Hey, readers. This story has been something I wanted to give a try on. It's my spin off The Hunger Games, it's an idea that has been in my mind and it's kind of a sin (well, in my mind it is) if I don't give my take on the Hunger Games. The setting is the same, Districts, the war and etc, only the flow and outcome is different. Most of the setting is in the story but the relationships and outcomes are new additions. I feel like, besides writing Return (which you should also give a read too even if you're not much of a Sterek reader), this is going to be quite interesting, and I have not felt it in quite a while since Tessellate.
So, enjoy. I know some of you are looking for Peetato but that's saved for another story called Extinct, which is still in the beginning stages.
DISCLAIMER
I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE CHARACTERS NOR THE SETTINGS EXCEPT FOR SOME OF THE PLOT LINES AND THE ENDING. THIS IS A PALE STORY, A PEETA AND GALE SLASH STORY. EVENTUAL SMUT, AND TRIGGERING MIGHT OCCUR DEPENDING ON THE READER.
NO FINGERS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS STORY.
PROLOGUE: THE MEADOW
The meadow.
It was the place that I chose to run away from mom that day when I once again failed to get the muffins out of the oven on time. It was not the first time mom did that. I was only 12 that time and living in a poverty stricken land with almost little to no assistance or sympathy for the Capitol, it made things harder for me to even accept the state of life that we were living in. I sense that mom feels that way too, from the way she beats me relentlessly for the tiniest mistakes that I had no intention on doing it on purpose. Dad did not do anything, as usual. As a husband, he is supposed to be the one controlling the situation if the situation were to go out of hand. If only that is true, for whenever my mother hits me, he does nothing to quell the anger that overtake her whole rationale. I did not mind though. If I were to have a wife like her, I too would not try to stop her from beating my child. All I could was give my child the hug after the abuse has been done.
But today is different.
I run, hoping that my mother's anger would subside over the prospect of fresh baked muffins. She, too would find it absurd to be mad over them, if only the state of our live was not in such turbulence. So I ran, not caring if the Peacekeepers were to kill me on the spot for wandering around treacherous ground. I just let instincts take over me, and take over it did. The electric fence that separates the borders between the forest and District 12 compound, has long fallen into disuse. The Peacekeepers never did anything about it, anyway. Not like President Snow would even come to a god forsaken district like ours anyway. The furthest I think he would visit is probably District 4, the land of aquaculture. It did not matter, though. Even though my virtues were built simply by fear, I once told myself that I will never set foot beyond the fence lest you want to get killed, which is clearly none in my line of motives, but my curiosity got the best of me, as at 14 years old, I stepped into the land that was separated by woods that stood over 3 meters and coiled barb wires that were once charged with electricity controlled by a circuit breaker, allowing high voltages to surge through the wires like best friends ready to ally against its bullies.
I enter the area with a bow, making sure that my back and torso do not get scratched by the sharpness of the barbs. I never go beyond the meadow to the woods. I know two people who go there all the time to get game for living. Katniss Everdeen and Gale Hawthorne. It cannot be helped though. The ones at who live at The Seam live a harsher live than one at The Merchant. It is harsh, but The Merchant shares the same traits of what constitutes harshness. I sometimes wonder how the discrepancy even started. What makes The Seam, the Seam and The Merchant, The Merchant. What makes the same difference the same. Blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin for the lives of The Merchant whilst olive skin, black or brown silky hair and grey eyes for ones in The Seam. There is no discrimination between the two groups, only confusion, which I believe I only seem to have since many of the people living there are to busy trying to find game as a source of income for trading and food for eating.
The meadow was filled with grasses and dandelions littering the area. The meadow is the only place where beauty can be found in District 12. I guess it is a diamond in the rough, as they call it. I did not know why I come here for. I know one is to escape my mother's unreasonable wrath, but sure I have other reasons to come this far away from home. There is nothing here. Only a wide stretch of tall grasses and flowers that bloom once in a while. From lavenders to dandelions, I know that some people who work at The Hob come here to get lavender for trading. A trade that very little, besides myself would come for. I would trade the baked goods for lavender that would be used for future products, particularly pastries, which I sometimes do not understand the purpose of baking an extravagant amount since most of the habitants would take a lifetime to trade for these, and by the time you manage to get enough to trade for a cake, it would be in such an inedible state. The only ones that manage to afford such luxury would be the victors of The Hunger Games, which only has one so far, Haymitch Abernathy and not even him, a drunkard would want that. You will most likely find him in The Hob getting booze and more booze with the money he now has after the 50th Hunger Games 22 years ago. Guess the trauma got into him, I assume. There is actually two victors, only the other one beside Haymitch had died due to old age, or something like that. The other ones who can afford these pastries would be, you guessed it, the Peacekeepers who will most likely use – or as I like to call it, misuse – their power to threaten them to get food, but that is a rare occasion, since if they did kill us, no pastries would be made for them, anyway, a fact and reason the Peacekeepers have no choice but to reluctantly agree and comply too. Not like they have any other uses for the money they have besides food. District 12 has nothing to offer for anyone to visit.
I sat at the field, gazing at the atmosphere. I should have brought my sketchbook and take what was in front of me. Which that cannot seem to happen since my escape from the bakery would not buy me enough time to get the sketchbook and run out of home. My dad is probably giving my mom the talk to calm her down. It is working though, but not by much. It was only around four or five in the afternoon and I could only hear the breeze that would blow in different directions across the field causing the tall grasses to move along with it. I pluck one of the tall grasses and twirl it around my fingers, pondering how poignant life is in District 12. If I had the opportunity, I would participate in The Hunger Games, but that would serve more as a death wish than a chance to take. District 1 would jump at the chance for having the glory and power. A status I somehow yearn though, but only for the purpose of making my life a little better. No one wants to be in a poor forever. Poor in terms of destitution, I mean. I just need enough to support my parents and my brothers, but that would be like asking god for rocks to turn into gold. Wishful thinking, I guess.
I return home, ready to face the impending slap on my face or the rolling pin that would most likely hit me in the back, like usual. I walk out of the meadow, giving one more look of the serenity. I will be sure to return here, that is for sure.