68th Reaping [D3)

They did the ladies first. Like always. Her face was just a blur. Someone you didn't know. Suddenly, they were calling your name. "Kia Soul!"

You were yelling. And you were yelling. And running. And running some more. And as you ran, you shrank. You shrunk so small, they couldn't see you anymore. And you ran away. You kept running. Running scared like the little boy you really were. You were never going to be a man.

Suddenly, a pure white cat darted from a nearby alley, a bell tinkling at its neck. Soft pink paws mashed pavement as it streaked towards you.

It snatched you into his paws and then let you go. It snatched you up and let you go. And then you had a tail and you were squeaking so loudly. The cat seemed to almost grin. Its thick fur made it look like it had a beard. Where those silver roses on its collar?

Then you were in its throat. Wriggling. And squealing. And you were being crushed. In the... face?

"Wake up, you loud bitch," Porsche barks. "You're yelling in your sleep again."

You sit up and shove the pillow away from your face. "Oh, shut up." You rub your eyes to help clear away sleep, then run your hands across your jaw that already sports some stubble after just shaving the day before.

You don't much like stubble. Itchy. Nasty. Hate it. I can see it as you grimace from the scratching sound it makes as you touch it.

Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, you register it to be some time past ten in the morning. Too early to be getting ready, but too late to still be lounging in bed. Bugatti was already up for Pete's sake. Even Porsche.

Your sister has already left your room without another word. Wow. Tense. It is Reaping Day, though.

You sing a silly song you heard once a long, long time ago (maybe when you were in grade school? You're not entirely certain) under your breath as you walk down the hallway towards the kitchen.

"We wish you a merry Reap-mas," you murmur. "We wish you a merry Reap-mas and a happy Hunger Games. Good tidings we bring to you and your kin. Good tidings for Reap-mas and a happy Hunger Games."

You continue to hum it as you measure our some cereal. It hits the bottom of the ceramic bowl like the tiny pebbles you and your siblings used to stuff your pockets with and then bring home. The kind that left a white dust all over your hands, but after that they were so soft. Like chalk powder or something.

Tangles of wires, resistors and a lone soldering iron lay scattered across the kitchen table and you scrape some of it away to set down your bowl. You dump a bit of milk into the bottom, grab a spoon and shovel the carb-fest breakfast into your mouth.

A few hours pass. You take a shower.You argue with Porsche. You say a brief hello to your father who stayed home from the company today. He wears a suit. Like always. So formal. You feel like a street rat in your ripped-up jeans and grungy button-up.

"Kia!" Toyota calls up the stairs. "Come down! We're leaving!"

You race down the stairs and into the entryway to meet your odd little family. Father, looking dapper in his clean-cut suit. Porsche, looking lovely and cold as always. Bugatti-- handsome Bugatti. Little Toyota. You grin widely at them.

"Let's get this party started!" you say loudly before bouncing out the front door and walking to the path, which already has loads of other families trailing their way to the city square.

Your feet tap against the pavement and you enjoy the feel of the sunshine against your face. You loved the light. Of course, your loved the darkness too. But for different reasons. It was clarity versus mystery. Passionate heat versus level-headed chill. Most of your partying was in the darkness.

I hope Flaven doesn't get reaped. I was hoping to get to have "fun" with him and his sister later this week.

Finally, the district square. People and peacekeepers wedged into this space. It's probably breaking fire code. Maybe. If they were concerned about safety.

The Capitol man is dressed in the usual loud attire of the Capitol. Part of you wishes you could dress like that. Be all ruffles and bright colors and paint and heels. Maybe not heels. Heels sound un-fun.

This brightly colored representative of Panem tromps up the steps to the stage and delivers that glued-on glimmer of a grin to the camera that is his on-looking god for the day.

"It is time," he starts out, just like with all the other games, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games."

Our children? a voice demands in the back of your head. This guy doesn't even live in district three, let alone have the rights to lay claim to any of our people.

You shove the thought away and try to keep your mind as blank as possible. You are in the back. In the almost-far back with all the other seventeen year old boys. Porsche is just on the other side of the aisle.

"Let us begin the Reaping!"

His hand swoops down into the bowl with a cry of, "Ladies first!" He picks it apart with his fingernails and reads it loudly and calmly to the rest of the crowd.

"Ryin Sileece!"

You aren't familiar with her. Maybe you'd seen her around? You can't remember, to be honest.

But that means Toyota is safe, and for that, you breathe a sigh of relief. In the back of your mind, another voice-- this one tiny-- murmurs something like, "Porsche is safe too," and maybe you are glad for that too.

Boys. Now for the boys. You wondered what would happen if Bugatti was reaped. What would you do? You'd probably start a fund raiser or something. What about Flaven? Or Rick? Or Joey? Their lovely sisters and partners and friends with benefits were safe. But not these men. Maybe they would be after this year though.

If they did get reaped, though, you could just---

"Kia Soul!"

You freeze.

Somewhere, the two voices are both screaming in unison within you. "This is when you run! We've done it a million times in your dreams! This is no different!"

But you're frozen. And the others move away from you, like being a tribute was a contagious disease. The bastards.

You numbly pull yourself out of the line-up of teenagers and then rush to hug Porsche. "Don't ever stop giving them hell. Look out for the others. And dad," you murmur into her ear before you dash up to the stage.

You didn't want any peacekeeper mitts on you.

Straightening your hat, you look out at the crowd, trying to single out your family, but you can't. You'd always imagined that they'd be the ones up here on the chopping block. But never yourself.

No, never yourself.

{ooc: Kia Soul accepts his position as tribute}