Self Para// One Final Reaping
One final Reaping.
He’d been looking forward to this day, counting down from when he turned Twelve, eligible for his first Reaping the summer following. Even after he’d won the Games, one of his first thoughts had been that they could– and might– do it to him again. Today, hopefully, with luck and kept promises, he would finally be allowed to exhale, to keep building his life with Maverick.
Like before every Reaping he’d ever attended, he picked at his breakfast. Like the last several, he stuck close to Maverick, neither of them speaking. They’d exchanged the usual “it won’t happen”s all week long, but neither of them seemed to really believe it. Battenberg might decide, despite every tightrope he’d walked with the Capitol in the last couple of years, he was too big a liability to keep alive. And Alder had no confidence he could win it twice, even with Maverick’s insistence he trained a little over the last few years (though neither of them named aloud why), even with all the people he knew would back him from the outside. He knew exactly how lucky, or perhaps unlucky, he’d been to get out the first time.
Separating at the City Center was always the most difficult part. He remained locked in a tight hug with Maverick for a little too long, until the press of foot traffic around them, other Reaping age citizens trying to get to their assigned place became too much. Even if his name didn’t get drawn, two would, two he’d statistically have to see die. The relief of it never lasted long on Reaping Day.
He filed into his place in line, stomach turning and fingers working at a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt. He caught the top of Maverick’s head over the crowd somewhere near the Reaping stage, ready to swoop the selected tributes under his wing with Ash and Leander into the Justice Building, where Alder would then rendezvous with them shortly after.
When Leander appeared on the stage, Alder felt his heart start to slam against his ribs, and he had to wipe the sweat off his palms on his pants. Leander tried to crack a small joke after the usual colorful propaganda from the Capitol, clearly feeling a little out of his element with all the seriousness (as he usually did). Alder wanted to scream at him to get on with it. By the looks of his peers, they did too.
Finally, finally, the moment came, and Leander approached the glass bowl filled to the brim with far too many names. He held his breath; the silent square held it with him. Leander’s hand plunged into the bowl, and pulled free a slip of paper. Alder swore that, even from across the crowd, over the heads of all of the younger Reaping-age children lined up in neat rows dozens of yards back, he could hear the crinkle of the paper carry through the hot air. There was a short pause as Leander regarded the name, and instantly he knew.
“Alder Reid.”
He could feel attention turning to him, but he didn’t notice it. He suddenly felt numb, his skin tingled, like he’d stepped outside midnight in January in the far North of the District. It was over– everything he’d fought to try to take back from the Capitol, the life he’d tried to live in spite of it all, it was fucking over.
And then Maverick– he didn’t want to leave him, but he’d have to somehow make this okay for him too, to make sure he was going to be okay to let him go. To build the life away from Two he wanted, with his job and art and maybe someday a family, but maybe with someone else. He wished, suddenly, he’d grabbed his hand this morning and walked off into the wilds, away from here. To anywhere else. Maybe he’d die out there too, but at least not like this. Something touched his back, and he realized he’d been standing in place for far too long. There were Peacekeepers at his sides out of nowhere, and he was ushered to the stage. He nearly tripped going up the steps, struggling to put his feet in front of the other, but eventually he made it up, squinting back out over the heads of everyone in his District against the noon July sunshine.
The treetops looked so green against the deep cobalt sky from here. A flock of birds lifted from the branches of one the trees as Leander called out another name. He watched them until they were pinpricks against the trees scraping the horizon, impossible to follow anymore.
Leander was now asking for volunteers, but Alder didn’t think much of it. Volunteers were rare here, and as he glanced over at a shaking, fifteen year old girl who had now matched his spot on the opposite side of the stage, he knew immediately she should be the one to be volunteered for, if anyone. He’d even encourage that, if it came to it.
To his surprise, two hands shot up, one shortly after the other as the call for volunteers came. His jaw dropped, and now, now he felt stunned by the turn of events. He’d always known his re-Reaping might come, that it was not even a distant possibility. But never in this scenario would there have been any alternative but going back into the Games
“Wait,” he tried to reason with the girl that approached his side as she approached, chin high and expression stony with intention and determination. It was jarringly familiar in a way he couldn’t place, not now, not in the middle of this chaos and the whole nation watching. “Wait, you don’t want to do this, I’ll go in, just go back to–”
Alder gasped as he was grabbed roughly by a Peacekeeper. Instinctively, he tried to twist free, still trying to meet the girl’s eyes and repeating his pleas for her to just go back, but it was useless. He wasn’t going quickly or silently enough for their liking, so stumbling, panicked, steely hands closed around his shoulders and he was dragged directly into the entrance of the Justice Building behind them.
He was dumped unceremoniously into one of the side rooms. Without missing a beat, he was immediately back on his feet trying to plead with one of the Peacekeepers– a human one– grabbing at the door frame and pulling back with all of his strength to keep him from shutting it.
“Please, I’ll go in her place, isn’t that what they want? Isn’t that the whole point of this?” he begged.
His fingers were easily pried away, and the door was shut in his face.
Alder sank into one of the chairs, trembling with adrenaline and a hurricane of emotions he couldn’t begin to sort out. This morning, he would have said that the worst thing to happen would be that he was Reaped again. Now he knew that guilt and the Capitol could do him one worse– this tribute might die, and would know the horror of the Games, but now in his place. He’d have to watch every second of it, helpless.
He supposed that all he could do now was not let her die.