Chapter Text
The quell had been announced a week earlier, the people of the Districts shall vote their tributes. A warning that, no matter what, no matter how free and united you may feel, your own home may turn against you, sell you down the stream without a second thought. Voting was scary, not in a ‘writing a name or two shook me to my core’ way, in how many people were voting for me, or my family, or my friends? And why? Why did I vote for who I did?
My vote hesitantly went to Lacey Weaver and Suede Domenico, I still don’t fully know why. They seem strong, I suppose, but no more stronger than every other boy or girl walking the street. I guess I just didn’t want to linger in the depressing voting hall.
The normal reaping ceremony will still occur, dress your best and cross your fingers, pray you’re not the unlucky sod this year. I sit at my mirror gazing at my face, a thin layer of rose scented powder just masked my skin as a thick mascara like substance darkened my eye lashes, not real stuff, much too facey, the fake stuff was still an arm and a leg, at least to typical District people.
I looked at my dark brown and black dress and placed a small hat on my head. A small pearl necklace rested on my neck. A smile played on my lips, no one would vote for me. One of the mayor's daughters, it would be too risky for them.
Despite this, I noticed as I walked to the kitchen that a twinge of anxiety lingered on my family's faces. Each dressed in similar brown or black clothes, despite most of Eight wearing colour. We aren’t like them, not fully, apparently we’re originally capitol- a few generations back, at least. Human.
And of course some people are jealous of that fact.
I walked over to the table and sat down, observing my mother and father in the kitchen, both whispering to one another, a distraught look on my mothers face and a stern one on my fathers.
My five siblings also sat at the table, also observing our parents and judging by the shushing, trying to listen, even though it was ridiculously impossible.
Vera and Dior both sat next to me and on the opposite side sat Kenzo, Cartier and Manolo. Mother and Father will sit at the heads of the table, a simple layout. A worn, stained white table cloth covered the dark oak brown. Cutlery and a glass of water already laid at each seat.
“Ugh, it’s impossible,” Vera complained under her breath, taking a sip of water, her eyes then flickered with curiosity, “Are any of you… nervous?”
Of course not.
“Maybe a bit, but we all know it’ll be fine, some poor 18 year old will be selected, there last year too,” Kenzo replied with a small laugh.
Vera just stared at him for a moment, “We’re 18,”
Kenzo stopped laughing and just lowered his head, of the two of them, Vera was always more… aware, for lack of a better word.
“It’ll be none of us,” I stated, “You two have it lucky, next year you don’t even have to worry,”
“So you’re worried?” Manolo asked.
“No!”
“Then why did you-”
Mother and Father silenced him by coming out and laying the table- eggs, toast and tomatoes.
It was silent for a moment as they took their places, “Who said they were worried?” Mother asked, with the ears of a bat.
“Dolce said she was worried she’d be picked,” Dior lied, as I did not say or imply that, there is no way I’d be picked.
“No I did not!” I corrected it.
“Well whoever is!” Mother began, “Don’t be, you’ll all be fine” she paused, “It’ll be Vera and Kenzo’s last one, won’t it?”
“That heightens our chances of being voted, doesn’t it, ma?” Kenzo asked almost in a whisper.
“Nonsence, dear, you’ll all be fine, now hurry up and eat before it gets cold,” Mother responded, with a forced smile just barely appearing.
This clearly just meant ‘shut up and everything will be fine’ and it will be fine.
Once food was eaten we had about thirty minutes before we had to leave. Dior played piano in the sitting room, Vera and Father listened to it, and all my brothers snuck into the garden, and judging by the fact that cigars had been slowly going missing recently, probably smoking. I stood in the kitchen, drying the dishes Mother was washing.
“Dolce, dear?” She softly spoke, breaking me from my thoughts, “Can I be honest with you?” She paused with her glossy eyes becoming more apparent, “I have no clue what’s going to happen… but I want you to know that, of it is you- I have hope, you’re stronger and smarter than you may believe, the rest I have a vague worry for- Dior I worry for most, she wouldn’t last a day,” She sighed and stared at a shiny white plate before handing it to me. I let the words linger for a moment, how do I calm such a thought?
“She’s just young- I’m sure anyone with a heart wouldn’t vote her and, snow forbid, if they did, someone would protect her,”
“I just- I want you all to be safe,” She smiled before it slowly fell, “Who did you vote for?”
I began to stammer, “I don’t think we can say,”
“Yes you can, who did you vote for?” She asked again, more sternly, I did not respond, “Dolce Velvet Dimity!”
“None of us, I swear!” I blurted out, “Why would you think that?”
“I didn’t!”
“Then why did you ask!”
“Dolce, enough, not today,” She dried off her hands “Time to leave,” and then she walked off to inform the rest of the house. I placed the dried plate on the kitchen side and followed her, I’ll put it away later.
The walk was short and boring with a lot of silence. Still, I suppose there’s not much to talk about, I found my place with the section for 16-17 year old girls. Between two girls Nivea Salvatore and Fendi Maybelline. Both of which are in my class.
Nivea was born into a family of 5, the youngest of three kids, both siblings are brothers- Hugo and Kors, both are in their 20s. She’s not poor but she’s not particularly District rich either. She lives not too far from my home, only a ten minute walk if you take a few short cuts. She’s rather smart, not Einstein level, but she certainly has a good head on her shoulders. I think she could have a shot at not having to partake in factory work.
Fendi is from a smaller family of 3, an only child besides her Mothers few miscarriages and still births. She’s a miracle, to her parents at least. Like Nivea, they aren’t poor but they do lean on the poorer side of the middle class. They do have money, but they couldn’t afford to splurge on useless objects and items. She lives far from my home on the cheaper side of town. She’s kind but not too smart, she’ll probably have to rely on full time factory work in her future.
Both do not like me, Fendi never liked me, and Nivea did like me once before- hence why I know shortcuts to her home but I suppose we just fell apart. We do not clash nor keep civil as we barely talk at all. Only exchanging occasional glances.
Soon a woman appeared on stage, ghostly pale with a permanent glitter effect engraved into her skin, large white eyelashes fluttering as she blinked. Honestly, she could probably fly if she tried hard enough. Her hair, also white, was styled into what appears to be a 1800s inspired updo. Lastly her clothes and accessories were relatively simple for capitol, just layered white wings. An angelic look, I guess.
“District Eight!” She announced into the microphone standing in front of her, “Welcome to the first Quarter Quell!” Her tone rang with excitement, weird.
The crowd stood silent, what reason to cheer? The mock-angel seemed to not care as she simply smiled and continued.
“As you know know, each District was given the task of voting their tributes,” She turned to a peacekeeper who handed her two golden envelopes where she held them high, “These will tell us who you have chosen- ladies first,”
She held the envelope up to the microphone as she tore it, producing an irritating noise. She pulled out a small certificate and read the name:
“Dolce Dimity!” She exclaimed in a sickly excited voice.
The name. My name.
I stood still for a moment, not me, it can’t be me- why me?
People began to turn and as their eyes met mine all I began to feel was hatred. Mourning then Hatred. These people, this scum of Panem chose me. They chose me to die. We’ve had no winners, I won’t be the first, and they know that and they're fine with that.
Then I heard their whispers, “Sorry,”
Sorry will not bring me back.
I began to walk to the stage avoiding the people of District Eight’s eyes. Shushing the occasional apology. As I began to walk up the stairs the Angel directed me to the right side of the stage. Up on that stage I saw them all, my family, my friends and my killers.
“And now,” The Angel continued, “The boy tribute will be… Gianni Kimora!”
Gianni Kimora, punny and weak, in a family of 4, one sister called Coco, they live in the richer side of town but they are not rich. Both children already have to work to find the family and home. I do not know much more about him besides the fact that he is not at all liked and never has been.
Gianni appeared with swollen under eyes and moist eyes, he’d clearly been weeping just this morning, maybe he knew his fate. As he walked the crowd was silent, no whispers, his head and gaze was aimed at the ground at all times, and it stayed that way as he stood on stage. The Angel rose her arms to point at the two of us, revealing two feathered wings attached to her under arms.
“This year's tributes from District Eight, Ladies and Gentleman!”
The crowd let out a small, inaudible applause and we were directed back stage and into a room each to say our farewell, as I stepped into the room my family already greeted me.
“Dolce…” Mother began.
“I- I’ll miss you all,” I whispered.
“No- no! You’ll make it back won’t you?” Dior asked as she pushed through siblings.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, “I have no clue if you’ll see me again, but… just know… I’ll try, I’ll try as hard as I can,” But I don’t know if that’s true, why return when majority of the District doesn’t want me there?
“Don’t try- do,” Dior demanded, earning nods in agreement.
“I-” I began before being cut off by peacekeepers dragging my family out one by one, and to be honest, I’m glad they did, I’m not too sure how I would respond to such a request.
“Cars here,” One said once the room was empty, “Follow me,” And I did, through halls and to a dark car where Gianni and The Angel were both already waiting in.
The car ride was short. Only 5 minutes before we reached the train station. Weirdly enough, I’d never been there but there was nothing of note, the train was already there.
The train was rather modern and fancy, Gianni and I were both made to sit parallel to one another. He stayed staring at his hands and I looked directly at him in silence for a few minutes before asking: “Did you vote for me?”
“What?” He responded looking up in a panic.
“Who did you vote for- was it me?” I asked again, attempting to soften my tone.
He hesitated “Erm, no, no I didn’t,” He paused, “I voted for Tag Cavalli and Dove Valentino.”
Tag Cavalli- I think he bullied Gianni when they were younger, I have never heard much about the girl before though besides her name and how she does work at a factory- not just for money but also because she genuinely enjoyed sewing.
“Why did you vote for Dove?” I asked.
He shrugged and replied, “Why does it matter- we’re the tributes, end of story.”
“I voted for Lacey Weaver and Suede Domenico,” I told him, “Not much reason, their names just came to me first.”
He mustn't be much of a talker, I suppose…