Chapter One
She woke with a start, legs tangled in the linen and hands caught in the long strands of her blonde hair. Eyes wide still haunted by the image that haunted her dreams. The image of a young woman hanging from a tree with soulless eyes and bloodstained skin. Winry pulled the sheets up to her chin and wiped her watery eyes. It was silly to worry over such things. Her name was only in the bowl four times. The chances of her being picked out of the tens of thousands of children, was tiny.
Hearing her owner wake up Den wandered over to her bed and rested her head on the soft, white cover of the mattress. It was on days like the Reaping that Winry envied her four legged friend. Den would never have to stand in the crowded square and watch death sentences being handed out. She had no concept of the Reaping, or the Games. They were just words to her. With a small smile she extended her arm and rubbed the top of Den's head, which ignited something inside the animal as she jumped onto the bed and started licking Winry's face.
After her slobbery wash Winry was most definitely awake. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and tip-toed to the bathroom. Pinako was laid in her bed, mouth wide open and body buried in the sheets. Winry made sure to be silent. The old woman deserved a lie in, whether she wanted one or not.
On the kitchen table lay a small blue box and a bowl of blueberries, a present from Pinako on reaping day. Winry poured two bowls of porridge and mixed the berries on top before looking at the box. She turned it over in her hands, listening for a rattle, before she opened it. Inside were two silver earrings with diamond looking jewels on the side.
"They were you mothers." Pinako said. "They'd look beautiful on you, dear."
Winry pulled her grandmother into a hug. They were jewels fit for Central, strange that they'd found themselves in a place like District 12. But Pinako had always said the Rockbells had a way of attracting beauty. Winry put the earrings on the kitchen counter and donned her father's jacket. She had work to do, no matter what day it was. Servicing Ol' Joseph's leg was first on the list, seeing if Ms Roye's arm was healing up, and fixing the lock on Franklin Sander's door. If she let something like the Reaping stop her from doing her job, she'd never get anything done.
Her part of the District was called Resembool. And it was by far the worst part of the district. Winry's teachers had told her class that before the war it was a small farming town with large fields and a small population. If it wasn't for Pinako and her photos of bright skies and clean streets Winry probably wouldn't believe it.
Ol' Joseph lived at the very edge of the District; right next to the scruffy wasteland people nicknamed the Meadow. Like everything else in Resembool the meadow had been drained of any life. In the autumn a few people would sneak into the meadow and harvest fruit. They figured they were going to die either way, better to try then to starve. Braver people would sneak past the forest into the woods. They'd come back just before nightfall with game, take what they need and sell the rest. The Rockbell's didn't expect anything from their poorer customers, but if food was offered they never turned it down.
The door was wide open when she got there. Ol' Joseph was sat in his armchair, leg propped up on a tattered footstool and silver flask in hand. "You shouldn' be workin', dear, you shoulde be at home with Pinako"
"If I go home, who's going to look after your leg?"
Ol' Joseph shrugged and took a swig of his drink. He was never the biggest talker, she'd known him since she was a baby and the most she'd heard him talk was at his daughter's funeral. Abigail Wallace had been reaped when Winry was two. She'd gotten close to winning, lasted till the final two. She'd had her throat ripped out on live TV. That winter Joseph's wife died of pneumonia. A perfect example of what the games did if there ever was one.
Winry tightened the bolts around his ankle and oiled the joints up. When she finished he handed her the money and poured himself a drink. He croaked goodbye, he promised that he'd go to the Reaping, just to cheer her on. He didn't really have a choice, but she wasn't about to wreck his happiness.
The rest of her appointments went by quickly. Ms Roye was surrounded by her children, and the Sanders didn't answer their door. She didn't blame them; they'd lost one child to the games and their other had to have his name in a good thirty times.
Pinako was still out when Winry got home, son she poured herself a tub of warm water and peeled off her oil covered work clothes. She scrubbed the dirt off of her hands and washed her hair. She had to look good for the cameras after all. She fished one of her Sunday dresses out of the wardrobe and pulled it on. She swapped her clunky earrings for her mother's tiny jewels and pulled her hair into a high ponytail. The person that greeted her in the mirror looked nothing like herself. She sighed and put a pan on to boil.
"You look beautiful, dear." Pinako said.
"Thank you"
"Don't be nervous, dear, you can't let Central win."
Winry nodded and handed her grandmother a cup of tea. Not being nervous was easier said than done. Because Central had already won. If being able to send children to their deaths wasn't winning she didn't know what was.
At one o'clock they headed to the square. An area that was usually a pleasant area was miserable; colorful banners hung from the roofs and street lights in a half-arsed attempt to rally joy. Cameramen perched on rooftops and corners, like lions waiting for the unfortunate gazelles.
Winry hugged Pinako goodbye and went to sign in. The woman behind the desk looked as tired as Winry felt. She wondered if the woman had children of her own, if she hated herself for being part of the ceremony. Winry followed the line to girls to the area for fifteen-year-olds and waited. Everyone was nervous. A girl with plaits and a checkered dress bumped into Winry, bursting into tears half way through her apology. Winry held the girls hand and tried her best to cheer her up.
On the stage sat four chairs and a mahogany table with two glass bowls. Two of the chairs filled with Roy Mustang, a tall man in an expensive suit who shot a smile at the cameras, and Riza Hawkeye, a short woman who paid the cameras no attention. They were the only Victors District 12 had. They were followed by Mayor DeWitt and Alex Armstrong, fresh from Central.
The clock struck two; the mayor walked up to the podium and started reading. It was the same story as always. The story of Amestris. She talked about the disasters that swept the nation, and the war over what little was left. Amestris was the result of the war. A brilliant central surrounded by thirteen districts, then came the dark days and the uprising of the districts. But the uprising was squashed as quickly as it started. Twelve districts were defeated and the thirteenth, also known as Ishval, was destroyed. Laws were created to maintain the peace, and as a yearly reminder of Central's power the Hunger Games were created.
The rules were simple. As a punishment for challenging Central, each of the twelve districts had to provide two tributes, a boy and a girl, to participate. The twenty-four children were placed in a vast arena and, over a period of weeks, forced to fight to the death. Last tribute standing won a lifetime of fame, riches and the security of never having to fight again.
Dewitt finished her speech by reading out the list of District 12's victors. In Seventy-four years there'd been exactly three, and two of them were sat on the stage. They both nod to the camera. Dewitt gave an inaudible sigh and sat down willing, like the rest of the Districts, for the whole thing to be over.
As bubbly as ever Armstrong bounded up to the podium and gave his signature "Happy Hunger Games" He went on about how honored he was to be there and how he wished everyone the best of luck. With a smile he says as he always did "Ladies first" And shoved his hand into the bowl. There was a quick intake of breath as everyone in the square closed their eyes and willed that their name wasn't read out. Armstrong's booming voice filled the square as he read the name out, clear as day.
"Miss Winry Rockbell"