DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of its characters. All rights belong to Suzanne Collins.
Chapter 2:
I make it to the Reaping in mere moments, the Training Center only being about 100 yards from the center of town. I walk my check-in table, the second of the four tables where people with a last name that begins with K, like myself, can sign in. Of course, at this table people with the last name Lye can also sign in, or a last name such as Garrett.
The man behind the table looks positively annoyed as Amanda Kylo starts sobbing as her blood is pricked for the first time, and exhausted as Gerald Jekouah, a 14 year old with a speech impediment, tries to sign in. So he is in a foul mood when I step up to the table, and tries to excuse himself without laying eyes on me, mumbling as he stands, "I need an aspirin,"
I slam my hand on the table, sending the man lurching forward to hit straight into the table, which in turn results in him flailing backwards and collapsing into the chair. I lean forward and spit, "You can get your damn aspirin after you sign me in. Because if you don't, after the Reaping I'll go to that Training Center up on that hill, get a sword, and then I'll find you, and I believe you can imagine what comes next." I smirk as the man starts to quake, and quickly begins the check-in process. Fear is quite blatant in his voice as he asks, "Name?" "Cato King, 17." He picks up the needle and holds out his hand, silently asking me to do the same, and I oblige, and he quickly pricks it for the blood necessary to complete the procedure. I nod and he takes off to obtain the headache medicine in the opposite direction I walk in.
I walk over the path, it's cobblestone, I think, just like the pathway back at my house. I shake my head, trying to clear my head of the guilt and bad memories that surface to the forefront of my mind when I think of home. I walk swiftly with purpose towards the 17-year-old section, where all my friends wait. I face the stage, where 4 chairs are set up, ringing a podium where the Mayor stands. He's preparing for the the clock at the chapel to strike 9, an occurrence that will happen in 3 short minutes, so his long speech about the history of Panem can commence. I could almost recite the speech, after having it been recited for the citizens of Two since the Dark Days, and I had heard it recited the whole 17 years of my life by the same man, Mr. Rosen, for I had been required by law to attend this yearly occurrence in Town Square.
"Hey, Cato! Cato, over here!" I hear a loud voice call, and my eyes sweep over the rest of the Reaping. The children are herded into sections, girl's to my left and boys to my right, 12-year-olds being in the back, and then the 13-year-olds, the children of the two sections separated by rope, and the sections continue in age order, 18-year-olds being closest to the stage. The voice calls again, and I see a young man in my section waving, his blonde hair the same color as mine shining in the light, one hand still cupped around his mouth. I nod to him, and quicken my pace, and soon arrive at the 17-year-old section, walking through the gap in the rope to further chat with Sean Sanford.
Sean's a weird kid. Not social weird, but the circumstances of his family is weird. He was a Capitol kid, and no one knows why his two parents brought him here. No one knows why people of the Capitol would even consider leaving their utopia for a District, endangering their 4 children for the Hunger Games. Whenever any of us at the Training Center ask, he gets all nervous and says it's complicated. Yes, the Training Center. Truthfully, he's nothing magnificent, but we were way off when we branded him a weakling. We never expected him to put up such a fight when put in the sparring ring with Alex Matchi, one of the best kids in our training group. Nobody expected him to almost win.
He's a great friend, never lies and has a great sense of integrity. Not quite as good as Brad or Ashen, but still. The only problem is that Sean's petrified of the Games. He always had just watched them, seeing it as good fun and a proper punishment. He's never even thought of what it's like to be a tribute. And now it's his first Reaping, and he has 6 slips in the Reaping Ball, which means there's a chance he can be selected as tribute.
"So, how's Cato doing?" Sean cheerfully inquires as I squeeze into the space he saved right next to the entrance to the section. "Good enough. You?" "Nervous," Sean shudders, "How do you guys deal with this stress?" I shrug, "You just hope to God someone plans to volunteer." Sean seems uncomforted, and looks away.
I turn, and catch a glimpse of Brad, standing glumly with his hands in his pockets, the other rich kids swarming him. I scowl at him, hoping he sees me and stops looking so pathetic with the cameras everywhere, but I look away again when he ignores me, and my keen blue eyes searching for something to capture my attention. Sean has started to drone on about some crazy thing his sister had done this morning, his voice slightly high pitched, like all are in the Capitol, as I look aimlessly about. The only thing in sight that could qualify as interesting is the mentors walking onto the stage, a woman in her late twenties and a man in his mid twenties. The woman is pulled off to the side by the mayor, and they share a hushed conversation as the man takes his seat. My eyes flit up to the clock; only one minute to the Reaping.
I look for Ashen amongst the crowd of 16-year-olds, and can just see her distinct red hair through the gaps between the girls standing in the front, who are leaning casually against the rope. I can't see much else of her, her small stature being completely swallowed by the crowd. I am irritated that I can't mouth good luck, and Sean's almost endless drone provokes me further, causing me to scowl irritably.
Just then, the clock strikes 9, and the mayor impatiently taps upon the microphone. He bellows into the microphone, "Greetings, District Two Citizens!", and so the infamous speech begins. It's the same thing every year, the same speech at every Reaping all across Panem, the only variant being the list of the victors of the District. A couple of boys to my right roll their eyes as I scoff at Sean, who actually seems attentive to the downfall of the civilization of North America. Hadn't he heard this all before? He lived in the Capitol for, what, 16 years? If they're so eager to tell their greatness to a bunch of District citizens who couldn't care less, surely they would brag of how amazing they were to rise from the wastelands, lands devastated by famine, drought, and disease to their own citizens, wouldn't they?
The next part in the speech is the Dark Days, a wretched times for the Districts and the Capitol alike. Life in the Districts became living hell, civil war running rampant through the Districts, and the Capitol went hungry, as there were no resources coming in. The Capitol surpassed us, however, and promptly obliterated the 13th District after their victory, leaving only 12. The remaining Districts were forced to compete in the Hunger Games, though not all of us rebelled. As I said, District Two stayed loyal to the Capitol, and they in turn turned a blind eye to the special training our teenagers went through to prepare. I believe that at first if was to repay us for our loyalty, but I know that our training is only allowed to be continued for the sake of their entertainment; what fun would the Hunger Games be if it was full of untrained, scared little kids?
Our escort taps her foot impatiently upon the stage, as eager for her part to begin as we are for the mayor's to end. But her attempts to get him to speed up only slow him down, for each tap of her foot is amplified by the microphones installed at the base of the stage, making the mayor lose his place in his 29 name long list of victors several times. I chuckle spitefully as the escort humphs exasperatedly, causing the mayor to jump from Enobaria, the Victor of the 62nd Games who won by tearing open the throat of her opponent with her teeth, to Jonathan Kale, Victor of the 72nd Games. He went mad in the arena, and was forbidden from being a mentor. He owns a home in Victor's Village, but it is used infrequently, as he was taken to the Capitol for 'intensive treatment' a few short weeks after he returned home.
"And now, for our lovely escort, Titania Markov!" Our mayor steps back from the podium as Titania flings herself at it. She smiles, and fluffs her neon blue curls and smooths the ruffles of her dress of a matching hue. Our mayor starts the round if applause for this interesting character, and Sean enthusiastically complies, but I do not. I stand, my arms stiff at my side. I refuse to applaud for someone who doesn't even look human that will gladly lead at least one teenager to their death.
"Happy Hunger Games, District Two! Is everyone excited?" she questions, her voice as if she's suppressing laughter, and I shake my head distastefully. No one responds without being prompted to do so, and she swallows uncomfortably, and announces, trying to regain the cheerfulness in her voice, "Well, let's start with the ladies!"
Titania struts across the stage, towards the first glass ball, the one that contains the names on thousands of girls ages 12 to 18 on tens of thousands of little, white, paper slips. Our escort clutches one in her grasp, and she breaks into a wide smile, her white teeth glinting in the sunlight as she hurries to the podium, more than excited to read the first name of the first tribute she will be escorting. She smooths the paper and speaks clearly, "Clove Flare!"
I had never known anyone by this name, not one girl comes to mind. I crane my neck to see if she has yet emerged into the path. I see a commotion in the 15-year-olds section, obviously this Clove is trying to get out of there. Finally, even the girls crowding the entrance part, and a young girl emerges into the path, and I swear she's in the wrong section. She has the physical demeanor of a 13-year-old.
Her hair is straight, and falls straight down to the middle of her back. She wears a grey dress with green swirls, or perhaps it's the other way around. It clings tightly to her chest, accentuating the slight curves, and becomes loose after the waistline. She wears tall, black combat boots, that hit the stone beneath her feet hard. As she comes closer, I see her eyes, and I judge them to have a startling similarity to the pattern of her dress. I can now tell that both are green, a pale green, with flecks of grey. These eyes flit across the people of the sections ahead of her, as if searching for something within them. There is the slightest moment when our eyes meet, and though she moves on without a second thought or even a hint of recognition, when her green eyes lock with my icy blue ones, I feel my blood warm and my eyes soften.
As Clove mounts the steps, I see how petite she is. She's not scared as I would expect from a so obviously defenseless girl. Was the whole non-emotional thing just a very convincing act? And that smirk she wears as Titania asks for volunteers and is met by silence in the square; could that be hiding fear?
One thing's certain: I can kill Clove Flare very, very easily.
And if District Two is producing such a measly girl for their female tribute, who is normally the biggest competition for the male tribute, and vice versa, who's to say that I can't win the Hunger Games this year?
I hardly register Titania cross to the other Reaping ball, chock full of the names of male's, my own being entered the same amount of times as Sean and Brad: 6. I had never gone down to the Justice Hall on November 19th to apply for tesserae, I had not needed it. What I am focusing on, however, is my chances in the Games. If I have such little competition within the toughest District, I could easily destroy the rest of the Careers, and the rest of the tributes are worthless. And, though I am not fighting for her, I could win and heal my mother. And I would be neighbors with Ashen and Brad. And when the name Titania reads is Sean Sanford, it seals my decision. Before my friend can even move a muscle, I lunge out of the section and shout, "I volunteer!"
"Wonderful! Come on up here, young man!" our escort titters cheerfully. I nod slightly, and walk swiftly, as purposefully as I had minutes ago when Sean had called my name. It's a quick walk, only a few yards, and I close the distance quickly. Titania looks positively radiant as I quickly ascend the steps, yet Clove still has that searching, almost appraising look in her eyes and a smirk on her face. When I get even closer, our escort starts to ramble on how strong I am, and I smirk; not only because of Titania, but also because the smirk falls from my fellow tributes face.
"Now, what is your name, young man?" "Cato. Cato King."
"Wonderful!" Titania exclaims again, her high pitched voice grating against my ears, "Now, shake hands! Go on," I stick out my hand for the small 15-year-old to shake. She seems hesitant, but raises her arm up to clasp her hand with mine, though she has to angle it, for I am about a foot taller than her. The sun shines upon Clove, and it outlines scars etched into her outstretched arm. Maybe, just maybe, she's not as pathetic as I thought. Clove slips her hand free from my grasp, and our escort quickly snatches our hands and raises them, exclaiming, "I give to you, the 74th annual Hunger Games tributes from District Two; Clove Flare and Cato King!" The audience bursts into their halfhearted applause once more as we are escorted by Peacekeepers towards the Justice Hall, where an hour's time is allowed for us to say goodbye to our loved ones.
"Your first visitor will be here in a minute." the gruff voice of one of the Peacekeepers shouts as they push me into a large room with walls of a deep red hue and white couches. I walk to one and lean against it, not wanting to sit.
The doors creak open moments later, revealing Sean. He walks in kind of slow, and stays a little bit away. "Thanks. For everything." he smiles. "I guess you're right, Cato. All it took was praying to God I wouldn't go into those hellish Games." I glare at him saying, "Are they only hellish because this year, your siblings could've been tributes? Were they not when strangers were going in? When my sister could've?" Sean shifts uncomfortably, "That-that's not what I meant..." My glower darkens, and I spit, "Just forget it." Sean nods, and I turn away. I don't understand the deep anger I harbor against my friend; he left the Capitol, so technically I should not turn my hatred of them on him. But I can't help myself when he says something like that; surely last year he was calling the Hunger Games entertaining and fun, and now they're hellish because he could be a part of them? Pathetic.
"Time's up. Come here." the Peacekeeper commands. Sean flees the room, eager to leave me be while I am angry. I feel slight remorse for lashing out him, but he doesn't yet understand the Hunger Games from a District citizen's point if view; he still sees them as a game.
The doors reopen, and the room is flooded by guys from training. There are tall men, brawny men, strong men, all who I had trained with, who I had bested all these years. They congratulate me, saying things such as, "Good luck," or "I know you'll win,". They were superficial, no depth to them; but coming from people who usually don't wish well to anyone, I appreciate it. They leave quickly though, coming up to me and saying their goodbye before they turn and exit the room once more. 20 come and 20 go; and I hardly register who says what before the doors slam close again.
The next people who come through the door are my two best friends, Ashen and Brad. The latter of which is still glum looking. Is it because he knew all along I would volunteer? Because he knew I would go into the Games?
"Oh, Cato! This is so exciting!" Ashen gushes animatedly. At least one of my friends is supportive. "Ooh! It's just an amazing feeling! Knowing I'll be the best friend with a Victor! It's just... ooh!" Ashen sighs, spinning onto the couch while she giggles airily. I smile at her and feel a firm hand on my shoulder. I whip around and come face to face with Brad. He whispers in a low tone scarcely audible over Ashen's laughs, "Look. I hope you realize that Ashen is over inflating you. You'll actually have to fight." "Against who?" I scoff, and Brad looks at me as if I had lost it, "Clove, of course!" I am taken aback, and shake my head mockingly at him, "She'll be no problem." Brad looks at me as if I'm insane, "Cato! Do you want to know what Karen says she can do?" I shrug, indicating I may be slightly interested and Brad continues, "My sister says she's..."
"Time's up. Come over here now." The Peacekeeper interrupts. Ashen leaps from the couch and crosses the room, dragging Brad by his hand that she snatched with her. "Bye, Cato! Good luck and we'll see you soon!" and as the doors start to close, Brad shouts, "She's lethal with..." his last words being cut off as the door slams shut. I stand there, perplexed. That petite little girl is lethal?
The doors are pushed meekly open, and I see a small person standing in the doorway. "Bryan."
My brother comes over to me and gives me a hug, his arms encircling my waist and he buries his face in my lower abdomen. I pick him up, his tiny body being one of the easiest weights I have lifted in the past few years. I swing him onto the couch, where he sits cross legged, a thinking look etched upon his small face.
"What are you thinking about?" I spit, "Why'd you do it big brother? Why?" I look to him confused, and he mumbles, "Volunteer." I lean in his face and say, "Because I know I can win." "But you don't need to win! You don't need to prove anything to me! I know what a great fighter you are, and I look up to you so much! What I need is for you to stay here, and to help me look after mom!" "Mom? She's dead to me already." I sneer, and Bryan looks up and meets my eyes, his brown ones so full of sorrow as he whispers in a pained tone, "Well she's not to me. And without you here to help, I'm afraid she'll die, and that you won't come back to me, and I'll be left alone, suffering with the fact that she died because I couldn't help her." I don't even want to mull over his words, don't want to think about the palpable worry in it, afraid it will make me second guess myself. "I'll come back, don't you worry." Bryan shakes his head, "But what if you don't? Did you even consider what you'll put me through if you don't? What you'll do to me and mom watching you kill and thirst for blood in the Games, facing death every day? You say you won't be killed, that there's no chance. But there's always a chance. Like the chance that mom would become mentally delusional," he looks down, trying to hide from me the tears that are starting to stream down his cheeks, "Like the chance that dad would die."
I stand there, searching for words to show that his little speech had no effect, but none come.
"Time's up. Come here, little boy." Bryan nods and swipes at his eyes, sniffling. He places a cold piece of metal into my hand and he walks quickly out of the room. I stare after him as he leaves and the doors close behind him.
I open my hand and see a familiar necklace. It's my training tag. It's a thick, silver chain, and attached to it is a tiny silver plate, with the number etched into it. I sigh, and clasp it around my neck so that I can hang on to the one thing that has given me strength all these years.
The one thing that will give me the strength to face the Capitol.
Author's Note: Here's the chapter! Took me two solid days to write, so I hope you enjoy! Next chapter is the train, where Cato first meets Clove! Oh and here's a question: who should the male mentor be? Leave a review saying his name, his age, and his Games, which can be the 67th, 68th, or 69th, and how he won them.
So, please review! And please keep reading, though I won't be able to update as quickly now that school is starting back up again in two days. So please read and review! It will make me ever so happy! :D
