Chapter Text
On the twenty-fifth anniversary,
as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying
because of their choice to initiate violence,
every district was made to hold an election
and vote on the tributes who would represent it.
She wakes up before the sun can rise—it’s nothing unusual, nothing weird. She does it every morning, as the second right before dawn is the only time of the day during which there’s no pain, no sorrow slithering through the streets of District 12. And yet, today feels different. Today, the air is charged with pleas, prayers, and nightmares. Today, someone’s fate will be written in a history book, if they’re the lucky one—in an obituary, far more likely.
Natalie Scatorccio has no pleas, no prayers, and no nightmares left, at this point. She has long ago stopped pleading and praying, and her nights have been emptied of both dreams and nightmares for years, now. These days, whenever she closes her eyes to get a couple of hours of sleep at best, her slumbers are filled with a valley of emptiness—more than anything, her slumbers are filled with peace and silence, which is something not so common back in the guts of District 12. Awake, Natalie Scatorccio has to deal with all sorts of horrifying sounds—the guttural, constant pounding of the mines, and the loud, desperate cries of the children, and the most harrowing of all: the still, lifeless sound of starved bodies hitting the ground. The latter is not especially loud, if she has to be honest—and yet, it feels like the loudest of them all. When an old man or an orphaned child sits down against a wall and lets themselves die, the life abandoning their bodies as they slowly slide towards the ground echoes louder than a siren, heavier than a collapsing mine, and scarier than a bullet. All things considered, it’s a miracle, really, that her slumbers are so empty—it’s a miracle, really, that she no longer dreams of useless hopes; a miracle, really, that she doesn’t get nightmares of her violent father anymore.
As she sits on the edge of her bed, Natalie—Nat, she much prefers—stretches her neck, inhaling for a long, heavy second. Today, someone’s fate will be written in a history book, if they’re the lucky one—in an obituary, far more likely. And Natalie Scatorccio’s fate? That’s already written in warm blood. Ever since the rules for the 25th Reaping got announced, Natalie Scatorccio has known deep in her bones that she’s going to be this year’s District 12 tribute. There’s no escaping it. This year marks the First Quarter Quell. Twenty-five years since the first Hunger Games. Already twenty-four slaughtering games, twenty-four cold mass homicides—and this one?
This one is going to be the worst of them all.
As yet another warning to the Districts, the Capitol has decided against drawing names, this year. It doesn’t matter how many times your name is in there, and it doesn’t matter how often Natalie Scatorccio has almost starved herself just to avoid taking more tesserae—everything anyone has ever done to try and lessen their chances of being picked is useless now. Because today, for the 25th Hunger Games, for the First Quarter Quell, there’s not gonna be any drawing of names—there’s not gonna be any gender distinctions, either: there’s just gonna be fratricide voting. And no one, in District 12, is more frowned upon than Natalie Scatorccio—and no one, in District 12, is more disposable than Natalie Scatorccio.
She is the ultimate sacrificial lamb.
And they’re about to dig into her flesh.
It’s the first light of the morning, and it must be at least nine more hours until the Reaping. She has nine more hours of freedom—nine more hours of breathing. The terror hasn’t taken hold of her mind, yet; there’s a stillness to her heart, a flickering kind of peace. The kind of peace that death row inmates experience—not peace in any real sense, but a sharp, steady awareness. The knowledge that no matter what you do, it’s gonna happen anyways.
No matter what she does, it’s gonna happen anyways.
That feels safe.
That feels certain.
She gets up from her bed, and within minutes she’s out of the shack she still dares to call a house—never a home, though. Her parents have been dead for a full year, and she hasn’t found a way to escape that godforsaken house yet—and now, she’s sure she never will. When her father shot a bullet through her mother’s forehead, first, and through his own, after, Natalie Scatorccio had wondered why he didn’t kill her, too; in the end, she realized she just didn’t matter enough. She didn’t matter enough to be loved, and she didn’t matter enough to be hated, either. She matters so little, in fact, that when she became an orphan the Peacekeepers didn’t even care enough to notice she was sixteen and completely alone—they didn’t even care enough to bring her to the Community and raise her there, as they would’ve done with any other orphans. She was—and still is—a Scatorccio, and Scatorccios are the scum of society, even in District 12.
As she runs through the Meadow and towards the woods, Natalie Scatorccio takes a moment to savor the breeze of the early July morning. She fucking hates this place, and yet, being almost certain that today will be her last day here makes her feel somewhat… nostalgic, perhaps—nostalgic for a life that was never in the plans for her, certainly. Now that she’s seventeen, Natalie Scatorccio has long accepted that her own life is a mere joke, something the universe came up with to entertain itself. Everything that has happened to her since the very moment she was born can’t possibly mean anything. Daughter to a drunk, violent father. Child to an absent, shut-down mother. Lover to a desperate, hopeless boy. None of it ever meant anything—everything was always gonna lead here, everything was always gonna lead to today.
She slips through a hole in the fence without even bothering to check if the electricity’s on. She knows it’s not. In all her seventeen summers, Natalie Scatorccio can’t recall a single day she went past the Meadow to hunt and found the fence actually on. For most people living in District 12, what’s past the fence is even scarier than what’s before it—so they wouldn’t even try to go past it.
For Natalie Scatorccio, however, what’s past the fence is the only thing that makes her life worth living.
She started hunting when she was merely a kid. Not because she wanted to, but because she needed to—because her father was too unreliable to bring food to the table, and because her mother was too resentful to keep a spoonful of anything for her only daughter. She needed to, and to this very day, she still doesn’t care much about getting caught. Her immediate, primal instinct to survive always wins, in the end, but if Natalie Scatorccio ever listened to her own mind—a mind that’s been telling her she’s worthless for years—she would’ve let the Peacekeepers find her roaming the woods a long time ago.
Instead, Natalie Scatorccio has become an excellent hunter. She would much prefer using a rifle, but those are nearly impossible to come by in District 12—even at the Hob, the local black market—and they’d make far too much noise for something so dangerously illegal, so she settled for the next closest thing: a crossbow. It’s a cheap one, all wood and with much more than just one flaw—and somehow even that was almost impossible to get. She traded for it with the remains of a majestic deer she’d butchered herself and hauled, piece by piece, to the Hob. Ever since, she’s made sure to hide it well; eventually, she found an abandoned fox den, and she’s been stashing the crossbow there after every hunt ever since.
That’s where she finds it once more, today.
She wonders what will become of her crossbow once she’ll die—she’s so sure she’ll die. It’s not just a feeling. It’s a knowledge, deep in her bones. She has heard people talking, whispering. Even though the voting won’t take place until later today, she knows they’re gonna vote for her—she’s heard them say, “It should be the Scatorccio kid,” non-stop, over and over again, ever since the Reaping rules got announced.
She could leave the crossbow to Travis. He might need it. She has never allowed him to join her in the woods—partly because she fears he wouldn’t be able to handle it, and partly because she needs those moments for herself—, but once she’s gone, he’ll have to provide for his mother and younger brother. Nat won’t be there to bring them meat and greens from the woods anymore. Yes, she should leave the crossbow to Travis, she decides as she shoots an arrow clean through the head of a hare.
Travis Martinez is an okay-boy. The best she can get, really. No one else would ever want someone like her. He’s a bit rough around the edges, especially at first; but once you know him, he’s not so bad. She’s not sure she loves him—but she knows he does. So much. Perhaps too much. Travis Martinez is an okay-boy. More than anything else, Travis Martinez is safe from the Games. He turned nineteen earlier this year, and that puts him outside the pool of possible tributes. He works in the mines now, as most young men in District 12 do. It’s a decent job—or rather, it’s the only available job.
However, Natalie Scatorccio can’t fathom how his name never got drawn in all the previous Reapings. He’s been taking tesserae after tesserae ever since he turned twelve just to feed his family—and she doesn’t know anyone whose name has been in that bowl more times than his. Just his luck, she thinks to herself. For a brief moment, she wonders what it must feel like to be safe, to know the Hunger Games can’t reach you anymore. She’s not sure she would even know what to do with her life, if she has to be honest.
Not that it matters.
Her fate is already written in warm blood.
She spends another full hour in the woods. By the time she’s done, she’s gathered two hares, three small pigeons, and a handful of berries and greens she knows will still be appreciated at the Hob. Normally, this would count as a great hunting day. Today, however, it feels bittersweet. She doesn’t even see the point of having gotten so much—it’s not like she’ll spend another day in District 12. She went out in the woods because she wanted to, because she needed one last moment by herself—one last moment of freedom—but she realizes only now there’s not much she can do with what she’s gathered. Yes, she can leave something to the Martinez, which is what she’ll do, but the rest? She might still be able to trade it at the Hob, but for what? She doesn’t need clothes for the next winter. She doesn’t need moonshine to disinfect wounds from the next time she trips in the woods. She doesn’t need anything, because by the time the sun sets today, she’ll be long gone from District 12.
Once she’s stuffed her worn-out bag with everything she’s gotten from the woods, Natalie Scatorccio slips back through the fence and runs across the Meadow, heading toward Travis’ house. The Martinez place isn’t far from her shack. Like her, they also live in the Seam, the poorest area of District 12. There, people breathe in coal dust from the moment they’re born. Black grime stains their under nails, and they carry their bodies sloppily, tiredly. Every man in the Seam works in the mines, and most of them die there, too. That’s what happened to Travis’ father. One morning, six years ago, he went to work and never came back. Travis has been taking care of his mother and his younger brother ever since. She admires him for that. She thinks that’s probably why she’s drawn to him—it’s not quite love, certainly, but there’s a mutual, deep respect, a quiet appreciation. And that’s enough, for Natalie Scatorccio—that’s more than she’s ever gotten from anyone else, anyways.
When she gets there, she raises her hand and knocks twice on the wooden door. It doesn’t take long before a woman opens it. María Martinez is still quite young, but the harsh life of District 12 has undoubtedly left its mark on her. Her once-beautiful olive skin is now lined with wrinkles and marked by hunger, and heavy bags hang beneath her eyes.
“Good morning, Natalie.” The woman smiles warmly at her, stepping to the side and letting her in. She’s always nice to her, acting almost motherly—and that’s quite the unusual word, in Natalie Scatorccio’s universe.
“Good morning, Mrs. Martinez.” On her end, Nat always feels a bit uncomfortable around Travis’ mom—but then again, she feels a bit out of place with pretty much anyone. She tries, though—she tries to be nice, polite, kind—but then something happens. Someone cracks a joke at her, or gives her a bad look, or judges her for something she didn’t even do—and Natalie Scatorccio feels a teary kind of anger rise up in her heart, pulling her back to square one.
Back to being just like her father.
“He’s with Javi.” The woman says, interrupting her train of thoughts.
“Thank you.” Nat thanks her, but before she can leave, she opens her backpack and hands her everything she’s gathered today. She doesn’t feel like going to the Hob, today. “These are for you.”
María Martinez takes the meat and greens in her hands, her eyes almost watery. “You’re an angel, Natalie.”
Nat barely smiles at that, aware of what the hidden meaning is—how will we do without you? She shrugs the thought off and reaches the boys’ bedroom, quietly opening the door. Inside, she finds both Travis and Javi, his younger brother. Javi is sitting on his bed, his knees drawn to his chest and his head buried between his arms. Beside him, Travis is patting his shoulders gently, trying to comfort him and looking a bit uneasy at the same time.
Javi Martinez turned twelve a couple of months ago, which means this year will be the first time he’s eligible as a tribute. She remembers the feeling all too well: waking up with a knot in her throat, her hands shaking uncontrollably, feeling like an axe was hovering over her head.
In perspective, Natalie Scatorccio almost wants to laugh at the memory—now she really does have an axe hanging over her, and it’s probably already started cutting.
Still, she can’t blame Javi. The first year is always the worst.
He shouldn’t be worried, though. Not really—not with the Quarter Quell rules.
Who would ever vote for such a sweet boy?
“Hey.” She whispers softly, stepping a few paces into the room.
Both Travis and Javi turn their eyes toward her.
Javi’s eyes are puffy and red, as though he’s been crying for at least half an hour.
Travis’ eyes, however, are shadowed by dark circles, but these aren’t the kind his mother has. These are bruises.
Natalie frowns.
Without a word, Travis gets up from Javi’s bed and walks toward Natalie. He gestures for her to follow him to the kitchen, and she does, but not before glancing briefly at Javi. She offers a faint smile, and he forces one in return.
“What happened?” Nat asks, her voice quiet, once they’re far enough from Javi.
Travis leans against the wall, his arms crossed. “I got into a fight yesterday.” His tone is dismissive as he shrugs, and he purposely avoids Nat’s eyes.
“A fight?” Nat repeats, emphasizing the words.
“Some guys from the mines. They were calling names.”
She breathes in, shaking her head lightly. That’s why they found each other in the first place—because they’re the same. She walks closer to him, raises a hand to his wounded eyebrow. He flinches.
“Don’t be such a pussy.” She teases, a small laugh slipping from her lips. For a moment, he does the same.
Then he stops, staring deeply at her. “Nat…” His tone is hopeless, devoid of emotions. She knows what’s coming.
“No.” Nat cuts him off, refusing to go there.
“There might still be a w—”
“There’s no way, Travis!” She snaps at him, taking a few steps back. “You know it’s gonna be me.” When she mumbles these words, her eyes are full of grief. She’s been grieving herself for days, now, in a way no one else can understand. She doesn’t need anyone’s pity. She doesn’t need anyone’s sorrow. She already has her own. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“No! I ref—”
Just as Travis’ voice starts growing higher, his mother steps in the kitchen. She’s holding a gray, worn-out dress in her hands.
“Kids…” She starts, the voice coming from deep in her throat. “It’s time to start getting ready.” She walks towards her older son, her eyes reassuring. “Go help your brother. He doesn’t know his head from a hole in the ground.” When Travis doesn’t move, she prompts once more. “Now, Travis.”
Travis scoffs, glancing one last time at Nat. She nods. Breathing in deeply, he then walks away from the kitchen.
“Natalie.” María smiles at her once more. Something in her chest tightens. “Sit down.” She adds, gesturing towards a chair.
“I really shouldn’t, I have t—”
“Sit down, please.” The woman says once more, and Natalie Scatorccio obeys.
Is this what it feels like to have a real mother?
Is this what it feels like to be part of a family?
“There’s not much I can say.” Travis and Javi’s mother begins, and although her tone is grave, Nat is strangely thankful for her lack of useless compassion. “But I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for us. I don’t know where we would be if it wasn’t for you.” She’s being genuine, and Nat appreciates her for that—she appreciates her even more for not saying anything else. “I know it’s not much, but I’d like for you to wear this, today.” As she speaks those words, the woman slides the gray dress across the table. It’s an old dress, undoubtedly, worn-out and with more than one patch covering holes here and there; still, it’s better than what her mother would’ve made her wear, if she had still been alive. “It was mine, and my mother’s before me.” María explains, a cloud of nostalgia hovering over here. “I don’t know if it can be a token of good luck, given the circumstances, but I’d love for you to wear it.”
The tightness in Nat’s chest grows even deeper. For a moment, she regrets everything. She regrets not spending more time with the Martinez when she could, and she regrets not trying to run away from District 12 every time the thought crossed her mind, and she regrets—no, it’s not a regret this time, she resents the stars for weaving such a tragic fate for her. “Thank you.” She only manages to mutter, barely capable of holding back the emotions overfilling her heart.
“Of course, my sweet child.”
My sweet child.
Has her own mother ever called her that? Has anyone, in District 12, ever thought of her as a child? Because she used to be—she used to be such a sweet child, when she was younger, before sticks and stones forced her to thicken her skin, to strengthen her soul. She used to be such a sweet child, before, and María Martinez seems to be the only one holding a memory of that, in District 12.
Natalie Scatorccio isn’t sure she can’t handle all of this.
Natalie Scatorccio isn’t sure she can handle a mother—even if not her own—caring for her.
So she does the only thing she’s ever really known how to do: she runs.
Before María Martinez can say anything else, Natalie Scatorccio is getting up from her chair, the dress tight between her fingers. Her hands are shaking a little, but she hopes the woman won’t address it—she wouldn’t be able to bear it. Besides, it really is time to get ready, and she needs to go by her shack before her final hour comes.
“Thank you, María.” She mumbles once more, her eyes low on the floor.
The woman only slightly squeezes her shoulder on her way out of the kitchen, and when Natalie Scatorccio turns around to leave the Martinez house, Travis is waiting for her.
“Natalie…” He tries, again, a step towards her.
“Please, Travis.” She shakes her head, and there’s a plea, in her voice, there’s a please, Travis, not now, a please, Travis, leave me with my thoughts. “Don’t say anything.”
Travis looks like he wants to scream, cry, shout. He looks like he wants to say something, anything, even if it’s a lie—but he knows it would account to nothing. So he just nods, defeated.
“I’ll see you at the Reaping.” Nat says once she reaches the entrance, her hand weakly against the doorknob.
When Travis Martinez whispers, “Yeah...”, Natalie Scatorccio leaves the Martinez house and heads towards her own.
Her body feels sore as she steps into the cold bathwater. Warm water is a luxury she can’t afford, but today, the cold she usually despises feels refreshing. It’s cathartic, almost—as if breaking through that icy surface might heal something inside her, something she hasn’t fully recognized yet. Something that might still have to happen, even. As she scrubs her body with the last bit of soap she’s traded months ago at the Hob, Natalie Scatorccio can’t help but notice the bruises and scars on her body. Some are from her trips out of the woods, some from her fights down in the streets. Most are from her father’s hands on her body. A shiver runs down her spine.
She was always meant to die young.
The water turns darker with each scrub, clouded by sweat, dirt, and blood. A couple of scabs peel from her skin, leaving faint red threads swirling in the tub. Sometimes, she steps out of the bathtub feeling even dirtier than when she got in—it’s a deeper kind of filth, the kind that clings to the soul more than the body. She wonders what those showers in the Capitol must feel like—can’t be much different from standing under the rain, can it? And she’s done that plenty of times.
It never made her feel clean, but—but it made her feel oh, so very free.
When she steps out, her bare body dripping with water, Natalie Scatorccio forces herself to stare at her own reflection in the mirror. It’s not something she likes to do. It reminds her too much of how little she eats, of how much she fights, of how often she almost gives up. Still, she takes a moment to do it, today. She looks at her own face, hollowed by hunger and exhaustion. Her skin is pale, scattered with freckles. Her eyes are so void of life that she wonders if she even has one—a life—left to lose.
Everything she does today already feels like a funeral, but that’s a blessing in disguise. At least she knows what she’s walking towards—whoever will be voted as the other tribute from District 12 probably has no idea of it, now.
No one else is as obvious as Natalie Scatorccio.
As she runs a hand through her hair, Nat wonders if she should braid it in any way.
Last winter, after an especially good hunt, she managed to treat herself for the first time in her life. She’d traded meat and berries at the Hob for a can of hair dye, and for once, she had truly felt like a kid. She had dyed her hair blonde—almost platinum—and she had loved that look on her. That kind of self-confidence isn’t a common occurrence, when you’re fighting for survival every day. But now the dye has nearly all grown out, and only the very ends of her hair still carry a faded trace of it. The rest is a dull, ashy brown—the one her mother had, the one that made her invisible.
She decides against braiding her hair. Instead, she just covers her forehead with a thin headband made from intertwined shoelaces. It’s the one she usually wears in winter, when she needs her hair out of her eyes but still somewhat covering her ears and neck—and even though it’s July, today feels as cold as a grave.
When she slips into the dress Travis’ mother gave her, she immediately senses that things must’ve been different when María Martinez was younger. The dress is at least a couple of sizes too big for the woman now, and far larger than anything Nat usually wears. She doesn’t care. She wouldn’t have anything else to wear, anyways. Fitting in on Reaping day isn't her priority, but if she can avoid the attention of others for just a little longer, she’ll take it. The gray fabric makes her skin look even paler, if that's possible. In a twisted way, she thinks she almost looks cadaveric.
“Great.” She mutters, shaking her head as she steps away from the corner of the house she calls a bathroom.
Now, as she realizes there’s nothing left to do at home, a heavy knot sinks deep into her chest. No matter how aware she is, no matter how resigned she is, now that there’s quite literally nothing standing between her and the packed square in front of the Justice Building, Natalie Scatorccio feels like the universe is imploding within her—she feels that, of all the stars endlessly brightening the sky, she’ll be the one to burn out the fastest.
She takes in the sight of her childhood house—again, never a home—for what might be the last time. She’s not sure what happens after the Reaping. She’s always heard rumours about it, about the Peacekeepers being nice enough to let you bid your farewell to your loved ones, but she’s not sure that’s true, and she’s not sure they allow you one last look around, either. Besides, she doesn’t really have anyone to say goodbye to, except—maybe—for the Martinez.
The Scatorccios shack is as it has always been: small, neglected, and thick with dust. She’s been breathing in ash and dust ever since she was born, and from time to time she finds herself surprised by what could only be described as an incredibly strong immune system, considering how rarely she falls ill. Even though she holds little to no love in her heart towards this place, looking at it knowing it might be the last time tastes somewhat different.
It tastes like the pit you bury your hopes in, or the fire you burn your future with, or the water you drown your dreams in.
It tastes like the end of everything, and in a way, it really is.
Natalie Scatorccio shuts the door behind her back, never to return.
The streets of District 12 are crawling with anxious people. They’re whispering, muttering, fidgeting with their own hands, and everyone—every single one of them—is walking towards the same place: the square. The beating heart of District 12, its very core—the place capable of crushing everything you’d ever dreamt of, the place capable of turning your life upside down with just one tiny, dangerous piece of paper.
Natalie Scatorccio keeps her head down as she walks across the streets, and when she stuffs one hand inside the pocket of the dress, she finds something there. Whether María Martinez planned for her to find it, Nat isn’t sure—but when she takes her hand out to check what it is, she finds a cold, metal necklace in her palm. It’s made of a small, rusty chain, with its extremities linked by a safety pin. Natalie Scatorccio doesn’t have a clue what it might mean, but in that moment, she accepts it for what it feels like—a token. Whether it’s a token of good or bad luck, it’s not for her to decide.
Besides, it’s not really a matter of luck, anymore.
She secures it around her neck and keeps walking.
The square is nothing like it’s been for all the previous Reapings she attended. When she gets there, Nat notices that instead of just the podiums set up, there are also four small booths. Before each one of them, a Peacekeeper sits at a desk, a registry in their hands. She knows that part, at least. Before the Reaping, everyone who’s eligible as a tribute has to stand in line. When their turn comes, they’re supposed to hand their finger to a Peacekeeper who will prick it and stamp the registry with their bloody fingerprint. That way, the Capitol ensures no one will miss the Reaping.
Today, however, there’s more than just that.
Behind each registry desk, there’s a small booth where—Nat can only assume—they’re supposed to vote for the 25th Hunger Games tributes.
And the worst part?
There’s a Peacekeeper pointing a rifle into each one of the booths.
She frowns.
On Reaping day, the square is always packed with Peacekeepers, so that’s not what surprises her, really.
Why they would have rifles pointing inside the booths, however, is beyond her understanding.
Aren’t the votes supposed to be secret?
“Move!” She hears a Peacekeeper shouting at her as they point a gun to her back and force her to move forwards in the line.
She inhales deeply to control herself. If he wasn’t a Peacekeeper, and if she wasn’t the scum of District 12, Natalie Scatorccio would’ve probably reacted badly to that—but she can’t, unless she wants to be shot in cold blood in front of everyone
She’s not sure what’s the better prospect: dying here, in the square of District 12—or dying there, entertaining the Capitol.
She decides she doesn’t want to find that out—not today, at least.
In a couple of days, maybe, when everything will feel more real, when the cameras will close on her cold corpse.
But not today.
Today, Natalie Scatorccio keeps walking—no, Natalie Scatorccio keeps marching, perfectly in line with all the population of District 12. That’s another thing that’s different from all the other years. This year, it’s not only the disposable kids of District 12, in line; this year it’s everyone, everyone that lives and breathes and dies in District 12, everyone who has a right to vote. That’s why there are four lines, she thinks to herself—because District 12 is an underdeveloped, overpopulated district.
But even so, the lines keep moving as smoothly as ever.
One after another, the men and women from the District reach the registry, get their fingers pricked, and step into the booth to vote. Once they’re done, a Peacekeeper guides them to the crowd if they’re over eighteen, or to the first rows if they’re young enough to be tributes.
Screaming bursts all around when someone is shot inside one of the booths. Natalie Scatorccio blurts out a strangled “What the fuck?!” before she can realize what’s happening, her eyes wide in terror and shock.
For a second, chaos erupts: kids start crying, adults scream, and teenagers scramble to run. Then, a Peacekeeper shoots at their feet—he’s careful not to hit anyone, but the blatantly cruel act is enough to force everyone to stand still and stay silent.
“This is what happens if you try to trick the system!” A Peacekeeper cries out, his rifle aimed at the line of people still waiting to vote. “You go in there, you pick someone. No jokes, no drawings on that piece of paper. Clear?”
A mumbled and terrified “yes” rises from all around, and then it clicks.
Suddenly, she understands the reason for the rifles pointed at the booths. Secret votes my ass, she thinks to herself. For every booth, there’s a Peacekeeper checking the vote before the person can leave—if someone even tries to leave it blank or pull some kind of joke, they get shot on sight.
There’s no escaping it.
It’s a forced fratricide.
Before her turn comes, Natalie Scatorccio turns to glance behind. There, a few rows further back, she finds Javi Martinez’ eyes. He must be terrified. His mother and his older brother had to get in line before him, and right there, among a sea of people just waiting to pick their next victim, Javi Martinez looks like he might burst into tears. She wants to run him. She wants to hug him. She wants to tell him that he has nothing to worry about, that it’s not only his first Reaping, which already lowers his chances so much, but he’s also such a sweet boy, and no one would ever vote against him.
There’s a vastness of awful, cruel people in District 12 that comes before him.
She’s one of them.
She wants to comfort him, to treat him as her own brother, blood of her blood, but she can’t—because by the time the thought forms, it’s already her turn. Someone clears their throat, pulling her back to reality, and she’s forced to focus on the Peacekeeper standing before her. The breath she inhales burns through her lungs as she extends her hand. The Peacekeeper’s fingers close around hers, rough and indifferent, and the needle that pricks her skin feels like a rope tightening around her neck. When the Peacekeeper slaps her finger against the paper of the registry, crimson blood smears across it. Without a word, he shoves a piece of paper and a pencil into her hand, pointing toward the nearest booth.
“Go.” He simply says, dismissing her.
Natalie Scatorccio gulps as she steps into the voting booth, the cold metal of the rifle sticking out through a tiny hole in the structure. Inside, the booth is eerily empty except for a small counter. There’s blood smeared across it, and something that looks a little too much like splattered human brain matter. The stale piece of bread she ate for lunch threatens to rise back up in her throat. She pushes it down and places her piece of paper on the counter. As the blood of some stranger begins to sink into the edges of her paper, Natalie grips the pencil with her left hand. She’s trembling, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears that it nearly drowns out everything else.
Who is she even gonna vote for?
She realizes only now that she doesn’t have a clue whose name to write down, and worst of all—she doesn’t want to write anyone’s name at all.
She’s not a god—not a devil, either.
She doesn’t have any rights over someone else’s life. It’s not her place to decide who gets to live and who gets to die. So, Natalie Scatorccio does the only thing she can do.
She writes her own name.
She’s the only person she has any rights over, really.
Before stepping out of the booth, she hands her folded piece of paper to the Peacekeeper through the tiny hole in the wall.
For a whole minute, silence overwhelms her.
Then she hears a scoff, and someone saying, “Go.”
As she walks outside and towards the first rows of the crowd, Natalie Scatorccio hears the guarding Peacekeepers muttering, “Suicidal bitch.”
Maybe she really is.
Now that she’s among the mass of kids who have already voted and are waiting for their fates to be announced on live television, Natalie Scatorccio takes a moment to look around and analyze how everything is taking shape. She’s wondered, before, how they would manage to count the votes in time for the announcement of the tributes, and now she sees it, clear as day. Each booth is connected to a high-tech sorting machine, the kind of technology you’d never encounter in District 12—or almost in any of the Districts, for that matter. It’s probably something made in District 3, a luxury that only the Capitol and a few of the first Districts can use. As soon as a vote is cast, the machine applies its formulas and lets out a hum that adds to the votes already counted. She wonders how many times her name has already been in there.
She feels exhausted at the mere thought.
The voting process stretches on for another half hour. By the time it’s done, a thick, pregnant silence settles over the square. Suddenly, no one dares speak—suddenly, everyone feels the weight of grief for those who will be the unlucky ones.
They wonder who it’s gonna be—as if they don’t already know, as if they didn’t just betray their own.
Natalie Scatorccio knows she shouldn’t blame them. She knows they’re not the enemy. She knows she should direct her anger at the Capitol—and she does, she’s furious for everything the districts have to endure every year. And yet… And yet, she can’t shake the disgust that rises within her for her own District, for the people she’s seen grow and wither, for those who’ve turned their backs on someone who shares the same doomed fate as them.
Just as someone steps onto the podium, Nat stumbles upon Travis' gaze from the other side of the square.
"You’ll be okay." He seems to mouth to her, his jaw tight.
"No." She mouths back, shaking her head.
Then, an elegant, polished woman steps closer to the microphone on stage. Jessica Roberts has been escorting the tributes from District 12 to the Capitol for at least five years now. She’s better than most chaperones, Nat has to admit. At least she’s not one of those extravagant, chattering women who can’t stop going on about how wonderful the Capitol is. Jessica feels real, consistent, and, more than anything, truthful. Nevertheless, when she clears her throat into the microphone, Natalie Scatorccio knows her moment has come.
Her doom is near.
“Welcome, District 12.” Her voice echoes through the squares. Everyone’s holding their breath, and there’s a palpable tension in the air. “Happy Hunger Games!” Jessica Roberts continues, and although there’s a degree of severity in her voice, she’s quick to hide it behind a wide, bright smile. “And may the odds be ever in your favor for this unique, unprecedented edition.”
For fuck’s sake, Natalie thinks to herself. Just get it over with.
“Now, while our high-tech machines finish counting your precious votes, we have a very special film for you, brought to you all the way from the Capitol.”
A very special film they’ve seen over, and over, and over, and over again…
It’s always the same one. A dense, threatening short clip that shows the districts why the Hunger Games exist in the first place, and why they should never, ever rebel against the Capitol, again. As President Snow—he’s been President for ten years, now, and although he’s only 33, there’s a cold, ancient cruelty in his voice—slurs his words over the video, Natalie Scatorccio clears her throat and raises her chin.
Her doom is near.
At some point during the projection, she sees two folded pieces of paper fall into the Reaping glasses—one on Jessica Roberts’ left side, and one on her right. The gender rules don’t apply this year, as it’s been decided that whoever gets the most votes, no matter the gender, will become tribute, so Nat doesn’t fully understand the need for two jars instead of one—tradition, perhaps.
Her heart aches for whoever will be forced to bind their destiny to hers.
Her heart aches for whoever she will be forced to slaughter in cold blood, if she wants any chance at survival—and she doesn’t, really, but survival instinct goes deep beyond the mere will of men and women.
She’ll either be the butcher or the butchered, and she’s far more experienced in the former.
“Terrible war. Widows, orphans, a motherless child.” As she hears President Snow mumbling those words for the seventeenth year of her life, Natalie Scatorccio can’t help but laugh bitterly to herself. As if the ending of the war fixed that. As if the districts aren’t still packed with widows, and orphans, and motherless children—the Capitol and President Snow are the very ones killing them all off, and it’s ironic, really, to keep hearing those words over and over again.
Fucking hypocrites.
“Brother turned on brother until nothing remained.” Just like now. Just like now, children from the same District forced to sacrifice the kid who grew up beside them. Just like now, parents and grandparents forced to vote for their kid’s best friend just so their own child doesn’t get shipped off to die.
Just like now.
Everything, in that fucking propaganda video, is just like now.
“This is how we remember our past.” As the video draws towards its end, Nat can feel the shift in the energy around her. The other eligible teenagers start swaying on their feet, moving nervously. They bite their nails, scratch at their elbows. They whisper, mumble, cry. But not her—never her. Natalie Scatorccio stands proudly, chin high in the sky, as she knows she’s gonna die. “This is how we safeguard our future.”
The music stops playing.
Everyone’s gaze focuses back on Jessica Roberts.
“The time has come for us to find out who you, the people of District 12, have chosen to represent District 12 in the 25th Annual Hunger Games—the very First Quarter Quell.” A pause. “I’m sure this day will belong in the history books.”
The woman glances at the crowd. Then, “Let’s start.”
Natalie Scatorccio gulps down.
She doesn’t lower her eyes, doesn’t lower her chin.
She just closes her hands into fists, nails digging deep in her flesh.
Jessica Roberts walks excruciatingly slowly towards the first of the two jars, the one to her left. The single, folded piece of paper inside seems to move briefly as air whistles through the glass. Then, in a quick movement, the Capitol woman reaches for it.
When she takes it out, she’s careful not to drop it. She walks back in front of the microphone, and she theatrically unfolds the paper.
Natalie Scatorccio breathes in.
Jessica Roberts clears her throat.
Natalie Scatorccio breathes out.
Jessica Roberts plasters a smile on her face.
“Natalie Scatorccio.”
The world collapses.
No, actually.
Not quite.
The world doesn’t quite collapse on her, in all truth.
It breaks into a billion pieces and hover on her head, ready to fall and decapitate her when time comes—it doesn’t quite collapse on her, not really, because Natalie Scatorccio was expecting it, and it doesn’t wound her, doesn’t make her bleed, doesn’t make her die.
Not yet.
It will—but not yet.
Her eyes are still proud, her chin is still high.
Even when everyone starts whispering “I knew it.” and “Thank God!” around her, Natalie Scatorccio somehow manages to stop the world from collapsing on her.
It will—but not yet.
The surrounding voices are merely that: voices. Voices she has never listened to, and voices she surely won’t start listening to, now. The surrounding voices are merely that: voices of traitors.
How does it feel to have my blood on your hands, sister? — to the girl that shared her desk in first grade.
What does it feel like to push a knife through my ribs, brother? — to the boy that violently stole her first kiss at thirteen.
“Come up, dear.” Jessica’s voice prompts her to get on stage, and the Peacekeepers crowding her from behind doesn’t seem willing to wait any longer, either.
Her lips twisted in a grimace, her eyes veiled by darkness, Natalie Scatorccio walks on the podium.
Who will knot the rope around her neck?
Who will slither the blade through her heart?
She can’t wait to find that out.
“Our excitement is far from over.” Jessica Roberts calls the attention of the crowd back. Although she’s significantly better than others, as it’s been said, Natalie Scatorccio still feels bile boiling at the bottom of her throat when the woman uses the word excitement to talk about the incoming death sentence that she will place on someone’s kid’s head. “Let’s find out who our second tribute will be.”
Nat scans the crowd.
Someone, out there, will either kill her or get killed by her.
Someone, out there, will either spill her blood or have their blood spilled by her.
Someone, out there, is just as doomed as she is.
“Javi Martinez.”
Javi Martinez.
No.
Javi Martinez.
No.
Javi Martinez.
No.
Javi Martinez.
“No—” It comes out of her lips strangled, low, barely audible. No one seems to hear it.
Javi Martinez.
“No!” María Martinez cries out agonizingly. She falls to her knees, and no one picks her up.
Javi Martinez.
“NO!” Travis Martinez shouts as he pushes past people, as he sees the guys he got into a fight with yesterday laugh proudly in his face.
Javi Martinez.
“NO!” Travis Martinez shouts again, louder, deeper, as he kicks and slaps, as he goes past the crowd to stop Javi from walking on that stage, as he takes yet another step until—
Until a Peacekeeper hits him with the grip of his rifle and carries him away.
“No…” It’s Javi Martinez’ turn, now. It’s his turn to mumble his no, now. But it’s not for himself. It’s not for his fate, doomed and written. It’s for her mother, crying on her knees. It’s for her brother, bleeding from his nose. It’s for Natalie, staring at him in disbelief.
As he walks towards the stage, warm tears start piling up in the young boy’s eyes. Moments later, Natalie sees them fall down his cheeks. When he climbs the stairs, she can’t help but think—
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
He wasn’t supposed to be voted.
She glances back at the group of guys she saw laughing before.
They stand cocky among the crowd, so confident in their nineteen years of age, so proud to have sentenced a twelve-year-old to death.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Javi Martinez, now, will either kill her or get killed by her.
Javi Martinez, now, will either spill her blood or have his blood spilled by her.
Javi Martinez, now, is just as doomed as she is.
As she looks down at her own hands, Natalie Scatorccio can already see them covered in blood.
They get dragged into the Justice Building to say goodbye to their loved ones. Each in their own room, they don’t even allow them to be together—they don’t even allow her to be with Javi, not yet, they don’t even allow her to take his small hands in her own and whisper, “You’ll be alright.”, not yet. Alone in an empty room, Natalie Scatorccio waits on a chair—waits for what, exactly, she’s not sure. She doesn’t have anyone to say goodbye to, if not the Martinez—and she’s rather sure they’re busy with other matters, as of now.
She resolves to stay here, at least until Javi is done bidding farewell to his mother and brother. The mere thought shatters her heart. No. It won’t be a farewell. Not for him. Not for Javi. He will survive. If she wasn’t certain before that her survival instinct would overpower her will to give up, she knows now that it will—at least long enough to make sure Javi Martinez wins this godforsaken brutality, at least long enough to ensure that Javi Martinez will see his family again.
He deserves it.
He deserves to win.
He’s just a kid.
In silence, she stares out of a small window that looks directly onto the square. People are scattering now, ready to go home and feast on their luck—if the Reaping wasn’t bad enough, that damned tradition makes it worse. People going home to feast and celebrate while someone else’s kid is slaughtered, butchered. People going home to feast and celebrate while someone else’s baby gets killed, their body paraded for all to see.
Natalie Scatorccio gulps.
The universe has a fucked-up sense of humour.
First, the tweaked First Quarter Quell rules, after years of starving just to lower her chances of being picked at the Reaping, and now this?
And now Javi Martinez?
She won’t stain her hands with fratricide's blood.
Of that she’s certain.
She won’t be the next Cain, and Javi won’t be the next Abel—she won’t drag his heart out of his chest, no matter what.
If she must, she’ll die a thousand times before draining the life out of Javi Martinez’ body.
If she didn’t have a purpose before, she has it now.
She’ll save Javi Martinez, no matter what it takes.
She’s so caught up in her own mind that she fails to register the door opening behind her.
“Nat.” Someone whispers, and she jumps to her feet, startled.
“Fuck!” She cries out, forgetting for a second where she is, who she is, what’s going to happen. “Fuck, Travis. I didn’t hear you.” And then she remembers.
Pain is smeared all over Travis’s face. His eyes are heavy with tears, his lips twisted in fear. His hands are shaky, his gaze unreadable— but she knows everything that’s going on in his mind.
My brother and the girl I love—probably.
Whatever happens, I’ll lose one of them—likely.
Perhaps both of them—certainly.
“Nat, I—” He tries to talk, over and over again, and Natalie Scatorccio can see just how desperately Travis Martinez wants to say something—anything—to her, but what’s there to say, really? What could he possibly, ever say to her, given the circumstances? There are no words in any language that can explain how deep Travis Martinez’ sorrow must run, right now—no words in any language that can describe the unmendable crack that must have ripped open in his heart.
She shakes her head. “It’s okay.” She mumbles, getting closer. “It’s okay.” Again, when one tear slides down Travis’ cheek. “It’s okay.” And once more, when Travis Martinez breaks down, when he throws himself at her and envelops her in a suffocating hug.
“I’m sorry, Nat.” He stutters. “I’m so, so sorry, Nat.” He keeps apologising, once, twice, thrice, until eventually, when he steps away from the hug, he manages to say. “But I can’t lose him.” He looks away, down at his hands, down at his feet. “I can’t lose him. It’s my fault, Nat, they all voted for him because of me—he can’t die, Nat—my mother, she wouldn—he can’t…”
“He won’t.” There are rippling waves of grief in her chest, a storm of pain crashing against her ribs. And yet, Natalie Scatorccio manages to keep her voice steady as she whispers he won’t, as she forces Travis Martinez’ eyes on her just to tell him, “He won’t die, Travis. I won’t allow it.” She’s confident, at least of this, and when Travis’ hectic breathing seems to slow down, she thinks she’s somehow convincing him, too. “He’ll be back.”
“Nat…” He knows he’s losing her. He knows this is probably gonna be the last time she sees her. He knows that she’s willing to die for his brother.
He leans forward to kiss her.
She steps away.
“Go to your mother, Travis.” She whispers softly, a strained smile on her lips. “She needs you now more than ever.” As he begins to walk away, she calls him one last time. “Travis?”
He stops in his tracks, turning towards her. His eyes are starting to fill up with tears once more. “Yes?” He whispers, pained.
“I’ll take care of him.”
And with that promise, Travis Martinez turns her back on her and disappears from Natalie Scatorccio’s life.
She’ll never see District 12 again. As she quietly sits in the car that will bring them to the train station, Natalie Scatorccio can’t help but think this—she’ll never see District 12 again. She’ll never see its stark, grim streets again. She’ll never see men disappearing into the guts of the mines first thing in the morning only to emerge back when the sun has long set. She’ll never see her woods again—she’ll never run across the Meadow, cross the fence, retrieve the crossbow from the foxes’ nest. The crossbow. She completely forgot to tell Travis about it. He wouldn’t have been nearly as good as she is, but he would’ve still managed to get something, at the very least. She shouldn’t have forgotten. As she curses herself, she also remembers that not all hopes are lost—because Javi Martinez is sitting next to her in the car, now, and because Javi Martinez will win the Hunger Games, no matter the prize.
And before she’ll die, she’ll make sure to tell him about the crossbow.
As they drive past crowds of people waving at them, Nat reaches for Javi’s hand across the seat, squeezing it in hers. When he looks at her, his eyes are still heavy with tears, dark with tears. She softens the hard gaze she’s been striking the crowd with, and in a breath she whispers, “Trust me.”
“I trust you.” Javi mumbles, and even though his voice trembles, him trusting her is enough.
For now, that’s enough.
The car ride is fairly short, and it probably feels even shorter for someone of the likes of her and Javi, who have never once in their lives experienced any form of transportation other than their own legs.
When they arrive at their destination, the train station is packed with reporters eager to capture the perfect shot of the two unfortunate kids from District 12 who were so disliked by their own people that they ended up being chosen as tributes. Jessica Roberts doesn’t seem particularly concerned with shielding them from the flashes and cameras, so Natalie takes it upon herself. She wraps her arm around Javi, guiding him to hide his face in the crook of her neck as they step out of the car and into the train station.
She knows she can’t protect him forever, just as she knows that once they’ll be in the Capitol, they’ll both be meath for the journalists—but she can still protect him here, in District 12, and so she does, shoving past the reporters and shouting, “Move the fuck out!” Once, twice, thrice.
She couldn’t care less about what they’ll think of her.
Once the doors of the train close behind them, Natalie Scatorccio can finally let go of Javi. He looks slightly frightened, but better than she has seen him in the last hour, all things considered. She smiles weakly at him, ruffling his hair.
“Come on.” Jessica draws their attention back to her, smiling brightly. “Your rooms are waiting for you.”
Javi frowns. “Rooms?” He repeats, almost in awe.
It’s nice that he can still distract himself, Nat thinks.
“Of course, sweet boy. Rooms!” Jessica Roberts confirms to him. “You both get your own. The train ride to the Capitol isn’t very long, but you might still need some rest.”
As she finishes her sentence, the train starts speeding down the tunnels that lead out of District 12. Most people live their whole life in District 12, without ever seeing the landscapes of any of the other districts. On some levels, it should probably feel like an honour, to be able to cross all twelve districts before finally reaching the Capitol—and yet, Natalie Scatorccio can’t help but think that it’s just another joke the universe pulled on her, she can’t help but think that it’s just another way to tell her how much there’s in the world and how little she’ll get to experience of it.
She lets Jessica lead Javi to his bedroom before she can lead her to her own. When she enters, Natalie Scatorccio sees that this bedroom is far more luxurious than anything she has ever seen in her life.
If she didn’t know any better, she could never guess it belongs to a train.
“The drawers are packed with clothes and there’s warm water in the bathroom.” Jessica explains to her. “You can wear anything you want. I’ll be waiting for you and the boy in the dining car. It’s time to meet your mentor.”
Natalie frowns, turning towards her.
“Our mentor?” She shakes her head. “I thought there were no previous winners from District 12.”
“Not quite.” The older woman replies. “There’s one, though we’re not sure of her whereabouts…” For a moment, she seems lost in her own thoughts. She snaps right back. “Anyways, it doesn’t really matter. Tributes without a mentor from their own District get one from another District. That’s only fair.” She clicks her tongue. “Now get ready, darling. We’ll be waiting for you.”
As soon as Jessica Roberts leaves the room, Natalie Scatorccio walks to the bathroom. The bathroom alone must be half the size of her shack back home, if not bigger. And right in the center, in that extravagant, exhibitionist way the Capitol seems to love so much, stands a see-through glass shower, large enough to fit at least two people. Without hesitation, she strips bare and steps inside. She’s not sure how it works, but as soon as she turns the knob, warm water begins to fall, and it feels—celestial.
It feels like rain, yes, but better—it feels like being washed in holy water, like being born again, like being able to scrub away every sin ever committed, every fear ever harbored.
Under warm water, for a few minutes, Natalie Scatorccio forgets everything.
She forgets why she’s there.
She forgets where she’ll soon be.
She forgets how little time she has left.
Under warm water, for a few minutes, Natalie Scatorccio forgets everything.
She steps out of the shower several minutes later, her hair dripping with water and her body feeling cleaner than it has ever felt before. She wraps a soft, white towel around her naked body and walks toward the drawers. When she opens them, she finds all sorts of clothes inside—skirts, gowns, trousers, shorts, blouses, tops—everything anyone could need.
She ends up picking something she thinks might fit her style—not that she really has one, since all you get in District 12 are clothes meant to get you through the winter, first, and protect you from the summer heat, after. Still, she chooses something she likes, at least, and that’s more than she could’ve hoped for back home. She goes for a white shirt, black pants, and a black leather jacket—she’s not sure the latter is exactly practical, but she doesn’t see why her clothes need to be practical while they’re crossing the twelve districts at full speed, anyways.
She walks down the train, surprised by how steady it feels. The stories she’s heard from the few men in District 12 who’ve ridden trains to deliver coal always described them as dangerous, unstable, and prone to derailment—this train, clearly, isn’t one of those.
A lively chatter comes from inside the dinner car when she finds it. Before fully entering it, she peeks inside—she recognizes two heads, Javi’s and Jessica’s, but not the third one, covered in dark, curly hair.
“Natalie!” Jessica Roberts spots her immediately, and Natalie curses herself for not hiding better. Not that she could’ve avoided them, to be honest. “Come on in, darling!”
Natalie Scatorccio inhales, walking inside the dinner car.
Javi turns towards her, his smile faint.
“Natalie.” The stranger whispers her name in a grave tone, and only then does Natalie turn her gaze on him.
He’s a young man, no older than thirty-five, she thinks. His eyes are kind, though shadowed by an unmistakable sorrow. But what stands out most to her—of course—is his missing leg, a stub in its place.
Oh.
She remembers him now.
“Benjamin Scott.” Jessica Roberts introduces him before Nat can say anything else. “He’s from District 7, and the winner of the 15th Hunger Games.” She proudly announces him. “He’ll be your mentor.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Natalie.” Benjamin Scott says kindly, offering her a hand. “You can call me Ben.”
She looks at his hand for a long, endless moment. Then she finally caves in, accepting it and shaking it. “Yeah, nice to meet you.” She simply says, shrugging off.
“We were watching the other districts' Reapings,” Javi interrupts, pointing to a screen on the wall. That catches her attention. “It’s already started, but you’re still in time to see the others.”
“District 2. Taissa and Kevyn.” Their mentor approaches them, explaining what’s happening on the screen. “Taissa is a Career, and a highly skilled one, too.”
Natalie Scatorccio doesn’t care.
Javi Martinez will still win the Hunger Games.
Ben keeps explaining Reaping after Reaping, adding insights about the tributes whenever he has any. “District 3. Misty and Walter. If the arena has anything high-tech, those two will be your worst enemies.” A pause. “Or your best allies, depending on your strategy.”
He keeps going as the Reapings follow one another.
“District 4. Edwin and Hannah. Frogs expert, it seems. They don’t look too dangerous.” Benjamin Scott looks kind, Natalie notices.
“District 5. Van and Adam. Considering the girl’s scars, I’m guessing she knows how to handle a fight.” Natalie nods, taking in all the information she can gather.
“District 6. Jeff and Melissa. He doesn’t seem able to tell his left from his right. She, however…” He trails off as the camera zooms in on the girl’s face, a pink hat well-placed on her forehead. “I’m not entirely convinced she’s as harmless as she looks.”
“District 7. Lisa and Gen. I’m afraid I don’t know much about them.” He admits. “And that either means they’re very good at hiding something, or very bad at everything.”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“District 8. Mari and Crystal. Mari looks like someone who’s willing to bite, in perfect District 8 fashion.” He comments, his eyes fixed on the TV screen.
Natalie remembers now that District 8 is quite famous for its rebellious attitude.
“District 9. Laura Lee and Allie. Apparently, that Allie girl tripped in panic when her name was called and broke her leg, which already puts her at a disadvantage.” He glances at Natalie, a smirk forming on his face. “Of course, that doesn’t have to mean anything.” He adds, pointing to his stub.
Natalie appreciates the attempt at easing the tension.
“District 10. Shauna and Kodiak. This is where things get serious, kids.” His voice grows more serious as he takes a few steps toward the TV, leaning on his crutches. “This boy…” He says, pointing at the guy on the screen, “He looks dangerous enough. But this girl?” He shifts his finger to the girl from District 10. Her dark, brown eyes lock onto the camera, defiant. “Rumors say that if District 10 had enough resources to have Careers, Shauna would be one of them. And she’d be the best one, too. She’s dangerous—more than anyone else we’ve seen so far.”
That doesn’t sound too good, Natalie thinks to herself—but she can't say it out loud.
She has promised to keep Javi safe, and she won’t let her own fears scare him.
Their mentor finally continues.
“District 11. Akilah and her younger brother, Sammy. He and Javi are the youngest among the tributes.” Benjamin explains. Then, turning just to Natalie, he adds, “I’m guessing she’ll want to protect him just as much as you want to protect Javi.”
Natalie Scatorccio nods, knowingly.
A sister's love can stretch across great distances.
But Natalie Scatorccio’s promise can run even further.
Then, as the TV screen goes pitch black, Natalie Scatorccio realizes she’s missed the first Reaping.
“What about District 1?” She asks, frowning.
“Wait, let me show you.” Benjamin Scott replies, taking the controller and rewinding the screen back to the beginning of the transmission.
“District 1.” He begins, his voice a murmur as the camera lingers on the most privileged of districts.
“Jackie. The Mayor’s daughter.” His words fall softly as the cameraman captures a young, polished girl whose face loses its rosy color the moment her name is called.
Then, just as the chaperone from District 1 prepares to draw the second name, something shifts in the crowd—a hand rises, steady as fate itself. Ben clears his throat, the silence thickening around him. “And Lottie.” He breathes in, his voice dropping low. “She’s the only one who volunteered this year.”
Natalie Scatorccio steps closer to the screen, her gaze locked on the girl with the raised hand. “Why did she volunteer?” She asks, her voice a low murmur, her eyes never once leaving the girl’s silhouette, as if that alone holds the answer to everything.
Benjamin Scott shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He admits. “No one really does.”