#odds:task

iza stared into their closet with an almost bored look on their face, sifting through their clothes. not that. not that. definitely not that. maybe that, that's fine. ty always liked that lacy number, and they'd made plans to grab a quick breakfast with a couple of other friends on the way. they didn't particularly care about looking their best for the cameras or whatever, but they did care about looking just a little better than all of their peers and making sure they all knew it, too.

the sky was brilliant, the air just the right sort of crisp, and they weren't worried about anything at all as they fell into step with their siblings and friends, exchanging little greetings before crossing their arms and largely not paying any attention whatsoever to the escort's smarmy propriety and flowery greeting.

but that first name that was read out to the crowd certainly sent a jolt of electricity through their system.

“i volunteer.”

the words weren't so much blurted as they were spoken with an immediate but very resigned sort of finality, adrenaline and panic warring for dominance within iza’s chest. they blinked. not ty. anyone but ty, with his smarmy, boyish grin, perfectly tamed brown hair, those shoulders that were always held as if he carried the weight of the very world upon them and not just responsibility for an orphaned herd of siblings even wilder than iza’s own.

not ty.

the crowd was a dull roar behind the blood rushing in iza’s ears, hands fisting in their clothes, shoving at them– a hand curled around ty’s wrist as they passed him, lips ghosting the corner of his mouth for just a pitiful, short second.

a first kiss.

a goodbye.

an i’m sorry, we’ve wasted so much fucking time– i should have said something sooner- a please don’t forget me, please please please please please– and then it was over, and iza was gone.

they drew in a breath as they clambered up the platform, swaying with dizziness for a moment and willing their stomach to calm. they didn’t spare a glance to the other tribute who joined them, or to the escort. instead, their eyes found their family. daphne, perfect as ever, her composed face white with shock. ezio, who always tried so very hard not to seem as if he cared about anything at all, crumbling. and further back, papa, struggling in dad’s arms, screaming and reaching for him.

and then Iza lifted their eyes to the sun, willing themself not to see anything at all.

the next time they were aware of anything, the world a mess of formless color and indecipherable sound, they were in a room-- and those people they'd already resigned themself to never seeing again were around them.

right. they'd forgotten this part.

it was all too much, and iza couldn't give any of them an answer they wanted. an answer that made it hurt less. telling ty you're just more important, they wouldn't make it without you went over like a ton of bricks, but what probably hurt the people they loved more than anything was how checked out iza was the entire time, silent, unemotional-- brain kicking in to overdrive, trying to keep a body from crumbling. giving out.

pathetic. can't even make it onto the train. i'm going to fucking die.

it wasn't until papa unclasped the pendant emblazoned with their family crest from his neck and put it around iza's that it all sank in and they broke.

they'd never seen him without it-- not ever in their life. every single memory of him that they had until this moment right now, he was clad in that necklace.

and if that wasn't a goodbye, iza didn't know what was.

later, they'd wish they'd left them all with a better parting image than them boneless and sobbing, apologies unintelligible between wails- but it was too late for that.

Tributes, please describe your reaping day. What did it feel like in your home District? Did you expect to be selected? How did you feel on the stage? Who came to say goodbye to you-- what did they say? In your opinion, what are your odds?

Her stomach grumbled, and she indulged in the last peach from her stash. Today had few good things going for it, after all, and while she was running low on supplies, it wouldn’t do to show up to the town square on an empty stomach. Some people always ended up fainting in the oppressive summer heat, and she didn’t intend to make a fool of herself this year. Sparrow bit into the fruit, slurping up the juice before it could drip down her chin and onto her clean shirt. She ate the last of it on her way to the main square, tucking the pit into her pocket. Who knew where she could muster enough room to plant it, but maybe she’d find a way. 

She slid into place on her row just in time. Only a couple of minutes passed before she heard the Peacekeepers’ sharp whistle and everyone fell silent, enough to hear a fly buzz by. Sparrow tucked her hands into her pockets, keeping her eyes on the ground. It was a silly ritual, but if the Capitol was like a great eye watching over their lives, she felt as though not meeting its gaze might save her. She was still staring a hole into the dirt when the escort’s voice rang out.

“SPARROW GARDNER!”

She didn’t budge, even as her brain registered the words. This wasn’t happening. Gardner was perhaps one of the most common names in the district, and Sparrow⎯well, maybe she’d misheard. Maybe it was all a fluke, and the escort would laugh and pick another paper slip out of their great glass ball. Any second now. 

But no one was laughing. Instead, a murmur ran through the ranks of prospective tributes as her neighbors looked at each other, then at her. The nearest two stared at her then shifted away, as though her misfortune would somehow rub off on them. 

“Sparrow Gardner,” the escort said again. “Please make your way to the stage.” Did they sound impatient? Sympathetic? She couldn’t tell. Why couldn’t she tell? Her ears were full of white noise. Her throat burned. The peach threatened to come back up in a trickle of bile. 

She didn’t know where she found the resolve to move. Breaking down into tiny steps helped. One foot in front of the other, again and again. A few more, and she was on the wooden blocks that led up to the stage, then on the stage itself, facing the crowd. A camera flashed in her face, and the sunlight glinting off the lens brought some of her senses back to her. She pulled her hands out of her pockets and attempted to stand up straighter, even though her knees felt like jelly. “Mighty bad luck I’ve got, huh? I bet no one’s hankering for a ticket to this show.” Her voice came out croaky and shaking, but surely anything was better than cowering in fear when the Capitol was watching.

The rest of the Reaping passed in a blur. She should’ve made an effort to jot down the name of her fellow tribute, how they’d behaved themselves in front of the crowd, but every thought she tried to have drained out of her head as if out of a sieve. Next thing she knew, she was sitting on a ratty velvet couch set up in one of the train station’s waiting rooms, still shaking. People were still talking outside, but their voices were muted, though she couldn’t tell whether they were muffled by the closed door or if her ears were still buzzing. 

Then the panel swung open with a creak, and old Culler was standing in the doorway. The last three years had worsened his limp, which he now had to remedy with a cane, but he looked exactly the same as he did when Sparrow had last seen him, sending her on her way with all her life stuffed into a ballot over her shoulder. 

She’d never been a particularly affectionate child, even when she was little, but here and now, she had to resist the urge to throw herself into his arms. Instead, she stood as best she could, propping herself up on the arm of a couch. “Didn’t take you for the sentimental type, Pops.” 

He reached out and cuffed the side of her head, as he’d used to when he’d walked into the kitchen to find her wrist-deep in the treats jar. “And I didn’t take you for the quakin’ type. Guess you’re not as good as getting a read on folks as you thought, eh?” 

As if to prove him right, she felt her eyes water. Before any tear could flow, she swiped at them with the hem of her sleeve. Who cared about clean shirts now, when she might die in the coming week? “Yeah, well, you’d best hope you’re wrong if you ever wanna see my mug again.”

“Who wants to see it again, you lazy little scamp?” Even as he spoke, she could hear his voice catching, the rust of years grinding to a halt. “You best make it back in one piece, you hear? If you kick the bucket out there, the young’uns are never going to let me hear the end o’ it.”

For the first time since her name had been called, Sparrow laughed. When she stumbled forward and held out her arms, he didn’t push her away, instead tugging her forward by the wrist until she was pressed snug against his old vest, scratchy and smelling of old straw. Home. Her home, right here⎯shabby and desolate, but it was the only one she had.