The 74th Annual Hunger Games: the Other Tributes as Never Seen Before
Chapter One
Reaping Day
Author's Note: Hey, thanks for being a Hunger Games fan. That makes you awesome. Being a fan of both the books and film, I couldn't help but feel irked that half the tributes are virtually nameless, and their deaths are kind of uniform and without a lot of dramatic significance. So I decided to reinvent them, and make them a hopefully a little more memorable. Enjoy!
Legal: I don't own the Hunger Games, sadly, but my OCs are all mine :^)
District 4
I wake up to a grey sky and the sound of waves crashing against the piers, as usual. I look at the clock on the wall. Half seven. It could be the morning of any day, but I don't have that luxury.
I am Ash, and for all I know, I face a death sentence in the guise of a fun, successful TV show.
Well, actually, it is successful. The most successful one there is. Just minus the fun, at least for the tributes.
I've been dealt a good hand from age 12, always thinking each year would be the one I'd hear my name being called out by the insufferable Mini Moxo. Bleurgh, just saying the name makes my skin crawl.
So, as I haul my bones out of bed and head to the dark blue dress with t-shirt sleeves hanging from my wardrobe, I feel strangely relieved. I just have a feeling that one last time I'll get lucky, and finally get on with having a life, free from Hunger Games concerns. I'll be able to help Mom run the lobster shop, which always gets good business because we export most of our stock to the Capitol. They literally eat up the stuff, and we earn our cash in exchange. It's a good life.
Dress on, sandals slipped into, I pad downstairs and out the back door. My parents are already up and working the counter, my brothers having gone to the piers with nets and bait even earlier. It's just me as I head down to the town square, where they'll join me soon, to watch.
I'm the youngest in the family, so after this Reaping, we'll all finally be able to relax and know that our bonds will never be broken by this absurd reality show. Can't wait.
I see the other teens, from the petrified little kids to the towering eighteen-year olds, trying to look cool and indifferent. I must look it too, I guess: experience. Inside, though, is that familiar flicker of fear. But after today, hell, after this hour, no more.
I do the finger-pricking drill no problem, and go sidle up next to a girl, who lives in the beach shack two down from us, on the end of the row furthest from the stage.
Mini Moxo (bleurgh) in her ridiculously tall glass stilettos and purple velvet sleeves that trail along the floor - in this heat? Stupid, really - taps the microphone hesitantly, as if it might swallow her alive.
"Welcome all to this Reaping for the 74th annual Hunger Games! I see many old faces as well as young, bright and new ones. Splendid, isn't it? And what's more, we have a special film…"
…brought to you all the way from the Capitol. I can recite her flashcard address backwards while standing on my head. Tuning out… I watch palm trees sway in the wind, gulls squawking overhead…oh, here we go. Back to business. Mini's jewel-encrusted nails dip teasingly into the girls' fishbowl. A slip is withdrawn. My throat feels dry, but that's totally expected. Anxiety hits me last minute every year, but obviously the chances of my name being drawn now are just -
"Ashes Maxim."
I lose all sense of hearing, if only for a moment. I want to pass out. How…I…what…no. This isn't real. It cannot possibly be real. But it must be, because the other girls are all turning to stare at me, with expressions varying from relief to horror. I can feel the eyes of the boys, the parents, the grandparents and the Peacekeepers all on me. I have to move, so I do, one shaky foot at a time, down towards the stage.
I have never felt so alone. So vulnerable. Like it or not, my hands shiver violently, my teeth chatter and it takes every muscle not to let my jaw drop and scream and scream and scream until I collapse.
As I stand in my place, hands at my sides, I become deaf to the name of the male tribute. How can I care when all four faces of my family are twisted with sorrow. I'm a small eighteen-year old, and my eyes probably give away too much of the fear consuming me right now. My family knows it. I know it. The rest of District Four knows it. And the other tributes and potential sponsors who'll be watching this later today will know it too.
I'm dead.
District 6
Even after five years, Reaping day still gives me intense nausea. I turn down breakfast, despite my mother's wheedling. As a compromise, however, I nibble on the bread crusts my younger brother doesn't feel like having. Lucky boy, he's only six. He won't have to put up with this for quite some time.
The whole time I'm sitting at the old wooden kitchen table, my eyes bore into the dusty clock that sits on our otherwise unadorned wall. I watch as the seconds turn into minutes, and the next thing I know Mom is ushering me out the door. My dad has permission from the district council to forgo the event and take care of my brother. Because he's too young for the violence, the grief, even the very concept of death. I really envy him.
It's silent save for my footsteps on the muddy path up to the square in the centre of the district, as well as Mom's, and those of all the other potential tributes on all sides. It doesn't take long for the place to fill up in a relatively organized fashion. I absent-mindedly massage away the pain from my finger as I follow our host with my eyes. She's new, and it shows. Apparently her name's Cynth Blaisée, and she's wearing what could only be described as a miniature birdcage on her head, complete with a tiny swing inside that squeaks every time she moves. I want to burst out laughing, but the moment's growing increasingly serious, so I don't.
"H-hello, all of you from, uh, District Six. My favourite one, you know…" She clears her throat and stares intently at some note cards she's brought along. I want to shake my head in…dare I say it, sympathy?
She introduces the film, looking glad to be relieved of speaking for a few minutes. Once it's finished, Cynth tries regaining composure, and delivers a smile so wide you could walk through it. Her hand reaches into the glass bowl containing the girls' names. My heart beats like crazy, and although I tell myself to get a grip and calm down, it's no use. The tension is killing me.
"Flint Verdasa."
Now, there's silence, and then there's a total vacuum, void of any and all sound. I can only feel blood pumping manically through my veins and my jaw slacken. This is not supposed to happen. I'm seventeen. I have only two years left until freedom. Except I don't…it's so hard to breathe, let alone walk. But I do. I shuffle slowly, trying to prolong the moment until I can get over my shock, but in what feels like mere seconds I'm facing the entire district.
I never realized how many people live here.
Cynth throws her arm around my shoulder enthusiastically, babbling her congratulations. Clearly she hasn't learnt much about personal space. In fact, I prise her manicured fingers off the sleeve of my maroon dress.
"Don't touch me," I whisper, not aggressively, but with enough edge for her to back well away.
District 7
Reaping day already. The older I get, the more quickly the Hunger Games seem to sneak up on me. What else can I do except hope that I'm not going to sent to the chop? Nothing.
Keeping this is mind, I busy myself with eating the chopped apples and oatmeal Dad's made. Given the abundance of trees in this district, it's no surprise that this is the breakfast I've had to content myself with every day since I was five. There are days when I so badly want a little sprinkle of cinnamon, or one of those bananas whose existence I've only learnt of through old books.
Still, at least we eat three square meals a day. That's more that can be said for some families around here. Times are hard, as they say. But then, I can't actually remember when times were ever easy. Maybe I'm just being cynical, but whatever.
I look down I notice my bowl is pretty much empty. Must have drifted off into my own thoughts again. I look at Dad, his work sleeves rolled up past his callused elbows. He looks at me, and then at his old watch whose leather strap he's had to replace three times.
"Better be going."
"Yes. I should."
"Remember, Tom, this is the penultimate year for you. Ain't got long to go yet."
"I know." I repress the urge to say, but I'm still scared. Ever since Mom died, I've had to stay strong for Dad. Prove that he can count on me to take over as Deputy Tree Surgeon when he's too old. Easier said than done, though, considering how pale my skin is, how skinny I am, and the fact that I'm one of those weird people who have to wear glasses all the time. Even up trees - a long while back I invented my own attachment to stop them falling off. It's made of twigs.
As always, a solemn hush hangs in the fresh pine-filled air. Trees line our town square, standing guard, tall and proud. Being a tree must be nice. All they have to do is grow fruit, and sometimes not even that. All they have to do is exist. No Reaping concerns bother them.
I suck the excess blood from the tip of my index finger as I stand beside my friend Kostassi. He looks relatively unfazed on the surface, but I know him well: we're just as anxious as each other.
In no time at all Mart-Mart Noxon waltzes to the centre of the stage. He likes to keep things brief.
"Welcome everyone. Let's begin with the ladies."
A girl I've never met before, looks about thirteen, stumbles onto the stage after getting over the initial shock of having her name called. I can feel my palms sweating. My glasses start steaming up. I hate it when that happens. I take them off my face for one second and start cleaning them with the corner of my t-shirt, when it happens:
"Thomas Logan."
Huh?
I glance up. Blurry though they may be, a sea of faces have all turned in my direction. I must look like I wasn't paying attention at all.
Oh…this is happening for real. I can't delude myself, this is happening.
That sentence plays on a loop the whole journey to the stage. I wonder why I'm having such a hard time making out where to stand, when I realise I'm still holding my glasses. I surreptitiously keep them behind my back. After all, on the playback, a guy with glasses spells only one word: bait.
District 8
I awake to tangled sheets. My head is at the foot of my mattress, which is at a 90-degree angle off the bed. How the hell do I toss in my sleep so much? I must dream about running a lot without knowing it.
Rays of yolk-yellow sun pour through the half-open window. I blink and stagger into a standing position. Like every morning, I push the window up completely, take a huge gulp of morning air, and thank the skies that we don't live in the path of the smoky fumes of the manufacturing plants.
And then I remember. Reaping day. Damn it.
I turn to my door and notice my parents must have slipped in earlier this morning, because hanging on the doorknob are my dad's suit trousers and a white shirt, recently washed. Same outfit as every year since the reapings began for me. It's like the clothes grew with me.
I have five or ten minutes before I need to get down to the square, so I take a quick look in the mirror, jump, and immediately smooth down my hair, gone haywire during the night.
Water splashes on my face, and I pat my hands on the old, ragged tea towel by the tap. There's a lone apple sitting in the fruit bowl, so I grab it and start crunching into it on my way out of the house. I navigate my way around the bruises.
I'm not early, but not late either. I place myself in the second row of the oldest guys, and then tell them to duck as I lob the apple core over their heads and into the distance. I've just given a squirrel somewhere a hearty breakfast.
After seeing the Capitol's propaganda film for the seventh time, our host, Felix Peeps, announces the female tribute. I've seen her face before, but the name's unfamiliar. My heart plummets with pity at the sight of her small freckled face, her eyes threatening to spill tears. She gets to her place on stage and stares at her shoes. Poor kid.
"And now for the esteemed gentleman who is to be this year's tribute."
Gentlemen indeed - we're not stupid. We all know the Capitol look down on any district past four. Felix clears his throat.
"Daniel Whitebone."
…Damn. I mean…damn.
District 10
Everyone has something they do when they get anxious. Some people pace up and down, some bite their nails, and some run as fast as they can in circles.
Me, I rub my palms together. It looks like I'm freezing all year round, but I find it therapeutic. And that's what I do on the long, flat walk from our grey block to the central square. The sky is heavy where we are, threatening hot rain. My palms are almost raw, they're so red, but I can't stop. If I stop, my nerves will get to my brain, and I might do something unstable like run away, or accidentally punch someone in the face.
That's the word people tend to use to describe me: unstable. Not that I'm mentally ill or anything. I just happened to inherit my mother's nervous disposition. You can ask my little sister, because she's exactly the same. Well, okay, not exactly the same. See, whereas Savvy takes her anxieties and turns them into something more refined - studying hard to get ace grades, for example - mine tend to be channeled into physical aggression.
Useful, I suppose, if my name will be the one announced at the Reaping today. I may not be good with spears, arrows or knives, but boy have I got experience in martial arts. I could break someone's nose on my knee quite easily - but I don't. If I have a really good reason to be nervous, I just punch a pillow or a hay bale repeatedly until my knuckles bleed.
But I can't do that now. Not with all these people crammed into the stone square. I clench my fists and manage a smile in return for the one my friend Birch gives me from the row just ahead of where I'm standing.
I don't realise just how distracted I am until two words hit my ears and break my trance:
"Thorn West."
No. No no no no no no no. I don't believe this. I'm only sixteen. I am so not ready to die. There are so many people I want to say goodbye to, so much I haven't done yet. I've always wanted to get out of District Ten, but not like this. Not like this.
My body's taken over while my mind goes into meltdown. Anyone looking at me from the back would think I'm as cool as ice. But my expression tells a very different story. I find myself incapable of blinking. It's like that old wives' tale has come true: if you pull a face, one day the winds will change and it will stay that way forever.
I swallow, but it doesn't help. I try to keep my knees from knocking, but to no avail. My breathing becomes shallow, and I half-wonder if I'll die right here. Not at the hands of some bloodthirsty tribute, but on a hard, cold, stage floor.
I don't catch the male tribute's name, but I notice him limping up to the other side of the microphone. A few snickers arise from somewhere in the crowd. I despise whoever they belong to, but at the same time I've gotta be realistic: that kid won't last two minutes in the arena.
The arena…oh jeez, I'm actually doing this. I have to go and kill people, or be killed. I…
The last sound I recall is the collective gasp of the District Ten population as the world starts spinning, before sliding to an odd angle, and finally going dark. Unfortunately, I remain conscious enough to feel my head slam onto the floor.