Think the Hunger Games are over? Think again.
DISCLAMER: Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins, not me. Characters are my own.
The Fourth Quarter Quell
It's my first Fan Fiction, so please review! :)
"On the One hundredth Anniversary of the Hunger Games, as a reminder to the fact that the Capitol holds many secret strengths unbeknownst to the districts, the change for this year will not be known to anyone but the Gamemakers and the capitol officials, until the Hunger Games begin."
I watch, as though in slow motion, Petra Mulroy's hand reach into the glass bubble of names, where I knew mine sat in waiting, written nine times on various sheets of paper. She swirls her long, hot pink nails around the sea of paper, pulls out a single strip, and unfolds it with a flourish. She pauses dramatically, and says,
"Rhubarb Tarrowell."
At that moment, I swear I see my life flash before my eyes.
Although, I'm sure I'm getting ahead of myself. In case you didn't realize, I'm Rhubarb Tarrowell, Ruby for short. I'm 13 years old, I live in District 11, and I just got reaped for the Hunger Games. Not just any Hunger Games, the 4th Quarter Quell. The 100th Hunger Games. Lucky me.
Behind me, my mother lets out a dry sob, and I turn towards her and wrap my arms firmly around her. With a shaking hand, she gently tucks in a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. I see my father place his hand comfortingly on my mother's shoulder. I opened my mouth to talk, but Petra's unnaturally cheerful voice calls out,
"Rhubarb! On the stage, if you please."
A pair of peacekeepers grab my arms and roughly pull me out of my mother's grasp and to the stage. I wrench myself out of their grip.
"I could have managed it myself," I mutter angrily.
The taller one snarls at me, and I fall silent under his gaze. In the silence, my shoes clatter loudly on the wooden steps to the stage. I look out over the audience. Few faces pop out at me. My mother and father, my best friend April. The rest are hazy. No one volunteers to take my place. I don't blame them.
Petra gives a few claps of applause for me, in which no one else joins in, and then moves over to the boys' bubble.
"And the lucky boy, representing District 11 for the 4th Quarter Quell will be…"
She repeats the same process, and slowly pulls out the strip of paper. She's bobbing on the balls of her feet excitedly. I try to lean over and see the name, but the tall Peacekeeper stabs me in the back with the wooden end of his spear.
"Just try that again," he hisses in my ear.
I'm so distracted that I barely catch the name that falls from Petra's mouth.
"Alix Powell."
My stomach plummets even further then I thought possible, and Alix walks onto the stage. Silently and obediently, unlike me. But Alix has always been like that. He may be a year older then me, but he's one of my best friends, other than April. He stands next to me, and I swear I see him give me the smallest of smiles, but I blink and the next moment he is looking forward, expression as blank as always.
"Congratulations to Rhubarb and Alix!" Petra says sweetly, starting another solo round of applause. Honestly, I wish she would stop calling me that. Ruby is fine. Petra then pulls out a piece of paper.
"Hem hem," she coughs sickeningly, and then begins reading the boring old speech they give every year. My eyes become misty as my focus ebbs away.
I suddenly feel a hand on my shoulder, I quickly turn around and I see Gregor Frye, the Winner of the 87th Hunger Games. He smiles grimly at Alix and me, and then addresses the crowd as Petra finishes, his eyes sparkling.
"Well, these two look like survivors!" He announces, with a voice of strained happiness. A few people smile weakly.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to take them to the back room. Family members and friends, please feel free to line up and join them."
He quickly drops his smile and steers us forcefully down a staircase, which was then guarded by Peacekeepers if anyone wanted to follow us. Like anyone would dare try.
As soon as we were out of the crowd's sight, Gregor stops us and looks us over. "Nice shape…good muscle…" He says, almost absentmindedly as he picks up one of Alix's well toned arms and lets it fall back to his side.
"Excuse me," I say, "Mr.-"
"Just call me Gregor."
"Okay, Gregor then. Where is the other trainer? The female one?"
Gregor looks at me for a moment and then rolls his eyes.
"I was hoping we could wait before you meet her, but if you'd like…BRIAR!" He shouts suddenly, making both me and Alix jump.
"What?" Comes a loud and irritated reply from somewhere to our right.
"The new tributes want to meet you!" Gregor yells back.
There is some irritated grumbling, the obnoxiously loud clatter of 10-inch capitol styled heels, and from behind the stage curtain a woman walks over. For a moment, I mistake her for someone from the Capitol, and then I notice the freckly skin and olive green eyes many of us in District 11 have. She puts her hands on her hips and looks Alix and me up and down, her gold mascara glittering in the sun.
"And who are these two vagabonds?" She says with a voice, as though we were something disgusting on the bottom of her shoe.
Gregor sighs. "This is Alix and-"
"Ruby," I interrupt, "Ruby is fine."
Gregor smiles. A true smile, and I swear the sun gets brighter. "Ruby, of course. This is, Briar. Briar Patyar, winner of the 93rd Hunger Games."
Briar waves her hand as though brushing the air away and says, "Please, no pictures."
As if either Alix or I could afford a camera.
I immediately decide that I dislike this woman. Has the fame of victory gotten to her head, that much? How did she survive?
Before anyone can retort, Petra Mulroy walks over.
"Now, now," she says, in that ridiculous Capitol accent, "we'll have time for this later. We need to get Alix and Rhubarb into some private rooms for goodbyes."
Glad to get away from Briar, I allow Petra to walk me into a plain room, guarded by, who else? Peacekeepers.
"Now, your visitors will come in one at a time, after your family, of course," Petra says, "I'll see you afterwards."
She walks out of the room, and I collapse onto the white couch. The weight of my situation crashes onto me, and I bury my face in my hands. No, no, no, no, NO. This could not have happened. I want to cry. I want to run out of the room screaming. But I know I can't. The capitol won't let me. There are only two paths ahead of me. Victory, or death.
The door opens and I look up, composing my face into something resembling a smile. Probably looks like I have a toothache. I wait, and my parents walk in.
At first, they say nothing; they sit down on either side of me and put their arms around me in a tight hug. The urge to cry becomes more powerful then ever. I sit still and wait for them to let go. If I move just a little bit, I'll burst into tears. When they finally do let go, I sigh in relief and swallow my emotions.
"You're going to win, I can feel it," says my Father in a shaky voice.
"Don't say that Papa," I whisper, kissing him on each cheek. "You don't want to jinx me, do you?"
"I suppose not," he says with a sad chuckle. "Good bye Ruby. Good luck."
My mother runs her fingers through my hair.
"Your father said it all for me," she mutters, and then continues. "Wait a minute."
She reaches behind her, undoing the latch of her necklace. She puts it in my hands and closes them.
"Take it. For luck, in the arena."
"Oh Mom, I couldn't."
"No, please do."
The look in her eyes is pleading, and I nod.
"Thank you," she whispers, pressing her lips to my forehead. "And may the odds,"
"Be ever in your favor." I finish for her.
She nods, and a peacekeeper walks in. I recognize him from town. His name is Dedalius. He's extremely good-natured. He loves watching over the younger kids before they can go to school, telling them stories. Every Saturday, he gives me a flower. I remember last week's flower, a violet. I still have it in a vase at home. I've really taken a liking to him, and I realize with a pang that I'll miss him also.
"Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Tarrowell, I'll have to ask you to leave. People are waiting," he says.
"Oh, of course. Come on dear," my mother replies, taking my father's hand. Together they leave the room, leave me. And it could be forever. Dedalius pats my shoulder, pulling a honeysuckle out of his chest pocket. He puts it behind my ear.
"Good luck kid," he whispers and leaves.
My last visitor is April. She sits down next to me and gives me a stern look.
"Rhubarb Tarrowell, you better win this or I will never forgive you."
I roll my eyes. "Exactly the comforting thing I was looking for," I mutter.
She shrugs. Her and I both know that caring is not her strong suit. She stands up and pats my head.
"Good luck, and remember I'll be watching. So when you do survive this, any embarrassing things you do will be used against you for the rest of your life."
She walks out of the room, leaving me alone. Just the way I'll be in the arena. Alone.