A/N: Sorry this chapter took a long time. I was aiming for a weekly schedule, but as it says on my profile, I'm not very reliable. :p Mostly this A/N is just a reminder that, if you submitted a tribute without specifying their Reaping outfit (which I know is my fault for not putting it on the form) and you have a preference for what kind of thing they'd be wearing, please PM me and let me know so I can incorporate it! Otherwise, I'll just make something up, and that's fine too.
Enjoy the chapter!
2 - Between The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea
In Three, the tall factories rise up to the sky, blotting out the sky in great, jagged shadows. The square where the Reapings are held, though, is one of the most open spaces, a wide concrete space with the children stockaded almost dead centre. The overall impression is close and claustrophobic, but also has an odd kind of majesty to it; Three's electronics factories may be nothing like as elegant and stylish as the buildings of the Capitol, but it was a rich District once, and there is a faded kind of splendour to the place.
It is the wrong kind of splendour, though, for Letitia Sugarsnap, the Representative for the District. She looks awkwardly misplaced with her glittering green suit and surgically implanted emeralds above her eyes, too small and too fussy for the faded grandeur of the city. When she speaks, her clipped Capitol accent sounds out of place, too.
"Happy Hunger Games!" she trills, apparently oblivious to her own dissonance with the place. "Without further ado, let's find out who our tributes are! Ladies first!" And she moves to the girls' ball in quick, tiny steps, her ankles all but bound together by her slimline green skirt, her high heels clicking on the stage. One green-gloved hand dips into the ball, swirling the names inside with long, elegant fingers, and then she plucks her chosen paper out with alarming suddenness. Her smile never wavers as she unfolds the slip of paper, holding it up between her long green fingernails, and clears her throat.
"Singe Lightfoot!"
Singe is standing among the other fifteen-year-olds, head down and wavy black hair shading her face, calculating the odds that her sister's name will be drawn. When it's her name that rings out across the square, though, she freezes, her heart plummeting into the pit of her stomach. The odds of her name being drawn were tiny – three years, no tesserae, made three slips of paper in all those thousands. She calculated the chances on the way to the Reaping, and considered it negligible - but Singe has a good enough grasp of probability to know that improbability doesn't mean impossibility. She should have been prepared. But she isn't, and now she stands, with the cameras on her and the Peacekeepers drawing in to escort her to the stage, shocked and horrified.
Shocked, horrified, and oddly, perversely pleased.
She shouldn't be pleased. Logically, she knows that. The odds are stacked against her, and the stakes are higher than anything she's ever done. She's small, physically weak, and from a deprived District; even without taking that into account, 23-1 isn't good odds by anyone's standards. But her name being called means the Capitol, and the Arena. Her name being called means that she finally has a chance to get up close and personal with the Games that have been her obsession for years.
As she swallows and lets herself be led up to the stage, she tries to focus on that little pocket of excitement - tries not to think that this isn't quite how she'd hoped to get involved in the Games, or that she could very well die before she gets to see most of the technological wonders of the Arena, or even that the Arena might not seem so wonderful from inside.
She tries, but she doesn't succeed. At the best of times, she hates attention, and now, with an uncomfortable range of emotions roiling and tossing in her mind, and not only the entire District but the entire country watching her, and her whole life hanging on the brink of a game where the odds are decidedly not in her favour... now, she feels sick to her stomach, and the world is swimming. It's all she can do to stay upright and walk straight, and she doesn't shake Letitia's hand when she reaches the stage. Stepping back, she closes her eyes and focuses on breathing.
Holograms. Mutts. Camera angles and hovercraft. The sheer complexity of the Games, the technical know-how that goes into every moment that's aired. She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth, and tries to recall that momentary excitement at all the wonderful, wonderful technology that's going to kill her.
As the petite tribute steps to the back of the stage, cameras tracking her for a moment, Letitia springs back into action, her unnaturally blue eyes shining as she clatters to the other Reaping ball. Again, her hand dips into the sea of names, and digs for a moment before surfacing with another little scrap of paper clutched between sparkling fingernails.
"And our second tribute, joining Singe in the Arena this year, is..."
There's no drumroll, but the intense look on Letitia's face suggests she views that as an oversight. She opens the paper with a flourish. "Oliver Mykal!"
He's ready. He doesn't want to go, but he's ready. Every year since his first Reaping, he's made a plan in his mind, just in case, and now – as Letitia's shrill voice calls out his name, drilling through his head – he's almost smug. He came prepared, after all. Looking at his District partner, that makes one of them.
Taking a deep breath, and steadying his expression as the cameras train on him, he walks out to join Letitia and Singe onstage. His expression stays steady, his heavy combat boots surprisingly soft on the concrete. He's grateful for his fedora, which shades his face and obscures his eyes; he knows that his eyes are hard, and until he can soften them, he'll have difficulty getting across what he has to.
Be weak. Be small. Be afraid. He repeats the mantra in his head, and slumps his shoulders slightly, drawing himself in so that he looks even smaller than he is as he mounts the stage. Turning to the audience and the cameras, he tries to make his eyes wide and frightened. He's a good liar, but not good enough to disguise the hardness of his angular face, or the coldness of his blue eyes; still, his best chance is to look unthreatening, and he tries his best. It's harder, admittedly, for the fact that his District partner is also small – four foot ten, the same size as him – and skinny, like him, and – unlike him – looks genuinely scared.
Silk is scared, but the predominant emotion in him, just at that moment, is a kind of bitter relief. If he is tribute, this is his chance. He can show them all, take revenge on the Capitol... most of all, he can take something home. In Victor's Village, life could be easy again. The twins could grow up knowing what it was like not to struggle; his father could soften a little, knowing that something good had come out of it all. If Silk does well, everything could change for them. If he survives, so will his family. And so will his mother's memory.
So for all that he tries to appear scared, he doesn't feel scared. He's relieved. This is a chance.
"It's, uh..." He intentionally hesitates, trying to appear shy, as he looks up at Letitia. "My name's Silk. I want to be called Silk."
"Silk?" It's a little sarcastic, an unpleasant edge under her light, cheerful voice, but her smile doesn't waver for a second. "Well, I suppose there's no reason why not... Silk Mykal, ladies and gentlemen!"
They stand together, side-by-side but barely looking at each other, as the Mayor, a tall grey-haired woman, steps up to begin reading the Treaty. The cameras fix on her for a moment, then shift their focus to the tributes. The two teenagers have a lot in common; both fifteen, both diminuitive, both scrawny and weak-looking; their superficial similarities only throw their differences into sharper relief. He is harder-faced than she is, no matter how he tries to hide it, with sharp blue eyes in contrast to her round green ones. She is pale and dark-haired where his deep tan and red hair give him a sepia look. Both look frightened, but both, too, hold themselves steady in the face of Panem's scrutiny.
When they shake hands, it's brief, neither apparently wanting to maintain contact for long. As the anthem strikes up, and the cameras move on to view the crowd, Silk and Singe step back from each other, with something that's not quite dislike but comes very close to it.
And the cameras shut down, and the Reapings roll on, on to Four, where the sun glitters on the water and the urban darkness of Three seems a million miles away. Here, the Mayor's history of Panem is delivered in brief, clipped sentences, his dark green eyes roving over the crowd, and when Claretta Kingfisher takes the stage with a professional smile, he nods to her briskly as he takes his seat again.
"It's an honour and a pleasure to be here today," she begins, her hand already delving into the first Reaping ball. "I don't know about you, but I'm always excited when the Games roll around, and doubly excited because I get to be a part of them, this year as for the last ten years. I'm sure these Games will be every bit as exciting and wonderful as they always are, with strong contenders from Four and maybe even a Victor to come home to you! So, without further ado, let's welcome our first Tribute this year... Lily Star!"
And, as the name echoes out over the water, silence rolls across the crowd like a wave.
She should have known. Of course it would be one of them. First Selene, then Sol, and now, for the third year in a row, another Star has been Reaped. If she hadn't believed the rumours before, this would still have forced her to accept it; this isn't coincidence. She doesn't know what her family did to earn this punishment, but it can't be denied, and she's afraid the Capitol won't stop until they're all dead.
All that flashes through Storm's mind in the split second after she hears Lily's name. But she doesn't hesitate, not even for a second; she's the eldest Star girl left, and it's her responsibility to save her sister if nobody else will – just like Selene saved her.
"I volunteer!" Her voice cracks a little, but it's loud and clear, all the louder over the blanket of silence that's fallen over the crowd. Ignoring the horrorstricken looks Claire and Sam are giving her from their own parts of the stockade, she tosses her dark brown hair back over her shoulder, sets her jaw defiantly, and pushes forwards through the other teenagers, lips drawn into a thin line. They won't take this away from her. Not Lily, not her family, and certainly not her pride.
Claretta smiles, sparkling red lips pulling back from her teeth. To Storm, it looks like a shark's smile, cold and hateful, without any human warmth behind it; it sends chills down her spine. "A volunteer!" she greets Storm, clapping her hands together and reaching out to shake Storm's hand. "And so brave, too! What's your name?"
"Storm Star." It takes all she has to keep her voice steady and her head high, showing no weakness and no fear.
"Oh, I remember!" Claretta smiles that shark's smile again, her long, painted fingernails sharp-edged against Storm's hand. "You were Reaped a couple of years ago, weren't you? And your sister volunteered for you, what was her name?"
"Selene." She grinds it out between her gritted teeth, resenting the reminder. If Claretta is bothered by her obvious hostility, though, she doesn't show it.
"Ah, yes. Selene. She did rather well, didn't she? Well, Storm, let's hope you can do just as well as she did! Storm Star, ladies and gentlemen – our newest tribute!"
Storm keeps her eyes forwards as she steps to the back of the stage, not letting it touch her, trying not to think of what it will do to her family if she dies too, or who will volunteer for Lily or Dawn if they're Reaped next year, or anything like that. Lily's safe, for now, and the Capitol still have their plans satisfied. She can't do more than that.
The applause for Storm is dutiful rather than enthusiastic, but it's there; Four isn't rebellious enough to risk not applauding. Claretta greets the applause with another white-toothed smile, then gestures for silence as she steps up to the boys' Reaping ball and delves her hand in. For a moment, she lets the quiet stretch out, then clears her throat delicately and unfolds the paper.
"James Astley!"
For a moment, he freezes, his green eyes flicking to and fro with something like fear, as if he might be mistaken. Maybe he misheard? It can't actually be him. His name's hardly in the ball at all, it can't possibly be him who has to go to the Capitol to fight.
The Capitol... where none of the women seem to be old or ugly, and the eyes of Panem will be on him, and he'll be in close confines with twelve girls doing nothing but work up a sweat.
James laughs suddenly, loudly, and as everyone turns their heads to look at him, he adjusts the open collar of his shirt to show him off to best effect, flashes his teeth in an attractive half-smile, and heads for the stage. Oh, sure, it's dangerous. But danger is sexy, everyone knows that, and sexy is James Astley's middle name. He'll be fine. He might hate the training, but he's done the training, and there's no doubt he'll get the sponsors. No big deal. So he swaggers confidently onto the stage, pausing only to wave for the cameras and give the nearest camerawoman a wink as he hops up next to Claretta.
"Wow," he tells her, flashing her a thousand-watt smile as he looks her up and down. "You're even cuter close up. And I get to spend how long sharing an apartment with you? Can't wait. You and me, babe, we're the lucky ones." Reaching up to sweep his blonde hair into just the right position, he winks at her, tapping his hand over his heart, and steps back with every appearance of reluctance to join Storm further back. As Claretta gives way to the Mayor again, and he loses interest in the goings-on at the front of the stage, he checks his District partner out from the corner of his eye. She's all right, he supposes, but a bit young for him. He's got high standards, and they don't include getting it on with fourteen-year-olds. Her big sister, if he remembers rightly, was a looker, but of course she's dead now, and Storm's just not as hot, honestly. He can do better.
But Storm's just the tip of the iceberg. The Capitol's full of hot girls, and he'll be famous there, a celebrity. Everyone will know his name. Every woman in Panem is going to want him. And if he wins, it'll only get better.
Yeah. This isn't so bad.
The Mayor finishes the Treaty, and gestures for the tributes to shake hands, which they do with varying degrees of enthusiasm – James smiles warmly, flirtatiously, while Storm looks him up and down with clear distaste. They do make eye contact, unlike the tributes from Three, and hold it for a second after their hands drop back to their sides, then turn forwards to face the cameras as the anthem strikes up.
Both teenagers are tall and good-looking - she leggy and slender, he strong and muscular – but Storm fades in comparison to James, largely because she doesn't appear to hold her looks in particularly high regard, while James' touseled hair looks suspiciously perfect and his rolled-up sleeves look rather like they might have been rolled up purely to show off the muscle on his arms. He's not quite striking a pose, but he looks like he might at a second's notice.
It seems to be working. The cameras catch on him, holding, while the anthem plays. He extrudes confidence, if not straight-up vanity, and it's magnetic to a Capitol audience. Between James' sheer confidence, and the more understated drama of the third Star tribute in three years, District Four has certainly left its mark on the audience. But the show's not over yet.