[5]

  In silence Ben, Charlie, and I move up the marble stairs between the two statues of the child-vampires and into the main hall of the Blood Bank.      (Imho in the Hunger Games there wasn’t enough emphasis placed on the fact that the kids in the morphing games were just that. . . kids. Susan Collins pulled this punch because it would have just been too much. I won’t pull this punch. From the very start this is a story of the effects of violence  on children.)

The main hall is circular with vaulted ceilings frescoed with the red-eyed angels rolling green hills, and vines laden with grapes. (This is strongly inspired by s.t peter’s Cathedral in Italy. This hints at the  origins of the Volturi.)

But tonight the grandeur is overshadowed by one thing: cameras. There are at least a hundred of them. Many are on the ceiling, perched upside-down like bats, others are on the walls and still more are on the floor. Their robotic heads turn stiffly every couple of seconds to catch a new target. (Camera’s will come back later. Namely machines. One of my favorite characters in the games is actually a machine. )  The cameras don’t just record video; the edges of the wide lenses are bearded with black, foamy microphones.

As I pass through the double doors, for one second it feels as if every camera has swiveled in my direction. I don’t have time to care.

“Ben,” I whisper, worried that the microphones will catch my words, “if you really like Prim, if you really do, then you shouldn’t volunteer.”

“Don’t talk to me,” he says stiffly before turning and walking away over to the roped off section for the sixteen-year-old boys. As I watch him go, I notice that one of his pant-legs is tucked into his sock. I want to run up to him and fix it. I want so badly to fix everything. (Shameless reference to Prim’s shirt being tucked back into her sock.)

But I can’t.  (Again, big difference between Katniss and Bella. Katniss has a wonderful relationship with her sister. Bella– doesn’t.) There’s nothing I can do that will change what happened. I’m just about to turn to go to the pen for the twenties, resigned to the fact that my world is about to end—again—and there’s nothing I can do about it, when a flash of blonde hair garners attention.

Someone pulls my brother aside before he gets to the tent. (this is supposed to be pen. I don’t know why I wrote tent.) There’s only person it could be—Prim.

I wish I could get closer so I could hear, but the crowd obstructs my view, and I know if I move closer that Ben will notice. And if Prim is doing what I think she is, then there’s nothing more important than her having Ben’s full focus.

She motions upwards to the rafters. At who, I don’t know. Her family? She points to him again. He shakes his head before wrenching his arm free from her grasp and stomping to the pen for the sixteen-year-olds.

I look for Jacob in the pen of eighteen-year olds, but, unsurprisingly, I can’t find him. There are almost ten thousand people here. Most are in the infinitely large upper rafters. (Assuming that all the members of District 2 are here, and District 2 is about the size of chicago, the upper atrium has to fit at least 10,000 people!!)) Only possible future Prospectives, city officials, and vampires from the Capitol are on the ground floor.

The rafters are where Charlie must have headed, because when I turn to look he’s gone too. I sigh and thread my way through the crowd to the last pen on the right, the one for the twenty-year olds.

I watch from behind the rope as the rest of the possible Prospectives file into the pens, as parents separate from their anxious children to go sit in the rafters. The poor children are gaunt and terrified that their name will be called and no one will volunteer.  The rich look keen, all except one boy who heads to the sixteens’ pen to stand next to my brother. He seems almost bored. (This is key forshadowing for Jasper’s character.) His blonde hair looks familiar.

An instrument that sounds like a duck begins to play the first notes of the Volterran National Anthem. Tension spreads across the crowd. No one likes the anthem, but we’re not expected to. It’s vampire music. (We’re studying atonal music, in school, which is where I got the idea. If you look closely you can  see a lot of music terms here.)                       

Vampires don’t exist in the same sound world as humans. They can process thousands of different melodies and harmonies, so the sounds of the human scale aren’t enough to make interesting music for them. Their songs are made up of the spaces between normal notes.

The music comes from speakers hidden beneath the frescos, making it sound as if the angels are screaming the strange, fractured melodies.

After the anthem, a woman steps up to the platform. Even from far away—the pen for the twenties is located near the back of the atrium—I am struck by the symmetry in her face, the gloss of her perfectly coiffed blonde hair. I hate that every time I see a vampire I’m always forced to worship their beauty.

She has no need to step up to a microphone to project her voice; we are dead silent. Everyone’s seen the videos from the days of the rebellion, where a single vampire killed hundreds of humans at once, so fast the camera almost couldn’t keep up. (This idea of moving to fast for humans to keep up was stolen from the Playing God and the Vampire of the Odd)          

“Greetings, and welcome to the 100th annual Morphing Games,” she says with a bounce. “May you die and become!” (this is taken from a goethe poem. the idea of dying as a part of transformation. This is a very old idea, Odessyeus goes to the underworld and emerges. Jesus is nailed to the cross. The volturi have corrupted even the most basic of human ideas).

Applause, same as every year, echoes through the hall.

“What a time of year it is! A young man and woman will be granted the opportunity to compete, risking their most valuable asset to the empire—their vitality—in order to pursue the most honored goal . . . immortality. ”(See the posters from the Blood Bank come back!)

She gives a wide smile that would be warm, if not for the fangs peeking out over her too-bright lips. “I am Tanya Denali, and I am pleased to serve as the liaison for District 2. I am even more excited to announce that there will be some modifications to the rules this year, in honor of the anniversary of the founding of the Volterran Empire.”

Whispers ripple outward from the souls brave enough to comment. I say nothing. She gives a firm stare to the foci of the commotion and silence descends again.

“President Aro has decided that the streets of Volterra are crowded with old blood and old ways. Too long: has cynicism ruled. Innocence is the rarest commodity in the Capitol. We need it badly. For all the things we give to you, protection, stability, it is time you began giving us your greatest export. So, we’ve decided to open up the brackets. Instead of allowing only sixteen through twenty year olds the glorious opportunity to become immortal, we are allowing anyone over the age of twelve.”

She claps her hands together and smiles like a child. “Isn’t that delightful?”

Bile emerges from my stomach and burns my throat. The images of the statues flit over my eyes.  Children, just like I was, drafted into violence.(Bella doesn’t realize it but by Emily, more than saving her for Jacob, more than saving her for her own sake. She’s saving Emily to try and save herself as she was as a kid.) Only, for them the consequences of failure would be more than a few broken bones. It would be death.

“Rosalie, quickly now!” summons Tanya.

From the shadows emerges last year’s winner, my former best friend, the girl who broke my bones, taught me the importance of violence, and sinned against me in another way so heinous I can’t even say it.

Her blonde hair is brighter than Tanya’s, her lips redder, and her green eyes fiercer. She is sharp to Tanya’s blurriness. This must be why Tanya treats her like a servant; because she knows Rosalie looks like a queen.

Fierce applause swells up for Rosalie, originating mostly from those wearing colorful clothes: the rich. They welcome their goddess back with frenzied clapping. She stares out at the crowd, smiling, and even though she has fangs, the applause surges further, all talk of murderous children gone.

In her hand is a silver box.

“Please,” Tanya says, and this is all it takes to quiet us. Because, while we know that Rosalie is beautiful, it is Tanya who will kill us if we don’t obey.

“Let’s begin with the boys’ names. Remember, volunteers, please wait until the name is called.”

I look over at my brother, hoping that whatever he feels for the Blood Bank worker, Prim, is enough to convince him to stay.

Rosalie sticks one of her hands into the box.

Take any child, just not my brother.

It doesn’t matter if he hates me; I love him. I always have, even as I beat him I did. I wasn’t beating him to hurt him really; I was hurting him to hurt myself.

I find my brother’s eyes, and he notices me too, even from far away. And then, in what must be a miracle, he slowly shakes his head back and forth. It means no, he’s not going to volunteer. We are safe. He is safe. He is not a monster. I didn’t destroy his goodness when I destroyed his eye.

And then Rosalie calls out the name; with a ringing soprano, so clear there can be no mistaking it.

“Benjamin Swan.”

Shock courses through me as I watch my brother walk, stiff-jointed, up to the podium. The crowd parts easily before him, curious to see the new contender, examining him for strengths and weaknesses. I’m sure that everyone notices his eye. I see a couple of the training school kids snickering at him because of it.

Finally, he reaches the stage. I’m proud of him because he’s standing tall, even though his jacket is too big and everyone can smell the fear on him. When they show this video to the other Prospectives later he will be marked as an easy target, but not the easiest.

“Well now, Benjamin Swan, you will be the lucky Prospective, unless we have a volunteer who wants to duel you for the right,” says Tanya, clapping my brother so hard on the back that he stumbles.

I had almost forgotten. My brother could be saved, and he probably will be. Someone usually volunteers . . . usually.

But the rules are different this year. The Prospectives will have to kill children. The Careers were bloody and brutal, but they had pride. There was no glory to be gained from slitting the throat of someone who struggled to tie their shoe.

For a moment I can almost convince myself that my brother will be fine; that everything will be alright. He has been training, and most of the kids from the other districts haven’t had any training at all.

But then I see his pant leg, tucked right into his sock. All my rationalizations come avalanching down, suffocating me. (Again another HG reference.)

This is my brother. Not a killer. My brother.

And the silence makes one fact undeniable… he is going to the Morphing Games and he will die.

“Well, if no one wants to volunteer, then I’ll keep the ceremony moving.”

I can’t volunteer. I’m a girl. The best I can do is to volunteer for the girls’ side and work to keep my brother alive. But I know what the outcome for that would be; my brother would kill me.

Well, it would be absolution at least.

“I volunteer,” a voice soft, but sure comes from the same section as my brother, the sixteens. The crowd in the pen turns to look at the speaker as he gracefully moves his way through the masses and toward the stage.

All the tension in my muscles unravels, leaving me so weak-kneed I have to grip the post marking off the corner of the pen in order to stay upright.

“No,” says Rosalie. (The reason why Rosalie doesn’t want Jasper in the games is quite complicated.)

Tanya turns to her, confused, “Is there something wrong with the candidate?”

As the boy stands there on the stage next to my brother, I realize I saw him earlier tonight. He was the blonde who looked bored.

He gives a winning smile to the crowd. It is clear to them that he is a much better candidate than the nervous, half-blind boy. “There’s nothing wrong, Mrs. Denali. My sister’s just startled to see her brother up on stage—that’s all.”

The crowd goes wild. It seems whenever the Hales are involved, people forget about the violence of the games, even with the new variable of the children. They’re just too charming; too composed.

“Please,” says Tanya, a little upset by the rambunctiousness. This time the crowd doesn’t quiet as easily.

Two Prospective from the same family; it’s unheard of. But if anyone could make a legacy it would be the Hales. I wonder how their parents feel, losing two children. I hope they cry into their pillows at night like I never could. I hope they sit at the kitchen table I used to sit at and suffer.

Rosalie holds up a hand and the crowd settles as if she’s a conductor. “The proper dueling procedure must be followed.”

“Yes, of course,” says Tanya snidely, sending a glare to Rosalie.

“I concede,” says my brother, his voice sounding dull in comparison to the musicality of the vampires and Jasper’s rough charm.

Tanya gives another forced chuckle. “Lacking the guts of a true Prospective, are we? Well then, hurry along.”

My brother doesn’t flinch, and thankfully the crowd lets him pass. He’s a nobody now, lost in the shadows of the shining glory that is the Hale siblings.

“Your name?” Tanya asks.

“You can call me Jasper Hale,” Jasper answers, giving her a wink.

The crowd mumbles, wanting to clap, wanting to shower this boy with their pride. It’s only fear of fangs keeps them quiet.

I’m not focused on any of this though. My eyes are trained on my brother, whose back is still straight. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never get to fight for him, to die for him, to atone for what I did. I would trade any forgiveness I could get for his safety.

“Let’s move onto the next name, shall we?” trills Tanya.

My brother is safe. I, however, am not. There is the possibility, however unlikely, that my name will be called, too. Around me all the other twenty-year-olds tense up. Most of us don’t want to volunteer by this age; even the rich ones have sweet-hearts, settled lives, jobs lined up after we finish school at the end of this year. I don’t think there has ever been a volunteer over eighteen. The young know they’re foolish and the old have wisdom, only the adolescents straddle the difference.

“I have another surprise for you,” Tanya begins, her tone lighter and almost saccharine. “A special guest.”

Something stirs in the shadows. A breeze. A movement.

A vampire.

“My good friend has never been a mentor before, but he’s come out of hiding especially for the 100th anniversary of the games.” She smiles over her shoulder, in a way that I’m sure will inspire decades of wet dreams in the boy pens. (The fact that Edward has been missing is very important!)

“You’re too kind, Tanya,” says a voice, soft as velvet, cold as steel.

Vampires always sound ethereal but there’s something about his voice that rubs against me, not the wrong way, not the right way, but in a way I didn’t even know existed. A way that makes me ache in deep places, in my bones.

The voice matches a face so striking, it breaks my heart to look at it.

If Tanya is manicured, and Rosalie feral, then this vampire’s appeal is a different kind altogether: a fantastic kind. His skin is alabaster and his hair the color of the dome of the Blood Bank: copper. It grows wild from his scalp. He looks as if he has just woken up from a fever dream—no, as if he is a dream.

“Edward Cullen, the mentor for the female Prospectives of District 2!”

Simultaneously, all the female hands fly together in rapturous applause. I’m proud of myself that I manage to keep from clapping.

Edward frowns and holds up a single finger. “I think many are anxious to see the results.” His voice is so low it almost rumbles the rafters.

He picks up the steel box. Even the women grow somber.

I know I’m thinking the same thoughts everyone else. Don’t pick me; don’t pick me. But there’s a difference, unlike everyone else, I’m not afraid of dying—well, okay, a little—but mostly I’m afraid of killing.

I remember my brother’s horror as I punched him in the jaw, and in the chest. And in the eye. I’ll remember it forever.

Edward has the slip in his hand now. Reading it—his supple, full lips forming syllables—he says it.

It’s not me. I never thought there was anything worse than it not being me.

But there is.

“Emily Black.” He says her name so sonorously, I almost forget who exactly he’s talking about.

She isn’t like my brother; she doesn’t contain the immediate burst of tears as she stumbles down from her place in the rafters with her family. She wasn’t even in the pens. She didn’t even think she’d have to worry about it.

“Jacob,” she cries.

Jacob pushes up against the red, velvet rope that sections off the sixteens. And it’s not her screams, or tears, or the fact that she is only twelve, and if they put her in the arena she will die, that bothers me. No. It’s his face. It’s the way you can see his heart break, his innocent, easy heart.

Jacob Black, a man who carries his sister on his shoulders, takes her to his secret place, who calls her Emmy-Bear. He has done nothing wrong. He doesn’t deserve to know what it’s like to have someone important to you die.  Maybe I did, but not him. Someone has to volunteer to stop it.

But who? I won’t do it. I don’t like the girl. She is just an annoyance to me, an intruder into the only stable relationship I.

“I volunteer,” says a shaky voice.

For the second time that night, relief courses though me. Everyone I love is safe. Jacob and I can go hunting with Emily. I realize now that I actually like her. Well, maybe like is a strong word, but I am surprised by how relieved I am that she’s safe.

My feelings of relief are so strong that at first I don’t notice the eerie silence that has descended over the crowd. Shouldn’t they be clapping for the winner?

I look around for a moment, confused. Why is everyone looking at me?

A girl next to me hisses, “Well, go on then.”

The crowd hesitantly begins to clap.

Oh God.

The volunteer, the person who took Emily’s place?

It’s me.