Y'know what's funny? When you're naming your Doc Manager document and you miss the E in Reapings. District 3 Rapings. Lolcats.
Third chapter! I know, you're all dead impressed. Most SYOTs don't actually last this long. Let's pray this one does.
And just so you know, I'm probably going to take down the poll I have up at the moment and put up an identical one once I'm through the reapings. I smelled a rat when I noticed that one particular tribute that has not been written in yet mysteriously had 5x the amount of votes anyone had. You know who you are.
I shall stop abusing my right to an Author's Note, and move onwards to the D3 reapings!
Chevelle Watts
Who doesn't love the smell of motor oil in the early morning?
I waltzed into the garage with a spring in my step, and flicked on the lights. Twirling on the spot I turned and banged the old radio. It gave a bit of a jump, then a splutter, before cruising into the latest tunes off the Capitol Top 100. Yeah, it was illegal to listen in on Capitol radio, but everyone who could get their hands on a radio did it. The only other station we could get reception was The Peacekeeper Network 78.9, and that only consisted of news reports and propaganda. The Peacekeepers themselves didn't even listen to it.
Humming along to the warbling melody, I snatched up my toolbox and wrenched open the bonnet of the latest wreck to grace our workshop. The pistons had somehow melted, and some kind of weed seemed to be growing out of the radiator, but I was convinced it was salvageable. The heady smell of grease and oil wafted around and I couldn't help but smile.
I'm Chevelle. Chevelle Watts. My parents were inventors who got sent to the capitol to do serious stuff with hovercrafts. Little baby Chevelle got left behind to live in the community home, and despite that, I think I have it pretty good. I get fed and watered and loved by a whole heap of different people; I like to think of my upbringing as a community project. I work at the garage after school and on weekends to earn a bit of cash, and maybe one day I'll do something awesome and get to go live in the Capitol- who knows? I like to look at life positively.
It was almost mid-morning by the time anyone else came to work. As the youngest of the staff, I was the only one still eligible to be reaped, which quisessentially meant I spent the next few hours trying to convince everyone I wasn't going to get reaped- or at least that I only had approximately a 1.7/4521 chance of getting reaped. I don't blame them for worrying. Everyone does.
10 o'clock came around quicker than a drunken victor speeding round a corner. I packed up my toolbox and pushed it under the worktable for my shift tomorrow. I gave a smile and a wave and walked out of the workshop, just like that.
It's easy to put one's faith in statistics; in math. Four entries in a bowl of thousands. 1.7/4521 chance. Thinking about it like that makes it all seem unreal. Math is just theory. It exists entirely in our brains. It isn't real, really.
Now, it all seems irrational. It's hard to put one's faith in math.
Lucas Haven
My breakfast was cold.
I don't know how long it sat there for. I had been far too fixated on fixing my clock. It normally rings at 7:00am every morning, but this morning it rang at 7:05am- which clearly meant there was something wrong with it and it needed to be disassembled. It seemed like I had spent barely 10 minutes tinkering before the clock was back in one piece, not long enough for Mum to have cooked hot cakes or put them down in front of me- but there my hot cakes sat, cooked, served and stone cold. No longer hot cakes, really.
I wound up the clock and it started to tick. I took my plate in one hand and the clock in the other upstairs, emptying my plate into the bin on the way. I put my clock on my bedside table with a pat and went to get dressed for the Reapings. I would have to wait until tomorrow to find out if it was working.
I glanced out the window and could see that everyone was beginning to walk down the street to the square for the reapings, peacekeepers herding them like cattle out of houses. Goading them with sticks. You would think that even the oh-so-intellectual District 3 would be above poking people with sticks. Apparently not.
I slipped into a shirt and jeans and hopped down the stairs and out the door. Mum and Michael had obviously already left for the reapings a while ago, so I made sure to lock the door behind me. I meandered down the street, hands in pockets daydreaming about nothing in particular. By the time I'd reached the square the entire district had arrived, streaming into roped off sections with such fluidity it almost seemed like clockwork.
I gave a half-hearted smile to the green haired official signing me in, and took my place in the 15s section. Vespa Throttle- our token freak boarded the stage with a wide beam plastered across her face.
"Ladies first!" She trilled. A lump swelled in my throat. Now to see which kids would be sent to their doom.
Chevelle Watts
It was hard not to laugh at the poor escort -Trying with all her might to open the little flap on the front of the Reaping Ball, and failing dismally as her ridiculously long nails clacked around the hatch, unable to get any grip. The Mayor darted over and held it open, and she plunged her hand in, finally managing to grip a single paper slip between her thumb and index fingers. I wasn't nervous. Not really.
1.7/4521. 1.7 Out of 4521. 1.7. Not even two whole numbers worth of chance.
The Escort took a moment to flip her hair.
"Chevelle Watts."
So much for math.
My world spun, and the blood rushed to my head. I gave myself a light tap on the cheek.
"This is your moment, Chevelle." I whisper to myself. My feet start moving toward the stage, and I turn my face upwards and look the Escort in the eye, flashing an enormous smile. Beaming, I walk confidently to the stage. I'll get to go to the Capitol, suss it out. When I win, I'll go back and perfect the Hovercraft. A plan for the future falls together in my head perfectly, and I feel my grin finally reach my eyes.
This isn't a death sentence, this is an opportunity. You just have to play your cards right.
Lucas Haven
Chevelle Watts. The funny little girl who works at the Car Repair Shop, who dyed her hair silver with motor oil. I grimaced as she mounted the stage, smiling so wide you'd think she'd already won.
I looked at my watch. 10.30, on the dot. Soon, I'd be out of here, we'd all file out of the square and back to our homes. Some would grieve for love ones, others would rejoice for children still unreaped. Then, we'd sit down to three weeks of watching Chevelle and her District partner die.
The Escort dipped her hand into the Boy's Ball, tenderly picking up a piece of paper sitting on top of all the other, not even bothering to swirl it around. I swallowed.
"Lucas Haven."
Damn. God damn. My hands clenched and my gut squeezed. My feet began to move without my permission, and I felt like a little windup toy marching up those stairs with an unnatural stiffness. I didn't cry, I didn't yell, but inside I was screaming and swearing in every way possible all at once. I gave a small smile to Chevelle, and she grinned right back, making my stomach churn.
The audience applauded politely before filing out mechanically. The blood in my head thumped against my skull with the undying rhythm of a clock. My minutes were numbered now, I knew. I could practically count my remaining seconds on Earth.
Tick tock, life is a clock.
Well! That took far too long! Reviews would be lovely.
Oh, and just a warning: If you ever stumble across a little Harry Potter Fanfic called 'Draco's Christmas Cuppa', do not read it, it is not about Draco trying to work out how to make Eggnog as I originally thought, it is about something much worse, and for the love of God and all things good don't read it. It is reminiscent of a Human Centipede porno and made me want to vomit. Save yourselves! Saaaave.
Reviews! Please! :)