Chapter One Sting, District 4 My muscles ripple as I bring the trident down into the fish's rough skin. His blood stains the clear water a dark red that will soon attract sharks if I don't move quickly. I pull the fish that's easily seventy pounds onto the ship with ease. "Good job laddie," Shylo claps me on the shoulder. "Thank you sir, I think we can get at least forty for it." "We? You mean you! You did all the work Sting!" I shrug, "But you need it more, the money. You have kids to take care of. And a wife! I'll be fine for a day without eating." I shove the fish into his hands and sit down to start rowing. I ignore Shylo's words as I row us to the docks.
I like to watch the sun stain the sky orange as I row with my back to the docks and hubbub of the port towns. Especially today, this evening is the reaping. Two girls two boys twenty-four total sent to kill each other in a arena. Fun. Fantastic. Willow, District 11 I sit in a ball on the ground with my lungs struggling for air. Today is the reaping and I have my name in thirteen times. One because I have to when I turn twelve and the rest for grain and oil for my family. The chances of my name being drawn are slim, but I can't help but worry. My younger sister, Fauna and her twin, Flora come and sit next to me. They might only be seven, yet they understand I'm stressed and worried. They wrap their thin arms around me. Tan and strung with muscle from field work. I hug them back and bury my head in their long red hair. "We love you Will," Flora says followed by Fauna, almost in unison. They call me by my pet name.
"I love you guys too," I sit up smiling as they stare me down with their luminous grey eyes. That's another thing, I look different from anyone else in the district. I have curly black hair and light gold eyes that appear yellow. Whenever I ask my mom why I look so different she doesn't answer. The kids at school call my mom a whore that hooks up with Peacekeepers. Flora waves a hand in my face, "Hellllooo? Are you coming?" "Where?" Fauna sighs, "The square to see Quincy Towers!" They stand with their arms crossed waiting on me. I scramble to my feet and follow. Quincy Towers is the new announcer for the names for the drawing. Everyone is curious. I've heard his skin is naturally as black as night and he has gold tattoos stenciled all over his arms.
Sting, District 4 I comb my damp hair back, trying to get it so it doesn't stick up. But, regardless of my efforts, all of it immediately stands on end again. It's not like my hair is short, when it actually lays flat it's almost to my chin. Yet somehow it likes to look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket. I throw the comb down in exasperation and focus on my collar. It's wrinkled and uncomfortable. I only wear this shirt once a year, hell it's probably the only day I wear any shirt.
Btw this will be on GaW too. Same name with Arena spelled right X) It'll be written from two different points of view. I was thinking two of the following: A Gamekeeper Capitol Citizen District 1 tribute Someone's sibling A Peacekeeper who will keep the rioters in check (oh yes there will be riots...)
Sting, District 4 The square is crowded by the time I get there. Everyone is dressed up, nine out of ten look uncomfortable in their clothes. Like me, most of them are used to walking around next to naked. Why be bother by heat while you work? Besides, with less clothing you have a less likely chance of getting caught on something. I find the group marked 17, male and duck under the rope. It's packed full with boys my age with the same tan skin and blondish hair. We all have the same, basic looks but build wise we are as different as a duck and loaf of bread. While I'm nearing six foot and stocky, Zane is five foot tops and skinnier than a toothpick. He looks at up at me and I smile a warm smile. I can't help that I like people. And I'd do anything to take the edge off this. I look over to the girls group and spot Amelia's golden locks in the back of the group. I call out to her, to wish her good luck but my words are lost in feedback from a microphone. I automatically grimace at the high pitched wailing. After it stops, I look up, Finnick Odair stands on the stage. Everyone goes to hushed whispers if they dare talk at all. Finnick can be intimidating to say the least. He is taller than me by more than a few inches and the scars on his brazen skin mark him as tough. You'd have to be, to survive The Games. He smirks and uncrossed his arms to pick up the mike, "Sorry about that." Somehow he makes it sound genuine although he's probably laughing in his head, I would be too. "Welcome to the 67th annual Hunger Games. Before I turn it over to Dyson I'd like to say, May the odds ever be in your favor." I stare at him with everyone else thinking he's gone nuts. The boy, just two years ago who laughed bitterly at the Capitol, is using their sayings? It dawns on me he's playing pretty boy for the camera as he always is. The frizzy red headed man with flabby arms and grotesque looking features waddles over to Finnick to take the mike. Willow, District 11 Quincy looked nice and talked politely when my sisters and I talked to him hours ago. He had manners not seen in district 11 from people seated above you. But looking up at him from my position right in front of the stage, he looks scary and serious. Evil almost, and I have to remind my self he is, even if it's unwittingly. Ivy grips onto my hand hard. Her large eyes in her gaunt face are scared, I bet reflecting my own. She has her name in as many times as I do. And we are both the youngest. I hug her tightly and promise her there's no way her name will be drawn. Yet at the same time, I'm secretly hoping it does, just so I don't worry mine is. I let go and stand dead still next to her, following the commotion on stage. Quincy is moving the large glass balls to the front of the stage. I wish one would tip over and shatter, prolonging this event. But it doesn't and soon the mike is in his hand and the governor has already read the treaty. He greets us with a booming, " May the odds be ever in your favor." His hand reaches into the ball full of slips of paper. My name is written in cursive on thirteen of them. He glances at the paper scrap and for a second his warm smile that seems to promise it'll be alright wavers. "Willow Acres," he booms. The crowd is silent as I manage to walk to the stage. My steps stiff and measured. I look for my family's faces in the crowd, but they all blur together. Thousands of faces so similar it's sickening.