cross posted on AO3, where the complete collection can be found
pairings include vampire!peeta/katniss, lycan!johanna/gale, and incubus!finnick/annie
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Reaping Day.
I wipe my sweaty palms on the faded blue dress, barely managing a smile as Prim tries (and fails) to keep her blouse tucked in. "Come here little duck," I murmur, pushing the wayward fabric back into her skirt. "Much better." I smooth back a stray curl and I see the twitch of her eye. I manage to pull her face into my chest just in time, the tears and sobs wracking her tiny body. I look at my mother and her gaze averts as she tries to smooth the pleats in her own dress.
"It's okay Prim. You won't get picked." I promise her. After all, the odds are in her favor. Besides, I think, there is no way I would send her off to the clutches of those…beasts.
I'd rather fight my fellow humans to the death than run mindlessly around, waiting to be caught. No if. Just when. After all, what's the fun in a hunt if you don't get to bring home a prize. I think of myself and Gale in the woods, bringing down fowl and other woodland creatures. I don't dare compare us to the creatures in the Capitol. We hunt for survival.
They hunt for entertainment.
—-
We gather in neat rows and I keep my eyes on Prim. She's holding together, which is more than I can say for myself. One the outside I'm indifferent as always. But on the inside, I'm trembling. What if I get called? My eyes glance over to Gale, his gaze impassive. What if Gale gets called?
Once again my eyes settle on the little duck tail of Prim.
What if she gets called?
Effie Trinket, our district escort, tutters and gathers the attention of everyone. Her bright pink hair might be out of place if they didn't match the shimmer of gossamer wings fluttering excitedly behind her. She's dressed in some ridiculous getup in what I can only assume is the latest Capitol fashion. I roll my eyes and barely disguise my snort when I imagine myself or Gale in some stupid outfit with pastel hair and rib crushing fabrics.
Effie shows a video, as per usual, narrating the history of The Hunt. To remind us humans that we are no longer on top of the food chain and we would do well to remember our place in order to preserve peace and protection granted by our benevolent overlords. The howl of a lycan echoes over the speaker, sending a chill down my spine.
The Hunt, as I've learned in school, is more of a symbol of days gone by. In which the creatures of the night stalked the lands, bringing down human prey for food and pleasure. Before my time, when The Hunt was first created, the original players were eaten, consumed on camera for all seeing eyes. But instead the players are simply captured and made part of the captor's household.
As Gale once put it, we're all mice running around in a huge maze waiting to be plucked out.
There's a pageantry associated with The Hunt, captors competing to get their choice of victim. Betting is commonplace. Who will catch who, how long each tribute will run. Then there's the aftermath. The collaring and branding. Permanently sealing the fate of each tribute. Never to see their homes or families again.
Better off dead, I always say.
My eyes and thoughts focus as Effie glides across the stage, picking from the girl's bowl first. She makes a big show of it, swirling the little tags of paper around before finally choosing. She hovers over the microphone, unwrapping the paper with a thousand watt smile.
"Primrose Everdeen!"
—-
The first thought that goes through my head is "it's not me". The second is "not Primrose". My feet are moving and my mouth opening before my brain realizes what is happening. "I volunteer!" I hear someone that sounds vaguely like my own screaming. "I volunteer! I volunteer!"
I slam back into the present as two Peacekeepers haul me up by my arms and escort me to the stage. Someone pulls Primrose back and I can hear her calling my name. All I can think is that Primrose is safe now. Effie asks me to introduce myself.
"Katniss Everdeen." I whisper.
"Isn't this exciting?" Effie gives a squeal of delighted laughter. As if this was some sort of production put on solely for her, and the Capitol's, entertainment. She buzzes over to the boy's bowl, asking for volunteers before she dips her hand down. No one raises a hand. A little put off by no more drama, she picks a slip and goes back to the microphone.
"Gale Hawthorne!"