Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference.
-Robert Frost
Power Plant #2094, June 16th, 11:00 am
Clio Paxton (17) POV
District 5 female
The buzzer signaling the end of the work day goes off at precisely 11:00 am on the day of the Reaping, 5 hours earlier than it would any other day. Families are given 3 hours to go home and clean up before the Reaping, and report back to work at 3:00 pm and work until 7:00. The only families exempt are the families of the chosen tributes.
Anyway.
I begin to file out of the power plant with my coworkers, but before I leave, I run into my dad. I slow my pace and we walk together in a comfortable silence until we get outside. We start walking home to get ready for the Reaping, and along the way, I notice him sending fleeting glances my way, but I don't acknowledge any of them. I'm just not in the mood to talk today. Not to mention, the looks are probably more to see if I'm keeping up with him than concern over my well being.
"Worried about today?" he asks, halfheartedly looking over his shoulder. I shrug. "You have nothing to be worried about; you're statistically unlikely to be picked."
"If you want to talk statistics, I'm just as likely to get picked as anyone else," I counter.
We all live about the same here in District 5. 90% of us are menial labor workers; factories, nuclear reaction centers that we adopted from District 13, power plants- that would be me. 9% are considered "smart," even though we're all a hell of a lot smarter than the rest of Panem. The "smart" ones work in labs, making some sort of use of the chemicals and formulas provided by the Capitol. They're not too much wealthier than us, but they get apartments above the labs and a less degrading job. The remaining 1% is wealthy without even half trying; Peacekeepers, the Mayor, families of the Victors.
We're no richer or poorer than most of the District. I took out just as much tessera as anyone else did- maybe less, considering I'm an only child- but in the long run, we're all in the same boat with the same chances. Last time someone from the 1% went into the Games was over 30 years ago when one of the mayor's kids had the bright idea to volunteer. Idiot died in the bloodbath.
My dad is silent, and we continue the walk home quiet. We get to our high rise, one apartment in a building of many. The elevators haven't worked since we moved in, and we climb the six flights of stairs. Upon walking into the entryway, I immediately make a B-line for our makeshift bathroom area. I put up the curtain and take as good of a bath as I can, scrubbing the grime from work off. I work hard not to get my hair wet, since it'll only frizz, but eventually I cave, since it really does need to be washed. Immediately after, I wrap myself in a towel and go to my room, closing the door.
I wring out my hair so it doesn't get my clothes wet, and then put on what little acceptable clothing I have, just a gray skirt with an old white sweater. It's too hot for this, but I either wear this, or my factory uniform. I cross my room to a cracked full length mirror and brush out my wavy blonde hair, noticing that it's already frizzy.
"Shit," I mutter. After some trial and error, I decide to just leave it alone. There's nothing overwhelmingly bad about it, and it really is unlikely that anyone will see it.
"Clio, you ready?" dad calls.
"Dad, the bells haven't even-" I'm cut off by the bells going off. "I'll be right there."
I make one last effort to tame my hair, and then leave my bedroom, taking one last fleeting look before I leave. I walk out through my doorway and into the living room. Wordlessly, dad opens the door and steps aside, allowing me to go ahead of him. As soon as I'm out the door, I push back him and run back to my room. I almost forgot.
I run back into my room and look around in a panic. It's not on my shelf. Where did I put it? Where did I put it? I check under my bed, on my desk and in the box in my closet and there's no sign of the leather bound, crinkled pages of my mother's poetry book. It's the last thing I have of my mother, and if I happen to be Reaped, there's no way in hell I'm going into the Games without it. Finally I find it, buried under the work uniforms in my drawer. It's a small book, about the size of my hand. In order to seem unsuspecting, I remove the page that I ripped out before my first Reaping. I was convinced that I would be Reaped, and that I would need a token. I chose my favorite, The Road Not Taken. I fold the poem in half twice before sliding it up my sleeve.
As calmly as I can, I exit my room and walk back to my father. I try to control my breathing and keep my face as neutral as possible.
"Don't tell me you were getting that God awful poem," he says, disgustedly. "I always told your mother that poetry wasn't good for anything."
"Well, since mom died, someone should carry on her tradition," I say. "Besides, I didn't even get the poem. I was just turning off my light."
"Sure," he says, not believing me one bit. "Well, if you get Reaped and that's what you want to waste on your token, I can't stop you."
"Nothing can be a waste of a token," I argue. "The Gamemakers would take away anything that would be of real use."
"We're going to be late," he says, when he realizes he's lost. "Are you coming with me, or do you want me to leave you for the Peacekeepers to find?"
Sighing, I push past him, walking faster than I know he can. I can walk without him to the Reaping. If he's going to be an asshole, I don't need him. I walk the several miles to the Square by myself, and on my way, I recite the lines to the poem to myself. Over the years, I've memorized it. On occasion, I look over my shoulder to make sure my father isn't in sight, and I'll pull the poem out of my sleeve, taking in the feel of the old paper, the faded ink and the torn, once crisp edges, cherishing every crease and stain I made when I was young.
Eventually, I make it to the Square and stand in line to get my blood drawn. I wait in line patiently, and as I'm nearing the front, I see my dad enter the section for anyone younger than 12 and older than 18. District 5 isn't an especially large District, but that's still a lot of people. Finally it's my turn, and the man in the Peacekeeper uniform takes my blood.
"Clio Paxton, 17, female, District 5," he states.
"Gee, I had no idea," I say sarcastically, yanking my hand back.
"Watch it girl, or it'll be your head," he sneers.
"Whatever," I say, turning away. I head to my section and entertain myself until the escort hops up onto the stage.
That's when reality sets in.
The Stork Residence, June 16th, 1:00 pm
Elijah Stork (16) POV
District 5 male
I sit on my bed with the covers pushed down at my feet, painting my nails with a shaky hand. My button down shirt is an eye catching electric blue, and my pants, a bright neon green. To add more color to my outfit, I paint my nails highlighter orange. This is sure to get me noticed. Perfect.
"Elijah, honey, can you help your sister get ready for the Reaping?" Mom calls into my room.
"Fauna is eleven years old!" I yell. "She can get herself ready for the Reaping!"
"I need you to do my makeup!" Fauna yells. "I can't do it myself!"
"Put a light color on your eyelid and a dark color in the crease!" I shout back to her. "And you need peach blush, not pink."
There's a pause, but after a moment, she screams back "I don't know what any of those words mean!"
"Oh my GOD!" I yell, before grabbing my bright orange makeup case and stomping to her room. "What do you need?"
"I don't need anything, but it would help if you did my makeup," she says. "You know, so I don't look like a clown."
"Why do you need makeup?" I ask, rhetorically. "The cameras won't see you... At all. There's no chance that you'll be Reaped, so no one will be looking at you."
"If you get Reaped, they'll do a closeup of me and mom and dad," she points out, hand on her hip. "And then what? I can't look like a mess on national television. No way."
"Irrelevant," I say, waving my hand. "I'm not going to be Reaped, I can feel it in my gut."
"You never know, Elijah," Fauna points out, opening a compact and handing it to me with a brush. "Confidence doesn't help you in these situations, it's all the luck of the draw. Literally. Being overly confident won't make you any less likely to be picked."
"By your own logic, being overly confident won't make me any more likely to be picked either," I say, smirking. "And I've been through more Reapings than you. I know how this works. Trust me when I say that I probably won't be picked. It's just not likely."
"If you get picked, I'm gonna laugh," she says, snatching back the makeup. "No pity at all."
After she says this, my eyes well up, and I close them to keep tears from falling. My own sister wouldn't be sad if I was going to die? I thought she was my family! I thought we were supposed to love each other unconditionally! I open my eyes back up and my vision is clouded with tears, which I furiously wipe away with the back of my hand. I try to swallow, but there's a lump in my throat the size of District 11, and it refuses to go away. I meet Fauna's glance, and she rolls her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Elijah," she says, her voice filled with contempt. "I just wish you'd be a little more careful. There's a very real possibility that you'll be Reaped, and I just think that if you're unaware of it, you'd be even more crushed if your name was actually called."
"I guess you have a point," I say, sniffling. "But you didn't have to be so mean about it."
"I guess," she says. "Look, why don't I figure out my own makeup so you can fix yours. Your mascara is everywhere."
"Okay," I say. I begin to leave, but she cuts me off.
"But if I were you..." she trails off.
"What?" I snap.
"I just don't want you to give Joey Foster the wrong idea," she says, with a slight smile. "He's had his eye on you for a while."
"I am not gay!" I screech.
"Sure, Elijah," she mutters, sarcastically.
"I'm not!" I insist. "Really! Now if you'll excuse me, I have to fix my makeup."
I storm out of Fauna's room and into mine, cringing once I see myself in the mirror. My sister was right; my mascara really is everywhere. Not to mention, my eyes are red ad puffy. I remove everything with a wipe, then reapply some concealer, powder, mascara and the tiniest amount of blush. I don't wear makeup on a daily basis, but the Reaping is a special occasion, and I think it calls for it. Once I'm done with my makeup, I mess up my hair a bit until it's sitting how I like it to, then smile at my reflection, pleased at how it came out.
The next thing I know, the bells signalling us to leave for the Reaping go off, and I start to hyperventilate. I can't handle this Reaping, I just can't! I need to get away. I need to run away. Yeah, that's it. I'll fake my death, become a recluse and leave, so I'l never have the chance to be Reaped ever again. I can live off of the land- I know there's a lot of mushrooms on the round outside the District, I learned that. And nobody ever died from eating forest mushrooms, right? They can't have. I'll be fine.
But if the mushrooms don't taste good, what am I going to eat? Obviously I'm not going to eat anything that doesn't taste good. Maybe I'll just eat myself. I'll cut of a toe and eat it, and then I won't eat again until that toe grows back.
"Elijah, time for the Reaping!" mom says. "Come on, let's go!"
"No!" I yell. "I'm running away!"
"You are not running away," she says, sounding more frustrated than anything. "Now let's go."
"Coming," I say, timidly.
I walk out of my room and walk to the Square with my family. The entire way there, I get more and more scared that I'll be Reaped. But I probably won't.
Victor's Village, House #3 (The Schripe Residence), The Nursery, June 16th, 1:30 pm
Alicia Schripe (17) Mentor POV
Victor of the 225th Hunger Games
"Alicia, we're leaving for the Reaping!" I hear Dad call from down the hall, over the sound of Ross's screaming. "Are you coming?"
I stick my head out the door, wincing. "I'll meet you there, okay? Tell Ashley I'm coming."
His footsteps retreat down the hall, and after a moment, I hear the front door slam shut. I retrieve Ross from his crib, flushed against the wall, holding the screaming baby close to my heart. After a good fifteen minutes of light bouncing, whispering and singing, he calms down and looks up at me with glassy eyes. I stick out my tongue and cross my eyes, and he smiles a big toothless grin. I smile back at him and kiss the top of his head before rushing out of the house.
I strap him into his car seat of the car that I got a few months ago. Last year I walked to the Square from my house in Victor's Village, and was a sweaty, disheveled mess by the time I got there. I haven't quite nailed the whole driving thing yet, since there's only so many people in the District with cars, and literally no one to help teach me, but I'm confident enough to drive my infant son 10 minutes across the District.
I park near the Square, get out of the car and unbuckle him from the car seat. He reaches up for me, and I carry him quickly up the stairs to the stage, taking my seat on the end next to Nathan, my mentor from when I was in the Games. As soon as I'm seated, the escort, Kestrel Duncan mounts the stage, understated compared to the rest of the Capitolites. His only visible body alteration is his bright turquoise hair, on both his head and his face. He's wearing a plain black suit with no makeup, piercings or tattoos. He gives me, the other Victors and the Mayor a quick nod before approaching the microphone at the center of the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen of District 5, welcome to the Reaping for the 227th Hunger Games," he says. "No need to beat around the bush here, we all know what's going to happen. So I guess we'll start with the ladies."
He reaches a hand into the female reaping bowl and unravels the first slip he touches. Wasting no time, he leans back into the microphone and says "Clio Paxton."
I look for the girl I used to go to school with in the crowd of people. When I finally find her, I see the girl standing next to her nudge her arm, and I take special note of her, since I'll be mentoring her. I mentored last year, which would normally be grounds for me to be off the hook this year. However, last year, the other female mentor was supposed to mentor, but got sick, so I was just a fill in. I was scheduled to mentor this year, so I have to.
Clio's small, about as small as I was when I was Reaped two years ago, and I was two years younger than her. We're the same age. She was in my grade at school. 10th grade chemistry, we were lab partners. Small world. Her wavy blonde hair is much longer than it was last I saw her; it falls to her mid back now. The gray toned clothes make her big blue eyes look stormy, adding to her angular face. She's always been incredibly pale, and I know that once she gets to the Remake Center, they're going to spray tan her. She has a lot of potential for the Capitolites to find her pretty.
As she's walking up to the stage, she stumbles slightly, tripping over her feet. I wince at the thought of having to teach her how to walk in heels. She finally makes it to the stage, and takes her place behind the female Reaping bowl with a forced looking smile.
"Well, it's been nice knowing you guys," she says, smirking. The crowd lets out a halfhearted laugh, more out of pity than anything else.
How is she doing that? How is she not terrified? When my name was called, I thought my life was over. I was so terrified, I practically crapped my pants. And she's up here making jokes? What kind of superhuman is she?
"Now, onto the boys," Kestrel continues. "This year's male tribute is... Elijah Stork!"
A small cry comes from the crowd, and I'm scared that there's going to be a 12-year-old that Nathan has to mentor. District 5 hasn't had a 12-year-old since the 212th games, and Nathan doesn't bode well with kids. If we have a young kid, we'll have to switch. I'm not letting Nathan mentor a little one.
I feel bad for being relieved when a flamboyant looking boy trudges out of the 16-year-old boys' section. Now I won't feel bad mentoring Clio. Elijah's wearing all bright, flashy colors, and from here, I can see that his nails are painted and that he's wearing a bit of makeup. His hair is neat and orderly, and overall, he looks better than I do. Last year, I dressed my best. This year, I wore ripped jeans and a sweatshirt, minimal makeup and my hair in a pony tail. I'm a mom now, not a prostitute. And I have no one to impress. Supposedly, my "boyfriend," Fenton Henderson loves me just the way I am.
Once Elijah gets to the stage, he looks at the crowd, then at Clio, then the victors, and after a moment, he bursts into tears, blubbering like a baby. This sets Ross off, who starts screaming, burying his face in my shoulder. I carry him into the Justice Building to get him away from the noise, and so after, I hear the slamming door of the tributes being taken in.
The Justice Building, June 16th, 2:30 pm
Clio Paxton (17) POV
District 5 female
How did this happen? How the hell did I get Reaped? I mean, I know I had just as much chance as anyone else did, but I'm in shock that my name was the one that was pulled out from that bowl. It was such a slim possibility. I always knew I had a chance, but that's all I thought it was: a chance. Hearing my name pulled from the bowl was almost the worst news of my life.
It was a snowy November, not uncommon for District 5, except that it was the first snowfall of the season. Little flurries dropped from the sky, and I ran outside with no coat on to catch one in my mouth. Because everybody knows that if you catch the first snowflake of the first snowfall, whatever wish you make will come true. Even though I was 16, it was a tradition I held dear with my mother, and I knew in my heart of hearts that no matter how old I got, the childish gesture would grow with me, and I'd never stop doing it.
I stood in the middle of the yard with my tongue out, waiting for a flake to land in my mouth, but the snow was dropping slowly, almost lazily. It was taking forever.
"Clio, why are you doing this?" dad asks, leaning against the door frame. "It's cold, and your mom isn't even home from work yet."
"Can't talk, dad," I say, my words jumbled from the position of my mouth. "I gotta catch the snowflake."
Before my dad can respond, our neighbor Jaxon comes running towards our yard, a sweaty, panting mess. I angle my body towards him, but leave my face up to the sky. Just because I need to listen to him doesn't mean I can't catch this snowflake. I always catch the snowflake, I have to. It's tradition.
"Zander!" he breathes. "Oh, and Clio. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Calm down," my dad says, a hitch in his breath. "Jaxon, what happened?"
"Oh, you didn't hear, did you?" he asks, the pain in his voice perfectly audible. I angle my head slightly down, and make my eyes meet his.
"Jaxon?" I ask, my tongue back in my mouth.
"Annora passed away," he says, removing his cap and wringing it in his hands. "She had her hair down and just was sucked into one of the machines. I'm so sorry to have been the one to tell you."
My dad drops to his knees, burying his face in his hands, repeating "Why?" over and over again. Even though my parents had their problems, I knew deep down that they really did love each other. Recognizing that I had to be the stronger one, since my father was breaking down, I turned to Jaxon.
"Thank you for telling us," I say, offering him a curt nod.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," he says, ducking his head. "You let me know if there's anything you need, alright?"
"Will do," I say. "Thank you, sir."
Jaxon shuffles across the street to his house, and the first snowflake falls on the tip of my nose. For the first time in my life, I didn't make a wish.
"Clio?" a voice asks. "Clio, can you answer me, please? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, dad," I say, my voice solid as slate and surprisingly steady. "I'm fine."
"You have that poem, don't you?" he asks. I nod. "I knew it. God, I can't believe that you're wasting your only token on-"
"Please leave," I cut him off.
"I... I'm sorry?"
"If you're not going to be helpful, then I'd like you to leave."
Wordlessly, he goes. I don't expect anyone else. I was right.
The Justice Building, June 16th, 2:30 pm
Elijah Stork (16) POV
District 5 male
Screaming and then silence. That's all I hear, is screaming and then silence.
Kestrel calls my name. Screaming. I walk up to the stage. Screaming. Kestrel announces Clio and I as the tributes from District 5. Screaming. Being escorted into the Justice Building. Screaming. Waiting for my family. Screaming. A Peacekeeper telling me that my family wasn't going to come in unless I was quiet. Screaming. The Peacekeeper pulls out a needle.
Silence.
Thanks super bunches to NETWORKS for Clio and Lady Lysa Arryn for Elijah!
Hey guys. Remember me? I am so sorry this came so late. I won't make excuses or tell you it'll never happen again, but I'm gonna try harder, I promise. I've been writing as much and as often as I can, but school happened. So special thanks to James, Chayse, Brooke and Caleb for threatening me with bodily harm until my next update. Y'all are bae af.
So! If you want to be part of an SYOT that might update more than me, check out my profile for a list of "Cool open SYOTs you should submit to." If you have a cool open SYOT, let me know and I'll add it to the list.
Questions!
1) Who do you like better, Clio or Elijah?
2) What did you like about them?
3) What didn't you like about them?
4) Any predictions?
-No one says no to Gaston!