[79th] The Reaping - District 3

You'd never been a firm believer in destiny throughout your short sixteen years of life, and yet perhaps it had been there all along.

Either that, or Ripred way up high had a sense of humor that matched your own - quick, unexpected, and maybe just a little bit malicious.

Your morning started out like any other, complete with alarm clock blaring and exchanging pleasantries with your mother and father, as if Reaping Day was merely a blip on the radar instead of a looming presence. And why shouldn't it be? No Sokatoa had ever gotten reaped in nearly eighty years of Games, and you knew that if your grandmother had her way that no Sokatoa would ever step foot on that stage for another eighty years to come.

It's not difficult to dodge her approach as she moves to smooth your shirt, five years of practice having honed muscle memory if nothing else. Tradition dictated that you would be approaching this morning adorned in your Reaping best and with your head held high, and you were nothing if not a perfect child for your parents and grandmother to see. In public, at least.

Your little brother, on the other hand, was not quite as lucky.

"Come on Grandma, I look fine!" The whine, cracking with the first sign of adolescence, drew a grin to your face as he squirmed against her grooming.

"Sure you do, Yuki, if you were trying to be a delivery word's nest." comes the tease.

"Shut up, Akira!"

"Now boys, behave yourselves." On the outside, Grandma is all business and stern glances, and yet the twinkle in her eyes gives away her amusement. The obligatory "Yes Grandma," is satisfactory enough for her to drop the facade, and the next thing you know you're being pulled into her embrace. "You two look like men," she murmurs, pride lacing every syllable.

You bite back the urge to roast your brother a second time - Yukimura has had enough for now, you decide, and it would ruin the moment anyway - and simply bathe in the sunbeam of veneration. In a family where excellence was expected to be the norm, bouts of praise were few and far in between, so you take what you can get.

And it's your grandmother dishing it out, which would make the retort reminding her that, at sixteen and thirteen respectively, you two were hardly men, akin to sending a volt of electricity at an exposed conduit. In simpler terms, such an attempt at humor would likely blow up in your face.

Despite the unspoken tension that always lingers around the household on Reaping Days, it is with lighthearted quips and barbless retorts that you set out on the short trek to the town square, mother, father, brother, and grandmother in tow. The latter insisted on coming along despite her years, as she had seen each and every one of your elder cousins make it successfully through the reaping, and she would see you through each and every one of yours as well.

You teased, as you're wont to do, but you find you're grateful for the support despite all that. Expectations and high standards be damned, at the end of the day you were still a family.

The next few minutes moves like a blur. Your finger gets pricked - a jarring experience at twelve but one you barely register at sixteen - and you get sent down the line to where the other boys your age are standing, third from the back. You say a quick goodbye to Yukimura, before sending his lanky form down to the thirteen year olds.

It is only then that you finally allow your guard to drop, the breath that you didn't know you had been holding to exhale through your nostrils.

See, if there's one thing that people who don't live in districts numbered One, Two, and Four share in common, it's a genuine fear and disdain for the annual Hunger Games. Every year there are two kids chosen from each district to fight to the death for the entertainment, and every year twenty four families are fucked up beyond repair by outside forces, whether willing or not.

And yet where others (and you, admittingly, as getting stabbed has never been amongst your interests) see disgust and repulsion, you see something akin to opportunity. The gladiatorial combat system pitted the downtrodden amongst each other, giving only the most worthy the chance to reach their ranks.

That doesn't change the fact that you find the whole thing sickening. Self-proclaimed rebel of the family you might be, your views are completely in line with each and every Sokatoa that has come before you.

And yes, you've flirted with the idea of volunteering before, putting your own neck on the chopping block like so many before you in an attempt to better the lives of themselves or their family. But things aren't so desperate as to resort to such drastic measures even if your family flirts consistently with the poverty line. Dreams of glory and fame filled your head when you were Yukimura's age, and while they still appear from time to time in your dreams, common sense has largely kicked them to the gutters.

"Florence Spark!"

The girl's name is called, and a small redhead with a familiar last name who can't be much older than Yukimura steps to the stage. The thought unsettles you somewhat - despite never needing tesserae and the fact that the chances of a thirteen year old being reaped compared to an eighteen year old are slim, that does not dispel the fact that said thirteen year old can still be reaped.

The information adds gravity to your stomach, and you tense as the gaudily dressed escort dips her hand in the bowl. You know what is expected of you if your brother is reaped - as long as you both are still of age, he will not step foot on that stage.

Turns out, you needn't have bothered.

"Akira Sokatoa!"

It takes exactly four seconds for the words to register, blank shock painting itself across your face.

Then, you chuckle, a mirthless, bitter sound. Seems like destiny arrived all the same.

No one steps up to take your place - not that you were expecting any different, really - and it is with a bit of a struggle that you disentangle yourself from the mess of sixteen year old boys. Your gaze locks with Yukimura's as you pass - he's trying so desperately hard to stay strong - and you manage a smile that you pray to Ripred comes across as reassuring.

Numbly, you step to the stage, the beacon of your doom. Gazing across the crowd, you find the rest of your family. Mother is in tears, Father can't match your gaze, yet Grandma holds steady. Dark eyes filled with tears, she nevertheless holds strong.

Young matches old, and you both know the stakes. The chances of a skinny sixteen year old nerd from Three entering mortal combat and escaping with his life is slim to none, you both know that. But just like with all things, there still a chance - however small, it still exists - and you've already decided that you won't submit to your fate quietly.

The mask you place on once your hand is yanked into the sky is not one of despair but determination, a firm resolve that this will not be the last time you see this square you have called home.

And should the worst come to pass? Then you'll face your fate like the man your grandmother knows you would be.