The Mockingjay Died: The Fourth Quarter Quell

Reapings: District 9

(Storm Windell's POV)

"Tori!" I shouted up the stairs. If she didn't come down soon, she wouldn't get enough time to eat. "Tori! Gram made pancakes!"

That got her attention. We so rarely get delicacies like pancakes. Tori flies down the stairs, somehow making no more noise than a mouse. She's so tiny, though, that it isn't that surprising. She flits around like a bird, quiet and light, wherever she is. She smiles at me half-heartedly.

"Hey, we'll be ok, trust me." I feel a twinge of guilt making a claim like that, but it's enough to lift Tori's spirits.

"Storm! Tornado! Come eat your breakfast!" My grandma is the only person who called Tori by her given name, Tornado. It feels weird calling such a fragile little girl a tornado.

I bound into the kitchen, followed by my little sister. For twelve, she's very mature, in some areas. That sort of thing happens when your parents die during your childhood. I was ten when it happened, and she was six. I've been her protector ever since.

Gram places a plate in front of each of us, and gives us each two pancakes. My eyes widen. "Can we really afford this?"

Gram smiles at me, the kind of wise smile old people have. "I've been saving for a while, now. Thought I could get you two a special meal to lift your spirits."

"It's wonderful!" Tori exclaims. "Thank you, Gram!" We both dig in.

I take my time eating. Who knows when we'll have this much again? Gram is getting old, and sooner or later they'll have to lay her off. She works in the fields, but I think the only reason they've kept her on this long is out of pity. I do my best to work hard and provide, but we rely on the two small incomes. If Gram would let me drop out of school, it wouldn't be so hard. Unfortunately, that's one thing she values highly. Hopefully we can make it through the next two years until I graduate.

Tori looks like a little angel in her white dress. Gram helped her curl her dirty-blonde hair, and it's bouncing around on her shoulders whoever she turns her head. I can't help but smile. I love her. If we get reaped...

I sigh. I've gone over the scenario a thousand times in my head. If we get reaped, I will do everything I can to keep her alive. Once we're the last two, I'll sacrifice myself so she can go home. I hope I don't have to carry this plan out.

~~~~

(Aryanna Toplit's POV)

"Hurry up!" I shout to Elliot, who's taking his good, sweet time. I pull my sweater closer around myself. It's freezing.

Elliot runs to catch up. "Why are you walking so fast?" he complains.

"The sooner we get to the square, the sooner we can warm up. A group this large will be enough to keep us decently warm."

Elliot frowns, so I poke him in the stomach, making him laugh. "Stop it!" he yells, pushing my arm away.

Actually, the square is the last place I want to go. The Hunger Games are stupid. It's just a good way to keep the districts in line: we can do this to your children; think what we can do to you. It's sickening. Our president is terrible, and our country is terrible, and the Hinger Games are terrible. I wish there was something I could do, but all rebel organizations have been wiped out in 9.

Once we reach the square, I walk Elliot over to the twelve year old section and give him a hug. "See you soon," I say. I really love that little guy, as annoying as he can be. I walk back to the sixteen year old section. Shivering, I hop from one foot to the other, rubbing my hands together and blowing on them to keep them warm. It wasn't normal to have it be this cold so late in the spring.

I basically ignore the mayor and the escort. They just babble on about how great the Capitol is and how wonderful the Games are. It's just glorified manslaughter.

I only half listen as the names are called. "Storm and Tornado Windell!" A boy stumbles out of the section across from me, and runs down the aisle to help his sister. Once on stage, he mentions something about nicknames. I don't pay much attention. Soon, Elliot and I can go home. Just a few more minutes.

Or never.

The next two names bring those plans crashing down.

"Aryanna and Elliot Toplit!"

Elliot looks as pale as a marshmallow. He grabs my hand, and I can feel it shaking. I squeeze it reassuringly, and help him up the stairs.

I glare at the escort. I detest her. She smiles uncomfortably as she asks for our ages. "My name is Aryanna. I am 16. My brother is 12." My voice is low and hard. My free hand is clenched in a fist. Great first impression, Aryanna, a small part of my mind thinks. I push that thought down.