#everdeen!reader

THWACK!

The arrow embedded itself in the trunk behind a boy their age — hay-blond hair sticking up in every direction, shirt too big, face smudged from who-knows-what.

Haymitch Abernathy.

He stared at the arrow above his head. His eyes were as big as dinner plates.

“HEY!” You yelled, fear and anger mixing into one. “Are you crazy?! You almost got shot!”

He blinked once. Twice. Then squeaked — actually squeaked — “Why’d you do that?!”

“WHY’D YOU SNEAK UP ON ME?!” You shot back, cheeks blazing, eyes widened.

Burdock immediately burst into laughter — doubling over, clutching his stomach, literally losing his balance and falling off the log. “Oh—oh my—Y/N almost killed him!”

“I DID NOT!” You immediately snapped, your hair whipping around as you shot a glare at your twin.Haymitch pointed up at the arrow still quivering over his head.

“YOU DID!”

“It was an accident! You scared me!”

“You’re not supposed to shoot people when you’re scared!”

“You’re not supposed to sneak up on people with a bow!”

Burdock wheezed from the ground, now rolling in pine needles. “I’m—never—gonna—stop—laughing—”

You stomped forward, face red, grabbed the arrow from the tree, and glared at Haymitch, who shrank back even though he was the same size as you, maybe just a hair taller.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt,” you said, her voice wobbling a little more than she wanted.

Haymitch kicked at the dirt. “Well… you didn’t have to aim at my head.”

“I wasn’t aiming at your head!”

“You hit above it! That’s the same thing!”

“It is NOT!”

Burdock groaned in between giggle fits. “You two sound married.”

“SHUT UP, BURDOCK!” both you and Haymitch shouted at the same time.

You both froze. Looked at each other.

And both turned bright red.Haymitch cleared his throat, scuffing the ground with his shoe. “…It was a good shot, though,” he muttered. “I mean… for almost murdering me.”

You let out an irritated huff and rolled your eyes. “I wasn’t trying to murder you.”

“But you could’ve,” he said, then added quickly, “which is kinda cool. In a terrifying way.”

Burdock finally stood up, brushing pine needles out of his hair. “Haymitch, you should know by now — you don’t sneak up on Y/N. She’s like a feral cat.”

“I’m NOT—!”

“She’ll bite.”

“I DON’T—!”

“Or shoot.”

You threw your hands up. “Oh my god.”

Haymitch peeked at your bow. “…Can you teach me?”

You couldn’t help but blink at him. “Teach you what?”

“How to shoot like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not the part where you almost kill me. Just the… good part.”

Burdock grinned. “You? Shoot? I give it two minutes before Y/N quits. Stick with knives, Abernathy,”

Haymitch glared at him. “I can learn things!”

But you just sighed dramatically despite a smile tugged at the corners. “Fine. I’ll teach you. But only if you promise not to creep around like some—some forest goblin.”

Haymitch’s face lit up. “Okay! Deal!”

“I mean it!”

“I said deal!”

Burdock slung an arm around both of their shoulders. “Well! Excellent. Now if she actually does kill you next time, at least you’ll know why.”

“BURDOCK.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Burdock.

Burdock. God, you wondered what he was doing now. The two of you had never been separated like this before. Where one was, the other was always around one way or another.

Was he out in the woods making sure your bow was safe? Was he making sure that Lenore Dove didn’t get into any more trouble with the peacekeepers while Haymitch couldn’t?

What was Ma doing? Was she holding onto hope that somehow, out of 48 children, hers may somehow get back home? Did your Pa think so? Working away in the mines, forced to work those endless hours in the dark, where would his mind go to but his only daughter sent into the Games to be what was almost promised certain death.

The Games had always promised a Victor one way or another. Someone would have to make it out of there alive. Would it be you? Or Haymitch? Wyatt? Or Louella? Would it be any of the runts from District 12?

Your chances were as good a dirt. Compared to the chances of the other districts at least. Especially ones like District 1 and 2. Well fed. Trained for this. Having at least a hundred pounds on all of you combined.

Your eyes lock out the window of the train as the breakfast was brought out to you all.

Though the smell wasn’t as inviting as you would’ve liked. As much as you should eat, the idea of putting anything into your stomach made your stomach tighten. You didn’t want to accept anything from these people.

The same people who were trying to fatten you up like pigs to a slaughter house. Prettying you all up to seem likable, wanted by sponsors later on in hopes that you may get some help in that god forsaken arena.

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Haymitch piling some bacon and toast and eggs onto his plate. Though you can see on his expression that he’s a fan of this as much as you are. But you don’t move. Don’t pull your gaze from the wandering landscape as you get closer and closer to your deaths.

“Hey,” you hear a voice call from beside you. Turning your gaze from the window, you turn to focus then on Haymitch beside you.

He looks exhausted — shadows under his eyes, hair unbrushed, posture slouched. But when he glances at you, you see it: the flicker of protectiveness, of familiarity that goes all the way back to childhood.

he mutters quietly so Louella and Wyatt don’t hear. “Try to eat something. Just a little. You haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. You need something,

“I can’t,” you whisper back. The idea of eating anything makes your stomach turn again. Besides, how can you eat the food here when you have friends and family who are struggling just to have anything on their plates? It was wrong, it all just felt wrong.

“That’s fine,” he says. No softness, just honesty. “Just have a few bites of some fruit, yeah? Just like home,” he tries. But he knows just as much as you do that this is nothing like home.

The too perfect cut up fruit of concerning brightness of pinks and greens were nothing compared to the dark red and blues and blacks of the berries in the meadow and forest. But you appreciate what he’s trying to do. So you try too.

Reaching forward you pile some fruit that seem to be a little familiar and have some. Small bites, one after another of a surprisingly delicious fruit—something between a strawberry and something else you couldn’t put your finger on.

Haymitch nods beside you, before his attention turns to Louella to make sure the younger girl is also getting something into her stomach. To his pleasure, she is.

None of you really have had this much food before you. Even the food they seem to deem worthy for the tributes are luxury items and meals that you know none of you would ever be able to afford on your own. You might’ve been able to make a Seam/Everdeen version of it, but nothing would come close to this.

Your eyes shift up, and you could feel Haymitch tense beside you as Plutarch comes in with Drusilla behind him. Her face showed enough. Her eyes dragged over the four of you like you all were runts she was being paid to just barely keep alive; which you supposed was exactly what she was doing.

Plutarch’s hands clapped as a smile grew on his face. “Well good morning!” He said, a happy chirp to his tone, like he was unable to read the atmosphere of the room. Or he did and he just chose to ignore it.

“I hope you’re all filling up, we have a big day ahead of you! Once we arrive to the Capitol soon you’ll be off being….cleaned up, and meeting your stylist for the parade and then afterwards you’ll be brought to your quarters and meeting your Mentors,” he said, the camera behind him zooming and shifting around as if to gather your reactions.

Your own eyebrows furrow as you meet Haymitch’s gaze. None of that sounded appealing. To you, it sounded much like when you and Burdock would be cleaning off a kill before showing it off to your parents.

But the thing that got your attention was the mention of Mentors. District 12 didn’t have any. None that were alive at least. Your Ma had told you stories, hushed and rare as if even speaking about it would bring you to the Hanging Tree or the whipping posts. But regardless, you didn’t have mentors like the other districts.

“We don’t-“ before the rest of the words could slip out, Drusilla huffed in irritation. As if the very question was stupid, let alone the thought.

“Of course you don’t,” your escort almost spat, “

And as they pulled up into the Capitol station, your eyes budged at the sight. The shining beautiful colors towering above. The people behind the railings. All in different colors . And the buildings that you could see above? The colors of the gumdrops Lenore Dove loves. Reds, cotton candy pinks, azure blues, green like the grass in the meadow.

It was like they just painted everything with the prettiest colors they could imagine. It was difficult to process the fact while her family, her friends starved in homes and shacks, kids living in shacks and group homes, people starving—here the Capitol was.

From behind you, you could hear Plutarch’s grin. The cockiness of someone showing off something that know was grand. Something beautiful, clean, untouched by tough hands and struggle and turmoil. Something that was a privilege to live in by their strands. It was what separated them—Capitol and District.

But you knew the truth. The Capitol was built on the backs of the District. All these resources, they couldn’t have survived without them—they can’t. But you couldn’t help but wonder if these sleazy Capitol people knew that too. If they knew that if the Districts stopped, if the Districts cut off their supplies—the Capitol would fall within minutes.

“District 12, welcome to the Capitol.”

The welcome to the Capitol wasn’t entirely all that welcoming. It was a stunning view before you all were separated. You and Louella were moved to one side while Haymitch and Wyatt were moved to another.

Luckily, if you could call it that, they did this with all the tributes. 24 girls going one direction, and 24 boys going the other. Though where you were being brought? You had no idea.

With the chains on your wrists you all were bought into a large room with shower heads. You make sure to stay with Louella as you look at the other girls. Ranging from all ages—most of them afraid. But there’s a good handful who seem to be as ruthless as ever; heads up and high.

The next few hours blur together. And you can’t remember which event it was caused by. Maybe it was the way the peacekeepers slashed away at your clothes, sprayed you all down on cold water like animals before dousing you in some chemical spray.

Or maybe it was afterwards as you were poked, prodded, shaved, waxed, and hair cut to seem more ‘presentable’.

You hated every second of it. Each second their hand was on you. Luckily, they seemed to leave your hair alone. It was at least the one thing they weren’t able to take from you.

After they deemed you clean and presentable, they provided some undergarments and clothes to wear; all black to meet your stylist.

When you enter to the room, you’re reunited with Louella who seems to be relieved that you’re alright. The boys seemed to be good too. Cleaner, clean shaven, hair properly put together. But you can see on their faces that you all feel the same way: violated.

The room smells like sterilized stone and floral sanitizer when Magno Stift sweeps in. He carries himself with the kind of exaggerated elegance only the Capitol produces — every movement controlled, poised, and theatrical. His hair is sculpted into spirals of silver and black, and a single jewel glints from the center of his forehead.

He studies the four of you like exhibits in a museum:

you, Louella, Haymitch, and Wyatt — already stripped down, scrubbed raw, waxed, trimmed, and left feeling like strangers in your own skin.

“Well.” Magno smiles, revealing shining lilac-colored teeth. “District Twelve. My tributes for the Fiftieth Hunger Games. How… rugged.”

Haymitch mutters something under his breath. You elbow him, gently, but Magno is too busy gesturing to a rolling rack behind him to notice.

The rack is covered in fabric — a hopeful sight for three whole seconds — until Magno pulls the sheet off with a flourish.

And reveals…

Overalls.

Heavy, coal-stained, outdated miners’ uniforms. Old boots with worn soles. Faded helmets with fake headlamps glued on.

Not outfits. Not costumes. Just relics of poverty.

The two students, Proserpina and Vitus, if you remember correctly, seem absolutely furious. After sharing a look Proserpina huffs,

“Where are their new and amazing costumes?” She questions.

Magno beams. “These are them. I didn’t have time to start from scratch. But these will do. A classic District Twelve aesthetic, no? Very authentic. Very true to your roots.“ his words are slurring and you’re sure the reptile on him must be feeding him some sort of venom to feed into whatever delusion he thinks he’s doing.

Beside you, the two students seem to be cringing and almost frustrated

Wyatt snorts. “They love a freak show.”

Louella’s face goes pale. “We’re supposed to wear those?”

“You’re supposed to show who you are. And who you are—are coal miners. It is what they expect. It’s fine,” Magno corrects, wagging one long finger.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds:

“And don’t mind the chains. They’ll stay on until after the parade. Symbolism or something,”

Haymitch’s jaw clenches. Yours does too but no one argues. There’s no point, you don’t have anything else to wear. And so while you know that the other tributes are dressing in pretty sparkly things, you get to wear your Pa’s work uniform.

You’re handed your outfit piece by piece. The overalls hang heavy on your frame, smelling like old canvas and manufactured dust. The boots pinch. The helmet feels ridiculous, too big, too fake.

Louella looks miserable in hers. Wyatt looks like he’s given up. Haymitch just looks like he’s ready to kill Magno right here for messing up their chances.

Peacekeepers escort you down the winding, gleaming hallway toward the loading bay where the parade will begin. Your wrists remain chained together — a humiliating clinking reminder with every step.

A lift carries the four of you downward, and the temperature rises as the sound grows louder: cheering, screaming, chanting. The roar of the Capitol crowds swells like a living thing.

Your heart pounds.

“Just breathe,” Haymitch says under his breath, though he doesn’t sound convinced.

When the lift doors open, the preparation chamber stretches out before you. Two dozen chariots. Two dozen teams. Every other district stunning despite the choices of coloring. Their horses stamping their hooves, snorting, decorated in colors of their districts.

Your own horses are thin, nervous things, dyed black with glittering fake soot brushed into their coats. The chariot is blackened wood with a rusted metal plaque that simply reads:

12

Haymitch helps Louella climb into the first chariot. She trembles so much he has to lift her by the arm. They move stiffly, chained, adjusting to the balance.

You and Wyatt are led to the very last chariot in the line. The final pair. The final district. The ones no one expects to survive. The ones no one expects to care about.

As you climb in, the chains tug awkwardly, pulling your balance off. Wyatt steadies you with his free hand.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “We don’t let them see us scared. Our odds for sponsors will go down.

You nod, though your stomach twists.

The giant metal doors begin to rise.

Light floods the tunnel — blinding gold, sparkling off the marble ramp.

The noise strikes next, a tidal wave.

Cheers. Screams. Shouted names. Boos. Laughter. And something else — the murmur of catcalls, crude remarks, mocking whistles. You can’t hear the specifics, but you can feel the intention in the way eyes rake over you like you’re merchandise.

Haymitch and Louella’s chariot starts first. Then you and Wyatt.

Each district rolls into the Avenue with its own grand presentation. Silks. Flames. Jewels. Painted armor. Genetic embellishments.

And then there’s you four — covered in fake coal dust, chained, in overalls two sizes too big.

Wyatt lifts his chin. You force your shoulders straight.

When your chariot pulls forward, the lights hit you like a spotlight on prey. The crowd’s reaction is immediate and deafening.

A rain of flowers hits the ground around you. Some blossoms land at your feet discarded like pity. Something hard — a coin, maybe — bounces off your shoulder. The air fills with glitter and perfume.

A man in the crowd shouts something you can’t make out, followed by drunken laughter. Another whistles sharply.

Instinctively, you inch closer to Wyatt. The chains pull taut between you.

“Don’t look at them,” he mutters.

And you don’t. You keep your gaze on the back of Haymitch’s chariot. His shoulders are squared, but you can see the tension in the way his hands grip the railing. Louella keeps glancing back, her eyes catching yours as if checking that you’re still okay.

The horses beneath your chariot prance nervously. The noise is constant. Too constant. Too loud. And you want nothing more than to cover your ears and crouch and hide. But nothing can hide the view of you and the other tributes on the screen. Your grip tightens on the chariot before—

BAM!

A firework explodes above the Avenue. Not the polite sparkle you expect at a parade — this one cracks like a cannon, a shockwave of sound that rattles your ribs.

The horses shriek.

Your chariot lurches violently to the right.

You stumble — the chain yanking you forward — and Wyatt’s arm jerks hard in the opposite direction as he tries not to fall and help you at the same time.

Ahead, Haymitch’s horses rear, hooves slamming against the marble as Peacekeepers rush forward. The chariot jerks and rushed forward. Screams and cries erupt as everything blurs together.

The crowd screams — some in delight, some in confusion, some in fear.

Another firework bursts — louder, closer, brighter.

Two boys and two girls from each district.

48 tributes.

And the whole district felt it. The weight that suffocated your small district. The sword that hung over your heads. It hard to ignore the tension in the streets of District 12, of the Seam. 

The square will be filled with hopeful faces, but you can’t help but feel a cold knot in your stomach. Her hands tightening around the small paper bound package, not much bigger than a roll from the bakery.

Beside you, your twin brother, Burdock walks with his broad shoulders hunched against the growing warmth of the morning. 

Both of your boots crunch against the dirt and gravel of the ground. The two of you silent as you head through the Seam and towards the center of town. Around you, lingering kids do the same. 

But know Burdie is already gearing up to say something about your usual “distractions” today. You do it every year. The same packaging in your hands. A little hope in the dark time of July 4th. 

“I saw you,” he says, nudging you with his elbow, his voice a low, teasing growl. His eyes narrowing down on you. “Making eyes at Haymitch again? You know better than that, Smalls,”

Smalls. You hated that he called you that. You had always been shorter than him, not by much. But you have. 

You roll your eyes, shoving him lightly. “I wasn’t making eyes at him. You’re imagining things, Burdock. Why would I made eyes at Haymitch?” You ask as if it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. But your twin knew better. 

“Oh, right, like you weren’t just staring at him across the Hobb yesterday.” His voice takes on an exaggerated, sarcastic tone. “What’s next, you going to hand him a love letter too? I’m sure Lenore Dove wouldn’t appreciate that,”

Lenor Dove. Your beautiful, and fierce cousin. The troublemaker. And Haymitch’s girl. 

You huff, pursing your lips as you push the thoughts away. You weren’t angry with your cousin. You couldn’t blame her for falling for Haymitch. With his wit, the charm, everything about him was magnetic.

But you’re too stubborn and embarrassed to admit that, let alone let Burdock know that his teasing is getting to you. “I wasn’t staring. I was trading. He just so happened to be in that direction,” she said simply.

“Uh-huh.” He smirks, clearly enjoying the way his teasing is getting under your skin. “Well, maybe you should be careful, or he or Lenore Dove might think you’re a little too… interested.”

“Trust me, I’m not,” you mutter under your breath, though you’re unsure who you’re trying to convince. But the last thing you wanted to do was get between your cousin and her guy, who also is happens to be your brother’s best friend.

Burdock smirks and nudges you again. “You know better, Smalls. Besides, you can do better than Abernathy. So can Lenore Dove but god forbid we tell her that,” 

“Yeah I’ll keep that in mind for when I see Asterid,” you added, a smirk growing on your own face as you bring up your brother’s crush. Well, more like unofficial girl. Though the whole district probably knew about their feelings for each other. 

Though before he could retaliate with another word, the two of you approached the town square. The whole space has been transformed for the day’s festivities. Banners of Panem were hung. Large screens and other decorative items. 

And then ahead of you, a figure emerges from the crowd—Haymitch. The air feels like it shifts when you see him, and for a second, everything else fades into the background. He walks towards you both, his face shadowed though his usual smug expression crossed his face, hands in his pockets.

You step forward, swallowing back the nerves swirling in your stomach, hand over the package. “Hey, Haymitch,” you say softly, your voice trying to sound like everything was normal. Like the odds weren’t completely stacked against all of you. 

He raises an eyebrow, a hint of surprise flickering in his gaze when you hand him the gift. “What’s this?” he asks, his voice giving away the curiosity growing as he takes it from you.

“Happy birthday,” you say quickly, offering a shy smile. “I made it for you.”

His expression softens for a moment, though he’s quick to hide it behind his usual guarded look. He pulls the wrapping away with practiced hands, revealing a small leather bracelet, the stitches tight and neat. It’s simple, but it’s a piece of you—something you put effort into, something that’s yours to give. 

You always tried to give him something handmade, or something he could use. With the hunting your family does, it gives a little extra coin. But this year with the Quarter Quell? Something in your stomach told you do to it. You just weren’t sure if it was for you, or him.

Burdock, standing a little behind you, rolls his eyes and mutters just loud enough for you to hear, “Gods, you’re so weird.”

Haymitch chuckles low, glancing at Burdock with a smirk. “She’s considerate, Burdie. That’s more than I can say for you.”

You quickly step back, feeling a flush creeping up your neck at Burdock’s teasing. “I have to go,” you say, your heart racing a little faster as the reaping draws closer. You don’t want to linger too long.

You look between the two boys, “I’ll see you guys afterward,” you say, giving your brother a hug and Haymitch a nod and smile before going and checking in. Afterwards,  youtoward the girl’s side of the square, the weight of the moment sinking in as you join the others, trying to push away the nerves, the fear, the uncertainty.

As you reach your spot in the crowd, you find your group of friends. Asterid March, and Maysilee and Merrilee Donner.

 you glance back one last time at Haymitch, who’s now inspecting the bracelet with a small smile. Burdock is standing beside him, muttering something that you can’t hear, but you catch the shake of Haymitch’s head, that wry grin on his face.

For a moment, everything feels normal. For a moment, it feels like nothing has changed. But you know that’s not true. Today, everything will change.

And as you stand there, heart thumping in your chest, you know that you’ll never forget this moment, even if it’s the last one that ever feels like it.

The square is packed, the air thick with a mix of anticipation and dread. The Capitol’s anthem blares from the loudspeakers, a stark contrast to the somber faces of the District 12 residents. The parents and families of all the children packed away in the square like animals. Watching and waiting to see which four unlucky children get picked.

Which four they have to mourn this year.

It wasn’t long before the mayor gave her speech. Replaying the clips and propaganda of the Dark Days, the games, and the past Hunger Games.

Drusilla Sickle, the Capitol-appointed escort, steps onto the stage not long after. Her presence is as flamboyant as ever, her face adorned with thumbtacks and tiny buzz saw blades, a grotesque display of Capitol fashion. She raises her hand as she begins, and you feel the knot in your stomach growing, playing with the ring on your right ring finger. 

“Welcome, District 12!” Drusilla’s voice rings out, dripping with feigned enthusiasm. “Today, we gather for the 50th Hunger Games Reaping, a special Quarter Quell year,” she said adjusting her clothes again.

Drusilla continues, her tone mocking. “First, we shall select our female tributes.” She turns to the glass bowl beside her, swirling her hand inside before pulling out a slip of paper. Unfolding it, she announces, “Louella McCoy!”

You feel absolutely sick. You know Louella. A little girl from the Seam, just down the street. You had seen her grow up. Knew her family. You helped them as much as you could. 

And as you watched, Louella steps forward, her face pale, eyes wide with fear. Though she doesn’t cry. She slowly joins Drusilla on the stage, standing stiffly beside her. And you try not to think 

Drusilla’s hand delves back into the bowl, and she pulls out another slip. “And for the second female tribute. Y/N Everdeen!”

Your breath catches in your throat. Your name. Your heart races as you feel the weight of countless eyes upon you. Burdock’s gaze meets yours across the square, his face a mixture of concern and helplessness. 

But you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Not when your blood has absolutely run cold. You were going to die. It was as simple as that. You were a hunter sure. But hunting animals were much different than hunting humans.

So incredibly different. 

So how the hell were you supposed to do this? Against 47 other tributes? 12 of them being Careers.

Swallowing harshly, you finally snap out of your daze. You turn to your three friends give them biggest hug you could muster. And before you leave, your eyes land on Asterid, “Take care of my brother. Please,”

A final wish. You can’t imagine what your death would have on your twin. The guilt he may feel. Would he tell stories about you to his children? Would Asterid? Or would you be a missing piece of him that he never speaks about.

You hear people crying off to the side. Ma. It’s your parents. But still, you school your features the best you could while you force your legs to move, each step heavier than the last, until you stand beside Louella on the stage. And you don’t look anywhere in particular. Just staring off into the crowd of kids that you grew up around. Grew up with. 

Drusilla gives a theatrical sigh, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Now, for our male tributes.”

She draws a name. “Wyatt Callow!”

Wyatt, known for his quick wit and math skills. His family are gamblers. He was always the one picking out the odds of things. Especially when the games came around, he was particularly handy to his father and brothers. 

Drusilla reaches into the glass bowl again, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulls out the second slip. “Woodbine Chance!”

Woodbine, a lanky boy with wild eyes, freezes. His gaze flickers toward the crowd, then back to Drusilla. He walks out to the aisle that leads to the stage and pauses for a moment. 

Then without warning, he turns and bolts, pushing past Peacekeepers and scattering bystanders. A gasp ripples through the crowd.

“Stop him!” Drusilla shrieks, her voice high-pitched with panic, echoing into the microphone and bouncing off the walls of the square.

The Peacekeepers react swiftly, drawing their weapons. Woodbine’s desperate sprint is cut short as a single shot rings out from the rooftop of the justice building. The gunshot echoing through the square. 

He collapses, lifeless, his defiance snuffed out in an instant. Woodbine is sprawled on the ground, a dark stain spreading beneath him, his wild eyes frozen open.

Then, everything erupts into chaos.

Someone screams—a raw, broken sound that cuts through the cold morning air. Peacekeepers move in a blur, shouting orders, raising their rifles. The crowd surges in confusion, some people shoving to get away, others frozen in place. A woman—Woodbine’s mother, maybe—cries out his name before a Peacekeeper tries shoves her back from the body of her boy. 

You barely register any of it. Your body moves on instinct. Louella is beside you, trembling. Without thinking, you grab her and shove her down, pressing her against the stage, your own body curling over hers.

“Stay down,” you whisper, though your voice is swallowed by the rising panic.

A second shot rings out. Then another.

Something cracks against the stage beside you—wood splintering, or maybe stone. You squeeze your eyes shut, tightening your grip around Louella as she shakes beneath you. Her fingers clutch at your sleeve. 

People are shouting, Peacekeepers are barking orders, but it all blurs together, muffled, distant. You focus on the rough wood beneath your hands, the sharp edges digging into your palms, the way Louella’s breath stutters beneath you.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the chaos dulls. The shouting ebbs, the frantic movement slows.

You don’t move. You don’t lift your head.

A voice—sharp, commanding—cuts through the settling dust. “Get them up.”

Hands grab at you, hauling you off Louella. Your legs buckle as they drag you upright. The world tilts and sways, your vision swimming. Louella is being pulled to her feet beside you, her face pale, her eyes wide.

Drusilla Sickle stands at the podium again, though her elaborate Capitol mask of composure is cracked at the edges. Her mouth is tight, her hands trembling as she smooths down her ridiculous outfit.

“Well,” she says, voice brittle. “That was… unfortunate.”

The Peacekeepers have formed a barricade around the stage, their rifles held stiffly at their sides. In the square, bodies are still. Woodbine is gone—dragged away, erased.

Drusilla clears her throat, shaking out a new slip of paper with a forced smile. “Let’s try that again, shall we? Back to your places! We only have a few minuets!”

You have no idea what’s going on before the peacekeepers bring you and Louella and Wyatt back into the crowds. Right where you were.

Stunned, you realized what was happening. The beer making you do everything all over again. And for what? The camera? You try your best to seem like this was the first time. But it’s almost worse knowing what’s coming.

Louella is called again. Then you. Then Wyatt.

But it’s the name she reads next makes your stomach drop.

“Haymitch Abernathy.”

No. No no the second boy was already called. It was Woodbine. They couldn’t get replacement. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right. Not for Haymitch. Not for anyone who saw what really happened.

You wanted to scream. To shout. To cry that Haymitch didn’t deserve to be sent to the games like you, or Wyatt, or little Louella. But no sound came out. Like they completely stole your voice from you.

A silent murmur ripples through the crowd. You turn your head just in time to see Haymitch step forward, his usual smirk absent, his expression unreadable. Why had they called him? What did he do to get himself here? Or were the odds not in his favor.

He takes his place beside Wyatt Callow. The four of you—Louella, Haymitch, Wyatt, and yourself—stand before District 12, before the Capitol’s watching eyes.

Drusilla claps her hands together, as if that will erase the blood, the fear, the chaos.

“There we have it! Our tributes for the 50th Hunger Games!”

The anthem plays. The ceremony continues until it wraps up. 

As if nothing happened at all.