Chapter Text
It’s no coincidence that I wake up at three in the morning with a hollow chill running deep through my body. It’s an unsettling feeling, waking up in the dead of night, and the knowledge that I’m completely alone in the Victors’ Village isn’t doing me any favors. I shouldn’t be surprised, though; after years of anticipation and anxiety and dread, my body’s learned to recognize when the time has come for yet another reaping.
I find myself drifting through my drafty bedroom and stop to gaze out my window: slightly ajar to let in the brisk morning air. It’s a full moon, but a perpetual cover of haze blankets the night sky.
There’s something that’s so uniquely profound about gazing out a window in the cover of night. Maybe it’s the solitude, maybe the infinite depth of the cosmos, or perhaps it’s the way everything slows to a halt. Three in the morning is an odd time: too late to be stumbling home after a rowdy night at the bar, too early for the wild birds to begin their songs. All that’s left is the gentle humming of cicadas coupled with the distant humming noises from the factories. It’s an odd pairing, but it’s home to me.
I resign myself to bed once again, but after an hour or so of laying in bed contemplating the horrors of life, it’s clear that sleep will continue to elude me. In a futile attempt to keep me from drowning in my own thoughts, I head downstairs for a cup of tea.
The house is empty, of course; my father’s been at the Capitol for important pre-Games meetings for days. He’ll be back by the time the reaping takes place, though. It’s a good thing, too – even though I’m eighteen years old, I can’t bear the thought of facing it without him there.
Fewer things are more universal in Panem than the hatred of reaping day – that is unless, I suppose, you’re from the Capitol. I assume it’s a shared sentiment across all districts, but seeing as I haven’t visited any besides my home in Three, I can’t make any definite conclusions. Perhaps individuals in Career districts – One, Two, and Four – get some kind of sick sense of accomplishment from sending their best fighters off to the slaughter. There’s one thing I do know for certain, though: My hatred of the reaping is the strongest in all of Three, save for perhaps my father – better known as Beetee, winner of the Thirty-Fourth Annual Hunger Games – and Wiress, who won her games the day I turned eleven.
People assume being the kid of a victor is the “easy path” in life. They’re not wrong – the endless riches and guaranteed comfort place my quality of life high above my counterparts, but it’s not the full story.
When the final tribute is slain and the victory trumpets blow and the winner is crowned, it’s not just those twenty-three fallen tributes that die in the arena. Once you’ve been crowned victor, a part of yourself dies alongside those twenty-three children. Every tribute lives in their own unique hell: some are forced to sell their bodies, to be an attraction at some upscale Capitol party, to live with constant flashbacks to the horrors of the arena, to spend their futile lives mentoring kids they know will never see their families again.
But every single one of them must live out their life knowing that no matter what they do, what they say, how perfect of a victor they are, they’ll never truly be free from the Capitol’s grasp.
My father has learned this ugly truth the hard way.
He won his games by outsmarting the Gamemakers – finding flaws and exploits within their carefully designed systems, staying out of sight, flying under the radar, and killing everyone with one anticlimactic zap . The Capitol, it turns out, can’t stand being outsmarted and to my father’s eternal misfortune, insists on holding their absolute power over us every chance they can get. And to my eternal misfortune, the Capitol’s favorite way of making my father atone for his unfathomable misdeeds is through his family, which as of now – and for the foreseeable future – solely consists of me.
I turned twelve during the second Quarter Quell. Unfortunately for the Capitol, I was only eleven years of age on the day of the reaping and therefore ineligible to be chosen. A pity, too; having a victor’s child chosen for such an important event would’ve been such a delightful twist for the viewers, but alas, some poor no-name child got chosen in my place.
Three weeks later, my mother, pregnant with my younger sibling, suddenly died. The culprit: bad oysters, they’d claimed, from the president’s dinner party.
It was then that I finally understood the gravity of my situation.
I grew up believing the Capitol to be a benevolent guardian, a loving older sibling, a generous benefactor. After all, it was them who provided my family with everything we had: our status, our house, our riches. Even after my mother’s death, they continued to support us. While other District 3 youth were taught in overcrowded, run-down schools, I attended state-of-the-art education facilities. After some passionate correspondence with my father, they discreetly changed my legal paperwork and supplied me with the medication I needed to form my body into one that fit my perception of who I am. Treatment that I’m sure wouldn’t have been so freely given to any old kid from Three.
But it’s hard to ignore the constant pressure to be perfect. Just a toe out of line and you’re dead.
Each reaping is another chance for the Capitol to rip away what little agency I have left in my life. The only remotely comforting thing I have going for me is that this’ll be my final reaping – I’ll be turning nineteen shortly after it takes place – but I’ll be damned if the Capitol doesn’t enjoy watching me grow up to adulthood only to have it ripped out from under me like a rug.
A distant noise jolts me back to reality and I quickly realize that I’ve let my tea steep for too long. I gingerly take a sip – ouch, too hot – and wince at the telltale bitter flavor. At least the caffeine will help wake me up. I add some brown sugar (white sugar is far too expensive for my father’s entirely unwarranted frugality) and take another healthy swig. It’s marginally better, so I take the steaming cup to the sitting room where I curl up on an armchair and try not to think about what’s to come.
I spend another three or so hours wallowing in my pre-reaping existential dread before my father finally shows up, haggard and bleary-eyed.
“Long night?” I ask, knowing the answer already. After a week of nonstop Capitol crap and a long train ride home, it’s a wonder he’s still conscious.
He nods. “I wish I could’ve been here earlier, but…” His voice trails off, but I know what he means; I’m all too familiar with what the Capitol’s demands can be like.
“Go get some rest,” I suggest. “They won’t need you for a few hours, anyway.”
He looks as if he wants to argue, but his exhaustion overrides his stubbornness. “Fine, but are you prepared for the reaping? Clothes picked out? Know what time you’ll leave?”
Honestly, I’ve got no idea why he bothers asking – I’ve been doing reapings alone ever since I was old enough to participate – but I humor him anyway. “Yes, Dad. Now get to bed.”
While Dad’s fast asleep, I get myself ready for the main event of the day. The outfit I select is simple but effective: a teal pinstripe button-down, khaki trousers, and a nice pair of boots. Despite my status as a Victor’s kid, I prefer to dress rather unremarkably. Drawing unnecessary attention to myself is something I avoid as much as I can; I put up with enough of that from the Capitol already.
My next order of affairs is breakfast. Our food stores are unnecessarily bare – not from a lack of money, like many other families in the district, but from a lack of effort on my part; I didn’t feel like going out to buy food. While I could make do with what we’ve got, I decide to go out for breakfast instead. After all, it’s reaping day – might as well do what the rest of Three does and treat myself.
The Lomb family’s bakery is my first destination. I try to go out of my way to support the business when I can; it’s run by my friend, Cole, and his parents.
His dad’s at the counter when I arrive. He greets me with a smile, but I see the worry behind his eyes. “Here for your reaping day breakfast?”
I offer a toothy grin in return. “You know it,” I say. “How about some rolls with cheese?”
He nods and scoops up a handful of small square rolls – a District 3 staple – and gestures to the icebox in the corner of the store. “Help yourself to the cheese,” he says, and most wouldn’t think anything of that, but it’s a sign of trust. The baker doesn’t trust many people around his cheese assortment – I learned that the hard way when I was younger.
My selection is a chunk of gouda, which I bring back to the counter before offering my payment.
In return, I get a shake of the head. “It’s on the house. It’s a special occasion, your final reaping.”
We’re both aware that his family needs the money far more than mine, but I’m not one to argue with tradition. “Thank you very much,” I tell him.
“Good luck,” is what I hear as I leave.
When I get to our meeting spot, my friends – Cole, Jules, and Volt – are already there.
Cole does a fake-dramatic gasp when I turn the corner. “The victor’s boy has finally come to grace us with his presence!”
I try not to roll my eyes. “I was busy supporting your family’s business,” I say, and hold up the bag from the bakery to prove my point.
He scoffs. “There’s no way he let you pay for that.”
I shrug sheepishly. “Perhaps. But I brought enough to share.”
Jules steps in. “That’s good enough for me!” she says, and before I have time to react, swipes a roll from the bag.
“Oi!” I snatch the bag away. “Wait your turn, you greedy bastard.”
But I’ve barely finished my sentence when Volt’s behind me, and suddenly the bag has escaped my grasp.
“You know, you’re surprisingly oblivious for someone who’s supposed to be a genius,” teases Volt.
“Who says I’m supposed to be a genius?”
“The Capitol, of course,” replies Volt, and at my withering glare, adds “And our entire school, obviously. You always score the best on math tests.”
“And chemistry,” adds Cole.
“Can’t forget physics,” Jules chimes in.
I toss up my arms in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’m an oblivious genius. Now can I please have my bread back?”
“Very well,” sighs Volt, and passes it back, his expression looking remarkably like that of a kicked puppy.
“You guys are ridiculous,” I grumble, but sit down with them regardless.
Jules grins at me. “We’re your group of lovable idiots,” she says, and I crack a smile.
“Exactly.”
“Hey, speaking of loveable idiots…” Volt winks in my direction. “We brought some snacks, too.”
Cole nods. “My dad’s big on the reaping traditions. Have a feast with your friends in case you get sent to the Capitol, you know?”
None of us mention that the Capitol food is far better than what we could even dream of here in the districts. It’s likely that the tradition originated from before the Capitol started feeding the tributes; having a full belly before starving in the tribute cages could be the difference between life and death in the arena. Nowadays, the Capitol tends to prefer allowing the tributes to live lavishly: eat good food, wear beautiful clothes, enjoy comfortable beds – the new Training Center finished its construction just a couple of years ago. This special treatment isn’t out of goodwill, but out of an understanding that watching its own children brutally murder each other is far more effective at sequestering would-be rebellions than watching them starve ever could be.
Of course, bringing this up would spoil our good spirits, so I keep my mouth shut.
We pause for a minute to distribute food. Despite my earlier protests, I pass around the bread rolls and cheese to share with the group, who offer their own food in turn. With apples from Jules, fresh-baked cookies that Cole swiped from the bakery, and Volt’s beef jerky, we’ve got a proper feast to start out our day.
“Hey Jules!” Volt’s voice takes on a high-pitched, strained tone not unlike the Capitol accent. “Happy Hunger Games!” He takes a piece of jerky from his paper bag. “And may the odds–” He tosses it to Jules.
She catches it with her mouth and grins. “– be ever in your favor!” she finishes.
It’s a dark thing to joke about, but as some saying goes, if you don’t laugh, you cry. Still, it feels like I’m teasing fate in a way. Joking about the odds just feels wrong when you know you’re the prime target of those who dictate them.
“Feels weird that it’s finally our last reaping,” remarks Cole.
Jules groans. “Don’t remind me about my childhood slowly slipping away from me. We’re getting so old…”
I poke her in the side. “You weren’t this sentimental at our graduation last month.”
“Yeah, but this just feels so much more impactful,” she says. “Like, you’re going to do more school after this anyway, so this graduation isn’t as big of a deal.”
She’s right. In the Capitol, people often associate graduating school as one’s transition to adulthood, but here in the districts, many kids don’t even finish half their schooling. Instead, the final reaping is what marks the change. Once you’re free from the threat of being sent to the Games, you may as well be considered a fully-fledged adult. Usually, wealthier families throw parties for their kids and their friends. Others prefer to celebrate with excessive drinking in abandoned lots. Neither option appeals to me.
“Ah, the emotional pain of growing up,” Volt fake-blubbers and pretends to brush a tear from his eye.
“Oh, shut up,” says Jules, playfully shoving him.
“Hey, is your dad back yet?” asks Cole, diverting the conversation topic.
“He got back this morning. I made him take a nap”
“That’s good,” says Jules.”I hope his meetings went well.”
It’s a small gesture, but it’s nice to know that I have people looking out for my family. As a rule, we generally avoid becoming too close with other families from Three – too much liability, don’t want the Capitol to have that leverage – but this group has been with me ever since I started school. It’s nice to have them around, but I need to be careful to not let them get too close. At times, I feel like an outsider – a “fourth wheel,” perhaps? I’ll take “fourth wheel” over having their lives used as bargaining chips, though.
I’m suddenly acutely aware of how easily the Capitol could be watching me right now. They always have extra surveillance on reaping day and during the Games; wouldn’t want to have a riot, of course. According to my father, on the Second Quarter Quell, one of the male tributes tried to make a run for it and was shot right next to the stage. His replacement, a volunteer (well, volunteered by the Peacekeepers is a more accurate description) went on to become the victor.
The fact of the matter is that I’m treading on thin ice. I probably shouldn’t stay for much longer, but I don’t want to make them worry, either.
“Yeah,” I say evasively, trying to mask my fear. “Lots of organization and whatnot. I think he helps out with some tech stuff.”
“Oh, neat,” Cole replies, then seems to suddenly remember something. “Hey, did you guys hear about the party that Maxwell and Bolt are throwing tonight to celebrate our final reaping? It’s supposed to be in that field where the abandoned shed is!”
“I heard someone’s bringing moonshine,” says Volt, wiggling his eyebrows mischievously.
The party sounds miserable – though that may just be my own bias – but it’s a perfect distraction for the trip. “Sounds cool, but I’ll be busy tonight. Speaking of which, I need to go help my dad, too.”
It’s a complete lie, of course, but I need to be alone for a while. It’s in everyone’s best interests.
Jules nods. “Alright, man. See you at the reaping?”
“See you.”
I’m lucky the District 3 reaping is relatively early compared to other districts. The few hours before the big event are filled with anxiety and dread, and I prefer to get it over with as quickly as I can.
My district is nothing if not punctual. The square is near-empty when I arrive approximately five minutes early, but by the time it’s time for the event to start, it’s completely full. I’m packed in with the other eighteen-year-old boys; the twelve-year-olds are set closest to the stage while I’m now all the way at the back. Having stood in each of the areas now, it almost feels like with each new year, I’m drifting closer and closer to freedom. I wonder if it’s by design or just a cruel coincidence.
Four figures stand on the reaping stage. One is our mayor, one is my father, and one is Wiress, the only other victor from the district. The final person is a bird-like specimen of a woman clad in a garish powder-blue garment that I distinctly lack the language to properly describe. Philomena’s her name, but I’d be hard-pressed to remember whatever’s after it. Embarrassing, frankly – a Victor’s son should have better manners, especially considering that she’s our Capitol escort.
As soon as the clock strikes eleven, the mayor steps up to recite the same story every year. Every District kid knows the story of Panem by heart, but the Capitol requires it to be told every year. Perhaps it’s an intimidation tactic to remind us how inferior we are. The Capitol, I’ve learned time and time again, is particularly fond of grand displays of absolute power.
After this, he introduces our district’s Capitol escort: Philomena, who I’m already uncomfortably acquainted with, but I now know that her last name is Cure. Next is the reading of the list of all District 3 victors, which seems a little pointless considering they’re both standing in front of us, but traditions must be upheld. I idly wonder what happened before my father was crowned the first victor of Three – did they even bother with the list? Did they announce the reading and follow with a lengthy pause, or did they just not bother?
Through the muggy air rings the shrill voice of Philomena. “Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!”
Not in my favor. Never in my favor.
“Ladies first!” she crows, as she does every year, and struts to the bowl. After a moment of digging around, her painted talons find a worthy slip and pluck it from its place.
“Farrah Day!” she announces.
The name sounds vaguely familiar – I’ve probably heard it at school before. Sure enough, there’s some movement from the fourteen-year-olds’ section and a pale girl with curly, light brown hair steps out and ascends to take her place on the stage. For such a young kid, she’s doing a good job at keeping her composure; her face remains cold and neutral and her posture is upright and confident.
“And now for our male tribute!” Philomena turns to the other bowl and unceremoniously skewers a new slip, bringing it up to her beady eyes and pausing to read it. Her face lights up with unmistakable glee and her piercing gaze drifts to the back of the crowd. I swear we lock eyes. Shit.
“Ampert Latier!”
It was never about the odds.