User blog:TehOnlyUmbreon/A Deadly Spark

Chapter 1: A Sparked Drowned By Water

I awake to the darkness of my room, the salty, stale scent of dried seawater invading my nose. I try to roll over and fall back asleep, like I do on any other holiday, but then a lightning bolt seems to strike me out of bed. This is different. This is Panem's trademark. The Hunger Games. I leap up like I've been burned by my sheets. The day of the reaping. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the sixty-sixth Hunger Games begin," I mutter, stifling a yawn.

And then I remember the other reason why today is different. Today, exactly seven years ago, when I was nothing but a ten-year-old at the reaping, standing with my grandmother, I received the awful news that my parents had been shot and killed by the Capitol. They were rebels, both of them, and named me Spark. "The spark of rebellion," my mother used to say, tucking a loose strand of my light brown hair behind my ear.

But now they're gone. I only got to keep my name because of the Capitol. "Why should a spark be a problem, in District Four?" asked President Snow, when the issue of my secretly 'rebellious' name was brought up. "She's surrounded by water. We can drown any rebellion." I was supposed to pretend that I didn't hear the last part, but it registered as Snow muttered it under his breath. "Or we can drown her, if she gets out of hand."

I can't let anyone drown me. I vowed that to myself the first day that my grandmother took me in, as my guardian appointed by the Capitol, since the rest of my relatives are rebels. Or, they were, until the Capitol executed them for treason against Panem. I stare into the cracked mirror on my wall. My pale blue eyes stare back at me, disturbingly light against my tan skin. My light brown hair is choppy and hanging short above my shoulders. Spark. I should have been named something darker, since the Career tributes regularly call me Sparky, because I'm not a Career like them, even though I train regularly for the Hunger Games. I would be a Career, but I hate the Capitol.

It's only dawn, so I manage to slip down the creaking stairs, past my grandmother, who is sprawled out in an armchair and fast asleep. I've been watching reaping preparations since I was twelve. Now that I'm seventeen, I've gain a few tactics. I pick up a chunk of driftwood from the street and throw it hard at a window across the Square to divert the Peacekeepers' attention. Sure enough, the ten white-clad figures whip around to find the source of the noise of shattering glass, and I bolt behind them, my bare feet silent on the brick street.

The stage is empty, and the tributes' escort, Miranda Sanrough, is nowhere to be seen, so I mount the steps while the Peacekeepers investigate the broken window. My hand dips into the female's reaping ball, and I pull out three slips. Then my mouth drops open as I read the first one, unfolding it so quickly that my fingers almost tear it, and only the years of tying knots keep me from ripping it in half.

The name is mine. Spark Reviz.

I have no tessera, none. I have my name in the reaping ball six times. What are the odds of that? I drop the paper back in, burying it to the bottom of the thousands of slips. Then I read fistfuls of paper, and they all read the same thing, even when I am far past six slips. I stop counting when I reach somewhere around twenty. The slips read the same thing every time.

Spark Reviz... Spark Reviz... Spark Reviz...

I take a deep breath, running back down the steps. I have to get home, to my grandmother's house. My feet fly as I run past the Peacekeepers again. I unlock the back door of my house, shoving the key back into my pants pocket, crashing up the stairs, and I flop over on my bed, my face buried in the pillow. The musty scent of sweat and salt wafts into my nose as I think.

The Capitol did this. They rigged the drawing so I would be chosen. I try to calm my breathing, pulling the sheet back up over my head, suffocating. They did this. And there is only one reason- my parents. The Capitol needs to eliminate any possible rebels. And since I am a rebel myself, apparently, and am the daughter of rebels, they want to make me a contestant in the Hunger Games. A tribute to the Capitol. I imagine a victory feast for another tribute, one where every citizen of the Capitol drinks my blood from wineglasses and roasts my flesh and seasons it with herbs and spices... because the Capitol has been wanting me dead since the deaths of my parents. So, now that I am far too old to be considered a little girl anymore, they can kill me and act like I am just another unfortunate tribute.

I groan into my pillow as I hear my grandmother's raspy voice. "Spark?" she calls up the stairs, sounding like a piece of metal that has rusted in the rain. "Are you all right?" I hear her as she painstakingly navigates the staircase. With her old age, I'm glad I am young and strong. I am needed more every day. "We need to get you dressed up nice for the reaping, Spark."

I roll over to see her standing over my bed. With a sigh, I stand up, feeling heavy and slow. "I'm fine," I say. She nods and smiles, showing gaps between her teeth. She walks slowly down the stairs as I sit down in the kitchen at the small table. I barely pick at the fish that my grandmother set out for me. My stomach is in knots. I can't eat much, because I know that I will be reaped, no matter what. That I will be a tribute, and that from now on, I have to be not just a tribute, but also a possible victor.

Before my grandmother has a chance to ask what's bothering me, I speak quickly. "Look, Gran, you know that the Capitol wants me dead," I say quietly. Her blue eyes widen. She's so old that I sarcastically asked her one day if she remembered the Dark Days and the foundation of the Hunger Games. "You know that I check the girls' reaping slips on reaping day, right?" She nods. I sigh, about to speak the most difficult part of my story. "Those... those damn Capitol bastards rigged the reaping!" I burst out. My grandmother has never criticized my rude language. "Every girl's slip says my name. Spark Reviz. Spark Reviz." I take a deep breath. "So... don't expect me to make it out of the reaping unless it's by train to the Capitol."

Gran sighs. "Spark," she says gently, her withered hand touching my face. I jerk away, raising my hand to slap her, but then I remember exactly who I'm talking to and lower my arm. "This is a Career district. There ought to be a volunteer."

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">"No, there won't," I snap rudely, staring at the floor and scuffing my heel against the floor. "The Careers hate me. You know that. They call me Sparky and think that I'm a rebel. And you know that they're practically polishing the Capitol's floors for them, the Careers love President Snow so much. They - hate - me." I shiver, despite the warm sea air, when I picture who my male partner could be. "And they have a reason to hate me."

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">Gran sighs again, louder this time, shoving my plate toward me. "Eat," she says. "You need to keep up your strength. And don't try denying that you're strong. I've never seen anyone stronger, except maybe a few Careers." I scowl across the table at her as she pulls up a chair, and she laughs, almost sounding like a little girl. I eat with my fingers as usual, picking out the fish bones and eating the flesh. It isn't very filling, but Gran's right that I need to keep my strength up. "Spark, you know that you'd be the victor."

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">"The Gamemakers would have it out for me the minute I step into the arena," I say tonelessly, tossing the fish bones left over from my breakfast out the window for the birds to pick at. I set the chipped plate in the washing bucket and start to walk up the stairs, but Gran stops me.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">"If you're going to be a tribute, at least look nice for the reaping," she says. I twist my face up in a scowl again, and she grins, reminding me again of a mischievous young girl. "Oh, come on." After minutes of me complaining and her picking out a dress for me and doing my hair, I stand looking in the mirror again, an expression of disbelief reflected on my face. My hair is brushed smooth and perfect, in a simple braid down my back, and I am wearing a short, strapless, light-blue dress that brings out the colors in my eyes. It is cut very low in the front, showing off my bare arms and half of my chest, and the dress comes down to halfway between my hips and knees. I look... strong. Strong, a bit sexy even, poised to kill.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">"I look like a slut," I say, but I'm laughing despite myself. I have never thought of myself as pretty or ugly, just strong. But the muscles in my body actually make me look beautiful, though a bit slutty, like I said. But Gran only smiles at me, tears in her eyes.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">"You'll always make me proud, Spark," she says, tucking a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. Just like my mother did. I blink away the tears in my eyes. "And you're beautiful. Who says rebellion can't be beautiful?" My father would always call me his beautiful little girl. "How's my beautiful?" he'd ask, when I was a small child. I would squeal in happiness and let him hug me. Then he'd kiss my mother and say, "Of course, I've got my other beautiful here, too." I bite my lip. I can't cry now, not when I look so beautiful and feel so strange inside.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">The clock tower in the Square is chiming nine in the morning, the time of District 4's reaping. Gran and I walk out to the square, her in an old gray dress with a lacy white collar. We separate when I have to go off with the other seventeen-year-olds. Immediately, I am noticed. Usually, I can manage to blend into the crowd, but when I am around Career tributes and dressed provocatively on reaping days, I am noticed easily.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">"Hey," someone says, a Career. "It's Sparky. Look at sexy Sparky." He whistles under his breath, and a Career girl giggles stupidly from behind him. "Look at Sexy -I mean Sparky." By now, a crowd of Careers has grown around me. Some are laughing. I glare at them. "Hey, Sparky, after the reaping, want to meet me in the alley behind the Justice Building? It's pretty dark back there." He grins. I'm silently fuming, trying to think of a response, when Miranda Sanrough climbs the steps of the stage.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">She's wearing bright yellow, with six-inch high heels to match, along with neon green makeup that makes her look like she's been rolling around in florescent grass. "Welcome!" she trills happily. "I'm so happy to be here in this beautiful sea district!" She gestures to someone sitting in a chair next to her, and my heart skips a beat, and I know what she'll say even before she speaks. "This is Finnick Odair, one of our mentors. The newest victor, but who says we can't have two District Four victors in consecutive years!" she chirps optimistically. Finnick is younger than me, only fifteen, his first year of mentoring. He has beautiful green eyes that entrap me instantly, and deeply tanned bronze skin. "And Mags, our other mentor!" Mags is old and withered, like Gran. She looks almost shriveled, covered in wrinkles and using a cane.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">"Now..." Miranda Sanrough says ecstatically, almost hysterically elated. "Now, it's time to read the Treaty of Treason!" She grins, like this is the big event of the day. I almost yawn loudly, but then I catch myself. After that, it will be the time for the tributes to be drawn. And I will be in front of the nation without doubt.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">Mayor Samuelson begins to rattle off the Treaty of Treason, which I find boring. I close my eyes, listening to the familiar words being read off the official document. As the treaty reaches the end of the gruesome account and official words, I open my eyes again, taking a deep breath. I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress, trying not to look worthy of the mocking nickname Sexy Sparky that the Careers have given me. No, I just want to be strong, not beautiful, although that could be an advantage when I am trying to get sponsors in the preparation for the Games.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">Miranda expertly maneuvers on her high heels over to the glass reaping balls. "Now that that's over with," she sings out musically as a bird, "time to draw... our female tribute!"

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">Let me die now, I think. Damn it, I have to be a tribute. The Capitol rigged this... I'm going to die... But then the thought hits me, as I sink into despair, as Miranda Sanrough fishes around dramatically in the girls' reaping ball with her heavily ringed fingers.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">If I'm such a rebel, why don't I die as a rebel? I'll die anyway. So why not die knowing that I might make an impact on my nation?

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">Just as I think this, I look up at the stage to hear my name ring out through the salty District 4 air.

<p style="max-height:999999px;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Verdana;font-size:14px;line-height:17px;">"Spark Reviz!" <p style="max-height:999999px;">

<p style="max-height:999999px;">Chapter 2: Far From Shore

<p style="max-height:999999px;">I try to stay calm, acting like a normal girl from District 4 who didn't expect to be called. I know that I'm glaring at the crowd by the way people flinch when they stare at me, by the way they look the other direction when they see my eyes. Miranda Sanrough is beckoning me up to the stage, acting like this is perfectly natural. Only, it isn't. Because she has never looked this tense at a reaping. I walk up the steps and stand on the stage, staring out across the faces of District 4.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">I'm expecting Miranda to ask for any volunteers as she usually does, but there is something that gives it all away. She just grins out at the crowd, like there is no such thing as volunteering. There are Career tribute girls shrieking at her, "I volunteer as tribute!" But she ignores every one of them, and goes on like this is normal.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"Well, well!" she says, as if this is the most beautiful statement in the history of the Hunger Games. She beams winningly at the scowling, cursing, or whispering crowd. "Let's all give a round of applause to our new tribute, District Four... Spark Reviz!" She claps so fast that her hands blur, still baring those artificially white teeth in a smile. "Go on now, isn't she beautiful in that lovely dress of hers?"

<p style="max-height:999999px;">The crowd is dead silent for a second. Then some of the adults clap, although very half-heartedly. Like they actually feel sorry for me. But everyone in District 4 and the Capitol, and many more in Panem, know that I am the daughter of rebels and a rebel myself. The older adults whisper about rebellion and the Capitol among each other in hushed voices. The Career tributes start up a mocking and envious chant of, "Sexy Spar-ky! Sexy Spar-ky!" that quickly dies down when no one joins in.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">My eyes find the crew of the fishing boat that I work on. Mostly men, a couple of women, all barely over reaping age. In fact, I am -no, was- the only worker under nineteen. They knew me, barely, but no one knows me but them and Gran. They never acknowledge me after our fishing shift on the boat, which lasts from sunrise to sunset in almost any weather. Except... there is one time when we all have a sense that we are connected. When we are heading back to shore and singing a traditional song of District 4 that has been around since the Dark Days.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">Sure enough, but to my surprise, I hear the song. One voice becomes two, and then more and more until almost the whole district is singing. Most children learn the song when they are around four years old. It is traditional, symbolizing District 4's fishing industry and the workers. The words are a bit cryptic, but they are about a man at sea returning to his lover after a long day of working. The notes to the song are repeated the whole time, almost never changing, but it's beautiful, and as we get closer to shore, we repeat the whole song louder and louder on our way home. Most every day, even in the rain, lovers or wives of the boat workers come out, hearing the song, and sometimes the women embrace their men and smile. Sometimes the district citizens sing along. It makes happiness out of a gray sky.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">But not now. Now, every word breaks my heart, because I know that I will never sing it with my district again.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"Bravo, bravo!" cheers Miranda Sanrough happily, loving the moment. I'm sure that she thinks it would be good camera footage, the district serenading a tribute. But she knows that I am a rebel. The district serenading a rebel could result in horrible things. "But onto things, now! Got to stick to the schedule!" She points at a slim, green watch around her wrist, tapping it in a punctual manner. "Now, for our male tribute!"

<p style="max-height:999999px;">She totters on her high heels over to the boys' reaping ball, fishing around in it. The crowd is silent, listening for the dreaded name. She pulls out a slip and reads the name clearly.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"Thor Crethil!" she squeals happily, waving the slip like a banner. "Come on up, Thor!"

<p style="max-height:999999px;">I groan inwardly as I see a very muscular Career tribute boy walk up to the stage. Several people look like they're about to volunteer, then say something about Thor deserving 'the honor' more than them. I recognize Thor's dark brown hair and deeply tanned skin, the latter of which is a trademark of District 4's boat workers and fishermen.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">The district applauds regularly, and the Careers scream their appreciation and whistle until Miranda's glaring at them as well as a five-foot-tall Capitol women wearing neon green makeup and six-inch heels can. "All right! This concludes our District Four reaping!" she says happily. Out of the corner of her mouth, she whispers to Thor and I: "Shake hands, tributes."

<p style="max-height:999999px;">I want so badly to break every bone in Thor's hand, but I restrain myself. Better save that for later. His strong hand clenches around mine, and I shake it dully, trying not to touch him more than absolutely needed.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">The Peacekeepers lead us off the stage as the crowd trickles away back to their safe homes. They lead us into the Justice Building, into rooms that look so luxurious that I barely can stop staring at the soft carpet and the lush fabric of the curtains. But I just want to be in the old house that I call home, with Gran and in my room. I want to fall asleep and wake up somewhere else, where there are streams full of pure water and trees that grow endless food and money. I use to fantasize about that when I was young. But now I'm older, and I know that there is nothing. Nothing but Panem and the Hunger Games and President Snow's power.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"This is your time to say goodbye to family and friends," a Peacekeeper barks in my ear. Then, before I have a chance to snap back at him, he shuts me in one of the beautiful rooms. The windows are perfectly polished glass, not just holes in the wooden walls like at home. I sit down on a comfortable armchair, but I feel like I can't touch anything. It's too perfect for me, the rebels' daughter. The boat worker. The girl from the poorest part of District 4 who lives with her grandmother. Sexy Sparky, as I am to the Careers.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">The heavy wooden door opens without a creak at all. Gran hobbles into the room. "I knew you'd be right, Spark," she says softly, rewarding me with an embrace. I breathe in, trying hard not to cry. "Look, Spark, you can make it." I start to protest, saying things about the Gamemakers having it out for me, but she stops me. "You're strong. You're fast. And as far as I can see, President Snow hasn't drowned you yet." I manage to smile.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">Gran presses something into my hand. "You need a district token," she says in her frail voice. I look down and see what she has given me. I examine it closely. A necklace, on a thick silver chain. There is a fairly flat seashell strung on the chain, with a hole to let the chain through. I undo the clasp and fasten it around my neck, a lump in my throat.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"Thanks," I whisper.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">Gran smiles and kisses my cheek. "Spark, I'll be watching every moment of the Games for you," she says. "The Opening Ceremonies, the interviews..."

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"The arena," I mutter downheartedly. "You'll be watching that, too. Me dying when the Gamemakers send their fucking mutts after me. Or when a Career slits my throat." Then I look up from the floor to her eyes. "I'm not going to let them kill me before I die, though," I say. "The Capitol. I'm not going to let them get me." I pause. "But I'll get them. I know that I'll get them."

<p style="max-height:999999px;">Gran smiles shakily. "Don't be afraid of anything," she says. She points one gnarled finger at my necklace. "This was your mother's," she says. "Your father gave it to her. She always used to say that it was good luck. My beautiful daughter, shot through the head by a Capitol firing squad." She sighs, smiling wistfully. "She would have loved the way that the district sang that song. But you know, the song is about two separate things." She looks into my eyes. Hers are the blue that dulled down into almost gray with the generations that passed. "It's about a man coming home from a day's work on the fishing boat to someone he loves, yes. But it's also about a victor. A victor who is coming back to District Four to someone they have missed." She kisses my cheek quickly again as she hears the Peacekeepers' boots on the carpeted hallway, coming to the room. "So find someone to miss. Just not a tribute. You know that there's one victor only. Find something. And survive. Come back." She starts humming the song under her breath.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">And when the Peacekeepers take her away, she whispers, "May the odds be ever in your favor, Spark."

<p style="max-height:999999px;">As time passes, I begin to doubt the possibility of others coming to visit me before I am sent off to die. I fall into a sort of trance. Thinking about death -endless nothing- makes my stomach feel hollow. So I try to dream of a sunny day on the fishing boat. Where seabirds swoop around us, adding their shrieking calls to our song. Where we are turning to the shore. Where every person is singing. I sing now quietly. "Here we are again..." I get out, and then the lump in my throat grows, and I can only hum.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">Then I stand up again and walk closer to the door. I hear it. I hear the song being sung. Continued in a hearty voice, a man's voice. Singing as he walks down the hall to my room. "Here we are again," he sings in his rich, beautiful voice. "Death is not far again..." Then I hear a Peacekeeper saying something full of cursing to him, and he stops singing.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">The door swings open, and a fisherman walks in. I remember his name. Jake Paylor. The one who always complains about fishing, claiming that he's from District 8. Hard to believe, with those deep brown eyes of his, and the dark tan skin, and the dark hair. District 8's people are never tan, since they work in the textile factories. Jake Paylor's handsome, I'll give him that, and I love his voice when he sings the fishing song, which he claims is called 'Here We Are'. The title makes sense, especially since all of the females on the boat are entranced by his singing.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"Hey, Spark," he says, embracing me. I let him. Even though he's twenty or so, out of the reaping, and safe here in 4, I feel happier, knowing that someone cares about me enough to come. Then he smiles, showing a mouthful of even, white teeth. "I started the song, you know that?" he says teasingly. "I couldn't just stand there and watch you look at me like that. You look beautiful in that dress." His tone becomes serious. "I know that this isn't right," he says quietly, barely audible. "They rigged it. But you know that. I've seen you distracting the Peacekeepers and looking at the names in the reaping ball."

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"Yeah," I mutter. His eyes are making me want to say more. They are so dark that they appear black.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"I'm a rebel, too," he whispers in my ear. My whole body tenses. A rebel? How could Jake Paylor be a rebel? He seems just like the average fisherman, except for his distaste of seafood and occasional far-fetched tales. "And yes, I'm from District Eight. At least, I was born there. My parents were rebels. They dumped me on the doorstep of the Justice Building when I was barely a year old and then went and drowned themselves in the sea." I wince at the gruesome story. I wasn't expecting that last part. "Luckily for me, a woman saw me and took me in before the mayor found me instead. She looked enough like me to say that she was my mother. I knew my name, though. Even back in Eight, I was Jake Paylor, and that was my real name. But only to my parents. I had another name then, I heard, a fake one."

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"Why didn't they rig it for you?" I ask as he straightens my necklace. "Did they ever figure out?"

<p style="max-height:999999px;">Jake shakes his head. "Oh, Spark, you know I never mentioned District Eight except on the boat when I'd had to much to drink," he says lightly. "And that was when all the fishers were saying stupid things. The usual. 'Oh, I met the President of Panem one day when he took a boat ride'... 'My daughter's mother was from the Capitol'... you know the type." He turns serious again, his eyes darkening.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">"Look, Spark, I came because I want to tell you to make it back here, okay?" he says. I nod wordlessly. "Like the song. 'Darling, we'll meet again...'" he sings. I grin. "But, Spark, please." There's a rebellious gleam in his eyes. "You'd better stir up some rebellion before you go into the arena. Just in case."

<p style="max-height:999999px;">The Peacekeepers come in. "Reviz, your time's up," he growls to me. "Paylor, out. Go back home."

<p style="max-height:999999px;">He nods, squeezing my hand. "All right," he says to the Peacekeeper. To me, he says, "Like the song. You might have someone you love to come back to, Spark."

<p style="max-height:999999px;">Jake Paylor's final gift to me is a kiss. It lasts barely a second, but it's enough to make the cold in me warmed by happiness.

<p style="max-height:999999px;">And as I am led to the platform, onto the train, and as the doors shut ominously, I squeeze my necklace and stare out the window while the ocean whirls away into a line on the horizon, then nothing at all.