A/N: Hey there! So, the context for this is that I desperately love all of my tributes and miss the dead ones (I have been fortunate enough to acquire two victors, but that still leaves like five+ dead kids D:) and I wanted to write AU stories for all of them that included them winning. So here we have Stellar Madison, the 14 year old tribute from District 4 submitted to Oli2Fab4U's glorious SYOT The 70th Hunger Games! In her original fic she got 18th, but in this one she'll be taking the crown.
It began with blood, and it'll end with blood.
Wait, what?
That thought had just popped out of nowhere. It was probably the creepiest thing I had ever thought, sans "I'm going to rip out his fucking throat now." And that wasn't REALLY creepy! That was predatory! Oh, and "I can't believe that torrid bitch got a kill and I didn't." Except that wasn't creepy, it was… okay, it totally was.
But this was different! It was philosophical! I didn't do philosophical! I did ripping and tearing and killing, like a good Career! Like the best Career! (Which I was. Sorry Diamond!) The philosophical ones never get far. They're entertaining, sure… for a little while. Until they get totally wasted.
I had always been the one doing the totally wasting. I didn't want to start thinking like an outlier, or, god forbid, Shelldon. Yeah, I bet this was his internal monologue all the time! Intrusive thoughts, and not even cool ones, like "I should paint my nails red with the blood of my enemies!" and "I should volunteer for the Hunger Games!" His head was probably filled with bits of muck and seaweed, all blah blah blah I don't want to kill oh no look at the poor little outlier blah blah musings blah blah socioeconomic status and poverty amongst the districts blah blah I am the most stereotypical Career ever. Maybe not that last bit. I didn't see how anyone couldn't hold themselves in high regard. I always did. No matter how much I care about Diamond, or hell, even Vermillion, Stellar takes top priority. I loved murder, but I would never take the most important life.
I'm sure that's what Shelldon thought about his life, and Vermillion hers. I wasn't dense enough to not know I was biased. Or that I was probably only the most important in my own mind. The president was also probably kind of important. Whoever they were. And some other people too, maybe.
But I'd only ever have my own brain, so I'll take what it gives me.
UGH! I'm doing it again!
Time to pick at a scab on my knee. I don't have time for this.
Let the hunt begin.
The stupid boy from nine is dead. I ripped the life out of him, cut by cut, and the whole time I'm laughing because it's perfect! Good old sewage Shelldon, everyone's favorite fingers-up-his-ass, loses to me! Me!
I'm still the most important person.
Blake's blood is kind of gross all over me like this. But it could be worse. I could be dripping with toilet water, or have exhaust in my face. I had never tasted car extract before the Capitol. The smoke spiraling from the back of the car made me angry in a different way. Four is so beautiful. I'm glad we haven't fucked it up yet. When I get home, I'm going to see if I can collect up the sky for myself. I can't believe the Three eggheads haven't gotten onto that yet! Maybe it's because they don't have such an open sky there, like a cage full of birds, except all the birds are gone because your cat really wanted to impress Vermillion and didn't give a whit about you, so they hunted all of your birds like the stupidest predator to ever stalk!
They had clipped wings everywhere. They couldn't do anything.
Wow, another reason to call the Threes pathetic! Who woulda guessed it?
Time passes, I think, (I no, know, when have I ever not been certain?) and an arrow hits a tree.
I whip around and scramble for cover. One part of me feels degraded and childish and very outlier-esque for ducking into a bush, the other reminds me that I am the most important person, thank you very little! I crouch, ankles burning and thorns scraping at my arms. I hear labored breathing. It might be mine- I sure hope not- but it might be Victoria's. Which makes sense! My mom told me that all outer district kids had breath like bleeding mutts. Victoria was quite the extravagant bitch, so, as per usual, she was right on the money.
Footsteps, thudding closer and closer. The thrill of the chase, the action- I hope. Maybe it's just piss-your-pants-fear. I've never had much difficulty differentiating between the two emotions before, but there's a first time for everything. For example, this is my first Hunger Games. I'm sure this might come as a shock.
Who am I narrating too?
As that, once again stupidly philosophical parasitic thought enters my brain, I almost miss my chance. But in the end, I hit right on the Good Career, and burst out of the bushes like something from a snuff film. My teeth enter Victoria's throat before she can even scream.
I always wanted to be the best. So did my mom. She had my canines filed when I was ten, and ever since then my gums, and everything else had ached when going to the dentist. It's because of this reason that my fangs punch through Victoria's throat like I'm a stapler shredding her delicate salt-infused origami body. That's what we do to wasted paper in Four. It gets sliced and diced and then burned, and the bonfires are a single streak of rage-red ember on the gray sky.
It's the reason that even before I win, shred more and burn more and cut and totally absolutely fucking waste, there's porn of me in the Capitol archives with my teeth grossly extended to reach my chest to cater to someone's fetish, held onto for the supposed documentation of the fanbase surrounding the Victor of the 70th Hunger Games.
I stand over Shelldon's corpse, and smell the mutts burning. The worst part about losing your ability to gauge when time is passing is the importance of everything you're losing. Like me.
I'm not the most important person anymore, and boy is that a punch to the fucking gut.
It began with blood and fire and paper and a visit to the dentists office, and I wake up and my teeth jut out from below my lips and I tremble like a fucking coward, head seaweed and muck,
And it'll end with it too.
A/N: Oh joy. I made Stellar sympathetic. I can't seem to help it. I like Career Victors fine, but too often I feel like the exploitative aspects of their training and the gross extent of the psychological manipulation used against them to get them to believe that what they're doing is in any way acceptable is too unexplored. It's extra complicated with Stellar, since she's so young and caters to a specific demographic, which is disgusting to think about but unfortunately true. Her winning would have been a sad story for everyone, including Stellar. In her perfect world, she would never have come to this epiphany, but I didn't really want to write a story about here succeeding and proving every single motherfucker who doubted her wrong, although I'm sure that'd be fun. Next time is Illea time. Then Cain, then Tatiana, then Zibby, then Cain again, then Zibby then, and then hopefully by then another of my tributes will have died :P