Chapter Text
TSIREYA ROSE WITH THE FIRST BLINK OF DAWN, slinking out of the house before the sun had fully come to mount in the sky. Her mission remained unchanged: to forage what herbs she could find along the cliffside and shoreline.
When she was younger, she’d needed her journal to identify them all (to be able to tell death camas apart from a standard wild-onion bulb) but the knowledge had taken root inside her mind, since then.
Some of these plants weren’t native to the land her District dwelled on, but it didn’t matter, then nor now. They were transported there long before the Dark Days – long before they were shunned of all their other purposes besides what the tide brought in – and withstood it all. They were a testament of nature, of life, of surviving despite their circumstances, and as she plucked those plants from the ground; Tsireya praised them for that.
She took those moments of solitude for granted; humming songs of old, her voice unheard and lost to the breeze as she treaded back to the Square. Tsireya did this walk everyday. It was a simple life, perhaps a little tedious, but one that she profoundly adored. Her satchel normally wouldn’t arouse so much suspicion, but the peacekeepers were always tetchier on the 4th. There were more, too; down from the barracks like froth to the shore, on account of all the people doomed to swarm the Square later that afternoon. One stopped her, demanding to search her bag. She knew better than to refuse a peacekeeper’s demands, and so, she let him.
Testing her resolve, Tsireya didn’t flinch when he tore her bag from her shoulder, nor even when he rummaged through it. She wasn’t hiding anything. What she did wasn’t (technically) illegal. Upon only finding (to him, a bunch of weeds) and after she declared she worked for a Mr. Sandoval, the peacekeeper let Tsireya go with a gruff word of warning and threatening farewell.
“May the odds be ever in your favour.”
Tsireya shivered at the phrase, and prayed nobody else would stop her. But that wish came true, too well. Nobody acknowledged her at all. That was something she was used to, but not from the early-dawners of the Square; the merchants setting up for the day. They all knew her, were all friendly with her. She was one of them. But Today was a solemn day for some and it was better to rebuke the children than to concede them. It lessened the weight of the pain, or so she was told.
The wind-chime whistled as she entered Sandovals, the apothecary in the Square; marvelled for his anti-seasickness elixir amongst our Districts deep-sea sailors since circa. 25 and a hotspot amongst the peacekeepers for his herb-stuffed mask capsules.
“Good morning Mr. Sandoval!” Tsireya called out, slinging her satchel onto the counter-top, its contents creating a soft thud. Bumbling out from behind the till, Mr. Sandoval smiled when he saw her. A compliment in itself, she’d come to know, considering he smiled at no one for nothing.
“Good morning, Miss. Fischer.”
Still, Tsireya sighed, disheartened. He called her that no matter how many times she told him to call her by my forename, claiming it was a form of respect to be solely addressed by one's surname. Tsireya begged to differ, for everyone she had ever known to address her only as ‘Fischer,’ had used it simply as a guise to perturb her without the schoolteachers catching on. Everyone, that was, except for Mr. Sandoval. He was one of the few people she knew, then, for certain, respected her.
He chuckled at her reaction, though his jowls hung solemnly again as he mumbled, “Your scavenges are always heftier on reaping days…”
And one of the only people that could see straight through her.
“Are you insinuating that everyday should be reaping day?” Tsireya jested to mask her exposure.
“Lord, no,” Sandoval grimaced, “You always prepare for the worst.”
She ignored his suggestion. It was bad luck to give into such fears. Thinking something would happen was just as bad as willing it to.
“What would you do without me?” Tsireya sighed, wistfully, leaning against the counter as Mr. Sandoval decanted her consignment into separate jars.
“I suppose you’d have to enlist one of the beggar boys…” Mr. Sandoval scoffed, twirling a particularly vibrant violet between his fingers, “I’d much rather trek all the way myself.”
Then he turned, and beckoned her palm to open as he pressed the flower inside, along with a handful of pennies. His hand clasped over Tsireya’s, trembling from his elderly jitters, “For your troubles.”
The payment wasn’t unusual – it was why she did this for him – though the amount of it certainly was.
She jingled the coins in her palm, scowling. “It’s no trouble.”
“No, Miss. Fischer,” Sandoval pressed, and she knew what he meant, but she ignored him again.
“I’ll be back this afternoon to do my rounds,” Tsireya said, “Mr. Alagona’s gangrene’s gotten a lot worse since last Tuesday–"
“I’ll manage,” Sandoval cut in, with a placating hand, “You take the day off. Spend it with friends.”
Tsireya knew one person (unrelated and the same age as her) that she’d consider a friend. Caiomhe Marsh, her best-friend and, coincidentally, also her neighbour. Though they were for the most part, inseparable; Caoimhe tended to get invited to things Tsireya did not. And the latter was too bitter a personality to stay knowingly in a place she was not wanted, especially when she could be doing something much more worth her time. So, the word irked Tsireya. And if it were any other day, perhaps she’d have resisted; but she simply didn’t have the fight in her. Not then. And so, she departed with a weak, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sandoval nodded, satisfied, “May the odds be ever in your favour.”
His words rang differently than those of the peacekeeper, though they were the same. They were more honest, more earnest. As though Sandoval truly did wish her well Today. Tsireya didn’t doubt he did, if not simply because she was an amenity to him, but she didn’t have the energy to honour his sentimentality.
Reaping days weren’t ever easy, but they were harder on those they’d taken from. Mr. Sandoval had lost both his children to the Games, something that Tsireya gravely pitied him for. As a career district, they collectively agreed not to dwell on their losses, only to focus on their wins. In that, they forgot to mourn, and shunned those who couldn’t forget.
Tsireya saluted him as the wind-chime whistled again.
It was as packed as a tin of sardines as she meandered through the Square. On a bad day, a catch or shipment day, it’d take around an hour to get through the crowds and back home. It had filled up immensely since she dropped off her haul at Sandovals, brimming with those that’d stayed in inns for the night, or simply on the streets, to save them travelling up on the day. Those from what they up in the Square called ‘The Barrell,’ where the “drunkards,” and “lowlifes,” resided, according to Tsireya’s Ma. Though, there were plenty of those everywhere.
Tsireya breezed through another chime, this time, to her home; with its orange-painted pebbledash and blue shutters on all of the windows. It was a townhouse, spread across 6 floors (if you counted the basement and attic) which made it sound far grander than it actually was. The basement was purely storage, (and, she was told, a bunker from the Dark Days) while the first floor took up ‘Marsh’s Bakery,’ Caoimhe’s mother’s hobby-job.
There were multiple bakeries throughout the Square alone, for it spanned such a breadth; though Tsireya did think Marsh’s was the best. Perhaps her opinion was biased, for several reasons, but Mrs. Marsh was the only baker she knew of who could infuse anything with tangerine-rinds.
“Morning dear,” The woman hummed, kneading dough on the countertop. She hardly glanced up at Tsireya as she nodded to the door, never lifting a finger from her work, “You just missed your Ma.”
Tsireya’s Ma was just as devoted to her job as Mrs. Marsh was, though, in vastly different ways. Where Mrs. Marsh inarguably enjoyed what she did, Tsireya highly doubted her Ma wanted to spend a second longer than she had to in the guttery. But it wasn’t a matter of want, for them, and every hour overtime she worked benefited them massively. Even if that overtime did fall unto Reaping Day.
“Is Caoimhe up yet?” Tsireya yawned, the warm yeasty smell emitted from the stone-oven comforting enough to calm her nerves, if only momentarily.
Mrs. Marsh scoffed, “Is the sky red?”
Tsireya chuckled at her funny analogy, tossing the violet Mr. Sandoval spared her beside Mrs. Marsh’s dusty hand. “Give this to her, will you? It’ll go better with her dress.”
Then, reaching into her pocket, Tsireya revealed a bunch of rosemary.
“And this–” she handed it to her, “Is for you.”
Green eyes crinkling as she smiled, Mrs. Marsh pocketed the herbs into her apron; holding up a finger, (as if to say, “wait a moment,”) she turned and handed Tsireya a loaf of bread the same size as her head. The citrus-scent wafted up before she even got the chance to ask what was inside of it, warm and welcome in her palms. It wasn’t a bad deal, trading herbs for free-bread. Especially when it was bread not made with the gritty granules they got from tesserae.
“Good doing business with you,” Mrs Marsh winked, as she turned back to her kneading.
Tsireya mumbled a “thank you,” though it was stifled through the tufts of bread she stuffed in her mouth as she hurried upstairs; climbing two flights till she reached the 4th floor, where her ‘house’ separated from the Marsh’s and the bakery.
It was a quaint space, used-to-be-bedrooms split into her little brother, Tadhg’s room, a makeshift kitchenette and the living room-conjoined-Ma’s room, with the old TV. Opposite the entrance there was a net-door to an alley that led to an outhouse they shared with a few other families, and the public showers beachgoers used to wash the sand away.
During the day, the Marsh’s would let them use their actual bathroom, but there was only one in the building and, technically, it resided on their floors. Mr. Marsh owned the building. Sort of. The Capitol owned them all, really. They made the districts pay a tax to live in the houses they inherited to, no doubt, fund whatever lavish lifestyles they lived over there. After Tsireya’s Da died 5 years prior, her family got ‘displaced,’ from their old home because Ma couldn’t afford the tax on her own and Tsireya’s older sister, Naiara and she were both too young to help. They’d’ve been living on the streets in The Barrel if it weren’t for Da’s old Captain, Mr. Marsh, offering them this; at the promise Ma would take a cut of his own payments.
Rolling her shoulders back to manually untense them, Tsireya dropped the pennies Sandoval handed her into the jar Ma kept on the dining table: rewrapped the bread and left that beside it. On a normal day, when they weren’t hurrying around for school, she’d spend her spare time in the morning waiting for Caoimhe to rise by playing my guitar or shooting darts. But Tsireya’s hands were trembling too much Today, and she didn’t trust herself unsteady not to snap a string or take someone’s eye out. The steeple bells were only just ringing, indicating it was just gone 10am, and while she knew it wouldn’t take her 2 hours to clean herself up for the cameras, she needed the time to regain her composure. Readying herself was the perfect excuse.
A sweat sheened her skin, but, unwilling to give up her solitude just yet; Tsireya took to the outdoor showers instead.
Caoimhe Marsh was her ultimate confidante, the only shoulder she could cry on without feeling guilty, but Tsireya couldn’t help comparing their situations today. There was something bittersweet about being beside her throughout it all. Though she knew she’d be allowed downstairs, Tsireya didn’t want to risk waking Caoimhe and having to confront her fears before it was necessary. She tore a towel off the hanger and let the net-door rattle behind her, hoping that the swinging would wake Tadhg, who had (to no surprise) not yet graced them with any sign of life.
When she reached the showers, they were desolate; so, she stripped down to her underwear. Tsireya was not ashamed of how her body looked, but she was wary of people she didn’t want to see, seeing it. Ma once told her that a woman’s body was a special treasure that should be kept safe. And, when seen, adored. Tsireya knew her words spurred from shame. Shame, for the situation they were in. She knew that Ma wished more for them. For Naiara and Tsireya, especially, as they grew from girls and into women. For Tsireya was not naive enough to think that the looks she would receive, should anyone walk in on her now, be anything but lustful.
The water dribbled from the nozzle on account of the water-ban the Capitol had forced unto the district, due to that summer’s drought. But the stream, no matter how weak, calmed Tsireya like nothing else ever could. She let it run over her until she heard the scuffle of sandals echoing down the alley. Then, she turned the tap off: gathered her things, and scampered back into the house before anyone could catch a glimpse of her.
Climbing up a ladder and pushing up the driftwood trapdoor, Tsireya clambered into the attic converted into her and Naiara’s “bedroom.” It spanned the length of their house, split in half with dusty rugs, old tapestries and fishing tarps to give them equal privacy. Though, Tsireya did have to pass through Naiara’s side to get across to hers. It wasn’t something that either of them minded. Naiara wasn’t a noisy person, and while Tsireya might’ve been, she knew she was incapable of bothering her sister. She couldn’t hear a thing Tsireya did or said because Naiara was profoundly deaf.
What she lacked in hearing, she made up for in vision. Her peripheral heightened, her head whipped up at Tsireya rising from the hatch. Tsireya had always said that if Naiara put herself out there, she’d do an excellent job in one of the lighthouses, but the first job she ever tried for (in one of the low-ranking gutteries) refused to hire her because of her deafness, and it’d put her off everything ever since. Instead, Naiara spent her days drawing and helping Mrs. Marsh, to discount their share of the tax. She pulled her weight the only way she could.
Lying on her front, she blew Tsireya a kiss as she passed. Catching it mid-air, the girl slapped her hand against her cheek. It was something silly they’d always done, yet, Naiara laughed then as though it were the first time. She couldn’t hear the sound, unapologetic and garbled, but Tsireya thought it was beautiful. She loved her sister’s laugh – because it made her want to laugh, even on days when she knew she shouldn’t.
Blinking back the burn behind her eyes, Tsireya pulled her mother’s old dress from her wardrobe: a garment of orange ruffles, embroidered with fish at the hem, that she believed her late grandmother had stitched. She did not quite have the chest to fill its v-neck, so it gaped a little, but it did the job. It was difficult to find colours that suited her hair, Tsireya thought, the shade of auburn so distinct that many simply clashed. Still, she thought orange was one of her best colours. Which was lucky for her. A luck she could only dream preceded her.
Once she was dressed, Tsireya peeked her head behind the corner and beckoned Naiara to come help her with her hair. Tossing her charcoal and paper aside, the latter staggered up, far too excitedly for the occasion.
Something Tsireya had learned about her big sister was that she needed to feel needed. And this was one of the things Tsireya did need her for. One of the things she just so happened to be very good at. It was a silent display of affection, something that their mother probably should’ve been doing though, it was something she’d never prioritised. Work aside, Ma tended to cave in on herself on Reaping Days. She couldn’t stomach the thought of her children slipping away. Death always bothered her mother, while Tsireya saw death everyday at the Apothecary.
It was funny how it changed people. How she became so numb to the sight, and her mother so perturbed by the thought. Tsireya wondered if, one day, her mind would change again.
Once she’d raised a family of her own, once the threats her mother faced, faced her in the same way. Naiara braced Tsireya’s shoulders, indicating she was finished with her hair. And while their mother should’ve been helping her, Tsireya was glad then that she was not. She might’ve been a miracle-worker in the kitchen, but she was no artist like Naiara, who always managed to make Tsireya look decently pretty. She’d run this pomade gifted to her by Caoimhe through her hair to define her curls (of which, normally frizzed up so much the coils appeared nonexistent) and braided two chunks at the front, tied at the back, to keep it all away from her face. Woven into them were dried wildflowers, precious souvenirs pressed from her journals. It soothed Tsireya that Naiara’s words rested in her hair. She couldn’t stand with her in the pens anymore, but Tsireya knew she’d be with her, regardless.
She smiled, a “thank you,” in of itself, though Naiara waved her gratitude away, sniffling as she dabbed some beetroot juice to Tsireya’s lips and cheeks to feign a blush. She sighed, a strange look lingering in her eyes as she took her younger sister’s hand and led her downstairs. Tsireya wished she could ask her what she was thinking. She wished that she could tell her. Naiara pointed to the stove, a transportable gas hob on the counterside, her way of saying she’d fix them something up.
Breakfasts and lunches were a rarity in their household, save for special occasions. Though it felt wrong to deem today one of them, Tsireya supposed that it was. Calling it ‘special’ made it feel worth something and, despite all the Capitols agitprop, Tsireya wasn’t sure the Games mean anything anymore. That they ever meant anything at all.
Tsireya sighed, watching as Naiara shot a frown at Tadgh’s door. It’d always been Tsireya’s role to wake the beast. Relenting, she knocked a few times. But upon hearing no response, she simply stepped inside; surprised to find him, not only awake, but dressed too: slumped against the headboard of his cot with a familiar pictureframe clasped in his two hands.
“Hey,” her voice rang woeful, though she mustered a laugh at the sight of his hair; the same shade as hers, though not nearly as tightly curled. He didn’t shift when she sat beside him, so tense that Tsireya had to nudge his legs aside to make space for herself. At closer inspection, his hair had worked up a grease that she knew would make it easy to comb through. Taking it off the side, a brittle-tortoisehell that’d once belonged to their Da, she brushed Tadhg’s hair for him like she did when he was little-little. Once it was neat, she tapped the comb against his chin. “Chin up, soldier.”
The corners of his mouth quirked, but fell again before a smile could fully form. “Aren’t you scared?”
Tsireya tucked a stray curl behind his ear. She was. She was terrified. But if she let him know that, then it’d give him a reason to be, as well. Of which, he had none.
“‘Course not,” she mustered the strength to lie; something she’d always been excellent at. Especially when she wanted to be, and particularly to Tadhg. “So you shouldn’t be either.”
“But what if it’s me?”
“It won’t be. Your name's only in there once, Tadhg.”
“But what if it is?”
“Then someone will volunteer,” Tsireya implored, sick of the conversation, sick of going around in circles. “They always do.”
In District 4, their volunteer-to-reaped ratio was about half and half. Plenty trained, though it was mostly a precaution, and always at a price.
The Academy was an afterschool elective training program hosted in an old warehouse near the Square, Monday-through-Friday. It was run by alumni, and charged a hefty fee. One that many couldn’t afford. At least, not for all of their children. It wasn’t uncommon to glorify the eldest child, to put all of one’s money into them and them alone; especially in the case of same-sex siblings. Tangibly, it was like that in Tsireya’s family too. Except, instead of Ma wasting all her income on tuition, she had always made Tsireya and Tsireya, solely, take out tesserae.
“You have nothing to worry about.” She tried her luck again, though she knew her words were futile. The first time was always daunting and it was pointless to soothe someone in his position when the fear has not yet surpassed them once. But, they were all Tsireya had to give. Her words. And she hoped they showed him some perspective, that his odds were better than most.
It was a general rule-of-thumb, rarely neglected, that if a 12-year-old was reaped and you’d trained sufficiently enough, then you’d take their place. Tsireya was unsure why. She couldn’t imagine volunteering in place of anybody besides, perhaps, Naiara and Caoimhe. Though only one of them was still applicable.
Reading between the lines, Tadhg seemed to calm, if only slightly. Tsireya clasped his shoulder, urging him to stand.
“Come on,” she said, “Fill your belly up. It’ll settle your nerves.”
He grimaced, seeming to disagree, though he never protested.
They ate in silence; a measly meal of olives (that’d been in the cupboard so long Tsireya was sure they were at risk of botulism) tinned anchovies and a few slices of the tangerine-bread to soak up the brine. They left the remaining half of the loaf for Ma, who they lingered around for, in hopes she’d walk through the door. Though, she never did. Tsireya figured she’d meet them in the Square, since it was running later now. This wasn’t unusual, but it filled her with an undignified amount of rage, nonetheless.
In her mothers plea to avoid her fears, she forgot about her son. There were some things more important than work, Tsireya thought. One day off wouldn’t maim her.
Only when they couldn’t wait a second longer did they make a move to depart. Naiara enveloped Tadhg and Tsireya in her embrace, kissing them on the temples. And although Tsireya longed for nothing more than to stay there; she was the first to break away. A feigned display of strength that nearly faltered when they convened with Caoimhe downstairs.
She wore the same lilac dress she always did; belted at the waist with freshly ironed pleats. Her bleach-blonde hair curled as tightly as she could get it to be with the old, tin-cans she used; cascading off her shoulders like soft waves and adorned by the violet Tsireya had given Mrs. Marsh. The sight of it tucked behind her left-ear made Tsireya’s eyes burn, but she refused herself the liberty of tears.
Caoimhe understood, clasping Tsireya’s free hand in hers.
They plodded, silenced and begrudged, to the centre of the Square as a trio. She and Tsireya didn’t utter a word to one another until they separated from Tadhg. Caoimhe knew, from how much Tsireya had babbled on about it those upcoming weeks, that she did not want to speak of today in front of him in fear of stirring his anxiety any more. But once they were away from him, their fingertips pricked and drawn from, Tsireya let it all subside.
“How many times is your name in today?” Caoimhe asked, voice trembling, quelling any semblance of peace Tsireya maintained.
“26,” replied Tsireya, unable to help how curt she sounded. Out of the corner of my eye, Tsireya caught her throat bob.
Sometimes, she thought Caoimhe was more frightened about the Reaping than she was. Tsireya’s likelihood of being reaped was more than most people her age, on account of all that tessera. A fact that, as Mayor Birney graced the stage, Tsireya was viscerally aware of.
She was glad, as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, that they didn’t separate them alphabetically as well. She wasn’t so sure she could withstand the anticipation without Caoimhe’s hand to hold.
Mayor Birney introduced their District's previous Victors as they took their seats behind the bowls, in order of their Victory.
There was Muscida Selkirk, who won the 8th, and Mags Flanagan, who won the 11th. Clifford Seymour, Victor of the 20th, and Venn Pike, the 27th, followed shortly afterwards. Niall Orwell, belonging to the 37th, barely managed the walk to his seat without his protege, Rafferty Talcott (48) to aid him. Tsireya didn’t have much of an opinion on any of them besides Venn, who laughed when little kids or wailers got reaped: Niall, the drunkard who fell asleep during her first year, or their most recent, Finnick Odair. A heart-throb both at home and in the Capitol.
She managed a chuckle at the thought of the poster Caoimhe had of him above her beside. Though, the memory of his laugh as he tugged at her braids in the schoolyard that Tsireya could not seem to banish from her mind settled her amusement as quickly as it came. Quelling altogether, as the moment approached, and the mayor recited the history that had led them to their fate.
Afterwards, Mayor Birney handed the ceremony to their escort, Undine Clearwater (who, Tsireya thought, had a suspiciously aquatic name for someone bred, born and raised in the Capitol) wiggling onstage.
“Welcome all!” The woman yelped, shrouded by a hat so slimy-looking at first glance Tsireya wondered if it actually was a real jellyfish, “The sun is so bright for you all today! I can only hope that this is a reflection of what your futures all hold!”
Tsireya cringed at the off-pitch tune to her words. A thought that masked the urge to scoff, at the idea that any of them had that bright of a future.
The girl beside her was shaking so much that the sensation rattled through her. Tsireya thought she’d be irritated, if she didn’t feel just as unsteady internally. She didn’t know her, and from the looks of her (with her dark, frizzy hair and solemn eyes and the sunburn peeling at her tanned shoulders) she was from The Barrel. It was awful, but Tsireya figured that she had more slips in those fishbowls than she did, and it soothed her somewhat.
“Do you want to hold my hand?” Tsireya whispered to the girl.
She winced, as if taken aback that Tsireya was talking to her, then nodded and grabbed ahold of it, outstretched. Her palm was clammy, but Tsireya did not mention it, let alone tear away. She was used to holding hands with sickly people; used to helping them pass on. This, unfortunately, was not so different.
“Now, the time has finally come for us to select one valiant young man and woman for the honour of representing the beautiful District 4 in the 68th Annual Hunger Games!” Undine called as she crossed from the podium, over to the girls’ bowl, “As always, ladies first.”
Tsireya’s fear peaked, gripping her heart as tight as a knot, as Undine dove her blue-hued hand inside the bowl and ruffled with the slips. That feeling never soothing as the woman pulled one out, frowning (as much as her stiff face would let her) at the name written on it.
“Ts… Ts– What does this say?” Undine’s voice faded as she turned around, away from the microphone. After a woeful once-over from Mayor Birney, and a whisper of a name, Undine spun back around and called it out to the crowd with a marvellous assuredness.
“Tsireya Fischer!”
Tsireya knew she should've felt shocked, but in truth, she did not. She was numb then, as death always made her. Besides, she thought a part of her knew it was her name on that slip at the first trip of the first syllable. People always had trouble pronouncing her name in its written form, on account of her Da’s strange spelling. This confusion people felt towards her wasn’t foreign. Somehow, it made things easier to face.
There were a few gasps, vague sounds of discomfort to be in her vicinity, and the strange girl she’d offered her hand dropped it like she’d contract something if she kept clinging on. Like Tsireya was a plague that’d never shown her an ounce of kindness, like her association would kill her too. Somehow, Tsireya couldn’t bring myself to blame her. Perhaps, this was her karma for being as selfish to hope it’d be someone like her, instead. Caoimhe, though, never let go; her fingers taut, her grip too tight, scalding Tsireya’s skin and willing her to stay.
“Let go,” Tsireya whispered, catching the bustle of peacekeeper armour approaching behind them, “You have to let go.”
“I can’t–”
“You have to–”
“I–”
She couldn’t bear to listen to another word. Couldn’t stand there like a fool waiting for the peacekeepers to come and drag her away. Wouldn’t allow them that sick pleasure. So, Tsireya ripped her hand from Caoimhe’s, mindless to the way she buried her head in her hands and wept. The anger blooming in her chest and the pain bulbing in her wrist were the only things keeping her knees from buckling as she ascended the stage; batting away whoever’s hand it was that came to her aid, refusing to show any semblance of weakness. Though, really, it was all she felt.
She spotted two ‘x’s’ on the planks, unseen from the floor. She’d spent enough time performing on the pavilion down the street to know that they were marks. Steadying herself, Tsireya approached them, though she paused as she passed Undine. Grabbing her arm, careless to how the woman (aghast by the girl's contact) flinched; Tsireya’s voice expelled every emotion she endeavoured to disguise, “It’s said Tsireya, by the way. Suh-ray-uh.”
She let go with a whip, and took her mark beside the bowl that’d betrayed her, moments ago. A ringing overwhelmed her as Undine uttered something into the microphone. It must’ve been her calling for volunteers, Tsireya presumed, as Undine swiftly moved onto the boys. Meaning: her chance of freedom had surpassed her, and she was now officially bound to be the girl people would talk only of in whispers come next year. As if, by saying her name out loud, they’d be willing themselves a similar fate. Tsireya fixed her eyes to the ocean far ahead, and tried to remember the feeling of it on her skin.
She did not go for a swim that morning. She’d forgotten. The thought scorned her, setting her face aflame. This stage, televised to all, was not the place to cry. Though, it was all she wanted to do, and the back of her head was burning so viscerally Tsireya thought she might collapse under the pressure of not.
She hardly even heard the name Undine called, only noticing as she turned to face her District partner, how small he was.
Tanned skin, and dark hair, and big, brown watery eyes; looking up at her like she was his saviour. He couldn’t be more than twelve, but malnourished, he looked no older than a 10-year-old. The taste of anchovies and olives and tangerine-toast filled Tsireya’s mouth again, and somebody was laughing behind her, but she couldn’t control her face. Thoughts of Tadhg filled her with horror, and a tear slipped from her eye unsolicited. But then a hand shot up in the crowd, and she exhaled a shaky breath. Relief – she thought, for the boy of twelve as he was led away to safety – that soon turned into a deep dread for herself.
The boy that took his place was tall– taller than Tsireya. Though, that wasn’t hard. It was his big, burly frame that alarmed her. His muscles that practically burst the seams of his shirt. She recognised his face before Undine even asked him for his name. And she swore, she could see him smile at her when he announced it into the mic. “Reed Morrissey.”
Though Tsireya couldn’t be sure of that latter assumption, she could be sure of what he did next. He turned, looking over his shoulder at someone behind him, and grinned. If the sun were to catch the gleam of his tooth, Tsireya was certain it’d’ve set her alight – if the knowledge of who he was smiling at wasn’t enough to spurn her to ashes.
“Our tributes from District 4! Reed Morrissey, and Tsireya Fischer!”
Reed turned, shaking Tsireya’s hand with a calibre as viscous as his old friend, Finnick Odair, had once pulled at her hair with in the playground.
Tsireya knew, then, that she was never going to make it out alive. Reed would do whatever it took to win, and Finnick would do whatever it took to make that dream come true.
“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!”