Disclaimer: I do NOT own the Hunger Games. I, however, do own the characters in this fanfic. I created them, after all.
Starbright Victor
Altaira Izek
Chapter One: Time
My eyes snap open. The alarm clock I'd hastily put together last night is buzzing frantically, high-pitched and alarming. My reflexes are quick, and I've quickly hit the snooze button.
I rub my eyes sleepily. Sunlight filters lazily through my small window, and I have to blink for a few moments before the brightness doesn't sting my eyes.
Pushing my blankets off of my torso, I sit upright, wrapping my arms around my knees. Reaping day, I think with remorse.
"Altaira?" I hear my father call from outside my bedroom door. I make a non-committal sound of acknowledgement and he quietly pushes the door wide open, his hand on the door knob and a worried expression on his haggard face.
"Hey, Dad," I say, running my hand through my long, golden hair.
He smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. "Good morning, sweetheart."
"Is breakfast ready?"
"Yeah," he says. "Groosling."
A groosling is commonly found walking the streets in District Six. It's practically all we eat here, other than the berries and other various fruits that are sold in the markets at the back of town.
"Get dressed and I'll start serving," Dad says gently before closing the door behind him.
I do as he instructed me, pulling my long hair into a loose ponytail. I fasten it with my mothers blue hair ribbon because, it is, after all, the day of the reaping. I wear my only dress, which is made out of cotton and falls just above the knee. It's also blue, bought to match my sapphire eyes.
There's an average size, dented and chipped mirror leaning against the wall opposite my small bed. I take in my reflection.
I'm not beautiful, but I wouldn't say I'm ugly. I have a heart-shaped face, with big, round, sapphire eyes that are framed with heavy, black lashes. My nose is slightly smaller than usual, and my lips are full. My hair is the most admired for miles, but it can often be temperamental, so I almost always wear it up, as I am now. I'm about 5 ft 3, short and slight. My skin is like ivory with a small splash of light brown freckles across my nose and cheeks.
I turn away from the mirror and flounce down the loft's stairs to the small, untidy and cluttered kitchen that belongs to my father and I. My father is a scientific genius, so bottles and brews line the window sill just above the rusted kitchen sink. I stop to examine a new bottle I have never laid eyes on before.
"Hydrochloric acid?" I ask, turning to face my father who is busily serving the groosling. "I've never heard of it."
He chuckles, but again it doesn't sound convincing. "It used to be quite common in Ancient America. Caused lots of porblems, very acidic. Don't touch, it might burnt your hands off."
He's only half joking.
I lope back towards the kitchen table, and take a seat just as he places the plate of hot groosling in front of me. We don't own any silverware, so I dig in with my hands, the grease dripping down my fingers. I try not to get any on my dress.
"Dad," I say, in-between bites. "You're not worried about to reaping, are you?" I can tell by the look on his face that he is, so I decide to try and cheer him up a bit. "Because you shouldn't. What are the odds? A million to one, almost."
I smile at him kindly, but he doesn't seem to believe me. Dad hates the Capitol, just as we all do, but there's something else with Dad… something a little more personal. I never ask about it, but today I find myself more curious that ever. Still, I don't say anything; instead I finish off my groosling and tell Dad I'm going for a walk.
While I'm walking, I succumb to my negative thoughts. My name could very well be drawn today, and this could be the last time I ever walk these run-down streets. I know I will surely die in the arena if I am chosen. Sure, I'm not entirely hopeless with weapons, but there will always be a better fighter, a fighter I cannot possibly defeat.
And if I was to die, I hadn't lived a very fulfilling life, had I? I'd never really been close enough to someone to call them my friend and I'd wasted practically my whole life with my head buried in books. So, yeah, I was oine of the smartest girls in the district, but that wouldn't mean squat if I died in the Games. I'd never even kissed a boy!
As I walked, I saw no one. Usually, the streets were crowded with merchants and young children, sometimes morphling dealers. Once, I'd even passed a young boy of about eight who was about to set off a chemical bomb. Today, there was silence.
District Six always smells of chemicals and burning fossil fuels. Smog clouds the sky here, but I'd always imagined that in a place like District Three it would be much worse. Decaying skyscrapers and high-rise apartments line the cracked roads. My father and I live in an old loft, a rarity among the small, crowded apartment buildings everyone else calls home.
I pass the markets as I walk, yet I still see no one. All the shop-keepers and merchants are most likely at home, comforting their children.
Finally, I return home. I grab a book on Biology from my father's large overflowing bookshelf, and begin to read.
In what feel like a few minutes, Dad is shaking my shoulder and telling me its time to head to the village square. I pull my thick, black coat over my shoulders as we head out the door.
We walk together, hardly uttering a word to each other, and only stop when we reach the crowds of children standing in roped off areas. I turn to face my father, and am shocked to see a small tear sliding down his cheek. He's never cried at a reaping before, although he's been to all of them that I know of. "I'll be fine, Dad," I try to assure him, giving him a quick bear hug.
I make my way over to the roped off area that holds the sixteen year olds, and smile and nod to the few I know. I stand patiently, cramped up behind the ropes, as the mayor of District Six and Kyla Marx, our district's escort, wait for silence above us on the makeshift stage.
Then they're saying things, but I'm not really listening. Kyla's chirping voice hurts my ears, and I wish I could slap a gag over her bright orange painted lips. Finally, I have to pay attention.
"The female tribute of District Six is…" she announces as she reaches into the glass bowl and produces a small, white slip of paper, with some unfortunate soul's name printed across it. As she turns it, I somehow catch a glimpse of the letter A, and then I am shaking all over.
Kyla loves suspense, so she keeps the crowd hanging for a few more seconds than necessary. Those few seconds are torture to all of us.
The escort smiles, and flicks back her bright orange hair. "Altaira Izek!"
What?
My legs are weak, and there are black spots welling up in my vision. I hear Kyla call my name again, uncertainty creeping into her words, but the sound is distorted. As if my ears are blocked. I feel myself falling, and no one is reaching out to help me.
This can't be happening.
I black out and hit the pavement.
When I wake up, all I can think is this: I am going to die.
Someone offers me their hand, and I take it gratefully. Although I am still feeling dizzy, I manage to stand upright and saunter slowly toward the stage.
When I reach my destination I stand there awkwardly, lights flashing in front of my eyes. I'm not used to camera flashes, and each one temporarily blinds me. I don't know the male tribute, but he looks young. Very young. It's unsettling.
After the reaping, I'm taken into a large, rich room decorated in vast blues and greens. I sit there for what seems like hours.
My cheeks are wet, and it takes me a short while to figure out why. I've been crying, a lot. I quickly wipe my eyes and try to look strong. Fainting when my name was called wouldn't have got me much in the way of bets or sponsors.
Still, I was going to die in the arena. I'd never see my father again after today, so why did anything like that even matter anymore?
"You're father is here to see you," a Peacekeeper stationed by the door tells me in a blatant, plain voice, before he reaches out and pulls on the door handle. My father rushes towards me, his face splotchy and his eyes red. In this moment I realize just how old he is and I frantically start to worry about what will happen to him after I am gone.
He's hugging me now, so I wrap my arm around him and mumble little replies to everything he tells me. We stay like this for a while, until the Peacekeeper by the door tells us we have only a minute left.
After hearing this, Dad cups my chin with his hands and forces me to look him right in the sapphire eyes that we both share. My fathers hands are rough, burnt in places from the strong acids and chemicals he works with on a daily basis. His scratchy fingers scrape across my soft skin as he opens his mouth to speak.
"You have to win, Altaira. You have the wits to survive out there, and you definitely have the bravery." He brushes a lock of my hair out of my eyes that has stubbornly fallen out of my pony tale. "Just lay low, wait for the other tributes to kill each other off. Hide, find food, and find water. I know you can do that," he gives me a look that can only be pride in me, as his daughter, and I can feel tears welling up in my eyes again. I blink them back.
His words are all lies; we both know I can't survive.
"You're time is up, Professor Izek," warns the Peacekeeper. His words are really underlying threats.
I grimace at my father, and give him one last bear hug. "I'll try," I tell him, my voice cracking a little bit at the end.
I wish I was young again as he holds me in his fatherly embrace. I want to once again be a little girl, who has years until she has to worry about the Hunger Games.
Finally, Dad has to go. A Peacekeeper escorts him out, and I look longingly after him. I'll never see him again, I think sadly.
"I love you!" I call out to him, just as he is being led out the door.
"I love you too, Ally," he says quietly, his eyes turning misty once more. It's only when he's gone that I realize he'd used the name my mother used to call me. That makes everything worse, somehow, and I hunch over as wracking sobs begin to shake my slight frame.
My mother died when I was eleven, killed in the labs by a freak chemical accident. No one knows what happened, exactly. The last time I saw her was that morning when she walked me to school and then headed off on her own to the labs where she was employed. We never even got to bury or cremate her body. There wasn't even a funeral.
For the first time, I wonder if my mother was truly killed in a lab accident.
Unsurprisingly, I do not have any more visitors. I'm not a popular girl at school, and no one would really consider themselves any more than my acquaintance.
"It's time for departure, Miss Izek," says a different Peacekeeper, this time stationed at the door behind where I sit, gesturing for me to follow her outside so we can meet the male tribute, Kyla Marx and our mentors at the district's train station.
I follow the Peacekeeper's feet as we walk, hastily wiping away my tears and willing my eyes to not appear red and blotchy. Cameramen and women follow us as we make our way to the platform, and all I want is to be back in my father's untidy kitchen, waiting for him to serve Groosling and looking through his new brews and bottles.
I only look up when we reach the platform, which I regret because I am instantly disoriented by the flashing white lights of the cameras. I dizzily board the train and sit down where the Peacekeeper instructs me to sit.
All the while, the same morbid thought echoes through the vast caverns of my mind. I am going to die.
I am greeted by Kyla Marx, who's many facial piercings sparkle lazily in the bright light of the Capitol train. She introduces me to my district partner- which is really a cruel joke, since I may have to kill him- who is named Apodemus. I vaguely recognise his name to be the first part of the scientific name of the wood mouse.
Apodemus would only be thirteen. He obviously hasn't reached puberty yet, and he stands to about the height of my shoulders. With his beady brown eyes, pointy nose and big ears, I can certainly say he resembles a rodent. His parents must have chosen the name for that reason.
I pity Apodemus. He has even less chance of survival than I do. Not to mention he was named after a mouse.
Lastly, I am introduced to our mentors. I recognise them, of course. How could I not? I'd been forced to watch the Hunger Games my whole life.
The male is named Panthera. He is well over six foot with black hair cut bluntly at his shoulders and coarse, shortly trimmed stubble that covers his strong jawline. His eyes were every bit as beady and brown as Apodemus'. Panthera won the games when he was eighteen, which was about twenty years ago, he tells us. This makes him almost fourty. I remember him from the occasional television recap of past Hunger Games. He had been a vicious child, even back then. Panthera sided with the Careers on the first day of the Games, only to wait until his watch that night and murder them all in their sleep.
I don't trust him.
The female mentor, however, I can remember more clearly. She asks us to call her Dan, but tells us her name is really Danaus. She's short and slight, and only a few years older than me. Dan resembles me too; the same eyes, the same hair, but she's cropped hers into a short, funky bob cut to show off the tattoo of a Monarch Butterfly on the back of her neck. She'd be about nineteen now, and she won the Games when she was only fourteen. I can remember watching her pick off tributes one by one with her remarkable archery aim, never really leaving her perch on the branch of a pine tree.
I don't trust her either.
In fact, I don't think I trust anyone other than my father. I catch myself glaring at Apodemus multiple times without really noticing what I'm doing as Kyla, Panthera and Dan explain to us where our chambers are. They tell us everything in those rooms is ours and ours alone. We can do whatever we want.
But that isn't true. We can't do whatever we want. I want to run away from here, take off and launch myself right into my makeshift bed at home and hide forever under the blankets. But can I really do that? The answer is simple. No.
The first thing I do is shower. We have a shower at home, but it's never really worked properly. The water cuts on and off, and sometimes it doesn't work again until days later. Usually, I just settle for a bath. This shower is different though, so I savour the warmth and stay there, staring blankly at the tiled wall in front of me as long as I dare.
After I'm sure there is not one bit of grime left on my body, I dry myself with a fluffy white towel I find hanging on a golden rail. I don't know what else to do, so I sit on the edge of the bath that is also present in my luxury bathroom, with the fluffy, warm fabric wrapped around my scrubbed body.
What I would kill to live like this! I think. But then, I am suddenly horrified. Because that's exactly what I will have to do. If I want to live, I will have to kill. If I murder other tributes, then I can live like this for the rest of my life.
I shudder back that repulsive thought, deciding that sitting around doing nothing will only make me think more about things I don't particularly want to acknowledge.
I brush my hair, loving the way the fine bristles rub against my scalp. It's therapeutic, and I brush it a bit more than is really needed. I don't bother to put it up. Then I dress myself in a pair of baggy, loose fitting grey pants and a white tee-shirt, I look for some shoes and am happily surprised to find a pair of soft, warm boots that cannot really be boots, they are too comfortable. Slippers? I wonder.
The last thing I do before head out to supper is fold up my blue reaping dress and my heavy, black coat. I make sure to place my mothers blue hair ribbon away carefully in the pocket of my coat. As I am doing so, a cold, hard, metal-like object bumps my hand. My fingers wrap around the object and curiosity leaks sneakily across my normally indifferent features.
I am holding my fathers wristwatch. I recognise the intricate pattern of the constellation Aquila along the thick, silver wristband. The constellation Aquila, my fathers favourite. He's never told me that, but I'm sure I am right. After all, I was named after its brightest star.
But how did it get in my pocket? I question, although I already know the answer. My father is a very smart man, and obviously the watch holds some sort of importance to him. He must have slipped it into my pocket during our final goodbye. A tear trickles down my cheek at the memory, and I quickly brush it away, blinking rapidly. No weakness.
So, my father has given me his wristwatch as my district token. I slide it onto my own wrist without having to unlatch it. It's loose, but it won't come off. Unless of course I'm too rough with it.
Smiling sadly, I watch the little blue hands move slowly around the face of the clock. Time is ticking away.
I live for reviews! Please tell me what you thought of it! Next chapter is a biggie. Big big big shock value!
There is romance to come. This is truly, one hundred percent a love story. But I had to start somewhere. What did you think of Altaira? Who was your favourite character so far? Tell me all these things in your review! Also, lets see if you can guess what really happened to Altaira's mother!
Till next time (chapter),
-what the face