Hey, so this is my first ever fan fic. 'Wooo!' and all that I guess. Please review, since all comments and advice are helpful. By the way, if the spelling seems weird it'll be because I spell the UK way :-)
Now enough about that, you came here to read, so enjoy!
Chapter One - Mispronounciations
That's my name. My name, booming out of the District Five speakers, for the whole of Panem to hear. And Tyranny Haylumm has even taken the liberty of pronouncing my name wrong. Great. Now that'll be all people will ever know me as, if they remember me at all. I've heard that most Capitol people have two hour memories at best. Though I'm always forgotten anyway. Or maybe not...
It seems I'm no longer forgotten to the people of District Five, as now all eyes are automatically fixed on me.
"Uh, Medea Travex?" Tyranny repeats, looking worriedly around the crowd, as though I may not have heard her. Nope, you had that one covered. But now she breaks off from her quivering worriedness, and releases her swift, emerald-green eyes onto the crowd, where she meets with her target. Perhaps it's just easy to spot a red-head being stared down by a mass of browns, blacks and blondes, but I could swear that the Capitol's enhanced them to make them sharp as eagles'.
"Ah, there you are. Now, come on up dear, there's nothing to be frightened of." It sounds as if she's coaxing out a kitten from behind a dustbin. That is, if the kitten in question is about to be pitted against twenty-four others in a battle to the death. Of course Tyranny, I think, of course there's nothing to be frightened of.
As I stare out into the sea of eyes before me, I realise it's either move now or be dragged onto the stage by Peacekeepers, and if the latter happens, I'll be sure to get no sponsors at all. Not that I'm expecting any, but I don't want to be making a scene. That goes on enough at the District 12 reaping, with their drunkard of a mentor, Mitchell, or something, he's called. It's no wonder they've only won twice.
Right then, back to reality now. Best foot forward, Menny... No sooner has my right foot left the ground, than I find the crowd of children in front of me begin to split before my eyes, forging a path to the stage steps. I stride on, wanting to show no fear, despite the seven colonies of butterflies that have now appeared within my stomach. I risk a glance backwards, and I can see the gap right behind me refilling with people every time I move even an inch forwards, while the stretch of well-walked-on concrete beckons me onwards. The Parting for the Red-Head, is all I can think of, just like that Moses-guy with the tea towel hat my mother told me about, just one of the old stories they'd pass on to keep up spirits through the disasters. And just like that Moses-guy, I know that there is no possibility of turning back now.
As I reach the steps, I pretend to be oblivious to what my near future will bring, even pretend that it won't happen, that I won't die, just to prevent myself from keeling over and screaming my head off. Each step I take is a mountain, each breath I inhale an icy wind flowing through me, until I finally reach the top of the near-insurmountable stage. Tyranny gestures with her left hand for me to join her in the centre.
When I reach her, I am overwhelmed with the sickly-sweet scent of her perfume, which can only be described as smelling like death. That deathly scent that you can sense just before a person passes away. It happened with my mother, and my grandmother, though they couldn't smell it themselves; you can't smell it when it's coming from yourself. Most people can't smell it anyway, so my senses are likely just more highly- tuned than others'. Myra swears I'm psychic, though.
Myra. Myra! I search through the crowd for her, scanning this way and that, while death-lady asks for volunteers. I can't see her anywhere - she might have run to dad by now – but no, he still stands with all the other power station workers, a few of them are trying to console him, while he just stares straight ahead, blank and unreachable. Poor dad. But where is Myra? Oh no. There she is. Her face has lost all its rosiness, and instead now turns to a light shade of green. Her body shakes wildly, as though it were just a piece of paper in the wind, flimsy and weak. I am glad for her friends holding her upright – she looks like she would faint otherwise. A few of them look up at me, and they must have told her I'm looking, since she meets my eyes now. Blue gems filled with fear and desperation. I can't leave her looking like that. I smile at her, a hopefully reassuring smile. She briefly smiles back, before our gaze is interrupted by Tyranny's outburst, as she seemingly decides there are no volunteers coming forwards. Took her long enough.
"District Five, I give you your female tribute, Medea Travex!" She actually has to look back at the piece of paper to remember my name. I wonder if that scent really is her perfume, or if she's just going to die soon. I'm secretly hoping the second.