It was the same thing every year: the names were drawn, a flurry of hands were thrown up in protest, and the first boy or girl that Florian Goodwell saw with their hand raised was named Tribute. But it was never Laurel's name that was called. And Marvel was only thirteen; his hand never reached above the shoulders of the boys in front of him. This year was different though. Laurel felt it in her bones as she steered her newly lanky brother toward the line of District One children having blood taken by Peacekeepers at long, white tables. Something about the way people were walking toward the Justice Building to watch The Reaping this year… it was like they cared too much about who was selected.
District One had produced three Victors in the past eight years, tying with District Four for the most in a decade. But District One would settle for nothing short of the absolute best. They wanted the win, and they saw the only way to get it through Tiberius Braun. After his brother, Augustus, secured a grand victory two years ago, every citizen in the district watched with bated breath as the now seventeen-year-old trained under the watchful eye of Panem's Favorite Son. Chiseled, muscular, and handsome to boot, Tiberius was every bit the competitor that his brother was, maybe even more so. Girls swooned as they watched him register at the far left table. His intense amber eyes were fixed on his hands as the Peacekeeper pricked his finger and took his blood. Emotionless, before, during, and after, Tiberius stepped to the side and walked toward the Justice Building, falling into place with the other seventeen-year-olds near the back of the pack. Laurel's eyes followed him, not out of admiration, but out of pity. He held the weight of the district on his shoulders. Even after the Reaping, if his name wasn't drawn, he'd carry the spite of everyone around him; The Second Son.
"Hold out your hand, girl." A Peacekeeper's gruff voice ordered tersely, pulling Laurel's soft green gaze away from Tiberius Braun. Marvel was long gone, buried among the masses of kids marching toward the square. The mustachioed officer held his gloved hand out lazily, showing no sign of patience on his bored, unimpressed face. Laurel lifted her right hand and he took a sharp hold of her small wrist. She nearly winced from the sudden pressure, but she hid it well, only taking in a sharp yet subtle breath as the familiar poke of a needle hit her index finger. The pulsating at the tip of the appendage was always the worst part of it, the throbbing that didn't stop until long after The Reaping was finished. Halfheartedly, the Peacekeeper smeared her bloodied fingerprint across a small white identification card and scanned it. With a grunt and a stiff nod after a moment, he released Laurel's wrist.
"Third block from the back on the right."
Laurel nodded and walked around the table into the square in front of the Justice Building. Like most of District One, its Justice Building was grandiose: a grand marble building that stood five stories high with a golden dome and massive Dorian columns in its front. Most of the windows in the building were hidden by the massive banners bearing the symbol of Panem. That hideous red and gold always contrasted so poorly with the gleaming white and slate of the district, and the camera crews that surrounded the square were no more appealing to the eye.
The excited whispers of the growing crowd seemed to exacerbate the Capitol's presence. It did every year, but this time it was worse, in Laurel's opinion. The desire, the... hunger that the people had for The Reaping to just start already was sickening. But the clock hadn't struck two o'clock yet. They would have to wait for another three minutes. Sitting just above them all, at the far end of the square was the Justice Building and the makeshift plywood stage that appeared for one day of the year and one day only. Two glass balls sat on black pedestals filled with folded strips of pure white paper. Each slip had a name on it: boys on the left, girls on the right. Four strips of paper had Laurel's name on them. Her brother had only two. The odds were most certainly in their favor today, much to the chagrin of their parents who were somewhere in the crowd of ineligible folks. Laurel took in a deep breath and tucked a stray strand of her long caramel-colored hair behind her ear as she counted the blocks of girls until she reached the third. The sixteen-year-old girl block was nearly empty, only about twenty girls stood there fixing each others' hair and adjusting their dresses.
"Well, it's about time you got here!" A familiar, somewhat snobbish voice exclaimed over the bustle. Laurel's eyes landed quickly on the source of the remark and a half-hearted grin grew on her face. Walking hurriedly up to her was a less-than-friendly face: Chalice Steelwing, Mayor Trillium Steelwing's eldest daughter. Her platinum hair shone spectacularly in the early afternoon sunlight, looking like white flames on her head. Her fiercely pale blue eyes always made Laurel think of ghosts, not because they were haunting, but because they had always seemed so... hollow. But today, they were filled with superiority as she marched up to Laurel and took her by the elbow.
"We've all decided not to volunteer this year." She said, coming to a stop in the center of the block as the final seconds before The Reaping ticked away. "The boys won't either, except for Tiberius, of course. He doesn't know about it."
"But... what about the girl?" Laurel found herself asking dumbly. Chalice scoffed and rolled her eyes.
"Well, I suppose it is what it is then."
Laurel opened her mouth to reply but lost the chance when a finger tapped on the microphone at the center of the stage. A man cleared his throat and everyone's head turned toward him, letting everyone get a good look at Florian Goodwell for the first time that year. The District's escort possessed an everchanging flair and this year's edition screamed powder blue. A powder blue three-piece suit and cane, powder blue shoes, even his neatly trimmed hair and goatee had been dyed to match his outfit. He flashed a brilliant white smile and leaned heavily on his cane as he began with his usual speech.
"Welcome! Welcome all to our Reaping for this year's Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor."
His cartoonish tenor voice echoed across an unusually silent square. It was the same thing every year. Same speech, same propaganda video from the Capitol-
"Just get on with it." Everyone collectively thought. When the anthem finally ended and the canvas screens on both sides of the stage finally went black, Florian smiled again and took hold of the microphone.
"As always, we begin with the ladies." He announced, striding slowly over to the bowl on the right. He stuck his well-manicured hand into the bowl and fished around for a few seconds before pulling out a slip.
Next to Laurel, Chalice muttered, "Remember, no volunteers."
Laurel's heart began to pound in her chest, her palms suddenly felt clammy as Florian opened the small piece of paper and read the name to himself before speaking into the microphone.
"Laurel Caecilius."
It felt like some cruel, sick joke at first. The irony of it all was too great for it not to be. But when Laurel looked around at the girls around her, no one's hand was raised to volunteer. No one made so much as a sound as they waited for her to make her way to the stage. Florian looked around hesitantly, confusion plain on his face as he waited for the flurry of hands to appear. But they didn't. Chalice had meant what she said. No volunteers this year.
Holding her head high, Laurel took in a breath, her hands clenching tightly around the soft blush silk of her dress. As she stepped out into the center aisle, she released her hands and repeated the mantra that had been drilled into the head of every child in the district.
'It is the greatest honor to represent your district in the Hunger Games. To be chosen means glorious victory or glorious death.'
She strode elegantly toward the stage, the faintest trace of a smirk on her red-painted lips as she approached Florian. When he finally realized that no one was going to volunteer, he clapped his hands loudly and smiled again.
"Aha! There's our lucky lady!"
A pair of Peacekeepers helped her onto the stage and positioned her to Florian's right, allowing her to scan the left side in search of her brother. When her eyes finally locked onto him, he continued to stare blankly ahead, the faintest hint of jealousy written on his youthful face. A pang struck her chest as he grimaced, like he resented her for being chosen, knowing that he likely wouldn't.
"Hello, dear." Florian greeted her happily, wrapping a long arm around her shoulders, "Now tell us, how old are you?"
He jammed the microphone in her face and she had to take a small step back to reply, "Sixteen."
"Wonderful, wonderful! I'm sure you'll serve District One well!" Florian said, turning away to address the crowd, "Let's give her a round of applause, folks!"
A flurry of clapping hands brought forth a wave of half-hearted support for the district's first Tribute. But Laurel knew it was restrained for a reason.
"And now, for the boys."
Florian walked over to the bowl on the left. The air seemed to be filled with a silent drumroll as everyone waited with bated breath. Florian dug his hand in and swished it around dramatically for a while. For a moment, Laurel almost thought that someone in the crowd was going to throw something before the Capitol escort withdrew a slip. He strode back to the microphone and scanned the crowd, slowly breaking the wax seal.
"The male tribute for District One is... Marcus Hammer."
"I volunteer as tribute!" A single voice echoed across the silent square. Everyone's eyes landed on Tiberius Braun, whose hand was raised from the back of the boys' side. Florian nodded and motioned for him to come up. Tiberius walked proudly up to the stage, his chin jutting out ever so slightly as he marched up. Peacekeepers placed him at Florian's left and the escort sauntered up to him.
"Well, now, let's meet our volunteer! What's your name, my boy?"
"Tiberius Braun."
"And how old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Well, there you have it folks, District One has its tributes! Now, shake hands, you two."
Almost robotically, Laurel and Tiberius turned to face each other, extending hands and shaking them firmly with small, stiff smiles as the crowd erupted in deafening cheers. District One got what they wanted; a chance at superiority. As the cheers and applause continued, the same Peacekeepers who had ushered Tiberius and Laurel onto the stage, guided them into the Justice Building and into two separate rooms. Laurel was shoved into a small office, likely belonging to some aide or a cog in the Capitol's political machine. The worn-out leather chairs in the room smelled like old cigars and the black ashtray on the desk was in serious need of a wash. Everything in the room seemed to be stained yellowish-gray, from the walls to the carpet, making Laurel's expression turn sour. Her mind replayed what just occurred over and over again. The more she thought about it, the harder she tried to recall Chalice's expression once her name had been called. Had she been smiling? Had she seen it coming? Did she-
The door opened with a creak and in came her family. Behind them, a Peacekeeper told them they had five minutes to say goodbye, then shut the door. Her mother was immediately upon her, her arms around her in a warm embrace.
"Oh, my sweet girl," she murmured, her voice trembling as she tried not to cry, "You're going to do great. Here."
Her mother held something up between her fingers and placed it into her palm. She recognized it as something that her mother had only ever shown her in the display case in their dining room. A necklace with a chain made of minuscule golden links held at its center a pendant the size of a large coin. Printed into the metal was a ring of leaves. Laurel leaves.
"Your grandfather had that made for you when you were born. He wanted you to have it on your eighteenth birthday, but since tributes can bring a token into the arena, I thought you would want something from home."
Laurel closed her fingers over the token and looked up at her parents, seeing only one thing. Pride. That was all they could feel for their eldest child. No sense of fear, no sorrow. Only pride. It made Laurel's stomach churn.
Her father kissed the topped her head and beamed, his emerald eyes alight with excitement, "You're a fighter, Laurel. You'll tear 'em all to pieces."
She managed to sputter out a 'thanks, dad' before turning toward Marvel, who remained cross-armed near the door. His gaze was fixed on the dispersing crowd outside as most of them made their way to the train station to see their tributes off, but a few hung around, hoping to get a better look at those chosen to represent them this year.
"Marvel." Laurel said as firmly as she could, pushing through her parents to walk up to him. Even though he was only thirteen, he stood a good three or four inches taller than her, but the hurt in each of their light green eyes was exactly the same. "Marvel, look at me."
"It isn't fair." He grunted as he wiped his eyes to stop an overflowing of tears, "I just want it to be my turn."
Laurel's heart sank into her stomach. She would never be able to understand how someone could everwantto be handed a death sentence. Feeling the corners of her eyes start to sting, she looked away toward the floor and took in a deep breath.
"You have to win," Marvel said suddenly. Looking back up, she could see him looking right at her with resolve replacing the pain. "Win so you can come home and mentor me like Augustus and Gloss did."
At first, Laurel didn't know how to reply. Of course she wanted to win. She didn't want to be the first tribute to be chosen in District One that wasn't a volunteer in nearly seventy years. But to come back and hope that her brother would enter an arena and slaughter twenty-three more kids? The very thought was enough to make her sick. But she swallowed the emotions coursing through her, pushing them down so far that they might have never been able to resurface again. She nodded firmly and clasped his shoulder.
"I will. I promise."
The door creaked open again. This time, two Peacekeepers came in, their hands hovering over pistols on their belts as they ushered Laurel's family away. She craned her neck in an attempt to get one final look at them, to try and commit their image to memory so she could hold onto it in the arena. But the door shut before she got the chance. She was alone again.