AN: Hey guys, how amazing was Catching Fire?! Anyway, I hope you enjoy my take on Annie's story, but please let me know in reviews what you think- should I continue? Now, please enjoy!
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games franchise belongs to the wonderful Suzanne Collins. I own only my original characters and storylines.
The sand shifts beneath me as I flop down on the ground next to Eric, my back against a rough weatherworn boulder. He grins his crooked grin and I reach out and ruffle his already tousled black hair. "Nice look, fish-face," I say, laughing. He wipes the grease and crumbs- from the fish and chips he's been eating- off his mouth with the back of his hand by way of a response. "Alright, Annie?" he asks. I shrug as an answer. Eric nods, understanding my nonchalance. It's the night before reaping, and Eric and I are at our District's annual party to celebrate the Games. Most districts, I assume, don't greet the annual bloodbath with such relish, but in the career districts- 1, 2 and mine, 4- they are an event that merits celebration. Personally, the idea of having to kill 23 other kids doesn't seem so thrilling to me, but just about everyone else in the District, my parents included, couldn't be more pleased. It makes me nauseous.
"Annie? Hey, Annie! Annie, are you even listening?"
I blink awake from my reverie, and turn to Eric. "What? Oh, sorry, what did you say?"
He rolls his grey eyes, but repeats himself. "I said, aren't you even a little nervous? Just a smidge?" He demonstrates a 'smidge' by pinching his fingers together in front of his face.
I snort. "Nah. No point- it's the last year either of us can be reaped, and we've been fine up until now. And anyway, we've got a District of battle-crazed thugs from ages twelve to eighteen- even if we did get reaped, which we won't, there's bound to be some kid who is both stupid and bloodthirsty enough to volunteer instead of us, so we won't be in the Games, now and forever, and we can live out the rest of our lives in peace, fishing, making nets and tackles, going out in boats, and we can all do the things people do, get married to people we love, have children, a pet dog, and die happy and fulfilled aged ninety-six with our respective grandkids around." I finish the speech in a single breath.
Eric raises an eyebrow at me. "Well. You're going to be sick."
I punch him in the arm, and force myself to ignore the race of my heart and the empty feeling in my stomach.
Our conversation is cut short when a boy, best described as gargantuan, strides over to us, an ugly grin plastered on his otherwise handsome face. Next to me, Eric groans, and slumps further down against the rock, hissing cusses under his breath. I wish I could instantly become invisible.
"Well, well, well, what have we here?" he says, his voice dripping with mock curiosity.
"A platypus and a narwhal, obviously," I mutter, "what do you want, Antaeus?"
"Cheap entertainment" Antaeus grins back.
"Really?" retorts Eric, "because I hear there's a woman down Cryer's Cove who let's you watch her Beta Fish fights in exchange for a couple of-"
Eric's comeback is cut abruptly short when Antaeus reaches forward with a ham-sized fist and grabs Eric around the neck, slamming him upright against the boulder. "Watch it, wise guy," he snarls, no longer grinning.
"Antaeus," I cry, jumping in front of him, laying a hand on Eric's chest, "let him go!"
"Oh yeah?" he growls, "make me."
Eric's going purple in the face, rasping for breath.
"Antaeus," I repeat, cringing at the desperation in my own voice, "drop him!"
"Is that how you ask?" He grins with perverse enjoyment, "what about the magic word?"
I flush beetroot to the roots of my hair. "What do you want? Just let him go!"
His grin twists into an even wider grotesque smirk. "Say 'please!'"
For a second, I want to punch him in the gut, knee him between the legs, slap him across the face, anything to hurt him. But I know I can't. That would make me no better than he is, and anyway, even though all District 4 kids have some basic combat training, Antaeus is something of a homicidal machine, whereas I can just about throw a right hook. Right, swallowing my dignity it is.
"Antaeus, let Eric go. Please." I hate myself even as I say it.
"Well, let's see, I-" suddenly he drops him. I rush to Eric, and let him lean on me. He's coughing and spluttering.
"Are you okay? Can you breathe? Did he hurt you? I'm so, so, so sorry! Oh, God, Eric can I-"
"You know- urgh- Annie-" he pauses to cough and massage his throat- "I don't know how you expect me to answer any of your questions when I'm too busy-" more coughing, "choking." He rolls his eyes again.
"Annie, my dear!" a musical, lilting voice sounds above me, and I know now why Antaeus released Eric so suddenly. A lithe, pretty woman with dark hair and hazel eyes, and a tall, blond, green-eyed man are standing arm-in-arm in front of us. "Mother, Father," I say, for they are my parents, "How are you?"
My mother beams brightly at me. "No, my darling, how are you? You must all be so excited!"
"Yes, Mother," I sigh, deadpanning, "the thought of an opportunity to get ripped away from home, thrown into the hands of the people who control, and, let's be frank oppress us, made to dress like a clown on it's wedding day, and then attempt to commit mass murder of anywhere up to twenty-three people my age and under, and either get killed myself or try enjoy killing others…. Yep, I am bouncing up and down for that."
My Mother has, of course, stopped listening and has turned to watch my Father strike up a conversation of his own. "Antaeus," he says amiably, clapping him on the shoulder, "you plan on volunteering, lad?"
"Of course, Mr. Cresta," he says, all charm and smiles now. Eric makes retching motions behind him. I hastily turn a laugh into a cough.
The sycophantic conversation continues for another ten minutes, Eric and I shooting exasperated looks at each other the whole time. Eventually, a bell sounds, and it's time for Victor's speeches. Everybody crowds around the huge bonfire in the middle of the beach, where all District 4's victors are sat on driftwood logs, in the order that they won the games. I recognize every single one. On the farthest left end, there is Mags Connelly, who won the 9th games, our Districts oldest living victor. I see Dylan Fiord, 23rd games, famed for killing nine tributes single-handed. In one go. Andromeda Walsh, 58th games, who used her extensive knowledge of knots to strangle other tributes in their sleep. And at the end, Finnick Odair, 65th games, the youngest victor from our district, a career tribute through-and-through. I watch them all as they wait for the crowds to gather. Some talk amongst themselves, others stare off into space. Mags is humming something, and Andromeda plays with a length of twine. Finnick has some girl on his lap, and he appears to be attempting to consume her face, whilst she has him in some kind of stranglehold clutch. It's sick to watch, I don't know whom I pity more.
"Is that Doris?" asks Eric next to me, with a mild curiosity to his tone.
"I don't know for sure, I think so. It's hard to see through all the slobber."
Eric cracks a grin. "But I could've sworn I saw him doing something similar to Madeline at the docks the other day. And to Ursula, in the market, the day before that."
"Really? Well, his one hundred true loves all live in the Capitol, right? Anyway, let's talk about something more engaging than Odair's dating life, for crying out loud!" I say, laughing.
"No point," replies Eric, shrugging, "speeches are starting."
The speeches start the usual way, with Mags smiling, and murmuring something inaudible, before sitting back down. The rest of them are all different variations of "The Hunger Games are a chance to display the awesome-ness that is District 4, show the rest of Panem that we truly are as amazing as we think, this year's lucky 'honoured' winners had better be brilliant, ("though not as brilliant as me obviously" if you're Finnick.) Watching them, I can't help but be glad I'll never have to be up there making speeches.
I say my goodnights to Eric, dodge Antaeus, and join my parents on the way home. I hear their enthusiastic conversation right until I'm in bed. As I go to sleep, I wish more than anything that I wouldn't have to wake up next morning.
"You know, you'd think this would be the least of our worries," says Eric in the line next to me, "but it still seems like the most unpleasant part." He winces as the needle pricks his finger. I smirk at him.
"Good thing you haven't been reaped," I tell him, "fine tribute you'd make, scared of needles."
"Oh, I'm good with swords, arrows, spears and berserk warriors," he replies nonchalantly, pretending to strut, "I draw the line at needles though."
"Hilarious. Good luck, Eric," I say.
He gives me a smile, unusually tender. "Back at you, Annie. See you soon."
He walks off to join the other 18-year-old boys, and I turn to join the girls of our age group. I envy his assuredness, his calm certainty that nothing will go awry. I comfort myself with the knowledge that this is the last reaping I'll have to go through when my life is in danger. Then I see the twelve-year-olds, clammed together, all looking nervous, Careers or not, and feel a surge of guilt. I swallow back my emotions as Caius walks onto the stage. Caius is the District 4 escort. He sports the latest styles from the Capitol- his hair has been brushed and pulled and gelled into a bizarre arrangement of outward facing spikes. Not to mention it has been dyed the colour of a crab. His skin is a deep green, and his face is smothered in waxy make-up. It's terrifying.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he announces, "delightful to see you all again! I believe it's going to be another fan-tas-tic year!" I wince at his irritating sing-song voice, blocking my ears for the rest of the speech. I only unblock them when the previous victors come up. Mags is the only one who looks sad. Some of the others look positively disinterested. Finnick looks bored, and amuses himself by smiling and winking and waving at the crowds. Then the video starts playing. The usual Capitol propaganda, with President Snow's message, the ruins of District 13, the subtext- 'mess not with the Capitol,' as Eric so eloquently puts it.
The video ends, and a beaming Caius springs forwards to the two large bowls full of little paper slips- full of children. "May the odds be ever in your favour!" he says. "Ladies up first!"
I feel my vision blur, as Caius makes a big show of everything, squeezing his eyes tight shut, picking up a piece of paper, dropping it back in before looking. I console myself. After all, I'm just Annie Cresta. Things don't happen to me. After what seems like an eternity, Caius settles on a piece of paper.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. That's all I can think. Just one name, just some other Career who actually wants to go in, and I'm safe. Forever safe. Caius unfurls the paper.
"Ah!" He looks delighted. "We have our female tribute- please welcome-" he pauses, drawing it out. I'm safe. I'm safe. Of course I'm safe!
"Annie Cresta!"
I've misheard him. I must have. Because I'm just Annie Cresta. These things don't happen to me. But then why, why are my feet moving slow and numb towards the stage. Why is Caius beaming at me, shaking my hand, why are the people applauding?
"And now, for the gentlemen!" Caius relishes it. I'm sure he does this in a fraction of the time. "Antaeus Dornell!"
No. No. No. This isn't fair. I can't be- this can't- no-
"I volunteer as tribute!" A voice rings out, tremulous, but clear as a bell. Antaeus freezes, his triumphant beam dissipating from his face. I feel every cell in my body tense.
"A volunteer! Excellent! Come up here, son and tell us your name!"
No. No, don't. Run, turn, and run, and leave this place. Our District is used to volunteers- heavy-built, ruthless tributes that thirst for blood and glory, not volunteers like these. Not volunteers like these. Wiry, black-haired, grey-eyed volunteers who're afraid of needles.
"My name is Eric McKillan." Not volunteers like my best friend.
I am just Annie Cresta, and now, I guess, these things do happen to me.