LOSER'S FORFEIT
A Hunger Games Tale by Vyrazhi, ©2013
ONE WEEK BEFORE REAPING DAY, IN THE YEAR OF THE 62ND HUNGER GAMES
The mountains which surround us on all sides are neither nuisances nor barriers, but inspirations.
We take our strength from them, and let their impregnable surfaces remind us to be the same.
We know neither weakness nor fear, neither hunger nor thirst.
We are Careers, and VICTORY IS OURS.
I tear the page that bears these words from my diary, being careful to rip along the book's seam. Poetry is a luxury that we at the Flavius Gratis Training Academy can ill afford. From dawn to dusk we fight, and keep on fighting. It's not only our duty, but our destiny. Here in District Two, there are only two paths one can tread with honor: that of a Peacekeeper, or a Career tribute for the Hunger Games. My name is Yery Dolomite, seventeen years old, and I am one of the latter. Ever since I was born, I've battled. Glancing at my watch, I see there are only five minutes before our next sparring round. That's enough time to check myself in the mirror and assess my injuries, but not much else: Black eye. Stiff neck. Bent finger. Not bad. Other Careers-in-training fared worse than I did before our lunch break, and I count myself fortunate.
"TRIBUTES! Pairings up!" Trainer Flavius, his voice an eternal foghorn, warns us for the first and last time. Only once has he ever done so twice, in order for us to find out what happens to the tardy. I'll never forget the day he called us forward with a piercing whistle, knocked a late arrival down, and gave the signal. That's why I'm one of the first to reach the posted lists for our afternoon session. When I do, I'm stunned:
"Excuse me, sir." I raise my head high and give the three-fingered Panem salute. "Is there a mistake?"
"In what, Dolomite?" He calls all of us by our last names, except for certain powerful and favored tributes.
"The pairing lists, sir. Are you sure that the name across from mine is the correct one?"
Flavius doesn't even have to look at them. He simply slaps me, his own face a ruddy tabula rasa. "Go." He points toward Ring One, which is right in the middle of the main training floor of the Academy. "First."
First? What kind of humiliation is this? Ignoring my stinging right cheek, I stride to where he sends me. The head of the Academy doesn't even have to tell us to jump, because we already know how high. Due to my insubordination, I know that my sparring match this afternoon will not only be first, but exhibited in front of all my fellow fighters. There is a good chance that I could overturn this punishment, winning not only admiration from them, but putting Flavius Gratis in his place. After all, who truly has the power in this situation - the trainer, or those who are being trained? Even the Peacekeepers' hounds can turn on them.
"All around." Twenty-eight lean and hungry youth between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, the Senior Division, fall in and circle Ring One. As usual, the tallest and strongest muscle their way closest to its red border line. Their expressions are all too familiar to me, because I've worn it more times than I can count. Twenty-eight pairs of eyes are gleaming with a wild and ravenous light, even though they should be heavy with after-lunch fatigue. Twenty-eight rictus mouths grin in anticipation, equal crosses between laughs and sneers. Twenty-eight pairs of hands, knotted into fists, bear taut white knuckles. Will I be beaten? "What'll it be?" asks Flavius. "One opponent, or the mob?" The tributes in the front row begin a slow and steady rhythm: stomp, CLAP, stomp, CLAP, stomp, CLAP, stomp, CLAP. Its volume and speed start to increase, and I know exactly what these savage syllables mean. "Choose quickly, Dolomite, before they rush you."
"One opponent!" My bladder and bowels clench tight. "No matter who it is, or if it's her, I'll fight."
Flavius raises his own hand in the Panem salute. "Enobaria Romula Verus, step forward." No one speaks.
