[74th] The Reaping - District One

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gm bourgeois decadence [aya]
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[74th] The Reaping - District One Sept 30, 2016 23:01:11 GMT -5

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Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Sept 30, 2016 23:01:11 GMT -5

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the District, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Pillar Fray!" He then reached into the other ball. "Arik [...]!"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, October 4th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a privilege; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead.. It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer.

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now and forever

[74th] The Reaping - District One Oct 1, 2016 15:59:00 GMT -5

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Post by kousei ♚ on Oct 1, 2016 15:59:00 GMT -5

Who'd you think you'd fool, baby, digging your own grave?

"Where is the method behind your madness?"

It's at this life changing moment I realize that I am nothing. Bloodied and lacerated, the palm of my hand rests against my rib cage. I don't know what he looks at me with anymore, disappointment, anger, disgust. All three facial expressions became marred in the face of my madness and the saliva when they would spit in disgust at what I'd done. Not even a 'what happened here?' Just a look of mystery that I've lost the will to decipher and a question. I forget he's my father most of the time; he's just there, another player in the grand game of pretend all for a crown of thorns none of them will ever wear.

He shakes his head and calls me mad but he could never look me in the eye and tell me why. "Lilith would never let me down like this." And at that I screamed until my voice broke and smashed one, two, three plates with my bare hands until the shards pierced my flesh and left red smeared across my hands spattered with the shards of my rage strewn across my floor.

"Fuck you," I sneer from the back of my broken throat. Hand clutched to my chest, I let time fly and words hang; I lust for the all too familiar feeling. Just like he lusts for his crown of thorns, I lust for the exhilaration of being alive and I would count the times I was slighted and flew into rage and tore down wallpapers, smashed valuables and attacked peers. Each incident a new scar branded across skin like a bloodied tally only I could see.

Bloodied and lacerated, my hand rests against my chest and I scowl because there's no exhilaration, no heartbeat to follow to the next thrill. Not once. My hand begins to shake at my side; there is no cure for despair, just as there is no cure for madness.

I'm silently begging him to lay a finger on me, to close his fingers around my throat and choke me with the force of every embarrassing blood tally I willingly branded myself with since I was thirteen years old. I want him to tear sinew, smash bones, chip teeth so I can place my bloodied palm on my chest and feel the unfamiliar thud of a racing heart. I want to topple the giant and feel my heart beat while I'm doing it.

He scowls and turns his back on me, leaving behind a shell behind in piles of plate crimson shards and rage. My knuckle twitches over my chest and wince at the dull pain of nothing. Every footstep he takes away from me I cringe at the pain of nothing. Each hollow sound reminds me there is no heartbeat and every reminder is a scream; a thunder clap in my head as a signal that I am still nothing.

When he closes the door behind him I resist the urge to wail in the agony of nothing. Every shattered plate, every broken bone, every made scribble on pages is another bloodied point added onto my skin but they all amount to nothing. I am nothing but madness with no method and no method is essentially nothing. ('Where is the method to your madness?') There is no method because I am nothing, and it's a never ending agony being nothing.

"I am nothing, I am nothing, I am nothing."

Bloodied and lacerated, the palm of my hand rests against my rib cage and my words are only reaffirmed. Back pressed to the white washed wall slowly crumple down, clutching my bleeding palm to by chest and allowing it to soak into my white shirt. Holding back screams of agony I clutch my trembling knees to my chest. "Please, give me something, it hurts too much."

It took me a good hour to become silenced by the sunlight weeping through the window.

In the face of the light, I am still nothing. Clawing myself from the pit of nothing I hoist myself up on trembling knees with a trembling fist at my side. I find the medical kit and treat the wounds of my rage before changing my shirt and stare down my family at breakfast without even looking my father in the eye. The constant chant of "I am nothing," is constant at the table. I even ignore the worried look of my mother and even the "Asha's gotten worse," whisper from my mother and "leave the boy alone, he just needs to see his shrink." reply from father. He's a fool, there is no cure for madness.

Getting up from the breakfast table, I go to the reaping alone because I am nothing; people who are nothing have no family. As I count each step, I count each episode notched on soft skin and each time I failed to feel something. The early start points and symptoms stared me straight in the face, I was just a fucking fool for failing to connect the dots and finish the damn equation. ('Where is the method to your madness?') There is no method to my madness because I am fucking nothing.

No matter who I beat up, no matter how many plates I break, no matter how many blood marks I mentally etch onto my skin it doesn't change what I am. I am forever nothing. I register myself, push past the crowd to stand with the seventeen year old boys but none of that matters because I am nothing. "All I've done is play pretend." I whisper and my hands begin trembling.

I judged everyone in the damn district for playing pretend. Pretending to like each other, going to the reaping, training just so that they could attend their own coronation with a double edged crown of thorns but I am the biggest pretender of all. I played pretend but not because I wanted to touch my head and feel a crown of thorns, I played pretend so I could touch my chest and feel a beat.

I am nothing pretending to be something, what does that make me?

Staring into the distance, I see my father looking generally uninterested and I'm so focused on trying to catch his eye the next name blurs like the looks of disgust, anger and disappointment he always gave me. At the one hundred mark, what's the difference?

I refuse to be nothing in the face of their anger, disappointment and disgust - pretend stops here. "I volunteer!"

I push past the crowd and shoot a stare to the boy that was about to take my place as I take each step towards the stage, hushed whispers blurring behind my ears as I allow my eyes to drop towards the ground but the grin still sticks smeared across my lips. Each step I can count the number of times I notched a new violent episode and each time I can count the way it made me feel nothing.

"What's-

"Asha Lumiere, you don't need to remember it."

Staring into the distant face of my father, I can't tell if he looks at me with anger, disgust or disappointment - it doesn't even matter anymore because I allowed the weights of the giant game of pretend to drop to my feet.

('Where is the method to your madness?')

Bandaged and bloodied, the palm of my hand rests against my rib cage and I smile; something has got to be worth a tombstone marked with the blood of others.

[Asha Lumiere volunteers as D1m]

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[74th] The Reaping - District One Oct 1, 2016 17:06:32 GMT -5

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Post by gamemaker 🍒 maryn hale on Oct 1, 2016 17:06:32 GMT -5

pillar fray

my tears are always frozen
i can see the air i breathe
got my fingers painting pictures
on the glass in front of me

It’s a terrifying thing when a girl finally learns how to love herself – when all of her walls come tumbling down and her skin is left bare. And does that make her braver than who she was when she first started? Does that suddenly make her something fearless – a breed of creature that is somehow stronger than all the rest? She's not sure, she thinks to herself, with arms wrapped around her rib cage and fingertips pressing between the bones – and maybe she's searching for something that's lost within her, but the only thing that she can find is uncertainty.

It’s not as scary as they make it sound: having to run through forests of scratching claws and poisoned fangs without a lantern for guidance – because against all odds, she's reached the clearing and made it out of the woods, and though the light hits her face and scorches her entirety to the bone, it doesn't burn. It doesn't hurt – not anymore. Icarus fell long before, but there is beauty in her tragedy. She can see it now. Because little girls can be torn and eaten and spit out by the world, but that's just a part of the ritual needed for them to become who they're meant to be. When the girl finds herself, the sky bleeds red and the ground shakes.

Because broken things cannot be destroyed, and girls with charred wings are not afraid.

A cold breath lodging itself in your throat as you inhale, the chill of autumn washes over your features as you stand in your designated section, and you take only a moment to glance over the other girls who form a cluster around you. Some are firm, while others shake with fidgety fingers, and the rest can't be read as easily – and there's a certain kind of beauty in that, you think to yourself. Lambs kissing the teeth of lions, and not one screams out in fear. You smile faintly, neck arching back to stare at the clouded sky. Femininity is a powerful thing, and you treasure it. Because even if you send a thousand girls marching towards the same death, they'll each go down differently. It's a kind of rebellion that is bred, something that's already in your veins – and primal as it is, it's real, and it's exactly what causes you to clench your jaw and stare ahead when the escort takes the stage.

{ All girls know fear – but it's a vanishing act. You never get to see the shards of shattered innocence that poke out from their chests. }

When she speaks, you listen only faintly, losing yourself in the sound of exhales that break free of chapped lips – letting your skin absorb the warmth that starts to build around your space. You don't stop yourself from living. Years were spent in a family that lashed out at you with silver tongues and drowned you in expectations, but when you finally gave up trying to please those who weren't yourself, you found the most beautiful parts of your being: petals unfurling and thorns retracting – but not all the way. Thorns never leave, and all soft girls have some form of protection. They all leave some sort of scar on the world.

Your eyes find Justice's own on the stage without meaning to, and you turn away with a biting of your lip. For so long, all you had wanted was to be a Fray; a proper one. A ruthless beast with knives for teeth and swords for fingernails, but that's just not you. And maybe that's not him, either. You've built walls for so long that you can see right through his own, and though part of you wants to reach out – because a sister is a sister and a brother is a brother no matter how far the divide between them – you just can't bring yourself to give him that comfort. You're tired of loving things that don't love you back.

You breathe, laugh, cry, bleed, scream, blink, look away, and –

{ "Pillar Fray!" }

– you live. It's the only thing you can do, even when the world holds a gun to your head and whispers 'this is mercy' in your ear. But you slap the metal away and roll your shoulders with a shiver. Eyes turn to look at you because your name is heavier than your body, but you don't waste the time needed to look back. You don't search for Corran in the crowd, or Garnet, or Morganite, or Kellan – you search for no one. The only person you need in this moment is yourself, so you start your march and make your way onto the stage, fingers curling at your sides and eyebrows furrowing. You're not sure how to feel. What is a girl to think when volcanoes spring up from the path ahead of her? When she climbs the mountain in her way only to slip down the slope and break her bones?

It doesn't matter – that's what. Everyone feels something different when life caresses their cheek, only to spit in their face. There's a beautiful strength in that. What you feel is confusing, courage in the form of a shaky breath, but it's you; so unapologetically you.

As they announce your partner, you peer over your shoulder to stare at your brother. You see the washed blood that stains his soul, and you shake your head as you feel a certain kind of pity. Family or not, all people sing a different song when the lights go out and they're forced to make their way out of the dark all on their own. And you're proud of him; you'd never dismiss his victory or the trials that he faced. But as the sun turns to ash and the world puts a finger up to its lips, you have only one thought:

You don't care about your brother's legacy, and you don't want to live up to it. You can make your own – whether it ends with gold or crimson. Not all legends are about survivors.

lay me by the frozen river
where the boats have passed me by
all i need is to remember
how it was to feel alive

district one

( pillar fray accepts her position as the d1f tribute )

lance
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[74th] The Reaping - District One Oct 2, 2016 3:12:33 GMT -5

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Post by lance on Oct 2, 2016 3:12:33 GMT -5

Annika Lumiere

"Pillar Fray!"

A breath that she did not know she was holding escaped from her lungs, a mixture of relief and disappointment all mixed up into one.

Another year would go by without herself or any of her sisters and female cousins entering the Hunger Games, instead having their spot usurped by the third Fray in as many years.

Not that Annika was particularly moved to topple her. The Frays had been viewed with some apprehension ever since the sadistic girl that had been Scout Fray had chosen to enter the Games in the place of an unknown no-namer, a view that had only been reinforced by the somewhat shaky facade that Justice had held the previous year.

But there was no denying that the family had skill. Scout had only fallen to another Career, bringing the latter to the brink of death herself before falling, while Justice had defied all odds and brought One their first crown since Opal Shore had nearly a decade ago.

She scanned the crowd, wondering with some curiosity if any of her peers would make a move to volunteer for the latest of the Fray clan to get thrown into the arena.

Predictably, no one moved.

Her attention refocused on the gaudily dressed Capitolite up on the stage, eyes fixed on him with just as much apprehension but considerably less nerves. Though a part of her knew that she didn't have many more reapings left before her if she was to enter the Games herself, for this year, at least, she was grateful that there was no cry of "Annika Lumiere!" filling the square, no desperate scramble to volunteer for a younger, more inexperienced relative.

But females only made up half of the Lumiere clan, and once again, her breath caught in her throat as the escort drew a single slip of paper from the hat.

"Arik-"

Whatever name the escort was about to shout was ultimately rendered moot, however, as a single cry of "I volunteer!" echoed through her eardrums. She watched, neck craning over her peers, as a dark-haired boy emerged out of the line of seventeen year olds. His face, like his voice, was unfamiliar, and Annika watched sharply as the boy made his way up to the stage.

Another year, another Lumiere-free Games, she thought. Even with almost six years of Career training under her belt, she still found it difficult to be disappointed by such a fact.

Sure, another year without one of her relatives gracing the presence of the Capitol meant another year where potential glory was squandered, and potential riches and fame from a Lumiere victor was lost. But her family was by no means poor to begin with, so that wasn't that big of a loss.

And besides, she rather liked her family, from the cunning Athena to the stoic Adonis to the littlest sister Adora to even the fuckboy Lex. To lose any of them to the Games would be as much a tragedy as the loss of so-called glory.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she almost missed the boy announcing his own name. She probably would have, too, had it not been for a single word that emerged from his mouth.

Lumiere.

Her mind snapped back to focus, starring at the dark-haired boy with an incredulous look.

That boy is no Lumiere.

Yet the echo of the escort - "Give it up for Pillar Fray and Asha Lumiere!" - only confirmed what should be the impossible.

I have no cousin or brother named Asha.

Her mind briefly flashes to a fencing match with the laughing form of a dark haired girl, to the brief flash of shock and fear that had came over her grandmother's face when she had asked her about it a few days later, seconds before she had denied any other family members and chalking the incident up to simple coincidence.

Well, Grandmother, it appears as if you were wrong.

She gazed into the face of the boy, now adorned with a smile, eyes narrowed.

Once is a coincidence.

If the boy feels her gaze, he does not show it, one bandaged hand resting across his chest and the other held aloft by the overenthusiastic escort.

But twice...

Twice is no coincidence.

She would get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

credit to darsypoo uwu

credit to fireflyz!

credit to stare!

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[74th] The Reaping - District One Oct 2, 2016 9:10:12 GMT -5

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Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Oct 2, 2016 9:10:12 GMT -5

Lilith

Lumiere

A shock of disappointment surged through her when the name being called was nothing but another Fray. The name brings to her eyes an image of a young man, sending aside the president of the country and being offered the crown that every single person in the world she knows grasped for. It is shameful say that she is also one of those people. She believes that she is in the front lines even, prepared to slaughter any organism of any form just for the crown to rest on the raven locks of her skull. But, something is not permitting her. Is it time? Is it the tiny bit of care she has for her two parents? It was nothing but a blur to her. However, she is fully aware is the beast inside her which yearned for the crown is fed by one name: Asha.

It had been weeks since she refused to call him Asha Lumiere. She did not even muse about it in her thoughts nor her dreams. In her world, that man has a single name that is Asha. Lumiere is far too precious for him and he deserves no thing that is even moderate enough to be of any use. She expelled a breath that carried the rage inside of her out. It was not the correct hour to contemplate on him. She needs to witness the reaction of another tribute. She imagined herself, boots clicking the wooden platform of that stage, a look of fresh hope smeared on her visage. She would accept the offer that they are giving her, a more solid chance of obtaining the crown. The diadem that will serve as a shove for her to ascend to the very top of every chain in this district. She will be able to dress in the finest fabrics and eat cuisines comparable to ambrosia.

She yanks her concentration back on the ghastly voice of the escort, scarlet hues of her mouth locking in anxiety. Two charcoal orbs watches as the digits of the man crawled into a sea of unidentified organsims. Only one will be identified among all those and he will be another fortunate soul, given a blessing to be in a more solid competition for the crown of absolute power and authority. The escort is not reclulant to announce the blessed individual. "Airk-"

"I volunteer!"

Every time she hears the sound, her skin tingles with hatred, jealousy, envy and all those sins. It is like a freezing breeze to her roaring fire. It was an unnatural storm invading a day of string. It was the voice she hears daily but wishes that she doesn't. Lilith Lumiere is not blessed with the gift of chance for the crown but today, she did get blessed for one thing. And, it might not be much of an assistance or a support to obtain the crown but it is a remedy to the waves of spite she experiences on an everyday basic. She was not going to hear his voice ever again.

But it brought life to a relentless, hell fire inside her.

Her feet advanced forward without her mind putting much thought into it. Digits parted the blurry frames of the people around her. She even screamed at the woman nearby, her own voice unrecognizable and distorted. She sounded like the devil inside her. Finally, he came into view. Control was lost to her at that moment. It was a hazy dream that she could only see but unable to direct. An object came into view. She was holding it in her hand, in a grip so tight that she could make out her green veins on it.

Then, she launched it, her black shoe being projected towards her brother in a frightening speed. She hoped it hits her face because that is where she aimed it at. It was an attack packed with revenge, for all the time he wasted to give her the reminder. His voice comes back into the back of her skull: "You can't even shoot an arrow."

"Well, BITCH, look who can shoot now! You are never going to win this, Asha. If I were standing right besides you on that platform right now, I swear to anyone that I would just rip your demonic flesh there and I wouldn't even bathe in your blood, because it needs to be burnt at once. Can't get your hellish genes spreading an odor into the air. I won't even tell you to go die in hell because hell is too good for you."

It was a temper tantrum and it was messy.

BY CHELSEY

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Last Edit: Oct 2, 2016 9:14:54 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

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[74th] The Reaping - District One Oct 2, 2016 14:03:09 GMT -5

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Post by arx on Oct 2, 2016 14:03:09 GMT -5

JUSTICE
FRAY

Have you ever gotten a paper cut underneath your nail? The initial pain puts tears at the corner of your eyes. There's no blood, no wound to show off to your friends, but it aches all the same. And just when you think that the cut has sealed itself shut and everything has returned to normal, you grip something just right and the pressure of your nail against the broken nerve endings and—you scream. Except you don't scream because you've got nothing to show. No blood, no bruises, no broken bones.

You can't see it, but it hurts. That's what it feels like standing next to my siblings, listening to my parents drone on about the importance of "continuing the legacy Justice began." I hate them. I really fucking hate them.

So why do I still care what they think of me? Why does it take every ounce of courage I have just to say—"I'm walking with Opal."—? Why do I care so much?

I rap my knuckles against the door just as it swings open. I raise an eyebrow, give a half smile—a forced smile.

"Looking lovely as ever," I grin, teasing as I always do. But mostly I just want to take her mind off of-- everything.

Love really does fuck you up. It's a wonder anyone could possibly let themselves do it at all, let alone more than once.

It's a relatively silent walk and for that I am rather thankful. As much as I enjoy her company, I've got no desire for words. It doesn't feel right, saying anything. The crunch of rocks beneath my boots and sound of distant fanfare is enough to fill the void. And it keeps me from thinking about what it will feel like when--

My leg clicks and my toes bang against the first step. I stare at my boot, dust coating the toes. I swallow... what is it? Anxiety? Fear? I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and pull myself up the stairs. One by one, slowly but surely, I-- I see them. I twist around on the stage, looking out over row after row of faces. Some smile at me, others play tough guy with chests puffed and chins held high. I see dead eyes and eyes filled with giddiness.

And as I lean back into my chair—I see ghosts. I remember hearing her named called. I remember feeling a sense of pride. It was fabricated pride, thrown onto me by my parents and siblings, but it felt real in the moment. I never liked Scout. She was... different. Viscous, bloodthirsty, a sucker for pain, the perfect killer. Everything my family had went into making sure she'd bring home the crown.

Then she died.

How the fuck did I live when she couldn't?

I blink away the memory of her only to be greeted by the memory of the rest of them. It's been a whole year and for some reason they still haunt me like it was only yesterday.

I grip the arm of my chair as Machaon glares at me from the back of the crowd. My heart begins to race as I remember tripping over his bloodied body, the broken limbs and eyes that would never blink again. Atlas twirls a marker in his hand standing next to Stevie who winks at me. Those memories would make me smile if I didn't see Atlas' hammer cracking Natalie's head open or a wolf-like beast with demon eyes gripping at Stevie's throat.

Ghosts. All of them just-- memories. Still I flinch when I remember the crack my axe made when it connected with Heathcliff's hip. I can feel Scout's rattled breathing against my chest and her blood slick on my hands. I see the name 'Atlas' etched into Roger's belt, hear him asking me to start now. My axe wedged so deep in his skull that I nearly couldn't tear it free... Minos and Iris glare at me with eyes as dark as the arena. And I can't breathe.

I can see them all, every ghost, every memory. It all plays out in front of me like it had during the finale. The dancing lights strike through my vision and I have to close my eyes to keep from being blinded. I hear the speakers booming around the square, but can't recognize a single word. All I hear is the screaming, the howling of mutts.

My eyes fly open and I still see them all. I remind myself over and over—They're all dead. Nothing more than memories.—but it does nothing to calm the terror racing through me. I nearly scream when I see a figure walking towards me. Her face is blurry so that her eye sockets look hollow. Blonde hair turns a crimson color and I think perhaps it must be Natalie, coming at me with weapon raised and I jolt out of my chair.

Every memory dissipates, each ghost poofs in the blink of an eye. Except the girl is still there, still walking towards me with a furrowed brow and twisted knuckles at her side. I take a breath and pull my eyes away from her, realizing that a few eyes are trained on me. I skid my chair back into place and set myself back down, putting on a face to show the world that I don't fucking care.

Except when she looks over her shoulder at me I realize that I do. I remember I hate her. I remember telling myself I needed to hate her because "she isn't even one of us!" Except that was before I brought home a crown of bones and blood. That was before when I hated her because that's what everyone expected me to do.

She shakes her head; I clench my fists, my jaw.

I hope she hits me. It'll be much easier to hate her if she punches me again.

I stare at the back of her head, her hair looking nearly as pale as her skin, glowing softly in the light. She looks almost transparent. I lean forward in my seat, knotting my fingers together in front of me. I feel tears at the corners of my eyes, clamp them shut before anyone can see.

And I remind myself—

She's dead. Nothing more than a memory.

I hate her.

The lies we tell to calm ourselves are the craziest.

[ v i c t o r y ]

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

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[74th] The Reaping - District One Oct 14, 2016 5:07:17 GMT -5

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Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Oct 14, 2016 5:07:17 GMT -5

S T Y X
F R A Y

There are only two good things about my big brother becoming Victor: one, my parents have relaxed the pressure on us just a bit, and two, the wine. We had plenty of that before, but now we seem to not run out as much.

I had it in my hand, crimson-purple paradise in a fancy glass, before walking out the door to the Reaping, but my mother snatched it from my grasp and slammed it down on the table.

"You can drink when you come home," she snapped. "Don't embarrass us at the Reaping. Everyone will be watching us."

"Yeah, yeah, and you can't have your perfect image ruined, boo hoo," I growled in return. I had once been afraid to challenge her, but I began to give zero fucks when I realized that nothing I said or did would make her the least bit satisfied with me. "When are you giving me back to the orphanage, again?"

"Enough, Styx. Wipe that smirk off your face before you get to the Square, would you? And pull up your blouse."

Looking down at my plunging neckline for a moment and bringing my gaze back up to my mother's, I grin again, and pull it even further down. She nearly spits in frustration — her face turns red as a fat tomato, and I just throw my head back laughing.

"Just go already," she said at last and ushered me out the door, shooting one last glare at me before I turned my back.

Oh, how I loved our morning bickering sessions. It's a shame the Frays won't be returning me to the orphanage any time soon — but then again, orphanages don't have cellars full of wine.

I would die without being able to get tipsy when everything else in my life feels like shit.

When I am standing in the District Square, I feel like slapping the camera men in the face. They have been surrounding the Fray family ever since Justice's victory, and they are especially bothersome on Reaping Day. Swarming, circling us like vultures, they click and flash and click their annoying little cameras until I feel like I won't be able to see for a week.

If I knew I wouldn't get grounded, I would have told them to piss off by now.

As time goes on and the escort click click click clacks onto stage with her ridiculously high heels, they begin to disperse, focused on capturing the Reaping and the faces of the people standing in the crowd for their reactions when the names are drawn.

I know the drill by now. The escort says, "Ladies first," and my parents hold their breath and then —

"Pillar Fray!"

I sigh as the crowd erupts into chaos. Some people just gasp in shock, — "A third Fray in a row?" — others look disappointed that it wasn't them, while some cheer with manic enthusiasm. ("Fuck it up, Frays!")

I forget that some people actually like my family.

As Pillar begins to approach the stage and the crowd parts to clear a path for the princess, I roll my eyes into infinity. "Oh . . . noooo," I groan sarcastically, tossing my head back with another eye roll. "Woowww . . . I'm so . . . surprised."

Keeping a voice at a harsh monotone, I go on, "Whatever will we do without the amazing Pillar Frayyy?" My morbid sarcasm earns a disapproving glare from my parents, and I grin.

The last thing we need is another Fray Victor; my parents were up on their high horses before Justice won, but now they are up in the sky. With a second Victor, they would be lost in space, dammit, forever, and we would never hear the end of it. (We already never do, Ripred.)

Even I'm not an asshole enough to wish death on someone — and Pillar is my sister, kind of, after all. But it would be a bit more convenient for me if she didn't win.

I shrug. I shouldn't care, either way.