[74th] The Reaping - District Two

Stomp, click, stomp, click.

I prowl into the District Square with the gravitas and rhythm of a human metronome, timekeeping as perfect as my posture is proud. Head up, eyelids low. I have no need to look at the others around me, although I can feel them looking at me.

While lesser Districts shroud their children in funeral clothes on days like today, we Careers dress for a wedding. A sea of white, whether a flock of birds migrating to a better future or a flock of sheep being ushered for slaughter, we shuffle as quickly as we can past the blood-print scanners to get the best position, close to the stage where we can oggle our future champions. Several of the younger ones around me have absentmindedly wiped their bleeding fingers on their skirts, the first red streaking tally-mark that will count their Reapings every year. As I slip my own punctured finger into my mouth, relishing the sharp salty taste, I know that I am not stupid enough to make that mistake. Not when I intend it to be me on that stage, my name on everyone's lips.

Out of the corner of my eye, a few familiar faces fill the Square. From the travesty that was Olympic Volleyball, an excursion to District Four which I couldn't refuse, I remember and notice Fox Arctic, a girl whose name made me raise my eyebrows at the time, but now, relative to some of the other binomials which could be called today, seems regular in comparison. However, the people who interest me more than those aspiring athletes are that elite group from the Crocetti ball, the high-society section of the District whose family names are as laden with rumours and intrigue as their bodies are with perfume. Those are the people I was privileged to mix with that night. While the Crocettis themselves hang back, staying close to one another, my eyes can't help but fall on the other faces I recognise.

Raven Blackmore casts his eyes down, but the way his cheeks has flush pulls my mouth up into a smirk, as if he can sense my gaze. Although I never spoke to him directly at the ball, there was no need to in order to gauge the sort of person he is. His surname alone was enough to satisfy the assumptions in my mind. I am less enthused to hear Spark Morris whining a little way ahead of me, for although her voice is memorable her words were totally inane. I appreciated that the majority of the party that evening were mingling socialites, but it was people like Spark that took exactly that out of the night.

All my musings, however, are cut short instantly when a familiar towering silhouette fills my vision. That scowl, that menacing domed head and shoulders. Torka Hammerfell looks like he's more than ready to board that Capitol train. He looks like he's ready to start killing people now. I find it funny that, though it was Torka's name that was called last year, I didn't know him then. However, since the Crocetti party when I approached him to be shunted so outright, my views to him are an unhealthy balance of vengeful bloodthirst and mind-twisting intrigue. I wonder if he's aware of the effect he has on the people he storms past without a thought.

Of course, these feelings have nothing to do with the man himself, but with the extraordinary and unnatural feeling of getting brushed aside without even an excuse. Since my "accident", and my subsequent evolution into the powerful superhuman I am today, whether because of my necessary accessory or my overwhelming air of dominance, I am seldom ignored. Neither am I used to it nor do I enjoy it. I hope, pray even, that Torka and I are tied by fate to meet again, today or in the future, so I can show him the consequences of putting me in an abnormal situation.

The escort steps onto the stage, but my eyes stay firmly on Torka, urging him to look my way and recognise me. My curiosity is beginning to verge on desperation, and though I should be disgusted with my discomposure the urge to continue staring, to unravel this enigma of a Career, it too strong. 

Halcyon Antoinette; the words ring out and a collective shudder goes through the crowd. A name we know well, too well, a child beloved and hard to let go of. Should she begin to walk up those stairs, every heart in the District will surely break. I however, do not react like those around me. My shoulders stay stiff, my jaw set, my eyes fixed on Torka Hammerfell.

Derek Harrison; I revel in the lash of frustration I see pass across my subject's face. But then- his jaw begins to move, his lips parting. I can't help but mirror his expression of wild impulse, although my own thought is to reach out and hold him back, as he cries "I volunteer!" And suddenly I can't help myself, whether I'm saving a whole District from the distress of losing a sweetheart, all of our younger sister as much as she is Cricket's, or just saving myself from losing my grasp on Torka, I am screaming "I volunteer!" to mirror his own chant, and then I'm pushing with my fists and elbows through the crowd, feet once again marching stompclickstompclick but in double tempo now, I'm marching, desperate to ascend with Torka, desperate to confront him, forcing my name out from between my teeth in hot breaths so the escort can announce me, not feeling a need to be announced to anyone except him, my desire developing at lightspeed into obsession, and-

I realise where I'm standing, with all wide eyes on me, and my thoughts halt quicker than an April storm. I turn to the crowd, my audience. I want to look for my parents, but have all but forgotten them. My face breaks into a grin and I part my lips to state my name again. Avarice Orner. (Your champion).

And then I turn to Torka Hammerfell, and I stare into his eyes, and I shake his hand. Whether I confront him kindly or kill him myself, one thing is for certain. Just as I hoped, fate isn't quite finished with the two of us yet.