Hey, guys, look, I came back! *cue nobody remembering me at all* Well, I did change my pen name from IWriteStuffWithWordsInIt to HappilyImperfect, so . . . Yeah, sorry about disappearing. The fanfiction part of my brain went into a coma or something. Oops.
Other stories: May be updated. This one: Has been in my head for something like a year now. And here's the start of it. I was just determined to have something up before my birthday came around. Hope you guys like!
Chapter One – Leaving Home
Tonight is my last night in the Capitol.
All artificial enhancements have been removed from my body. The raspberry-pink skin, the bubblegum-blue hair . . . I hate it. But I need to make sure I'll blend in to District Nine. I've practised for months, re-watching our giant set of Hunger Games videos to get the Nine accent down to an art.
Soon I'll be part of the set. I can't get over that. Accalia Bauble, Victor of the 176th Annual Hunger Games. That has an awfully nice ring to it. Victor... It will be really easy, I reckon. The only reason they don't let the Capitol enter the Games is because we'd win too easily and the districts would get all upset. Sure, they say it's as a punishment for their rebellion in the Dark Days, but since when is playing a game a punishment? Those districts should be grateful they're allowed to compete, yet all their snivelling little tributes hate it when they're reaped. These people don't understand anything. At least the Careers from 1, 2 and 4 know the Games are a good thing. It's them I'll be hanging with when I enter.
The Careers will be desperate to have me in their alliance, and everyone will be desperate to sponsor me, too. Winning the Hunger Games is my dream, and I'm definitely going to achieve it. Imagine the look on everyone's faces when I announce I'm secretly from the Capitol at the Closing Ceremonies . . . They'll be speechless. I'll be adored.
In the dark of the early night, I smuggle myself into the corner of one of the backmost train cars. It's filthy and disgusting – especially compared to the gleaming outside – but this is how district people are, so this is how I'll have to behave. Just wearing these plain clothes is killing me; brown knee-length skirt, plain cream shirt, flat black shoes. Ugh! What do they waste their money on rather than buying clothes? It can't be food – they're so stick-thin, all of them; I envy them so.
I throw a few empty bags of grain over me, so I'm completely hidden from sight. I suppose this is one good thing about my smallness, being easier to hide. Though maybe it doesn't matter too much, because nobody comes to check that there aren't people in here before the wide sliding doors automatically close. The train begins to vibrate as it sets off, and I fling the burlap sacks away from me again.
Sighing, I study my hair. Dark brown, with ragamuffin waves. I'd forgotten how ugly it was. It's like someone's dunked it in a load of melted chocolate. Ick. My skin is so dull, also – deathly-white pale. This means in District Nine I may still stand out a little, since they're all so tanned because they get to mess about in the sun collecting grain all day, but that shouldn't matter, since I won't be there for long.
And a good thing, too. District Nine is so boring. They hardly ever win the Games. The last time, I was eight, but that was their first win for almost thirty years. Lucky for them they're getting me for a short while. Unlucky for me I'm getting them for a short while. It's just that Marianna researched for me and said this would be the easiest train to sneak on, the one that only ever goes between Nine and the Capitol to deliver and pick up grain.
Marianna is the only one who understands why I have to do this. She's a prize cow, sure, but also my best friend. I'll dedicate my win to her. Probably. Maybe. If I remember. I suppose I'll have to, as we're pretending I've gone to stay with her over the course of the Hunger Games, so my parents won't get all suspicious and paranoid like idiots with me missing. Nah. It won't matter if she tells them by then, anyway.
How long is this train ride? It's boring me to tears. There's no entertainment. Or food. There isn't even a window in this thing. I wander about in circles around the car. We must be nearly there by now. Oh god! What if I need to go to the toilet? No. I won't need it. I'll be fine. We're nearly there . . .
I stumble down to my knees as the train jolts. The fall scrapes one of them. It hurts. Ow, it hurts. Why does it have to hurt so bad? Wish I had a plaster. I curl back up in my corner from earlier, frantically rubbing my knee in case that helps. It doesn't. I force my eyes close as tears drip down my face while I hug my legs up by my chin.
I must fall asleep for a while, because the train has jolted again, but not the way it did before. We're slowing down. Slowing down. Stopping. We stop. I stand.
The door slides open and it's lucky I'm still in the corner, because I'm frozen. Sunlight blinds me a moment; it must be morning. Some men and women start coming in and collecting the empty sacks, not looking up at me. Then there's a boy about my age; it's him that spots me.
"Hey!" he says. "Don't just stand there." I blink. He rolls his eyes. "If you're not collecting up the sacks, they'll think you're trying to steal the grain, or avoid the reaping, or something. And you know how the Head Peacekeeper gets." I'm stuck stock still. "Fine. Suit yourself." He grabs as many of the bags as he can hold before hopping out of the train again. After depositing them in a wooden cart, he dashes back to somewhere else on the train to get more.
Right, time to blend in.
The workers on this car have been so efficient, when I spin around there aren't even any sacks left to pick up. I come to the edge of the car. It's maybe over a metre up from the ground. Biting my lip, I jump, landing on the gravel with my hands and feet. It sends a shock through me, but at least I didn't make my knee any worse, I guess.
Glancing around, this whole scene is confusing. People run about back and forth between the long train and wooden carts rapidly filling with sacks. Do I do that, too, now? I guess so.
I'm not the fastest runner, but I'm not the slowest, either. On sports days and tournaments at school, I normally finish around average position. Occasionally third or fourth, on a good day. But these people are so speedy, it's scary. I'll have to sit down just from watching them. No. Be strong. Blend in.
I sprint to the closest train car that still has people around it. I have to sort of springboard and roll over the edge – even then somebody gives me a helping push – just to get up. Then I'm gathering up six or seven sacks, as many as possible, and soon leaping back down. The landing isn't as bad this second time. I hurry at my fastest to a cart and dump the sacks down.
By the time I've done this whole process three times over again, I'm exhausted, but we're not even done yet. The carts full of empty sacks are taken away. Wagons loaded with full sacks of grain are dragged out. Everyone repositions themselves like they've done this a thousand times before. Unfortunately, I haven't, however I'm pushed and somehow end up in a car with that same boy from before.
"Nice to see you're awake now," he comments. If I had any time to consider it, I'd probably be finding him annoying by now. As things go, I don't. Good for him. People pass bags of grain in a line towards us. The boy takes one and places it down in between us. When I don't move, he tells me to slide it into the far corner. It's heavy, but I do it. He tells me to push another up beside it. And then another. And another. This must be one of the busiest days of the year for them or something, because I've never worked so hard in my life. The one thing I'll need to do after this is lie down and sleep.
More and more grain is passed along, and now I have to lift and stack the sacks, too. I've pulled every muscle in my body, and I'm sweating like a pig, and I'm so tired, and I still can't stop. The boy says we only have to put a few more on and it's full and we're free to go. By a few, he means several dozen of them.
"I'm Leo, by the way," the boy tells me as he passes yet another sack. He hasn't even broken a sweat this entire time. I move the sack into place because the sooner this is over, the better, but when I turn back I find he's staring at me expectantly. Doesn't he know it's rude to stare? I'm about to tell him this, when I figure out – he must want my name.
"My name's Valerie," I tell him in my best District Nine accent. "Valerie Wetgrass." Leo narrows his eyes as if suspecting something, but must dismiss it because he carries on with the work. It's a good job I already prepared a fake name. I planned for everything. One hundred percent prepared. I'm not one of those dumb, giggly types like most of the girls from my school. I think things through. I'm not even a smidge gullible, or naïve.
A bell rings at ear-splitting volume and all the workers sigh with relief. Leo hops down from the train as everyone starts walking away, and I'm close behind. I need to be, or I'll get lost. The sun beats harshly down on my neck even with my hair covering it. I wish I didn't have to get rid of my skin dye – it acted like sunscreen, now without it I'll probably burn.
I follow the crowd for ages and ages and ages, past most likely hundreds of fields. My feet hurt. My arms ache. I'm tired. Eventually we reach what must be the main town. Yes, it is. There's the Justice Building like on TV, with its clock mounted on the centre of the roof. What time does it say? I squint to focus on it. No. That's impossible. It's only half past six in the morning. Is it morning? It has to be.
People begin to disperse, go their own separate ways as we reach the town. It's quite large, larger than it appeared during the reapings and Victory Tours on TV. District Nine was always just one tiny town surrounded by fields to me. I was sort of right; it's surrounded by fields.
The square is at the centre of the town, in front of the Justice Building, but almost everyone has scattered by the time I reach there. Maybe only the people closest to the station do that job. I'm just pondering this when I smell it. Fresh bakery bread. The smell wafts up my nose and reminds my stomach just how starved it is. Saliva builds up in my mouth.
My feet don't wait for my mind's opinion but drag me straight over to the bakery. So . . . hungry . . . I stop myself. I have no money. I cannot eat. Stop. Breathe. What time does Nine have its reapings? Half past twelve. Six hours and I'll be leaving on the train, with all the food I love, enjoy and cherish. I'll last. I must. If they arrest me for stealing bread, I'll miss my chance to enter the Games!
Alone, I sit against a shop wall in the shade. So filthy, but my only choice. So tired. I study the makeshift stage in front of the Justice Building. Three chairs sit on top, empty. Nearby those is a microphone, right in the centre. Below the stage, on the ground of the square, are fourteen areas sectioned off by ropes. This makes me giddy. I'll be in one of those soon, and next thing I'll be volunteering.
I yawn, cold brick sensational on my boiling, worn-out skin. Six hours. I can wait.
So . . . first chapter right there, folks. Is it original? I'm hoping so. And I simply love reviews.