AUTHOR'S NOTES
- This is my first time ever writing fan-fiction of any sort in any format. Please excuse me if I'm not familiar with the intricacies and nuances as such.
- I have not read any other Hunger Games fan-fiction, so my writing is completely and %100 my own.
- The style and structure of this story is based off a mix of the first Hunger Games film and book (more so the film than the book).
- I imagine the premise is something that has been done plenty of times over – The concepts of the Hunger Games, the Capitol and the twelve Districts still remain, but with completely original characters and history instead. In other words, I basically was watching YouTube clips one day and came up with my own ideas for how the Hunger Games could be held. The ideas took hold of me and here I am writing about it.
- Occasionally there will be POV chapters from other characters just to spice things up a bit, but not regularly. For the most part, the story will focus on the main character, Eamon.
- I've really enjoyed planning this out and hope to keep doing it for a while. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, and I'll make an effort to respond to any questions you have.
Chapter 1.
An unsettling chill descended over the dark and quiet wheat fields of District 9, as though nature itself was preparing for what lay ahead the next morning. Curfew was in effect, as it always was, and Peacekeepers patrolled the streets perhaps hoping to catch some unlucky renegade trying to escape the Reaping. There was usually at least one of those each year. They hardly ever patrolled near Victor's Village though. Which made sense - why waste manpower to watch over a meager three houses? The occupant of House 1 was seventy years old and riddled with dementia, and the occupant of House 2 was a hermit only ever seen a handful of times a year.
If the Peacekeepers had ever checked in on the occupants of House 3 however, between the hours of 8 and 11 at night on Wednesdays and Saturdays, they would have found it strangely vacant. On nights such as this, strange noises could be heard from deep within the woods on the far side of Victor's Village.
Eamon Cunningham was a boy of 18 years old, with messy brown hair and green eyes, and at that moment, covered in sweat with a look of sheer focus on his face. As he tore through the trees, a man with scruffy golden hair and a rough stubble followed him with one eye on Eamon, the other on his watch.
Eamon stumbled into a clearing marked by two tree stumps on either side.
"Nice one," said Nott from behind him. "Two minutes, twenty-five seconds. You shaved a couple off on the tree climb I noticed."
Eamon was quick to regain his breath.
"Yeah, tried some new stuff there," he said shortly.
Nott nodded and pointed to an assortment of mismatched tools lying on top of an old oak stump, "We'll finish with some knife practice and call it a night."
Eamon walked over to the sorry-looking collection and picked up a handful of various knives. All the tools and weapons Nott had acquired for training over the years were hardly the caliber of weapons he could expect in the Games, but together they had made do with what they had. After all, it was supposed to be highly illegal to train for the Hunger Games. A lot of the tools were quite damaged from overuse, and certainly weren't meant for the kind of tasks Eamon and Nott put them through. They had to make a number of them themselves, and when they couldn't, a good substitute could be found anywhere if you knew what you were looking for. Eamon had grown rather fond of these makeshift measures.
Eamon stood in his usual position, facing four trees with cracks in the trunks just big enough for a blade to slip in. Quick as a flash, the first knife found its home, and another, and another. Before the last one left his hand, Nott threw something large and heavy at him. With the knife leaving Eamon's right hand, he spun around in the same fluid motion, anticipating Nott's trick and caught the object in his left hand.
"Oh, come on," he laughed. "That was obvious even for you. You'd never end on knife practice."
Nott grinned. Since this would be their last night of training, he'd decided to give a little sparring practice with Eamon's favorite weapon – the hoe. Over the years, Eamon had acquired a degree of proficiency with a wide variety of crude, mock-up weapons one would be likely to find in the Games. Although a hoe was not a weapon he would encounter, they'd 'borrowed' it from a nearby farm to let Eamon get a feel for weapons of a similar nature, and he'd become extremely adaptable and comfortable with the odd balance of it.
Nott readied himself with a dulled machete, knowing he was about to be in a world of pain as was often the case nowadays when they sparred, despite being fourteen years older. Eamon twirled the hoe around in front of him and to the sides, sometimes with one hand, others with two, with his hands working the full length of the rod.
Nott struck first, cutting at his flank, but it was parried by Eamon without much effort, who followed through with a quick jab to Nott's chest with the butt of the handle. Nott faltered but recovered quickly and began attempting to disarm him. They continued on in this manner for some time until they were both ready to call it quits. Nott had easily come out of it worse, with welts on his chest, shoulder, ribs and leg. Eamon had still received a few small cuts on his arms but nothing major.
"To the glory of the Hunger Games," said Eamon sarcastically, raising his bottle of water to meet Nott's.
Nott grunted, and they started back through the woods towards home.
"I'm going to have a fun time explaining these tomorrow" he muttered, pointing to his wounds.
"Don't we always?"
"Easy for you to say, you little shit, you hardly get them anymore."
Eamon chuckled, "Yeah…about that…"
Nott looked at him not knowing what to expect but concerned at his tone.
"Well, I guess I can say it since this will be our last night training, but the kids at school always thought you were an abusive parent because I constantly came to class with bruises and scars."
Nott was stunned.
"Eamon, what the hell?!"
"I didn't say anything because I figured you'd stop our training," said Eamon, half-ashamed, half laughing. "But yeah, that's why no-one at school ever really talked to me much."
"Why didn't your teachers ever come to me about this?" Nott asked incredulously.
"Because what teacher in their right mind is going to confront a potentially abusive Nott Watson; legendary winner of the 54th Hunger Games?" Eamon said the last part almost mockingly.
"I'll be glad when all this is over tomorrow," Nott grumbled.
Eamon remembered back to the first time he saw the Hunger Games. He was ten years old, and it was every bit as horrifying as he'd been told. When he got over the initial shock of the bloodshed, and the monsters, and the fanaticism from the public of the Capitol over it all, he'd realised something. He was eligible to be conscripted into such a nightmare in just a few years. The tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4 were overwhelmingly stronger than any of the tributes from the rest of the Districts. If he went up against them unprepared, he may as well give up then and there.
Nott – his adoptive father - informed him that those were Career tributes; kids who train their whole lives in special facilities in wealthier Districts and then volunteer when they're old enough. They do it to revel in the slaughter and bring glory to their District; the thought made Eamon sick. And so, he'd asked Nott to help him prepare in case he was ever Reaped. He'd expected Nott to say no, but Nott knew better than anyone the perils of the Games, and after a bit of planning, reluctantly consented.
"For eight years, we've been sneaking out for you to teach me everything you know. Weapons, survival skills, physical training, mental tricks, and a ton of other crap. Isn't part of you going to be pissed if I don't get picked tomorrow?"
He'd asked the question innocently enough, but with a darker motive behind it.
"Why should I?" asked Nott, clearly confused.
"Because then all that training is wasted."
"No, it is not," he replied with a slight edge to his voice. "The Games are serious business, and you were right to come to me when you did. There's still a pretty good chance you won't get picked, it's true. But someone will. I'd train every kid in the District if I could, but I can't. I didn't raise you to be a Career, I raised you to be ready. If I can show one person what everyone is in for that these bastards put us through year after year, then that is not a waste. One person can make all the difference. Do you understand?"
Eamon nodded sheepishly. Part of him felt bad; Nott wouldn't be happy with what he had decided to do tomorrow. But his mind had been made up on this for some time. He understood the danger of the Hunger Games better than ever, and yet he would act in spite of such danger.
"You'll be staying with the Skylocks again while I'm away," said Nott, catching him out of his thoughts.
"Oh, come on," cried Eamon. "I'm old enough to look after the house by myself now, surely."
"For two weeks? Like hell you are."
Nott was good friends with the Skylock family, and every year Eamon went to stay with them when Nott went off to mentor the District 9 tributes. They were incredibly nice, but in truth, Eamon was just putting on a face for Nott. He had no intention of staying with the Skylocks this year with what he had planned.
They headed through the gates of Victor's Village and inside their home. It was nothing less than a mansion, fitting only for those who had conquered the trials of the Hunger Games. Eamon was luckier than most, a kid growing up in such lavish luxury while the rest of the district regularly went hungry, and yet he was unluckier. The only reason he had such extravagance was because his parents were dead. He knew which of the two he'd rather have.