Reapings Part Three
A Cannon in the Wind;
The 5th Hunger Games
Sylvan Barnes, Victor of the 3rd Hunger Games
Quintavious, my bumbling idiot of a stylist, gives me a look that'd shatter glass.
"Do you not understand how important this is?" He asks me. For once, he's not taking my shit, and he's actually really angry. "Just please, for once in your life, do what I tell you to do!"
I scowl at that. I hate being told what to do, especially from any of these Capitol bastards.
"I'm not one of your tributes anymore, and I'm definitely not a child—so I don't have to do what you say." I puff out my chest, trying to intimidate my stylist just like how I intimidated the other tributes during my Games. Even though I was just fifteen-years-old, I had the body of an eighteen-year-old, and that was more than enough to tell the others not to mess with me.
And when the tributes from District 1 and 2 did try to mess with me? I did the smartest, most sensible thing anyone in my situation would do.
I fought.
I killed.
I killed the District 1 duo—those idiots actually thought, just because they were allied with two powerhouses, that they stood a chance—and just managed to escape the tributes of District 2 before they could cut off my head. They found me again, during the finale—and I fought once again. I wasn't going to go down like the District 3 boy from last year, screaming and crying and not fighting back.
All my life, I've had to fight back. From Peacekeepers, from bullies, even from my own damn parents. If I was going to die, it'd be with my axe clenched tightly in my hands, and their blood spilled across the ground.
Luckily, the girl from District 2 slipped and stabbed herself in the chest with her own knife. And the boy from District 2, while he had definitely trained a bit before the Games, was no match for me by himself. I had been using an axe to cut down trees all my life.
Cutting down lives was just as easy. It was just a lot more aggravating.
"Please, Sylvan!" Quintavious pleads, the anger wiping off his face when he realizes that I won't be backing down. "President Kronin would surely kill me if I had you going out like...that!" He gestures towards my wrinkled t-shirt, my torn jacket, and my dirty jeans.
I cross my arms, shaking my head. "Do you seriously think I care what'd happen to you? You can shove those fancy clothes right up your—"
"Please!"
Somebody else would probably relent to his pleading and begging. After all, if I seriously went out onstage in these "district clothes," President Jackass really would kill my idiotic stylist.
But I don't care. I seriously do not care. And why should I? These people, these monsters threw me in a jungle to literally fight for my life. There's nothing anyone could do that'd top the Hunger Games when it comes to sick, evil pleasures.
I won, though.
I fought for my life, just like they wanted.
Smirking at Quintavious, I look up at the ceiling in mock-thought. He smiles a hopeful smile, his rainbow colored eyes sparkling—but then I shake my head, disagreeing once again.
It's time I make them fight for theirs, in one way or another.
Aeliana Devrine, Hunger Games Interviewer / Announcer
Almost done.
We're almost done.
I'm almost done.
I just need to put up with four more districts. After that, I'm free to spend the rest of my day at reaping parties or whatever. I just need to put up with eight more soon-to-be dead teenagers; I just need to put up with that irritating District 7 Victor; I just need to fake a few more smiles, a few more laughs and giggles, and I'll be done.
I will be done.
Reaping Day is seriously annoying—when you're the one working, that is. What I wouldn't give to pop open a bottle of champagne right now...
Commercials will be over soon. Get ready, Ms. Devrine, says the control center man. I groan, my hands covering my face. The Hunger Games are exhausting.
Why can't we just round them all up and watch them kill each other? It'd be quicker, and still entertaining, and I'd have to work less.
Why do we have to pretty them up and have freaking parades for them? I mean, sure, I guess they deserve something for their sacrifice...but they'll still be dead in the next week, so I hardly see the point.
And why do I have to freaking interview them? Nothing they say will keep them alive. Most of the time, all they're doing is trying their hardest to curse me and everyone in the freaking Capitol...
Suddenly, the Capitol Anthem blares. I look up, immediately grinning my sparkling grin and waving at the audience and cameras both. It's tiring, having to keep up this bubbly persona—but I'm rich, I'm famous, I'm living the life I've always wanted. If I have to commentate on doomed children, then I'll do it with a pretty smile on my pretty face.
Sure, I'll bitch about it later, but whatever.
"That was a long break!" I say to the members of the audience. They all agree in one way or another, either by nodding their heads or clapping or whatever they feel the need to do. "But don't worry, because you know what? District 9 will be starting their reapings shortly, and I can tell that you're all ready to see them even more than I'm ready to see them!"
I'm actually ready to go home and snuggle up in my bed, but I guess that's beside the point.
"So without further ado, let's meet the wonderful tributes of District 9!" I spin around in my chair...and immediately frown when the lights shut off. I'm worried that if I continue smiling like a District 1 idiot, my face will be stuck like that forever. And that'd be torturous, because a bitchy person like me being forced to smile forever is a bomb just waiting to blow.
The screen flashes on, revealing District 9 within them. The cameras close in on the fields of grain, blowing in the wind. There's plenty of factories, too, apparently for processing the grain. In the crowds are a surplus of children—more blond than anything else, I notice—and Peacekeepers surrounding them. Outside the Peacekeepers are the adults, all of them with worried expressions on their faces. Hell, some of them look even sadder than the children!
"...Thank you, District 9," the mayor says after finishing the treaty. "Please give a warm welcome for our escort, coming all the way from the Capitol."
There's no warm welcome—well, unless being warm means to glare up at the lady. The Capitol escort walks up to the podium, smiling, showing no concern for the hate being thrown her way. I like her, because she understands how annoying these disrespectful children can be, and she doesn't let them take control.
"Happy Hunger Games!" She begins. "And may the odds be ever in your favor. As you all know, I always pick the ladies first—but not this time. You see, I've come to the conclusion that we keep losing because of this. So, I'm going to reap the male tribute first. Are there any questions before I start?"
There's silence in District 9, the boys looking even more worried than the girls now. I snort at that. It's very doubtful that District 9 has never produced a Victor just because of which tribute gets reaped first. It's more than that—like how their tributes are hardly ever aggressive, or how living in that poor District can never prepare them for the Hunger Games.
Just like the districts after this one, the Hunger Games are a death penalty.
"No questions? Great! Then I'll start." The escort sashays over to the male bowl, looking every bit pleased with herself. She slips a hand in and takes a slip out, way faster than the ones before her. And just like that, there's one person she's condemned to death. Opening the slip as she simultaneously walks back to the microphone, she starts reading. "Terrance Vallier!"
There's a pause—but isn't there always? The crowd of boys split open, revealing a sixteen-year-old boy with light brown hair. For a split second, his brown eyes are widened in disbelief—but just as quickly, they morph into an expression of pure indifference. I almost laugh at that. Look at him, trying to act tough for the cameras. Thankfully, though, Terrance isn't young, nor does he look like the type to break down into tears.
We'll see where that'll take him.
Terrance walks down the aisle and climbs the steps in an almost robotic manner. He's playing the strong act well, I'll give him that. But being from District 9, it's only a matter of time before his blood is on the ground and his picture in the sky. And yet, I don't see him as a bloodbath…
But I could be wrong. Surprising, but true.
"Well, I think I was right in my decision to pick the boys first! You're a strong-looking young man," the escort compliments, a big grin on her face. Terrance doesn't say anything to her, but at least he nods.
Her words are sincere, though. While not the biggest, he has mild muscles along his arms and legs. And he's pretty tall—well, for a sixteen-year-old. Add in the fact that he's not an ugly child, and I can see a few sponsors sponsoring him. He'll have to really impress me, though, because there's not much else interesting about him.
"Okay then, I better hurry and reap the girl before this good luck runs out!" The Capitol escort laughs, rushing over to the female bowl. Once again, tensions rise to an unimaginable level as she plucks a white slip out. A white slipped with a name written, a dead child written. She hurries back over to the microphone, opening the card before she can even make back. "Toren Ingalls! Come on up!"
There's silence. But yeah, that's expected. Nobody was talking anyway.
Yet, this silence is different. This silence is like a pause that's taking too long to end. There's nobody screaming, or crying, or anything! The females haven't even moved away from the reaped—
Suddenly, the camera latches on to movement, bringing my thoughts to a halt. The girls in the fifteen-year-old section start backing up, leaving two young girls in the middle. One of them has tears in her eyes, while the brown-haired one is just...staring at the stage, expressionless. What's up with that?
"Toren Ingalls? Is that you?" The escort coos, motioning for one of them to come up. "Don't be shy. We'll treat you really nice in the Capitol."
The teary-eyed girl starts to shake—and by now, I'm almost positive she's the one who's gotten reaped. But the other girl is still staring, albeit the worry is starting to show through the cracks. The Capitol escort calls for Toren once more—and that's when the Peacekeepers seemingly have enough with the stalling. They head towards them, and the teary-eyed girl whispers something in the brown-haired girl's ear.
Shockingly, the brown-haired girl nods, and she starts towards the stage. I blink, confused. So is she Toren? The poor girl is shaking, I can see that much, but her indifferent expression is unbothered. The only thing close to real fear on her face is her wide, green eyes. As she climbs the steps and goes towards her escort and District Partner, the camera zooms in.
Toren's a pretty girl, I'll give her that much. She's thin, though, and her face is full of freckles. Her eyes are a beautiful shade of green that's pretty uncommon for District folk; I find myself really liking them, and I can tell the others in the audience love them also. Here in the Capitol, we can have any eye color we want—but to be born like that puts you on a level above the rest.
Toren's short stature won't help during the Games, though. Her hair is a dark brown, long and wavy and thick. Pretty messy, too. Just like her District Partner, she'll also have to really impress us if she wants decent sponsors.
The screen flashes off and the lights turn on. I spin around in my chair, preparing to see Sylvan sitting in the one besides me—but nothing can prepare me for what I actually see.
Sylvan Barnes, Victor of the 3rd annual Hunger Games, is dressed horribly. His white t-shirt is wrinkled beyond belief, with dark stains everywhere. His jacket is torn up and old, a nasty smell emanating from it. His pants are dirty, with food and dirt stains on them. And don't even get me started on his hair! Sylvan looks like a homeless rat.
The Capitol audience gasp when they see him. I don't know if it's because he just came out of nowhere or because of his appearance...but I'm leaning towards the latter.
Sylvan smirks at my speechless expression. "Well hello, Aeliana. Nice hair." I can't stop myself from grimacing. His breath is like a vortex. A disgusting, rancid vortex.
"Wh-Why thank you, Sylvan," I say, forcing a smile. How am I supposed to share a stage with this bum?! "You... How are you?"
"Hmm... Well, I don't really want to be here...but I guess that's the price of living, huh?" He laughs a bitter, rebellious laugh—and the audience, ignorant to his word's true meaning, chuckle along with him.
I don't know what else to do, so I fake a laugh as well. "How funny," I say, swiping a piece of hair out of my eyes. "But enough with the formalities. Tell me, what do you think of District 9's tributes? I'm sure the audience is dying to—"
"Yeah, yeah, they're dying to know. You've been saying the exact same thing for four years." Sylvan laughs again, and so does the audience. I furrow my brows, holding in my anger at being interrupted and humiliated. "But where should I begin? That Terrance kid might do good, and yet, he might not. You can never really tell with these outer districts, because they don't usually have much skill and talent—but they can surprise you once in a while! He's not crying, though, so that must be a good sign for you people."
I don't miss the way he says that. You people. He says it with derisiveness, with anger, with disgust.
"That Toren girl, though, looks as normal as they come." Sylvan laughs, loudly, and the audience laugh along with him. I force a chuckle, trying my hardest to look casual. Usually, we don't make fun of our tributes. I may give a jab or two to the tributes from District 1, but still, it's nothing really serious. I know when to stop.
I doubt Sylvan does.
"Did you see her face, though?" He continues. "She didn't know how to look! I bet she just wanted to curl up and cry!" Sylvan's still laughing, and the audience's laughter is getting louder. I don't know why, but I feel irked at the fact he's making fun of this poor girl. I mean, I don't particularly care for her…
But still. If anyone's going to make fun of these tributes on live television, it's going to be me. Not this district rat.
"Toren didn't cry, though, nor were their tears in her eyes," I say, defending the girl. I don't know exactly why, but I am. I just have to. "She was strong, and I have high hopes for her. She might even outlast your tributes!"
He shuts up at that, and the audience quiets down as well. After a moment of silence, however, Sylvan chuckles again.
"Hell, she probably will," he responds, leaning back against his seat. "I don't particularly care. As far as I'm concerned, nobody really wins these Games in the first place."
I furrow my brows; what a stupidly rebellious thing to say. The members of the audience, however, don't seem to get his words. They just stare and blink, a couple of whispers being thrown.
"Anyway, isn't it about time for District 10? I'm bored with Terrance and Toren." He then yawns, emphasizing the point.
The audience gets a little humor out of that, while I prevent myself from rolling my eyes. I feel sorry for these last few tributes. Chances are, Sylvan isn't going to let them get away without being humiliated in one way or another.
Maybe, for once, I'll try to defend them.
District 10 will be airing soon, I hear in my ear. Get ready.
I smile at Sylvan, my teeth showing. "Ah, you're right! Well, let's watch, shall we?"
I spin around in my chair, glaring daggers at District 7's annoying Victor when the lights shut off. He sees my glare and gives me a mocking smirk in return. I roll my eyes. Stupid bastard.
The screen turns on—and District 10's vast farmlands are showed, animals and all. It's almost peaceful, in a way. Even though they're treated like slaves, forced to butcher animals and give us meat, at least they aren't living in the dusty dumps of District 12. They should at least be grateful for that, right?
The screen flickers over to the Town Square, the higher-ups on the stage and the children herded into sections below. The adults on the outskirt are looking just as worried as the ones from District 9, if not more. District 10 hasn't produced a Victor because, just like the other poor districts, they aren't prepared in the slightest. It's sad when you seriously think about it.
But then I think of the rebellion, and I don't care much anymore.
It's their fault.
"Welcome, District 10, to this year's annual reaping!" The Capitol escort exclaims. He's a chubby man, with swirling black tattoos covering his arms and legs. "I'll be reaping the female first, as that's the norm. Let's hope that she's a bit better than the girl from last year, right?"
He laughs all the way to the female bowl, snorting like a pig. The district citizens, however, stay deathly quiet. Last year, a sweet twelve-year-old girl was reaped. Even I fell in love with her during her time here. Unfortunately, she was the first death of the year, killed by her own District Partner no less. Tensions in District 10 have been running rampant ever since, I've heard. And I believe it.
The escort plucks a slip out of the bowl, straight from the top. He walks back over to the podium, smiling a surprisingly warm smile.
And then he opens the paper.
"London Tienna!" He hollers, waving the slip in the air like it's going to make her come any faster. "Come up and take your place as tribute, dear!"
Immediately, a high-pitched scream comes from the front. I smile, almost wickedly. The front. This should be interesting. The camera catches the movement and zooms in, focusing on a girl with long blonde hair and tan skin. She reaches for a few other girls, almost in desperation—and that's when the Peacekeepers come to intervene. The reaped girl quickly hugs her three friends, but the Peacekeepers roughly grab her by the arm and drag her screaming form into the aisle.
But then, London surprises me. She swings out a fist, catching a Peacekeeper by surprise and hitting him square in the face. I gasp in astonishment, and so does the audience members behind me. Because of the Peacekeeper's mask, I doubt the hit hurt—but the punch did it's job, because she slips out of their hold during the confusion and makes a run for the gate.
For some reason, I'm on the edge of my seat. I know London's not going to escape—nobody escapes—but still, this is the best action that's happened so far during these monotonous reapings. And for her to catch a trained soldier in the face like that, she must be a competitor—even if she doesn't realize it herself.
London makes it out of the cameras' view for a few seconds...but the Peacekeepers quickly bring her back to the Square, screaming and kicking. They drag her down the aisle and throw her onto the stage, as rough as possible. I'm expecting her to get up and make another break for it, but she doesn't. Instead, she just sits there, her eyes wide and afraid.
...Even though she just made a fool of herself, she's a very pretty girl, with sea green eyes and freckles that pop out even more than those other two tributes. For some reason, though, they don't disgust me as much as the others. It's almost as if those freckles are meant for her. Still, she's a beauty, and I'm almost positive she made an unforgettable first impression. Sponsors will definitely be coming her way.
"Well, that was an entertaining display," says the escort. He smiles at London, who doesn't even begin to return it. She's too busy staring out into the crowd, her green eyes misty.
Shrugging, the male escort walks over to the male bowl and grabs a slip from deep inside.
"And the male tribute representing District 10 this year will be…" He walks back over to the podium, opening the slip and reading the name with furrowed brows. "Ricky Laris! And don't try to run away like London, sir!"
There's commotion, up in the front. I smile again, thanking my lucky stars that District 10 has two older tributes. The camera pans down into the crowd and catches two boys standing by themselves, the others having already backed away. The shorter boy blinks, his mouth slightly agape—and that's when the taller one pulls him into a swift hug. The shorter boy—Ricky, I presume—is gently shoved into the aisle, his eyes widened in disbelief.
He's about to freak out, I think, but that's not the case at all.
Ricky shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking to the stage, his head down. When he gets onstage, however, he looks up momentarily, giving the cameras the chance to zoom in and inspect him. Ricky's actually a pretty cute-looking guy, with his round features and his dark brown eyes. He has messy black hair, and surprisingly, there's a bit of muscle on his arms. He's short for his age, though, and that won't work out for him during the Games. We'll see where that takes him…
"District 10," says the escort, grinning right at the cameras. "I present to you, your tributes!"
The screen flashes off, and the lights flash on. I spin around in my chair, planting a giant smile on my face. I'm faking, of course, but the crowd cheers and hoots anyway when they see my pearly whites. I'm a star. And whatever I do, the people will love it.
"That was really enjoyable to see, wasn't it?" I ask the crowd, nodding at their many responses. "Maybe District 10 is getting themselves a Victor this year, don't you think? I, for one, think London is a really attractive young lady - and don't even get me started on her punches!"
I laugh, and so does the audience. Sylvan, however, just stares at me, deadpanned. He isn't even going to try and act nice for the cameras. I seriously wish he'd just randomly combust into flames.
"And don't forget about Ricky! I bet that boy's just trying to act mysterious for the cameras, am I right? When that gong sounds out in the Arena, he's going to be a serious killer. I can tell!"
The crowd voices their agreements or disagreements—it doesn't really matter which one. I'm just trying to pass the time without Sylvan saying something annoying. I do think that London is going to be a real threat, though. With the way she struggled, she can't be a helpless victim, right? Ricky, on the other hand…
"I think District 10 is going to do the same thing they always do. They'll die," Sylvan says, his face still emotionless. What got into him? "How can you even tell that London and Ricky are competitors? First impressions are stupid to begin with, and there's nobody in Panem that can tell someone's strengths and weaknesses just by looking at them walking to a stage. Before you start talking, Aeliana, why don't you think for once?"
If I had a pencil or a pen or anything in my hands, it'd be turned to dust by now. That's how much these irritating Victors get on my nerves. I seriously want to pound this guy's face in...
But I need to keep my cool.
If I were to brutally kill a Victor, I don't think that'd go over well with the rest of Panem—especially not in District 7. They'd have riots for weeks. They love their lone Victor to death.
"You're so funny, Sylvan." I fake a laugh, twirling my hair to keep my hands preoccupied. They'd be wringing around his neck otherwise. "But seriously, first impressions are everything! I mean, what would you think if someone came to your district with a buff body and tattoos over his arm? You'd think he was a strong guy, right?"
He doesn't answer—and even if he did, it wouldn't be anything worthwhile. I turn away from Sylvan, blowing hair out of my eyes. He snorts, still not saying a word.
"Anyway, do you all agree that District 10 is going to get themselves a Victor this year?" I ask the crowd, and they all voice their opinions once again. Most of them agree, and quite a few are screaming London's name. Sylvan snorts again, a crooked smile playing in the corners of his lips.
"Not if District 7 can show them a thing or two." He chuckles, suddenly sitting up, his eyes shining in clear amusement. "I'm not trying to be a conceited bitch or anything—I think you and Arsen fill in that section perfectly—but District 7 isn't going to lose to a bunch of butchers. We might not have two or three Victors, but we're still better than the majority of them."
And with that heart-wrenching speech, he slumps back into his seat, a dirty expression on his dirty face. I hold back a scoff, instead rolling my eyes. He's such a dumbass. Why has President Kronin not executed this guy by now?
Victor or not, he's constantly raising out again the Capitol. Why can't he just learn his place?
District 11 is about to begin their Reapings, the control center man informs me. It's storming, though, and our cameras may not be able to pick up everything. Don't be surprised if broadcasting suddenly shuts off.
I twitch. "If it's not one thing, it's another," I mumble under my breath, before smiling cheerfully at the audience. "Anyway, I have good news! The second-to-last Reapings are about to begin!"
They cheer in ecstasy; I can tell that they're getting bored with the Reapings, too. And considering that these last two districts are the worst of the worst, they don't have high hopes for something exciting.
I know I sure don't.
The lights turn off, and the big screen turns on. The first thing I hear is the rain pattering, drowning out the mayor's boring drawl. It really is a storm in District 11. The skies are a depressing black, with lightning striking the earth at random times, sometimes illuminating the Square. District 11 is horribly overpopulated, with children having to squeeze into other sections. I can't even see the parents!
And none of them look happy. Tortured is a better word.
Lightning strikes again, and this time thunder is added to the mix. The mayor finishes the treaty and heads back to his seat, while the Escort quickly bounces over to the podium. She's a middle-aged woman with long brown hair, cascading all the way to her shoes. She's getting horribly wet in this storm—and don't even get me started on her poor hair.
"I would like to make some acknowledgements before I begin," she starts, but another round of thunder cuts her off. "Eep! N-Never mind! I'll go reap the male tribute first!"
Good choice, I think, shaking my head in clear amusement. It's almost funny seeing how distressed she looks.
She quickly grabs a slip of paper from the male bowl, rushing back to the microphone afterwards. Before the rain can make the words unintelligible, she hurries and reads the name.
"Stag Browning!"
The Peacekeepers are on high alert, that much is clearly obvious. District 11 is almost as bad, if not worse, than District 7 when it comes to rebelling against us. Since it's storming, I don't put it past them to suddenly initiate a full-out fight.
But, surprisingly, they don't do anything. Well, except for the boys in the front. The rain makes it hard to see, but the eighteen-year-olds all back away, leaving a relatively strong-looking male by himself. He looks around, as if for help—but reality hits hard. He's going to be in the Hunger Games, and he's going to die. There's nothing that can save him.
"No! Stag!" The camera has trouble finding the voice—but after a moment, they do. A small child with dark brown skin and bushy black hair is running down the aisle, pretty fast if I say so myself. He runs right past a shocked-looking Stag and climbs the steps to the stage, not even panting when he makes it next to the Escort.
She looks just as surprised as everyone else. "...Huh? Who are you?"
"Koda Samuels!" He exclaims in a loud voice—but comically, he shrinks under her stare. "I… I don't want Stag to go! I'll go instead!"
The Escort just continues to stare. "...So you volunteer?"
Koda nods, a little too many times for my tastes. His features are tight, and his eyes are scrunched in a way that's hiding yet displaying fear at the same time. Poor child.
…
Wait.
It takes me a moment to realize it—but when I do, it takes all the power imaginable to contain my outburst.
Koda Samuels, a twelve-year-old boy, just volunteered. He volunteered, and for an eighteen-year-old no less! An eighteen-year-old that he proclaimed was his brother, yet their last names are different, and they don't look similar at all!
...What?!
The camera goes back down to the crowd of boys. They don't know what to look like; some look sad, some look mad, and some just look down-right astonished. Stag is still staring at the stage, still staring at Koda, in complete and utter surprise.
For a minute, there's complete silence. The Capitol Escort is the one to get her bearings straight first, and she snaps everyone else out of their trance by hurrying over to the female bowl. The rain is coming down harder now, as if signalizing something horrible.
"And the female tribute representing District 11…" She takes out a slip and opens it, not even bothering to go back to the podium. "Meeko Brighton!"
"WHAT?!" Koda screams. The Escort whizzes around to stare at him again, and once again, her look makes him back down. But not completely. "Please not Meeko…"
In response to his question, a fourteen-year-old girl steps out of the crowd, not even waiting for them to isolate her. That's good, at least. District 11 is just full of surprises this year. Meeko is rather thin, with soft peach skin and black hair chopped to her shoulders. Her eyes are a dark brown, and they look almost unbothered by the entire thing. I mean, she just got sentenced to death...yet she doesn't even look interested. Is there something wrong with her?
Meeko walks down the aisle and up the steps. She stands right next to her Capitol Escort, not a single word coming out of her mouth—and her loud District Partner, Koda, just gapes at her. Meeko glances at him, but that's all she does. Do they really know each other? I'm seriously confused…
"Here are your tributes, District 11!" The Escort announces, not looking too pleased. It may be the rain, or it may be her weird tributes. "Have a good evening!"
And with that, the broadcast shuts off. The lights start to turn on, and the audience is uncharastically silent when I turn around. They don't know what to think. And right now, I don't even know what to say.
Fortunately for us, Sylvan opens his big fat mouth to comment.
"Koda is an idiot, probably even delusional, and he's going to die." The words come out of his mouth so bluntly, and even I can't help crack a smile. The audience burst into laughs and giggles, some of them even clapping. Sylvan gives them a weird look. "Seriously, it's not funny. I'm not trying to entertain you people. He's going to die! Can't you people realize that?!"
That just makes them laugh even harder, and I smirk at his red complexion. He's such an idiot. Does he really think these fools can emotionally connect with him? They can't. They're on an entirely different plane from you, Sylvan, and they'll always be.
There's nothing he can do—about anything. Even as Victor, he can't have everything he wants.
I giggle, bringing the attention me myself. "Koda is an interesting little guy, don't you think? I mean, he's District 11's very first volunteer—and he's only twelve! Do you all think little Koda's going to entertain us?"
The audience all voice their opinions. It's the best feeling in the world, having all eyes on you, having the entire world underneath your feet. It's an exhilarating feeling, and I just can't get enough of it.
"What about Meeko, though? Didn't she look strong up there?" I ask them.
Before they can really even answer, though, Sylvan pipes up. "How? She didn't even do anything other than walk to a stage!"
"That's the point. Nobody had to force her or anything," I respond, grinning at his scowl. "And besides, she was really pretty. Koda is handsome, too. I really wish them the best of luck."
Sylvan snorts. "They don't need luck…"
He trails off, and we continue talking. Well, it's mainly me talking. He just pouts to himself, a glare frozen on his face. Serves him right. Anyone that speaks out so evilly against the Capitol should not be able to stay content and alive. It's not fair.
It's almost time for the last Reapings, says the control center man. For the first time in forever, an actually real smile slithers on my face. I'm almost done. Just two more children, and I'm done.
For some reason, it makes me all giddy inside. Cutting Sylvan off from whatever he was mumbling about, I inform the audience of District 12's Reaping, and the screams that reverberate throughout the place are insane. They're ready for this to be over, almost as much as I'm ready. Reaping Day is fun and everything, but after District 7, it just gets a bit...monotonous.
But whatever. None of that matters anymore.
Spinning around, I wait for the lights to turn off and the screen to turn on. And when they do, the first thing I'm met with is the pale, coal-faced children of District 12. Compared to us in the Capitol, these people don't even look human anymore. They're too scrawny, too dirty. I'd rather die than live in some shithole like that.
The mayor is a skinny man, with gray hairs sticking out despite his young face. He walks up to the podium and clears his throat, before opening his mouth to read the Treaty of Treason.
"War. Terrible war. Widows, orphans, a motherless child—this was the uprising that rot our land. Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Brother turned on brother until nothing remained."
The districts turned on us. The districts tried to kill us. We gave them food, land—and in response, they initiated war. We just finished it, and we're making sure it never happens again.
"And then came the peace. Hard-fought, sorely won. Our people rose up from the ashes and a new era was born. But freedom has a cost. When the traitors were defeated, we swore as a nation, we would never know this treason again."
Never again will the districts rebel. Never again will they kill our citizens, kill out fathers. Never again will my mom have to cry; never again will I have to cry.
"And so, it was decreed that each year, the various districts in Panem would offer up, in tribute, one young man and woman to fight to the death in a pageant of honor, courage, and sacrifice. The lone Victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of our generosity and our forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future."
The Hunger Games aren't evil. The Capitol isn't evil. We're just righting a wrong. For us to let them off the hook so easily...
That'd be stupid. And us in the Capitol may be a lot of things, but we are not stupid.
The mayor looks up from the sheet of paper in front of him, grimacing. "Please give a warm welcoming to your Escort, all the way from the Capitol."
There are no claps, none of any kind. Just like the districts before them, District 12 despises the Capitol and everyone associated with us. And that's why they will never, ever have a Victor. It'd go against the laws of physics or something.
The Capitol Escort is a tall man with straight black hair and a scary smile. His eyes are a dark red, contrasting against his hair. I've met this man before, just once. He's a dumbass pervert, and the sad thing is that he actually thinks that he looks good. Ha! I just feel sorry for the female tribute that has to be with him this year.
"Welcome, and Happy Hunger Games!" He recites. He says the exact same thing, year after year. "May the odds be ever in your favor, District 12. This year, can we try and get someone strong to participate? It'd suck to lose another two tributes, right?"
He's trying to get a reaction out of District 12's inhabitants—but nobody speaks, or moves, or does anything to indicate that they heard him. If they're one thing, it's that they're persistent in their pathetic rebellious attempts.
Smirking, the Escort says, "As usual, I'll be selecting one pretty little girl and one young man to compete in this year's Hunger Games. Ladies first." He turns away from the crowd and walks over to female bowl, tensions rising with every step. They may look all mean and hateful, but they're still just children, and children are easy to break.
The Escort grabs a single white slip, a single little life he's ruined, and walks back over to the podium. When he opens the slip, there's nobody talking, nobody even breathing.
And then, he says the name.
"Isabel Abriani!"
The cameras move almost immediately, focusing on the dark-skinned girl standing in the eighteen-year-olds section. The kids have moved away from her fast, almost too fast—and now she's alone, chosen to compete in a pageant of life and death. Isabel stands there for a moment, her mouth slightly agape...and before I even know what's going on, silent tears are trailing down her eyes.
She's crying. This year, the tributes have been fairly accepting of their fate. I can't even remember the last time one of them cried. Was it Michael Riverbee?
Suddenly wiping her tears, Isabel walks out into the aisle and up the steps. Her head is lowered and she doesn't say a single word, even as the Escort asks her questions like "how do you you feel?" and "do you think you can win?". Isabel doesn't even turn to look at him—and I guess that pisses him off, because he walks over to the male bowl with a scowl.
"And the male tribute representing District 12 in the 5th annual Hunger Games is..." He digs his hand inside the bowl, sadistically enjoying the childrens' worried expressions. It is kind of funny how nauseated they look, to be honest.
Suddenly, he takes his hand out. A crisp white slip sits in his hands, a triumphant smile on his face.
He takes his time going back to the podium. When the Escort does get there, however, his hands move to open the paper extremely fast. His crimson eyes scan the name written.
"Eion Daltier!"
There's silence, as usual, but this silence is more bearable. The males and females of District 12 all seem to display relief—because everyone except one unlucky boy and girl have been spared. It may make them sick, but I can't help to think how happy they may be—well, internally.
The cameras dive down to the crowd of boys, and I'm more than pleased to see the eighteen-year-old section break open, leaving two young men alone. The taller boy with dirty blond hair turns to stare at his friend, who's gaping at the stage with wide eyes. It's actually a pretty funny sight, and I'm not the only one to giggle at it.
But all the humor drains away when the blond boy pales, reality crashing down upon him. He's been selected to die. Before the Peacekeepers can come, Eion gently pushes his way to the aisle—and when he finally gets there, he trips and almost falls to the ground. I smirk at that; if he hadn't caught himself, his chances at getting any sponsors would have depleted immediately.
Turning a bright shade of red, Eion laughs a nervous, embarrassed laugh. A few more members of the Capitol audience laugh at him, while I roll my eyes. This guy can seriously put a smile on someone's face, can't he?
Not wasting anymore time, Eion walks up the steps to the stage. He's not crying like his District Partner, thankfully, but he looks just as terrified. And why shouldn't he be? Being from District 12, his chances of coming out of that arena are miniscule.
While both tributes of District 12 are standing on the stage, the cameras take that time to zoom in. Isabel is actually a very pretty girl, and compared to the other residents of District 12, she stands out a lot. Her cocoa brown skin is a stark contrast to the pale-skinned miners residing there, and she doesn't look like she's starving either. Her skin is clear of any blemishes, and her hair is dark, long and wavy. If she wasn't noticeably holding back tears, I'd probably think she stood a chance. And that's saying something, coming from me.
Eion, in contrast to his District Partner, has pale skin and messy dark blond hair. What really draws me into his face are his eyebrows, which are thick and dark, set right over his light blue eyes. His lips are full and his nose is slightly larger than most. Oh, and just like a handful of tributes before him, he has freckles splashed across his face. He's not ugly at all...but I don't think he should focus on his looks to get sponsors. Being from District 12 and everything, he just can't help it, I guess.
Eion isn't scrawny like most boys in his district, however. While he's nothing at all to brag about, he's broad-shouldered, and there's a few small muscles on him from what I can see. He may actually have a chance, too!
"District 12," the Escort says, grabbing both Isabel and Eion's wrists and holding them up, like champions. "Your tributes." And then, the screen shuts off.
It takes me a moment to turn back to the audience. I don't know why, but at the sudden realisation that the Reapings are done, I… I…
I laugh. I burst into sudden laughter that probably looks crazy from an outside perspective, but I'm done!
I'm done.
Sylvan gives me an irate look, while the audience is chuckling confusedly to themselves. I spin around a few times, acting more like a District 1 child than a full-blown Capitol celebrity.
But I don't care. I'm finished with the Reapings; I'm finished with these children—well, until I have to personally interview them...but whatever. Right now, I'm done. And that's all that matters to me.
"Well, those were all the Reapings, everyone!" I exclaim, relishing in the cheers of my people. I swipe a bit of hair out of my eyes, grinning like a fool. "I'm so, so, so very excited for these Games! All of these tributes were just so interesting! I can't wait to interview them!"
The Capitol Anthem starts to play, signalling that my time is almost up. I blow kisses at my fans, waving whenever I meet the eyes of one.
Toren and Terrance from District 9. Ricky and London from District 10. Meeko and Koda from District 11. And Eion and Isabel from District 12. Each and every one of these teenagers are going to have a defining moment here in the Capitol. I almost envy them.
But then, just like fifteen others, they'll be sent to the slaughterhouse. And us in the Capitol will cheer, and we will laugh, and we may even cry.
But no matter what happens, we will love every single second of it. Like a tornado, our emotions may get thrown all over the place—but the end result will always be the same.
"Everyone, let's have a Happy Hunger Games!"
And for the tributes, may the odds be ever in their favor.
Okay, sorry for the long wait time, everyone! I was really busy with a lot of different things, and Reapings are a pain in the ass. This chapter was better to write than the last, though, so yay!
Once again, I'd like to thank you all for the support I'm receiving. I'd never have finished these dreadful Reapings if not for you guys, so thanks a lot!
Oh, and if you all can, I'd really like for you all to visit my buddy IronManRidingaNimbus and read his SYOT: "Under the Black Flag." He's just finished his Reaping chapters, like me, and it's really interesting to read! I'm sure you'll all enjoy it!
Ahem, anyway… What else was I supposed to put on here? I don't know. Uhhh… Oh yeah! The next chapter will be Train Rides to the Capitol, so be prepared for that!
Bye-bye! ^_^