Title: Awake and Sing
Author: A Crazy Elephant
Summary: Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"
Category: Action/Adventure/Drama
Chapter Word Count: 3,409
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.
Author's Notes: So, I've been reading unhealthy amounts of Hunger Games fanfiction in honor of the film release and while I love some Katniss/Peeta as much as the next kid, I have been greatly disappointed in the lack of Mags-centric fics. Seriously guys, how is there not more of that awesome old lady that got Finnick out of his Games alive and willing sacrificed herself for the cause? As usual, I'm also avoiding a Historical Styles paper on mid-20th Century architecture so what better way to procrastinate than get in some fanfiction.
Be aware: I'm using a different perspective and trying out a more clipped version of my usual style in a lame attempt at using a Hunger Games style voice. Additionally, all I was able to find on District 4 was that it's all about fishing and by the sea which we all well know. Since there wasn't anything more specific than this, I went ahead with the assumption that it's on the newly risen Gulf Coast. I also went the theory that they are not yet so far removed from the pre-Panem days and so some of the names are still more like we know them today.
Reviews are loved; I'd love to hear what you think. = )
1 – Reaping
The weather is awful this morning, but it doesn't matter.
Gram has me up as usual. Well before dawn, I know, but it's hard to tell with the dark of the storm clouds outside. She doesn't say anything about today and neither do I.
Instead, we begin breakfast like it's any other day. Heating up last night's crawfish stew. Patting out fresh flatbread, the only thing the grain rations are good for besides gruel. Talking about silly things like how much the twins snore and did I see the new dress Hilly Vincour was wearing yesterday? Loud enough to wake the dead, I suspect and Hilly doesn't need to be showing off that sort of frivolity when there are children in town who haven't so much as a minnow to eat in days.
We don't talk about this morning.
We don't say anything about the Capitol train that arrived last night or the cameras in the square.
And we certainly don't mention that this year, the Benoit family will have four names in the glass lottery balls.
Four names, several times over.
Danny, my older brother is eighteen and took out tessera. His name's in 49 times. I'm sixteen and took tessera too – that's 35 slips with my name on them. We didn't let the twins take anything, so that's only a slip each since it's their first year.
Of course, it only takes one to be a Tribute. Only one to go to the Games.
That's what they call them – games. Like it's tons of good-natured fun. A show of national unity. A celebration of prosperity.
It isn't.
Gram tells us sometimes about Before. Before the Dark Days, even before districts and capitols. When she was a little girl and lived in a place far north of here called Missouri. They had games then too, she says. The strongest and the bravest from all over would compete in actual games, like footraces and swimming matches for the honor of their homes.
The Games are not like those in the Before.
Our Games only have one victor and no one, at least in District 4, believes it's an honor, no matter how many times the Capitol reels tell us so. Competing in the Games, getting your name pulled out of those glass balls, is not an honor.
It's a death sentence.
There's a reason the older children don't even call it the Lottery anymore. They call it the Reaping. Where the Grim Reaper can have a pick of us all.
It's supposed to be that way. Awful. Frightening. Final. To show all the parents in Panem how wrong they were to ever question the Capitol's strength and power. And to make them pay with their children's blood for disloyalty.
"Margaret Katherine! You're burning that bread!" Gram swats my shoulder with the back of her wooden spoon and I hastily pull the slightly blackened disk of flatbread out of the pan. She doesn't even scold me or demand to know where my head is. Like she would on a normal day. Instead, Gram huffs and waddles out onto the covered porch where Danny and the twins sleep.
While I carefully monitor the next batch of flatbread, I can hear her over the relentless drum of rain on our tin roof. Poking and prodding my brothers out of the hammocks they string up between the supports and the house. They're probably not soaked from the rain. Mosquito netting that we've tacked up around the porch to make it a little more like inside catches a lot of the rain. But I'm still not sure how the thunder or the howl of the wind hasn't woken them yet.
"Y'all get on up! Lazy boys!" There are the collective groans and a few smacks of the wooden spoon, muffled on the canvas of their hammocks. "Maggie's been up all morning and what are you doing? Sleeping in!" Gram doesn't offer any threats. No promises of retribution.
That's how you can tell she's worried about us.
I don't blame her. I'm rather worried my own self.
It's Danny's last year in, which is something of a relief. Next year he'll be able to be out on the trawler with Grandfather full time. That's extra money, extra food, without tessera. Without the near-guarantee of an early death. And even though the odds are certainly not in his favor, if there is anyone with half a chance the Games, it's Danny.
Danny is handsome. I don't think so. He is my brother. But every other girl in town is in love with him. I know because I'm the one asked to deliver love notes and provide details of his social life for his many admirers. Danny is strong. Even though he's still got to be in school like the rest of us, he spends most of his time on the trawler with Grandfather and can easily haul in full loads without help. Danny is smart. He's the cleverest person I know and good at absolutely everything. Knots and nets, hooks, even spear fishing, you name it and Danny will figure out a way to do it.
The Capitol loves handsome Tributes. Even more, they love handsome and strong Tributes with clever streaks. Sponsors line up to help them come out victorious.
The twins though . . .
It's a good thing they've only one slip apiece because Willie and Jackie wouldn't stand a chance.
They're cute and clever like Danny. Little and fast, that's in their advantage too. But they work as a team. They've always worked as a team. At school, on homework. On the trawler, making nets and cleaning the day's haul. At home, scrounging up herbs and other edible plants when food's short. Even if they're working on new and exciting acts of mischief. Jackie might be the instigator and Willie might be the one to carry it out, but it still takes two. They're useless alone and if either one is ever chosen as Tribute, it will destroy them both.
And then there's me.
I don't have to worry about missing half my team if I get chosen, but I certainly don't have half a chance of making it out alive.
I am not pretty or cute. My hair didn't stay the color of the finest sand, like my brothers. Instead it's something drab, somewhere between straw and potato and curly. Only not soft loopy curls that only ungrateful men get, but more like what Gram calls ten thousand cowlicks. My eyes aren't the color of the best sky like the boys either. They're more like heavy fog. My skin doesn't tan. It burns and blisters. I'm too short and too scrawny to ever be mistaken for strong.
I like to think I'm clever, at least. Since Gram's eyes have gotten bad, I've been doing the ledgers on the trawler proceeds and Grandfather says I'm the best weaver in the district. But baskets and sums are hardly survival skills and not nearly enough to make up for how plain I'd be in sponsors eyes.
So all we can do is what we always do. Wear what Gram calls our Sunday best, comb our hair and hope the names that come out of those glass balls belong no one we know. It's not a good plan but it's the only one we've got.
"Nice hair-do, Magpie." Danny tugs on one of the scraps of cloth Gram rolled into my hair last night in greeting. This is her attempt to make my normal cowlicks more like the boys' lovely curls. I get the feeling that given the rain, it won't matter much in a few hours.
"Well," I say. "We are going to be on television this morning." I remind him. "We have to look our best for the Capitol."
"Oh, yes. I forgot," Danny says. "Don't want to offend the viewing audience's delicate sensibilities by looking like real people." We laugh, but then Gram is back in the kitchen with the twins trailing in sleepily after her. She gives Danny a swat on the back of his head with her spoon.
"Don't you be talking like that!" Gram scolds. "You sit down, now. Have you some breakfast. Your sister's gone to all the trouble to make you fresh bread."
"Must have been a whole lot of trouble." Jackie yawns. He and Willie have fallen into their chairs at the table, still in a sleepy haze. "Look burnt to me." He sends me one of his smooth smiles. Both of the twins are going to be heartbreakers in a few years. Everyone says so. But of the two of them, Jackie's the charmer. Willie will win friends and little girls' hearts by being quiet and clever with a side of mischief. But Jackie's got the silver tongue and the easy smile and never misses an opportunity to tease.
"Made those special for you, Jackie." I say, offering him one of the blackened breads. "Added just the right amount of ash – just the way you like it." Jackie makes a face and Willie snickers.
"Spoiled rotten, all of you. Turning your nose up at a meal." Gram snorts. Shakes her head like she can't believe use. But she takes the burnt flatbread from my hand and places it on her own plate. Normally, she'd make me eat the blackened thing myself, for wasting food. But today isn't normal. "Your granddaddy ruined you." Gram grumbles at us, dishing out the crawfish as I place the rest of the flatbreads on a napkin in the center of our table.
"Don't think of it so much as ruined, Soph!" Grandfather calls from the boys' sleeping porch. The rain on the tin roof has gotten so loud I hadn't heard him come in. "Think of it as improved!" He calls cheerily over the rain and the howl of the wind.
"You track mud in on my floors and we'll just talk about improvements, Mr. Benoit!" Gram warns. Grandfather laughs and kicks off his boots before opening the screen door to the kitchen. More than fifty years with Gram has taught Grandfather when to ignore her bristling.
"Ah, mes chéris," Grandfather chuckles and takes a seat next to Willie at the end of the table. Grandfather's worried too. He's smiling but he's using an old language now. One from his boyhood. One from Before. It always means he's particularly emotional. "What would I do without you?"
We don't talk about the Lottery all through breakfast. Instead, Grandfather tells us about what a mess the storm has made of the docks. All the work we'll have to do to clean up before any of the boats are seaworthy again. Gram scolds him for going out at all in this weather. Danny tears up his bread so that it looks like a pair of fangs. Makes faces at the twins, who laugh their heads off. Like nothing's the matter, but the rain.
After breakfast, we can't pretend to be normal anymore. They stagger the Lotteries by district, so people in the Capitol can watch all of them if they choose. District 4's is always mid-morning. Too early for a proper day off. Too late to get in a morning's work. All we can do is get ready.
Gram put the twins to washing dishes while Danny and I haul in the tub. It's a big old tin thing that we left outside last night when the rain started. Easier to collect the warm summer rain water than heat up a whole tub of pump water. I had my bath last night so that Gram could roll my hair. This morning it's the boys' turn.
While they sponge off layers of salt, Gram has me sit at the table while she carefully unrolls my hair. The bits of cloth admittedly have left my hair in loose loops at the ends. But the rain and the humidity are all ready having an affect. The curls have sort of seized up so the whole mess of my hair hangs around my chin in a loopy mess like a gull's nest.
The boys think this hilarious.
"Look!" Danny points out. He's finished his own bath and is scrubbing at the ring around Willie's neck. "A nest for the Magpie!" Willie snickers again and Jackie laughs. This might vex me on a different day, but not today. The dread has all ready started rising in my belly.
"Perfect for Kittiwake!" Jackie laughs. The boys find it funny that there is a bird to be found in both of my names. Neither one a particularly lovely bird either.
"Better than that rats' nest in your hair," I remind Jackie. It was easier this morning, but I still smile. Point to the tangled mess he's made trying to get the salt out of his curls. Gram clicks her tongue at the mess of us.
"Dress!" She orders me up the ladder to the small loft where I sleep. It's tight, where we keep nets to be repaired and the sea chest with our nicer clothes. I have a mat against the wall that's my bed because the covered porch only sleeps three, less the weight of all our hammocks pull down the supports.
"The white one!" Gram reminds me from below as she bustles the boys out of their baths and into clean clothes. She didn't have to. I only have the one nice dress. It's the same one I've worn every year since I qualified for the Lottery. Canvas, from the ruined sails of Grandfather's skiff with the neat little lace collar Gram tied. It used to be long and loose. Past my knees and baggy in the top. Now, the hem is only just above my knees and the top fits tighter. It had been Gram's grand plan. Her hope to never make another Lottery dress. I cooperated. In the last four years, I've grown only a few inches and barely filled out. When I first wore it, it looked silly. Now it looks almost nice. The whole look of course is ruined by the ridiculousness of my hair. The black rubber rain boots I have to wear to slosh up the muddy road into town. Regardless, the whole thing might yet make it to my last Lottery year.
We only have one umbrella, which the twins share. They will stand together with the other Twelves when the names are pulled. Danny and I will stand alone, with the Eighteens and Sixteens respectively. We wear the rain slickers. The ones Grandfather keeps on both the trawler and his skiff in case of a storm.
Of course, we aren't the only ones. The square is all ready half full when we arrive, soaking from our walk. Everyone from school. From town. From up the shore. Some carry umbrellas like the twins. Old and worn. Most wear the same shapeless slickers like ours.
The sign-in is faster than I remember. My name is on the books and I'm saying good-bye to everyone before I know it. I have a feeling it has to do with the weather. Capitol people hate discomfort. Driving rain and howling wind is certainly not pleasant when you're standing in it. To that end, there's a tent over the Peacekeepers taking our names. Over the cameramen and the little stage in front the Justice Building too.
There aren't tents for the people of District 4.
We stand out in our sections. Twelves to Eighteens, before the stage. Girls on the right, boys on the left. Parents and everyone else around the square. Everyone looks wet. No one looks happy.
"Maggie!" It's Fillipa. I can see her standing with the other Sixteen girls as I approach. She is looking half-drowned this morning. Her umbrella seems to have blown inside out once or twice. Her own dress is soaked through. Her brown hair plastered to her face, out of whatever braid she'd had it in this morning.
"Here Fil," I say, taking her hand.
"I heard you say good-bye to your grandmother." She tells me. Fillipa may be blind, but her hearing is impeccable. Even over the roar of the rain.
"She's worried." I explain.
"So is my father." She agrees. "I don't even take tessera and he's upset." I'm not the least bit surprised. Fillipa is impossible not to love. She is sweet and clever and so terribly sincere. She is the best friend I know.
Fillipa also stands less of a chance of coming out alive than the rest of us if she is picked.
"I'm upset." I confide. "Willie and Jackie are in this year."
"You didn't let them take-?" Fillipa sounds like she can't believe I'd let them do such a thing as take tessera.
"Of course not." I say. "But it only takes once."
"How many times are you in?" She asks me quietly. There's a waver in her voice. Almost like she doesn't want to know.
"More than I'd care to think about." I admit. She opens her mouth to say more. The fanfare that announces the arrival of Minerva Holmes interrupts.
Minerva Holmes has been the District 4 spokeswoman and Tribute chaperone since the Games began. She looks exactly the same as she did ten years ago. Her skin is still a proper flesh tone. Not like some of the other Capitol people, with their dyed skin in unnatural colors. But it's still pinched, almost stretched over her face so that she looks surprised all the time. Her brown eyes still bug out which doesn't help to weather that surprised look. Her hair is still a wig and still a shock of red. Not a regular orange-red, but blood red, contrasting with the dark of her skin. And of course, she still wears a sharp pantsuit, still red to match her hair. When I was small, I was afraid of her. She was too tall. Too sharp. Too unreal.
Now I'm afraid of her for a whole different reason.
Minerva introduces herself unnecessarily. She smiles like this is not the most dreadful day of the year. Waves like we're glad to see her. Welcomes the guests behind her on the stage. The Mayor Vincour. The Head Peacekeeper Donnelson. Thom Argon, District 4's only living Victor and Tribute Mentor. Mayor Vincour is looking tired and Donnelson's looking for a fight. Thom Argon is looking so handsome that even though it's reaping day some of the girls around us giggle.
The anthem of Panem plays now. When it's finished, Minerva has the mayor read from the Treaty of Treason. To remind us why we're here. Even he looks a bit nauseous at the words. Minerva pretends she doesn't notice.
When the mayor stutters through the end of the treaty, Minerva thanks him. Announces a treat. A propo reel runs on the screens above the veranda, in honor of the 10th anniversary of the Games. The echo of the President's voice talking about the glory of Panem rings out of the intercom system. It's supposed to be inspiring. Uplifting. Make us feel honored to die.
Even with the rain to obscure it, it still makes me feel ill. I've started shaking with worry at some point too. The Capitol's dragging things out this year. A special torment. As though sending two of your children off to die wasn't enough, they plan to make us wait to see which ones. Fillipa squeezes my hand to let me know she's worried too. I squeeze back.
Finally, finally, the film finishes with another round of the anthem. The Treaty read, the propo run, Minerva Holmes steps up to table. The table with two giant glass balls, loaded with tiny scraps of paper that wait for her.
"And now! The moment we've all been waiting for!" She calls out in her singsong Capitol voice. "Ladies first!" At least she doesn't make a show of digging around in the names. In years past, when they recap all the Lotteries in all the Districts at the end of the day, I've seen some of the other spokespeople. Some of them are terribly dramatic. They are from the Capitol. I should expect it. But they go on and on. Take ages to pull a single name. Minerva spares us this. Instead, she stirs the ball once. Snatches up a single name.
She unfolds the little piece of paper and reads, "Margaret Benoit!"