Creeping Dawn: The First Hunger Games (SYOT OPEN) Chapter 4: District Two: Leucas Olabode, a hunger games fanfic

District Two Male: Leucas Olabode

I clench my fists tighter until my umber skin begins to lighten, until I can see the cords holding my bones together. I imagine them splintering, breaking through my skin like the bones of other soldiers jutting through legs. I try to take deeper breaths, but each wheeze only reminds me of the choking sensation of poisonous gas and deadly chemicals, of the screams of dying kids, of the laughter of my sister when she was just getting over a cold.

"Goddamnit," I hiss to myself, my gruff voice attracting a couple of odd looks from those around me. I stop clenching one of my fists to turn the gold wire earring in my earlobe. I turn it slowly, trying to get the episode under control. A flash of my a bullet flying through my sister's head appears in bright, sick colors in my brain, and I resist the urge to scream.

The air in Two is cold yet humid, travelling to my skin via an open window, and the coins in my hands feel cautiously heavy and cool, their scent like salt and sea and metal. I count seven people with blonde hair in the near vicinity, and five things that are both round and blue. Focusing on the outside world helps to ground me, but I would never let anyone know the coping mechanisms I use to stabilize after a flashback or PTSD attack like this one.

"You wanted to buy something?" The store owner looks at me impatiently. "Or did you just wanna waste my time?"

I step forward. "Sorry," I mutter, voice low and gravelly. It sounds as though I've smoked five packs of cigarettes. In reality, the chemicals are still, on some level, there in my lungs. I try to forget the fact that I'll likely succumb to lung cancer at a younger age. That in itself would trigger an avalanche of memories. I hand the shopkeeper the coins. He waves the next customer forward.

I stumble outside into the clammy air, regaining my footing quickly. The attack has passed, and that's what's important. The streets of District Two are more put together than the rest of Panem, I imagine, but there are telltale signs of the horrific rebellion. The black skeleton of a burnt shop stands just a few stores down, no doubt set alight by violent anarchist rebels due to the owner's loyalist beliefs. A homeless mother nurses a baby on the corner, begging for spare change. Even District Two, the region that was supposed to support and keep peace in Panem, did not escape war.

I head to work, newly purchased stone hammer in my hands, watching the sun slowly rise as I make my way to the granite processing facility. Not many are here today, which is understandable. When I heard about the reaping and the games, I thought it was a just punishment for the rebels who made us all lose so much. My mother's arm and leg, my physical endurance, my level mind, my sister's life. Now, as the drawing grows closer and closer, I'm even more sure in my opinions. Whichever kid get chosen, I'm sure they'll deserve what they get. I'm clenching my fists again as I walk inside, the familiar din and drone of the machine's doing nothing to calm the fury building inside of me.

"Hey!"

A sudden shout jolts me from my angry daydream.

"Leucas! Over here!"

Cicero's lanky arms wildly wave from his position at the farthest contraption. I give him a slight nod before heading over, once again twisting the metal that lines my ears. I notice he's wearing the copper wire honeybee I crafted for him, and a sudden rush makes its way through my body. I smile.

I jog over to him, quickly beginning to run out of breath. I slow my pace. "Hey," I pant, finally reaching him. "Working today?"

"You know me," Cicero grins. "Always ready to work."

I shake my head at him, suppressing the grin. "Weren't so ready to work during the war," I tease.

"Hey, hey," he gestures at his lanky body. "Lupus is a bitch. Sometimes-" he sighs dramatically. "Sometimes your body rebels more than the outer districts."

I turn away from the talk about the rebellion, taking my place along the assembly line. Cicero takes the hint and does so as well, dropping the conversation quickly. Before long, I've lost myself in the methodical, rhythmic thwacks as our hammers meet stone. A long time ago, before the war, I used to lead work songs. Cicero worked with me even back then, and he used to tell me that my voice was the purest thing he'd ever heard, dropping the compliment easily and naturally. I don't sing anymore. It reminds me of Tamara, of her death, but more importantly, of her life, something I can't bear to think about anymore.

We work in silence now.

-:-

"So you really think this thing is justified?"

"I know it is," I respond, running a hand over my cropped hair. "They won't send anyone but the children of the worst of the worst to the Games. They can't."

"Yeah, but Jesus Leucas-" Scoria rolls her eyes. "Children."

"I was a child." I snap. "Tamara was a child."

Scoria pauses, pushing her short red hair from her sharp and clear eyes. "Still not over that, are you?"

"How could I be over that?" I pick a piece of peeling paint from the wooden slats of my home. "I watched her die. Or do you not remember? Were you too knocked up on morphine and feeling sorry for yourself?"

Scoria glances at me, raising her eyebrows. We're silent for a minute, but break into laughter at the same time. Our arguments are like that. We could never really be angry with one another, no matter how difficult and blunt she can be. Whenever I look at her, all I can remember is the skinny, burnt soldier in the bed next to mine, her hair falling out in clumps and her croaky voice ordering around the poor volunteer nurses. I remember nights of crying in her arms, nights where she cried in mine until the sun's light evaporated the last of the stars from the smoky sky. I remember confiding in her about Tamara, about the sister I knew and the sister I lost.

"Shut up, dick," she chuckles, idly scratching at her burn scars. "We've been over that. You watched Tamara die in a battle on live television. You were so depressed that you hoped you'd die in the war. Blah blah."

She's the only one I allow to talk to me like this, in a straight forward, no nonsense way, in a way that is so blunt it's mean. I roll my eyes back at her. "Well, what do you want me to do about it? Suck it up?"

"Yeah," she begins to turn away, checking her watch. As she walks down the street, she calls back at me. "And while you're at it, take a shower. You stink!"

I grin and open my front door, my head clearer than it has been in days. Though Scoria rehashes things that should trigger my PTSD, the way she does it somehow allow me to process through things rather than go into an episode. She's a confusing and yet useful friend to have around.

"Leucas?" my mother's stern voice sounds from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

"Yeah." I call back, lungs clicking as the breath escapes my body. I follow her voice, walking down the long hallway. Along the walls are framed medals, plaques, papers that express gratitude for astounding and extraordinary military service for the nation of Panem. My mother's mostly, though a few trinkets of my father's are thrown in, most notably a silver cross, signifying excellent medical service for the Capitol soldiers.

My mother sits at the kitchen table, nose buried in the newspaper. Headlines across the front announce the dawning of a beautiful new era of sacrifice and glory. The Hunger Games- a Pageant of Majesty it reads. She looks up, her only remaining hand dropping the paper and bringing it to her stump of a leg. She rubs it in a way that signifies pride, the muscles in her arm twitching.

"How was work?" She asks, eyebrows raised. "Are you ready for today?"

"Fine and yes," I say. "Scoria and I walked home from the doctor's together."

"And how are those lungs?" Her eyes fall on my chest, as if scrutinizing my insides.

"They're the same," I shrug. "Prolonged physical activity isn't recommended, it'll take time to heal."

"Hmph," she shrugs. "I'd talk to your father. I don't trust that doctor. I heard he worked for the rebels, but switched sides quietly as the tide turned."

A wave of fury pulses through my gut. The man who listened to me breathe just an hour ago could have healed the soldiers that killed my sister. "I'll stop going to see him then." I say quietly, clenching my fists so my hands don't shake.

"Good idea," she says, peering at me closely. "I'd go get ready if I were you. This reaping thing is mandatory. Even though you won't be picked, you need to go. We don't want to disobey the regulations, yes?"

"Of course, Mom." I kiss her cheek before standing. "I'll go get ready now."

I head up the stairs, fingers still twitching with the suppressed rage. I didn't used to hate people so vehemently, but I know there's a good reason for despising the rebels. Before I'm even aware of what's happening, I'm swept up in a tidal wave of memories.

-:-

"They're televising it," I whisper to Cicero on the phone as I simultaneously click on the television. "I'm guessing for morality. To rile up the Loyalists and let them know how strong our Capitol truly is."

"I'd be careful," Cicero's voice carries a warning. "Isn't your sister supposed to be in combat?"

"Tamara won't get killed or even injured," I respond, indignant. "She was top of her class, she's leader of her squadron. She'll do great things."

The television screen is suddenly lit up a garish shade of red and a muted tone of gray. The battle has already begun, and blood is running through the streets of Five like a river. I watch, horrified and fascinated, unable to tear my eyes away.

"I have to go, Cicero," I click off the phone, focusing my whole attention on the battle scene before me. I spot Tamara before I see anything else, her small figure rushing through the gore, leading a small team of women towards enemy lines. Her dark skin is splattered with dust and the blood of others. While war flashes around her, I imagine her face as placid, calm, determined, mature for her young age of eighteen, though I'm serving at even a younger age: sixteen.

It happens fast, while I'm lost in a daydream about my military service. I glance away from the television to watch my squadron, asleep on their beds. Tomorrow we'll be sent into combat, though where and why and for how long I don't know. A sudden bang from the screen jolts me from my thoughts.

I watch as a bomb goes off near Tamara. I watch as she falls, dazed. I watch as a soldier, face covered with a black bandanna, stands over her.

And puts a bullet through her head.

-:-

Tamara's room is still just as it was left. My dad insisted no one enter, touch her things, change the way anything is. After she died, my military service continued, but I could no longer find the strength to continue life without her. The rest of the district considers me a hero for what I did, but I knew it wasn't heroic at all. It was a suicide attempt, an attempt to save my fellow soldiers and die in the process. But all that happened is I developed two crappy lungs.

I reach the town square before I know it. It's crowded, and I head to the section full of eighteen year olds as quickly as I can. No sense in delaying this thing longer than necessary. The woman onstage is so short she can barely reach the microphone, even with the additional inches of heel on her feet. She beams out at the crowd once everyone has settled in. The majority of District Two is rather calm, which makes sense, as the majority of us are loyalists. With a kind of satisfaction, I notice a few disturbed and terrified faces in the crowd- the descendants of rebels. I suppose everyone has the same train of thought as I do.

Loyalists do not belong in the Games.

"Welcome to the reaping for the first annual Hunger Games!" the woman onstage chirps. "You all ought to be very excited for this day. I know I am!" She laughs, quickly rushing through the formalities. When she draws the female tribute I scarcely pay attention. Likely a rebel, likely going to die.

Good riddance.

"And the male tribute of District Two is…" she opens the second slip of paper. "Leucas Olabode!"

I am unable to breathe. Not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated shock. My body reacts, but my mind is frozen. As I take my place on the stage, it's all I can do to keep from yelling. My parents aided in the suppression of the rebellion. My sister was killed fighting for the Capitol. I fought for the Capitol. How is any of this fair? How is any of this just?

One thing is for certain: I am going to the Hunger Games.

Hello everyone! Second tribute up! I still need some more submissions, so keep them coming. Here are some questions for you: