Chapter Text
"Timber!"
I register the shout just moments before a tree hits the ground a few feet away from me. It takes several seconds for me to go from surprise, to shock, to hot anger.
"What do you morons think you're doing?" I scream before I even see them. "There's an alarm bell, you buffoons - you're supposed to ring it before dropping a thing like that!"
Three red-faced men stand there, axes and saws still in hand, clearly caught off guard by the tiny girl who seemingly appeared out of nowhere just to insult them. But I don't care how befuddled they may look, they're dangerously stupid and it's better if they know it.
"What if that had hit me? You'd have to scrub my brains off the floor. Do you want to scrub my brains off the floor? Hm? Do you?"
One man opens his mouth just to reconsider and close it again. I keep scowling, glaring them down for their pathetic silence.
"What is the issue here?" Bert, a giant of a man, who is as scary as he is harmless, walks up next to me. "Is everything alright, Johanna?"
"No, everything's not alright! Those birdbrains almost killed me with their incompetence. They're too dumb to to use the alarm bell."
"Excuse me," says one of the men, "But back in Sector 5, we don't use alarm bells. We th-"
"Well, this is Sector 8, not 5. Out here, we chop trees, not branches!" I hiss.
I can see I've offended them. One says, "Big talk from someone so small."
"Aren't you feisty, little lady?" another one taunts. I brace myself to go for their throats, when Bert puts a hand on my shoulder.
"There's a lot of Peacekeepers going around," he whispers before loudly asking, "Can I have your names, please? Tree-felling without proper alarm is a hazard, so I'll have to report you for this."
The color drains from the men's faces. Getting reported means you might get put in jail or receive lashes if any wrongdoings can be proven. It's quite a threat and Bert isn't the type to go through with it. But these guys are new and don't seem to know him well enough yet to take the chance.
"No, no, look we'll apologize to the la- the girl..." says one.
"I don't know, guys. Let's see what she thinks." Bert raises an eyebrow at me and his eyes dart towards the men and back. Then, I realize his intentions. These guys have a pack of bread and fruit with them, meant to be their lunch or maybe late breakfast.
I put a finger on my lips and a hand on my hip and try to look like I'm considering something. "Well, I guess I could let it go..."
"Thanks, that would be-"
"If!" I add quickly, "You give me some of that food there. I forgot to eat this morning, so it'd be quite a relief." I didn't forget to eat, I never would. We're low on food right now and I wanted to leave some for Pops and Buck.
The men aren't happy but they agree nonetheless. As we walk back to our stations, I offer Bert a piece of bread.
"Thanks," he says, "But I've had a big breakfast."
"Don't you lie to me, Bert. I can hear your stomach growling from here." I take a bite out of a pear and add, "B'sides, I wouldn't have anything without you. Except maybe some trouble after breaking those guys' noses."
He chuckles softly and takes the bread. "Yeah, it's always good to keep your head out here. Rage just brings on more problems, usually."
I take a deep breath. "I know, I know. But these ass- it's these kinda guys that killed Pete..." I say, looking down at my hands. The thought of being squashed under some large tree trunk like my older brother terrifies me, even if I would never admit it out loud.
Bert is silent for a bit, before responding, "Maybe I should've let you beat 'em up after all."
His surprisingly earnest tone makes me laugh and accidentally spit out some of the pear.
The reaping for the Hunger Games is today, which means we're dismissed early. The factories are closed but we don't get that grace because the Capitol demanded an extra load of lumber this month. Tom, the head of Sector 8, hands out the meager salaries we get for a week's work. There's more Peacekeepers around than usual to make sure all of us are finished on time.
Frustratingly, their presence also means lower payment for us kids.
Officially, someone under the age of eighteen can only work three days of the week and has to go to school the other four. But meeting the quotas demanded by the Capitol is impossible and salaries are so low that most of us work more hours than are legal from a young age to sustain our families.
I haven't seen a classroom more than half full since primary school.
Due to these Capitol laws, I never get more than the salary for the official, legally complacent, hours of labor I'm permitted to provide - a number that greatly differs from reality. The head of the Sector, Tom, simply doesn't get enough money to pay me or any of the other kids he employs. Instead, we get a 'Zwig' which refers to the off-the-books currency that is accepted by almost all merchants in District 7. Zwigs are small wooden blocks, branded with an official insignia, although I have no clue who produces them. All I know is, they're each worth ten coins and I'm entitled to three of them this month.
"What the fuck, Tom? I'm strapped for cash as is."
He shrugs apologetically and gestures toward the Peacekeepers. "Sorry, kid. Can't be caught handing out Zwigs. They'll axe me right then and there. I'll see to it after the reaping." He's whispering and I can sense he's quite anxious.
Bruce, another kid who's working in Sector 8, shakes his head in a subtle motion. He, like most others here, is likely aware of my spontaneous outbursts. I'm not too keen on having a fifteen-year-old tell me what to do, but unfortunately he's right. No point in pestering Tom about the Zwigs, not with law enforcement all around us.
After my lacking payment I'm ushered onto a lumber truck, where us workers struggle to all fit onto the cargo platform. I manage to get a spot at the very edge, where I can let my legs dangle off the vehicle. Bert squeezes in next to me just before the truck departs. I lean back - as much as is possible - and enjoy the sight of tree after tree passing by.
Sector 8 is the bane of my existence. It's deep into the woods, almost at the very back, which is why there's always a ton of Peacekeepers at its outer edges. The forest here is also incredibly high, making it painfully difficult to navigate work. On top of that, two years ago there was a wolf infestation and one kid was ripped apart by the pack. Civilians aren't allowed to hunt, so all we could do was hope the beasts show us mercy and that the Capitol might send aid eventually.
All in all, this sector is a nightmare. But I don't hate it. I can't hate it.
The tall trees, anchored by their thick roots, the wild animals that somehow sneak their way past the electric fence, heck, even the ugly mushrooms that grow on wood and taste like it as well. They're my home - my past and my future. Since I first came here ten years ago, holding my brother's hand, this has been the only place I truly feel like myself.
Bert taps a finger on my head. "You nervous, kid?"
I raise an eyebrow at him. "Nervous? Why?"
"Well, the reaping's today. I thought you might be... ah, nevermind." He sighs and scratches his thick beard. It occurs to me that he's a father of three.
"What age is your oldest boy?" I ask and his expression changes from thoughtful to pained.
"Twelve."
"Ah, I see." I try to find the right words to comfort Bert. The first reaping's always quite harsh. I remember mine well. My brother had died a year ago and we'd barely made it through the winter without him. So no member of my family would starve, I took out five tesserae as soon as I could, which worsened my odds substantially.
One tessera equals a small amount of grain and oil for one person for the duration of a year in exchange for putting your name up for the reaping once more. It's for this reason that poor hillside folk like me end up in the Hunger Games more often than the wealthier kids down in the valley. Except for those who work the factories, of course, who arguably have it even worse. While the tesserae had kept my family alive, for my first reaping I had six paper slips to my name. Six times the likelihood of me getting reaped for the Hunger Games and subsequently slaughtered by some other unfortunate kid. Beautiful prospects, really.
"Has he taken any tesserae yet?" I ask.
He nods slowly. "During the winter, yes. I would've stopped him, but he snuck out after dawn. Claimed two."
"That's not much. He'll be fine, his odds are good," I assure Bert. My comforting words are genuine for once. Three slips in between thousands aren't the end of the world
But Bert doesn't appear comforted in any way. Instead, he scowls and says, "If the odds aren't zero, they're too high for me."
Bert and I spend the rest of the drive in silence. As we leave the forest, I have the strange urge to jump off the truck and run back into the woods, back to safety. Where the Capitol is weak and I am strong. That's what I delude myself into thinking, at least.
Just like every year, I wonder if I'll ever see those trees again, or if our shared journey ends here and now. But so far I've always found my way back. Maybe it's finally time for some optimism.
"See you soon," I whisper as the forest fades from my view.
---
My village is the truck's last stop. It's bold to even call it a village - it's more of a collection of houses on a hill. Only me and Old Tuck exit here. I wave him goodbye and he ignores me as always.
Our village houses maybe a hundred people, all of whom are spread out unevenly across the hill. My home, a small and neglected hut, is at the very top next to a copse of small trees that hides a run-down shed.
When I enter, I smell something burning on the stove. At first, I think Pops has incinerated our lunch again and I step into the kitchen ready to hurl insults at him. But my anger deflates when I see a tiny boy standing on a chair, peeking into a big pot.
"Buck?" I ask, perplexed by what I'm seeing. I didn't think a four-year-old was capable of cooking. Judging by the smell I guess he's not exactly succeeding.
Buck squeals in excitement and shuffles off the chair to jump into my arms. He looks up with an expression that makes me melt like sugar cubes in a rainstorm.
"Hey, B. Did Pops put you up to this?" I nod towards the smoking pot.
Buck shakes his head. He doesn't talk. Never has. I've taken him to see some apothecaries but they were at a loss. They said that maybe he's just a late bloomer.
I take a look inside the pot and am relieved to see Buck hasn't wasted any food, only burning a few flowers, nothing more. He pouts a little when I quench the fire underneath the stove. I ruffle his hair and say, "If you wanna learn how to cook you should just ask me, you know. It's risky doing it on your own."
Buck's eyes light up at my offer and he goes to hug me again. He only lets go when I tell him I need space to prepare lunch.
"How about you wake Pops while I make us something good, hm?"
He nods enthusiastically and grabs two pots. Meanwhile, I try to find something to put in our stew. Preferably something edible. Seeing as Pops and Buck clearly haven't had a chance to eat breakfast yet, we've got some stale bread and old vegetables left. If I throw those into a pot with some water and herbs, it might taste like actual food. Not exactly my best work but it will suffice.
The stew is almost done when the sound of pots colliding in the next room is interrupted by a very grumpy old man's whining. Buck speeds out, giggling happily, and hides behind me. Chasing after him, at a speed that could rival a snail, is Pops, who's clinging onto the doorframe to avoid toppling over as he throws obscenities at his youngest grandchild.
"You little bastard, you, if I get my hands on you, you blockhead, you-"
"Pops." I give him a look that I hope reads as stern.
"Oh, Jo... you're back. How were the trees doing today?" he pivots immediately.
"Bastard? We've been over this Pops, Buck's not a bastard." He's not a blockhead either, but I'll learn to fly before my grandfather swears off the insults.
"Is he not? I don't remember my son marrying that good-for-nothing wh-"
"POPS!"
He shrugs. "All I'm saying is that at least he had the decency to seal the deal with your mother beforehand."
"If you don't stop spewing moronic crap, I swear, I'll lock you in the bedroom and eat the stew myself."
Pops manages to get himself to the table, where he drops in his usual chair.
"Yeah, yeah... I'm sorry and all, boyo, thanks for waking me." He holds out his hands and Buck doesn't hesitate to hop onto his lap. How Buck is Pop's grandchild just as I am, I don't know. Next to the two of us, he's practically pure sunshine, always cheerful and awfully forgiving. I dread the day I won't be able to shield him from the world's cruelty anymore, the day his childish innocence will fade.
Lunch tastes fine. It's nothing particularly tasty, but I did a good job with what I had. Pops grumbles a few times, still he finishes his plate, and Buck never complains anyway. After we're done I hurry to get ready for the reaping, washing myself and trying my best to look presentable.
Predictably, I fail. My brown hair is untamable and my skin is littered with zits and pimples. I'm hardly pretty on a good day, with my eyes too far apart and my chubby nose that's been broken once or twice already. The only redeemable part of my face are my full lips, the sole feature I haven't inherited from my useless alcoholic of a father.
I put on the only presentable dress I haven't yet sold or repurposed - a white mess of ruffles - and try to fix my hair into place.
I hear a knock and look behind me to see Pops leaning against the doorframe.
"Everything alright?" I ask half-heartedly as I unsuccessfully try to tie my hair into a decent ponytail.
"You look nice," He says and after a bit of consideration he adds, "You remind me a lot of my sister at times."
"Which one? There's like a hundred." I say but I know exactly who he means.
My grandfather had fifteen siblings but he only ever talks about his oldest sister, Pecker. She took care of them, all of them, working her ass off and not allowing any of her siblings to take out tesserae. Except for herself, of course. She took out one for each family member every year. If what Pops says is correct, Pecker had her name in the bowl almost eighty times by the time of the 17th Hunger Games. At that point volunteering might just improve your chances of survival.
Pops talks about her like she was some sort of higher being, some divine entity. But she wasn't. She got reaped for the Hunger Games and then she died.
Pops doesn't answer my question and instead throws back another one. "How many times is your name in the bowl now, Jojo?"
I cringe. That's the last thing I want to think about. I'm seventeen so I've got six slips in there already - one for each year I've been eligible to for the reaping. On top of that I've taken out several tesserae throughout the years. The first two it was only five; one for Pops, my grandmother, my father, Buck's mother and me. Then Buck was born, so when I was fourteen I took out six tesserae for one year, before Gram died and I was back to five the next year and the one after. Then Buck's mother died and my father vanished, probably lying somewhere dead of alcohol poisoning out in the wilds, so last year we survived on three tesserae. Still, that's twenty-nine extra slips to my name. Thirty-five in total. Better than eighty, but hardly the best odds.
"Around twenty," I lie to Pops, "Nothing too bad."
"Twenty?" He sounds alarmed.
"It's gonna be alright, Pops. I mean, there'll be like a thousand other girls there with me anyway. I'll be fine." I go to give him a small hug. I'm no good at comforting people but my grandfather is a simple guy. The two of us don't often hug but when we do, it's firm and true.
"Alright," he says. "We're alright."
Someone knocks on our front door with increasing aggression. I sigh. Peacekeepers. Every year I dread this inspection. How difficult can it be to determine an old, crippled man is actually old and crippled?
"Good day." I give the Peacekeepers a pretty smile. I recognise both of them even though they're wearing their goofy helmets; Gaius, a weak-minded fool, and Pearl, who can only be accurately described as a vindictive bitch. Today is not my lucky day.
Pearl pushes past me into the house. "So, where is the grandfather?"
"I'm here." Pops comes out of our bedroom and I have to give him credit for his acting there; he looks like every step might just be his last. Technically, his old age and fading health as well as his broken back should easily be enough to justify him staying home for the reaping. It's a long journey into the valley and there'll be masses of people making it more difficult than usual. But every year the Peacekeepers responsible for the inspection question his age, disability and every fiber of his body to make sure he cannot possibly make it to the Justice Hall. It's really annoying so it's better to lay it on thick in hopes of speeding up the process.
I hurry to take his hand and lead Pops to his chair. When he sits I say, "As you can see, my dear grandfather is in no condition to travel into the valley."
Pearl scoffs and stands right next to us. "How old are you, Mister Mason?"
"Uhm..." he mumbles. "I'm not so sure... something with a six... sixty-four or maybe forty-six... sixteen?"
Gaius winces. "He seems to be mentally challenged, Pearl, I think he's good."
I suppress a smile. Gaius definitely knows how it feels to be mentally challenged. We once got a day off work because someone convinced him the woods were haunted. The fact that this man is still employed as a Peacekeeper tells me that the Capitol doesn't seem to have the means to replace him. A comforting thought, really.
Right now I'm grateful for his gullibility. Pearl seems less convinced but she lets it go as well.
"Alright, Mister Mason. Have a nice day," she says and gestures for Gaius to follow her.
I watch Buck play with his toy blocks in the corner of the room. Now's my chance.
"Another thing, officers!"
They stop at the door. Pearl looks incredibly annoyed. "What is it? We have other houses to get to."
"My little brother Buck can't come to the reaping either."
Pearl scowls under her helmet. "Why? He looks healthy enough."
"He's four," I state, "I need to be inside the hall and there's no one to look after him during the ceremony."
"Well, how'd you do it last year?" Gaius inquires.
This moron. He of all people should know of my father's disappearance and the death of Buck's mother. Both happened under his watch.
"Last year, his parents were still alive."
Pearl looks back and forth between me and Buck. Then she says, "He's capable of looking after himself. He'll be alright."
Oh, how much I wish murder wasn't illegal. I'd rip this whore's head right off. She knows he won't be alright - huge events like these attract the worst of the worst. And little kids like Buck are prime targets.
"Officers, you-" I start but they hurry to move on to the other houses. Gaius at least has the decency to put on an apologetic expression.
I mumble obscenities under my breath as I watch them walk down the hill. I'm so focused on them that I don't notice him until he stands right next to me.
"I can look after your brother."
His sudden appearance makes me jump back and instinctively look for something to defend myself with. Skinny stature, ripped and worn clothing, and that mind-numbing stench. It always starts alarm bells in my head.
Strays. Children without parents and without a home to stay in.
Similar to the thousands of stray dogs that used to roam the district, Strays live at the edge of society and mostly survive on scraps. They also like to scavenge through people's trash and tend to be rather antisocial. I once got attacked by one of them, a young girl, when I was very little and since then I've had my guard up around them.
But I know this Stray. "Oh... Twig."
He smiles. Most of his teeth are missing and his face is covered in a thick layer of dirt. Twig sometimes helps around the village in return for food or Zwigs. It's one reason we started calling him "Twig", seeing as he has no proper name anyone's aware of. As far as I understand it, he's always on the move and never stays somewhere for too long. It's worked for him so far - he's alive unlike many other Strays - but he's mostly skin and bones. The other reason, why we call him Twig.
"Why would you want to look after my brother?" I ask skeptically. Just because I trust Twig not to rob or hurt me, doesn't mean I'm comfortable leaving Buck with him.
"You choppers in Sector 8 got your coin today, so you could buy me food with it." His eyes are big and hungry. I wonder when he last ate.
Still, I hardly have enough money to feed Pops, Buck and me for a month. If I don't get the Zwigs I'm due, things are going to get hard. "Look, I'm not sure I can afford this."
Twig shrugs. "Well, I guess you'll have an easier time feeding yourself if your little brother disappears. I hear they're searching for fresh organ donors in town."
He's right, unfortunately. As a kid from the streets, he's perhaps the best source on the dangers awaiting Buck in town. Unattended children during the reaping are prime meat for all kinds of depraved monsters. Organ harvesting in particular is a huge issue that the Capitol continuously refuses to investigate. Some speculate it's because they themselves got a hand in it.
"Fine, you little asshole. But don't you dare -"
"I won't," Twig says nonchalantly. He smiles at Buck, who's come outside to see what's up, "Heya."
I have little choice and even less time. Quickly, I try to get Buck ready. Because I feel like getting on Twig's good side, I give him a leftover piece of carrot and let him wash his face with the rest of our stashed water. I'll have to get some more later in the evening either way.
Pops squeezes my shoulder painfully tight and gives Twig a skeptical look as I tell him goodbye and then we set off.
---
The valley is a five hour walk from my village so the Capitol sends two trucks to take us there. These aren't like the ones meant to transport lumber but instead they're giant cars with even larger wagons attached to them. Still, it's quite the squeeze to get all of us to fit. Attendance at the reaping is mandatory for everyone, except for people with serious disabilities or other health problems like Pops, so pretty much the whole village has to travel in them.
Everyone inside is on edge, chatting with their children or neighbours and being generally quite loud.
"Is it wrong I'm excited to see the reaping?" Twig asks out of the blue.
I scowl. "I wouldn't be. It's the same every year. Just a bunch of depressing garbage."
Twig looks surprised. "Really? I've never seen it before. I thought it was this super big event and stuff."
Now it's my turn to be surprised. Watching the reaping is mandatory. Every screen in the whole of Panem shows it and even our television at home - which usually doesn't have electricity - is constantly playing the games and all that surrounds it. But Twig doesn't have a home, so he's not exactly breaking the law by not watching any of it, I guess. Still, the reaping usually happens in person.
"So you never went to the reaping before?" I ask.
"Pretty much. Wasn't registered. Had no reason to go. But now I am, so I got no choice..." He's picking at his nails now, almost as if he's embarrassed.
"Why'd you register this year? Isn't it easier to just, you know, stay under the radar?" The decision to voluntarily write yourself over to the Capitol hurts my brain. If I could only live without those bastards knowing who I am; I'd sleep better at night.
Twig laughs bitterly. "Maybe... but I'm twelve in a month. Can't miss out on that tessa."
"Ah." I don't correct him on the word. I'd feel like an asshole.
Twelve years old. There's no way that kid is twelve years old. I don't think he weighs fifty pounds. His head is still too big for his body and he's so tiny. I've never had enough food at any point in my life, but this boy has never known a second devoid of hunger. No wonder he's so fast to sign his life away to the Capitol for a bit of grain.
It's already the Hunger Games out on the streets for him.
We arrive right in front of the Justice Hall. Out on the plaza thousands of people have gathered in front of giant screens that show the inside of the hall. I tell Twig and Buck to wait at a lamppost until the reaping's done. Buck holds Twig's hand dutifully, but his eyes are big and sad when I walk away. I remember last year - how his mother had to pick him up so he wouldn't run after me. I can't help but feel sad at how fast he's grown after her death. He's just a toddler.
The process of the reaping is the same as always. The only difference is that I'm now one row further up front than last year, in the 17 to 18 pen, but other than that it's the usual; after entering the hall and checking my identity, I'm ushered to my place, the anthem plays and then the mayor reads the list of previous victors from District 7. One woman and four men. The only woman, Bircha Plum, died a few years ago, but three of the men are still alive. I see them occasionally when I'm in town. They're usually very rude and or drunk so I avoid them like the plague. Right now they're all sitting on stage, looking incredibly unhappy.
The mayor starts his usual bland reading of Panem's history and the explanation why it's perfectly valid for the Capitol to round up children and make them kill each other every year. Something, something, failed District rebellion, something, something, Hunger Games. Of course, there's also the annual reminder that there once existed a District 13 before the Capitol eviscerated it, just like it could eviscerate any other District if it wanted to. Pleasant.
Then the District 7 escort Genesius Pickle, a wimpy little creature, takes the stage. This year, he's graced us with a red goatee and mustache of all things. I truly despise the Capitol's fashion. Out in the Districts we can hardly feed ourselves meanwhile in the Capitol people spend thousands of dollars to resemble circus performers.
Genesius recites a short speech and ends it with the Hunger Games's catchphrase, "May the odds be ever in your favor" before moving on to pick a slip of paper from the girl's bowl. It's giant, filled with thousands of names other than mine.
I think about the coins in the pocket of my dress and make a mental note of what to buy. I can get a bit of meat, although not too much, and definitely some potatoes. Grain, of course, and I might be able to buy some apples as well. I consider what to get for Twig. Maybe I should invite him to eat with us tonight. There's always a little celebration in the village if none of our kids are chosen. He could stay with us there. And I could make something proper today, something sort of festive. I decide that sounds like a good plan.
Then, Genesius Pickle calls out my name.