District One: Urban Reign
"Mmph, oof. Oooohhhh, yeah. Riiight there." I groan. I sit up on my bed and look my masseuse in the eyes, and she stares back at me. My girlfriend, Shakra, gives the best massages. Her blonde hair is done up in a ponytail. She is shorter than me by a good five inches, but she has the type of badass attitude to back herself up. Her eyes are the lightest shade of blue I've ever seen, and her skin is the perfect tan. My brother Maxwell says she's the female version of me. I can't blame him; we are a lot alike, which is good because I love myself. Some say that calling your significant other a trophy is treating them like an object, but I prefer to have all my things gold standard. The only difference between her and I is that my blonde hair is buzz cut, my eyes are a more cerulean blue, and I've got a thicker layer of muscle than she does. Today is the day of the reaping, and she decided to give me a massage for good luck. I'm going to volunteer this year, and I'm going to win. "That was great, Shakra." I kiss her lightly on the cheek.
"Mmm, hmmhmm, stop it, Urban."
"Now why would I do that?" I kiss her again, and again, and after a few minutes of this, she pulls away.
"You need to get ready for the reapings, that's why. Come on now, you need to get dressed."
"Ok, ok." I give her one last kiss and pull a pair of pants on over my athletic shorts. I grab a black t-shirt out of my closet and throw it on. Shakra gives me a disapproving look. "What?"
"It's the reapings! Are you going to volunteer in jeans and a t-shirt?"
"Hmm? Oh, yeah, duh. Sorry, I just got distracted by this great massage somebody gave me." She blushes. I take off my black t-shirt, pull on a white tank top, go over to my closet, pull out a grey dress shirt and a black vest and put those on. I head over to the other side of my closet and pull a black pair of slacks out. As I'm putting them on, I ask Shakra, "Well what about you? I doubt you want to go to the reapings in a tank top and shorts." She looks down at her clothes. Just a pink tank and a pair of neon green shorts.
"Well, of course I'm going to change, silly." She winks. "But first I have to be at my own house to get my clothes." By now I've got my clothes on: A black vest over a grey dress shirt with a grey striped tie, black slacks, black socks, shiny black dress shoes. Keep it simple.
"Well then I say we take care of that, don't you?"
"Not we, Urban. You know how Daddy is about me having boys alone with me in my room watching me change." She smiles. "Besides, my dress is a surprise."
"See now, that's what windows are for."
"Urban," chides Shakra.
"All right, all right." I throw up my hands in surrender. "I can wait. Just hurry up."
She giggles and we head downstairs. My two brothers, Maxwell and Torque, are sitting at the table. We're triplets, Maxwell, Torque and I. Maxwell is technically the oldest, I came next, and Torque is the youngest. Max has an enormous head; he's thin as a wire and well over six feet tall. Torque is the complete opposite. He barely reaches five and a half feet, but he's the heaviest by far. He spends the most time in the training facility out of all of us, but all he ever does is lift weights. Last week he was 265 pounds and pretty much all muscle. His friends call him 2% as a joke about his body fat. Torque usually never says anything, and today is no different. He just sits there, drinking his protein shake.
"Oh, great, he lives," says Max. Always the sarcastic one, Max is. "That was quite a long massage; I was starting to think something else was going on up there."
"Thanks for your concern, Mom," I retort.
"You're welcome."
I laugh and walk Shakra to her house. It's a rather uneventful walk, but that's because she lives six houses down from mine. I bid her adieu and saunter back to my own home. When I arrive, I see that my two brothers are dressed in their reaping attire. Maxwell is dressed in a teal dress-shirt and grey slacks with a teal tie. Torque has on a deep purple tie over a lighter purple dress-shirt with black slacks. "Torque, your collar is popped," I point out.
"Huh? Wuh? Uhhh, oh. Right, collar. Dumb collar." He spins around trying to see what's wrong, with no avail. His neck meat prevents his head from turning more than 45 degrees. He reaches up and pushes his collar down.
I walk over to the fridge and pull out a plate with a pork chop on it. I pop it into the microwave and press a button that says 'U' for Urban. I love having a microwave with customizable settings. That's the big perk of living in District One; you get all the latest luxury items the Capitol has.
There's just one thing occupying my mind as I wait for my pork chop to be done: the pork chop. I absolutely adore meat. Any sort of meat is fine with me, as long as it's meat. We were studying personal health in science class a few years ago, and we had to do a research project on a health specialist of our choice, and I chose a man named Atkins. He had a special diet plan consisting of meat and only meat. Ever since that project, I've been following that diet. Thanks to it, I've got 15.5" steroid free biceps. I can't say the same for my brother, Torque, though. He says that he doesn't do steroids, but his 17 inch biceps say differently. The fact that he threw a chair at his friend Zurf Thompson for taking his water bottle was a bit of a tip-off as well.
I walk into the living room where my mother and father are watching a rerun of the 68th Annual Hunger Games. My dad, Butch, won that year. He isn't mentoring because of the rebellion; all victors who won prior to the rebellion aren't allowed to mentor any of the tributes from here on in, which is stupid. My dad only surrendered to the rebels so he didn't have to deal with them.
The movie looked like it was near the end. The mini-map in the corner showed the remaining tributes, and there were three dots left. Yep, the games were almost finished. I sit down on the couch next to my dad and he beams at me. My mom, Gloria, stops the video.
"Urban, my boy, that's going to be you someday." He points to the screen. The video is paused right at the spot where my dad is dueling with the boy from six and the girl from eleven at the same time. "You'll be doing that sort of thing in the arena, provided that you can beat your brothers to the podium." He laughs his big, belly laugh, and I laugh with him.
All three of us brothers want to go to the games this year, but I'm obviously the best candidate. Max is the smartest out of all of us, but he's not very strong. Torque is pretty much the polar opposite; strong (and dumb) as an ox. I balance the two out. I'm pretty strong, not able to bench 535 lbs. like Torque, but strong. I might not be as smart as my brother Max, but I know what to do in a fight.
"Urban." My dad grips my shoulder and stares me straight in the eye. "You are the one who has to make it to the stage first. Maxwell, sure he's a smarty, but he can't handle a weapon very well at all, and that's putting it lightly." It's true; I've watched him in the training facility. He handles an axe like Torque handles people stealing his water bottle: poorly. "And Torque's got the muscles, he just made the mistake of draining all of his brainpower into them. Nope, son, you're the one I want going into those games. You have the best chance out of everybody, and you'll for sure put on the best show. You play the game like this," he gestures to the TV, "and you'll be sure to win." He claps me on the shoulder. "See? I'm still here! Gloria, turn the TV back on."
Mom starts the video again and the battle resumes. The boy from six lunges out with his sword and nicks my dad in the side. Dad kicks him in the shoulder with the heel of his boot and he crumples. The girl from eleven jumps over the fallen boy and tries to strike my dad over the head with her stave. My dad catches it in midair with his right hand and tosses her to the side. He kicks the boy from six in the jaw with his left foot as he's getting up, and the boy sprawls out on the ground.
The girl my dad tossed does a roll and is back on her feet. She sweeps my dad's legs out from under him and he falls to the ground. My dad cringes next to me. The girl takes her dagger out from the sheath on her belt and prepares to stab my dad in the face when my dad sweeps his leg and hits the back of her right knee. She doesn't fall, but it gives him the second he needs. He stands up and stabs her in the chest with his sword. She falls and the cannon signifying her death sounds off.
The boy from six is up by now, and sees his ally fall. His lets out a roar of anguish and turns towards my dad with rage in his eyes. He charges my dad and tries to slash through his arm. It doesn't work. My dad soon disarms him and stabs him in the stomach. The boy falls, but he's still alive. He closes his eyes, but my dad slaps him in the face. "Wake up, time to die," he says, then slits the boy's throat.
I look at the clock. Ten minutes until the reaping starts. I say good-bye to my family and quickly head over to Shakra's. I knock on the door and she answers. Wow. Her hair is done up in a cone shape, glittering with aquamarines. I think it's supposed to be some ancient Greek style of hair, but I'm not sure. All I know is that it looks great. Her dress is the same color as the gems, with one strap over her right shoulder.
I'm just standing there, mouth agape. She laughs. "Strong and silent as ever, I see. C'mon, let's get out of here." We walk on over to the town square, and by the time that we get there, the mayor is in the middle of his speech. At least I haven't missed anything important. Our mayor, Gaston Marquis, recites the same hour-long speech, so about a third of District One is asleep by the time he finishes. Sure enough, when I get to my place in the eighteen-year-old section, my brother Torque is already nodding off. Maxwell is beside him, occasionally poking him in the shoulder. I stand between them and take over poking Torque. I have to admit, I can see why Torque is falling asleep. The mayor's speech seems especially dreary this time.
Finally, Gaston wraps things up. He turns the microphone over to our District Escort, Cale Meksilian. He looks ridiculous as always with his pale green skin. It makes him appear as though he's constantly on the verge of throwing up. His hair looks like the vegetable kale, both in color and in style. His outfit matches his hair, with a green suit, pale purple pants, and incredibly shiny and ridiculous shoes, also purple. He compliments the mayor on his speech, and Maxwell rolls his eyes.
"Just like the last year, and the year before that, and before that…" Max drawls on until I punch him in the arm. It's not that I don't want him to insult the escort; I'm perfectly fine with that. I just want to see who my competition is.
"Now then, let's see who our female tribute is this year, hmm?" He strides over to the girls' bowl and reaches in. He pulls out a name and shouts, "Topaz Hamen!" Not two seconds after the name leaves his lips, another voice rings out.
"I volunteer!" A girl from the eighteen-year-old section strides up to the stage and stands firmly in the center, directly to the left of Cale. I recognize her as Freyja Alahael. She spends more time in the training facility than even Torque. Cale walks into her on the way to the boys' bowl and falls over. Freyja stumbles, a bit caught off guard. The entirety of District One starts laughing; Maxwell doubles over because he's chuckling so much.
Cale gets up, flustered. He brushes off his suit and pants. His green skin is a deep red. He shuffles over to the boys' bowl, and I look at the slips intently. Cale pulls one out and cries, "Octavian Sparrow!"
The three of our voices speak as one when we shout, "I volunteer!" We surge towards the stage, almost robotic in movement. Maxwell starts to steadily make longer strides, and I can tell that if this turns to a race, he will win. He may not be the strongest, but being the lightest, Max is the fastest of the three of us. He starts to pick up pace, so I do the only thing that pops into my head: I grabbed Maxwell's face and shoved him down. I made a break for the stage knowing that Torque was too slow to keep up, and in no time, I'm standing next to Freyja and Cale.
With everybody's eyes trained on me, I put my most confident face on (which isn't difficult) and swagger over to Cale. "Ah, another volunteer! Now what is your name, dear boy?" He barely gets the words out before I take the microphone.
"Urban Reign, the future Victor of the 88th Annual Hunger Games." It might've been a tad arrogant, but in my defense, there's nothing wrong with telling the truth. Cale asks Freyja for her name, and she gives it to him.
"Freyja Alahael." And without further ado, a couple of Peacekeepers quickly escort us to the Justice Building and Freyja and I are put in separate rooms. My brother Maxwell comes in first.
He slugs me in the shoulder. "Thanks buddy, for slamming the back of my head into the gravel in front of all of Panem; always wanted to be the laughingstock of the country." He never fails to insert some sort of sarcastic remark. Torque comes in at this time, but Max stays. "Seriously, though, I can't say I mind too much. Going a couple of weeks without all this," He gestures to the room, which is full of extravagant tapestries and furniture, "Would be a real shame." Shakra walks in, and Maxwell and Torque take this as their cue to leave.
Before he walks out, Torque says, "Hey Urban." I look at him.
"Yeah, Torque?"
"Bash a couple of heads in for me; Torque style. Kay?" I chuckle. Torque style. One day in training, Torque thought he could bench 575 lbs. He ended up being able to get the bar up only about three inches, which really set him off. He got off of the bench and stormed over to where a couple of ten-year-olds were practicing techniques with hammers against a couple of dummies. He took the two dummies in his hands and smashed their heads in. Now keep in mind that these were solid wood dummies. Yeah. Torque style. He went home soon after with a ton of splinters in his hands.
"Sure man; Torque style." They walk out just as Shakra sits down next to me.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"You like my dress?" she gestures to her dress.
"Hell yeah, I like your dress!"
She laughs. "Well thank you. I was worried it'd be a bit much, considering that I wasn't volunteering. But really, why would I volunteer if you were? We'd just have to fight each other." She's right. As much as I'd like her to be in the arena with me, eventually one of us would have to die.
I nod solemnly. "Yeah." We sit there for a few seconds, with her just hugging my right arm and me holding her close. I start to think. "What if I don't come back? What if the next time Shakra sees me is in a box?" I push those thoughts out of my head and kiss my girlfriend on the forehead. She has a single tear running down her cheek. I wipe it away and she looks at me with those beautiful, light-blue eyes.
"Promise me you'll return?" I kiss her on the cheek.
"Of course I'll return. Don't you worry."
At that moment, two Peacekeepers burst in, and I give Shakra a kiss on the lips right before they grab hold of her. She resists and shakes them off. "I can walk by myself, idiots!" They let her go and she walks out with them. My parents enter next. My dad is beaming.
"Well done, son. I knew you'd do it!" he booms, clapping me on the back like he always does.
"But Dad, I haven't even hit the arena yet."
"I'm talking about getting to the stage first, dear boy! I wish I could be boarding this train with you! Don't worry though; your mentors are almost as good as me. Marble and Vincent know what they're doing."
That they do. I've seen them around the Victor's village and in the training facility. Marble Acaica is a sly one; always trying to get the best deal on the newest luxury product. He won the 77th Hunger Games by slinging a rock at the temple of his District partner right after she got up from killing another tribute. It wasn't the fairest or most honorable of maneuvers, but you have to do what you can to win. His District partner definitely out-classed him, so a fair fight wouldn't have spelled victory for Marble.
The other mentor, Vincent Giorgio, is mostly seen in the training facility helping the really little kids learn basic techniques. This is a bit of a contradiction to his behavior in the arena. He won three years after Marble and currently holds the record for the most tributes killed in Hunger Games history: fourteen. He slaughtered at least four in the bloodbath, killed the rest of the Career Pack the next day, adding five more kills, and killed five more tributes after that, and all of this with a dagger and the length of cord he used to strangle the members of the Career Pack in their sleep. I turn to my dad and smile.
"I know Dad. I got this."
"You're damn right you do, Urban! I've seen you train. If Vince doesn't put you in charge of the career pack, I'm gonna be really surprised." He ruffles my hair.
My mom clears her throat. "We have the utmost confidence in you, honey. You're going to come home to us, warm and breathing."
"Yeah Mom, I will." The Peacekeepers come in. My mom and dad stand up and start to walk out.
Mom looks over her shoulder and says, "We love you sweetie! Don't ever forget that!"
The door closes, and I'm left alone for a short amount of time. The Peacekeepers that escorted me to the Justice Building are back and they escort me to the train. I step on, and immediately see the platter of beef jerky on a counter off to my right. I grab the platter and set it on a coffee table. I sit down and start to eat when my District partner walks in. I give a quick glance, but turn back to the jerky. This is some good jerky! I can't wait to see what they have at the actual Capitol. As I'm eating, I think back to what my mom said: warm and breathing. I don't know why, but that bugs me a bit. It puts an image of my body heading home in a box. I don't like it. I shake my head and grab another piece of jerky. I don't know why I'm worried. I'm strong, I'm quick, and I can kill. Most of all, I can, and will, win these games. After all, I announced myself as the victor of the 88th Annual Hunger Games. I can't be seen as a liar.
