Woof Edelglass,Victor of the 17th Annual Hunger Games, District Eight
"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
I can't imagine how betrayed Josef and Alais must be feeling right now. I know some of the wealthier districts might consider it an honor, but in Eight, there's nothing worse to know that the whole district had some kind of grudge against you, enough of a grudge to send you into the Games. Well, maybe some people picked who they thought was the strongest-and Joe might actually be a contender this year, who knows?-but it's still all so horrific. Unbearable.
"We should probably watch the Reapings recap," says the escort, Orsina Dee, in that high squeaky Capitol accent that nearly everyone in Eight makes fun of behind her back. "Get a sense of the competition."
Joe nods firmly and takes a seat, as do I. Alais seems not to hear and continues wandering around the room, searching for something, wringing her hands nervously. "Alais?" I call. "We're watching the Reapings." Finally she comes over and sits on the floor, staring at the television, wide-eyed.
Orsina flicks on the high-definition screen, where the title is just flashing-THE 25th ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES: reapings. Some man named Caligula Scrambler, wearing a blood red wig, blood red makeup, and a blood red suit, sits in a comfy chair and addresses the crowd. Blood, blood, blood everywhere. It's almost enough to make me start screaming.
But then they start showing the reapings, and I sit straight up. If there's anything I could have learned from my Games, it's that you have to watch your competition. If you ignore even the tiniest, most pathetic little tribute, he could end up killing you at the bloodbath.
A jeweled graphic of a 1 flashes up on the screen, and the camera cuts to the District One city square. Instead of glass balls filled with slips, there are two golden envelopes with one slip each. One slip crowning or condemning one boy and one girl from each district.
"Our lucky girl this year is... Chemise Accour!" The tall, lithe girl smirks and makes her ways to the stage. She has long hair the color of cornsilk and looks meant to wield weapons.
"And the boy... Shadow Delaviande!" The boy is stockier but sturdier, with slightly darker skin and hair. He looks like a sword-holder, and more than capable of holding his own against Chemise.
No volunteers are accepted this year, much to the chagrin of many other 18-year-old "hopefuls" who will never again have the chance to compete. They don't know how lucky they are.
District Two's graphic shows a large 2 carved into a mountainside, to symbolize stone quarries, their supposed industry. But we all know training Careers is what they're best at.
Two twelve-year-olds are called, much to my surprise, and many others' as well. The boy, Locke, seems confident but unprepared; the girl, Sandrine, seems quick and skillful enough, judging from her smirk at the announcement of her name. They may be small, but definitely threats.
From Four, a laughing girl with bouncing red-brown curls mounts the stage. Stacia Sinclair. A distinct threat-either a deadly Career or an insane girl. And she looks sane enough. Her district partner, Nik or something like that, seems utterly unimpressed when his name is called. I wonder if the apathy is hiding excitement or fear.
In Five, the research district, a scrawny-looking 18-year-old is called, Rebeka or something like that. Stanton Mills, a lanky 18-year-old whose face betrays utter shock when called, is the mayor's son. I wonder how that worked out.
I think some of the districts are taking advantage of the reap-by-choice twist to send their strongest into the Games without having to force them to volunteer. Katlyn Chesbrough from Seven looks hardy, if not particularly big.
Then, of course, Eight is called. Looking over the crowd from the camera's point of view, it looks like Eight used the opportunity in entirely the wrong way. Eight wants Joe and Alais gone. I don't know why-I'm kind of out of the loop here-but even Joe's parents show a wash of relief when their oldest son is called. His parents!
The tributes from Nine and Ten were picked in much the same way-street urchins, pickpockets, community home kids. But the girl chosen from Eleven is massive, dwarfing even some of the Careers. And the boy from Twelve, Stephen Shakstaff, has already got a plan brewing in his head to wipe everyone else out of the arena.
I close my eyes and sigh. Orsina starts chattering on about something or another. Joe blinks and then goes off to his room; Alais continues looking around for something to do with her hands. I wonder if there's something wrong with that girl.
"How exciting, Woof! You get to mentor in the Quarter Quell! Isn't that exciting?" No, it's depressing. Every year is depressing.
Someday I might sneak a poisonous bug from the training center into my mouth when no one is looking.