𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐆𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘
District Four made it into historic events as part of the few districts whose reaping had to be delayed for almost half an hour. The faint, unassuming clouds of early morning rolled in, turning the entire district an intense grey as they poured down without mercy. Per usual, the Ogilvys arrived first at the town square, among the first to witness the chaotic scene at the registry table, which Melo described as a 'shit show'.
Soon, a crowd gathered on the nearby streets, watching, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. Many did when Peacekeepers pushed through the crowd, pulling children forward before they could pretend to be old enough to skip the process or escape. Registration was unnecessary. This sixty-seventh reaping promised to be a surprise. Fortunately, the female tribute had been chosen beforehand; otherwise, who knew how long Delia would have kept them standing, reciting names of people who would never show up?
Dove didn't resist the Peacekeepers. Not only would her absence be noticed, but running away wasn't the right course of action, no matter how much she thought about it. If someone's name were called, it would be called regardless. Not being present meant certain treason, which could condemn anyone, even the Mayor himself, to dangle off the noose.
With a minute until the reaping ought to take place, the bell rang, forcing everyone to their rows. Dove was about to go into the fourteen-year-old girl's side when Angel stopped her. Drops of what her older sister tried to pass for rain water stained her perfect face, making the forceful hug even more constraining. She returned the gesture, clinging onto her sister's improvised cape for what could be the last time.
"I love you," she whispered, hearing Angel break down further, but not dare to show it. "I love you. And I love Melo. And Mum. You've got no idea how much. You're my home."
The bell rang again, and a group of Peacekeepers pull them apart to shove them into their respective rows so the reaping could start. Delia—District Four's escort—who hugged a neon-blue raincoat that could be seen through the thick rain, welcomed them in forced high spirits per usual.
"Welcome... and happy Hunger Games! Right... um, and may the odds be ever in your favour!" Her wig had to weight a ton, as she pulled the raincoat's hood over it, covering her precious, and likely expensive, ornaments. "As always, ladies first!"
She dived her hand into the girls' bowl of names and pulled about four or six papers stuck together to one another. It didn't matter, as after a word from the Mayor, she continued to pull out papers until she found one that didn't crumble when she opened it or was unreadable. Of course, that wouldn't change a thing. President Snow wouldn't have left it for the odds to decide.
"Angelique Ogilvy!"
Dove watched a moving, dark blue dot come out of the eighteen-year-old row, marching apparently unbothered to the top of the stage by Delia's side. Delia, their district's escort, who would often praise the Hunger Games, but whose face had turned paler than the paper she was holding. The Games were taking the Ogilvy kids one by one, and she seemed to notice that. "Who would be next?" was a likely thought running through Delia's mind, since she turned to the crowd, scanning through it until she found Dove. Her hair wasn't bushy anymore, it fell in messy curls over her shoulders, reaching past her hips as it dripped, slowly, the rainwater it absorbed.
"I volunteer!" The cry echoed through the girl's side, but nobody could tell from where exactly. That sparked a glimmer of hope in both Delia's and Angel's faces, which fell as soon as Dove made it to the central corridor, repeating once more, "I volunteer!"
"NO!" A Peacekeeper had to stop Angel from running down the steps of the stage. "STOP! PLEASE!"
Dove breathed in, her sight unable to meet her sister's, then out. "I volunteer as tribute."
The Peacekeepers wasted no time. They pulled Angel off the stage to allow Dove to pass through. It was clear that they were as uncomfortable in the rain as everyone else. However, when Dove reached the bottom of the steps, Angel pushed one Peacekeeper away and wrapped her arms around her little sister. She was crying without restraint now, her hands clinging so desperately onto Dove, they shook.
"Angie?" Dove mumbled, eyes wide as she watched her older sister crumble. "It's alright. I'll be fine."
Despite Angel's arduous struggle, they were separated without a hitch. They yanked Dove onstage before things went south, which Delia didn't seem to enjoy since she avoided all eye contact from that moment on with her. "Well, bravo... what's your name?"
"Ogilvy," she replied, standing as firm as her shivering legs permitted her to. "Dove Ogilvy."
She didn't mind the crowd too much—though there were far fewer sniggers than expected. They could think whatever they wanted about her. It didn't matter. There was only one person watching whose attention she needed. So, when she could tell the cameras's gaze had landed on her, showing the Capitol who District Four's female tribute was, she bowed. President Snow had to see her—bowing to him, the ultimate Gamemaker, as a willing player of his game.
Delia dashed to the other side of the stage as soon as the cameras were on her, having a far worse time to find a male tribute. If the papers weren't stuck, broken, or illegible, the person hadn't showed up altogether. It took about three rounds of non-present names for her to find a suitable one. "Evan Moore!"
Dove couldn't detach her eyes from him—Evan, who was only twelve, who loved playing the violin, and whose bright eyes had gone grim—called for sure death. The forced smile on Delia's face barely held itself together as her hands gently grasped onto the boy's shoulders. They halted at the opposite side of the podium from Dove, where they stayed for no more than a few seconds. Enough for Dove to realise that, though there were a good few boys evidently enraged at the awful lot for tributes District Four had that year, they seemed reluctant to step up themselves. When Delia left Evan's side to continue with reaping custom, he started crying, gulping down sobs with his every breath.
A small fuss erupted as Dove marched toward him. Two Peacekeepers had taken a step forward, fearful, for less than a second, of what she could do. Then they thought it over and retreated—what could a weak, helpless child possibly do?
District Four watched, along with the Capitol audiences, as a tribute broke all reaping customs to console another one for the first time. Dove stroked Evan's hair, unfazed by his tears that mingled with the pouring rain. He had a strong grip on her coat, unfaltering despite his hands trembling on her back.
"It's fine, Evan. You'll be safe," she whispered in his ear. "We're now too much of a humiliation to District Four for them to let you go into the Games."
Evan's voice trembled, his head raising just to meet her eyes. "Sophie?"
At the call for volunteers, dozens of hands shot up from the boys' side. After some discussion with the Mayor, Delia returned to the podium and asked for a boy from the eighteen-year-old row to step forward. Edric Dawson strode confidently down the path between the rows, where the Peacekeepers met him and escorted him up the steps of the platform.
"Go, Evan." Dove pulled the little boy away from her, wiping the tears from his cheeks with her thumb as the Peacekeepers approached to take him away. "Give your father and Mrs Holub a hug from me, alright?"
"No...Wait!" Evan was forcefully dragged away from her side before he could say another word.
Edric Dawson took his place on the stage, prompting Dove to return to her previous position on the female tribute's side. The introduction of the volunteer male tribute proceeded as planned, following the initial schedule. When the time came for the tributes to shake hands, Edric Dawson gripped Dove's hand with excessive force, a triumphant glint shining in his eyes.
He sneered, "Cute little Dovey, Angelique's beloved and useless sister," his voice low and threatening, meant for her ears only. "Hope I'll be the one to kill you. It'll be a feast for the eyes when I come back. Your sister will have no choice but to celebrate me—me, the victor..." his smile widened, "and the one who ended her disgrace of a sister once and for all."
Dove wasn't sure what he wanted from her. Cowering in front of people wasn't her strong suit. Instead, she looked away and hoped the unforgiving rain could make it appear as if she were crying. He soon let go of her—pleased with himself—which she was thankful for. Her hand ached, and the constant and annoying rain wasn't making it any better. To her delight, Panem's anthem played instantly. They were escorted inside the Justice Building before either of them could gather their thoughts.
The Peacekeepers escorting her weren't particularly rude. That was a surprise. When they got to the room where she would say her last goodbyes, one Peacekeeper even squeezed her shoulder. They didn't give her a moment to reply, nor would she know how to, when they stepped out and closed the door behind them. She was alone, and it felt rightfully lonesome. Her past ideas of how the scene would play out weren't overlapping with reality. She felt no better for saving her sister—Angel would be in constant danger for as long as Melo lived. And where would she be? Not by her side, most likely, but buried somewhere in District Four.
Angel had yet to stop shaking when she got into the room all by herself. "Why did you do it? Why did you volunteer?"
"For the fame and glory," Dove said simply, raising an eyebrow at her sister's absurd question.
Neither spoke for a minute. Angel had her fair share of thoughts consuming her mind, leaving only enough space for her to wrap her arms around her little sister and cry. She had her so close to her chest, Dove thought they would eventually merge into a single person. Although the pearl necklace got a bit in the way.
"You'll be better off without me." Angel grew ghostly pale at her words, making Dove almost apologise.
However, before either of them had a chance to breathe a word, Melo and their mother slipped through the doorway. They didn't speak a word and joined the hug, kneeling on the floor if they had to. That horrified Dove. Who knew what the Capitol's orders were that year to the victors? Their mother would surely not make it as a mentor, since she was 'emotionally involved', but then, what about her brother? He was equally emotionally involved, but victors were required to mentor on the Games the year after their own. Would the Capitol permit District Four to jump that custom as well?
"You should have waited," Melo mumbled. "You're too young."
"I have under good authority there won't be a third consecutive victor," replied Dove.
"She could have made it," retorted Melo, catching her gaze on him as she shook her head. "How do you know?"
"A snake told me," she said, watching her brother's eyes widen. "Told me lots of funny things... Enough to bring me here, anyway."
"But you'll... you'll try to survive, won't you?" Melo's voice cracked, turning his question into a senseless beg.
Dove didn't look away as she responded, "Start by thinking I can actually win before asking that."
From then on, Melo sobbed harder than she had ever seen him—worse than Angel herself. The one to hold herself with relative ease was their mother, and she had quit a few tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. There was nothing anybody could say to that. They would trust a songbird to survive the Hunger Games before her.
The hour was almost over when Angel whispered, "I know you can make it," but it was far too late to convince Dove. She knew she couldn't, and so did her mentor, who she met at the train station—one which she rode in the tribute car with. Finnick had to console Melo, just the same as Mags wrapped her arms around Muscida when they were inside the train, away from the cameras.
"I promised her," Muscida cried, her voice breaking the more she forced it to speak. "I can't... I can't save her, too."
Her district partner grinned at the show and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "How does it feel? Being abandoned again?"
"As it should," Dove replied, genuine fleeting tears overcoming her eyes to run down her face. "Fucking horrible."
Delia, who didn't enjoy watching such a scene, escorted them to their train chambers. "You'll love them... close enough so you have time to chat, and, er, plan, of course. We all need to get ready... It'll be better if you ask for dinner to be delivered to your rooms, though. But tomorrow, bright and early at the dining cart!"
It was deep into the night when Dove sat at the edge of the bed, watching the reaping's recapitulation for about the fiftieth time that hour alone. She hadn't eaten anything of her tray, and the Avox who had brought it—a man around his thirties—appeared concerned at that. He refused to leave the room, even when she asked him to, and stood just at the corner of the room by the front door as she skimmed through the reapings. Whenever the image caught up to District Four, she sped it up to skip it or disappeared into the bathroom for the entirety of it.
Nearing midnight, she had begun to lose her mind with 'ifs' and 'whens', causing her sight to search for the Avox, who sat in a chair by the door, still awake. "What do you think? Can I make it?"
To her surprise, the man nodded ferociously.
"I'm not that good with weapons, though," she continued. "Couldn't lift a trident to save my life."
He shrugged, as if trying to tell her."And what?"
"Well, weapons make the victor."
His eyebrow reached so far up, she thought it would make it to his hairline.
"My mother's a special case."
He huffed and leaned back in his chair, patting his leg as he glanced over to the reapings, which he pointed at once it reached District Twelve.
"What about them?"
He gestured toward her, mimicking a crown that he rose atop his head, and then to the two District Twelve tributes, barely fifteen themselves.
"I give either of them the victory?" When he nodded, Dove couldn't help but smile. "I guess that'd be fair. If District Four can't have another victor, then the district that most needs one should."