Author's Note: This will be my first Hunger Games fanfic (yay) so I hope you enjoy :) I don't own The Hunger Games, obviously, only my original characters and plot line etc.
For Mirabelle.
Chapter One: Fynn
The coat hanger sways gently, its motion coming from the swing of the open closet door. A blazer, deep navy blue with grey edging, hangs off the metal skeleton, recently ironed, smooth and crisp. I reach up and pull it down, twisting my arms to slip it over my shoulders and around my torso, my fingers clasp the cuffs of my shirt to stop it bunching. Flattening down the collar and lapel, I glance up and observe the figure who stares back, cold blue eyes moving as mine do. She is not overly unpleasing, in fact she might be pretty if it wasn't for the mouth that never smiles. Her skin is pale, made more so by the thick make-up that rings her eyes. Waves of black hair are tied back in a bun, painstakingly pinned off her forehead. She is tall and skinny, perhaps too skinny, the sleeves of the blazer about an inch away from her wrists and yet it hangs around her middle. The shirt and trousers fit better, but they are not made for someone of her proportions. I sigh. She sighs. She will do. I will do.
I shut the closet and walk from my room into the hallway. It's not like it matters too much how I look right now anyway; everyone will be in academy uniform for the pre-reaping selections, a uniform not created to flatter the human form. It is to show loyalty, dedication and unity, even if that means it doesn't fit. I just have to be tidy. I straighten my shirt collar and walk into the kitchen. My grandmother is cutting vegetables on the bench, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the chopping board drifting out to greet me as I walk through the doorway. Her greying-brown hair hangs over her forehead as she leans forward, concentrating on her work. She doesn't see me come in, so I give a small cough and her face jerks upwards.
"So, how do I look?" I ask, spreading out my arms like a mock fashion model.
She rolls her shoulders backwards, raising herself to her full height. People say I inherited her height. And her eyes; cold and clear, they move up and down, appraising every inch of me. Most would falter under her gaze, but I don't. She can be blunt, but she is honest and fair and I know she'll say if something is wrong.
"You look like your mother." she says finally, going back to her slicing.
Given the icy relationship between my grandmother and her daughter-in-law, I'm not going to take that as a compliment.
"What," I say teasingly, "I look like a self-important, pretentious, hypocrite?"
"I was going to go with bureaucratic clone," she replies, a smirk on her lips, "but don't talk about your mother like that."
"Your words, not mine." I shoot back.
She smiles a little, brushing a wavy strand of hair behind her ears. Though the corners of her lips turn up, I can see her brow is furrowed. Her half-hearted effort to be happy doesn't impress me and I call her up on it.
"Gran, what's the matter?" I say gently, sliding onto a bar stool that's directly in front of bench.
"Nothing, sweetheart," she coos, unconvincingly, "why would something be wrong?"
"You've been cutting the same carrot for about ten minutes." I point out.
Giving an exasperated sigh, Gran pushes the orange cubes into a pile on the side of her board and turns her massacring attentions to a zucchini. I fold my arms on the counter top and rest my chin on them. I hate seeing her so stressed.
"Are you coming today?" I ask, knowing the answer before she even gives it.
There is no way my Grandmother would ever come to a pre-reaping ceremony. She only goes to actual thing because it's law. And, just as I expected, she shakes her head.
"I've got things to do, Fynn." she says quietly.
Things to do. A poor excuse, if ever there was one. I know she hates the Hunger Games. She doesn't understand what an honor it is to be picked to represent your district, she of all people. Both her sons, my father and uncle, were tributes only eighteen or nineteen years ago. My father was a victor. Before he died, he was hailed like a God in District 2. It is my plan to be the same.
"This is my year, Gran." I exclaim, sitting up straight. "I've been working so hard and everyone says they're sure to pick me as the premier tribute."
"And if they don't pick you?"
"Then I'll challenge whoever they do and volunteer anyway."
I've trained all my life to compete in the Hunger Games. No one's opinion will change my mind. I think Gran knows this; she just mumbles and starts to wash up.
"Cynthia is coming for dinner." Gran says, changing the subject. "She said she'll probably be at the ceremony, but probably won't get to see you until after."
"Fine." I say. "Good."
Cynthia is my mother; Cynthia Scott-Castairs, second in charge to the mayor of District 2, mother of Fynn Castairs, daughter-in-law of Addison Castairs, widow of Alexander Castairs. And she's quick to remind everyone of all of those facts. Marrying a tribute, in her eyes, is one of life's greatest achievements, something she did at the tender age of eighteen. I came a year later, a daughter to follow in the footsteps of her father, Cynthia's ultimate masterpiece. She enrolled me in the Tribute Academy when I was five, a year after my father had died. I stayed with Gran, while she lived in her apartment closer to the city. I didn't often see her, but she was a force of nature and I remembered everything she'd ever told me. When she did visit, it had to be a special occasion, a fact that affirmed my belief that today was an important day.
"I should go now." I say, standing up and brushing the front of my blazer.
Gran doesn't reply, clearly cleaning away her feelings; personally I feel like six minutes scrubbing one knife is overkill. I bid her goodbye and leave the house, walking out on to the pavement. The graphite-grey colour scheme of District 2 hits me like the stone that inspires it; row after row of houses and buildings, all in the same monotone. Blue sky rises up above the cityscape, a sapphire sea washing over a dull river bed. I start walking down the street, taking my usual route to the academy. I find a weight filling my stomach and I begin to think about the situation I'm entering.
It is custom, in District 2, for the academy to hold a ceremony before the reaping. During this, the top male and female tribute will be chosen. They will be the first to volunteer at the reaping, everyone will know that they are the ones to beat. Once the premier tributes have volunteered, others who want to try can challenge them directly. Few do; premier tributes are chosen for a reason.
At seventeen, I am a year younger than the premier tributes usually are. But I come from Career Tribute royalty and that seems to make a difference. I have been training hard and that has paid off. There is a slight chance that having a mother so close to the mayor has helped me on my way, but I like to think that most of my success is down to my own accomplishments and not any outside influence. I am the favourite. Unless someone challenges me, I will be competing in the 72nd Annual Hunger Games, representing District 2.
I come to the Academy; a large set of buildings, united by the towering, grey columns that stretch from the ground up to the roof. I start up the steps, perfecting my champion's walk. I pause before the doors, fixing my hair and checking my uniform. Time to make my entrance.
The wooden doors are heavier than they appear, but I'm used to that, having come here everyday for the last twelve years. I push them open and walk into the academy atrium, sunlight streaming through the high, glass ceiling. It has been set up for the occasion; a wooden stage has been constructed near the back doors, a lectern on top, waiting for the head trainer to read off the names of the chosen ones. The walls are lined with silver and blue streamers, the academy colours. Tables are set up at the sides of the hall, tall flutes of peachy coloured liquid sitting in rows. It is the event of the season and the District 2 Tribute Academy has pulled out all the stops.
Heads turn as I enter and whispering starts. I try to ignore it, going straight to the drink tables. I pick up a glass and take a sip. It's fizzy and a little bitter. I let the flavour settle on my tongue and then scull the rest; it's not my favourite taste in the world. Replacing the glass, I hear an excited voice behind me.
"You know what they're talking about, don't you?"
I spin around and give something that barely qualifies as a smile. But the girl knows what I mean.
"Of course, Daisy." I reply to her question, striding over to stand beside her, my arms crossed.
Daisy Mae Pennant grins in an endearing, if slightly stupid, way. Her chestnut-brown hair is curled and it bounces around just above her shoulders. Her big, green eyes glisten in her round face. Daisy Mae is about a foot shorter than I am and she follows me around like a faithful puppy. We are not friends, not exactly, but we are allies. She was not made to be a tribute; her parents paid a lot for her to attend the academy but she doesn't really excel in any of the coursework. Her enthusiasm, however, is unrivaled, and she is clearly excited for me.
"You're a cert, Fynn." Daisy Mae says, bouncing on the balls of her toes. "Everyone thinks so."
I know it, but I don't say so. Many think I'm arrogant and I don't need to encourage the belief. I scan the crowd of people, huddled in groups, chatting, laughing, buzzing with excitement. Not everyone looks entirely happy to see me though.
"Do you think anyone will challenge?" Daisy Mae asks, as if sensing my thoughts.
I shake my head. Challenges don't often happen. Trainee tributes that aren't chosen have essentially wasted their lives and of course they'd be angry. But usually even they realize that the premier tributes have the best chance of winning the games. The system is neat, better than the barbaric mess that they call administration in District 1. Apparently, they have brawls during the reaping, though these aren't televised.
Two men walk past. One is the head trainer, Corrigan Hackney, a tall, overly muscular man in his fifties. The other is one I know only by sight and name; Flick Donavan, District 2 victor. He has black hair, a well groomed beard and brooding, dark grey eyes. He must be one of the mentors for this year.
"Castairs." Hackney says by way of greeting.
"Sir." I reply.
"You'll know Flick Donovan." he continues. "Flick, this is Fynn Castairs, related, of course, to the Castairs Brothers. She is one of the candidates for premier tribute."
"Of course." Flick says, his voice slow and calculated. "54th and 53rd Games, wasn't it? I imagine your father would be very proud."
"I'm sure he would be." I say.
Hackney mumbles a gruff goodbye and heads over to the stage. As he climbs the steps, the crowd falls into a hush; the choices are about to be revealed.
