Author's Note: Hey guys! I hope you enjoy this story!
The faint sound of my mother's voice pulls me into the world of the living, and I push upwards to face her blurry form.
I try to stifle my yawn. According to my mother, it isn't ladylike. And my mother cherishes my pristine reputation even more than I do, far-fetching as it may sound.
"Blair, what are you still doing in bed?" Her voice is very pitchy, rising at the end in a sort of creaky exasperation. "The reaping is three hours! Blair, cameras will be everywhere. This is a perfect chance for you to get some much-needed screen time. I had Doroda lay out your clothes last night." A ring from her cell phone cuts her off. "I need to make sure the outfit for the girl at tonight's parade is set and ready to be hemmed in or out. Those volunteer girls can get a little bulky with all the muscles. I'll see you there."
She strides out, replaced quickly by a flustered Doroda. "Miss Blair, I am sorry. Miss Eleanor picked out dress herself." Her accent is strong, and as always, it makes understanding her a bit of a difficult task. I know I have an extremely lavish lifestyle for someone in the districts, and even having a maid is a gift. No matter how confusing her verbatim.
The dress hanging on the hook of my closet door takes my breath away. "Oh," I say quietly. Eleanor has really outdone herself this time. Despite her constant pleas for me to follow in her footsteps and work for her to someday replace her as the stylist of District 2, and despite my constant refusals, her pieces are inarguably stunning.
The ruby-colored dress gathers on one shoulder in a folded fashion that somehow resembles roses. The cloth ends just above my knees in the front, flowing down in a wispy train behind me. My thick brown hair, tied up with a gold barrette, contrasts very nicely. It's a shame, really. Such a beautiful dress for such unfortunate circumstances.
Being picked for the Hunger Games was never a big fear for me. I never had to exchange extra entries for food; we were always extremely wealthy. And being in what the outer districts jealously dubbed "Career districts," there was always an excess of volunteers. Still, the moment of anticipation before the ballot is picked is never less than terrifying. But at least if my face radiates fear, at least it'll look good doing it.
And of course, with one parent as the mayor and one as stylist, we have good name recognition. No one can imagine a Waldorf dead in the arena.
When I see people begin to shuffle towards the square, I fall in with the crowd. Soon, I'm thrown next to a square girl whom I recognize as one of the dangerously-dedicated trainer girls.
She nods at me. "Blair."
"Iz."
There's a moment of awkward silence. "Do you know who the council chose as volunteers this year?"
The awkwardness increases. She's obviously wondering how I knew about the council, as someone who has famously never picked up a weapon. At least of which they know.
"Yeah. Um, me."
"You." I give her a not-so-subtle once over. The council is a secret group of elites who put victory in the Hunger Games before all, and each year they choose a boy and a girl from training that they think will best represent our district. Iz? Really?
"Yes, me." She stares at me, challenging but at the same time almost bleeding weakness. She may be stronger, but I have a reputation. Power and brains are a dangerous combination, and I have both in abundance. I know it, she knows it.
"Well," I say, smiling cheerfully. "Maybe if you put a shred of effort into your appearance, you'd pick up some sponsors."
"Appearance doesn't choose the winner, Waldorf."
"But it does influence it. And with that rat's nest, I don't know if you'll get that influence." I smirk. "Have fun in the arena."
I stride away, feeling her eyes bore holes in my back. Trivial. Important people have enemies. It's just part of the package.
Along with the swarm of people, I fall into the "17" line, roped off and guarded by Peacekeepers. They're a formality; everyone knows Two honors and respects the system. It's still slightly unnerving.
The chatter is somehow tense, and I'm almost grateful to hear the microphone squeak as our escort climbs onto the stage.
"Greeting, and welcome to the seventy-second annual Hunger Games!" Anne is very plainly dressed for an escort; her style is classy and elegant, different from the usual extravagant take on the job. She used to be bolder, before her husband went off and got arrested and she came so close to losing everything. Of course, none of the information I know about her is common knowledge; her family's wealth covered the whole thing up and got her husband to prison alive. I deny knowing anything whenever her name comes up. It's so much easier than explaining my history with her son. Luckily, they only show up for the reaping every year, as the visits ended with our relationship. Now Nate is in District 1, and I'm far away from the past.
My train of thought is stopped by the rustling of her hand in the reaping ball. Pausing, she pulls out the name. I observe her furrowing her lips, and the expression on her face is one of conflicted emotions. "Your female tribute will be..."
She pauses again. "Blair Waldorf." I don't move, and slowly, I feel thousands of eyes on me.
"It's fine," I tell myself. "Iz will volunteer. I don't even have to leave this spot."
After a moment, Anne meets my eyes gently. "Blair, come up here."
"No, you don't understand. Iz?" I look at her pleadingly. Her face is smug, and I understand immediately.
Inside, I'm screaming at her, screaming, crying, but on the outside, I need to remain cool. Slowly, I ascend the steps, and the train of the crimson dress picks up dirt on the tired marble. Doing my best impression of emotionless, I stare straight ahead.
"And now for the male." Anne swirls her hand around, selecting a name. She clears her throat but before she can even read it, a voice interrupts her.
"I volunteer as tribute."
As someone who has watched the reapings for as long as she can remember, I cannot recall a single volunteer who sounded so nonchalant. But although the face is hidden, I recognize that deep, gravelly tone.
"And what's your name?" Anne forces a smile. She knows his name.
"I'm Chuck Bass." He works through the crowd, joining me on the stage.
He looks at me, and white hot anger surges through my body. There goes dying in dignity.
"Shake hands," she says shortly, her words clipped and curt.
Chuck grabs my hand, forcing his eyes onto mine despite my protests. "This should be fun."
So I hope you enjoyed that (very short) opening. As you can probably tell, the plot will revolve around Blair (and Chuck) and their time in the arena. The backstory between Blair, Chuck, and Nate pre-opening will all be explained along the way. I would love to hear feedback about the plot, my writing, and also ideas in general. Even stuff as small as a character you want to see! I really love getting feedback. Thank you for reading, and PM me for more info about the story!