[90th] The Reaping - District 8

The warmth of the shower scalds below his chin while his facial hair glues down against his cheeks and jaw. Every now and again, the liners sway closer, gravitating to the evaporation when hot water meets a less warm body. Tempus swats the thin curtain away. Once. Twice. "This is fucking ass, man! Don't we have the money to avoid cheap shit like this?" His father yells in the direction of the bathroom, probably from the kitchen where he's cooking breakfast, but the voice is drowned out by the lines of water splashing up against the backs of his ears. It's not always hearing that's the problem with old men. Everything they put their energy into is never enough.

Knock knock. It's Mama at the door, surely. Pops would have just barged right in and ripped back the shower curtain to give him a piece of his mind. Tempus would give it right back and then some before even wrapping a towel around his waist. "Sweetie, your clothes for today are laid out in your room! Make sure to be ready in about twenty minutes." Tempus can hear his father more clearly now, yelling out FIFTEEN! on the top of his lungs.

Twenty it is.

He walks with some amount of swagger in his step. It's an all-white ensemble he's wearing, and it's also the first time since he's been in the Reaping Day festivities that he hasn't worn a dress shirt. Just a regular t-shirt tucked in nicely to a cream-colored pair of pants and the sleeves masked by an equally cream jacket. The quells are special. Lately, they've given tributes a second chance at life. Today, though, the quell is different. Now, you want to hear your name. That way, you can pick who you want and they have to play, no questions asked. And better yet: it's the only way to guarantee that you won't go in.

Tempus pushes the sides of his jacket forward as the banter plays on with his boys. Each of them talks about who they're going to pick if they get chosen. One'll pick his ex, who broke up with him because he cheated on her. Another's got their chemistry teacher's pet who snitched on the whole lot for cheating on the last test. His twin brother calls dibs on their chemistry teacher's son.

"What are you going to pick, Tempus?"

He shrugs his shoulders, kicking the stray stone at his feet further and further as they get down to the Square. "Whoever I want, I guess. Spur of the moment. So don't piss me off, okay?" They take what he says as a joke, laughing it off and fooling around in the cobbled stone streets. But he's serious. They should watch themselves. Tempus Dean is a volatile creature, but he doesn't keep grudges against anyone for long, aside from Pops. If he's reaped, he'll put up whoever he's feeling, no questions asked.

The Town Square is somber. Everyone is jittery, careful not to be in anyone's way, lest they bump into each other and make an enemy. Plebian paranoia amuses him and his friends as they push and pull each other at the back of the sector, laughing through the escort's obnoxious monologue. The PeaceKeepers have to wave their batons three times before the group finally settles down for the names to be read.

Tempus Dean loves the theatrics of the Reaping, and the quell grows his appreciation twofold. What is the Hunger Games for if not the drama? First name is drawn and the girl takes her place up on the stage. Madison Wood. She's safe, for now. Lucky her.

"Tempus Dean!"

Wait, what?

There's a brief moment of silence, acknowledging the shock. The trained response is to think oh fuck. And it's all he can think for about three seconds before his friends begin to chuckle in the background. "Oh, fuck yeah!" The back of the crowd, his pack of boys, rise up and down, cheering. The one time he wants to be picked, he's got it. Breathe easy, Tempus Dean.

A Peace Keeper baton separates him from the rest of his pack. One of them yells "Don't pick us, remember?" Tempus leaves him without a response. "Tem? Dean, bro?"

He's smug in the face while the line of Peace Keepers orders him to the stage. Fate played to his favor, and now, fun is the resolve.

Who's he gonna pick?

When it's his turn, Tempus looks over to the escort. "Well, I didn't have anything planned like the rest of y'all did. Sorry if this takes a while." His finger drags through the crowd of boys. The younger ones are frightened, moving around and some even ducking like a school of fish in a tank. The fearful attitudes grow more stoic in the back, where most of the older kids are. His index finger holds for a moment, dead center at his friends. One, two, three, four… Tempus moves again. He's check after the Reaping to see if any of them pissed themselves at the thought of such a betrayal.

His finger draws to a halt once more.

"You."

One of the boys points a finger at his chest. "M- me?"

"No, not you, dumbfuck."

The boy next to him begins to grow a bit more concerned that it was him Tempus was pointing at.

"Nope. To the left. Left. Left. Left. Now one back."

He's playing with them now.

"Two more to the right… you!" The theatrics die as he picks a target, someone he doesn't even know. They're so far back that he can't make out the boy's face without a little more force and foc-

Who the fuck is that? And why do they look just like him? Tempus stands in shock for a moment, his pointer just dangling there. It's like a carbon copy of himself, the only difference being Tempus looks like a hundred bucks, while this guy might pass for a couple of quarters. He blinks twice more before his finger moves to the right. "Three more over!" He'll remember to find this boy after the Reaping ends.

A few more moves in the crowd of boys and he's got his victim. "Yep, just one row behind you, man!" Target acquired. "You, yes, you!"

"What's his name?"

It takes a few moments for anyone to gather the courage to say it: "Canvas Hope!"

A Hope? Didn't one of them die last year? Is that grandpa Pierre Hope still the fucking mayor?

"You'll do just fine. Canvas Hope, everyone!" His voice booms into the microphone while his hands clap like thunder. Not even his friends in the back join him.

But Tempus Dean's got a smile working on his face. He survived, someone else will die, and he couldn't be happier.

[tempus dean voluntells canvas hope. knuckles ]


* matt maeson "me and my friends are lonely" *