Reaping Day.

District 12.

I stand, with many, many, more children around me. We were all between the ages of 12 - 18, the thought made me sick to my stomach.

How did we get back to this?

How in the world did we manage, at one point in our past, to keep peace and stop the Hunger Games?

So many questions that many my age now ask, but we don’t get the answers.

Instead all we know for sure is that Katniss Everdeen and Alma Coin are dead, District Thirteen was destroyed, while District Twelve was rebuilt and that the Games are back. No one knows where Peeta Mellark is and where their children are.

There are many rumors going around that he killed himself and gave his kids to someone else he trusted to care for.

Others say he is ‘alive and well’, as if he could be, when the love of his life was killed.

I believe he’s alive, not well, but alive - with his kids. I believe that he’s probably in hiding as to avoid any danger, especially from the people who killed Katniss, his wife.

Using my right hand to shade my eyes, I focus on the present, what’s going on now - the Reaping Day for the 85th annual Hunger Games.

I breathe in deeply and sigh as I glance around to look at all the other children around me, all the families who stand near, all the mothers who are wheeping and sobbing and making such horrible and gut-wrenching sounds.

Then it happens again, all the over-thinking, my mind starts whirring with wild thoughts, with all that’s going on now, all the sounds, crying. This whole nightmare. My face starts to feel hot, and my throat tightens.

I start tapping my hip with my left index finger as to distract myself, to calm myself, and pay god-damn attention to what’s happening. A small girl on my left glances up to look at me, her cheeks were pink and puffy from crying, her eyelashes were all clumped together and her hair was blowing in the wind.

Being seventeen, I felt embarrassed about crying in front of someone younger, and so I shrugged and looked away, avoiding her sad expression and the thought that she could be chosen and sent to her death, to be slaughtered on live television.

″Reese Robynhay!″ A high pitched - and disturbingly enthusiastic - voice announces loudly from the podium.

A female voice wails above all sounds - a guttural sound filled with despair. My mother.

People glance around, some quizzical and some looking for... me.

I look up, confused and scared.

Wait... what?

My stomach flips when I realize that I zoned out the entire time until now, until my name was announced.

A boy, on my right, pokes my shoulder and points to the podium and the Peacekeepers who are coming my way.

Oh shoot.

I start to slowly, very slowly, walk forward, pushing passed other children and people who are murmuring ″Sorry,″ under their breaths. As I get closer to the podium and awaiting Peacekeepers, my legs start to shake and my mind starts whirring again.

Katniss Everdeen, Alma Coin, Dead, District Thirteen, The Games, My name, me, Dead, Volunteering, Dead.

I am dead.

My legs give way, and I crash to my knees when I finally understand what’s happening, and when I realize that no one will volunteer for me like how Katniss volunteered for her sister, Primrose.

I am dead.

Peacekeepers run to me, holding guns, and man-handle me up onto my legs.

Since I can’t stand, because my legs are so shaky, two of them grab each arm of mine and drag me to the Podium.

My mother’s wailing can still be heard from behind all this action, and my heart begins beating faster.

A thin, tall and strangely dressed woman helps me onto the Podium. I feel like slapping her when she keeps repeating, ″Oh, you poor darling...″ quietly as she helps me up.

Standing on the Podium, I get a new view of the crowds of people, children and families. I feel so exposed up here, so vulnerable. Everyone’s staring up at me, wide eyes everywhere, as I shuffle on my still shaking legs.

I want to turn and run off, but I know I’d just get shot by the Peacekeepers.

I want to start a revolution, as Katniss did, but I know I’m not brave enough, and not capable of such power and strength.

I wish to hug my family, tell them to run, to vanish - maybe with me, but we can’t and I can’t.

I also, guiltily, wish that a mysterious boy who has had a crush on me for as long as he can remember would join my side, but that would never happen.

So, instead I stand here, on this Podium staring out at all these people, as if they’re my subjects, next to a tall, thin, and pitiful Capitol woman.

″Now, time for the boy tribute!″ She squeaks, her voice sounding weirder when up-close. I hold my breath when I see mothers covering their faces, fathers shaking their heads and young boys shuffling, looking around as if they were enjoying whatever beauty that can be found nowadays before one of their death sentences would be announced.

''Conrad Rollins!'' she says, finally, after what felt like years.

I frown. Many in the crowds frown.

This can't be right...

Conrad Rollins?

Who is that? I have never heard that name before, ever.

People start moving around, asking each other who this boy was.

Then someone moves.

I find the person and stare.

He was a boy, around my age, standing in the crowds with such a nonchalant expression.

He starts moving forward, as I did, except without falling.

He comes closer, and closer, and I still don't recognize him. I've never seen him before, and it seems like no one else has, either, as everyone's pointing, frowning and whispering to one another. He walks up the stairs, onto the Podium and joins me at my side.

Once he's stopped walking, I turn and lock gazes with him. He was so relaxed, as if he didn't care. I raise my eyebrows at him, as I study him, and he just gives me a wicked smile before turning back to look ahead.

...

19.6.2020

My fingers were twitching on the floor when they came it. My mother was screaming, covering her face. I saw the bag of groceries she was holding clammor to the floor. My brother was behind her, though as soon as he saw the blood, he ran out screaming for help. Though they had watched me like a hawk, a guard had slipped up and left the opportunity open for me to play the games how I wanted to. I was not like Katniss or Peeta Mellark. Unlike them, I was unafraid to die and had aimed to show the state that the second they called.

"Salacia Dagan," the driver had proudly proclaimed.

My legs carried me to the podium, but I didn't hear anything or anyone after that. No one had any emotion towards the senseless killing of children. The ceremony eneded and I went home with my brother and mother. Though I was surely going to be murdered, my mother beamed as she prepared caviar and pate. My father, who was in District Five, was soon calling to congratulate me for my sacrifice. I ate my last meal with my family and went to bed. In five days, I would be standing on a podium, ready to defend my district. Or so they thought.

The next day, I met my guard, Mishra, who was determined to keep me from dying before cameras were pointed at me. Other people came and went, smiling and telling me how things would go. It was no longer a TV show to see which player would win. It was a sacrifice to find the next president of Panem. Thrilling. One minute, I'm going to achieve my dream of being the 100th doctor in our family and solving mining lung problems in the lower districts, and now, I'm a presidential pawn in some morbid game of teenage slaughter that adults are addicted to.

My chance came on Day Three, when Mishra got distracted by my mother. My mother, a TV doctor/lawyer, was convinced that anyone over the age of eighteen that wasn't a lawyer or doctor was destine to help her with her every need. So, when she got back from the store with the groceries, she pressured Mishra into helping her. He had told me to stay there and locked the door to my bedroom behind me. Little did he know, I'd snuck a spare key from my dad's drawer the night before. While they were outside, I went into the kitchen, got a knife, held my breath, and jabbed the knife into my throat. The blood instantly poured down my clavicle, stained my clothes, and pooled onto the floor.

I pulled the knife out, put it in the sink, and wandered into the living room. There was no reason for why. Yout mind just scatters when you're dying. No wonder Katniss had said the games weren't that bad a few years before she died. That testimony alone had solidified the resurrection of the games. Rules were put in place, but it still ended in one teenager lasting longer than the rest. Now that President Raydol had died in his sleep, there was the added bonus in the 88th Games that you could rule the city. None of that means anything to me now.

My life is fading as I watch my mother, pale and silent for once, watch me bleed out. Mishra comes and jumps into action, but I made sure he couldn't rescusitate me before I did it. I had forgone food for days (not that I had an appetite to begin with) and had been cutting myself while I was in the shower, making sure I lost a substantial amount of blood each time.

So, Mishra was basically too late by the time he dropped to his knees to try to help me. I smile at him. He is a total stranger, and he's the only one that cares. Only a few days of knowing me, Mishra had become like more of a father than my own father. My mother would remember her blood-stained carpet and her daughter weaseling out of fighting for the famliy's honor and to rule the country. My brother will only remember the pressure that gets put on him after I go. The country will mourn me but another girl will be picked in a matter of hours and brought to The Capitol.

The only hope I have is that Mishra will read the note I left him and stop this instead of holding this against me like the rest of the world will.

Shook as all eyes glare in my direction as the male contestent for the 83rd annual Hunger Games was just drawn. “Conner Stone” was announced over the speakers of the courtyard; the name just echoed due to the silence of all the other children. A peacekeeper starts to push me and all I can do is sit there and see my life flash before my eyes. I remember thinking “I’m dead, how is anyone in a wheelchair goin to compete.” As soon as I come to my senses, and I am on the stage sitting there in awe. As they were about to announce the female tribute, a familiar voice calls out “I volunteer.” I look and it was my loving fiance, Jasper Tripp, and he is walking to the stage while I am being rolled off while tears are rolling down my face.

"Now we will select our female tribute!" Harinna Mayerlee's annoyingly high-pitched voice reverberates through the square.

Christ, how did we let this happen? All the fighting and bloodshed and sacrifice to end the games forever - or so we thought. We citizens of Panem had witnessed the briefest moment of peace until the fateful day our Mockingjay fell from the sky. The day those Panem nationalist bastards bombed the house of Katniss Evergreen, Peeta Mellark, and their two children. That was six months ago. Since then, the nationalists harvested power and rebuilt the capitol, announcing the beginning of a new era of Hunger Games. No one knows what the new games will be like, which makes them all the more terrifying.

Today is the day we've all been dreading. The Reaping. Almost everyone in our district is gathered in the square, and you can physically feel the fear and worry emanating from the crowds of families as they are silently obligated to pray that someone else's child is served this death sentence. These new games included a few rule changes, one of which extends the reaping pool to children as young as ten years old.

I watch Harinna's hand swim through the glass bowl of names, her perfectly manicured nails are sparks of bright orange among the grey slips of paper. She stops. Pulls her hand out and walks to the microphone, having finally found District 11's "lucky lady."

She clears her throat. Every person in the crowd is holding their breath.

"The female tribute of District 11 is.... Lydya Cressent!"

Sighs of both relief and pity flow through the square as armed peacekeepers make their way from the stage.

I close my eyes. Dammit.

The Mockingjay did this. She voted for it, in fact, when it had all come down to her and Haymitch. Her mentor only voted yes because she did.

The 76th Hunger Games.

Plans for it went awry after Coin died, and stood at a standstill when the Mockingjay was still alive. Her husband Mellark probably convinced her to let it go. Stop it, even.

Their efforts only delayed it. Some call it inevitable. The day of reckoning for the citizens of the Capitol. The children.

I was born shortly after the rebellion began to escalate. I was barely a year old when the rebels won. Barely old enough to comprehend my father committed suicide when his father was overthrown. My grandfather. Coriolanus Snow.

That’s me. My mother named me after him, one of the most hated people in the history of Panem. Died when a mob trampled him to death. After the Mockingjay decided to kill her own president instead of him.

There was some peace, after that. I only have rumors to go on, but she and Mellark supposedly lived a happy life after the rebellion. Two kids. Then the Mockingjay died, and everything delved into chaos once again.

President Nilsson reinstated order, I suppose, after abolishing District 13 and restoring the Hunger Games. Well, just one. The last one, according to him. Just for the Capitol.

Not that it matters to me. Here, I’m not Coriolanus Snow, grandson to President Snow. I’m just Cori Rivard, son to Anthea Rivard and a dead guy.

“Cori!” Evander waves me over to the fenced gate surrounding my house. He’s one of the few people who know my secret. That I’m not Rivard, but Snow. Just like how I know his. Here, known as Evander Leete. But in the Capitol, I knew him as Evander Ray, heir to the Ray Family fortune, one of the 13 Patriarch Families of the Capitol.

I know instantly by the look on his face that something’s wrong. “We’ve got a problem,” he says in greeting, pointing with his eyes across my lawn, across houses and streets, to a black Humvee parked in a seemingly hidden alley.

Seemingly.

Except I learned from my early years on the run how to notice people who don’t want to be noticed, the hidden-in-plain-sight things one would normally overlook. Whether somebody poses a threat to you. Whether they have intentions to hurt you.

Judging from the cold faces of the soldiers disguised in civilian clothes and their poorly concealed FN P90 submachine guns, they mean to cause harm. A lot of it.

The group attempts a sneaky approach, fanning out casually as civilians, but fails spectacularly.

People on the street immediately take notice of them and scatter, creating the feeling of a ghost town: empty and desolute.

Seeing as how their subtle approach failed, the group forgoes their disguises, marching across the street, their full gear in display.

Marching right to my front door.

A fist clenches my heart in a vise-like grip, holding it captive for a good minute. My breathing goes shallow as the soldiers kick open the door, storming in the house.

For a moment, all is quiet.

Then the screams start.

Of my mother, my sisters. I can only watch as they drag my family out, forcing them to their knees on the well-manicured lawn.

I’m close enough to hear the soldiers’ conversation. The leader, a scarred man with a cruel face, inspects my family with a look that sickens me to my stomach.

He crouches in front of my mother, fixing his gaze on her with a vicious smile. She trembles slightly, but lifts her chin in defiance.

The leader’s smile only grows wider. “Hello, Drusilla,” he says, his voice a knife scratching against a metal plate.

My mother feigns ignorance. “Drusilla? I’m afraid you have the wrong person, sir. My name is Anthea Rivard, and my daughters and I are innocent!”

A few of the men around her chuckle or roll their eyes at the declaration, while the leader sighs. He takes her face in his hands, inspecting it with a savage glint in his eyes. “Do you remember me, Drusilla Snow? You were there, at the feast, when your father-in-law sentenced me to life as an Avox after I was caught stealing food to feed my family.” His tone turns bitter. “A family he murdered in front of me.”

My mother stays silent in his rambling, her face made of stone.

The leader points to the scar that runs along his left cheek. “A token, from the Peacekeeper who tried cutting my tongue after that.”

His smile turns slightly unhinged and his eyes dance crazily. “But... now is not the time for satisfying my revenge. Members of the Capitol are to be delivered to our beloved President for the 76th Hunger Games.”

He stands back up and his soldiers start shoving my family forward, but he pauses after a few feet, turning back with a smile that makes my blood run cold. “On second thought, what would the President need from an old bag like you?”

He pulls out a handgun, aims, and fires.

The force of the bullet knocks my mother several feet backward, her body sprawling on the green grass like an unwanted accessory thrown away.

In her last moments, she gasps, coughing up blood as the bullet lodged in her chest worms its way deeper. Her eyes, already draining of life, meets mine all the way across the lawn. She mouths one clear message to me: Run.

I’m screaming before I know it, before my mother’s body goes still for the last time. My sisters collapse in sobs around her body, their chests heaving as loss and grief wrack their bodies.

Evander clamps a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late.

The soldiers have noticed us.

My friend tries to drag me away from the soldiers, supporting my weight as we stumble to the woods near our home. By the time the grief wears off and I’m able to run with him, the soldiers have caught up with us, knocking us to the ground.

The last thing I see before consciousness gives out is the butt of a gun, slamming against my forehead.

The granite tiles of the town square are cold against my skin, sending a prickling sensation down my arms and legs.

My eyes crack open, startled to see several pairs of eyes staring back at me. I bolt up, stumbling away from them before bumping into a group of strangers behind me.

Panicked, I glance around frantically before my gaze lands on Evander. He’s not the same as the last time I saw him. His face is horribly bruised, one of his eyes swollen shut, his nose crooked. Cuts dot his entire body, blood leaking from them.

He meets my gaze as I stagger to him, his eyes filled with unfathomable guilt. “Cori, I’m sorry, I told them everything,” he babbles. “Who you are, who your grandfather was, I told them everything. They know about you; they’re going to kill you--”

A stout woman wearing the official presidential seal steps onto the podium. “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be in your favor!” It’s only then I realize we’re surrounded by dozens of people-- no, kids-- just like us. Capitol children. There are some faces I recognize in the crowd-- childhood friends I played with when I was younger.

They don’t meet my gaze, avoiding my eyes or ignoring my stare. Understandable. They don’t want to be associated with the grandson of President Snow.

A feeling of dread comes over me as the woman’s hand reaches in the reaping ball. Was this how the Mockingjay felt for years?

She unfolds the piece of paper, smoothing out the wrinkles as she reads the name on it. “Coriolanus Snow.”

Evander was right.

They are going to kill me.

But first, they’ll make a game out of it.