#allegra.task

as the train pulls into the station, there are people outside standing, watching, and staring. she looks out the window to stare back at them, but when their eyes meet, the other always drops their gaze. it is as if simply by having the symbol of the capitol on the vehicle that is carrying her, the citizens of the district are afraid of her.

for the first time in her life, she is somewhere different than home. for the first time in her life, she is somewhere where her home is seen in a negative light. when she gets off the train and breathes in the fresh, unpolluted air, she cannot help but begin to understand why her home gets such a bad rap.

compared to the city lights and loud noises of the capitol, district ten is something else entirely. there are dynamic skies and the sun feels like it’s burning a hole through her skin, and as she is brought to the center of the district for the ceremony, she feels as if she is a stranger, as if she is somewhere she is not supposed to be.

she barely has a moment to speak to the mentors, to the rest of the team, as she is busy running through microphone checks and talking to government officials and trying to follow along. people try to talk slower, try to enunciate far more than they normally do, which just makes it harder for her to follow, but she does not want to rely on the interpreter provided for her. however, there comes a point where it’s easier to just watch the woman’s signs than people’s mouths, and she stands silently, soaking in all the information she can. she tries to avoid getting frustrated, but it seems impossible. there are a million people speaking at once, important things she feels she is missing out on, and she wants to go hide in a corner. 

but she can’t, she has a responsibility she has to uphold.

when it comes time for the ceremony to begin, she walks onstage. her eyes scan the crowd, and suddenly, she feels out of place in the bright and flashy outfit she was put in hours ago. the video plays, the one she has seen in training a million times over, and as soon as the national anthem is finished, she walks to center stage, smiling at the crowd.

“now,” she begins, “it is time to select who will represent this beautiful district in the seventy eighth annual hunger games.” she signs as she speaks, watching as the crowd watches her. many of them have probably never seen sign language in action before, but she can see one little girl in the front row smiling at her, before signing please don’t pick me at allegra, with a sincere look on her face.

she knows she has no control over whose name comes out of that bowl, but she takes a brief moment to silently pray that it won’t be that little girl.

"we’ll begin with the girls,” she says before walking over to the bowl. she stares into it for a moment, at the thousands of names in there. how many children have their names in there over fifty times? how many only once? how many only have this one last reaping to survive before they make it out of this tradition unscathed? she picks a name and walks back to the microphone, unfolding it.

first name: f-i-n-l-e-y. last name: o-t-t-e-r-n, she signs, before saying “finley ottern,” out loud to the crowd. she waits as the kids slowly turn to the young girl that her hand has selected to be sentenced to die, and as she sees the look on that girls face, her heart breaks.

she knows, logically, that it is not her fault that today is more than likely the last day her parents will see her, and yet she cannot help but feel that all the responsibility has landed on her shoulders.