Nathalia Campbell, 17 ~ District 3 Female
CelticGames4
Ahem. Here is the introduction of my beautiful life:
My name's Nathalia Campbell.
My brother Theodore (he prefers 'Theo') and I are seventeen. We are probably the best people on this earth so far—no wonder we're the most popular kids in the district; we're also the best saxophone players. (Even if we weren't, Mommy and Daddy would make sure we were.) We live in the richer neighborhood of District 3.
I wake after a good night's sleep and sweet dreams. The day hasn't even started yet, and it's already spectacular!
I put on the expensive dress that Mommy and Daddy got, grab a parasol, and sing a happy song as I skip down the stairs and twirl.
"You look like such an idiot." My brother appears at the top of the staircase. He looks all right.
"You always dampen my spirits!" I whine.
"Isn't that why you have your umbrella?" He slides down the railing, and smacks the top of my parasol.
"It's a parasol," I inform him. "It protects my figure from harmful UV rays."
Theo laughs. "Yeah, yeah."
"Shall we make our way to pick up Francesca?"
We lock arms, and he smiles. "We shall!"
We don't have to go very far; Francesca Cooper and her brother Tanner greet us on the sidewalk. Their parents love us because we're rich and act like it. They act like a couple of poor people, even spending time with the bums; it's disgusting and a shame.
"Hi, guys," Francesca says quietly.
Tanner smiles. He's a little ball of energy at ten. "Hi!" He runs ahead of us, making a point to jump over all the cracks.
Theo and I laugh together.
I smile at Francesca, and take one of her long, diligently braided pigtails. "Your hair looks very nice today."
"Thank you. Tanner did it this morning while I was solving an equation."
I cock my head. "Tanner? Like. . .him?"
I point.
Francesca nods. "I'm real proud of him."
I roll my eyes. "He needs Theo in his life—a good male influence."
I hear her almost scoff, but she nods politely.
As we pass the slums, she waves to her other best friend Mason Skillings.
I suppose now is the time to introduce you to my worst enemy: Mason Skillings. He plays the sax on an old rental from school, and he's good. . .but more of a pesky mosquito than anything else. He glares at me, and appears sympathetic toward Francesca.
Then he disappears to the square, and we arrive there soon enough.
Theo meets up with me again, and Francesca talks to her bum friends. We hug.
"Remember," Theo says, "smile pretty for the cameras—when you get picked!" We both laugh. "Yeah right!"
I love to look at the people from the Capitol. Some of them are creepy, but a lot know how to show off their wealth.
I admire my fingernails during the stupid video. I'm grinning at my beautiful thumbnail when I hear something that sends a chill up my spine:
"Nathalia Campbell!"
I look up. People have started to make a pathway.
Something's messed up here. I haven't taken one tessy–thing in my whole life; it should be some poor girl, not me!
I find Theo—he'll know how I can get out of this. He's staring intently at his shoes. It's then I remember what he said: smile pretty. So I do, even though my eyes are fixated on my brother.
I step up to my place finally, and zone out a little into a daydream. The only thing I notice about my competition is that he'll be no match for me.
Before I know it, I'm dragged into the Justice Building. I think I see tears in Theo's eyes.
...
I sit on the train, burying my head in my knees.
"Sit up, now!" Our escort Candy pats me on the back.
"NO!"
I don't ever want to see a Capitol person's ugly face again.
The sickly sweet smell of candied apples drifts into my nose, and I make a face. Luckily, she can't see my hate.
The boy from my district hasn't said a word.
I'm used to Theo and all of our friends being there for me when I cry. I never really cried unless I wanted attention, and thought he was being treated better than I was. I can't believe we're miles apart.
So this is what it feels like to cry real tears? Well, I hate it.
WHY WON'T ANYONE COMFORT ME?
I try to get myself together, and when I finally stop screaming I look out the window.
I hear Candy's voice. "Oh, Natalie!"
"It's. Nathalia," I say through gritted teeth. "Not. Natalie."
"Yes, yes, now come on!"
I squeeze the saxophone mouthpiece in my palm. "Where?"
"We're arriving in the Capitol!"
Before the reaping, I think I would have been excited to see it.
"Come on, Nathalia." One of the victors (I don't know which one) guides me. I feel sick to my stomach.
Candy squeals, "Isn't this great?"
I only have one freedom left, and I use it. "No."
"Lighten up, Natalie!"
I growl, and a victor (who I think is Bolt) squeezes my shoulder. I let out an angry breath.
...
Bolt Huxley, 16 ~ District 3 Male
Shaphire15
I wake up, sweating with fear. Just like the year before this, and the year before that, and the year before that. The reaping has come.
I drag myself out of bed. The only part I enjoy is that I get a full day with no one around. If I get to the district fence quickly, I can draw the sunrise; I rarely get up early enough, and it would be the best reaping gift I can give my mother. She loves sunrises.
In fact, I might even see if Decius has any coloured crayons. I'm sure he'd be willing to give them to me, as he is one of the only people in this damned district who enjoys art.
I scribble a note, then get ready and head out to the square, seeing a district asleep. I soon spot Decius due to his grim Peacekeeper's outfit.
"Hey, boyo," he says as I approach.
"Hey," I reply.
"So, what do you need?"
"Have you got any coloured crayons or the like?"
"You're in luck, the Capitol sent them. Poor deluded education diplomats think you lot love to colour in your diagrams."
"I'll trade you for them."
"You can have them for free. On a day like this, everyone deserves a little joy."
I gratefully take the crayons, and sprint to my maple tree. Soon, I have scaled it and begun to sketch out the skyline.
I am done with the skyline, and working on the trees. After that, the streaks of colours that adorn them, turning the place from beautiful to unbelievably stunning. I can see why Mother loves this so much.
When I finish, the sunrise is long gone, and I'm hoping I've truly captured the awe–inspiring majesty of all the yellows and reds, turning the greens richer, the blues lighter, and the browns deeper. I look at the sun and judge it to be nine o'clock; I've been here for nearly three hours.
I slide down from the tree and walk home.
I present the picture to my parents. They thank me, but I see how tense they are. I'm an only child; I've heard whispered exchanges between them—something's happened, meaning they will struggle to ever conceive again. The reaping probably scares them more than me.
...
As we line up in the square, I sweat, begging not to be stolen away. Not to become a pawn in the Capitol's sadistic Games.
"Ladies first!" the stupid escort (I can't quite bring her name to the forefront) says, with a spring in her step. That sick cow. All she wants is to see another twenty–three people die bloodily and painfully. If you gave me anything I could use (so probably a sharpened pencil), I would probably hurt her. I would.
Or at least I tell myself that, but of course, let's face it: I have neither the nerve nor the skill. She could beat me—a woman that wants for nothing and has no idea how to survive.
She pulls a piece of paper from the reaping ball.
"Nathalia—" (If this is the Nathalia I think it is, Miss Snarky is in for a shock.) "—Campbell!" (Well, she won't be happy.)
The camera cuts to her, the picture of shock, as she's ushered forward by Peacekeepers. Anything to keep them rolling, huh?
"Now for the gentlemen."
I clench my fists, the old anxiety returning. It takes two words, three syllables, to seal my fate.
"Bolt—" (Okay, no need to panic. Bolt is in no way a rare name. Even one of our victors is named Bolt.) "—Huxley!" (Balls.)
I have to be within five metres of bloody Campbell. If nothing else, I wish to die after her. She annoys me so much that her having anything on me leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
I step up and shake her hand, giving her a death stare to make sure she knows there's no chance of any sort of friendliness towards her. Like she'd want any. After all, she's always looked down on me because I'm not 'normal'—because I'm poor, and I stand out. She looks more like someone from District 1, and the boys talk about her all day. Seeing why I stay away from everyone yet?
...
On the train, I remember the emotionally charged moments in the Justice Building. I want to tell someone, and Beetee seems a good option. When he comes into my room to discuss plans, I spill all my worries: that my family will be broken, that I'll never see them again. That our goodbyes were just tears. He seems sympathetic, but tells me to put it to the back of my mind.
I try to, heading out of the room for lunch, most of which I spend pointedly ignoring Nathalia whilst trying not to overdo it on the many rich delicacies. The meal of a condemned person, at least if you live in a district.
In the Capitol all sustenance is provided. Money almost appears out of nowhere, and most of their lives are spent watching the Hunger Games, then watching replays once it's over, drooling over the Victory Tour, and desperately trying to get a victor to love them.
Bolt Sullivan has been vainly trying to spark a conversation, but my mood is as frosty as my stance. I want to go there, learn some skills, pick a strategy, and possibly try to make an alliance. The faster I get home—no matter how unlikely it is—the better.
Dinner proceeds in the same way. Before I know it, night has fallen, and it's time to settle down for sleep.
I dream of previous Hunger Games. Of Beetee electrocuting the other tributes, their faces contorted in agony. I could never do that. I'm not a natural at electronics like every other denizen of 3. I'm sure I could have gotten a job drawing diagrams—boring menial work, but work all the same.
...
We are nearly at the Capitol when I wake up, so I quickly dress and put on my lucky charm: a pencil tied to a string around my neck. It used to be sharp, but I blunted it to prevent it from being confiscated as a weapon.
Nathalia really plays it up as we pull in, fluttering her eyelashes to try and win sponsors. I feel like being sick, it's that ridiculous. I suppose it's a legitimate strategy—while I've never looked at her like that, boys do say she's pretty, and the only way she'll ever win is with sponsors.
She doesn't know how to ration or be hungry, hates nature, simply can't survive without money and civilisation.
