[84th] The Reaping - District 2

Alexander Chastmen

I can count the ways this boy is fucking up.

One. His left leg weakens when his right arm strikes.

Any competent fighter would counter with a heel straight to his knee. Counter with a crippling injury and a decisive victory. 

Two. His hands are too high for a defensive stance.

If his opponent unleashed a flurry of fast punches towards his abdomen his hands would be rendered useless.

Three. His feet lack structural support.

Easy to sweep, easy to kill.

I'm bored. It's time to take out the trash.

It isn't my fight, I really have absolutely no excuse for standing. There isn't a single logical reason for why I'm walking up to this boy who is all too focused on the fight he's losing. I have no excuses for what I'm about to do, but honestly, why the fuck do I care? I smile as I kick out his weak leg and hear the sinister snap of his bones.

Screams the shrills of a banshees' coven cascade across the center. Steps sprint for supplies while eyes angle towards me tainted by the terror of disbelief. The voice of trainers' thunders, tearing through the child's cries. I am amid the epicenter of the chaos, the catalyst to its creation. I'm laughing while the world around me devours itself in dreadful disgust. A hand wraps its snake-like fingers around one of my wrists and starts to constrict.

"Alexander what the hell did you d..."

Wrong.

He doesn't get to touch me. 

My hands are on his, my nails driving deep into his flesh burrowing like rabbits into the deep. Scarlet seeps from beneath their hunger as I warp his wrist at an unusual angle. He writhes in pain practically perishing to his knees. I free a hand to find its better home around his neck, squeezing every inch of the enamel in my nails to white. I feast on the fear that sputters from his silenced speech.

"Don't you dare touch me."

I wring him free to the floor. His body bangs against the metal as though a freshly fallen weight. Now there's silence, the stares of onlookers dazed by my defiance. Even the other trainer's have turned to statues stunned by my vice. I smirk as they wheel away the broken boy and tend to the gasping man. No one defies the one destined for royalty.

"Alexander! Out now!"

My Father's voice rings clear from across the gym. He has seen what new trouble his teen has summoned. But unlike the others, I don't back away from the barking animal. As his beet red face furled with fury grows closer, I step forward to meet him. The stench of his sweat is foul, he reeks of disappointment. How could the owner of the training gym spin one of his son's brutally assaulting another boy out of code?

"Fine Papa, but don't act like I'm not exactly what you want me to be."

The locker room is a ghost town. No one wants to be near the Prodigal Prince today. Refined reflexes, superior speed, nearly-perfect precision, yet none of it matters. I used to be quiet, arrogant, but respectful. Then Papa grew angry watching while more and more tributes died. Too tender, he called them. He changed into a ruthless trainer to me and my brother's, but especially to me. I am the one meant to garnish the Chastmen name with victory, I can't be soft. So I became brutal. I pull a plain white shirt of freshly fallen snow over my shoulders and sling my bag across my back.

He's waiting outside, Papa. It's quick, the slap on the back before he returns to appearing pissed. I knew he'd be proud, the bastard is sick. However, just as he appears angry I appear brutal. Truthfully I don't care about acting out of the realms of a kind of conduct. I'm the best, and I love to win, but why would a sixteen year old boy enjoy senseless violence if not for recognition and adoration? These aren't the Games yet, perhaps I should refrain a bit more.

Outside, the cool night air transforms the breezes of my breaths into clouds of mist. My fingers trace figures into the drooping droplets of a light post when I hear her steps. Her blonde hair is brunette from the showers and her clothes are refreshed just like mine. I still can't believe I find myself waiting for the girl who shared the cot next to mine while we each recovered from our losses in the District fighting tournament.  Still, here I am and never would I forget to wait for her. Not unless I want my face smashed to smithereens.

We walk a few steps down the sloping stoned streets before she finally speaks. I know she saw everything I did. I've been waiting to hear what she has to say this time.

"Well, at least he won't die from volunteering as a weak tribute."

Her sass spurs a smirk across my face in an instant. She's one of the few people who have avoided shying away from my sharpness. I find everything about her company relaxing. I even laugh for a second as I adjust the duffel bag banging against my back.

"What can I say? I am merciful after all."

We spend the rest of the walk with our laughter leaping from the walls of alleys and into the star speckled sky. Coming to our typical split in the streets, I share with her a smile beneath the sheen of the radiant moon.

"Maybe tomorrow will finally be our day."

I touch my lips to her's only for a second. I step back and begin walking away towards home as my final words fill the space growing between us.

"See you tomorrow."

Home is fitful, restless with the day to come.  This year it's all about me, the last Chastmen in the Reapings. My brothers are preparing supper when I walk through the hearth of home. Mama comes flickering like a flame from beyond the stairs beckoning me to a pre-prepared tub. Its warm waves rock me into a sleep like state. I emerge even more tired than before.

After supper, Mama cuts my hair before the flames of the roaring fire.  Her baby boy must look perfect if caught for even a moment in a camera's glance. But it's more than that too, her fingers sooth me as they flow through the waves of rich blonde that match her own. Again I'm almost asleep in the chair tuning in to the crackling embers of the fire when Papa returns home in some kind of stressed state.

He kneels in front of me.

I can see it in his eyes.

My heart holds.

"Do it. Tomorrow, do it."

His hands grasp mine and I hold them back. There's no doubt he can't see the excitement in my smile illuminated by escaping embers.

"Okay."

Morning adorns me with a silken suit of navy and a sense of magnitude. Gravity is weaker today as I prepare for my ascension. Curving my waves in uniformity and clearing my face of the signs of sleep, I walk down the steps of my home with lightness. There will be no clouds covering the morning sun today, I will be highlighted by nature itself.

It doesn't even cross my mind until I see her, tethered to her terrified twin's side. Shit. I haven't had the chance to tell Gala. She knows this is what I have to do, we've always supported each other in this dream of ours', but I feel guilty that she'll have to find out by the same turning of attention as everyone else. She deserves better. She'll probably punch me when she visits in the Justice Building, if she visits me at all.

The ceremony starts and chorus of cheers begin. A District once deemed dangerous, but has fallen into a drought, thirsts now more than ever for victory. There's an ethereal energy that exists among the sea of souls staring towards the stage. An anticipation that continues to rise, and rise, and rise, and rise until it erupts in cheers for the chosen.

"Gwen Thomas!"

I find her before it happens. I watch as her terrified twin's eyes expand into horror only to be stunned by her sister starting to move, by Gala going forward instead. Now it's sealed. All the more reason why my voice will be the one to call to her from this sea of desires. All the more reason...

"Alexander Chastmen!"

No voice today, Fate has spoken instead. As I move, the sea parts and swells. They know what I can do and it fills them with the energy even more. They accept my destiny as I look forward, but whisper to the girl who only last night filled the streets and skies with laughter. 

"Today is our day."