Nothing Personal

District Eight Reaping

Eight was eerily silent without the machines chuntering away in the background. The people said nothing as they piled into the square, squinting against the glaring sun. Younger teenagers hovered between clinging desperately to their parents and looking cool in front of their friends; the older ones favoured the latter, trying to set a good example. Most of them wanted to run to their parents and hug them too. All were wearing shabby, worn out clothes, a startling contrast to the luxurious constructions that they made on a daily basis. Many had sewn random buttons or scraps into their sleeves in a desperate attempt to bring some life into the dull proceedings.

The adults hovered around the edges of the square, nobody wanting to be too close to the middle. Someone had noticed that the families standing in the centre of the square,  clustered around the bronze statue of a previous victor - ordered by her for 'inspiration' shortly before she left for the Capitol and never came back - always tended to be the families whose children were reaped. Unlike District Four, Eight were not superstitious, but anything that would possibly stop their precious children being reaped was a good thing. Many were carrying locks of hair in lockets around their necks, or holding a slip of paper with the child's first word on it, or carrying their first pair of shoes, all of which was said to help avoid them being reaped. There was no evidence for any of this, but people did it anyway.

Two boys were stood in the eighteen year old boy's pen, both of them tall and lanky even for District Eight. One had vivid ginger curls and was watching the stage warily with solid blue eyes, and the other had black hair plastered slickly to his skull and was looking backwards, surveying the crowd with sharp, analytical eyes.

"Don't you think," he said to nobody in particular, "that this is a bit like chess?"

His friend smiled indulgently, used to his little quirks. Besides, it helped to not take the reaping too seriously. "How do you mean?" he asked, leaning backwards on the pen.

"I mean that we're being lined up against each other, completely subject to the whims of someone else. Being manouevered around a board - arena, if you will - for someone else's enjoyment."

"So what you're saying is that we're just pawns?"

"Put simply, yes."

Pause. His friend looked at him from under his vivid fringe, recognising with a sinking feeling the look on his friend's face. He had an idea.

"I'm a chess champion. I could play their game."

"Oh, Seb, no..."

"Why not? It's about time someone went with strategy rather than brawn." His friend sighed. It would be impossible to convince Seb otherwise, but he thought that every year someone went with strategy. It never seemed to work. The Careers could usually deal with them.

"No, they're clever but they've not got strategy, they've got tactics," insisted Seb. His friend jumped; Seb often seemed to read his mind. It was no wonder nobody else talked to him.

"What's the difference?" he drawled without thinking, then put up his hand to stop the inevitable answer, "No, don't tell me. I'll work it out."

"I'll tell you when I get back."

"It's been nice knowing you." Seb didn't even acknowledge the sentiment, or the genuine feeling behind it. His mind was already wheeling on, thinking. His friend pushed on.

"You're not taking this seriously, Seb. Please. You'll die. No more Seb. No more chess, no more District Eight, no more nothing."

"Only if you lose." Seb was so calm that everyone squinting at the pens thought they were just talking about the weather - grey and miserable, just like usual. His friend ran a hand through his hair, exasperated, and hurled himself onto the fence next to him. "Seb, please. I don't want to lose you; neither does Milly or Gaz or your parents..."