Word Association Drabbles: Reaping
It was so very, very complicated how the tributes from District 2 were chosen. There were formulas and recommendations and blood tests and physical evaluations enough to make the head spin. In school they had learned about the basics of the selection process; training for the Games may have been illegal but volunteering certainly wasn't. There were so many volunteers from District 2 that they filled an entire stadium every year with their nervous, fidgety bodies, so unused to sitting still. They were packed in the front of the District meeting hall and forced to wait for the official announcement on the Reaping Day.
The boys were twice her size and the girls twice as fast. She was sure she'd never get chosen. Perhaps next year, or the next, or the next. Three more chances after this one. Three more chances to show the judges what she was made of. To be noticed. Clove sat stiffly in her forest-green dress and bit her lip, glancing to her left and right at the other fifteen-year-old volunteers. They were friends up until now, when each one perched eagerly at the edge of her chair and stared up at the stage for the official results to be announced. They refused to look at each other. Each one willed her name into the hands of the bright and smiling escort, who held the winning paper aloft like a trophy. The green-haired woman said something Clove didn't hear and didn't care to hear, about history and precedent and judges choosing volunteers, and then—
She was onstage, waving to the crowd, before she even knew what had happened. The roar of approval from the audience was almost deafening, as it was every year. The judges of the volunteers picked well, they always did, and this year they had picked her. Clove could see the faces of the other girls in the crowd. Some were sad, some were shocked, and some were envious. She smirked to herself some more and only turned to face the male tribute when their escort said something about congratulating the other. When Clove stuck out her hand she found it engulfed. A pair of dazzling blue eyes met hers and she nodded up at the much-taller boy. What was the escort saying, over the cheers of the crowd? Cato. That was his name. He was blond and muscular and solemn-looking. She sized him up and knew that he could keep her alive in the Arena; that he would be her only hope of winning. Cato was rather good-looking. When they stopped shaking hands he gave her a small smile that she easily mirrored.
Too bad he had to die.
Author's Note: I am making a series of Clato-themed one-shots, mostly because I hate the way the movie seemed into Glato. Sorry Glato fans! I am not going to do a full-length story with this one, simply because I don't feel like I have enough background or feel for the characters to do it. I'll be doing one-shots in chronological order leading up to Cato's eventual demise, and each one-shot will have a one-word prompt attached. If you'd like me to do a specific one-shot, feel free to write this story a review and give one word that you want your one-shot to revolve around, along with the genre you want it to be. For example, you could give "Knives" as the one word and "Action/Adventure" as the genre.