Chapter Text
On the morning of the Reaping for the 75th Hunger Games, Collie Parker awoke beneath an unfamiliar weight.
Before he even opened his eyes, he slid his hand to the right side of the cedar bed. His little brother’s body did not greet his twitching pinky, there was only the faint warmth of his memory creased into the linens. Collie blinked awake and saw the world bathed in the bright sherbet tones of the very early morning. With only a small window through which to see, Collie could still sense the fragile nature of this moment, the final thread on the moon snapping with the ease of spider’s silk and the sky ushering the sun in to break night’s long silence.
Soon, the District itself would whir to life. Collie lived with his mother and his younger brother, Cormorant, on the outskirts of town where the air was clear and there were plains to the west as far as the eye could see. But to the east were the innards of District 9, no more than an hour’s ride by horse, packed with mills and granaries and loading bays which, on an average day, hummed with workers.
Today was no average day.
Collie glanced down and saw the painted buffalo skin that had been placed over him and his brother in the night. In the center, a great crimson bear in profile stalked across the beige expanse. Surrounding him were sharp tines of yellow and blue jutting out towards the small black bison meandering at the edges. They had a few other buffalo skins painted with varying scenes: some for Collie and Cormorant to use for warmth in the winter, one that shrouded them when they were ill.
This skin only appeared once a year on Reaping Day. It was a helm of protection, the final plea of their mother for both of her sons to return home that night. For the last six years, it had worked, Collie’s name had never been chosen. Today, however, was Cormorant’s first Reaping. He turned twelve last month. On Collie’s birthday nearly half a year ago, he had foolishly wished for one more year where Cormorant was not eligible for the Reaping, one more year where he was standing hand-in-hand with their mother amongst the other observers. It was the Third Quarter Quell, so any number of miracles were possible, though not likely.
They announced a month after Collie made his wish that this year, two boys and two girls would be reaped from every district; they would fight in separate, specialized arenas one week apart. Not only would Cormorant be standing amongst the other eligible boys, two boys were going to be chosen. Double the Games, double the victors—double the dead. A doubly grand celebration for 75 years of the Games.
Thus, Collie agonized. Not just one boy, two. Two slips of paper would leave that globe. One of them could be Cormorant’s. If it was, Collie would just volunteer. Then they would enter the arena together and Collie could keep him safe. But what if he couldn’t? What if something happened outside of his control? What if Cormorant died anyways and Collie, unable to bear the guilt, let the Games take him too and left his mother all alone? And if they did manage to make it to the end, would Cormorant have to watch Collie end his own life? Would he then be the one carrying the guilt? This was all considering that they called Cormorant’s name first and not second. If that was the case, Collie would simply volunteer in his brother’s stead. He didn’t want to think about how if he did that and died, as most tributes did, Cormorant might never forgive himself.
Collie blinked the thoughts away. Cormorant’s name was only in there once. Collie’s name was in there twenty-four times accounting for six years of eligibility and tessera for the three of them. He’d worked two jobs all year and his mother scrimped and saved so that when summer came, there would be enough food in store that Cormorant wouldn’t also have to take out tesserae. So his name was only in there once.
Just one name.
Just two boys out of everyone in District 9.
A muted clatter rang from the kitchen. Collie’s mother was trying to keep quiet as she cooked. Smells of roasted cornmeal and real butter wafted under the door, tempting Collie out from under his warm shroud. The old wood floors groaned beneath his feet as he stood, stretching the stiff remains of sleep from his arms.
“Morning,” he muttered, waddling into the kitchen with eyes half-open.
It really was morning now. Faint yellow patterns danced on the floors of their home told Collie as much, their east-facing windows with those macrame curtains always catching the sun’s early rays. The house was old and small but fastidiously maintained. There was the main room with the icebox, the dining table, and the television. There was a table where the food was prepared and a hearth in the corner where it was cooked. In front of the television, there was a dusty cornflower-blue couch that his mother had covered with a colorful handwoven blanket.
“Morning,” Collie’s mother replied in a strained voice.
Collie took his sweater from where it was draped over the dining chair and cozied himself into it. The sweater had been his father’s, so it was still a size too big for him, but he’d grown into it more in the last year than he expected. He opened the back door by the icebox and took in a slow, deep breath of the clean and uninhibited air of the plains. The breeze tugged gently on the heads of the wheat stalks, guiding their gentle dance. Only a few wispy clouds dotted the pale blue sky. A beautiful day wasted on a slaughter.
“Where’s Corm?” Collie asked when he didn’t see his brother’s lithe body traipsing out in the fields.
“Down the road at the Watson’s,” his mother said stiffly, “I told him he didn’t have to go feed the chickens for them this morning but he insisted—”
“Mom,” Collie hummed.
“And now all this food will go cold before he’s even back,” she sighed, setting a plate of corn cakes on the table, “I swear, if I don’t go down there myself he’ll skip the Reaping entirely—”
“Mom.”
Collie’s mother crossed her arms, her pale-pink housedress creasing beneath her tight hold. She turned to look out of the small kitchen window. Her lips twitched.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “it’s just too much.”
Collie nodded, “I know.”
Her shoulders eased as she exhaled. Collie closed the back door and went to her. Rogue strands of her long, raven hair glimmered in the sunlight. Her eyes were sunken and red-rimmed. She’d barely slept. Collie leaned against the edge of the dining table.
“You’ve seen what happens to kids his age in there,” she said, her voice breaking, “they barely make it past the first few minutes.”
Collie knew. He had seen the Games, at least what they could catch on the antenna all the way out here. He saw those fatal first few minutes every year. In last year’s Games, he watched a boy just one year older than Cormorant crawling in the Cornucopia in an attempt to hide. Collie wanted to scream at him to run, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He was found. Then he was dead.
Cormorant was smarter than that. Collie had to believe that he was smarter than that. He had to believe that Cormorant would run as far away from the Cornucopia as possible and sustain himself until everyone else killed each other off.
“You can’t go in with him,” his mother whispered.
“Why not? I could—”
“No, I won’t lose both of you.”
“Iná—”
“I can’t lose both of you.”
Her resolve was thinning, barely concealing the desperation that dripped from her words.
A whistled tune danced on the breeze.
Cormorant was near.
“Strong eyes,” Collie said.
It was something his father used to say under his breath when Collie would walk in on him and his mother having a serious conversation. WHen his father was succumbing to his illness, he took Collie’s hand and told him:
“Strong eyes, čhiŋkší.”
Cormorant burst through the door with his knapsack half off his shoulder, twigs sticking out of his long hair, and a giddy pink tinge to his cheeks. Collie’s mother wiped her eyes and turned.
“Now what in the world did you get yourself into?” She asked.
“Tried to jump from rock to rock on the road,” he chirped, “fell into a bramble.”
Cormorant dropped the bag and came to where their mother was waiting for him with open arms. She held onto him for a second longer than usual and planted a quick kiss on the top of his head. With her quick fingers, she started picking out bits of twigs and burrs from his hair.
“You look like a porcupine,” Collie teased him.
Cormorant stuck his tongue out at him.
“Well, Corm,” their mother muttered, “it’s a good thing you’re taking a bath today anyways.”
The underlying truth settled in for both Collie and his mother, but Cormorant missed the message entirely.
“Oh, wait!” He exclaimed, “Look what the Watsons gave me!”
Cormorant wriggled out from his mother’s grasp and rushed to his bag. He pulled out something wrapped in a tea towel and brought it to the table. There, he unwrapped a small glass jar of jam.
“Missus Watson said she got a good deal on some strawberries at the Central Market,” he rambled as he struggled to open the jar.
Collie put out his hand. Cormorant gave him the jar to open.
“Dunno why she gave it to me today,” he shrugged, “my birthday was last month.”
Collie opened the jar with a pop. He set it down on the table. He knew why the Watsons gave his brother the jam, but there was no use in saying it.
Something sweet for the day, dear, he could hear Missus Watson said in her frail old voice.
She’d lied about the strawberries. Collie knew that. Strawberries were rare to find at the Central Market and they were always too expensive to even consider buying, much less eating. Missus Watson had spent a fortune to make a small jar of jam for Cormorant Parker’s first Reaping Day.
“Alright,” said Collie’s mother as she set a pot of beans and chopped greens onto the table. Collie fetched some plates and silverware. Cormorant gazed hungrily at the steaming cornmeal cakes and savory beans and greens. Beside a dish with a slab of real, fresh butter sat the tiny jar of strawberry jam.
Something sweet wasted on a slaughter.
After breakfast, Collie washed himself from head to toe in the tub. He scrubbed underneath his nails. He soaped up his hair and rinsed it twice over. When the water started to go from lukewarm to cold, he shimmied down until the line of the water tickled just behind his ear. He tried to imagine the night after the Reaping, a night where both he and his brother would be home.
His mother would make a celebratory meal from the tesserae. They would crowd around the television and watch the highlights from the other districts’ reapings. Collie would make himself a hot tea with milk and just a cup of warm milk for Cormorant. Then, they would drift off to sleep in their bed. Morning would come and there would be no Reaping until next year.
While Collie’s mother gave Cormorant his bath, Collie dried off and put on his clean beige slacks and his long-sleeved white linen shirt. It had a flat collar and pearlescent buttons on the cuffs. His mother always set out his clothes for the Reaping, and this was the first year that she’d set out a dark taupe vest adorned with intricate beadwork. On the left, there was a blue horse; a red horse matching in every way besides its rider faced it from the opposite side. On the lapels were symmetrical geometric designs in blue and green shades. Collie ran his fingers over the small beads, feeling the slightest unevenness that let him know it was handmade. The suede material of the vest ran smooth under his touch.
“It was your father’s.”
Collie turned and saw his mother in the doorway. There were wet spots on her dress, likely victim to Cormorant’s bathtime shenanigans. A weary smile hung on her face.
“I started working on the beading the day I found out I was pregnant with you,” she said, “barely finished it by the time you were fighting your way out.”
Collie chuckled. He lingered on the blue beaded horse, noting the thin line of its legs and the proud strength of its stance.
Collie had been old enough to remember his father when he had died, but bits of him were forever lost to time. He must’ve only worn this vest on special occasions, judging by the condition. Collie wondered if he would have worn it to one of Collie’s Reapings if he’d lived to see one.
“Here,” she said, crossing to the bed and taking the vest.
She helped Collie’s arms through the vest then rounded to his front to secure the sides together and adjust the lapels. Her eyes misted, trailing down to the red horse and his rider. Collie placed his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him.
For the first time in Collie’s life, she looked old, even fragile. Fine lines snaked from the corners of her eyes and there were folds around her mouth outlining the edges of her smile even when she wasn’t showing it. Silvery strands were starting to grow at her hairline. She wore a world-weary expression. After next year’s Reaping, Collie would be through with the Games. His mother, however, would have six more Reapings to endure with Corm.
“Go sit in the kitchen,” she told him, “I’ll braid your hair.”
Collie loved the feeling of his mother’s lithe fingers running through his hair. It reached the middle of his back now, so she was meticulous with the comb, weeding out every last knot. Then, she slicked back the front with the water she steeped her dandelions in. The floral notes calmed Collie as he listened to his brother chatter on about one of the Watson’s chickens who laid a lash egg which meant she was very sick. Collie’s mother wove his hair with practiced ease, but every so often she would stop and slide her fingers down to the end slowly like she would miss it. Like in this moment, she needed to remember everything.
“Sit still, Corm,” she groaned, “you’ll get tangles.”
Cormorant had been attempting some acrobatic trick off of the couch. In the middle of his fancy flip, he pulled himself upright and sat with his arms crossed, pouting.
When Collie’s mother reached the end of his hair, she secured it and ran her wet hands down the sides of his head and the edges of the braid. Her fingers stilled once more at the very end where a little bushel of hair was bundled. Collie turned. She let her expression break slightly.
“Strong eyes,” Collie mouthed.
Then, she smiled.
“Corm, your turn,” she said, dismissing Collie with a pat on his shoulder.
Collie stood. He went to the mirror by the front door and admired the long, sleek braid his mother had woven for him and how the deep tone of his vest brought out a tinge of gold in his eyes.
He didn’t have many pictures of his father, but he was always told that he looked more like him with each passing day.
Maybe here, standing in front of this mirror, he could be close to him once more.
It would take too long to get into town for the Reaping on horseback, so a few men here on the outskirts offered to drive people into town if they didn’t have ways to get there themselves. Collie, Cormorant, and their mother crowded in the trailer of Durk Goodsley’s truck where two other families were already sitting. Collie happily settled himself in the corner, feeling every jump of the truck in his backside.
Cormorant was wearing the same outfit today that he wore for his twelfth birthday, slate gray slacks and a white linen button-down with colorful beading down the seams. His hair was done in two near braids, the ends just barely brushing his collarbones.
A tense quiet took hold of everyone in the trailer. A mother and a father sat on either side of a young blonde girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. A very old woman held the hand of a large dark-skinned man with a strong jaw and narrow eyes. Collie thought he looked like someone who could win the Games. At another stop, a father hoisted his son into the trailer. The boy had a crutch tucked under his arm. Collie could see that one of his legs was much smaller than the other and his foot was turned in a strange direction. The father placed his son next to the old woman. No one spoke.
The trailer stopped for one more passenger, a boy who looked around Collie’s age with dark hair and almond eyes standing alone on the side of the road. Before he sat with the rest in the trailer, he took a watch with a cracked face out of his pocket and fiddled with it.
As the trailer drew nearer to the Justice Building, more people appeared. Collie saw a girl in a lacy yellow dress with a white silk bow in her hair. On the outskirts, everyone was poor. Here in town, there were some who got lucky with a government job or just so happened to inherit a successful bakery from their father. Collie couldn’t help but bristle when he saw their brick townhomes and gilded storefronts. He didn’t lay awake at night imagining massive riches for himself, he just thought about money the same way everyone else on the outskirts did. They needed it. That was all.
Peacekeepers appeared in droves the further into town they rode. Collie gritted his teeth, fury simmering just on the underside of his skin. He knew that there were Peacekeepers who flew under the Capitol’s radar and tried to help people in the District, but Collie was never convinced of their sincerity. The only good Peacekeeper, in Collie’s opinion, was a dead Peacekeeper. That’s what his old friend Marugg used to say. They got him in the end for a lot of the things he said.
Squealing brakes drew Collie’s attention to the Justice Building ahead and the crowds that had already formed there. The father from before lifted his son from the trailer and then handed him his crutch. Then the large boy helped the very old woman down. Collie, Cormorant, and their mother were the last to leave the trailer. A long line already snaked through the open square for the check-in area. Collie swallowed the urge to do something unsavory in front of the hundreds of Peacekeepers who lined the perimeter, their weapons at the ready to punish defectors.
The three of them stood in an awkward silence. Their mother couldn’t join them in line. She acted first, crouching down and wrapping Cormorant in a long, tight hug. Cormorant tucked his face into her neck. When they parted, she put her hands on either side of his head and kissed him at the part of his hair. She ran her hands down his two braids and gazed at him, her mouth tightening.
“I love you,” she whispered to him. Cormorant said the same back to her like he always did.
Collie’s mother stood and looked to her eldest son. She approached him, taking hold of his head in the same way she had done to Cormorant. She tilted his head down and kissed the same spot.
“I love you,” she whispered into his hair.
Collie kissed her cheek. She smelled like dandelions.
“I love you, too,” he said, “everything will be okay.”
He felt her nod against his touch. They parted. Collie took Cormorant by the shoulder and they headed to the end of the line. Collie felt his brother stiffen under his touch, his eyes locked on their mother growing smaller and smaller as they walked.
“Collie,” Cormorant whined.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Collie squeezed his shoulder.
“Collie,” Cormorant’s voice shook, “I think I wanna go home now.”
“We’ll go home soon, right after this,” Collie said, “I promise.”
Lying a bit was worth it to feel Cormorant relax under his grip. He couldn’t promise anything today. No one could.
Once they joined the line, Cormorant kept standing on his toes to try and see what was happening up at the front as boys went to the left side and girls went to the right side.
“They take your blood?” Cormorant made a face.
“Yeah,” Collie replied, “just a pinch.”
There was a hum of chatter, but it was low enough that Collie felt like he could hear whole conversations happening from many feet away. Some children cried, either gripping their mother or father’s leg in the observer’s section or trying to coax a sibling into line with them who had already aged out of the Reaping. When Collie and his brother reached the front of the line, Cormorant instantly held out his finger for the prick. The Capitol officer eyed him strangely and asked for their identification cards. Collie handed him both. The officer looked from the cards to the boys, from the boys to the cards. Collie found it excessive.
The officer demanded Collie’s blood first, much to Cormorant’s disappointment. Collie watched Cormorant’s face pinch as they finally took the tool to his waiting finger then smeared the blood on a card. The officer handed them each a fresh slip of paper with their name and age typed onto it.
“Left,” he instructed, motioning them to the boy’s side.
“Where is she?” Cormorant asked, searching the empty space where their mother had been before.
Collie guided him to the roped-off entrance, “She’s with the other observers. We’ll see her after.”
Cormorant handed his slip to one of the guards.
“Twelve,” he said to another officer.
That other guard motioned for Cormorant to follow. He reached for his shoulder, but he resisted. Collie crouched down to his level.
“Be brave,” he whispered into his ear, “just for a bit. Then we go home.”
Cormorant looked at him for a moment. Collie pushed him gently in the Peacekeeper’s direction. Finally, he relented and followed, still trying to steal glances at Collie on his way.
Collie gave the soldier his slip.
“Seventeen,” the soldier said.
And Collie was escorted towards the front of the boy’s side where the other seventeen-year old boys waited. The Peacekeeper had tried taking his shoulder too, but he evaded her grip.
Collie Parker knew how to tune out the fanfare of the Reaping. He squinted up at the sun when their mayor started in on his long speech about the history of the Games. As he read off the list of past victors, most of whom were with him on stage, Collie followed the erratic flight pattern of a dragonfly just above the crowd. When the district escort, Maximillian Cosp, made his way to the microphone and the unbearable Capitol video played, Collie just picked at his nails.
“Happy Hunger Games!” Maximilian grinned widely, “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”
He scanned the crowd with his glittery, sunken eyes, expressly disappointed by the lack of reply.
“This is a very exciting Reaping, indeed!” He soldiered on, grinning so widely now that the plastic implants in his cheeks could hardly bear it.
His garish bright green hair coiffed to an unnatural height clashed with the three-piece orange suit he’d chosen to wear that day.A faint golden sheen glimmered off of his skin and when he smiled, the gems inlaid in his teeth caught the harsh light of the afternoon son and obscured his face with glinting bursts.
“Today we choose two boys and two girls from each District to compete in two very special arenas.”
Collie folded his hands behind his back. Maximillian pulled his face into a solemn expression.
“As we celebrate this long-awaited Third Quarter Quell, may we be reminded of the true meaning of the Hunger Games.”
Last year’s games had ended less than ideally. The two tributes from District 12 successfully committing a double-suicide put a damper in the Capitol’s plans to tout them around for a year. There was no Victory Tour because there was no winner. Recaps from the Games never played on Capitol TV.A rumor spread that the creator of the 74th Games had been put to death for his little blunder. Thus, there was a strange, uncertain energy surrounding the event’s return.
The Third Quarter Quell was then doubly important as it had to bring the Capitol audience back into favor with the Games. Maybe they had separated the girls and the boys into different arenas to avoid another disastrous love story.
“As always, ladies first.”
Maximillian swayed to the girl’s side and shoved his purple-dyed fingers into the bowl. He dug around for a moment then pulled out a na,e. He walked back to the microphone and cleared his throat.
“Emmeline Parnell.”
A few gasps rang out. There was a pause before a frail girl with curly brown hair in a flower-patterned dress emerged from amongst the other fifteen-year old girls, her face stricken. She followed the Peacekeepers up to the stage. Maximillian shook her hand and positioned her to stand slightly behind him and to the right. Emmeline clasped her hands behind her back and cast her eyes to the ground.
“Now for our second girl.”
Maximillian fished around in the bowl again. He picked up a card, then dropped it and took another instead. His little game to all the girls in attendance. No one was amused.
At the microphone, he opened the chosen slip.
“Tempera Wellesly.”
“No!” A shrill shriek sounded from the front of the crowd. A series of shushes followed it.
A little girl from amongst the twelve-year olds shuffled out. Her mint green dress had obviously been handmade from a grain sack. The sleeves were purposefully puffed and there was a matching bow for her thin blonde hair. The Peacekeepers escorted her down the long walkway.
“Temp!” The same voice from before cried out.
More shushes from those surrounding the girl. Tempera looked back at the girl, her lip trembling. On her way up the stairs, she tripped. The crowd gasped. Maximillian helped her up and led her to join Emmeline. Collie watched as Tempera cycled through different ways to stand, never really committing to something. He looked at her feet and saw that her white Mary Janes were almost a whole size too big on her.
“And now for the boys.”
Collie’s heart raced. He forced a dry swallow as Maximillian reached for the bowl.
Not Cormorant, Collie pled.
Not him.
Maximillian chose a slip with no game to it and returned to the microphone.
“Carter Travin.”
Collie let out a shaking breath.
Carter was tall for his age, Collie could see that as he watched the boy part from the other fourteen-year olds. He was lanky with pale brown skin and a close shave on his coily hair. His plain gray button-down was tucked messily into his slacks. He tried to fix it as he climbed the stage. After Maximilian shook his hand, the district escort made a face and wiped his palm on his tangerine pants. Then, he went to the bowl one last time.
Collie closed his eyes.
It was almost over, but he didn’t feel any better. If this was Cormorant’s name he pulled, there was nothing Collie could do.
Not Cormorant, he begged.
Anyone but Cormorant.
The microphone whined. Maximillian broke the seal on the slip and cleared his throat again.
“Collie Parker.”
The earth itself gasped beneath Collie’s feet. No. No, he couldn’t have heard it right. Had they really said his name? No, he was hearing things, imagining things. So then why was everyone staring at him? Why was there a Peacekeeper reaching for him from the aisle?
Collie’s mind swiftly abandoned his body. He inched down the row of boys, the ends of his fingers flickering with heat and blood as all the life-giving things left the places where he needed it most. A pounding in his ear drowned out any other sound; he didn’t know if it was his heart or an earthquake or the ticking of a clock. He shrugged off the Peacekeeper’s guiding hand once he emerged into the aisle.
“Collie?” A small voice broke from the back of the crowd.
Collie looked back and saw Cormorant wrestling his way out from the other twelve-year olds.
“No, Corm!” Collie cried.
He was free from the Peacekeeper’s hold as soon as he had been captured. Cormorant ran down the aisle, his braids bouncing against his back.
“Collie!” He cried, wrapping his arms around him tight.
Collie heard the distinctive click of the safety on a gun being released. A sour taste rose in his throat.
“Stop, Corm,” Collie said in a voice that didn’t feel like his, “you have to go back right now—”
“No!” Cormorant sobbed.
Collie crouched down, “Mom will get in trouble if you don’t go back right now!”
Collie’s voice shook. Every eye in District 9 was on them at that moment. Judging by the number of cameras, the whole Capitol was watching too from ten different angles.
Two Peacekeepers finally wrestled Cormorant off of Collie. They all but dragged him down the aisle as tears streamed down his face and neck.
“You promised!” Cormorant sobbed.
Collie turned back towards the stage. The ground ebbed and flowed under his feet. His heart racketed against his chest. Somewhere in the long walk to the stage, the realization settled ice-cold into Collie’s soul.
I’m a tribute.
Before the next full moon rose in the sky, he would be in the arena. He would be killed. Or he would have to kill someone else. In Collie’s next moment of consciousness, he was looking at Maximillian’s extended hand. He shook it mindlessly.
Collie took his place beside Carter. When he looked to the crowd, he saw Corm still in a Peacekeeper’s grip, his body convulsing as he struggled against him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Maximillian, “I present your tributes from District 9!”
The ring of his words echoed long through the silent square. Collie watched relief wash over everyone.
It wasn’t me, they were all thinking.
It wasn’t my son.
It wasn’t my daughter.
Except this time, it was Collie.
His feet itched to run, but he knew he couldn’t outrun a bullet. So he gritted his teeth and stared ahead as the Capitol fanfare began to play.
Maximillian turned and waved the four of them towards the doors of the Justice Building.
“Come on, we’ve got a schedule to keep,” he chirped at them.
The inside of the Justice Building smelled dank and stale. Maximillian rushed in front of them.
“Girls, down here,” he motioned down one hall, “Boys, over here,” he said, motioning down the opposite hall. He checked the time on his gaudy gold watch.
“You have five minutes with your families, then we must get moving or we’ll just be screwed for the rest of the night.”
A Peacekeeper escorted Collie to a small room with a desk and a plush chair that sported a thick layer of dust from years of disuse. The afternoon sun streamed through a tiny window and lit the dust dancing through the air like little crystals. Collie’s lips were numb. Everything was numb, really. There was only the incessant beating of his heart. The door opened and Cormorant rushed in. He grabbed Collie by the waist like he had during the Reaping.
“You can’t die, Collie,” his brother begged in a teary voice, “you have to win. You have to try and win.”
“I will try,” Collie reassured him, feeling sicker now than he ever had in his entire life.
“You have to win,” Cormorant said into the fabric of Collie’s vest, “you’re strong and you’re really fast. And you’re good with the sickle, right? You can protect yourself with that.”
Collie rubbed Cormorant’s back as his tears soaked into the vest. He looked up at his mother. Her face was completely ashen. She pulled her lips between her teeth as tears welled in her eyes.
Collie extended his arm to her and she joined the two of them.
They all held each other in silence. Cormorant sniffed wetly. Collie’s mother leaned into her son’s ear and started to pray in a language no one in the Capitol would understand. Even if there were cameras in here, these words were for Collie and Collie alone.
He bunched the back of his mother’s dress between his fingers. He grabbed the collar of Cormorant’s button-down. Maybe if he fused himself to them, they would excuse him from the Games and reap someone else. They couldn’t send all three of them into the arena, so Collie would just never let them go.
Collie’s mother still smelled like dandelions. When the prayer was over, she started back at the beginning, her words stringing together like a song that momentarily calmed Collie’s panicked heart.
“Time’s up,” said a Peacekeeper at the door.
Collie’s mother peeled away from him, still whispering her prayer. Cormorant let go too and started feeling around for something in his pockets.
“Wait!” He choked out.
He fished out a small wooden trinket the length of his palm. Collie saw the curved edges of its face, the indents of its small eyes, and the little raised bumps of its ears. It was a bear whittled from a bit of wood.
“I made it for luck,” Cormorant said, “but I think I accidentally used all of it for myself during the Reaping. Maybe it’ll still work for you in the Games.”
Collie took the small wooden bear, his fingers brushing against Cormorant’s clammy palms. He grabbed Cormorant and gave him a kiss on the top of his head.
“Chop, chop, tributes!” Maximillian shouted from the hall.
Collie’s mother held his face in her hands. She smiled weakly.
“Strong eyes, čhiŋkší,” she whispered.
Collie Parker was whisked away before he could admit to her that he had no strength left to lend his eyes. Suddenly, he was at the threshold of a long silvery train wondering if this was the last time he would ever see his home. His District 9.
There was nothing particularly memorable about the train ride. They were only a couple hundred miles from the Capitol and the train would have them there in just a few hours. Maximillian rambled about mentors and training, then he shifted to complaining about escorts from other district who had cushier assignments. He had been relegated to what he called “endless fucking cornfields” for six years now.
“At least it’s not Twelve,” he said, shrugging.
Emmeline, the girl with the curls, looked positively sick from the moment the train started moving. By the end of the trip, her face was the same color as Maximillian’s hair.
Tempera, the other girl, cried the whole first half of the trip. Emmeline tried to comfort her with an arm around her shoulders despite her condition. For the second half of the trip, Tempera slept on Emmeline’s shoulder.
Carter sat a good few feet away from Collie. He messed with his nails for the most part, and he was the only one who entertained Maximillian’s attempts at conversation. He tried to, at least. Maximillian found Carter’s accent to be too strange to fully understand or engage with intelligently, so he poured himself a strong drink and Carter returned to the matter of his nails.
Collie chose a seat by the window and stared out of it the entire trip. In his hands, he turned the bear figurine, over and over. He felt every groove with his fingers and imagined Cormorant whittling away at it with his pocket knife, his thick black brows furrowed in concentration. Maximillian had tried and failed to speak with Collie.
“Can’t say I didn’t try,” he sighed to one of the guards at the train car door.
Collie couldn’t believe the sheer size of the Capitol. In every direction he looked, there were buildings, each one taller than the last. Flat white and gold surfaces magnified the immense power of the sun and burned spots into Collie’s vision.
Spectators lined the sides of the tracks where the train began to slow. They waved and cheered. The garish colors of their hair and their skin made Collie feel like the train had made Emmeline feel. Some of them were practically shaking with excitement to see the tributes riding past them. Collie wanted to maul one man in particular whose eyes never once flickered from Tempera’s face in the window.
The train stopped in an empty station that took them right into Tribute Tower.
“Alright then,” Maximillian said once they had gotten off, two attendants appearing behind him “Girls, your chariot ceremony is tonight, so you’re up first with the Hygienists.”
One of the attendants went to join the pair of girls.
“Boys, your ceremony isn’t until tomorrow,” he said, “so you’ll be taken up to the suite to watch the highlights from the Reaping, get a sense of the competition. You’ll both meet your mentors tomorrow.”
The second attendant joined Carter and Collie. The four of them, Maximillian following close behind, made their way into the Tower to the elevators.
“Floor 9, please,” Maximillian told the attendant.
The floor jerked under them. Carter lost his balance and almost fell over completely. It was Collie’s first time in a contraption like this too, but he didn’t want Maximillian to know that. A sterile smell of the place burned the inside of Collie’s nose. His insides tightened when he realized no matter what direction he turned in, there were only sleek silver walls.
Finally, the doors opened to their suite, a gasping open space with a full entryway, a glittering kitchen and dining table for at least ten people to sit and eat at, and a long curved couch sitting in front of the largest television Collie had ever seen.
Under any other circumstance, Collie might’ve been excited to stay in such a swanky place, but his fluttering panic from the reaping had settled into a deep dread. He was like that chicken at the Watson’s, finally taken into the warmth of the house and wrapped in a soft quilt because, tomorrow, he would be slaughtered for laying a lash egg.
Collie knew too much about his fate to even try and enjoy any of it.
“Go, sit,” Maximillian waved them off to the couch then turned to a guard, “they’re all done right? In the Districts?”
“There was some trouble in Twelve,” Collie heard the Peacekeeper say, “but they should be done now.”
“Thank god,” Maximillian sighed.
Collie sat at the leftmost end of the couch. As the others gathered, he looked up at the golden hanging lights meant to mimic constellations in a night sky. He huffed a laugh to himself. It was nowhere to close to the real thing.
“Oh, goody,” Maximilian said flatly when he turned on the television. It took the entirety of the Capitol anthem for Collie’s eyes to adjust to the crisp, bright colors and the sheer size of everything on the screen. There was no skipping or static like on their television at home.
The anthem ended. The emblem for District 1 appeared.
“Charles Field.”
A very strong-looking boy strode up to the stage. Collie’s stomach burned. Maybe Collie was fast and strong, but others in the arena were sure to be too.
“Hank Olson.”
Hank appeared from the crowd of eighteen-year olds. He had a round face with stout features and dark hair. He was shorter than all of the other boys in his age group. As he walked towards the stage, the camera cut to a girl from the other side with deep-toned skin and gossamer black hair.
“Hank!” She cried out for him as the girls around her tried to calm her, “My Hank!”
Hank only looked back at her once. Collie could tell that it was too much for him, he spent the remainder of the Reaping with his head down and his shoulders shaking, the girl’s cries punctuating the footage.
District 2 appeared next.
“Curley White!”
Curley was a small boy, only thirteen, wearing a striped button down with a stain on the collar. A pile of golden curls sat atop his head and framed his youthful face. When he stepped out into the aisle, he looked confused.
“Hey!” He cried out to the front of the crowd of boys.
No one regarded him.
“Hey!” He shouted again as the Peacekeepers escorted him to the stage, “You’re supposed to volunteer for me! What kind of brothers are you? You said you’d volunteer!”
The camera showed one boy who looked much older but had the same golden curls as his brother. They showed another brother, even older than the first. Both of them looked strong and capable. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them even twitched a finger.
“No, wait!” Curley protested at the stairs, “It’s not supposed to go like this! Hey!”
He wasn’t angry anymore. He was desperate. He walked slowly across the stage, waiting for one of his brothers to finally volunteer and spare Curley.
Neither of them moved.
“It’s not fair!” Curley wailed at the escort, grabbing at the sides of his hair as tears started to fall.
The District 2 escort simply walked back to the globe and picked the second boy’s name.
“Harold Quince!”
For District 3, an eighteen-year-old named Marty Wyman was reaped first. Next, a very slim boy named Simon Tressler was called. The video showed the boy behind him tapping on his shoulder and signing to him, telling him that he had been reaped. His brow furrowed. He signed something back to his friend, then the realization came.
In District 4, a serious looking boy named Percy Portcallis was reaped first, then a boy who might have even been smaller than Hank named Marlin Pearson. The lenses in Pearson’s glasses were as thick as coke bottles. Collie wondered what he would do if they broke in the arena. Can’t fight if you can’t see.
The District 5 escort is wearing an elaborate headpiece shaped like a clamshell that she has to balance with her hands every time she walks.
“William Stebbins.”
The boy who walks to the stage is muscly yet lean, a tight square jaw and chiseled features. His light eyes and hair made him look like the man on those Capital propos about “working hard” and “earning your bread”. Yes, he was the handsome man on the poster who you should aspire to be. Collie and his friends made fun of those loser posters and anyone who was convinced by them.
The crowd in District 5 murmured amongst themselves, energized by the prospect of maybe sending a victor this year.
Stanley Ewing, the second boy Reaped, looked at least four years younger than Stebbins and easily four times smaller than him, too. The moment after he took his place beside Stebbins, he sneezed into the crook of his elbow and wiped his nose with his sleeve.
Both of the tributes from District 6 look equally strong. The one named Roger Fenum has broad hands and long legs. The other, Peter McVries, has a gnarly scar running across the side of his face that unsettles Collie’s stomach. When McVries’ name was called, there was no footage of any family mourning his fate. The camera followed him the whole way to the stage, only cutting to wide shots of the crowd.
He was the first in the broadcast to have no one cry for him.
The boy reaped first from District 7 has a twin brother. They hug for as long as the Peacekeepers will allow before Bobby Sledge, the reaped twin, separates from his brother, possibly for the first time since they split in their mother’s womb.
“Rank Sanders.”
Collie thinks it’s a strange name. He thinks Rank looks like an even stranger boy. All wiry and pallid, the points of his face reminding Collie of a small songbird. A soft mop of brown hair has been carefully slicked back and tucked behind his ear.
The camera cuts from the fifteen-year-olds that Rank left behind to the thirteen-year-olds where a boy with the same bird-like appearance watches his brother take the stage. Then a cut to the twelve-year-olds, to a girl who was undoubtedly related too.
Finally, they show Rank Sanders’ mother, flanked by a girl who looks to have just barely missed the age cutoff for the Reaping and a toddler seated against her hip with a red-rubbed nose and wet eyes. In front of them are two more children, both of them five or six, Collie can’t tell. The eldest of them is holding a fussy infant close to her chest. Rank’s mother, fragile and pale, holds her hand to her mouth in horror, thin strands of hair falling into her face as the wind whips at them mercilessly.
They were all little birds, the mother and her children. And she had just watched her baby fall from the nest before his wings were done drying.
Collie tried to calculate how many times Rank’s name was in the bowl considering they took out Tesserae for every member of the family. Collie reached thirty and decided to stop.
In District 8, a boy named Richard Harkness tried to clean his glasses on his way to the stage and fumbled them. They fell in a cloud of dust and he promptly took a step forwards and stepped directly on them. He put the glasses back on sheepishly, little bits of the shattered left lens falling as he walked.
Michael Gallant, the other District 8 boy, was wearing a well-tailored suit with a gold pin on the lapel. When he name was called, he just looked peeved like someone was supposed to come and correct the misunderstanding. No one did because he was the Mayor’s son, and the Mayor was fiddling with his cue cards on stage, trying to hide his teary eyes.
Collie watched his own Reaping next, the sound of his name in the microphone and a shot of Cormorant running down the aisle to hug him. They cut out the Peacekeeper who cocked his gun and the one that dragged Cormorant away by his arm. His mother’s face appeared on the screen. Collie’s insides soured. She was holding the beaded necklace she usually kept under her dress against her lips. Collie could tell that she was fighting her tears until the camera finally moved on.
Thank you, Mom, Collie thought, hoping she might hear.
District 10’s Reaping was a sweltering mess. Everyone was fanning themselves with their hands or their shirts, sporting rings of sweat around their collars before any names had even been called.
“Phineas Hough!”
From the very last row of boys, a small twelve-year-old with a club foot appeared. In the distance, a crow cawed. It was the only sound made while Phineas hobbled down the aisle. It took him twice as long to get to the stage than anyone else. No one rushed him, not even the cameras.
“Raymond Garraty!”
A boy with a kind round face, reddish hair, and a smattering of freckles joined Phineas on the stage. He offered his arm to him for support. Raymond’s mother cried into a blue handkerchief.
Something happened in District 11 that had never happened before in the history of the Reaping. The first name pulled was James Baker, a tall, lean boy with deep-toned skin that gleamed gold under the midday sun. The next name pulled was Art Baker, James’ younger brother. Art looked to the sky and said something Collie couldn’t make out then joined his brother on the stage. He took James’ hand in his and squeezed.
The broadcast showed a very old woman much like the one Collie had met on the trailer. She was weeping into a young woman’s shoulder, a beaded cross necklace dangling from her knotted fingers.
A sweeping shot of District 12 followed their emblem. Collie noticed first how few eligible tributes there were in comparison to the other Districts, especially 11. Most of the children were thin and gray-faced. Collie only saw this sort of hunger in the poorest parts of District 9, but it seemed to be a common malady here in 12. Something heavy sat atop the crowd, an emotion that Collie couldn’t quite put words to. Their stern faces spoke of anger, but Collie knew there was more to it than that.
They were so close to having a victor last year, two victors, even. Time had not healed the wound left by their lovebirds.
Between a brand new escort for the District and a total absence of past victors on the stage, the Capitol had completely rebranded itself for their visit to 12.
The girls were called to the stage, the first around thirteen or fourteen wearing her hair in two braids just like Cormorant. The other girl was older and taller with sharp square shoulders and pin-straight hair that brushed the middle of her back. District 12’s escort sauntered to the bowl with the boys’ names. He must’ve drawn the short-straw in getting sent to 12, he certainly acted like it. He picked the first paper his fingers touched.
“Oliver Yannick.”
Oliver was slim and short. He had deep-set beady eyes and he walked like he was carrying a great weight on his back. As he lumbered down the aisle, he stared down the Peacekeepers who lined the front of the stage. There were at least twice as many soldiers there than the occasion called for.
The escort didn’t bother to shake Oliver’s hand. Instead, he pulled another name from the bowl like watching wheat blow in the wind would interest him more. Back at the microphone, he lifted his golden monocle and read the card.
“Gary Barkovitch!”
The crisp sound his throat made when he said ‘Barkovitch’ amused Collie. He wanted to say the name himself, see if he could make his throat flap the same way that man had. The camera found ‘Barkovitch’. He looked like he had just gained consciousness hearing his name, his wide, light eyes darting around and a question he didn’t dare ask poised on the tip of his tongue. All of the boys around him had taken a step back like Barkovitch had just announced he was a carrier of some terrible disease. His lips twitched into a hooked shape.
“Well, come on,” said the District escort from the stage.
The Barkovitch boy blinked hard. He saw the Peacekeeper waiting for him in the aisle. His expression settled and he cracked a half-smile.
Barkovitch shoved his way past the other boys, throwing his elbows into all of their soft spots. He skipped one step ahead of the Peacekeeper once he was in the aisle and looked back at him with a teasing grin.
Barkovitch had a mouth like a dog’s, wide and lined with sharp, uneven teeth. Dull gray light from the overcast day blended into his light olive skin, the kind that would be a soft caramel brown if he saw the sun more. And his hair was a mess, stringy and pale blonde and grown out down to his shoulders. The last stretch of a healing black eye painted the side of his face with yellowish-green splotches.
Barkovitch stuck his hands in his pockets and ambled down the aisle, basking in everyone’s attention. Halfway to the stage, he turned and smiled at the Peacekeeper again, walking backwards without a care for what might be behind him.
His jaw tensed. His throat bobbed. His dark brows furrowed at the center of his face. Barkovitch was focusing hard on something. Everyone, even Collie, waited to see what it was.
Barkovitch nodded his head, pursed his lips, and hocked a thick glob of spit at the Peacekeeper’s feet while flashing him a very rude, two-handed gesture. The crowd gasped as the soldier lunged at Barkovitch, grabbing him by the neck and slamming the unbruised side of his face into the ground. Three other Peacekeepers cocked their weapons and aimed at his angular body writhing against the soldier’s grip.
“Oh, get off of him!” The escort whined, “We’re on a schedule here.”
The Peacekeepers waited for direction from the head of forces, the only one not wearing the face-obscuring helmet. The man gazed at Barkovitch then lifted his open palm to them. The Peacekeeper who was holding Barkovitch in the dirt yanked him up by the back of his hair. Behind a mess of dirt and blood and gravel, Barkovitch beamed with pride.
Collie wondered why they did it, just let him go after he did something so heinous, so disrespectful to the Capitol. Collie wasn’t exactly an adherent to the Capitol ways, but he wasn’t an idiot either. This was the quickest way to get a noose tied in the town square in your honor.
But Barkovitch had already been sentenced to death. He was going to the Games. Maybe that’s what the Head Guard thought when he instructed his soldiers to stand down.
The Peacekeeper shoved Barkovitch towards the stage so hard that it sent him forward at an angle. Barkovitch steadied himself and climbed the stairs, stomping his half-untied boots on each step. He stuck his tongue out at the District escort like a child. Then he stumbled to Oliver’s side.
The camera pressed in on Barkovitch’s face. Dirtied and bruised, Collie watched as Barkovitch wiped under his nose where a thick stream of blood was staining his lips. He gave the camera a wide, sinister smile, blood and spit pooled in every groove of his teeth.
As he watched the Reapings, Collie had wondered which tributes were smarter than him, which were faster and stronger and taller. Those tributes were his greatest competition, the ones he had to outlast in the arena. But he had never considered that a tribute could be so fearless and unpredictable, a wild card that could be played in any hand.
Collie shuddered at the thought. If everyone else was playing by the rules while Barkovitch played like there were no rules at all—
that crazy motherfucker could actually win.
And for Barkovitch to win, Collie would need to die.