This is based on the book Hunger Games not the film. It is AU and both the tributes from District 10 survive the initial bloodbath. Skylar is the female tribute from District 10 but is NOT like the person who portrayed the District Ten female in the movie. Skylar LaPheta is portrayed by Shelley Hennig (except Skylar has a deep scar down her right eye).
Chapter One
I shoot up from bed yelling. I can't quite recall the dream but I know it was bad from the way my hands tremble violently and my bottom lip is quivering, although that may be just from the fear of today. I hear our escort, Jasmine Tyrell raping on my bedroom door. "Rise and shine!" her awfully cheery voice chirps from behind the piece of wood. "It's a big, big, big, big day!"
I groan into my pillow and spin my feet out from underneath luxurious silk sheets. It isn't really a big, big, big, big day, it's just the last training session before we're placed in the arena. I doubt anyone sponsored me even though I scored a respectable eight in private sessions because they were all too focused on Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire. District 10 is one of the last districts to go so maybe I didn't hold the audiences attention too much but at least I tried and at least my mentor, a fiery red-head named Liza somehow managed to get the throwing stars for me. It might even give me an advantage, if the other tributes interpret me as badly as I was painted by the Game markers. Apparently I have a 1 in 20 chance of winning. The odds are most definitely not in my favor.
Standing in front of the cheval mirror brings the reality of my situation back to me. I recap my journey to this day. I remember standing in the middle of a bunch of girls I didn't know or care about except one, one girl I'd known my entire life: Annane Summerfield (or Anon for short). My best friend, we used to play near the damn as kids and as we grew older, became more competitive and duel with our wooden swords when we weren't taking care of the animals. Life in District 10 was simple and sometimes depressing but my mother died in childbirth meaning my father only ever had one mouth to feed. We got by just fine, and I never needed to apply for any tesseraes or anything. It was just my luck that on my last reaping, I was chosen. I just turned eighteen a week ago and tried to convince myself that I wouldn't be picked that some other poor soul would be picked and I would just stand by, regretful, maybe even a little guilty but overall glad it wasn't me or Anon. When my name was called, I remember looking at Anon who turned stark white. She mouthed something at me but I didn't catch it because before I could even register what had happened properly, Peacekeepers where prizing me from the grip of a girl who helped me stand when my legs buckled.
Of course, no one stepped up to help Skylar LaPheta. I don't think that many people knew me. Sure, perhaps they had seen the girl with the jagged scar running down her right eye at school but I doubt anyone apart from Anon and my father knew my name. I'm not originally from Panem you see but from a land outside of what was once called North America. My land is called Espańa until a flood submerged it. The survivors where scattered across the globe and myself and my family some how ended up in District 10, it was either that or certain death. The Capitol wasn't exactly pleased to have refugees from a foreign land and my family where adamant to go.
They knew about the Hunger Games but watching it in Espana was strictly forbidden. Our people saw it as a barbaric practice and a way of degrading people.
So whilst all this was swirling around in my head, they called the boys. I can't remember my fellow tribute's name now, even though I've tried to conduct a polite conversation with him on several occasions, he refuses to speak – or train – with me so I've given up. Perhaps it's for the best; I'd feel bad if I had to kill him.
Maybe it was because he had a crippled foot and the sentimental side of my brain felt sympathetic towards him or because I'd seen him limping around school on occasion. I dig my nails into my palm until I feel a sting and blood trickles down my finger. It's probably not the best idea, seeing I'll be in the arena in tomorrow and ten percent of tributes die from infection but I doubt a few cuts will do as much damage as a nicked artery.
My hands tremble uncontrollably and I pinch myself, trying to get control of my body. I can't look weak in front of my fellow tributes, especially the Career pack.
I have no grand delusions of winning but I at least want to make it through the first day even though I know, deep down, I'll probably die in the race to Cornucopia. Just grab what you can and get the hell out of there, I can hear my mentors words screaming over the alarm bells jingling in my head Put as much distance between yourself and the others as possible. Find shelter or a source of water, the rest will come once you're calm enough. Calm?CALM! How the hell am I supposed to be calm, I'm about to be thrown into an arena with a bunch of well-trained killers so I can fight to the death with them and I'm supposed to be calm?!
"Remember, my darling," I heard my father say in that final goodbye as Peacekeepers dragged him from the room, "Remember whatever happens out there, I love you. I love you so much. My precious Skylar." And then he was gone and I was left to collapse against the closed door and cry. It was probably a crappy idea, considering the cameras waiting for me at the station but I just pushed my head to the sky and didn't dare look at anyone until the doors shut tightly behind us.
"Skylar? Skylar!" I hear Jasmine's irritating voice through the door, "What on Earth are you doing in there? Hurry up, girl!" I want to scream at her, shout obscenities into her ear until she goes insane with the sound of my voice. I grab a vase and throw it against the wall. It smashes and I can hear frantic voices from outside my door.
"I'm fine!" I yell and then forced myself to rein in my temper, "I mean… look, and I'll be out in a second, okay?"
Jasmine's voice is more even when she answers. "It's fine, dear," she lies, "We have an hour." We don't. I know we don't because I can hear my fellow tribute's stylist moaning about me from behind the door. But they can just wait. I'm not ready yet. I don't think I ever will be.
Jasmine isn't that bad. I moan about her a lot but she's only trying to do her best to get sponsors so we can survive in the arena. I remember what she told me on interview night. Be mysterious, she said, you're from a foreign land and you've got that scar to prove you're a fighter and a survivor. Show off but not too much, say something in your language, tell them about some of your customs but don't give too much away. Save that for the arena.
I can understand why she wants me to do this but I don't think mystery will help me much in the arena. True, I do have my scar that I noticed a lot of members in the audience were excited about but when Caesar asked about, I kept my mouth shut as instructed.
In the elevator down we have to stop at all ten floors before we reach ground level, the training center. Me and my partner don't speak and as more and more tributes pile in, we all stand in silence, staring off with vacant stares. "Atornille el capitolio; el tornillo hambre juegos; tornillo todo!" I mumble under my breath in my own tongue, some seem a little stunned at my ramblings but others like the intelligent fox-faced girl from District 5 and the Career tribute from District 3 know that I'm not originally from Panem. Of course, they have no idea of knowing I am insulting their brutal government, sadistic games and just about everything in between. They're not that smart.
When the elevator judders to a stop, the Careers pile out first, taking the lead as always. The bolder tributes - myself included – are second to exist. Where as the timid Rue and tributes around the same age like the District 4 male are the last to enter training. The trainer women, who I have already forgotten the name off, gives us another run-down and informs us this is our last chance at a proper practice.
Seeing as I've been putting off training with real weapons all week, and instead focusing on survival skills and the large computer in the middle of the center, I decide it's finally time to grow some courage and pick up a knife. I move to a station that looks fairly dangerous and wait my turn. Ahead of me in the female from District 1 – Glimmer I think they called her yesterday – who is glaring at me as if I kicked her puppy. She then shots me a malicious smile and does a graphic murder gesture of dragging her thumb across her neck. I look past her and shudder, unmoved by her pathetic threats. Cato – the male from District 1 is busy slashing at various dummies, cutting off an arm here, a head there. I make a mental note to stay out of his way during the race to Cornucopia. Tiny Rue is learning how to make a small fire; the fox-headed girl from 5 is glued to the massive super-computer that I struggled with; Katniss is scaling a sturdy rope; Peeta Mellark is busy painting camouflage onto various parts of his body and Thresh from 11 is spearing a dummy. I'm nervous at their skill level, so much better than I am in every way. I'm so nervous; in fact, that I completely forget what I'm doing until my name is girl and the tiny yet powerful girl from 2 shoves me forward. "Hurry up, 10," she smirks, looking at me as if I'm a meal, "Some of us have real training to do."
"Bitch." I mutter as I walk towards the impatient trainer. She surveys me was a judgmental eye. "You sure you're up for this?" she sneers, her eyes laughing. "You don't look that competent." Oh, I'll show you competent. I think, and toss the knife, It slashes through the head of the first dummy, whipping it clean off and then rebounds, cutting a jagged line off another dummy's chest before coming to land stiffly in the heart of the last.
A hush falls over the center and I can do nothing but stand and gap at my achievement. I spot the Careers, their eyes mentally killing me a thousand times over. My heart rate speeds up but I do nothing but blow them a kiss, infuriating them more. The trainer is at a loss for words.
"I-I'm sorry," she finally stutters, breaking the tension in the room, "I miss judged you." I turn to her with what I hope is a slack face full of boredom, the only thing giving away my real fury being the contempt in my eyes.
"Thanks." I say, ripping the knife from where it embedded itself within the dummy. I shove it back at her with brute force that makes her stagger. I suffocate a smile and move onto some bigger toys.
My spear throwing abilities are okay, accurate but I don't have enough strength behind my throw to make much damage to anything. I give up after three attempts. I skip over the heavy looking weights, knowing my weakness is within my strength and instead trying and focus on climbing. This will be a challenge, especially if there are lots of trees in the arena, which I'm presuming there will be. District 10 needs some trees for the livestock but we are a poorer district, and crops do not grow in abundance near us.
Once I'm suffiently tired from the days training, it's time to head back to our rooms. I mask my fear until I'm alone in my mirror. Then, as I shut the door gently behind me and bolt it, I slide down the wood and hold my head in my hands. I sit there, curled up in a ball for a while until my legs scream out for release and even then I stay where I am.
I begin to cry, weeping like a child, desperate, pathetic sounds. More than once an Avox knocks on my door, checking if I'm alright. I scream at them to go away and they obey me but every time I do this I just want to shout back, 'Don't leave me!'
I strip off my filthy training gear for the final time and leap in a hot shower. Somehow I manage to work the Capitol's strange shower system and allow the almost scalding water cascade across my limps as I squat in the basin, letting the water sting my eyes. Again, this is probably a stupid thing to do but, hey, I'm just the stupid little cry-baby from District 10, right? What did they call me? The girl with the scar. Not very original but my stylist likes it. When I feel I can take no more of the burning water, I skep out, skin a blotchy red from the heat.
I dry off and throw on an old t-shirt and sweats to go to dinner in. Maybe I should make more of an effort; this might be the last dinner I'll ever have. I gorge myself on all of the wonderful delicacies of the Capitol. The best thing I can do before I enter the arena is get as much food and drink in as I can without making myself sick. The adults talk, we tributes did not. It's probably better that way.
After dinner, I make some excuse of needing to go back to the training center. It's open until nine to tributes but mentors don't encourage over exertion. Overall, it's their decision to let me go back. I think they know that I've been restless and miserable all day, throwing things and having breakdowns now and again. I go alone, my partner deciding on getting an early night before the Games. I don't know how he can sleep at a time like this.
The center is deserted. Good. I pick up a pair of boxing gloves from a trolley and take to a bag. I didn't want to display my strength during the training, knowing it was my sole weakness. I plan on trying to do very little hand-to-hand combat in the arena if I can help it. Let the others kill each other first, conserve my energy and then pick the last of the survivors off one by one. That's the plan. But I'm going to need a plan B, too. Everything in the arena is unpredictable. Our lives are in the hands of the Gamemakers who don't truly know any of us and enjoy watching us suffer. It's sick, really. There was this one Gamemaker called Phineas Herbuate who enjoyed forcing tributes to make alliances, get them to trust and even love on another and then finding some way of splitting them apart in some horrible way. He controlled five Hunger Games. I remember them, the ones that took place from when I was six to eleven. They were awful.
"Well, well, well," purred a voice from the shadows, "What do we have here?" I turned abruptly at the voice. I tried to mask my fear with anger but I hated the way my voice shook when I responded.
"Who's there?" I ask, quaking, I force my body to stop shaking before I yell, "Come out you coward!"
"Big words for someone from 10," said the boy revealing himself. A shock of blonde hair emerged first, and then I saw the broad shoulders of a fighter, complete with dark, feral eyes. The boy tribute from District 2. The Career, Cato.
"Shouldn't you be stabbing someone in the back or fucking Clove or something?" I retorted, quite pleased with my reply, though more terrified than ever. I was alone with only this Career, he'd be on me before I could even grab for a knife and then I'd be powerless to do anything to fight him off. My weakness was what he excelled in.
"Naughty talk, I like it," He said and came up behind me. I had turned to continue to punch the bag, not wanting to inflate his ego by giving him the privilege of my attention. As he grabbed my hips and swung around without even think and tried to punch him. He grabbed my wrist before I could even get a hit and twisted it behind my back, causing the gloves to slip free. Cato held me to his body for a moment, and I could do nothing but listen to his heart pounding almost as loudly as my own and feel the soft breaths of the lion-headed boy against my cheek. I was unsure of what to do. If he'd wanted to hurt me, wouldn't he have done it already? Was this just a mind-game?
Slowly, he placed his lips against the sensitive bit of skin between my ear and my jaw. This caused me to stand on my tip-toes and shamefully moan with pleasure. I jolted away and begrudgingly he let my arms slip from his grasp. "See you in the arena." He smirked and walked away as casually as if we were two really good friends who'd known each other since forever. My frantic mind was still trying to process what happened when I caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. Just a second, high above the mat of the training center, leaping as silently as a shadow without ever having to touch the ground. Un-seen until the moment she gave away her location.
My lips move wordlessly for a moment, then they form a name. "Rue."