oh, these twisted games.

laurel mellark

( living in an alternate universe )

disclaimer: not mine.

I stare into the darkness, thinking about my conversation with Haymitch. Everything he said was true about the Capitol's expectations, my future with Peeta, even his last comment. Of course, I could do a lot worse than Peeta, but that isn't really the point though, is it? One of the few freedoms we have in District 12 is the right to marry who we want or not marry at all. And now even that has been taken away from me. I wonder if President Snow will insist we have children. If we do, they'll have to face the reaping every year. And wouldn't it be something to see the child of not one, but two victors chosen for the arena? Victor's children have been in the ring before. It always causes a lot of excitement and generates talk about how the odds are not in that family's favor. But it happens too frequently to just be about odds. Gale's convinced the Capitol does it on purpose, rigs the drawings to add extra drama. Given all the trouble I've caused, I've probably guaranteed any child of mine a spot in the arena.

-Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire

I open my eyes to bright sunshine streaming through my open window and the smell of fresh bread. As I lay in bed, feeling the last bits of sleep that still clutch my body fade away, the only clear thought that resounds in my mind is that I just want to close my eyes again and fade back into blessed unconsciousness. Today is the reaping. And I know almost for certain that it's my year to be put in the Hunger Games.

Most rich kids like me don't ever go to the Games, because they never have to sign up for tesserae. The odds are most definitely in their favor. However, most rich kids don't have two victors for parents. Two victors who are often associated with the word "rebellion."

My parents are the survivors of the 74th Hunger Games. The only year where the rules stated that there could be two winners, if the last two remaining were from the same district. Yes, Peeta and Katniss Mellark. The tributes of District 12.

My mom and dad have gone back to mentor District 12's tributes every year for eighteen years. Only one of those years has a tribute from our district won. The 90th Hunger Games was a victory of District 12. The winner: Jacen Morrow. He won at fifteen, which is pretty unusual. Most victors are sixteen and older.

I sigh and push my head farther back into my pillow. I have a terrible feeling that somehow, I'm going to end up competing in the 92nd Hunger Games. I mean, it's only a matter of time. My parents had told me a long time ago how President Snow had been out to get them, ever since their Games, but now that they were victors, he really couldn't hurt them. But he could hurt their children.

I had always just accepted that sooner or later, there was probably going to be an attempt on my life. And now I knew, this year was just my year.

I sigh once more before throwing the covers aside and swinging my legs over the length of the bed. My sock-clad feet make a muted thumping noise as they land on the thick carpet. I wiggle my toes in the soft, fuzzy strands as I gather my courage. Then I stand up and make my way downstairs, not bothering to change. The cameras won't be here 'till noon.

I can hear my parents in the kitchen as I pad down the stairs. My dad is talking to my mom, explaining a painting that he's just finished. She's sitting at the kitchen table, nodding absentmindedly as she sips her tea.

I walk into the kitchen and sink into the chair across the table from my mom. "Morning."

My mom gives a small smile, not taking her eyes off the wall behind me. "Good morning."

"Hey there." My dad says, a grin lighting up his features. He walks over and kisses the top of my head. "Sleep well?"

I shrug. "Well enough."

He nods and puts a plate of toast in front of me. "I baked the bread fresh this morning."

"I know. I could smell it." I pick up a knife and spread butter and jam on the toast before taking a bite. The flavors and textures dance across my tongue, salty and sweet, crunchy and chewy. Mmm. My dad is an amazing baker.

As I'm enjoying my breakfast, my mom stands up suddenly. "Mom?"

"You okay, Katniss?" My dad asks.

My mom looks at my dad. "I'm fine. I just… I need some air." Then she walks quickly from the room. I wince when the back door slams. I look at my dad, raising one eyebrow in question.

He sighs. "Don't worry about her, Laurel. This time of year is just… hard for her." I nod in understanding. This time of year is hard for anybody who lives in the districts.

He walks from the room. "I'm gonna go get her. Keep out of trouble."

"Me, trouble? Please." I say as the door clicks shut behind him.

I place my dish in the sink and then head upstairs to get dressed. As I clamber up the stairs, I think of how my mother must feel. She's survived the Games herself, and she's seen many tributes die in them. The tributes she was supposed to bring home alive. I can't imagine what effect that would have on her. On my dad, too. But Peeta Mellark has always been good at hiding his feelings.

I walk into my room, throw open the closet doors, and try to decide what to wear. I figure I'll have enough time to run errands and then come back and clean up before the cameras come, so I just grab a pair of worn khaki pants and a black shirt with long sleeves. I'll put on a dress later. And maybe do something with my hair besides leaving it as it is, which is short and wavy, hanging loose over both my shoulders.

I examine myself in the mirror. I've grown some, though I'm still pretty short for my age. I have my mother's petite build, but I've developed some muscle from climbing trees and hunting with my mom and Gale. I would probably fit right in with the kids that live in the Seam, with my dark hair and olive-toned skin, if it weren't for my startlingly blue eyes. That's one of the only traits I've inherited from my father.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. Then I turn from the mirror, slip into my faded leather hunting boots, grab a jacket, and head downstairs and out into the early morning sunshine.

I shiver a bit and pull on my jacket. Even though it's summertime, it's still a little chilly out. I walk along the row of large houses that make up the Victor's Village and stop in front of Jacen's house.

I debate whether to go inside or not. I'm not really in the mood to listen to Jacen grumble about something or other, but I need to ask him something. Something important.

I take a deep breath and walk up to the door. I hesitate for a moment before knocking. I hear footsteps before seeing the door open, and there stands Jacen Morrow in all his sulky glory. He looks me up and down before asking, "Whaddya want, Mellark?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the lanky seventeen-year-old and simply say, "I wanted to ask you something." He stands there, looking at me with his eyebrows raised expectantly. "Um… can I come in first?" I ask.

He sighs. "This is a long 'something' isn't it?"

"So what if it is?" I say, hearing the defensive tone sneak into my voice.

He rolls his eyes and walks into the house, leaving the door open behind him. I stand frozen for a moment, not sure what to do. He turns around. "You coming or not?"

"Oh – yeah." I say. I walk in, my boots making soft thumping noises on the polished hardwood floor. I follow him down the hallway and into the large living room. I feel a strange sense of déjà vu as I examine the room. All the houses in the Victor's Village are the exact same, so this room looks almost identical to the one in my house. The only different thing is the large scythe hanging above the fireplace. There's a bit of a story behind that weapon. It was Jacen's only means of defense and attack during his games.

I think back to the 90th Hunger Games. That year there had been an overwhelming amount of Careers. Jacen and Mollie Vorpal, the girl tribute from our District, hadn't really stood a chance. The arena that year had been strange and ominous. It was simply a large field, with yellowing grasses that stood high above the tallest tribute's head. The Cornucopia had been filled mostly with food and medicinal items, with few precious weapons. But somehow Jacen got ahold of that scythe, and within days he had taken out every tribute, sneaking up behind them under the camouflage of the grasses and taking them by surprise.

That scythe was just a cruel reminder of all the deaths he had caused. I wondered why he kept it and displayed it for all to see. But then, I guess that was why I was here.

"So? What did you want to ask me?" My mind comes hurtling back to the present as Jacen's voice shakes me from my reminiscent thoughts. I study him for a moment, taking in his appearance. He's tall and lanky. His gray eyes and dark hair give away that he's from the Seam. He's generally of rough character, and I can't stand to be around him for long periods of time. He's like a younger version of Haymitch. But more violent. And better looking.

I sigh. "How did you do it?" I ask.

"Do what?"

"How did you kill all those kids?" No matter how impossible I think it is, his expression darkens.

"Are you trying to make me upset?" He asks angrily.

"N-no, I just… how did you do it?" I ask once more.

"How do you think I did it? I just snuck up behind them and killed them. No explanation needed," he says huffily. This is going the opposite direction I need it to go.

"No, that's not what I meant," I say quickly.

"Then what do you mean?"

"I mean… how did you do it? How did you gather enough courage to actually do it?"

His expression softens slightly. "Oh." He shifts from one leg to another as he looks at the scythe hanging on the wall. "Well…" he stops and looks up at me suddenly. "Wait. Why are you asking?"

"Because. I need to know now. In case I get picked today."

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Laurel, you're not gonna get picked. You've never had to sign up for tesserae. You probably have, what, four entries?"

I cross my arms angrily over my chest. "Five. I'm sixteen, genius. And besides, why are you so angry about it? It's not my fault that my family has money."

He flops onto the couch with a sigh. "I know, it's just…" he pauses searching for the right words. "It's just… it's really not fair sometimes," he musters up. Wow. The guy's real articulate.

I sit down next to him. "It's the Capitol, Jacen. They don't really do 'fair'."

"Yeah, yeah…" he says waving his hand dismissively. A slightly awkward silence settles on us before he says, "Well, you'd better get going. Cameras'll be at your parents' house soon. I bet the prep teams are already waiting there to get you and your parents all fancied up."

I stand up. "Yeah." I look around before nodding at Jacen. "Well… thanks, Jacen." Then I turn around and walk swiftly from the room, not bothering to shut the front door behind me.

"Laurel!" I jump at hearing my name in the high pitched Capitol accents. Venia, Flavius, and Octavia all pounce on me and smother me with hugs and kisses. When they've finished, I simply nod at them. They still work for Cinna, prepping the girl tribute from District 12, but they also like to come and dress my mother for the Games every year. I guess because I'm a girl I get to be lumped in with her torture… I mean, prepping. The trio leads me upstairs and sits me in a chair set up in front of the vanity in my room.

"My goodness, Laurel, how you've grown!" Octavia exclaims.

"You mean how her eyebrows have grown. Really, Laurel, don't you feel so ugly with those big, fat, caterpillars sitting above your eyes?" Flavius asks.

I touch my eyebrows and scowl. "They're not that bad." I protest.

"Well, they won't be after we've finished!" Venia says. I don't even understand why I must go through this torture. All the other kids in Panem probably don't get this Capitol-ized for a reaping.

My mother thankfully comes in at that moment. "Don't even think about it." She scolds the team. "She might not be picked this year, and if she does, you can take care of her eyebrows in the Capitol."

The prep team sighs in defeat before leaving the room to prep my mom. I give her a sympathetic and thankful smile before she follows the team out of the room.

I sit in the chair and stare at my reflection for a moment before going to the closet to pick out a nice dress for myself.

I run my fingers along the row of fabrics hanging neatly on the rack, feeling all the different textures, and sigh. This is the first year that the prep team has tried to primp me for the reaping. I'm not the only one who knows that I'm going to the Games this year, huh? Well, actually, the prep team might not know. They're too preoccupied with their shallow little Capitol lives, worrying about what to wear to the next big party, what new color to dye their skin. Maybe I am the only one who knows about my parents' stormy relationship with President Snow… besides my parents, of course. I finger one of the dresses hanging on the rack and blow air from my rounded lips. I start when I hear a voice behind me.

"Excuse me, but I've been told that I would find a young miss Mellark up here?" I spin around.

"Cinna!" I exclaim as I jump into his outstretched arms.

"Hello, Laurel." He says, a smile playing on his lips.

"What are you doing up here? Shouldn't you be getting my mom ready?" I ask.

"Oh, I'll get to her in a second. First, I have something for you." He taps my nose with his finger before spinning on his heel, beckoning me with his hand. "Come on, then."

I smile and follow him out of the room. I walk down the stairs after him and turn into the living room. There are racks of clothes set out, all for my mom and dad. He stops at one rack and fingers through the clothing. His hands stop when they reach a deep purple dress. He takes it off, holding it out and admiring it. "Ah, here we are." He holds it out to me. "This is for you."

"Me?" I ask as I take the dress in my hands. It's made of a dark purple silk. It has short, slightly puffed sleeves and a full, flowy skirt. The bodice has small pleats across it. I finger it gently and look up at him. "Thanks." I say, smiling.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles back. "It was about time I made you something." He says, shrugging. He nods towards the stairs. "Well, go try it on." I shoot him another smile before bounding up the stairs to put on my dress.

I finger my the skirt of my new dress as I sit on the couch in my living room, chewing my lip nervously. It's almost time, I think as I wiggle my toes in my too-stiff shoes. I hear footsteps on the stairs, and my dad emerges from the stairwell. He looks handsome, but this is nothing new. My dad always looks nice. It's hard to believe that he fought to the death with twenty-two other kids. I give him a small smile as he sits down beside me. We sit in silence for a moment before I ask, "I'm going today, aren't I?"

He smiles, though the smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Nothing's for sure, Laurel."

"Yep, I'm going this year." He puts his arm around me and rubs my shoulder, smiling a more genuine smile.

My mom comes down the stairs, wearing a dress and makeup. She looks a lot different than she usually does. Cinna comes down the stairs behind her, one hand under his chin, examining her hair thoughtfully.

"Do I look okay?" she asks.

"You look great." My dad says, standing up to join his hand with hers. He sighs before saying, "Well, I think it's time."

I stand up and start to head for the door when my mom says suddenly, "Wait!" she runs back up the stairs where she disappears into her bedroom. A few moments later she emerges and rushes back down the stairs. "Here." She says, holding out her hand to me. I hold my palm under her outstretched fist, and she drops something small and golden into my hand.

"But… Mom… you're giving me your mockingjay pin?"

"For good luck," she says, giving me a small smile.

Oh yeah. I'm definitely getting picked this year.