Title: Fortune Favours
- reference to the Latin proverb Fortuna fortes aduivat, which translates to fortune favours the bold/brave/strong
Rating: T for violence, swearing, etc.
Pairing: None yet, possible Finnick/OC
Summary: Lavisa Jaeger is from District 2, a Career, so it makes sense for her to join the pack. But Lavisa is looking for a bit of fun before she dies, and so she finds the weakest players in this game and forms her alliance. Poss. Finnick/OC much later
. . .
I get up early on the day of the reaping, like I always do.
It's more habit that tradition. I'm used to getting up early in the morning, to help out my mother before I have to go to school. As one of the more talented blacksmiths in the District 2 her works are always in high demand, and I've been assisting her since I learnt to walk. She has actual assistants, of course, but she always complains that they don't truly appreciate what it is to be a blacksmith, to mould and create a perfect tool.
Or something along those lines. She likes ranting. Personally, I couldn't care less about the creation aspect; it's using weapons that I find fascinating. To learn the intricate dance until the – sword, axe, scythe, dagger – is but another part of yourself, until it is more real and precious than the air in your lungs. Some revel in the power, others in the pain. I relish in the freedom, in the knowledge. I know all the steps, and my weapon is my twirling partner.
I guess that's why I do so well in training. My background gives me an advantage; surrounded by weapons my entire life due to my mother, and pressured into studying them by my Peacekeeper father. Instead of a doll I was given a throwing knife to practise with. Instead of a pretty dress I was handed weights. Instead of dance lessons I was taught the weak points in the body, the best places to go for even if I was unarmed. Humans have a rather strong bite when they are determined, after all.
If I had failed I have no doubt that they would have gotten rid of me, dropped me off at the orphanage if I was lucky. No parent in District 2 wants a child who is unable to fight. My brother was born small and weak and sick. My parents left him out in the cold to die when he was only a few hours old, before he could be registered by the Capitol. The same happens to dozens of children every year.
I was five and curious when I asked my father why they did this. He said that our family had a saying. The weak are meat, the strong eat. To my young self it sounded like nonsense. Now it makes sense. Survival of the fittest is what they teach us to be our one and only truth, and I've seen it demonstrated too many times not to believe it.
I'm sitting outside my house, at the back in the space between the neighbours house and my own, on top of a wooden crate. It had carried some blocks of steel and iron and other metals, and had been left out here under a tarp so that we'd have some firewood if we needed it. In my hands are a set of tarot cards. I got them on my first reaping day, from Crazy Uncle Renzer, and have been using them to keep my hands occupied since.
It's more interesting than using a knife. With a knife, sure, you can flip it and throw it back and forth but there's a limit to what you can do. Cards are much more complicated. You can flick them from one hand to another, shuffle them, throw them, twist them away and make them reappear. Crazy Uncle Renzer called them his magic tricks, and he taught me some of them before he died. He was my favourite uncle, so I was disappointed when he was blown up in an accident at work. They never even found any of his remains.
Before every reaping I play with the cards and use them to 'tell my fortune'. That's what they're supposed to be used for, though you can play games with them too, but I think my set isn't complete enough to do properly so I make up games that only I know the rules to. I don't believe that cards can really tell the future, but it's fun, and something to occupy my mind with. I get bored far too easily.
I shuffle the cards and cross my legs under me, so that there's room on the box to spread the cards out on. I pick three of them, carefully pushing the rest back into a pile and putting them to the side. I turn the first card over. It's a bit faded, the colours not as bright as they'd once been and the edges bent and slightly tattered, but I can clearly see what it depicts.
La Roue de Fortune X is written across the bottom in curling gold letters. A dragon and a winged cat fight on top of a wheel while trying to hold on tight. A pair of eagle-headed men climb up the wheel while confronting each other, standing on the backs of human-faced animals with their outer legs and grasping the wheel with their inner legs. Coins fall from the bottom onto the ground beneath it, where they lie in unnoticed stacks. The Wheel of Fortune. I consider it for a moment, before flipping over the next card.
This one says L'impératrice II and shows the reflection of a beautiful who is admiring herself in a mirror. She has fair hair, tan skin and dark brown eyes, and the mirror is held by sly-looking demons who are clutching at her red dress. The Empress, or Eve. I look at her face, observing her laughing eyes and unnaturally wide smile.
My hand hesitates over the final card, a strange apprehension rising inside me. With a scoff I push it away and turn over the card, and freeze as a chill works its way down my back. I can't tell if it's of fear or excitement.
La Mort XIII depicts a robed skeletal figure with a scythe raised to strike. Behind him stands a serpent-like man in a similar robe armed with a similar scythe who is preparing to strike him down.
Death stares up at me, and I laugh.
. . .
By the time I suppress my giggles the sun has risen. I can't see much of it from here, the buildings blocking much of it, but when I look straight up the sky is streaked with oranges and reds. The street lights flicker off automatically, their dull yellow glow replaced by the natural sunlight. I lean back against the wall, tossing and catching cards as I cycle through the deck.
My village is relatively near to the square, where the reapings will take place. We still need to take a train, though the journey will be short. I imagine it can't be much fun for those who live further away, deeper into the mountains. District 2 has it's reapings early in the day, so that the people in the Capitol can watch all of them live and in order, whilst the tributes will still have time to get to the Capitol in time for the opening ceremony.
My family always makes sure to get there early, so that we avoid the rush and panic of the latecomers. As far as I know no one has ever been properly late, but no one wants to risk it, not when the penalty would be death.
I look down at my watch which tells me that I have an hour to get dressed into something appropriate and eat before we have to leave. I uncross my legs and hop to my feet, placing the cards in my jacket pocket. Then I run up the wall of the house besides mine, using it like a springboard to press off hard and twist away, reaching for my window ledge. My legs fold up to brace myself when I land, and I hit it with a thunk. There's no point in being quiet; my parents will be awake by now, and they already know about my tendency for early mornings. In fact, they prefer that I do this rather than bothering them.
The window is open, so all I have to do is pull myself in. It's easy, with so much practise under my belt. I close the window behind me and walk over to my wardrobe, which stands beside my bed. My family is one of the richer ones, what with the double income and the little extra money they get paid for sending me to Career training. So I get my own room, and have only experienced what it is like to starve as part of training exercises.
I drop my grey jacket on my bed and open the wardrobe, selecting a red blouse that is made of some silky material, and a pair of fitted black trousers. They are my reaping clothes, and have been for the past two years since I hit my growth spurt at fourteen and had to replace my small selection of clothing. In District 2 it is very uncommon to see any girls in dresses, though I have seen a few skirts at reapings in the past. I think it's because anyone who is entered into the Career programme is forbidden from wearing anything so nondurable and impeding on movement, and most children is at least tested for suitability. Those who don't pass are viewed as even lower than the orphans. At least the orphans have an excuse.
I store away my sleep clothes – a tatty grey shirt and three-quarter lengths – and slip on my reaping clothes, then step into my sole pair of shoes and tie them up. I glance longingly at my combat boots, before grabbing my jacket and leaving my room.
My house isn't exactly a house. We live in a set of rooms above the blacksmith's workshop. This means that it's usually quite warm due to the forge, though in winter not even that can keep out the freezing cold. So in the main room is a small fireplace where my parents and I sleep in front of during winter, heaped under a pile blankets and sharing our limited body heat.
But it is summer now, so instead a wooden table is situated in the middle of the room with three chairs at a side each; we don't get guests. My parents are sitting there, a pile of bread lying on a plat in the middle of the table. My father glances up when he hears me enter. He has the face of a man who was once handsome, but time has wrinkled his skin and narrowed his slightly slanted eyes that I share, years of little smiling deepening his frown. He has a scar that runs across his forehead at a slant, where a boy in his training group – or his pack, as people tend to call them - when he was a kid took a lucky shot. The kid didn't live for much longer after that.
"Good morning, father," I say respectfully. It's ingrained in me; respect for my parents. Obedience. Fear. It's a common theme in District 2 families, or at least the military ones. I've heard of teenagers who seem to be able to get away with anything with their parents, who skip classes and miss curfew and stay out all night with their friends. I could never imagine being allowed to do that, even if I ha a desire to do so.
My father nods and dismisses me from his mind. The usual.
"Good morning, mother." My mother is younger than my father, her beauty not yet faded with age like the cards in my pocket. She has long white-blonde hair that I inherited, deep shadows under her eyes from years of little sleep, and her skin is very pale. Her arms are heavily muscled from her work, and she is just as physically strong as my father who though tall is broad in stature.
"Morning, Lavisa," she replies, sparing me a small smile before returning to her food. I take a seat and grab my own piece of bread, eating slowly since I have the time. There is a thick spread of raspberry jam spread on the slice, and today is the only day of the year that mother buys some. It's expensive, since it's difficult to grow in such cold conditions, and the only place you can get raspberries is from one of the old victors who grows them in her private greenhouse.
My relationship with my mother is...warmer, I suppose. I've spent the most time with her through the course of my life, so it makes sense for an attachment to have developed between us rather than with my distant father. Still, I don't consider us particularly close. She never encouraged that sort of bond with visible affection, so I could not say that I love her. Amiable, is perhaps the best description of our relationship.
We eat in silence, as always. I can see that my mother is focussed on some design of her, her blue eyes glazed and free hand tracing images only she could see absentmindedly on the table. She hates reaping days for this reason; they drag her away from her work. In my opinion, it is the only thing she truly cares about.
Father is reading a thin newspaper. It's the only one that is printed in the district, and is an uneven mixture of news and Capitol propaganda. A handsome man with blonde hair and green eyes is beaming on the front cover, and written next to him is Sign up for the Peacekeepers today! in bold lettering. The rest of the page is taken up by information on the Hunger Games; the surviving victors, a recap of the previous Games, speculation on what the arena will be like this year, and a mention of a interview with the head Gamemaker: Gracia Kercy.
It's always like this in the weeks leading up to the games. Excitement building, tension running high as the whole of Panem counts down. You can't walk down a street in 2 without seeing posters going on about the virtues of volunteering, and training at the Academy has been cranked up in preparation.
It won't do much good though. Usually District 2 can be counted on to have skilled tributes, and if we don't win we're at least on of the last to die. But the pack of eighteen-year-olds this year are – in comparison to previous years – terrible. When you hit eighteen the Academy advises that you volunteer – not before then, as you need all the training you can get. Sometimes no one will volunteer of course, and you'll get scrawny teenagers being thrown into the arena, but those are rare cases. It looks like this is going to be one of those years. It should be more entertaining I guess. We'll have an actual tribute, rather than some arrogant almost-adult who thinks they can take on the world. The scared ones tend to turn out to be the most interesting. If they survive long enough.
I've never had much of an opinion on the Games. Since it marked my mother getting more orders for high quality weapons and tool for both training and the arena, and thus we had more money, it's almost a positive event. I've watched every year of the Games since I could comprehend the world around me, so I've never been horrified by the violence or cruelty shown by the contestants. For the Academy, our 'homework' sometimes consisted of analysing a past tribute's fighting style, and coming up with weaknesses in it and how we would counteract them, or compliment them if we fought alongside them. The Careers travelled in packs of course, so we needed to know how to work in teams.
It's something I've never been too good at. Stick me in a fight where I have several allies and I tend to get...confused. Friend, foe, what does it matter when I have my blade in hand and prey in my sights? They become so tiny and insignificant; what is there to distinguish them from the others that I am supposed to strike down?
I'm not so bad in pairs. If I practise with them for a while they can become like my weapons; an extension of myself, just one that needs a guiding hand. It's one of the reasons people in my pack both hate and love being my partner during training. They loathe the control I take from them, but relish in the rush of the fight, enticed by the ebb and flow of the dance.
The wrinkling of paper makes me look up, and I see my father closing the paper and folding it in half before setting it down on the table. My mother snaps out of her daze and glances at her watch, and a frown pulls at her thin lips. "We should go. It's already quarter to seven."
Father nods and stands up, my mother and I following his example. He'd never really talked much, not even to my mother, and when he does it tends to short and clipped. I used to compensate for this when I was younger by talking non-stop, about anything and everything. Until my father got annoyed and put a stop to it.
The sun hasn't risen much higher in the sky when we step outside, and our shadows stretch out in front of us. The train station is only a ten minute walk away. It has the same plain stone architecture that is common in District 2, and is in good condition, not crumbling like some buildings. There are already a few families there, and I share a nod with those I recognise from my pack. I can see one of the girl's who I partner up most with standing with her family. Svana has her black hair pulled back in a high ponytail, a pair of her mother's gold earrings looped through her ears. She is scowling down at the skirt her mother has likely forced her into, tugging uncomfortably at the edges of the blue fabric. I'm more grateful than ever that my parents aren't as...civilian, I suppose, as Svana's. She is a good fighter, but not a smart one, often letting her temper get the better of her and attacking unthinkingly if taunted.
The train pulls into the station, and I lose sight of my parents as the small crowd boards. There aren't any seats, so as to make more room for passengers, and I find myself pressed between the wall and a pair of young parents with their son. He's young, and I'd guess it's his first reaping if the tear-stains around his eyes and the fear in his parents faces are anything to go by. When you reach your teens you're expected to be able to push down your emotions, if you even feel any fear at all, or at least put on a brave face. I look at him and see a corpse, eyes clouded and blood standing out against the pale skin. He would scream, I think, as the knife sliced through his throat, before it cut off to plaintive gurgles. I look away as the image becomes more real than the living boy.
The train ride is short, about twenty minutes long, but in the crowded carriage it seemed to take longer. The ride is smooth despite the many ups and downs of the journey, as though the small train is no where near as fast as the ones the Capitol uses, and it's decades old age, it is kept in good condition. Even if we has such a legitimate excuse for being late to a reaping, I can't imagine any Peacekeeper being the forgiving type.
When I step out I take in a deep breath of the fresh air, chasing away the stuffiness of the enclosed carriage. Quickly seeking out my parents I spot them heading towards the registry, and follow them. I don't bother to catch up with them. It's not like I have anything to say to them, or them to me, and I never quite entered the stage of wanting to stay close to my parents for comfort or safety. They had always been sure to discourage such behaviour.
I reach the front of the line and hold out my hand before the man sitting at the desk asks. My finger is pricked and blood wells up, and I press it down on the square marked with my name. The man holds a small metal device over it and it beeps, apparently confirming my identity as he directs the next person to step forward. Walking over to the female section I look around, ingrained instincts and a hint of paranoia insisting that I know my surroundings even though I have been here several times before. It may have changed in the last year, after all.
Several large screens have been attached to the shops around the square, and cameras glint from atop the buildings. Peacekeepers mill around the edges, likely in case the tribute tried to make a break for it. It doesn't happen often, but they're more cautious with Careers, since one of us might actually have a chance of escaping if they reduced the guard. At the very least they'd cause a disturbance, and the Capitol likes it's violence nice and contained.
The white marble walls of the Justice Building gleam beneath the sunlight, banners carrying the Capitol insignia hanging from it's side, the black eagle standing out in stark contrast against the red backdrop. A stage has been set up in front of the building; a few rows of chairs sit on the left side, a podium rests in the middle, and two glass balls rest in their stands to the right. One for the boys, and one for the girls. As I take my place amongst the other sixteen-year-olds, I imagine that I can see the five slips of paper with my name written on them. Just five; one for each year I've been eligible for reapings. Not many people in District 2 take tesserae, unlike what I've heard of the poorer districts. The Career districts really do have the advantage in every way in the Hunger Games. The majority of us are trained our entire lives for the Games in probably the worst-kept secret in Panem. The training is funded by the mayor, and though I don't know for sure there are rumours that it's due to orders straight from the Capitol. After all, the Games would be rather boring is no one in it could fight, and the Capitol elites do so love their bloodbaths. And even if that isn't true, it still benefits the mayor to train us to become victors. The money we receive for winning is fed into the district's economy, which in turn makes the mayor richer, so the more victors the better.
More trains pull into the station as time goes by, and the square quickly fills with people. District 2 is one of the larger districts in terms of population, as there are many villages spread out across the mountains. I'm glad that our reaping is early in the day, so that we don't have to stand under the July sun when it is at it's highest.
I watch the eighteen-year-olds as they converge in the first two rows, analysing their physique and movements in an attempt to see if there were any who held the makings of volunteers. It seemed that this year my village wasn't the only one that has turned out a disappointing pack, as none particularly stood out to me, or held the smug grins and confident continence on the usual volunteer types.
A hush falls over the gathering as the victors begin to take their seats. District 2 has the highest number of victors, with our fellow Career districts falling a little behind. The two most recent victors, Enobaria and Iver, will be the mentors this year according to a newspaper I caught a glimpse of, and so sit in the front row.
Iver won the 68th Games using a long bow as his primary weapon, sticking with the Careers until there were only the two District 1 tributes and himself left. He killed the girl with a clean shot through her eye and into her brain, a much kinder death compared to what he did to the boy. The District 1 boy had managed to snap the bowstring with his sword, and since Iver hadn't had any other weapons he'd gotten cocky. He never imagined Iver would pull the string tight around his throat, garrotting him slowly and painfully as the boy frantically tried to escape.
I remember that the image of the District 1 boy's bulging, blood-shot eyes and blue face had made the front page.
Then a man walks on stage, his ridiculous clothing and almost skipping walk immediately identifying him as District 2's Capitol-bred escort. Jevrin Kalius was white from head to toe, like he'd been dipped in a vat of bleach, the only colour on the frilly suit-wearing man's body being his bright orange irises. Apparently he was somewhat of a celebrity in the Capitol due to his previous career as a television presenter, hence him getting the honour of being District 2's escort.
Jevrin spins on his heel to face the crowd once he reaches the podium, grin unnaturally wide on his face. It makes me think of a doll or an action figure; all plastic and make-believe persona. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the annual reaping for the Hunger Games!" He announces, as if expecting an applause.
He's disappointed when all he receives is a few blank looks and eye rolls, but refuses to let our lack of enthusiasm ruffle him. Smile spreading even wider he hops over to the two glass balls, saying "Ladies first!" and reaching down into the ball. It takes a while for him to actually pick a piece of paper, attempting to build suspense as he is. I don't feel as irritated as I did during my first reaping; over the years I've gotten used to the theatricality of Capitol citizens.
Finally he grabs a slip and stands behind the podium once more. As he opens his mouth to speak a sense of anticipation fills me, buzzing against my skin and causing my vision to tunnel in on that slip of paper.
"Lavisa Jaeger!"
I can hear the mutters and swishes of fabric as people look around, searching for their chosen tribute. But I don't pay attention to them. My fingers twitch and my mind turns to my cards. La Roue de Fortune X. The wheel of fortune, it seems, has landed on me.
I want to laugh, because no one will volunteer this year. I am chosen. I will be going into the Hunger Games. I will kill, and likely I will be killed. My corpse will be sent back to my district to be mourned by parents who will not mourn, and I will be forgotten, just another victim of the Capitol and it's machinations. I am going to die.
I start walking forwards before the Peacekeepers decide to drag me, the sea of young girls parting easily to allow me passage. Their stares remain on my face the entire time, and as an uneasy murmur passes through them I realise I am grinning wildly. And I can't seem to stop, the urge to laugh bubbling in my chest. It just seems so funny. I want to ask them why they look away when they meet my eyes. Do they see my death in them? Surely it is bad luck to meet the eyes of a condemned woman.
Jevrin looks upset that there are no volunteers, since usually District 2 can be counted on to have at least a couple. Just my luck that this year, the year my name is reaped, the packs are so lacklustre. I look out at the eighteen-year-old girls and wonder if I should be railing at the unfairness of it all. But since when have I believed in fairness? The guilty prosper and the innocent die, and that's the way it has always been. All that's left to decide is whether I shall become a member of the guilty, since I haven't been an innocent for many years.
My thoughts feel disjointed as I make my way up the stairs. Is it the shock? No, I don't feel shocked. I feel amused. I should feel afraid, but it is sparks of mirth that curl down my spine and sing in my mind. My hands itch for my cards.
I come to a stop beside Jevrin who has regained his thrilled look, and my grin is feral when I look at him, pleased to see his smile falter. He pulls himself together enough to congratulate me, before scurrying over to the boy's glass ball. He calls out the name of the unlucky boy with minimal preamble; "Reiner Wayland!"
The boy that steps up is a year older than me, with dark blond hair and a stocky build. He stands taller than me, and hard blue eyes glance at me. Crazy bitch, he must be thinking, and I take in the arrogant set to his posture and the confident smirk that rises to his lips. He thinks he can win. I wonder how painful his death will be. Perhaps I will have a hand in it.
The mayor, a short older man with grey hair and the remnants of an athletic build, moves up to the podium and begins reciting the Treaty of Treason. The words wash over me in an incomprehensible wave of sound, the familiar words failing to register as my gaze turns upwards. The sky has clouded over in parts, and past the shop roofs I can see Mount Pyrene's intimidating form. How small we are in comparison, how young and insignificant. We may have hollowed out the mountain, cut out it's insides and dug up it's roots, but it will outlast us all.
With a look at the hulking boy at my left, then at the plastic man who wears the oblivious cruelty many Capitolites share, I decide I would like to outlast them all also.
. . .
So I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! I certainly enjoyed writing it. The darker characters tend to appeal to me most, so this is a nice change from my other Hunger Games character who is far too nice. That's why I made Lavisa – she's pretty much his polar opposite. And a little crazy, which is very fun to write and will probably escalate as time goes by.
Please review and tell me what you think, any advice or queries, and if I should continue updating this. I'll probably keep writing, but I figure if there's not much interest there's no point in posting.
Farewell!