The Silent Tribute
By Vifetoile
Disclaimer: I neither own Portal nor The Hunger Games.
A/N: Yes, another Portal/Hunger Games crossover, this time exploring the mix from the complete opposite direction. This one is also a challenge to me – each drabble is exactly one hundred words. It's tough to be evocative when one's loquaciousness is so curtailed (I like using lots of words and drabbles are scary).
For readers of 'The Aperture Games,' do not despair! I have gotten back to work on 'Games' with a will, but until the next chapters are ready, enjoy this variation on a theme.
And if you're not a reader of 'The Aperture Games,' then hey, why not check out this other crossover fanfic I wrote?
My note will soon exceed the actual story in length. Onto the text! Thanks for reading, and reviews are more cherished than cake!
Her Reaping
The two girls huddled, brunette and blonde, swaying like wheat in the wind.
A name was called.
The brunette let out a cry. She covered her mouth with her hand. All eyes turned to her, but people moved away. A minute ago she had been indistinguishable from the other shabbily clad girls of the Community Home. But she had cried out.
She walked through the path they made for her, and ascended the platform.
"Any volunteers?"
She stared at the staring crowd. There was only silence.
Reaping equaled judgment. She had been Reaped. She must not be a good person.
2. Her Visitors
The other children of the Community Home filed past her. None met her eyes. All said some variant on "Goodbye," or "I'm sorry," or "We'll miss you."
To her surprise, her math teacher entered. She said, "You can win this. I know you can." She rubbed away tears as she left.
The last girl, the blonde, slapped Chell's shoulder, earning a look. "Remember: if you win, we eat like kings. So come back. No questions."
Chell glared at her friend. But neither one let sharp words hang between them. They hugged one another tightly, until it was time to go.
3. Her Mentor
No one agreed on when her mentor went mad, if during his Game, or afterwards, or perhaps if he was mad long before, and that was his salvation.
His eyes didn't match. He peered through his wild hair, over his shoulder, muttering to ghosts. His sentences' endings ill-matched their beginnings. People turned away.
But when Doug Rattmann offered Chell his hand, she took it. His grip was cold but sure. He pulled her closer, and looked into her eyes. Finally, he said, in a rasping voice,
"You never give up."
When she nodded, a smile spread across his wasted features.