Hello everyone :) I have been writing this story since the beginning of the year, but I've only started translating it into English now. I hope I'm doing an okay job, if there's any terrible mistakes, feel free to correct me! If you understand German, I have the original story uploaded as well (here and on the German page mentioned in my profile, the title is the same). That's it from me, enjoy the story!
Reaping
I am standing in the middle of the crowd and yet I know exactly who's name will be drawn today even before the Capitol escort opens his mouth. Silently I speak along as he gives the same speech as all the years before, imitating the Capitol accent. The girl next to me flinches as I grimace to match the morbid show on stage. Amused, I shrug in her direction, and in that exact second, my name is called. I say it out loud, in the same moment as he does, "Alys Brunel", and the girl looks thunderstruck and relieved at the same time. The cameras turn in my direction and I roll my eyes at them. "You took your time, didn't you?", is the only thing I have time to say before the Peacekeepers accompany me on stage.
I always knew this moment would come; I always knew that one day I'd be in the Games. My mother was a tribute years ago, heavily pregnant, and – surprise – didn't survive. The career tributes finished her relatively quickly since she couldn't run and the stress of the arena had her go into labor early. I survived, though. The other tributes were nice enough to cut me out of my mother's belly that day, and the Gamemakers sent a hovercraft to get me along with her body. I was sent back to my family's district to be raised by my grandparents. "You're a message!", has been my grandmother's mantra ever since, "nothing but a message!"
My mother's reaping ended a trend among 16- to 18-year-old girls in which they tried to evade the Hunger Games with a pregnancy. The Capitol wouldn't send pregnant girls into the arena – or so they thought. My mother was still picked to represent District 5 and it shocked the country and the number of underage pregnancies went down the following year. Obviously, knowing that carrying a baby couldn't save you must have spread like wildfire. And a pregnant girl has terrible odds of winning the Games.
Bitter as she is, my grandmother holds the view that her daughter's reaping back then was not a coincidence. So she drilled me, made me aware that one day I'd be a tribute too and I'd have to be prepared. Prepared to be just another sign, another message to Panem that the Capitol holds all the power. That no one is safe. Not even a child born in the Capitol. And today is the day, almost 19 years after my mother's death, and only my grandmother's constant speeches keep me from automatically panicking.
Instead, I stand up as straight as I can, just like I always practiced. The look I give the people of District 5 is dismissive, pejorative, and the smile I have for the cameras from the Capitol is nothing but arrogant. I'll win. Easy as that. And they should all know that I am better than they think. But I still hear them talking, whisper so loud that the escort has to tap his microphone a few times before anyone remotely listens to him reaping this year's male tribute. The man's hand twitches between the slips of paper, and I use that moment to look for my family in the crowd. My grandfather is easy to find, his height is easily recognizable, and my grandmother is by his side. None of them looks surprised – honestly, it was a bigger surprise for them when I wasn't reaped straight away when I was twelve. But the Capitol likes a good show and older tributes live longer. With me turning 19 in a few days, their chances of turning me into a profitable TV star are higher. But they don't know I trained for the arena. They don't know that with every reaping they spared me, they upped my chances to ultimately survive.
"Tic Anderson", the man from the Capitol says with a grin. I sigh. Poor Tic couldn't have picked a worse year. People are still talking about me when he enters the stage. Tic is a stubby boy with flaming red hair, ashen from the second his name was called. I nod at him, but he just looks like he's trying his best to ignore me. But he can't, no one can. It's because everyone knows who I am. They all know me, not all of them personally, of course, but they have heard of me. Being born in the arena inevitably makes you famous. People remember. And I know that that is my ticket out of the Games, being famous already is a card I can play just as well as my fighting skills. So I grin and bear it, slowly making everyone out there see me as a force to be reckoned with in the coming 69th Hunger Games.
When Porter Millicent Tripp and Spudnell Wilson, past victors from our district, shake mine and Tic's hands, I even manage to hold an effortless conversation. Tic, however, overwhelmed by my confidence, doesn't speak a word.