Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. All concepts, characters, plot and settings belong to Suzanne Collins.
Trill is pressing against me, Hickory under my other arm. This is how I wake on reaping day. My little sister, Trill, is wrapped in the thin blanket that we share with Hickory, our brother. She's scared. Trill is thirteen, and her name is going into the reaping ball twice this year. But this year is the 100th Hunger Games, the 4th Quarter Quell.
Slowly, I ease myself out of the bed, careful not to wake Hickory and Trill. It doesn't work. Trill stirs, and sleepily opens her green eyes.
"Mimosa, where are you going?" Trill asks.
"I'm just leaving for a little bit," I answer. "Go back to sleep." Trill nods and cuddles next to Hickory.
I tiptoe past my mother's mattress, but she doesn't wake, even though the floorboards creak under my step. My mother turns restlessly. Her fingers curl and uncurl. My mother is a paper-maker, and Trill helps her sometimes, but Trill is usually at the market, where she sells vegetables and herbs from our garden to the wealthier people of District 7. My mother always turns like this the night before the reaping, even when it was just me at risk. Next year, all of her children's names will be in the reaping pool. If we aren't killed this year.
In a curtained-off corner lies my clothes for working in the fields chopping trees. Soft leather boots that have sculpted around my feet. A worn leather jacket that belonged to my father. Simple black pants and olive green shirt. I head out the door.
The cobble streets leading to the tree fields are empty. Even at dawn, this street is packed with men, women, and some children going to cut down trees until dusk. It's hard work, I know. I've been working there for five years, ever since I was ten. I worked with my father for a couple years, but there are accidents where trees fall on the opposite side workers thought they would. My father was caught in one of these. I was twelve, Trill was ten and Hickory was eight. I still have nightmares about it, watching helpless again as the tree toppled.
Once at the fields, I grab my axe off one of the many racks at the entrance, and weave in between the trunks, the stumps, and piles of wood chips that have been collected from around the trees. My foot is about to step down, but I stop myself. Growing in a clump, are light purple spheres. Most people wouldn't think that they are flowers, but they are. They are mimosas, the flower I was named for.
In case you don't know, mimosas close when something touches them. But they stay open when I pick them. My mother used to joke that she changed my name when she brought me as a baby to these fields to visit my father. Apparently, I touched this very patch, and the flowers kept their petals open to the world.
I hurry past the flowers, to the edge of the fields. A large, wooden fence thirty feet high and topped with spikes lies in my path. This is the only safe part of the fence surrounding District 7, as the rest is electrified chain links. The bottom of some of the logs have rotted and long since been kicked to nothing. I debate whether or not to go under. Then decide not to. The district will be crawling with Peacekeepers soon.
I see another patch of flowers, these ones white. They have three petals, with dark green leaves between the petals. A trillium. Trill was named after these. I pluck one, and put it in my pocket. She can wear it for the reaping.
I turn to the tree next to me, and raise the axe. Something about chopping trees calms me. And it must help other people, too, because there are others here with me.
"Mimosa!" I look away from the tree—which has a good-sized divot in it—and see my best friend Forrest. He has an axe in his hand.
"Hey, Forrest," I say, turning back to the tree. Th-whack! The blade enters the hole again. "Ready for today?"
"Not really," Forrest answers, and starts on a tree next to mine. "All I could think last night was what if Barkley's picked?" Barkley is Forrest's younger brother.
"He only has, what, two slips?" My muscles burn as I lift the axe again. I bring it down with all the strength I can muster, and the tree sways. One more time. It topples.
"Yeah, but who knows what will happen?" Forrests responds. His tree falls, too.
But the same fears have plagued me, too. What if Trill is picked? Hickory isn't old enough yet, but it still could happen when they're both reaped the same year….
"How many times do you have your name in this year?" Forrest asks me. I pause to think for a second.
"Twenty-four." I glance at his face as the news sinks in. "You?"
"Thirty," he says without hesitation. "Five times the chance I could be chosen for a Quarter Quell."
"You'll be fine," I reassure him. I put the axe in my belt and drag the downed tree out of the pathway. Forrest helps me, even though I don't need it. Then we start on his tree.
"You'll be fine, too," he says when we finish.
"Thanks," I whisper. "I'm going to climb. Want to come with me?"
"Sure," Forrest says, and my instincts take over, my arms moving up in their own, my fingers curling around the rough bark. I pull myself up, and did a foothold. Then again and again until I've reached the top. Forrest is only halfway up.
I love this view. From this tree, which I've climbed ever since I was ten, the Victor's Village is seen. On some days, it fills me with hope, seeing the homes of the strongest in the district. Today it only reminds me that two people in the district will be sent into the Hunger Games.
"It's time to go, Mimosa," Forrest says. I let the breeze cool my face ft a moment longer, then we climb down.
"See you at eleven," I say once we reach the bottom.
"Bye, Mimosa," Forrest says, and walks back to his home.
Back at my wooden home, Hickory is ready and my mother is doing Trill's hair in an elegant ponytail over her shoulder. I pull the flower out of my pocket, and tuck it behind Trill's ear. Back in the curtained corner, a tub of water sits. I bathe away the dirt and leaves from the blueberry bush, and pour ice cold water over my hair. When I finish, I pull on a light green blouse and black skirt. I picked this outfit out a while ago, bought it with money from selling greens from the woods.
Trill appears at my side as I towel-dry my hair. She looks pretty in a soft pink dress, and the white trillium is lovely in her brown hair.
"Your name is in a lot, isn't it?" Trill asks me.
"Yes," I say. "But yours is only in twice. That's good, right?" I brush my hair so it is straight.
"You should have let me take some tesserae," Trill tells me, and wraps her arms around my waist.
When I was twelve, my name was in six times. Five times for Trill, Hickory, my mother, my father, and myself, and another time because I had to. You can't take away tesserae, which is why I still have mine for my father. The entries are cumulative. So instead of four times, my name is in twenty-four. Forrest is seventeen, has a family of five, and has his name in thirty times.
Hickory walks up to us. He looks uncomfortable in the blue dress shirt that our mother practically begged him into. He's only eleven; he can't go in the reaping yet. But he has helped my in the fields for the past few months. He takes on that look that says he's nervous for me. I kneel beside him.
"It's okay, Hickory," I say. "I need to volunteer to go in."
"Don't volunteer," Hickory responds, and takes a seat at the table, where my mother places a plate of my tesserae grain bread. I have to drag Trill to the table.
As I take bites of the bland, rough bread, I think of the slips of paper with Mimosa Oakley written on them. The good thing is if I am chosen, I won't go to the Quell. I feel bad for the even-numbered districts, because no matter what, there are no volunteers for them.
At eleven, my family heads to the square. Every single citizen of District 7 must be at the reaping unless they are dying. My mother and Hickory peel away from Trill and I as we are nearing the square. They must stand behind the ropes strung around the perimeter of the square, holding them away from us. Even though the reaping doesn't start for another half hour, there are a lot of people here. I guide Trill to the marked section for the thirteen-year-olds, then walk alone to the clump of fifteens.
Banners with the seal of Panem flutter on the Justice Building. Camera crews sweep their aim from age group to age group, covering the tops of buildings. A collapsible stage has been set up in front of the Justice Building, consisting of a table and two large glass balls, one with girls' names, one with boys'.
Bounding onto the stage now is Delica Risio, the District 7 escort, just arriving from the Capitol itself. Her hair is a mound of wide, lavender curls, festooned with white flowers. Her dress is gold. She takes on of the seats and is smiling at the children in their roped-off pens.
Also slowly climbing the steps is the mayor, a short, chunky man with brown hair like almost everybody in the district. He slumps into the seat at the table next to Delica Risio, who is still beaming, but now glancing at the glass balls with the names.
I look back and find Trill in the crowd. Her face is paper white, the same hue as the trillium in her hair. I smile to her, a reassuring smile, as the mayor taps the microphone and begins his speech.
First is how Panem came to be. Next is the district's uprising against the Capitol, known as the Dark Days. Twelve districts defeated, the last completely destroyed, the Hunger Games were born.
The mayor recites the cards from past Quarter Quells.
"On the twenty-fifth anniversary, the districts were to hold an election to vote on the tributes to represent it. On the fiftieth anniversary, every district had to send twice as many tributes. On the seventy-fifth anniversary, the tributes were to be reaped from the existing pool of victors. And on the one hundredth anniversary, the tributes from odd-numbered districts—including District Seven—must be volunteers.
"Here are District Seven's past victors," the mayor says, then reads off the list. We have had ten in one hundred years. Two were female, and only half are still alive. Johanna Mason, who won a few years before the last Quell, steps onto stage, and behind her is Willow Tresses, who won four years ago when she was sixteen. Johanna Mason went into the third Quell. She's survived not one, but two arenas. Only one male victor shows up. Elm Ashford, who won the 77th Games pounds up the stairs, and sits between Johanna and Willow. The mayor is looking around, probably for the other victors, but they're nowhere in sight.
The crowd applauds at the sight of these three. A few yards ahead of me, I can see Forrest looking back at me. He smiles and I smile back. Then I glance back, my eyes searching for Trill, but they find my mother clutching Hickory's shoulders. Hickory waves to me, and I give him a small wave back.
The mayor introduces Delica Risio, and she jumps right up, walks to the microphone, and says, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" A girl standing next to me grabs hold of my hand and holds it tight. Delica Risio trots to the glass ball holding the girls' names. "Ladies first!"
She reaches deep into the paper slips, chooses one, and dramatically pulls it out. The crowd is silent, and the girl grips my hand tighter. Even though I have to volunteer to go in, I'm still nauseous. Delica Risio unfolds the paper, clears her throat, and reads the name.
"Trillium Oakley!"
Welcome to The 4th Quarter Quell! This is my first fanfic, so it many not be perfect, but I try my best. :)
So what do you guys think? For those of you who want to skip right to the Games, the bloodbath is Chapter Nine.
Hope you enjoy!
-D9T