The Birds They Put In Cages
- Chapter 1 -
'Will the birds they put in cages,
ever ride upon the wind?
Will the children life outrages,
ever learn to love again?'
-Tina Arena & Garou
Author's note: This story is inspired by wondertwinc's post on Tumblr, containing mega plot bunny material in the form of graphics for andachippedcup's Hunger Games AU prompted ficlet. This fic took me at least a month to write - phew! - and is, now, finished. A new chapter will be uploaded once a week, every Friday, until complete, and should total approximately ten chapters. I really hope you enjoy this - please let me know if you do! - and will now leave it in your capable (and, may I say, beautiful) hands.
Warning: This story will contain a May-December relationship (not too big a gap,) blood and gore (in the arena,) sexual scenes, and some strong language. Basically, all the good stuff.
There's a moment – a harsh beat of her heart and a soft lull of noiselessness in the crowd outside the Justice Building of District 8 – when she thinks she's safe. She's eighteen, it's her last year, and she has never needed to put her name down for tesserae because she and her father can just about scrape by.
But the silence is broken, and her heart picks up its manic, sweat-inducing rhythm, and she knows that no one is truly safe at the Reaping. Everyone will have a moment of security – will think, 'it's not me' – but it has to be someone.
And as the Capitol's representative for the district, Saph, pries open that small slip of paper in her hand, Belle has no idea that her world is about to be torn apart.
"Clarabelle Rosebay!"
Everyone in the crowd turns toward her, a chain reaction, in a ripple of noiseless wonder. Every girl has their minute of true relief, and now it is time for the boys to worry. The escort on the stage with claw-like, blue fingernails places the slip of paper on the table between the two glass balls of names, as if she hasn't just issued a death sentence. The mayor and his wife, seated behind Saph on the stage, hold their young daughter close between them. The district's single victor sits next to them, his dark-whisky eyes on Belle.
It's as if she's above them all, not in her own body, looking down at the eighteen-year-old brunette in the blue dress with relief and pity, like everyone else. But Belle soon plummets back to earth.
Saph's bright, laser-like eyes seek her out in the crowd from her high perch on the stage. The Capitol escort fixes her gaze on the only unmoving figure.
"Up here, girl."
The words come without malice, but they are unfeeling. Saph takes tributes from District 8 to the Capitol every year, and every year they do not come back. Belle can't blame her for not thinking much the district, one of the poorer in Panem. The woman's been stuck with them for years after a scandal with a victor from Four.
Belle's feet take her through the crowd, tripping on the pale cobbles here and there, the people barely parting to let her through. She wants to look for her father, maybe even Gaston, or her best friend, Red, but Saph's eyes draw her closer, persuading her to pull herself up onto the stage and face the large, Capitol cameras.
She doesn't know the boy who is called up by Saph after her, the one that tries so hard not to cry even though he must only be twelve from the look of him. Saph says his name is Reel.
There is hardly a noise echoed in the square as Belle turns to the boy at Saph's urging, taking his smaller hand in hers to shake. He squeezes her fingers in a crushing grip, his watery blue eyes fixed on the ground beneath wispy locks of auburn, smoke-like hair.
Belle knows there will be no truce between them, and they are ushered into the building.
The Peacekeeper at her elbow directs her through the unknown and uniform hallways, before shutting her in a small room. It is here that Belle has her moment of realisation.
Her knees shake, weak and useless, and she has to brace herself against the white, spartan wall in case she falls to the floor.
Her whole life has been about her father, her job in the factory, the books she manages to get her hands on from Granny's little trade shop, and... She's only picked up a knife to cook, so how will she be able to take a blade in-hand to kill someone?
She's watched the Hunger Games, seen all the plots and schemes to survive, to win, and even if the chances of a tribute from her district weren't as minimal as can be, she knows the people who can't kill don't become victors.
Her best chance is to hide in whatever godforsaken arena the Gamemakers have built and hope the other tributes die before she does.
Minutes pass and then the battered door, painted white but warped beneath from the abusive occupants before her, swings open. Heavy boots sound on the boards.
Belle glances up to see that it is a Peacekeeper, and behind his masked and guarded form is not her father, nor Gaston, but Red.
The girl pushes past the Peacekeeper, long black hair flying behind her head in a silken curtain as she dashes into Belle's arms.
"Clara." She is the only person to call her this. "Stay strong, alright? You can do this."
Belle pulls away from her misty-eyed friend, a hot tear coursing down her own cheek. She stares at her for a moment, unbothered by the Peacekeeper counting down their time together, and wonders how Red can sound so sure.
"How do you know?" Belle whispers, voice breaking, and she realises this is the first time she's spoken since she told her father to wear his blue shirt for the Reaping. "I don't think I can."
Red's big, blue eyes pin Belle down as her hands grip Belle's arms and squeeze. "You can do this because you're smart. So you haven't got instincts like mine – that doesn't matter! You're strong, and you know things, like poisonous plants and making things. You're gonna survive, Clara. This isn't the end."
The Peacekeeper steps forward and wraps a hand around Red's shoulder, indicating their time is up as he pulls her back. Belle feels her heart rip in two, desperation suddenly clawing at her insides.
"Red, wait! No!"
The younger girl can only fight the Peacekeeper for so long, before he drags Red out of the room entirely, shutting the door with loud finality and leaving Belle to stand in the centre of the space, desolate, like a cold and distant moon with nothing to gravitate towards.
Her father doesn't appear in the allotted time, and Gaston, her father's favourite for the role of Belle's future husband, doesn't show his face either. No one else comes to the little white room.
And she is lost.
Saph is not a talker, as Belle finds out only too quickly after being wrangled from her little room by the Peacekeepers and marched the short distance to the train station. Reel has taken a seat in the lush, chrome carriage at the back, in the corner, staring out of the window as scenery goes by in a blur, and Saph is firmly fixed to the bar, downing a rather vile-looking concoction of murky grey.
Belle is the only one that watches the television screen across from her, repeating the day's events and who has been chosen from each of the districts.
As usual, the Careers are mesmerising. Districts 1, 2, and 4 have matching pairs, all solid and built and beautiful, even in their disgustingness. The boys from One and Two volunteer among many others, but the one from Four is chosen without anyone else calling out to take his place. His grin is wide and white. It's obvious Four's the one to watch, with his whole district knowing that the Reaping chose the right tribute to win for them.
She notes a name here and there – Harp, Paige, Vanish, Grand – but she doesn't try to remember them. She'll know them all soon enough from the interviews, training, and then the arena itself. She feebly battles the cold and sickening dread rising inside her.
Belle glances up, looking over the plush, red velvet seat across from her, straight at Saph. The woman's taking her drink without ice.
Belle has so many questions, so many things that need answering, but the biggest query – the one right on the tip of her quivering tongue – walks through the door at the opposite end of the carriage at that moment, beyond the long, polished bar.
His cane doesn't make much noise on the thick, silvery carpet, and the golden handle atop the thin, black stick glints in the afternoon sunlight washing through the carriage from the long windows on either side. His black suit is unwrinkled, but his burgundy tie is loosened around his neck. He looks unruffled, as usual, but unreachable, as always. His shoulder-length, wavy, dark hair hangs in his eyes as he reaches past Saph for a glass and the whisky decanter. His lips stretch in a thin smile, the sunlight catching his single, gold canine.
"Taking it easy, eh, dearie?"
Saph's blonde head snaps toward Gold at his brogue-deepened query, but she says nothing, her long nails curling around the glass in her hand. He gives Saph another short look, before moving down the train and taking the seat directly opposite Belle, much to the latter's surprise.
He leans his cane to the side as he settles into his seat, looking at Belle with those dark eyes. They rake her half-pinned hair, her plain blue dress, before glancing down, under the table, to see her bare ankles and scuffed, black shoes.
In such close quarters, she has no choice but to return the favour, her eyes drinking in the few hard lines on his otherwise youthful face. He's not an incredibly handsome man, but Belle knows that it is his sharp tongue and fearsome reputation that detracts from his straight-edged nose and defined jaw-line. His voice – not that she's heard it often – seems more aged than his form, perhaps by drink or tobacco, but his accent is strange and old, from another time, possibly passed down through his family, not that she knows of them. He's always been alone.
When their eyes meet again, she sees he's smiling.
"Well," Gold says lowly. "You, we can work with."
Behind Gold, Reel's eyes snap to their table, narrowing at the obvious implication that he has nothing of worth. Belle has no idea what she has that he doesn't, but she's sure that it will soon be made clear.
She gives their district's only victor a tentative smile, and he returns it with a shrewd look.
"Clarabelle," he intones, her name falling from his lips cursively, as if he's shaping every loop and swirl with his tongue. "What a lovely name."
Belle swallows the lump that suddenly appears in her throat. "Thank you. My mother chose it."
"Mm, yes. And your father?"
Her skin washes with a chill, thinking of his disappearance after the Reaping. "He's already mourning me, I think."
Gold's eyes remain on Belle as he fills the crystal glass in front of him with a little of the amber liquid from the whisky decanter. Her father hates the stuff, says it reminds him of the rich in Panem and their expensive habits.
"No brothers, sisters? What about a...beloved?" His eyes sharpen their gaze on her, and Belle feels as if he's picking her apart inch-by-inch, only to put her back together again.
She thinks of Gaston, the hulking man her father wants her to marry. "There's no one."
"Good." Gold takes a long gulp from his glass, not even a notion of a wince present on his face. "Single, pretty – we can make this angle work."
Saph looks over from the bar with sudden interest, catching Belle's gaze above Gold's head. Her bright eyes narrow and her cobalt lip curls.
"We might get a good price, too, if Snow lets us," the escort says against the lip of her glass, and Gold's back instantly stiffens.
"Always thinking of the money, Sapphire," he says, gaze cast aside. "Let's try to keep it clean this year, hm?"
The woman turns from the rows of bottles on the bar and takes her leave, slipping through the door at the far end of the carriage without another word, a bottle of her poison of choice and a glass clinking together gently in her hand. Reel follows soon after, a distant look in his eye.
Though the size of the carriage seems to shrink a little now it is just the two of them, Belle finds she can still breathe. He hasn't stolen the very air from her lungs with his close proximity and interested gaze, though she does find herself more than curious about him. But then, she always has been.
Gold's lip curls in a sharp grin. "Alone already. So, talents. Tell me what you can do."
Belle does not feel intimidated by this man, but she is cautious. He's well-known in their district as a recluse with a silver tongue and a wicked smile. Her father always says he'll rob you sooner than look at you, and she knows why.
Because that's how Gold won his Games, by making deals and being stealthy in his thievery, by being untrustworthy but having what everyone needed. He had stolen from other tributes, gotten some alone to make a trade, appearing as a friend, and hoarded from the Cornucopia. He had destroyed supplies, tracked people down to sabotage their camps, but, in the end, it hadn't been enough.
He'd had to kill a girl a few years younger than him. She had lost everything due to one of Gold's schemes, and had subsequently singled him out and tracked him down. It had been the two of them at the end, and she had been crazed and bloodthirsty. She'd lunged and managed to catch his leg with her knife as he threw himself out of her path. She had spilt his blood, and he had returned the favour.
Belle remembers the replay in a single flickering image: the young Gold, looking down at the girl, breathing heavily and clutching his leg, waiting for his ride out of the savannah-like arena.
"I'm smart," she begins unabashedly, after concluding that he'll most probably appreciate honesty and staring him straight in the eye. "I read a lot, and I know things. I'm good with my hands as well – I make lace in the factory – and I'm quick, light on my feet from running under the machines since I was small."
"A veritable host of skills, then," Gold breathes, eyes dipping. "You might give the others a bit of a run for their money in the beginning, if you survive the bloodbath, but you'll need sponsors, dear. Are you willing to do what I tell you?"
Belle does not hesitate to agree. He gives her his infamously wicked smile.
"Good," he murmurs, finishing his glass and pushing it to one side, before lacing his fingers beneath his chin and leaning on them. "I don't offer my help often, and it's even rarer that I actually have someone worth mentoring. Let's make this work, shall we, Clarabelle?"
Belle watches as he stands, taking his cane firmly in-hand once more and turning to leave without another word. She stops him with outstretched fingers as he makes to pass by, and his eyes drop to rove the back of her slim hand as he pauses for her to speak.
"Please," she tells him, gaze and voice firm. "Call me Belle."
Belle jolts awake with a gasp, a dream she can't quite remember already just on the fringes of her conscious mind. Her ears pop.
The train is eerily quiet, the long windows blacked-out, and now there is no sunlight to illuminate her surroundings harsh, white lights have come on overhead in the ceiling, hurting her aching eyes.
She feels a dull pounding in her skull, and she grips the edge of the polished table as she rides it out. It is then, eyes pinched shut and mouth twisted in a slight grimace, that she is surprised by a sudden roar.
Eyes flying open, Belle's gaze is greeted by a thousand colourful faces through the now-clear windows of the carriage. The Capitol's skyscrapers and clean, white architecture act as a background to the citizens crowding the passing transport.
The train has slowed, enough for Belle's wide eyes to take in the strange fashion, the tall haircuts, and the bright and garish colours painting the people screaming and waving at her.
Even though the train she sits on bears more than one large and obvious '8,' stamped on every carriage, the people of the Capitol cheer for her as if she has just been crowned a victor.
A chant, rising from the crowd, cuts through the muffled – to Belle's ear – celebrations.
"Tribute! Tribute!"
New screams rise, new people peer in as the train glides by, until Belle is once more enveloped by darkness, the windows shuttering blackly as the train enters another sort of tunnel.
Her ears ring with the sudden silence.
In the quiet and empty carriage, with an image of the screaming Capitol crowds still fixed in her mind's eye, Belle has never felt more alone.