Lucent Saccharyn POV:
This next Reaping is probably the most highly anticipated of them all: District Two. Right now what I'm looking for is a nice strong pair of tributes who can be counted on to perform in the arena and put on a show for us all. Last year's Hunger Games were lackluster. Ridiculously so. A big part of that was the absence of typical Careers from District Two. One and Four also are Careers of course, but tributes from Two are the most iconic of the group, usually being the glue to tie the other two districts together into one cohesive alliance.
Without the presence of the most highly trained tributes, the pack crumbles because the divides are too glaring to ignore. A District Two tribute is a great leveler of odds in the arena because they upset the advantages held by outer district tributes (9,10,11) in a woodsy environment or inner district tributes (3,5,6) in an urban environment with their weaponry experience that comes in handy no matter the surroundings. Part of my plan for the Hunger Games hinges on the presence of them in the arena and although we've already Reaped District One and determined that we have a competent female tribute, I'munsure about the male and District Four hasn't been having as many volunteers of late. This juxtaposition as opposed to usual trends in Career tributes has me a little worried and places District Two as a catalyst in this Quarter Quell depending on the capability of the tributes. I hope to not be disappointed, but I have a distinct feeling that this is going to be a triumph for us Gamemakers.
Eliza Maddox, 17, D2F:
I think that Samson wakes me up when he slams the front door shut at ten in the morning. No, that's just Pop leaving for a run. Samson walked out on us two years ago. Pop is well within his rights to leave the house in the middle of the day, but the sound still makes me scowl when it abruptly snaps me out of my slumber. I grumble a few objections under my breath before trotting to the bathroom, where I yank my nightshirt over my head only to feel a jolt of pain, quickly discovering that a clump of my hair has gotten wound and knotted up around one of the buttons. I have to patiently spend several minutes unwinding it, being careful to not go quickly or carelessly because that tweaks a little strand or two that sends a shooting sting to my scalp. I eventually work it out and remind myself that I should put my hair up tomorrow when I go to bed.
Unless I'm picked for the Hunger Games today. That's a frightening thought, and not one I even want to consider. There are so many girls just itching to volunteer, but there's also a slim chance they'll chicken out or wait another year or something. I train at the Academy, sure, but I don't share the utter fanaticism of my peers. They idolize the Hunger Games and the victors but I can't understand for the (hopefully long) life of me why one would choose to compete in an event where it's a requirement to kill other literal children. It sometimes feels like the rest of the district has an inside joke that I don't get because they all have come to the mutual agreement that murdering people for clout on national television is a worthy pastime.
As you'd probably expect, I tend to keep these opinions to myself. I've always been the quiet friend who everybody really likes but nobody talks seriously to. I don't usually miss the arguments and fights from when I was younger and more outspoken, though. So I guess there's been no real loss. I've replaced them with training in case I'm Reaped for the Hunger Games and retreated further into my little world of history books. I've memorized passages from them, my favorite being Panem Rising: Montage of the Republic by Felicía Baptiste. It's all about how our country came to be.
According to Felicía, there was once a political system called Capitalism, where wealthy people got more wealthy, so much so that they monopolized entire industries under the guise of subsidy, outsourcing production to thirteen major cities and retreating to the most luxurious city of all, which they kept for themself. They became known as the Capitol, and life continued normally, but eventually sea levels began rising and the earth experienced an environmental revolution, during which the Capitol warred with other nations and only them and the industrial cities survived the bombings. Then it was easy for a reassuring leader to take complete control.
I snap the book shut. When he was still living with us, my brother Samson told me to stop reading, that it would give me dangerous ideas. It's easy for him to say. He loved training. If what I've heard through the gossip grapevine is true, he now works as a Peacekeeper where his sole objectives are recreation and playing with guns bigger than he is. Again with the violence! It's always that whoever can kill the most people and get the richest "wins". I suppose we've not changed very much since the Capitalism days. Here we can buy our way out of poverty and unpopularity but we can't escape being District. The Hunger Games still looms over us to keep us in line.
Maybe our Capitol overlords aren't as benevolent as we like to think. I snap the book closed. I've wasted enough time on fretting about the unavoidable. Stepping into the shower, I scrub myself off and wash my hair. I might not be excited for the Reaping, but I'm a civilized person who can appreciate good hygiene, and anyway, it'll help me wake up. My hair is a honeyed strawberry blonde, and it's very long so I have to practically wring it out like a sponge once I'm ready to get out. I give it a few fluffs to help it dry and walk straight to my closet. I select a peach-colored sundress with a lace hem and put it on, adding my favorite pair of sandals to go along with it. I eat frugally, the heel of a loaf of bread and some leftover beef tongue. No point in wasting good food if I'm too nervous to enjoy it. Mom mutters at the newspaper disapprovingly but she smiles when I interrupt her to say goodbye.
I walk to the Reaping alone and end up pressed against the fence to another section, so I start chatting aimlessly with some boy I've never met before about the escort's costume choice. It's metallic but...puffy? And scratchy and mesh at the same time? How awful. I zone out through the preamble of video and speech and more speech and laundry list and yet another speech before getting to the actual Reaping part. The escort removes a name from the female bowl and speaks crisply into his microphone. "Your female tribute: Miss Eliza Maddox!" I'm stark frozen in shock. To my utter disbelief, nobody volunteers. Although a couple of girls look like they're physically restraining themselves from leaping up there.
"Why?" I whisper, not expecting an answer.
The boy I was talking to elbows me in the ribs. "Etiquette. They're giving you the honor of representing us in a Quarter Quell." What stupid reasoning! The honor of becoming a murderer? Either way, I offer him a sad smile and put on my most stoic expression. He smooths his dark hair across his forehead and smiles cheerfully back at me. "Go get 'em, honey. I'll be rooting for you!" The encouragement gives me the will to finally move forward. I paste on a dignified, queenly bearing. I move with a slow, elegant stride, hoping I'll look like I was taking my time and not having a nervous breakdown. I ascend the stairs to the stage, and I look out at the crowd and see girls glaring at me for being picked, as though they want to volunteer. Unfortunately, there's no way I can tell them to go right ahead, because of their twisted idea of honor. Stepping down is cowardice. So I stay steady on my feet and try to look like the confident Career I've spent my entire life being told to emulate. I have the training part down, but the arrogance part? Not so much.
Rafe McClellan, 18, D2M:
People always used to say that tragedy followed me, and they'd pray that someday I'd be freed from the burden of death taking away my friends and family. Little did they know that the friends and family were the actual burdens, and it was not some fate or bad luck but me who was causing the deaths. So yes, that nice cute boy from next door is a murderer. Right now, I'm spooning sweetened porridge into my mouth and idly watching the news channel on our television to see if any homicides have been reported. For those of you picking up what I'm putting down, I killed someone this morning. Two someones, actually. If I were a newscaster, I'd say something like this:
Mr. and Mrs. McClellan were a wealthy couple living in a suburban area of District Two, with a son named Rafe who they spent eighteen years abusing. One day Rafe had enough of them stubbing out their cigarettes on his back and getting drunk and beating the crap out of him, and took care of them once and for all. Right now the McClellans are lying dead in a shallow grave in the desert along with a pair of bloodied gloves and a dagger nicked from the academy. The killer seems to have escaped, leaving no traces of DNA to track him down with.
What an interesting story, right? I'm eating the same thing as every morning but I've never had a better breakfast. The knowledge that I'm free from them is even better than when I did in my ex-girlfriend and the guy she cheated on me with. That happened a few months ago. Hazle and I were already on rocky ground because she constantly mocked me, belittled me, and in particular made fun of a birthmark I have. Apparently if you have a nickel-sized patch of slightly darker skin above your pelvis, it's funny to call it a tramp stamp. The first time it annoyed me, and by the time we got to the two hundredth repetition of an already stupid joke, it was really beginning to piss me off. And then I caught her cheating with my best friend Markus, who abandoned me in favor of a girl. A girl. Nothing should ever come before your friends.
So I deaded the issue. Literally. By eliminating the root of the problem, the people who betrayed me, I destroyed all opportunity to hurt me ever again. Trust me, they're not the only people I've killed, but certainly some of the best to torture and murder. Speaking of murder, I'm fully planning on volunteering for the Hunger Games at the Reaping today. I'll get to kill with impunity, which isn't something I can afford to do here at home. Once I'm in the Capitol I'll be able to do whatever I want. Hurt, maim, quash any guilt by hiring a woman or two of ill repute. I already showered this morning, so I'm spending my remaining time hyping myself up for the ceremony. I've been forced into training for a whole decade, being punished for low grades by getting burned with cigarettes all down my back until the flesh is almost unrecognizable, so I've learned to handle weapons better than the vast majority of people in my district. The experts at the Academy actually expressed interest in me volunteering, and who am I to refuse? The house is delightfully empty, so I set off for the Reaping alone. I'm immediately joined by a few of my friends: Bennett, Pierre, and Elias all burst out of neighboring houses and rush up to join me.
"How are you, Rafe?"
"You're the man, Rafe!"
"Rafe, the girls are loving that new haircut!" I briefly run a finger along my hairline. I usually wear it in a short crew cut, but it's been a bit since I've trimmed it and it's getting a little messy. If the girls really like it as much as my buddies claim, I'll probably keep it like this. Anything to get someone in my bed. Bennett claps me on the back and shakes my shoulder aggressively. "Dude, I'm serious! Claudia literally said, 'Damn, that hair is doing something to me…' And we all know what that means!"
That's right. It means that instead of ignoring her I'll have to walk a delicate line of giving her enough attention to stay interested but not leading her on. Otherwise she'll whine about it to her little friends and suddenly I'll be the bad guy who dared reject her advances or else the jerk who used her for popularity. Bennett's just excited because he's liked Claudia and angina around me means he can have a chance at getting her to notice him. The boys continue raving about Claudia all the way to the Reaping, where the escort goes on a long irrelevant tangent before actually getting things started.
She pulls a name out of the girls' bowl and there's a brief delay. Nobody volunteers, out of politeness and respect for the Quarter Quell tradition. I can't tell exactly where or who the girl is, but when she walks out she displays a certain sense of decorum that's got me a little intimidated. She comes off as a gorgeous, deadly Career who knows what she wants, and that's worrisome. She'll pose a major threat to me in the arena and despite her dainty stride, her muscles bulge from her sleeves without flexing. When the male name is pulled, I already know what to do. I throw etiquette to the wind and volunteer, strutting up to the stage with the usual self-important air. The girl shakes my hand, and her grip tightens when she glares into me with ridiculously piercing gray-blue eyes. To my surprise, I feel a spark of fear bloom within me, but it sure won't be able to stop me from murdering her and the other twenty-two tributes.
Hey y'all! This was a fun chapter to write. I really appreciate that so many of you are reviewing, but I still need more tributes! I have only one complete district left, so someone will need to submit a tribute or two using the form on my bio in the near future so I can continue writing Reapings!
~LC