So this is the first fanfic I've tried to write, so it may not be that good. But read it and see + PLEASE REVIEW!
'This is it', I think to myself, as I slowly but cautiously ascend the old, cobble steps that lead up to the stage. I certainly don't want to make a fool of myself now by falling over. Embarrass myself in front of the whole district. In front of the trainers. And the Capitol. And the other tributes. This evening, this very moment will be broadcast in front of the whole of Panem. I can't look weak now. I must look calm, excited even. I must look cunning, to intimidate the other tributes when they watch the reaping later tonight. They are probably worried about the tributes from Two already, before they've even seen our faces. If I were them, I would be. When I reach the top of the stage, I look directly at the nearest camera, and narrow my eyes, so I appear to be scowling at the other tributes. Those selected from One, Two and Four are traditionally known as the Career tributes, and an alliance is usually formed between us before the games even begin. I dread to think what arrogant, selfish partner's I will have to put up with for the next few weeks. When we get into the arena, I must kill them as soon as possible. I figure I must look quite convincing with my scowl, because the cameraman's expression is horrified. I think he's scared of me. It's quite comical actually, and I try not to laugh. I've never made anyone particularly afraid of me before, at least not that I've been aware of. It's not in my nature, being scary. That's why I've never really felt at home in District Two, as most of the adults spend their lives wishing that they had been chosen for the games. They see nothing wrong with sending their children off to their imminent deaths. In fact, they encourage it. When we reach twelve years of age, they send us to train at a place called The Academy. The Academy isn't a friendly place at all. You have to be tough if you want to make an impression. They do not like weaklings, or the friendly ones among us. We are sent there to learn to fight, not to make friends. That's what they say. Most of the kids there don't talk to anyone at all, and practically throw themselves into their training. By the age of eighteen, most are lethal killing machines, and know at least fifty different ways to kill a person. With and without a weapon. It's at that age that they volunteer at the reaping, and go off to become tributes in the Hunger Games. We have quite a lot of victors in Two, and the Victor's Village by the barracks is always overcrowded. Most of District Two is taken up by the huge barracks that house the army and the peacekeepers. My district provides the military for the rest of Panem. That's why there is so much order here. No one would dream of stepping out of line. You'd be executed on the spot for sure, even for something as small and insignificant as stealing some bread. No one is hungry here, so you wouldn't have much need to, but I've heard that in some of the other districts people die all the time from starvation and will do anything to get their hands on a loaf of bread, no matter how small or stale. How horrible that must be. Never having a full stomach. Always having to rummage for food. It must be awful. I'm grateful that I live in Two, except for the fact that most of the people here terrify me. The mayor especially. He's a huge, bulky male, of about forty years of age. He has a close-cropped military haircut, as do most of the soldiers and men here. He must be at least seven feet tall, and no one would dream of messing with him. He's not the fun kind of person. I can tell. He stands to attention at the edge of the stage, a few metres to my left. I daren't turn to look at him though. I know I must keep my head forward.
I've been thinking to myself for so long that I don't even realize they've called the boy tribute. Our new escort is gesturing for us to shake hands, and we do before I even look up to see who I will be competing against. But I don't have to look at his face to know who he is. I know by the warmth of his skin, the firm grip of his hand. I look up at his head, at his short blonde hair, in a surfer-type haircut. He looks like he belongs in District Four really. I look at his prominent cheek bones, and his firm jawline. Then I nervously look up into his eyes. They are deep blue, like the sea, and are so full of secrets. He's very hard to read, I know that from years of trying to figure out what he's thinking. I never could. But now, he looks so worried, so concerned. But I know it's not about him, it's about me.
Cato.
