District 10
Rosie North
Coming from District 10, I am used to the idea of raising animals for slaughter. But there is a big difference between killing an animal for meat and killing a human being for the "entertainment" of the Capitol. And killing human beings is what I'll have to do as a tribute in the Seventy-third Hunger Games. I don't want to do it, but I won't have much choice, not if I want to survive. Trouble is, all my fellow tributes want to survive as well, but only one of us can. And, if I want to make sure it's me, I must be prepared to kill.
At present, my district partner, Steer, and I are waiting for the start of the tribute parade, both of us dressed up to reflect our district's main industry, livestock. I am wearing a halter-neck top made from maroon leather, with matching leggings. Thongs made from strips of leather and decorated with coloured beads serve as bracelets and there is a longer thong tied round my waist like a belt. My boots are made from dark brown leather, with maroon straps to match my top and leggings. Finally, I am wearing a leather headband decorated with larger versions of the beads which decorate my bracelets.
In short, my costume (apart from the beads which decorate it) is made entirely out of leather, leather from the cows we raise in District 10. Of course, we raise other animals as well, but we're best known for being a district of cowhands. This is probably down to our stylists, who have a habit of theming our tribute parade costumes around the subject of cattle. Tributes from our district usually end up dressed as cows or cowboys/cowgirls, though there was one year when they were dressed as slabs of meat. Which was a bit tasteless looking back, especially since that was the year the District 6 boy tried to eat the tributes he'd killed. But our stylists weren't to know that would happen.
Anyway, this year's theme for the District 10 tribute parade costumes is leather. More original than cows or cowboys/cowgirls and slightly less questionable than slabs of meat. Although I sometimes wish our stylists would remember that we don't just raise cattle; we raise sheep and pigs as well, not to mention poultry since there isn't a separate poultry district. Still, that's the Capitol for you.
My thoughts turn to my family; they will soon see Steer and myself in our leather costumes. My family consists of my mother and my younger brother and sister, thirteen-year-old Agnes and eleven-year-old Brandon. I don't have a father; he died when I was ten, gored by a bull which got out of control and had to be shot by one of the Peacekeepers. Working with livestock can be hazardous and there are many accidents every year. Last year, for instance, a boy had his foot crushed by a cow, meaning he will never walk properly again. But, since he's of reaping age, he still has to line up behind the ropes with the other kids.
I took out tesserae as soon as I was old enough; my mother's job on one of District 10's poultry farms doesn't pay very much and we needed the extra rations of grain and oil. Agnes followed suit when she reached reaping age last year. I tried to dissuade her, but she was adamant, saying that, if I ever got reaped, it would be up to her to help provide for the family. Sometimes, I think she's mature beyond her years; then again, my siblings and I have had to grow up fast since our father died. Anyway, she had ten entries this year, the two allocated to all thirteen-year-olds, plus eight for the tesserae she'd claimed. I had thirty-five entries, twenty-eight of which were for tesserae. And one of those thirty-five entries was drawn from the reaping ball.
I consider what my strategy for the Games should be. I'm a fairly fast runner, so I should have no problem obtaining a weapon and getting clear of the Cornucopia. Like I said before, I am prepared to kill even though I don't want to; it's the only way I can hope to survive.
I tell myself this as the chariots start to roll out of the Remake Centre.
Steer Holton
I stand beside my district partner, Rosie, waiting for the tribute parade to begin. While I wait, I picture District 10 in my mind. The vast open spaces, the cattle grazing in the afternoon sun . . . This is the place where I was born and brought up, the place I may never see again. In a few days' time, I will be thrown into an arena along with twenty-three other tributes and we will then be left to fight to the death until only one of us is left.
In the meantime, we will be paraded through the streets of the Capitol, wearing costumes which depict our districts' main industries. Being from District 10, Rosie and I represent the livestock industry. I am dressed entirely in leather; my shirt, trousers and boots are all made from the stuff, as are the belt I wear round my waist and the band around my head. My stylist explained it to me as follows: District 10 raises cows, leather comes from cows, therefore leather costumes would show that we come from the livestock district. I refrained from pointing out that I already know where leather comes from.
I think back to the reaping, recalling the moment my name was called. I felt my heart pounding in my chest as I made my way to the stage, where Rosie was already standing. Our district escort asked for volunteers, but the response was the same as it has been at every reaping I remember - no-one stepped forward. District 10 isn't one of those districts where kids are eager to risk their lives in the arena. I would have to say goodbye to my parents and my brother, Dwight, possibly forever.
Dwight is eighteen, so this was his seventh and last reaping, unless the next Quarter Quell sets a higher age limit. I'm too young to remember the last Quarter Quell, of course, but they teach us about them in school. Once every twenty-five years, they have an extra special (for the Capitol) Hunger Games which includes a nasty twist. Last time, they had twice the usual number of tributes and the time before that, the districts were made to vote for their own tributes. My Great Aunt Mary (my maternal grandfather's sister) was a tribute in the first Quarter Quell; she died on the fifth day, killed by the Careers.
I once asked my grandfather how people could have voted for who should go into the arena. He said there was no choice; voting was mandatory for every adult in the districts and anyone who failed to participate faced arrest. So all he could do was hope Mary (who was fifteen, the same age I am now) would not be elected as tribute, but he hoped in vain. I remember thinking how terrible it must have been to be forced to choose who should be sent away to face almost certain death, hoping that I would never have to make such a decision. Not that it matters now that I'm a tribute myself.
I am determined not to go down without a fight. And that means I will have to try and get hold of a weapon at the Cornucopia, a knife or an axe maybe. It will be risky going up against the Careers - they've trained for these Games all their lives, whereas my education mainly revolved around animal husbandry - but I'll have to face them sooner or later if I want to stand any chance of winning. So it might as well be sooner. Even if I am eliminated in the bloodbath, I'll at least die fighting. The last thing I want to do is flee from the Cornucopia, then end up dying from starvation or something like that.
But, whatever happens, I intend to be as prepared for it as possible. I am not going into the arena like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter; I know why I am going in and what I must do if I want to get out alive.
The doors to the Remake Centre open and a cheer erupts as the chariots start to emerge.