Rakhir's POV
Any other victory of mine might have been marred a bit by venomous words and an attitude like Ühel gave me, but this is by far my greatest, and I am determined not to let anything ruin it. Even now, almost a half-hour after I've won, people are still congratulating their newest Career. I've lost count of how many slaps on the back and words of praise I've gotten from what seems like the whole inhabitation of the prizefighting rings.
Arno and Fabron have taken the liberty of accepting the impromptu gifts I've received and storing them in my battered old sports bag so it'll be easier to carry them all. Reggie has probably been celebrating the hardest, and he has managed to get falling-down drunk in the time from my win until now. He staggers around, grinning and red-faced, with his umpteenth bottle of whiskey in his hand. He occasionally waves it around in the air with a loud, slurred whoop, making everyone else laugh at his expense, which he never minds. Then again, he might just be too drunk to notice at all.
I don't mind all this fuss at all; I want to bask in the glory of winning my place in the Games for as long as I can. Ühel stalked off right after her place as tribute was secured, and she hasn't come back. As far as I know, she isn't celebrating even a little. Now, I don't see much point in that. What's the fun in winning if you can't even enjoy it? Victories should be savored, every second you can spare spent in pleasure until you must begin working for your next one. And in the case of this latest one of mine, there is no opportunity to begin training here in the district. No, there are only two things left for me to do here – attend the reaping, and whosever name they call, yell "I volunteer!" and lope up to the stage amid the cheers of all the rest of the district.
"Hey, Rakhir," Girvin says as he comes over to me, rubbing his upper arms which no doubt ache a little from a few too many victory punches to the air. "Don't you need the rest of your stuff taken care of while you're gone? When are you going to go home to get it?"
Arno, who was explaining a sword-fighting technique of his own design to Leib's elder brother Ethon, who showed up hoping to catch the fights but ended up staying for the celebrations, hears him. He stops what he's doing and, glowering, stalks over to Girvin.
"Why'd you have to go and say that, you idiot?" he snaps, whacking Girvin in the side of the head. "His whole good mood, ruined in a second!"
Girvin looks both abashed and hurt. "Sorry," he muttered, rubbing his temple absently. "I was just thinking that – "
"You didn't think," hisses Arno. "Just because you've got such a safe and cushy home, you want to remind the rest of us about the fact that we don't – "
"Hey, lay off him," I say, narrowing my eyes. Apparently I have one more thing to do that I overlooked – breaking the news to my mother. I can't say she'll react favorably, but still, I have to tell her. "He didn't mean any harm."
Arno doesn't look like he wants to be cut off just yet, but he settles for shooting a dirty look at Girvin and then stalking off back to Ethon, who looks a little worried about the whole exchange but decides not to say anything.
Girvin turns back to me, looking like a kicked puppy. "I-I'm sorry, Rakhir," he mutters, glancing away. "I didn't mean to…I mean, I wasn't trying to offend you or anything, I just – "
"Don't worry about it," I say, patting his shoulder. I've already moved what needed to be moved to my lockers down here. I only need to return to my house, one last time, for one reason. "I don't mind much. Actually, I should be thanking you for reminding me – I need to go rub this in the old vulture's face," I finish with a smirk, which makes him chuckle.
"Yeah," he says, sounding happier. "I'm sure she'll be ecstatic to hear about the great things her son's accomplished."
The light sarcasm in his voice is meant as a joke, and I can take that well, but I still have to face the truth in it. I nod at him and then turn to go, and when everybody sends me off with one last loud cheer (which sounds more like a roar as it reverberates through the spacious rooms), I grin happily, grateful for their support. But when I leave the prizefighting area and shut the door behind me, the grin drops instantly from my face. I joked about it with Girvin, but I don't find anything about what's waiting for me back home funny.
I take a deep breath, hoping my mother won't say or do anything to make me lose my temper yet again. In my home, things tend to…get out of hand between my mother and I. It's been this way literally all my life. I've been the one supporting us by earning money in the prize fights ever since my father's death left us without our main source of income, and all I ever got in return were countless cutting remarks about what a waste I am. Despite everything I do, every effort I make, the great hero of the Lower Village's future Careers is, to her, no more than the worthless and unwanted burden I was to her and my father when I was born.
It's true what Girvin said – none of what I've done, all the things I have done which would make any Career district parent proud of the honor they would bring onto themselves, their district, and their families, pleases her at all. Not even this, my accomplishing one of the most difficult feats in the district, will change her opinion of me, and I'm not expecting it to. I stopped trying to make her pleased with me a long time ago. My pre-reaping visit to her is perfunctory – the parents of one who is volunteering should always know beforehand.
No, I'm going to her for one reason and one alone – to start getting my own back from a lifetime of pain she caused me. A smile creeps onto my face at the thought, that now I will have the upper hand. And once I am victor, I will watch her suffer like she watched me for so long. The thought delights me so much, that I break into a run as I head for my home. Aside from being crowned victor, this is the moment I have wanted the most to make happen.
~0~
My house is like all the others in the district: a windowless, modest-sized stone structure virtually identical to the rest, with only a metal plaque to the side of the door with the family's name on it to distinguish it from every other dwelling. However, my house is different to me – every time I enter it the unnatural coldness of a far from happy home settles on my body, and the odor of the meat beginning to rot in our cellar, where my mother stores the meat we sell in the butcher shop, makes me scowl in disgust.
I scan the room for the house's one other occupant. Finding the main room empty, I decide to leave my newly acquired things in my room and then look for her. But as I start for the stairway that leads up to the roof, the door of the kitchen opens and my mother walks out.
She doesn't see me at first, preoccupied with drying off the last remnants of whatever she was making from her hands with a worn-out dishrag. But a moment later she is suddenly aware of the fact that she is no longer alone in the house. She stops dead when she notices me, and I involuntarily freeze in place. For a minute, there is tense silence – not unfamiliar to us – as I work to keep my face stoic and blank. She makes no such effort, staring at me with a how-dare-you-set-foot-in-my-house expression usually reserved for spiders, rats, and other such vermin. I force down my indignation at her look, and I decide to break the silence and get all this over with as soon as possible.
"Mother," I say tonelessly, to test her mood and see just how she'll react to me. She narrows her eyes at me, looking for all the world like the rattlesnakes that slither around the stone quarries near the mountains ready to snap at anyone off their guard. Clearly, she has a mind to give me a severe tongue-lashing today.
"What are you doing home?" she snaps, placing the rag down on the table and focusing all her attention on me. "I didn't expect you here before the reaping."
"I wouldn't have come home afterwards," I say levelly. "They give Careers a lot of privileges, but they don't let you stop home after you volunteer."
This was not the answer she expected, and it takes her by surprise. Her expression wavers, and she raises an eyebrow at me.
"I'm going to be this year's tribute," I say, and I grin in spite of myself. I've said those words many times before, boasting to my gang about what I plan to be, but this is the first time I've said them knowing for a fact that they were true. "I've won the right to volunteer."
To my credit, I've definitely taken her by surprise. For a moment, she looks at me almost curiously, as if I'm some strange thing she's never seen before. Despite my voice of reason warning me not to feel like this, a flicker of hope lights somewhere deep inside of me; thinking that maybe, just maybe, this could be it, that I've finally achieved the one thing that will change the way my mother thinks of me…
But that idea comes crashing down in the next moment. She narrows her eyes at me again, and her glare sears through me. "Our district has certainly changed for the worse," she says icily, her voice full of contempt, "if a worthless bastard like you is the best we can offer up in the Games."
I felt the grin slide off my face before she even started speaking, and my disappointment at her reaction quickly ignites into fury at her words. I should have known this would happen. That small hope is something I thought I had killed long ago. Why didn't I? Why did I think that somehow I could earn her approval? I don't want it anyway. She isn't worth it in the least. With that thought, I remind myself of why I came here.
"I thought you'd be happy about this," I say evenly, "if I'm as worthless as you think, I assumed you'd be elated that you'll finally be rid of me."
"For once, boy, you've got something right," she says - slowly, venomously. "At least now you'll be out of my life forever. You've been a burden on me and your father all these years, and now you'll finally be gone."
It takes every ounce of self-control I can muster not to lose it and start yelling every awful thing I can think of at her, as I've come to almost always do at this point. She knows that, and she cocks her head at me expectantly, waiting to see if she's set me off. But no, I think. Not yet, you disgusting, sorry excuse for a mother.
"And what will you do with yourself, mother, once you're free of me?" I ask her levelly. She knows that this is unusual behavior from me, and her eyes narrow even further, they look like slits.
"What are you getting at, boy?" she hisses.
"I'm just wondering what you plan to do with yourself after I'm gone," I go on. "You know I'm never coming back here – after I win, there'll be no need for me to. I'll have my home in the Victor's Village. What will you do then?"
"You mean after you're killed?" she says, sneering. "You trying to earn my sympathy? 'Oh, mercy me, whatever will I do without my good-for-nothing brat of a son?' Is that what you want me to say?"
"I don't need or want anything from you," I snarl. "Good for nothing, am I? I think you're forgetting who's of real worth in this place."
"And I think you're forgetting the fact that this is my house, and you could be living off the streets in a second if I decide that I don't want you in it anymore – lazing around and taking all the rewards of my endless hard work like some kind of a parasite!" she shouts.
"Get off your high horse!" I snap angrily. "You know that even since Dad died, you've done practically nothing! Your butcher shop's a struggling place at best, so you're no help in supporting us! The only reason we're both keeping our heads above water is me! You're right – you could have kicked me out, but we both know the only reason you still haven't is because you need me to keep you alive!"
"You! Ha!" my mother scoffs. "All you ever do is shirk off working and spend all day at the underground rings with your scumbag friends and beat the crap out of each other for kicks! You've never done a decent day's work in your life. Why would I need you?"
"That's how I make nearly all the money in this place, and you know it! If not for me it would be you living off the street, or starving at least, because you can't live without someone doing it all for you!" I shout.
"Don't speak to me that way, you little ingrate!" she yells, slamming her hand on the table. "Your father was right, you know, you should never have been born! You're the biggest mistake I ever made, you useless waste!"
I know I shouldn't be letting her get to me now. It's ruining every good feeling I had this morning. But damn, if she doesn't know how to get right under my skin. She's gotten just as angry as me now, and she goes on shrieking at me, shouting every insult she can think of at me, one after another, all of them hitting me like spearheads in my body. I don't want to be, but by now I'm shaking with anger. She has no right – she never had any right – to say these things to me. She's gotten too used to doing as little work as she can and leaving someone else (anyone, really, her parents and siblings, friends, my father, and now me) to take care of everything for her. And she has the arrogance to constantly berate me about how worthless I've always been and how she knows that she and my father would have been far better off in life if I had never been born. Truth be told, they were struggling before I was born, and they hadn't intended to have any children; I was unwanted, unneeded, a frustrating mistake. At first, I certainly didn't help matters for them. But I learned fast and early.
I remember going out into the district at about four years old, in search of someone to teach me to fight – after all, if you're going to glean the rewards of a fight, first you have to learn how – and finding Ember and Blake Valaki. They were young themselves at the time, only about eleven. But the twins were still excellent Careers-in-training, and they took me under their wing and taught me everything they knew.
I took everything in, hungry for knowledge, and within a couple years I had learned how I was going to help my family and prove my worth to them. I was still very young, however, and still stupid enough to think that my parents were capable of caring about me. I had the idiotic idea that I could make them proud of me, if I only trained harder, won more fights, gotten more rewards for my victories. That all ended when I was eight years old.
Nothing had changed, if anything, my parents hated me more. Their quick sharp smacks became full-blown clouts to my face; their insults became more and more acerbic and degrading. They found my efforts to please them annoying, and one day my father decided that he had had enough of me. He took me out past the quarries on the outskirts of the district, to the foot of one of the mountains, telling me that he was proud of how I'd progressed as a future Career and that he had something special to teach me. It was a surprise, he said, so I couldn't tell anyone that we were going. I was so excited I thought I was going to burst with joy. I obeyed my father, and kept our trip a secret.
It was just before dawn when we arrived, and as soon as we did my father told me to turn around, and not look back at him until he was ready to show me what he wanted to show. I turned my back to him, waiting. And then I heard the slight metallic shing of a blade drawn from a sheath. He had said he wanted to show me a fighting technique, so I stayed as I was, thinking I would see him in a fighting stance with the knife. But it was the small, satisfied chuckle that he couldn't resist that gave him away. Suddenly sick with fright, I whipped around to face him, and in the next instant there was a knife blade in my face.
He intended to kill me there, secretly, and likely tell everyone I'd been killed by one of the mountain lions that frequented the area or something similar, as that was the lie I told when explaining how he died. But those weren't claw marks, as everyone thought. I had finally gotten my revenge, for once in my life fighting back against him and turning the knife on him after eight years of nothing but hatred and abuse, slashing through him over and over until he was barely recognizable.
My hope that I could somehow earn my parents' approval one day died with him, and I was reminded of that every time I looked in a mirror and saw the jagged scar on my face. I kept up supporting my mother as best I could because she insisted, and I reasoned that if I wanted to live in the house I would have to. But after eighteen years of abuse from her, I am ready to turn things around on my mother just as I did to my father. She's still carrying on at me, but she's slowing down slightly. Time for me to say what I need to and get out of this place for good.
"Mother!" I say, loud and sharp. She wasn't expecting me to say anything, so for a moment she is silent. I take a deep breath, and then begin in a steady and clear voice. "You can believe whatever you want. I'll still know the truth – that you can't support yourself on your own and you'll be ruined without me to keep you in your comfortable life. I'm leaving for the Capitol in a matter of hours, and I'm never coming back. Whether I win the Games or not, you'll be alone here from now on. We'll see how worthless I am when I'm not here and you need me more than ever to help you. I think I'm going to enjoy watching you suffer from my new home in the Victor's Village," I finish venomously.
She's glaring at me like she never did before. It's as if she has a whole other reservoir of hatred for me, I can see it in her eyes, narrowed and burning with fury. "You little degenerate," she hisses. "I will laugh when they kill you."
I force myself to laugh at her, just to get in one more thing to spite her. "It's too bad you won't have that one last pleasure. Good-bye, mother."
And without looking to see how she reacts, I turn around and walk out of my home for the final time.
~0~
I spot my gang the instant I step onto the main road leading into the square. They're all hanging around outside the small shop and bar Leib's eldest brother Beltrán works at, buying root beers and chatting with him. Probably on his break, I think. Daiza, who I notice had been looking over his shoulder every few seconds – most likely for me, I realize with a grin – jumps up when he sees me and excitedly informs the others of my arrival, and they all turn and shout greetings to me across the road, waving me over. My grin widens as I cross the road to reach them. These five boys are my real family, I think happily.
As soon as I come within a few steps of them, Arno dashes over, throws an arm around my shoulder and pulls me up to the counter. "One more, Beltrán?" he asks, tossing a couple more coins on the counter. When I start to say something, he immediately puts his hand up to my face. "No, no, my treat, I insist," he says. "For the future victor of District Two!"
"In that case," Beltrán says, smiling, "this one's on the house. Boss says that future Careers get their drinks free."
"Well, in that case, give me my money," Arno says, swiping his coins back into his pocket and taking a good gulp from his drink.
Beltrán ignores Arno and turns to me. "My little brother here tells me you gave Stone Wystan the beating of a lifetime back there," he says, clapping Leib on the shoulder. "Good for you. I lost count of how many times he came swaggering in here with his gang and giving me and everyone else crap about being from the Lower Villages and threatening to jump us if we complained. You don't know how happy my friends and I were when we found out how you beat him for good."
"You never told me that," Leib said, frowning. "Why didn't you just ask us for help?"
Beltrán shrugs, unconcerned. "There were other Upper Village gangs who did the same thing. I wasn't about to ask the five of you to take them all on, because they'd all have kept on hassling us. Anyway, it's enough for me that the little snob finally got what was coming to him," he says airily. He grins at me. "And I couldn't have picked a better man to do it."
I smile back, feeling a glow of pride warm me inside. Now, surrounded by my friends, my mother's hate-filled face and words seem like nothing to me, compared with the affection and friendship I share with them. And when Fabron adds that they also couldn't have picked a better man to fight for District 2 in the Games, evoking a chorus of agreements, my resolve to win for them all is strengthened. Nothing will stand in my way, I think proudly, and for a moment I don't notice Daiza trying to get my attention. I turn and look down at him, and, not for the first time, I think how funny it is that he only comes up to my stomach and he's one of the toughest little fighters I know. He'll make an excellent Career one day, if I've trained him right.
"What is it, Daiza?" I ask.
"It's a quarter after eleven!" he says urgently. "We need to be at the square in fifteen minutes!"
I glance at the clock on the wall inside and see he's right. The rest of the gang notices too and immediately put down their drinks and look at me. I turn and look down the road in the direction of the square. Mount Nadare stands out - huge, dark, and proud – against the pale blue-gray sky. At the foot of that mountain is where I will finally become what I was meant to be – a Career fighting for the honor of District 2, and later a victor, a near-demigod of the three Career districts. I certainly can't be late for an occasion like that.
"So soon?" I say, a grin spreading over my face as elation rises inside me. "Then let's not waste any time. If we go fast, we'll be right on time. Let's get going!"
My gang gives a chorus of assent, excited to see their leader claim his rightful title. Beltrán joins in, then a loud voice from inside calls him in.
"Ah, that's my boss," he says. "I've got to go help close up shop early for reaping day. You guys go on ahead. Leib, Ethon and I will meet you there!"
Leib nods and we bid him a quick goodbye as he hurries back into the shop, all of us each to get moving. Daiza starts out at the head of the pack, probably the most eager of us to get to the reaping. However, I've overtaken him in a matter of moments, running out ahead of them all, with the biggest grin plastered on my face. The feeling of wild exhilaration races through my veins as I sprint towards the square. This is a bigger thrill than anything I've ever felt, knowing that I'm finally on my way to take what I've worked for, for fourteen years. If this is what it's like now, I think, then I can hardly wait to get to the Games!
~0~
This reaping is the debut of our newest escort, Crevan Corbett, who hopped up energetically onto the stage, pleased to take the place of our elderly previous escort and doubly pleased, no doubt, to act as escort for real tributes instead of coal rats, as he'd apparently been doing for a couple years before his promotion. It all works out for me as well as him – I pitied the tributes of several years prior up to now, who had to work with an old and doddering escort who barely had any idea what he was doing anymore. I'd much rather not be hampered by an escort like that, and Crevan seems like a capable man, though a bit too eager to show off whatever talent he has.
I have to suppress a chuckle as I watch Crevan sitting at the back of the stage, visibly itching to go and take the microphone and also visibly irritated at the fact that he has to wait for Mayor Emory to finish reading both the history of Panem and the extensive list of previous victors before he can take the spotlight. Luckily for both of us, Emory, who always sounds bored and annoyed with her duties at the reaping, as if there are far better things she could be doing with the wasted time, finishes soon enough. Almost the second she turns from the podium to return to her seat, Crevan is dashing up to the microphone; Emory glaring at him as he unprofessionally bolts by her.
"Hello, District Two!" Crevan greets us jovially, flashing a gleaming white grin of the kind only Capitolians can give. "Now, I know we've all been waiting for the real event to start for quite a while" – everyone sees his eyes flick back to Emory, who now appears to be trying to will daggers to fly into his back with her narrowed eyes – "so let's not waste any more precious time, eh?"
Crevan bounds over to the left side of the stage and pats the girls' reaping ball. "Let's start with the ladies!" he announces. And without further ado, he reaches into the giant glass ball and paws around in the thousands of paper slips, selecting one and whipping it out in a few seconds. He goes back to the podium, smoothing out the slip, and then calls out the name in a loud, clear voice: "Lyme Jackson!"
Immediately, a girl of about twelve or thirteen makes a sound somewhere between a yelp and a gasp, her eyes go wide, and she frantically shrinks back into her group of friends, looking as if she's trying to hide from the piercing gaze of the cameras. This evokes laughter from Crevan and some other audience members, including, I see, Arno and Fabron, from where they're together in the group of seventeen-year-olds. Rather than being amused, my lip curls in disgust. What's the matter with this kid? She knew she wasn't going to go anyway, since only those who earn it can go into the Games. It seems like it was the idea of going that frightens her. Someone needs to teach this girl a lesson, and fast. Though she's young and not as well-trained, every District 2 child is made strong and capable from childhood, whether they train as Careers or not. Our most important lesson is to be strong enough to withstand pain and erase fear, as those emotions are crippling. If those still remain in such great amounts in a person of her age, it is disgraceful. Obviously, she hasn't been taught right.
But not to worry. I've only had a moment or so to consider this, when a familiar voice yells, "I volunteer!" and the crowd almost automatically parts to let Ühel by as she strides to the stage. As she goes by Lyme, she, making no effort to hide her actions, whips out her arm and smacks the girl in the back of the head so hard I see her go cross-eyed for a second. "Coward!" I hear Ühel snap at her, her voice full of contempt. She doesn't look back once as she heads off, leaving the girl clutching her head and sniffling, trying to fight back tears.
As Ühel ascends the stairs and approaches center stage, I notice Crevan's gung-ho attitude falters slightly under her unwaveringly vehement stare, and he looks nervous as she comes nearer to him. He seems to be willing himself not to back away under the intensity of her glare, and wondering why she's looking so angry with him. I snicker under my breath at him. Don't worry, Crevan, I think. That's just her face.
Crevan, who to his credit recovers and is hiding his nervousness quite well, puts on a bright smile and moves to address Ühel. "Wonderful! And what might your name be, miss?" he asks.
"Ühel Dragul," she states, and then moves behind Crevan and looks expectantly at him. When after maybe a second he doesn't do anything, she narrows her eyes at him and snaps, "Well, keep going, we don't have all day."
Crevan looks taken aback by her brusqueness for a moment, but quickly appears to recover and spins back to the microphone. "We've got one lovely lady tribute – " he turns his head and winks at Ühel, causing her glare to intensify – "now let's pick our boy!"
He zips over to the boys' reaping ball, digs around in the slips for a few moments, and heads back to the podium after retrieving one. He opens his mouth to read out the name, but never gets farther than that. At that moment, someone else screams out, "I volunteer!"
My jaw drops and I stand there, stunned silent and immobile. Everyone knows that this is my year. Who would ever blatantly defy the code of the district and attempt to volunteer in my stead?! My answer becomes clear soon enough, as the crowd – as shocked as I am and not knowing what else to do – awkwardly parts to reveal Stone Wystan, who is looking at the stage and running at it like a shipwrecked man who's sighted an island.
What?! is the only thought I can form for a few moments. What? What is he doing? I beat him! I proved that it's me who deserves to fight in the Games, not him! Just who the hell does he think he is?!
By now, my shock has given way to surging anger. Stone cannot – will not – be allowed to do this. It's an open mockery of our values and laws. Soon, someone will recover and stop him from volunteering. And that someone might as well be me, the rightful tribute. Spurred on by rage, I charge through the throng and reach the stage in maybe five seconds. I get to Stone just as he reaches the top of the stairs, and I seize his shirt collar and twist him around to face me.
"What do you think you're doing, Stone?" I grind out through clenched teeth. "Aren't you forgetting something? Like who soundly beat you just a while ago? Why are you still trying to prove you're best, when I've already bested you?"
But even as I say the words I can see why. Stone's eyes are slightly unfocused, his body trembling, and his expression, which from far away looked only a bit strange, looks…deranged. Close up like this, I'm beginning to realize the guy's not all there, with the injuries I dealt him earlier only enhancing the look. It's as if I literally knocked the sense out of him.
"You can't stop me, Vadállat," he whispers throatily, clenching his fists. "This…is my place…I deserve it. I've always deserved better than you…because I am better than you…I am the victor!"
"Are you kidding me?" I hiss. "Don't tell me you're seriously still thinking you're naturally better because you were born in a classier place! Besides, you had us make a deal on that last fight, remember? You swore that if you lost you would admit you were wrong about all Lower Villagers and that you'd never say another word against them? What happened to that, huh?"
At that, the corners of Stone's mouth pull back in a demented semblance of a smile. "I said that, didn't I…" he says softly, and then begins to chuckle coldly in my face. "Well, I hardly think I need to keep my word to a piece of trash like you, Vadállat. Ha, that's right," he adds with a laugh as my grip on his shirt tightens in anger. "You're a Lower Villager, Vadállat. You're lower than dirt. You're worth nothing, understand? So you don't deserve even a chance at trying to pretend you're anything more than – "
With every word that comes out of Stone's mouth, a new surge of fury shoots through me. I don't need this today. This is supposed to be the great, proud day I've worked nearly all my life for. Stone echoing the words of my mother…The sound of the never-ending insults and belittling is the last thing I want to hear, on any day. I've had enough. Just…enough! I won't take this anymore!
Spurred on by rage, I let go of Stone's shirt and put my whole body into one strong, straight punch that slams perfectly into Stone's throat, and follow it up with a quick pivot and side kick to the chest that sends him flying into the podium, the impact of his body making the expensive wood crack and splinter. Crevan takes a leap back and starts quickly backpedaling, looking frightened; Ühel merely takes a quiet step back and looks on with an expression of mild interest. I'm not done yet; Stone barely has a moment to process what just happened before I lunge for him, grab him by the back and collar of his shirt, and hurl him off the stage as easily as a child throwing a baseball.
He flies a good twenty feet from me, a high-pitched shriek issuing from him the whole way, and unfortunately for him, he only stops once he strikes one of the boulders that litter the base of Mount Nadare headfirst. Everyone hears the loud, sickening soundof Stone's skull cracking on impact with the rock. I hear quite a few startled gasps and even some frightened screams coming from the crowd watching.
It puzzles me at first, seeing as my people are used to constant fighting and the injuries that come with it; but then I see that it mostly came from either the youngest children in the crowd, who are still learning the ways of the district, or the cameramen and crew sent from the Capitol, who annually enjoy the gore of the Games but are wholly unused to seeing it up close and not on a screen. This is probably the most action-packed reaping they've seen, and a thrill runs through me once I realize that this is a great thing. This way, everyone will remember me for it, and I'll probably have gained a good amount of sponsors. A tribute that nobody will forget in a hurry has a great advantage, and one that the Capitol audience remembers and takes a liking to has a better chance of winning. The corners of my mouth pull up into a wide smile at this thought, and the thought hits me that that's good, too, seeing as everyone will think I'm grinning like a psychopath because I've just shattered some poor bastard's skull.
Speaking of Stone, he hasn't gotten up yet; he's still lying where he's landed and not looking too good. His face is screwed up in pain, and blood is streaming down his face from the gash on his scalp and leaking slowly from his ears and nose. I can see the wounds from where I'm standing: the cut bright red and gushing blood against his pale skin and black hair, and a dark bruise forming around his Adam's apple where I punched him. I can't see the amount of damage done to his chest, but I definitely felt his ribs crack under my foot when I kicked him. Add that to the injuries he already has from our fight earlier that can't have healed yet, and I know for a fact that Stone is currently in a world of pain.
It's taken a minute, but a group of medics from the (luckily for Stone, nearby) hospital has realized that they're needed, and while two retrieve a stretcher the others hurry forward to tend to Stone. While they go about their job, someone else has forced his way through the crowd to reach the wounded boy. Tobin emerges from the throng, making a beeline for Stone.
"Boss!" he calls, worry showing on every line of his chalk-white face. "Boss! Are you all right?" His fear only becomes more prominent when the only answer he receives is a low, drawn-out moan of agony from his fallen hero. "Boss!" Tobin wails piteously, and follows after the medics carting Stone off to the hospital, quickly running out of sight.
Finding it strange that only one of Stone's lackeys went to see if he would be all right, I scan the crowd for the rest of them. They're there, all together – and none of them seem to care about how badly their leader is hurt. Their expressions are all the same apathetic, let's-get-this-thing-over-with-quick looks. It seems like their biggest concerns are how soon they can get home and spend the rest of the afternoon off doing as they please. I consider resisting the urge to chuckle at the fact that Stone's gang only cares about him if he – and by extension, them - could be the best on the block, and if he's not, then they leave him to die. A second later, I dismiss the idea and decide to go ahead with it, and for added measure, make sure the cameras will catch it. How pathetic, that they would abandon him so quickly, and my real friends are so unerringly loyal to me. I suspected they only hung around with Stone to get a little bit of the power he had, and to have them prove he right is an added bonus to beating Stone up again and unofficially re-winning my place as tribute. So I throw back my head and give a crazed laugh that will mark me to the Capitolians and the other tributes as wild, brutal, unpredictable – in short, an excellent tribute, one to keep watch on in the Games.
Crevan has been all but cowering in fear at the back of the stage during all this. When I stop laughing, take a breath to calm myself, and then turn to look at him, he gives quite a start. Shaking a little, he glances at Mayor Emory, who has been sitting and watching with little interest, for an indication of what to do next. She gives him a searing glare and sharply jerks her head in my direction, telling him to get on with the process. With a little nod to her, he trots nervously towards me and I can't help but smirk at his discomfort. He reminds me of a scared chipmunk, and it's impossible not to find it funny.
"S-So…" Crevan begins, trying to recover his former enthusiasm. "I think we've got a second volunteer!" He gives a shaky laugh. "W-What's your name?"
"Rakhir Vadállat," I say proudly. "The next victor of District Two!"
"G-Great!" Crevan says, flashing a plainly fake smile. "Now that we have both our tributes, we – "
"We'll leave it to me to finish up the reaping," says Mayor Emory, who has come striding back up – accompanied by Ühel - to give the required reading of the Treaty of Treason. "That is, unless it's too dull for your liking, Mr. Corbett," she adds to Crevan under her breath, making him flush crimson and laugh nervously. Emory doesn't seem amused. "Perhaps our District is a bit much for you," she tells him, with the air of a disappointed teacher admonishing a failing child. "You might want to reconsider working with our people."
"No, no, I think…I-It's just fine…" Crevan starts, but then trails off as Emory briskly turns from him to Ühel and I, expecting us to shake hands. We look at each other, neither of us wanting to give the other any gesture of goodwill, then compromise by grabbing hands, giving a slight squeeze, and letting go almost the moment we make contact with the other. Emory does not look pleased with that.
"You both are the best of our Careers-in-training this year," she says in a steely voice, eyes narrowed. "Don't dishonor our district." And without waiting to see our response, she turns to face the crowd, and (after glancing with distaste at the podium, which is now so damaged that it's caving in from one side) begins to read the Treaty.
As she plows on with it in her clear, cool voice, Ühel comes up closer to me than I'd like. "Next victor, Vadállat?" she whispers with a little laugh. "You wish."
The self-satisfied smirk reappears on my face. She thinks I'll fail? There's no way I could. Nothing will stop me from attaining my ultimate goal now, not when I've trained so hard all my life and gotten halfway there already. I've gotten into the Games, now all that's left is the hard part – fighting through it and making it out alive. It'll be difficult, sure, but I'm ready for anything that anyone can throw at me.
"Oh, yeah?" I say softly, so only she can hear it. "Well, we'll just see about that."
Emory finishes reading, and after bidding the crowd farewell, she gestures to us and then to the doors of the Justice Building, where we are directed to the rooms where we will bid our loved ones farewell.
As the heavy double doors slam shut behind me, a sense of finality washes over me. I am a tribute in the Hunger Games, and I can't change that even if I tried. My fate is sealed, there is no going back. Then again, I don't want to go back. Sure, the members of my gang are the best friends I could have asked for, but aside from them, the life I lead before is pitiful compared with the one I now have a chance at winning.
I want to take that chance. I will do everything in my power to either win the Hunger Games or die trying. And I have no intention of being killed by any of the other weaklings in the arena with me. No. This year is my year. If they're in an arena with me, they're dead already. I will survive the arena and come home proud and victorious, no matter what I have to do. I am the victor, and no one else stands a chance.
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[A/N] – Wh-hoo! Tenth chapter!
Well, that's two reapings down, only one more to go! Though I will be trying to work on a couple other stories at the same time, so it might take a while…Anyway, reviews are greatly appreciated! Really, just the name of your favorite character or even a smiley face will do if you liked it. : )
Name meanings:
-Rakhir's mother's name is Hasira, which means "anger" in Swahili. His father's name was Canicus, meaning "born of fire."
-Crevan means "fox" and his last name, Corbett, means "raven" or "dark-haired."
-Emory means "industrious leader."
R&R, please?
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