CHAPTER ONE: The Vote
Today is the day of the vote. Luci and Freddie - or Frida, but nobody calls her that - are safe, I am sure of that. Nobody would vote for such weak little girls - and I do not mean that in a bad way. Luci is the quiet one, a shy, yet caring girl, and Freddie can't even win an armwrestle against her ten-year-old brother, Job. On the other hand, I am the girl who was nearly shot aged just five for accidentally-on-purposely hitting that Peacekeeper. If it wasn't for Caile's begging for my life, I wouldn't have seen my sixth birthday.
I am also the girl who yelled prejudices against the Capitol until I was twelve. That was the year of my first Reaping, when my name was pulled out of that huge glass ball.
That was the year Caile died. My loving, big sister Caile, who went to the Games to save my life. Ever since then, I've wondered if the Reaping was rigged so I'd die. Obviously, it wasn't a foolproof method.
Caile would've done anything to keep me alive. She'd proven that. And I'd had to watch her die.
I just hope the younger brother of that District Three tribute who killed Caile - the brother we saw on the Victory Tour - is picked in this year's Reaping. Dru Hollis, that's his name. If he's picked, then I will kill him.
I sigh. This is my third Reaping - I am fourteen this year, so I have done Reapings when I was twelve and thirteen. I've never been afraid of my name being picked out before, after that first year. I've never taken tesserae - the curse of the poorer districts - since Caile and later Fendrel wouldn't let me. Fendrel is fifteen this year, a year older than I am, and his name would be in that ball thirty times this year, after all the tesserae he's taken. Except the names aren't coming out of a big glass ball this year. There's a vote.
The first Quarter Quell is this year. Every twenty-five years there's Hunger Games which is changed in some way, and this is the first time it's happened. Twenty-five years ago, after the rebellion which the older generation are forbidden to talk about, they wrote down that each district would vote on which children would enter the arena this year.
If I am chosen, I will have been betrayed. Yet almost not, because everyone over the age of eighteen has to vote, and they have to choose. And who wouldn't want to get rid of me?
The crowd is huge, the entrance to the Justice Building blocked by a flock of grim-looking farmers. District Eleven is full of farmers - agriculture is our district's speciality. Nothing that would help us in the Hunger Games, of course, unless someone found a packet of seeds and grew themselves some food. It'd have to be pretty fast-growing food, though. Either that, or a really long Hunger Games. But then the Capitol'd get bored, and the Gamemakers would drive the tributes together in the arena somewhere.
My mind plays with the idea. The arena could be a giant farm...
But then someone would complain that they were giving District Eleven an unfair advantage.
My fingers play along the rough wood underneath my desk. I hardly even know what is being taught any more; I've been watching the crowd outside the Justice Building for too long. District Eleven is queueing up to vote on their tributes.
I see my mother and father among the crowd. My mother's hair is coming out of her bun, and she is whispering something to my father. They both look upset. Maybe they can't choose who to vote for. I hope they don't vote for me. I mean, they're my parents. What kind of parent would vote for their own child to die?
They're actually pretty close to me. I can hear some of their conversation. They're both voting for the same girl and the same boy, in the hopes that it will lessen the chance of me or my siblings being chosen. I hear a name from my mother, the name of the girl: Ruta Vasher.
My head whips around, my bun coming halfway out due to the motion. Ruta's head is bent over a sheet, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Her dark hair is down, waving to halfway down her back, her hand scrawling across the paper, pen between her fingers. Or maybe scrawling is the wrong word; Ruta's hands can do the most amazing things. She can tie the most intricate knots, fix the most complicated of our farming machines. Her handwriting is small, and the neatest I've ever seen. When she braids her sister's hair, the wealthier people in our district pay to come and watch her work.
She's clever, too. Maybe she could survive a few days, maybe even weeks, in the arena. But it seems unfair to condemn her to death, when she has such a bright future ahead of her. Hairdressing isn't a popular career in this District - in fact I think Ruta's the only one who has ever made money out of it - but I think the wealthier residents might pay a lot to have them do their hair, or watch her do someone else's. Litte Siana Lauter, the mayor's five-year-old daughter, had her hair braided into one of the most intricate designs I've ever seen for her fifth birthday. Not that I was there when Ruta did it. I saw her father parading around town with Siana on his back that evening.
Ruta didn't even speak about it in school the next day. It was her sister, Priss, who told everyone.
I almost growl. My parents shouldn't even be thinking about sending Ruta into the arena.
Or maybe they think nobody else will vote for her? I could forgive them, if that were the case. But the truth is, everyone is so protective of Ruta, that if they heard anyone had voted for her... they'd be some sort of outcast, I suppose. Ruta's not really got any friends - she prefers to be on her own - and some of the boys have tried to take advantage of her vulnerability in the past. Luci, Freddie and I talk to her sometimes, try to protect her from everyone who wishes her harm...as do half the other girls in the school. The boys just don't care, really.
No matter what Caile would feel, at this point...if they are allowing volunteers this year - which I doubt - and if Ruta gets chosen, I am going to the Games this year. Because I will do what I can to save Ruta's life, even if it means dying myself.
At two o'clock tomorrow, I will be outside the Justice Building with everyone else. It would be Caile's final year of eligibility this year, yet she'll always be the sixteen year old who saved me in my head. She'd still save me today, I'm sure. Even if there were no volunteers, she'd find a way.
I vaguely wonder what's happening in the richer districts. Volunteers from those districts have been on overdrive for the past few years, now enough time has passed for the kids to have training as they grow up. I've seen those boys, who lunge forwards year after year, the girls who scramble over each other to reach the stage, until their Escort points to the first girl who yelled "I volunteer!" who has usually been trampled all over at this point. In one of the districts, there's a boy who's tried to volunteer the last six years and always been too late. Zamial, I think his name is. This year is the last year he'll be able to get into the Games. Maybe he's busy threatening people to vote for him right now.
Not that they'd need threatening here. If someone asked you to vote for them, you would, to save your own child.
"DACE MARCHLEY!"
I jump at the sound of my name. Of course, it's my teacher, yelling at me for not paying attention. Ruta's hand is high in the air, obviously wanting to give Mr. Balla an answer. But he turned to me instead.
"Question three?" Mr. Balla asks.
I look down. There's a sheet in front of me, which I guess someone must have given out earlier because everyone else has finished theirs. I haven't even picked up my pen.
Question three, by the looks of things, is the most complicated one on the sheet.
"I don't know, sir," I whisper.
Mr. Balla looks to the Peacekeeper who is standing by the door. Peacekeepers are a normality in school; there's one in each classroom, supposedly so we don't attack the teacher. Or maybe so the teacher doesn't attack us. But the Capitol doesn't really care about kids. The Hunger Games have proven that, twenty-four times over.
The Peacekeeper shakes his head, and Mr. Balla sighs. Sometimes the silent arguments Mr. Balla and his Peacekeeper, Luiss, get into can be quite funny - I guess they're not on the best of terms - but today I just feel relieved. I've seen Hywel Glint whipped for not paying attention in school. That was years ago, though, when I was ten, and he was eighteen then.
I get a good look at Luiss - something I've never done before; he was never that interesting to me - and I find him slighly familiar. Something like the Peacekeeper from when I was five, when I had a massive temper tantrum and hit the Peacekeeper for something he said to me about Caile. But that Peacekeeper was called Leonel, not Luiss.
Luiss catches my eye, and smiles at me. I've never had a Peacekeeper smile at me before, and instantly I'm sure that what he's doing is against the rules. That I should be punished. But he's not giving me punishment.
The night passes slowly. Like every Reaping before, I dream of Caile. But this time is different; we are at the Reaping. I am twelve. Kalla Lonis, the District Eleven Escort, is talking to the audience, her multiple earrings jangling as she moves her head, her gold feather eyelashes fluttering as she blinks, the sparkling tattoo on the side of her neck glittering in the sunlight.
"Happy Twenty-third Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour..." Kalla says, in that odd Capitol accent, as she floats over to stand behind the giant glass ball that holds the girl's names. "It's time to pick our tributes! Ladies first, do you say...or do we pick our boy?" Kalla waits a second, but there's only silence, so she carries on. "Ladies first it is!" Her hand digs into the paper slips like a hungry child would dig into a plate of food. She brings out a handful of slips, like she always does, and runs her hand through them, picking just one out. She lets the rest drop back into the glass ball as she reads out the name.
"Caile Marchley!"
Caile! I try to yell. Caile, no! I volunteer! I'll go to the Capitol, I'll be the tribute, just leave Caile alone!
But nothing comes out of my mouth, and then they choose the boy tribute, but I don't hear his name, see his face. I'm still trying to yell for Caile, still trying to get them to hear me, but I can't. And then Caile's gone, in the Justice Building, and there's nothing I can do...
My eyes flutter open. It's still the dead of the night before Reaping Day. I walk to my window, down into the little street below, crowded with houses. I can see the Justice Building in the distance, the giant three-story school that every child - rich or poor - in District Eleven's largest town must attend. There are other schools - two more - out in the villages, but they're not half as big.
The Justice Building stands tall and proud, the clock tells me it's just past two o'clock in the morning. Twelve hours to go until the Reaping Ceremony. It seems like forever.
Twelve hours, just twelve hours, until I know who's safe for another year, and who's not.
Luci and Freddie will still be sleeping, safe in their knowledge that nobody would choose them. But since I was five, my temper has had me known as District Eleven's biggest rebel, and the District would probably be glad to be rid of such a dangerous girl. A girl that could trick them all into an uprising, and make the Capitol obliterate them like they did District Thirteen just a quarter of a century ago. It's strange, really, since I've changed a lot since I was five, yet everyone seems to see me as the same girl who hit the Peacekeeper and shouted out unsayable things about the Capitol. I don't really even have a temper any more; that first Reaping killed the fire in me.
For the next few hours, I watch the clock, wondering, wondering, wondering who will be chosen today. In the Justice Building, the Peacekeepers will be counting the votes, finding out who the 'winner' is. It's nearly eight o'clock before anyone else gets up, since nobody wants Reaping Day to start. But I guess it has to start, eventually.
Breakfast. A few hours on the farm - Reaping Day marks the beginning of the Harvest season, ironically enough, so the harvesting machines had to be checked to make sure they work. The day seems to pass in a blur, and by half past one in the afternoon, staring at myself in the mirror, wearing Caile's old Reaping outfit - the little green dress she wore when she was thirteen - I can't even remember what I was doing five minutes beforehand. Walking down to the square, being roped off into an area with all the fourteen year old girls and boys in our district, standing between Luci and Ruta - Freddie turned fifteen just days ago - waiting, waiting, waiting.
Waiting, waiting...
Waiting.
Kalla Lonis walks out of the Justice Building, followed by Judley Lauter, the mayor, and two past District Eleven victors - Mylo Kilby and Tiah Rupus. Mylo Kilby won the first ever Hunger Games, before anyone had thought of training tributes. A year later, of course, some of the richer districts had started to train the twelve- to eighteen-year-olds, and so a District Two tribute won the second Hunger Games. Tiah Rupus won when everyone was focusing on her rather large and extremely protective cousin and fellow tribute Veyshal, who had the biggest kill list of all the tributes that year. Tiah and Veyshal ended up being the last two tributes in the arena, which was when Veyshal learnt that actually, Tiah could fend for herself pretty well. She didn't care for Veyshal that much, either.
"Welcome to the Twenty-fifth Hunger Games - the First Quarter Quell!" Kalla shouts out to the audience. "May the odds be ever in your favour! You all know what happens today...we pick our tributes! All of you who are over the age of eighteen voted for a tribute yesterday, but before I read out the results, I just need to remind you of one little thing..."
Mayor Lauter steps forwards. The history of Panem - something that is forever imprinted on my mind - will now be retold to the entire District Eleven. Not that there's anybody over the age of three who doesn't know the whole story. Even the babies get the gist of things.
I wait the story out, only zoning back in when Kalla steps forwards again. "So, it's time to read out the results! Ladies, are you ready?" She's probably hoping for a cheer, but none comes, so she glides over to the large glass ball, which only holds one slip today instead of thousands. "Say a big hello to... Dace Marchley!"
Dace Marchley. I look around to see who it is before I realise it's me. Everyone in Panem will have seen that now. I am going to look like a big idiot.
I stumble, red faced, up to the stage. They don't ask for volunteers, and who would volunteer anyway? I have no sisters. Luci and Freddie are too close to their families. Maybe Ruta would, but I'll never really know now. Caile would have, but her chance had been and gone, and she'd taken it, and it hadn't been enough.
"So, we have our female tribute!" Kalla says. "This is the girl you chose to be your tribute in the Hunger Games this year! What I want to know is...which boy did you choose?" She floats over to the other glass ball and scoops out the slip. "Jede Vasher, make your way up to the stage!"
Vasher? I make my eyes focus on the boy who's walking, as if in a dream, up to where Kalla and I are on the stage. Same dark hair as everyone, same wide eyes as Ruta, same thin nose as Priss. He's their brother, no doubt, yet I had no idea that Ruta even had a brother. He could be their cousin, but the likeliness is too much. I can see Ruta's facial expression copied in his, the same one she wears whenever there's a loud noise, or a bad smell, or when she's talking to someone and she doesn't know what to say - which happens quite often, and is probably the reason Ruta doesn't talk much.
I scan the crowd for Ruta, and I find her soon enough, right where she was before. I can see Luci standing next to her, trying to calm her down as she breaks into pieces, crying silently and punching whoever gets close enough in anger, in revenge on the world for what's going to happen to Jede. I'm betting on Luci having a few bruises, but she stays there for Ruta. Jede isn't strong, or fast, not like that Zamial boy from whichever district it is. Ruta knows he's going to die, and Priss probably knows it too, and their parents. And Jede. Priss, just eleven years old, standing by her mother on the last year she won't have to worry about going to the Capitol to die, isn't crying. She's comforting her mother and father.
I wonder what Luci's saying to Ruta right now, but I don't have long to wonder, as the Peacekeepers whisk me away into the depths of the Justice Building.
End of Chapter Notes:
I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES. No, really, I don't. Haven't you ever heard of Suzanne Collins?
BTW, first story. Be nice to me :) but I want constructive criticism, okay? I want this story to be the best it can be - also, the story doesn't have a set plot although I've written the first few chapters, so if you have an idea you want me to write in, post it and I'll see if I like it.