So, I was sitting there thinking to myself, I've got plenty of stories that need updating, a few assignments waiting for me, and washing up to finish. So what do I do? Start a new multi-chapter story, of course! The idea for this came to me tribute by tribute. But I didn't want to waste them on SYOTs or the like, just in case the author stopped posting or their writing turned out to be a disappointment. So I decided to make my own story - but I'd never get to know 24 tributes in time to write them, and the story would be long enough that I'd likely never finish it. So, here we are with the product of a few combined dust bunny ideas. Enjoy. I do not own the Hunger Games.
On with the story.
The alarm woke Fletcher at 4:30am.
His first, traitorous thought was this is far too early. Then he remembered just what day it was.
Shoving back the covers with more force than was probably necessary, Fletcher rolled out of bed. He changed into a random set of clothes that was lying on his desk and began to stretch out, careful not to wake his father in the next room. By the time he'd stretched out his torso, arms and legs, he was fully awake. Fletcher's mind churned with excitement as he grabbed a slice of bread from the pantry and headed out the front door.
Reaping Day today.
Fletcher began to jog along the street, stuffing the bread in his mouth. He couldn't see anyone else awake, but then he'd been quick this morning. It was eleven minutes to five, and along the eastern skyline a spectacular blend of pink, orange and gold unfurled as the sun began to rise. Fletcher barely saw it.
Fourty-third Games, winner Joel Charles, District Five. Won by dropping a pebble off a cliff onto his competitor's head. Fourty-fourth Games, winner Ivy Blake, District One. Won by stabbing her Career pack while they slept and killing the other tributes one by one. Fourty-fifth Games... Let it never be said that Fletcher Davis wasted a second of his time. He even considered strategy while doing his morning exercises.
Four minutes to five. One of the trainers in the Academy had mentioned once that fine detail can be hugely important. Fletcher had mentally jotted down the note and had never forgotten it, even for a moment. He checked his watch again. Three minutes to five.
Increasing his jogging speed, Fletcher pondered his pre-Arena strategies as he watched District Two pass by. The sun had definitely broken over the horizon now, and the street was glowing in the golden light. Morning dew glistened on the garden beds. As he passed, Fletcher categorized the plants. Edible... non-edible... non-edible... healing properties... His steps faltered and slowed as he passed a rosebush.
His mother's name had been Rose. She had died when he was just seven years old. Ill, the doctors had told his father. No cure. Sorry. As though 'sorry' would make it alright. She'd made him promise, though. Promise to make her proud of him. He'd been determined to do just that ever since.
Fletcher was eight when his district produced another Victor. He'd watched the screens, fascinated, as Marius Crest had received his crown, received the adoration of the Capitol, received fame and fortune and pride. And then he knew just how proud he could make his mother. Fletcher broke into a sprint.
Ever since then, Fletcher had trained the hardest to win the Games. When he was at home, he watched reruns of old Games with his father, talked strategy, learned how to act. He was ready now. He was prepared. And he was going to do this, win this, for his mother.
As the sunlight dragged her from pleasant dreams, Dove cursed herself for leaving the blinds open. The previous evening, she'd been stargazing and daydreaming when her mother announced her bedtime. Reluctantly, Dove had turned from the window, thinking to herself that night-dreaming was just as good as daydreaming, and had drifted off without another thought on the matter.
Now she regretted her lack of foresight. The old clock on the wall told her it was barely past five. Dove groaned quietly. She knew she would never be able to get back to sleep, but the pillows were so soft, and the mattress was so comfortable...
But no. There was work to be done, and it was Dove's job to see to it.
She hoisted herself out of bed and plodded sleepily to the mirror, to check on the state of her bedhair.
Oh, good god.
Her platinum blonde curls that she was so proud of during the day were frizzy and pouffy, lumped all over her head and hanging in her face, and where was her brush? Dove didn't consider herself a vain person, but when one has beauty one has every right to enjoy it, and it was no secret that her hair was the prettiest thing Dove could take credit for. Dove would not allow anyone to see her like this, not even close relatives. Especially not her brothers.
Having finally found her brush, Dove combed out the tangled and fluffed the curls out around her shoulders. Much better.
Once it was tied up and scooped back into a cap, Dove dressed quickly and tiptoed downstairs, tripping on the final step and crashing into the wall opposite. Loudly.
Oops.
Ignoring the sounds of her parents and brothers stirring upstairs, Dove wandered into the kitchen, rubbing her knee. She helped herself to a small bowl of last night's special, her mum's homemade pie. That was one of the positives of her parents owning a restaurant: the food was always top class.
On the downside, almost all of Dove's spare time was spent helping out in the restaurant, and even when she did have free time, her parents were much too restraining to let her go out. So Dove turned to her imagination for company when she could. Usually, though, the perks outweighed the downsides. Dove had heard a lot of people say that Brightly's was the best restaurant in District 6, and she was inclined to agree, although she'd never eaten anywhere else, obviously.
Finishing her mince pie, Dove stacked her crockery in the sink, wet a cloth and headed into the dining room out the front. She wiped down all the tables - all twenty-eight of them - and set the chairs neatly in place. She began to lay out plates. By the time she was finished, her older brother Gabe had appeared.
"Morning, you," she told him.
"Egh blff gfa," he grunted. Gabriel Brightly was a man of very few words, until at least his second coffee. Dove chuckled and adjusted a knife so the blade was facing inwards.
Brothers. She set down a final plate and went to put the kettle on.
It was barely eight in the morning, and Fiesta had already changed her mind more than three times. And there were still some ten hours to go before the actual reapings.
The red dress with the halter neck, or the strapless blue? The white satin was also appealing, but Fiesta had momentarily decided that at 6pm, she'd look more like a ghost than a strong tribute.
She slipped the red halterneck off and pulled the blue one over her head, examining the colour with her hair in the mirror. Fiesta bit her lip. Blue did clash a bit with her strawberry blonde hair, but the shape of the dress was just gorgeous.
No. She couldn't go with the blue and look like an amateur in fashion choices, choosing just because the dress itself was pretty. Fiesta wasn't a girly girl, but she did have looks, and her training had taught her to play up every advantage she had for the Games.
The red, then?
No. As nice as the neckline was, red was even worse with her strawberry blondeness than the blue.
Fiesta sighed and tugged off the blue strapless, tossing it behind her onto the bed. She tried the white satin dress on again. Pretty. With a touch of makeup, she'd look stunning. But, still, Fiesta was not a ghost. She unzipped the material and slung it over the back of her chair. The 'maybe' pile. Fiesta turned her attention back to her wardrobe. She stared blankly at her collection of dresses, too bored of fashion choices to think anymore. She tugged on a pair of sweats and a tight shirt, cleared her bedroom floor, and flipped up into a handstand.
Muscles straining to hold herself in place, Fiesta stretched her legs as far apart as she could get them, and then slowly, slowly, lifted them back into place. She held the position for a few beats longer, then flipped back into standing, breathing hard. Her head spun a little, from the inertia of turning upside down. She sank into splits and leaned as far forward as she could, reaching her hands forward. She concentrated on keeping her back leg straight. But Fiesta had been at a party all of last night - her last night at home for a while - and she was too tired to be bothered to work now. She flopped onto her front leg, resting her head against her knee.
Boy, last night had been wild.
Oh, no, it was nothing like THAT. Fiesta didn't know anything about pregnancy, but the last thing she needed was a coming baby distracting her throughout her Games. Last night, she and a bunch of other Careers-in-training had gone out on a boat together. It had been crazy, and there had been alcohol. Fiesta had been asked out like five times. But how good would it look, having a hungover girl volunteer tonight? Fiesta hadn't touched the alcohol, but she was about the only one, since her newly assigned district partner hadn't wanted to come. Fiesta's best friend Jaida had drunk herself sick - literally - and nearly jumped into the ocean. Fiesta was on patrol duty the entire night, but it had still been loads of fun. The best send-off she could think of.
Flopping out of her splits, Fiesta returned to the wardrobe. The only thing she was definite on was that the outfit had to match with her tribute token: a coral bracelet. The colour was light orange, and Fiesta didn't actually have any dresses that matched, but not clashing was good enough for her.
After lunch and a swim, Fiesta's hours for decisions were running short. Eventually, she decided to stick with the white satin - there would be lighting in the square, Jaida assured her, and anyway, wouldn't she be striking as a ghost?
Fiesta eventually agreed and at five-thirty she found herself in the swishy white satin dress, with the coral bracelet at her wrist and a thin silver chain around her neck. Her hair was braided in spirals around her head, collected into a bun and tied with a white ribbon. She looked as nice as she'd ever seen herself, and hopefully it would be enough for her to impress the audience.
Most of District Four's recent volunteers had been 18. Fiesta was only 17, but she was sure she was talented enough to get the job done. Plus, she'd been performing for an audience since the age of four - she'd be fine with a contest that she didn't even have to remember a routine for. And when she got to the Capitol, there'd be no drama about her outfit: a Capitol stylist would make those decisions for her. All Fiesta had to do was prove herself.
And that started today, in... twenty minutes.
Better get a move on.
Hands numb, fingers wrinkled like raisins, Jordan squeezed water from a white blouse and hung it over the rack. He shifted a few dry clothing items onto a pile, folding them neatly. He had to hurry with his work - this employer could be a constant, so Jordan had to make a good impression. He desperately needed a steady source of income.
Not so long ago - had it been a year already? - the Hemmings family had been fairly well off. Then Jordan's job at the factory had been cancelled, his pay cut. Sickness had taken over the family not long after. Jordan didn't even want to think about what had happened to Poppy. His life had been pretty average up until last year. Now, each way Jordan turned, he could see his life unraveling as nightmares became realities.
He dreaded to think what might happen today.
Jordan returned his attention back to the tub of freezing water, ignoring the pool of dread in the bottom of his stomach. He grabbed a random set of white clothes and began to scrub the fabric. He was currently working for a small, private factory, washing plain sets of clothing before they were coloured and adorned with patterns, ready to be shipped away. Trained away. Driven away. Whatever. Jordan was light on details - his job was to wash the white clothing, nothing more.
A quick glance at the battered grandfather clock across the room told Jordan that he had only a few minutes to finish up before his shift was over and he could go home to prepare. He snatched a pair of stretchy leggings and squeezed the washwater from the fabric. He pegged it on the rack and peered into the tub. Only a few more pieces to go.
Once the last sock had been pegged out to dry, Jordan yanked the plug out and watched the water swirl away as he dried his hands. He hung his plain apron in the closet and made sure the room was neat before heading out of his basement workplace to check out with his boss.
Upstairs, Jordan glanced over to the desk in the front room. Mr Cavenough, the owner of the private factory, was absent for the moment, but his daughter Bridget manned the desk. She looked up from a sketch as he came closer.
"Hi," she said, sliding the sketch away from Jordan's prying eyes. He could make out a skirt that fell in ruffles the the subject's knees, but no more. "Can I help you, uh..."
"Jordan," he supplied quickly. "Jordan Hemmings. I just had a three-hour shift washing the white clothing. I'm about to head off, so..."
"Oh, of course!" Bridget jumped up and opened a drawer in the desk. "Hemmings..." she muttered, searching through a collection of envelopes. She selected one and handed it to him. It was labelled with his name and his shift length. Jordan could feel coins inside it. Bridget handed him an extra silver. "For finishing early," she explained.
Jordan thanked her politely. She pulled the skirt design towards her again and offered him luck for the reaping. He returned the favour and hurried outside , clutching his envelope and slipping the silver inside it.
By the time Jordan made it home, the burning midday sun had drenched his clothes in sweat. He gladly stepped into the cool shade of his home. His mother made him sit down at the table, and busied herself at the sink.
"It's fine, really," Jordan protested. His mother was busy enough as it was. "I'm just a bit hot."
"Nonsense," his mother smiled at him. "Look, I've just been decorating a set of washers. You can try them out." She ran a white cloth under the tap and laid it over Jordan's forehead.
"I can't see it now, Ma," he pointed out. She laughed and passed him another cloth. It was thick white fabric with ivy designs running up and down the sides. Pretty. But in District Eight, everyone's parents made clothes and materials for a living. Would she be able to sell it?
"I've signed a deal with one of the factories," his mother told him, easing Jordan's concern. "I design the washers, they ship them out for us, and the factory takes 25% of the sale. It's just like a tax. It'll help."
Jordan nodded. The washer was pretty. "Where are they shipping to?" he asked, pressing the cold towel to his forehead.
"District Two. Should be interesting for them. Now why don't you go and change for this afternoon?"
Tensing, he stood up and silently passed the cloth back to his mother. Today was reaping day.
"Almost forgot," he told her, and produced the envelope from his pocket. Jordan took a moment to watch her smile as she tipped the coins into a jar, then headed off to find some nice clothes to wear, making certain not to think about Poppy.
So, now you've met Fletcher, Dove, Fiesta and Jordan. What do you think? I'll post again soon with the other four young people this story will follow.
Thank you for your time and your reviews.