Title: Cotton Fluff Ambitions
Chapter: One
Rating: T for language and character death
Word Count: 3,099
A/N: Welcome all to the 28th annual Hunger Games! My name is Lexi and I will be your host. All characters are from Glee, but the setting is the Hunger Games/Districts/Capitol used from the book. I did my research, so I hope all is accurate. Unfortunately, there can only be one winner, so expect plenty of character death. Katniss and Peeta's romance will be mirrored by Kurt and Blaine (they are the main couple of this story), although they are from different districts. If you'd like more information, or just want to know more about me, please visit my tumblr (no spaces): http : / / beauty from pain eventually . tumblr . com/ I plan on updating every Saturday. I'd love to hear your opinions, so please leave a review if you have the time. Thanks and enjoy :D
Disclaimer: I do not own the Glee characters, nor The Hunger Games, both of which are too amazing to be owned by me.
The sky was streaked with early morning pastel colors, portraying a foreign sense of happiness. Seas of grain stretched over distant hills that soon transformed into a murky green forest, emanating the sounds of chirping birds and rustling branches. Before that was a never-ending electric fence.
Kurt exhaled slowly, taking in his surroundings. Everything was calm here. Everything was okay. There was no Reaping behind the fence; his safe dimension where no Capitol ruled and all was well. But he knew it would not last forever. He had to return to his home, back to the suffocating, smoky streets of District 12.
He laid back, allowing the grain stalks to tickle his neck, and placed his hands behind his head. His thoughts collected like snow falling on a winter day. Kurt thought of his name, scribbled on forty-two pieces of paper, scattered so carelessly in a bowl along with many others. He thought of the Gamer Makers preparing this year's death match, and of the Capitol inhabitants in their fancy attire, parading around and already placing bets on districts. Most of all, he thought of his father. Burt Hummel was a mineworker, the average fifty year old of District 12. They were barely scraping along with the poor pay from the Capitol, and living off some of Darcy's cows.
Darcy was yet another thing to fret about. She was seventeen, her name would go in almost as much as his. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she was chosen to compete. Darcy Muldoon was his best friend; a wily redhead with an enthusiasm rate that seemed to never halt.
An eagle soared overhead, long bronze wings flapping in the gentle breeze. Kurt straightened, watching it glide easily as if it were a fish swimming in the ocean. He stood up on shaky feet, weary with lack of rest from the previous night, and began to jog in order to keep up with the magnificent creature.
It gazed down as if amused. Let's race, the eagle's steady eyes commanded, golden beak opening to release a screech.
Kurt's pace picked up, his polished black boots stomping through the wheat field. He felt so carefree. No, he wasn't Kurt Hummel: eighteen year old coalminer-in-training, he was a soaring eagle.
If he had wings, he would fly away and never, ever come back. He would fly to the Capitol and then further on from that. He would find a way to corrupt the hell of a society Panem was.
A loud bell shattered the silence. Kurt froze, the eagle continuing on, and watched the small huts yards away. Figures began to emerge. He could almost see their bony knuckles, the purple bags beneath their eyes, their good luck charms.
Kurt resumed his run towards the fence, his happiness having evaporated. It was time for the Reaping.
Once he reached the wired fence and slid beneath the metal bars, he joined the crowd of people slowly walking towards city hall. Little girls with ironed gowns and tied hair, expressions of terror on made-up faces. Little boys with toy hovercrafts clutched tightly at their sides, cowering in crisp suits.
Kurt tightened his posture and stepped up to the line of eighteen year old men waiting to be recorded. He searched over slick heads to find a vibrant red one. Darcy waved sadly from a couple lines over, her green eyes missing their light.
He nodded to her, lips twitching up to offer a small smile of encouragement. She blinked in response and turned stiffly away.
Kurt's stomach twisted into knots of fear, and he held out his hand to be pricked by the needle. A woman from the Capitol grinned up at him, pressing the pearl of blood onto the chart and saying loudly, "Kurt Hummel."
He accepted the shred of gauze and held it to his finger. Horror radiated from the entire place, the sickly scent of coal and dust blending with sweaty palms and damp armpits.
Kurt was corralled into another line of men, some of which gave him wry glances. Time passed as slowly as marmalade from a spoon. He wanted to go back to chasing the eagle, and pretending that he was some free spirit.
The giant screen behind the stage flickered to project an image of District 12. Cameras shot from every angle. Kurt spotted some of Darcy's siblings, carrot tops, crying in the younger pen.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" A woman dressed in a gaudy indigo dress that expanded over her hips and sparkled in the sunlight hopped giddily up to the microphone. Her lips and eyes were painted heavily in silver glitter, her curly blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders. "Welcome to the 28th annual District 12 Reaping! It's such a delight to see you all here, alive and thriving. Well, I wouldn't say thriving."
She paused, expecting a laugh, and when one of the children began to cry, spoke again. "My name is Holly Holliday! I will be your escort and official speaker for the Hunger Games. My, my, look how many year have already passed! It's the twenty-eight, good God, where've all the years gone by?" Holly cleared her throat. "Let's move on, shall we? I know you've all been waiting for this! Who wants to be a tribute? Hmm? Fun, fun, fun."
Kurt scoffed into his shoulder. She was a primp, tacky bitch from the Capitol. Last year, and the year before, their speakers had been no different. The day the Capitol would send somebody dressed ordinarily would be the day the world ended.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please refrain your applauding until both tributes have been chosen. Without further ado, I draw a name from the girls…" She dipped her clawed, magenta nails into the bowl of white papers. She swirled them around dramatically, winking at the crowd, before scooping up one of the scraps and unfolding it.
Holly beamed wickedly. "Please congratulate this year's District 12 female tribute: Santana Lopez!"
Kurt swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew Santana. They had gone to grade school together. She was a Latina that wasn't afraid to speak her mind.
Synchronized heads turned to gawk in the direction of eighteen year old women. Santana sniffed indignantly and took a timid step up to the stage. Kurt saw the way her eyes watered, and noticed the way her hands gripped the air, as if searching for an anchor.
"Come along, dear," coaxed Holly. "We don't have all day."
Santana allowed herself to be hugged by Holly, her face suddenly covering the screen. Her beady brown eyes desperately peered at the crowd, quietly asking why her.
Holly patted her shoulder, then wiped her hand on the hem of her skirt. "And now, for the male tribute." She reached into the opposite bowl.
Kurt's eyes closed, blocking out everyone around him. He didn't want to see who went up. They were going to die anyways. He took a deep breath. Yes, it was nice in his secluded mind.
Somebody roughly nudged him and he opened his eyes to glare at the person when he realized everybody was staring at him. Holly gestured at him, annoyed. "Kurt Hummel!"
It was that moment that everything he had worked for was swept away. He was going to die; there was no question about it. Fear squeezed his heart, took over his emotions. Stone-faced, he moved forward.
Holly rolled her eyes. "Darlin', we don't have all day."
Kurt's breath was coming in shallow gasps, chest stuttering as it lifted and fell. He observed the relieved boys around him. A small part of him selfishly wished one of the stronger men would volunteer.
The walk to the stage seemed to last forever, a cloud of despair looming above him. "Kurt!" Darcy's faint sob rang out in the dead air.
Holly Holliday snatched the sleeve of his suit jacket and practically heaved him up the remaining stairs. The wooden stage creaked beneath his feet as they strode to the microphone. A drop of pity reflected in Santana's gaze.
"Well." Holly giggled and gave a pathetic little jump on the balls of her feet. "Can we get some applause for them? Kurt Hummel and Santana Lopez, District 12 tributes!" She flashed a brilliant smile in the direction of the camera.
Kurt angrily stifled a whimper. He would not show weakness in front of his father; in front of his district. He planted his feet firmly on the ground and observed the pitiful expressions, kissing three of his fingers and raising them in the air.
Nothing happened at first, only a small cough from Holly and a confused stare from Santana. And then Burt Hummel raised his three fingers, along with Darcy. An entire wave of people held up their hands in a salute and Kurt felt it in his bones.
He might be petty, he might be unpopular and unbeknownst, but he was strong. His mother had taught him that. And it was his duty to bring pride to his father and the district by attempting to stay alive for as long as possible.
Holly cocked an eyebrow, saying the signature words into the mircophone as the screens faded to blackness, signalling the end of the Reaping. "And may the odds ever be in your favor."
Blaine's favorite thing to do was blend in. Being invisible was the highlight of his otherwise eventless routine. Blaine was the third child of six, so battling for attention in the Anderson household was nonstop.
He hated living in District 11. Plains of cotton and wheat inhabited about eighty percent of the district, and workers were forced to spend hot hours under a pulsing sun. It infuriated Blaine knowing that over half the things they produced were shipped straight to the Capitol.
He bent over and used the stub of his knife to saw away at a thick stem that flowed up into the familiar poof of cotton. Blaine wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, already exhausted. He was lucky that they only had to work until lunch, and afterwards a would begin the Reaping.
Blaine's spine ached, and he searched for a place to rest. The shade provided from a petite cotton tree seemed adequate and upon further investigation, all Peacemakers - Blaine called them "hell enforcers" - were watching others. He was free for an impromptu break.
He collapsed against the bark of the tree and inhaled the earthy smell. He loved plants, animals, anything honestly that was natural. He couldn't stand the advanced technology, the hovercrafts, the televisions. At dinner, his family would curl up in front of their tiny T.V., but Blaine preferred to read a book. He was down-to-earth, as his best friend, Miles, called him.
A tuft of cotton floated lazily down and landed on his knee. He picked it up gingerly. It was so frail, and little. The cotton fluff didn't matter alone, but with many others, it proved to be important. Like the Hunger Games.
The games were a sport, a fucking television show for the Capitol. They took worthless kids from each district, turned them into movie stars, and then set them on each other to kill. "They'll be remembered forever. They were a movement for peace," President Sylvester preached after each game.
Blaine picked at the dirt beneath one of his fingernails. His name was going to be in forty-two times today. The chances of being chosen…No, Blaine didn't want to think about that.
The piercing whistles burst through the fields and workers slipped in formation, ready to be lead by the Peacemakers back for the Reaping. Miles bounded up to Blaine, smirking down at his friend and offering a hand to pull him to his feet.
"Honestly, B," he laughed, racing over to the head of the Peacemakers. The workers lifted bags of grain and wheat over their shoulders and marched over to the electrical fence. "You can't go five minutes without taking a break."
Miles Torch was a pudgy boy with wispy strawberry blonde hair and faded jean blue eyes. His round cheeks were always turned up in a mischievous smile. "Not true. I can't go ten," Blaine corrected before being harshly shushed by a patrolling Peacemaker.
"Oh, god," Miles murmured. They passed into the town, weaving between the mud-based cottages. "Look at them, settin' those damn cameras 'round everywhere. I still don't get why they make such a big deal out of the Reaping."
Blaine set his bag of cotton down along with the others and sighed softly.
After being fed a simple lunch of oatmeal and helping Serara and Melsie, his twin twelve year old sisters, into their jumpers for the Reaping, he found himself holding their hands and leading them towards the stage behind the mayor's office.
As usual, Harvy and Lynette Anderson didn't have the time to attend such a happening, and instead insisted on staying home with baby Luis. They couldn't care less if Blaine or Serara or Melsie were chosen to compete. To the Anderson parents, children were a burden that came along after too many nights of "fun".
Melsie's hand shuddered in his and Blaine pulled them to a stop in the middle of the bustling crowd. Both had their dark curls tied back into identical braids, corduroy collars framing fear-coated faces.
"Girls, listen to me," Blaine said. "This is the first time your names are in. I promise you won't be chosen, okay?" He kissed their foreheads and shoved them playfully towards their pen. "Besides, you're just too adorable."
Blaine masked his terror well, buried beneath unshed tears that took shelter in his chest. He needed to show his sisters that everything would be fine, when in fact, nothing ever would be.
His heartbeat sounded like thunder in his ear as the needle was inserted in the pad of his finger and then dropped to the paper to be recorded.
"Blaine Anderson," confirmed the much too chipper nurse.
From then on, it all passed in a blur of motions. He had learned to block out all happenings for the next hour; experience from the last six years of Reaping. Some Capitol man paraded onto the stage, his violet tuxedo shimmering and matching hair combed back.
"Welcome to the 28th annual Hunger Games!" he yelled into the microphone. "My name is Reg Stanley, your escort and announcer for the Hunger Games. I'd like to draw your attention to the…"
Blaine focused on a beetle crawling across the dirt, the black shell reflecting the sun, and thin legs scuttling across a rock. He wanted to be that beetle. It seemed so at rest with the world. Well, other than the fact that it was about to be stomped on.
"The District 11 female tribute is…" Reg winked at the crowd and clutched one of the papers.
Blaine closed his eyes and whispered, "Please don't let it be Melsie or Serara. Please, please, please."
"Beth Corcoran!"
No! Blaine lurched. She was one of Serara's friends; only twelve years old. Surely someone would volunteer. It was silent. His throat contracted with the effort of saying something. He wanted so badly to scream. She was just a baby.
Somebody did scream. A woman with flowing ebony hair was being restrained by guards. Shelby, Blaine thought her name was, Beth's mother. She scratched the air, howling out for her daughter.
Reg ignored Shelby. "Beth, sweetheart, come on up here. Be the honored tribute of District 11."
The girl hiccupped, wrapping her arms around herself and took timid steps towards the stage. Blaine watched angrily. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides until Miles bumped his shoulder and motioned to a Peacemaker glaring him down.
Beth resembled a deer right before an arrow is fired. Her huge blue eyes glistened with tears, her plain patchwork gown was frayed at the hem, and her skin was dirty around the edges from working in the fields.
Reg smiled. "Lovely, lovely. Isn't she lovely? I think she's lovely. Perfect! And now for the boys!"
Blaine felt like curling up in a ball and crying. He wanted to save the girl, go up on stage and throw a tantrum. But he couldn't. He couldn't risk his siblings being punished for his actions.
"The male tribute for District 11 is…" Reg dramatically read the paper. "Blaine Anderson!"