I've had this idea for a while that Titus wasn't as crazy as Katniss thought he was, and last month when mockingjaynet had a writing prompt for their monthly "Primrose Contest" to tell a story from another tribute's perspective, I went ahead and wrote this oneshot. Surprisingly, it won, and I can now put a banner in my signature over there that says "Winner of the Primrose Contest January 2011", which is pretty cool.
Anyways, this is a slightly edited version from the one at mockingjaynet. Originally it was intended to fit in with Caisha702's "Illusion of Freedom", but we ended up taking Titus' story in different directions so it will be AU from that. But if you've been reading her story, you might see some similarities.
Enjoy.
-PK9
Preface:
History will remember me as a madman, a savage. But I was not like that, not really. I was simply doing my best to gain an advantage in the 67th Hunger Games. The Capitol created the horror, the gore. I just took it one tiny step further. So what if I made a few people queasy? It's the Hunger Games, what did you expect?
My name is Titus, and this is my story:
It would be easy to say that life sucked growing up in District 6, because it definitely did. But I'm a practical person, and it doesn't seem to me that life is any worse in District 6 than in any of the other districts. The truth is, growing up in Panem sucks, period. Unless you're from the Capitol. But that's another issue. Back to my life. I lost both my parents to morphling when I was very young. My father died of an overdose when I was two. My mother overdosed when I was four. She didn't die, but her brain was permanently damaged and she was in no state to take care of herself, let alone me. I probably should have ended up in the Community Home, but I had relatives who took me in and took turns raising me. I suppose that they may have cared about me, in their way, but there was always an expectation that I would pay them back with interest when I was old enough. Of course, I hated all the rules that they would set for me, so I never stayed in one house for long, and I quickly learned that the only person I could rely on was me.
When I was ten, I got a job moving crates of medicine in one of the laboratories to start paying off my debt to my relatives. When I turned twelve, I started taking tesserae to help pay off the debt faster. People thought I was crazy, since I didn't desperately need the grain and oil, but for me it was a calculated risk. There are over a thousand boys of reaping age in my district every year, so even with the tesserae the odds were in my favor. Besides, even if I did get reaped, there was always the chance that I could win.
When I was fourteen, I made a discovery that improved my chances even if I did get reaped. One of the laboratories where I worked made a medicine called steeroin. It helps promote rapid muscle growth. Ironically, hundreds of years ago, taking something like steeroin would get you banned from any type of athletic competition. I'd be quite happy to take a lifetime ban from the Hunger Games, but of course there's no such thing. Stealing is, of course, illegal in Panem and punishable by death, but they only check to see if you're actually carrying something out of the lab that you're not supposed to have. When the medicine that you're stealing is already in your bloodstream, there's nothing for them to find. Everyone just thought I was naturally big and strong because of my job.
I had always intended to stop once I turned nineteen, but unfortunately for me my gamble with the tesserae caught up to me at my final Reaping. So here I am in the 67th Hunger Games. Physically I'm more than a match for any Career, though of course there's little I can do to make up for their years of weapons training. Still, I'd say my chances are as good as anyone's. At least, if it weren't for my idiot mentors, Priscilla and Timothy. Morphling addicts, both of them. I could probably have millions in sponsorship money and they wouldn't even notice.
Which is probably why I haven't received a single damn gift here in the arena, even though I've already made three kills. At least, I think it's three. The one that I cut during the Bloodbath before I fled the Cornucopia showed up in the sky on the first night, but maybe he was still alive and someone else finished him off. But the other two were definitely mine. The first one tried to jump me but I managed to overpower him. The second was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I felt some guilt over killing the tiny girl, but this is the way things are in the Hunger Games. They all have to die for me to go home, and I want to go home.
Right now, though, one of the major obstacles to my going home is the lack of food. This is the Hunger Games, after all. And despite all the physical advantages that steeroin provides me, it doesn't help me to feed myself. I have been surviving on the supplies that I grabbed at the Cornucopia and off of the two dead tributes, but there wasn't very much food to begin with and it's running out fast. The arena is a snow-covered wasteland, and there's no edible fruit of any kind in the barren trees. There are edible animals in the arena, but I don't know how to hunt, and they're much too fast for me when I stumble across them.
A day passes, then another. As carefully as I have been rationing, all the crackers and scraps of dried meat are gone. I haven't had a decent meal for almost two weeks. The pictures in the sky show that the field is slowly thinning, but there are still several major threats out there, and I'm fast losing the strength to win a fight.
On the morning of the third day after I run out of food, the Gamemakers activate a trap to force the remaining tributes together. It works, as I practically stumble into a mangy, half-starved boy from who knows what district. He's got a scythe and I only have a long knife, but both of us are weakened from hunger and cold, so the battle is pretty even. Eventually, he stumbles and I take the opportunity to stab him right in the chest before I collapse of exhaustion.
A cannon sounds. I search his pack but it is completely devoid of food. All hope is lost.
But then, a three-word sentence pops into my mind that changes everything: Meat is meat. I stare at the body of my fallen foe. Weren't there people way back at the dawn of time that fed off the flesh of the dead? The idea itself is revolting, but these are desperate times. Besides, it's not like this kid needs his muscle tissues any more. He's already escaped from this horrible world.
I start cutting into the body just as a hovercraft appears. There's a moment of hesitation, and then the aircraft blinks back out of existence. Quickly, I carve out several large chunks of meat and build a fire to cook them. I try not to think about what I'm doing as I take a bite. It tastes… like groosaling. After weeks without real meat, it's absolutely delicious.
It occurs to me that I might have just stumbled upon an idea that could be the difference in my winning the Games. There are two major parts to any successful Games campaign: surviving in the wild, including feeding yourself, and of course killing your opponents. For years, tributes have had to divide their attention and energy to meeting both those needs. What I've just done kills both birds with the same stone. I can now focus all my effort in hunting down the others, and I can use their bodies for sustenance if they aren't carrying any food. With renewed hope after this revelation, I allow the hovercraft to remove what remains of the fallen tribute and prepare myself to take a more active role in the competition.
The next day, however, something happens that completely screws up my plan. The sound of trumpets fills the arena, signaling that some type of announcement is about to be made. I prepare myself for the inevitable invitation to a feast, but instead when legendary announcer Claudius Templesmith's voice booms down, this is what he says: "Greetings, contestants of the Sixty-Seventh Hunger Games. Out of respect for the dead, the Gamemakers would like to remind you to please avoid further damaging the bodies of fallen tributes after the cannon has fired. Thank you."
Wait, what? There are no rules in the Hunger Games. None. Aside from having to wait sixty seconds for the gong to sound at launch. But even that's not so much a rule as a limitation imposed by the configuration of the arena. You can step off your metal plate if you want, but then land mines will blow you up. It's an action with a known consequence. But this, this is basically the Gamemakers reacting to my idea and deciding to make a rule to ban it. I cannot fathom why they would care. Usually, the more gruesome the battle, the better it is for the Capitol audience. "Out of respect for the dead?" If they respected us so much, how about this for an idea? Don't make us kill each other. No, it has to be because I figured out something that will give me an advantage, and they want to level the playing field.
Well, screw them. They have already made my life a living hell by putting me here, I'm not going to let some announcement from Claudius Templesmith take away an advantage that might make the difference between my living and dying. When I find my next victim, I'll show the Gamemakers exactly what I think of their rules.
Two days pass before I encounter another tribute. He came across my tracks and hunted me down, so I don't feel a hint of remorse when I win the fight and end his life. I check his supplies quickly and don't find any food, so I start cutting into his body like I did with the last tribute. The Gamemakers are prepared, however. I have barely cut two strips of flesh off of the body when the hovercraft appears. Breaking with standard procedure in which no one but Claudius Templesmith ever communicates with tributes in the arena, someone actually yells to me from the hovercraft, telling me to stop. I ignore him and continue to cut.
What happens next is shocking. And I mean, literally. I am blasted on my back by a thousand-volt electric shock coming from the hovercraft. As I lay on the ground twitching in pain and trying to regain control of my muscles, I see a Peacekeeper with a tazer-rifle. The metal claw drops down and quickly retrieves the dead body, and then picks up the pieces of flesh that I had cut away, as well as my knife for good measure. And then the hovercraft is gone, leaving me helpless on the ground, without food and weapons. If even the weakest remaining tribute happens to find me right now, I would be an easy kill. But the odds are in my favor today, and no one finds me before I am able to recover enough to crawl away and hide myself.
It takes me a day to completely recover from the incident. During that time, I reflect on what happened, and I become angrier and angrier at the Capitol. It's not as if I was cheating or something; the only thing I am guilty of is refusing to submit to a ridiculous mid-game rule change. Well, so be it. Now that I know what to expect, game on.
I return to the site of my previous kill and retrieve the scythe I had taken from the body and hidden. I don't have any experience in using this weapon, but at least it's got a sharp blade. Then, I go hunting, determined not only to make another kill but to embarrass the Gamemakers by defying their edict. I don't know if it's rebellion or rage that drives me. Probably some of both.
The next tribute I encounter is one of the Careers. It's a long and bloody battle, as my fury balances out her advanced skill. Eventually I get lucky and cut her throat. I don't hesitate because I already know what's coming. The hovercraft appears almost before her cannon fires. I cut out something from her body – I don't even know what it is – and I stick it into my mouth and swallow it raw. A Peacekeeper fires his tazer-rifle but I manage to dodge the first electrode. I dive back over the body and prepare to make another cut, but right then I am hit and electrocuted from behind. A second hovercraft has appeared, and together they quickly remove the tribute, but not before the first Peacekeeper shocks me again for good measure.
By the time I have recovered enough to move, night has fallen. I have nearly frozen to death. It's only the fury that I feel against the Capitol that manages to keep me warm enough to stay alive. I don't care anymore whether I look like savage in the eyes of the audience. These are their Games, and anything that I can do to ruin their enjoyment, is totally fine with me. And if I do get out of the arena somehow, I won't stop until either I find a way to kill Snow, or I die trying.
I spend the next two days roaming around in a rage, driven mad both by hunger and by my anger at the Capitol. But I don't come across any other tributes, and eventually exhaustion causes me to settle down. I have to come up with a way to outsmart the Gamemakers, to avoid the stun guns. And then it comes to me. What if my victim was still alive when I started to harvest some of his flesh? They wouldn't be able to retrieve the body yet! It's possibly the single most horrific idea in the history of the Games, but I don't care. I've already become a monster by my actions. I begin to laugh manically.
Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your point of view), I never get a chance to implement my latest plan. The next time I hear someone, he's not alone. It sounds like the pack of remaining Careers have located me. "There's the savage!" I hear someone yell. I may be losing my mind, but I'm not yet crazy enough to try to take on multiple assailants at once. I flee in the opposite direction, pursued by the sound of the others. I make out at least four different voices calling to each other.
Just when I think that I have lost them, I hear other voices saying "Here he comes!" The voices are ahead of me. What the Snow is going on? Has the entire remaining field banded together to hunt me down? I turn and head off in a direction perpendicular from the voices. But everywhere I run, it seems as if someone is in close pursuit.
Finally, I end up trapped at the bottom of a narrow canyon. I turn and prepare to make my last stand. Minutes pass, but no one appears. Then I see a small dark bird land on a tree at the edge of the clearing where I am cornered. Then another appears, and another. When they open their beaks, everything becomes blindingly clear. Jabberjays. They call out in the voices of the other tributes, as if they were hunting me down. The Gamemakers have manipulated me into this spot. That can only mean one thing: this is a trap.
Almost as soon as the epiphany hits me, I hear the rumbling from above. I barely have time to look up and see the rocks and ice tumbling down before the avalanche buries me. But I don't die instantly. Instead, I'm left broken and pinned under the crushing weight of the avalanche, in excruciating pain. I can tell that the bones of my arms, legs and back are all broken, but I don't even have the breath to scream. All I can do is whimper in agony as what seems like hours pass. Finally, I begin to slip into a haze and I know the end is coming.
That's when one of the demonic birds flies right up next to where my head is just barely sticking out of the rock pile. When it opens its beak, the voice comes out as a whisper meant only for me, but the voice is unmistakable. It's a farewell message from President Snow. "You fool. Did you really think you could defy my Gamemakers and live to sit in the Victor's chair? All that you have done is brought pain and misery to every single person that you love. Your mother is already dead. And every single one of your relatives who took you in and cared for you will suffer for your impudence. With that knowledge, now die!"
And though it really isn't my choice, for once, I do as I'm told.