Summary: When Briar Oakroot and her brother Chester are chosen as District 11's tributes in the 62nd Games, she vows that one of them will make it home. But the other tributes are just as determined, and when you play, you play to win.
Rating: T for now.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games or any of its canon characters, however, the majority of the characters in this fic are original.
Chapter One
The Reaping
It's still dark when I wake up. Outside in the orchard, even the birds haven't started chirping yet. Today is one of the only days of the year we're allowed to sleep in, but I'm up long before dawn anyway. How anyone could sleep peacefully on Reaping Day is beyond me.
I slip out of bed and dress as quietly as I can—just because I couldn't get any sleep doesn't mean my brothers won't be able to, and they deserve all the rest they can get. It's Chester's last year in the reaping ball. After today, he'll be able to sleep soundly, knowing that he'll never have to go into the arena. But for little Bracken, the nightmare is only just beginning. He's twelve, so this is his first year. I remember my first reaping—I cried all the way through the ceremony, even after some other girl got chosen and I knew it wasn't me, just like Chester promised it wouldn't be. Even now, at sixteen, the thought of my name being called almost reduces me to tears. I look at Bracken, tiny and angelic, clinging to Chester's broad form like a limpet, and I let them sleep.
In the kitchen, I slice up an apple for my breakfast. We have an almost never-ending supply of apples, since we all work in the orchard. They pay us in trade—fruits and vegetables and grain, mostly, which at least means that we don't have to take any tesserae. During harvest season we are always well fed, to increase our productivity. It gets harder in winter, when the Peacekeepers strip our rations back to the bare minimum. Every grain counts once the cold weather sets in, and they can hardly waste food on us lowly workers when they need to ship everything off to the Capitol. Farming the fields is torturous on an empty stomach. It's near impossible to sow when you can barely stand, but we have all learnt to grin and bear it. The alternative is to steal, and if you steal, you get shot. This is a lesson my family learnt the hard way, and the reason there will be no one to pick out a dress for me or braid my hair this afternoon. This is the reason I have learnt to suffer in silence rather than break the rules. Rules must never be broken.
"Briar, you're up early." My father sits down beside me, dragging the chair across the kitchen floorboards.
I wince at the noise, thinking of my sleeping siblings. I want to tell him to keep his voice down, to let Chester and Bracken sleep, but that would be breaking a rule too. Father is very strict when it comes to his children showing him respect.
"Good morning, Father," I say quietly.
He frowns. "Not worrying about the ceremony, are you?"
"No." I almost choke on the slice of apple I'm eating. Of course I'm worrying, how could I not be?
"It won't be you," he says. He sounds so certain, as if any other outcome is unthinkable.
"I know." The lump of apple mush sticks in my throat.
He coughs, visibly uncomfortable. Pep talks are not his forte. "Four years, and it's never been you. Six years, Chester's had his name in there, and it's never been him, either. So don't even worry about it."
"I won't." I try to smile, more for his sake than mine.
Then he pats my shoulder, hands trembling, and gets up to make his own breakfast. This is the closest we ever get to familial love, my father and me. Since my mother's death, he has stopped displaying emotions or expressing opinions. Work hard, do as you're told, and don't dwell on things you can't change. These are the lessons he instils in us, and really, these are all we need to get through life. Yet I still long for the soft embrace and encouraging smile that only my mother could give.
Despite my best efforts at silence, it isn't long before Bracken and Chester rouse from their beds and join us in the kitchen, scruffy-haired and sleepless.
"Good morning, boys," Father says, pouring himself a cup of tea.
"Morning," Bracken mumbles, rubbing his eyes.
Father eyes them. "You two aren't worrying as well, are you?"
I grimace. Well, maybe we wouldn't if he just stopped reminding us every other minute.
"Nah, of course not," Chester says. He sits down beside me and steals a slice of apple from my plate.
"Get your own!" I protest. He winks playfully and takes a large bite.
"Good," Father says with a nod. "Because there's nothing to worry about." He nods again. For all the confidence he tries to project, I think he's the one who needs convincing, not us.
Bracken takes a seat at the table, head bowed. There's no doubt about what's on his mind. What's on all of our minds, no matter how much we might pretend it isn't.
"Cheer up, little man." Chester ruffles Bracken's messy black hair. "We've got the whole day off. I'll take you down to the lake this afternoon, we can go fishing."
Bracken lifts his head, eyes wide and unblinking. "But what if..." His lip trembles. "What if I get chosen?"
Father slams the kettle down on the stove. "You won't."
"Don't be silly," Chester says instantly, putting an arm around him. "District 11 has hundreds of teenagers, the odds are well in our favour. You don't even need to think about it, okay?"
"It's just a ceremony," I add. "It doesn't affect us. It lasts an hour and then it's done." I pick up a slice of apple. "Just one hour, and then we can all get on with our lives."
But as much as I try to reassure my little brother, I can't do anything to reassure myself. When we're roped off into our sections, my eyes sting and my heart pummels my ribcage, same as every year. No matter how old I get, Reaping Day always reduces me to a quivering child. But at least the sniffles and muffled sobs of the other sixteen year old girls around me tell me that I'm not the only one.
The ceremony takes place in a grassy field, big enough to house the impromptu stage the Capitol workers constructed this morning, hundreds of twelve to eighteen year olds, plus crowds of other citizens on the sidelines. I don't have to look to know that the adults with children of reaping age will be praying and crossing their fingers, and even those who don't will wear expressions of guilt and distress. It is partly their fault that we're here. You see, because District 11 is so big, it would be impossible to put all the eligible children into the reaping ball, so the Capitol came to an agreement—only a small fragment of the true population will be in the running. Which area of the district these children come from depends on our agricultural output. In short, those who work the hardest can be exempt. Every year our section swears we'll work harder, that our children will be able to breathe easy, and yet every year we find ourselves lining up yet again, crossing our fingers and pleading the odds will be in our favour.
The Capitol workers are still setting up the sound equipment, so we must wait even longer before our minds can be put at rest. With each second that passes, I drive myself a little crazier. I make pacts in my mind—I'll work harder in the fields, I'll be more obedient, I'll be better. Just please don't reap me. Father always tells us not to worry, that it won't be us, but that's difficult to believe when Reaping Day actually arrives, and all you can think about is the huge glass ball on the stage that you know contains a slip of paper with your name on it. Four slips of paper, in my case. One for Bracken, and six for Chester. Eleven slips of paper is nothing against the hundreds that are in there. It won't be us. It won't be us.
"Welcome, District Eleven!" the Capitol representative shouts, and the microphone screeches. We all clasp our ears and grimace at the ringing.
She clears her throat. "Hello, and welcome to the Reaping of the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games!" she trills. "I am Lulu Daybreak, and I have the delightful privilege of being your host! Today we're going to find out which brave tributes District Eleven has to offer us, but first, let's watch the Capitol footage!"
The same old reel appears on the screen. A voiceover tells us about the rebellion, the Capitol, the foundation of the Hunger Games. There are lots of explosions and death shots, probably for dramatic effect. Everyone has seen it a thousand times, both in school and at the reapings every year. It has little impact now—we don't need reminding of why we're here, we just need it to be over with as quickly as possible.
The video ends, and with a giggle, Lulu Daybreak addresses us again, her awful sing-song voice making me feel sick to my stomach. "Alright, let's get started!"
She steps toward the first glass ball, and poses with her hands on her hips for the camera. "Firstly, we're going to find out which fantastic female is going to be representing District Eleven this year! What an exciting moment for you all!"
Any other time, I'd find Lulu's stupidity almost amusing, but as her hand fishes into the glass ball, I forget how to laugh, or smile, or even breathe. All I can do is dig my nails into my palms and try not to fall to pieces.
"And here we have her!" Lulu announces, beaming like a lunatic. "District Eleven's female tribute is..."
Tears blur my vision as the whole world spins. It can't be me, it's never been me. There are hundreds of us, the odds are in my favour. I play by the rules, I work hard, it can't be me. It can't.
And yet somehow, even before Lulu opens her mouth, I know that it is.
"Briar Oakroot!"