61st Reaping [D6]

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You gotta walk that lonesome valley,
You gotta walk it by yourself,
Ain’t nobody here can walk it for you,
You gotta walk it by yourself.
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The reaping was upon them. Stitched up in numbers, the children and teens of district 6 are all here for a singular moment, one that will define them always. There are faces of mostly fear and dread, some stone and unmoving. Cyrus stood with the other sixteen year olds, not fearing the reaping as much as others. For you see, Cyrus had calculated his odds of selection, and realized that his were quite small in regards to the amount of tesserae that had been put in for him. No, he was quite certain in his confidence that his name would not reach the lips of the bizarre capitolite on stage, and he would not be the representative for all those with hopes and dreams of district six having a winner.

Cyrus did not care much for the games. He thought they were an exercise in fear. They were something that allowed the Capitol to lord their strength over the districts. There was nothing more to be said about the grizzly event. He hated hearing his classmates talk about how another tribute had been picked off, and how they had been mangled in some obscene way. His few interactions with others meant he didn’t have to worry much about the news. His brother Naif, however, was obsessed with them. Part of him believed that Naif wanted to get picked with the way that he talked about the honor and glory from competing.

The two brothers couldn’t have been more different. Naif was gregarious, athletic, and a great public speaker. Cyrus was quiet, thoughtful, and kept to himself. Naif got along well with everyone, Cyrus was relegated to the back in most instances. Cyrus simply didn’t know how to communicate with anyone, it seemed. He was awkward, fixated on numbers, and grew overly anxious at most every type of human interaction. Naif never had such problems. He was the golden son, the boy who made up for all the grieving that Cyrus caused his mother and father. There were none who knew just what was wrong with Cyrus, his autism a hindrance and a struggle that went silent here in District six.

Only one had ever moved him and she was gone now. Far and away, he was certain that she had disappeared forever, and most likely had forgotten about him. Tatum—he knew her only as this—had spent one night making a boy into a man. She was the only one in some time that had taken the moment to delve more deeply into Cyrus’ soul. He had never felt so comfortable, nor had things ever been so clear than as to being with Tatum. He still dreamed of the moments when they kissed, and when she held him… a feeling he wished he could wrap around him always when the world grew difficult and scary.

He looked over at Naif and wondered if the boy was growing more nervous. This was his third reaping, and Cyrus’ fifth. He had come to appreciate a few aspects of this strange tradition, despite its intent. He loved the way they were marched into straight lines. He loved that everyone dressed to look their best for this event. He also loved that there was so much order. This was something that Cyrus valued above all, that there would be order to make sense out of the chaos. His life often twisted and turned in unexpected ways. He just wished that he could always make order out of it.

The first name to be called was that of a girl that Cyrus did not recognize. He was not familiar with many of the girls in his district, due to his lack of interactions with them, but from what he could tell she was not pleased to be picked as a tribute. Not that he doubted most people would be deeply unhappy, even horrified to become tribute, but his heart ached at seeing the way that she would most likely be leaving district six forever. There was an uneasy calm now—no one ever made any noise at the calling of a name—and he waited to see just what would happen next. His heart beat a little bit faster, and his hands twitched.

My name. Cyrus Malloc. District Six. What will it be?

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There's a road that leads to glory
Through a valley far away,
Ain’t nobody else can walk it for you,
They can only point the way.
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And yet there was no call for him. Cyrus opened his eyes to see that there was some commotion in relation to the calling of the name. The tribute was not him, and yet his heart ached to see this process continue. His body shook from the fear that had slipped into him. Despite the fact that he had so carefully calculated his odds, and despite the fact that he was well away of the way things worked—that this was routine and all in the ordinary—he wanted out of this. He wanted to leave this routine that so brought him anxiety and anguish at every turn.

He never lived the way others did. He never simply had fun or enjoyed life in a way that made sense to anyone else. Rather, he liked things to be simple and orderly, for life to not be surprising. And yet he grew tired of this routine. He grew tired of the fact that there was always a weight on his chest. He did not want to disappoint his father. He did not want to have a family that always looked at him as the failure, as the boy who could do nothing. He wanted to be free like Tatum, and to escape these city walls for something new. There had to be life outside of this.

Cyrus felt his feet move forward and his heart race. What was he doing? What was possessing him to do this? He could see only one person; he could feel only one person pushing him forward. He wanted to be free. He wanted to be brave. He wanted to do something that would free him from this place, even if it meant certain death. He could live as he wanted, and he could fight for what he truly believed in—respecting the dignity of life by protecting others from certain death. Truly then he could be free from his anxiety, his fear, and his condition then.

He knew it would break their hearts at first with what he was doing. He was not brave, and he was certainly not talented in battle. But he was smart and he was sweet, and he could figure out people relatively well. And she—Tatum—she would want him to be free. She would want him to stand for what he truly believed in, and not to languish in the shadows for the rest of his life. She gave him reason to trust himself again. He wanted this, he wanted to move on from here and escape the drudgery. He wouldn’t measure, scrape, cut, and repeat himself anymore.

“I volunteer!” He called out as he pushed forward. “I volunteer myself as tribute for District Six.” He stood with his arms by his sides and stared forward at the man on stage. He knew that this was foolish. This was certain death. This was freedom.

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(OOC: Cyrus Malloc, age 16, District 6 volunteers and accepts the position as D6 tribute).