District 9 Reapings
Barley Chisolm, Victor of the 30th Hunger Games
District 9 provided the Capitol with the nourishment that helped its citizens grow strong. Panem's very name had been derived from bread, which, guess what, was created in District 9. Despite this, the district was largely degraded and ignored. Its citizens neglected and starving. Its tributes labeled as bloodbath fodder without even being glanced at, year after year after year.
Barley fought with all of her strength the urge to barf all over the Justice Building steps. Those Capitol outfits were disgusting. The woman who was District 9's escort wore a completely over-the-top ocean blue gown and bluebird hairpiece. Barley's stomach churned with anger. The Capitolites were stressing over unruly hair and bad makeup days when most of the outlying districts were struggling to tread the water of poverty. If they slipped beneath the surface and drowned, perhaps the Capitol wouldn't even care. But they would feel the side-effects. No food provided for them. No life.
The escort approached the women's reaping bowl. It held a single slip of paper. That paper, no two ways about it, contained a name. Her name. She strolled back over to the podium and broke the seal.
"Barley Chisolm," she cried. Barley walked up to the microphone. It was harder than ever not to throw up. Her voice was laced with sticky sweetness that made Barley want to vomit. Her breath smelled like rotten cherries.
She promised herself that she would live to see the day, that sweet, glorious day, that those stubborn Capitolites realized they couldn't eat money.
Rye Boyum, Victor of the 44th Hunger Games
Rye wasn't your greatest Hunger Games victor by any stretch of the imagination. He was a horribly lanky middle-aged man that always smelled like alcohol. Alcohol and wheat. Because everything smelled like wheat in District 9. At least it was better than perfume.
As Rye watched his mother stroll up to microphone, the butterflies in his stomach were now pigeons flapping around inside of him. He was dreading going back to the Capitol. The only living male victor in District 9 was Rye Boyum. And there would be nobody to save him when his name was picked.
District 9's escort zipped over to the male's reaping bowl. A tightly folded slip of paper lounged at the bottom of the ball. She grabbed the slip of paper and sauntered back to the podium.
"Rye Boyum," she declared. She whirled around and made eye contact with him.
Rye walked past the velvet stanchion and took his place opposite his mother. His gaze swept over the population of District 9. Those people that had long since given up trying to brush the dust from under their nails. They frowned and squinted hopelessly. They had them right where the Capitol wanted them: without hope. They had crushed their hope like a bug and proved to them that it was just an illusion. The Capitol was all-powerful. Whatever hope they had was about as real as the escort's ridiculous purple wig.
A/N: And here's District 9. Please stay tuned for the last few chapters :D
