Kanina Lombardi was laying at home on her couch, practicing meditation rituals her grandmother cherished. Grandma had long since perished, but Kanina was always one to honor her family's ways.
Her mother Sierra and father Ralf were talking the reaping over in their two roomed train car of a home. It had been built off the base of a train compartment, then expanded and sold to the Lombardi's. It was a peaceful place, and sometimes at night, Kanina swore she heard the whistling of a train traveling past her window. She hoped she'd never ride in one - particularly today.
The day passed as quick as a flower blooms in the midday sun. Quite an analogy, pertaining to the situation. The reapings were a dreaded, dark thing, though the sky suggested bright blue. The birds chirped in every direction and all traces of a cloud were whisked away as Kanina made to her age group in the town square.
Her face always had a look of joviality; her features rang in a natural, happy, upturned lip kind of way. Even as her name was called, and her face went blank, she looked quite content.
This obviously wouldn't win her district's support - but it certainly was enough for the Capitol to be persuaded into sponsor.
Kanina stepped onstage and the announcer, with her bright sleek hair, jerked her arm up and yelled her name to District 6. "Folks, Kanina Lombardi!"
The crowd roared in a sarcastic manner, shunning the capitol's barbaric ways. This district didn't approve of the cruelty.
At the moment, every teenage guy stood silently and peacefully, an odd sight for any other occasion.
Mixed in with the 16 year olds was an peculiar, intellectual young man by the name of Misson Asteredale.
Misson surveyed the crowd, a sense of nerve erupting in his chest against his will. His body might have been in the moment, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
He contemplated the inevitable occurrence of his name being drawn out of the glass, metal plated bowl. It was his destiny - maybe not to be reaped, but to know. Just knowing gifted him a sense of accomplishment.
Considering how far he was back from the platform, and his terrible eyesight, it was a wonder to most how he predicted the forecast.
The way the announcer shifted her weight and leaned in at a trajectory that suggested her arm was to be suspended near the right of the bowl. It would be considered impolite to walk the extra step, agonizing the capitol's people. Therefore she would only be able to reach to the side closest to her.
Previously, Misson ad calculated the age groups, his number of names in the bowl, and the timing of the names being mixed with the others. The bowl had been mixed approximately ten times over - figuring the force the slips of paper shook at, he knew a varying location to which his name rested.
Knowing. He knew where his name was stuffed in with the other pieces of paper - he knew which the angle the woman's body was poised and in so, knowing which slip of paper would be drawn.
It was inevitable. The horizon blooming upon him couldn't be tampered with now; it was fate. But why him? Why was he destined to die?
"Misson Asteredale," the announcer spoke softly. He was half way up the stairs before she was finished. A few members of the audience shot him puzzled looks but he didn't have the time or patience to explain to each individual his calculations.
The information would be invalid to any surveyors after his death, anyways.
*.*.*
I've been so busy lately, sorry! Here's a chapter I finished, I hope to have 7&8 done by tomorrow, before Thanksgiving! (Happy Early Thanksgiving!)