46No Other Options 3
Nine's P. O. V.
"Get out of the shower!"
I make a face at my Cepan's call, "Why can't you just go and invent the next thing better than the shower?!"
"Very funny," he's trying to sound unamused, but even I can hear the cocky smirk slipping into his tone, "now get out before I burn through this door!"
"Fine."
Reluctantly, I press a few buttons and switch off my supply of hot, soothing water. It must serious sucks to be the other Garde- at least any of them further than District Four- because I can't deny that Sandor and I live it up in District Three. He's a technology whiz in addition, meaning that our luxuries are among the most advanced in probably Panem. That, of course, doesn't mean that it's all late parties and vibrating beds; Sandor has made me train practically since we got here almost eleven years ago. If this District had a academy like Districts One and Two, there is not an ounce of doubt that I'd be at top, but since it doesn't, I have to settle for winning every fight I've gotten into since I was seven.
Today is the day of the Annual Reaping, but it's just a waste of an afternoon in my case. I practically can't be Reaped- Sandor has got close relations to the Capital and their operations, and he figured out when I was twelve how to keep my name from going into the bowl. I've litterly got nothing to fear about today, even if it does really suck to see the poor humans have to go into an arena and die every year from District Three.
Just another day in paradise, I think with a sigh as I exit the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my waist.
Sandor is, as usual, already dressed to the nines with his face clean shaven and gelled and his foreign business suit straightened. He looks me up and down critically.
I know what he's going to ask before the words even leave his lips, "Will you please wear a suit this year?"
"No," I reply as easily as I have since he got me that thing when I was ten.
"Please?" he repeats a bit more insistently.
Groaning, I run my hands through my longer black hair, "How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not interested in looking like a business man?"
"As many times as I have to tell you to cut your hair," he nags, grabbing one of my wrists and, with it, a wad full of my hair.
I bat his hand away and glare, "I said no."
We both know who's one this argument, though.
"That's better," my Cepan approves as I head to grab an apple from one of our several fruit bowls.
I make a face in response and chuck an orange at him. I look absolutely ridiculous- I've prided myself in looking like a 'caveman' with my long, dark hair that I never keep straight cut or managed and my thick muscles that make me one of the tallest. But now he's got me in some Italian suit with some jell he smeared over my uneven pieces of thick hair; it was pure luck I got him off of my before he could try to tie it back in a short ponytail.
"I already look like a Capitalite," I grumble, "I don't want to look like a girl, too."
"Then cut your hair," he repeated, pressing a button to open up the door, "come on or we'll be late."
"Big whoop..." I grumble and head out.
Four's P. O. V.
My body is rigid as I watch the fourteen-year-old from District Four bring a stone down to the District One male for his final kill.
Henri's hand holds onto my shoulder gently, yet firmly, "Don't worry about it, John. If you get picked, you're stronger than the humans. But you know you'll have to live."
I sigh softly. Being from District One has had a lot of perks- it's really given me a chance to grow strong with my 'human' abilities and blend in out in the open. My Legacies are harnessed in Henri and I's large mansion, in what was supposed to be a gym downstairs. I've grown strong and skilled, and that'll come in handy if and when the Mogodorians come after me. In the past twelve years we've been here, there hasn't been a sign quite yet, but Henri and I both prefer to stay fully prepared. I take another stare at the paused image of the fourteen-year-old from District Seven, the rock bloody as he clutches it with tears slipping down his filthy fate.
"Do you think he's a Garde?" I ask my Cepan solemnly.
He merely shakes his head, "If he is, a very poorly trained one."
"Well, he won," I defend the boy lightly, "and he's only two years younger than me. He's obviously got some skill about him."
Henri considers this. "He did a very exceptional job at controlling any Legacies he had on the screen. I figure some of the Garde would've used them and blown our cover completely in order their own survival."
He gives me a stern look, a silent reminder for what's expected of me if I ever get Reaped. I nod quietly as the TV unpauses itself, switching over to the previous Reaping in District Three yesterday. A girl with two blonde braids by the name of Kelli is called to the stage, and with no volunteers, she begins to cry quietly. My heart cracks a bit, especially as another obviously twelve year old is called up. He stares at the ground as he begins to shuffle his way up; I hear a sob in the sixteen-year-old section. That's when a tall, muscular monster of a boy steps out easily from the crowd of seven year olds, his mug sour.
"You all are pathetic," he informs to solemn crowd, "letting two twelve year olds die my ass."
With that, he pushes the boy back into the crowd and stands beside the twelve year old. The escort is only fazed briefly before she begins fawning over the volunteer, sexily asking his name.
"Stanley," he grunts, "Stanley Worthington."
Kelli looks up at him with watery light green eyes, and only then does he show a slightly more light emotion as he places one large hand on her head gently.
The program switches quickly to District Eleven's Reaping. The mayor is making out with a woman who looks abused and sick when he probably should be doing a speech, so the escort cuts the chase and calls out for a Marina Underlie. The girl that was beside their makeout session grows weakly painfully, coming up awkwardly with tears pouring down her face helplessly. The bruises show she's been abused as well, and her nervous glances at the mayor prove there's dark secrets within their house.
God Bless her soul...
Henri's hand goes to my shoulder, "We have to get to the Reaping ourselves, John...all we can do is pray for them."
Nodding sadly, I slowly follow him outside. Dying itself has always been tragic to me, but what really gets me is the look of utter fear on those kid's faces. It's absolutely heart breaking, and it reminds me that we Loric have it relatively easy compared to these humans. It's absolutely awful, and my resentment of the Hunger Games and the Capital as a whole makes an outcast in District One.
Better to be outcasted than brainwashed...
"Sarah Hart!"
My eyes widen in alarm as a muffled sound comes from near me. About two rows back, a trembling girl in a gorgeous red sweater steps into isle and begins trudging her way forward. She looks like she's trying not to cry, to be brave in the face of danger. What really sucks is that she's been a crush of mine since I was about five, and now she's going to die.
'John Smith!"
Color peels itself from my face. I've finally been Reaped. This is it.
I reluctantly make my forward, standing as close to Sarah as I've ever done. She looks at with tragedy-filled blue eyes, like she knows she's going to die because of me. My chest tightens terribly as I stare solemnly at the roaring crowd, no volunteers willing as phones snap pictures. There are some of Sarah's friends giggling about 'how cute' we'll be as Careers together, but I merely keep my gaze locked on Henri. He's completely solemn and all business, but at least he's got his head on straight.
"I'm going to die..." Sarah whispers as we're escorted to the Goodbye Hall.
Not helping my testosterone, I reach over and take her hand, "I'll protect you."
Henri is going to kill me.