The Reaping: District One

Only the Reapings and Games will be this in-depth. I wanted to establish character histories.

Julleus Knight

When my father calls me from the bottom floor of our mansion, I rise out of bed automatically. I did not sleep the night before and am not tired now, because today is my day.

I ruffle a hand through my unruly golden hair, willing it to lie flat for at least today. I do not anticipate much, but I still feel like I need to make the effort. At least my outfit won't be lacking.

For the occasion, I pull an outfit out of my closet that I've never had the opportunity to wear before—a pair of black satin slacks, and a soft cashmere sweater that's the same color as the amber rings in my hazel eyes. I complete the outfit with a pair of square-toed dress shoes before examining myself in the mirror in my bedroom.

I see a victor in the reflective glass, and can't help the grin that results. My well-muscled body is intimidating, but not grotesque like some of the largest tributes can be, and combined with my winning smile I present an attractive picture. And while being good looking can't win you the Hunger Games, it certainly can help.

I descend two flights of stairs to meet my father and older brother in the kitchen. They are wearing identical white uniforms, because the only people who work the day of the Reaping are the peacekeepers. They look at me in approval, because they know what I've been thinking of all night. This is my day.

This is the day that I volunteer as a tribute, and this is the year that I become the victor of the 60th Hunger Games.

My father is lifting a forkful of salmon—a special kind of fish that can only be imported from the capitol—to his mouth, but places his flatware down at the sight of me in my Reaping outfit.

"Your hair could use some work," he says gruffly, but not unkindly. I can tell that he is being hypercritical because he is nervous. I've waited so long to volunteer as a tribute, that this is my second-to-last last chance to get in the games. He was so disappointed when my older brother, James, was not chosen. Of course James volunteered, but there were so many that year that there was a mad dash for the stage, and James is no runner. Instead, James followed in my father's footsteps and donned the white uniform.

After speaking with several of my training buddies, I learned that no one is planning to volunteer this year. Of course, this could change in the heat of the moment, but I'll still have the advantage of premeditation.

"You know as well as I do that that won't happen," I tell him dismissively. It's not like the unkempt curls detract from my appearance. In fact, several girls that I train with have had nothing but nice things to say about my blond locks.

My father just grunts in response, and James chuckles quietly before returning to his breakfast. In the silence, I pull out a chair by its wrought-iron back and slump into it. Before me is a plate of Salmon, poached eggs, and toast with almond butter. It's surprisingly decadent, and I know that I shouldn't let it go to waste, but I don't think that my stomach will accept the food.

I sit, staring at my plate, gently poking the giving surface of my eggs with the tines of my fork, and eventually James notices. His boot connects with my shin under the table, and I glare at him after letting out a barely stifled groan.

"Dad would never forgive you if you sent me into the arena with an injury," I say, drawing my father's attention. He narrows his sharp eyes at my brother before turning them to me. I know that I am in more trouble than my brother when he sees my full plate.

"Just because you're big doesn't mean you can afford to skip meals. Especially now," he grumbles at me, and I take a big bite of my toast because disappointing my father is the last thing that I want to do. He nods and breaks his stare to clean up the plates. He takes mine in spite of the concerns he has about my caloric intake, but he tells me that the bread and almond butter form a complete protein, and on its own, it's not a bad meal.

"Right," I say through a mouthful of bread. My stomach gurgles disconcertingly in response to the incoming food, but I suppress the sensation.

"Well, let's go," my father says without preamble. He is halfway to the door before me or James is out of our seats, and he busies himself by fastening his badge while he's waiting.

This badge, the one that sets him up on a pedestal as Head Peacekeeper, is the object of my father's pride and joy. This is not to say that he doesn't love his children, but a small part of me hopes that he will be just as eager to display me to the citizens of district one as he is to show his badge.

Walking to the Justice Building is uneventful, and my family wordlessly diverges as we go to our posts. My father and brother are to watch the crowd for stragglers, and I am to stand in waiting with the rest of the eighteen year olds eligible for the Reaping.

"Titis!" I cry out when I spot my training partner in the crowd. He catches my eye and grins, forming a space in the sea of people for me to stand.

"How are you feeling, Julleus?" he asks nonchalantly. He is not considering volunteering, and I can't help but be envious. His parents don't love him any less for not competing in the games. But I know I would be forever diminished in my father's eyes if I didn't. The same way James is.

The District One escort, Lillaya Hirksy is sporting swirling tattoos this year. She earns tremendous applause from those gathered in the square.

The next moments pass for me almost instantaneously. A girl is Reaped, and hurries up to the stage before anyone else can volunteer. She breezily takes her place beside Lillaya and stares into the crowd, smiling as though she had planned to volunteer the whole time.

I do not hear the name of the male tribute who is reaped, and call out "I volunteer," before anyone else has time to think. I run up to the stage, because I can hear bustling around me that means others are preparing to follow my lead, but I climb the stairs before any of the others get the words out.

Now that I am onstage, I realize that the female tribute is slender, with little muscle mass compared to the dozens of girls who where probably anxious to volunteer themselves. This bodes well for my chances in the arena, but I don't completely count her out because she is possibly the most gorgeous being I've ever seen. I'm not stupid enough to fall for her, but that isn't to say she won't be good for a few donations in the arena.

As our aging mayor reads the treaty of treason, I smile complacently at the cameras, and try to build up my own confidence, because the second I take the girl tribute's hand to shake I realize two very important things.

1. I don't want to kill anyone.

2. I don't want to die.

Austre Siren

The day of the Reaping I am the first person in my house who is awake. I did manage to sleep for about five hours, but at half past four in the morning I am jolted awake by a nightmare that I don't remember, and I can tell from my galloping heart rate that I will not be going back to bed any time soon.

I quickly peel off my sweaty sleep clothes and put on one of my training outfits. True, I don't plan on volunteering today, but there's always the chance that I'll be reaped, and I want to make sure that I have a nice tone to what muscles I do have.

I crawl down the stairs into my basement, where my family keeps the training equipment. I breeze past the various ropes we have to practice knots, because who needs them? Instead, I warm up by jogging with a five pound weight in each hand. The physical exertion replaces whatever tension was left in my body from my dream, and I revel in the fluidity of motion.

After I've broken a light sweat, I move on to the various weapons we have lined up against the wall. I pick up a long, slender sword, and go through several of the most basic positions before graduating to more complicated maneuvers. It would be easier if I had a sparring partner, but I do well combating my invisible opponent.

The sword has never been my favorite, so I return it to its place after a relatively short amount of time. It's a good skill to have, because swords are almost always guaranteed to be in the arena, but my true specialties lie in throwing knives and javelins.

We have three javelins, in theory one for each child, but I'm the only one in my family that ever took to them, so I'm rather possessive of them.

I take one in my left hand, and one in my right. I heft the one in my right hand into the nearest dummy to me—twenty feet away—and after I'm sure that it's secured itself in the gut of its victim, I launch the other javelin that I'm holding into the next closest dummy, which is fifty feet away.

I hear footsteps on the stairs, and as I reach out for the final javelin, I hear a man's voice bark out, "Paws off my javelin, Austre!"

"Like you need it anymore," I snap at him. To prove my point, I send the weapon directly into the head of the furthest dummy—100 feet.

"Just because I'm not going into the arena doesn't mean I want you putting your grimy hands all over my weapons," my brother, Gallent, responds. Outwardly, he sounds downright pissed, but he's wearing a broad grin, so I know he's only kidding. He and I both know it would be collecting dust if I didn't use it.

"Need a sparring partner?" he asks me, suddenly pleasant. He picks up a staff, but I shake my head.

"What time is it?"

"Six," he says, placing the staff back to the rack he took it from.

"I'm going to go get dressed for the Reaping," I say, wiping my sweaty blond hair away from my face. I need to shower and make myself presentable.

"You're sure you don't want to do any weight training, pipsqueak?" he teases me. Ever since it became obvious that I'd never be able to put on the same bulk as the other girls my age, this has been his nickname for me, but I don't really mind. My body is streamlined, though. The muscles that are there are powerful. Besides, I'm just vain enough to be glad that I don't have the bulging biceps of other girls my age, because I don't think they're attractive at all.

"No, I have to go doll myself up," I respond, and slink past him.

My first goal is a shower, and I wash the sticky sweat off of my body. I dress myself in an ethereal-looking white dress and step into an intimidatingly tall pair of heels. It took me a few years to learn how to maintain my graceful gait in shoes this tall, but the confidence they give me is well worth it.

I give myself a one-over in the mirror. I really am gorgeous. My blond hair covers my bare shoulders, and my blue eyes sparkle.

When my sister walks into the room, the smile that I wear for the mirror transforms into a scowl.

"What?" I spit at her before she has the chance to open her mouth.

"We need to get to the square for the reaping. Mom and Dad told me to get you," she mutters sullenly.

Without speaking another word to her, I meet my parents on our first floor. My sister follows me, but it's only because she has to. Demure tries, and always has, to one-up me at everything we do. She's always competed against me for our parents attention, and she never fails to bring up the fact that, even though she's four years younger, she's much bigger than I am. It doesn't really matter that much, anyway. I can best her at any weapon easily.

"Are you ready yet, dear?" My mother asks sweetly.

"Yes," I say, sugarcoating my voice because I just know that it's driving Demure up a wall.

"Then let's get going," my father says, patting my shoulder affectionately while guiding me out the door.

I walk at a brisk pace to the square, which is only a short walk from my house. I distance myself from the rest of my family and make a beeline for the eighteens, where my best friends Lilac and Caine are waiting for me.

"Austre, you look so pretty!" Caine gushes as she hugs me in greeting.

"Thank you," I purr. Caine and Lilac tend to act as my personal confidence buoys. They always make sure I know just how lovely I am.

"Do you know who's volunteering this year?" Lilac asks me. I'm not sure, so I shake my head no.

"So there's an open field?" she asks, her eyes glinting with excitement.

"I'll fight you for it," I say quietly, because I'm almost entirely serious. I know that I love Lilac and Caine more than any one else but my brother, but who could deny the Capitol a tribute as pretty as me?

I'm just thinking that maybe I will volunteer this year when the inane escort calls out my name.

Perfect.

I can only just keep myself from sprinting as I take to the stage. This couldn't have gone any better, and the smile on my face is entirely genuine.

The woman pulls a name out of the boys' reaping bowl, but a boy I recognize as the Head Peacekeeper's younger son volunteers before she's entirely done reading the name.

I take a break from seducing the masses and appraise my fellow tribute. He's got quite a mop of hair, but otherwise he's nearly as attractive as me. I'm glad. I've heard other girls my age fawning over him, but I'd never seen him up close until now. He'll be a good district partner, for as long as I keep him alive.

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Following the fall of the Roman Empire, the Mediterranean became dominated by Arabic traders. They had boats that were more stable, and faster than any contemporaries, but were smaller than most others. What was the name of these boats?