This is the first chapter to this small fanfiction! A fair warning: if you're expecting characters from the novel, you should look elsewhere. Titus, the cannibal, is the only character that is truly part of the first Hunger Games book. Even so, he doesn't really "appear" in the storyline other than when Katniss mentions him. With the little information given about Titus, I shaped what the Hunger Games he had participated in had most likely been like. For example, I can assume it was a wintery arena by the fact that Titus had supposedly died in an avalanche. I also incorporate my own ideas into the story, such as my own muttation, "gripfish". I tried my best to keep this chapter as accurate to how it really would have been, and hope you enjoy!
[ As you probably already know, I do not own the Hunger Games. All credit goes to its rightful owner(s) ]
When his big brother, Waite, had been struck in the back of the head by the hoof of a raging cow, he was out like a light, face down in a pool of orange dust. His parents nudged him, probed him frantically like wolves scouring the remains of a carcass, and hurried his body inside their cabin. Two hours later he was awake, but somehow his eyes remained asleep. Fer recalled with a shudder the sight of his brother's cobalt eyes, glazed, fogged up like their windows on an autumn morning. They pivoted endlessly, looking for something to…look at, just look at. The blow to the back of his head, as the doctors had said, had caused temporary blindness. The family could afford to pay for the "repair" of Waite. Just barely afford. They made the decision to illegally pay the medics with beef that should have been sent to the Capitol. They would need Fer's extra help now. His parents now looked to Waite, so strong and filled to the brim with confidence and sheer energy, like an antique bejeweled vase on their shelf. He went from herding cattle and throwing bales to merely watching over the stock at night perched on the top of a fence. Fer had taken Waite's place, even though his older brother was as good as new. They were afraid of having to put their oldest son in "danger" ever again. It was with love that Ferdin truly hated those animals. It was so paining to bond with animals that would end up on the plate of a wealthy citizen of the Capitol that didn't know and surely didn't care about you.
Fer's paling hand swept a strand of dirty-blonde hair away from his left eye, its eyelid jumping wildly and protectively his fingernail accidentally scraped across the delicate skin. His reflection bubbled and bent in the gently flowing brook. No, his eye hadn't been gouged out, sliced, speared, or mauled in any barbaric way. It had simply stopped working completely. Temporary blindness? An unfamiliar fuzzy wall of black now sat to the left where the left side of his vision had once been. He wasn't sure what had caused his eye to shut down, but from his past experience with Waite his first guess was the log his head had collided with when he tripped as Lush, a female tribute from District Four, was hurling needle-thin knives at him from her perch on a tree. She's dead now; Titus gored her by beating her with a metallic glove lined with razor-sharp blades.
Titus was the only who had killed anything in the games.
There had been thirteen deaths.
All his.
The thickets and thorns-genetically enhanced to produce barbed, hooked thorns thanks to the Capitol- that had been enduring an arena piled in snow hadn't taken kindly to him either. His face was streaked in small cuts that added up to become a horrible mess running across his face, droplets of blood collecting on the smallest scratch. Fer glanced at the ruby-red, mangled face staring back at him from the water. A trickle of blood slithered down his forehead and took a shortcut through his eyebrow before sliding down the side of his nose. He cursed quietly to himself, the quarrel of mockingjays that had adapted to the harsh icy climate mimicking his weary, irritated voice. Mockingjays, as the blonde male recalled, usually only imitated the most beautiful voices. However, even the jays seemed to be growing bored with the silence occasionally filled by the low boom of the cannon. They were mimicking everything, from his curses to the trickle of water, in which they'd make a gurgling coo in the back of their throats. Fer began to unravel his scarf, tearing off a few of the worn scraps of cloth hanging by a thread. He plastered them to his forehead, cheek, and chin. Placing the largest piece of cloth over his eye, he let out a warm sigh. Fer didn't dare try to wash the wounds. Water was on nobody's side in this game. He needed to drink it to live, but getting it on your bare skin could be an easy ticket to freezing to death in this arena.
A cannon thundered in the distance. That made fourteen. Fer jumped, nearly falling in the brook. A few lumps of snow fell from the bank into the stream, turning translucent beneath the surface and shrinking as they rolled away. A few gripfish clutched the rocks as the water fluttered their small, rough fins.
Dinner.
Gripfish was the nickname given to one of the many virtually useless muttations the Capitol had created. It was a long, silvery eel-like creature with soft gray skin and rough, spiny fins that served as its only form of defense. Their underbellies were lined with countless pairs of tough fins, like the twitching legs of a centipede, which were excellent at gripping solid materials. They were often found, as Fer had noticed, scattered on boulders and rocks within roaring rapids- the one place all tributes shied away from. As long as they stayed wet, gripfish could leave the water and scuttle anywhere. Fer's first meal in the arena four nights ago had consisted of a handful of nuts in a sack he had grabbed from the cornucopia and a gripfish that had been crawling up the trunk of a pine tree. He was fortunate to have found these few that had strayed out to shallow, calm water.
A hovercraft whirred overhead as it searched the white landscape for today's kill, the pine trees wallowing and spraying needles as gusts of air surged from the flying machine. He plucked a knife from his shoulder-sack. It was one of Lush's, having caught in his coat as she threw the horrifying sharp objects at him. This would do. Fer scrambled to a stick, ripping of a thread of cloth from his faded burgundy scarf and tying the weapon to the tip of it. This would easily keep him from getting wet. Gripfish moved with lethargic pace, the Gamemakers were practically giving him free food. With hardly any effort at all he skewered the one closest to him, blood polluting the water like a puff of smoke. Drawing the thrashing fish from the water, he took its life before striking the next one.
Fer had forgotten how disgusting gripfish flesh was. "Ugh…" he moaned to himself as he took the first bite. "I can't stand this…" The male had quickly started a fire, using his holey blanket from his sack as an umbrella to catch some of the smoke before it took to the air like a winding serpent. In this arena, nobody was particularly worried about smoke giving them away. The gray smoke blended in perfectly with the silver skies above head in the arena, and was odorless to a human nose. He took a small precaution just in case someone like Titus was able to see it, sacrificing his blanket's comfort until he got the chance to beat the ash off it. The two other fish were still cooking, the fishs' bodies becoming lopsided as the heat distorted them. Gripfish had small layer of fat that was delectable though often sizzled to nothingness in the fire. What was left was the unpleasant flesh, leathery and difficult to chew, and tasteless. Fer tore a strip of the fish loose with his teeth, nearly ripping the first course of his meal in two. He knew this was one of his few options for food, he could hardly hunt. That was Waite's job until his parents began babying him. It was very quickly after Fer had been handed the job to hunt that he had been chosen for reaping. All he could do was wonder how the family was doing. He was sure they weren't starving, but they were surely devastated with Fer's absence, and most likely soon-to-be death.
After he had pushed the fish down his throat, and scavenged a few extra nuts from a squirrel's hibernation stockpile, he nestled against the largest tree. Now was the time to think himself over. Fer gently scratched his patchwork bandages, unable to resist the itching that made his skin jump beneath them. He couldn't stay here forever; Titus would be searching every corner of the arena to find someone, anyone to stick with his bladed fist. He licked the grease from his lips and lazily watched the fire crack and pop just a few inches away from his feet. All he could think about anymore was the cold, they screaming, teasing, cruel cold.
For the 68th Annual Hunger Games, the Gamemakers had put their heads together and created an arena covered in a blanket of snow and evergreen trees, creeks and one large mountain that rested at the border of the arena where there was a clearing in the forest. For this, most of the cornucopia had been filled by bundles of clothes, matches, and food. There was a very minimal amount of weapons. As usual, the career districts lunged for those first. Lush had gotten her set of knives, a seventeen year-old named Arath from District 2 had literally found a maul. Fer, from District 10, stumbled upon the most peculiar weapon he had seen. It was very simple: a metal ball attached to a chain, like a shackle. It was light enough to carry in his sack. Light enough to swing. He was only just beginning to see how it was used, and had practiced using the weapon the two nights before. By swinging it around like he did with lassos at home in District 10, he was shocked by how far he could launch the weapon. It could kill someone very easily if it struck the head, bashed the brain. Killing. He had been trying to ignore it all along, even though it had been happening all around him. He snuggled deep into the numerous layers of clothing he wore, trying to banish the cold's frigid bite. Fer hadn't killed a single person within the first four days. The invisible eyes of the Gamemakers seemed to be boring into him from their desks, he could feel the burn. In defense, the male had managed to strike Arath in the arm with his ball-and-chain, but only that. He couldn't fight, and he simply wouldn't.
The mountain. It seemed like a wonderful place to take camp once he moved out of here in the morning. There could be a cave, a crevice he could slip into and cover with snow as he slept. That was probably what every living tribute was thinking. Probably what Titus was thinking. Titus, he was the true competition. Fer was surprised that Lush had even tried to take his life. Most of the tributes had been trying to keep a safe distance from the male tribute from District 6. The Career Tributes had been chasing after some of the others, but Titus was always following behind. Usually, by the time they found their prey, they found him, standing above their lifeless body.
Titus. Titus. Titus.
Fer wondered about him constantly. "He must be the life of the party to the Capitol…" he muttered in a hushed voice. This game wasn't nearly as exhilarating as ones Panem had seen in the past. Titus served as this game's lifeline, and he sure did make a good one. His memory took him back to the Training Center, seeing the male with a six stitched to the back of his shirt mangle a dummy so hideously with a simple knife it fell to the floor in chunks. Even with the utter strength his had demonstrated on that unfortunate dummy, Fer somehow dug into the male, seeking out the good in him. He had a handsome smile perfected straight teeth, dark, glossy hair, and eyes as green as the moss that plagued his mother's flowerbed. Each time he glanced at his muscular stature he couldn't help but think of Waite, carrying a bale of hale under each armpit and laughing as the straw tickled his sides. Titus actually made a very good impression on Fer despite seeing the scattered remains of the poor dummy that could be him in the arena. He'd grin when he watched other tributes excel in the center, and had even encouraged them when they struggled at different stations.
And now he had spilled the blood of over half of them.
The fire shriveled, and the presence of cold air returned. Fer reached up, snapping a handful of low twigs off the tree he lay against, pitching them into the flames, which hungrily swallowed them. After feeding the fire a few more dishes of twigs, he searched his sack for more food, coming up empty handed other than a festering pear. He grumbled in disgust to himself in the back of his throat, tossing it into the stream where it submerged before rocketing back to the surface as the water carried it away, the pale green fruit disappearing from his sight. The sky was darkening rapidly as night inches closer. The silver sky had become layered in shades of lavender, violet, and navy like the inside of a filled cake. Glimmering stars that once enchanted him as a boy looked like nothing more than golden pox infecting the sky. The anthem rolled in like thunderclouds, and the sky illuminated in brilliant white light as the familiar face of the female tribute from District 7 stretched across the sky. He remembered her. She was thirteen years old. Thirteen. The shyest creature that had entered the Training Center that day.
Thoughts that had not occurred to Fer since he stood on a panel in front of the Cornucopia began to conquer his mind. A family would be mourning. His eyebrows scrunched together. A District would be silenced. His breath shuddered. Thirteen. His head quivered as though he was succumbing to an evil spirit. I saw her not even a week ago. Now he was panting. What life would she have lived if it hadn't been taken away? Teeth were gritting. His lone eye was straining beneath a wrinkled shut eyelid. Thirteen.
With a feeble whimper Fer shook himself, gasping with hands clasped over his ears as though trying to block out the imaginary voices that tormented him. He couldn't like this anymore. If he wanted to live, he couldn't think like this. The male tribute pushed the thoughts sparked from the young girl's death to the side. It was time to turn his back to the realities of the games. Time to sleep.
When Ferdin awoke to the sun in his eye, he was the luckiest man in the Games.