AN: WHY do plot bunnies always begin after I start another story. Sigh. At least this is more original than my last, and, IMO, far better written. I feel I have more creativity with this one. Please R&R.
PS This was previously under the name Almost. But I have fixed many errors within the chapter, so I decided to repost it.
The men and women dragged their feet, heading toward the Hob. Grim expressions were barely noticeable in the dim light of the evening. The Reaping was upon us.
Of course, this wasn't the Capitol thrown one which sent unarmed, unprepared children to their deaths. This was much, much worse. For they would be deciding the fates of two children, their children, to fight for their life. To have a hope of freedom. Born Killers.
Yes, this was much worse.
It was the worst kept secret in Panem that some districts trained their children for the bloodbath of The Hunger Games. Most distinctly, 1, 2, and 4. And they almost always win. Few chances are shown for the other districts, which was why my own, District 12, had only one. A drunk called Haymitch Abernathy.
My hands, covered in soot from the long day at the mines clenched tightly, and for the first time, I wished my daughter, Katniss, had not been born. At least, waited a year to make her appearance. She would be in the pool today.
All children from the ages 3 and under had their names written neatly on a single card in the cracked vase that stood on the makeshift stage at the back of the hob.
More and more people were stuffing themselves in, pushing me until I was into a wall, a rain of coal dust covering me more.
For the first time that I remembered, Merchant and Seam came together, though, the Merchants could barely conceal their disgust at the ruin that was the Hob.
It used to be a warehouse. Filled with coal like the rest of the district, it was abandoned when better ways to store the coal came about. It didn't take long for stalls to pop up, selling things that were every right theirs, but couldn't be gotten otherwise. Soon, as more and more shops came up, it became the unofficial black market. Mostly it catered to Seam, though it wasn't entirely uncommon to see a Peacekeeper or Merchant walking through the stalls, trading like the rest of us.
"Ahem," Called a gruff voice from the front. Greasy Sae, an old women who can make a decent soup out of anything, was standing at the platform, the one elected to carry out the deed.
She gave them a grimace (that might have passed for a smile if you squint and tilt your head to the right) before starting. "It brings me great sadness to have you all here today. The fact that we had to do this in the first place hangs heavy on my heart." I knew she meant it. She cared for everyone in her own way, having lost her child young to the very thing we were hoping to end with this.
"In no way can I express how grateful I am, for you and for your children, who are going to end this once and for all. There is no reason to delay." Solemn, she headed to the right of the platform, and, without any dramatics, pulled out a small card,
My hands clench as I start a mantra in my head, Not Katniss, Not Katniss, Not my baby, Please-
"Katniss Everdeen."
I am distantly aware of someone catching me as I fall and sitting me in a chair.
My mind is blank.
I can't process this.
Images appear unwillingly from my mind. The first time I held her, red and crying her heart out. The first time she winked, though my wife says that it was just a reflex, I knew it was a wink. How her tiny hand delightedly closed around my finger before trying to crush it between her gums.
This can't be happening. The odds are never truly in an Everdeens favor.
I hear a distant call of "Peeta Mellark" but only really processing the last name because of the history of my wife with the baker.
My wife.
How do I tell her I just signed a death warrant for our daughter, so tiny and fragile. No hope of me convincing her that this is good - that Katniss will have a chance in the arena - would have been able to put her mind at ease.
That's what this was. A picking, the first act of rebellion. We weren't the bravest or strongest district. In fact, I believe we are the smallest. But the choosing of two victors, even before they can barely walk, is going to help us. Plans can be set in motion. They will take years, and years, of subtle manipulation. Tweaking the minds of the Gamemakers, allowing the hidden District 13 to prepare. This did nothing to settle my small lunch, which has now become muck on the floor.
My Katniss is to be a Tribute. My Katniss is to be a killer.
Katniss is bouncing on her toes, eagerness apparent in her chubby face. Two braids swing around her head, catching in everything around her. The blooming flowers, the songs of the Mockingjay. She happily started to sing to them, and after a moment, they sung with her. She grinned cheekily, before continuing her made up tune.
I can feel my heart clench, knowing this will be the last day of innocence she has. I had tried to make her the happiest child as I could, showering her with flowers, teaching her songs, and playing games when I was home.
Home. It didn't really feel like that anymore. After Katniss turned one, ready to be weaned onto more solid foods, my wife started to draw away. Not coming to her as fast when she cried, snapping at me when Katniss got herself worked up in the middle of the night. I knew she was in grieving for a child she had not yet lost. It only became more apparent a year ago when little Primrose was born. Tiny as pink, she hardly ever cried, the complete opposite of Katniss. But Katniss loved her dearly, cooing at her, and trying to calm her down when she did wail. That soon stopped when her mother snapped at her, telling her that someone like her shouldn't be near someone like Prim. Katniss' face had crumpled, confusion and sadness marring her features. I had immediately picked her up. Placing her gently on her bed, and told her how much I loved her, rocking her until she feel asleep.
Though I am still surprised I managed to wait that long before blowing up at my wife.
"How could you say that?! She has no idea what lies ahead, allow her some happiness! She is innocent!"
My wife scoffed, "Innocent?" She looked at me with disbelief. "You are going to train her to be a killer! You are training her to die!"
"That gives you no right!" My voice was barely at a reasonable level, "She is four years old! How-how can you deny her love?" It was true. Prim wasn't merely a new child, she was a replacement.
I had stormed out of the house after that, darting into the woods to hunt. I had to take my anger out on something. That night, it was two turkeys and a rabbit.
Katniss pulls me back into the present, when she starts shouting. "He's coming! We can finally start!" She says the last part with as much exasperation as a five-year-old can muster, before she back to bouncing. Sure enough, Mr. Mellark and his son, Peeta, are making their way toward us.
I give a customary nod to the man, his face as downcast as mine.
Let the training begin.
KATNISS
I am biting my tongue as the mayor drolls on about the games. Such rehearsed words that mean nothing to me.
My eyes cast around curiously, briefly catching Gales eye. He making a choking motion with his hands, and I barely contain my smirk.
Two more years, four more children from my district dead before I take my place. It doesn't sit well with me, but the phrase that goes off in my head every year, ever since I found out the true meaning of my "Play time", comes back with a glaring vengeance.
It is almost over.
A woman with a bright spring green dress, and shockingly pink steps up to the microphone.
As she excitedly says, in that far too ridiculous Capital accent, her opening words, I allow myself a brief thought for Prim. Tiny Prim who is 12 this year. Little Prim who had her name is the glass bowl once, I didn't dare allow her to take out tessera. I had my name in 20 times. The five that were mandated, and extra for each of my family.
My mother wasn't much help when it came to providing. Staring blankly at the wall, never moving, hardly eating. They say she was beautiful once.
The woman, Effie Trinket, makes a big show of walking to the right side of the stage, her hand swirling around in the bowl, before plunking a single piece of folded up paper.
It is almost over.
She walks back to the center stage, heels clacking against the platform.
"Ahem." One more corpse. "Primrose Everdeen."
Her voice rings clear over the square, but I feel like water is clogging my ears. This was not supposed to happen. It was me, not her that was supposed to go. She had one slip, one slip in thousands. The odds are are never in the Everdeens favor. I feel someone catch my arm, distantly aware of my feet slipping, because there she is, taking small timid steps towards the stairs, tucking her duck tail back in.
No, no, nonoNO-
"Prim!" My voice screeches, shoving my way through the crowd. She turns to look at me, big blue eyes. No, no, no.
I struggle against the Peacekeepers, I don't think of the repercussions, "I volunteer!" They let go. "I volunteer as tribute." My voice is calm the second time around, and I am distinctly aware of the camera catching my every move.
Prim is shouting and kicking, and I hear myself telling her to go find mom, to get home. She is shaking her head, tears running down her cheeks. She doesn't move until Gale forcefully picks her up, pulling her away.
Effie Trinket is calling me up, declaring how that must be my sister, and how brave I am.
I tune out everything taking my spot next to her.
She starts heading towards the boys, and I can't help finding Peeta eyes in the crowd. I shake my head, but I know he won't listen.
Sure enough, the first name of the boy is barely out before his hand shoots up, declaring himself a volunteer.
Effie is beside herself in excitement. She's exclaiming how we are going to be the talk of the Reapings.
He meets my gaze, his face a similar expression to mine, and a single thought seems to cross between us.
We are a team.
Soon enough, after Haymitch Abernathy takes a nosedive off the front of the stage, and we are being escorted into the Justice Building. I had only been here once, to accept the Medal of Valor in my fathers honor after he died in a mining explosion. There was no justice in this building.
I am escorted into a room, everything lavishly decorated. The couch is made of velvet-don't I feel special. It is not a minute later that my mother and Prim are being shown into the room. Prim wastes no time jumping into my lap, curling up like she did when she was little, head tucked under my arm.
She is whimpering, not able to form a single sentence, this goes on for a few minutes, before I gently set her on the floor, hugging her one last time before stepping before our mother.
"You can't zone out again. I won't be here. Prim can sell cheese and milk, but you need to be there." My words are crisp and to the point. There has never been much love between us, especially the last few years. So it surprises me when she hugs me tight, a tear staining my blue dress. "Don't cry." I mutter before stepping away.
Prim grabs me again. "You have to win, Katniss." She begs. "I know you can do it." Tears are forming again, and I feel my resolve start to crumple in the way only Prim can cause.
"I'll try." That is all I can do, I still had two more years of training. I might be more capable then most of the tributes, but almost definitely not the Careers.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
It's over.