Nothing Personal

District Seven Reaping

The whole place smelt like damp wood. The trees stretched for the sky, and everyone assembled grimly in the square wore hoods in a vain attempt to keep off the persistent rain. Here children had to be herded into the pens, and several clung desperately to their parents. Every so often the numb sound of crying and rain was punctuated with a yelp as the woman taking blood samples pushed the needle in too hard. The teenagers already in the pens were clustered together in friendship groups for warmth, their feet cold in the mud despite them jumping up and down. All of them were frowning, keeping an eye out for little brothers and sisters. Some glared at the makeshift stage with an obvious hate, whereas others looked more passive. All looked fed up of the yearly ritual.

The Capitol escort was a man with hair dyed bright green and a permenently startled expression, the result of botched surgery. He held an umbrella awkwardly; it kept blowing inside out in the wind. He kept hold of it anyway, because it gave him somewhere else to look as thousands of pale, angry faces glared up at him. He didn't understand why. District Seven were one of the favourite districts outside the Careers; they had good tributes, and they had very good tributes. Anyone weak was instantly volunteered for. They had a decent amount of winners, and traditionally did very well. It was all that playing with axes and carving knives.

They still hated him.

He could see it in their faces, pinched against the cold.

He droned through the traditional speech as quickly as he could, his hands starting to turn vaguely purple. One day they would probably drop off. His umbrella flapped in agitation, so he handed it to one of the ever-present assistants and carried on without it. He was soaking wet anyway. He longed to be back at home, in his nice warm apartment and the latest celebrity documentary glaring from the plasma, the bubbly sound of water running from the en suite. Probably a cocktail or two, come to think of it. Actually, a whole rainbow. He was certain that the depressing dampness of this place could probably seep into your mind and lurk there, waiting.

"And now the moment you've all been waiting for..." 

It was unnecessary, but he had to say it just for the irony. Without a doubt, nobody in District Seven had ever looked forward to the actual reaping. Someone shoved a clay pot under his nose and he stuck his hand in, rummaging around and keeping his eyes tuned on the massive oak tree at the back of the square. If he looked anywhere else he thought he might wilt, having to meet these people's eyes. The papers were all damp somehow; then again everything here was. He could feel the rot growing on his lungs.

"Atimala Ven- I'm sorry, how do you pronounce this?"

It didn't matter. It was such an unusual name that there could only be one.

"No!" shrieked several voices at once, some from the pens, others from the crowd. Small shifts in the mass of grim people indicated people pushing to the front. The girl was at the foot of the stage before he realised she was there. Mostly because she was tiny. 

The glares on him intensified. It was always like this whenever a young one was chosen, even though someone almost always volunteered. He shrank into his unfashionable, shapeless raincoat and tried not to think about the dry and friendly Capitol.

She was crying as she came up the stairs, almost slipping on the soaked stage. Her shoes were mucky and her dress had spots of mud on it. She looked more like a doll left outside in the rain than a human being. "Any volunteers?" he called brusquely, before she had even reached the centre of the stage.

"Yes!" announced a clear voice from the older pens. Atimala stuffed a little hand to her mouth to hide a sob, but just for a second a look of gratefulness flashed across her face. The escort blinked, forgetting the cold for a moment, and some gasps managed to force their way through the rain.

People moved respectfully out of the volunteer's way, none of them looking her in the eyes. She was taking her time, as if she was thinking about every step, so he turned to Atimala instead. "Well, aren't you the lucky one!" he exclaimed, trying to sound warm and instead sounding dry and sarcastic, "Tell me, how old are you? You don't look old enough to be in the pot."

"I'm fifteen," she snivelled, and he couldn't quite contain a look of surprise. Luckily he was saved a reply by the new girl bounding up the steps and throwing her arms around the younger one. They had to be sisters; they had the same reddish, autumnal hair that people in the Capitol would die for, and the same clear complexions. The younger one howled desperately, the older one prising her off. He heard her mutter "I'll see you in the Justice Building...make sure Georgie and Calum come along, okay..." The little one nodded and scampered off, straight into somebody's waiting arms. Everyone gazed up at the new tribute, something like admiration flickering in their dull faces.

"My name is Pataya Venieu," she announced, putting plenty of emphasis on her last name, "And I volunteer as tribute."

One person clapped. Everybody else seemed too stunned, and the clapping solo quickly petered out.

"Thank you, Pataya. Now, onto the boys." He didn't want to be rushing...okay, he did. His hands were now going blue and he couldn't feel his toes and the collective dislike he was receiving from the crowd made him want to go and drown his sorrows in alcohol as soon as it was humanly possible. He picked the first damp scrap his fingers came into contact with. The writing, neat and loopy and familiar, was blurred and smudged but still just about legible and blissfully pronounceable.

"Clarence Darrow."

No reaction at all from the crowd. Again. The boy hauled himself up from the middle of the pens, his hood pulled tighly around his face. It was hard to see his expression, but he walked with a slump that suggested he wasn't happy. For a change. He trudged up the stairs slowly, seemingly not even feeling the cold. The escort glared in case that hurried him up; it was almost like he was doing it on purpose. Thousands of eyes stared, carefully unfeeling and distant. This close, Clarence had obvious tears running down his face, mingling with the rain that soaked the rest of him through.

"Clarence Darrow, everyone!" the escort announced before he had even finished walking. Clarence looked at him accusingly. They were about the same height, and he could look directly into his eyes. He realised he'd forgotten something, in his haste, and gritted his teeth as he called for volunteers.

Still no reaction. Clarence screwed his face up painfully but refused to remove his hands from his pockets to wipe them or to take the microphone. Without even pausing, the boy stormed past the stage and straight into the Justice Building without looking back, an almost inaudible sob filtering into the damp air just before the door slammed. Pataya looked sorrowful but still determined; she grabbed the microphone instead.

The escort tried not to scream at her to hurry up.

"I want my speech, since I sorta had one prepared, just in case," she announced, and somewhere in the crowd a male voice howled. Her confidence shook, just for a moment, but then she cleared her throat and stared out into the distant forest of people, all eyes turned emotionlessly to her. "I wasn't planning on volunteering," she explained, and the escort sighed loudly, rubbing his hands together, "But since it was Atti, I had to. And I won't let her, or Georgie or Calum or Terence, or even Mom and Dad" - here she glanced up at the crying sky, her eyes closed, the rain dripping onto them noiselessly - "down. I won't. Now, I'm not saying that I'm the best; just look at me. I just think that I will win this. Thank you for everything, and I'll see you soon." She mouthed 'hopefully' afterwards, and stormed off into the Justice Building, rubbing her cheeks fiercely. A few of the Peacekeepers followed her, stomping in perfect unison. The square fell quiet as the door slammed closed, the gentle patter of the rain the only sound.

The escort suddenly realised that he'd been left alone on the stage, his hair plastered to his skull, his clothes damp somehow despite the raincoat, and every single pair of eyes in the district glaring at him with vicious hate.

He scampered for the door.