The Thirteenth Hunger Games
Chapter 1: The First
P.O.V- Paris
The ringing sound shatters my every thought; it feels as if my heartbeats are in sync with the tolling of the bell. Then one thought forms in my mind and, like a running bull, it stampedes on any happy thoughts that my mind can give birth to. District elevenths thirteenth reaping is beginning.
Everyone who may be selected will go, regardless of who they are and the odds of their selection occurring. A few of the townspeople who consider themselves of a "higher-class" then the rest of us probably are exited at the prospect of seeing the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth sacrifices selected. I remember the mayors gleeful face as one of the kids he's had wiped for stealing food before was selected last year, he tried to hide it, but anybody could tell that he holds no love towards the poorer members of the district.
As I approach the center of town I run into one of the few people who I don't want to see enter the slaughter-house, besides myself of course, Slate. He's my polar opposite since, while I'm small and nimble, he's a giant wild boar that has at least thrice my strength. At six foot seven and at least two hundred fifty pounds he makes me feel like a child every time I compare myself to him, he's one of the few friends I have. What really made our friendship was our parents, but sad memories won't help me suffer through another reaping, so I stuff those memories into the casket at the back of my mind and try to temporarily stop thinking
We nod at each other, both of unwilling to speak because we both know that we don't want our last words to be bitter if one of us is reaped. The center of town isn't large enough to hold five thousand people, let alone the entire population of our large district, so most people won't get to see it live. The mayor is one of those fortunate enough to get a front row seat; I know he'll enjoy himself enough for the rest of us while he gets his screen time on stage in front of the entire capital, since I'm certain his strict policies are favored by our president.
Then the poisons snake herself appears, Aqua Tearju, one of the guides who has a 100% mortality rate for her tributes. She's one of the few who'll enjoy herself as well, knowing that she's famous for selecting a twelfth of the sacrifices and because she'll also enjoy her screen time, I'd bet she's famous at home and enjoys a life of luxury since. She stands on the stage with a smile on her face, looking into the crowd at the collection of potential sacrifices she has at her disposal. I wonder how she doesn't frown at the thought that she can only take a few of us and not the entire population.
Her most noticeable feature has to be the snake scale tattoo that encompasses all visible skin, except for from the top of her neck up. The scales look like they belong on one of the constricting snakes I've seen, it was around nine feet long, I made sure to keep my distance from it. I'll do the same thing towards her, since a snake that big could still kill with its poison if it bit you, even if it isn't large enough to strangle you.
"Ahem," clearing her throat isn't going to get anyone's attention, I have no idea why she even tried, nobody even looks at her until the head peacekeeper gets up and shots his gun into the sky. We all go quiet. The fact that he's an excellent marksman is something that many of us know all to well; he takes pleasure in being one of the gunmen in every execution we have. It's been about a month since the last time we've had an execution by the firing squad, so he probably would have someone executed today for not focusing all their attention on this event, one that's almost iconic in the eyes of the capital drones.
She continues, knowing that the gunshot will be edited out later, "Welcome to district elevens thirteenth reaping and may the honorable tributes fight with courage and steadfast determination," That's a new starting line, the last one also seemed forced, so they must be experimenting. Determination, honor and courage are things that sacrifices don't really need since all they really need is to die for the amusement of the capital drones that know of nothing except how pleasurable life can be for the spoiled.
"As always, we start with the ladies," sticking her fangs into the nest, she manages to snack a particularly well fed chick, "Abigail Fletcher," she cries out and for the first time the mayors smile disappears. His daughter looks at him with pleading eyes, but he just stares at her choking back his tears, I hope is moment in the spotlight is seen by everyone in the capital. She looks up to the stage and faints. Instinctively, as if she's some sort of diseased carcass, everybody takes a few steps away from her.
"Any volunteers" she asks in a voice that doesn't imply that this question is equivalent to asking the mayor for handout's, except for the fact that we can't wipe her for disturbing us. The only districts that have ever had volunteers are the first, second and fourth. Those are also the only districts that have had multiple victors, the second district having the most, the first having the second most and the fourth having the third most.
Then the meaning behind her first victims last name flashes into her head, she gives the mayor an apologetic look before speaking again, "Before we continue," she manages to get out, "I have an exciting announcement to make. In honor of our thirteenth hunger games, and the halfway point to the first quarter quell, we have decided to add a few little twists to this year's hunger games. Instead of each district sending out two tributes, a third of either gender will also be going out with them," the smile on her face makes the news seem almost pleasant, for those who live in the capital it probably is, but for the rest of us it means are chances of being selected are now about twenty-five percent higher than they were before.
"Anyways, let's continue by choosing the male tribute," In my mind, all the news means that the snake will take back three of our chicks instead of just two, while I think coldly about this the second name is called, and I can't help but notice that many of the other potential sacrifices are staring at me. "Was it me?" is the only thought that I can muster until he walks to the stage and I know she called out "Slate Washington" and that I'm receiving sympathetic glances from those that know that we out of all the people in the district he's the one of the few people who I get along with, the same goes for him as well though.
Why slate of all people? He has hungry mouths to feed at home, the reason why he has so many slips in is because he gets six a year in order to feed his younger siblings, since they're all orphans. He has amassed thirty-six entries, making him the most likely out of all of us, but even Mayor Fletcher's daughter got selected when she couldn't have had more than four or five entries.
"Any volunteers?" she asks again, which irritates me. Why does she have to ask the same thing twice every year? When it's between your live and someone else's you always put president on your own, even your best friend will silently stare at you as they take you away, with a look of sorrow or remorse and the very most.
My heart skips a beat at the thought of me volunteering for him, I could save replace him so he can take care of his siblings. I should save him, shouldn't I? I'm an orphan as well and he's the only one who would miss me, I have no hungry siblings to feed, nor do I have a stable source of income. We both watched the death of our parents, my father and both of his. But I can't save him. I look away out of sadness and because of how pitiful I truly am. He looks at me with a look of both understanding and sadness as well. We both know I could, but we both know I won't.
"Now for our very special third tribute," she combines the two bowls of names, sticks her venomous fangs out and for the first time I actually take a good look at her, those crimson red eyes, that happy smile. A smile that tells everyone that she enjoys her job, hell, she probably wouldn't give it up without being coerced into doing it and even that would take a lot of effort.
"Priscilla Washington," she calls out. Everybody else turns towards her, but I look right into Slates eyes and see that hearing her name was much more painful for him that hearing his own. She walks up slowly, unable to look her brother in the eyes, and takes her place on the stage, knowing that nobody will come to her rescue.
"Any volunteers," after not getting a response twenty-six times in a row she must know nobody will say yes, there's not a girl in the entire country who would take her place.
It hits me hard, harder than memories of my father, harder than the whipping I'd received for being my parent's child and harder than the sadness at knowing slate was a sacrifice. I could replace her, right? She said of either gender, so wouldn't having a second boy be fine, wouldn't saving her be something that I could do? Half my body is conscious, screaming at the other half to wake up, to release that I'll die if I take her place. But the unconscious half ignores the rest as I say in a flat, even and almost musical voice, "I volunteer."
Everybody looks at me questioningly, I would do the same if there was a mirror, I probably will when they replay the reaping's and I get to watch myself. I'll wonder who that brave kid is, not brave actually, who that idiotic kid is. The kid who gave up his life to save someone he doesn't even care for. I ascend the stairs almost unknowingly; most of my conscious is still living ten minutes age, before slate was selected, before his baby sister was selected, and before we became enemies destined to fight to the death. The only thing that registers is Slates quizzical look, one that questions what I'm thinking and whether or not I'm mentally stable enough to be punished for my own stupidity, but also has an edge of thankfulness to it. I take my place on the stage, while Priscilla walks down at a pace that makes me think she's afraid that they'll drag her up the stairs before she reaches the bottom
The snake eyes me with a confused expression at well, probably debating whether the first volunteer from a district that's not notorious for being successful makes for better television that having a sibling death match. In the end she leaves it alone, "What's your name?" she asks me pleasantly."
"Paris Grey," I manage to get out, a name my father so happily bestowed upon me in honor of a royal member of some country that existed before so longs ago that it plays no role in our current lives at all.
"Let's all give a warm round of applause to our first ever tribute from district eleven," she cries enthusiastically, but the minority of people that actually applaud me aren't those who make up our districts, since they're still shocked at my choice.
I notice that our districts princess has begun to awaken, probably thinking it had to have been a terrible dream, that in the morning she'll be able to parade through town with pockets full of coins and buy delicacies that she'll eat in front of the poor with a happy expression. That is until she looks at the crowd than towards her competition. I see her double take when she she's the giant tribute we've collected. But where will I place? Between the monster and the person who fainted, but those two range on the opposite sides of the spectrum.
Then the mayor stands up and reads the long and incredibly dull document about the acts of treason that none of the potential tributes were old enough to commit. After he finishes they usher us into separate rooms so that our loved ones will come to visit us; I see this as my best chance to take a nap before all the craziness unfolds. I lay on the fluffy coach, which is a step up from what I'm used to.
In front of me I see my father, and I remember this exact scene all too well. He was the only person who was allowed to enter the forest and collect herbs and other plants, since he was both a healer and a scholar who knew all about how abundant the forests natural resources are, some of the plants help you, others could kill you or cause you to suffer. But more than that I see him in front of a team of ten armed peacekeepers, alone, and I see the entire town encircling us, watching as they aim at him. A public execution isn't exactly uncommon, but when the person being executed is respected by the whole town, it's an event that could be dangerous. But they all just sit there and do nothing. Wanting to help the man whose saved a few of their lives, helped feed as many starving people as he possibly could or found ways to make things less painful for both the living and dying. But they know they can't afford to have another failed rebellion and just sit their watching as the bullets enter his flesh. I see him staring into my eyes, a smile on his face, as he breathes his final breath.