Haunt's Reaping

Instructions

Tick. In some way, Haunt au Patro had always expected to hear their name called out for all of Panem to hear. After all, fate was cruel, and what better sick twist than to present a cat who preferred to keep to the sidelines to an entire nation? If nothing else, were it their name pulled at the Reaping, at least a family wouldn’t be losing a beloved child. For, by the age of twelve, Haunt knew all too completely that they would never be that child— never the favored. Not the golden son, or treasured daughter— not even /liked/. Tick. But the years had passed, and it had never been Haunt condemned to a publicized death. Year after year, District Five had sent their beloved children into the claws of death, never to return. (Except, of course, when Haunt was fourteen— /that/ year, one of them did.) And with each year, five children standing proud by each others’ sides (some less proud than others), and escaping with names yet unknown, their mother grew prouder. Tick. It was, Drift said, proof that their family had once been a great house, elegant and powerful as the stars themselves. After all, five children, all unpicked, year after year? (Haunt argued the statistical irrelevance, once— pointing out that even the au Patro five were still only a fraction of the names in the bowl). Snag, in no uncertain terms, told them to shut up, that /they/ weren’t part of any /greatness/ anyway. Haunt couldn’t even argue against that point. What were they, next to their siblings? Tick. Snag, for all his arrogance, was as effortlessly powerful as any District One Career, all smooth muscle and bulk. Break and Bend were as charismatic as a smile, equally silver-tongued and snide remarks, with matching coats of liquid night. And Spin was, of course, Drift’s pride and joy— the only, of the five, to inherit her moon-bright pelt, with only the gentlest of greys dappling the silky, smooth surface. She, too, shared the same savage intelligence as the twins. And then… there was Haunt. The outcast. Odd. Disliked. Neither charismatic or strong, with intelligence that only manifested in the strangest of ways. Tick. Still, for better or for worse, they’d been part of the family. Ignored. Scorned. And, if nothing else, at least they weren’t picked either, at least they could keep that ‘legacy’ alive (the one Haunt was pretty sure Drift was making up). Tick. So, the Reaping had come. The names had been pulled, one by one. Read. And read. And read. And as the names went on (there were so many tributes— why?), the smirks of their siblings around them had grown. Another year, only a handful of names more, and then one last year… then they’d be free. Three names more. Two. To be honest, Haunt could barely hear, over the scornful whispers of their kin— mixed with celebratory purrs. Something twisted unhappily inside— low as a hiss, dangerous as unsheathed claws— but they did not speak.