"Survival is triumph enough." -Harry Crews
James Henderson sat at the edge of his bed in the early morning; He didn't know whether to fade back into the deep sleep he just awoke from or to wake up and begin the day. Often times he had this debate with himself, the latter option winning every time, but today just staying in bed seemed optimal. That being said, James couldn't go back to bed.
Today was the day of the Reaping.
James had turned seventeen two months ago, and that, coupled with the extra drawings he'd submitted to feed his family, meant that the odds were most definitely not in his favor. If he'd lived in one of the nicer districts, like District 2 or 3, he wouldn't have needed to draw his name, but things weren't exactly posh in District 7, so he entered in his name for the tesserae. One entry for his younger brother, Buck, one entry for his father, and one entry for his older brother, Otto; Otto had been entering in his name, just like James, but he'd turned nineteen the past year and thus was no longer eligible.
James also would have entered in his name twice more, one for his mother and one for his younger brother, Justinian, but both were dead.
Dead. Even the word gave James a sour taste in his mouth. Forcing out the memories of last year, he reached over and shrugged on his pants, throwing on a clean, white T-shirt as he did so; He'd have time to make himself look nice for the Reaping.
When James left his bedroom, which he shared with Otto (who was snoring peacefully), he entered the modest living room/kitchen of his home, and found his father and Buck sitting together. His father, a stoic, burly man with shiny green eyes (Just like James himself), is feeding Buck, a four-year-old, breakfast, some sort of soup, when he glances up at James. His father smiles.
"Hey, dad," yawned James.
"Hi, James," his father replied, ruffling Buck's brown hair before rising. He had on an undershirt, pajama bottoms as old as time, and moccasins (That he may or may not have illegally traded for). This outfit would surely be different in a few hours. "Want breakfast?"
"Sure, what is it?" James asked.
"Chicken noodle soup for Bucky," his father replied, acknowledging the affectionate nickname the family made up for Buck. "For you, though, soup and a little extra." His father reaches into a side cupboard, and pulls out what was left of a rabbit; A few morsels, and two legs.
"Rabbit? You got rabbits?" James grinned, taking his soup and sitting down on their rickety old couch. "Where'd you get it?"
"Ven," he replied.
Ven was the name of a family friend for as long as James could remember; According to his father, they'd been friends for almost thirty years. While both of them officially were lumberjacks, both frequented the black market of District 7, called the Epoch. Ven had been hunting since he was thirteen, and James' father was the best barterer in the whole district. Together they made a great team: Ven would hunt rabbits and squirrels and occasionally a deer in the forests outside of District 7, and James' father would go to the Epoch with the meat and haggle with the shopkeepers there. James had been to the Epoch, an abandoned factory, five times, and each and every time his father would win over the shopkeepers. It was a good agreement between Ven and his father, and often times his father would bring home some extra meat.
"Of course it was Ven," James replied before digging into his meal. Things in District 7 weren't as bad as in, say, 11 or 12, but things also weren't exactly peachy. James' parents had laid down a rule in their house that no food will be wasted, and so far James had been quite good at following it. He was finished with his soup and licking off the last bits of the rabbit leg when he paused. "When do we leave for the Reaping?"
"We'll leave in two hours," his father said. "Get dressed. I've got some trading to do." Without another word, his father disappeared into his bedroom, Buck trailing after him. Buck's only four years old, but has the spirit of a lion. Diet of one too.
James put his dish in the sink, and entered into his own bedroom once more. When he entered, Otto was awake, struggling to button his Reaping shirt. He looked much like James: Brown hair cut short, toned arms, green eyes. If not for his height, people might suspect they were twins.
"Today's the day," James said hollowly, as if Otto didn't know.
"A year since Justinian," Otto replied gruffly, his voice still groggy in the morning light.
Justinian, the younger brother of both James and Otto, was sixteen years old when he was Reaped exactly a year from today. James remembered it not really clicking in his head that his brother was marked for death by the Capitol. Now that he remembers it, it didn't seem to register in Justinian's head either as he staggered towards the podium. Not long after that, he died in the arena. And then his mother fell into a depression and before James' memories can remind him he forces it out of his head. He steps towards Otto, and after a squeeze of the shoulder, buttons up his shirt.
"We'll be fine, O," James said; He's been the only one to ever call his brother that, and Otto tolerates it. Not from anyone else though, just James.
"I know, it's just...I miss them," Otto sighed.
"Me too," James sighed back. "Look, we'll go to the Reaping, get it over with, and come home. Dad says he's gonna go out trading before the Reaping. We might be able to get something nice."
"Cake?" Otto asked, his eyes lighting up like an eight-year-old; Cake was always his favorite food, and while they often ate enough every night, cake was a rare opportunity.
James grinned. "Yeah, cake."
.
.
.
Two hours later, James stood looking at a mirror, dressed in his Reaping clothes. His short hair had been styled to the left, and on top of his white T-shirt was a long-sleeved pale-blue shirt with the sleeves buttoned tight. Business pants and leather shoes adorned the lower half of his body.
"Ready?" called his father.
"Ready!" James called back, trotting out to the door of their house. Buck was in formal baby clothes as well, held in the burly arms of James' father. Otto stood by the door quietly, his muscles fighting against his shirt.
"Let's go," James' father said, a sullen tone in his voice.
As his father left their home, James was about to leave when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He craned his neck behind him to see Otto, staring at him. "What?" James asked.
"I can't volunteer for you this year," Otto said, in reference to their pact they made ever since James was made eligible for the Reaping; If either of them were selected, they would volunteer for each other. The pact also included Justinian, but both had broken their legs after falling from a tree last year and couldn't volunteer. James knew there was nothing he could do about it, but he knew Otto couldn't let it go.
"I know, O," James replied. "I won't get picked."
"But if you do..." Otto frowned.
"Then that's gonna suck," James said. "I just wanna get this over with."
"Yeah, right. Me too." He sniffed. "Ugh, this damn cold sucks. Let's go."
James nodded and turned away, pretending that Otto was sniffing because of his sinuses and not because he was getting teary-eyed. He'd never seen Otto cry. Never. He quickened his pace to meet up with his father and Buck, and together the four of them walked through the streets that were now filling up. The entire district was shuffling into the square, from strong-armed lumberjacks to tall carpenters. Here and there he'd pick out one of the more unique jobs, like the Log-Luggers, the men and women who transported lumber from district to district. Otto works as a Log-Lugger after a brief stint as a paper-maker which ended poorly.
After getting his finger printed, James was herded into the area of the square designated for potential tributes, Otto and the rest being confined to the outer areas of the square. Right before he entered the square, he felt his brother tense up next to him. James only turned to him and nodded, and for the first year in his life walked into the square alone. Since older ones went in the front, and James is seventeen, he was placed closer to the stage than he'd like, which only unnerved him more.
He exchanged nods with a few boys and girls he knows from school and sports, but settles on standing next to Grant. Grant, who's older than him by four months, met James in the fifth grade and James can't find a better person to call a best friend. He's not nearly as protective as Otto, but he's gotten James out of a jam more times than he'd like to admit. Grant's also muscular from years of hauling and chopping firewood, but it doesn't show in his Reaping clothes.
"Hey," James whispers.
"Yo," Grant whispers back. "Got my varsity letter."
"You're varsity?" James asks, feeling his eyes widen.
"Yeah, guess I'm not JV now, chump," Grant snorts, putting on a stupid accent. "Anyway, that means that I'm gonna have to practice more, and you know what that means?"
"That you're not gonna brew as much?" James asks; Grant's father also frequents the Epoch, selling moonshine he brewed in exchange for food. A few years ago, Grant picked up the trade.
"Bingo," Grant replied. "Don't worry, my dad still brews, but I won't be able to get any to you."
"It's fine," James replied. "That moonshine you give us? We don't drink it. My dad carries it in case someone gets hurt."
Grant let out a low whistle. "Smart thinking. Does it actually work?"
"Probably not, but it's cheaper than the actual antiseptic they sell."
"Good point."
Just then, James looked up to see that one of the empty chairs was missing. The other ones held the victors, the escort, and the mayor; The escort, just like last year, is named Bunting, and is a short man with bright-orange hair and a purple suit and is quite possibly the loudest person in Panem. The mayor, a graying man who looks like he doesn't know what sleep is, rubbed his eyes, tired despite all the commotion. The first victor seat is filled by Blight, a taller man with a full head of brown hair and a thick beard; He won the Games seven years ago. He barely remembers the Games, but he's been told that Blight is a very cool-headed man who won his Games through patience.
Good, James thinks. Maybe if they make the Games fair this time whoever is picked might have a decent shot at winning.The second victor of District 7 is Eques, who hurries onto the stage and takes her seat. A bit younger than Blight, she has short-cut but pretty black hair and is tall, taller than Blight, but much thinner. Her crystal-blue eyes shine bright. James also was too young to remember her Games, but he remembers that there were a lot of Mutts towards the end and it was very messy by the time Eques ended up as victor. James' mother also used to tell him that for the better part of the Games, Eques hid out in the woods.
Three other victors fill their seats, but James can't be bothered to remember their names. They won Games years before James was born, and the Capitol tends to invite only two victors to the Capitol.
With everyone important settled, the mayor steps forward, rubbing his eyes, and begins the same speech James had been hearing for years. About how a place called North America fell to natural disaster after natural disaster, how the great nation of Panem rose up from what remained, thirteen districts completing it. Then he moved on to what everyone calls the "Dark Days," when the districts rebelled against the Capitol in a violent revolution that left twelve districts defeated and a thirteenth blown out of the sky. The Treaty of Treason, the document which set out laws to prevent another revolution but more importantly established the Hunger Games.
James has gotten the mayor's speech so well-memorized in his head that he knows the speech word-for-word.
Then the mayor recites the list of District 7 victors. There have been eight, but three died of age or disease, leaving the other five left.
After the mayor is done with his spiel, Bunting hops to the mic, energetically exclaiming, "Good afternoon, District 7! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be forever in your favor!" His voice is bubbly and it echoes over the whole square. A few people wince and touch their ears.
Grant suppresses laughter by popping a knuckle into his mouth. People from the Capitol always make him laugh.
"Ladies first!" Bunting calls out, just like every year.
Grant coughs, and he's not smiling anymore.
Bunting closes his eyes, fishes around in the big glass bowl for females with a gloved hand, and pulls out a slip. The crowd draws in a breath. He reads it aloud. "Violet Innocens!"
James can hear some of the girls around him exhaling, except for one that is trying to suppress tears. He looks around the crowd, and spots it forming a path for Violet Innocens, a girl who he's never heard of. When he sees her, he feels short of breath.
Violet is young, twelve years old probably, and has her auburn hair in pigtails. Light freckles dot her face, which is trying to hide the obvious fear on her face. She takes her place on the stage, and is now trying her best not to burst down crying. He hates it when the younger ones get picked, but she's the youngest he's ever seen picked.
"Let's hear a round of applause for little Violet!" Bunting exclaims, clapping. Nobody claps. After a pause and a short cough, Bunting quickly follows up with, "Now the boys!"
He reaches into the ball again, eyes closed, and pulls out a slip of paper. He unfolds it and exclaims the name clearly in the district square.
"James Henderson!"
Hey, everyone! Welcome to the prologue of Newton's Third Law, my first Hunger Games fanfiction! This is NOT Submit-Your-Own-Tribute, though I'd like to do one of those someday. This follows the story of James Henderson throughout his Hunger Games. I've got the base outline of the story written, and I'll probably be uploading a chapter shortly after this one. The writing is atrocious and even switches from past-tense to present-tense at one point, but the first chapter is always the hardest for me, so eventually they'll improve!
Thanks for reading the first chapter, and remember to review as to what you think! Replies to reviews will be done in this little blurb after the chapter's written. This current chapter is 2,500 words on the dot, excluding this little author's note.
See you next time!
-C
