop in front of an expansive, wooded pond. "I've caught a stray or two around here back in the day," Ash reasoned. "Everyone out! Ten minutes—then we move on."

Both back doors opened with explosive force. The boys leaped out, hollering, with four-year-old Pepper toddling sleepily behind.

Not one to shirk a job, I immediately set out to cover as much ground as possible. This proved difficult as the kids attempted to rope me into a game of "find everything but Mr. Nye's missing horse." Dan tried to fish for the remains of a tire swing. Ewan ran in circles around me with a tattered kite. Del managed to pry a weather vane from a tree trunk. He brandished it like a weapon in my direction. "Think I could survive the Hunger Games with this?"

Del could truly make light of anything. I smiled through my unease. "You're not even eligible, bucko. Wait a year and then you can worry about that."

Pepper, meanwhile, was busy cleaning the bank of its wildflowers. She darted back and forth between me and the water's edge, pressing flowers in my hand when she had plucked too many to carry. Before long, I had amassed a bouquet.

Ash and I crossed paths, and I heard her chuckle. "You really ought to have friends your own age, Roswell."

I tell her what I always do: "Not likely."

It was nearing seven years ago, the day Ashwin Artz had adopted me as her apprentice, and she never relented in reminding me her initial reservations with taking me on. Still, she knew full well that I wouldn't trade this life for anything, not even the prospect of a stable friendship with my own peers.

To accomplish that would require roots. I'd have to stay on the family pig farm, working long hours in the same place every day at a job I abhorred. Mornings I'd attend the closest we'd ever get to a school out in the fringes—a community-run operation that crammed around twenty kids into a tiny cabin splitting the distance between the neighboring farms, where parents took turns teaching the day's lesson.

My life changed forever when Ash barreled up the drive to the family farm in her dusty, old truck. She came to check up on a sick sow; the sow was pregnant, so we couldn't risk losing the investment. Ash got straight to work, and I watched her with fascination, forgetting my own duties for the day, as this booming, larger-than-life woman handled her patient with utmost gentleness. With the barest essentials of medical equipment, she checked the animal's vitals, soothed it while she worked, and mixed a few quick remedies that she assured would take effect within the week.

I was enamored: the care she put into her work, the way she won the animals' unquestioning trust, and most of all, the prospect of prolonging a life instead of snuffing it out. Before the end of the day, my mind was made up. I had begged Ash to take me with her. At first, she had merely laughed. "Your folks would miss you," she'd say, and continue her work.

But I didn't let up. Realizing how serious I was but still reluctant to pry me from my home, she had offered to correspond with me instead. It was the best I was going to get, so I'd accepted. In the weeks that followed, I'd write letters bursting with questions about medicine and animal care. She'd answer them all and would throw in the details from some of her specific jobs for good measure.

Things changed sooner than expected. Ash became pregnant with twins and knew she'd need an extra hand or two to rely on anyway. She'd relented, and after some careful convincing, my parents did too. She had come round again a month later to pick me up for my first job, and by that time, I had dropped out of school, finished packing my bags a week early, and spent most of my free time staring at the driveway.

Life with Ash was never dull. As the most called-upon—and with her truck, the most mobile—veterinarian in District 10, we'd taken jobs in the farthest reaches of the district. Some required hours of driving. Some required extended stays and nights spent sleeping in the truck bed. There were complications in this line of work. There'd be weeks on end where we'd have to work overtime thanks to waves of disease. There'd be entire nights spent stranded on the side of the road because the Capitol had been shorthanded on gas that week. But despite the rough patches, it was the life I had always dreamed for myself.

She had even started paying me. It wasn't much because—she had cheerfully remarked—she knew I'd stay on no matter the salary. But every penny I earn I've been saving to go to medical school myself. I'd work for Ash forever if I could, but if I want to be a recognized vet myself someday, I'd have to work toward that goal, and not just for someone else for the rest of my life.

But until then, I'd prolong every second I could.

We were interrupted by a delighted cry. Seconds later, Mr. Nye appeared around the bend to wave us over. He had found the lost stallion lying on his side under a thick cluster of shrubs.

We approached, and Ash immediately slowed, taking care not to make any sudden movements in case the horse got skittish and send a kick in her direction. Though, if anyone could survive a kick to the head it would be she: the woman was made of iron. She listened to the animal's breathing for a while, and then she moved on to examine the legs.

"Is he good to make the trip back?" I asked. "If someone were to ride him to the stables…"

I must have sounded too eager; Ash barked a laugh. "Young man, you're even worse a horse girl than Pepper." I felt my cheeks flush. "Besides, our fella here pulled a muscle tryin' to outrun that storm. A splint and one more day's rest should do the trick, and he'll be fine in the bed of my truck 'slong as we take it slow."

I nodded and made to fetch the splint from the truck. Ash called out after me, "'Course, we'd need someone back there to keep an eye on him."

I'd ridden horses before, though rarely. There was nothing like it: the silence save the roar of the wind and the cadence of the hoofbeats, the blur of the landscape on all sides, feeling the quickened heartbeat of the animal beneath. The feeling that you could just keep running forever and leave everything—oppressive crowds, widespread destitution, the Capitol itself—behind.

I guess Ash was right: I did have a bit of cowboy in me.

And riding in the bed of her truck while soothing an injured stallion wasn't quite the same as riding the animal himself. But with the breeze in my face and the jostle of each bump in the road, it came almost close enough.

Georgie Lamrock | District 10 | 14

The Morning of the Reaping

Atop a ladder perched precariously against the Justice Building, I could see evidence of the storm all around me.

It had been more than a day now and still everything was coated in the dust that had been swept up by the high winds. You couldn't take a breath without inhaling the stuff. The homes and shops below were in various states of disrepair, the shattered windows and tattered awnings most visible. A small cluster of children from my orphanage roamed the streets picking up the last stray bits of glass. Even the Justice Building had suffered damage. Chunks of the ornate, wooden lodge had been swept away or else smashed off by other debris.

It was also the second day since the power line collapsed, and clearly, nothing had been done about that. Worse still, it was hot—the kind of day that left sweat stains in droves and stuck your shoes to the pavement if you stayed in one place too long. We didn't have much in the way of AC, even in the central part of town. But we'd had fans that we'd kill to have up and running right now. We'd also had plenty of freezers and cold storage that kept meat for future processing. So between the heat, the worsening stench of rotting meat, and maybe also the fact that it was Reaping Day, no one was in much of a good mood.

"Georgie!"

And that included my older sister.

She reached the ladder just as I finished hanging a banner across the Justice Building. that read Happy Hunger Games! in obnoxious fuchsia lettering. It didn't cover up all the damage, but it would do for the cameras, I guess. Satisfied, I looked down to get a good read on her expression.

Concern. Great.

For most, one doting mother figure was enough and, dare I say, needed. I had been blessed with two—it was like nature was trying to make amends for offing my biological parents so early. The first was Sue Gibbons, overworked orphanage supervisor and supermom to the couple dozen orphaned children in town. She had long since won my wholehearted admiration. On the other end of the spectrum was Madeline, who, for her part, really did care. But I'd have a lot more respect for her if she'd done something to earn it.

"You should really have someone to spot you." Madeline took a hold of the rail to illustrate her point.

I rolled my eyes. "Why are you here so early? You're not the one being punished."

Community service projects were Sue's preferred means of dealing with misbehaving orphans. She tried to avoid involvement with Peacekeepers whenever possible, but this week they insisted on hijacking the extra manual labor for the post-storm cleanup.

Before Madeline could say anything more, I scrambled down the ladder and leaped to the ground from the fifth rung. She gave a noticeable flinch and didn't have long to look unamused before taking in my appearance. I was—let's say—less than presentable for the day's festivities. And it wasn't long before her expression gave way to dumb shock.

"I'm guessing you're not just gawking at the paint," I deadpanned, sure there were a few globs of it in my hair after a touch-up job.

But no. She was probably talking about my black eye, purple knuckles, split lip, and bloody knees and elbows.

Madeline wrung her hands. "Is there anything I can do?"

Oh, she knew. She knew full well.

"Yeah, come to think of it." I stroked my chin in mock consideration. "Maybe—stop dating the punk who tries to beat me up every day."

She at least had the decency to look guilty. But wherever an impressionable, completely dependent female such as Madeline went, a doting boyfriend was sure to follow. And sure enough, I caught sight of a lanky figure leaning against the iron gate, noticeably not doing any work. His arms were still shiny with bruises—not one of my worst bouts—except those same arms had taken my head and slammed it against a bannister yesterday, and I could still feel the lump. His hat cast a shadow over his eyes, but I could recognize that dumb smirk from the other side of a stampede.

Jock Elliot. Fellow orphan, part-time general store clerk, full-time personal bully to one Georgie Lamrock.

There was a point in time where his constant torment got so bad, not even pommeling him or his various fellow offenders could put me back in a good mood. It was at that time that Madeline came up with an absolutely brilliant plan: flirt outrageously until he fell for her and would then somehow leave me alone.

Which, okay, was actually kind of sweet of her. Dumb, but sweet. But let's swing back around to dumb. What ended up happening? Exactly what you'd expect. She ended up falling for him. And now, not only is he still undeterred from picking fights with me, but she actually excuses him for it. It's the age-old fairytale romance. He's an egotistical bully who rallies all his goons to terrorize a small child just minding her own business, and she's an airhead.

I didn't think I could take another "Oh, he's not so bad once you get to know him," speech. Not today. "Just go," I told her. "Pretty boy doesn't like to be kept waiting for the likes of me."

After a second's hesitation and a retort that visibly died on her lips, she turned tail and did just that.

I, meanwhile, got back to work. Not that I much wanted to play any part in tidying up the city so that two children could be sacrificed on live television. Unfortunately, I didn't have much of a say as to whether or not I continued the penance for my most recent brawl.

At least the Peacekeepers had let up some. Earlier in the morning, it was a wonder we weren't cooled off given how much they were breathing down our necks. Now, however, they had other concerns. Namely, our rather…temperamental escort.

"…may have had low expectations, but this is an absolute insult. You're telling me this is what's going to show up on television today? And someone please do something about that smell; I can't even think straight."

Ah. There he was.

I saw two more of my, shall we say, sparring partners crouched behind the stage, pretending to tighten the bolt connecting two of the risers. The looks on their faces informed me this was not a conversation I wanted to miss.

"Move it," I hissed, skidding into the gravel beside them. They threw me ugly looks but gave me some room. We may have spent most of our alone time trying to knock the lights out of each other's eyes. But for whatever reason—maybe some unofficial bully code that laid the law of conduct toward small girls who could knock you senseless—they held some measure of respect for me.

"And what do you mean, no power?" Luka Marxim wailed. The risers shook with his little tantrum as he stormed up the steps to the stage. A set of quieter, more frantic footsteps followed.

"We do have an auxiliary generator," the mayor explained. "But it'll be just enough for the cameras and one mic and speaker set. All our other systems were knocked out by the storm."

Her voice strained with the air of someone who had been fighting to keep patient for just a touch too long. She deserved a healthy amount of credit for trying.

"So no teleprompter? No video feed?" The mayor took a breath to speak, but he cut her off. "No, of course not. You're all useless. The show must go on, and if this is to be done right, I'm going to have to do this all myself. Did I or did I not, after all, devote four years of my life to film school to prepare for this very eventuality?"

Luka prattled on, but I lost focus after taking a hard blow to the shoulder. I tumbled into the dirt while my assailants darted away in fits of laughter. So much for our temporary truce.

I might have earned their respect. But that didn't mean they would ever stop looking for a reason to revoke it.

Ross Hickey | District 10 | 18

My parents were waiting in the pastures outside the city when I disembarked the wagon. They wore plain, neat clothes, and clasped their hands identically in the front. While the Artz family had personality in spades, one couldn't help but guess that the Hickeys starved for it.

Ash steered me toward them with a firm grip on my shoulder. "They're your folks and it's your last reapin'," she insisted. "You know where to find us later."

So, hands in my pockets, I ambled up to meet them. Mom welcomed me in with a polite, if restrained, hug. My visits home were becoming further and further spread apart, and it showed.

"We just wanted to congratulate you on your last Reaping," Mom said to me.

"That seems a bit premature," was all I could think of in reply. I was mildly surprised; neither of my folks was one to tempt fate.

Dad shrugged it off. "The odds are in your favor. I can't see any reason why we shouldn't be a little premature."

"How's…?" Mom cut herself off. "You know, you can tell us later. Why don't you spend the evening with us? There's space on our wagon for one more, and we can afford to be a bit lavish with dinner tonight; don't you think, Marshall?" Dad nodded his agreement.

"That's awful nice…" I rubbed the back of my neck. "I'd have to double check the schedule for the next few days, though. I may be needed."

"Of course," said Mom. "All the same, we'd love for you to join us."

We said our goodbyes, and that was that. There wasn't much point in catching up beyond that, despite the fact that it had been weeks since I saw them last. It was always the same story for them—there wasn't much variety to working day after day on the pig farm. And I knew any mention of Ash's latest developments in medicine would lead to confused stares and an uncomfortable silence.

As hard as they tried to understand my passion, their inability to understand always won out over their efforts to relate. And it wasn't as if they didn't understand the necessity in times of disease. It wasn't so much the idea of unfamiliar chemical treatments either, even though they were the sort who were wary about what went into their livestock's diet. No, their struggle was philosophical. It began and ended with a question that, after six years, I had not been able to answer myself.

Why prolong a life that was already marked for consumption?

The question was like a sinkhole that threatened to bring about the collapse to everything I had worked for, and my search for an answer, for some way to plug it up, had come up empty. No flimsy excuse I could think up was enough; it demanded to be satisfied. I didn't want to acknowledge it. The only thing I could do was run from it.

And why shouldn't I? I enjoyed healing, no matter the implications. And I shouldn't have to be reminded, every time I helped an injured calf back onto its feet or scratched a sow behind her ears, that every measure I took to keep them from dying was meaningless in the long run.

No. I banished all questions of meaning from my thoughts. I wouldn't—couldn't address them now.

I awkwardly made my way through the crowd to the eighteen-year-old section, knocking elbows, drawing nervous glances, mumbling apologies, not recognizing anyone. I was sure some of my former neighbors were about, but would I recognize them after six years? Likely no. Ash was right about me not having friends my age; whether I needed them was another matter.

Something within my surroundings triggered a memory of the family pigpen on the morning of a slaughter. Nervous jittering. Instincts taking over. All those eligible for the day's kill packing into a single mob.

A shudder passed over me. There was a reason I had run away from it all. More than ever now, I wished for my host family. Ash herself, the calming presence of her husband and the endless affection of her children. They had made a home for me and grounded me to earth. More than that, they distracted me from the darker thoughts. Thoughts of isolation and inevitability.

I stood tall and straight pressed in on all sides by my peers, who talked over me in hushed, nervous tones.

In an hour, most of them would celebrate evading death for another year. But what was another year, in the end? They had expiration dates too. Every one of them.

Georgie Lamrock | District 10 | 14

We labored until the square became too crowded to accommodate any more repair work. By that time, the generator had been hooked up and the cameras rolling, and we'd been ushered in with the rest of the children without being given any time to freshen up. Now crammed in with others in my age group, I craned my neck, trying to see, over a large group of taller heads, the emergence of our victors.

Some twenty-odd years ago, District 10 hit a legendary winning streak, producing three victors in the span of four years. But I guess the Capitol decided it was a bit too much of an ego boost for an outer district. So, realizing that all of these victors had been involved in competitive bullfighting or bull-riding, they went after our rodeos.

I'd only heard about them in passing: lively, district-wide, mostly non-lethal tournaments accompanied by friendly wagers, nightly parties, and whatever alcohol could be scraped up for the festivities. I think I'd have enjoyed them myself, had the Capitol officials not dug up all the unsavory footage it could find and aired it all on the 81st Victory Tour. Somehow, this unsettled the Capitol citizens, who collectively cried animal cruelty and demanded we put an end to it. Rich, isn't it? They're happy to watch two dozen children murder each other every year but don't have the stomach for a bit of bull wrestling? What about the mutts they're so fond of? And where do they think their meat comes from? Give me a friggin' break.

But it worked. We hadn't had a victor since.

Only one of the victors who ascended the stage was female: Veera Stough, who had strong-armed her way to victory in the 80th Games. She was a turret of a woman with leathery skin, close-cropped hair, a body mass of 200-some pounds, and the voice of someone who had swallowed a pack of cigarettes. She was one of my heroes. Growing up, there had been scarce material of girls from our district kicking ass, so for me the tapes of the 80th were game-changing. I had watched the footage of her games with ardor, devoting long hours to emulating her fighting style.

I also learned that she had been the heavyweight boxing champion for her school the year before her games. This inspired me, at age eight, to start my own boxing tournament in the orphanage basement.

We'd made a huge thing of it, my girlfriends and I. They hadn't been so keen on the fighting, but they did help design the flyers and come up with a catchy slogan: The Midnight Fight: Come Box in Your Socks. Pamphlets exchanged hands in secret throughout the day. Excited whispers drew Sue's suspicion, but she said nothing of it. By midnight, the stage was set. A ring had been cleared in the basement using all of the available furniture. Flashlights hung from the ceiling to emulate spotlights. We'd plastered an empty bracket on the wall and began to fill it with names as our contestants arrived: mostly preteen boys with an ego to boost, not to mention plenty of pent-up aggression.

And I'd wiped the smiles off of all their faces. With hours of practice on my side, it was no wonder I was killing the bracket before Sue discovered us, arriving just in time to see me knock a twelve-year-old Jock Elliot out cold.

Sore losers, all of them. Especially Elliot. They'd devoted their sad lives to tormenting me ever since. And I'd always been more than happy to fight them off my back. But there are easier ways to ask a girl for a rematch. Easier, less emotionally scarring ways—not that I'd ever admit it. Because no matter how many times I'd remind myself that it takes a special sort of deadbeat to provoke a fourteen-year-old girl to not be seen as weak, some of their attacks got personal.

Too personal.

A "you leave my parents out of this" type of personal.

The mayor wrapped up her reading of the Treaty of Treason, still clearly exhausted from the morning's proceedings. She had barely concluded her last sentence before Luka shoved her to the side. He thrust his chest out in front of him and cleared his throat. I assumed he would go straight into the Reapings themselves. With all the power offline, we could skip over that horrible propaganda video, right?

"People of District 10!" He announced, unfurling the scroll in his hand with a flourish. "I give you…a dramatic reading of our nation's founding!"

Oh no.

Oh no.

"WAR!" Luka cried suddenly. The mic gave off a high-pitched whine, causing many of us to yelp and press our hands against our ears. Infuriatingly, our reaction only seemed to encourage him. Maybe he believed he was striking real fear into the hearts of his audience. "Terrible…war.

"Widows…orphans…" he roamed the stage, gesturing wildly into the crowd. He then sank to his knees and clenched his free hand into a fist. "A motherless…child."

This was a new form of torture.

"This…was the uprising that rocked our land."

"Someone please just kill me," I groaned aloud, tugging at both of my braids until my head ached.

Maybe, just maybe, I should have considered a different choice of words.

After what seemed like hours of strutting about the stage like a blind rooster, Luka ended his performance with a sweeping bow. He received scattered applause from the Peacekeepers and stunned silence from the rest of us, all except a cluster of drunk eighteen-year-olds who cheered wildly and called for an encore.

I could tell he'd have been more than happy, but he had a schedule to keep.

He drew a name from the female bowl and read it aloud: "Georgina Lamrock."

Of all the friggin'…great. Just great.

I allowed myself a second of extreme terror before I seized control over my gut reaction. This was just like any other encounter with Jock except, you know, deadlier. I had to be tough. I had to give the impression that I was a threat. Chin up, eyes narrowed, I ascended the stage, fighting to keep calm. I even managed a sideways smile for Veera before turning to face the crowd. She seemed to approve. Maybe she was just eyeing my bruises.

Luka, on the other hand, took in the sight of me and very likely threw up a little in his mouth.

Clearly at a loss for words, he gave up and drew the next name. "Roswell Hickey."

There was a beat. Another numb silence. A shifting amongst the eighteen-year old males. Finally, a tall, dark-skinned boy emerged. His bony arms hung awkwardly at his sides as he sidled his way through the relieved masses. When he stepped onto the stage, he kept his distance and avoided meeting any eyes.

Meanwhile, I couldn't find enough eyes to meet. There was Sue, her hands over her mouth. There were a couple of my girlfriends from the orphanage, hands locked in a white-knuckled grip. There was Madeline, already going into hysterics at the prospect of losing her last family member.

There was Jock, looking…grim? Like he actually felt bad for me?

Like hell that changed anything. If that was where he drew the line, it didn't exactly speak volumes for him as a person.

Could I bring myself to kill someone? Hard to say. But one thing was for certain. It sure would be a lot more tolerable after imagining one Jock Elliot in their place.

Author's Note:

I don't have much to say this week, just a couple words of appreciation. ^_^ First of all, thanks to pigeonpoo for Georgie and winsomewinter for Ross! I enjoyed writing them, and the world and people around them developed quite naturally afterward. Tell me what you thought, and if there's anything you'd like me to focus on or change for future chapters.

And to all those who've reviewed...wow. I'm blown away by the amount of thought you've put into your responses. I'm definitely going to try to respond to as many as I can. I tried to focus on this chapter over the last few days (which I ended up revising a ton down the line), but starting conversations with fellow writers definitely helps with inspiration and bouncing ideas.

Finally, some guiding questions. Overall impressions of our new tributes? What will you remember about them? Also, this was a chapter that devoted more time (for good or for ill) to its side characters; any standouts on that front?

Cheers,

Grey