The Fight Is In Your Blood
.: Reapings III :.
... From The Point Of View Of Ceremonial Claudia Crossbrooke, Master Of Ceremonies, Panem's Second Class ...
I know I said this already, but the Districts after Four are always boring. I'll admit that we did have some surprises with the volunteering of Crest, Heidi's mystery, Tomer's attempt to run, and the clear strength of Giovani. But there is no way we can have more interesting outlying tributes. It's simply against the laws of the Hunger Games.
My curiosity is eating away at me, begging me to jump onto the stage and demand that the District Nine Reapings begin immediately. But Caesar is still out there, commercials are still playing, and I'm supposed to be using this time to calm down. Unfortunately, that's a little bit difficult when the damn shrink is trying to psychoanalyze me as I run through my lines.
"Ceremonial Crossbrooke, how does it feel to stand onstage in front of thousands of Capitol citizens, presenting them to the tributes of this year's Hunger Games? Do you feel happy, or anxious, or even guilty on behalf of the pain we are forcing these children through?"
(First of all, I'm pretty sure that sentence was grammatically incorrect in about a dozen ways. But even if it wasn't, the man's voice makes me want to stab myself. Just like the District Six girl last year, after she pushed her ally off a cliff. Such ridiculous logic, honestly. If she was planning on killing herself the entire time, why murder her friend?)
"I guess I'm . . . happy," I reply, hoping that it isn't a bad answer. There's no way I can stand five more minutes of this crap.
He scrutinizes me. "But Ceremonial Crossbrooke, are you positive that you feel no remorse for the pageant that you are endorsing?"
Shit, I got it wrong. "With all respect, Sir Trad, this is my job. I enjoy getting to know the tributes personally, I appreciate cheering and applause, and I absolutely love making predictions concerning these young individuals. It's fun, if you understand what that means. But you probably don't."
And with that, I turn on my heel and march towards my stylist. I need her to coif my hair; I have a gut feeling that the long pink waves are frizzing. There's not much to do after my hair is woven into an elegant braid except watch Caesar. He snaps his fingers at the end of a joke, causing the crowd to dissolve into laughter. I can't hear a thing he's saying, but he has them enthralled. He doesn't know how easy he has it. I had to learn charisma. That bastard was born with it.
But I say that affectionately.
Finally, I am pushed onto the stage, and District Nine's square appears immediately. I guess the rest of the Capitol is getting bored too.
Nine has a surprisingly bright plaza; the sun beats down on the cobblestones, which are surrounded by flaming red silos and barns. Even through the speakers, I can hear the muted buzzing of the grinding mills. I can't believe that they don't have the respect to turn them off on Reaping Day.
Their escort is the opposite: Simonlea Caralaeous is strict, punctual, and clad in a dark but quite fashionable pantsuit. And she gets straight down to business. "Hello, District Nine. I'm glad that I have the opportunity to see you again. For the first tribute. Bianca Saunders."
Silently, the other children back away from a fifteen-year-old. Her fair skin is tinged with green. Just as the Peacekeepers step forward to walk her to the platform, she retches violently. Instinctively, I jump backwards, even though I am hundreds of miles away. The idea of vomit sickens me. As I shudder, my audience laughs.
"Are you alright?" Simonlea asks distastefully, as though she doesn't particularly care.
Bianca slumps, muttering, "Fine, thank you."
The escort nods sharply. "That's good to hear. The second tribute this year is Milo Fae. Unless someone would like to volunteer."
The kids shake their heads emphatically as a boy appears in the aisle. But instead of walking, he stands stock still, frozen in his tracks. After a few moments, he manages to pull himself together and make his way to the stage. His smile is desperate, but at least it's there. "Milo Fae."
"We know who you are, thank you," Simonlea quips. "Very well, District Nine, no volunteers?" She pauses. "Fine. Here are the tributes that will represent all of you in the Sixty-Ninth annual Hunger Games: Bianca Saunders and Milo Fae."
The studio audience is shrugging, not paying attention. I catch a few people examining their fingernails, including Speaker Kahle Circe (who, as a High Senator, should really pretend to be more attentive). An excellent announcer — such as Caesar Flickerman — would find something to comment on. But I don't know what to say.
"District Ten is here!" I chirp instead. "Do you think these ones will be special?"
Not one person makes a noise. It isn't surprising. They're tired of sitting all day, and no one cares about this District. Ten traditionally provides tributes who are obnoxiously egoistic; then, they die blandly in the Bloodbath.
Relavi Yavack is a former Master of Forces. (Then he broke his humerus, ripping it apart so badly that it was amputated and replaced with a prosthetic. It's almost impossible to tell his the real and artificial arms apart, though.) Anyway, he never lost his militant persona. He is famous for his booming pep talks and painful slaps on the back.
"District Ten!" is his salutation as he marches onstage. Then he turns exactly ninety degrees, faces the microphone, plucks it off the stand, tests it, and nods firmly. "At ease, potential tributes. Enjoy this wonderful day." He extends his arm, bends it, chooses a slip with two fingers, and unfolds it very carefully. "Our female offering is Gypsy Vanner. Present yourself immediately, cadet."
Professionally, she complies. Titian waves swinging over her shoulders and dark blue eyes fiery, she stalks up to the stage. When a girl from the pen in front of her tries to block Gypsy's way, the tribute kicks her. My mouth forms a circle; that was violent! When she arrives next to Relavi, she fixes the gathered families with a hard look. The unsaid words hang in the air: I'm going to win this.
The escort clears his throat, then looks ashamed of himself for uttering the noise. To hide his reddening face, he digs in the other bowl. "And our male offering is Zayn Abadi. Come up right now, young man."
He's slower than Gypsy, but his movement is steady. He's on the third step when a panicked expression crosses his face. He halts for a few seconds, then whips around and races away. I don't know what he's trying to accomplish; only one tribute has ever succeeded in evading the Peacekeepers during the Reaping. The twelve-year-old was found, tortured, and executed publicly. That's what he gets for trying to evade the Capitol!
The Peacekeepers guarding the lines snap to attention, forming a line to block Zayn. He freezes, then bursts into tears. Almost gently, a white-suited individual leads him up the platform and into the Justice Building, followed by Relavi and the girl.
"Another runaway!" I squawk. After a humiliating coughing fit, during which an Avox provides me with a glass of water that slips through my fingers and shatters (ze cleans it up), I'm good to go. "Do you think he'll become friends with Tomer, or even allies?"
The crowd claps for the first time since I walked back on. I'll make sure I point out in their interviews that they'd do better if they teamed up; I'm always here to help!
"What do you think at the moment: District Nine or Ten?"
Much less than half of the audience chants their support for the peaceful kids from the grain District, and the rest scream about Ten. This is typical: the pacifists prefer the quiet tributes and everyone normal roots for the feisty ones.
Eleven takes awhile to flash onscreen, which isn't astounding. Almost every year, the rebels make some sort of scene before the Reapings. At some point, President Snow realized that displaying the resulting scuffle between the rebels and the Peacekeepers on live television only convinced other rebel Districts — Three, Seven, and Ten — to follow Eleven's suit. So now the rebels are simply executed before the feed begins. (You'd think they'd just stop acting like imbeciles; they'll never win.)
Sure enough, the projection flickers as District Eleven's square is displayed. The people are quiet, almost grim. No one talks, moves, or utters a peep. It's as though they're all made of wax. The feed goes black, then is restored in full color.
"That took you long enough, President Snow." I roll my eyes, and the throng snickers appreciatively, but they don't laugh the way they do with Caesar. I don't get it.
Eleven's escort is Melananai Kerviousgi, and she feels for her District, probably because they look very similar. Melananai has beautiful bronze skin, an Afro of black curls, and wide dark eyes. She's kind and charismatic and quite popular in the Capitol; I'd give a lot to be friends with her, even though I have the higher status.
But I don't want to be acquainted with her at the moment. The frown on her face signals her displeasure at the way the people of District Eleven have just been treated. And as a Capitolite, she should never have empathy for the Districts, escort or not. I wouldn't be surprised if President Snow found a creative way to punish her for that transgression.
She selects a piece of paper, appearing pained as she opens it. "Maeve Everts," she reads with a sad smile. "Child, walk over here."
The crowd parts to reveal her, a fourteen-year-old dressed in a clean pink dress and work boots. A black shawl is tucked around her shoulders. We all watch as she turns on her heel to run, but a Peacekeeper firmly starts towards her, and that's all it takes for her to face the right way and walk up to the stage.
Melananai offers her an enormous hug, which the tribute melts into, murmuring, "Thank you, ma'am."
"It's alright, honey." The escort plants a kiss on the top of Maeve's head before choosing a male. "Gareth Hunsaven. Come on up to me."
With a resigned shrug and nod, a man winds his way carefully through his pen and to the podium. He backs away from Melananai's arms, but replies when she asks, "How are you feeling, hon?"
He takes the mic, saying slowly, "I hate that this had to happen, but someone must be Reaped every year, and I'm glad it was me instead of the little ones."
The escort places her hand on her heart. "That's wonderful, Gareth, truly."
I make sure that the screen is off before exclaiming, "What a noble tribute! Do you admire his bravery, y'all?"
Nobody seems to care at this point. Most of the children are wriggling in their chairs (the consequence of ingesting too many sweets), while others are snoozing in their parents' laps. Even young Celestia Snow, up in the President's box, kicks the back of her older sister's chair and amuses herself with a tablet.
"I said, do you admire his bravery?"
"Sure!" a teenager yells back, and his friends dissolve into fits of giggles.
Even a few years ago, I would have been insulted by their inattention. I would have taken their apathy as a personal slight, and probably cried onstage. Yes, that's what I want to do now, but I'm won't. (See, Dad, I have grown up.)
Instead, I lean into the microphone. "District Twelve's turn! And then you'll all receive your complimentary gift bags and you can go home!"
That brings a scattered cheer. I watch a child crawl under his seat and across the room. His snoozing parent doesn't even notice that kir toddler has squirmed out of kir arms. I could say something, but what's the point? No one's listening to me anyway.
When District Twelve is shown onscreen, there isn't one bit of applause. The kids grouped in their pens look like moping, malnourished, drab sheep. The only spot of color in the place is Talain Fereloe. Xe is clad as usual in neon green leggings, a white tank top with feathers sprouting from the shoulders, and a freshly dyed cherry-red mohawk. I watch as she crosses the platform and stops in front of the two bowls.
"Well, it's ladies first." She nods affirmatively and digs in the container until she finds a slip that she is comfortable with. "Lexia Golder!"
There is a bit of commotion in the sixteen-year-old pen. The camera zooms in, and I see a girl who I presume is Lexia carefully moving through the other teens, excusing herself repeatedly so as not to step on anyone's feet. When she finally reaches the aisle, she doesn't appear to have any qualms about ascending the steps to the stage. "I'm Lexia," she says with a smile, waving. Nobody in District Twelve or in my studio responds.
Talain purses her lips and exhales when the female is finished. Then she pinches a second paper and recites, "Galious Whit."
It takes a few minutes, but a boy finally makes his way up to the platform. His eyes are crinkled, his teeth clamped down on his tongue, his skin pasty. He's engaged in the same pastime as me: making a valiant effort not to weep in front of the entire nation. As I watch him succeed, two tears escape me. Shit.
I turn away from the audience, breathing deeply until I'm in control. In the background, I hear Talain requesting that Galious speak about himself, but he declines.
"District Twelve's tributes!" the escort announces, and the Reapings are finally over.
"How do you feel?" I inquire of the audience, relieved that my voice is quite steady. "What are your thoughts about alliances? Who will you be betting on, or sponsoring? Which District has the most promise?" I flip the mic to a gaggle of girls in the center of their row. They argue over who will speak for a while before one with curled black hair and enhanced violet irises stands up.
"I think that Districts One, Two, and Four will be an incredible group this year," she answers smoothly. "And if Aria and that District Eight boy hit it off, then maybe he can join too!"
"What about your favorite District, sweetheart?" I prompt.
She looks appalled that I would even ask. "Two, of course! What else would it be?"
Personally, I detest Two. They're much too brutal for me, but I guess that appeals to some people. "Alright, pass it on," I urge, and to the annoyance of her friends, she hands it to the boy behind her, who winks.
"I agree with Treatia," he adds. "The One-Two-Four pack will be outstanding. There's nothing they're missing this year, and Trilliant's charisma will just add to their power. Unstoppable."
I nod, then gesture towards a young lady a few seats to his left. Reluctantly, he hands over the microphone, and she gets to her feet.
"I'd like to see an alliance with the girls from Seven and Twelve," she says. "Obviously there will be the usual group, but there can be more allies too! They seem like they'd work well together. I love District Seven, and I want them to win this year!"
Whistles and stomps echo through the studio as others agree; after the usual obsession with Districts One, Two, and Four, Seven is usually quite popular.
"Alright, hon, I'm glad to hear it!" I grin at her, then shout, "Who wants to be the last to share?"
Finally they respond with the cacophony that I've been waiting for. One man in the back shouts himself hoarse and starts pumping his fists. Then he climbs onto his chair, flips off, and almost breaks his neck. "I think we've found our winner!" I proclaim quickly, before anyone else decides to pull their own stunts. "What is your name?"
He puffs out his chest. "I am High Master Brass Kendelle, and I believe that District Four has it in the bag this year."
An enormous roar explodes, and he beams as people cheer for him.
"Thank you for telling us, High Master Kendelle. I'm honored to hear your opinion. Pass the mic back, if you would."
By the time it's in my hand, twenty minutes have passed.
"Thank you for attending the Sixty-Ninth annual Reapings, and have a fabulous night! I heart y'all!" I blow kisses as they pick up their bags and depart. When the last person has left, I slump into a chair and run my hand over my face. These are getting more and more tiring, but at least it's done.
Now the Games will really begin.
I hope you enjoyed the last Reaping chapter! I know you might be wondering why the District sections are getting shorter: it's because there isn't as much to say about the outlying Districts, and because the Capitol doesn't care about them. This is in Claudia's point of view, and she doesn't give any craps about the outliers, as you can presumably tell.
Anyway, the next couple of chapters will be goodbyes and train rides, and then it'll begin. But first, I need you to answer all these questions. It's mandatory if you want me to focus on your character at all in the next couple of chapters. And even if you don't have a tribute, tell me anyway!
Which District is your favorite? Which District do you think has the most chance of winning? Which District is your least favorite? Which District do you think has the least chance of winning? Which tribute is your favorite? Which tribute do you think has the most chance of winning? Which tribute is your least favorite? Which tribute do you think has the least chance of winning? What alliances do you want to see? And what are your thoughts overall?
The next chapter might take a bit longer than usual to post because I need to set up a story chart now.
Joyana
P.S. If I humbly asked to hit one hundred reviews with this chapter, could you make that happen?