Author's Note: Okay, so this is basically a story idea I came up with while I was thinking of AU ideas for the Hunger Games. I realized it was different enough to warrant entirely new characters, so I decided to use a past game to tell my own story. I have not read any stories like this one but I know there are them, so if there are any similarities I can assure you they are pure coincidence. I'm going to strive to make this as accurate as possible in relation to the process described in the books, but just to warn you that if I think accuracy interferes with how I want the story to go then I'm probably going to alter a few things. Also, I started to write this in third person before deciding to change, so while I think I altered all the tenses to make them correct I apologize if there's a mistake or two. Everything should be fine after the first couple of paragraphs :)
I'm writing this pretty quickly at the moment and hopefully that won't change, but any reviews and comments will definitely motivate me so if you have any I'd love to hear them. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy
Reaping Day.
I still marvel at the fear those words bring to me. I don't think of myself as a particularly timid person, but I'm not ashamed to admit that every time this day comes around I am gripped with unimaginable terror. Who wouldn't be? With the possible exception of the Career districts and of course the Capitol, I doubt anyone actually looks forward to it.
I can remember dreading this day since the age of five, when my oldest brother became eligible for the reaping. That fear continued, magnifying at the age of eight when it was my sister's turn, and then yet again when I turned eleven. That time my fear was not due to a sibling though. My friend Blaze (so named for his shock of red hair, which he had apparently had even as an infant) was one year older than me. I barely slept the night before his first reaping.
And then, of course, it was my turn. Fortunately with two older siblings I'd had no need for tesserae. Even so I could remember being so scared I was shaking, every time the date rolled around again. Now I've survived four times I like to think my fear has diminished a little, but I doubt that's true. Yesterday my hand shook so bad that I'd barely been able to sew up the uniform I was making. If Blaze hadn't have helped me then I might have even been beaten for it.
At least we got the day off today. As if that was any comfort. All of us trot into the square, like prize pigs ready for slaughter. I suppose that's all we are really. Blaze grins at me through the crowd, giving me a hearty thumbs up. I roll my eyes back. He can be such an idiot at times. My heart is thumping, impossibly fast. Five times. My name is in there five times. In relation to the crowd it seems like a small number, but I know better. Five is plenty enough to get picked.
Don't be so selfish I scold, throwing another glance towards Blaze. He has no older siblings, only a younger sister who has just turned six. He's worked at the factory for almost seven years now, but his meagre pay isn't enough to feed a household. With those tesserae marks against him, his name is in the drawing thirty times. I would never understand why there was a smile on his face.
He is the only one smiling. Well, almost the only one. Adora, our escort, has her bright red lips grimaced into a cheesy grin. Adora has looked the same for at least the last ten years, and I'm willing to bet she has looked that way for a lot longer. Her face is smooth as silk, covered with a kind of red glitter that makes it look like she's been splattered with blood. Her dress is of a similar shade, and she's wearing impossibly tall heels. I glance down at my own worn shoes-they are leather and of good quality, but I'd outgrown them about three years ago. As a result my toes are squashed painfully against the sides. Most of the time I go barefoot, but my mother wouldn't dream of letting me do that on the Reaping Day. It's the same reason I am wearing my only silk dress. I love this dress to pieces-my mother made it one day out of some fabric which was meant to be thrown away as waste. It was intended to be pure white but there were some grey flecks all over one side, which apparently ruined the effect. My mother salvaged it, cutting it up and transforming it into a beautiful dress for me. All the grey flecks are on the inside, so I never even minded about them. I'd wear it every day if I could, but this place is so filthy I daren't. Instead it takes pride of place in my cupboard, coming out once a year on the Reaping Day.
As far as districts go, we're all looking pretty good. We may be one of the poorer districts but since we run the textile factories the one thing we're never short of is clothes. It's lucky too-even in summer this place remains cold, the tall factory chimneys blocking out most of the light. I love the sunshine so much. I can't help but be envious of places like Districts Four and Eleven, who get to see the sun all year long. My skin is so pasty and drab that I suddenly worry the white dress makes me look washed out. Nervously I pluck at a strand of my hair, the same colour and texture as straw.
The crowds fall quiet as the last of the children traipse miserably in. We're all ranked by age, the youngest at the front and the oldest at the back. That way the younger children get a better view of their friends being dragged off to their deaths. I shiver, wishing I had brought my old coat. Our reaping is taking place at early afternoon. I can just see the rays of sunshine straining to break through the wall of grey buildings. Closing my eyes, I imagine I am far away from here in a sunnier district. It's a pleasant thought. I almost don't notice that the reaping's begun.
"…and now for the first tribute!" I tune out most of what Adora says, having heard it for the last four years. She does the same flourishes, gives the same speech every year like an automated machine. I pay attention when her hand goes towards the bowl though, amplified by the large screen behind her.
Everyone is watching this moment I think, heartbeat louder than ever And everyone is wishing it wasn't them.
Red talons grab a bit of paper, almost spearing it through. She drags it out and unfolds it, relishing the name with inhuman delight.
"Our female tribute…" she smiles, and in the shade her teeth look almost as red as her lips, "Taci Twyla!" I freeze, as those closest to me turn to look. That's my name. That's me. For the longest time I just stand there, unable to comprehend what has happened. No, it can't be. Not me. I always feared it but it wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to be something abstract, like being afraid that the textiles factory might suddenly explode or someone might claim you're a traitor. I was never supposed to actually be picked.
Someone gives me a shove, and then my feet are moving of their own accord. The crowd parts, each face turning to stare at me. Some are sympathetic, most are relieved. I can hardly blame them. I know which emotion I would pick if it had been someone else who was chosen. Adora is gesturing at me proudly, like a mother encouraging a baby to take their first steps.
"Yes, come on darling, up you come! Isn't this exciting?" When I reach the stage she yanks me close, red nails digging into my arm. I scan the crowd, feeling lost. There's my mother, her mouth open in shock. There's my brother and his wife, clutching their baby as if she was about to be snatched. I can't see my sister. Of course not-she died a while back. But in my panic I forget that. I look around frantically, trying to see her. Instead my gaze settles on Blaze.
His expression is unreadable.
"And now for our male tribute!" Adora shoves me to one side, my ten seconds in the spotlight over. Now I'm closer I can see her eyes are red too, what I hope are contacts. You can never be too sure when it comes to Capitol people. She approaches the other bowl now, her heels making a fierce click like a sewing machine on full pelt. She is almost there when a voice speaks up.
"I volunteer!" It is a deep voice, one I know well. Once more people turned round, this time with tones of excitement. A volunteer? This never happens. Not here. We're not Careers, we're not trained. All most of us can do is sew, and you can't kill someone with a needle. But this time it has happened. I shut my eyes, knowing already who the voice belongs to long before the boy steps forward.
"And what's your name?" Adora shouts, her voice so full of glee I'm afraid she might spontaneously burst in a splatter of red.
"Blaze," he speaks up, and I'm forced to open my eyes, "Blaze Fuller."