The Great War.

II

"Bloodstained Traditions."

I can make it downtown in ten minutes because it's not that far away from my house, the street's floor is made of flagstone, and the houses are all similar, with ice gray reinforced concrete walls. I walk by the training center, and once again I consider the option of volunteering myself as a tribute. I come to the conclusion that I could do it in the rare case that no one else volunteers; this is actually impossible, but it helps me ignore the fact that I'm being a coward.

"I'll do it if no one else does it."

I walk slowly while I sink into my thoughts, when suddenly, an unusual sound brings me back to reality: a young girl's scream. I can hear the pain and despair in her voice. This kind of scenario is extremely unusual here, although it really seemed strange to me that all teens were willing to dedicate a large part of their lives to training for a competition whose victory is not guaranteed to anyone. I never imagined coming across a scene like the one I'm watching right now: a gigantic blonde guy comforting a tiny girl who is barely twelve years old. I don't know many people at the training center, but I'm sure that the entire district knows that guy, Cato Hadley.

He trains with the determination of a war soldier; he has special training like me, but I think he is eighteen years old. He's this year's volunteer for the games, hands down. There are rumors that he is not quite sane. Cato crouches before the little girl and tries to calm her down. She should be thankful that there is no one else around, because she could be accused of treason. Here, the games are a reason to celebrate, and you are doomed if you disagree.

"Obviously I won't go to the games because I'm too young for that, but I know you will." She screams. "You can't go! You can't leave me!"

She repeats that same phrase over and over again while punching him. I am completely paralyzed in the middle of the street, admiring that anomalous scene. He holds the girl's face with both hands and tells her that everything will be fine, but she keeps on yelling. He has a point; she wouldn't go to the games because there's a list of girls willing to take her place if she's reaped, and for Cato Hadley not to get out of the arena, the Capitol would probably need to put a damn monster there to kill him. My urge to volunteer myself as a tribute significantly decreases when I realize that he will likely be the one to represent the district this year.

"Listen to me." He talks loud and clear. "The courage of our ancestors runs through your veins, and I know that you are strong enough to survive on your own if things go south."

"But that doesn't mean I want to do it!" She starts crying again. "You won't understand because you don't feel anything at all."

He sighs bitterly and runs his hands through his hair before starting to talk again.

"When you grow old, you will be able to understand why I do the things that I do." He says. "Just be a good girl and stop questioning things that are not your business; you will thank me later."

I come back to my senses when a family walks past me. I pretend that I haven't seen a thing and closely follow those strangers on their way downtown to the district's plaza. Luckily, my presence had not been noticed by the Hadleys, because that would have been incredibly uncomfortable for the three of us. The last thing I need is to look like a snooper.

Arriving at the square, I have to register my attendance, so I join the long line of girls waiting to go in. They all wear outfits and hairstyles similar to mine, which makes me uncomfortable; at the other side of the square stands the line of boys, who also look almost the same. Upon entering, they separate us by gender and age. The line moves fast, and I'm at the entrance in less than five minutes. A national security server, or peacekeeper, pricks my finger to draw a drop of blood to register my attendance at the event. Unless you're on your deathbed, it is strictly forbidden not to show up for the reaping. The punishment given to those who miss this event is public execution; it does not happen here but is common in the poorest districts. Poverty offers you the Hunger Games on a silver platter since there is something called "tesserae"; basically, you agree to have your name placed more times inside the ballot box in exchange for food. Tributes from these districts usually die at the start of the competition.
The peacekeeper gives me the all-clear, and I walk nimbly through the crowd until I reach the seventeen-year-old girls section. They all look threatening, and I want to think that I look the same way. I see most of them at the training center, but I have never struck up a conversation with any of them. That is not a place to make friends.