CHAPTER ONE;
weighing the odds

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     Little shade is provided by the dry, sun-shrivelled shrubs around the lake, although the tremendous shadow cast by the overhead railroad bridge is a cool enough place for Vesper to rest. Bolt's flimsy cap that she swiped earlier seems to do the trick, too.

Here she lies, to have a much deserved nap — or at least try to, despite it being nearly impossible with the boisterous racket some of her friends are making. The cap masks her face perfectly, shielding her from the sunlight that shines radiantly in the cloudless, cornflower-blue sky above. Every few minutes there's a whisper of a breeze, growing more frequent as time goes on, and it caresses her rough hands as they lie on her abdomen, fingers intertwined in the middle. It's only now that she feels the effort put into a day's work; it drags her down to the earth, and renders her weak. This happens every time she comes home for the weekend. It's a miracle that Blythe can even drag her out of bed before lunch, sometimes.

Sometimes, on the bad days, Vesper isn't sure whether that ache is from the labour her work brings... whatever she can call that... or if it's the psychological tricks her mind plays on her. The days where she has nothing to throw herself into, it becomes much easier to dwell on simply how rotten her luck is. Especially since last autumn...

     Work is done for the day. The afternoon is theirs, spent however they wish, providing that they return to the workshop in time to catch the train home. And, assuming she doesn't get picked tomorrow, of course, work will return to normal the following week. Seizing the summer's day, she and her fellow mechanics set out for a few hours of freedom — and now, with a belly full of homemade sandwiches and the strain in her muscles resurfacing after hours of working with virtually no breaks, it's about time that Vesper squeezed in a nap under the shade.

She's fallen asleep under this bridge countless times in her life, each year trying to block out any thoughts about the Reaping day that will follow. With time, it seems the people who have joined her have accumulated. At age twelve, just her. Thirteen, Axel and Kirk. Fourteen, Cheyenne and Bolt, and at fifteen last year, little Icarus tagged along for his first year in the Reapings.

A perplexed sigh comes from Vesper's right, and there's no question about who it belongs to. "Why are they like that?" Cheyenne asks, her voice laced with the particular annoyance that it always is.

"Who?" Vesper replies, her response delayed — only after a few seconds of expectant silence did she realise that the girl was talking to her.

"The boys."

Grunting, she shields her eyes from the sudden blast of sunlight that grasps her eyes when she removes the cap, and pushes herself up so she's propped on her elbows. Cheyenne stands with Icarus (who's too preoccupied with skipping rocks across the water) as she squints at the trio sat a stone's throw away. It's a tableau vivant of boys being boys if there ever was one — Axel, the eldest of them all, is known to possess a maturity that can ground the group in times of need... but equally, he can be as childish as the rest of them. Right now, for instance, he guffaws as a spectator to Kirk, undeniably the jester of this sibling-like pack, who wrestles the slightly careful but still as wild Bolt — namely, Cheyenne's brother.

Still, even if they are twins, Bolt could never hold the same sharpness in their freakishly identical, gunmetal blue eyes as his sister does. "They're so childish," she continues, her arms folded across her chest as she frowns. "Even when tomorrow's the—"

"Yeah, well," Vesper cuts her off, eager to avoid the words Reaping and tomorrow. "Maybe they need a distraction... to be honest, I think I could do with one myself."

Before she can talk any further, a whoop erupts from Kirk, resembling something like a gibbon's call, as he manages to push Bolt over his shoulder. They are flashed a patch of blindingly pale white skin on his back, as the poor boy's shirt rides up on his way down to the ground, evoking a breathless "Oof!" as he falls into the dirt. His so-called attacker dusts off his hands, a smug smile on his face, but he barely anticipates the younger boy lurching back up and forward, tackling him at the waist and dragging them both onto the dirt.

Vesper thinks she's beginning to understand Cheyenne's puzzlement. Whilst she's definitely not as regimented and composed as she is, every day is a new day to question how many brain cells they actually have.

"Or... maybe we should just leave 'em to it." she says, sitting up properly now so she can crouch.

Her attention drifts to Icarus, who's been silent this whole time. He, along with Cheyenne, confuse her as to why they'd even want to help out in mechanics. Each of them attend school — the way their families probably saw it, if you must send your children out to earn an income, you can at least ensure one of them can be the offspring to receive an education. Vesper was never one of those children. Besides, would she even fit into a school environment? The whole institutional idea of it all repels her; making her attention span last for a single lesson would be an achievement in itself. For many people in the workshop — and across other professions in Six, she's sure — learning on the job becomes your way of life. Of course, there's also the issue that the money to afford her education simply wasn't there...

Icarus stoops to pick up a stone — it's flat and has a certain roundness to it. He massages it in his palm as if he's assessing the quality of it, in such a way that suggests years of expertise, so uncharacteristic in the boy of only thirteen. Hooking his index finger firmly across the edge of it he squats, his eyes set on what looks like a distant target, and with one effortless swoop of his arm the stone goes flying. It hops delicately across the water in a straight line, leaving a trail of ripples behind in the glistening sheen of water. The stone skips a good ten or eleven places, before it sinks into the water with a clean plonk that hardly leaves a splash.

     "Damn," Vesper whistles, impressed. "You could take someone out with that thing."

     Grinning bashfully, Icarus breaks out into a grin. There's something so innocent and genuinely pure about it that makes Vesper return it. Maybe that's why it catches her off guard so much when he adds, still smiling, "Maybe it'll come in handy if I'm picked tomorrow."

     "You won't be!" she retorts, almost offended that he'd even suggest such a thing. There's a pang of doubt that cripples his carefree stance, and Vesper can't stand for it. "Think about how many kids they'll have to cram into that square tomorrow... and that's a big square," she says. "A lot of them aren't as lucky as you. They don't have an education, they have to claim Tessera... I-I mean, you're kind of living the high life, if you think about it. Your name's only in twice."

     "She's right," Cheyenne butts in, taking on a matter-of-fact tone. "Especially since you don't claim Tessera..."

     Icarus rubs the sole of his shoe against a clump of dried grass, cupping a hand over his eyes so he can see them through the sun's rays. "Still doesn't make me any less nervous, though..." he murmurs.

     "I signed up for Tessera last month, when Mom got pregnant," says Cheyenne. "Bolt too. So that means we're both in..." she pauses thoughtfully, doing the calculation in her head. "... eight times, I think?"

     Vesper takes a good look at her then, as she tugs on a tall blade of dried-out grass. She seems so... woman-like sometimes, in the way that she speaks and carries herself, that sometimes it's easy to forget that she's just turned fifteen. It's a lot more evident in her twin brother — Bolt's baby face still remains slightly, along with a pubescent voice that likes to crack into a higher octave at any given moment, but she's reminded in moments like this when she takes in Cheyenne's youthful features; the dusting of freckles across her face that appear in the summer, her delicate hands that have barely done a day's practical work, her honey-blonde hair that cascades freely down her back, her chapped lips that are worn from being bitten at from nerves. Mostly leading up to the Reaping.

     "Vesper?" Icarus asks, gasping as he almost stumbles on a rock he's trying to balance atop. "How many times are you in?"

     She doesn't even want to think about that, let alone talk about it.

     But the persistence of adolescents is something she knows all too well, because she possesses that same trait herself, so she gives in with an ambiguous, "A few more times than I'd like to."

     "How much are we talking about here?"

     "... Nineteen."

There's something resembling a whimper that escapes Cheyenne, but it's more like she's choking it back. Icarus remains solemn as he inquires, "Is that because of... last year?"

Last year. He doesn't even have to elaborate. The connotations of last year mean the same thing to the whole group, of what happened in the Autumn, and it's the last thing Vesper wants to think about right now when the Reaping is already vexing her.

"Yeah..." she breathes, finally. "Yeah, it is."

Admittedly, she'd had to ramp up her Tesserae supply to a couple extra after she and Blythe were left with no choice. Well, Vesper was left with no choice — Blythe's era of getting ready for the Reaping has passed, leaving only the infinity of adulthood ahead. All she can do is try and get her stubborn stepsister to The Epicentre in one piece, preferably without any unnecessary arguments.

The two kids have fallen uncomfortably silent, making Vesper squirm awkwardly. The last thing she wants is fuss, she would hate that. "Look, you don't have to worry about me." she reassures them. With a curt nod to the side, she draws their attention to Kirk, who's sloshing some water from his flask onto Bolt's shirt as he giggles. "Worry about folks like Kirk. Maybe you can even do the worrying for him."

"He must be in so many times..." Cheyenne sighs pitifully. She must be thinking the same thing as Vesper — him being the oldest of five children, not to mention you also have to count his mother and father into the equation. A family of seven, altogether, putting his life in grave danger.

At long last, Kirk has acknowledged the quiet trio as he teases, "Why don't you have a guess?" When Cheyenne doesn't answer, he outstretched his arms and shrugs flippantly. "Go on! Have a gamble, and see how close you get."

"Uhh..." the girl fiddles with her split ends, biting her lip. "Twenty?"

"Go higher," says Kirk.

     "Twenty-five."

     "Higher."

"Twenty-seven?"

"Much higher, come on!"

"Forty-seven?!"

Kirk throws his head back with a short, sharp laugh, and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Jesus, Chey, not that high. A little lower..."

Before Cheyenne can take another guess, they're distracted by the high-pitched hiss of something in the distance that makes their blood run cold. Vesper knows what it is — even before the rusted carriage chugging along the tracks fades into audibility, or before they even see the dreaded thing — but in denial, it's as if she can't quite comprehend their utterly stupid predicament.

     "What time is it?" she asks urgently, on cue as Axel — who's no longer looking so jovial — reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a watch.

     When he sees the time, he shakes his head in disbelief. Most likely at himself. "Motherfucker.." he mutters under his breath, scrambling to get his things. Not the most reassuring answer, Vesper thinks.

     "Great!" Bolt raises his arms before letting them fall to his side, giving a melodramatic groan. "Well, there goes our ride home..."

     Vesper can't believe this. In all her years working at this workshop, located far away from the industrial warehouses where she and the others reside, never has she been left without a ride home. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration — she's never missed the train when she needed to get home for the Reaping. In those other situations, perhaps she would just slunk back to her quarters in the workshop, with her metal bunk-bed that she shared with Cheyenne and the small handful of other girls working there. But this... this was different. Other times, she wasn't facing the death penalty for not getting home. If they wasn't in that square tomorrow, they'd be hanged in public. For sure.

     Or some other form of execution, if the Peacekeepers were feeling creative.

     "We haven't missed it yet..." Vesper says defiantly through gritted teeth, bumping with shoulders with Bolt as she brushes past him, and bundling her rucksack onto her back again. The train's approaching swiftly now, and maybe she would feel more embarrassed about all her colleagues ogling at the latecomers through the window, if it weren't for the impending dread of not getting home.

She seriously regrets having come all the way down here, as she clambers with large bounds up the dirt hill — it's already left Icarus huffing and puffing at the back. The abrupt uphill trek makes her thighs tremble with strain instantly, and so she tries to keep moving to ignore it. Her face burns with enmity as the train honks, whizzing past them when they manage to reach the top. Almost like a not-so-subtle slap in the face, Vesper thinks.

Rationality and practicality seems to be lost as they begin tearing down the stony path alongside the tracks, the screech of the train drowning out the obscenities they scream at the driver, demanding him to stop and pick them up. Blurred faces of mechanics rushing past them seem indifferent, distant, and she can't believe that no one stopped them to say there were people missing.

Now she remembers — the sun did seem a little too bright for the time she thought it was in the afternoon, more like it was setting.

Soon enough they're no longer sprinting alongside the train, and Vesper feels the hoarseness in her throat from the shrieking. Wincing, she brings a hand to her neck and strokes it with fingertips, as the others also slow to a halt and watch the train speed out of their reach. Their ride home, disappearing into the horizon for as far as they can see.

For a minute, there is just dumbfounded, defeated silence. In a fit of rage, Kirk suddenly throws his bag onto the ground and kicks it violently, startling a sweaty, red-faced Cheyenne standing next to him.

"Hijo de puta!" he curses in spite. "I can't believe those little shits left us behind..."

Vesper can barely listen to the rest of his rant, for the Spanish words still linger in her head, like static in her skull that she can't mute. Forbidden in Panem, it's something you keep quiet about — at least around the Peacekeepers, anyway. For some, it's almost impossible to do that. People like Kirk's mother know more of the forbidden language than they do English, and in those cases, it's often best to let him do all the talking. The last thing the Capitol would want is for people in the districts to be conspiring against them in some secret code. She doesn't know what it's like in other districts, if they have other languages too — but in District Six, she's come across a huge abundance of them, especially in her workplace. So many cultures in one place... perhaps it's a result of the overpopulation, that it just brings a wide range of district-wide diversity. You really do see people from all walks of life.

But it's not the forbidden aspect of the Spanish that throws her — in fact, part of her would be tempted to speak it just to rub them the wrong way, if the punishments weren't so horrific. It's the ties that the language has to her father. She can remember it so clearly: one of the townsfolk, already weakened by substance abuse with sagging skin and hollow eyes, being bloodily beaten by a Peacekeeper. She can almost feel his hand on the small of her back, gently leading her away, as he utters that exact curse under his breath. Hijo de puta. A condemnation of the evilest people by the kindest man there was.

He always tried not to speak it so explicitly around Vesper, for he didn't want to get her into any trouble. But, really, it was his first language, and she always remembered how thick his accent was. Now and then, if they were alone and far from civilisation — a rare situation in a place such as crammed as Six — she'd test her Spanish tongue, flexing her linguistic abilities that were ingrained from years of listening to him.

But she doesn't speak it anymore. Not since he died last year.

"Mom's gonna kill us..." Icarus sighs, using his bag as a cushion to taking a seat.

The rampaging emotions bottled up from reflecting on her father still run their course, prompting Vesper to reply bluntly, "If the Peacekeepers don't get to us first, that is."

Even Kirk doesn't laugh at that one. She only sees Icarus's eyes pop out of their sockets in panic, and Axel glaring at her sternly. That stare alone is enough to whip her into place, and she cowers.

"What?" she counters. "It's true."

"So... what now?" Kirk asks gruffly, running his hands through his hair and holding them at the back of his head.

Axel straightens up. It's the posture he always takes on when he steps into those shoes, like the leader he is to them. He always surprises Vesper every time by how promptly he can assert dominance and show the way. She wishes she had that power, but lately she just feels like the pessimist of the group with the emotional baggage that's never talked about. Vesper remembers when she actually used to feel of some use to people, but now she's just... the one they pity.

"We walk." says Axel, cutting to the chase.

     "Dude! My legs are gonna fall off before we get home," argues Kirk, with a coltish snort. "I gotta keep these pins in good shape, you know, just in case I stand any chance in the Bloodbath." It was meant to be a joke, but the half-laugh that follows sounds more like a nervous jitter. Vesper couldn't blame him — maybe Cheyenne's right, about him needing to worry more if his life really is at stake.

     "Look, we know these tracks," Axel explains, glancing between Kirk and Vesper. "We'll just have to... follow them home."

     "We could always hitchhike." Vesper suggests, drawing the group's attention to her — some of the looks she gets are praiseful, others... not so much. "There'll definitely be other trains or trucks passing through, and surely one of them has to stop for us, right?"

"Isn't that kinda..." Icarus trails off, eyes shifting around nervously.

"Kind of what?"

"You know, illegal?"

"Wouldn't be the first illegal thing I've done..."

"W-what?"

"Icarus is right, you know." says Cheyenne, ignoring the alarm on the boy's face. "I swear there's some law where you can't hitch a ride from the road unless there's an emergency."

"Alright, Miss Know-It-All, just 'cause you go to school..." Bolt sucks and gives her a gentle, envious nudge in the ribcage.

"This is an emergency!" Vesper exclaims. "Would you rather get hanged for not turning up to the Reaping?"

"Vesper!" Axel snaps, his jaw clenched as he trains his eyes on her. That stare again...

"Sorry."

He turns to Cheyenne, who seems visibly disturbed by it all. From the threatening tone he'd taken on before, it lowers to a comforting murmur that feels homely as he says to her, "We'll get home in time. I promise."

     The journey ahead is a taxing one, both on the mental and physical front. Even with the sun setting there's still the sickly heat of summer, leaving Vesper's skin laminated in sweat, lukewarm and sticky. The youngsters are struggling, she can tell — the toll of the warmth and the dread about not getting home is a great one, leaving Icarus, Cheyenne and even Bolt to lag behind a little. The other three, however, are coping a lot better.

     She, Axel and Kirk have walked this path before — those walks almost felt like leisure, completely unmonitored by anyone as they talked, laughed, and raced each other when they had the energy. They know these tracks, and that they always lead somewhere. One time, they almost waltzed right out the border into District Five, she believes — had it not been for the power pylons in the distance, they might not have had a clue.

     It's ridiculously easy to do that. It seems the people of District Six are the only people who, outside of being transported annually in pairs to be thrown into the arena, get a glimpse of the other districts. Depending on your profession, the drivers, pilots, captains and other roles have seen Panem through their railroads, their airports, their waterways. According to some of those sources, Vesper has heard how many districts seem to only inhabit a certain section of their land, the rest being left completely untouched except for train tracks. She always wonders how that is, for she couldn't comprehend ever finding a part of District Six that wasn't inhabited by someone. It was no use wasting the space — and if there was a patch land where no one lived, it was often substituted for an airfield, warehouse, or something of the like. Even out here by the tracks, there are scattered huts where small families still seem to co-exist, crammed into one room together.

     There's a burly shadow behind her that's growing smaller, more squashed, as the figure it belongs to emerges into her peripheral and falls into step beside her.

     "Something on your mind?" Axel asks, with a calm concern.

     "What... makes you think that?" Vesper fires back, unconvincingly, as her words come out less biting than she'd hoped they would. Her defences are up, boarding up the windows into the storm raging in her mind. But even then, someone is always seeing through the cracks.

     "You seem distant. Too distant."

     "Alright. Well, it's just... tomorrow..."

     "I thought so," he says with a knowing nod, which just ticks her off more.

     "I shouldn't be worrying," Vesper glances over her shoulder, and so does Axel, to see where she's looking. "I mean, just look at Kirk. He's in, what? Twice as many times as me?"

     "Something like that. But if there's one thing I've learned in my lifetime of going to Reapings, and watching people — some of them my friends — getting picked, it's that the odds are never in anyone's favour. The odds mean nothing at the end of the day. Just because something's unlikely, that doesn't make it impossible."

     "If that's supposed to make me feel better, it isn't working."

     "All I'm sayin' is that you shouldn't compare. It could be that... I dunno, Kirk gets through easy, and Icarus gets picked, or something — touch wood, that won't happen though. But you just don't know. You understand me?"

     She does. In fact, she knew that in the first place — if she hadn't, her worry for her fate tomorrow would be non-existent. Vesper is about to nod, when Kirk's voice warbles behind them and breaks the sincerity of their conversation. "Am I the hot topic for conversation this afternoon?" he takes a wobbly bow, in mockery. "'Cause I keep hearing my name, and it's driving me nuts."

     "You're goddamn nuts, that's what you are." Bolt sees the opportunity to claim vengeance, and he seizes it.

     "Was I talking to you, Chato?"

     Vesper snorts — for a moment, she's not thinking about her father, but the translation itself. It's impossible to hide her amusement from Bolt, who isn't quite as pleased as she or Kirk are.

     "What did you just call me?" Bolt sizes up to him, tense with insecurity, as he spins around to face her; voice cracking left, right and centre. "Vesper, what'd he just call me? Was that good or bad? Vesper!"

     "It's a term of endearment, Bolt."

     "Doesn't sound like one to me."

     Kirk wraps his arm around Bolt, gathering the kid in a safe headlock as he vigorously ruffles his mop of blonde hair with his fist. Spectating from afar, Cheyenne shakes her head at them. "Again? Seriously?" she squawks, as Kirk gives his head a little shove and sends him staggering forwards.

     Behind the wrestling match, the rumble of tires against the coarse ground alert Vesper. Tilting her head up, she spots the pickup truck, driving along the road next to the tracks.

     "Guys! Car coming." Vesper calls out. They all step back onto the grassy patch that borders it, into the cool shade of the pine trees lining the sides of the tracks. Letting one hand rest on her hip, she sticks out her thumb to catch the driver's attention. The only thing they can do now is wait, and hope, as the sky burns orange like magma with the sunset.

The car horn sounds — a glimmer of fortune, maybe? Vesper doesn't want to celebrate too soon, although she can't help but notice the way Icarus leapt to his feet at the sheer sight of it.

As the truck slows to a halt, the teenagers wander up to the rolled-down window, where the driver lets his tattooed hand dangle out of it. He has a beard with wisps of grey hair to be found, as with his hair which is pulled back into a greasy bun. Looking them up and down, he drums his fingers on the steering wheel thoughtfully.

"Shouldn't you kids be on the train home right now?" he asks.

"Missed it." Bolt deadpans, glaring at Axel, who gives a guilty shrug.

"Yeah," he chuckles sheepishly. "I wasn't keeping track of time."

"But those bastards left without us!" Kirk retorts, shaking his head at the man. "Can you believe it?"

"I'm guessin' you'll be needin' a ride home, then."

"Uh huh..."

The driver scratches his beard, the faint rustling resembling the bristles of a hair brush — a stark reminder to Vesper that tomorrow, she'll have to endure Blythe attacking her hair again, in her best attempts to tame it for the Reaping. Great. "Where is it y'all are livin'?"

"We're kind of spread out, I guess," says Axel. "But if you could just drop us off in Vagary, that would be perfect."

Jabbing his thumb behind him without a moment's hesitation, the driver's lips curl upwards into a small smile, which isn't as visible through his beard but through the crinkles by his eyes. "You'd better hop in, then."

     Icarus wastes no time at all, clambering straight into the back of the pickup truck with an optimistic bounce. Kirk and Cheyenne soon follow, then Bolt, Axel, and finally Vesper. It's crowded, for sure — the twins already bickering over the invasion of each other's personal space. They are jerked to and fro as the truck starts up, a congested splutter erupting from the engine, before it begins cruising ahead, belching fumes behind it — not an uncommon odour in District Six.

     There's something digging into her back, and Vesper shifts uncomfortably to try and fish it out from behind her. However, it turns out to be larger than she'd anticipated, so she turns around to inspect it — metal rods folded up in themselves, piping hot thanks to the heat from the sun. They might as well have been roasting her on a barbecue.

     "What's this?" Vesper yells over the engine, spitting out a strand of hair that blew into her mouth as she spoke.

     "They're tables," the driver calls back, eyes fixed on the road. Of course! She can see the hot rods are compact table legs, now. "For the Reaping tomorrow. It's for them to sit at when they take y'all's names."

     Now she wishes she'd never asked. With a small hmph, she shoves her bag behind her as a cushion, and leans on it. Much better. Cheyenne's hands are interlocked tightly on her lap as she gazes vacantly at Kirk, who's tilting his head back to let the wind through his hair — after a moment he notices he's being watched, and his sea-green eyes open.

     "What're you lookin' at?" he asks, not so fun-lovingly this time. Perhaps he knows the time for jokes is over.

     "You... still haven't told me."

     Vesper glances at him, and he sighs in surrender. "Forty-two." he replies, and Cheyenne says nothing more after giving him a sorrowful nod in return. Forty-two. She can't quite believe that. It makes her nineteen entries this year seem rather mediocre. But for now, she doesn't want to think about it.

"Don't worry. If I get reaped, I'll just win, become ridiculously rich and give you all a fraction of my fortune. Except for you, Bolt — you get to be my private butler."

"Why me?" cries Bolt. That boy really can't take a joke, Vesper thinks.

"Why, 'cause it's a privilege I'd only give to the very best! Don't you want to escort me around Panem, whilst I get pampered by my little Capitol aliens?"

"Fuck you, Kirk."

     "Alright. I'm going to sleep," Vesper grumbles, slumping against her bag and sliding Bolt's cap over her face again. "You guys had better wake me when we get to Vagary."

     "Or, we could just leave you here."

     She can't see Kirk, but she knows she's hit him right in the shin when her foot shoots forward in retaliation, evoking a groan of pain. That'll shut him up.

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     She doesn't know how long she's been sleeping, but Vesper knows they must be approaching Vagary even before Icarus gently nudges her awake. The telltale signs are there — the fresher air from the countryside that she breathed before vanishing, and being replaced with a polluted cloud. Shouting in the streets, the growls of gridlocked traffic...

Undoubtedly, this has to be the most populous area of Six. For what feels like miles on end, all you can see are shabby blocks of apartments, not a single room going empty — and even then, the homeless still line the streets. At least it's summer, and it may bring them some warmth. It's the cruel frost of winter that is their biggest threat.

Vesper opens her eyes to a traffic light overhead; alternating from scarlet, to amber, and then to an emerald green. It's darker out now, the flashing of airplanes in the sky now visible. When she was a child, she always used to think they were shooting stars — much to her disappointment, her father reminded her that the sky was too riddled with light pollution to do any real stargazing. Nowadays, it's easy to distinguish the monotonous aircraft from anything of the miraculous kind.

"Just stop here, please." Axel instructs, grabbing his bag and hauling the strap onto his shoulder. The pickup truck slows down and pulls up by the sidewalk, just at the corner which turns into the rows of apartments. Vesper hooks her leg over the side and jumps out, giving Cheyenne a hand on her way down.

"How much do we owe you?" asks Axel, reaching into his pockets. "I've got—"

"Oh, kid, don't worry about it! This is just a helping hand, not a damn taxi service."

"I... thank you. That's real kind of you...?"

"Dusty's the name. It was my pleasure," the driver waves his hand dismissively, as if none of this was really a burden to him whatsoever. He looks between the youngsters, almost as if they were his own — there's a strange sense of family in this last-minute arrangement. With a pitiful sigh, he adds, "And may the odds be in your favour tomorrow. I'll be thinkin' of you kids."

As he drives away the words hang in the air: May the odds be in your favour. And tomorrow. Even if the Reaping is an annual, government requirement, it doesn't make it any less awful when it rolls around every July Fourth.

The walk home ensues — Kirk's family is in one of the first apartments, and as he returns, a flock of young children run screaming and laughing to him. His mother soon follows, a fairly heated conversation flowing between them in her native tongue. Someone could easily report them out here, but the sense of community in whatever place you live is far too great to sacrifice. When he can spare a moment from his mother's scolding for him being late, he looks back over his shoulder at his friends. "I'll see you tomorrow." he says, giving them a small nod.

They nod back, and continue. There's a strange atmosphere that always falls on people come Reaping Day, even with the sprightliest of people like Kirk, and Vesper despises it. You can only joke about the Games for so long.

Soon, it's also Bolt and Cheyenne's time to go home. People are boarding up their windows, switching off the lights, and preparing for bed. She can see their mother in one of the windows, plucking her daughter's Reaping dress from the washing line that hangs like ironic bunting across the houses.

"You forgot something." Vesper grabs Bolt, putting his cap back lopsidedly onto his head, before giving his back a good-natured slap. He tips his cap to her, like a little gentleman, and wordlessly disappears into the warm light radiating from their front door with his sister.

The apartments all look identical — a labyrinth of tightly-packed, back-to-back housing, which is a claustrophobic nightmare for Vesper. Sections of apartments have names, and often are arranged in squares, leaving a courtyard of sorts in the middle where the residents will often socialise. They're so alike, the only thing distinguishing them is the small signage by each of them.

She shares her little square, Birkinshaw, with Axel and Icarus, as well as many others. When they walk in tonight, the same elderly lady sits perched at the steps of her home, cross-stitching the same tapestry that she has done for years. Ursula — or 'Ursie' as the well-acquainted locals call her — looks surprisingly youthful for a woman of seventy-six. Her wiry, ebony hair only shows a few matured streaks of silver, which become an intricate thread weaving in and out of the long braid down her back. The lines etched in her face don't overshadow her with old age; they are crevices of wisdom, filled with untold stories that she never speaks of. The woman is something of an enigma, but to the untrained eye, her quiet nature can be seen as nothing more than her memory failing her.

"Hey Ursie," Icarus greets her first, instinctively the most lighthearted and sociable of the three. "How's your cross-stitch comin' along?"

Pursing her wrinkled lips, she holds out the tapestry to him. There are swarms of pink, green, yellow that come in tendrils — Vesper thinks they're snakes, from the little forked tongues of blood red — and there's a work in progress on the side. Is it... a bird of some sort? She can't quite tell.

"Looking good. Hey, what's that thing there on the—"

There's the whoosh of a window being pushed up behind them, and a frustrated cry. "Where have you been?!"

Flinching, Vesper turns around shamefully to face the stricken girl poking her head out of the window, curtains rustling next to her just like the Reaping dress on the washing line. Blythe's face is something of a cross between fury and complete exhaustion — perhaps the tired look comes from the mousy brown strands of hair gone wild from her bun, or the bags under her steel grey eyes that look stern even from down where Vesper is standing. It reminds her of just how awful it's been since her father passed, that now there's no one to mediate them, or to give them a reason to get along.

"You're gonna wake the neighbours..." she sighs, trudging over to the fire escape staircase. Clang, clang, go her boots against the metal, as she jogs up the steps.

"Do you realise how late it is? I was worried sick! I-I thought the Peacekeepers were flogging you in the streets, or something."

"Well, I'm here now, aren't I?"

Blythe gives a tiresome shake of her head, now standing in her doorway as Vesper arrives at the top of the stairs to meet her. "That's not the point, Vesper..." she mumbles, wringing a cloth anxiously in her bony hands.

"This one's on me, Blythe," Axel calls from down below. The two girls lean over the edge, the railing cold against their skin. His teeth flash a brilliant white through the darkness, and he gives a generous shrug of his shoulders. "It was my fault. I was supposed to be watching the time, but got distracted. Don't blame her for this."

     Her features softening, now just a display of fatigue, she sighs inwardly. She always goes soft on him, Vesper thinks. "Thank you, Axel. We'll see you tomorrow."

     "Yeah. See you."

     Icarus clears off, Axel tagging along behind him after a few moments of lingering at the spot underneath their balcony — only disappearing when Blythe ushers her stepsister into the house and the door clicks shut. She watches her for a few moments, leaning against the door as the girl pulls off her boots and tosses her jacket onto the wooden bench by the entrance. When Vesper picks up on it, she rolls her eyes passively-aggressively.

     "What?"

     "We need to talk about this."

     "No, we don't."

     "It's getting ridiculous," Blythe argues, following her as she tries to escape. "This is the fifth time you've come home this late — and it's the night before the Reaping, of all things!"

     "I didn't mean to. And I told you, I don't wanna talk about it."

     "When do you ever want to talk about—"

     "Goodnight, Blythe." Vesper pulls her bedroom door shut behind her, propping her body against it like a barricade. She waits, listening carefully, until she hears her stepsister's disappointed exhale and her footsteps fading away from her. There's no light on in her room, and even with the nap in the pickup truck, it wasn't enough to get a good night's sleep.

     She's not bothered to change. Letting her limbs grow limp, she falls onto her bed and feels the stiffened springs punch her shoulder blades. Outside there's shouting, a raucous of some sort — as well as the constant hum of traffic in Six, which would be strange not to hear at this point. Vesper pulls her pillow over her ears, wishing tomorrow away for longer and longer...

     Axel is right, she believes, about the odds being in no one's favour. There's never any personal benefit earned from going to the Reaping, and watching whichever poor soul who's picked for slaughter walk up on stage.

     But the real question is, are the odds stacked against her?

▬▬▬▬▬▬

A/N;

at long last, chapter one is here... i hope it was worth the wait!! (it ended up being a lot longer than i'd intended, oOPS! but it was important to introduce the characters from district six properly, so i think it was worth it)

also, if the calculations (in terms of how many times their names are in) for tesserae are really off, please cut me some slack lmao, maths isn't my strong suit. it's actually weird, because i can do these long quadratic formula problems without too much stress, but a quickfire times tables question? iNsTaNt pAniC!!

what did you guys think of vesper's friendship with the gang? do you have any casting choices in mind for cheyenne, kirk and bolt? i personally had my own, but i'd be very interested to see who you'd imagined as the characters (keeping in mind their ethnicities!):

hopefully this is a VAST improvement from the chapter one i'd had back in 2019... i certainly feel it is! and also, if you were one of the many who got attached to dad alfaro in the prologue, uHH, welcome to first instalment of the book of PAIN.

chapter translations !
"chato" — "pug-nosed"
( please correct me if
i'm wrong!! )

[ published: 29th june, 2020 ]

— Imogen