Stone, Earth, and Boundless Sea. The Hunger Games

Chapter 2: The Tributes

CHAPTER TWO:
The Tributes.

The 72nd Reaping Day.
Noon.

     FOR ALL POLLY tried to avoid looking out at the crowd, the moment she looked up, she immediately spotted her dad. There, boxed in on all sides by unfamiliar people from other towns, frozen in place. What was he even supposed to do? What can he do? What can anyone do?

     She could feel a haze glide over her. Her mouth went dry, and her throat tightened up. Her breathing certainly hadn't been coming easy before, but now it took a forceful, focused punch to keep her lungs pulsing inside her rib cage. Polly was a tribute now. She was— she was going to have to go into the arena. She was the next lamb sacrifice at the Capitol's altar. Polly's hands tightened into fists until she could feel her fingernails pierce the skin of her palm. She swallowed until she could control the well of tears pushing at her waterline.

     This was live. Her torture, her death sentence, was being broadcasted live all across Panem. President Snow was watching. The new Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, was watching. All of her future opponents would definitely be watching her reaping on their way to the Capitol, and she was angry. Polly Wickerwood was so angry she could—

     Now was not the time to cry. She already knew she didn't look like much to a Career— the District 1's and 2's that trained for this. She wasn't particularly short by any means, in fact, her height was just another one of the many traits she gleaned from her father, but she was skinny, brittle-looking. She knew that to the Careers she probably looked like she could be blown over by a particularly strong breath. But the damsel in distress, weakest link strategy had been played. There was probably a change in Career curriculum after Johanna Mason won last year with that trick. So, Polly set her jaw to the point of risking cracking a molar. 

     "Congratulations Polly!" Art said, and it took every ounce of force in her to stop herself from letting out a shrill laugh. Congratulations! You get to die at the ripe age of eighteen, but not before being groomed to appease the Capitol audience and brutalized by other children! "But, that's not all, of course. Now, it's time for the boys."

     Polly figured out that looking up past the crowd to the skyline of factories on the edge of St. Louis made it easier to avoid finding Lacey or Peter or her father or any other Beulah citizens in the crowd. The familiar faces made Polly feel like she was going to vomit or cry or both.

     Art stalked over to the boys' bowl, and Polly felt like she was being mocked. All the blank stares that replaced the relief on the girls' faces, the apprehension and nausea on the boys' side, the parents patting her father's shoulders, the slow and purposeful steps of Art Welleran. The sounds blended together into a dark laughter, the music of Polly's nightmares.

     He picked the first paper he came across this time, not wasting any time by digging about, searching for the poor soul who would be thrown to the carnivorous Capitol wolves. The closer Art came as he walked back to the microphone, the more Polly wanted to flinch away. It wasn't solely his fault for her being picked. The Capitol as an institution was to blame, but it was his hand who chose which paper to read. He hadn't laid a hand on her, but Polly felt like he had personally thrown the ax that was chopping off her head.

     "And the male tribute from District 8 for the 72nd annual Hunger Games is..." Art introduced, "Flax Galway!"

     A strangled cry ripped from a motherly voice in the crowd. The thump of a body collapsing, the metallic clank of Peacekeeper armor clanging against itself, the clicking off of the safety mechanism on an automatic firearm. A boy was pushed out into the middle aisle between the boys and the girls by a teenager at least a foot taller than him. He stumbled over his own two feet.