Chapter Text
CHAPTER 2
I stare out the window on the way to Downtown Tulsa, lost in thought about the possibilities that could happen at the reaping. I ignore the chatter that rings through the car as Johnny and Dally and Soda (mostly Dally and Soda) make conversation with each other about random things that they see on the road.
At one point I feel Johnny's head on my shoulder, but I don't pay it any mind. He does that often, especially on long car rides like this one (it tends to take over an hour to get there because of traffic). It's comforting, actually. I usually use that warmth to pull me back to reality when I get too lost up in my thoughts.
Tulsa passes by in a swarm of colors, much resembling an abstract painting I had seen once in a museum, back when I was still five or six. The green, brown, and blue seemed to mix together into this vibrant piece of art only a daydreamer could picture.
I sigh a bit as I get brought back to the present to the sound of exasperated shouting happening from outside the car. Lifting my head from where it was resting in the palm of his hand, I actually look outside of the window. Outside, a Peacekeeper, a grown man at that, is pummeling a teenage boy that could be no older than sixteen with a wooden stick.
Blood trickles out of the boy's nose, ruining his otherwise fine features and getting in his mouth, coating his teeth. His mousy brown hair is getting covered in the dirt from the road, and his good clothes are already stained with mysterious liquids and mud fragments.
"What's going on? What's happening?" I hear Johnny ask from right beside my ear, almost making me jump. In front, Soapop sighs deeply.
"The Peacekeeper swerved blindly into his lane, and he laid his horn on him. Guess the Peacekeeper couldn't handle being in the wrong in this scenario." He says lazily, but as I look at his eyes in the mirror, he can see the hidden agitation in them.
"Well, we should go help him, shouldn't we?" Ponyboy asks, ignoring the eye roll from Dallas.
"Glory, kid, for a boy who gets straight A's and is on the Honor Roll; you sure aren't the smartest sometimes." He murmurs, eyes trained on the Peacekeeper, who's now letting up slightly on the beating, obviously finishing up the punishment. "If we were to go and 'help,' we'd be punished too. Worse, probably. You never try to talk sense with one of those guys. Too power-obsessed to form a clear thought."
I hum at that as traffic begins to move again and we slowly paddle the scene happening outside our window. The Peacekeeper looks up as we pass, and I make eye contact with his ocean eyes before I quickly flit mine away, scared of his intimidating posture and the bleeding boy below him.
The image sticks with me as Dally turns the radio up more and carries on the chatter like usual.
I hate the peacekeepers. I hate them.
They're always there. Their power-hungry asses are always sniffing your footprints whenever you try to do anything. They'll beat you and pummel you if you do just one thing to displease them, no matter if you are in the right or not. The only things they care about are the joy that comes from being 'better' than everyone else, money, and fame. I heard them talking in one of their little guard spots one day.
It was all, "Oh, one day I'm going to become the lead of this district's security. I'm so qualified; it's a miracle I haven't already been put in the position already." Or: "I'm totally going to become head guard for the president himself. I would be able to protect him with my life and kill anyone who tries to harm them."
Sure, we totally believe that.
If they can't even keep their citizens safe from each other, I doubt they're going to be able to protect the president from actual established rebels.
I lean my head against Johnny's and focus my eyes forward, looking between Soda's handsome face and Dally's weathered one as they talk. I try to ignore the anger and disgusting feeling rising in me. Its sick, what people will do for money and power. Absolutely sick.
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About half an hour later, we finally arrive in downtown Tulsa. After trying (and failing) to find a parking spot for around fifteen minutes, we finally hop out of the beat-down truck and begin to stretch out our weary muscles and bones. Plumes of dust from the dirt roads plume up into the sky, and chatter rocks the streets as hundreds of families and gangs make their way to the central plaza, where the reaping is usually held.
It's probably the only nice-looking spot in Tulsa that is able to hold the entirety of District Nine without the risk of overcrowding the place. Around three sides of the plaza are lined with buildings and little roads that lead deeper into the city... Like an intricate maze, of some sort. I looked at a map of the city once, when I got bored of studying at the library with Steve and Johnny (Two-But had bailed out on us, and Steve and Johnny weren't really studying in general). That day, Ponyboy had found out that he enjoyed studying quietly and preferably alone. It was fascinating, really, all of the intricate and specialized pipes and systems that led throughout the town just underneath everyone's feet. Man really has come a long way.
As we walk up to our usual meeting spot (a light pole that had very special graffiti plastered all over it), we get jostled so much that Johnny has to grip onto my wrist to be able to keep track of me and Soda and Dally, who barges through the crowd without an inch of respect or care for the people who stop and glare at him.
Dust clogs my nose and makes it difficult to pass the intense wave of people, but we finally make it to the light pole, where my older brother and the rest of the gang sit.
As soon as we arrive and manage to arrange ourselves in a tight circle, Darry starts off on his usual lecture. It used to be Mom and Dad were giving the gang this lecture, while I and Johnny had stood awkwardly to the side, observing. After they died, Darry had swooped in and taken to repeating the boring monolog every reaping day.
"Right, y'all. Remember to be extra patient with the officials today, alright? They seem in a bad enough mood as it is; don't risk it. Looking at you two, Dallas and Steve. After all of this finishes up, the likelihood of finding one of us in the crowd is very slim. So just meet right here again afterwards, alright?" We all nod lazily, and he sighs. "Look, walk in there with a bright attitude, will you? You're definitely not going to get chosen, but who's to say you won't curse it with your depressing thoughts. God's always watching—"
Two-bit interrupts. "And he will reward us if we stay positive. Jesus, Darry, how many times have you had to repeat it before you figured out we already know? Can we go now?" He grins stupidly at him, earning a shove from the oldest.
"Whatever. Just remember. Positive attitude. Meet here after. Stay safe. Love you all, let's go now." My older brother groans, and we all begin to push ourselves through the crowd in an attempt to reach check-in faster.
After several elbows to the ribs and many galers from middle-aged parents (who had apparently made it their mission to be walking as slow as possible, mind you), both I and Soda squish into one of the long lines waiting to check in. Leaning on him slightly as we wait, he strikes a conversation.
"Pony, look... I've been meaning to talk to you all throughout the day. In private, y'know?" His voice sounds different than usual... Anxious, maybe.
I straighten myself out and make eye contact with him. His brows are furrowed, and there's a slight frown across his otherwise beautiful features. "...shoot," I say, squinting at him suspiciously through my eyelashes.
"You do know that it's the 25th year of the Hunger Games, right? That means it's the first Quarter Quell in history." Well, that's news to me. I was so busy worrying about what could be and my appearance and whatnot that I forgot one of the most important factors of the games this year. Glory, I really do have my head stuck in the clouds sometimes.
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so." I murmur back, looking away slightly to hide my flushed cheeks.
"And... I know that it's definitely not going to pick you, but I've had this awful feeling in my gut for the majority of the week regarding these games and... Kid, I'm worried. I just feel like something horrible is about to happen to you or one of the gang and I didn't know how to bring it up. I... I'm scared, Pony. Like, really frightened about this round." He takes me by surprise and I instinctively look up at his face. His eyes are brimming with unshed tears and I can see him getting all worked up.
He wipes his eyes and bites before continuing. "And I know that I'm probably being a real idiot right now, but please just pray a little harder, Ponyboy. I... I don't know what I would do if one of us ended up in that damn arena. It's a death sentence."
I finally unfreeze and rub his bicep soothingly as we slowly move up the line. There are only five or six people in front of us now. "Looky, Soda. Nothing bad will happen, alright? Rest assured. It'll be alright."
"I just... After that scare you and Johnny pulled with Windrixville, I've been in constant fear of losing you... I don't know what would happen to me if you were actually gone." He sniffles and wipes his eyes quickly, hoping for me to not notice the tears that had trickled out. I did notice, though. I always did. Being one of the quietest of the gang came with its perks. I certainly was observable.
"Soda... That's not going to happen, savvy? You and I both know it's not even likely of happening whatsoever. I'm fourteen, not even in the range of most likely to get picked. Honey, I'll be fine. Everyone will be fine, okay? Okay." I pull him into a hug, smelling the shampoo and faded smell of oil from all the cars he works on at the DX. In my opinion, it's the most comforting smell he's ever been blessed with before. This smell meant the feelings of safety and warmth were nearby, that his brother was nearby. His favorite person ever. Soda was Ponyboys rock. And Ponyboy was Soda's. They needed each other to continue on.
His brother leans his head on top of his and sighs happily, the bad mood from a few seconds earlier instantly uplifted.
"Next in line." A sharp voice snipped at the pair, who both jumped and twisted out of the hug. The line had loved forward when they were distracted and were now face-to-face with a very annoyed-looking Capital Worker. Both her eyebrows and eyelashes and hair in general were dyed a light, forest green, with sequins placed around occasionally. Her face was painted white with intricate designs in that same green color, accompanied by black decor flowing in and out with the patterns. Her clothes were grumpy and overdone. There were so many layers; Ponyboy wondered how she hadn't sweated at least a bucket in the hot, dry climate of Diatrict Nine, Tulsa. Her nails were long as a shoe and about as obnoxious in color as everything else in her body.
Ponyboy was always fascinated when it came to Capital people and their fashion, and it showed right now as he practically gaped at the lady. Sodapop was doing no better.
"I said, 'Next!'" She snapped, and the two boys jumped into action. Soda immediately went forward and thrust his dry, worn finger under the lady's nose, who made a disgusted expression before grabbing his hand with her glove and leading it downward. Bringing a device (that I still don't know the name of, despite my research) to his fingers, she pricked him hard enough to draw a decent amount of blood before pressing his finger to a specific part on the paper. I hate the capital, mainly for their stupid, 'functioning' government, but also because of how smart they can be sometimes. Taking both your fingerprint and DNA through blood? Amazing and well-thought-out, I had to admit.
After making sure that Soda had a good looking fingerprint, she waved him off to the side where he would be allowed to enter the actual plaza. Lazily, she gestures for me to come over. Hesitantly, I obey and stick my finger out under her nose just as Soda had done. Again, she crinkles her nose and other features like we carry a deadly plague.
I've been doing this for four years now, and not once have the capital people not made a face when presenting them your hand. I don't know what their problem is, as they're probably more likely to create up a disease rather than us, what with all their lab testing. But... Whatever. Treat us like scum. It's not unusual, I suppose.
The lady takes her device and spikes the tip of my finger with the needle on it. It pinches for a second, but it honestly doesn't hurt at all. I remember in my first year being legible for the games how I was absolutely terrified to get my finger pricked. I was practically shaking with fear. All of it dissipated, though, the moment the needle pierced my skin. It hadn't hurt as much as I thought it was going to.
In a blur, I got waved past by the Capital Lady and started walking down the alleyway to the square with Soda's, whobhad been waiting for me to get my blood drawn, arm wrapped around my shoulders. I could feel him shaking with nerves slightly, as we got closer to the doorway of sunlight symbolizing the Reaping Square, so I gave him a hand squeeze and a wink before splitting away from him and walking to the category for fourteen year old males.
Some of my old classmates from before I had been moved up a grade were already standing there, shuffling from one foot to another in an attempt to push down the bay of nervousness. Shoving by one particularly nervous African-American kid, I found a gap in the small crowd and finally took in a deep breath of non-contaminated air.
Minutes ticked by as the crowd of teenagers and parents (And Darry, I guess) slowly grew. I managed to begin entertaining myself by trying to find the gang in their spots.
Looking towards the eighteen year olds sector, it's not hard to spot Two-Bit standing solemly towards the middle of the group. Despite not being as tall as Darry or Soda or (Hopefully) me, he's still a pretty large and jacked dude. Hell, he even looks quite intimidating, standing there all alone without his regular goofy smile on his face. Two-Bit without a smile is like Steve without cake smeared all over his face, or Soda without his usual bright, happy demeanor. Its a key part of his character, and the main thing I identify him for.
Next I spot Soda and Steve over in the seventeen year old section, standing next to each other, both of them solemn faced and focused. They look like the rest of the guys surrounding them... Like they had seen one too many games for their liking and were ready to practically spark a rebellion for it. Though, as usual, I could tell that Soda wasn't as tough as he was currently pretending to be. The incident in the line told me how nervous for these particular games he was.
Next I look for Johnny, who should be pretty easy to spot, as he is only two groups behind me. Sure enough, I spot a small, slouched, runty figure standing towards the left-hand side of the crowd, standing awkwardly still as the others fiddle and mumble nervously around him. When I finally look at his face, I lock eyes with him. He was already looking directly at me, I guess. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Creepy. I need to get better at noticing my surroundings.
I wink at Johnny and give him a reassuring smile, to which a small blush appears on his cheeks as he smiles back shyly. I was about to sign something to him, but he got swallowed up by the growing crowd of boys around him, as he was one of the smallest.
I roll my eyes happily and flit them back to Two-Bit. It seems like Dally, who is on the brink of turning nineteen in a few weeks, has finally checked in and got in their group. They stand side by side, the height difference almost laughable. Their arms are touching, and they honestly, with their grimaces and stony cold expressions, would be looking pretty tough... If they weren't wearing nice plaid clothing and if their hair wasn't combed over. God, they really do look weird without the usual greasy and dirty look they shoot for.
Grease in someone's hair automatically makes them more tough. Its an unconscious thought that comes to me whenever I take the time to think about it. Maybe its because all of the hoods and intimidating figures I've been around (Aside from the Soc's) always have their hair greased and combed back. Ot must have implanted itself in my brain a while ago.
Dally, who's obviously either chewing on gum or nicotine (probably both mixed together), keeps making faces as the mystery substance gets stuck on his teeth and the roof of his mouth, and I see him nervously glance at Two-Bjt and exchange some words with him. Two-Bit, now with an anxious expression across his face, turns and nods his head at Dally. Huh, I guess it wasn't just Soda feeling nervous about today.
I spend a few more moments staring at their nervous expressions... The furrowed eyebrows, the creases on the forehead, the way their mouths slowly turn down. Its weird seeing them like that. Dally no longer looks as tough (More... vulnerable, even) and Two-Bit, well, he just looks more adult. Going to say this, not my favorite look on him.
The microphone on the stage in front of all the age categories flickers to life, and I jump, turning to see that one, only, obnoxious, Effie Trinket smiling and gazing at the crowd with a sort of delight in her eyes. I really do need to get out of my head, don't I? I didn't even notice how quick the time had passed.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!" She exclaims in an overexcited, squeaky voice. When an assortment of unenthusiastic mumbles and groans answer her greeting, she continues on, her smile a little more fake now. "Welcome to the 25th anniversary of... The Hunger Games!" Multiple blasts and pops sound from around us as yellow and white confetti and smoke flourish around us, an attempt to get the children riled up and excited for the reaping. I've noticed they've chosen our district colors this time, instead of using the Capitols like they did last year. Maybe it's a clue. Maybe it's a threat. Maybe it's an attempt to make us feel more at ease.
You can never really tell with the Capitol these days.
An assortment of scattered cheers and woops come from the adults section, from citizens forced to celebrate. I would know. Two years ago they pointed a gun at Darry's forehead and demanded he cheer when the time came. He may have received several intense and humiliating glares, but at least he hadn't been shot. It really was diabolical, the whole situation. The games in general are diabolical. Who came up with the idea anyway? They had to be mentally ill or something because I would never wish the depression and heartbreak the community felt after their tributes got reaped on anyone in the world. It felt as if you were walking on a thin, fraying rope for two months. Anything you said could suddenly make someone's rope snap and make them fall into a pit of their emotions.
They could have known the tribute and were grieving about the cast that they probably won't ever see again. Or they didn't, and they were just stressed out about the games in general. That was usually the case with the gang. They tried to keep things lighthearted and normal in the house during the game period, but it's hard to completely ignore the fact that 23 innocent kids are being actively murdered on live television.
Before I was even eligible for the games, I knew that Two-Bit had a friend that got aucked into the arena. The jokes and grins had stopped for a solid three months after that, especially since he had apparently been one of the last ones to die and had a particularly bloody way out. I would never be able to imagine one of my friends going into the arena. I don't know what I would do, quite frankly. It doesn't help that the majority of them (besides the gang) were skinny and had little to no muscle. While they were fast and all (because they also did track), they would be cut into pieces within minutes of the games...
Why am I thinking about this right now? Tune back in, Ponyboy. Get your head out of the clouds.
My focus turns back to Effie Trinket, whose smile looks more like a grimace as she finishes the speech I had apparently missed while zoning out.
"And now, our Capitol had out together a very well-made video for us to watch together. Let's get a move on, shall we?"
The video cuts on with TV static ringing through the hidden speakers throughout the plaza. A big screen to the left of the stand flickers on and an image of a child sobbing into his mother's arms pops up.
"The rebellion caused pain, hunger, agony... All of which could have been avoid—" I tune out once again after that. It's not like it's very important anyway. It's the same script every year with different 'images of the victims of war' flashing on the screen. They play it every time something important happens that involves both the mayors of the districts and the prime officers of the Capitol. Most kids and parents have had it memorized since they were young; it was played so often. You'd think it'd get annoying, the fake images and AI voice and music created to help make it more dramatic than it already was. But here's the thing: while it seems like the most obnoxious recurring thing that appears in our community, it still brings a sense of dread and fear to the town.
Like I mentioned, it's only ever played when something has to do with the Capitol, the very place that caused the districts pain and poverty and suffering. Whether its played before the games, big news announcements, or even at sports matches, its still scary because it means the Captil is coming with a message. The message always tends to be on the negative side of the spectrum.
The trumpets blare out as the final images fade into black when the video finally finishes its everlasting lecture about obedience and loyalty to the supreme powers of Panem.
"Well, that was quite lovely, wouldn't you say?" Effie chuckles to herself as she speaks in the direction of one of the victors, who was about five years old. Ajax, I think his name is. Well, if he's standing out from the crowd like that, I would say that he's been selected as one of the four women selected to mentor the children reaped this year.
"Before we respond our tributes for this year's annual Hunger Games, we must figure out what the Quarter Quell is going to be." Effie Trinket said. Murmers erupted through the crowd. It seems I wasn't the only one who forgot about the Quell. It's odd to think that this has been going on for twenty-five years now.
A Peacekeeper marches up onto the stage smugly and stiffly and hands her an annoyingly large and bright red envelope, complete with the loopy handwriting of our predecessors and the white wax seal imprinted with the symbol of the Capitol. Really captures your attention.
Painfully slowly, Effie takes the delicate envelope, and holds it daintily in her hands, her thumb slowly stroking the 'Ancient' paper. With a small gasp, ss if she just felt the power of the past games coursing through her, she breaks the wax seal and flicks some of the crumbles away off the stage, onto the dirt road. Carefully, she removes the mellowed sheet from th3 envelope, giving it back to the Peacekeeper from before, who now has an ugly sneer across his face. She unfolds the paper, making sure to smooth out the creases and to read the message over and over.
God, lady… Just get it over with. Tell us our fate.
She clears her throat into the microphone and speaks once again, reading off of the paper. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Twenty-Fifth year of the Hunger Games. By the Treaty of Treason, it was written in the charter of the Games that every 25 years, a ‘Quarter Quell’ would commence, to keep the reminder of our defeat over the Rebellion fresh for each new generation. Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by the Games of a special significance. To honor the sacrifice of our elders and founders of the nation, the Uwarter Wuell says that instead of the usual games, where there are two selected tributes in one district, we will honor their devotion to the world by selecting four tributes per district. Two boys and two girls. These children's strength and sacrifice for the loyalty of our nation shall be tested once more, as we celebrate the everlasting spirit of Panem. Also, to truly celebrate the bravery and strength shown through the men that had fought headfirst in the battalion, there will be no volunteering at this reaping. We wish to honor the lives and sacrifices of the men who got drafted, just as you. May the strongest win. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
Oh damn, four fucking tributes? You've gotta be kidding me. I mean, I expected it to be bad, but not this bad. That means four kids who (Likely) would never step foot into this Dostrcit again after today. Four kids who will never arrive at the School Gates bright and early in the morning again, later to be permanently erased from the roster. Four souls who will never return to the comfort of their families and homes. Four people who will never see their friends again and will never be able to go to the mall, throwing trash at the rich families driving by. Four people who will never get to grow up and meet their own spouses... Make their own familes and have the joys of children of their own. Four people about to get sent into an arena souly built to broadcast their deaths as they viciously are torn to pieces by older, stronger kids. Four people who will fall subject to the Capitols wrath and revenge.
Two kids disappearing from society every year was bad enough, but four? That's a huge cultural change. It'll shake everyone up... It already has, matter of fact.
Also, no volunteers... Why? 'Honoring' the men who committed war crimes of great offense and killed hundreds and thousands of people with their upgraded weaponry seems a little far-fetched. The Capitol just wanted another factor to make these games more interesting than the rest. This spices thing up, in their eyes. Cruel.
I sneak another glance over at my family and friends.
Johnny seems to be shaking slightly, staring at his feet in horror and shuffling from aide to side among the crowd of anxious boys. Dally and Two-Bit's faces are grim, jaws locked and eyes focused on the backs of the people in front of them like they are the decision for the Quell instead of the Capitol. They aren't fooling me though; I can see it in the way Two-Bits' breath has hitched and is picking up ever so slowly in a fit of panic and the way Dally's jaw quivers ever so slightly.
Steve is anxiously fidgeting, never able to sit still. His shoulders roll, and he's glancing around the crowd frantically in case he's about to be shot by a bounty hunter. His right hand is shaking and swinging back and forth as he looks around the crowd, pretending not to check up on my position and reaction. He, on the other hand, is squeezing Soda's shoulder... Who's staring right at me with those infamous doe eyes? He looks terrified, his eyes brimming with tears and his face pulled into the expression of a kicked dog. His forehead is creased, and his entire body radiates with tension, as if he's about to run away, out of the plaza, and into the forests bordering the District. People have done it before; he's fast, and he'd be able to get away with it.
I nod once again at him to hopefully stuff down some of his anxiety. I turn my attention back to the stage just as Effie Trinket begins to speak again.
"And now, we will choose the 4 drawn tributes to compete in this year's games. As the paper just said... 'Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.'" A flicker of an expression flashes across her face for a mere second before it is instantly replaced by her beaming smile and glimmering teeth. It wasn't very clear to me, but she almost looked... angry. Not at us, though, for us.
I shake the thought away. Empathy and sympathy are traits not commonly learned in the giant cities of the Capitol; no way this random woman (who's evidently a huge fan of the Hunger Games and the adrenaline high you get from them) would feel vengeful and bad for the Capitol. Not possible. Besides, I need to focus here; she's already drawing two cards out of the female box.
"As usual, ladies first."
The whole courtyard went dead silent as she read off the first name.
"Marcia Meyrink." A collective gasp went through the crowd. She was one of the rich people in town, a friend of Cherry's. She'd been at the movie theater the night we met Bob and had gotten on his bad side. That's a shame; I liked her a lot. Had a stern and confrontational personality, and her looks weren't half bad.
While I wasn't half close with her, it seems like half of the town was, as multiple cries and sobs echo through the crowd as Marcia, her jet black hair and red lipstick distinct against the white of the peacekeepers leading her to the stage, sets her jaw and raises her eyes to look Effie dead in the face. The walk is steady and purposeful, and I don't see one trace of a sense of fear or dread among her features. She shakes her hand with Effie, who does a not-so-discreet wipe of her hand on her skirt before turning to address the audience once more.
"There now! Just wonderful! Out first tributes everybody, Marcia Meyrink, aged 16. Please give it up for her spectacular bravery and fearlessness. "Effie practically beams at the crowd, and scattered applause, mainly from those around peacekeepers or officials, rings out. Marcia just stares straight ahead, and I can tell that she's staring at Cherry, who's silently sobbing into her hands. The few girls around her are trying to tidy her up and keep her presentable but are interrupted by Effie once more.
"And now for our second lady tribute for the 25th Annual Year of the Hunger Games: Angela Shephard!"
No way. I immediately snap my head over to search for Angela, who's getting escorted out of the women's crowd by a few Peacekeepers. Her dark coils bounce in tune to her steps, and she glowers at the ground, avoiding eye contact from anyone watching in the audience. She had on a blue dress that glimmers in the sunlight and murmurs among the crowd, interrupting the ringing in my ears.
Angela was a childhood friend. We would hang out whenever Curly or Tim came over with business for my brother or anyone else in the gang. She was outgoing and giggly when I knew her and was delightfully sweet yet spicy, like cinnamon. She knew when she was right and would not have it if you argued with her. Very straightforward and blit, yet very caring and considerate at the same time. By Soc standards, she was a doll, a perfect little doll. But her greaser life hardened her, and I started seeing her less and less as time went on. She started smoking and hanging out with other unfortunate cases. That's what happens when you love around Tim Shephard; you adapt to fit the circumstances.
Now, I would still occasionally see her from time to time, and that smile and laugh and aura were all the same, just different all the while. Not soured, not stall. It would take a lot to spoil a girl like her. No, but shadowed, subdued. Formed to make something a little more dangerous and cunning than before.
Most of the crowd murmuring doesn't know Angela, but they recognize the last name. Who wouldn't? Shepherd. That's a legacy around here. You've either bought from him or fought with them. There's no in-between.
Angela reaches the stage and shakes Marcias's hand quickly, and for a second I can see the resemblance, but then her hooded eyes flash to finally look at the crowd, and the moment is gone. Nothing from Tim in the audience, which is unusual. I turn to look at him, and he's standing close to Darry, looking at the ground, his hands balled to fists at his side. He's shaking with rage or fear but not moving a muscle. That's odd for him. I would have suspected he would be kicking or screaming or at least trying to fight a Peacekeeper or two.
"- Give it up one more time for Marcia Meyrink and Angela Shephard, our two female tributes from District 9!" I catch the end of Effie's speech and draw my attention back to the stage quickly. I shouldn't be wasting my time worrying about Tim; I should be focusing on the stage and praying it's not anyone I know that gets reaped next.
"And now for the men." Effie sashays her way over to the second glass bowl propped up on the stage, performatively rustling her hand around the sphere for a good five seconds. She grabs a small slip of paper and walks over to the microphone. "Charles Shephard."
Holy shit. This had to be rigged. Something is up. Two Shapharda? Both being Tim's only siblings?
From the section behind me I hear rustling and heavy footsteps as Curly inveitablt emerges. I look down but glance as he passes. He doesn't look like he tried to dress up at all. Leather jacket, eyebrow suits, and an untamed stubble growing near his mouth as he's not fully done growing, which can be seen obviously through his lanky yet just clear limbs. His black Converse trudge against the dirt as he joins another row of officers. They attempt to take his arms to help 'stabilize' him, and he shoves them away, glowering. He matches up the steps and shakes hands with Marcia and pulls Angela into a quick hug before he cold-shoulders Wffie, turning to face the audience. H3s is looking at someone in the crowd of spectators, and I turn to see what he's looking at. Tim has finally lost it and is screaming and wrestling against three peacekeepers, all ruffling and dragging him out of sight. It's horrible, and eventually one sticks a needle into his neck, making him go limp.
That won't be shown on the cameras. Just the part where he went rogue. They want us to have a bad reputation after all. Darry watches as Tim's limp body gets dragged off and turns to meet my eyes from across the square. There's something heavy and mournful in his expression, but he quickly masks it and ushers for me to turn around.
I oblige, and Effie begins speaking to Curly, who's now staring at his shoes after the display.
"Well, I bet you that was someone you knew, wasn't it? Your older brother, per chance?" She coos.
If looks could kill, Curly would have everyone in this square seizing on the ground. "Yes, my older brother Tim."
Effie hisses through her teeth. "And this little lady on stage. She wouldn't happen to be your sister, would she?"
The disgust is evident on Curly's face.
"Yes, ma'am, my younger sister."
"Well, I do feel terrible for Tim. Both of you are going into the arena! How awful. The world can be so cruel sometimes; how could fate do this to you? Hopefully one of you will bring honor upon the Shephard name. "Effie says," conversationally.
Right. Fate. Thank you, Ms. Trinket. "Curly mutters into the microphone before stepping back next to Angela.
Of course, dear, and may the odds be ever in your favor, Charles. Let's give it to one more time for Charles Shephard, aged 17. "Effie beams at him, but there's a shift in her stance. She's nervous now, and her fingers flinch uncertainly as she walks back over to the bowl.
"And now, our very last, but certainly not least, male tribute of the 20th annual Hunger Games." Effie's fingers ruffle through the slabs of paper, shifting some and moving others, all while she smiles at the audience uncannily. Finally she draws a slip, and her steps back to the microphone echo throughout the square. She clicks her tongue once into the microphone before setting the slip down and waving her hands around at all of us.
"Ponyboy Curtis."