I don't own, nor have I ever owned the original Hunger Games series. All rights go to Suzanne Collins, the author of the published series of The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay. I do not own the idea or plot of the story. I only own my fanmade story, but credits go to Suzanne Collins because this fanmade story is based on her original story.
Chapter 1 Edit
I tie the black ribbon around my waist, behind me. Perfect. Now I look good for the reaping. Or at least good enough.
I stare at myself in the mirror. If I ever get into the Hunger Games, I at least will be able to pull of a mysterious angle. The black dress with the ribbon, my dark brown hair, pale skin, and bright blue eyes that my mother had. The eyes she had before she died in the fire in a fire that burned down our old house and killed my father as well...
It's 12:30. The city stage is a bit of a long distamce away. I head out of my apartment and I quickly walk to the city stage. I check my watch. It's 12:50, and I'm only halfway there! I run down the sidewalk until I see the stage building. I walk in shakily, file in, and choose a seat. The red plush helps me relax a bit.
Next to me, a boy my age stares at the reaping ball, hoping to get his named pulled from the glass container. I scowl at him, even though many people act the same about the reaping, hoping to participate. Why does everybody from District 1 act like this, when you have a 1/24 chance of living?
The crowd finally shuts up when a woman announces, "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the 83rd annual Hunger Games!"
"As you know, two tributes shall be reaped for our annual games. Ladies First!"
She digs her hand to the bottom of the bowl. She pulls out a slip and calmly says, "Echo Nightshade,".
I walk up, shaky, but I know that someone will volunteer for me, being a Career district.
"Any volunteers?" the woman asks.
Not one hand in the air. But something happens. A girl says, "I- Never mind".
What's going on? There's always been volunteers here. "No?" the woman asks. "So, what's your name?" Are you stupid? You just said my name.
And that's what comes out.
The woman glares at me. So, how old are you? Or is that something that was made clear by saying your name?
"15. Now shut up before I make you." The crowd murmurs. Anyone can get on my nerves. Easily. I'm still dazed, but I want everyone to know, before I die, that I'm not just a toy to make fun of at school. That I'm somebody who's not just a part of the crowd.
Me. Me! Me? Yes, my very own name has been read aloud, and it is my job to come to the cennter of the plaza. Somebody will volunteer for a person my age, I'm sure.
When I finally reach the stage, the woman named Reeva, the woman who reads aloud the names says, "So, Viri, how old are you?"
"12." I answer nervously.
"Well, you're young! I wonder if somebody will volunteer for you," Reeva replies. "Any volunteers? I'm sure somebody wants to win for District 7, hm?"
To my horror, you could hear a pin drop in the Capitol. No, more like a feather.
"Well, have fun in the games!" Reeva says. That's all. There's no more interviewing, either because she's sympathetic for a young tribute like me, or she just wants the reaping to end sooner so we can move on to the train.