Thanks so much for taking the time to look at my story, you're awesome. First off, I don't think there'll be any spoilers, at least nothing people care about; mostly just reaping protocol and the way things look.
The story follows an awkward tribute from District 8, and the 72nd Hunger Games. I know there are better versions of pretty much the same thing, but I thought I'd go for it. ^_^
Rain. If you can call it that. No, the "rain" in District 8 is more like a chemical spill than a natural event; as soon as the first drop falls people are back into the factories, taking shelter under the corrugated iron while the acid destroys anything that is not already beaten down or dead.
Probably another thoughtful ploy of the Capitol's – keep them from getting into mischief by keeping them in work because to go outside will mean both pain and the reminder nothing grows in 8 and nothing ever has. At least nothing in living memory; there was once an elderly woman that inhabited a corner of a particularly dilapidated warehouse, kept alive by meagre servings that could be spared by some of the workers, she would occasionally wake long enough to tell a story of a cherry-blossom tree that lived when she was a girl. Everyone would stop working and gather around her bed, imagining a life of freedom or simply something a life of something else. She said the tree refused to die when all around it bowed down and decayed before the poisonous sky. She would always finish with telling us in raspy, tired tones that it was hope that kept the tree alive, and that hope is what we should all live for. Then she would settle back into the folds of the rags that she lay in and would sleep once more.
I secretly doubted that hope kept the tree alive, and seeing as though it no longer exists then surely it must have been eventually beaten by the toxic environment or even up-rooted by the Capitol itself in order to completely rid any distraction from the lives in District 8, who should be making fabric and thread. She died, eventually, and even what was half remembered of the tree faded as she did. They took her frail body from her nest and buried her under a stone with the word "blossom" carved in, as nobody could remember her having any name. The factory corner was then strangely empty from then on, as everyone shared the unspoken thought that for another machine to replace her corner would be to accept that she was truly gone and hope could not sustain a person forever.
But it didn't have to. It only had to sustain me for the next hour or so, long enough for two other innocents to be chosen and once again, the chance to return to the family tenement and to flick through my book of fabric samples and be as close to happy as I've ever been. But that means getting through the reaping, and it's my turn to register.
This time the ceremony is taking place indoors, under the roof of yet another warehouse the entire able-bodied population of the District is huddled, their eyes fixed on a banner bearing the Capitol seal, which looks, for once, unimpressive under the fluorescent lights of its current setting. They tried to host the reaping in the town square as usual, of course they did – I was up early enough to see it. But several burned umbrellas and a minor catastrophe regarding the mixture of Capitol enhancements and acid rain later, and the gathering is hastily moved indoors.
The last of the city was arriving, and despite the vastness that only a warehouse designed to hold almost unfathomable amounts of fabric for the Capitol can bring, the mood was beginning to become claustrophobic. District 8's escort must have realised this because he stood up with impressive speed when the last member of the city arrived. "Welcome, and may I say how wonderful it is to see so many happy faces gathered for today's celebration" Algernon Sleen was always the same, he had a look in his eyes of dangerous intelligence and seemed to take pleasure in the fact the Games tortured every single member of the audience. Still, we shared a sense of humour and I allow myself a smile. Probably the only one in the tide of starving workers – most of which are so downtrodden it would be difficult to say exactly when they had died once they entered the tournament. "And happy Hunger Games, District 8, and may the odds be ever in your favour" They were. I knew it. I was only 16, which means my name is in less than some of the crowd, I have never taken tesserae – that had fallen to my oldest brother, now 20 years old. Also, with the number of people in the crowd for reaping, I needn't worry. But I couldn't relax either – I rarely can. "Now, why wait? The tension is killing me" He continued, in silky words which perfectly matched his shimmering suit of dark green, complimented in colour by his coifed hair (which due to the rain, had left his forehead somewhat dyed). "Let us all see who the lucky girl is…" His elegant talons skimmed the surface of the transparent, until one slip caught his fancy and he plucked it from the rest. I wasn't even holding my breath. I supposed that made me a bad person, but times were hard and I could only care about myself, not every girl in the crowd. "Nancy Cray" I look up. Nancy, if I remembered correctly, meant 'grace' or something similar, only there must have been a mistake when naming her; she was built like an ox and walked in such a way that showed off her powerful shoulders and strong neck. District 8 may have a contender after all! "Yes, that's right, up here, that's right" She showed not sign that she could hear his prompts but made her way silently up to the stage, her face the definition of neutral.
"Our first, beautiful tribute!" If she was annoyed at being mocked she didn't show that either and everyone gave one or two half-hearted claps. The rain fell harder still.
"Now, every pig has its goat, so let's find our man of the moment" Was that was a real adage? I gazed at the stage – the powerful girl solidly stood alone, waiting for another unfortunate to join her.
It was my turn to close my eyes, to hope for a better time. "Quinn Carter!" I finally relax. A name has been read and I can leave this here at last. Some time passes and the tribute has still not presented himself. "Now, now, don't be modest – Quinn Carter!" I wave of hot bristles passes over me. I realise I am Quinn. I am a tribute. I am as good as dead.
Whenever I'm in trouble my options present themselves in a quick list, today none seem very hopeful. I could do nothing – there are so many people in the district I am unlikely to be found soon. Too temporary. I could run – the peacemakers are not superhuman and a forceful lunge could break through there line… but then what? Run a mile in the rain and then wait to be executed? Various other short-lived scenarios play out and I find myself at a conclusion: go onto the stage and find a new plan there.
I am incredibly awkward in presenting myself I could be surprised they didn't tell me to go back to my place so they could pick another, less difficult boy. I edge towards a gap between the lines of people and they all turn to stare. Their empty, soulless eyes seem more prominent from under their darkened eyelids. I try to smile at them, uncertain how to act. They just keep staring as I approach the temporary stage. What the hell do they want? "Come now, we'll be dead before you at this rate!" and Sleen lets out a laugh. I register it as a joke but the fact doesn't make itself apparent on my face. I suppose this is shock. My new friend Nancy seems crestfallen that she's been paired with such a feeble male. "And there we have it!" he shouts, his white, sharp teeth showing from beneath his ridiculous mask of face-paint "Our next Hunger Games contestants!" And they do nothing but stare.
I'd like to thank you for reading this, and would be thrilled if you told me how terrible it is. Don't feel pressured though, you have much better things to be doing, I know. ~ Gsyrups (the mighty)