✓ | Iron ↠ The Hunger Games

one ━ weighing the odds

CHAPTER ONE;
weighing the odds

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     Little shade is provided by the dry, sun-shrivelled shrubs around the lake, although the tremendous shadow cast by the overhead railroad bridge is a cool enough place for Vesper to rest. Bolt's flimsy cap that she swiped earlier seems to do the trick, too.

Here she lies, to have a much deserved nap — or at least try to, despite it being nearly impossible with the boisterous racket some of her friends are making. The cap masks her face perfectly, shielding her from the sunlight that shines radiantly in the cloudless, cornflower-blue sky above. Every few minutes there's a whisper of a breeze, growing more frequent as time goes on, and it caresses her rough hands as they lie on her abdomen, fingers intertwined in the middle. It's only now that she feels the effort put into a day's work; it drags her down to the earth, and renders her weak. This happens every time she comes home for the weekend. It's a miracle that Blythe can even drag her out of bed before lunch, sometimes.

Sometimes, on the bad days, Vesper isn't sure whether that ache is from the labour her work brings... whatever she can call that... or if it's the psychological tricks her mind plays on her. The days where she has nothing to throw herself into, it becomes much easier to dwell on simply how rotten her luck is. Especially since last autumn...

     Work is done for the day. The afternoon is theirs, spent however they wish, providing that they return to the workshop in time to catch the train home. And, assuming she doesn't get picked tomorrow, of course, work will return to normal the following week. Seizing the summer's day, she and her fellow mechanics set out for a few hours of freedom — and now, with a belly full of homemade sandwiches and the strain in her muscles resurfacing after hours of working with virtually no breaks, it's about time that Vesper squeezed in a nap under the shade.

She's fallen asleep under this bridge countless times in her life, each year trying to block out any thoughts about the Reaping day that will follow. With time, it seems the people who have joined her have accumulated. At age twelve, just her. Thirteen, Axel and Kirk. Fourteen, Cheyenne and Bolt, and at fifteen last year, little Icarus tagged along for his first year in the Reapings.

A perplexed sigh comes from Vesper's right, and there's no question about who it belongs to. "Why are they like that?" Cheyenne asks, her voice laced with the particular annoyance that it always is.

"Who?" Vesper replies, her response delayed — only after a few seconds of expectant silence did she realise that the girl was talking to her.

"The boys."

Grunting, she shields her eyes from the sudden blast of sunlight that grasps her eyes when she removes the cap, and pushes herself up so she's propped on her elbows. Cheyenne stands with Icarus (who's too preoccupied with skipping rocks across the water) as she squints at the trio sat a stone's throw away. It's a tableau vivant of boys being boys if there ever was one — Axel, the eldest of them all, is known to possess a maturity that can ground the group in times of need... but equally, he can be as childish as the rest of them. Right now, for instance, he guffaws as a spectator to Kirk, undeniably the jester of this sibling-like pack, who wrestles the slightly careful but still as wild Bolt — namely, Cheyenne's brother.

Still, even if they are twins, Bolt could never hold the same sharpness in their freakishly identical, gunmetal blue eyes as his sister does. "They're so childish," she continues, her arms folded across her chest as she frowns. "Even when tomorrow's the—"