With thanks to AbbyCoraby123 for their review of the last chapter. :)
A District as disparate as his was especially stringenton Reaping days, as it permitted the authorities to check that no person had attempted to escape from the trains or platforms.
Naturally, every year those without family or opportunities would disappear on a platform, would attempt to jump from a cargo hold- even some from other Districts would do the same, but that was rarer.
Quint would do the same, as would many, if not for his family. His parents had died in a factory explosion before he could even remember them, but his grandfather had cared for him since then, had kept him alive when he needed him the most- and now, when the tables had turned, Quint cared for his grandfather.
But privately, when he thought of his future, how distant and terrifying it all was, he would entertain the notion that he should leave his grandfather to die, make an escape. He knew it was wrong to think. He knew that. But days where he had enough to eat were few and far between, not the norm, and he could barely give enough to keep his grandfather alive.
If he could escape, to another District, to beyond the Districts, maybe even to beyond Panem-
He had always wondered what lay beyond.
But for now he stood in a rope square, herded into a crowd of thousands, standing in front of the newly hosed down Justice Building and a frustratingly clean screen, playing the anthem of Panem, President Snow speaking to them through tinny speakers.
It never failed to put a shiver through the crowd- how terrifyingly patriotic it was, the irony of the video playing today of all days.
The bowl of names sat in front of them and so many knew that if their name was called they would see blood on their hands and it would most likely be theirs, choking them, spilling from them, hot and wet and tacky on their fingers.
The Capitol video showed sunlight, bright and cloying. The sun above beat hard and hot on his head.
As the video ended an imperceptible shiver went through the crowd, as a man with drastic plastic surgery to his face and thick purple eyebrows went to the bowl of names. Quint had stopped caring about the names of tributes a long time ago. This final Reaping and he was finished, and he would be unhampered in mechanics.
A female tribute was read out; she cried, she ran with instinctual fear to the trains she had likely lived in on and off, all her life. Four Peacekeepers boxed her in, grabbed her by her shoulders, escorted her sharply to the stage.
The bowl of male names was approached.
His name was read.
Quint did a double take. His name was read. His name had been read.
His grandfather was at home, he wouldn't know where he had gone. He had to tell him. He had to tell him where he had gone.
He does not realise he is running until two Peacekeepers grab him hard enough to force his momentum to a standstill, dragging him backwards until he had stumbled to a staircase, pushed up it.
He stood silent and unmoving, his face still but his cheeks flushed, eyes primal, wild.
He is a tribute.
He has seen the Capitol trains. He wonders what he would look like if he jumped out of one of those, going 200 miles an hour.
He is a tribute. He is afraid.
Hundreds of miles away, in a high profile bar with low lighting, Alec Taupe spits out his drink.