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The Games have to be Panem's most cruel invention. After that, the Reapings.
They're a never-ending punishment for things none of them have been alive for, save for few. Pentar despises everyone and anything keeping the system in place. The people walking in lines to have their finger prints are kids. Children.
And yet there's nothing he can do about it. He's just a boy from District 9, powerless to lift a finger just like everyone else who isn't lucky enough to be born in safe places. To make sure no fingers are lifted, they're watched like dogs, treated like dogs, anything to make sure everyone keeps their heads down. He's angry, but also lucky enough not to be hungry—though he knows not everyone can say the same.
It will be fine, like always. He hasn't caused enough trouble to put his name in a couple dozen times.
"Pentar—" Melon squeezes his hand like his life depends on it. He's glued to his side, walking with him towards the Peacekeepers and the government officials that will register them for the Reaping. A familiar event to Pentar, but new for his brother.
"I know, I know." He pauses, only a little, to squeeze Melon's hand in turn. When it's not enough to stop him from clinging to him, Pentar steps out of the line. Kneeling, he cups the boy's face. "It will be okay, Melon. It's just a small prick, won't hurt much, yeah? And your name will only be in once. There's no way you get picked, little bro."
Melon grimaces, not convinced. "But Pentar—"
There's no time for this. Already, Pentar can see the few Peacekeepers stare them down. With the quick ruffle of Melon's hair, he forces a soft laugh.
"I'll find you, okay? Just do what they say and nothing will happen, bro." And to seal his promise, he pushes his head against Melon's, quick, and then he's standing up again. "Go on. Behave."
Melon's eyes are stuck to him as Pentar walks to his own line. He can feel it burn into his back, only working to make the way anxiety crawls around his stomach like an agitated centipede that much worse. With great effort, he manages to keep his breathing under control enough to give Melon an encouraging smile as he's pushed further along his line.
Then he loses sight of him. Peacekeepers aren't friendly with anyone in the District, but they seem to particularly hate his age bracket. He's shoved forward, told to give his hand even though he's heard it enough to hear the line in his dreams, and then dragged away from the line to continue to the square. In everything, he tries his best to keep the distaste for these people off his face. He can't wait to have the majority of them out of his town by the end of the day.
That is, of course, if he doesn't leave with them. The mere idea clogs up his throat like the Games are choking him where he walks. He forces himself to swallow that lump and keep walking. There's so little chance, and yet … he could be picked. He could be picked for the Reaping and there would be no one to care for Melon.
He isn't allowed any nearer to Melon. Being put further down the back, Pentar has to stand on the tips of his toes to see over the crowd of boys. He catches sight of Melon's dark hair just as he turns to look for Pentar himself. All he can do is nod encouragingly before the feedback of a microphone makes the whole square flinch. Seeing Melon's scared face is enough to make all taste in his mouth turn sour and bitter. To put these kids through this—innocent kids—is inhumane.
That's what makes him glare at the presenter on the stage as they welcome all the citizens to the square. That might be the point where Pentar's ears started to ring and the words started to fade away. All that talk, all that smile and cheer. How are they blind to their own terrible actions? It baffles him that none of those rich, perfectly-clothed people never manage to see how cruel they're being.
As always, a video is shown to remind everyone of their horrible, horrible past and of the generosity of the Capitol that these Games are how they solve things. The few words he manages to pick up through the ringing make him want to gag. He behaves though, as he told Melon to do. No use in putting a target on himself here.
The girls are up first. He can't say he envies them but a jealousy does make his guts twist in on themselves a little more; he has to wait even longer and hope the nerves don't make him sag through his knees. In a show of useless fanfare, the lady reaches into the glass bowl of names and fishes one out. Pentar can't even look away when she returns to the microphone to read out the name, none of them can.
He recognises the name. He's pretty sure they shared a class at some point. She isn't someone he's close with, but the grief is already settling over him. That girl is going to die. He knows it, she knows it, the mother who's crying in agony knows it. The grief is silent as she walks up to the stage with no fight in her and the grief is even quieter when the presenter urges the square to clap. Of course, none of them will clap for their murder.
Then, the boys. The presenter makes her way to the other side of the stage, each click of her heels on the stone sounding like guns in his ears. His heart is drumming against his chest like it wants to get out.
There's so little chance. There is almost no chance he's picked out from the sea of boys. He won't be picked to be taken away from his home. Surely not.
Her hand descending into the bowl is like a descent into hell. His eyes track the paper she picks out like a hawk. Forget breathing, he's holding it until he's sure he didn't hear his own name through the microphone. At this rate, he might not hear what she'll say at all and will have to wait until he's dragged by his arms from the crowd.
She returns to the microphone. The tribute by her side steps away from her presence, the tears that fall from her cheeks shining in the sunlight. Paper unfolds, the presenter's breath echoes through the mic, and a name is called.
"Matter Melon."
He must have imagined it. The whole world is frozen for a solid few seconds. Then, one by one, he sees heads turn towards his little brother further up in the crowd. A few even turn to him, apologetic and mourning along with him for the soul of his family. Those make it real.
Melon doesn't get to look at him. He's slow as he walks to the middle of the square and is guided towards the podium. He must be shaking, trembling.
He'd promised. Pentar promised him he wouldn't get picked.
"No—" He shoves his way through the boys, uncaring for how he pushes them away because they'll forgive him anyway. "No! No, Melon!"
Pentar makes it about four steps through the middle before Peacekeepers block his path. They block him as he tries to push through. All he can see is Melon and his face full of terror as he looks at him. His little brother calls out his name, Pentar can't hear it.
They can't take him. They can't take his brother from him. One card. His name was in it only once and he promised Melon it wouldn't be found among all the others.
"I volunteer!" he screams before he can even register his own thoughts. "I volunteer as tribute!"
At that, the Peacekeepers share a look. They turn back to the presenter as if they need to check if any of this is allowed, but then they finally step aside. Pentar nearly falls with the sudden lack of resistance. The ringing finally goes and everything becomes painfully silent. If before had been grief, this is something worse.
They lead him along the path. He isn't allowed more than a scared breath out and a quick hand through Melon's hair before he's made to walk up the steps to the stage. He swallows. Applause welcomes him next to the other tribute. For a moment, he can't look at anyone, not even his little brother. He simply stares at the stone underneath his feet in the hopes the earth opens up to swallow him whole.
He volunteered. He's the tribute for the Hunger Games. He will be sent to an arena to fight to the death, and he will be killed. He won't be able to see Melon ever again the moment those doors close behind him.
Pentar just signed up for his own death and Melon is going to watch.