A Debt Owed
Chapter II
Dinner is silent – silence is a constant companion in this house.
The chair screeches when dad takes a seat at the dinner table – I wince.
Ruby comes into the room slowly, one hand pressed to the small of her back as she lowers herself down into the place where mum would have set. I see Tempest's eye twitch, but Dad gives Tempest a long hard look – fighting without words, always fighting – and Tempest stalks from the room, refraining from making a jibe at the heavily pregnant woman who is now in name our stepmother.
Ruby helps fix Elson's napkin as Dad gives a short sigh and for a moment I think he will look at me, like he once would have – because we both know Tempest's short temper – but he doesn't.
Tempest inevitably strides back into the room, the plate and cutlery in her hands as she sets the extra unneeded place at my right. That place will never be filled but she does it to remind me, so I can never forget – before she takes her own place, on dad's right facing me, glaring at me – fighting me.
We eat. We talk. I mostly to Elson or Ruby will give me a few sympathetic questions.
It's as the clatter of plates getting cleared away fills the air that Tempest decides she doesn't want to fight silently anymore.
"She went to see mum this morning."
There's no need to say my name, Dad already knows it's me. I don't look up though just continue clearing away the table.
"Storm?" my father's voice is firm, unyielding, demanding an answer – as it always is.
"It had been a while…" I begin again, Tempest makes to cut across me but Dad stops her.
Dad gives me a curious look and for a moment I can believe it's almost sympathetic.
"Dad you know what she's trying to do!" Tempest exclaims sharply, her voice angry but also tinged with desperation.
Dad raises a questioning expectant brow at me – he always has been a man of few words.
That same feeling thrums through me – the still before the storm, before the fight.
"I'm going to volunteer."
There's no lunging or screaming this time, but all the same Tempest looks as though she wants to dissect me piece by piece right here on the kitchen table.
Her whole body is shaking in barely contained anger, "no you're not," she snarls.
And for once I let it hiss through my veins, the adrenaline, the electricity – the fight.
"You can't stop me," I intone dangerously.
"Enough," it's the same thing Anderson has been telling us for years now but our father barely has to mutter it and the anger dissolves from our stances simultaneously.
He looks up at me, an almost assessing look like my mother had given me this morning only it's not; he's not looking at my hands that could easily snap his neck or the silvery scars tracing across my face all that show how much I have been training for this – he's looking at me, through me, in me.
And what he sees doesn't impress him.
I am strong, can lift a body twice my weight – I have endurance, can run for hours without stopping – I have speed, I can outrun everyone at that training centre.
But he looks away – it's not enough, not enough to erase what I've already done.
Coward.
I grit my teeth, feel the murderous anger rise up again ready to be unleashed and I'll tear him, Tempest all of them apart – show them that I'm not that anymore.
"We'll see at the Reaping," he says.
Tempest is almost as furious as me, but she doesn't voice it – not to our father, never to him.
She wants him to tell me that I can't, that I should just let this last chance slide by.
Tempest is going to volunteer this year too – she's ready, but so am I.
Her gaze snaps around to blaze angrily at me, but her anger is more at that fact that she can do nothing.
I have already made my decision – going to see our mother this morning was the last step, cementing my choice in stone.
…
It's a clear day; the sun is bright in the sky even if it is cold.
I would take the lack of tumultuous weather as a good omen if I believed in such things.
I'm the last to get up that morning. I hear Tempest stomp about in her room above mine – afterwards, it had been impossible for us to share a room, Tempest had moved into that room.
She readies herself before dawn – out to train. If I listen I can hear her grunts as she does push-ups, crunches; all to make sure she looks as strong as possible for the cameras.
Ruby gets up next, she hums softly as she makes breakfast. Ruby is strange, I've always thought so. There's this softness about her, a gentleness in the way her white hands flit about like pale birds no matter what she does whether it's smoothing a struggling Elson's hair into place or skinning a rabbit. It's like she doesn't belong in District One.
I don't hear dad get up – I never do; just hear his rough timbre voice as he calls stern words of improvement to Tempest as she continues her training.
"Move your legs faster Tempest."
Elson is like a hurricane getting up; he's excited for the Reapings today even though it's another four years before he will be officially able to participate.
Barely eight though and he's strong – he'll make a great Victor one day.
They eat breakfast together.
I hear Ruby breathing heavily as she makes her way up the stairs to my room, as quietly as she can she enters and places the mug of bitter coffee and plate of eggs and bacon on the bedside table. Protein and plenty of energy for today of course.
I wolf down breakfast with little thought, ready quickly.
For girls in District One there are two outfits you may wear for the Reapings; you either try for the flirty dress – mature not girly though, or an outfit that emphasises your training.
I can no longer do flirty and attractive; I gave up that option in pursuit of training. My nose is irreversibly crooked after one too many breaks, my body and face criss-crossed with silvery protruding scars. I can no longer pull of lithe and svelte; my body's only functions now are strength, speed and agility. There is not one wasted ounce on my bones.
My hair is in its familiar ash-blonde braid hanging heavy, comforting down my back. I should have cut it by now; it gets in my way and one too many times has it been my downfall in a fight when my opponent has used it to haul me back with like a leash on a disobedient dog. But, I suppose it's the last indulgent trait I've allowed myself.
I'm registered and walk to my designated corded off area.
Tempest has pushed herself to the front in her Capitol tailored clothes that she has saved up since the last Reaping to buy. A slim black top and trouser combo; it highlights her feminine curves but at the same time it makes her look dangerous.
Tally gives me a friendly wave from the girl's 17 area; it's belied by the challenging gleam in her predatory smirk. However I give her a discreet acknowledging wave back; I suppose on some level Tally and I are friends; it was I who taught her how to throw knives after she kept getting beat to a pulp in the fighting pit; she's too slight for hand-to-hand combat no matter how much she wishes she wasn't.
Seria Verbatim strides confidently onto the stage, grinning widely as he shakes the numerous Victor's hands with a vicious sort of delight.
As far as Capitolites go, Seria ain't that bad – could be worse. We had one of those flighty little fools with their painted faces before but the thing about District 1 is we make our own television, we don't need some loud and obnoxious escort tottering about up on the stage to try and desperately add some excitement to the Reapings, like in the Outer Districts.
And I know this year – today, in particular that there is going to be some real excitement.
Seria welcomes us all, makes a few jokes about the younger groups straining at the front eagerly, a ripple of laughter.
That same video blares out over the square as everyone hypes themselves up, readying for it – the fight.
Boys first.
"Emmer Blasé." 14 years old.
Three volunteers – a whooping triumphant 18 year old Aquarius Hardshaw takes to the stage, grinning out to the cameras.
Girls next.
Take a deep breath. Clenched fists. Relax shoulders – wait for the fight.
"Tempest Haywire!"
"I volunteer!"
Another insignificant shout to volunteer had echoed a second after mine – and with the brief moment of shock I am given to consider, I realise it was Tally.
Tempest whips around almost immediately, her ash blonde ponytail cutting the air like a scythe.
Her look is one of inarticulate rage, of unbridled fury, her grey eyes flash like two pieces of flint being struck together.
Seria gives a great booming laugh, calling me up to the stage.
But it's not over yet – I haven't won yet.
Tempest charges.
Usually the peacekeepers would have intercepted her but the cameramen are in before them, following her striding towards me.
Despite the slight differences now in our appearances, Tempest and I are undoubtedly twins even at first glance; same straight long white-blonde hair, same slate grey eyes, same pale complexion no matter how much sun we receive yet an identical spattering of slightly darker freckles across our narrow noses and high cheeks.
As the Capitolite cameras follow her eagerly, expecting some display of love – a sister sacrificing herself for a sister; that thought sickens me, almost has me pale and shaking as my mind crams with things I wish I could burn from it with a hot poker.
There'll be a display alright, just not the one they're expecting.
Those around us, who know us - know this isn't going to be any display of sisterly love and they step back leaving us room but still watching from the side-lines; like the fighting pit at the training centre.
"You absolute…" the insult she is about to throw me is instead channelled into her iron white fist.
I let the crimson anger hiss, the senseless violence cloud over useless things like restraint or that last remnant of familial bond.
I dodge and my fist snaps out like a white serpent, catching the underside of her jaw. I feel the entire shock rippling through my fist to her skull before she staggers back, spitting out blood, for a moment disorientated before her expression twists into one of livid anger, "these Games are mine!"
Peacekeepers move but they're shoved back by cameramen and Seria is suddenly commentating on the fight with wide excited eyes and a vicious grin, his voice rapid and rising in pure joy.
This is better than any sappy display of love, of sacrifice – this is District One and in District One we're deadly, we're fighters.
Tempest dives forward again, her feet dancing across the ground with deadly precision as she feints left then right looking for an opening – a weakness.
Oh but sister, I got rid of those a long time ago.
Something desperate flashes in my twin sister's eyes – this is her last year, her last year to prove herself, to rise above us all in glory and awe.
For a moment I can feel the humanity leaking back in through the iron wall I built as the anger rose; but it's gone in a flash.
I have far more reason than glory and awe and any other transient insubstantial thing like that to prove – I have a debt to pay.
Tempest lunges, I squash down the last of any lingering vestiges of doubt.
Dodge, block, uppercut, knee to the gut – again, again. Her choking grunts with each new hit sound louder than Seria's almost feverish commentating, more than the shouts of those surrounding us, more than the blood pounding in my own ears.
I release her at the opportune moment, shoving her to the ground and there she falls as a hushed silence falls, Seria's voice trailing off.
I can see the rippling of her shoulder blades through her fitted Capitol outfit as she breathes harshly. The tying that held back her hair has snapped and her ash blonde hair falls about her shoulders in the mud like a stained and broken halo.
I've won.
A girl steps forward and helps my sister to her feet.
I almost smirk as I recognise the girl – Destiny Williams.
Tempest shrugs the girl off, back ramrod straight, shoulders rigid, head held high.
But she's lost and the whole of Panem has seen it.
Her last and only chance is gone, stolen by me but my sister doesn't cry, as if, words; spiteful and angry rest on the tip of her tongue but she won't say them, because she knows how it will make her seem – a sore loser who resorts to bitter words when she has been bested.
When my father said the Reapings would decide, he hadn't meant whose name would be pulled or even who would volunteer first.
This is what he had meant.
Finally I have proven I can enter these Games and I can't help my eyes as they drift about, my breathing evening.
That hushed silence still hangs in the air, almost fragile that everyone fears to break it.
I just see Anderson as he scoffs, rolling his eyes before he stalks off the stage and then I meet my father's eyes; Samson Haywire 30th Hunger Games Victor sitting on his rightful place on the stage.
His gaze meets mine – and it's still not enough.
Coward.
I grit my teeth, square my shoulders before I turn sharply, stalking through the crowd.
My movement seems to kick-start everyone into action as Seria's voice booms once more across the gathered crowd that begins to shuffle once more into order to face the stage as a smattering of applause sounds.
"Wasn't that just thrilling," his voice rolls the r's luxuriously on his tongue as he grins impossibly wide at me, welcoming me on stage with a vigorous handshake while I tell him my name.
"Storm Haywire!" Seria shouts into the microphones as he raises my hand triumphantly and the applause loudens.
Seria reaches behind him almost as an afterthought and seizes Aquarius' hand – he shoots me a narrowed glare. My volunteering undoubtedly stole the thunder away from his.
"And Aquarius Hardshaw – your district One's Tributes! May the odds be ever in your favour!"
Ruby stands with a hand resting on her bump with Elson at her side, pressing at the front of the crowd.
Even from here I can see the fierce but non-understanding look on Elson's small face as his gaze flits from the stage where I stand to where Tempest stands, eyes burning in hatred as she stares up at me.
Rose' expression as usual confuses me; she seems sad, her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners but there's this little smile tugging at her lips and she nods to me once when I meet her gaze.
I can feel every gaze on me, most scathing, doubting, - hating; Tally's, father's…Tempest's.
But these Games are mine.