70th Reaping [D2]

To stand among the crowd at that reaping was to stand at the edge of a gulch. Hunger Games hopefuls and fearfuls alike brimmed with anxiety on all sides. The crowd was silent; the tension was palpable. Even in District Two, where the reaping was celebrated, anticipated, and generally looked forward to, the atmosphere was tense. The younger children fidgeted, while the older careers stretched and flexed and cracked their knuckles, nerves on full display despite their best efforts. Despite not being one to succumb to such things, Elya Johnwayne could feel her muscles tightening with every breath. Last reaping.

Three years later, she still caught herself scanning the other half of the crowd out of the corner of her eye. She should know better; she'd spent as many reapings with her older brother across the square as without. But old habits die harder than Johnwaynes in the desert, and still Elya had to stop herself from glancing over for reassurance half a dozen times before the President even took the podium.

Each time she caught herself scanning the crowd, however, her eye did land on her uncle Bruce, and each time brought a fresh scowl to her stone-set face. Three years her junior, her grandfather's youngest son was eternally the biggest bane of her existence. She supposed she should be grateful that the punk was here — at best, he'd be summoned to his death; at worst, it meant that his mother was there, too, her toddler in tow.

Of all her living relatives, the two-year-old in her step-grandmother's arms was far and away her favorite. William Morgan Johnwayne was either Elya's uncle or her nephew, depending on who you asked, but the bright grey eyes and impish smile were a dead giveaway: the youngest Johnwayne was as much Dan's son as Dan was Elya's brother.

The toddler waved in her direction, drawing her focus away from the reaping around her, and eliciting a rare smile and a small wave from the serious girl. The gesture was intercepted by Gracie, Elya's grandfather's wife and Dan's once paramour. The grin dropped from her face, mouth falling into its regular frown, as she angled a cold shoulder toward the thirty-five-year-old. She and her grandfather's wife alternated between amicable and antagonistic on a weekly basis — which coincided with about how long it took for Gracie to say something negative about Dan in order to win points with her husband. Less, with the Games approaching.

She trained her eye on screen in front of her, the atmospheric anxiety seeping back into her attention. President Snow had just finished delivering the Treaty of Treason with such gravitas that even the eighteen-year-olds were rapt. No one drew a breath as he drew the first slip of paper. Or the second. Or the third.

Every syllable that left the president's too-red lips was steel striking steel, made worse by the pauses he took to allow footage of each new tribute climbing the stage. It was an interesting change, being able to watch the reaping take place in real time for once. Those from lower districts looked increasingly more nervous as the pool of tributes quickly filled with careers; those from higher ones looked increasingly more smug.

Name after name, tribute after tribute, volunteer after volunteer, Elya felt her focus slipping. She fidgeted. Her bum leg began to ache. She cracked her neck, her knuckles, rolled her shoulders and her eye, stifled a yawn. The president's words were steel striking steel, but Elya Johnwayne had trained long enough, hard enough, that the clash of metal grew soothing.

Elya hadn't realized that she'd been waiting for the words until they echoed throughout the marble square. "Elya Johnwayne!"

She made two fists around the cuffs of Dan's too-large coat and stowed them in the pockets. Stiff lip, firm jaw, rigid posture, she strode toward the stage, crowd parting to let her through. Vision glazed over, she took her place next to three others. For a moment, she thought she might be willing to relinquish her place, to allow someone else to enter the Games in her stead. But Dan's words came echoing back to her, when she'd asked him why he'd volunteered at all. "What else am I going to do?"

What else would she do? Her means of egress from the district had been severed. And even if they hadn't, then what? Elya had long harbored a fantasy of leaving District Two for a drawn-out revenge tour of the eleven other districts. To pack a bag and hunt down the peacekeeper that still haunted her dreams and remind him of the meaning of an eye for an eye. But Panem was massive, and the spaces between the fenced-off districts nigh uninhabitable. By no means was Elya a high-maintenance individual, but all the same, the prospect of winters huddled in a cave with only bark to eat did not exactly appeal to her sensibilities.

Much as it surprised her, hearing her name come out of the president's mouth had been a relief. She'd give survival a trial run in whatever hellscape the Gamemakers had in store for her. If she took to it, she could always give it another try. Hell, they'd parade her around all of Panem in celebration of her victory, no frostbite necessary.

And few things had ever satisfied her more than beating down an opponent in single combat. She'd never met an opponent she couldn't best in a fair fight, and had long ago learned to fight dirty from the master of gaining the upper-hand. But even if she never made it back to District Two, well, nothing remained for her there, anyhow.

She took a deep breath, then another, as she surveyed the crowd at her feet. To stand on the stage at the reaping was to stand on the edge a canyon, and then take one more step.