The screen switches away from District 12 and a short documentary plays reviewing some of the Hunger Games' 'historic victors and battles.' District 12's entire selection process only lasted about twenty minutes. It was more dramatic than usual, what with the intoxicated guy and the girl volunteering for her sister. You don't see that very often in the Games. Volunteering to spare someone the indignity and brutality of being slaughtered on television is a bit of an affront to the Capitol.
The Gamemakers only permit volunteering because it makes for better entertainment, so far as the Capitol's audiences are concerned. Most of the volunteering takes place in the more wealthy districts where kids volunteer, not to save others, but because in those districts it's considered an honor to have a chance to win the games. Everyone calls those kids the 'Career' tributes, like murder is some sort of day job. I suppose in the Capitol, murder can be considered an occupation.
Of course, the Capitol's children are spared from this whole charade. Throughout the time I spent there, few of the people I ran into had any concept of the district residents as human. Capitol citizens almost universally regard the Hunger Games as the greatest viewing pleasure ever created. Not even as a weapon to set the Districts against each other. That's all the Treaty of Treason was and it's plain to hear in the reading. The tesserae system isn't even disguised. It is obviously a tool to seed division and distrust between the wealthier and the poorer peoples throughout Panem.
The broadcasts are live each year, because the crowds in the Capitol just eat up the 'realism' of forcing starved children into acts of pure, cruel violence. So long as it's 'real' from a distance. Maybe if the Capitol sent its own tributes they would see, it's not realism; it's plain evil. Only a depraved mind could delight in the bloody competition of children for mere survival. Yet, the Capitol is overflowing with depravity.
I can't watch any more of this terror circus. My fingers paw the shut off switch on the television. Meyla mutters under her breath. I know what she's thinking.
My wife stands and stretches her legs for a second. She's more stunning than usual, dressed up for today's reaping. Our's follows 12. The event is scheduled to start in twenty minutes. Each district will proceed after the previous, the rest of the day, until District 1.
"Shall we go?" Meyla asks.
"Yeah, just let me check the chargers." The kitchen is only a few steps away.
All my batteries are plugged in and charging away, taking full advantage of those precious hours today when the electricity will light up Three Corners. I grab a hat on the way out the door to keep the sun out of my eyes.
Every sidewalk overflows with people from the rural apartment complexes elsewhere in District 11; daily field workers who can't afford to do much except labor and collapse from exhaustion each night in stuffy one- or two-room apartments. My sister's family is among these groups flooding into town to attend the annual reaping.
I take my wife's arm to keep us together. We manage to weave along several alleys and navigate past street corners until we push into the crowd at the main plaza.
It's already packed with maybe three thousand people on the ground, on balconies, down side streets, even on rooftops; the ones without camera crews. The Hunger Games are to be treated as well-loved events and everyone is obligated to show up. Not showing up can put you on the dissident list the Peacekeepers are rumored to maintain. Such a rumor might be true. Nobody risks that it's not.
Meyla and I scan the crowd to catch a glimpse of my younger sister Hannah. There are so many faces it's nearly impossible to pick out anyone we recognize. Then I think to look for kids on their dad's shoulders since Marek always has one of the little ones up there. After ruling out half a dozen, Meyla picks out Marek with three-year-old Wren perched. She points them out as we start the arduous process of excusing our way through clusters of people, constantly realigning our direction, until at last, I can greet my family and give Hannah a careful hug.
Breck, the one-year-old is sleeping in Hannah's arms and she hugs back with one hand and then hugs Meyla. I pat Marek on the back.
"Good to see you, Kip." He nods my way.
"Yeah, you too." I look around inventorying the three kids whose ages escape my grizzled mind. It's confusing, since the Amaranths have six kids. That's a lot of birthdays to remember. Lilja is older than Chish who is older than Sythia. I just know only Rue is old enough to be in the reaping. That's why she's not here. She's closer to the front of the plaza with the other twelve-year-old kids.
Chish, the oldest boy, looks up at me. "Hi, Uncle Kippen!" He waves, drawing a grin across my lips despite the atmosphere.
"Hiya, Chish." What is he? Seven now? He reaches his arms up so he can join his sister in sitting on shoulders. "I don't know if I can pick you up, with how big a boy you're getting," I joke. Chish giggles as I feign great effort while lifting him the first time. The second time, I hoist Chish up fully and set him on my shoulders. I wasn't far off actually. The boy is a lot heavier than I remember. Life keeps moving on and the kids are growing.
District 12 was 7,300 some odd people strong when I last read a census result several years back. It seems to have grown, judging by the number of kids in the running. But they still don't hold a power-outage candle to District 11. More than a thousand kids are in the square and at least eight hundred of them are entered in the drawing. Most of the children have more than ten accumulated entries within their first two years, because District 11's tesserae usage is necessarily absolute. Eleven's poverty is awful, perhaps worse than the rest of Panem. Of course, that sort of information is never publicly available.
We can't use glass bowls to run our selection either. We have to use huge tubs and we don't do it with a simple hand drawing. First, there's the customary history lesson that no one listens to anymore. Repetition for retention, I suppose. Then the selection process begins.
A clear lid is placed on the clear plastic tub of girl's entries and air is pumped through some tubes so the thousands of little papers flitter about, stirring and mixing. Then a sliding door on the inside of the lid is pulled aside when an attendant arms the mechanism. A spring system will slam the door shut as soon as the first sliver of paper peeks through the tiny opening and that paper with its name will be snagged in the trap, very literally.
We have to watch all this on the big television screens because it's too far away to see very well. The trap snaps shut and Aldus Post, our Hunger Games representative from the Capitol reaches in a pale, manicured hand and withdraws the paper, which is specially folded so the entries won't clump together in the pneumatic jumbling process.
Aldus reads the name into the microphone with all too revolting verve and my heart nearly stops. The first two female tributes selected this year were both twelve years old, but no matter how sweet Rue Amaranth truly is, no one is going to volunteer for my niece.
Hannah is crying and hugging Rue. Marek hasn't spoken since I caught his back when he almost collapsed in the plaza; Chish had the good presence of mind to help keep Wren from tumbling off her father's shoulders. Hannah's kids are very intelligent. They probably test better than I did when I was inducted into the university The only education provided in the districts is selective and mediocre, usually pertaining to the principle occupation of each district, agriculture in Eleven.
Hannah's kids excel in whatever they can learn and Rue is the smartest of my nieces and nephews. Her long dark hair sticks out over Hannah's arm as she hugs her mother. She doesn't cry, though. Her creamy brown skin is unmarred by the events. She just lets her parents weep. I wonder if maybe Rue doesn't want them to see her crying as she leaves. Probably the leaving is as bad as it can get. How can you say goodbye to your child? Goodbye, forever... If I had known, what would I have said to Mason? What could I have said?
Marek holds Hannah with one arm and runs his hand gently through Rue's hair. Lilja, Chish, and Sythia are on a couch together barely able to understand what's happening. Lilja holds little Sythia. Breck sits on my knee gurgling through the words babies speak that aren't quite intelligible yet. Wren is in Meyla's lap, counting my wife's fingers.
Hannah finally loosens up on Rue and Marek kneels down to embrace her, picking her up as he kisses her little head. I peek at my wife, wishing for a different world. The tears in her eyes stab pain through my gut. How can this be? This isn't right! Is it not enough that we are the Capitol's slaves? We have to be their toys too?
There's no chance Rue can survive the Games. She can climb trees, flee, and hide better than anyone I've ever seen. Sooner or later though, the other tributes have to die for one to be victor. I ought to feel more sympathy for my sister's family, for my niece. I ought to feel sorrow and these emotions are welling up inside of me.
But they are nothing compared to the fury that is boiling. My arms are shaking with rage so bad that I have to lean Breck against my stomach so he doesn't fall off my knee. Meyla looses a hand from Wren's arithmetic and brushes her fingertips against my neck. Our affection has waned since the funeral, even though we still love each other. It's hard to feel one with someone else when the result of that equation is stolen away.
Marek finally speaks as he sets down Rue and kneels to look in her eyes, his voice raw with sorrow. "Sweetheart, we love you so much. Do you know how much?"
Rue nods slowly, her melodic voice replying, "As much as birds love to sing and as much as bells love to ring."
"As much as you can ever, ever dream," Marek touches his index finger to her nose, and Rue grins. Marek hugs her again.
Hannah sniffs and wipes her face with Marek' handkerchief. "We do love you, honey."
Squeezing her mother's hand, Rue keeps smiling, "I love you too, Mom." She's even more grown up than I remember. Her tiny stature can fool the eye. Rue's very mature, she doesn't seem worried about the Hunger Games at all, opting instead to bask in these last few moments with family and embrace every second's fleeting comfort. "And you too, Dad."
For months, Rue had become something of a third caregiver and provider in the Amaranth household. She was able to forage extra food for the kids and more than once, I had seen her sneaking her younger siblings little servings from her own plate. Here she is, adorable and generous and wise all at once.
A defiant sense of pride for my sister rises within me. I know Mason was a good son because everyone made sure to tell us after the fact. Mason even treated the Peacekeepers very respectfully; a thought that galls me even more. Still, I'm amazed at how Rue is handling her selection. She refuses misery, entirely! Simply will not accept discomfort since she can't change what is going to happen.
My rage subsides with my wife's calming touch and Rue's grace, and suddenly it hits me. She's rebelling. Rue can't do anything to stop the Games from sweeping her into oblivion, so she's refusing to give the Capitol the satisfaction of torturing her soul with agonized concern over her coming trials.
I also realize that this moment of respect for her passive acceptance will pass. My seething rage is still there. It has stewed for months, years actually, along with each gray hair I acquired as I begged fate not to steal my son in the annual reapings. I decide to take the lesson from Rue, if only for today and set aside the injustice of it all.
Wren squirms down from Meyla's lap and sputters to Hannah, "Why are you crying, mommy?" My sister picks the girl up and rocks her in motherly arms, whispering to her. Wren won't understand that Rue is going away. Wren doesn't yet know what 'not coming back' means.
My wife stands up and gives Rue a tender hug which she returns happily. "I'm going to miss you, Aunt Mey."
Finally, it's my turn, Marek picks up Breck and Rue sits on my knees to embrace me. But before she does she looks me square in the eye and her expression darkens for just a moment. "I'll be brave, Uncle Kip."
It's like she can see right through me, like she can read my mind and the bitterness in my heart! That can't be possible. She's just reading my expression wisely. "I know you will, Rue. We'll be brave for you too." I lean forward and hold Rue. Her hair smells of the rare chestnut shampoo my wife and I gave the Amaranth's a few months ago. I can feel Rue's ribs beneath her shirt, the bony structure in my hands of an underfed child.
After Rue spends a few minutes with her brothers and sisters, she gets to hold gurgling Breck, even singing him a lullaby in her sweet voice that many field workers adore. Too soon, the hour is up and the family has to leave. My thoughts are centered. Rue's eyes blaze into my own, the large brown irises overpowering through my consciousness and the rage I have hidden begins to seep through the walls of survival that have held back my darkest dreams.