Author's note: Here are the final three reapings. If you submitted a tribute who doesn't have a district partner with a pov (districts 4, 6, 8, and 11) your tribute will make their first appearance in the reaping recaps, which will be featured next chapter.
All tribute spots are now full. :) I have made a blog with all the tributes, found at .com. I have now found/have been given images for all of the tributes, but if you find a picture that better fits your tribute, don't hesitate to tell me.
Thank you to ImmyRose, RJB4, and CelticGames4 for Alora, Kassidy, and Finnegan respectively. Thank you to everyone else who submitted as well. Credits are listed on my profile and on the blog.
Chapter 3: Reapings Part 3
Omri Hibbing, age 17, District Nine
Life sucks in District Nine. More than three-quarters of the population lost someone they cared about to the rebellion. Citizens live in poverty here, some to the point of starvation. Everyone between the ages of twelve and eighteen fears being reaped into the Hunger Games, and their parents fear losing a child. Even if a person sneaks past the reaping, they still face a life of hard labor. Of course, I'd take the life of hard labor, but even so, what's the point of optimism?
On Reaping Day, everyone gets the morning off from work, so my parents are home, a rare occurrence for a normal day. As a result, they don't seem to know what to say to my brother Oscar and I. As it is, they barely know how to talk to me, their withdrawn seventeen-year-old son, on an average day. Oscar is easier. Nearly fifteen-year-old, Oscar looks like a younger version of me, with curly dark hair, pale skin, and brown eyes, but personality-wise, we are nowhere near the same. Oscar is loud and obnoxious. His greatest goal is to test my limits, and he doesn't know when to stop talking and let me get my work done. In the case of the morning of Reaping Day, however, Oscar's nonstop talking works to my advantage. His constant jabbering breaks the tension between my parents and I.
My parents and I have never been close. I hate life in District Nine. I wanted to leave during the rebellion and see how far we made it. My parents thought it was too risky. They hid during the rebellion and had no part in it. They were cowardly. I was only twelve at the rebellion's peak though, and too scared to run off on my own. I suppose that makes me a coward too.
My parents have never understood me. They seem to think I'm depressed and want to help me, but aren't sure how. That's fine; I don't need help. I'm not depressed. I am trapped. I don't want out of life. I want out of District Nine. I want to be free, to be recognized, instead of just a farmer surrounded by nothing but single-family dwellings and fields of wheat and corn. What makes Capitolites and the citizens of One and Two more entitled to luxury than I? They are not. I can't stand this humble life when all that is gained in return is a leaky roof above our heads and barely enough bland, grainy food to eat. I don't need to be superior, but I do want to be an equal, and that can't be accomplished in District Nine. Ever since the rebellion, however, travel between districts, excluding the Peacekeepers from District Two and the train conductors and the hovercraft pilots from District Six, has been forbidden. I cannot leave District Nine, and wouldn't get anywhere if I tried. Mom, Dad, and Oscar have a different mentality than I do. They are content. I am not.
Oscar happily chats about the job he starts next week, the job I have been doing since I was almost two years younger than Oscar. Everyday, Oscar will join me pedaling a bicycle four miles one way between the granaries and the fields. It may not seem like much, but the bikes pull carts carrying around forty pounds of grain. During the summer months, I work from eight to five with only a fifteen minute break around 12:30 for lunch. It's not a gentle cruise in the park like Oscar seems to expect, and Oscar's annoying chatter will only make the day seem longer. I could easily leave him in the dust, but if anything were to happen to him, I would be in hot water with our parents. Oscar likes to see how many buttons he can push before I snap. Sometimes he can't help himself, but it is still incredibly irritating. Oscar was born two months early, causing him to be mentally delayed. He is only two years or so behind in school, but his maturity level is at least five years behind his peers. I do care about my brother, but often times Oscar knows he is getting on my nerves or being a distraction, yet he continues on anyway with questions such as, "What are you doing?" and, "can I help?" and telling immature jokes when I am trying to get tasks done. Because of Oscar's immaturity, we bicker often, and don't always see eye to eye. Oscar says I need to lighten up. My parents agree, but all I want is peace.
The reaping does not start until 12:30, so I have plenty of time to kill. The reapings would be playing now. I could probably tune in to the District Four reaping if I wanted to, but since the reapings are the only part of the Games that aren't mandatory, there is no point in watching a bunch of kids receive a death sentence. Unfortunately, the reapings are all that air on tv.
Instead of turning on the television, I shut myself in the room I share with Oscar. I reorganize my closet and rearrange the very little clothes I own. I then make both my brother's and my beds. After I finish, I pick up my Grandfather's guitar and begin to polish it. The guitar is rarely touched, except for its regular cleaning. Grandpa's guitar is his most prized possession, but since his hands are ridden with arthritis, he can no longer play it. Oscar has always had a fascination with it, so Grandpa gave it to him. Oscar never remembers to polish it, though, so I've taken it upon myself to keep it nice for Grandpa.
By the time I'm done, it's early enough to get ready for the reaping. When my family and I open the door at ten to twelve, we find grey clouds and rain. I groan. My family does not own a single raincoat, and even with the rain, the temperature is still around eighty degrees, so a winter coat would be torture.
At the Justice Building, the group of twelve to eighteen year olds huddle together against the rain, keeping their heads down. When the escort reaches into the girls' reaping bowl, it is almost a relief.
"Alora Delacour!"
A shriek rings out from the side of the fifteen-year-old girls section. I can see her from here. She has light blonde hair in a braid down her back and is about five and a half feet tall. She stands unmoving, until the girl behind her gives her a nudge, which results in Alora punching the girl in the gut. The girl's cry of pain seems to wake Alora up, and she tentatively makes her way up to the stage. Meanwhile, I shift my weight from one foot to the other, anxious to leave. If the escort would only hurry up and draw the name already, I could -
"Omri Hibbing!"
My jaw drops. What… What the hell?! The boys around me give me a pitiful glance and move out of the way. I move forward, slowly at first, hoping for something, anything, that will save me from my fate. Nothing happens.
If I look pissed, I am. I grip Alora's hand a little too tightly when the escort tells us shake hands, and she winces in response. I don't understand. My parents were mice in the rebellion. Neither they, nor I, nor anyone in our family fought against the Capitol. I may complain, but I do my job every single day. I have never committed a crime or have been whipped by a peacekeeper. So why am I here? What the hell did I do to deserve this?
Baldwin Fridley, age 13, District Three
The best thing about being an only child is I get my own room. My friend, Milan, lives in a family with three brothers, one of whom he shares a room with, and he never gets any space. I also get to sleep as late as I want when there's no school. Well, normally.
Mom turns on my light at eight-thirty in the morning. I bury my head under my pillow and groan. "Not yet, Mom! Please!"
"I don't understand, Baldwin. You went to bed at ten last night. There is no reason you should be tired," Mom says.
Oh, Mom. She's so trusting and innocent. Last night I wasn't sleeping. As soon as my parents were asleep, I snuck out of the house and went over to Milan's house, where a bunch of the guys and I were watching scary movies, the ones I'm not even supposed to be allowed to watch. His father was out working a night shift and the manufacturing plant where he works, and his mother is deaf, so she didn't hear a thing. I didn't get back until almost two in the morning, but Mom doesn't know that. To her, I'm still her sweet little angel I've always been.
"Well, I don't know," I say. "I am still tired. I don't know why."
Mom sighs. "Fine, but you still have to get up. You will be in a lot of trouble if you're late, Baldwin."
I yawn. "Okay," I say, rolling out of bed and trudging downstairs. Dad is sitting at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. The Hologram tv is set on the District One reapings, which have just started, but the sound is on mute.
"Good morning," he says.
"Morning, Dad," I say, talking the cereal box and pouring myself a bowl and adding just enough milk. We're lucky to afford such things, having only three people to find. Mom is the headmistress at the most prestigious school in the district, and Dad is an engineer for the Mutation Genetics Research Lab. The mutts themselves are raised in a cramped lab in the Capital and are just regular animals. Scientists like Dad just create the genes that would make the animals bigger, scarier, and more dangerous to be injected later. Both jobs pay well, and we are never hurting for money.
"Who do you think is getting reaped this year, Dad?" I ask.
Dad shakes his head. "Let's not discuss it. It's not right to talk about anyone like that."
I can see his point. All six of Three's past tributes have been intellectually strong, but physically weak, and so far, physical strength has beaten out intelligence very quickly. Predicting someone's reaping is almost like wishing them to die.
"Well, it's not going to be me. I'm only thirteen, which means I have how many slips?"
"Two."
"Then what are the odds of me being reaped."
Dad sighs, rubbing his temple. "I don't know, son, Very, very small," he says, but seems very nervous about it. Of course, I'm his only son. He's right to be worried.
Sometimes, my parents tend to over-worry. Until last year, I wasn't even allowed to watch the Hunger Games at home. I would have to do my homework in my room. However, everywhere I went, even at school in the classroom, the Hunger Games were broadcasted. It was the law, and had been since the first Games aired when I was ten. Now, my parents don't even bother keeping me away. It's sad and sickening, yes, but nothing that has scarred me for life. It's a part of life in Panem now, a part that I have a chance of being forced to experience first-hand, no matter how small the chance. Hiding me from the Games could actually have more of a negative impact on me than a positive one.
When I finish my cereal, I put my bowl in the sink and head back upstairs to get ready. I come back down in around fifteen minutes.
"Baldwin, you're tie is crooked," Mom says, straightening it as I squirm.
"Norma, Baldwin can do his own tie," Dad says.
"Yeah. I just wasn't done yet."
"Well, now it's fixed," says Mom.
I shrug and sit on the couch next to Dad. Sometimes I really hate Mom's fussing. A half an hour later, the three of us head out to the reaping. The line isn't too long yet, but I do have to wait a few minutes before it is my turn to get checked in. I join my friends in our roped off section. The mood is solemn, not happy and joking as it usually is. After the reaping, we'll probably head off to someone's house, and everything will be back to normal. For now, the nervous tension really shows.
Feeling bored, I gaze around the justice building. We have been arranged by sections boys on the right and girls on the left. The twelve-year-olds stand in the front near the stage, while the eighteen year-olds have been forced to the back, so I have a pretty good view of everything that will occur on stage.
The seventeen and eighteen-year-olds may look safe way in the back, but they are more at risk than anyone else, with a minimum of six or seven slips in the bowl each. I actually hope two of them are reaped, someone tall and strong who actually has a chance. I don't wish anyone to die, but if we have to send someone, it might as well be someone who could make it out alive, rather than a puny twelve or thirteen-year-old like myself who only has their brain as a mode of survival.
Our escort is a buff man in his early thirties. He has dark green skin, a curly black afro, and pointy ears. He looks like a martian. Or maybe a muscular elf. I can't really decide. When he speaks, his words come out in a rough, rumbling voice. After showing the annual video, the escort sticks his hand deep into the bowl.
"The female tribute for District Three is Kassidy Lance!"
Surprisingly, I know the girl. She is not eighteen. Instead, she is my age. Unfortunately, she goes to my school and is in many of my classes. She's a bully, never saying a kind word to anyone. She leaves me alone for the most part, mainly because whenever she tries to attack me, I bite back. Kassidy looks very numb as she walks to the stage, but no tears fall. She doesn't make a sound.
The escort shakes Kassidy's hand before reaching into the boys' bowl. "The male tribute for District Three is Baldwin Fridley!"
Me. It's me. Two slips out of thousands, and the escort pulls me name. What are the odds? Everyone around me stares at me in shock, but I don't have time feel numb or scared. As I walk to the stage, I am already planning my strategy. At first, I stare at the ground, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Then I realize I have potential sponsors watching me right now. I look up and give the cameras my best smile. I even smile at Kassidy, who only glares at me in return.
I'm not sure how a thirteen-year-old can win the games, but I am definitely going to try. To win, I'm going to need beauty, brawn, and brains. I may not be a genius, but I do have above average intelligence. That's the brains of the equation. I can also be a charming, angelic little boy that the Capitolites would be able to bear see die. That's the beauty. However, I am lacking in the brawn department. I don't know how I'm going to get it yet, but I will. I'm not dying without a fight.
Anise Sartell, age 16, District Twelve
District Twelve is gray. Gray is the color of the ash and soot that covers the miners' faces and hands at the end of the day. Gray is the color of most of the citizens ragged clothes. Gray eyes are found in around half the population. For many people, gray is a color of sorrow and despair, but to me, it is the color of home. My home may not seem like much, but at least I have one.
District Twelve is the poorest of all the districts. My family is fortunate enough to be a part of the merchant class, but we are in the minority. District Twelve still has never recovered from the Dark Days, and it seems as though we never will. Hundreds of people are starving to death in the Seam, the poorest area of the District. Everyone acknowledges the dozens deaths that occur on a weekly basis, but most ignore it the best they can, because there is nothing we can do. Families who are not from the merchant class worry about feeding themselves and their own children, and even families like mine have nothing to spare, at least not enough to help families from starving to death. The Capitol is the only place with the real power and money, but they choose to ignore District Twelve's situation completely. They always have. Their ignorance was one of the reasons a rebellion was sparked.
No matter how dark things seem here, I remind myself how lucky we are not to have lived in District Thirteen. District Thirteen is the only district worse off than District Twelve. They were the leaders in the rebellion. Now they are nonexistent, as everyone is dead, killed in the Capitol's bombings. All that is left is a smoldering pile of rubble. Here in District Twelve, at least people have a fighting chance.
My family and I live a comfortable life above our shop in the merchant section of the district. Even so, we have just enough money to live off of. I am the middle of three sisters at age sixteen, with a nineteen-year-old sister named Briony and a fourteen-year-old sister named Melva. My parents, Bianca and Conall, are in their early fifties. Before the rebellion, my family was extremely close. We still are, but now my parents have grown paranoid, my dad especially. The war took it's toll on his despite him not leaving the district and instead fighting against peacekeepers right here in District Twelve. He stresses each year about one of my sisters or I being reaped, and has being to take every precaution possible in fear of losing one of his girls.
"Anise, Melva," my father calls from a room in the back of our house. "Can you come here please?"
My younger sister and I give each other a silent look before walking into the room. Our father is there waiting for us with a fist full of kitchen knives. Behind him is wooden board with rings of black marker drawn on it as a target. He hands three knives to me and three to my sister.
"You girls know what to do," he says.
Melva and I nod, taking turns throwing our knives at the target. When we finish, Dad nods in approval. "Again."
We repeat the action over and over again. We have been doing this since the Hunger Games were first announced. Dad wants us to be ready in case we ever are reaped. He wants us to have at least some experience with a weapon.
"Can we stop now, Dad? I don't get why we have to do this?" Melva asks.
"You have to prepare, Melva," Dad says. "Keep throwing.
"But chances are we aren't going to be reaped," my sister argues. "I only have three slips."
"Dad has a point," I say. "You have to think long term. Even if we are not reaped today, we still should have some fighting background."
Dad nods, giving me a small smile. "That's exactly right, Anise."
Melva sighs, and continues throwing her knives. While Dad may be overly paranoid, he does have the right idea. You can never be too careful. Eventually, it is time to eat lunch and prepare for the reaping. My sisters and I wear our best dresses, saved only for occasions like the reaping. Briony is too old for the reaping, yet she is in her best clothes anyway. Before heading to the Justice Building, I meet up with one of my closest friends, Iris. Iris lives just down the street, and we have been best friends since we were little. "Ready for the reaping?" she asks as soon as she sees me.
"I guess," I say. "I just don't know how anyone could be ready for a reaping."
"That's true," says Iris. We walk to the Justice Building together, while Iris tells me a story of something her seven year did that morning. We stand in line to get checked in, and are joined by my second best friend, Terra, a girl from the Seam.
"Hi, Anise," Terra says, ignoring Iris. Iris and Terra have never gotten along. I befriended Terra in kindergarten, when I was too shy to walk up to anyone and make friends. Terra decided to befriend me. Being a year younger than us, Iris didn't start school until the next year. She became jealous of Terra, and Terra sees her as stuck-up. I have tried to bring my closest friends together, but my attempts have always been worthless. I am always the one stuck in the middle, the peacemaker between the two. I'm often asked to picked sides, and I have sometimes gotten into fights for picking one side over the other. I try to stay neutral as much as I can in order to keep both of my friends. I'm not willing to give either up, so I deal with their disagreements.
Iris branches off from us towards the fifteen-year-old section. Soon after the escort comes to the stage and plays the video. She then casually draws a name from the girl's bowl. She reads it silently and scans the crowd. She pauses for suspense before calling out, "And the lucky young lady is… Anise Sartell!"
The area around me goes silent. Next to me, Terra gives a loud gasp. "No… Anise…"
Meanwhile, I'm in a daze. I somehow find myself grasping Terra's hand and squeezing it tight before pushing myself forward. I walk to the stage, still daze. I honestly don't know what to think. I can't die. I still have dreams, still have a life to live.
"Congratulations, Ms. Anise Sartell," says the escort. The next thing I know, a boy with red-tinted hair and blue eyes has just climbed the stage next to me, looking as shocked as I feel. He must be my district partner, but I don't remember his name. It must have been said, though, for him to be here, and I just missed it. Luckily, the escort saves me.
"Congratulations, Mr. Finnegan Ridgeway! District Twelve, I present to you, your tributes!"
It's not until the peacekeepers push me into the Justice Building that I come to my senses. If I'm going to survive, it's going to be all on me. I need to wake up and get my act together, or else I'll never make it out.
Author's note: I meant I have this posted yesterday, but since it was Halloween, I just didn't have time. But here it is, and I hope you enjoyed.
Chapter question: List your favorite to least favorite tribute out of the eight povs.
