I'd like to apologise in advance for the confusing POV switches, but I wanted to see it from all different views not just one person.
My father aims a punch to my ribs; I rapidly dive out of the way, and kick him in the chest. He moves to the side, catching my leg to flip me onto the ground. My back collides into the hard stone of the terrace, knocking the breath from my lungs. He's winded me. He's won. "Too slow, Anthea," he offers a hand to help me stand. "You're not performing to the peak of your ability today."
"No," I admit. "I've been thinking about the Reaping." We enter the kitchen, where Mother has been baking bread for our breakfast. Although the Reaping isn't until nine, my father and me have been practising since five. He wants me to be performing to the best of my capabilities today, so that when I volunteer later on, I have the power to win the Games. I will have the power to bring honour, glory and victory home. I've been trained to kill since birth. Well, probably not birth, but I have definitely been training for the Games for as long as I can remember. My earliest memory is entering the Academy for the first time and being given a sword to exercise with.
The Academy is a pleasant place, but they never televise it when District 1 is shown. Whenever victors from other districts or Capitol officials come over to us, the tour guides tell them that it is merely an old warehouse that we used to store fine fabrics in, but a flood ruined it. Since then, the warehouse has been abandoned to dry out.
This part isn't entirely false. It was once a fabric warehouse, and it was ruined in the floods many, many years ago. I love being there. The trainers and coaches are very helpful. You can always rely on them to impart wisdom, and to lend a helping hand if you want to practise unarmed fighting with another. Most are victors themselves.
My father was a victor. I grew up in an extravagant house set in the heart of Victor's Village. It is far from the jewellers' shops and the embroidery houses. The 'factories' of District 1, if you like. They are the places where we make luxurious items for the Capitol, such as diamond tiaras and silk purses.
"Don't worry about it. You've had plenty of practice." My father says. "I think you're ready. But you had best be on your guard in the arena. Remember, every-"
"Every second I lose is a second gained by my opponent. Yes, Daddy. I remember." I bite into my bread roll. "Don't patronise me." I reach over for the cheese spread that my father accepted from one of his lovers in the Capitol. He flirts with ladies there, wrapping them tightly around his finger, and they send him gifts. The presents that he receives range from food parcels to fine jewellery. The irony of the jewellery is that most of it was made on our doorstep anyway.
"Anthea, it's almost seven o' clock. Shouldn't you be getting ready?" Mother reminds me.
"What dress are you going to wear?" Father asks as I place my dirty plate into the sink. To be honest, I haven't given it much thought. I've been more focused on my combat skills than dolling myself up. I think about my purple dress, the one which looks almost black. It's the same colour as blackberry wine.
"My purple one," I say with confidence. It's a nice dress. It hugs my figure and stops well above my knee. "With my knee-high boots." It's an outfit I've never worn before, but one must look their best for the Capitol. I'll be seen by every citizen of Panem. I want to make an impression.
Mother looks at me. "And what about your hair?"
"I don't know!" I snap. "I'll decide when I get out of the shower." I storm up the stairs moodily. My mother's nagging is pointless and counterproductive. She wishes I was more ladylike, and had more female company. She wishes I behaved like her baby girl, the baby girl that she was so happy for. Instead, I behave like the son that my Father always wanted. The truth is, I hate the other girls in our district. They're all two-faced and shallow. District 1 is famed for the beauty of its residents, and every girl knows it. At school they sit together discussing dresses and Capitol celebrities, the latest fashions and other such nonsense. The only time they like thinking about the Games is when they're discussing and rating the male tributes on their hotness scale.
With the boys, we like fighting or swapping tips on how to improve. I live for the fight. I have successfully managed to fine tune my body into a precision instrument of death. I can use any weapon to my advantage. Whilst I favour the sword, I'm also handy with a javelin or spear, and I can throw knives a fair distance. Last time we measured at school, I threw one dagger about sixty metres to hit the dummy we train with in the neck.
Peeling my sweaty training clothes off, and strewing them across the bathroom floor, I step into the shower.
"Mycroft, breakfast!" My brother screeches at the top of his lungs. I lazily stretch out and drum my fingers on the bookshelf above my head. Books, such interesting things. Whilst the others in my district fight for glory and honour, spending their days perfecting their aim and preparing for the Games, I read.
I read because books they are full of information and knowledge; many tributes who could have been victors have lost because they ate poisonous berries, or made other, ridiculous mistakes. They could have won, but they didn't have the data about plants or camouflage to save them from being hungry, or being hunted. They thought that their training and weaponry made them immortal. But they were wrong. So very wrong.
People like me are mocked. People like me are taunted for not fighting and practising, but instead burying themselves in knowledge. People like me. I am not used as the town's punching bag, because the way I conduct myself makes people afraid. I exude confidence and power. A single glance and I own them. If I am drawn, then nobody will volunteer in my place. If I choose to volunteer today, then nobody will challenge me.
"MYCROFT!" My brother yells again. He has a pair of lungs on him, that kid.
For once, I'm glad of the age gap between us. Seven years between my brother and me. Usually, I worry about it. I worry about my brother constantly, but I don't worry now. I am seventeen, which means that my brother is safe from the Reaping. He's ten. You're first entered into the Reaping at the age of twelve, which means that I will not be able to protect him if he does get drawn. When he comes of age. The other children bully him and pick on him, and treat him like the class punching bag, but I can intervene. The children think he is weak; if he were ever drawn, they would probably volunteer to save District 1 from the shame of having a nerdy, non-Career tribute. Career tribute. You can't make a career from being a tribute. Tributes are not paid for their 'services' in the Games, only the victors are.
Being a victor, now that is something you can make a career from.
"Mycroft, if you don't come down right now, I'm eating your bacon!"
I rise to my feet, brushing away the bits of fluff and I seem to have gathered lounging about on the carpet. I suppose that I'd better go downstairs and eat something, before baby brother scoffs the lot. Appetite of a horse, that one. I inspect my hair in the mirror, using a hand to smooth the auburn strands into a presentable look. I would like to moisturise my face first, but the beguiling scent of the bacon overrides the desire to smooth my skin. I suppose that I can do it when I get dressed into my Reaping outfit. That's it, hanging there on my wardrobe. It is a fine example of District 8's sewing skills; a three piece suit in an exquisite shade of cream and brown.
"Good morning, Mycroft, my darling," my mother greets as I step off the last step. She has to stand on the tips of her toes to kiss my cheek. "Would you like some breakfast? I saved you the last slice of bacon before Sherlock polished off the lot."
"Thank you, Mummy," I say. When I get to the dining room, my brother is still at the table with his reading book. He's so bony; it's always odd to think that this skinny runt is the one who eats the most food in this house. "Good morning, Sherlock."
"Your breakfast is next to the sink," he says in a way of reply.
I rescue my sausages from where the leaking tap has been dripping on my plate, before pulling out the seat opposite his. I cut my eggs into easy, manageable pieces. Through a mouthful of hash brown, I ask, "What are you reading about today?"
My brother wrinkles his nose at me, "Don't speak with your mouth full, Mycroft. It's disgusting." He waits for me to swallow. "I'm reading a book that I found in Father's study, entitled The Greatest Moments of the 183rd Hunger Games." He lifts the book up to show me the cover.
"Why on Earth are you reading that?"
He shrugs, "It's really interesting. For example, when Richard Brook carved out Soo Lin Yao's eyes? Had he won, that would have been his signature event." The picture is rather gory. The editor of the book had elected for a still of Soo Lin's eyeball on the end of Richard's switchblade.
"Sherlock, I'm eating!"
"You're always eating. Soon, you'll be a whale!" My brother mocks, sinking further down into his chair to read. A shriek came from the next room. My brother and I stare at each other for a split second, before jumping into action and racing to Mummy's aid.
She was pointing at the clock. "We're going to be late!" Hurriedly, Mummy begins ushering us back up the staircase to get washed and dressed. "Quickly now, don't dawdle!"
"Mummy, we thought it was something serious," my younger brother complains as he is shunted upstairs by Mummy's strong arms.
"Being late is serious, Sherlock," I say smugly, helping Mummy to push him into the bathroom.
"Shut up, Mycroft."
I step out of the shower, and wrap the towel around my body. I look at myself in the mirror. My dark hair is darker still, due to the water absorbed into each strand, and my eyes are like black holes set into my pale face. I smile. Today is going to be a great day.
Towelling my body down, I slip into my undergarments. They cling to my wet skin, so I towel my legs again. My purple satin dress from the Capitol hugs my figure like a serpentine creature. I like the way it looks on me; it pulls me in at all the right places, so my curvy body is flaunted in all the right ways. I look sexy from every angle.
I squeeze my hair to drain off the worst of the wet, allowing it to splash on the floor. The servants can clean that. The perfumed scent of the soap I use fills the bathroom, and I know it's clinging to my skin like an herbal cloud. How should I wear my hair? I'm going to volunteer this year. I'm definitely going to be on everybody's screens, so I'd like to look pretty. This is when I wish I had at least one girl friend, someone who I could rely on when it comes down to dresses and hairstyles. There's still a steady rivulet of water down my back, reminding me that I need to decide on a style before I get my dress wet.
Someone raps on the bathroom door. "Anthea?" It's my mother. "Would you like me to do your hair now?" My mother is very into hair and makeup. She'll know exactly what to do.
"Yes, Mother," I reply, sliding the bolt across and letting her in. The cloud of perfume hits her full force. She splutters, wafting her hand in front of her face.
"Anthea, bonbon, you don't need this much perfume," she says. She comes around to stand behind me and rakes her fingers through my messy hair. "I'm going to do your hair in soft curls. Pass me that roundhead hairbrush." I scrabble my fingers against the bath to wrap them around the moulded silicon handle of the brush. A stream of water courses down the length of my arm, splashing on the floor.
Mother produces her battery-powered portable hairdryer, checking her watch. "We have the best part of an hour before the ceremony starts. I think we should leave here in thirty minutes at the very latest." I shrug, allowing her to touch my hair. She's gentle with it, and I see the curls begin to take form as they bounce into place, looking like brunette springs made of hair. It accentuates the heart-shape of my face. The minutes trickle away as I feel relaxed by my mother's touch. Volunteering today means this may be the last time I ever feel her soft skin on mine, or hear her peaceful voice in my ear like silver bells.
"There," she says after a while. The last note she had been humming lingers in the air. "You're ready. And just in time!"
I look beautiful. "Thank you, Mother." I snatch up my shoes, pulling them onto my feet in a hurry.
Washed, dressed and with my skin delightfully moisturised, we assemble in the hallway. Mummy is freaking out because we're running late, and my little brother can't find his shoes.
"Leave them!" Mummy snaps, "It's not like you'll need them." She begins pulling on my brother's arm and together we carry him over the threshold. We cannot be late today. Bundling my brother over our shoulders, Mummy and I clatter out of the house, pausing for a minor second as she locks everything. Attendance is mandatory. Luckily, I know a shortcut. I lead my mother and brother through the undergrowth, and we emerge in the District Central. We join the queue to sign in and register our attendance.
The Peacekeeper manning the stall pricks my finger and smears blood onto a glass slide. "Thank you, sir. You may go through"
I reply with a slight nod. My finger throbs in the wind as I rush to join my group of seventeen year old boys. I hate the lot of them. Spending their time in the gym, practising how to kill fellow humans, who do they think they are? They're all distracted by a new escort on the stage. I've never seen her before. Or is it a man? I peer closer, straining my eyes to see clearer. I think it's a man, but his clothes are very feminine. It looks like a short dress with a silver cord fastening it around the middle. It appears to be a tunic; I remember those were in fashion a few years ago. His hair resembles a toilet brush with scruffy brown tufts here and there. A hush befalls the crowd but there are still a few murmurs.
Our mayor, Angelo Carlucci, has risen to his feet. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's that time of year again! Yes, it is Reaping Day; the first of the great events in the annual Hunger Games." He's always so zealous, but he has the sort of character to be enthusiastic about anything. After speeding through the obligatory, dreary (even by my standards) parts concerning the Treaty of Treason and the story of Panem (which we learn in school anyway), he reads the list of previous victors. There are a lot. I recognise a few names such as Cashmere Pearlcorne, Louise Mortimer, Crystal Sparks, Henry Knight, Denim Harpsichord and Jet Barry.
Once he is finished, Mayor Angelo flashes a huge smile and says, "Now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our new District Escort, Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch!"
There are a few whoops and cheers as the grotesque creature steps towards the podium. His eyebrows have been dyed silver to match his tunic belt. A medley of colours has been tinted into his beard. "Happy Hunger Games everyone!" He pipes in his thick accent. "Up here with me is a selection of previous victors. You have been read the complete list. Who will join them? Could it be you?" He reaches neon yellow claws (there really is no other way to describe them) over the pink bowl of paper slips. "May the odds be ever in your favour!" He grasps one; you can see the paper crumple in his fist.
"Aurelia Moonshine?" The girl in question doddles onto the smooth glass stage. The stage was rebuilt by the last victor so that we would not look poor in front of the Capitol. Aurelia has a nervous face, and I knew I recognised the name. She is one of Sherlock's few friends, if you can call them that. Aged twelve now, she was the one who taught him the way around the library in the school. Too young for these Games; we all agree.
"I volunteer!" A hand shoots up from the pen of girls, accompanied by a clear voice. "I volunteer!" A willowy figure emerges from the crowd as they split to let her through. Anthea Barry, the daughter of victor Jet Barry. Of course she would volunteer; this year is her year.
I find myself drawn to her legs as she walks; their sinewy grace is something remarkable. She steps onto the stage beside Benedict Cumberbatch, striking in her boots and nude legs. She is almost as tall as him, I notice with slight amusement. "What's your name then, little girl?" Benedict jokes, taking in how tall Anthea is.
"Anthea, Anthea Barry," Anthea gushes, as if she can't believe she's made it. It's an act. She's pretending to help Aurelia to score points in the arena. We've all seen the act before, but it doesn't mean it isn't effective. "I just had to help poor Aurelia; she looked so terrified."
"That's so kind of you," Benedict says, clasping her shoulders. "Give her a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen, for being so brave!" Anthea turns to smile at the crowd and the camera. She waves like a young child. It may be an act, but she plays the part well.
"So, Anthea, I'm going to have to leave you now for a few seconds," Benedict says to me. He knows how to play the camera, to make the Reaping a little bit more entertaining for the Capitol audiences. He bounds over to the blue bowl, pausing to look at me. "Unless… you'd like to pick?"
Me, pick my district partner? I admit the idea does sound appealing. I smile my brightest and most innocent smile. "That sounds fun." I follow him shyly. My fingers dip into the bowl; the papers feel like the slimy digits of all the eligible boys in the district, begging to be chosen, desperate for glory. I root down into the bottom, and yank a paper out.
"Mycroft Holmes."
I try to do a Capitol smile, but I know that name. Everybody in this district knows the name of Holmes. They don't fight and practise for the Games, but they keep themselves to themselves. Their father killed himself two years ago; it was a subject of gossip for weeks. The boy whose name I've just called out slowly steps from the crowd and briskly walks up the short path to the stage. He looks calm, cool and collected. Funny, considering he's one of the anti-fighting people in our District. He doesn't come down to training like most of the males in the area. So, it's a little odd that he seems so serene whilst walking towards me.
Benedict Cumberbatch smiles broadly at him. "Mycroft Holmes, the male tribute from District 1! Do we have any volunteers?" An eerie silence falls over the crowd. Usually, when an anti-Games protestor is reaped, people are falling over themselves to volunteer in their place. Falling over each other to save District 1 from the humiliation of having a terrible tribute. Nobody wants to volunteer for Mycroft.
"No volunteers? Well then, congratulations to you, Mr. Holmes. Have you met Miss Barry?" Benedict introduces us to each other, and Mayor Angelo signals for us to shake hands for the camera. Mycroft takes my hand, kissing it politely. There is a smattering of applause that I vaguely register.
I have been partnered with Mycroft Holmes. These Games just got interesting.
This is the first chapter in my new idea: What would happen if the characters were living in Panem and were all entered into the Hunger Games in the same year. I wish I could say that I regret the decision to make Benedict Cumberbatch the district escort, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up. This is a WIP so updates will be very slow. Feedback is always appreciated.
Sunshine :)