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Red wire connects to the black wire, blue wire connects to the voice box, white wire connects to the --

“Milo! We need to get to the Reaping! Get dressed,” my mother cries, peeking her head into the dim closet of a room where I am focused vicariously on my work. I nod in assent and begin to pull clothes at bila mpangilio from under my unmade cot.

The Reaping. That one siku of the mwaka when everyone in District Three, Shoppie and Techie alike, have to gather in the square and be put at the complete mercy of the Capitol.

Not that we weren’t at its mercy already au anything.

This mwaka is my last where I have to hope not to be chosen, and luckily I have no siblings to worry about either. I guess I should be overjoyed, it being almost over and all. But statistically minded as I am, I’ve never been zaidi afraid.

Nineteen slips of paper in a big glass globe, seven for just existing and twelve for those four years we couldn’t make it without the aid of tesserae.

I try to take my mind of my fear kwa focusing on the contraption I was just building, but that doesn’t work, so I focus on counting the growls of my starved stomach.

How many days has it been since I’ve had a meal? I don’t remember. I don’t think anyone in District Three does!

Having pulled on a striped sweater, checkered pants, and socks that don’t match, I jiunge my parents, who are ready to leave for the Reaping. We leave the house, not bothering to lock the door because the only people not at the Reaping are in the process of dying, and walk down the streets of Three.

Our streets are not paved with stone, like District Two, au cement like District Eight, au even dirt ala District Twelve. Our streets are covered in gravel, sickly grey and so old and worn that it’s turned the consistency of sand. When it rains it turns to quicksand.

Finally we arrive at the square, where a fair amount of people have already gathered, and I go to stand with the other eighteen-year old boys of Three. The mayor sits in a folding chair on the stage, as does Ursula Octavius, the obese escort with sickly skin and a grating voice. In between them sits a fidgety man named Delbert Doppler, District Three’s only living Victor.

Then the mayor speaks, talking about the history of the Games. History has always been one of my inayopendelewa subjects, but I can’t really bring myself to care about it today. He then lists the name of our victor, and Delbert Doppler looks frightened kwa the fact that people know his name.

Finally the mayor finishes droning on about the Games, and then he gives the microphone to Ursula. She is wearing a skin tight black dress that flares up at the bottom, making her look a bit like a sea creature. All in all she belongs in District Four, the fishing district.

“Why hello, hello, hello!” the escort croons, the wooden stage creaking under her girth as she strides to the two glass globes full of slips of paper. “Happy Hunger Games, everybody!”

First the girl must be chosen, and I’m not sure what to feel, as I have no female Marafiki au relatives the proper age for the Games. I do have a girlfriend, Giselle, but I’d be lying if I alisema I loved her all that much, she’s just the latest in a steady stream of female accoutrements that eventually leave me. She’s nineteen, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

I wonder if the tributes this mwaka will be Shoppie au Techie. Shoppies live in the East side of District Three, running the stores, and everyone on my side of the town finds them crude, judgemental and unrefined. Me and my parents live on the West side of town, the Techie side, and, not to brag au anything, but we are much zaidi smart, open-minded, and accomplished than they are.

However, both sides of Three are slowly starving to death, that’s for sure.

Finally, the purple-skinned escort croons out a name. “Jennifer Belrose!”

My eyes sweep the assembled girls of Three, waiting for her to step forward. The surname, Belrose, echoes in my memory, although I’ve never talked to this girl. Finally I see her, walking slowly towards the stage with wide, stricken blue eyes. Not criminally underfed, but her very Bones have the warped look of not having a reliable chakula source. One of the twelve mwaka olds.

I feel somehow angry, which is strange, because I’ve been sort of cutting myself off from all emotion and human contact recently, and I wish I could volunteer for this little girl who doesn’t stand a chance.

But someone else does the job for me.

It’s one of the girls from the seventeen mwaka old line racing forward, pushing away the Peacekeepers, and throwing herself in front of the little girl. “Take me instead!” she screams, her voice hoarse. “I volunteer! Take me instead!” She continues to mutter these two phrases, as if afraid that if she doesn’t say enough the little girl will be snatched up. I can see all of the Shoppies smirking at her, a few of them even laughing. This girl is another Belrose, but I know zaidi of her.

This is Belle Belrose, known kwa the Shoppie side of town as ‘the crazy Belrose girl,’ along with her old father. They’re from the other side of town, but wewe can often see them on our side, begging for work at the factories au selling little trinkets. I don’t think that there’s a single person in District Three who thinks those two are sane, but the Shoppie side of town is extremely cruel to them.

Finally the Peacekeepers calm down the situation, dragging Jennifer back and pushing Belle to the juu of the stage. Her face is red from emotion, her hair is a wild mess, and she looks thin and overworked. What an imposing threat.

“Well, isn’t this exciting,” Ursula says, slinking her way over to Belle. “I don’t think we’ve had a volunteer in years! What’s your name, wewe poor unfortunate thing?”

“Belle -- Belle Belrose,” she says softly. Everyone in the crowd knows that, they’ve seen her with a basket of the gadgets she and her father create in a shack of a house. They never buy from her, preferring instead to jeer and gossip, and wewe can tell they aren’t all that broken up about her being sent into the Games.

Jennifer’s broken up about it though, wewe can hear her sobs ringing out in the momentary silence. Ursula then asks for a round of applause for the girl, but nobody claps. Quite a few people make cuckoo signs and lewd comments, but nobody claps.

Then Ursula moves on to the inayofuata glass globe, and I wonder if I’ll be picked. I do have my name in a fair number of times.

Honestly I don’t think I would mind so much if it was me, but it isn’t me. His name is Arthur Stone, he’s twelve years old, and a lanky, sullen boy who I assume is his older brother has to hoist him in his wheelchair to the juu of the stage.

This isn’t fair. It never was fair, the Hunger Games, but this, this isn’t a game. This is a sacrifice. An execution. A twelve mwaka old cripple against older, smarter Careers who most likely have no mobility problems. zaidi gasps spread through the crowd, all of them zaidi sincerely concerned for the cripple than they were for the Belrose family.

I look up at Belle, still standing atop the stage with her eyes so wild that I’m sure she’s still afraid her sister will be put in the Games, and Ursula, walking towards the boy. To claim him as the inayofuata corpse to be sent back to Three. This isn’t fair. This isn’t right. I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute.

“I volunteer as tribute!” I shout, before I can change my mind. Everyone steps to the side before me, creating a path to the stage. I stroll up to the juu of the stage, resisting the urge to take back my rash decision. But I don’t think I’d be able to anyways, it’d make for pretty anti-climatic television.

kwa the time I’m atop the stage, someone has taken the cripple back to the ground. Ursula strides over to me in her slinky way. Up close she is even less impressive than before, with her seafood smell and low-cut dress. “Well isn’t this exciting,” she says, for the sekunde time. “Two tributes from Three! Who would’ve guessed? So, what’s your name?”

“Milo Thatch,” I say, my voice sounding so small in the suddenly cavernous square. I scurry over to stand inayofuata to the crazy girl, all the while keenly feeling the camera peering at me.

Then there’s the standard kusoma of the Treaty of Treason and other nonsense, but on the stage, standing so close to the speakers, the sound is so loud I can’t make out the words. Instead I look at the crazy Belrose girl.

People, to me, are like the puzzle cubes in my dusty toy chest in the attic. They’re riddles to figure out, unlock, crack, and then wewe throw them away because what good is a puzzle that wewe know the answer to?

This desire to figure people out isn’t very nice to people. I don’t use this knowledge of people to help them, au to hurt them. I just like finding out how the work, but as a consequence I’ve always been awkward socially, because I never wanted to be their friend, boyfriend au son, I just really wanted to know how their brain worked.

After what seems like hours, the anthem finally plays, and me and the crazy Belrose girl have to shake hands. Obviously it’s impossible to catch craziness, but all the Shoppie kids say it’s possible so much that I unconsciously hesitate before extending my hand. I remember seeing those kids when I go to their side of town, daring each other to go closer than a foot to the crazy Belrose girl.

Then we are led away kwa Peacekeepers, into the small, grey Justice Building. We are put into small, adjoining rooms that have small windows in the doors. Alone in the room, I stand and go to look out that window. Across the hall Belle is doing the same, her nose pressed against the glass.

A disappointing amount of my Marafiki come to see me off. For a moment I’m affronted, but then I realize that I wouldn’t have gone to see them off. Who needs Marafiki anyway? My parents are here, as well as Giselle, and they’re all so sad. My mother and Giselle are even kind of mad at me for volunteering! I give everyone a hug, and then we sit in an awkward silence broken only kwa Giselle’s crying.

From the corner of my eye I can see Belle’s face plastered to the window, still waiting for her family. One of the few Marafiki who came to see me notices her and makes some sort of joke in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Then the little boy I volunteered for is pushed into the room kwa a harried looking man. I suppose he’s the boy’s father, although they look remarkably dissimilar.

“Th-th-thank you,” the starved little kid stammers, looking up at me from his wheelchair. I decide that, if I win the Hunger Games, the first thing I will do with my money is take this boy to a fancy hospital to fix his legs.

“It’s okay,” I say shortly, suddenly at a loss for words.

But luckily I don’t need to find any words, because the visiting time is over and my parents and girlfriend hug me and file out. The boy and his father thank me again and then they, too, are gone. I am sitting complacently on the bench, waiting for Peacekeepers to come, but then I hear a commotion.

“I’m sorry sir, visiting time is over.” A man’s voice, obviously a Peacekeeper. I go to press my nose to the glass.

“I need--” Belle Belrose’s father, Maurice, is there, wheezing and coughing feebly. “I need to see--” another cough “--Belle!”

“Papa!” Belle runs through the door, nearly makes it to her father and sisters before the Peacekeepers begin to pull her family away from her.

“Visiting time is over,” they insist, their voices rising over the Belrose family calling out to each other.

“Just let me say goodbye!” Belle shrieks as her father and sister are pulled out the door. I turn away from the window, not wanting to see anymore. But the walls aren’t soundproof, so I can still hear Belle’s cries. “I just wanted to say goodbye!”

Then the Peacekeepers open the door for me, and lead me out. Belle is crumpled on the carpeted floor, her head in her hands, but when one of the Peacekeepers pulls her roughly to her feet she jerks her arm away from him. We walk in silence, each accompanied kwa a Peacekeeper. I look over to Belle and see tears sliding down her cheek.

Maybe she is crazy. If she isn’t crazy, she must be stupid. There could be cameras out there, and no one will sponsor a crying and malnourished girl from District Three. But there are only two lean and uninterested reporters in the station, and only one of them has a camera.

We are bustled into the train, and then the door closes behind us. You look terrible, I think when I see Belle’s tear stained face, but I must have accidently alisema it aloud because she rolls her eyes and gives a weak scoff of disgust.

“That’s very nice of wewe to say,” she says in a very small voice, not even bothering with sarcasm. “I guess I’ll go find Ursula.” She’s wiping the tears from her cheeks and is still speaking in that squeaky little voice.

Trying to hide the crying in her voice, most likely. I think of the terrified kid in the wheelchair, and the malnourished girl with deer-in-headlights eyes. It wasn’t fair that either of them would be pitted against twenty-two bigger, stronger kids, but I don’t think it’d be a fair fate for anyone.




*Here's Chapter Four! Hope wewe enjoyed, and sorry it was such a long time coming! inayofuata Chapter: The Tributes from Districts 4, 5, and 6 are chosen.*