Chapter Text
You would think Reaping Day gets easier when you know you can’t be drawn anymore. It does not. Sitting on the stage, knowing exactly what awaits the two kids whose names are called; that’s a special kind of torture.
The mayor is holding a speech about the history of our country and the significance of the Hunger Games. It’s the same speech every year. I’m not really listening. I don’t think anyone is. We don’t need the reminder. Watching the Games is enough to know exactly what the Capitol wants us to remember.
As the speech drones on, I let my eyes wander over the crowd. The reaping always takes place in this huge sports stadium. Only the eligible kids are allowed in. Everyone else watches it on screens outside. Since the stadium is open air, a quarter of the seats are in bright sunlight. Thousands of eyes squint down at the stage. Luckily it‘s not too hot, even in the afternoon sun. Wouldn’t do for a tribute to arrive in the Capitol with a heatstroke.
Still, even in the shade I’m sweating in my dark suit jacket. I know I have nothing to be afraid about anymore, but something about being on the stage in the middle of the stadium, makes my skin prickle.
The stage only covers a small circle on the grass in the arena. We sit, elevated on metal plates, on sleek black chairs set up in a half circle surrounding the microphone.
On either side of the mayor are two pedestals with a glass ball on top, filled with small pieces of paper.
Toady’s the one day of the year where everything stands still. Since viewing the reaping is mandatory, only the absolute necessities are running. The factories shut down and cacophony of machines and electrical humming quiets. It’s as if our district was holding its breath along with us.
The Mayor finishes his speech by reading the names of our district’s victors. For the first time in sixteen years a new name is added to the list. Henry Skalice. My name.
Polite applause comes from the crowd. You can’t blame them for not being too enthusiastic, the worst is yet to come. It begins now, as the mayor calls Hynek Jevisovsky to the microphone.
Hynek is his real name. Here in Three we call him the Dry Devil.
Dry Devil is a every child’s nightmare. The man with the scary grin and scarred face that will take you away to the Capitol if you don’t behave.
The dry part of his name comes from the fact that he delivers the reaping with all the enthusiasm of a weather report. Either that or from his voice which is grating and rough, as if he’s been smoking two packs of cigarettes a day for half his life.
“Happy Hunger Games, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he says. His voice booms through the stadium.
He might be in his fourties, but you never know with the Capitolites. Looking your age is a capital crime there. Today Dry Devil is dressed in a wine red suit. It clashes perfectly with his ginger hair, which is still in a ridiculous bowl cut. But aside from the dropped shoulders and puffed sleeves it looks normal enough.
He’s certainly not as bad as the guy we had before. Ulrich always showed up in full military getup and liked making a show of the reaping. My mentors told me he also regularly beat tributes who didn’t follow his plans to a T. Suffice to say, the Devil is harmless in comparison.
With his usual nonchalance he walks over the glass ball filled with thousands of paper slivers. His hand, fingernails all varnished black, hovers over the bowl, before pulling out a single paper. He returns to the microphone and opens it. I hold my breath.
“The female tribute of District Three is… Jitka Kunstadt.”
Relief floods me for a moment before guilt washes after it. Just because she’s not my friend doesn’t mean she’s not doomed.
There’s movement in the seats. The girl must be roughly sixteen from her position in the stadium. The others in her row stand up to let her through. A guard escorts her down the steps and onto the field. She’s wearing a preppy navy dress and her dark hair flows like a veil down her back. Her head is held high and she doesn’t stumble as she takes her silent walk up to the scaffold.
Shes takes her place on the stage and holds her hands behind her back. I can see her fingernails, nail-beds bitten red.
Dry Devil follows her with his eyes, then asks the crowd if anyone wants to volunteer. The silence is answer enough. It’s not that we never have volunteers, but those have never won.
The Devil notes the silence with a nod, then turns to the other ball.
“And now for the boys.”
For a moment I think he says my name. That the past year was just a dream, and in a moment I will climb the stage again. Blood rushes in my ears and I barely hear the name he calls.
“The male tribute of District Three is Hans Capon.”
A sharp inhale sounds to my right. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe it’s a twelve year old? No one’s happy when a young teen is drawn.
A murmur runs through the crowd, but no one stands up. Dry Devil repeats the name and finally the group of seventeen year olds lets a boy through.
His bright yellow shirt makes it look like there’s a spotlight following him. The boy’s blond hair is gelled back, his face is blank. Seems he’s in the denial stage.
As he takes the steps up to the stage, his eyes meet mine and suddenly something clicks. I’ve seen him before, at the victory celebration in the justice building. He’s the mayor’s nephew. I don’t think we spoke, but I remember not liking him. Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t feel sorry for him. His name couldn’t have been in there more than six times, that’s just bad luck.
Once he’s taken his place on the stage, Hynek again asks for volunteers. Again, no one does.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the tributes of the sixty-seventh Hunger Games.”
The crowd gives polite applause. Dry Devil has the tributes shake hands, then he ushers them off the stage and into the corridors under the seats.
The mayor follows him with quick steps. A pair of peacekeepers escort us victors after them. We enter the corridor just as the footsteps of thousands of teenagers begin to rumble above.
Last year I didn’t really take it all in. More concerned with the prospect of my imminent death. But now I have all the time in the world. It’s not much to look at. White concrete corridors lit by long strips of lamps overhead. Identical anthracite grey doors along the walls.
As we enter the foyer, Jitka and Hans disappear into an elevator with a peacekeeper.
The tributes have one hour to say goodbye to their loved ones. For at least one of them that means forever.
Two people, who must be Jitka’s parents, are already at the door and are swiftly escorted to the elevator. The mayor on the other hand is arguing spiritedly with Dry Devil. I try to drown out their voices, I know begging is no use. The Hunger Games stop before no one.
“Ready to go?” I turn around and meet Godwin’s expectant gaze. I nod. I’ve already said goodbye to my parents before the ceremony. No point in having them push through the crowd of parents waiting for their children.
Godwin was my mentor last year. He won this thing decades ago and in contrast to the people in the Capitol, he looks every bit like the 61 he is.
This year him and I will be mentors together. The oldest and the youngest victor of district three.
I don’t know what wisdom I have to offer to these tributes. But I guess the Capitol wants to introduce me to my new roll as soon as possible. Strike while the iron is hot, the memory still fresh. To me it feels like a reminder that being a Victor doesn’t mean shit. You survive only to spend the rest of your life watching others die.
We say goodbye to the other victors, and are taken outside, where a black car waits for us. Its a twenty minute drive to the train station. Apparently we avoided the worst of the traffic that inevitably follows when you put every child in the district in one place.
The city drifts by us. Glass towers glitter in the sun. The southern sky is clear for once. Usually a thick cloud of smoke hangs over the industrial wards. The further we move from the city center, the more glass and steel give way to concrete and bricks.
We exit the car and head into the old industrial train station. This is the place where traffic between our district and the Capitol happens. Its a large hall, the walls are made of red bricks like almost every building on this side of town. Sunlight filters through the dirty glass roof, which probably hasn’t been cleaned since the times trains ran on coal. Not that we don’t still derive power from coal, mind you. Whatever electricity they make in District Five is reserved for the Capitol.
Freight trains loaded with everything from coal to cars are waiting for traffic to resume tomorrow. And at one platform stands our train. Its sleek silver hull gleams in the light like a freshly polished sword. Godwin and I quickly step inside. I’m sure I’ll have ample opportunity to admire the metal work later. This thing will be my home twice a year for the rest of my life.
The train‘s interior is just as polished as its exterior. Sleek metal walls, soft carpet floors, and large windows. The carriage we’ve entered is a kind of lounge area. Three couches form a C, opposite which a large TV is mounted on the wall. Off to the side there’s a table with refreshments.
Godwin pours himself a whiskey. I’d tell him not to drink before we’ve even talked to the tributes, but I suspect this isn’t his first drink today. I settle for a glass of chilled water from a crystal pitcher.
I sit down on one of the couches, which gives me a good view out the window. When the tributes come, I’ll see them. Godwin sits down across from me. He unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a sip of his drink. Then he asks, “So what do you think of them?”
I shrug. What do I think of them? My first impression wasn’t exactly positive.
“I’m glad they’re no kids, at least.”
He nods. “I’m glad too. And they’re rich, so hopefully they know how to behave in front of a camera.”
I leave the crude humor uncommented and say, “I’ve met the boy before and I have a feeling he’s gonna be difficult.”
Godwin chuckles. “If he’s anything like his uncle, you might be right. But remember, Henry,” his expression sobers, “it’s our job to help them survive, no matter what we think.”
I nod and turn to the window. We stay silent for a while. Godwin and the other victors have already given me a thorough run down of what to expect from mentorship, and any introductions will have to wait until we’re in the Capitol.
The rest of the hour passes without incident. Peacekeepers and mechanics scurry around the train station. Godwin and I move on to more casual topics; what food we look forward to, what the stylists might have designed, what outrageous hair color Caesar Flickerman might have this year. The conversation is easy, safe.
I don’t even notice the arrival of the others, until Dry Devil throws open the sliding door with full force.
“Here we are, fresh from the auction house.”
He unceremoniously saunters over to the refreshments table and drinks something blood red straight from the bottle.
The tributes walk in after him. Jitka takes a seat at the very edge of the couch, legs crossed and hands folded. I scoot a little closer and offer her my hand. “I’m Henry,” I say. I reckon she already knows that.
She shakes it. “Jitka.”
Hans, who’s followed Devil to the drinks, doesn’t bother with introductions. He mixes some neon yellow concoction of juice and spirit, complete with ice and a lemon slice garnish. After a long sip he leans back against the bar.
Godwin raises his glass in his direction. “Here’s a tribute after my own heart.”
I bite my tongue and say nothing. While I can’t say it’s not my problem if the tribute’s drinker, I won’t deny a man his last drink either.
With a quiet whirring the train comes to life and begins pulling out of the station. Within minutes we’ve left the boundaries of the city. The countryside begins to fly past us. Open fields turn into lush forests and winding rivers.
The TV plays the other reapings. Since our districts is one of the last, we only catch the ones from two and one live. As career districts their tributes are tall and strong as usual. I don’t see why they even bother drawing the lots, when they always have volunteers anyway. We see the rest of the tributes in the recap. All twenty four of them flash by. Hans comments freely on the others, Jitka only occasionally replies. When three is shown they’re both quiet. Hans makes a face when the do a close up of him and runs his fingers through his hair. Is he seriously worried about how he looks? That was the last thing on my mind.
The other escorts also catch my eye. This year extreme silhouettes seem to be trending. There’s one lady in a floor length fur coat, even though it must be scorching hot in district ten. The guy in four is sporting a shimmering blue ensemble with what can only be described as a wasp waist. Really puts Dry Devil, who’s lounging on the couch with Godwin, into perspective.
The tributes eventually withdraw to their cabins to shower or change or just to be alone for a moment. I stay in the lounge with Godwin and Hynek, only half listening to their gossip on the Capitol. Watching the empty land pass by, I try to think of nothing at all, until a young attendant comes in to tell us dinner is served in the dining car.
‘Dinner’ is a lavish buffet of all kinds of food; casseroles kept in heated trays, several types of cold cut meat, a small salad bar, a plate of artfully arranged fruit. Last year I was absolutely overwhelmed by the choices, but I’ve developed a palate and a method now.
The two tributes join us, now dressed in more casual clothes. While Jitka doesn’t seem to have an appetite, Hans loads a bit of everything on his plate. My gaze apparently lingers on him for too long, because he defensively says, “What? I might be dead in two weeks. I’ll enjoy life while I can.”
“It doesn’t harm your chances to put on a few pounds before the game,” Godwin says. “Searching for food will be one of your main priorities.”
“They’re not called the Hunger Games for nothing.” Dry Devil adds.
Hans nods and raises a brow in my direction, as if to say ‘see, I was right’. I just roll my eyes and return my attention to the roast beef.
After dinner, Godwin tells the tributes to get some sleep, because they have another long day ahead of them. I also decide to call it a day. My cabin is easily identified by the paper plaque beside the door. Underneath my name smaller letters denotes me as ‘Assistant Mentor’.
With a press of a button the door slides open. The cabin is functionally identical to the one I was in last year, both before and after the Games as well as during the tour. It’s spacious, almost the size of a full room, with dark paneled walls and carpet flooring. Another door of to the side leads to a bathroom. Golden lamps stand on the dresser and nightstands, bathing the cabin in dim light. The bed is large enough to fit two. I know because Bianca and I shared it, the one night we were on this train together. Suddenly the room feels colder.
I close the door and get to undressing. I’ve barely gotten out of my shoes, before there’s a knock. Godwin stands in the corridor, looking like the picture of tranquility with his fingers intertwined over his stomach.
With a smile I say, “Hi Godwin. What can I help you with?”
Maybe there’s a secret mentor supper no one’s told me about yet.
“I just wanted to remind you of something, in case I forget tomorrow.”
A frown replaces the smile on my face. I look at him expectantly.
“This is a test for you as well.”
Godwin means well, but the reminder is unnecessary. Since the tour I’ve been to more times than I can count that my performance as a Victor and Mentor would be closesly judged. My mentors said the Capitol was keeping their eyes on me, because… How did they put it? Ah yes, I moved from heartbroken lover to vengeful system critic a little too quickly.
I exhale quickly and give him a nod.
“I know. I’ll smile and wave and be grateful.”