Chapter One: HOME

Imogen, district 9

Reaping

"Imogen Brown!"

Me... That's me!

I feel every other teenager clustered around me release an accumulated sigh of relief, I only feel as if I'd been whipped in the chest. The shock of the sound of my own name being called beats every last breath from my lungs. For several few moments I don't feel anything, as if it wasn't really my name that was called. It couldn't have been me. I've just imagined this from my fear, I'm sure they haven't even read out the names yet. I can't fight in the Hunger Games...

But they did read out my name, no amount of pointless imagining will change that. It's not uncommon for tributes to go into mind-numbing shock this early in the games, before they'd even started. Two years ago the girl who was in this position fainted at the sound of her name being reaped. Some just break down crying, but most appear to fall under a despicable, paralyzing spell. One which completely disables their ability to even make the slightest bit of sense of what had happened. A spell that used to perplex me year after year. I didn't understand it at all. I only needed to be in that desperate position myself for it all to make perfect sense. I know now what it's like to feel strangely disconnected from one's own body, to struggle to even perform the simplest of tasks like arranging your own thoughts, keeping oneself standing up, breathing consistently.

"Any volunteers?" The inappropriately elaborately dressed district 9 escort, Ophelia Blithlie calls out to the crowd. As much as I prayed, nobody raised their hand. I pan the crowd until I lock eyes with my younger sister, Lydia. Although she evidently tried to hide them, there's no mistaking the tears dripping off her nose onto the paved ground below her. She tries to avoid my eyes, as she is pretty much my only escape out of this, and she let me down. I'd like to believe that what she's done, or rather what she didn't do, is unforgivable. I'd like to, but I know I wouldn't be inclined to volunteer for her either.

I'm tribute...

Apparently I'm also incapable of walking myself too, seeing as a Peacekeeper had to briskly tap me on the shoulder then guide, almost push me out of the horde of people and towards the stage. I suppose in my mind I've already gone up on the stage and skipped ahead to the games because I've already began to picture the numerous ways I could die next week in the arena.

My limbs become somewhat less rigid and unyielding as manage to compose myself and walk up the steps of the temporary stage set up in front of the justice building. All lamenting, yet reassured eyes are on me. They're all happy it's not themselves up here. I'm not resentful though. I've watched every terrified, now-dead district 9 girl walk across that stage with the same relief-stricken expression every year, thanking the universe that I have somehow survived yet another reaping, despite the six terrasses I've taken every year since I was twelve. But now I'm the helpless girl who will be dead within a few weeks. Probably less. District 9 does not have the best success rate in Panem regarding victors that emerge from the Hunger Games every year. I suppose it could be worse, we could be like district 11 or 12, unable to end up with five victors between them. Attempting to appear as dauntless as possible, I take my place on the stage beside the district 9 escort, Ophelia Blithlie. The longer I am standing there, the more I doubt I'm convincing anyone of my valiant disposition. The distant sounds of Ophelia's inappropriately animated words and the inconsolable applause are muffled. My ears prick only when it's dead silent. The boy is now to be reaped. The boy who will become my opponent. The boy who may end up being the instigator of my death.

"Jack Vandenbosch!"

My eyes are drawn to a group of sixteen year old boys, parting like the red sea as a short, yet strong looking boy approaches the stage.

Strong enough to kill me...?

Do I know this boy? I'm sure I've seen him before. When one lives in a district this small they're bound to at least recognize most people. And I do. Jack. He's in the year level above me at school. He achieved honours last year for Capitol history and mathematics. He had to take eleven terrasses this year... No! I don't know him. I can't know him. It'll only make it more difficult to go into the games with him, if it weren't so painfully difficult already. I don't know him. But I do...

I catch an unmistakable glint of fear in his piercing blue eyes, although to anyone else, it would appear he has successfully put on a brave face, but I can see the blood has drained from it already. As Ophelia Blithlie continues to brutally protract the ceremony to it's full extent, I just watch him. A few times he looks out to the sea of people, evidently searching for the reactions of his family and friends. All I see are blank, hollow faces, void of emotion. For both of us.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Ophelia bellows, her voice thick with the ridiculous Capitol accent, "This year's tributes of district 9, Imogen Brown and Jack Vandenbosch!" As to be expected, remorseful applause follows along with the accustomed "friendly" handshake between the two tributes, even though within a week it will be unlikely we won't be at each other's throats. The escort bids the audience farewell and hurriedly ushers us into the wide wooden doors of the justice building. She suddenly halts as if she's forgotten something of great importance and shuffles back to the microphone, her abundantly curled, snow-coloured wig nearly falling off her head. She giggles and flicks a loose hair peeking from under the hairpiece to the side of her face before continuing. "And may the odds be ever in your favour!".