Chapter Text
The July heat was unbearable, hot and unyielding, sending waves throughout the district. The packed bodies in the town square, full of nervous energy and already sweaty enough on their own, only fueled the heat. Beads rolled down the necks of the participants, curling up against the hair, sticky against their skin. Some tapped their feet against the asphalt, hot against the soles of their shoes. Others wrung their hands against their clothes leaving behind a damp imprint. The podium much like the rest of the district was rather bare and gray. A few peacekeepers stood to the side, white uniforms stark against the dark gray. The grass in the square was wilted and yellow, peaking through the stones on the ground.
In the center stood Minami Hokutozai, a delicate blond figure wearing a shapely violet dress that hugged her figure. Even at an occasion as grim as the Reaping, the boys in District 12 could be seen glancing at each other with wide eyes when she had stepped onto the stage.
Just in the last year, the Capitol had published her several times in their fashion magazine for her beauty. Her face was beautifully symmetrical like a doll's: large doe eyes carved above her cheekbones, a delicate upturned nose like a pixie, and flush pink lips, plump as a peach. She had dreams of becoming a reporter, but the Capital fashion magazines got to her first. Being a reporter was the job for the unseen and physically unappealing, and while TV hosts were for attractive young people, a 15-year contract would have wasted her physique. As somewhat of a compromise, the Capitol let her be this year’s announcer and escort for District 12. Her neatly trimmed nails held a microphone which she brought up to her rosy lips.
“The male tribute for District 12 is….”
Eyes flickered and bodies twitched as the sun continued to beat down. The stale cotton fabric was barely breathable and the youngest boys in the front began to fidget with their cuffs, away from the gaze of their stern mothers. The oldest boys in the back, far more haggard, could only shift impatiently on one foot, treating the reaping as more of a nuisance than anything. Death came regardless and the reaping was only taking away time that could be spent in the mines.
“Asagiri Gen.”
Silence. And then the murmurs and sighs of relief began, eyes shifting towards the middle of the pack. A boy clad in purple looking more youthful than his age, stepped out of line. Despite his lackluster height, he had a slender well-proportioned body, elegant like a crane. While most citizens in district 12 were tan and dusted with sun spots, the boy had pale skin flashing between the gaps in his purple tunic. His clothes were made of fine silk, breathable and lightweight, shimmering under the light. He walked slowly towards the front, the click of his shoes hitting the ground in a metronome beat. Elegantly, his long legs seemed to traverse across the crowd in a few steps. There was no doubt, this was a boy who knew his way around cameras.
In the Capitol, as individuals walked down the streets, the TVs broadcasted the reaping, speakers echoing with the Hunger Games anthem. On the streets a small crowd gathered outside a famous electronics store to watch the show, resembling a flock of flamingos. Bright lights shimmered off the crowd from the jewels and metals hanging off the bodies. The cameras panned to capture the expression of the boy. As it panned, the crowd watching muttered amongst themselves.
“I loved his show, you know,” one woman said, her hair a bright bubblegum with opalescent gems. “I saw him in person twice, you wouldn’t think he was so young!” She twisted a piece of her hair in between her fingers.
“It’s a shame what happened.”
As if listening, the boy looked into the camera. His eyes, almond shaped but not delicate, spilled like pools of ink, black and unforgiving. He had a soft nose and low cheekbones, with a bit of baby fat filling his cheeks, giving him a rounded innocent look. Thin wishbone shaped collar bones popped out like mountainous terrain against his neck. Warm with the heat of an artificial light, the corners of his lips lifted into a smile.
The crowd murmured, one such individual began fanning themselves with a golden fan with strings of pearls dangling from the shafts.
“Doesn’t he know he’s District 12 now?”
“Look at how far he’s fallen.”
“How disrespectful!”
The camera panned away.
In District 3, a man sighed, long fingers flicking off the television. He closed his eyes, rubbing a hand against his neck. A lock of blond hair streaked with green brushed against his shoulders as the man reopened his eyes to stare at the black television screen. In the darkness of the screen only a faint outline of the man could be seen. The room was minimal, though made with the richest materials. The curtain was velvet, the sheets were satin, and the floor was marbled from the finest stone in all the districts. The ceiling was painted with constellations, bumpy from the times the man had to repaint over it.
From his drawer, he takes out a worn leather notebook. As he jolted down some notes, he felt himself freezing as if someone had clamped their hand down harshly onto his shoulder. But when he glanced behind, the room was as empty as it had always been. His hand shook.
A knock sounded at his door.
He closed his notebook, shoving it back into the drawer. Rising slowly, he pulled on a thick robe before shuffling to the door. Opening it, a woman stood in front of him.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she purred, stepping forward.
Covering any hesitation in his movements, the man grabs her by the waist, whispering into her ear before pulling her in. The door shuts resoundingly behind them.
Outside, the closing anthem of the Reaping echoed in the streets.