DISTRICT THREE, SEVEN DAYS UNTIL THE REAPINGS

Ryatt Abacus stuffed the bag of blue and white pills into his jacket and continued to walk briskly down the sidewalk, trying not to look suspicious to the few awake at this hour. He trotted alongside one of the many looming factories in Three, separated by nothing but a thin chainlink fence. He looked forward into the morning sky, grays and blues whirling around in dusty wisps of clouds. It was surprisingly bitter for an autumn day in Three, the cold and dry air furthering the morning gloom of the District. Ryatt supposed perhaps that District Three wasn't as gloomy as it had once been though. Before the war, before Ryatt emerged from the arena- all he knew of Three were stretches of tin shacks, yellowing mattresses stuffed into dark alleyways, and concrete convenient stores with shattered windows. All of that was gone now- the expanses of poverty across the main city now replaced with smoking weapon factories and secret military hangars. Most citizens of Three welcomed the new industry, the bloom of wealth that swept through the upper and middle classes. But no matter how hard he looked, all Ryatt saw was looming towers of cold gray concrete and burning white steel. That's why he took the pills.

The burning of elevated senses mixing with the downpour of tranquility and numbness. The feeling of a warm fire, crackling over heavy blankets, as the blood rushes through your fingertips and swirls in your brain. That is why Ryatt took the pills. To fucking escape from the dismal gray landscape of Three, to feel okay- even if it's just for an hour.

The highs weren't always good though- no one knew that better than Ryatt. Turns out when you have a shitload of trauma buried in your brain from when you were fifteen, taking "mind-opening" drugs can cause panic attacks like no other. Memories begin to reanimate themselves in front of you; the stomach-dropping sensation of being reaped; the sound of bloodbath gong; the feeling of teeth ripping through human flesh, hot viscous blood flooding your senses, the taste of metal coating your mouth, dripping down your nose and into your eyes...

With the reapings for the 90th Hunger Games but a week away, Ryatt knew he would need to be prepared. In a week he would be back in the Capital, forced to escort two more children into the arena- children who probably knew way more about the games than Ryatt ever would. With the training centers established for over two years, District Three would have it's the best chance at winning yet. Ryatt may have won last year, but he knew more than anyone that he wasn't supposed too. Ox, the burly boy from two, had been set to win from the beginning. He received sponsor gifts of knives, food, and even medicine. Ryatt and his ally Spool, an older boy from eight-received nothing. In The Capital, rich men betted that they would die in the bloodbath, Ryatt expected to make nothing more than 21st place. But here Ryatt stood, a fluke in their system, a weak and incapable kid who simply failed to bleed out first. He would never forget the crushing sensation of Ox dying on top of him, his throat bitten out by the boy he had been gutting but a minute ago.

As Ryatt walked through the creaking iron gates of the Victor's village he thought, as he often did, how he wasn't meant to return home. These homes- elegant white wooden mansions with their pillars and elaborate white gardens- weren't built for him. Somewhere the universe fucked up- crowning Ryatt as the victor. Others deserved to go home before he did. He should have just died by Ox's blade like he was supposed too. He approached the door to the only occupied Victor home in all of Three. Vogel Sommar, District Three's last victor had died four years ago during the war. He was a sweet man, yet Ryatt could tell from the moment they met that he was on the brink of death- his health rapidly declining through the years from injuries he took in the arena. He died peacefully in his sleep- like Ryatt hoped he someday would too.

The young man wasn't even on his couch by the time he took the pills- two blue ones he randomly grabbed from the bag. He swallowed them dry, collapsing onto the couch and covering his eyes with his arm as he waited. He lied there for a moment in the near disturbing silence of his home. He lived all alone now- his older brother, Obel, MIA in the war. The day he left for war against Twelve, Ryatt knew he wouldn't come back. The universe would claim an Abacus- and if it wasn't Ryatt than it would be Obel. He quickly went from having someone to no one. That was the way of the world he supposed. When one kinda good thing happens, another ultimately shitty thing one follows.

He received the call right as the drugs kicked in. Still dilapidated onto the couch, wallowing in his self-pity as had become ritual, the phone began to ring, sending high pitched screeches echoing through the empty halls. He groaned, standing up, everything light and airy. He seemingly floated across the living room- empty of all furniture but the ultimately uncomfortable black leather couch and two matching chairs. He approached the pinger, taking it off the wall as he crashed his shoulder against it. As soon as he touched it- the call became live.

"Hello is this Ryatt Abacus?" asked a woman on the line immediately, with a notably deep and sultry voice. Ryatt didn't recognize it.

"Um yes," he pushed out in a rasped tone.

"Hello, this is a representative of Kenndy Treznor, Head Gamemaker of this year's Hunger Games,"

"Oh um- can I help you?" Ryatt asked. He squinted his eyes as he listened to the other line, the world spinning around him. He quietly swore under his breath, of course. One of the most powerful people in the country was contacting him just as he began spinning into oblivion. That's what I get for being a worthless rich drug junkie, he internally scorned himself.

"Yes, this will be quick," the woman began. Thank God. " Kennedy has requested you attend a meeting with her the night you arrive in the Capital for The Games. That would be in a week,"

"The night of the chariots?"

"Yes. Come to her offices after the ceremony. Her secretary will escort you to where you need to be,"

"Should I-"

"We expect to see you there," he was cut off, feeling the swirling of energy within him. The strange and mysterious woman hung up, leaving Ryatt all alone once again. He tried pondering what Kennedy Treznor could possibly want with him. He began to grow concerned- nobody was called on by a woman that powerful for no small reason. Thought upon thought began to stack itself, Ryatt unable to escape the steepening pool of panic that followed. He thought of all the executed victors of the past few years, the live casted beheadings of the men and women who he met following the games. Execution after execution, every high profile member of society suspected for treason ending up with their head in an iron bucket. Hott and vivid images of heads separating from bodies boiled up through his mind and coursed through his body.What if he was next?

Sweat beaded on his forehead and he swallowed hard. He began to slump against the wall, collapsing in the corner as the drugs overtook him. Flashes of color swept over him in hot and cold bursts, his breathing shot, and his head pounding with blood. He curled in the corner, gasping choking sobs escaping his stiffened throat as the world crumbled around him. He felt like he was going to die. He was going to die in that pathetic empty mansion, then he was going to die at the reapings, then in Kennedy Treznor's office and with every cannon shot in the following Games.

His hands came to his hair, holding tight, his clammy palms pressed against his forehead in pain. He tried screaming. But what would that do? Ryatt Abacus was alone and always would be.