This is my first story, and I don't mind criticism, but please be gentle :-) Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.
I don't own the Hunger Games, just the ideas and...some of the characters.
Chapter One: Shades of Grey
ROMAN'S POV
Before I was even born, people had big expectations of me.
My father jokes that my very first toy was a knife. I don't think he's joking, though—where I come from, people don't really joke.
District Two had always been the best district to be born into—the district that the Capitol favoured the most. But as I got older, I began to realize everything wasn't so black and white. Sometimes people aren't what they seem—and sometimes, it's not all fun and games.
I've been trained for the Hunger Games my whole life. In District Two, winners are born, not made. Automatically, you become someone whose sole purpose is to train to be the best at whatever weapon it is you use. Then you volunteer for the Games and come back a Victor—no alternatives, no questions asked.
But however little choice we have in our lives now, we still have to look for the shades of grey, to find the parts that are the in-between. Unfortunately, I am the only one who seems to be doing that here in my district.
And tomorrow is the Reaping. My parents are expecting me to volunteer, to win, to make them proud. But I don't want to go. I'm terrified.
Oops. Did I just shock you all there? Admitting that I have feelings? Us Careers aren't all that we seem—some of us don't want to live up to the standard that the previous Careers have set. But we have to: we have no choice.
Sometimes I wonder why no one questions the Capitol. Why no one ever questions what they make us do. Why the adults are perfectly fine with having their children murdered brutally, for sport, for entertainment, for game.
But I'm a sixteen-year-old boy in a world I can't control. I can't do anything about what happens in Panem. I just have to deal with it.
My name is Roman Ward. And I think I'm going to die in the 45th Hunger Games.
x.x
I stay at the targets later than usual the evening before the Reaping. I want to get in as much practice as possible. I'm already perfect—ready to volunteer, go into the Games with no competition, and come out practically unharmed and alive.
Scowling, I grip the handle of my knife, get ready to throw it…
Someone bumps into something behind me, and curses loudly. Startled, I drop the knife: it nearly slices off my toes.
Annoyed, I turn to see who else is here this late. My eyes immediately find the only other person in the massive room: a girl, about my age, maybe a little younger. She's clutching her wrist, muttering under her breath, glaring at the rack that carries the spears.
"Who are you?" I ask. I realize I'm being rude, but I'm tired—I think that it is a good enough excuse.
She whips her head up to gaze at me, her dark blue eyes narrowing sharply. "Coralie. Who are you?"
"Roman," I reply. "And what are you doing here?"
Her eyebrows shoot up a little more at my tone. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were the only one allowed to be here. I was under the impression that we were all allowed to train."
Her sarcasm surprises me. With her slight built and eyes that would be soft if she wasn't glaring, she seems very frail. The type to run and hide in a corner whenever someone noticed them.
But this is District Two: people like that aren't even considered to exist here. It's kill or be killed—and we're not even in the arena.
"Whatever," I mutter. I'm too twitchy about tomorrow to waste time picking a fight with this girl. All I want now is to go home.
I pick up my remaining knives, wrench the one in the target out of the wood, shoot Coralie a smirk, and march home.
x.x
My younger sister is jumping on my bed when I open my eyes to morning. Her pale blue eyes, a lot like mine, are filled with excitement.
"It's the Reaping today!" she yelps as soon as she sees that I'm awake.
Another good example of how narrow-mined people are here: Artemis has always loved Reaping days. She's been itching to go into the Games ever since she reached the top of her class in sword-work. It's with deadly precision and vicious brutality that she made it up there: ironic, considering she's tiny, and looks about as threatening as a marshmallow.
I throw a pillow at her, slide out of bed, and dress in my best clothes. Artemis is still bouncing while we eat breakfast. Our father gives us his "I'm so proud of you" speech, the one he gives us every year without fail. Our mother kisses us for luck—luck, of all things, as though we should hope to go into an event where killing others is encouraged.
The next hour or so is a blur—I go through all the motions I go through every year on Reaping Day and only focus when I suddenly hear that the female tribute is about to be announced.
Our Capitol representative is a woman called Quincy Prince—and she has the most irritating accent I have ever heard. Every time I hear her talk, I want to gouge out my own eyes for a distraction. But now she's pulling out the slip with too-long vermillion nails, shaking her fake fuchsia curls back.
"Coralie Reven."
Why am I not surprised?
Sure enough, it's the girl I met last night, her dark hair twisted into an elegant knot. She's wearing a dress in dark blue that sets off her eyes nicely.
That didn't make me despise her any less.
Coralie mounts the stage, a haughty look on her face. Her eyes flash dangerously in the direction of the crowd, and I can practically taste the meaning of her look—that if any volunteered in her place, there would be dangerous consequences.
Not one of the other girls makes a sound.
Coralie shakes Quincy's hand, and takes her place as the older woman smiles out at us.
"Now don't you worry, gentlemen," she says cheerfully. "I haven't forgotten you!"
I roll my eyes as some people laugh politely, and Quincy's smile widens as she picks out a slip.
It seems to take an eternity for her to unfold it, glance across it, and read out the name.
"Roman Ward."
Like you didn't see that coming. Anyway, please review.