A/N: I must say, I am extremely excited to begin this process. I cannot believe that I got submissions and I am thankful to those who submitted. However, there are still quite a few spots. Upon writing this, both tributes from three are available, the D5 male, the D6 female, both from seven, the D8 female, the D9 female, and both from twelve. If I could get these filled up, that would be amazing. And now I bring to you, the first reaping of the forty-ninth hunger games!
Avery Reid
District One- Male
Courtesy of IceVeinsVillain
I focus my eyes on the unfamiliar surroundings, the gold-painted walls and the lacey trimmings around the picture frames. I don't know why I'm here, but I know this isn't my private suite. Then the thought dawns on me suddenly, and I groan as I rise from the silken bed sheets, letting them fall to the floor. I don't bother to pick them up.
I only come home for two specific reasons; the first is my birthday because in reality, as much as I'm adored by the capitol, I don't have many friends. The only other reason is for reaping days, which I will be rid of after today considering I'm eighteen.
It's not that I don't like my family, but my business prevents me from coming home a lot. I work as a model for cosmetic and swimwear advertisements in the captiol which is obvious due to my chiseled face and perfect washboard abs. I mean, you can legitimately wash clothes on them. Not that I let anyone touch me.
Sluggishly treading down the stairs, I scan the dining room with my deep violet eyes. I had them genetically altered by the capitol and not to brag, but it sort of started a trend. My eyes use to be a brilliant blue, but I altered them to give myself a little reminder of my ties wherever my modeling takes me. The design was emulated by many of the capitol's citizens and purple eyes pepper the irises of many. They simply adore me.
Depositing myself in an ornately carved wooden chair, I dig my muscular thighs into the white cushion, getting as comfortable as one can in such an ancient seat. My mother glides into the room, my father is missing. She sits down at the table, diagonal from where I'm sitting and brushes her hand against mine.
"Good Morning Avery," she coos.
"Morning," is all I grace her with.
My mother, Cecilia Reid was once a stylist for the capitol. Being the only one with beauty experience in the family, my mother and I share a bond that I don't share with anyone else. It might be lame to say, but I see her as not just a mother but a friend. However, I reiterate once a stylist. My mother got wrapped up in a scandalous affair with one of the hunky career tributes and retired before things got ugly. No one resents my mom however, because the affair was so long that no one really cares. She works as my manager; I don't let anyone else advise me on anything. So you could say it's not just a homecoming for me, but for my mother as well.
"Where's dad?" I ask between mouthfuls of egg and bacon she had prepared.
"Training," was her stoic reply.
"With Alexis?" I half questioned half assumed.
"With Alexis," she confirmed.
My younger sister Alexis is two years younger than me, but don't let that fool you. She's training to be in the Hunger Games, which I find stupid because who wants to be in the Hunger Games? Sure I train often in case I'm reaped, and I'm decent with a sword, but I mean seriously, it's not like anyone actually wants to go into that murder show. Except for my sister, who in two years is planning on taking the arena by storm.
"The reaping is at ten," my mother informs me as she lays the dishes out for the help to take care. She brushes my shoulder lovingly, prickling my skin with her long turquoise nails. I'm not wearing a shirt, I never do. When I have to put a shirt on it's normally something button up that I can leave open to expose my abdominals. They're just that good looking.
After breakfast I trudge back up the stairs and look at the clock. It reads 8:00, so I slip out of the sweatpants I had on and into my training shorts, the loose black material feeling wonderful on my tanned skin. Taking the stairs down past the ground floor and into the basement I arrive at my personal training room.
Striding over to my two custom made swords from the capitol; I pick them up with precautious care. Extremely light, the grooves on the hilt conform to my flawless hand and I marvel at the beauty for a few mere moments.
I press the timer resting on the shelf above the sword rack and dash for the first target, precisely stabbing it through the calf and parrying around the side for a finishing blow the back. I continue my parry after the leap and roll over to the next target, sinking my left sword into its chest and throwing my right sword through the head of third. Smashing my foot against the dummy and removing the sword with ease from its spongy head as it crashes to the ground, I leap over to the fourth and fifth dummy, hacking them to pieces with a few well-placed blows to the sides. Then next part was the one I always find difficult in my routine.
Preparing myself for the lunge, I brace my calves and leap. Sailing over the body of the fourth dummy I claw my way onto the back of the sixth dummy, which is standing on a raised platform. I nail the jump and swiftly slice the throat of the dummy open. Slamming my hand down on the red button next to the "dead" dummy, a time in bright red numbers pops up by the sword rack. 0:00:22
Shocked and ecstatic I smile as I wipe the stuffing from the blade of my sword. My best time, and on the day of the reaping, how coincidental. As I run through the routine for another countless time, I hear footsteps resonating from the stairs.
"Nice muscles hotshot," I hear Alexis taunt from the stairs.
"Don't you just wish you had them," I smirk, pissing her off.
"Mom wants you showered and dressed, we're leaving in fifteen."
"Aye-Aye captain," I salute to her anger.
Obviously ticked, Alexis stomps back up the stairs and I place my swords back on the rack with a victorious smile. Following her up the stairs, I make my way to the sumptuous bathroom, the floor tiles embellished with flecks of gold. Although I'm not here much, I always admire the bathroom; I've never been in a nicer shower. Stripping down out of my training shorts, I enter the shower and let the steaming water splash over my skin and permeate my body. Lathering my defined muscles and abs with soap, I rinse myself clean and let the water trickle down my chest. I'm just so damn sexy.
I come across a laid out pair of ragged jeans and a red button-up. Not buttoning it up, I leave my body exposed. The capitol loves me and I already have my own fan base. I'm not even sure my name is in the reaping bowl. Pulling on the faded jeans and slipping on my fraying flip-fops, I look like a stud. The girls will be all over me at the reaping.
I let Alexis and my father, Geoffrey go ahead. My dad is one of the head trainers of District 1, but that doesn't give me any advantage. I prefer to work with my mom, discussing my next shoot and what shots for the magazines I prefer. Alexis sticks her tongue out at me as I meet my mom in the foyer, fitting for her less than appealing face. Alexis wasn't as fortunate as me in the beauty department, which left her to a life of determined training. What's the point?
Reaching the district square for the reaping, there aren't even any Peacekeepers. They're mostly deployed to the other districts today, district one never causes a fuss over the Hunger Games, they love it here.
I loosen my muscles and mill about in the eighteen-year old section. I see one of my only friends in the district, Ross Hardbaugh come up to me. Ross is about my height and a fellow model. We met on a shoot for the most attractive men in the district. I was first place. Although district one is the capitol, Ross and I live in apartments in the heart of the capitol, the center of attraction and the high life.
"I wonder which one of us is going to get reaped," Ross mused.
"Bro, I don't even know if names like ours are in the bowl," I assure him.
He doesn't look too convinced.
Our district escort, Tatyana Gibbs saunters her way across the stage. Her garish outfit is composed of a lavender blouse with a wisteria cloak that shrouds her arms and shoulders in a wave of unsightliness. The cloak stops at her waist, where a large belt buckle covers half of her stomach. Thin stockings the color purple adorn her skinny legs and her stiletto heels are a warped shade of fuchsia. She looks like an idiot, like most of the capitol citizens.
She takes her seat and attentively watches our mayor, Mayor Gamble, read his boring speech about the revolution and the Dark Days. I'm busy shooting my famously devilish grin at this cute girl across the way. She blushes and I wink. Her heart melts.
By the time my flirting is over, Tatyana sashays over to the podium, her ugly cloak swinging back and forth, bathing her wrists in that horrid shade of purple.
"Happy Hunger Games tributes!" she calls out as if this were some celebration. It's not that I despise the Hunger Games; I just don't revel in them like the rest of the capitol. Sure, my attractive features have allowed me to manipulate others and I'm skilled with my swords so I could take this thing on, but I'm not going to dance in the streets like the rest of these kids if I get reaped.
"The time has come for us to select a boy and a girl to represent the fabulous district one in the forty-ninth hunger games," she smiles brightly at the crowd expecting applause or something she's not receiving. Resuming with a disappointed expression she snaps, "Ladies first."
Her noisy heels click all the way over to the girl's bowl, and the staccato torture on my ears paints a pleased look on her face. Waving her hand over the bowl for a moment and then diving down into the thousands of slips of paper, she fishes out one single piece of white paper and raises it to her lips. Carefully removing the seal on the end, she straightens it out in the air before reading it.
"Jemima Fitch!" she cries with overdone enthusiasm.
I don't know who that is, so I don't care. I watch as the frightened girl makes her way up the stage, Tatyana walks her over to her left side and smiles. The girl looks absolutely horrified but her attempts at fake confidence are easily noticeable.
"For the boys," Tatyana flashes another annoying smile.
Growing bored of the reaping I think of how I won't have to spend another day standing in this square after today. I'm eighteen, free after this. I can go back to my apartment with Ross and live the successful and envied life of a model. The breeze flaps open my shirt, and my muscles are exposed. I'm sure the cameras of the capitol are scanning the terrified faces of the crowd and I want them to see my body.
I have virtually no chance of being reaped, I find myself thinking in assurance. The tiniest dash of fear has found its way into my mind as Tatyana unfolds the slip of paper. I look at Ross and he stares at me dumbfounded, taking a few steps back as grief clouds his black eyes. I have no idea what he is freaking out over, until Tatyana reads the name for a second time.
"Avery Reid."
That's when it starts; the crowd must have been shocked too. Shrieks rise up from the crowd like sirens. They are horrified by the calling of my name. I can hear a girl somewhere shout "I volunteer!" Everyone's eyes are on me, but I can only think of one thing.
That's my name.
My body refuses to move and with the help of some of the few remaining peacekeepers, I find myself up on the stage, the sun shining down on my whitish blonde hair giving it the most splendid appearance in this horrific circumstance. That's when it hits me.
I am going into the games.
Tatyana forces me to shake Jemima's hand, but I'm secretly pleading someone will volunteer. She looks into my eyes with the same disturbed look that I'm sure fill mine. But it's not the fear she's noticing, it's the purple. My unheard pleas continue, but it's too late, and Tatyana has already announced the official tributes of district one. My name rolls off of her tongue like an arrow to the heart, my life as a model, my life as a beloved citizen of the capitol is over.
I attempt to appear fearless, but my worry shines through. My clammy hand slides out of Jemima's and we are wheeled into the Justice Building. My open shirt sags around my shoulders and my perfect appearance begins to diminish. My armpits are sweating profusely and I fumble for the walls as I'm lead into my small holding room.
The door slams shut definitively.
It opens after a few moments of silence and my family embraces me. My mother is crying and my father is patting me on the back, telling me that I have a good shot, I'm strong, I'm manipulative, I'll get a ton of sponsors.
My confidence builds and deters as I lay my eyes on Alexis. She was the one who wanted to be in these games so bad, she should be the one in here, not me. My hatred boils in my throat and I'm about to make some snarky remark when Alexis puts something in my hand.
Two gold earrings, given to me by my grandfather on his deathbed. I never wore them, but kept them in my room. I had forgotten about them in the whirlwind of my career, and am actually grateful for Alexis for once in my life.
"I thought these would let you know, your family is still here," she blurts out, her words laced with emotional pain.
"Thanks," I manage to say as I fit both earrings into my right ear. They dangle for a moment and then stop swaying, coming to an almost serene halt next to my head. Alexis hugs me, tightly, and I hug her back.
"You can win this," she speaks with certainty.
"Alexis…" I begin but she cuts me off.
"Don't you say it, don't you tell me there are twenty-four and only one comes out, you can win this," she reaffirms her earlier statement.
I kiss her cheek and give one last kiss to my mother, and she whispers in my ear,
"Get to the swords, get to the swords and your gold."
As she is carted out by the few peacekeepers left in district one today, a plan is already formulating in my brain.
"Get to the swords and your gold."
I, Avery Field, the golden boy of district one, can win this game.
Jemima Fitch
District One- Female
Courtesy of Emmeline C. Thornebrooke
My silent footsteps disturb nothing as I cross over to the plain white shade and pull it back, stealing a glance out at the massive crowd congregating in the square. Today is the day of the reaping, a day I absolutely detest with every fiber in my being. I've learned the history, I know the rebellion, but this form of punishment is sadistic and twisted. What gets me even more is the wild glee that fills the capitol's heart at the time of the games.
My father tells me I should have been somewhere like District Eleven or Ten, with the livestock and the farmers. My love of humanity is unappreciated her in one, especially by my parents. Georgia and Thomas Fitch are peacekeepers, and decry me every chance they get.
No condolences or hugs when I stumble into the foyer in the afternoons, tears streaming down my pallid face. My father only shakes his head and my mother flinches in repulsion. I am not the bloodthirsty fiend they had wished for.
I am almost dreading the days to come as much as the reaping. My parents throw the most expensive and boisterous "Hunger Games Gala" known to the twelve districts. I lock myself in my room for a good portion of those days; I can't believe their fascination with the broadcasted murder of twenty-three innocent teenagers. Then again, this is the capitol.
The sun's rays flood into my room and I quickly vanquish their presence by covering the window again. My mother has laid out a simple but chic grey dress for me and I slip it on after returning from my shower. Nearly sprinting down the stairs, I don't even acknowledge my parents as I dart out the door into the sunshine I had sought to exterminate only fifteen minutes ago.
I'm walking away from the square, not towards it. I'll get there eventually, but for now I slip in between the closely pressed buildings and into an alley. There's a boy, tall and well-built, leaning up against the side of the brick exterior. His jaw is working up and down, ferociously chewing on his gum like some sort of animal.
I stride up to him and jam my fingers in his mouth, ripping out the gum and throwing it on the ground.
"Hey! I was enjoying that!" he protests.
"I hate the way you chew," I lovingly chide and wrap my arms around his shoulder, planting a firm kiss on his lips. His anger subsides into dull warmth and he traces his fingers along the too well-known patterns of my spine. Playing with the zipper on my dress, I playfully bat his hand away and laugh. He twirls his fingers in my black wavy hair and he whispers sweet-nothings in my ear.
"I love you Hunter," I say.
"I love you too," he smiles.
Hands laced together, we emerge from the reclusive darkness and come face to my face with my only friend in the district besides Hunter, but he doesn't really count since he's my boyfriend.
"Hey lovebirds," Issie taunts waggishly.
Isis Taylor is my best friend; we've been inseparable since we were little. While my parents may not like me very much, Issie's parents can't get enough of me. I find myself sleeping there more often than at my actual house, but my parents "don't approve of that hippie and his wife."
Before Hunter and I started dating, the three of us we're best friends. Issie didn't mind us hooking up though; at least she doesn't show it.
"Scared for today?" she asks with a laugh, Issie doesn't know fear.
"I've only got one more time after this," Hunter acknowledges the fact that he's a year older than me at seventeen.
"What about you Mi?" Issie probes.
Issie started calling me Mi as soon as she learned my name.
"It's too much to say," Issie pouts in my memory as she gives me her explanation for refusing to call me Jemima. I absolutely hate it, believing I should go by what I was given at birth, but she begs to differ.
"I'm a little nervous," I lie.
Hunter wraps his fingers around mine tighter and his strength pours over into mine. Looking into his eyes, he kisses me and Issie makes a vomiting sound.
We pull up at the square and I kiss Hunter goodbye as he goes to stand in the seventeen year old section. Issie and I shuffle into the sixteen-year old section and come across two girls fighting about something dumb, fashion.
Clovis Blakeman and Sharyce "Dimples" Melldon are arguing about who looks better. The snobbish teens have been chummy ever since they learned they both wear the same nail polish. It makes me want to barf. However, I can't stand conflict, and I always strive to make it my effort to eradicate it whenever I see it.
Issie sees my worried glance towards Clovis and Sharyce and she groans,
"Come on Mi, they're not worth it."
"Just hold on," I plead.
Making my way towards the girls I place a hand on Clovis' shoulder and she barks, "Oh, it's you."
"Guess who it is Sharyce? Jemima Bitch." Clovis snaps.
I refuse to acknowledge those who attend the training academy, and since my only focus is school and the times I share with Hunter and Issie, everyone else is loath to speak to me. The profane nickname started when I made some witty remark to this girl outside the training about how dumb it is to want to be in the Hunger Games.
"Why are you two arguing, you guys are friends," I try to resolve the doltish dispute.
"Go away Jemima!" Clovis yells.
"Yeah, freak!" Sharyce adds.
A hurt look clouds my helping attitude and Issie drags me away from the two girls.
"You do it to yourself," she reminds me.
My emotions are rising inside of me and I can feel tears. I just want people to not think I'm sort of freak just because I hate violence. I get made fun of for all my quirks, from my renowned disposition as a mediator to my dietary habits, which is veganism.
I block out the words of the mayor and Tatyana Gibbs, the district escort and instead focus on what Clovis and Tatyana had said to me. I just wanted to help.
"Ladies first," Tatyana's shrill voice interrupts my thoughts and I resurface back to the world of the reaping.
Digging her thin fingers into the wide glass bowl, Tatyana's hideous cloak envelops the opening at the top. Her ghost-white makeup is applied by the pound and her oversized eyelashes bat as she reads the name on the paper she has just read aloud.
"Jemima Fitch!"
My heart stops, it can't be me, me of all people. The only one, who refuses to train, denies all possibilities of participating in this ghastly event. I, Jemima Fitch, the skinny vegan crybaby from district one with the parents who despise her and the peers who hate her. Tatyana just signed my death warrant in blood.
Issie screams as I make my way to the stage, the girls making room for the one they had deprecated for so long. Tatyana extends her long, wiry fingers and a smile is painted on her hideously modified face. I am revolted at the thought of her touching me, and as she aids me in my climb I look out at the crowd.
My mother, a blank expression on her borderline unmoved face.
My father, not a care in the world as his only daughter walks to her death.
Issie screaming in despair as her best friend ascends the terminal scaffold.
Hunter with tears in his eyes, gaze fixed on me, mouthing three words.
"I love you."
I try to mouth them back, but the overwhelming fear of what is to come engulfs me like flames, and I realize in that moment that I'm going to die in these games that I have always considered in an opposite universe than me.
Tatyana makes her way over the boys bowl as I stand there, nervous tremors coursing about my body. She dives her hand into the bowl in the same manner as she did mine and plucks out the next poor victim of this barbaric government.
"Avery Fields!" her voice rings out.
The name sounds vaguely familiar, and I rack my brain trying to think of where I've heard it.
When Tatyana calls out the name a second time, I realize where I know him from. His hair dances in the sunlight, turning it a near white and he tries to level his expression between fear and confidence. His shirt isn't even buttoned, but that's not a problem, because I could wash clothes on those abs. I can hear shrieks emit from the crowd as they grieve his reaping and some vapid girl volunteers for him. That would make me smile, but it doesn't considering my grim circumstances.
We shake hands, Avery and I, and his deep purple eyes lock onto mine.
He's gorgeous, but I shake that thought from my head and think of Hunter instead.
The peacekeepers hustle us into the Justice Building and I'm thrown into a tiny holding chamber, awaiting my family and friends to come offer their final goodbyes.
Issie and Hunter pour into the room in a wave of grief; Issie wraps her arms around me. Hunter kisses my lips delicately and moans,
"God, Jemima."
"I'm okay," I find myself lying to him.
"No Jemima, you're not, you've never held a weapon, and you have next to no social…"
"You think I don't know that!" I shout.
The games have already changed me, in a matter of minutes. I refuse to let myself fall victim to this nefarious system, but Hunter's painful reminder of my zero percent chance to win this game cuts too deep and I find myself yelling. I never yell, it's against my nature.
"They've got you," he mumbles, "They've got you and I'm never going to get you back."
He smashes our lips together wildly in a fit of passions and leaves the room, I can hear his tears bounding of the walls of the hallway.
Issie meets my eyes and unclasps the heart shaped pendant that hangs around her neck. Carefully, she hooks it around my neck and fastens the clasp; the brilliant jewel brings warmth to the chill of the room.
"To protect you," she instructs as she pulls her hands away lovingly.
The peacekeeper knocks on the door and Issie leaves, but not before she looks back.
"I believe in you," she whispers.
The door closes and Tatyana comes to get me, ushering me into the archway that wraps around the platform of the train station. My eyes meet Avery's again, and the deep purple locks onto my gaze. He is menacing in his own beautiful sort of way and I can't stand to look at him any longer. We board the train and I don't look back at district one, the place I was never able to call home.
I am leaving, most probably to my death, but one thing is for certain.
I am free.
The District One Reapings are over! PLEASE Send in tributes for both from 3, the boy from 5, a girl from 6, both tributes from 7, the district 8 female, the district nine girl and both from twelve. This would be amazing! Please favorite, follow and review. Keep this story alive because even though I write, it's the readers who make the story. Thank You All So Much for participating and thanks again to IceVeinsVillain and Emmeline C. Thornebrooke for our fantastic district one tributes!