Welcome all to the year of the 41st Hunger Games! This is a sequel to my previous story, The Most Dangerous Game, and if you're unfamiliar with that one, I recommend you read it first, as some characters from that story will be featured in this one. I hope you enjoy what you're about to read, and drop me a review to let me know what you think of it. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor! As always, I do not own the Hunger Games; I am simply playing in the world that Suzanne Collins created.
Chapter 1- Astrid Clearwater
I know I've slept in when Axel starts jumping on me and pulling my hair. "Trixie, Trixie!" he sings, and I moan as I roll over.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"Almost ten! Mama wants you up!" Axel says, bouncing off of me onto the floor. He's six, and cute most of the time, but I don't appreciate being jumped on.
"Alright, tell her I'm coming," I say, and my brother runs off to the kitchen.
Not that there's far to go.
My eyes finally get used to the light coming in through the one high, dirty window near the ceiling; unfortunately, my bedroom is not one you would like to look at. The dark blue wallpaper with the faded gold design is peeling away, revealing the water-stained wood behind it. The single shelf on the wall is half broken, and the two books on it are also waterlogged.
It's a room that's seen better days.
As I push the quilt off of me, a fat drop of water lands on my head. I look up to find its source and another drop falls right into my eyes.
"Mama! The ceiling's leaking again!" I shout into the other room. There're only two rooms in this apartment, so I don't even know why I bother shouting.
"Hush it, Astrid. There's other people in this building besides you," Mama says, coming in holding a wooden spoon.
"But the ceiling's leaking again," I say, pointing up and getting rewarded with another water drop on my shoulder.
"Quit making a fuss, Astrid, just pull the bucket over and put it underneath the worst of it. Can't help it, can we? It's pouring outside."
"Oh, Mama! Not on reaping day! It's going to be miserable standing in the rain," I say, grabbing the old metal bucket from behind the door and putting it on my bed.
"I'm afraid so my love. Come eat your breakfast and then we can all straighten ourselves up for today. It's in three hours, you know," Mama says and goes back to the kitchen.
I just sit on the edge of my bed again and dodge the drips coming down steadily into the bucket. As if reaping day wasn't miserable enough. Today two kids from District 3 are going to be taken away, and probably never come back. One won't for sure. I just hope it won't be me.
"Astrid!"
"Coming, Mama!"
While we eat our breakfasts, we sit in silence; the only sounds coming from our spoons clanging against the bottoms of our bowls. The grain I'm eating has cooked down into an ugly brown mush, and it doesn't taste much better than it looks either. It's not my mother's fault, it's the Capitol who provides us with the grain in the first place. Tessera grain is always the worst of the worst, but we can't afford much else. I know Axel hates it, but he doesn't dare refuse to eat it. My family is too hungry to begin with.
"I'll be alright, you know I will," I say, breaking the silence. My mother's mouth is pulled tight; her worried look. She nods, but I know I haven't convinced her of anything. I haven't even convinced myself. I'm scared.
This year I have twenty slips in the reaping bowl, since I've been taking out tesserae for my family since I was twelve. Twenty's nothing compared to some other peoples', I know, but it's still fifteen more than I'd like to have. I'd like to have no slips in the bowl, but I have to get lucky for two more years before that happens.
Too soon, breakfast is done. I help Mama with the bowls, rinsing them carefully and setting them on the counter.
"I'll boil the water," she says, putting the kettle on. "You bring out the washtub, Astrid."
I drag the old wooden washtub that's been patched more than a few times, while Axel stands and watches. "Go put some more wood in the stove," I tell him, and for once he listens to me. Reaping day is more real to him this year, now that he's six. He can finally understand what it's all about.
"Thanks Axel," I say, planting a kiss on the top of his head once he's shut the iron door to the wood stove. He's a good boy, even if he's a pest. "Come on, let's straighten the bedroom up."
To his credit, Axel does actually help me put things away. I leave the bucket where it is, but make the bed around it. Axel rolls up his bedroll and puts it at the end of the bed that Mama and I share. The bedroom is dark and tiny, but it's home. It's the only home we've ever had.
Once the washtub is full, I get to go first, since I'm the one eligible for reaping. Washing my hair is such a luxury, and I relish it. I so seldom get the bath first; Axel usually has it because he's the youngest. But today it's all mine.
Getting out is another matter, though; the rain has cooled the July heat and it's freezing in the apartment, even with the wood stove burning. If it wasn't reaping day, the stove wouldn't be on at all; Axel and I would be at school and Mama would be at work. Reaping day is a sort of holiday for everyone in District 3.
After I've dried off somewhat in front of the stove, I let Axel and Mama have their turn while I get dressed in the bedroom. Today is a day for wearing my best clothes; a blue dress that doesn't really fit me anymore, especially in the hem and sleeves, black knee-high socks that Mama made herself, the clunky black shoes I wear to school, and my threadbare old navy jacket. The only thing good I have to say about the jacket is that it goes well with my hair.
I brush my hair in the reflection of the broken mirror by the door, and tie it back with a scrap of ribbon I found one day. There. I look presentable. I can only see bits and pieces of myself, but what I do see looks alright.
Mama and Axel are dressed when I come out into the kitchen; my brother's dark hair is neatly combed to one side, and my mother's hair is loose around her shoulders, still very wet.
"Here, Mama. Let me braid your hair," I say, sitting my mother down in a kitchen chair and swiftly plaiting the long dark hair into one thick braid.
"Thank you, sweetheart," she says, kissing my forehead. I'm about the same height as her this year, and it feels odd to be able to look her in the eyes. She smiles a little, then the grim line is back. "We should go. Don't want to be late."
It's a miserable walk to the city square, surrounded by dilapidated buildings like the one we live in. Some are barely standing upright, instead leaning to the side like they're drunk. All around us other families are walking the same way as us, most staring straight ahead, others scolding their frightened and tantruming children. Occasionally someone looks at me and hurries on ahead.
Almost everyone in District 3 has the same dark hair and brown eyes, like my mother and brother have. Then there's me, with my red hair and green eyes which belong to another district altogether, though I couldn't tell you which one. I stand out in a crowd, and I look like I don't belong here.
I've heard the rumors, whispers in the schoolyard or in the square, about how my father was supposedly a Peacekeeper who fell in love with my mother, and then was sent away before I was born. I don't know how much truth there is in that story, but I know my father is not the same as Axel's; he died two years ago after drinking too much and being hit by a train. Good riddance, if you ask me.
Everyone's soaked by the time we reach the square; I haven't seen it rain this hard in months. Isn't July supposed to be sunny and hot?
The square gives me a thrill of terror every time I come here on reaping day; the plain Justice Building has a makeshift stage built right outside, and banners with the Capitol seal hang from the surrounding buildings. There's a long line of kids waiting to sign in, and Peacekeepers guarding the Justice Building and the area around it. Don't want anyone to take off if their name is called, do we now?
"I'm going to get in line; I'll see you after," I say, kissing my mother on the cheek. She pulls her mouth out of its tight line long enough to smile at me.
"You be safe now, Astrid. Good luck," she says, patting my dripping wet hair.
It doesn't take long for me to get to the front of the line; I sign my name and let the Peacekeeper sitting at the table prick my finger. That's the part I hate the most about signing in. Once they've released me, I'm herded to the group of other sixteen-year olds, most of whom have deer in the headlights looks on their faces. I know them all from school, but can't call any one of them friend.
Nobody wants to be the friend of a girl whose father may have been a Peacekeeper.
The rain refuses to let up, and we all really can't get more wet than we already are. District 3 is a big district, and so it takes a long time to herd all the eligible boys and girls into the square. Families have to stand way back, watching on the giant screens above the Justice Building. As the last stragglers come in to the slaughtering pen with the rest of us, the mayor comes out on stage, under an awning so that he at least won't get wet.
"Welcome, District 3, to the reapings of the 41st Hunger Games. As every year, the beginning of the Hunger Games is a time to reflect, repent, and give thanks to the Capitol who gives us so much."
I resist the urge to laugh at that last bit; the Capitol gives us nothing. All it does is take and take and take, and never gives anything in return but grain and our tributes in pine boxes. District 3 generally does not fare well in the Games, with only a few exceptions.
"The Hunger Games are a gift from the Capitol; a chance to show our strengths and overcome our weaknesses, represented by the best of our youth," the mayor drones on, then announces our past victors, sitting quietly side by side on the stage. We have exactly one still alive, and he won in the past decade. I don't listen to the name of the dead victor, but I do pay attention to the live one.
"Beetee Latier, victor of the 35th Hunger Games," the mayor says, and Beetee rises, giving a good-natured wave. He's young, and extremely quiet. I see him around the district sometimes, working on something. He's regarded as a sort of technical genius, and that is exactly how he won his Games.
The mayor stops his lecture there, stepping aside for two Peacekeepers holding the two reaping bowls. They place them on the wooden stands by the microphone, then go back to their stations, standing still as statues.
District 3's escort, Delia Charm, with her bright blue wig that looks like a cloud sat on her head and ghostly white skin fairly skips out on stage, a cheery smile on her face. I wonder, if she got her wig wet, would it melt? She looks terrifying compared to the rest of us, standing sullenly waiting to hear who the unlucky sods are this year. What is it with the Capitol and their idiotic fashions and accents?
"Happy Hunger Games, District 3!" she calls, taking her place at the microphone. "May the odds be ever in your favor! Now, I know you all must be very excited to hear who the lucky tributes are this year!"
Nobody says anything. Like Districts 10, 11, and 12, being chosen as a tribute here is practically a death sentence. If you're not a genius like Beetee, you're not going to make it back here alive. I don't particularly like anyone I'm standing with right now, and they don't really like me either, but I feel a solidarity sweeping through the crowd. Despite our differences and all, we're all united in our hate for the Capitol.
Delia smiles despite the distinct lack of enthusiasm. "Let's get started, shall we?" she says, that overly cheerful smile never dropping from her face. I notice her shoes for the first time and wonder how she can walk in heels that are that high. "Ladies first!"
She proves she can walk in heels that high as she clips over to the girl's bowl, rifling around with a white gloved hand. There's a collective intake and holding of breath; every girl is praying it's not her, me included. Please don't let it be me.
Delia walks back to the microphone, opening the slim white piece of paper and takes a second to read the name herself.
"Astrid Clearwater!"
Everyone around me turns to look at me; I can see relief in their eyes that it was me who was picked, not them. I feel like I've been bludgeoned over the head with something heavy. Me? It's me?
Slowly I start walking up to the stage, where the mayor and Delia are waiting for me. The crowd is dead silent as I go through, stepping back to clear a path. I can hear every footstep I take as I make my way through the crowd, climb the nine wooden steps, and join Delia at the microphone.
"How old are you, dearie?" she asks; she's even scarier up close. I can see she's got blue jewels inlaid in the skin around her eyes; how does that not hurt?
"Sixteen," I say. To my credit, my voice doesn't shake when I hear it over the speakers. What is Mama thinking? And Axel? I'm dead, there's not much hope for me now. I'm a walking corpse.
"And do we have any volunteers for Astrid?" Delia asks, looking expectantly at the crowd. As I expected, they're all quiet. Nobody is going to volunteer for me, Astrid Clearwater, with the dubious background. I look over my district for what will probably be the last time; seeing them still in the pouring rain makes me appreciate this nice canopy above my head.
"No? Astrid, you can step back," Delia says, and I move back a few steps. "And now for the boys!"
Delia rummages around in the boys' bowl, which is overflowing with white slips. As she does so, I clear my throat quietly, trying to dislodge the tears that are threatening to come out on stage. I can't cry, not in front of everyone. I have to be strong for my family, and so the others don't pick me off right away.
Heels thudding against the wood of the stage, Delia makes her way back to the microphone, opening the white piece of paper that will doom someone in the crowd.
"Circuit Wallcry!"
It's easy to find the boy in the crowd, because his peers pull away from him like mine did for me. I groan inwardly; he obviously has no chance, and that becomes even more apparent when he climbs the stairs and stands next to me, anxiously blinking his eyes behind his water streaked glasses. He's thin as a rail, with black hair and grey eyes that are also common here in 3. He's a stereotypical useless tribute from 3.
"How old are you?" Delia asks him.
Circuit blinks twice more and says, "Seventeen." I would not have placed him as seventeen; he looks more along the lines of fourteen.
There are no volunteers for him either.
Delia makes us shake hands, as though we're going to be allies. Not likely; if I'm going to have any chance at winning, I can't have Sir Helpless here tagging along behind me. The crowd gives us piecemeal applause, and then the statue Peacekeepers come alive to herd us inside the Justice Building.
The room I'm put in is luxurious, with electric lights everywhere, and a thick blue carpet beneath my feet. I try to pull myself together before my family arrives, but I'm fighting back tears already. Today, the odds were not in my favor.
Before long, the door bursts open, and a sopping wet Mama and Axel come in, both of them crying. That doesn't help my cause, and I start crying as well. All three of us huddle together on the soft couch, hugging one another tightly.
"I'll try to win, Mama. I promise," I say, crying so hard I'm hiccupping.
"You're not going to try, Astrid, you are going to win," Mama says, and she sounds fierce, fiercer than I've ever heard her be before. "I want to see you back here in a few weeks with a crown on your head, do you understand me?" I nod, and she wipes my face with her hands.
"Where are you going, Trixie?" Axel asks, tears pouring down his face. "Why are you going away?"
How can I tell him I'm going to die? "I'm going to the Capitol, and you'll be able to see me on the television," I say, trying to stop crying for my brother's sake. "And I'll be back in a few weeks to tell you all about the Capitol, and how it looks. I'll bet it's prettier in real life than on television."
"Can I come?"
"No, it has to be just me. I need you to look after Mama while I'm gone, okay? You can look after each other until I come home." I'll come home one way or another, with a crown on my head or in a pine box. Who knows which?
"I want you to know I'm so proud of you, daughter," Mama says, looking at me like she wants to memorize my face before I go. This could be the last time I ever see my mother; I start to sob again, reaching out for her.
"You're my brave girl, you'll do fine. Make me proud; make the district proud. We're due for another victor, Astrid. I love you so much, so much more than you'll ever know." I'm still hugging my mother and brother tightly when the Peacekeeper opens the door.
"Time's up."
Then it's desperate goodbyes and last kisses and hugs before my family is escorted out the door and I'm left in this elaborate room alone. The only sounds come from a ticking clock and my hiccupping.
Like I expected, nobody else comes.
Once the hour is up, I'm led out of the Justice Building, into a waiting car. I try to dry my eyes on the way to the train station, but I know my eyes are red and everyone will know I've been crying. I don't care.
The cameras push into my face as soon as I get out of the car; I ignore both them and my district partner who's blinking up a storm. Delia and the Peacekeepers herd us tributes onto the train, followed closely by Beetee, who hasn't said a word yet.
I'm waiting by the window when the train starts, and I watch the last of District 3 fade and then finally disappear into the distance.
I'm truly alone.