Victor by Night | Finnick Odair

The Reaping : 1

Chapter One: The Reaping

At one o'clock, I head for the Hallow. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death's door. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned.

It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the Hallow. It's one of the few places in District 5 that can be pleasant. The large dock outlooks the even larger dam that powers most of Panem. That's my District's duty: to supply power.

The Hallow's surrounded by shops, and on public market days (especially if there's good weather), it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well.

12-18 year olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones toward the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands.

But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn.

Or this time... the two Victors.

Odds are given. Whether we're old or young, if we will break down and weep.

The stage gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The Hallow's quite large, but not enough to hold District 5's population of about ten thousand. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.

I find myself standing on a story-high concrete stage, staring out at a thousand and some faces as flashbacks of three years ago echo in my mind.

Most of my District all exchange terse nods to me, then focus their attention on the real action. The stage holds two chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls.

I stare at the two paper slips in the girls' ball. One of them have Sagitarra Scrymgeour written on it in careful handwriting.

One of the two chairs fill with Mayor Hagnerth, who's a tall, balding man, and Danno Lian, District 5's escort, fresh from the Capitol with his sharp black suit and blue, dress tie. They murmur to each other and then look with concern at we three victors standing on the stage.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.