PART I: THE TRIBUTES

District 1 Reaping
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.

Veira Faustus, 17
District 1 Female Tribute

Adrenaline courses through my veins as I approach the brick and steel building. In the reflection of its glass doors, I notice that my dry-fit hoodie clings to my slim figure, my rosy cheeks glisten with sweat, and my dirty blonde hair is a shade darker than normal. On a typical day, a five-kilometer run does not leave my legs achy and my breaths shallow; but today, my racing thoughts weren't concerned about keeping a comfortable pace.

I'm looking for answers, and I'll only find them here, at Northeastern Elite Academy.

If the Career Academies were equally rigorous and successful in creating well-rounded tributes, we would produce a victor every year. Instead, we can only claim three (because we have volunteers that don't even deserve the title of "tribute").

Everyone agrees that the public education systems are inferior to the private ones. Most public-school tributes receive mediocre training scores and survive less than a week in the arena. It's been a decade since one of them reached the final eight. Anyone interested in winning the Hunger Games tries to enroll in the Emerald or Opal School District, the most prominent private education sectors. Since two alumni have become victors, Emerald academies now base their admissions upon an application and interview process. Meanwhile, Opal academies still retain its open enrollment for anyone willing to pay.

For six years, I attended Ritchson Academy within the Opal School District. Although I was content with it, my father pressured me to apply to the nearby Emerald academy alongside my sisters, Rosalie and Heloise. We were all admitted to Northeastern Elite Academy when I was eleven years old.

It was a drastic change.

I adjusted my diet to eliminate all sugary foods, spent two hours a day memorizing survival skills, and practiced combat techniques until my fingers bled and my muscles ached. It took me months to build the habit of waking up at five in the morning for pre-dawn runs, but the results showed.

Along with its admission policy change, Emerald academies implemented the Aptitude Exam, given to twelve- to eighteen-year-old students to assess their physical, emotional, and intellectual strengths. Although there's no official rule, only students who pass the exam are "eligible" to volunteer. If someone volunteers in spite of their results, they are expelled and blacklisted from all Career Academies, assuming they aren't already on a train to the Capitol.

As my breathing becomes more even, I can hear faint music and chatter in the distance. My neutral face turns to a scowl. On the midnight of reaping day, all the adults gather in the City square to drink and gamble on who will volunteer. My parents won't be betting on me; instead, they'll be placing their money on my eighteen-year-old sister.

Rosalie passed the Aptitude Exam twice. It's a rare occurrence; most students either volunteer or graduate early if they pass before they turn eighteen. But Rosalie wanted to revel in our father's pride and belittle Heloise's and my reputations for another year.

I've failed the assessment five times, while Heloise failed twice. A part of me recognizes that the scores are influenced by the academy's politics and economics: it would lose money if younger students passed and graduated early. But that doesn't explain why Rosalie first passed when she was seventeen, especially since I am a stronger duelist and strategist than her.

With this thought in mind, I place my keycard into the chip reader.

As I walk through the glass doors, I'm greeted by a waft of stale air. Nobody has come here since classes ended last week, yet I hesitate a moment before turning on the lights. Acting on instincts, I scan the surroundings.

On the opposite wall is a metal staircase, leading to the upper and lower levels of the academy. Most survival courses are taught on the second floor, while the third floor contains all the weapon-training classrooms. The basement is exclusively dedicated to the Aptitude Exam, so students have limited access to it. Adjacent to the entryway are two corridors, each with a specific purpose: the east one is for the administrative offices, while the west one is for larger lecture halls.

I stride towards the east corridor, but I freeze when I catch a pair of hazel eyes looking in my direction.

Against the wall is a golden-framed portrait of a young woman with silky, brown hair. Her bony face is accompanied by a petite nose, thin lips, and a sharp jawline. She wears a strapless, silver dress over her slim figure, making her fair skin appear warmer and healthier. Like most girls in the district, she's attractive by anyone's standards. Below the frame, written in fancy cursive, is the woman's name and title:

Adamaris Fidele
Victor of the 15th Hunger Games
Alumnus of Northeastern Elite Academy

I huff out a sigh of relief. No living person is here, except for me.

Adamaris won her Games through sexiness and manipulation, convincing her allies she was weak by earning a training score of seven. In fact, the only reason the Careers kept her was because of her budding romance with the boy from Two. When only a handful of tributes were left, she slipped tranquilizers in her allies' food, leaving them unable to fight as she slit their throats. The finale was anticlimactic: the runner-up was devoured by pyrovermins, mutations that bear many similarities to fire ants.

Nobody saw if she could win a fair fight.

Next to Adamaris's portrait is one belonging to Fergus Tancredo, victor of the 7th Hunger Games and alum of Emerald's Cavalier Institute. Some of my classmates swoon over him, but I never saw the appeal. Is it his styled, ginger hair? His long, thick beard? The tiny freckles on his forehead? His aquamarine eyes? The lack of emotions in his face? His muscular build? Whatever the reason, I refuse to forget he's a thirty-year-old man with a wife and baby.

Since I was an infant during his victory, I have no recollection of the Games as they occurred. However, he was one of the first victors I studied at the academy. He won in the most straightforward manner: by being the most dangerous and skilled tribute in the arena. His ability to wield both a dagger and sickle was impeccable for someone his age. Once it was revealed that only bladed weapons were available in the cornucopia, he was guaranteed victory.

"One day, I'm going to be on that wall," I told an instructor during my first day of classes. "And then I'll be rich and famous, and everyone will want to be my friend."

I shake my head, clearing away the childish memory, and walk down the corridor.

The dean's office is locked. Without pause, I pull two bobby pins out of my hair and begin picking the deadbolt. (Since the Academy offers classes in thievery, I expected them to have more extensive security measures. Are they not afraid of people stealing their confidential records?)

With a distinctive click, the door unlocks.

I'm surprised by the small office's lack of personality. Dean Blodwyn is a reserved man, yet he never struck me as coldhearted. The brick walls are bare of family portraits and diplomas. Besides a monitor and keyboard, the mahogany desk is stripped of trinkets and other accessories. A rolling chair rests behind the desk, and a leather couch sits across from it. In the far corner of the room is a steel file cabinet with a fake plant on top. If Dean Blodwyn was going for professional, he nailed it.

The file cabinet is unlocked, so I'm able to dig through the confidential documents without ruining more bobby pins. Its top drawer contains students' emergency contacts, its second drawer contains alumni records, its third drawer contains professors' information. When I open the bottom drawer, I notice a divider labelled "Aptitude Exam Results," organized by the student's last name. A smile spreads across my face as I pull out the folder titled "Veira Faustus."

"What are you doing here?" I freeze. There's no explanation for why I'm here that wouldn't lead to my explosion. "Veira?"

I tuck the folder into my hoodie before turning around. "Dean Blodwyn." I try to smile, but even he notices it's fake. "How are you doing?"

His face remains stoic. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing! I was, uh," I blabber. "I was leaving, that's what I was doing."

He doesn't move from the doorway. "That's not a good enough answer." He gestures toward the couch. "Sit down."

I don't bother arguing.

He walks behind his desk, and I notice the moment he sees the opened file cabinet.

"Let me ask you again." He enunciates each word, anger bubbling in his tone. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking at my Aptitude Exam results," I admit. "But sir, I—"

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," he repeats. "You may go."

I stare at him for a moment. "Why?"

"Would you rather me expel you now?" His eyes are cold. I should've left when I had the chance. "Although, I think we can both agree that won't do anything. You're going to volunteer regardless, whether you're a student here or not."

"So you're not going to do anything?" I ask. "About me volunteering?"

"What am I supposed to do? Arrest you?" he scoffs. "You're helping me."

"How?"

"Because if you die, you prove the Aptitude Exam is reliable."

"And if I survive?"

"Then Northeastern claims another victor." He leans back in his chair. "Either way, it's a win-win situation for me."

"I could say I dropped out."

"Then the Academy doesn't have to sponsor you." He smiles. "No matter what you do, you're doing me a favor."

I snort. "Well, is there anything else you want to say? Or is your ego cocky enough?"

"Not that I can think of." He tilts his head to the side. "But I'll let you know."

"You can tell me when I'm back." I stand up to leave. "When I'm a victor."

"Actually, one more thing," he says as I reach the doorway. "Don't hide anything under your shirt in the arena. It's too obvious."

Lorcan Estrelle, 15
District One Male Tribute

Although I'm wearing dark slacks, I sit on the dusty grass with my legs crossed. In my lap rests a bouquet of imported flowers from District Eleven: azure hydrangeas, creme roses, pink coneflowers, yellow large-flowered tickseeds, white alstroemerias. Their colors are vibrant in this unfrequented, Capitol-sponsored cemetery.

Since it's sole purpose is to provide a resting place for the district's fallen tributes, I shouldn't be surprised that nobody else visits. People in District One only care about their victors. It's common for parents to disown their children if they die in the arena; some refuse to attend the funeral, others ask the Capitol to keep the corpse. Pride has caused a handful of these thirty-seven, granite tombstones to have no corpses underneath.

I know the grave in front of me contains a corpse. I watched the bronze casket lower into the ground. Its tombstone reads:

Artus Estrelle
Tribute of the 17th Hunger Games
Oct 16, 1640 P.A. — July 14, 1659 P.A.
We Salute You For Your Service

The four-year anniversary of my brother's death is in one week. Everyone else will be watching the bloodbath, while I spend the day in this graveyard.

I was supposed to follow in Artus's footsteps. When he volunteered for the 17th Hunger Games, he was supposed to survive. He was one of the most talented graduates of Emerald's Cavalier Institute, able to wield a sword as if it were his fifth limb. Everyone was surprised when he was killed on the third day, taking a stray arrow to his throat.

When I close my eyes, I can still see his death: the silver-tipped arrow sailing through the air, the wooden shaft sticking out of his Adam's apple, the liquid scarlet staining his fair beige skin, his body collapsing to the ground with uneven breaths, his lips being tainted by the crimson blood, the cameras focusing on his blue-green eyes as they became glossier, his body becoming as rigid as a stone, the cannon sounding in the background.

He promised me that he would come home alive. That was the first time he broke a promise.

My wristwatch buzzes, and I turn off the alarm without looking. The stylish gadget was a birthday gift from Artus, given to me around the time he left for the Capitol. Since my step-father burned all of his belongings, this wristwatch is the single piece of evidence that proves he existed. I only take it off when I shower, afraid the water will ruin its leather band.

After a moment, I stand up with the bouquet in my hands. I don't bother to wipe the dust away from my slacks.

"I'll see you next week," I whisper, placing the bouquet on top of his tombstone. "Wish me luck. Only four more to go."

When I arrive at the City Square, I squeeze through a herd of eager adults before I reach the check-in table. Most of the children have been separated into two groups: those who are eligible to be reaped and those who are exempt due to this year's twist.

Since the reinstitution of the Hunger Games, a new rule was created that requires each year to include a different twist. (In the Old Generation, this only occurred every twenty-five years as a Quarter Quell.) Some years, the twist affects the pool of eligible citizens; other years, the twist isn't revealed until the tributes enter the arena.

After the Peacekeeper draws blood from my finger, they point me in the direction of eligible children.

Although I knew I met the requirements for the twist, I'm surprised by the aura of apprehension in this smaller crowd. Are they afraid of being reaped? Are they afraid someone won't volunteer? Despite popular belief, District One does not always send volunteers. Even after years of training, nobody believes they are guaranteed victory, and the idea of dying and being disowned by loved ones is a strong deterrent.

At precisely 9 o'clock, Athénaïs Saralee, the escort entrusted to select this year's tributes, struts out of the Justice Building. Following her is the mayor, his wife, and the district's three victors. While Athénaïs approaches the microphone in the center of the stage, the other five take a seat behind her.

Although she hails from the Capitol, her appearance is not gaudy and exuberant. If it weren't for her curly, purple hair and bubbly demeanor, she could pass as a standard citizen. Her minimal makeup might be drab to the Capitol, but it makes her seem personable to the districts. While other escorts have cosmetic surgery to hide their age, her fair complexion holds its natural youthfulness. She's the youngest active escort; if she lived in the districts, she could've been reaped a year or two ago.

"Welcome, citizens of District One, to the reaping of the 21st Annual Hunger Games!" she says with a burst of enthusiasm. In the crowd, the adults holler and applaud, but the children next to me stay silent. "As custom we will begin with a brief history of Panem and the Second Treaty of Treason, presented to you by Mayor Penleigh."

A polite applause follows the mayor as he approaches the microphone. He retells the story of the rise of Panem, a country born out of the crumples of North America. For decades, the Capitol and its thirteen districts lived in unity. But that ended when an idealist from Thirteen stirred a premature rebellion. It ended with his district's obliteration.

The remaining twelve districts competed in the Hunger Games as a form of penance. For seventy-four years, the districts handed over a teenage male and female representative to fight to their death in a random arena. Although a small percent returned home, nobody did anything. But when Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark won the 74th Hunger Games, a sense of hope was revived in the rebels. That hope sparked the Second Rebellion, which began with the destruction of the 75th Hunger Games.

The rebels won the Second Rebellion. They rallied enough support from the common citizens to overcome the Capitol. District Thirteen resurfaced—it was not destroyed like everyone believed. A new president rose to power, and the Hunger Games were abolished. The district citizens finally had the freedom they desired.

When Katniss Everdeen died in 1640 Postquam Apocalypsis—"after the Apocalypse," or P.A.—the loyalists started to act. The rebels were too arrogant, turning a blind eye to the loyalists' capabilities. That would, quit literally, kick them in the ass.

Within two years, the rebel forces were defeated, its leaders were executed on live television, and District Thirteen was destroyed for good. By 1643 P.A., the Hunger Games were recreated and reformed. In this New Generation, the Second Treaty of Treason requires each Game to include a unique twist.

"In the last two decades, District One has successfully produced three victors," the mayor continues. The victors rise from their seat, and they courteously wave to the cheering crowd. "Fergus Tancredo, victor of the 7th Hunger Games; Myriam Deirdre, victor of the 10th Hunger Games; and Adamaris Fidele, victor of the 15th Hunger Games." The mayor waits for the applause to die down before continuing, "Now, I will hand the mic over to Athénaïs, who will select this year's tributes."

"Thank you, Mayor! As President Quain announced three months ago, this year's twist limits the eligible reaping pool. It reads: 'Tributes must be related to a tribute or victor of a previous Hunger Games; this can include parents or step-parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces with special exceptions for boy/girlfriends and best friends if mentioned in their will.'" She smiles. "Sounds like it'll be an interesting year!"

The crowd shouts their approval.

"As usual, we shall start by selecting our female representative." Athénaïs twirls her hand around in the glass bowl, her finger tracing over the paper slips before plucking a single one. "Livia Blaise!"

I don't recognize the name, so I stand on my tiptoes—the boys in my district are a few inches taller than me—to get a better view. A young girl with blonde hair steps forward. She can't be older thirteen years old.

Athénaïs waits until the girl reaches the stage before asking, "Are there any volunteers?"

Immediately, two girls shout and raise their hands.

When two people volunteer at the same time, the escort selects which one will be tribute. In previous years, the escort selects the older tribute, the one who is closest to the stage. However, this is Athénaïs's second year with us, and last year, the volunteers went unopposed.

To my surprise, she points to the younger girl, mumbling something about her "being first."

While the small girl is escorted back to her section, the volunteer struts to the stage, her dirty blonde hair waving from side to side with each step. Although my view is partially obstructed, I can tell she's beautiful from the crowd's whistles. Her posture emits confidence and sexiness, as if she's fully aware that all the boys would be swooning over her slim figure and unmissable cleavage. Her name is Veira Faustus—she says with a hint of snobbishness, as if everyone should know it—and her uncle was the first tribute from District One.

"Well, I believe we should all give Veira a round of applause for her sacrifice."

Veira curtsies as the audience claps.

"And now, for our male representative." Athénaïs spends less time at this reaping bowl than the previous one. I assume she expects another volunteer. "And the selected man is"—she clears her throat—"Lorcan Estrelle!"

I murmur a curse.

The boys in my close proximity cast me a sideways glance before it clicks in their brain. One by one, they move away from me as if I'm toxic, creating a small path to the aisle. Although my brain doesn't register my movements, I begin walking towards the aisle. Four Peacekeepers appear to my side, guiding me to the stairs. I maintain a straight posture and tight smile as I walk up the steps. When I chance a glance towards Veira, I'm met with unforgiving, light olive eyes.

Nobody volunteers to take my place. When Athénaïs asked, I could hear the metaphorical crickets chirping in the background.

On stage, everything seems to be going too fast: the handshake, the closing remarks, the anthem. Through it all, I keep a positive appearance for the cameras, but my mind is plagued by one recurrent thought:

Why me?

End of Chapter 1.

Author Note: Thank you for reading the first chapter of this revived fan fiction! Although these are not SYOT, its sequel will be. Users who follow, favorite, leave a review, and answer my questions at the end of each part will receive priority when submitting tributes.

Q: What are your feelings about Veira and Lorcan?

Next Chapter: Different Worlds (D2 Reaping)