Reaping Day is tomorrow.
That's what Alenine has been repeating constantly, excitedly, for the past week (the day changed, naturally, to reflect exactly when Reaping Day is supposed to be). Of course, for her it is a momentous occasion – a day off from school! That hardly ever happens in District Three. Even admitting one day of free time for its youth is deeply traumatic for those who run the central government of the District. (Or pretend to, anyhow.) For the rest of us, Reaping Day is nothing of particular note, once one wraps his head around the fact that two kids in the District are leaving and won't come back. Because they don't come back, ever. It's just not done.
Of course, I couldn't blame Alenine for not knowing this. She's only a little girl, after all. The Reaping suddenly becomes a very delicate subject when young children are brought into play.
I'm probably going to be the one to tell her, when she's twelve years old, exactly what happens to the boys and girls brought up on the stage and hailed as heroes for about two seconds. I really don't want to tell her, to be the one to have to explain all the gory details to precious little Allie, but she'll be asking me.
But that, I remind myself as I get up, is all very much in the future. Right now my focus is expected to be on other things. The door to my bedroom swings open right on schedule, a little girl standing in the door. Like me, her hair is black and very thick, but it has been allowed to grow down quite a way and seems to frame her face. Quite unlike me, however, her eyes are bright blue, and there are no thick glasses to cover them from the outside world.
By the time I had finished this little mental recap on what Alenine looks like, she had already completely cleared the room and latched firmly to my waist.
"Hi there," I chuckle, resting a hand on her head. It isn't as if this is an unusual occurrence. "How was your day, Allie?"
"It was good!" she announces. "We did, uh. Computers and stuff!"
"Is that so? Well, welcome to District Three." I laugh at my own joke (in my defense, jokes coming out of me are astronomically rare) before noticing the confused look on Alenine's face and realize that she doesn't get it. I sit down on the bed, and without needing to be invited, Allie bounces over, where I pick her up and deposit her firmly next to me. "Come on. Alenine. Has there been a day gone by when you haven't used technology in school?" I ask in a patient voice, with a trace of good humor.
I think this is the tone everyone complains about when I start talking to them 'like a schoolteacher'. Fortunately, Alenine doesn't seem to mind.
She dangles her legs over the edge of the bed and frowns, deep in thought. "...I don't think so."
"So you can see why 'computers and stuff' is not a good description of your day." We both laugh at this one. "...Uh. Got any homework you need help with?"
Allie shakes her head. "Nuh-uh. Teacher says that we're not getting homework because Reaping Day is tomorrow!" She suddenly sits up straight, as if this is news to her, and then bounces slightly in her seat. Unable to join in the excitement of having a day off from school (I still fail to understand how this is such a momentous event, even through my critical social difficulties), allow her to see just how skewed her perception really is, or indeed make any sort of comment at all, I just kind of sit there with this awkward smile on my face until her latest energy rush dies down.
"Uh. You didn't see Mom or Dad, did you?"
"Daddy is downstairs!" she says brightly, happy to share knowledge with her elder brother. Especially knowledge which we both know is cause for alarm.
I nod thoughtfully. It's rare that either of my parents make any sort of appearance beyond six o'clock in the morning, and when they do, it usually means that something nasty has happened. I get up, and immediately Alenine wiggles off the bed to follow me down the hallway – and sure enough, once we enter the kitchen, there sits Father dearest, reading a stack of papers he looks entirely uninterested in. Immediately my mind jumps to several possible conclusions: a new edition of the worker's manual, possible blueprints, an unholy stack of eviction notices?
Then I get a little closer to him, and suddenly the stack looks all too familiar.
"You're, ah, looking over the Hunger insurance?"
He looks up quickly, as if having just noticed that either of us were there. This is probably exactly what happened. Like me, my father has a strange tendency to get himself entirely wrapped up in his work, even if it looks like he really couldn't care less... just don't expect him to pay attention to you. Because whoever you are, there is nothing about you that is more important than his current task.
Hunger insurance was a nice little project that had started in recent years, automatically sent out to each Three family unit who happened to have a child between the ages of twelve and eighteen. As the name suggests, it is meant to cater towards those who lose a child to the Hunger Games, a Capitol favorite. Needless to say, it is often used.
Of course, they send out advertisements every year, but don't take any new applications past midnight, Reaping Day. Everyone has to make money somehow, I guess. (Otherwise, no one would bother taking it unless they know for sure their child was picked and will die. Because they will die.) I know immediately that this stack came on my behalf. "...Are you considering it?" I ask quietly.
"Considering it," he responds. "You're fifteen. The odds are stacking. Slowly."
I nod. Every year means one new entry into the unholy Reaping Ball. Mercifully, our family is one of the few that manage to escape the need for tesserae – which leaves those who aren't in such a position to keep on trying, keep on killing themselves, within the clutches of the Capitol or otherwise. All things considered, I'm probably not going to see myself on that slip... and I really do hope not. If there's anyone in District Three who's going to die in that arena, it's me.
Honestly. If someone has to die for District Three, it should at least be not a bespectacled, overweight teenage inventor-slash-loser.
Looking out a nearby window at the red-stained sky beyond, I notice the time. "Who's making dinner?" I ask as innocently as I can. Typically I'm the one responsible for food preparation for Alenine and myself, with these two picking up the leftovers whenever they get home. When one of them is actually present, however, it's very much a mixed bag.
"I'll handle this," he says.
Translation: takeout.
Figuring I'm not going to get anything better, I thank him for taking the load off my shoulders and turn to go back up to my room – but before I even reach the kitchen door, my father's voice calls out again.
"Hey, Beetee. You plan to actually eat with us tonight?"
A knot promptly forms in my stomach. Every time he's home, he always asks this same question, and whatever answer I give it always makes me feel awful. "...No, I'm sorry," I respond, shifting my weight uncomfortably. "I, um. Have that project to do. You know. The... the thing. ...I told you about it, right?"
He looks up at me. "Nope."
"W-well," I stammer. "See... it's a, you know, um. Music box. I guess."
He raises an eyebrow. "Music box?"
"...Yeah."
"What makes you figure that a music box is worth spending another night cooped up in your bedroom when you could be downstairs with Alenine and I?"
"Yeah... um... I really wanted to get it finished."
My father gives off a loud, exasperated sigh, and the knot in my stomach gets even bigger. It's not an unfamiliar feeling. But eventually he gives in and says "Just go," which is better than I expected at any rate. Not wasting any further time, I quickly disappear around the door. I don't bother to mention that the song intended to play from the box is some hit single from a Capitol artist, and is now streaming from Alenine's room. I also don't bother to mention that her birthday is next week.
Because really, I'm the only one who remembers nowadays.
Once I've found myself back in my own room, far far away from my father for the time being, I pull the necessary supplies out from the cabinet they've been hidden in. Even though it's entirely possible Alenine will just dismiss the box as some miscellaneous project I've got my mind set on, I would still rather play it safe. After all, this is a surprise. I pause to listen, making sure the radio is still on in her room, hopefully loud enough to muffle the considerably softer music box. Once that was secure, I tell it to play back what I have so far.
I didn't want it to simply play a file of the song; she could find that anywhere. Instead, the thing worked somewhat like a glorified xylophone with added musical accompaniment. Several nights of rigging had resulted in a vaguely synthesizer-and-bell-flavored instrumental version of the song (I don't dare to record myself singing, even if I've known since second grade how to make my voice sound exactly like the singer's). ...Well, almost instrumental, anyhow. This is intended to be the slower part of the song, not even forty seconds long, wherein the only input from our friend the Capitol pop idol is 'daaaaa da da daaaaa da da da daaaaaaaaa'. That's easy enough to replicate.
And yet, every time, at around twenty-six seconds through the clip, it would start to disintegrate. Beats would skip, the voice would corrupt, sudden loops and glitches of sounds that shouldn't be there... it's a very curious phenomenon, and I cannot figure for the life of me what's making it work that way. But I have a feeling that it will take a while to figure out, and no second can be wasted. Sorry, Dad, try again next year.
To be perfectly honest, I'm really not so much a fan of this song at all. The artist is apparently gathering praise from all Districts who bother, which is no small feat – but he's not particularly skilled at all. Stripped of the powers of auto-tune, I'm fairly sure that he would be no one at all. But the mind of a five-year-old works in strange and mysterious ways, and I'm not about to question it now.
The next time I look up, it's somewhere around two in the morning, and both Alenine and my parents are asleep. As far as they're concerned, so am I. Mumbling irritably, I carefully return the music box (no closer to completion) back into its hiding place, and began preparing to go to bed. Even by my standards, two AM was a significantly late hour. I sing praises to the Capitol that they decided to perform the Reapings one by one, going upwards from Twelve and moving later and later into the day. At least I'll get something that vaguely resembles sleep.
Quietly, somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember the expressions on the faces of the tributes who had been sent to the stage alongside our ever-present Capitol companion, Pixie Raiben. I've seen a few of them in person, standing in a variety of roped-off areas in front of the Justice Building. (In this District, Reaping Day attendance is mandatory for families with children within the reaping age; if ever the population grows too big to fit in the clearing and associated side streets, family members are dispatched.)
Their expressions always left a mark on me for being so... surprised. Rarely ever was there a look of panic or fury, just confusion. Were they the ones who were supposed to be picked? Surely there was a problem in the Reaping Ball, it was really the person next to them instead? There seemed to be something about the mentality of District Three that immunized them or their children from being selected. 'No one I know has ever had a relative picked, or been picked themselves.' 'It's only two people, once a year.' 'The tributes will die anyway.' They really don't care. And when it's them, well, they need to care then, don't they?
My appointed mantra for District Three plays over and over in my mind.
Who wins? Who dies? Who cares?
Hi guys, Gira again. You may know me. ;D
So I know what you're thinking: "Har har, someone is mooching off of Volts!" This isn't true at all. This fic was probably a fair part of the reason I climbed into the Hunger Games section in the first place. Now, Volts is wonderful and hilarious and I love it, but I intend to take this fic in a very different direction... while still fangirling up the wazoo.
Also, yes, the title is uncapitalized.
- Gira
