56th Reaping [D9]

Joshua shifted his weight uneasily from foot to foot as the mayor of District Nine began the annual spiel, his bistre eyes flicking anxiously across the crowds surrounding him; though he wasn’t claustrophobic, the surrounding throng made him distinctly uncomfortable. Then again, who wouldn’t be? The minors of the district - every last eligible one of them - were all crammed together near the front of the stage, divided up by age and gender like livestock ripe for the slaughter, and having all of those sweaty, nervous bodies pressing in around you was enough to unnerve anyone. As if mimicking the masses below, dreary clouds the color of unwashed wool were congregating above their heads, muting the already-watery sunlight that tried to filter through. He vaguely wondered what they’d do if it started raining during the Reaping - while it wasn’t going to happen today, surely it had occurred during at least one of the fifty-five Reapings that had preceded this one. It would be impossible to move the entire event inside, but he couldn’t picture them hastily erecting tents or awnings to shield the crowds - that would risk obscuring the cameras’ views, and that was unfeasible. After a few seconds (and about half a dozen sentences in the Treaty of Treason), he’d decided that they probably just let everyone get drenched.

The young man absentmindedly chewed a wad of mint leaves as he contemplated the topic, pressing the verdant pulp against the roof of his mouth. Earlier that morning, his aunt had barged her way into the hovel Joshua shared with his brother, only to find the younger of the pair emptying his stomach into a bucket while his older sibling watched on. This wasn’t an atypical occurrence - Joshua found himself ill on the morning of virtually every Reaping, and two years ago he’d been violently sick enough to be personally excused from attending by a Peacekeeper. This particular morning hadn’t been as agonizing as that one, but it was close; still, his aunt had had no pity for her ailing nephew and had half-dragged him from his repose, growling orders and smacking him every time it looked like his gag reflex was about to win. (In all fairness, that didn’t exactly help in preventing it.) When Joshua had finally stopped looking like he was about to keel over at any moment, she’d all but shoved a handful of mint into his mouth. Apparently it was supposed to calm his stomach, but he’d received the same treatment for the last five Reapings without any results.

This morning, though, something about his aunt’s crude cure to nausea seemed uncharacteristically effective. Joshua was still paler than usual and trembled slightly, but these were all symptoms that would abate in the next hour or so.

He surfaced a moment, only to find that the speech hadn’t quite wound down yet; his lips pressed together tightly in annoyance. They picked two unfortunates to kill off every year - did they have to try to bore everyone else to death as well? At least they were approaching the final paragraph. Josh craned his neck to glance through the crowds around him (anything was more interesting than hearing the Treaty yet again), gaze eventually settling on gaggle of fifteen-year-old boys a few rows back. They were apparently trying to break up the monotony with humor: hands over their hearts, they mouthed the mayor’s words with over exaggerated sincerity. One pretended to wipe away a stray tear. Joshua mentally rolled his eyes at the sight, looking back to the stage and subconsciously pushing his glasses farther up his nose. The reading had finally reached its end; now they could hurry through the main event and get on with their lives.

“Ladies first!” He tilted his head to the side slightly as he listened to the mayor’s bellow, stare shifting from the main attraction to the girls that apprehensively awaited the proclamation. Azalea Fellin? The unfortunate girl’s name didn’t mean a thing to him - didn’t sound the least bit familiar - but the boy standing next to him murmured something in relief; perhaps he’d been fretting over a sister or a sweetheart.

“Joshua Rowan!”

Come again?

His lips parted slightly, as if they were about to release some exclamation of disbelief, but he remained silent and motionless. He should have been stunned. Shocked. Terrified, even.

His only thought was of that one tribute from last year’s Games - Semper Capone - the one that had been hungry enough to eat his own hand.

Joshua took a few halting steps through the crowd before his pace became more even, surprised to find that passing through them was actually quite easy - their guilty relief hung heavily in the air, and a few cringed away from him as if he carried the plague. He swallowed the mint leaves as he walked, somehow making it up the stage without stumbling and taking his place next to the mayor. He was a few inches taller than the other man and used this to advantage, glancing over the man’s shoulder to double-check the slip.

Yep, Joshua Rowan.

The numbness started to break apart, shattering beneath a wave of disbelief. He’d just gone from ‘apothecary’s apprentice,’ someone poor but with a fairly promising future, to ‘walking corpse.’ No future, no career - just a few hours (days, if he was lucky) trapped in an arena trying to keep from being bludgeoned to death. And then, y’know, the actual dying part. On TV. In front of everyone in the country.

Well, hell.

His eyes widened at this realization and he glanced away from the name, gaze shifting to the masses near the back of the Square. His aunt and mother were at the edge of a small group, and though his aunt’s expression was grim she gave no outward sign of grief; his mother looked merely disoriented, bewildered as she plucked at a loose string at the hem of her blouse. He doubted that she would even notice his absence. Roman was near the other end of the Square, his face twisted into a horrified caricature.

Joshua directed his attention away from the faces of his family and searched for something neutral he could stare at until the ceremony was over, something he had no emotional attachment towards, something that wouldn’t rouse the bile roiling at the pit of his stomach. Eventually he settled on the glossy black lens of a camera belonging to one of the numerous crews perched on the rooftops. How many Capitol residents were staring back - a thousand, two thousand, maybe more? District 9 wasn’t a Career factory, but he doubted that any Reaping would be overlooked. What would they make of his apparent lack of reaction? His clenched teeth? The hands curled into fists at his sides? He certainly didn’t look courageous or confident about this unforeseen change of events, but hopefully he didn’t look scared out of his wits. Cowards didn’t get sponsors and were easy targets. He probably looked…

What was the word?

Oh, that’s right - desperate.

---

Joshua Rowan accepts his place as a Tribute of District 9.

~Zoe Miller

The Reaping. If I am not Reaped, then I plan to volunteer! A girl is chosen, but she looks really nervous. I don't quite understand her. I wouldn't be nervous. I would be glad to die in the Games. Cause some drama like usual. That would be awesome. That experience would be amazing! I smile. Suddenly, a miracle occurs, and she steps down. This is my chance, my time to shine. Say hello, District 9, to your new Tribute, Zoe Miller!"I VOLUNTEER as a Tribute!"

I scream through the Square. Voices hush, people stare at me. My mother runs up to me and shakes my shoulders, begging me to stay. But no. I walk up to the stage, and stand beside the boy chosen. Our escort walks over to me, and asks my name. This spot is mine, the name I about to say will ring through all of Panem , through every mind. Everyone will think, "Do I know her?", and soon, they all will, when I win the Games.Me."Zoe, my name is Zoe Miller!"

Everyone takes in the name, and considers me. I see old men grin, perves, and I see at least ten people re-writing their betting sheets. Ego boost there. I smile. I do have a good shot. If I can get my hands on the right weapon, then I have a high chance of Victor. The grin on my face widens, to where it almost hurts. My mother is crying. but I look at her and mouth the words,"I will be home soon"

That is my goal at least. If I can get a bow, then these Games are mine! I think of how much I have always wanted this, and now I am getting it. I wonder of the Arena, what they will throw me in to. I breathe heavily. I know I can do this, I know that I can, and that I will do this, that I can and that I will be Victor of the 56th Hunger Games.

I look into the audience at my children. Clove and Riley, and my husband Jasik. They might not have a mother in three weeks, he might be left alone, but no, he has Rosella and Connor whom will help take care of the kids while I compete. My years of archery should help me win. I nod in thanks at Connor when he holds Rosella back from running to me.

A tear runs down my face, a joyful one. If I die, then I am in peace, away from Panem and District 9. If I win, then my family is rich and okay for the rest of our lives, or, their lives, depending on how long I live. A month from now, I might be dead, or I might be the richest person in District 9. I am hoping for the second option.