Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins owns Hunger Games. This is a constant that will remain for every other chapter I post.
A/N: Time for my typical, long, ranty author's note that you can easily ignore if you want!
Wah, so, this isn't the most original piece of fanfiction out there. /sweatdrop/ I know a lot of people have toyed with the whole "Madge-and-Gale-go-to-Hunger-Games-instead-of-Peeta-and-Katniss" concept. However, since I love Gale (which seems to be a rarity in this fandom) and have always been really interested in how he'd react to the Games versus Katniss, I figured I'd put my own (morbid?) spin on it.
As a warning, I just want to point out that this piece is really a precursor to an actual fanfic. At this point in my life, I really don't have time to write a very long and complicated fanfic that captures every iota of what Gale/Madge experience during the Hunger Games. I want to write that fanfic. I really do. But I don't have the time right now. And I still have to return to my scarily long and tangled-up Soul Eater fanfic (I swear I haven't forgotten about it, I'm just too traumatized to return to it yet). So this fic is basically me testing around with ideas and getting a feel for the scenario. In a way, it's almost like a commercial for the actual story. /sweatdrop/ Lame as that sounds.
The real fanfic, if/when written, will mostly follow Gale's P.O.V., definitely some Katniss, probably Madge, and maybe a little bit of Peeta's P.O.V. as well. This precursor just follows Katniss – and it's basically just her reactions/sensations/ideas while she watches Gale in the Hunger Games. Yep. You guessed it. It's her in the position that Gale was saddled with in the actual series. Of course, they'll be a smattering of Peeta/Katniss going on too, because that just feels IC to me.
It's not a one shot, but I'm planning on this precursor being short. The chapter is about the reaping. The next will be Katniss watching the interviews. Maybe one or two chapters about the Hunger Games itself. Then the next will be Katniss watching the Capitol broadcast the victor. Then the last will be a sort of 'aftermath' chapter (that won't really solve anything). They're all sort of drabbly and desperate and make no sense. Like I said, the real fanfic will be much more fleshed-out and...normal (?) sounding, this is just to get my ideas and my feelings out. It should be…idk…maybe six chapters in all.
I really love Hunger Games. I read them when they first came it, and it was the first time in a while that I had read a series that really inspired me. I put them up there with Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, and that's really high praise in my nerdy mind. I wanted to write something when I first finished them, but I did not have the time. Now, I just saw the movie – was surprised that I actually adored it (I usually trash movie versions of books, but I thought this one did a really good job) – and felt once again inspired to write. Well, I still don't have the time, but I needed to get my passion and dedication out.
So, if anything, this piece was a way for me to express the deep admiration I have for this beautiful, heartbreaking series.
I'll also just state here – I know the writing is very different from Collins' writing. I love Collins' style, but rather than mimic hers, I wanted to try to write in 'my own' (whatever that means). Therefore, this follows Katniss' P.O.V., but Katniss is NOT the narrator, which is why the narrator does not mimic Katniss' voice.
I'll also say that I have no idea when I'll update. Hopefully soon, but it honestly depends on when I have the time. I've given up on trying to set specific dates for myself because they never work for me. T.T I apologize. Hopefully, it will be every few weeks, but I can't trust myself to say when.
Extremely obvious shippings here. But listing them anyway.
Gale/Katniss
Madge/Gale
Katniss/Peeta
This order does not suggest that I like one more than the other OR suggest who will ultimately 'win' in this fanfic. Also, I'm well aware of the sappiness of my sappy, sappy summary. I'm planning - hoping - that the actual story will not be nearly as sappy. For sure, there's obviously romance, and its true that romance can happen without sap: but this story will NOT simply be about how much these characters love each other and how sad they are that he likes her but she likes him. That'll be involved, I like unrequited love, but its there will be a lot of other equally important themes: Death, trauma, oppression, guilt, loyalty, torn families and how forcing someone to kill affects the psyche. At least...I hope it will be about those things. Aha. The truth is, I don't usually write romance fanfics (though my fics usually include SOME sort of itty-bitty romance if you squint), so I feel a little out of my element here.
If you decide to read this weird little thing, I'll feel incredibly honored. Thank you!
Watch
And everything is arid. Tasteless. Meaningless.
"Madge Undersea!"
The name cries out, it drops a million miles into the blackest ends of an abyss. It's silent, it's pointless, it's like a stone going down an endless well, forever. It's the flavor of dust, of coal ashes, of dead canaries and faded photos on a mantelpiece, nearly forgotten. The flavor's manufactured, airtight, prepackaged: it's the flavor of the Reaping, and it overrides the senses, it blinds, it deafens, it suffocates; it's a treat from the Capitol, all tall spires and shining castles. The taste of berries evaporates from her tongue, her salvia's like poison in her mouth, and Katniss watches as the girl with the fragile face and the wheat-colored hair and the little gold pin walks to the stage.
Madge is not frozen, and she does not cry. She stands there in her dress, and she looks beautiful.
Katniss pretends she does not know her.
Inside her, there's a hollowness, a breathing hollowness that she falls into, descending further, further away. Away from the Reaping. Away from herself.
Oh God, Madge, a voice whispers somewhere in that hollowness, but it's a tinny voice. Because Madge always smiles at Katniss at school and she always tucks her hair behind her ear in a friendly way, and just this morning she wishes them luck. Katniss knows Madge, and now she knows she'll never see her again. She'll watch them doll her in silks and stars and shimmers; she'll watch them clot her with gore and muck and debris; and then she'll watch her die. Her seat will be vacant at school, as there's always two vacant seats, every year, once a year, traditionally. Katniss knows Madge.
But Madge is not Prim.
Katniss feels the hollowness swallow her whole. It's not Prim, it's not Prim, it's not Prim, and she hates herself for the mantra, because beneath the dryness of the Reaping and the colorlessness of desolation there's also a hint of guilty-flavored relief: It's not Prim.
So Katniss pretends she does not know Madge.
"Oh, what an honor!" the woman who is a stranger who is a freak who is the Capitol who is the death penalty trills, and her face is a barrage of strange colors, a swirling nightmare hue among the blandness of District 12. It's sacrilegious. "Aren't you excited, Miss Undersea? A chance to represent your District! And what a pretty face you have!"
Everything she says must necessarily end in an exclamation point. Her voice is shrill on the still, still air.
Madge nods at her words, her eyes very faraway, her hands stiff, dead things that grip at her dress un-shaking, and her nod says, Yes, she's honored to die for her District.
Her faraway eyes are made of glass. They reflect the hundreds of sallow faces that look back at her, dull, dingy, pointless; the uselessness of her honor. No one speaks. No one screams. Her mother leans into her father, clutching her head, moaning silently. Her father simply gapes. But Madge does not look at them for long: her reflective vision scans the sweaty, miserable congregation of boys and men, and Katniss wonders if she searches for someone there, a friend, a lover. Then her gaze shifts, and it falls on Katniss with a suddenness that pushes all the air from her lungs. Katniss does not turn away, even though staring into the little heart-shaped face is like staring at a corpse, and the sensation clutches at her throat like a scabby hand. She finds her head twitching, a small shake, a minor I'm sorry, and Madge almost smiles, as though that's what she wanted.
Katniss can't pretend she does not know her.
"And now, onto the boys!"
Katniss cements her mouth shut. Again, the mantra starts, spinning wildly, an unending vortex, seasoned with gritty guilt. Not Gale, not Gale, not Gale, not –
"Gale Hawthorne!"
The first name cascaded, voiceless, into an abyss.
The second name explodes.
It's a bomb, and Katniss stands shocked in the aftermath, covered in the psychological refuse, blinking idiotically. Like a maimed coal-worker dragged from the wreckage before she realizes she's lost a limb, Katniss does not yet realize she has lost some vital part of herself. There are screams, but everything's muffled, she's wrapped up in a tourniquet that makes it impossible to know up from down, left from right. The world unravels into a colorless, senseless, purposeless ball of string, tangling up its inhabitants, choking them. The world unravels to a noose. There are screams and tears, but they travel from an eternity away, and sound like mere phantom cries to Katniess, unreal, unreal, unreal.
She falls into the hollowness inside her, unbreathing.
Then there's motion, a squirming as people shift, as people turn, as people look, as Gale walks up to the stage. Steady.
Katniss wakes up.
"G – Gale…" and then, "Gale! Gale! Gale!"
Her voice sounds ragged, so unnatural.
It's like running through a cornfield, the people around her like tall, faceless stalks, barring her from her exit. She needs to find him. She needs to reach him. She'll get to him, and take his hand, and lead him to the woods. They'll be safe there. It will reverse time. They'll sit together and taste berries bursting on their tongue and laugh the bitter, hard laughs that replace their tears; they'll travel to their private place, enclosed in green and earth and water, and it will be separate from this, it will be unbroken, and they will be safe, so safe – he'll belong to her again, not the Capitol's slaughter boy. Her hunting partner. Hers. Hers.
Gale sees her, but he keeps moving. His body looks rigid.
"GALE!"
There's a collision of senses, of colors, of bodies. She was dead before, in the aftereffects of a bombing. Now everything is too alive. She suffocates in the shear reality of it all – Gale – Gale – Gale – and someone holds her, someone keeps her from moving forward. From her hunting partner. From the woods.
"Let go! Let go! Gale –!"
"S'okay," a voice murmurs in her ear, and it's a male voice, oddly familiar. "It's okay. If anyone's gonna survive, it's him, isn't it? Isn't it?" There's a sweet smell, the scent of bread. Blonde hair clouds her vision. She feels arms around her, strong ones, the type that lift hundreds of pounds of flour a day. Everything blurs surreally. She twists her gaze and sees the muddy image of her face in blue eyes, irises as still and pure as pools in springtime. Peeta does not loosen his embrace. Katniss does not understand. She remembers starvation, baby clothes soaked in mud, and a blackened bit of bread and a little dandelion in the grass. But these figures do not match with Gale's shrinking back, with the awful bright woman whose smiles and crooning foretell his death.
"Let me go, Mellark. Let me –"
She thrashes in his arms, writhes and fights, but he stays near her, his breath in her ear.
"Please, Katniss," and Peeta's face looks frightened to her, "Please, please. He'll be okay. Look at him. He'll be okay."
She is looking at him. Gale stares back at her, and every inch of him, every muscle, every vein, every drop of blood roars that he's unafraid, that he's defiant, that he does not belong on this stage, that he belongs to the woods, that he belongs to her. They belong to each other.
She stands in the arms of another man and looks at him through Peeta's sunlight-hair.
Other voices sound, the woman with the lurid wig bustles over him, shrieks and titters. Her voice is high and false as glitter. "Oh my, what a beautiful pair we have this year! What an extraordinarily handsome young man we have," her eyes dissect him, he's a piece of meat, well-seasoned, "Aren't you honored? What would you like to say, Mr. Hawthorne? Won't you say something for your District?"
And won't he say something?
Everything Gale has ever said to Katniss, the fire and the hate and the bitterness that lies hidden in the green pines and rushing streams, cloaked in leaves and silver fish, now pollutes the air. Katniss breathes it in, it tastes like smoke. But at least it's not the tasteless prepackaged flavor of the Reaping.
Gale's mouth moves, and she hears him:
"Catnip."
She'll keep his family safe.
They only have a few minutes, and Katniss steps in, now stiff and cold and somehow separate from herself. Her mind's become steel, it's an icy contraption of cogs and traps and whirs, and it wheels itself logically, reasonably. She will keep his family safe. It's their promise, the one they made together, whispered lowly through truthful mouths, sitting in the dark with her bow at her feet and a pile of poultry between them. It had been cold, but they couldn't light a fire: it would draw attention. So they sat together in the night, their shoulders rubbing, and murmured "I'll protect them, I'll protect them, I'll protect them," while the moon stared on aloofly, sanctifying their words in cool white light.
She's ashamed she let the Capitol warp her. She still tastes the panic, metallic as blood, soaking through her mouth, and she wants to spit it out. She needs to be calm. They want this pain; they whet the appetites of millions with the salt of District tears. She won't allow it. Not now, not when they've taken him. She thinks about bows and rope and Gale's quizzical expression the day they met, "Catnip?" he had called her. And has ever since. The memory floats to the bottom of her mind, like a dead leaf breaking off a tree. It smells sweet and fresh, an autumn scent. She's empty of tears.
"Gale."
Everything suddenly seems vivid and crystalline, too bright, too focused, and it's as if she's putting on a performance. Take a step forward, the script tells her, Take a breath here. Say his name there. And there's the people standing outside the door, repugnant, always watching. And everyone will be watching soon. Even her.
"Katniss."
They come together, and Katniss smells oranges instead of bread, she thinks of snares instead of dandelions. His body is comfortable and sturdy and she wants to hold onto him forever. They belong to each other. They are two halves of the same person right now. They're hunting partners. Then his hands cup her face and she feels their dampness, knows that he's afraid. His expression is all lines: the ones bunched under stormy gray eyes, the poker-straight one his mouth has become.
"You won't let them starve," he says. He knows.
"Of course not. They'll be fine. I'll take care of them until you come back."
Like Peeta Mellark, he does not let go of her.
"I'll come back," he echoes, "I'll win."
"You will," and she's so empty of tears, she's an arctic wasteland, "If anyone's going to survive, it's you," and didn't someone say those words to her? "That's what we're good at, right? Surviving. You'll survive."
His face is a mask. "They aren't that different from animals –"
But now she's being pulled away. Gale and the comfort of his body slip away, and she's left with the scent of oranges and the memory of the lines beneath his eyes.
"Katniss, wait, I –!"
She hears a door click shut instead of his words.
Katniss visits Madge. She does not know why, only that she cannot pretend she does not know her.
The girl sits hunched in her chair, her dress wrapped around her in swathes, her hair hanging long. She looks somehow like a drowned person. When Katniss walks in, Madge turns, and she sees tears gumming the girl's pale lashes.
Madge stands and walks swiftly before Katniss can move. She hugs her, and Madge's body feels fragile and small to Katniss, as though she holds Prim in her arms. She smells lilac.
She can't feel anything. She thinks only about the vacant seat she will see next year.
The golden pin presses between them. Katniss looks at it.
"What's that?" she asks, to fill the void that is their silence.
Madge's eyes are glass and faraway and oddly profound.
"It's a Mockingjay."