District Ten Reaping

[Elletnah™ The JabberJay]

Another reaping, of every day out of the year this was one he dreaded the most. Reaping day was tense and everyone in the district was always on edge, whether they had children or not, on reaping day everyone was family. The mayor of district 10 rose early and over saw the set up of the dusty district square, the capitolite smiled and gigled over the littlest things and it made his stomache churn, how could they possibly enjoy something like this? His own daughter would be entering the reaping for the second time this year and it made him even more tense thinking of his little girl fighting it out to the death because no one was there to volunteer for her.

After the set up was complete John returned home to reassure his daughter that all would be well. He put his best suit on and parted with his daughter and the check in station. He went to the podium and prepared himself for the speech he had to make every year. After all the children had filed into their little rows John approached the microphone and repeated the same speech that he has said every year since he became mayor.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentleman. Today is the day we have all been waiting! Reaping Day!! As always we will recite the treaty of treason and then get on with the show." He said as cheerily as possible.

After unfurling a long sheet of paper Mayor Kiyfka cleared his throat, "In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public Reaping. These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol, and then transferred to a public arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games." He smiled and turned to the
flamboyantly dressed woman behind him, "And now I shall turn you over to the ever capable hands of Elfea Charm."

Elfea approached the microphone grinning broadly, "Lets not wast a moment and get right down to what we all came here for shall we, as always ladies first." It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop as Elfea's heels clicked accross the stage. She swirled her hand and with a flourish pulled out a sheet of paper.

Approaching the microphone yet again she cleared her throat and opened the paper, pausing for effect and smiling for the cameras she said, "Amelia Walker!"

"And now for the boys!" She said and followed the same routine, clearing her throat she smiled one last time and opened the sheet of paper saying, "Tribute Boy (No boys!!)!"

After both of the tributes had mounted the stage Elfea instructed them to shake hands. and escorted them off the stage and into the justice center.

[Raeoki]

Caritas Devhish’s father did a very silly thing last night. Just as Caritas was about to settle himself into his small, elderly bed, Joseph Devhish entered his young son’s quarters, his furry knuckles rapping faintly and politely against the thin door. He had lowered himself onto the bed; it creaked and moaned beneath the heavy weight – far heavier than any previous host the bed had borne. The poultry-raiser took Caritas by his waist and set the little fellow upon his knee; Caritas promptly proceeded to wriggle and try to slide off, for he had sat on his father’s knee since he was six, and he found this all rather embarrassing. But his father held him fast; and he began, his voice gentle, his speech hesitant: “The – reaping – is tomorrow.”

“Yeah!” Caritas replied, as lightly as if his father had just named another day in the week. “What about it?”

Devhish opened his mouth; he wrinkled his brow, as if a sharp pang was suddenly within him, and closed it again. He stretched his mouth around for a very short spell, and then proceeded with his explanation: “You’re twelve, and – and this means…that you may be…”

“Become a tribute,” Caritas said with a small shrug. “What about it?”

Here, Devhish flinched, and blinked at his little son. He examined the boy’s face, to look for any contours, any signs of emotion: there weren’t any. The countenance of Caritas was completely relaxed, still; the eyes revealed nothing. Devhish’s eyes blinked once, twice; he set his rough palm on Caritas’s knee. “Aren’t – aren’t you frightened?”

Caritas’s mouth instantly yanked itself into a large grin that stretched long across his little face. “Nope!” he exclaimed, his voice high, like the little squeak of one of his father’s chicks.

Devhish wrapped his fingers around Cartias’s bony knee; his eyelids fluttered up and down with speed of a bird flapping its wings, and his brows were gradually knitting themselves together, the skin betwixt them creasing into a trio of minute hills. For a few seconds, his tongue was numb, and felt very heavy in his mouth, more like lead than muscle, and it weighed heavily down on the floor of his mouth, making his lower jaw sag slightly. After a few moments, lead made the transmogrification to muscle again, and he managed to stammer: “But, Caritas – what if you’re picked?”

“Then it shall be better that way,” Caritas replied promptly, his hands clasped and set upon his lap, and his posture erect. “Cause then, that means that all the other boys get to go home, and they can continue doin’ what they do – and stuff!”

Devhish paused for a long time, his dark eyes fixated onto the icy blue ones set into Caritas’s face. “Caritas,” he breathed, “are – are you – really?”

“Yup.” Caritas nodded; and the large, cheerful smile that was fixed onto his face suddenly twitched, becoming far harder than any grin a child ought to possess, and became dutiful and confident – as if he was performing an act that he had been born to; what his body, what his movements had formulated to perform, and he had been performing since the day of his birth.

Devhish looked at this smile; his large body became very still, and the muscles beneath the skin were stiff, and Devhish soon found that he could not relax. It felt as if the bones in his spine had suddenly crystalized, becoming ice that chilled his organs and everything else that was within his body. The ice spread up his spin, into his mouth; once again, his tongue was numb and heavy, and his mouth opened so he looked like a fish as it suffocates on dry land. At first, Caritas did not pay this any heed; but after a few moments, the smile gradually diminished and the corners dipped, and the mouth was now a small, slightly irritated frown. A single eyebrow lifted higher on his forehead, and Caritas gave his father a small poke in the sternum. “You all right?” he grunted.

Joshua Devhish did not respond; his body convulsed as he jerked his son closer to him in a squeezing embrace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His father could be so dumb at times. There was no need for that little show Joshua Devhish had put on; first of all, Devhish hadn’t even allowed Caritas to request any tesserae, and thus – as he was twelve, and twelve year old children are only required to have a single slip of paper with their name on it – his chances of being reaped were very slim. Besides, even if he was reaped, what was the point of being all emotional about it. Dozens of children had been butchered on live television before; why did it matter if one more soul be lost to the wretched fray? Yet, somehow, his father managed to bring himself to care – and why? Because the poor old fool held preference – he preferred Caritas over all the other little boys in District Ten. And, for this reason, Caritas could not help but join the other twelve-year-old boys at the back of the crowd of nervous youngsters with his face downcast and his heart heavy with shame. Preference was a sign of selfishness; selfishness was a sign of decadence – and decadence was the offspring of evil. And to think that his father – a man Caritas knew tried to be virtuous, to be good, to be charitable – would stoop so distastefully…Caritas could not help but cringe, and how the other boys did not recognize him.

He thought about earlier that morning, at breakfast. His father could not eat; his mother hadn’t even bothered preparing any food for herself. And whilst he happily devoured scrambled eggs, Caritas looked up at them, and squeezed his forked tightly, letting the edges dig into his skin, leaving behind thin, reddish stripes on the sides of his finger that tingled a little. He knew why they didn’t eat: they were nervous; they feared for him. Caritas forced himself not snort as he had thought of this. It was all so silly! If only they didn’t hold such preference; such selfishness – then there would be no worry in their lives, and what better lives they would have then! If only they could celebrate the reaping day with the vigor that the state expected of them; to know that they were controlled – that they were being taken care of by the Capitol. Then they would be free; for freedom can only be found in slavery. And they would be just as happy as he was.

When Mayor Kiyfka stepped forth, heartily addressing the audience and proceeding with the annual reading of the Treaty of the Treason, Caritas listened to it eagerly, his ears scooping up each word and bringing it to his brain for it to happily and greedily process. He had always done this during reaping day; he relished the words of power, of control – the words the were the prevailing evidence that Caritas and all those who were not of the Capitolite origin had no power, no control, and no will.

It was strange, how so many of his peers discussed their abhorrence of the Games and it’s system in the most private of whispers to only the closest of friends and family. Caritas could not understand it – did they not listen to the history teacher when he spoke of the Dark Days? Were they oblivious to what chaos would rock all of Panem if the Hunger Games were not there to quell the districts? Surely, knowing the foulness and savagery of common citizens, humanity would be condemned to another near-extinction, as had occurred before Panem was born. The Hunger Games was a necessity; and to go in and die to preserve the order and stability of the country was, to Caritas, a selfless honor and virtuous privilege.

That was why that Caritas did not cringe in terror as the escort bounded up to the microphone – unlike his peers, who fidgeted in their fear and selfishness. Compared to them, Caritas was unmovable, unchangeable: a rock shaped into the form of a lanky little boy, with one set expression, a single set pose.

The escort did not take too long as she addressed the crowd; as she had said, she didn’t wish to “waste a moment”. Immediately, she scampered up to the bowl, and withdrew from it a slip of paper. Caritas glanced at the mass of young females that were separated from the males by a straight path that cut through the middle of the plaza. He saw them squirm; thought he heard a few faint whimpers rise like sorrowful spirits from the mob of little women. Caritas pressed his lips together, and he furrowed his brow in agitation; for he could not feel pity for fools who wallowed in self-pity and selfishness and cowardice.

“Amelia Walker!” Caritas heard the escort announce; immediately the majority of the girls’ bodies sagged, as if their muscles had been bunching up together, but now had suddenly loosened. Caritas flared his nostrils, and his heart pricked with anger and his stomach lurched with disgust. He gladly turned his face from them, just in time to watch the girl – Amelia Walker – walk upon the stage. Caritas noticed – but not really thought much of it – that was a rather small-sized girl, and didn’t look much older than he was.

"And now for the boys!" declared the escort, before she hastily tip-toed to the boys’ bowl, and then bustled back to the microphone. Her delicate fingers opened up the folded slip of paper, she read: “Caritas Devhish!”

Often, when one tries to imagine what goes through a fellow’s mind when they are reaped, one imagines shock, fear, despair – such was not the case with Caritas. He felt nothing. Promptly, he proceeded to the path that halved the district square, his face avoid of any emotions. Then, he remembered what he had always philosophized about the Hunger Games – it’s great and perfect purpose, how rightly the rebellious districts deserved such a yoke, how it was an honor to be a piece in the Capitol’s game. And then his straight stoicism became bliss: his smile stretched wide across his countenance, growing through the cheeks, reaching the ears; his walk became a small, jerk-like skip as he continued on toward the stage. Out of the corners of his eyes, Caritas thought he saw a few people staring at him in bewilderment; some even in – spite, did it look like? Caritas’s grin grew, and the muscles in his face became strained and tingled a little in pain, but Caritas did not permit the smile to diminish – he wanted all of Panem to see it; for the grin was a badge: a badge of perfection; of virtuousness; of chastity; evidence that he was morally superior to every single person in that square.

He bounded up the stairs to the stage; he beamed at the escort, and said to her in a high, chirpy voice: “Thanks a bunch!” Caritas passed her, not bothering to see her expression; he headed straight for Amelia, and thrust his small hand towards for her to take and shake. “Nice to meet yah!”

[Deleted]

Rally The District!

We need to rally all the District members here for the annual Hunger Games! It seems to us officials that not every spot here has been claimed by someone. Currently the female spot are open to be taken from another member.

If you currently have more than one character in the games at the moment, then you are not eligible to take the spot.

[Elletnah™ The JabberJay]

Rally The District!

We need to rally all the District members here for the annual Hunger Games! It seems to us officials that not every spot here has been claimed by someone. Currently the female spot are open to be taken from another member.

If you currently have more than one character in the games at the moment, then you are not eligible to take the spot.