A/N: This is really an experiment; it's been a long time since I wrote OC-only fic, and I'm probably a little rusty. Also, I've only read the first two books and I haven't watched the movie, so I guess this is simultaneously a plea to go gentle on me continuity-wise and a plea to avoid spoilers in reviews. I'll get to it ASAP, I promise.
Anyway, please concrit if there's anything non-Mockingjay/film-related that you feel could be fixed here, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it!
The Hunger Games is, of course, property of Suzanne Collins, and I lay no claim to it. My beta is aim2misbhave on LJ, and I am thoroughly indebted to her.
1 - The Reaping
The Reaping begins to air early in the Capitol, and as the cameras cut to the polished stage in District One, the sense of excitement in the air is palpable even through the screen. They start with One for a reason, and it isn't just numbers; it stands as a way to steadily ease the viewer into the Games, beginning with the career districts where there's less likely to be screaming and crying. Indeed, there's a sense of anticipation - even impatience - overlying the mayor's scripted speech; the folk of District One are here for the Reaping, not some history lesson. At last, the representative for District One steps up to the Reaping balls, flanked by the District's mentors.
He does not speak; he needs no introduction. The people of District One know Adrien Summerhale's face, and they know the Games, and the viewers know them too. So he simply raises a hand to the camera and to the crowd, and steps forward to dip his hand into the girls' ball, drawing out the slip of paper with an elegant flourish. When he speaks, his voice is deep and rolling despite the trilling Capitol accent.
"Wonder Viponte!"
The crowd parts for her, and she leaps up onto the stage, red-gold hair flying, favouring the crowd with a triumphant raise of her fist and a sparkling grin aimed directly at the camera. If she is afraid, if the thought of dying in the name of entertainment horrifies her, she shows no sign of it. Rather, what shows is excitement – and safe in the Capitol, the live viewers think that after all, doesn't she have a right to be excited? Isn't she being given the chance for fame and glory, the chance to prove herself? You only have to look at her confidence in front of the cameras, at her strong arms and powerful stance, at her utter unflappability, to know she's been training for this her whole life. She would probably have volunteered, even if she hadn't been chosen. True, she's a little young, but at fifteen she'll still be older than a lot of her opponents, and confidence radiates from her.
In District One, the crowd erupts into applause. In the Capitol, the viewers watch casually, and the bookmakers and gamblers lean forwards in their seats, already beginning to size her up.
Wonder is quickly joined by Indigo, a solidly built boy with his dark hair waxed up into spikes and his expression a study in neutrality. Again, the crowd goes wild. Again, the bookies at home make notes.
The morning sun turns the sky so blue that it almost hurts to look at it. The tributes stand on the stage, side by side, Wonder smiling brightly and Indigo watching the cameras watching him, as the Treaty of Treason is read.
The Forty-Second Annual Hunger Games have begun.
In District Two, the same festival atmosphere prevails; when Genera Crest steps up onto the stage, her "Happy Hunger Games!" is almost drowned out by the roar from the crowd, which nonetheless falls into expectant silence as she steps up to draw the names – a silence so absolute that the click of her high heels on the stage is audible almost to the back.
"Domitia Lapworth!" she proclaims in a high, carrying trill, and as the crowd draws back to open the way for the lithe thirteen-year-old, Genera straightens up to add, "Unless anyone wishes to volunteer in her place?"
"I volunteer!" The cry is almost immediate, and it comes from the opposite side of the stage. To the backing of mixed applause and catcalls – there are several other girls in the audience who wish they had possessed the courage and the speed to get their names in first – the first volunteer of this year's Hunger Games mounts the stage, her chestnut hair elaborately fastened and framing her triangular face. She is beautiful, in a pinched kind of way, and she moves with a warrior's grace. Across Panem, gamblers will take note of her as a contender. She clearly has it in her to move quickly and gracefully, and volunteers tend to have an edge.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Genera announces theatrically, as she welcomes the girl onto stage, "unless there are any objections..." And she pauses, as ritual demands, in case anyone wishes to object, in case Domitia wishes to stand up for her right to stand as tribute. But there is only silence; the volunteers may have signed up for glory, but they have also signed up for possible – probable – death. District Two respects that, and rarely put up a second volunteer for the same tribute.
Genera smiles flawlessly, the gems set in her cheeks winking brightly in the sun. "Then we have our first tribute! What's your name, Tribute of District Two?"
The girl brushes imaginary dust from the shoulder of her Reaping dress, and turns directly to the cameras, allowing them to zoom in on her carefully made-up face as she offers a smile and a wave. "Althea Wellwood. Future victor." And she grins and raises her arms to the crowd in an unscripted, triumphant gesture, and again the crowd erupts into a wave of noise as she steps back.
Genera applauds, too, politely, then signals with one hand, almost jokingly, for the crowd to quiet down. "And now, our second tribute for the forty-second Games..." Her gloved hand digs in the glass ball containing the boys' names, and, after a long, tense moment – there aren't many Representatives who can play a crowd like Genera Crest – she pulls out a single slip of paper, reading it out loud and clear into the heavy hush. "Titus Hood!"
There are no volunteers this time. Most of District Two knows Titus, and there would be a scandal of sorts if he were never to compete; eighteen now, and the strongest among them with a sword, he's been holding off volunteering every Reaping since he was twelve. But there is a cheer as he steps up onto stage alongside Genera, flexes both his arms to the crowd, then steps back to join Althea.
Slowly, as the mayor steps up for the Treaty, the applause ripples away again. And, in rooms all across the Capitol, the bookies huddle together, heads almost touching, and begin to discuss preliminary odds. Everyone knows the Career Districts are where the real competition lies.
The transition can be jarring, from the rich, excited crowds of District Two to the more sombre, plainly-dressed citizens of District Three. Here, they listen to the history lesson with resignation and acceptance, not impatience. Here, there is no applause when the Representative, Polly, is introduced. But as in all the Districts, it somehow manages to be quieter than quiet as she steps up to draw the names. The first name, the girl, is Deb Grey, a skinny, nervous-looking teenager who stumbles a little on her way up to the stage. Predictably, nobody takes Polly's offer for volunteers, and Deb takes her place on the stage with a kind of stunned disbelief as the cameras focus on her. One of her hands comes up, self-consciously, to twist her shoulder-length brown hair. In the Capitol, the bookies write off the girl from District Three.
The boy seems, if anything, even less threatening. He climbs up onto stage, and, unlike Deb – who is still looking pinned in place by the surrounding cameras – he barely even seems to notice the cameras. He is barely twelve, his shock of blonde hair defies the neatness his parents have clearly tried for, and there are tears tracking slowly down his cheeks. There is no applause for Rendwick Herriot, only a shocked, deathly silence broken by his sobs, and the sobs of his parents to one side. Everyone knows that his journey to the Capitol will be one-way.
Even Polly finds it hard to break cheerily into that funereal silence, but it is her job as Representative to keep up the festive mood, and so she claps for him, the brittle, sharp applause of someone whose only purpose in applauding is getting everyone else to join in. And, reluctantly, they do, but the applause of District Three is no roar and cheer to match the first two Districts. Sharp, stunned, and cut to the quick, the citizens of the electronics district have to come face to face with the fact that their chances are close to zero in this year's Games.
After that depressing interlude, with the bewildered, small-looking children staring out at the viewers of Panem, it is a relief for many in the Capitol to get back to the Career Districts, where you can at least guarantee that there'll be some kind of contender in the running. The stage in District Four is set up on the beach, so that the cameras can get the best angle of the glittering waters and clear sea air which make the district so beautiful – although that does mean that the whole stage and camera set has to be sheltered from spray, sand, and seagulls. The sun is high, and the early afternoon is splendid and golden.
In a welcome contrast to Deb and Rendwick, not one but both of the District Four tributes are volunteers. The first, Harriet Keeler, has to be nudged by her friends, and there is so long a pause that the original tribute is halfway onto stage before Harriet finds her voice. When she does, though, it cuts loud and clear over the murmur of the crowd and the cries of the gulls overhead, as if she's making up for lost time; "I volunteer!" She's well known, and in the Capitol, the bookies give a murmur of interest; her grandfather, Jacob Keeler, was the victor of the first ever Hunger Games. She has a heavy weight on her shoulders, one which she carries with pride as she steps up to the stage, tall and proud and with her fierce blue eyes glittering as bright as the sea behind her, and she is greeted with a roar to match anything from the first two districts.
Julian Brelsford, the second tribute, thus has a hard act to follow onto stage, but follow her he does, and in fact is so eager to that he shouts it so quickly it drowns out most of the name on the paper. The cameras follow him onstage, catching every movement, in such detail that every sunbleached hair on his head is visible on the vast screens of the Capitol. No doubt about it, the Career Districts are sending out their best this year.
Just like they do every year.
Just like they do every year, the Capitol audience lose a little interest as the focus shifts away from the career districts. Here is where the fashion begins to become unbearable for the discerning taste of Capitol aficionados; here is where the odds begin to lengthen for the gamblers and the bookies; here is where the sense of excitement begins to feel a little forced. Not to mention, here is where the same history lesson and Treaty of Treason begin to get tired of repetition, over and over again. There is a sense that the best is over, and a number of Capitol citizens leave their televisions, resolving to watch the evening recaps instead. But the Games continue Reaping, and the cameras continue rolling, just as they always do and always will.
From District Five, Flow Morrison steps up as her name is called, a broad-shouldered young girl with short, dirty blonde hair. She gives the camera a very convincing snarl, then laughs despite the fear in her eyes. After her comes Phox Allerdyce, very tall and thin, with long legs and a cold stare, and the bookies have to admit that District Five's tributes do seem to have the odds somewhat in their favour, even if they look a bit weak next to Titus, Harriet, or Julian. Their lean, olive-skinned Representative seems to think so, too, and the applause he leads the crowd in seems completely genuine. They aren't Career, but they aren't District Three, either.
District Six has a slightly poorer show. Valaria Morgan is a skinny, fair girl, and at thirteen, she's young enough that she can't be expected to be a serious competitor. She does know enough, though, to keep her face steady, not showing any weakness in front of the cameras, and that gains her a measure of support in the Capitol, where plenty of people pride themselves on valuing the strong-willed competitors. But it seems unlikely she'll get many sponsors. Most people write her off at once; if she doesn't die in the first day, it'll be a miracle.
But she's joined a moment later by Mac Lemann, who seems like a much more viable option. He isn't tall, but his shirt sleeves bulge with muscle, and his smile is slow but winning. He doesn't radiate confidence like the Career tributes, but he draws himself up to his full height, such as it is, and waves to the crowd without a flinch. There's something very solid about him. It's hard to imagine him going down without a fight, or making some kind of rash mistake. The bookies in the Capitol take their notes; the gamblers move through the crowd; the sun rises towards noon, and another mayor launches into the Treaty.
District Seven brings nothing of note to anyone except to the crying women in the audience and to the brothers of the girl tribute, two small boys who clutch at the skirt of her Reaping dress as she passes to take her place, stony-faced, on the stage beside the mayor. Blye Combes, that tired-looking, black-haired tribute, is joined by Nate Dixon, who sketches something between a salute and a bow before standing back to listen to Dolores Inchcape try to pump some spirit into the crowd.
And then comes District Eight, and all the Capitol watchers who have tuned out will regret it now, because if there is ever a Reaping which makes one sit up and take notice, it is the forty-second Reaping of District Eight.
It starts innocently enough, and in fairness, District Eight is one many viewers do tune out for – not because of the quality of their tributes, which is no worse than most of the non-Career Districts, but because District Eight is simply nothing to match the glittering shores of District Four, or the deep, foreign woods of District Seven, or the packed, excited crowds of the Career Districts. Eight is dull and grey, and hidden beneath a perpetual cloud of smog; Eight is not rolling countryside or vibrant beach; Eight is as urban as the Capitol, with none of the charm.
Jovan Steel is well aware of that fact, and he seems almost to try and make up for the greyness of the surroundings with the brightness of his own flashy, tailored suit, which sparkles in a thousand colours by the stage lights as he steps up to draw the names. "Happy Hunger Games!" he announces, and the rainbow of gems set in his teeth sparkle as he raises a gloved hand to the cameras. "And may the odds be ever in your favour!" The crowd applauds politely and briefly, and District Eight holds its breath as one iridescent glove delves into the girls' ball, drawing out the slip of paper and unfolding it with hushed ceremony.
Jovan looks up, not smiling, drumming up the suspense as much as he can. He's new to the Games this year; it's vital he makes an impression. "And the female tribute for District Eight is... Bethan Milligan!"
Silence. Stillness. Worry crosses his face for a split second before the professional mask returns. The Peacekeepers are just starting to make their way into the enclosure when she pushes her way through, sullen and unreadable, and mounts the stage. She is tall, slender, and undeniably beautiful, but her blue eyes hold about as much warmth and human feeling as chips of quartz. Her blonde hair is pulled up in a simple ponytail, and when she walks, it shifts to reveal the ends of the whipping scars which trail under her blue dress.
But she doesn't put up a fight, or argue, or cry, and she deigns to look at the cameras and even to nod to the slightly sweating Jovan before she takes up her position, staring out over the crowd, her eyes level and her posture ramrod-straight. Jovan visibly relaxes and gives another bright smile, whipping up applause for her as best he can. And, in honesty, it isn't that difficult. There's no warmth for her in the eyes of the audience, but she's showing her colours for the camera already, and there are many worse ways to go than aloof and strong.
Jovan smiles again, putting the same warmth into it that all the Representatives seem able to summon up from nowhere, and moves forwards again, reaching into the other ball of names. Clearing his throat with a jokingly overdramatic air, he steps forwards again, and slowly opens the paper, then looks up, his eyebrows rising.
"Daniel Milligan!"
There is silence.
Heads turn towards the brown-haired boy standing in the middle of the stockade.
He takes a step towards the stage, looking shocked. Then another. Shock hangs like smoke in the air. The crowd is deathly still.
And then Bethan screams.
That scream shakes all of Panem, especially the Capitol, where the viewers are almost beginning to doze off. It is a loud scream, loud enough that the Mayor and the victors at the side of the stage automatically flash their hands to their ears. More than loud, though, it is raw, tearing out from the core of her, shivering in the still air, and it is full of pain and anger and betrayal and loss and fear, and as she screams, she is crying, and as she cries, she is lunging forwards, heedless of the Peacekeepers going for their guns, heedless of the cameras, heedless of everything but Jovan Steel in his flashy suit and flashy gloves, his flashily embellished eyebrows flying up in shock as she hurls herself at him, blindly and wildly, and her eyes are ablaze with a kind of madness and her lips are drawn back to bare her teeth...
"Beth!" Daniel yells, his voice cracking slightly. Suddenly, he's on the stage with her, and the flicker of his eyes says he is aware of the cameras and the crowd and, most of all, aware of the Peacekeepers. But she doesn't seem to hear him, because she's still screaming as he grabs her arms and hauls her bodily away from Jovan Steel before she can get herself shot down in front of fifty thousand people. And she's still screaming, and now the cameras are starting to cut out, because the shock has given way to the fear that one girl screaming might strike at the heart of the Capitol.
And then she's sobbing, in spite of everything, and slowly, the cameras come back on, because they can see an angle here. And then she straightens up, and something drops back in place over her face, and she looks almost calmly out at the audience as Daniel lets go of her arms.
"None of you?" Her voice is half plea, half accusation. She doesn't move to wipe away her tears, but she hasn't shed any more, either. "He's my brother. He's my twin. I can't..." There's a shake in her voice for an instant, soon brought back under control. "Somebody. Anybody. Please, not both of us."
Jovan half-turns to her, visibly shaken, and reaches out a hand as one might to placate an animal which might, at any moment, decide to bite. "I'm sorry," he says, and sounds as if he means it, though with the Representatives it's always hard to tell.
"They're the ones who should be sorry." She seems to register not only the cameras, but the guns, and she raises her chin and wears the tears as a badge of honour, clearly trying to rescue the situation. "All of you. All of you in District Eight. There are thousands of you, and none of you have the guts. It isn't the Capitol who's to blame for this, it's you."
"Beth..." Dan touches her arm, lightly. She closes her eyes for a moment, and then she steps back, looking Jovan in the eye. Cameras and guns are squarely trained on her, and the whole of Panem knows that she's standing on a knife edge.
Something twitches in her jaw. Daniel's hand is still laid lightly on her sleeve. She swallows, reaching up to touch his hand, and Daniel squeezes hers lightly in return. The message is clear; he doesn't condone her actions, but he stands with her. They stand together on the edge of the precipice, and at last she summons up the nerve to pull them back as much as she can.
"I'm sorry," she says, to Jovan, and it's clear the words are an effort. "I shouldn't have reacted like that. It's just..." And now, she allows herself to reach up and dash her tears away. "Thank you, Mr Steel. I know you're doing all you can."
And the show goes on. The mayor, sweating and casting terrified looks at the Peacekeepers, stumbles through the Treaty. The Milligans do not shake hands, but instead stand at the back of the stage, shoulder to shoulder. And, at last, the cameras cut away from District Eight.
There is more of the Reaping still to show, of course, and it is duly shown. In District Nine, a skinny, acne-marked teenager and a slightly younger girl with olive skin and dark springs of hair. In District Ten, a broad, homely girl with dark eyes, and an orphan boy, Arthur, who has to stop his mangy grey cat from following him onstage. In District Eleven, the tall, dark girl who mounts the stage is joined by another twelve-year-old – Sart Jones, small and steady, with coffee-coloured skin and one hand withered and caught against his chest. He stares out at the cameras with old eyes and unsettling equanimity, and perhaps that might have the power to shock, were the audience not still turning District Eight over in their minds. Besides the slender, shy, and aptly named Willow, District Twelve brings up what must surely be one of their sounder tributes, an enormous, muscular redhead who looks completely out of place in the Seam, but who has the viewers, the mayor, and even the Representative eating out of the palm of his hand five seconds after walking on stage.
Yet even he goes unnoticed. There is only one thing that will be remembered in the Capitol from this Reaping, and when the recap comes on, one thing which dominates. For days, the whispers will go around the Capitol, and around the Districts, and through Panem like a wildfire.
Did you see it? Were you watching? Did you hear?
And in the Capitol, the President frowned deeply, but settled back to watch it run its cause. She had capitulated, and she was a tribute. She was not a threat. Yet.
But still it lingered in the public consciousness, just a whisper of gossip. Is it true? Isn't it exciting? Twins, in the Hunger Games! And that girl. That scream. You know, I'd put my money on her. Yes, even over Titus. Maybe not Titus. She'll be a contender, though...
In the Districts, fear rules. In the Capitol, excitement. And everywhere, everywhere, there is the discussion of the girl from District Eight, and Jovan Steel teetering on the edge of the stage with his eyes wide and frightened, and most of all the scream.
The scream that shook Panem.