98th Reaping [District Two]

As a kid, Thomas wanted to chase the stars. Write them, dream them. The Harvard household was great for that; they appreciated whatever art they wanted to approach. The academy would see them through it if they wanted to draw the stars. He felt they had something to say. Many people thought they did. When the stars align a certain way, they offer a story, a truth. Thompson always wanted to learn both of those, which makes it suck when the stars don’t tell him anything at all. It normally took one of those purple tents with a lot of fog to get many answers.

The morning was eerie, which isn’t much different now that the entire district smells like shit. It made the nights better - looking up from the smog and directing his focus to something other than the sight and smell of waste. It’s a hot day, which made Thompson uncomfortable walking to the district square. Wearing a light-colored shirt was clearly the wrong idea, but he liked the lighter colors. They offer a hope that he’s not used to. On the way, a few jabs from the older boys in the district tease him for his… interesting Panem’s Got Talent audition. Mostly about him, since the other three all live in outside districts. The one that stuck out to ”Hey, flute boy! You need to find a new pipe to blow on?”

(The answer was, and is, no. That’s gross.)

Thomas wouldn’t speak up, though. He never dared to bite back. Everyone has seen his national failure. He’s accepted it by now, but the constant teasing still lingers and doesn’t do him much justice. The boy can’t do much to really avoid the torture except ignore it and hope they’re bored. That’s how the foster parents treated it. They’re bored. Which, to be fair, if they’re turning to him for entertainment he’s doing an excellent job at what he does. Even if the national screens say otherwise.

In the reaping pens, the boys tussle and shoulder each other, mostly because they don’t have the space otherwise. Some of them do it as a joke. Others get angry and shove back harder. Thomas, unfortunately, is in the middle of the pool. The rest of the boys were also just as sweaty as Thomas. As people were shoved, a few beads of sweat would slip off of them and onto him. Add the boiling sun, the smell wasn’t exactly great, which was the worst part. It wasn’t the smell of waste, it was teenage sweat. Anyone that’s been in a classroom of fourteen-year-olds knows that smell.

The typical orange-red haired woman spoke, giving the speech and beginning the entire process. First name was another boy, much older than him, whose presence fled Thompson’s mind. Then Thompson was announced, leading for the crowd of shoving boys to start focusing their energy on him until he got spat into the crowd. Luckily, he’s use to the Capitol cameras. But those cameras wanted to see him win.

Something tells the boy that they only want to see him die.

[thompson accepts!]