Chapter 2: Reaping Day

I don't know which is worse. The five hour long journey to reach the justice building, here in District Nine, or the way we are all herded into a big square like so many cattle once we arrive.

At least my farm is relatively close. I know some of the other wide eyed children who surround me here would have had to travel even further than I did. District Nine is huge, with most of the people living scattered out on farms and properties. Some live here, in the town at the centre of it all. They are the unlucky ones, being forced to work in the giant granaries and factories that process all of the raw foods, before they are sent off to the capitol or to the other districts.

The factory kids are easy to spot amongst the crowd. They look like they have never seen the sun, and some of them seem so malnourished that they might drop down dead at any moment. It's at times like this, that I am glad to be from a farm. I feel sorry for my fellow District Nine denizens, but under no circumstances would I want to have their lot in life.

The trip in had been nerve racking. No amount of mental preparedness, or silent assurances that my name was only on four out of however many thousands of slips of paper could quite drive away the fear. That tiny sliver of fear that it would be me sent to my death this year. Best not to think too long about it.

When we had arrived, my parents had smiled and wished me luck – saying that she had a surprise for me once the reaping was over. I think that my mother liked to try and give me something to look forwards to, after the reaping. That way I could have something else to occupy my mind for the next few hours. Something other than the chilling sense of dread that coiled in my stomach.

My finger was still sore from being jabbed violently with a needle. Part of the process to ensure everyone who should be here, was here, was a compulsory blood test. The Peacekeepers were hardly gentle in their task, I can assure you.

While District Nine is not as bad off as those districts even further out than us, we are hardly one of the inner districts. We haven't had a rebellion against the capitol in my life time, but my parents well remember the last time that our fellow District Nine citizens felt the wrath of our overlords. Farms had been burnt to the ground, people rounded up and executed by the hundreds.

It had been a fairly simple revolt, too. Some of the farmers and the factory workers had tried to form a union, to negotiate for better conditions and fairer wages. The Capitolites had not liked that one little bit.

Hiding a frown, I glanced around me at my fellow fifteen year olds. I had managed to find a spot next to another boy I vaguely knew from the few trips into town that my family made each year. He was the son of one of the workers at the factory that we delivered our shipments of wheat and over food stuff to. I felt guilty, because I couldn't even remember the kids name, only his face.

I knew that he had more slips in the giant fish bowl sitting on the stage than I did. His family took tesserae, because they were poorer than ours. His name was much more likely to be called out than mine. I had to keep telling myself this.

Last year, the male tribute from our district had been a thirteen year old boy from one of the factories. He had been an emaciated little thing, and had done nothing but cry and snivel, until finally dying in the bloodbath, a week after he had been reaped. It had been terrible to watch. The kid had been only a year younger than me.

His age had not stopped the hulking brute of a tribute from District Two running him through with a spear. I hadn't touched my food for days, after that.

The boy who had killed our tribute hadn't even lasted long, in last years Hunger Games. He had been stabbed in the back by his District mate, the girl who had eventually been crowned the Victor. She had been a bloodthirsty monster.

Of course, that was to be expected. The tributes from Districts One, Two and Four were trained from a young age in the arts of murder and survival, before finally volunteering for the 'honour' of participating in the games once they turned eighteen years old. It was technically against the rules, but as the Districts doing it were the higher up districts, the capitol turned a blind eye to it all. Those brutal career tributes from the higher districts made for a good show, which in the end is all that the capitol really cares about.

Shuddering a little, I glance back up at the stage. Our escort is standing there looking slightly nervous next to the fat slug who dares to call himself our Mayor. The capitol sends one of their own to each district to select and escort the poor chosen tributes to their deaths, and remind us just who it is that holds the reins of power. District Nine's escort is an older man, who goes by the name of Horace Higglesby. Like most people from the Capitol, his sense of fashion can be described as eccentric at best. He tends to wear nothing but yellow, and even has his hair styled in the colour, pointing up in what looks like two giant ears with black tips from the top of his head. He even has a zig zaggy tail, in the same colours.

I won't even pretend to understand why.

Finally, I am interrupted from my musings by the sound of a horn, and then the tune of the Panem anthem being played. Looks like the reaping is about to start. Zoning out as much as possible, I choose instead to stare at the still nervous escort and the figures hidden behind the fat Mayor on the stage. The two silent figures are our past victors, Mattock Kingston and Cornflower Andrews.

Mattock is in his late twenties, having won the games a little over ten years ago. The man is a monster, having been a farmhand before being reaped for his games. He had won on brute strength, wielding a huge scythe to take down a crop of rather lack lustre careers, while conserving his own strength and letting his competition slowly eradicate each other. The man looked strong, but I could see how dead his eyes were. No matter how much his triumph in the games had been celebrated, I knew. I knew that walking away from those games largely unscathed had taken its toll on the giant of a man, and that the price for his victory had been whatever morals he had held.

Our other victor, Conrflower, was old enough to be my grandmother. The woman had won one of the earlier Hunger Games, before the career districts were fully established. Unlike her fellow victor her win had been more to do with cunning and betrayal than strength. Everyone had thought she was weak, a no hoper. She had proven them all wrong, allying herself with a strong group of fellow tributes, who had cleaned up the majority of the other competitors for her.

In the end, she had betrayed them all, poisoning her former allies and leaving them dead. It had come down to her, and a tiny thirteen year old from District Twelve. Cornflower had gutted him with a knife, taking home the victors crown with more blood on her hands than even Mattock.

Sometimes I wondered if the winners of the Hunger Games were just as much victims as the losers. If our two Victors were anything to go by, then the answer had to be a resounding yes.

The anthem over, and a speech about the Dark Days before the nation of Panem had come to be, and the violent revolution that had sparked the Hunger Games finished as well, the time we had all been dreading was finally here.

Squeaking slightly, Horace stepped up the mike and cleared his throat. "Well, it's that time again! Time for us to pick two brave children to represent District Nine in the Fifty Fourth Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favour!"

The bright yellow man stepped towards one of the giant glass bowls. "Ladies first, of course."

Reaching into the bowl, he lucked out a slip of paper, before opening it and reading out the name written across it.

"Congratulations, Clay Matheson!" he cried out, his high pitched voice sounding excited, as though picking a girl to go to her death was a some kind of an honour, rather than a tragedy waiting to happen.

Glancing towards the girls, I noticed a huge girl from the eighteen year olds section push her way out and walk up towards the stage. Her face was plastered with an evil look, as though she wanted nothing more than to strangle the little man who had dared to call her name. I gulped, feeling almost sorry for our escort.

It looked like District Nine had a contender this year. This brute of a girl looked as mean as some of the career tributes from previous years. Her hair was cropped short, and from the bulging muscles on her arms and the deep tan she sported, it was obvious she was a farmhand. Heck, she looked as mean as Mattock had when he was reaped, all those years ago. I felt sorry for whoever was sent to the arena with her, she didn't seem like the type who would be inclined to help the poor kid who was going to be sent to die with her.

Horace obviously had noticed the death glares she had been sending him, because he was quick to leave her alone and head over to the bowl containing all of the boy's names. Without ceremony, and still glancing warily at the brute who now shared the stage with him, the bright yellow escort cleared his throat once more, before calling out the name on the piece of paper clutched tightly in his hand.

"Leo Saunders, please come up to the stage."

I stared at him. This had to be a mistake, right? There was no way that it had been my name he had just called out. Not a chance. I felt the boy next to me, the one I knew, staring at me with a sympathetic look in his eyes. The sympathy was mixed with relief. No doubt he was glad that it wouldn't be him heading to his death this year.

The boy gave me a gentle shove. "Go on mate, you have to go up or they'll come over here and drag you there."

Nodding, I slowly made my way towards the stage – feeling thousands of pairs of eyes scrutinising me. I was still in shock, my face no doubt completely expressionless as my feet carried me towards my death. A group of Peacekeepers quickly surrounded me. No doubt to dissuade me of any ideas I might have had of running.

Reaching the stage, I stared out blankly at the sea of faces. They stared back. Most looked back at me with sympathy. It was a hollow. They might feel sorry for me, but not a one would take my place here on this stage, I knew.

Horace coughed again, before forcing me to shake hands with the menacing girl standing next to me. She stared down at me, like she might a bug, before crushing my hand in hers with a painful grasp. I winced.

Obviously I had been right, when I had guessed that there would be no love lost between this girl and whatever unfortunate tribute she was paired with.

"District Nine, I give you your tributes!" Horace cried out, his enthusiasm temporarily overtaking his nervousness, "Clay Matheson and Leo Saunders, congratulations on being chosen for the honour of representing your district in the Fifty Fourth Hunger Games!"

The cameras flashed, and there was a brief smattering of forced applause. I could hear a woman screaming from the back of the crowd, her sobs audible even from here. That was probably my mum. I felt tears prickling at my eyes, but I forced them back. I was on display, and I couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now. Not ever.

If I did, I was dead.