A Very Large Shadow
"Power is a shadow on the wall. Yet shadows can kill. And ofttimes a very small man can cast a very large shadow."
Sienna Poplar, 18
District Nine
They still think this is going to work. The Capitol, the president, the cameramen who capture our faces as we enter the square. They still think their Games will go exactly as planned – that they can just throw a bunch of teenagers into an arena and expect them to kill each other.
Some of them might, of course. The Capitol loyalists and the rebels – they'll probably go after each other. But once it's down to one group or the other – or those who didn't take a side – how do they expect to force them to fight? Killing soldiers from the other side of the war is one thing, but expecting regular teenagers to just start killing each other for their entertainment? Do they really think it's going to happen?
Not that the Capitol will simply let them go, of course. They'll probably shoot all of them – or all but one, if they want to pretend that someone won. And the districts – does the Capitol really think the districts will stand for this? No, one or two years of this, and people will decide they can't take it anymore, and the rebellion will rise up again.
And this time, I'll fight. When the war began, my parents and two older brothers immediately joined up with the rebels. I begged them to let me go with them, but they insisted that someone had to stay home and take care of my younger sisters and brother. But they're older now. If – no, when – the fighting begins again, Asher can take care of the others. He's fourteen now – almost as old as I was when the war began. Kauri's twelve, and even little Holli is ten now – practically old enough to take care of herself for a little while.
Unfortunately, that means Asher and Kauri are also old enough for this reaping, which doesn't seem quite fair. Who decided that it would be a good idea to pit twelve-year-olds against eighteen-year-olds? Kauri's big for her age, but, still, in a fight with seventeen and eighteen-year-olds, she wouldn't stand much of a chance.
I suppose that's why their names are in the bowl fewer times. One slip for twelve-year-olds, they said. Two for thirteen-year-olds, three for fourteen-year-olds. Which means my name is in the bowl seven times – more than both Asher and Kauri's combined. So they'll probably choose older children for their tributes. But, still, even the possibility that Asher or Kauri might be chosen … well, it scares the hell out of me.
I'm scared for myself, too, of course. But I'd have a better chance than they would. The little spare time I've had since the war ended has been dedicated to practicing with any sort of weapon I can find, so that I can be ready when the fighting starts again. It's only a matter of time. They can't expect this to last. They can't expect us to simply accept it.
"Hello, District Nine!" I nearly jump as a voice rings through the square – a voice that belongs to a young woman onstage. She can't be much older than me – in her early twenties, maybe. Her long, multi-colored hair – a light brown at the top, and rainbow-colored from about halfway down – is pulled back in ponytail, her outfit closer to a uniform than anything. "I'm Commander Phoenix LaVelle, and I could not be prouder to be standing here! Here, in just a moment, we'll be selecting our tributes for the First Annual Hunger Games! Let's hear it!"
Applause – piped in from the speakers that surround the square – fills the air. Kauri grips my hand tightly as Phoenix makes her way to the first bowl. "It's okay," I whisper. "It'll be all right."
Phoenix draws a slip of paper, and we all hold our breaths as she unfolds it. "And our first lucky tribute is … Sienna Poplar!"
Kauri's grip tightens, and even Asher lets out a gasp. "No, don't," Kauri whispers, but the Peacekeepers are already making their way towards us. I quickly pry myself away from Kauri. There's no way I'm going to give the Peacekeepers an excuse to hurt her. I clench my fists tightly as I make my way to the stage, where Phoenix is waiting with a smile on her face.
"Fantastic!" she beams. "What a wonderful choice for District Nine." She quickly marches to the second bowl and reaches in. "And our male tribute this year is … Peter Eldamar!"
At least it's not Asher. But, as the crowd parts and the boy steps forward, my stomach churns. He can't be any older than my little brother. He's thirteen or fourteen, at the most, and he's shaking as the Peacekeepers come to get him. He starts walking before they can reach him, however, and as he makes his way to the stage, he starts to look a little less shaky. But still…
He's still trembling as he takes his place next to me. Still trying not to look afraid, even though he must be terrified. Hell, I'm terrified and I'm a good four or five years older than him. It's not fair, choosing him. It's not—
"Well, then, shakes hands," Phoenix grins, as if it's obvious that's what we're supposed to do. I hold out my hand, and Peter looks up at me, his dark brown eyes wide and frightened. Finally, he takes my hand, his own hand cold and clammy. I shake his hand firmly, then give it a gentle squeeze. It'll be all right, I want to say.
But it won't. It's not all right. None of this is all right. Peter – he's just a little kid. How can they expect him to kill anyone? How can they expect anyone to kill him?
It's not fair – none of it. I take Peter's hand as they lead us to the Justice Building. He squeezes my hand tightly, just like Asher or Kauri or Holli would. I squeeze back gently, reassuringly. It'll be all right.
Peter Eldamar, 13
District Nine
I've never felt bad about a lie before. During the war, lying was simply necessary to keep my family alive. Lying kept the Peacekeepers from suspecting anything. Lying kept both the rebels and the Capitol loyalists from realizing that the small hospital my mother had set up inside our house was actually treating patients from both sides of the war.
Sure, it was dangerous. Maybe it was even a bit scary. There were times when I had to think fast, times when I was certain someone was going to figure out what we were up to. But everything always turned out all right. And, in the end, I had no reason to believe it wouldn't. We just had to be quick enough, clever enough, resourceful enough, and everything would be okay.
And I was good at it. Probably better than most people would be comfortable admitting. But I never saw it as anything to be ashamed of. Some people are good at math. Some people are natural field workers. I've always been a good liar. And there were times when it was fun. Almost like a game.
That's the sort of game I'd be good at. But this … this is different. When we were trying to keep our movements secret from both sides of the war, there were lives at risk, yes. But, at the end of the day, our goal was to save lives. Lives from either side. The idea that we're about to be thrown into an arena to kill each other, instead … I don't know. Lying is one thing. Maybe I hurt some people's feelings along the way, but that's just about it. Certainly no one ever died because of anything I said.
But that will have to change, if I'm going to survive. And I don't know if I can do that. I don't even know if what I just told my family was true or not.
That's a strange feeling. You would think that, sometimes, the truth would be hard to keep track of. But it isn't, really. The important thing is keeping track of which versions of the truth you've told to which people. But the truth – the actual truth – I've never really had any doubt about what that was. We were saving lives. We were doing the right thing. No matter how many lies we had to tell to cover it up, that was the truth. What we were doing was right. It was good.
Now … I don't know. I don't know if I'll be able to keep the promise I just made to my family. They're already gone, of course. The Peacekeepers took them away quickly. But the words remain. Of course I'll be coming back.
Of course. As if it were obvious. As if, out of the twenty-four of us who are going into the Games, I'm the clear choice for a Victor. Of course I'll be the one to survive.
Maybe they even believed it. Maybe my parents want so badly for it to be true that they'll actually believe I have a chance. But do I? Against twenty-three other teenagers? The other tribute from Nine – the girl – she's older than me. Taller. Stronger. More capable. If the rest of the tributes are like her…
And why wouldn't they be? We were all expecting, when the rules were announced, that they would choose older teenagers. My name was only in the bowl twice. There were plenty of seventeen and eighteen year olds whose names were in there six or seven times. I had no reason to think they would choose me.
But they did. And there's no hiding from it now. No running, as much as I want to. I told my family I would be coming back. I promised. Lying never bothered me before, but this … this can't be a lie. I have to make this one come true. I have to.
"It's Peter, right?" The girl's voice surprises me. Her family is gone, too – the three younger children who came to say goodbye to her. Her brother and sisters, probably. But no parents. Are they dead? Captured? Does she even know?
No. No, I can't start doing that. Can't start making up stories about her – especially ones that might make me feel sorry for her. This is a fight to the death, after all, and she's … well, she's the competition. Isn't she?
I nod, anyway. "Peter Eldamar. What was your name?" I remember, of course. It's Sienna. One thing about being a good liar – always remember the details. But there's no reason she needs to know that.
Sure enough, she answers, "Sienna," as she sits down next to me. Close enough for me to see the wet spots on the shoulders of her dress where her siblings were crying. "Those were your parents?"
Obviously. "My aunt and uncle, actually," I lie. "My parents – they were killed in the war, along with my older sister." I shake my head. "It's funny. Her … her name was Sierra. Almost like yours." It's a lie, of course. But a harmless one. And if it earns me a little sympathy…
Sure enough, Sienna wraps an arm comfortingly around my shoulder. "Almost like mine," she agrees. "My parents died in the fighting, too – and my two older brothers. But my younger brother Asher … he's about your age."
"I thought he looked familiar." Another lie. District Nine is huge. I can't be expected to know every other boy around my age. Especially with a war going on. "I just wish we had met somewhere else."
"Me, too," Sienna agrees immediately, giving my shoulder a squeeze. She doesn't want to be here any more than I do. Who would? But being here with someone else … maybe it's not so bad.
Of course it is. Having company isn't going to fix anything. And it's certainly not going to change the fact that, in order for one of us to live, the other one has to die. Those were the rules. One Victor. Only one. It can't be both me and her.
But maybe it's too early to worry about that. Just because one of us is going to die doesn't mean that we have to be the ones to kill each other. She doesn't want to kill me – that much is obvious. And I certainly don't want to kill her. I don't want to kill anyone.
But I'll have to, if I want to come home. And I do want to come home. It's not perfect, but it's something, and something is always better than nothing. And that's the truth.
Elijah Maleri, 18
District Twelve
The square is already full of people by the time we get there. For a moment, I consider suggesting that we simply try to slip away quietly. There are so many people here already. Who's really going to notice that a few teenagers are missing from the crowd?
Unless, of course, one of us is chosen. It's not impossible, I suppose. My name is in the bowl seven times, like every other eighteen-year-old in the district. Just like Lenora, Killian, and Foran. My sister Ilene's name is in there five times. Five slips of paper. Seven slips of paper. It doesn't sound so bad – not when there are hundreds of slips of paper in the bowl onstage. Maybe thousands. What are the chances that they'll actually pick one of us?
In any case, it's only for one year – for the four of us who are eighteen, anyways. One year, and it'll be over. Just one reaping. Just one reaping to get through, and then we're safe from these "Hunger Games" forever. Just two names. They just need to pick two names.
The man onstage, however, looks like he'd rather pick another district entirely. As the five of us take our place with the other teenagers, he finally stands up and approaches the microphone. "Well, then, let's get this over with. I'm Grant Aquinas, and I'll be your escort this year."
This year. From the way he emphasizes the last two words, he doesn't expect to be in District Twelve long. Not that I blame him, I suppose. It's not exactly the best place to live. But it could be worse. Maybe District Twelve isn't much, but at least we're still alive here. Which is more than we can say for District Thirteen.
That's one thing the war taught me, I suppose. It could always be worse. No matter how bad things get, there's always something else out there waiting to make the nightmare even worse. And maybe that's a cynical way of looking at things, but it also taught me to appreciate the good things I do have. I have my sister. I have my friends. My parents are gone, but, well, it could always be worse.
"Let's start with the girls, then," Grant drones on as he makes his way to the first bowl. I glance over at Ilene. Lenora. Foran. As long as it's not one of them, then it's okay. Someone is going to be picked. Someone is going to die. But as long as it's not my sister or one of my friends…
Then what? Then I don't care? Maybe. It's not as if I want to see two kids from our district die. But so many people died in the war – including children – that it almost doesn't matter anymore, as long as it's not someone I care about. As long as it's not—
"Tullia Litvina!"
And it's not. The name isn't familiar at all, which isn't surprising once the crowd starts to part around the girl. She's younger than any of my friends – maybe twelve or thirteen. Short and thin, with black hair and grey eyes, she certainly wouldn't stand out in a crowd of Seam children. But among the others going into the Games … How many are really going to be her age? What sort of chance does she have?
From the look of her, she's thinking the same thing. As the crowd parts a little more and the Peacekeepers start to make their way towards her, her eyes dart from side to side. This way and that. Looking for something – someone, maybe – to rescue her.
But, when no one does, she bolts. It takes the Peacekeepers a moment to register what's going on, and, by that time, she's made it through about half the crowd. I can't help a smile as she keeps running, but it doesn't take the Peacekeepers long to catch her. She's kicking and screaming as they drag her to the stage, but, finally, one of them levels a gun at her head.
That calms her down, all right. She's twelve, not stupid. Given the choice between going into a fight to the death and being shot on the spot, even a slim chance is better than none. After a moment, the Peacekeeper lowers his gun, and she stays perfectly still. Obedient. But still trembling a little as Grant approaches the second bowl and draws a name. "Elijah Maleri!"
Shit. I didn't even have time to wish for it not to be me. Not that it would have done any good, of course. The Peacekeepers start making their way towards me almost immediately – maybe expecting me to run, too.
For a moment, I want to. For a moment, I almost wish we had tried to sneak away from the crowd earlier. That might have bought me a few more moments, at least. But they would have found me. There's nowhere to hide in District Twelve. Maybe it's better if I just start walking.
It's the guns that eventually make the decision for me – guns that are pointed not at me, but at my friends, standing around me. Maybe I have to go into the Games, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let them kill my friends because I was too scared to walk to the stage on my own. I take one step, then another, and, before I know it, I'm standing onstage next to the younger girl.
Grant says something I don't quite catch, and the girl holds out her hand. It takes me a moment to register what she wants. "Shake hands," Grant repeats, and I finally do. Such a pointless gesture. As if we're two equal competitors in this death match. As if she really stands a chance against a group of teenagers my age.
But does that mean that I actually have a chance? I hadn't really thought of it like that, when the Games were announced. I'd assumed – like so many of us – that they would choose soldiers. People who already knew how to fight. People who would have an advantage. But if the rest of them – the rest of the tributes – are normal teenagers like me…
Then what? Then I have a chance? A chance of winning? Of being able to kill all of them and come home? Maybe. Maybe there's a chance. It isn't much, but, right now, it's all I have. And maybe that's enough.
Tullia Litvina, 12
District Twelve
Running wasn't good enough. I wasn't fast enough to get away from them. I was so close – so close to the edge of the crowd – by the time they finally caught me. I was almost there.
Except that wouldn't really have done any good. Even if I'd managed to get out of the square and away from the Peacekeepers … then what? There were cameras watching the entire time. They would have been able to follow me. They would have found me, anyway. Nothing would actually have done any good.
Nothing ever does. I learned that during the war. When the rebellion began, my family immediately sided with the rebels. We thought what most of the rebels thought – that if we were determined enough, if we fought hard enough, we could actually make a difference. That we could change Panem for the better.
We were wrong. Wrong about everything. Maybe not wrong about the way things should be, but wrong to think that we had any chance of getting there.
And now we're paying the price. These Hunger Games – they're our own doing, in the end. People like may family, who thought we were going to overturn the Capitol – we ended up making things worse for everyone.
Everyone, yes, but especially the twenty-four of us, condemned to fight to the death for the Capitol's entertainment because we were stupid enough to think that anything was going to change. How many of us are paying the price for our parents' actions? How many of us were chosen specifically because we're related to rebels?
Not that I blame my parents. They didn't know. None of us did. How could we? But that's not going to save us from the consequences. It's not fair. It's not right. But nothing else is, either. So why should we expect this to be? Maybe this is just how the world works.
Finally, the door opens, and my family enters. I brush a few tears from my eyes, but it must be obvious that I've been crying. Neither of them say anything, though. Of course I was crying. Who wouldn't be? They just chose me for a fight to the death. Me! To fight against other teenagers, most of whom are going to be older. Stronger. What chance do I really have?
What chance to any of us have? In the end, only one of us is going to win. One out of twenty-four. Not good odds even under the best of circumstances, and I'm certainly not under the best of circumstances.
But maybe. Just maybe. Maybe if I'm clever enough. Maybe if I try hard enough. Maybe, just maybe, there's a chance.
I shake my head a little as my parents sit down next to me. That's the same sort of thinking that got them in trouble during the rebellion. Maybe there's a chance. Maybe things will work out.
But things never work out. That's just the way it is. Nothing is going to change.
Nothing is ever going to change.
My parents wrap their arms around me. Trying to comfort me. Trying to pretend – if only for a moment – that everything is all right. That it's going to be okay. That there's something – anything – they can do to keep me safe.
But there isn't. I'm not safe. I'm certainly not going to be safe in the Games. And maybe there's no point in pretending otherwise. No point in pretending to hope. Pretending that things will turn out. There's no point in lying to each other – or to ourselves.
So we say nothing. And maybe that's better. Maybe it's better to simply hold each other. To share one last moment together before…
Before the Peacekeepers come. Too soon, they open the door again, taking both my family and a group of teenagers who came to see the boy. One of them – maybe his sister – clings to him until the Peacekeepers come to tear her away. My parents, on the other hand, go quietly. They've learned.
Maybe they know. Maybe they've realized that it can't be a coincidence that I was chosen. That if they put up any sort of resistance, even the slim chance I have of coming out alive will disappear. If they want to have any hope of seeing me again, they have to cooperate.
Was that the real meaning behind the Games? It's no secret they were intended to keep rebels in line, but I assumed, like most people, that they would target people who were actively involved in the rebellion. Soldiers. Teenagers who ran errands for the rebellion, or maybe those who helped as medics. People who would actually stand a chance in a fight. People who could provide a bit of entertainment before their deaths.
I never stopped to consider that maybe … maybe it's even more frightening to choose people who aren't prepared. After three years of war, we're used to seeing soldiers fight for their lives. We're used to seeing people with at least some amount of training trying to kill each other. We're used to death. So simply killing twenty-three rebel soldiers … that wouldn't mean much. Not in the grand scheme of things.
But people like me. People who weren't involved in the fighting. People who just want to go back to a normal life. The idea that we could be chosen for the Games – that's even more terrifying. Even more of a display of the Capitol's power. Even more of a reminder of just how helpless we are. A reminder that, in the end, there's nothing we can do to stop them.
Man, reapings are tedious. Sorry this one took a while. But only two more reaping chapters to go!
