DISCLAIMER The Hunger Games and any characters, names, places etc you recognise are Collins/Lionsgate's, not mine.
"Oh, you weak, beautiful people who give up with such grace."
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Tennessee Williams
"I volunteer as tribute!"
Familiar words, here in District One. But nobody was expecting them to come out of my mouth - there's a system, you see, a rigorous selection process that finally selects the year's volunteers after months of examination and a lifetime of training. The chosen volunteer is always, always the best. Except now, of course - now, a girl about two years too young, a relatively plain girl who has never achieved anything above a good average, has stuck her hand up. And, thrillingly, nobody can do anything about that.
Fortunately, the aforementioned pomp and ceremony that has arisen around volunteering means I have got in before anyone else can. A Peacekeeper, his uniform blinding in the sunlight, drags me out from the crowd by the arm. I wrench it out of his grasp and walk up to the podium, head held high so I can avoid catching anybody's eye, as I know they will all be glaring at me.
Good for them, I think with as much arrogance as you'd expect from your typical One tribute. It's a struggle to remain calm enough to think it.
I climb up the steps to One's escort this year, a man with flowers tattooed on his frozen face. I can't even remember his name, and feel a jab of irrational guilt because of it.
"Ooh, a young one!" he says. He might be smiling at me, because his skin tautens slightly, but I can't be sure. We're lucky here in District 1, where the Capitolites pity and fawn over us instead of being as disgusted as they are with some of the other districts. "What's your name, child?"
"Denna Lazuli," I tell him. My voice echoes out around the square and comes back to me, sounding juvenile and frail.
"Well, Denna, if you go stand over there while I draw the other tribute." His voice is patronising, because I'm two years younger than the usual Career. He clearly doesn't think I'm going to last a day. I'm not entirely confident that I will, either. But I can't let the fear show.
I try to picture what the citizens of District One are currently seeing, and envisage a tall, lean girl with my mother's round face framed by scraggly hair. Green eyes that are the norm in One. My mother was supposedly attractive- at least, enough for the wealthy of District One to pay for her company in bed- but I blend into the background. Until now, that is.
I glance back at those who are to be my mentors, and receive filthy looks. I have messed up their plans, for sure, and I smother a smile as I turn to face the front to watch my male counterpart volunteer- an eighteen year old called Gleam. I don't bother to remember his surname, and I doubt he will mine.
We perform the necessary handshake, and since there is nobody with any compulsion to visit me I am immediately ushered into a car (no last goodbyes from loved ones for me, it seems) that will take us the short distance to the train station. I'm grateful for the lack of farewells, since if I did have any emotional ties to break I would probably still be crying as we entered the Capitol. As we drive, I have to remind myself why I volunteered, because everything has suddenly become very real.
The Hunger Games are unfair. Careers are illegal, and yet carry on training because their bonds with the Capitol are so strong. I can't hope to take on the Capitol myself, so disturbing the Careers' alliances is the very least I can do. That's not all, though. And the best way to do that? Give my life to let one of the poorer districts win.
That would be an extraordinary kick in the face to the Capitol. Careers allying themselves with tributes from the outlying districts are rare enough, but even then they are only to exploit their skills to make it easier for them to win. But this? If my plan- if you can call it that- works, the Capitol will be in uproar. I will be more valuable dead than I have ever been alive.
I smile, grimly. Gleam is sitting opposite to me, staring out of the car window. I can see his face reflected in the glass, though, and he looks furious. It appears I have already made myself an enemy- I wonder how long he will wait before killing me in the arena. The thought makes my heart race with adrenaline- the thrill only a Career tribute knows.
The car pulls to a halt outside a silvery train carriage, and our mentors usher Gleam out, completely ignoring me. I climb out after him, and slip into the carriage before anybody can stop me. It's clear nobody wants me to win, so hopefully the most damaging thing my mentors can do is just ignore me. I don't think the Capitol would let them injure me before the Games actually begin.
The décor inside the cart is beautiful- I recognise the skilled hands of District One in the furniture, the artwork, and the ornaments. Exquisitely prepared food is laid out on the table, so I help myself to a mug of coffee and a hot bread roll before making my way to a squishy armchair in the corner, by the window. Landscape flies past, but I feel almost nothing save for a slight vibration. It's quite relaxing, and I cheerfully ignore the glares coming from my co travellers.
As One disappears behind rolling scenery, I realise that yes, I am excited to leave it. I have no family or friends worth staying for- my lack of farewells proved that- and now, finally, I can achieve my true purpose. It's not like I'm a good enough fighter, and certainly not a good enough strategist, to survive this anyway. My death will be worth something, I will ensure that.
Because my district is so close to the Capitol, it only takes us a few hours to reach the centre of Panem. As we prepare to dismount, I see our escort, the one who accepted my volunteering, give me a funny look. I would have described it as calculating, but he doesn't nearly look clever enough. Ignoring him, I walk quickly into the Training Centre.
District Twelve arrives the same time as us. They both must be a couple of years younger than me, but it looks more to that due to their shrunken, skeletal frames. Their coal-coloured hair hangs in lank clumps over their bony faces, and their gray eyes flit around the lobby, obviously amazed.
Their mentor seems nowhere near as impressed- but of course, he must be used to all the extravagance by now. Haymitch Abernathy won ten years ago, during the Quarter Quell, when he was a little younger than I am now. He's only nine years older than me, but the gap seems larger when I see him snatch a bottle of whisky from a side table, and drink a sizeable amount of it in one. He's quite good looking, I have to admit, but the dark circles under his eyes and slightly yellow skin mark years of hard drinking that instantly mark him out as dangerous, a potential weakness.
A habit picked up from years of training means that I see almost everyone as either a potential threat or potential ally. I wish I could look at Haymitch without wondering what benefit he could have to my half-formed plan.
"Hurry up," he mutters to his tributes, casting a dark look around the lobby before hurrying them to the elevator. Their escort is nowhere to be seen. Before the doors of the elevator can close, I dart in after them, and press the 1 button.
"What are you doing in here?" barks Haymitch.
"The atmosphere is slightly warmer than if I were to be with my own district," I tell him. The girl tribute laughs weakly, and flash her a quick smile. On closer inspection, I think she might be the same age as me.
Haymitch glares at me, and I hold his gaze defiantly until the elevator halts and the doors slide open. It's a stalemate, I think. Maybe the drink hasn't ruined him after all. "Thanks for the lift," I tell him, walking out.
"You're welcome," he calls after me, after a pause.
A/N WELCOME TO THE TRASH FIC. I hope you like it, please follow/fav/review and all those lovely things if you do!