District 10
Dust, grass, and cows made three constants in District 10. No matter where one was, these three staples of the region were as inescapable as luxury was to the Capital or the Reapings were to the districts. An open window brought a fresh cool morning breeze into Sam and Jake's spartan living quarters the following morning, complete with a fresh round of dirt and soot. Sam coughed with a start, waking her from restless sleep populated by swimming gray dreams that shifted in and out of familiar figures. Reality swarmed back into familiar grays and light greens as she found herself alone. Of course – Jake was no longer eligible for the Games, and he had no reason to prepare himself for what awaited in a few hours.
As Sam sat up, a fresh rise of anxiety attacked her gut with a start – bam!
The girl fell back into her stiff mattress, trying to ward off the feelings she knew she would not get rid of until the sick ceremony at ten A.M. was over. It'd take some time and doubtless the Capitol's representation was already here – probably the same coarse and icy woman who had been around the past half-decade or so, an unpleasant middle-aged sort named Augusta Neirus. Sam dreaded seeing her face swimming back into her mind, as she had come to represent only one thing as of recently in District 10 – that some family's child wasn't going to be coming home.
And if that was her this year, she knew it'd be over before it started.
Sam had seen the other tributes from the prior Hunger Games that she and the entire district had been forced to watch on an annual basis. The muscular, physical build of those from 2; the lithe and quick power of 1's tributes; the agility and quick thinking of those from 4 – they were a big part of why 10 never won. It didn't seem likely this year either, and even though she had such a little chance of being selected, that miniscule chance was a march straight to death hanging over her head on the morning.
A knock on the ajar door disrupted her frantic network of thoughts, and she brought herself back to reality in a hurry.
"Hey," it was Jake, of course. Her father wouldn't bother expending time on his children when his eldest son could take care of that end. "Two hours before you gotta be there; pick something nice to wear. And Sam-"
The pair of blue eyes that met his spoke of trepidation; his words did their best to soothe her fears on the day that she'd been fearing every day since the previous year. "You're gonna be fine."
Sam merely nodded as Jake left her to her thoughts. Her fingers ran over the cloth of a rough violet dress as battling thoughts launched a war of words in her head. This is it, a particularly resigned train of thought echoed its way through Sam's thoughts. Pick what you'll want the Capitol to see you as and that you can wave goodbye in.
Nonsense; Jake's right, a more optimistic voice rebutted as Sam slipped out her clothes from the small closet she shared with her brother. The odds actually are in your favor for once. Compared to the girls who have their names in dozens of times, you're hedged like a baby calf.
As if that stops the Capitol. They'd probably love to fillet you on live television! Standing there, shaking on stage while that dreadful guy in the colorful hair makes those stupid jokes with his really big laugh; embarrassment in front of the entire nation right before you die…
The second voice in Sam's head refuted that assertion as she slipped into a warm tub of pre-heated water for a brief and unfulfilling bath. The Games two years before had essentially come down to six Career tributes and eighteen shaking, frightened kids who had represented easy pickings. It hadn't been much of a competition; more of a slaughter, really, at least until the Careers were the only ones standing. No one in District 10 had found much to celebrate there, and Sam privately doubted the Capitol had liked that one much either, especially given that a new Head Gamesmaker, Phaeston Rex, had taken over last year. He'd be returning, which wasn't good for the lifespan of whoever the poor tributes this year were.
Aha! And that'll be you, the fatalist voice in Sam's thoughts reasserted itself as she scrubbed dirt off her sun-worn skin. Just another toy for whatever technological monstrosity that man wants to drop on your head. If you even make it away from the Cornucopia…
A moot point when someone else gets selected, the more optimistic voice returned, though its power seemed to drain away with the grit off of Sam's body. Just hope the poor two from here go as painlessly as possible.
Painless? You'll be crapping yourself!
So that was the source of the negative thoughts, Sam wordlessly thought to herself. Mr. Parker commanded an impressive array of swear words that he tossed at his two children whenever he really felt off-kilter, and the insults and blows had stung Sam's psyche growing up. It was clear her father had never wanted a daughter even though his disappointment in Jake was palpable; she frequently wondered how he'd ever dragged himself along long enough to carve out such relative success in District 10 as compared to nearly everyone else in the district.
Sam dried herself quickly in the morning air and slipped into her clothes. To her eye they were plain, but so was everything in the district – and frankly, that'd have to do for Augusta and her death squad from the Capitol.
A kick against one of the wooden walls of the one-story home alerted her to Jake's returning presence, only her brother didn't show up – instead, a square-jawed and rough face greeted Sam with a wry grin and a relaxed posture as she quickly tied her dark hair behind her.
"Did Jake let you in?" Sam reacted instinctively, concealing a twinge of blush in her cheeks by fiddling with her hair in reaction to the appearance of her friend Clay Lamar.
"Nah, decided to let myself in. You trying to be all fancy?"
Clay and Sam had met years before when the two fifteen year-olds had been in school. Since the Parkers held more wealth than most families in District 10, many of the poorer children had prematurely judged Sam right next to the strength of the Capitol as a sort of co-conspirator to keep the district poor. With the income gap between the wealthiest families and the mainstream workers, the most influential families often drew negative remarks from the poverty-stricken commoner. Clay hadn't really cared about Sam's origins; he instead had gotten to know her as a person rather than just another influential local name. Through his nonchalant interest in her beyond simple recognition, the pair had established a friendship that survived to the day. Sam had often had feelings that transcended simple friendship for Clay, but she kept these private. He seemed uninterested in such serious matters, instead keeping conversation and their relationship light and friendly – in turn, she had pushed such entanglement away, although a kernel of attachment still gnawed away at her hearth whenever the two were together.
"This is fancy?" Sam rolled her eyes. Clay had done what Jake had failed to do – ease away her tensions of the coming event, at least momentarily. "Can't let the Capitol think I'm some sort of bumpkin. Besides, they'll probably dress me in some stupid cowgirl get-up like they always do to us during the opening parade."
"Oh that'd look good," Clay laughed, waving away the notion. "Sam the cowgirl. I can picture it now."
"Yeah, okay," Sam replied. Although Clay lacked the softness of her brother's protective instincts and did nothing to refute her own fears overtly, his presence alone projected an aura of calm about the entire situation – as if it was nothing to fear, but more of a reason to make fun of the people with the funny accents and bizarrely-colored hair who plucked away two unfortunate kids every year. Stranger still since Clay had taken tesserae for himself, his parents, and his seven year-old younger brother since he had been twelve – the odds were far more in Sam's favor than his, yet he outwardly considered the prospect of being selected to be faint at best.
"Alright, I like your house a heckuva lot more than I like mine, but I don't wanna hang around forever," Clay pushed himself up into a straight posture, smoothing his short brown hair with a callused and work-worn hand. "Gotta still make it to the square. Can't keep Augusta waiting after all – I'm so excited to hear her inspiration and enthusiasm!"
"Are the odds ever in your favor?" Sam gave the first smile that touched her lips in days to Clay's teasing. No matter his method, he was a stabilizing influence in a situation like this – which made his implied refutations of anything but casual friendship all the more perplexing and confusing to Sam.
"Probably not, but nothing I can do about that," Clay shrugged good-naturedly as the two left the Parker homestead and moved out onto one of the dusty horse roads that laced District 10. "I guess I could raid the Reaping pot or something."
District 10 was a picture of activity today – not surprising due to the nature of the day. Raising animal herds for a living had made horses the primary form of transportation here on the prairie, and a good number of people were up and about off the dusty road as the morning sun lay down yellow rays onto the brown earth. Yellow-green grass merged into the dirt of overgrazed patches of ground, melding all the ground into a uniform camouflage pattern that masked any sort of summertime natural beauty. Only in spring and autumn did things really get colorful in District 10 – well, unless one counted the stark white uniforms of the peacekeepers.
Traditionally, the District 10 peacekeepers had laid low. This district wasn't particularly independent-minded, and most people got along just fine with each other when alcohol wasn't involved. Although they were considerable in number due to the sprawling nature of the region, they did little more than stand out like white herons against the grays and browns that permeated every building and piece of clothing around. On Reaping day, however, they always showed in considerable force – an omnipresent reminder of the Capitol's reach and a suggestion that even District 10's laid-back demeanor could not spare them the Capitol's mandate.
The positive of District 10 for the free-minded individual was its open space. As Sam walked with Clay down the wide, dusty street, she couldn't help but let her blue eyes wander across the open prairie lands. Wooden houses hung low and in various states of disrepair, although each afforded a good amount of land around it. Enterprising families had used this space to grow small, hardy crops that could take the dusty, dry earth and compete with the short grasses that made up the staple of food for the cattle herds and animals that formed the staple industry of the district. The Peacekeepers never bothered policing that sort of thing – they had taken an efficiency-minded approach to keeping order in District 10, and a family with the smart head to grow their own crops was one less thin, poverty-ravaged eyesore plastered across a street.
"Everyone's in just…such chipper moods," Clay gritted his teeth as he looked over the legions of like-minded people headed for the square for the morning occasion.
"I think we all know what's in store," Sam mused quietly.
"Odds aren't going to be in someone's favor, that's for sure."
District 10's town square reflected the arrival of the Capitol, with heavy Peacekeeper numbers and large banners sporting the crested eagle of Panem's logo draped across storefront businesses and official edifices. The dust of the prairie winds still seeped in here, but actual color was far more distinctive than out in the residential and grazing grounds. Sam's stomach revolted involuntarily by the sight of Augusta Neirus's pale blue skin and bright yellow hair already standing on the stage outside the law building that made the frontal forum for the Reaping – she had arrived early and looked as unpleasant as ever. One of District 10's two surviving victors, an average-looking man with blonde hair who Sam had never talked to named Dallas Grissom, already had taken his spot on the stage. He had won the 79th Games – the winner of the 76th Games and District 10's other surviving tribute, a rather negative woman named Cheyenne Clinton, hadn't yet taken her place. That was no real surprise – she was by far the more visible of the two victors still alive, and not for good reasons.
"Hey, Sam," Clay mentioned as he prepared to split off with the other boys of District 10, assuming a moment of seriousness. "Look, um…I'll catch you afterwards, okay?"
"Okay," Sam murmured in response, her voice catching an octave as the knots of anxiety collected in her stomach again. "I'll see you."
The familiar prick of the Reaping identifier on the finger took Sam's blood sample in logging her attendance, drawing her attention momentarily from a derailed train of thoughts spinning about in her head. The Capitol attendant spared her no notice beyond the brief interaction, yet it was enough for Sam to perk her head about. She spotted Jake quickly in the crowd of those too old or young to participate scattered about the perimeter of the square – standing with several of his own friends who had cleared the Reaping without feeling its blade, a fate she hoped to share. Their eyes locked temporarily, and that small stare told her all the words he'd failed to articulate the night before and in the morning – a protective love that gave her a spot of reassurance as Augusta stepped up to a microphone.
"Hey, Sam," a light and girly voice nearby hailed – a sixteen year-old blonde girl named Clara Bowie who had become Sam's real only other friend outside Clay and her brother. She had a head of rebelliousness that reminded Sam of Jake in a way, yet Clara communicated it in a much less directed way. Coming from another of District 10's influential families, Clara communicated a bluntness and broad sentiment towards those who expressed displeasure due to her social standing. Unlike Sam, she had preferred active confrontation against those who judged her by name rather than action; it hadn't made her the most popular girl ever, although she had forged a sort of leadership role in school that Sam had never sniffed.
"Oh. Hi Clara," Sam played at friendliness, although she preferred to be with her thoughts alone at a moment like this.
"Another year of this stupid thing. Do you think Augusta knows how ridiculous she comes off?" Clara spat as if equal parts annoyed and bored by the procession. "It's like she's mocking us. She probably is."
"She can mock me as much as she wants as long as she leaves me alone," Sam replied quietly.
"Like that's ever gonna happen; they always stick their head in here," Clara continued on, missing the verbal cue Sam hinted at to stop. "Whatever. Can't believe I still have to put up with this for two years after this."
Augusta's upspeak-laced voice gave Sam a welcome reprieve from any more self-righteous ranting on Clara's behalf, officially beginning the Reaping procession.
"Welcome, welcome," the yellow-haired woman blathered, sounding tired and disappointed by the ragged crowd before her. It was clear she looked forward to departing District 10 as soon as possible. "And Happy Hunger Games – may the odds be ever in your favor."
Her unenthusiastic greeting came just in time to welcome Cheyenne to the stage as the former victor tossed a cigarette to the dusty ground and flopped into a seat next to Dallas. Sam couldn't make out anything she was saying, but the former tribute seemed to be openly mocking Augusta's introduction to the calmer Dallas. Before Augusta could even move on, Cheyenne had a new smoke lit and puffing away – she was notorious for blowing her victor winnings on nicotine at a voracious rate. Sam figured the smokes would kill her sooner rather than later at the pace she supposedly took them at, which probably would be a blessing for District 10. At least Dallas kept his head as a winner.
"And now I have a special presentation to you all from the Capitol," Augusta droned out, accompanied by Cheyenne mouthing, Something we've never seen before! in time with the Capitol escort's speech.
Sam hated this video presentation that happened every year – there was nothing special about it. Always the same show about how the Capitol overwhelmed the insurgent and sectarian rebels of the districts during the Dark Days and brought peace and justice back to Panem. If this was peace and justice, then things must have really stunk before. Propoganda piece after piece zipped along in cue to patriotic music in the video clips as Sam noticed Clara trying hard not to look any less interested. Clearly she figured the odds were in her favor. Up on stage, Dallas had reclined almost 45 degrees in his seat, and even District 10's mayor, a wizened old man with a close-cropped white head of hair named Navarro, seemed on the verge of passing out from boredom.
"Well, that was certainly enlightening," Augusta tried her best to sound upbeat after the lack of response to the video's conclusion, hiding her own feelings about District 10's dusty demeanor. "And now we get on to the big show – Mayor Navarro, if I may have the Reaping bowl for our ladies – ladies first, of course."
That was corny, Cheyenne mouthed on stage behind Augusta, doing a fantastic job openly expressing her disdain for Augusta. To Sam, that seemed to be one perk of being a victor – Cheyenne seemed to get away with anything she wanted, which was considerable given the woman's disgust with most everything to do with high society. Talk around District 10 claimed that her bad attitude had developed from a particularly drastic occurrence in her Games, but Sam hadn't heard the full story.
"Yet another lucky tribute to be picked today, girls," Augusta said, digging her hand around in the bowl that Mayor Navarro held up with a disheartened effort. The Capitol women finally leeched her blue-tinted hand around a slip of paper, taking great effort to dig it out of the bowl before finally resorting to trapping it against the side of the glass and forcing it out. She pulled the paper up, re-assuming her posture and strutting towards the front of the podium as if finally exerting the power she held over everyone in the audience – which, despite Cheyenne's veiled hostility of her behind her back, was absolute and carried the Capitol's authority. Undoubtedly, she was the most powerful person in the square.
Sam flicked a glance towards the boys, catching the corner of Clay's eyes and holding his gaze for a moment before Augusta's voice rang out again.
"Our lucky tribute from District 10," Augusta boomed with renewed vigor. "Samantha Parker."