C.H.⠀001⠀⠀۵⠀⠀A Child or a Weapon? ¹

❝ This Hunger Games...I think it'll be different. ❞

EVERYONE IN THIS WORLD WEARS A MASK. The only difference is that some masks stand out, and others are seamlessly etched into the wearer's skin, making it impossible to tell where the mask ends and the person begins.

⠀⠀I'm the latter.

⠀⠀My mask matches my flawless porcelain skin, blending and seeping into my flesh like makeup. It's a work of art, meticulously crafted over the years, becoming an inseparable part of me.

⠀⠀To the people of District 1, I'm their Starlight—the District 1 Darling. Little do they know that beneath this perfectly sculpted exterior lies a mind honed to perfection, a mind that contemplates the unthinkable. A mind just like everyone else's.

⠀⠀As I stroll through the district, my eyes hidden behind the illusion of normalcy, I can't help but dissect the people around me. Their masks, whether extravagant or subtle, reveal glimpses of their fears, desires, and weaknesses. In this world of deceit, the art of reading between the lines becomes a valuable skill.

⠀⠀The Capitol may revel in the spectacle of the Hunger Games, but I see it as an opportunity—a canvas upon which I can paint my own masterpiece. The seamless mask I wear isn't just for survival; it's a tool, a weapon, a means to an end. The Capitol may control the game, but I control the narrative.

⠀⠀The 25th Reaping is in a few hours, hosted in the heart of District 1. In the glass ball that holds all the possible female tributes' names, my name is on six pieces of paper.

⠀⠀Five of those entries are a cruel reminder of the Capitol's control, an annual ritual that places every eligible citizen at the mercy of the Reaping. The sixth entry, however, is of my own making. A tessera I requested once, not out of necessity, but for the perverse pleasure of watching the reactions of those who believed me naive.

⠀⠀My heart beats with a rhythm that echoes the uncertainty in the air. Amongst the sea of faces, I spot a Peacekeeper, their uniform a stark contrast to the lavish attire of the district's residents. With deliberate steps, I make my way toward them, navigating through the elegantly dressed crowd. Every movement is calculated, every glance veiled beneath the façade of normalcy.

⠀⠀Approaching the Peacekeeper, I feel the weight of their stern gaze upon me. Their expression betrays no emotion, a stoic mask that mirrors the one I wear. I should feel fear, but I don't. Typically, I would have the shadows of my cousins, Thomasy and Marlin, but they're busy with God knows what. Their shadows don't feel protective; instead, they feel strangling.

⠀⠀Without them, I feel powerful. Without them, I've taken care of those who sought to hurt me. I mean, that Peacekeeper has been missing for three months—he'll stay that way. The memory of the crimson-red blood dripping off my fingers threatens to bring a smile to my face, but I fight it off.

⠀⠀With a practiced smile and a clear mind, I lift my head, meeting their gaze confidently.

⠀⠀"Excuse me," I say, my voice soft and steady as I look at them through my long eyelashes, knowing that I look like a dream, "I would like to request a tesserae."

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I LET OUT A SATISFIED BREATH AS I SIT ON THE WEATHERED ROCKS BY THE RUSHING RIVER NEAR MY HOUSE, its relentless flow mirroring my inspiration. The melody of the water, fierce and unyielding, becomes the backdrop for the verses I carve into the parchment in my lap.

⠀⠀For seventeen years, my entire life, I've come to this river, and its beauty never fades away. The Capitol may enforce its will with an iron grip, but here, nature refuses to be subdued. The river, like a rebel, carves its path through the land, an unstoppable force that whispers tales of defiance to those who care to listen.

⠀⠀I've been listening—carefully too. Maybe that's why I don't say much. The art of listening is, after all, the art of knowing when not to speak.

⠀⠀That's why I write poems.

⠀⠀I smile as I dip my quill into the inkwell, its ebony hue tainting the white stem of the quill. I press the quill onto the parchment, and it dances across the page, writing down everything that I refuse to say.

⠀⠀The rocks beneath me, worn smooth by years of silent contemplation, hold the weight of my restless spirit. The cold touch of the stone grounds me, connecting me to the pulse of the land. In these moments, I'm free, unshackled by the chains that Panem puts us in, and unafraid of the looming Reaping.

⠀⠀As the last strokes of my pen settle on the parchment, I realize that time has slipped away like a fleeting current. An hour, maybe two, has passed in this quiet communion with the river and the rocks. Folding the completed poem with care, I tuck it into my worn leather satchel with all the other poems I had written since the last time I went to Panem Prose Haven.

⠀⠀As I rise from the weathered rocks that cradle my musings, there's an unspoken melancholy that settles over me.

⠀⠀The rhythmic melody of the rushing water seems to echo the cadence of my own heartbeat. But as seconds tick, each one closer to the Reaping, duty calls me away from this sacred place.

⠀⠀Leaving the river feels like parting with an old friend, a bittersweet separation that tugs at the strings of my heart, but I force my feet to move. The rocks beneath me, though, seem to resist my departure, as if imploring me to stay just a moment longer.

⠀⠀The distant hum of the bustling streets draws nearer as I reluctantly turn my back on the rushing waters. The world outside this enclave of peace is a stark contrast—a sea of struggles.

⠀⠀As I walk away, the air is thick with a sense of loss, a silent mourning for the moments yet to come.

⠀⠀The river's whispers linger in my ears, an indelible echo of the solace it offered.

⠀⠀I can only hope to experience the river's flow tomorrow and not face Lucretius Flickerman asking me how I feel about being Reaped.

⠀⠀I shake off my thoughts and make my way to the local bookstore. Soon, the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards greets me like an old friend. The shopkeeper, a stout man with a never-fading twinkle in his eye, looks up from his counter as I approach, pulling out my poems from my satchel.

⠀⠀"Back so soon, Theo?" Mr. Grimes grins, recognizing the familiar rolls of parchment in my hand.

⠀⠀I nod, a smile playing on my lips, and hand over the poems. "Another piece for the collection. Let me know if it finds a willing reader."

⠀⠀Mr. Grimes takes the poems from me and reaches into the cabinet behind him, pulling out an envelope. My heart feels weightless, and I smile, taking the envelope from him. "How many Panars?" I ask, tucking the envelope into my satchel.

⠀⠀"600," Mr. Grimes grins, "District 1 finds something special in your writing." With a wink, he corrects himself, "Well, Rhea O'Dot's writing."

⠀⠀I snort out a small laugh, thinking of the pseudonym that shields my true identity. Rhea O'Dot—an anagram carefully crafted from the jumbled letters of my real name, Dorotheo.

⠀⠀It serves as a shield, a veil that separates my inner world from the assumptions of District 1.

⠀⠀When I picked the pen name, I considered the idea of using my real name. The citizens of District 1, who view me with suspicion merely because of my silence, might find a different perspective in knowing the person behind the verses. However, I dismissed the idea swiftly.

⠀⠀I've never been one to care about others' perceptions of me. The weight of judgment from the district has become a familiar burden, one that I've chosen not to carry.

⠀⠀Using my real name feels like an unnecessary effort to convince them that I am something other than what they presume. It's not a battle worth fighting. Only I need to know who I really am.

⠀⠀As I step out into the afternoon sunlight, a gentle breeze whispers through the streets of Panem. It's then that I notice her. A girl known by the District as Starlight, although her real name is Andora Princet.

⠀⠀She stands at the corner, engaged in conversation with a Peacekeeper. The sight surprises me, not because she's interacting with a Peacekeeper, but because, for once, she's alone.

⠀⠀Starlight, an enigmatic figure in our district, is a paradox. Known by all, yet truly known by none. Her popularity echoes through the streets, yet she remains elusive, an untamed spirit navigating the constraints of our dystopian existence. Normally, the protective shadows of her two male cousins follow her every move, but today she stands alone.

⠀⠀I watch from a distance, hidden in the ebb and flow of the city. Starlight smiles sweetly at the Peacekeeper, her blonde hair dancing in the breeze. The image is almost angelic, but a subtle darkness lurks beneath the surface. Something that I think only I've noticed.

⠀⠀I don't trust the good-girl facade she wears like a mask.

⠀⠀As she continues her conversation, I can't help but wonder about the secrets she guards behind that sweet smile.

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THE DAGGER SOARS THROUGH THE AIR AND IT'S HEADED TOWARD MY CHEST. I quickly side-step the dagger, letting it pierce the grappling dummy behind me instead of my skin.

⠀⠀I move with practiced precision, sidestepping and dodging each blade with a fluidity that talks of the countless hours spent perfecting my craft. The controlled chaos of the room is my sanctuary, a place where my mind is focused on one thing. Myself.

⠀⠀But even in the sanctuary of my training haven, interruptions are inevitable. The sleek door to my right slides open, and my mother, a formidable yet caring woman, enters. I halt mid-movement, muscles tensing at the unexpected intrusion.

⠀⠀"Rem, I have amazing news," her voice carries an excitement that mirrors the smile etched on her face.

⠀⠀I turn to face her, my focus momentarily shattered. The ambiance in the room shifts, and the machines, sensing the vulnerability in my distraction, seize the opportunity. Knives, once obedient to my every move, now veer off course, hurtling towards me.

⠀⠀A sharp sting slices through the air as one finds its mark, grazing my skin. I wince, the sting of pain momentarily disrupting the seamless flow of my movements. I condemn myself internally at the sight of my mother's eyes widening.

⠀⠀Stupid, fucking—.

⠀⠀"Rem, are you alright?" she inquires, her voice a soothing balm against the chaos that's in my mind.

⠀⠀"I'm fine, Mom," I reply, my voice steady despite the pulsing pain in my arm. "Just got a little distracted."

⠀⠀Without hesitation, my mother navigates the holographic interface on the control panel, silencing the machines. The room, once alive with the mechanical symphony of training, falls into an eerie quiet.

⠀⠀In the stillness that follows, I take a moment to assess the superficial cut on my arm. It's a reminder, a crimson mark that whispers of the risks inherent in my demanding routine. I know the risks all too well. It almost cost me my leg.

⠀⠀It did cost you your leg, the soft voice in my head tells me. You couldn't walk for a week.

⠀⠀Sharply, I tilt my head to the side, grumbling under my breath. As I do, I meet my mother's gaze. Her eyes are drawn in a mixture of concern and frustration as she looks down at the blood dotting out from the cut. "I understand you're dedicated to your training," She hums, crossing her arms as she looks into my eyes, "but we can't afford accidents like this."

⠀⠀I nod, acknowledging the truth in her words. "It won't happen again," I promise her.

⠀⠀It seems to satiate her because her eyes widen with excitement once more. "Rem, your father has been pushing for you this year," she says, her voice carrying a weight that matches the gravity of the upcoming Reaping. However, her tone is more hopeful than ominous.

⠀⠀Keir, my father, is the Dean at the Academy (after Casca Highbottom passed away from an overdose of Morphling), and the system there is unique. The top two students with the best grades are chosen to volunteer for the Hunger Games.

⠀⠀This year, I hold the coveted position of the top female student——an honor my mother sees as an opportunity rather than a burden.

⠀⠀"Your father believes it's time for you to step up," my mother continues, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "He's pushing for you to volunteer."

⠀⠀A sense of pride swells within me. My mother's enthusiasm is infectious, and for a moment, I find myself caught up in her belief that I can navigate the challenges ahead.

⠀⠀"Get ready," my mother instructs, her eyes locking onto mine with unwavering certainty. "This is your chance, Rem. It's an honor."

⠀⠀You don't have to do this, Rem, the soft voice whispers in my head once more. You're better than this.

⠀⠀A knot forms in my stomach, and the weight of the impending decision bears down on me.

⠀⠀Don't be ridiculous, Rem, a harsher voice whispers. You've been training for this since you could walk. If you don't do this, you're nothing.

⠀⠀"I'm ready," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel.

⠀⠀My mother cups my face in her hands, her touch is both tender and possessive. "I knew from the second I held you in my arms that you would be my perfect girl."

⠀⠀I'm her perfect girl.

⠀⠀I'm perfect.

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THE SOFT MORNING LIGHT FILTERS THROUGH THE CURTAINS AS I GRADUALLY SURFACE FROM SLEEP. My twin siblings, Auggie and Avia, are already up to some mischief, their hushed giggles betraying their presence. I crack one eye open to find them hovering over me with mischievous grins, brandishing colorful markers like tiny artists on a mission.

⠀⠀The sight of their innocent joy warms my heart, and despite the impending dread of the Reaping hanging over the day, I decide to play along. Pretending to be asleep, I lay still as they carefully draw whimsical designs on my face. Their laughter fills the room, a melody that temporarily drowns out the somber reality of the world outside.

⠀⠀Auggie, with his messy brown hair, and Avia, with her matching locks, are like beams of sunlight in the otherwise shadowed morning. Their artistic endeavors become increasingly adventurous, turning my face into a canvas of vibrant colors. I can't help but smile beneath my feigned slumber, savoring the warmth of their joy.

⠀⠀When Auggie finally decides to put the marker down, mischief glinting in his eyes, I seize the opportunity to play a trick. With a sudden burst of energy, I spring up, letting out a mock growl. Auggie and Avia squeal with delight, their innocent faces lighting up with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

⠀⠀They flee from the room, their laughter echoing down the hallway, leaving me alone with the aftermath of their mischief. I glance at myself in the mirror beside my bed, a riot of colors adorning my features, and chuckle at the memory we've created together.

⠀⠀Turning my attention to the foot of the bed, I find my black kitten, Regulus, perched there with his bright blue eyes fixed on me. His gaze seems to accuse me, and I can't help but wonder if he understands the chaos his tiny human companions have unleashed.

⠀⠀"You let this happen?" I ask him, half-joking. Regulus responds with a nonchalant meow as if to say, "Well, what did you expect?"

⠀⠀I slide out of my bed and head to my bathroom, brushing my teeth without washing my face. I think it'll make Avia and Auggie happier.

⠀⠀I leave my room with a smile that I wear like a badge of honor, not bothering to wipe away the marker designs on my face. The enticing aroma of waffles and fresh strawberries wafts through the air, drawing me toward the source of comfort and warmth——my mother's kitchen.

⠀⠀As I enter, the sight of Auggie and Avia already engrossed in their syrup-soaked waffles makes my smile widen. Their laughter fills the room, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere outside these walls. My mother, standing at the stove, bursts into laughter when she spots me, and I roll my eyes, playfully embracing the remnants of the morning art project that resides on my face.

⠀⠀"Got a little carried away with the face painting, I see," she teases, a sparkle of amusement in her eyes.

⠀⠀I join in her laughter, the carefree moment momentarily distracting me from the weight of the day. She hands me a plate, adorned with two golden waffles and a generous scattering of strawberries——my absolute favorite. My appetite is insatiable when it comes to anything my mother makes.

⠀⠀As Auggie digs into his breakfast, a question that seems innocent but carries heavy undertones hangs in the air. "Why do we always have the same thing on Reaping day, Mama?"

⠀⠀The room falls into a momentary hush. My mother and I exchange glances, our smiles fading ever so slightly. She takes a breath, her eyes reflecting a mixture of love and sorrow. "Well, sweetie, it's a tradition, you know? A way to bring some comfort on a day that can be...challenging."

⠀⠀Auggie looks puzzled, and Avia's expression turns serious. Sensing their confusion, my mother gently elaborates, choosing her words with care. "The Hunger Games, darling. It's a tough time for everyone. And, well, your brother Mars is at that age where he could get picked. So, I make his favorite breakfast to remind him of the good things."

⠀⠀Avia's face scrunches up with worry. "Mars, are you going to get picked today?"

⠀⠀I meet her gaze, and despite my attempts to remain composed, a twinge of uncertainty tugs at my heart. "I hope not, Avia," I reply softly, ruffling her hair. Her frown lingers, and I find myself wishing I could shield them from the harsh realities that lie beyond the walls of our home.

⠀⠀But for now, we sit around the kitchen table, the smell of waffles and strawberries offering a brief respite from the looming shadow of the Reaping.

⠀⠀"Mars, are you going to get picked today?"

⠀⠀I sure as fuck hope not.

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THE MORNING SUN FILTERS THROUGH THE HIGH-TECH GADGETS IN MY BEDROOM, casting a cold glow on the sleek surfaces. I'm meticulous in my preparation, surrounded by the hum of electronic devices—District 3, the realm of electronics, my specialty. The room practically breathes with the subtle thrum of power.

⠀⠀My fingers glide effortlessly over the touchscreen of my smart mirror, analyzing every detail of my appearance. I'm careful with my choice of clothing, opting for an outfit that blends into the urban landscape. Practical, efficient—much like my work.

⠀⠀As I slip into my black attire, a subtle reminder of the previous night's job lingers in my mind. There's a fresh pair of white heels waiting by the door. They're pristine, except for a small smear of blood on the heel. I frown, disappointed that the crimson stain has found its way onto my new shoes. I lick my thumb and wipe it off, the dull routine of cleaning the aftermath of my actions.

⠀⠀My bedroom door creaks open, revealing the contrast between the sterile, technology-infused atmosphere inside and the less-than-ideal reality outside. The harsh scent of cheap liquor assaults my senses as I step into the living room. My mother, lost in the throes of inebriation, sprawls on the couch, blissfully ignorant of my comings and goings.

⠀⠀Rolling my eyes, I navigate around her slumbering form. Many things have worn down the woman that is Malorie Taylor. Maybe the murder of my father. Maybe the death of my sister from sickness. Hell, maybe it's just life. Either way, there's no room for sentiment or guilt in me, so I don't spare her another look.

⠀⠀As I step out into the world beyond my tech haven, the morning air is a stark contrast to the cool interior of my home. The second I lay eyes on Kael, my neighbor, who sits on his porch like every other day, I brace myself for his predictably disgusting comments.

⠀⠀"Hey, Zina!" Ignoring him, I start to walk down my front steps, keeping my eyes down. "Hey, don't act like that, baby. How about you let me break you in after the Reaping? Haven't seen you bring any boys around. Shame for them, win for me."

⠀⠀I stride down the street, ignoring the lewd comments that linger in the air like a foul stench. My focus remains steadfast on my mission—today's report to the employer who values my skills.

⠀⠀I internally hope for an assignment that involves him, a quick elimination to rid the world of such individuals.

⠀⠀However, a fleeting sense of self-condemnation washes over me. Targeting Kael would attract too much attention, and too many questions that could jeopardize my covert operations. In my line of work, anonymity is my greatest asset.

⠀⠀Doesn't hurt to dream about slicing his dick off and making him choke on it until the light in his eyes goes out.

⠀⠀The thought drives me until I make it to my destination. I approach the designated manhole cover, its mundane appearance hiding the secrets concealed beneath. With practiced ease, I lift the heavy lid, revealing the darkness below. The stench of damp earth greets me, a stark contrast to the sterile atmosphere I'm about to descend into.

⠀⠀Once the manhole's top is lifted, I glance around to ensure no prying eyes linger nearby. Satisfied with the empty street, I descend the rusty ladder before I swing the top back into place. The manhole closes with a muffled thud.

⠀⠀As I make it to the last steps, I hop off with practiced agility. The fluidity of the movement is interrupted by an involuntary grunt escaping my lips as a sudden surge of pain shoots through my right knee. It's a familiar discomfort, an unwelcome reminder of a past injury that lingers like a shadow.

⠀⠀Years ago, during a job that went awry, I found myself entangled in a pursuit. In the chaos, I miscalculated a jump, and the consequence was a hard landing that twisted my knee at an unnatural angle. The sharp pain was a temporary distraction, easily dismissed in the urgency of the moment. However, in the aftermath of that night, I never sought medical attention.

⠀⠀Now, as I land on solid ground, the ghost of that neglected injury resurfaces. The occasional ache in my knee serves as a constant reminder—a silent testimony to the hazards that accompany my chosen path. Ignoring the discomfort, I wipe my hands on my pants and look at what's ahead of me.

⠀⠀At the base of the ladder is not the expected sewer, but a well-kept hall, lined with metal walls leading to a large, imposing door. A dim light guides the way, revealing a handprint processor mounted on the side of the entrance.

⠀⠀As I approach, the sensor scans my palm, a soft beep signaling access granted. The massive door creaks open, revealing the underground chamber——the secret domain where Draven Crane awaits, and where my transactions in the world of shadows unfold.

⠀⠀He sits in the shadows of the room, a figure bathed in an aura of mystery. The room hums with the soft whir of machinery, and Draven looks up as I approach. I hand him the sealed envelope containing the meticulous report of my previous night's work. He takes it without a word, his calculating gaze flickering across the pages.

⠀⠀As he peruses the contents, I shift impatiently on my feet. When he doesn't immediately hand me another file, I arch an eyebrow, my eyes probing his enigmatic expression.

⠀⠀"No new assignment?" I inquire, a tinge of impatience coloring my words.

⠀⠀Draven looks up, his piercing eyes meeting mine. "Not today, Zina. The Reaping is today, and I prefer to have all my assets within the district before sending them out again."

⠀⠀I begrudgingly accept the explanation. His strategies are often veiled in mystery, and questioning him rarely produces more information. I turn to leave, the cool air of the underground chamber closing in around me.

⠀⠀"Just a moment, Zina," he calls, halting my departure.

⠀⠀I pivot, facing him once more. His words carry a weight, and there's an unusual tension in the air. "This Hunger Games...I think it'll be different. Watch your back."

⠀⠀A smirk curls on my lips. "Oh, Draven, don't worry. Dying is not on my to-do list today," I retort, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

⠀⠀As I hold out my arms in a sarcastic display of vigilance, Draven's gaze lingers on me with a mixture of acknowledgment and concern, "You're my best hire, Zina. Can't have you dying on me."

⠀⠀I roll my eyes, feigning exasperation as I straighten my back. "Well, I'll make sure to pencil 'not dying' at the very top, just for you," I reply, a teasing glint in my eyes. With a casual wave, I turn on my heel, disappearing into the shadows with a last quip, "See you when the world hasn't ended, Draven." The door closes behind me, muffling any further response.

⠀⠀Watch your back.

⠀⠀If only he knew that I'd been doing so since I was eight.

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THE MORNING SUN BATHES DISTRICT 3 IN A WARM GLOW, casting shimmering reflections across the pristine surface of the lake. I emerge from the water after a refreshing swim, droplets cascading down my lean body.

⠀⠀The lake on the edge of District 3 has always been a sanctuary for me, a place where I can escape the weight of my family legacy, if only for a brief moment.

⠀⠀My father, the victor of the very first Hunger Games, won not by his own hand but by the sacrifice of his sister. She willingly plunged a knife into her own heart, allowing my father to emerge as the victor.

⠀⠀The Capitol relished in its macabre victory, and my family bore the scars of that twisted triumph.

⠀⠀Today, of all days, the lake offers a temporary respite from the whispers and stares that accompany the ominous date—the 25th reaping.

⠀⠀As I swim through the cool waters, I feel the weight of the day's significance pressing against my chest. The memories of my aunt's sacrifice and my father's haunted victory loom over my usual sunny disposition.

⠀⠀With each stroke, I try to lose myself in the rhythm of the water, letting the gentle waves carry away the burden of the day. The lake has a way of soothing the ache in my soul, if only for a fleeting moment. But as the sun climbs higher in the sky, I know I can't stay here forever——as much as I want to.

⠀⠀Dripping and breathless, I make my way back to the shore, where the people of District 3 have begun their daily routines. They cast furtive glances in my direction, their eyes holding a mix of pity and curiosity.

⠀⠀As I walk through the streets, the stares intensify. Whispers follow me like shadows, carried on the wind. "Sunny," they call me, a nickname earned through my relentless pursuit of smiles, a desperate attempt to counter the gloom that clings to my family's name, to remember that living can be good. But today, even the sun seems reluctant to shine.

⠀⠀Despite the weight of the gazes and the palpable tension in the air, I straighten my shoulders and keep a smile firmly in place. I won't let the darkness take hold, not today. I nod to those who dare to meet my gaze and acknowledge the unspoken questions lingering in the air.

⠀⠀The Victor's village looms in the distance, a stark reminder of the twisted honor that has befallen my family. I quicken my pace, the echoes of the past urging me forward.

⠀⠀I make my way through the quiet streets of the Victor's Village, the sun now fully overhead. Tricket Sol, the only other living victor from our district, sits on her porch, lost in thought. I shoot her a friendly wave, but she remains indifferent, a cigarette between her fingers, smoke swirling into the air.

⠀⠀Something twists in me. That could have easily been my father if he hadn't found my mother.

⠀⠀Approaching the front door, an eerie stillness greets me. The early hour should be filled with the familiar sounds of my family preparing for the day, but my family only includes me and my parents, who should be fast asleep.

⠀⠀My mind drifts to the fact that I'm the only child, a topic softened by my mother's joking assurance that we were already a perfect family.

⠀⠀"Why mess with perfection?" She would say.

⠀⠀But beneath the lightheartedness, there's a more complex truth—I was a surprise, born when my parents were just 17 and 16. I'm pretty sure that if I weren't born, they wouldn't have children.

⠀⠀As I open the front door, I'm met with the eyes of my father, a weariness etched across his face as he walks down the staircase and towards me. It shouldn't be a surprise to me that he's awake so early, but it is. A part of me, a naive part, wishes that he didn't have to deal with any of this.

⠀⠀Dreams can't change the past, though.

⠀⠀We exchange the usual pleasantries, but the looming presence of the 25th reaping is an elephant in the room. We don't talk about it, though. It's an unspoken rule that we've mastered, a way of navigating the heavy atmosphere that hangs over our district, haunted by the shadow of the Hunger Games.

⠀⠀We avoid the topic like it's a landmine waiting to explode, like acknowledging it would give it more power than it already has.

⠀⠀I manage to draw a laugh from my dad, a genuine one that lifts some of the heaviness from his shoulders. But as he chuckles, I can't help but notice the edges of his smile——the ones that my mom had always said would "stretch as wide as the horizon" when they were younger——are missing.

⠀⠀His laughter, while real, carries a weight, a haunting quality that refuses to dissipate.

⠀⠀As I ready myself to leave the foyer, I glance back at my dad. His haunted smile lingers in my mind.

⠀⠀I chew on my bottom lip as I think about the dandelions by the river, my sanctuary, their delicate seeds carrying silent wishes for tragedy to spare our family.

⠀⠀However, a chilling realization dawns on me. I didn't make a wish when I was at the river earlier.

⠀⠀A quiet unease settles within me.

⠀⠀With my entire soul, I hope that forgetting to make a wish on this day of all days doesn't come back to bite me in the ass.

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THE SALTY TANG OF THE OCEAN BREEZE BITES AT MY CHEEKS AS I NAVIGATE THROUGH THE CROWDED STREETS OF DISTRICT 4, a basket laden with freshly caught fish swinging gently from my arm.

⠀⠀The day is teeming with tension, the air thickened by the looming Reaping. Peacekeepers patrol the district, a stern reminder of the Capitol's control. There are more than usual today, though——courtesy of the Reaping, obviously.

⠀⠀I approach the local fish market, determined to make a fair trade. As I negotiate with the shopkeeper, Shiloh, the mayor's daughter, struts past, her disdain evident. A muttered remark slips from her lips like a poisonous serpent, "What a waste?"

⠀⠀I stop dead in my tracks, the grip on my basket tightening involuntarily. Without thinking, I turn to face her, eyes ablaze with confrontation. "What did you say?" I demand, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of District 4's square.

⠀⠀Shiloh hesitates, glancing furtively around before responding with a falsely confident smile. "I said, what a waste. I mean, how does it feel being the man of the house? Must be something you're used to, considering you've never had a man of the house."

⠀⠀A surge of anger courses through me, fueled by the raw mention of my absent fucking father and the contemptuous insult to my mother. Reason should win today, of all days, with the heightened presence of Peacekeepers.

⠀⠀As Mom would say, "He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight."

⠀⠀But anger, irrational and potent, surges within me. Before I can stop myself, I drop my basket and my fist connects with Shiloh's face, and the world blurs into a frenzy of punches.

⠀⠀Suddenly, the air is thick with the tramp of heavy boots as Peacekeepers descend upon us, forcefully pulling us apart. Amidst the chaos, I catch a fleeting glimpse of Shiloh, a bruised eye and busted lip serving as small victories in my internal turmoil.

⠀⠀The Peacekeepers guide me away, and a familiar voice cuts through the tumult. "I've got this one, fellas," Devis says, his voice deep and comforting. I've been on the receiving end of his interventions before——a savior in the face of my own recklessness.

⠀⠀I cut him off before he can utter a word. "Don't say it," I warn.

⠀⠀Devis chuckles, a warmth in his voice, and with a casual shrug, he says, "I won't...but I did tell you not to start a fight today, Kid."

⠀⠀Ignoring him, we navigate the bustling streets, making our way to my house. Devis knocks on the door, a formality for the benefit of my mother. "I've got a delivery for you, Gwenora," he announces, his voice thick with playfulness.

⠀⠀My mother opens the door, and I notice her subtle attempt to rearrange her hair, cheeks flushing as she exchanges smiles with Devis. I'm not upset in the slightest bit; I want the best for her. Devis removes his helmet, revealing his face, and my mother's smile deepens.

⠀⠀A silent moment passes between them until I clear my throat, drawing their attention. My mother's smile vanishes at the sight of my cheek. She cups my face, her fingers inadvertently tracing a path of something on my cheek. When she pulls away, I see it's blood. Frowning, I'm irritated with myself for letting Shiloh land a punch.

⠀⠀Should've hit the bitch harder.

⠀⠀Mom apologizes to Devis and brings me inside, seating me at the dining table. She retrieves the first-aid kit, her hands moving with practiced care as she tends to my wound.

⠀⠀She repeats the oft-heard quote, her voice soothing but firm as she dabs away at the cut on my cheek with an alcohol wipe, "He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight. You can't win if you always fight."

⠀⠀I've heard it countless times, and my lips move silently in sync with her words. She catches me and places a butterfly bandage on my face before gently cupping my cheek. "The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting," she adds, and I respond with a soft eye roll. "Are you ever going to quote anyone other than Sun Tzu?" I tease.

⠀⠀Mom reciprocates with a playful eye roll of her own. "Never. He was a wise man, and I hope that you'll become a wise woman."

⠀⠀My eyes heat slightly. I hope so, too, Mom. I'm just scared that it'll be too late when I start to become wise.

⠀

⠀

⠀

⠀

THE NIGHTMARE TIGHTENS ITS GRIP, pulling me back into the twisted web of memories that haunts my sleep. In my dream, the sun casts a warm glow over District 4, and the salty breeze carries the promise of a perfect day.

⠀⠀My parents take me for a walk by the ocean, the waves crashing against the shore in a soothing rhythm.

⠀⠀It's perfect.

⠀⠀But then, like vultures descending on their prey, Capitol-issued humvees circle us, their engines growling ominously. Peacekeepers emerge, their white uniforms stark against the vibrant backdrop of the district. The air shifts, charged with tension and fear.

⠀⠀"Jorah and Avila Campbell, put your hands up now!" The harsh command echoes through the air, drowning out the sounds of the waves and seagulls.

⠀⠀Confusion seizes me as I cling to my mother's leg, looking up with wide, innocent eyes. "What's happening?" I ask softly, but my voice is lost in the chaos as the Peacekeepers, faces masked and eyes cold, point their rifles at my parents. The world around me blurs as I desperately seek an explanation, my pleas unheard by the indifferent authorities.

⠀⠀"There's proof that you're rebels," one of the Peacekeepers declares, their accusations slicing through the air like a blade.

⠀⠀My parents exchange worried glances, attempting to comprehend the nightmare unfolding before them. The Peacekeepers announce an order for their execution, the words hanging heavily in the air like a gong sounding.

⠀⠀My mother, desperation etched across her face, begs with a trembling voice, "Please, please, don't do this in front of my son!" But the Peacekeepers are deaf to her pleas, dragging my parents toward the unforgiving edge of the ocean. The weight of the rifles, the severity of the accusation, presses upon my family like an impending storm.

⠀⠀I stand frozen, my small fists clenched at my sides, my eyes wide with terror. The Peacekeepers continue their merciless march, shoving my parents' heads into the water, pulling them up occasionally to demand if they know other rebels.

⠀⠀The salty waves blur my vision as my parents, determined to protect their secrets, stay silent. The Peacekeepers, relentless in their pursuit of information, hold their heads under the water.

⠀⠀Even after their bodies stop thrashing.

⠀⠀Then, the nightmare morphs into the waking world, and I jolt upright, my heart racing. Sweat clings to my skin, and the echo of my mother's desperate pleas lingers in the air. I'm back in the present, but the suffocating fear of that day lingers.

⠀⠀The room is shrouded in darkness, and I scream as if the nightmare has become a tangible force, a malevolent entity trying to consume me.

⠀⠀Strong hands wrap around my shoulders, pulling me from the clutches of the dream. From the big, callous hands, I know it's Zaire, my eldest brother, his voice low and comforting, whispering reassurances that it's just a dream.

⠀⠀I'm pretty sure dreams are supposed to be lovely, and this is anything but lovely.

⠀⠀"You're safe, Meer," he murmurs, pulling me into a tight embrace. But safety feels elusive, a concept that slips through my fingers like sand. The nightmare may have ended for the night, but the fear persists, a relentless shadow that clings to my consciousness.

⠀⠀Zaire rocks me gently, his arms a comforting anchor against the storm of memories. The nightmare has subsided into quiet sobs, but the dread lingers.

⠀⠀Safety, I've come to realize, is a distant luxury, a promise that can only be fulfilled when I turn eighteen and escape the looming threat of the Hunger Games. Until then, the nightmare, the fear, and the memories will continue to haunt me, a constant companion in the darkness.

⠀⠀I can only hope that, within these next six years, I don't hear my name called as the male tribute for District 4.

⠀⠀I don't feel so hopeful, though.

⠀

⠀

⠀

⠀

THE SOFT GLOW OF MY DIGITAL SKETCHBOOK ILLUMINATES MY FACE IN MY DIM BEDROOM AS I LOSE MYSELF IN THE ACT OF CREATING. Colors swirl and dance across the screen, giving life to the chaotic images that form beneath the dance of my stylus. The world beyond these pixelated borders fades away, leaving me in a haven of my own making.

⠀⠀The date on the calendar in the top-right corner of my digital sketchbook catches my eye——the 4th of July. The date of the annual Reaping.

⠀⠀I've never paid much attention to the Hunger Games, not like some others in my district who live in perpetual fear. But today is different. Today, I can't escape the nagging thoughts that creep into my mind.

⠀⠀Last night, sleep abandoned me in favor of a haunting dream. A dream that left me breathless and unnerved. Blood——vivid and crimson——consumed my vision, clinging to my skin like a wet shirt.

⠀⠀Dreams are powerful, and I've always believed they carry messages from some hidden realm within myself. This one, however, leaves me with an unsettling sense of trepidation.

⠀⠀As I mindlessly sketch, the memory of the dream resurfaces, refusing to be dismissed. I try to shake off the unease, but the feeling lingers, wrapping around my chest like an invisible vice. Is it a sign, a foreshadowing of the Reaping that awaits me today?

⠀⠀Until now, the Hunger Games were always someone else's story, someone else's nightmare, but today I'm haunted by the possibility that I might be the one chosen to enter a menacing arena. The sound of my own breathing becomes deafening as I confront the fear that has remained dormant until this moment.

⠀⠀I glance down at the sketch on my digital canvas, expecting to see the usual abstract shapes and lines. Instead, my heart skips a beat when I see myself, detailed and trapped within the confines of a Hunger Games arena. It's as if my hand betrayed me, channeling the fear and uncertainty that lurk in the corners of my mind.

⠀⠀A shiver courses through me as I realize the gravity of my creation. The dream, the sketch——are they both trying to tell me something?

⠀⠀Is the blood my own, or does it belong to someone else?

⠀⠀The uncertainty tightens around my chest, and I can't escape the ominous feeling that my fate is being written in the stars, a script I have no control over.

⠀⠀I place the stylus down, my fingers trembling as I click off the digital sketchbook. The images still stare at me, burned into my retinas. My fingers tremble as I grip the digital sketchbook, tossing it aside as if it's tainted.

⠀⠀I sit in the silence of my room, the weight of the unknown pressing down on me, and the minutes ticking away, each one bringing me closer to a destiny I never thought would be mine.

⠀⠀I fucking hate Panem.

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⠀

I WIPE THE SWEAT FROM MY FOREHEAD WITH THE BACK OF MY HAND AS I EXIT THE NOISY, clanking main floor of the power plant. The hum of machinery and the metallic scent of industry cling to my clothes. Arvid Windward's office is my next stop; I need to collect my hard-earned pay for the twelve-hour shift just completed.

⠀⠀I knock lightly on Mr. Windward's door before entering. He looks up from his cluttered desk, his tired eyes meeting mine.

⠀⠀"Ah, Mr. St. John, right on time. Your paycheck is ready," he says, a hint of warmth in his voice. I thank him as I take the envelope containing the expected 480 Panars.

⠀⠀Turning to leave, Mr. Windward calls me back. "Wait, Mr. St. John. I almost forgot." He hands me another envelope, and as I open it, my eyes widen at the sight of an additional 1,000 Panars.

⠀⠀"Why...why so much extra?" I stammer, disbelief evident in my voice. I've never held such a substantial amount in my hands. The most I've ever held was 500 Panars.

⠀⠀Mr. Windward chuckles, "Consider it a bonus, Colson. You're the only one around here who's managed to work more than 10 consecutive hours while still being a delight to have on the team. Your hard work doesn't go unnoticed."

⠀⠀I blush, a sheepish grin forming on my face. "Thank you, Mr. Windward. I appreciate it."

⠀⠀Leaving the office, I spot my sister, Sirena, waiting by the train station across from the Power Plant. She waves wildly at me, mischief in her eyes. I roll mine but can't help but smile as I approach her.

⠀⠀"Hey, Cole!" she throws her arm over my shoulder and nuzzles my hair. "How was your day at the plant?"

⠀⠀"Same as always. But, hey, I got a bonus today!" I announce proudly, my face lighting up with a smile.

⠀⠀Sirena's eyes widen with excitement. "Really? That's amazing, Cole! Finally, they recognize your hard work. It's about fucking time."

⠀⠀Her enthusiasm warms my heart, and I can't help but share in her excitement. "Yeah, I was surprised too. Better late than never, I guess."

⠀⠀As we board the train, I share the details of my day with my proud sister. She couldn't be happier for me, and her infectious joy lifts my spirits. "Thanks, Sirena. It means a lot," I say, a genuine smile playing on my lips.

⠀⠀As the train rumbles into motion, a homeless man in the carriage stands up, catching the attention of all the passengers. He's an older man, with worn clothes and a long, unkempt beard, his eyes carrying the weight of aging.

⠀⠀"Brothers and sisters, the 25th Hunger Games will be different than the other Games. We stand at the brink of a new era. The Capitol may control the Games, but they can't control our faith. We must pray to God, repent for our sins, and may the divine power put the odds in your favor," the homeless man passionately declares, his voice resonating through the train.

⠀⠀Sirena whispers to me, urging me to look away and avoid drawing unwanted attention. "Cole, don't stare," she advises, her eyes filled with concern. I comply, casting my gaze elsewhere as the train carries us toward our house in the center of District 5.

⠀⠀The homeless man's words linger in the air, though.

⠀⠀May the divine power put the odds in your favor.

⠀⠀The "divine power", as he says, doesn't give a shit about us in the districts. The odds are never in our favor.

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⠀

THE FAINT LIGHT OF DAWN SEEPS THROUGH THE WORN-OUT CURTAINS, casting a muted glow across the small room where I've woken up today. The air is thick with the sense of dread that accompanies the annual Reaping, a day that never fails to bring back the haunting memories of my past. As I open my eyes with a deep breath, the chilling image of my brother's final moments during the 21st Hunger Games flashes before me.

⠀⠀I can still see him, defenseless and desperate, falling victim to a District 5 tribute. The brutality of that day turned me into an orphan, stripping away the last remnants of family that bound me to this world.

⠀⠀Joffrey didn't deserve to die, and I didn't deserve to lose him.

⠀⠀My cramped surroundings offer no comfort, just the harsh reality of my existence. The creaking floor beneath me reminds me that I'm not in my own bed; I never am.

⠀⠀Closing my eyes doesn't offer solace either; instead, it only intensifies the vivid memories etched into my mind. The Reaping day has a way of resurrecting the ghosts of my past, making it impossible to escape the relentless grip of despair.

⠀⠀With a sigh, I push myself up from the tattered mattress and begin to prepare for the day. A faded mirror on the wall reflects a girl with tired eyes and a face marked by the harshness of life in District 6.

⠀⠀Today, though, there's a glimmer of hope in those eyes. This year marks the 25th Reaping, the final one I'll ever be eligible for. If luck is on my side, the Capitol won't choose me, and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief, free from the perpetual fear of being thrust into the Hunger Games.

⠀⠀As I pull on a pair of threadbare pants, a sound from downstairs jolts me into alertness. Panic washes over me, and I freeze for a moment. My heart pounds in my chest as I realize that the house's owner has returned.

⠀⠀This isn't my home; it's just another place I've taken shelter for the night. I listen intently, gauging the footsteps moving about below.

⠀⠀Swiftly, I move to the balcony with my shoes, pressing my back against the cold railing. I hear the owner enter through the front door, oblivious to my presence on the second floor. A surge of adrenaline fuels my escape instincts, and I slip outside, navigating the balcony's edge with practiced agility. As my bare feet touch the dew-laden grass below, I exhale a silent breath of relief.

⠀⠀With a burst of agility, I jump onto the moving train, finding refuge among the cargo containers. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks below me reassures me that I'm on my way to the rail yard, where I can blend in with the workers and pretend, if only for a while, that I belong somewhere.

⠀⠀As I make my way through the train, I spot my boss, a grizzled man with a perpetual frown etched into his face. He glances up from his work, surprise evident in his eyes as he sees me. "Dorcas?" he exclaims, "What are you doing here so early?"

⠀⠀"I wanted to get a head start on the day," I reply, weaving a lie with practiced ease. The truth is I have nowhere else to go, no place to call home. The railroad is the closest thing to stability in my chaotic life.

⠀⠀He eyes me suspiciously but lets the matter drop, returning to his duties. I let out a sigh of relief and make my way to the employee cargo section of the train, my worn-out shoes dangling from my fingers.

⠀⠀The familiar scent of oil and metal greets me as I find a secluded spot to sit and put on my shoes. The laces, frayed and tired like the rest of my belongings, require a delicate touch as I secure them around my feet. The shoes, a semblance of reliability in my tumultuous life, take their place, worn soles carrying the weight of countless journeys.

⠀⠀Glancing out of the long window in the train, I catch a fleeting glimpse of the district's houses, their windows reflecting the early morning light.

⠀⠀For a moment, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like to live in one of those houses, to wake up every day under a roof that belongs to me, with walls that promise safety and warmth. I imagine a life where the dread of the Reaping doesn't linger like a persistent shadow, and the haunting memories of the Hunger Games aren't etched into every corner of my mind.

⠀⠀But the daydreams quickly dissipate, giving way to the harsh reality that defines my existence. This train, with its cargo containers and metal structures, is my home.

⠀⠀I'm afraid that this is the only home I deserve.

⠀⠀How fucking depressing is that?

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THE WOODS BEHIND MY HOUSE IN DISTRICT 6 SPREAD OUT LIKE A LABYRINTH OF SECRETS, each tree holding stories whispered only to the wind. I step into this sanctuary, feeling the weight of the day slip away with every stride. But today, my thoughts are consumed by one thing—the mockingjays.

⠀⠀Their melodic calls pierce the air, a constant reminder of the Capitol's invasive eyes and ears. I hate them, despise the way they flit around Panem, collecting fragments of conversations and perhaps more. Some say they carry microphones, sending back whispers and secrets to the very heart of our oppression. Others whisper darker rumors—that these birds might be robots, cold and calculating, watching our every move.

⠀⠀A mockingjay soars overhead, its wings casting fleeting shadows on the forest floor. Anger boils within me, a visceral reaction to its presence. I reach for my knife in my back pocket, its blade reflecting the muted sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees.

⠀⠀With a swift motion, I release it, watching as it finds its mark. The bird spirals downward, a thud echoing as it meets the earth.

⠀⠀Approaching the fallen mockingjay, my steps are deliberate. I retrieve my knife, its blade stained with the evidence of my defiance. The bird lies there, a symbol of everything I detest. I kneel beside it, my fingers gripping its feathers with a mixture of disgust and satisfaction.

⠀⠀Gutting and tearing apart the mockingjay, I feel a rush of adrenaline. Blood stains my hands, a stark contrast to the natural hues of the forest. A voice inside me whispers that this is wrong, that I should feel remorse. But another part, darker and more primal, revels in the sensation.

⠀⠀As I bury the mangled mockingjay beneath a blanket of leaves, I try to push away the nagging doubts that linger. I tell myself that it's only animals I can harm, not people.

⠀⠀Yet, deep down, a part of me wonders—how thin is the line between beast and man? How far am I willing to go?

⠀⠀The mockingjay lies beneath the leaves, its once vibrant feathers now stained with the deep red of its own lifeblood. I stand there, breathing heavily, staring at the aftermath of my defiance. There's a perverse satisfaction in the feeling of blood on my hands, an admission I loathe to make. It's a dark pleasure that courses through my veins, mingling with the guilt that threatens to surface.

⠀⠀I tell myself it's only animals I can kill, not people. A feeble attempt to draw a line between my actions and the atrocities of the Capitol. Yet, as I stand over the mangled bird, a niggling feeling lingers in the recesses of my mind. A shadow that whispers the possibility of a darker truth, a truth I push away, refusing to acknowledge.

⠀⠀Burying the mockingjay under the leaves is a ritual, a burial for a symbol I both detest and envy. I turn away from the makeshift grave, making my way back to the house that holds the echoes of my fractured family. The woods behind me seem to close in, the canopy of trees casting shadows that mirror the conflict within me.

⠀⠀As I approach the back door of the house, a silent intruder, I can't shake the sense that death follows me like a shadow. The woods, my actions, the legacy of my family—all tainted by the cruel hand of fate. I push the thoughts aside, my focus shifting to the delicate task of slipping inside without waking my grandmother.

⠀⠀The door creaks softly as I ease it open, each movement calculated to avoid detection. My grandmother, my only living relative, sleeps peacefully inside, unaware of the darkness that clings to me. I tiptoe through the kitchen, catching the familiar scent of her special porridge. The 25th Reaping is an occasion for such delicacies, a bittersweet reminder of the world beyond the forest.

⠀⠀She hums softly by the stove, lost in her own world. I seize the opportunity to slip past, like a ghost navigating the realm of the living. The bathroom becomes my sanctuary, a place to cleanse not just my bloodied hands but also the stain of my own conflicted soul.

⠀⠀The water rushes, drowning out the turmoil in my mind. I scrub vigorously, as if trying to erase the sins etched into my skin. The blood swirls down the drain, leaving behind a transient mark of my defiance. A knock on the door startles me, and I jolt. My grandmother's voice, sweet and concerned, penetrates the barrier of water and echoes in the small room.

⠀⠀"What are you doing awake, my sweet mockingbird?" she asks, her worry palpable in the air, "I was planning on letting you sleep in."

⠀⠀I compose myself, responding with a practiced nonchalance, "Just couldn't sleep, Grandma. Slept well enough, though."

⠀⠀She accepts my answer, and I hear her footsteps retreating back to the kitchen. As I turn off the water, I catch a glimpse of the small splatters of blood running down the sink drain. The reality of my actions stares back at me, a reminder that sleep may never be restful when the weight of rebellion lies heavy on one's conscience.

⠀⠀I dry my hands, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I'm terrified that if I look up, I'll see someone I don't recognize. Or worse, I'll see someone that I do.

⠀⠀Grandma's words ring through my ear as I pat my hands against the sink towel, "I was planning on letting you sleep in."

⠀⠀How can you sleep in if you never sleep?

BRIE SPEAKS!

𐙚⠀⠀it's here! it's here!

𐙚⠀⠀apologizes for the wait, but
⠀⠀⠀i hope it was worth it!

𐙚⠀⠀the next chapter will include
⠀⠀⠀the other 12 tributes and their
⠀⠀⠀lives, and chapter three will be
⠀⠀⠀them being reaped!