Reaping Day

The Mockingjay did this. She voted for it, in fact, when it had all come down to her and Haymitch. Her mentor only voted yes because she did.

The 76th Hunger Games.

Plans for it went awry after Coin died, and stood at a standstill when the Mockingjay was still alive. Her husband Mellark probably convinced her to let it go. Stop it, even.

Their efforts only delayed it. Some call it inevitable. The day of reckoning for the citizens of the Capitol. The children.

I was born shortly after the rebellion began to escalate. I was barely a year old when the rebels won. Barely old enough to comprehend my father committed suicide when his father was overthrown. My grandfather. Coriolanus Snow.

That’s me. My mother named me after him, one of the most hated people in the history of Panem. Died when a mob trampled him to death. After the Mockingjay decided to kill her own president instead of him.

There was some peace, after that. I only have rumors to go on, but she and Mellark supposedly lived a happy life after the rebellion. Two kids. Then the Mockingjay died, and everything delved into chaos once again.

President Nilsson reinstated order, I suppose, after abolishing District 13 and restoring the Hunger Games. Well, just one. The last one, according to him. Just for the Capitol.

Not that it matters to me. Here, I’m not Coriolanus Snow, grandson to President Snow. I’m just Cori Rivard, son to Anthea Rivard and a dead guy.

“Cori!” Evander waves me over to the fenced gate surrounding my house. He’s one of the few people who know my secret. That I’m not Rivard, but Snow. Just like how I know his. Here, known as Evander Leete. But in the Capitol, I knew him as Evander Ray, heir to the Ray Family fortune, one of the 13 Patriarch Families of the Capitol.

I know instantly by the look on his face that something’s wrong. “We’ve got a problem,” he says in greeting, pointing with his eyes across my lawn, across houses and streets, to a black Humvee parked in a seemingly hidden alley.

Seemingly.

Except I learned from my early years on the run how to notice people who don’t want to be noticed, the hidden-in-plain-sight things one would normally overlook. Whether somebody poses a threat to you. Whether they have intentions to hurt you.

Judging from the cold faces of the soldiers disguised in civilian clothes and their poorly concealed FN P90 submachine guns, they mean to cause harm. A lot of it.

The group attempts a sneaky approach, fanning out casually as civilians, but fails spectacularly.

People on the street immediately take notice of them and scatter, creating the feeling of a ghost town: empty and desolute.

Seeing as how their subtle approach failed, the group forgoes their disguises, marching across the street, their full gear in display.

Marching right to my front door.

A fist clenches my heart in a vise-like grip, holding it captive for a good minute. My breathing goes shallow as the soldiers kick open the door, storming in the house.

For a moment, all is quiet.

Then the screams start.

Of my mother, my sisters. I can only watch as they drag my family out, forcing them to their knees on the well-manicured lawn.

I’m close enough to hear the soldiers’ conversation. The leader, a scarred man with a cruel face, inspects my family with a look that sickens me to my stomach.

He crouches in front of my mother, fixing his gaze on her with a vicious smile. She trembles slightly, but lifts her chin in defiance.

The leader’s smile only grows wider. “Hello, Drusilla,” he says, his voice a knife scratching against a metal plate.

My mother feigns ignorance. “Drusilla? I’m afraid you have the wrong person, sir. My name is Anthea Rivard, and my daughters and I are innocent!”

A few of the men around her chuckle or roll their eyes at the declaration, while the leader sighs. He takes her face in his hands, inspecting it with a savage glint in his eyes. “Do you remember me, Drusilla Snow? You were there, at the feast, when your father-in-law sentenced me to life as an Avox after I was caught stealing food to feed my family.” His tone turns bitter. “A family he murdered in front of me.”

My mother stays silent in his rambling, her face made of stone.

The leader points to the scar that runs along his left cheek. “A token, from the Peacekeeper who tried cutting my tongue after that.”

His smile turns slightly unhinged and his eyes dance crazily. “But... now is not the time for satisfying my revenge. Members of the Capitol are to be delivered to our beloved President for the 76th Hunger Games.”

He stands back up and his soldiers start shoving my family forward, but he pauses after a few feet, turning back with a smile that makes my blood run cold. “On second thought, what would the President need from an old bag like you?”

He pulls out a handgun, aims, and fires.

The force of the bullet knocks my mother several feet backward, her body sprawling on the green grass like an unwanted accessory thrown away.

In her last moments, she gasps, coughing up blood as the bullet lodged in her chest worms its way deeper. Her eyes, already draining of life, meets mine all the way across the lawn. She mouths one clear message to me: Run.

I’m screaming before I know it, before my mother’s body goes still for the last time. My sisters collapse in sobs around her body, their chests heaving as loss and grief wrack their bodies.

Evander clamps a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late.

The soldiers have noticed us.

My friend tries to drag me away from the soldiers, supporting my weight as we stumble to the woods near our home. By the time the grief wears off and I’m able to run with him, the soldiers have caught up with us, knocking us to the ground.

The last thing I see before consciousness gives out is the butt of a gun, slamming against my forehead.

The granite tiles of the town square are cold against my skin, sending a prickling sensation down my arms and legs.

My eyes crack open, startled to see several pairs of eyes staring back at me. I bolt up, stumbling away from them before bumping into a group of strangers behind me.

Panicked, I glance around frantically before my gaze lands on Evander. He’s not the same as the last time I saw him. His face is horribly bruised, one of his eyes swollen shut, his nose crooked. Cuts dot his entire body, blood leaking from them.

He meets my gaze as I stagger to him, his eyes filled with unfathomable guilt. “Cori, I’m sorry, I told them everything,” he babbles. “Who you are, who your grandfather was, I told them everything. They know about you; they’re going to kill you--”

A stout woman wearing the official presidential seal steps onto the podium. “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be in your favor!” It’s only then I realize we’re surrounded by dozens of people-- no, kids-- just like us. Capitol children. There are some faces I recognize in the crowd-- childhood friends I played with when I was younger.

They don’t meet my gaze, avoiding my eyes or ignoring my stare. Understandable. They don’t want to be associated with the grandson of President Snow.

A feeling of dread comes over me as the woman’s hand reaches in the reaping ball. Was this how the Mockingjay felt for years?

She unfolds the piece of paper, smoothing out the wrinkles as she reads the name on it. “Coriolanus Snow.”

Evander was right.

They are going to kill me.

But first, they’ll make a game out of it.