"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"
The annoying screechy voice of the yearly escort, Dalla Trinket, fills the square. My heart beats in my chest, though I keep my expression calm and composed. After all, I'm Autumn Battles. I'm not afraid.
I march into the dingy square the Capitol has so pathetically attempted to turn festive. I'm amongst other girls my age, many of which I know, many of which I've seen though never spoke to. After all, I'm Autumn Battles. I choose who I talk to.
I keep my head held up high, though I can't control the raging beat inside my chest. Not that I'd ever admit that. Not today. Not on reaping day, the day when I've sworn I'd be strong. I don't want pity.
I walk through more lanes of people, and heads turned to look at me. Of course, Autumn Battles is a legend. People look up to her, fear her, respect her. Respect me. People have all heard of Autumn Battles, the pain of her past, the promise of her future. The faces hold promise, fear, and something terrifyingly like hope.
Our line of girls has finally settled into the sea of children, the rows and rows of hallow cheeks and dark eyes with frail, hungry bodies. I can feel the expectant glances thrown my way, the heat of staring eyes warming up the back of my neck. My palms are warm and beginning to sweat, and I have to cross them over my arms to stop from fidgeting with my hair. Autumn Battles does not fidget.
I've always found it sad, when we watch as other districts have the escort introduce their victor or victors, and watching them step forwards to mentor the next tributes. In district twelve, we have no mentor, nor any victors. In district twelve, the only thing pushing me forwards is the starving eyes of the hungry. So instead of introducing the district's "pride", we have the mayor immediately come up and give the usual speech.
"I heard you're going to volunteer," a voice whispers from beside me. It's a girl, and her voice is quivering badly. When I turn my head sharply to face her, she cowers backwards and stares at the floor. My scathing silver eyes looks her over. She's almost a head shorter than me, with dark hair that barely reaches her shoulders. Her bony shoulders are hunched, and she seems terrified. But something else glimmered in her voice when she asked me her question. I recognize it now, more clearly. Hope.
I decide to ignore her, giving her one hard glare before turning my head back towards the front, chin tilted up. But her voice, as young and frail as it was, turns other heads up towards me. No one dares ask anything again, but I can almost hear their tiny voices begging me to save them.
The mayor speaks of the honor of participation, the goodness we serve, and the fight for the better. I've trained myself through school classes to learn to tune out voices, just so I can ignore this speech every year. It's terrible- the way he's forced to make the games sound so honorable- especially when his own son is somewhere in the crowd today, fingers crossed like the rest of us.
It's easier today, with the sound of my heartbeat so loud. As part of the oldest group of children, we're right at the front of the stage. I focus my eyes on the small banner with the capitol seal on it, and imagine what it would be like watching it float in the sky as the images of the fallen I may have caused flash overhead. It brings fear, but I'm able to imagine how she felt when she looked in the sky for her fallen victims.
Isn't that the reason I'm making this decision? Forher? I can't stop. I can't forget. I can't let her death leave in vain.
Dalla's bounced up to the stage again, though I can't hear her voice. I still haven't fully tuned in, and my head is still spinning with the memories of her. When she pulls a name out of the reaping bowl, my head has cleared just as the name is pronounced and the faint shriek of a mother and wail of a child fills the square. I can't let herdie in vain. I can't let them know they beat her. I must avenge her. I must show them who the real victors are. My lips part, and when they speak- for a second I swear I sound just like her.
"I volunteer as tribute."