Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝐹𝐼𝑉𝐸 ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ
❦
The screen was fuzzy, both distorted by the small size and low power distribution. It was to be expected, with the energy being split at all ends to fire up old televisions in communal spaces for those too old to go to the town square for the annual reaping, where large screens were already hung, cameras placed perfectly for the ceremony.
That morning, Cillian had walked through the Barren, listening for the familiar hum of the live wires that wrapped around the fences. If he listened hard enough, that buzz filled the air, as if it too was electrified. And even still, the lights of the carriage would flash and dim sporadically. District Seven was too large and too thinly populated to be deemed worthy of a sufficient supply of power. There were times, when he was younger, that Cillian remembered working on the mills, enshrouded in darkness, only the distant flickering of a house light illuminating his work area. A childhood friend had once lost a finger, because of it.
Each time the light of the carriage glitched, Eirlys would lean her hand on her powdered forehead and sigh, so loudly that it reached above the tinny noise of the Capitol tunes that played from the TV. She was on edge with her jittery bossiness that Cillian remembered from the time after his own reaping and the games. The clock on the screen was counting down seconds. The District Seven escort watched it hungrily, counting down each minute until her role in the drama would be displayed.
Johanna was silent-too silent- so silent that he could hear her frustration.
"Well, that is my cue," Eirlys said suddenly. "Be prepared to greet our lovely tributes half an hour after the District Seven reaping ends."
The moment she stepped from the door, ruffled dress trailing limply at her feet, the Capitol emblem- silver and severe- flashed onto the screen. As always, the propaganda film was shown next. It was the same video of altered history and weaponised victors.
'And then came the peace.'
The camera panned across the dead faces of the first district, their escort as flowery as Eirlys, his teeth bared in a pearly grin. He could imagine their collective thoughts, feelings of grim disdain, of unpowered hatred- the same feelings he'd looked up at that stage with three years ago, and feelings he still harboured. Cillian wondered how many had been unable to pull themselves from bed that morning, not wanting to be part of such a brutal ceremony, rathering punishment than compliance. He supposed none. This was district one, after all. It was an open secret that their tributes were trained killers, volunteers picked especially to win.
And volunteer, they did. It was a dramatic process: a single hand shot up amongst the crowd of contenders, waving like a lighthouse amongst a storm, proudly and purposefully. The girl had a pinched face with hair an icy blonde, the same colour as the boy. They almost looked like siblings, had it not been for the eyes. Hers- Vera, her name might've been- were the typical electric-blue colour, while his were a light brown, like chocolate.
