Chapter Title: 02. Pronunciations (D6 Reapings)
Chapter Subtitle: 02. Names that are Just Hard to Pronounce for the Capitolians
Description: The District 6 escort ruins—just—everything.
Summary: "Did I pronounce that right, my dear?"
Rating: T for Tsk-Tsking escorts
Main Characters/Pairings: Aella M. (D6F), John B. (D6M), the Escort in Question (D6E)
Genre: Thriller, Horror, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst…and Comedy (because that's just me)
Disclaimer: I don't own THG. I don't own Finnick Odair. I don't even own the tributes here…Life sucks.
Have you ever seen an SYOT written in a 2nd person POV? Well, I think not. I'm determined to be the first. Mwhahahahahaha.
So here's what we're (I'm) going to do. I'm going to try out a few different POVs in the reapings (I'm only planning to do three of them. The rest of the reapings would probably be described through memories and flashbacks). It might seem a bit hectic and confusing, but after that, I'm going to ask you which POV was the best (or I'll just choose it myself).
To Guest: Thanks for taking the time to review. I thought about it, and yeah, I'll try to tone it down, but I'm afraid I won't be able to not curse completely (that's just me). So, if you're uncomfortable with all the cursing, I recommend you not to read further. :(
So, I had a feeling that some of you might be feeling discomfort due to my cursing. Well, I hate to say that I can't stop myself (people often say I cuss like a sailor), though I'll try. But, if there's any of you who don't want any cursing for your character, tell me so, and that I can promise.
To S.H. Reke: Thanks for submitting! (I love John's last name!)
To That one ace popsicle stick: Thanks so much for your review and submission. (And seriously, is it A-Ella or AEE-la?)
You're the best, Amber1015! Thanks for being my superamazing beta!
Aella Maglev (15), D6F
"Anthony, you know that the Games are hard enough without injuries. You've been through them yourself. So, was it necessary to select her form when we were in the Capitol?"
"I don't care, Rista, she seems like a strong one. If someone has a chance, she has."
"Don't you remember Johanna? We tried to use her as a shield for the victors because 'she seemed like the strongest.' Now, she's broken beyond repair."
"That's irrelevant to this matter."
"No, it's not. Look at her. Strong, really? She has only one arm, for goodness' sake!"
"So, what. Chaff has only one arm. Mellark survived with one leg. Plus, did you see her form? She's as flexible as fuck. Jumped off a roof once and landed clean."
"…"
"I tell you, that girl has a talent like none other."
"…At least, pray for her, okay?"
"You know that I always do."
~.~.~
As usual, you stand in the crowd of fifteen-year-olds, but today is somewhat different from the past three reapings. The familiar crowd of your reaping companions is nowhere to be seen, and it's just you and a handful of kids squinting at the stage, all fighting back the urge to squirm as the scorching sun runs down your spine like ants.
You shift uncomfortably from your left foot to your right, semi-consciously scratching the stump on your left arm; a habit you earned when you were young and were bitten by a bug on that spot.
The sun prickles your neck, and you stop yourself before you reach up and scratch there too. You're the center of attention (no matter where you go), no doubt. No need to make yourself even more noticeable.
You zone out and look around like you always do when the Treaty of Treason plays. You half expect to see your best friend, Tempest's face giving you a reassuring—although grim—a nod, and you're slightly taken aback by the emptiness of the area around you. About 50 or 60 so children in all, they seem to be quite uncertain what to think about the rather large area surrounded by ropes they're trapped inside. You're slightly amused by the fact that, even though there's plenty of space, you feel claustrophobic, nonetheless.
Your mind remembers the morning two peacekeepers had been standing in front of your house, holding out a rolled creamy white paper, sealed with a ribbon that was a lovely red shade.
You also remember feeling your breathing labor and your heart beat faster until you felt dizzy and thinking became a difficulty.
And you clearly remember the words written on the envelope: Aella Maglev, age 15, District 6. You are hereby selected as a "worthy" child to be reaped in the Quarter Quell this year.
Ah, the Quarter Quell. How excited you were when you heard the president's announcement that the reaping this year wasn't going to be eligible for all, that only some 'special' (you would rather describe them as poor) children were to be dragged into the reaping grounds.
You had no idea that you—with only one fucking arm—would be chosen as one of those 'children'.
And this year, being chosen once is deadly, because, the chances that you'll be reaped, are very, very high.
You knew that you shouldn't have been doing somersaults on the roof every morning and night.
You shift a bit, and your gaze meets Tempest's—her petite form stands rather close, but too far away at the same time. Worry fogs her eyes, even though she's not surrounded by velvet ropes, waiting like gum in a vending machine, one second away from being picked out and chewed away by the Capitol.
She tries to smile and give you a thumbs up, but she swallows hard as she does, and you just know that she's not okay, and neither are you.
Your eyes briefly close as you hear the sound of the escort's ridiculously high heels on the smooth marble stage. You never bothered to memorize her name.
As the escort reaches down in the girl's bowl, your fingers cross almost by themselves. But you quickly pull them apart, because, with the number of children crossing their fingers each year on this day, you're quite sure that the luck has run out of this gesture.
And surely, fate won't be that cruel for you to be reaped. Though the 5 slips of paper that have your name on it promises a fair amount of chance of being reaped, the fact that your life has always been so shitty somehow calms you down. Because, there must be a total amount of brutality you can go through a lifetime, and you defiantly have gone through your share.
You don't know if it's the July heat, or just the sickening situation that makes your head go blank as District 6's escort fishes out a piece of white, white paper out of the bowl.
Please, you beg in your head. You usually don't do begging, but let's face it, the reapings are a special occasion. Not me. Please. It's not really fair for me, right? Hell, it's not fair for anyone, but it's just not fair for me.
"Aella Maglev!"
Please, you think. Not me. Not me. Not—
You're suddenly aware of the gasps and the murmurs of concern around you, and you freeze.
What?
"Aella Maglev? Uh, did I pronounce that right, my dear? Is it A-Ella, or AEE-la?"
You've never been drunk before, but you vaguely wonder if this is what it feels like to be. The strangling silence around you seems to be morphed into some sort of white buzzing noise that rings in your head. You think you hear someone scream through the sound—maybe it's your aunt—your head feels light, everything just doesn't seem to make any sense, and oh, you just seem to be drowning, drowning, drowning in nothingness, but also in a million—or maybe it's just one repeated a million times—questions.
After everything I've been through? After everything I've been through? After everything I've been through?
John Blickensdefer-Morrigan (17), D6M
"Anthony! Really?"
"Rista, I told you that I had my reasons when I chose the tribute nominees that day."
"That boy looks like he'll be knocked over at once by the Careers."
"Come on, Rista—"
"Don't tell me to come on. First the girl, and now—I can't. What's he gonna do in the arena with his skill? Play the piano to shoo the mutts away or something?"
"Well, Katniss—"
"And see how that turned out for her."
"That was harsh."
"But true."
"In my defense, the boy has strong arms from playing the instrument for a long time. He'll manage."
"That's not enough, and you know it."
"Nothing's ever enough in the Hunger Games, Rista. You should know the best."
~.~.~
You watch in horror as the girl steps onto the stage looking quite emotionless—which is impressive, given by the fact that she had just fainted a few minutes ago. The escort whose name you laughed at and forgot in an instant has a flicker of pity in her eyes.
Your eyebrows rise ever so slightly. It wasn't every day you saw a Capitolian sympathizing for a tribute. Wait, you observe the escort again. Of course, it's not pity. It's closer to horror at seeing a one-armed girl. You roll your eyes, despite the dire situation you're in.
Then the escort asks the girl again for her name—why is Aella so hard to pronounce? —and you slowly start zoning out, imagining what would be like if your name was reaped.
You smile lightly at the thought. If Aella's hard for her, John Blickensdefer-Morrigan would be harder than licking her damn polished elbows.
Then you quickly change your mind. What are you thinking? Do you want to participate in the freaking Hunger Games? Clear your mind, dammit!
Everything seems slightly slower than usual as the escort sashays across the stage, this time, to the boys' reaping bowl. Like every year, your heart suddenly seems to be pumping in an erratic manner—just to stop with the rest of your body altogether when the escort puts her expensively decorated fingernails inside the jar.
Not that you're really noticing, but seriously, you don't think her fingers even touch the paper as she fishes it out of the jar. (Those fingernails, really!)
You're sure everyone's looking at the piece of paper in the escort's hands as if it's a loaded gun pointed towards them. Well, the jokes on them, you think grimly. The gun's pointed nowhere but here, you take in the image around you in your peripheral vision—but you don't let the paper out of your sight—25 or so boys within the area fastened by ropes, including yourself.
The odds have never been in your favor to start with.
Just as the thought hits you, you start to panic. Now it comes to you like a tidal wave in the 70th Hunger Games that you actually do have a chance of getting reaped. A very large chance. The only thing that saves you from suddenly screaming out in horror is your calm demeanor—forced into place by a lifetime of playing relaxing, comforting music. But you are a mess on the inside.
Six slips of paper in only a hundred or so. OH SHIT.
Every single thought short-circuits as the escort flicks the paper open. Your legs feel very useless suddenly, and you're subconscious is resisting the urge to drop down to your knees and start hyperventilating right then and there.
You somehow just know the outcome of the boy's reaping when the escort's mouth twitches in the corners a bit, and her forehead forms a frown—as if she's contemplating on how to pronounce a very impossible name.
Wait, your mind grasps straws as you start to sweat like crazy. I'm sure there are names harder to pronounce—
"Okay, John," the escort calls out. "John Blahsdah," a pause, where everybody's either looking at you or the escort who looks like she's trying to tie her tongue into a knot. "Mo-blahblah."
Your stomach lurches.
"I'm sorry," the escort looks apologetic—maybe even scared, but you're too dizzy to tell. "I'm not sure how to pronounce; John—?"
"Blickensdefer-Morrigan," someone whispers quietly, and you somehow figure out that it's the Aella girl who spoke up.
That's when the hell breaks loose, and you burst into tears.
A COMMENT FROM THE CAPITOL:
Gotta love them tongue twisters!
A/N: The lucky (?) district to join the rebel side is District 10. Congratulations!
I hope I got Aella and John's characters correct. Also, the next reaping chapter won't show the actual reapings, but the morning of the reaping.
Q & A
Question 1: Ever heard of BTS? (My sister is obsessed and ah, my ears are, at an alarming rate, being. Damaged.)
Question 2: How'd you like the first reaping? If it's too boring or anything, tell me. The last thing I want to do is write a boring SYOT (That's against my freaking nature).