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Year of the Rottweiler - Chap. 1

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Dark clouds loomed over the orphanage, the air damp with the storm that was soon to come, the grumble of thunder already audible in the distance, the sky dreary and dismal. The splintered shutters on the windows rattled in a daunting chorus with the jostling of the black branches of the ghetto's few trees and the cawing of a lone raven. The wooden boards of the front porch joined in the choir, creaking underfoot as eighteen-year-old Rottie Beten stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind her.

It was a dreary, solemn afternoon, perfect for the occasion.

It was Reaping day.

Sitting down with her legs dangling over the edge of the porch, Rottie buried her face in her hands, her stomach churning nauseatingly with nerves. Who would be this year's unwilling victims, taken from their district and dragged into the foreign, terrifying world known as the Capitol? She grimaced, imagining the voyage into the world of technicolor residents, seeming hardly human with their plastic smiles and elaborate costumes.

“Well, you don't look nervous at all.”

A broad smile spread across her chapped lips, her eyes lighting up at the sound of the familiar voice, its smooth, distinctive accent very unlike her own dull tone.

“Andrew!” Rottie exclaimed happily as she lifted her head to look at the welcome intruder. He watched her back through thin-rimmed glasses, his gentle eyes like solid sapphires. Jet black tresses cascaded to his shoulders, framing his delicate features handsomely. His smooth accent, neat attire, and pleasant odor made it all too apparent that he was not from the district. “What happened? I thought you were leaving this morning!”

The young man smiled back and sat down beside her, a paper bag in hand. “The ride back to the Capitol was delayed by the Reaping. The next train won't leave for another eight hours. Apparently, tourists aren't allowed on the tributes' train.”

Rottie nodded, the smile falling off of her face at the mention of the tributes, her features drained of color. “Oh,” she whispered anxiously.

“Hey,” Andrew reassured her, smiling softly as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Don't worry. It's not going to be you.”

“How can you be so sure?” she demanded, shuffling closer as he welcomed her into a one-armed embrace, her head settling on his shoulder.

“Think about it, Rot,” he replied, giving her the gentlest of squeezes, “There are hundreds of kids here who fit the bill. Your name is only one in a thousand. More than a thousand.”

“One?” Rottie snorted, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Okay, okay. Only a few,” he conceded with a playful roll of his eyes. Then, with a tender smile, he offered her the paper bag. “Here,” he said, “Brought you something. To calm your nerves.”

In the bag was a napkin-wrapped sandwich layered with thin slices of turkey and swiss cheese. Rottie accepted it gratefully, eyes glittering with excitement. “Andrew!” she exclaimed, grinning from ear-to-ear as she examined the simple sandwich as if it were a most valuable gem, “This is incredible! This will feed two of us, maybe three if I don't eat any!”

“Rottie,” he laughed, giving her another light-hearted squeeze, “I brought it for you.

“Me...? But...” She hesitated, looking back at the sandwich in her hands. As if on cue, her stomach grumbled.

“Rottie, I know that you don't like to see them hungry,” Andrew said, his tone stern, “But, you have to eat, too. I have plenty of food back at the inn. Food that I'm more than willing to share with you and your family. And I know that you don't want to take it, but you need it more than I do.”

“But...” She looked at him and lied, “But, I'm not hungry.”

He scowled. “Rottie!”

The growling in her stomach overtaking her, she finally leaned down and, after a moment of hesitation, took a bite of the sandwich, smiling softly as she chewed. “Mm...”

“See? You were hungry,” Andrew insisted, “And I know that the others are, too. So, as soon as this God-awful Reaping is over, why don't we take a trip to the inn and fix them a nice lunch? There's enough for everyone.”

“Are you sure?” she asked over a mouthful of meat, cheese, and wheat bread.

He chuckled. “Of course, Rot. Of course.”

A moment of quiet passed between the two, interjected only by the persistent cawing of the raven from its perch in one of the ghetto's stark, leafless trees. Then, with the faintest trace of worry visible in his cobalt eyes, Andrew prompted, “Rottie, how many times is your name in the Reaping today?”

She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then swallowed and replied, “Sixty-two.”

A look of panic flashed across his features for a fraction of a second before his mask of calm returned. “It's still only a drop in the bucket,” he reassured himself, forcing himself to smile, watching as Rottie polished off the sandwich happily.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, reaching into the paper bag and pulling out a tinfoil-wrapped candy, offering it to her with a smile, “I brought you the last peanut butter cup. I know how much you like them.”

She grinned and accepted the candy, carefully unwrapping it and popping it into her mouth, savoring it with a cheerful glimmer in her eyes, but he could tell from her uneasy silence that she was still anxious about the Reaping.

Rolling the tinfoil wrapper into a neat ball between her fingers, Rottie looked at Andrew and smiled. “It's funny,” she noted, “I'm not as anxious about the Reaping with you here.”

He returned her tender smile, his arm still draped around her shoulders. “And why is that?”

“I dunno,” she answered, blinking alluring eyes of dark chocolate back at him, her heartbeat hastening. She could see his eyes beginning to flutter closed, his tongue swiping across his lower lip briefly as he leaned ever closer, until she could feel the warmth of his sweet-smelling breath on her face. The blood pounded deafeningly in her ears as she closed her eyes almost completely and prepared to close the tiny gap in-between them...

The front door to the orphanage opened with an ear-piercing screech of its rusted hinges, shattering the tender moment. Startled, Rottie pulled away from Andrew immediately, whirling in the direction of the open door, looking embarrassed.

A little boy stood in the door, clutching a raggedy stuffed animal to his chest, his tangled, pale blond tresses falling in his face messily as he rubbed the tiredness from his light blue eyes. He sniffed as he approached the two, the door closing behind him with another obnoxious creak.

“Rottie,” he whimpered as he tottered over to the blushing young woman, sounding hoarse and unwell, “I don't feel good.”

The pink pigment faded from Rottie's cheeks, her embarrassment replaced by a look of sincere concern as she outstretched her arms, welcoming the youngster into her embrace. “Cal,” she murmured in a voice that was as tender as a mother's, dusting her lips across his forehead, “You have a fever.”

“My throat hurts,” the blond-haired child whimpered, giving his stuffed animal a squeeze, “And my tummy, too.”

“Shh...,” Rottie soothed, cradling him against her chest as she stroked his sweat-dampened hair, her brow furrowed with worry, “It'll be alright. Don't you worry, Cal. I'll take care of you.”

“Sounds like he has a bug,” Andrew stated, reaching out to touch Cal's forehead with the back of his hand, “And he definitely has a fever. Maybe we should take him to the doctor.”

“The doctor?” Rottie prompted, “I could never afford that.”

“But, I can,” he interjected. With a glance at his watch, he added, “We don't have time to take him before the Reaping. It starts in thirty minutes.”

Rottie frowned, giving the little boy in her arms a gentle squeeze. Cal looked up at her and, with a dim spark of curiosity in his grayish-blue eyes, inquired, “Reaping? What's that?”

She looked down at him and smiled wearily. Her answer was simple, “Just adult stuff. Nothing to worry about.”

The child coughed. “I wanna go back to bed...”

Rottie nodded, hoisting him into her arms carefully as she rose. “Okay, back to bed with you.”

“Will you lay with me?” Cal asked.

“I wish that I could, Cal,” she replied, “But, I have to go to work. I'm sorry, sweetheart. You know that I would love to if I could.”

He nodded, frowning sadly as he rested his chin on her shoulder, hugging his stuffed animal tightly. “I love you, my Rottie.”

Rottie paused, smiling softly at the child in her arms as Andrew opened the door for her. “I love you, too, little man.”

*     *      *     *      *

The walk to the town square was a lengthy one. Andrew's arm remained around Rottie's shoulders reassuringly until the hard-baked earth of the ghetto turned to stained concrete and cracked asphalt, the district's courthouse eventually coming into view. Flocks of people had gathered in the square, parents and relatives huddled together in clusters around the two roped-off rectangles of potential tributes. A colossal projector screen had been set up on the concrete stage in front of the courthouse, flanked on either side by a towering light structure and a speaker. A microphone stood in the middle of the stage, in-between two tables that were topped with large, glass spheres.

Rottie paused at the edge of the square. Even from a distance, she could see the countless slips of paper inside the spheres. Sixty-two of those slips were embellished with her name: Isabella Beten.

Andrew noticed her anxiety. “Hey, don't worry,” he reassured her, squeezing her shoulders lightly, “It's not going to be you.”

Reluctantly, she nodded and agreed, “Yeah. You're right. It won't be me.”

“Looks like it's about to start,” he noted, watching as the bright green-haired announcer pranced across the stage, her heels rapping against the concrete obnoxiously, audible even over the anxious murmurs of the unwilling audience, “Go sign in. I'll meet you after this is all over, and we'll head to the inn to fix those sandwiches.”

“I'll seen you then,” Rottie agreed, glancing at him longingly over her shoulder as she hesitantly walked away, reluctant to leave his side. There was no line at the sign-in station, where a middle-aged woman was waiting behind the table, wearing a doctor's mask and an irritated expression as she shuffled through a stack of paperwork.

“You're late,” the woman chided as Rottie held out her hand. The black-haired teen winced as the pronged device in the woman's hand buzzed her fingertip, drawing blood. Jabbing the sign-in sheet with her pricked finger, she hurried away from the table and its ornery attendant, leaving a bloody fingerprint behind.

The orphan hurried to the front of the crowd to stand with the other eighteen-year-olds, just as the green-haired announcer's hand was coming down on the microphone, calling the uneasy onlookers to attention.

“Hello, hello, everyone,” she chirped in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, “Welcome, welcome!”

The crowd answered her with uncomfortable silence, to which the Capitolite giggled anxiously and carried on with her chitchat, stumbling over her own words on more than occasion and often repeating herself. Rottie watched her in a numb daze, her thoughts trailing to Cal, who was asleep back at the orphanage, eagerly anticipating her return. She was only partially aware of the film scrolling across the screen behind the stage. It was something that she had seen many times before, a recap of the districts' rebellion and the obliteration of District 13, a dull recitation of the story behind the Hunger Games.

“Now, now,” the announcer chirped, pulling Rottie out of her daze, “It's time for us to pick our tributes for this year's Hunger Games! Ladies first!” She concluded the line with another nervous giggle.

She must be new, Rottie decided, crossing her arms, listening intently as the woman fluttered across the stage to the table to her left. The Capitolite delved her hand into the glass sphere, burying her fingers in the horde of paper slips, shuffling them for a moment before she finally picked one. She plucked it out of the sphere and held it out for the audience to see.

“Ah! Here we are!” she exclaimed, prancing back over to the microphone as she unfolded the slip. She read the name to herself, then leaned forward and announced, “Isabella Beten!”

Rottie's heart skipped a beat, her pupils contracting to tiny pinpricks. “No...”

An audible murmur of relief passed through the audience, a few heads turning to look at Rottie while others skimmed the flock of young women, unsure of which face went with the name.

Her heartbeat pounding in her ears, Rottie gasped, “No!” Sensing resistance, two of the Peacekeepers at the rear of the square stepped forward, eager to take action. Her lips twisted into a senseless snarl, the orphan turned and bolted, willing her feet to move faster as she ran. But, another Peacekeeper was ready at the other end of the square, seizing her by the arm and throwing her to her back on the ground, knocking the wind out of her. Still, she found the breath to gasp the word again and again, “No, no, no...”

The Peacekeeper pointed the device in his hand at her, an electrified barb sparking on its tip. Rottie whimpered, struggling to her feet, still gasping for air. “No!” she screamed, indifferent to the hundreds of eyes that had turned to watch her, “No!”

She yelped as the barbed weapon stabbed her thigh, sending a painful jolt of electricity through her right leg. She turned to dart in the opposite direction, but another Peacekeeper had closed in on her, seizing her by either arm and dragging her through the gaping crowd and towards the stage. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as the Peacekeeper shoved her up the stairs and onto the stage, her lips pulled back in a gruesome snarl that did not suit her delicate features.

The announcer watched uneasily as Rottie sulked over to her, growling at the Peacekeeper over her shoulder, cowering like a frightened cur, so strangely animal in her ways. A look of fright crossed the Capitolite's plastic features as Rottie's snarl turned on her, quickly replaced by her characteristic uncomfortable giggle. “Um...Isabella Beten, everyone!” she stuttered into the microphone.

“No,” Rottie stated, the grimace melting off of her face, her brow drooping with sorrow as the silent tears dripped down her pale cheeks.

The announcer looked at her, pulling away from the microphone as she prompted, “I'm sorry?”

“No,” the orphan repeated, “Not Isabella.” Head bowed pitifully, she lifted a hand to wipe the tears off her cheeks with her sleeve. Then, she looked up, glaring out over the staring audience, her brow set in a look of solid determination. “No. Call me Rottie.”

The Capitolite nodded and turned back to her microphone, “Rottie Beten, everyone.”

A soft snarl rumbled through the orphan's lips before she finally looked away, staring at the toes of her mud-caked boots instead of at the startled crowd. The people were clearly stunned by such an open display of defiance, and she was beginning to feel embarrassed for not immediately accepting her fate and walking onstage.

The announcer walked over to the other sphere, plucking another slip of paper out of it. “Now, for the boy,” she said, more to herself than to the onlooking audience.

Unfolding the slip, she read aloud, “Carson Mantle!”

All heads turned to stare at the red-headed boy, his freckled face contorted with alarm. Rottie recognized him from her days in the District 5 schoolhouse, when the two of them had been distant classmates. His father was the owner of the local morgue, a stark, concrete building with a tin roof known as the Mantle Mortuary.

Carson was a more willing victim than Rottie had proven to be. A heavy sigh shook his frame before he finally stepped forward, the wide-eyed boys around him parting to let him through. He wore a brave face as he climbed up the stairs to join Rottie and the green-haired Capitolite onstage, nodding to the latter as she introduced him to the audience.

Then, his eyes fell on Rottie.

She stared back at him, blinking twice.

“Now, now,” the announcer chirped, wearing a sickeningly sweet smile and acting as though she had not just chosen two children to face their inevitable deaths, “Shake hands, you two!”

Carson hesitated, then extended his hand for Rottie to shake. She shuffled uneasily, finally accepting his hand and giving it a cautious shake. Three Peacekeepers were standing at the rear of the stage, observing her warily from a distance, their electrified probes ready in hand in case she made another unexpected move.

The Reaping concluded in a blur, an uproar of relief erupting from the crowd as the onlookers and their more fortunate children began to file out of the town square. Rottie skimmed the audience for Andrew, but found no trace of him, whimpering over her shoulder as the Peacekeepers stepped forth and dragged her into the courthouse.

“That was a risky move out there, little lady,” one of the Peacekeepers snapped at her as he clutched her arm, dragging her down the cream-carpeted hall, watching with a sadistic sneer as she writhed in his grasp, helpless, “You're lucky that I didn't electrocute you again.”

Heartbeat aflutter, Rottie snarled at him, her teeth bared. “As if you wouldn't have done the same thing!” she snapped back.

“Well, I don't have to worry about that, now do I?” He and his comrade released her, shoving her into one of the dimly lit rooms that framed the hallway, slamming the door closed behind her.

Rottie snorted, listening to the laughter of the Peacekeeper from the opposite side of the door, her anger gradually subsiding into sadness as she slipped into the shadows of her surroundings, listening to the voices arising from the room next door. Carson's family had come to bid him farewell, his mother's frantic tears and his father's wise words carrying through the wall. But, in the room that had become her temporary prison, there was only an abandoned, mahogany desk to keep her company. A dim light flickered overhead, a few dismal rays of sunlight seeping through the boards that had been nailed to the windows in preparation for the event.

She had never felt more alone.

Sniffling like a child who was frightened of the dark, Rottie cowered in the corner of the room, hugging her knees to her chest as she cried.

The door opened, flooding the floor with light.

Rottie lifted her head hopefully, forcing herself to smile mournfully as Andrew walked into the room, the door closing behind him. “Oh, Andrew,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears, “Did you come to say goodbye?”

He paused in the middle of the room, his cobalt eyes dull with disbelief and sorrow as he opened his arms. She stood and bounded into his embrace, squeezing him so tightly that it was almost painful. “Guess those sixty-two pieces of paper pulled through after all,” she sniffled, tears streaming down her cheeks openly now.

His arms wrapped around her tightly, he replied in a tone of desperation, “No, Rottie. This isn't goodbye. It isn't. You're going to go in that arena, and you're going to win, do you understand?”

She chuckled dryly. “I wish...”

“No, listen to me, Rottie,” he demanded, squeezing her even tighter, “You're going to get through this. You have to.”

With a solemn shake of her head, Rottie buried her face in his shoulder and replied, “I'm going to die, Andrew. I don't stand a chance out there.”

“You do,” he insisted, “And you will, Rottie. You're smart. You're clever. You're fast. You have just as much of a chance of winning this thing as anybody else.”

She slowly lifted her head to look at him, her dark chocolate eyes quivering with tears. “Will you tell the kids that I'm not coming home?”

The sincere selflessness of Rottie's concern caused Andrew's expression to soften, his arms loosening around her as he stroked her back soothingly with both hands. “Oh...oh, Rottie,” he whispered, “N-no, I won't tell them that. Those kids need something to believe in.”

Voice soft, she answered, “They won't understand. I've never told them about the Games...I've been avoiding it for years now...and Cal...” She sniffled. “Who will take care of Cal?”

“I will,” he volunteered, “I'll take care of your family, Rottie. You just worry about winning. I promise that, as long as I'm here, nothing will happen to them.”

She nodded slowly. “T-thank you...”

He tilted her chin up with one hand, offering her a gentle smile. “You're scared, aren't you?”

“Of course I'm scared,” she replied, “I'm terrified...”

“Come back to me, Rottie,” Andrew whispered, so close that she felt each of his exhales on her face, his intensely blue eyes boring into hers, “Promise me that you'll try.”

She nodded, burying her face in his torso as she hugged him even tighter. “You're my best friend.”

A soft smile playing on his features, Andrew felt the first of the tears beginning to well up in his eyes. “I know, Rottie. You're my best friend, too. And I...I...”

The door opened, the Peacekeeper's voice cutting Andrew's sentence short, “Time's up!”

Rottie snarled, prepared to fight for just five more minutes with Andrew, but he silenced her with a soft purr of, “Shh...” Giving her a final squeeze, he looked into her eyes and vowed, “I'll see you soon.”

Then, the Peacekeeper seized her arm and, with his sparking probe in one hand, pulled her away from her companion and out into the hall, dragging her out the back of the courthouse, where the sleek, silver train to the Capitol was waiting on its tracks.

“Good riddance,” he snapped as he shoved her towards the train, causing her to stumble and nearly fall. But, she no longer had the energy to retaliate. Instead, she bowed her head, glancing back at the courthouse longingly as she boarded the train, soon to leave everything that she had ever known behind.

This was goodbye.
Year of the Rottweiler: A Hunger Games FanFiction - Chap. 1

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Next: [link]

Characters, Storyline, Etc. (c) ~Bottled-Rottweiler
Andrew Therion, Carson Mantle (c) ~thevirtuousone
The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins

Spot a grammatical or spelling mistake? Feel free to point it out and I will correct it!

This is the year of the Rottweiler...
© 2013 - 2024 PastellePirate
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thevirtuousone's avatar
But this can't be goodbye! Never!

Brilliant work yet again, sweetheart. I love that you're writing this. It's very enjoyable to read. I eagerly await the next chapter. :heart: