Back again! First of all, I'd like to send out sincere thank you's to my two reviewers. You guys have no idea how happy you made me. :) If you have any questions or crit, feel free to send them my way. Even just a nice word or two makes me write like a crazy person. (In fact, I have the first five chapters written because of you two.) Read on, fanfictioners! Question: I revolve my stories mostly around character development. I know most of you guys like the idea, but what about the main character? Is he a fun read? Do you guys like him? Any suggestions? :)
I have to figure this out right now. I'm climbing those stairs, every step a wooden thunk. I'm struggling, going slower than I should. I can almost hear the impatient tsks from our escort, who I haven't even bothered to glance at. The Capitol crowd would be getting testy.
But why am I thinking about all that right now? Cold, panicked sweat rolls off of my brow. I should be making the most of these steps, when I have my back turned to the crowd. I can take it all in now, give myself time to compose a brief strategy about presenting myself. I'm wasting time thinking about the pace of my steps.
Shut down, my brain whispers helpfully. As I slowly turn to face the crowd, I decide that it's a good idea. By putting on a blank face, I won't look scared or confused. I'll look confident. I won't be giving away anything about myself, and it won't conflict with any strategy I might decide on later. If I furrow my brows a bit, I might even look intimidating. I'm no wimpy guy, especially not with the thick mess of black hair hanging into my eyes. If only I can convince those sponsors that I have a fighting chance.
When I face the crowd I make sure that they can't read behind my eyes, which are narrowed in what I hope looks like a threat. The only problem with my disguise is that my pupils are flicking back and forth much too rapidly, searching the crowd's faces. Now that I'm standing here, the theme of the Quell is front and center in my mind. Why didn't I figure it out when I had all of these faces to confer with? Now I'm alone, and all I get from them are sad looks. I still don't know what will be facing me in that arena.
"Hey, scary guy," my district partner snorts under her breath, reaching forward to forcefully grab my hand and shake it.
I slowly pivot to return the shake, numb until I realize that she's just made a fool out of me in front of those potential sponsors. Here I am, standing like an idiot, while this girl makes me the laughingstock of District 7. I shoot her a look of real disgust, though it's hard to lower my brows any further than they've already slipped down.
I probably shouldn't be wasting my energy on this girl, but I do it anyway. I don't think I've ever seen her before, though she's certainly a plowing girl by the look of those biceps. In District 7, girls get the choice that boys don't. Girls that don't think that they can hold out under the physical exertion of plowing choose to work at the paper mills rather than plow with the rest of the boys.
Her bangs are cut at a ridiculous angle, choppy and black and hanging into her eyes on a diagonal slope. I think she's got her mane – the only word I can think of to describe it – pulled back into a pony tail, but with all the loose hair it's hard to tell. I notice with uneasy clarity that her mouth is moving back and forth – wait – eating something? This girl is chewing on something in the middle of the Reaping, and she looks perfectly calm about it. In fact, there's something in her gaze that makes her look like she's relaxed like this all the time. Too cocky.
She smirks, but doesn't say anything else because our escort is already bulldozing through the end of her speech.
I look away, returning to crowd searching. I remember my parents then, and Rom. Where are they? Trying not to reveal my desperation, I pinpoint their faces in the crowd. Rom has his fist blocking his mouth and is biting down on it in horror, a trait I've always teased him for. With his eyes creased like that, he still looks like a mouse.
My mother and father stand in the back. I can see the top of my mother's blonde head as she doubles over, sobbing recklessly. He pats her back but looks at me instead, shooting me a gaze that gravely tells me to win. I get choked up thinking that this year our ratty couch will be one person short to watch the Games.
Nothing will ever be ok again.
I grit my teeth, violently shoving my hair out of my eyes. Damnit, I swear that I'm going to hack it all off. I almost want to rip it out with my hands right now, but that's a sure sign of insanity that the sponsors probably wouldn't like.
We tributes can't just stand here forever, and it isn't long before the speech has been wrapped up tidily. As we're approached by faceless Peacekeepers that I don't recognize, another wave of fear kicks in. I don't want to move, because moving means getting farther away from my District. It means accepting my fate. It makes this real. The crowd is dissipating, though, and there's no one left to stand in front of. I've already made a fool out of myself once today, anyway.
I notice immediately that no one's talking to me. The peacekeepers don't touch me but they keep close, herding me forward. I have two, and my district partner – whose name I don't remember – has two of her own that lead her in the opposite direction. It's this separation that reminds me of the Quell again. I guess I was allowed to be reaped alongside her, but now that this formality is over I won't be seeing her again. I wish now that I'd remember her name – as if that would give me an advantage. All I know about her is that she's cocky and a smart-ass.
As we walk, I forget all about my budding strategy and start thinking about what I'll say to everyone who comes to visit me. For Rom, I'll tell a joke about his girls to keep him on his feet. I don't want him sniffling all over me. My throat closes, even at the light-hearted thought. Those will be the last words I ever say to him. That's what he'll remember me for. It's too hard to think about me being only the memory of what I tell my friends today. I want to be more substantial than any last words.
Light panic charges my veins as the peacekeepers lead me nowhere near the Justice Building. Instead, we're heading for the train. Surely they haven't forgotten the way the Games work. This may be their 150th year of terror, but the Games have never changed. Each one has a set structure. Goodbyes are a part of them.
"What's going on?" I demand to the guy on the right, a harsh whip in my voice. I sound intimidating, which seems to be a recurring theme of the day. It's just the tone I want.
Unfortunately, he's unimpressed. "You know the theme of the Quell. We're carrying out orders." His voice is as flat as the president's.
Yeah, I'm aware of the theme, but that has nothing to do with goodbyes. My dread thickens as we don't change course. It seems that the president is making the theme what he wants it to be. Allow us to be reaped alongside our fellow tributes, even talk to peacekeepers, but not to see our families before we leave. I bite the inside of my cheek hard as I grit my teeth in anger. Blood fills my mouth, salty and metallic, but I don't want to swallow it. It reminds me too much of what I'll face in the arena, so I brazenly turn and spit it into the grass, barely missing the white pant leg of the peacekeeper on the right.
It would have felt good to screw up that perfection, but the resulting blow from the peacekeeper probably wouldn't have felt as nice.
They don't acknowledge me in any way but lead me right up to the platform and wait for me to enter. They don't usher me in so I hesitate for a moment, breathing deep the District 7 smell. It's all happening much too fast for me to comprehend, so instead I settle for inhaling a wheezing breath and flicking my eyes around restlessly. I'm trying to make memories that I can cling to during the Hunger Games, even if I still haven't come to terms with my death yet.
Eventually, though, spurred on by the impatient looks from the peacekeepers, I step inside and listen to the door slam hastily behind me. They obviously couldn't wait to get rid of me.
My eyes squeeze shut of their own accord and I slump back against the door, too sick to stand. Why didn't I see this coming? Why didn't I suck in every breath I could this week? Why didn't I tell Rom how much I appreciated his stupidity? Why didn't I look up at a massive oak and see it for more than another part of my quota filled? Why didn't I live more than I did? Every breath I take from today until the end of my life will be tainted by the Capitol.
Someone's touching me. Prodding me, actually, with something distinctly cold and sharp. "Can someone move him for me?" The voice is quiet, muted, but it's not kind like I had expected such a soft voice to be. He sounds rather irritated and impatient.
My eyes fly open, instinctively narrowing with a flash-fire of temper. Who's touching me when I've barely had time to settle in? The train hasn't even started moving yet.
What I see jars me with surprise. I had expected no one to be on this train with me but Avoxes and Peacekeepers because of the Quell theme. Who's standing in front of me, though, is unmistakably a doctor. It's almost comical how stereotypical he looks, complete with the stethoscope hanging around his neck. But the mousy frown on his face is not like the face of the gentle apothecary healer that travels around District 7. It shocks me again when I see the resemblance to Rom. His face is pinched, small, and definitely like a rodent's.
"Who are you?" My voice is hoarser than I thought it would be, raspy with tears I'd never cry.
He frowns back. "Move him, please." It takes me a moment to realize that he's not talking to me.
"Would you like us to sedate him first, sir?" A peacekeeper pipes up behind the doctor. His words send me reeling in fear, then anger. They think they're going to sedate me? I've barely gotten my feet under me! I'm going into the damn Hunger Games, and they think they're going to start prodding around on me?
I shove forward, knocking the doctor out of the way. I'm surprised at myself for a minute and immediately uneasy, because the action was obviously a mistake. The peacekeepers discreetly raise hypodermics and shuffle closer to me.
I can feel my nose wrinkle into a literal snarl, and I'm sure I look positively feral. "Get off me!" I growl, though none of them are technically touching me, and fling out an arm to hopefully sweep the needles away. Even as I swing, sickness settles in the pit of my stomach. What am I getting myself into? They're obviously going to overpower me whatever I do. I wish fervently that I had just tried to reason with them, because I'm most likely going to end up dead now.
Just as my arm connects with the peacekeepers' arms, someone delivers a swift blow to my temple, making me stagger back and slip down the wall, unable to keep my footing. The world spins. Damn, they had a good hand. I can see the needles through bleary eyes, winking slowly in the fluorescent train lighting. Please don't stick me, I think weakly. I know for sure that I don't want to be unconscious for whatever this fight is, because I'll most likely never wake up. I've never been afraid of medical officers, but I've never seen a real one like this and never had the misfortune of being drugged. The idea of being out of control of my own body terrifies me. I can't fight while I'm asleep.
And I can't fight when my head is swimming like this, I soon find as with little effort the peacekeepers hold me down and slide in the hypodermic. My brain doesn't even register the bite of the needle with all of the pure panic swamping me. Stay awake. I will stay awake! I roar, but I can't find my hands anymore with the drugs taking possession of my body.
I've never been so scared before in my life. My throat closes up for the second time today as I choke on terror and rapidly spiral downwards into a dark pit that I've never seen before.