...This is a moment that you never forget. The moment when a tribute becomes a victor.
- Caesar Flickerman
Part One: The Capitol
Chapter One: The Reaping
The morning light was dim, reflecting the mood of our hearts. The rebellion had been crushed and the Treaty of Treason had been signed. There was nothing we could do about it. In the morning sun, I could just barely make out the city square where I would have to be in a few hours. Because of our uprising, a pageant created by the Capitol was born.
"The pageant is supposed to be a sign of our submission to the Capitol."
Dad says during our morning walk. I stare at the ground and keep walking.
"What? You just want to pout, or something? You know, this is the easy way out. Sure, we could've kept fighting, but for what? For more of our men, women and children to die? To lose loved ones for a cause that would never be fulfilled?"
I try to keep my mouth shut. Dad hates back talk. But I can't resist. "
You're only thinking that because you're not in the Reaping." I pause to scan his expression. Blank. "If you were in it, you'd understand my anxiety."
I expect a blow, or a sneer, but all I get is an honest response.
"Probably. But I'm not in the Reaping, so I'm not blinded by fear." he retorts intelligently.
I think about this. What would change about my point of view if I wasn't participating? Would I think of this as an opportunity rather than an unjust bloodthirsty act of hate for the districts? I turn my attention back to the conversation.
"I'm not scared, just aware of the possibility that I could be…"
"It's not going to happen." he says calmly.
"But if it does, then…"
"Hey. it's not going to happen. Remember what your mother always said?" he smiles.
I respond with a nod.
"Good." he says.
"Now, son, after the Reaping, we're going to get drinks."
I step back.
"Dad, I'm seventeen, I'm not old enough to drink."
"And I don't care son. You deserve one. I'll see you after."
He laughs aloud, his bellowing voice echoing through our empty house.
"Okay, Dad, see you then." I say.
After this, I get changed and head for my friend's house. Bo is a bigger, stouter kind of guy with slick long hair and a constant frown on his face. We hang out a lot, but were never sure why. We don't even really like each other very much. The door creaks open and Bo steps out.
"Morning, Rusty." He says with a nod.
We exchange small talk and the Reaping. "Apparently the winner gets riches beyond belief. Seems to be the only good thing that comes from it." He says in a serious tone. I shoot him a look of fury.
"One wins, twenty three are murdered, Bo. There's only a four percent chance of winning." I stare at him. "Also, it's probably a scam. We probably won't see a dime of that money."
"I don't know, the Capitol seems really excited about this Hunger Games thing." He shrugs his shoulders.
"And the Capitol is so ridiculous, so when they're serious about something, they mean it." I add. We laugh, and that's when we reach the Square.
A makeshift entrance has been crafted, and we start for it. A woman dressed in all white stands at the entrance with a computer. "Name?" She asks. "Uh, what?" I stammer, confused on what she wants.
"I need your name for registration." She says pleasantly.
"Oh, uh, Rusty Hopkinson."I say.
"You may enter, please stand in the seventeen year old pen."
I nod, and go to my area. Bo is eighteen, so he only has one Reaping to suffer through. I, am seventeen, so I have two. After another half an hour or so, the festivities of the Reaping begin. A woman with long, purple hair and a silver sequin dress comes onto the stage.
"Welcome, to the first annual Hunger Games, everyone. I am your escort, Azelia Mayword." She continues, but I drown out her useless information until the selection begins.
"Now, as you have been informed, this is the selection activity. Let us begin with choosing our female. Anyone can volunteer to take this person's place if you are of the eligible age and the same sex. So, without further ado, the female tribute from District Seven is…"
We all hold a collective breath as she chooses the slip which will someone's death sentence, likely.
"Amber Collin."
The seventeen year old girl walks to the front, needing no help. She stands with anxiety, but tries not not to show it.
"Now for the boys." She says. She steps over to the boys bowl. I will six slips in the bowl among thousands. My odd of being chosen are incredibly slim. I hope it isn't me, please don't be me, it's going to be me, I just know it.
"The male tribute from District Seven is Rusty Hopkinson."