Ivory Millefiori

Mentor, District One

Victor of the 9th Hunger Games

I'm tempted to stay till someone notices, but I never get the chance. Tulle swishes through the otherwise silent night; she huffs, and puffs, and it isn't long before she's snagged somewhere. What follows is a stifled squeak, and a litany of not so stifled swears. If Syrah were looking for me; no, Syrah would never come looking for me. No sounds like the sounds I'm hearing right now have ever come out of her mouth. No sounds have ever come out of Syrah's mouth – none that I've heard, anyway. Not since her games. I spent the lead up to mine biting my lip when she rolled her eyes at me, and dodging dinner rolls flung at my head for biting my lip, I assume. Either that, or she really doesn't like dinner rolls. And/or, she really doesn't like me.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Tiny fists slam into the dense trunk of a particularly unlucky tree – whoever it is mustn't know I'm here. I use the din to stand up and dust myself off. I guess that's the way back then. I silently weave my way through the undergrowth, careful to keep the sobbing behind me, and it's not long before I pop up on the path I started on. This time, it'll take me to the party. Her party.

I'm sure there'll be plenty of dinner rolls.

Mint Catalan

Mentor, District Two

Victor of the 12th Hunger Games

Striker thinks she's ready, but I'm not so sure. The boy we decided on easily enough; Lich is eighteen, he's ready, and he wants this. The girl however, she's a little too delicate. I think, so I say. That's sort of how I roll. I appreciate this, and I value it in others; these beliefs and values dictate my behaviour. Striker likes to think he's very much the same, but he's treading on eggshells here, like he always does. He watched my games when he was young enough to be horrified, and old enough to remember why. I'm still waiting for him to get over it.

The girl, Finial, is probably best in her class. She's outright deadly with staff and spear, but she's also decent in hand-to-hand combat, and happens to be relatively intelligent. I stretch, and re-position myself on the table in Striker's kitchen. Am I mad that she's pretty? Could I be mad that she's really, really pretty? The wax from the candle between us is spilling out and over the plate it's sat upon, and I jab it with my index finger as he readies himself to defend her.

"She's not like us", he offers. I mull this over as he gently tugs the candle out of my reach. I have to say, I sort of expected more. I flip my hair to the side and smile. It's not the noblest move, but hey, he winces, and I like that.

"How exactly, is Finial Spire special, Striker?"

"She's scared"

Finial Spire it is.

Dalton Boyle

Mentor, District Three

Victor of the 10th Hunger Games

Flag tidies up my bedroom, and we don't talk. We're especially talented at not talking, the two of us. But if we weren't, if we weren't so gifted, what would we say? He's twelve, I'm twenty-seven. He's not old enough to work in a factory, and his brothers won't let him take out any tesserae, so he's here. He tidies, and I pay him. I should mention at some point that I asked him if he wanted to work for me; we did have a conversation once. My hands stop, knotted up in my bright red hair; is that the last time I had a conversation with someone? It can't be. It can't be, but it is. That makes it five months since I last walked into town.

I give up on my hair, and reach for a glass of water on my bedside table. He's in the doorway now, a grey satchel full of greyer rags cutting into his bony shoulder, eyes too green for the district frozen on my shirt, or what's under my shirt – I forgot to button it up before turning. I wrap it around my body and fold my arms; hasty, but honestly, he doesn't need to see what the boy from Seven did to me. I don't need to see what the boy from Seven did to me – but I don't get a say there. I huff, tug the covers up, and rub my forehead with both hands; I feel a headache coming on.

"Good luck, today" I grumble.

Flag looks up at me, and for a second I'm not so sure fifteen years stand between us. It feels like more; it feels further, and darker, and harder to navigate. Flag mercifully smiles, and walks away.

It could be his name read out today.

Fife Baitwell

Mentor, District Four

Victor of the 20th Hunger Games

Berm's head pops up as I'm doing the dishes, and the window's open, so I do what any self respecting Baitwell would: I throw the sponge in his face. He's Berm - so he laughs, picks it up, and puts it on the ledge between us. As I reach across the sink to take it back, he covers my hand with his own. I know I'm bright red, but I also know – you guessed it, he's Berm, so I let him linger a second longer than I should before wriggling away.

"You have to do the dishes?"

Splosh.

"On Reaping Day?"

Splosh.

Berm's sweet, and funny, and I don't mind this, honestly I don't, but I have no idea how to make him understand I need this day to be as regular as it possibly can be; I have to do the things I do every other day. I have to pretend there's time; I have to pretend there's lots and lots of time left before I have to go back.

I dry my hands on my apron, and untie my hair. Big mistake. Berm reaches out, slow enough for me to stop him – why don't I stop him? My brow furrows at the problem I can't solve, but melts away as soon as his hand starts combing through the hair behind my ear. At some point, I close my eyes.

"Go get dressed, Berm"

Berm lets go.

"Go get dressed, Fife"

I want to go, I do, but I know the second I turn my back there'll be a wet sponge smacking into it. That's why I'm still standing here – why we're both still looking at each other. He smiles, and I'm smiling too. It's only now I notice there's heather in my hair; it definitely wasn't there before.

"Don't get chosen, ok?"

I run up the stairs before he has a chance to reply.

Jasper Bowen

Mentor, District Five

Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games

Plume's been trying to get Mesa up his way for half an hour now. He snaps his head up as the seventh floorboard past the lintel creaks; it took him way too long to realise I'm here. All he has to show for his efforts are a drooling Mesa, face down on her favourite purple pillow, and a few dozen peanut shells scattered in a halo round her head.

"Did you eat any of them, Plume?"

"All of them" he grins.

"Well ok then"

I turn to leave, but stop at the door. I need to remember this. They'll be twelve next year.

"Start phase two" I command, and close the door behind me.

I linger a little to catch his response.

All I hear are giggles, then a high-pitched scream, and a thump.

"Tephra! The kids are up!"

Axis Fuller

Mentor, District Six

Victor of the 8th Hunger Games

They'll die in the bloodbath.

They'll die in the bloodbath.

They'll die in the bloodbath.

It's the same every Reaping Day. Each year I hear it; I hear it over and over till they follow through. They're either too small, or too scared, or both, and they die. I groan and let my forehead bang against the shower wall. The water is warm, and sweet smelling, and I should be happy. I should be so happy, for all of this – but they never win. They never come home. I'm District Six's only Victor, and I anticipate it staying that way for a while. I got lucky; I outlasted the rest, and after the girl from Four fell to the boy from Nine in the finale, all I had to do was sneak up behind him and push him over the cliff. One kill; I made it through my games with only one kill.

I should be happy.

But I can't remember his name.

Willow Rise

Mentor, District Seven

Victor of the 17th Hunger Games

No one talks – not to me, anyway. My hair is white and my dress is white and maybe I should stop wearing those contacts they ship in from The Capitol. Maybe I should stand out more; maybe then they'd have to say something. I know I'll never fit in – I knew that all the years I didn't get picked, all the years before I did; why did I think winning would change anything?

The baker smiles, and goes back to his work. The grocer smiles, and goes back to his work. The butcher, the postmaster, the kids playing marbles in the street under the shadow of scarlet banners announcing another Games – they all smile, and get back to what they were doing before I swept through.

It's enough that they notice me, I think. It's enough that they smile. My victory granted them more oil, and more grain, and life for a little while wasn't so hard. They remember that, and they smile. I killed my district partner on the first day, and they remember that too.

Kain Brocatelle

Mentor, District Eight

Victor of the 13th Hunger Games

I shove my notebook into my back pocket when I see her; it doesn't fit, and loose pages scatter in the dust between us. Yeah, that's about right. Show her how together you are, you know, by chasing yellow scribble filled pages stamped with tea and jam stains through the city centre. You're so good at this.

I exhale, and squat to pick up a bunch that made it easy by sticking together. I should throw them out. I should really, throw them all out. My post-win hobby is meant to be weaving, not poetry. I don't publish, and I don't share with my friends, or family, so the point is?

"You're so good at this" she exhales.

It's sweet, and honest, and why did she say that? Oh god, oh god no, she got to a page before I did.

I pull at the edges of my vest with my free hand; I do that a lot. Pull at edges of things hoping they'll somehow do my bidding, and hide me when I want to be hidden. I feel exposed, like I'm coming apart, and she's smiling. She's smiling and it's too hard to look at full on, so I scale down a few feet and ask for it back. Her shoes are soft; I can tell they're soft – she's worn them a lot. Both laces are black, but one has a green feather tied to it. Where did she find a green feather? She's not wearing any socks, and I can see a couple of inches of caramel skin - her caramel skin, and I had better get this over with because I'm spending way too much time committing every detail to memory and eventually she's going to notice.

"Please, Velvet?"

The clock strikes ten before she can reply. Shit, I should make my way to the stage. I brush past her and start jogging to the justice building. Before I disappear through the crowd I hear -

"I'll just keep this then, ok?"

Ok.

Gene Durum

Mentor, District Nine

Victor of the 4th Hunger Games

Some of the boys in the eighteens look decent enough; some but not many, and none will ever volunteer. Maybe One and Two have it right, I think, as I fish a wilted cigarette out of my blazer pocket. Maybe we should harvest the kids that show the most promise and encourage them to choose this for themselves. Maybe there's power in choosing this. Maybe then they'd have a chance.

"Looking for something?"

Amaranth; it has to be Amaranth.

She titters in delight, and steps out of the shadows. Her top lip is scrunched up to give my lighter a better ledge to balance on while she gets the taunting out of her system.

"You're disgusting, you know"

"And sneaky; you're forgetting sneaky, Gene"

"You do realise I can light a fire just fine without that, right?"

"Ok lefty, show me what you've got"

What I've got is a stump where my left forearm should begin, courtesy of the boy from Ten. Technically, it's sort of my fault too; I turned down the Capitol's offer of a bionic replacement. It would have made life easier, and while I'm not about to admit it to anyone, deep down I don't think life should be easy for me.

That shouldn't be my prize.

We step out into the sunlight as she threads the fingers of her left hand through the fingers of my right.

I shoot her a look that says 'later', and resign myself to hating this.

Calyx Wagner

Mentor, District Ten

Victor of the 18th Hunger Games

Cassia practices from cue cards she's clutching for dear life, and I mime in time; my head is perched on her shoulder, and she smells good – really good: apples, and orchids, and opium? I sort of want to nibble on her neck, but that would distract her; I hope that would distract her. If I did it properly, it should, but I've never had a chance to try. Well, I've had plenty of chances, but I've never, you know, had the guts. Now would be as good a time as any, but they're out there, and right now, I wish it were her holding me. I wish, but it can't be. Mayor Graft is in bed sick, and his daughter, Cassia, is acting in his stead; it's her first time, and she's scared. I'm not going to make this about me – not today.

I take a deep breath, and pull away to look out into the sea of faces from our hiding spot behind the shoddy stage. Farina's there, somewhere in the eighteens. She's probably wearing her blue dress, the one with the daisies on the collar. She's worn it for three years now, I think. It's probably too short, and too tight under the arms. I'd give her one of the dozen my stylists left with me, but to do that, I'd have to talk to her, and to talk to her, I'd have to be near her – I can't see that happening. Her too small, too tight dress is blue like the sky; blue like her eyes. Somewhere, out there, she's pulling at a loose thread, wrapping it around a shaking finger, and tugging it so tight it hurts. Hurting reminds us that we're here. We're all still here.

And we're scared.

Ray Floret

Mentor, District Eleven

Victor of the 5th Hunger Games

The commentators called her the Angel of Death. I called her Heirloom. The boy from Six just about ran into her on the second day, and she swiped the sickle he'd somehow managed to steal from the Cornucopia, or another tribute – I can't remember. He was twelve, and looked it. He would have been an easy kill, but Heirloom let him be. She dissolved into the thick foliage moments before the Career chasing Six barrelled through with a sword in each hand. You'd think it would have been easy work, but Heirloom had to finish the job.

She killed the boy from Six, she killed the girl from Three; she killed the girl from Nine and the boy from Ten. Heirloom killed a lot of people, but none of them brought her home. I killed a lot of people too, and I think the same goes for me.

I twist my golden handkerchief in my hands. I want to hurt something. I want to be hurt. I – I don't know what I want.

The escort is wearing wings this year. They're magenta; that's a word I learned in the Capitol. They're magenta, and they might be attached to her back - I'm not sure. I swipe a feather with one hand as I fan my handkerchief in my blazer pocket with the other. She doesn't feel it, so maybe they're just for show after all. I'm about to stuff it in my pocket when I hear a muffled cry to my left. One of the eighteens is pregnant. I cough, to get her attention, and cup my hands to blow the feather her way.

Heirloom was eighteen.

And Heirloom died.

Clover Shortwall

Mentor, District Twelve

Victor of the 22nd Hunger Games

Peregrine jabs me in the ribs with the baton she uses to intonate, and I sit up straight in my golden chair. She jabs me again and I scowl at her. Oh – that's right. I'm supposed to be happy.

There are more children in the square this year, I realise - more because of me, and the gifts my victory brought the district. None of them look healthy, sure, but they're still here - grey and terrified, but here. Some are my friends.

One is my brother.

Slate is in the fifteens. He's shorter than the boys around him; he's short like me. There's no way I'd be able to find him if I tried to, but I can guess what I'd see if I did.

His pants are brown, and belted. They don't have any holes, or tears – they aren't fraying, and they finish where they should: they're not too short, and they're not too long. This is important. The year before last he had to borrow a pair of dad's old work pants, and a peacekeeper broke his arm with his baton for the shame he brought the district. We'd folded them over and over at the cuff and secured them with some old electrical tape, but they rolled down on the journey into town, and were dirtied. We didn't patch the hole in the ceiling that year so we could buy him another pair. They were grey, like everything else here, but they fit him well enough. It rained for four months straight.

Today is the day Slate wears what might be the only discernible colour in the crowd. His shirt is blue, bright blue, and that's the thought I hold onto as I smile for the cameras.

Peregrine waves her baton, the jewel at its head turns red, and we're live.