F*ck the Odds - 42nd Hunger Games

Chapter 1

The blood was spreading. Lana hadn't noticed. Hands sliding nervously over her skirt as she stood in line with all of the other girls her age, Lana froze. Looking down quickly, she saw what she feared. Her fingertip was still bleeding from the finger prick at the check in. Her anxious smoothing of her skirt had left a thin streak of blood blooming bright red and vibrant against the washed out white linen. Lana bit her lip, Mother would be so cross at her. Had she been at home, she could have blotted the spot instantly to try to prevent it from staining. But there was no leaving the line up now. Their District's escort for the Games, a strange man from the Capitol, had just stepped on stage and was making a show of waving to the crowds. 

The Reaping was about to begin. 

His smile was big and fake and blindingly white against his blue tinted skin. She would never understand the styles of the Capitol. Her friend Ellie's family were tailors that specialized in some of the more outlandish fashions that were popular in Capitol City. Naturally, Ellie's family was one of the wealthiest in District Eight. It didn't stop Ellie from taking Lana into their workroom to poke fun at the outrageous clothes. They would laugh and laugh until their sides hurt.

Ellie was a row ahead of Lana. Too far to the left to whisper any words of encouragement or share a snicker of the Escort's ensemble this year, layers of suit coats and frilled collars. Still, despite how ridiculous it was, Lana was sometimes jealous of Ellie. She wished that her family could make things for the Capitol, if only to bring in that Capitol money. But their products were often deemed too humble.

Lana's family were knitters. Her father was a spinner, from a family of spinners. He took in shipments of raw wool from Ten and carded and spun it into wool. It was really a perfect marriage because her mother was from a knitting family. Lana, her mother and all three of Lana's sisters knit and her two brothers, the twins, were learning to spin. Luckily, they weren't in the Reaping yet. Lana often helped her father spin, even though her mother disapproved. 

Her eyes skimmed the crowd. There were too many people between her and where her younger sisters were. Netta was fourteen and Ruche was twelve, her first Reaping. She had cried all night. Turning, she looked back through the older girls behind her, and managed to see her elder sister, Frill. A nervous smile came to her lips. Frill didn't smile back.

Dropping her eyes, she looked back to the blue-dyed, white haired escort as he approached the podium. Trestor Maximus. He spoke in an affected, languid way. Ordinarily that might be amusing, but when they were waiting to hear who among them was Selected to be killed in the Games, it was torture. Each rolling vowel made Lana's skin crawl. She wasn't the only one. The subtle fitting and soft groaning of the crowd was evident. Finally, Trestor flourished an arm toward the screen set The recorded video of the President played. The video from President Snow was the same as it had been the past few years, Lana found herself tuning it out. The anthem was sung. Lana opened her mouth but couldn't find her voice. 

Instead she wondered if there was something she could knit that President Snow would like. It was late in the game for bribery, but her mind imagined him taking a Merino scarf in his strong but refined hands. His fingers rubbing the fabric together to marvel at its softness. He would look up at her then, his serious face breaking into one of those rare smiles. There was no man that Lana had ever seen who was so compose and refined. Every action of his was elegant. He would drape the scarf around his neck, light sky blue would go great with his eyes, and stand back for her to admire him. Then he would say, "Lana, my dear, a masterful artisan like you belongs in the Capitol. Come, bring your family and I'll set you up with a fine house. The Hunger Games is no place for an artist like yourself-"

Trestor Maximus cleared his throat at the microphone. Lana snapped painfully back to reality.

Her heart was thundering in her chest. She pressed her hands to her chest and could feel it thumping against her ribs. Had her finger stopped bleeding? She wondered. Or was the blood blooming across her chest like a bleeding heart? This had been a hard year. Frill had taken tessera. From the second that she did so, every moment that passed was a moment closer to the Reaping and what felt like the inevitability that they would lose her. If it happens, if Frill is taken, she will be fine. She is strong. When we wrestled as little girls, she could always grab me and throw me down to the ground without effort. She'll be okay....What am I saying? It won't be her. Probably one of the poorer girls. One who has had to take a lot of tessera.

The escort spun the glass barrel, reached his blueish hand in and stepped back to the microphone with a smile on his face as if he was overjoyed to announce the lucky winner. It was so fast. She had heard that moments like this made the world seem to slow down. But this felt like time was rushing forward. As she tried to will it to stop, it gushed forward like water from a burst pipe. He was speaking, so casually. Death sentences ought to be read with a little solemnity. "The female tribute from District Eight will be..." Lana's heart stopped. Not Frill, please not Frill. When the man spoke, the name did not begin with the 'F' sound and Lana let out a puff of relieved air. There was a small gasp amongst the girls around here and Lana looked back and forth. What had the man said? Who was the unfortunate? She looked back and forth. But everyone was looking at her.

"Lana Cimmons? Where are you, dear?" The escort's voice cut through the haze in her mind. She looked up, startled. As she stood there, the faces of those around her either looking at her with a mixture of pity for her state and relief for their own, she struggled to believe it. At sixteen she had never taken tesserae. There were only six chances out of the huge barrel that it would be her name pulled. It couldn't be right. But looking up into the wide, white smile of Trestor Maximus, she felt the heavy truth hit her. She, with her dress already stained with blood, was the female Tribute for District 8.