[91st] The Reaping - District 9

He wonders if anyone else notices the silence the way he does.

On a normal day, it'd be no question - Storm is the self-proclaimed extrovert of the family, the one who can never sit still and never stays quiet, at least not until he's gotten the mile-a-minute verbal essay he'd been composing out into the world for anyone near to hear. But no one seems to mind, not really - the mere fact that he's been allowed to engage in such whimsical fantasies well beyond the age that many would consider appropriate is example enough for that. Storm is the family clown, the prankster, the jokester, the one whose goal is to inject light into the dour veins of the Adroxis compound.

Before, it was just natural, a byproduct of his very personality. Now, it's a necessity - fourteen is often underestimated, right on the cusp of 'too young to know any better' and 'too old to engage in childish fantasies'. And jokester he may be, but Storm isn't stupid. A little scatterbrained, maybe. A little reckless, most certainly. But never stupid.

Fourteen may be on the young side to know the full extent of just what goes on under the Adroxis roof, but this is the same family that arms their kids with working guns by their eighth birthday and learns how to use them in the same year. He knows that one cannot surround themselves in misery and gloom forever, and if he must take that burden of alleviating as much pain and discomfort as he can, then so be it.

It's a tall order for a fourteen year old in a family like the Adroxises. But luckily for him, he has Victor blood running through his veins, and Adroxis children are built tough.
Just look at Fleur. Just look at Nowles. They'd both had the chance to prove it to the world, and had damn near succeeded. And what was the saying? Third time's the charm, or something like that?

Truthfully, he'd made the decision long ago. Nowles had very nearly passed on the fate of tribute to him last year, with a point of a finger and a well-placed attempt at misdirection. Fear and ill preparation had kept him from going along with it - he was at the time merely thirteen, and the throes of puberty had just barely latched its claws into him, so of course he was going to be terrified. Preparation is the greatest ally to someone like him - it's why he never makes pranks on a whim, never picks a fight that he can't win (or that he can't get Eve to win for him) - and even then he knew he'd be a damned fool to try and win without it.

But he's had a year to think. To plan. The Ninetieth would have spelled his doom, hands down - he's not the technological genius that Nowles is-was - but no two Games are alike. If anything, back-to-back Games often find themselves as opposites, the same mechanics in principle but vastly different in almost every other aspect.

So if Nowles and him were so different, with such different strengths despite falling under the same bloodline, then who's to say that he could't manifest the same success that she had in a different yet ultimately similar arena?

The decision had been made in the winter, mere days after his father had ultimately lost an election for Mayor. Everyone in his family had done so much or sacrificed so much already - he knew what his elder siblings were capable of, what they had done, and in Night's case, what had been done to him - and yet there he was, two months shy of fifteen without so much as petty acts of larceny and mischief to his name.

But he was good. He was a damn good shot, and guns had already made their way into the arena before. He was smart, always coming up with new ways to keep his siblings spirits' up and his targets on their toes. And puberty had hit him like a truck and he'd grown damn near a foot since Nowles had tried throwing him under the bus, to the point that in another year or two he may very well outgrow everyone in his family.

And so he'd decided. Fleur had almost won the Hunger Games. Nowles had almost won the Hunger Games. But he - Storm - would not almost win the Hunger Games.

He had examples to live up to. He had something to return to. He had a family legacy to emulate. And he had loved ones to make proud.

There was only so long one could sit on their laurels and be pampered. And Storm knows he has it better than most - the scare of almost losing him in his first few days had reinforced that he could effectively get away with whatever he wanted with little, if any, repercussions. But he has to pull his own weight sooner or later - and what better way to do so than to ease the burdens of everyone with the name Adroxis in one fell swoop? Hell, he was probably the closest thing Nine had to a Career, his elder siblings not-withstanding.

So then why, if he was so certain, so confident, was he so afraid as well? Surely someone had noticed the fact that he'd been eating his cereal with a silence wholly unnatural to him, especially on a day like Reaping Day. Surely someone had noticed the sweat beading around his hairline or the erratic thump-thump-thump of his heart.

But no one did. No one had guessed. And that only solidified his resolve.

Comic relief could only do so much in easing the burdens of a tortured family line. To truly bring comfort, Storm would have to do more.

He'd have to live up to his family name in the very same way that had first placed it on the map - in trail by combat.

He walks into the town square in a haze, barely noticing the prick of his finger as his blood is stored for the records, barely noticing as he and Hal are shoved into an indiscriminate mixture of fourteen year olds (and that's right, hadn't there been something about how boys and girls would no longer be separated in the Reapings he'd heard about a while ago?), barely noticing as the Capitolite escort droned on and on about the Treaty of Treason (and seriously, how had Night and Eve put up with this for seven years? He'd only been here for three, and he already wanted to wring the emerald-skinned twat's neck, if only to shut him up. How ironic.), until finally, they got to the main event.

And for a moment, Storm felt his nerve fail him. When the girl was called - a name he recognized not from personal connection, but from seeing it on the television of all places on some trashy dating show that he and Trace had watched for shits and giggles - his muscles froze and his voice died in his throat. And damn it, he was definitely sweating bullets now, and either Hal was too preoccupied on himself or had suddenly decided to be the politest brother in the entire freaking nation because still, there was but nary a comment.

One chance lost. No one would know if Storm kept quiet, except himself. He still had four more reapings ahead of himself, four more years to grow and wait.

But the family didn't need more waiting. They needed something big now.

And fuck it all, he had said he was ready, right?

He doesn't recognize the second name that gets called, but it doesn't matter. He closes his eyes, takes a deep, long breath, and settles his nerves into the very same steel that lines his gun.

"Hold it!" he says with all the impudence of a scorned child. Or at least he tries, for his voice betrays him in a truly spectacular puberty-fueled crack that, had the situation not been so serious, would have no doubt sent every likeminded child near him to the floor in uncontrollable laughter. The heat on his cheeks triples in intensity as suddenly, a thousand eyes are looking in his direction, but, well, fuck, there's no turning back now, so.

"I wanna go instead."

He wonders, briefly, as he's escorted up to the stage, if this was how his cousins felt. He wonders, even more briefly, if he's just made the greatest mistake of his short young life.

But then he thinks of his family, thinks of how much everyone else has sacrificed for the greater good, and the last spark of regret fades into the void before it could ever truly ignite.