Fate

The sun rose red over the restless ocean this morning; she was thirsty for blood. And blood she would be given. This was the morning that the games would begin -- the seventy-third Game’s Tributes were being reaped today.

Lyra stepped out onto her family’s apartment’s balcony. Although their hundred year old abode was not particularly close to the sea, the salty air swept through her long sun-bleached hair. The sand it carried imbedded itself into Lyra’s dress -- a dress that her family had spent the past seventeen years saving up for.

Today was supposed to be Lyra’s day of glory. Her entire life had led up to this moment -- she had been chosen at birth for it. Training constantly all her life, she had been hardened to all simplicities of life. She had been told that she would know relaxation once she had brought glory to her District. Right now, she only knew pain and how to give it out. Or at least, that’s what her District wanted to believe.

Lyra Carrick was a Career Tribute.

To District Four’s [future] dismay, Lyra wanted nothing to do with the arena and the death it contained -- and it wasn’t because she was scared. If the District had met any goal of theirs, it was that Lyra knew no fear. On the contrary, she wanted nothing to do with adding to the entertainment of the Capitol’s. Lyra had a rebellious spirit, and she could not bear the thought of simply playing right into the hands of those who ruled over her.

Staring out at the sunrise, she thought about how the sun and herself were quite similar. The sun did not rise without death -- the world thrived on it, for death also brought about new life. From the ashes blossomed a new life, yeah? Lyra, as well, was insignificant if not for the death’s she was born to bring about.

There was a small movement behind her, and Lyra’s instinct told her to duck away from the outstretched hand that was about to touch her. However, she knew that she was neither in training nor in the arena, so this couldn’t be a threat.

Her mother smoothed Lyra’s bronze hair comfortingly from behind. Still, Lyra could not relax.

Her mother rubbed her back soothingly, although there was nothing soothing about her cold touch. This woman had given her daughter away to the possible clutches of death, and Lyra could never forgive her for that. She stared out into the horizon emotionlessly, her mother continuing to massage her between the shoulder blades, as if she was trying to say goodbye to her daughter without words. It would be pathetic if she couldn’t bring herself to say farewell to her child, but Lyra wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t. Her mother had never been the warmest.

“You’ll do great,” the elder woman said calmly, although there was an unnerving bloodlust in her voice that had always been present whenever she spoke about the Games.

Lyra didn’t answer. But then again, she was never a person of many words. She was trained to kill, not to be friendly. She was taught to dictate, not to speak with eloquence.

The hours of the morning passed in a blur. Naturally, most of the District took it upon themselves to stop by their decrepit apartment to wish her good luck. She met with her brother Tribute-to-be, Delphine, before the drawing ceremony, as was custom in District Four. They gave each other silent nods, halfway wanting to say hello to each other warmly as they had done in the years passed, and halfway wanting to run the opposite direction.

And finally, the ceremony began. The Capitol representative gave the same speech that he did every year. This being Lyra’s last year, she practically had the speech memorized. First, the boy was chosen.

Unlike most other Districts, when a name was called here, the child was not nervous in the least about being chosen. They waited for a few moments while the same lines were repeated, and finally the moment that Lyra had been waiting for.

“Do we have any volunteers as Tribute instead of this child?”

There was a short moment of silence as Lyra looked to her left. Del was standing in front of the mass of other boys, as was Lyra for the girls. He glanced her way before clearing his throat.

“I volunteer as Tribute.” His voice was deep, husky almost. Unlike Lyra, there was still a small bit of fear rooted deep in his mind. His fingers twitched as he walked across the stage and took the other’s boys place.

Next, it was the girl’s turns. While the Capitol man dramatically waved his hand over the bowl to draw a name, everyone’s eyes began to train on the back of Lyra’s head. She waited, watching, as he finally picked a name. He read it off, and it was not someone Lyra recognized. She stared up at the girl -- probably Lyra’s age -- in a dull manner, showing just how bored she was with all this.

“And do we have any volunteers as Tribute instead of this child?”

All at once, everyone’s eyes burned into the back of Lyra’s head. She stared up calmly at the man, and then at Del. She gazed at his almost pleading eyes for the longest moment. Please don’t make me go into the arena by myself, he seemed to say. You’re the only friend I ever had. Don’t leave me now.

She stared back up at him, and for the first time all morning, a flicker of an emotion washed across her face -- pain. Don’t make me kill you, she seemed to reply.

Finally, her gaze returned to the Capitol man. He looked like he was about to tap his watch impatiently, telling her with his gold rimmed eyes to hurry the eff up. Lyra blinked slowly before turning on her heel.

“No, I’m afraid you don’t,” she replied, just barely loud enough to be picked up by the microphone. And with that, she strutted out of the Town Square and back home.