Part Three, technically.
I wake up, or…was I asleep, even? No—I’m on my feet, walking forward somehow. I look briefly to the side, just out the corner of my eye, and see Titania and Streak. It’s just a glance. Not much of a chance to see anything.
Their expressions, though. Frozen. Terrified.
The rest of the District is still. Like I am, inside. After the initial shock, I feel I’ve never been calmer. You can’t fall to pieces if the worst has already happened. If I’m meant to die in the Games—and I am, more likely than not—I’m as good as gone now. Why fight it?
A flag flaps somewhere above us. I’ve taken so long to reach the stage that Peacekeepers have begun to walk towards me, to escourt me up the stairs. I manage without them. I’m a little surprised I don’t fall. My legs are numb…
And when I believe that I can maybe make it through the rest of the ceremony, I hear Pallas again. “Our boy tribute,”
I don’t recognize the name. He’s a year or so younger than me, I think. I can feel how blankly I must be starring at him, but I can’t change my expression. As he steps out of his group and walks towards us, he catches his shoe on another boy’s. He falters and they steady each other. Then, back away to continue on. They’re friends, perhaps. What are his friends like? Does he have many?
In a moment, he’s there with me, and we’re made to shake hands. It’ll be a pleasure killing you, I think to myself. It was a joke, something I did automatically. But immediately I am sorry.
“Hello,” I say.
He grimaces, as if I’m too dumb to kill. That’s okay. He can let someone else do it.
The Mayor steps back up, telling the story of the formation of Panem and the Districts that once rebelled, and were made to pay for years to come. Our Mentors look at us dreamily, foggy inside their own drug spun world. Singe takes my hand in both of hers and gives me a smile, kind yet slightly deranged.
My fellow tribute is approached by Torch. Shyly, the former victor hugs him. The boy simply pats the older man’s shoulder. He looks grateful for the strange embrace. The audience applauds politely in the background.
I’m just trying to get another look at my friends when Pallas comes over to me, ushers me beside the boy, and gives a final, “The District Six Tributes!”
The applauding continues.
We’re supposed to say goodbye to our families. To do so, we’re led off the stage and into the Justice Building.
It’s a huge structure, built not of steel and glass like everything else around here, but of brick and stone. A mural is painted across the high, domed ceiling, and held in by carvings of men and women with wings assembling trains, planes.
They put the boy tribute and I in separate rooms, and I suppose he waits for the door to open just as I do, to let in our visitors one by one. I really should have stayed with Marten, to spend the morning with my mother.
Marten looks the most like her, but Mother is small like me. Her dark hair isn’t bobbed as most women in the District have theirs, but pulled up into a loose knot at the crown of her head. I think of her home, alone, with Marten to worry about. He’s ten years older than me but less practical; he won’t be much help as far as money goes. It’ll be like I hadn’t happened—as if the clock is reset to a time before I was born.
They’ll have one less person to care about. It might be lonely for awhile, having been used to three people in the apartment. They’ll get used to it, though. Eventually.
If I could summon a response during our encounter, I would tell her I’m afraid to die and that it isn’t fair. That I was almost out. But neither of us can, and we stand holding each other for our alloted time, and she doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves. She says, “I love you” and, “You can win.”
Marten brushes past her, coming in. “No one volunteered. I…was expecting someone to volunteer.” His sleeves are pushed up again, like normal; he’s shaky though. Not normal.
I think I laugh. “If it wasn’t me, it’d be someone else,” I hear myself say. My arms are regaining sensation, and they’re cold. Pieces of meat hanging from hooks where my shoulders should be.
“Someone volunteered for me.” Marten says, his eyes wide, apologetic. “I—I can’t volunteer for you.”
“What? Well you’re not a girl…” I stop. “What do you mean someone volunteered for you? You were…you…?”
“When I was twelve.” He looks ashamed. “Someone stood up to take my place.” Lost. He looks lost, too. “I’m your brother. I’m supposed to be able to protect you. To at least try.”
We stare at each other. “I’ve done a damn poor job of it.”
