I suppose I should inform you that the rebellion in Mockingjay never existed in this world. The only events I am using from the wonderful Suzanne Collins are those of the original book in her series, which means that yes our star-crossed lovers are indeed star-crossed lovers who survived together. Endearing isn't it?
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My name is Rhett Cimmaron. I am a factory worker in District 3. District 3 is one of the 12 districts ruled by an advanced city known as The Capitol. The Capitol and the 12 districts reside within the nation of Panem. There were once 13 districts, but the districts rebelled, and as a result District 13, responsible for graphite mining, was utterly destroyed, and The Capitol began the annual Hunger Games. They take a boy and a girl from each district, ages 12-18, and have them fight to the death in an arena of The Capitol's creation. They pick these "Tributes" by placing all the children's names in a bowl on slips of paper, and drawing. If you are poor and starving, you may receive a tessera, which is a supposedly years-worth supply of grain and oil. You may take one tessera for each of your family members, but there is a catch. For each tessera, your name is entered into the ball more times. At the age of 17, my name is in there 38 times, for my family is not of the lucky intelligent inventors of District 3, rather we are the poor factory workers, and neither of my sisters are old enough to work, and my father is old and tired, and is unable to work the long hours necessary to support us. As a result, I take all the tessera I can, and work something like 84 hours a week. This is the day of my 5th reaping ceremony, and my little sister Cassia's 1st. She has taken no tessera, I would not allow her. I pray to whatever forces may be that we are allowed to return home on this, the reaping of the 100th Hunger Games. The odds are not in my favor.
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I tuck in my pristine white shirt. Pristine, and yet also a size or two too small to accomadate the growth Ive had over the last year since it was given to me on my 16th birthday. Clean clothes are hard to come by in the districts, perhaps even more so in a district filled with factories. The smell of industrial smoke and greases of all different kinds clung to the air in a sickening fashion. So much so that any time we receive a new escort they almost always wear somekind of face covering the first couple of years, and for those years all of us laugh at them. These fumes are part of the people of District 3, even the well-to-do families can taste it when they go to sleep at night. I check myself in the dirty, cracked mirror that has held residence in the corner of our living room in our small one bedroom falit for as long as I can remember. I look as well as I could expect, I think to myself. The shirt is too tight, the muscles of my shoulders and chest straining slightly against the fabric, making me look more impressive than I was. My pants, however, fit well, but were also frayed at the bottom and stained with those various greases than made up the scent of my home, and my shoes were dull and scuffed beyond belief. I run a finger through my short cut jet black hair, combing it to the right and up slightly, sothe the front stands in a sort of upward wave to the right. I notice that even at my age I have lines in my face. Laugh lines, indicating the fact that I do indeed love to laugh and enjoy myself, and then the lines between my eyebrows from hours of concentrating on my work at the factory, and years of being the main provider for my family. And then there's my eyes. Startlingly enough, they are not the typical muddy brown, nor the less common jet black of my district, rather my pupils are surrounded by an icey halo of blue. The color of a thick sheet of clear ice over a lake. They betray my brightness, despite my being a simple worker. And the bages underneath betray my workload, and my restelessness.
"Rhett! Come on now boy, we've got to get you to registration. You've taken more time than your sister!" The gruff and tired voice of my father, Laicus Cimmaron, calls out to me from outside the door. I check myself one more time and then hurry outside. I take hold of little Cassia's hand, and my father takes the littlest Sarina. We walk together, as a family, yet seperate as those who were safe and those who were not. We do not speak as we make our way to the town center. Once we arrive Cassia and I are seperate from Father and Sarina, who are ushered to the cordonned off section for those not in the reaping. I give a few words of encouragement to Cassia as the prick her finger for registration, and then follow after her. We are then seperated as well, sent to stand with our age groups; I with the 17 year old boys, and she with the 12 year old girls. We stand and watch the stage with varying degrees of nervousness and fright. I have resigned myself, as I do every year, to the very real possibility of being reaped. It is the price of loving one's family. Our escort, Jacey Starbright, who has been our escort for 10 years now, appears on stage in a strange dress that has star designes cut out of the fabric at strategic places, while small blue-white lights are threaded through the rest of the dark blue dress. She faintly resembles the night sky, which is what she intended I am sure. Her hair is dyed a dark blue to match the fabric of the dress and dotted with pearls, and a string of star tattoo's trail across her cheekbones. She walks up to the microphone and begins to speak in her affected Capitol accent. She speaks about the atrocities of the revolution and why we must have the games, and what an honor it truly is to be picked as tribute, and all of those mind-numbing speaches that always accompany the reaping. We watch the video. Now it is time.
"Ladies first, am I right?" She chuckles to herself, as if she had made a joke, and then strides over to the girl's selection pot. She reaches in, and takes out a slip of paper. My heart stops for an instant before she reads the name aloud, thinking of Cassia. "Gyra Macies!" She cries out in delight. I turn to see a girl that is somewhat familiar to me, though I can not remember why. She is strikingly beautiful, which is surprising as District 3 is not known for the beauty of it's women. She has the same black hair as I do, though it is thick and falls in waves to her shoulder blades. Her eyes are a gorgeous and entrancing shade of hazel, and her olive-toned skin seems to glow with perfection. I decide that I do not know her. If I do, then I would never have forgotten this girl. The 18 year old walks calmly and gracefully tto the stage, dressed in a simple blue cotton dress. She looks simple next to Jacey, and yet she is also apparently more appealing. My eyes are torn from Gyra as I notice Jacey headed to the boys selection. I watch as she dips into it and pulls a slip of paper. I close my eyes and take a deep breath as she reads the name. That breath feels as though it is knocked out of me as the name leaves her lips. "Rhett Cimmaron!" She calls. I hear the cry of both sisters, and I hear as Cassia attempts to volunteer, though she cannot. I walk, escorted by the white-clad peacekeepers, up to the stage, and realize that no matter how much I resign myself to this possibility, I was not prepared. We are instructed to shake hands, and so we do. We make eye contact, and something bizzare passes between us. And then we are escorted into the hall of justice, so that we may say our last goodbyes. Because let's face it. We're from District 3. We probably won't be returning to the square ever again.