A/N: Well, I think it's been established how horrible of an updater I am. Oops?
First of all, I am super sorry for the delay of this chapter. It's just that life has gotten increasingly hectic, and this week alone has been a huge roller-coaster (family and health issues suck). Don't get me started on school either, ugh. I've barely had time to write and WRITER'S BLOCK GAH.
Anyways, I hope this chapter compensates for my absence. I apologize in advance for any typos; I just wanted to put it up the moment I finished.
Also, thanks for the reviews/faves/follows. You guys deserve a truckload of Nutella.
Sorry for the long A/N (and the wait), I hope you're still going to stick with this story. Enjoy.
A special thank-you to jshrn for these amazing Tributes!
District Two: Longing
August Chesterfield, 18, Male
Raegan Cresfeld, 15, Female
Life Before the Reaping
Raegan Cresfeld, 15
Her breathing was steady as she wrapped her fingers around her weapon of steel and string; the metal cool against her scarred skin. She withdrew an arrow from her back, before promptly nocking it with accuracy. Her fingers moved with diligence, as if she did this all the time.
She brought the bow up to her shoulder, even closer to her face. As she drew back the bowstring, the thread cut into her pale cheek, although her stance didn't waver. Her pale blue eyes held sight for one thing and one thing only: what was in front of her.
She took a deep breath, and released the string. As fast as lightning, the arrow shot forward and lodged itself into the red-and-yellow target – miles away from the bullseye.
Fifteen-year-old Raegan Cresfeld cursed furiously, already nocking another arrow just as sardonic laughter and accumulating – almost mocking – applause filled the empty room.
"Bravo," a cold and clear voice echoed through the room. "Not only are you convinced that you can shoot, but in truth, you really can't."
Raegan turned to the general direction of the voice, and her eyes met with those identical to them. In fact, the girl that stood across from her was nearly a carbon copy of her, although she lacked her array of scars and long strawberry blonde hair.
"What are you doing here, Raine?" Raegan bitterly addressed her older twin sister.
"Same thing as you, I suppose," was the reply, as Raine made her way over to Raegan. "Training, if what you do classifies as that."
Raegan bit her lip to keep back from retorting harshly, to no avail. "And what you do does?"
A smug smile curled onto Raine's crimson lips. "What's the difference, sister?"
Vitriol rose in Raegan's throat, as anger surged through her veins. Her older sister was unbearable enough within the confinements of her own home, as well as their weekly training sessions; but walking in during one of her rare moments of sanctuary? That was going too far.
"Get out," she managed through gritted teeth. "Now."
Her twin sister smirked. "Make me."
Almost immediately, an arrow flew through the air, virtually missing Raine's petite figure by mere millimeters, who promptly yelped in surprise. She looked up, slightly unfazed to see that Raegan had another arrow nocked and ready, her eyes flaring with anger.
"Fine, whatever," Raine spat, finally relenting. "It's not like anyone's going to find you here. And even if they do, the only thing they'll be marveling at is how you couldn't aim to save your life."
And with that rancorous statement, Raine turned on her heel, and the last Raegan saw of her sister was her perfectly toned legs sauntering out the door, leaving her – once more – in the darkness.
White-hot rage surged through her veins, like blood. Raegan felt her grip tighten on her bow, and a scream escape her lips; she flung the bow to the ground out of mere frustration.
For all fifteen years of her life, she had endured Raine's constant mockery; it seemed that her sister strived for perfection (and usually succeeded) in just about everything Raegan could do. Her own sister was one of the reasons she couldn't look at herself in the mirror, for she knew all she would see would be failure.
"You need to control that anger of yours," a deep voice – that of a male's – resonated within the room. Raegan turned to meet the eyes of Damon Waver, the Head Trainer, as he walked out of the shadows.
"Well, Raine needs to control her goddamned mouth," was the bitter reply.
A smile slightly found its way onto Damon's lips. "We all have our issues," he said, amusement evident within his voice. "Some more than others."
"You think I don't know that?" Raegan asked, as she ran a hand through her mussed blonde hair. "What are you doing here, anyway? Training resumes tomorrow."
"It doesn't matter." He bent down to pick up Raegan's fallen bow. "What does matter, however, is you learning to keep your temper at a low, and shooting straight. You're better than her, Raegan, you know that."
"Well, everyone sure acts otherwise," she muttered as she took her bow from him. For the briefest moment her true demeanor was exposed, and beneath all of that bitterness and hatred, there a girl, merely insecure and unloved, a girl who found refuge in pain. A girl who wished people didn't look over her.
Damon sighed as he observed the fifteen-year-old pluck at the string of her bow, as if mentally envisioning Raine's death in her mind (he wouldn't have been surprised). He had been training her as long as he could he could recall, and never had a session gone without her feeling inferior to her older sister.
He reached out and lightly touched her shoulder; Raegan involuntarily jerked at the sudden physical contact. "Just remember:all you need to do is breathe, aim, and fire.I believe in you, Raegan. We all do."
And with that, he dropped his hand from her shoulder, and turned away. Raegan heard his combat boots against the floor of the Center until the door slammed with a sharp bang.
"Breath, aim, fire."
Raine: perfect, slender, tall, and talented Raine. Popular and desirable Raine. Raine, Raine, Raine. Everyone loved her, and everyone wanted her. But who wanted her ugly, shadowed, and nearly invisible sister?
Raegan reached back and withdrew an arrow, once more. She nocked it swiftly, her grip tight.
She pursed her thin lips, carefully drawing in a breath. Over the years, Damon had told her to calm herself, to believe in herself, to do what she was meant to do.
A circle of black and yellow, with a center of red; her sight never left it. It was as if she was the predator, and it was the prey. In a world where there was no Raine Cresfeld; only Raegan, and Raegan only.
The arrow shot through the air, like a bullet, and Raegan watched with satisfaction as it sank into the diminutive center of red, as swiftly as it was shot. A smirk crept onto her face, as a feeling of victory swept over her.
Life Before the Reaping
August Chesterfield, 18
Fire; his head was on fire. The flames shot through his skull, pierced his skin, and caused his vision to blur. He felt numb, the only sensation registering was the ineffable pain. His bones ached, and it hurt to move the slightest inch; the inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper.
Swirls of color were swimming in front of his eyes; large blobs of neon colors floated, crashed, and exploded. It was like a symphony of images, the color being the music, and his mind being the musician.
Music; that was another thought that swam into his dreary abyss of a brain. He could faintly hear it, it was soft and soothing but soon escalated to a raging roar. Words, there were words in the music; words that sounded vaguely familiar.
Then the music ceased and there were only words – words spoken desperately, in a tone that of a female's.
He picked up one of the words he heard.
"August. August. August."
August: wasn't that a month? Yeah, it was; but it was also something else . . . his name. My name is August, he thought hazily. Right?
"Wake up, you idiot."
Wake up? From what? He opened his mouth a tiny fraction to groan, but his cracked lips threatened to split, and the boy couldn't muster enough energy to do any more. He heard the girl – it was a girl, right? – sigh, swearing furiously, and muttering something about "drastic measures". Drastic, he thought to himself. That's a funny word. Even 'funny' is a funny word. Heh, that doesn't make sense. I wonder –
The shock registered before the actual impact, and eighteen-year-old August Chesterfield found himself crashing out of the tangled silk sheets of his bed, onto the hard wooden ground, his entire body soaked with cold water.
As if it was natural instinct, the first words that escaped his mouth were: "My hair!"
"Really? That's the first thing you say? Geez, not even a bit of gratitude." August's sleep-dazed grey eyes looked up to meet a pair of sapphire ones, with strands of dark hair covering most of their appearance. He distantly smiled.
"Mornin' to you, too, Serra," August managed through the thousands of needles that stabbed into his skull. "You look disconcerted."
His fifteen-year-old stepsister, Serra, snorted acrimoniously. "Speak for yourself, shit-faced. Have you looked in the mirror lately?"
"What is that supposed to . . . ?" August's question died in his mouth as he looked down at himself (or attempted to, it was difficult to do while you were flopped onto the floor). His usually crisply clean (and expensive) clothes were crumpled, ripped, and lathered in confetti, lipstick marks, glitter, and splotches of could've been beer.
He groaned, before bringing his hands up to cover his face. "Oh, shit. How wasted did I get last night?"
Serra laughed sardonically. "The usual; so drunk you stumbled into the house half-dressed with a bottle of the District's finest, rambling about how you needed to save the country from evil mutants with your superpowers. You ended up collapsing halfway up the stairs when you tried to lick your elbow."
"And mom and dad?" August asked, almost frantically, referring to his foster parents.
"Never noticed, never will." Serra's answer was deadpan and concise; August felt his insides constrict for the slightest moment; he had expected the answer, he always did, but a part of him – the faintest shred of his being – hoped that maybe, just maybe, his foster parents would notice his nightly antics once in a while.
Shaking the thoughts out of his golden-haired head, August gritted his teeth and forced himself off the ground. Every part of him ached.
"Ugh," he muttered, "why'd you have to wake me up so early, anyway?"
Serra rolled her eyes. "Because, dumbass, today's the day we find out who's going to be volunteering this year. Or is your skull too thick to understand that?"
"Fine, fine, I get it, jeez," August mumbled as he got on his feet, stretching himself. There was a dull throbbing in his head – no doubt from all the alcohol he had consumed the night before – but he was used to it, having experienced it almost weekly.
His stepsister watched in disgust as he ran his a wistful hand through his hair; sure they had the same social circle, but watching this idiot of a stepbrother go out and get himself wasted every other night irked her to the core.
"Whatever," she spat, whipping herself around, heading for the door. "Oh, I'd suggest you hurry up. Reven and your friends are waiting outside."
At the sound of the word friends, August shook his head manically, before hauling himself into the shower. If there was one thing he couldn't miss, it was his friends.
By the time he'd made it outside into the grey atmosphere of District Two, a group of guys and girls decked in lavish clothing and clutching cigarettes awaited him. August watched as the white smoke from their cigars slowly curled into the air.
"'Sup, August," seventeen-year-old Reven Masterson greeted him, his blackened teeth wide and his brown eyes alive with malice. "Finally managed to pull yourself outta that hellhole?"
"Tell me about it," August replied as he took in Reven's appearance. His black hair was ever-disheveled and he had a cigar in his hand. On his arm was a girl with frizzy red hair; no doubt one of his countless lady friends. He seemed to have a different one every other day.
"Hey, August," breathily spoke another girl in the group, Kanna Trevor. Her long blonde hair was pinned up in a pink-streaked bun today, and her skintight blue top was as low-cut as ever, giving August an eyeful of things he really didn't need to see so early in the morning.
"Kanna," he timidly replied. It was evident Kanna was disappointed at his response, her thick red lips stretched in a frown. She huffed and wrapped her arm around another boy of their group, this one with brown hair and an expression so elated at the sight of Kanna that August wondered if he'd been doing drugs lately.
"You guys ready to see whose gonna be volunteering this year?" August inquired as the group of friends made their way through the stone streets of District Two.
"Don't count on me, dude," Reven quirked, as he tossed away his cigar. "No way they're takin' me in for that shit." There was laughter at his statement.
Sunlight found its way through the lifeless clouds as multitudes of people made their way through the District. Many of them were dressed in work clothes, ready for their regular ordeal at the Nut. A pang went through August at the sight of these people; my parents were like that, he subconsciously thought to himself, just before they blew up.
The Training Center was popular among the majority of the Hunger Games-eligible population of District Two; August watched as groups of enthusiastic people made their way inside. Even though he hated to admit it, he'd always hated the place. The only reason he trained was because he had to, because his parents had insisted to.
By the time the group had gotten inside, most of the crowd had organized themselves into neat rows. Even though it wasn't customary in other Career Districts, District Two always had a habit of choosing their volunteers beforehand; even though he'd lived here his whole life, August had never fully grasped this concept.
The Head Trainer, Damon Waver, was visibly agitated; he stood on a pedestal, constantly shouting to keep the crowd calm. By the time silence was achieved, August was already losing sense of his surroundings, the dull throb of a passed hangover already snaking back into the confinements of his skull.
"Alright, guys," Damon proclaimed, the moment all chatter in the room ceased. "Today we're all for obvious reasons – to find out which two lucky bastards will be straining their necks and screaming out everyone's two favorite words at this year's Reaping. I think it's suffices to say that there's no need for any sort of introduction."
This statement merited cheers from the audience; August held back a dismissive eye-roll.
"Now," the Head Trainer continued, "let's find out which female will be volunteering this year." He cleared his throat and turned to one of his associates; Damon's eyebrows shot into the air when the name was whispered into his ear.
He turned back to the crowd, apprehension evident on his face. "So this year's female volunteer is, uh," he swallowed and August swore he saw a strong emotion flicker in his eyes. "Raegan Cresfeld," he finished, his voice laced with a hint of amusement.
It didn't take long for a dissonance of "who?"s to rise from the crowd. August vaguely recognized the last name; her sister was famous around here, known for her promiscuous ways.
A shrill scream pierced the air, and August turned around just in time to see a girl with short strawberry blonde hair fumingly make her way out of the Center, her heels clacking angrily against the tiled floor.
"Do you know who this Raegan chick is?" Reven asked August, as his eyes hungrily took in the sight of the raging blonde.
"Nope," August replied nonchalantly, his attention back on Damon; he didn't care for the Games as much he did for the initial Training, nor for the Tributes.
Damon cleared his throat loudly, regaining most of the crowd's attention. He opened his mouth to continue: "And now this year's male volunteer is . . ."
The boy's desperate pleas echoed in August's ears; he gritted his teeth as he felt himself being shook for the umpteenth time, the same sentence resonating through the hall.
"You have to, August," Reven tearfully managed, his customarily clear blue eyes clouded with fear. "You have to volunteer instead of me; I – I'll be killed out there."
"You think we don't know that, Reven?" Kanna snorted, as she observed the black-haired boy desperate cling onto August.
"This isn't funny," Reven nearly screamed at her, his face red. "I don't know why they picked me, but what I do know is that there's no way I c – can participate in th – the Games. It's m – madness. August, you have to go instead of me. Please."
August looked down the one he called friend; the one he had first swapped cigars with, the one who had clinked glasses of vodka with, and the one who had taught him the difference between snorting and swallowing cocaine. Reven was the friend who had introduced him to the right people, had taken him to the right parties, and had taught him the right tricks. Sure his effects weren't necessarily positive, but Reven was his friend. They all were. Right?
"Please," Reven begged again, his voice breaking. "Please."
August took a deep breath, contemplating his options; Reven was his friend, and he didn't take his friends so lightly to heart. Even if it meant treading the line between life-or-death.
His answer was curt and final, and he only said it because he knew saying otherwise would be risking losing his friends.
"Fine," August finally spat."I'll volunteer for this year's Hunger Games in place of you. But only because you're my friend."
The ecstatically grateful smile on Reven's face didn't reach his eyes.
Raegan Cresfeld, 15
Grayness: that was what District Two sorely consisted of; dull shapes of grey that stretched on for miles and miles, their monotonous facades never wavering. The only part of District Two that wasn't gray was the Nut: a formidable figure in the horizon, with a steady slew of gray and white-clothed people forever flowing out of it.
The men and women that worked there, day and night, were all frail and weary, the eyes glassy, their cheekbones sunken, and their backs hunched. The occasional glossy white-clothed barrage of Peacekeepers would join the crowd, but only when events of necessary interference occurred.
The only time District Two was allowed a reprieve from their customary grayness was Reaping Day. It was the day the dormant bloodthirsty hounds in themselves awoke from their slumber; as crisp new clothes were ironed and adorned, hair meticulously styled, and screams for blood and eagerness for the spilling of it filled the air, as hordes and hordes of people made their way into the District Square.
Raegan Cresfeld bit back severely acerbic comments as she observed her older sister, Raine, prance her way into their age group circle, her short strawberry blonde hair glistening with hair serum (although for some reason, their parents had neglected to offer Raegan some) and her curves perfectly stuffed into a body-hugging red and black ensemble. Almost immediately, Raine was enveloped in a hail of admirers, many of which were of the opposite gender.
She had gotten used to it, people always giving Raine the attention and overlooking her ugly little twin sister. Even as some curious eyes flitted over to her direction, Raegan didn't need to hold eye contact, as they eyes quickly slipped away and back onto Raine.
Notice me, she wanted to desperately scream sometimes. Please, just notice me.
"District Two," drawled this year's pink-haired escort, Lydia Rokcut, into the microphone, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Happy Hunger Games."
Roars and cheers of approval filled the air at this statement. Raegan refrained from it, even though she knew that the Games were her ticket to finally being noticed. Even at the Training Center, when her name was announced, did no one shoot her a look. Those who did were usually asking who this Raegan Cresfeld was. As far as they knew, her sister had furiously made her way out of the Center, only to be heard of when engaged in a furious battle of words with the Head Trainer, about how she should've been chosen, not that pathetic excuse of a sister.
But all that's going to change today, Raegan thought maliciously, as she watched the escort force herself from falling asleep on stage. It was evident that she was already bored of this, already knowing the routine. Raegan watched as Lydia sighed, already sick of the formalities.
"Let's just cut the crap and get to the names, alright?" Lydia said into the microphone, her Capitol-accented voice thick and irate. Raegan drew in a breath as she watched her walk over to the Reaping ball and plunged her hand into the sea of papers. One rose from the heap, and in bated breath, Raegan watched as she unfolded it.
The crowd stirred slightly, as if waiting for the telltale shout of everyone's two favorite words. Raegan inhaled deeply, ready to deliver them. This is it, she thought. This is going to change it all.
Slowly yet steady, she raised a bony arm into the air, before yelling out – in the loudest voice she could muster:
August Chesterfield, 18
Reven's cries of desperation echoed in August's ears as he watched a girl with flowing strawberry blonde hair shakily make her way onto the stage. So this was the Raegan Cresfeld everyone was talking about, he thought to himself. Or rather, everyone asking who she was.
She was lean, with a fair amount of muscle on her. With one quick glance at her stance, August knew he was looking at an archer.
"A volunteer; what a surprise," Lydia enunciated, the disdain unmistakable. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Raegan Cresfeld," the girl said into the mike, her voice laced in fake confidence. She looked like she wanted to say more, but the escort cut her off before she could.
"Alright, then," Lydia said, her voice lilting. "Onto to the males."
Deep shouts rose from the crowd, only to be drowned by shriller ones, that of the female population.
"Dude, this is it," Reven breathed, as he and August watched the escort pick through the sea of papers. "You have to do it instead of me. You can't bail on me, man."
"Don't worry, I won't," August muttered; a part of him as a bit hesitant: was volunteering for Reven worth it? Really worth it? Of course it was, August quickly shoved that thought to the back of his head. Besides, what's life without a little risk?
Reven's eyes nearly bored into the back of August's skull. "Do it," Reven nearly hissed. "Now."
August thought about his parents – the real ones, the ones who had died in the Nut. Would they approve of him volunteering? For a friend, nonetheless? Oh, right, they're dead.
"I VOLUNTEER!" August's voice rang loud and clear through the crowd. And just to stress his point, he bellowed even louder: "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"
He heard Reven sigh in what could've been relief or satisfaction. To be honest, he didn't care.
"Yay, a volunteer. Whoop-dee-doo, come on up, then." Lydia didn't even bother hiding her disparagement this time.
August bounded through the crowd, ignoring the various scathing looks he received. For the briefest moment, his eyes connected with that of Reven and Kanna's, looking for something: congratulations, pity, or even reassurance. But all he received was a glassy stare, with as much as emotion as a rock.
"And your name is . . . ?" Lydia inquired, yawning.
"August Chesterfield," was the answer, "at your service, District Two!"
His response was met with a rather enthusiastic amount of cheers. Not nearly as much for the female Tribute.
"Alright, then. Now that's done, Tributes shake hands, blah blah blah. You know the drill."
Raegan Cresfeld seemed a bit hesitant at first, before slowly extending her hand out to August. He clasped it with a firm grip, before warmly shaking it, his teeth bared in an award-winning smile. The girl did not reciprocate, her blues eyes shimmering with what seemed like frostiness. Well, August thought, she looks like she won't be having a bit of fun this year.
"District Two," Lydia's voice finally showcased some sort of cheer, most probably at the fact that the Reaping had come to a close. "I present this year's Tributes: August Chesterfield and Raegan Cresfeld!"
As he watched arms shoot into the air, mouths open in scream, and feet stomp in consent of these Tributes, August only had one thought on his mind:
Let's get this party started.
The Justice Building
Raegan Cresfeld, 15
Having lived most of her life in the shadow of her sister, Raegan was more than surprised when her parents walked into the confinements of the rather well-decked room.
"Raegan, dear," breathed her mother, Selly. "Congratulations."
"It is a great honor to take part in the Games," her father, Marlin, continued. "We – as a family – are proud of this."
"A family?" Raegan harshly snapped, all the anger she had been bottling up from the past few years suddenly spewing out. "Is that what we are? My bad, I thought it was just you guys and good ol' Raine."
Selly's face was drawn in shock, her blonde eyebrows. "W – what? Raegan, that's crazy, why would you even – "
"I don't hear you denying it." Raegan's voice was like poison, flying everywhere and at everyone. "Both of you, in fact."
"Raegan," Marlin shakily said. "Whatever we did, we're – we're sorry. I'm – "
"Where is Raine, anyway?" Raegan asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I can't believe she'd miss this chance to mock me."
Both her parents were silent for a moment, as if contemplating what to say next. "She," Selly began, "she didn't – she said she – " Her voice spluttered and died, as if realizing saying the rest would be to no prevail.
"Of course," Raegan bitterly mused. "She wouldn't bother, I mean why would she? I'm surprised you two didn't join her."
"Raegan – "
"No," she snapped. "I'm sick of this. I'm sick of all of this. I don't want to hear it, just – just leave me alone."
Her parents stood stoic, pleas and apologies at their lips, words gone unspoken. The three locked eyes, before Marlin and Selly sighed.
"We're sorry, Raegan," her mother dutifully managed. "We really are."
And with that, the two slammed the door shut, leaving Raegan alone with her bitter regret and the tiny piece of sorrow that had somehow managed to sneak into her.
The Justice Building
August Chesterfield, 18
Augusts fingers gently grazed over the velvet of the couch, only for his reverie to be broken by the opening of the door and the ushering in of a visitor.
He expected to see manic brown eyes and disheveled black hair, along with luscious blonde hair and glimmering hazel eyes, with congratulations and whoops escaping them, followed by a fist-bump or two. What he didn't expect however were piercing blue eyes and flowing dark hair.
"Serra?" August spluttered out incredulously.
"Yeah, don't be so surprised," she replied condescendingly. "It's not like I wanted to come."
"Wait, if you're here, where's mom and dad? And Reven?" The moment the words left his lips, August already knew the answer. Just like he had for all his life.
Serra flashed him a very brief sympathetic look, dreading the response. "Mom and dad are caught up at work, and Reven said something about an after-Reaping party." She paused, before hastily adding, "I'm sorry."
But she received no feedback, for August had gone frozen, his mind racing. After all he'd done for them, after he had near sacrificed his goddamn life for them, his so-called friends hadn't found it within themselves to bid him goodbye. And come to think of it, they had never found it within themselves to do anything.
"August." Serra's voice cut through his thoughts. "I know you're angry, but – "
"Angry?" August said in disbelief. "Understatement of the century."
"They were never your friends in the first place," Serra pressed on. "It was never within them to come here, or to be there for you."
"And does that rule apply to our parents, as well?" he muttered scornfully. His so-called friends were one thing, but his parents? He wished they'd be there for once, to witness him becoming more than they had expected. But as always, they were busy. Like every single goddamn time.
His statement was met with a speech Serra. "August," she said, "that's hardly fair, they're busy and they have things to do and –"
"They always do," August articulated heatedly. "That's the thing; they're never there, and I just wish that – you know, maybe one day, they would be."
Serra opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the opening of the door, and the arrival of a Peacekeeper.
"Out," the white-clothed man intoned, not even bothering to apologize for his interference.
The two stepsiblings locked eyes, and years of resentment, hatred, and envy passed between them. Even if they hated to admit it, they had grown to care for each other – a lot more than they ever thought they would.
"Do your best out there, August," Serra managed in a strangled voice. "Make mom and dad proud."
She walked out of the room, and the door slammed behind her. August sat alone, as he digested her last words.
"Make mom and dad proud."
Well, not only will I make mom and dad prouder than ever, but I'll also make sure that they remember me.
And he wasn't just referring to his foster parents.
A/N: 5,000 words. Hopefully well-spent on doing justice to these Tributes. What were your thoughts on them? I'm not too keen on Careers, but these two are pretty humane compared to the usual ones. Plus they were fun to write! Thoughts?
To the author of the Tributes: I'd love to hear your thoughts on my portrayal!
Hopefully, District Three will be done faster than this, but no promises. I will finish the Reapings. No question about that. Although you'll have to put up with my suckish writing and horrible updating until then.
I'd love to hear your thoughts on the writing, the characters, some ConCrit, and all that. Feedback is essential, and it helps me improve (and brightens up my day!) So I'd love you forever if you would review!
Until next time, awesome ones:
Peace, Love, and Nutella!