[88th] The Reaping - District 12

riley lowrick.

Alone. My brothers and sisters have evaded me now with other priorities. Mom and Dad are gone for weeks at a time working on strengthening their relationship. Pft. My hands grow pruney from two weeks worth of dirty dishes that I've allowed to stock up in the background sink. What's the point in tidying up every day if nobody's going to be around to see it. Positive, clean environments are just a part of that weird astrology crap, anyway.

It's Reaping Day, anyway. Chores on a celebratory day such as this? I don't think so. My hands may be pruned, but my sarcasm has grown shriveled over the years, one gust of wind away from blowing away like a pile of ashes. A pile of ashes is the best way to describe me at eighteen, anyway. It feels like I've been alive for double that, a biological clock frozen at the year in which everyone wishes they could sleep past. Partially because the first year of looking for jobs in Twelve is always the worst, but also because it's the last time we're eligible to be reaped for the games. The last time a slip of paper can be used to determine my fate. Instead, we'll just get five decades of working in treacherous and outdated mines! Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Thanks, world!

Now I only need an exhaling laugh to blow me and my sarcasm away but don't feel like you need to hold your breath.

I walk to the Reaping without anyone by my side this time. All of my family, Mom and Dad aside, live in all the different corners of the district. It'd be such a hassle to ask them to go out of their way to escort me to a silly raffle draw. I'd have to walk all the way to one of them, ask, probably get rejected, walk to another, maybe get accepted, walk all the way back. Then, they'd have to walk all the way to the family house to escort me, from which we'd go to the Square and- well, you get the gist now, don't you? My family just isn't worth the churning energy to attempt to reconnect with them from one end to the other.

I wait in silence scratching away at the top of my fingernail with my thumb. Waiting is the worst part. It's almost as if they drag it all on in order to increase the suspense. Sure, this is a television show now, but the Reaping has always seemed like the opening credits. Nobody watches those, they wait for the action, the thrill, the drama. But hey, overdoing it seems to be in the Capitol's fashion.

Now, it's time for them to reach into the bowl for the boys. Of course, the slips of paper toss and turn like gumballs waiting to be released from their machine, but when they finally stop with one card sitting between their index and middle finger, time almost freezes.

It's like I've felt this moment before.

"Riley Lowrick!"

Deja vu evaporates around me as I can almost guess what'll happen next.

"Consider this a favor," an arm grabs at my shoulder and a whisper floods my ear. "I volunteer!"

evan macmillan

Bloodlust five thousand.

His old man departed early yesterday morning on a recruitment trip. {"The mines are in desperate need of repopulation, Evan. All our workers are growing soft."} They've been scattering like an avalanche of rocks. One of the veterans disappeared a couple of weeks ago without a trace. Showed up for work, early as always, Evan was sure of it. His father leaves him in charge, waiting at the head of the mines to clock everyone in. Abraham Bellcroft is always on the top of the list, always the first one to come in. But he never came out that night when the workday was over. In fact, nobody even saw him at all.

"Are you sure you saw Abe come in early, Evan?" One of the maggots questioned him on if he was remembering properly. "Maybe you just marked him off prematurely."

Evan's haunted gaze turned into frustration from the ridiculousness of such a statement. "I can remember every single time you roll your eyes at Archie when he tells you to hurry along. And every fuck you that you give him under your breath after. I know I remember. Abraham walked in here." He loved to hold their disobedient attitudes over their head. To insult his intelligence is just hurtful. Evan has had years on this job with these people and they still can't understand that Evan's blank intelligence masks his intentions. "He knows his way around. Hell, he's been working here longer than I've been alive. He'll make his way out eventually. Now get goin'."

Dumb maggots.

He took a pickaxe and pointed it in the direction of the mines. Down they went. Evan leaned back in his chair, tapping the pickaxe in his lap. He reached over to the table beside him to grab a bottle of dish soap. It's the only thing his old man is willing to buy as a sort of hand sanitizer for the workers. He rubbed the faint grey soap over the head of the pick before taking it to the sink. Low water pressure, but Evan didn't mind. He scrubbed the head, digging in deep with his half-chipped fingernails. While they're off mining, he cleans, making sure everything is in top shape if there's ever a surprise inspection. Not a speck of dirt on any of the tools. Although, there wasn't too much dirt on the one he was cleaning. Only the crimson remnants of a maggot, who pestered a short-tempered MacMillan with a lot to prove if he wanted to take over for his old man someday.

When Abe was nowhere to be seen that day, and the next? Ninety-five percent of the workers weren't either. They quit. Some called the mine haunted after his disappearance, others wondered if a cave-in trapped the good man, and a few pointed fingers and called foul play. But Evan? Never. His old man told the few who made such claims about his son that they weren't welcome, no matter how much they needed the money. And so they left. {"The hardest labor in a job like this isn't in the mines. It's keeping maggots in line. You do that, Evan."}

Evan imagines it must be difficult for his father to gain recruits, especially with the rumors of a missing miner looming around. But it must be better to run the risk of rumors than have a mini workers' rebellion. Being an opponent of rebellion is no way to sustain wealth and power in District Twelve. Too wise for his own good, that Abe Bellcroft. Wanted to start a battle over worker's rights or something. Evan took care to make sure that did not happen. Still, guilt that ruthless action could risk his legacy looms over his thoughts.

{"Putting your life on the line is the best thing you can do for us, Evan. Don't be afraid of it."}

It's reaping day but nobody is home to wish him a good morning. The old man is still out recruiting, his mother has been gone, disappeared just like Abraham except her husband was the one to defend her absence. All he gives himself for breakfast in the morning is two slices of buttered bread and a glass of tap water. The bloodlust satiates him.

The Reaping never excites Evan. It's the same old, same old, every year. He's learned what to expect and when to expect it. The unpredictability and the panic of the actual Hunger Games are what excites and intrigues the old man and him. Some call their father-son pair's smirks at the ridiculousness of half-dead bodies flailing at one another sickening. Everyone has the right to resent the Games, Evan concedes, but there's not much they can do about it. Might as well enjoy the entertainment. After all, it's not like the monochrome District Twelve can provide any of that on its own.

Ought to get going, he thinks, pulling on his jacket as he departed toward the front door. About a foot or two from the entryway, he pauses, looking down. The bear trap. Precautionary for any intruders, especially when the old man isn't home. Leaning over to the doorknob, Evan twists it open and skips over the trap.

The Square is quiet as ever as people gather for the Reaping. He stands between two boys, each probably a foot taller than him, but his own pride allows him to tower over them, unbothered.

Nora Patterson is the name of the first tribute. It's an unknown name to him, an unknown face. But that's to be expected. Outside of the mines and the rare people he acknowledges at the school he rarely attends, District Twelve is mostly home to helpless survivors, trapped in cycles of endless loops, and hung out to dry by the few of wealth and power. The few determine the fate of the many, and no sad, broken, or frightened faces can convince Evan to show an ounce of remorse.

The next name, though, is the one that counts for him.

"Riley Lowrick!"

Who?

Who the fuck is that?

Heads turn to a boy around Evan's age, nice build and all.

Perfect type of miner. Doesn't look like he'd question the old man that much. And something like volunteering would surely be a debt his father would force this Riley Lowrick character to repay. The boy remains stunned in place, and Evan pushes through the crowd until the only thing that separates them is the hairs spiking up on the back of the boy's neck.

"Consider this a favor," he says, before raising his hand up in the air. The MacMillan estate, the MacMillan legacy, they can't survive without a revival for the appreciation and dependence on the family name. He volunteered, he saved a kid's life! Surely this will be a recruitment session the old man will come to appreciate. "I volunteer!"

His heart begins to pick up pace. Bloodlust I. He gives chase.

[Evan MacMillan volunteers for the spot of D12M]

Tribwall:
x.. maybe my preference?
y
z