A/N: This is my first try at writing in a long time. I kept wanting to do a crossover fic with the Hunger Games, but I could never stick with a group of characters from another fandom. However, I really like the Teen Wolf characters in this universe and I'm happy with what I have planned. I think this part of the story, the 73rd games, will probably be around five parts, maybe. But I will be skipping over the games. I will write the interview after the games, where the victor sees the highlights, but that's it on what happened in the arena (aside from flashbacks and nightmares). And I apologize for any mistakes. I usually get my sister to proofread my work, but she's said "later" every time I've asked her this week. I really hope that somebody reads this and likes it.
Feel free to review. I like hearing feedback. Constructive criticism is welcome. Enjoy.
That afternoon there had been nothing but rain. Not a sprinkle but a downpour. Big, fat drops fell from the sky, like the whole world had been thrown under a hose. There was no wind to careen the water in any direction but south. It collected it gutters and flooded streets. It slid down roofs and fell into apartments through holes in ceilings and cracks in windows. Of course, no one was there to patch the leaks. No one in the whole district was in their homes. They all had to make due with setting up their largest buckets or spare towels under the steady drips before they had to leave. But most of the residents didn't care. Any mold or wood damage that occurred as a result of the downpour couldn't be much worse than whatever gross infestation already existed there. And honestly, there were much bigger problems to worry about that day. Much bigger.
The reason no one was in their homes was because their presence was required somewhere else. It was mandatory for every citizen in District 8 to be in the square at eleven thirty that morning. It was currently eleven twenty-seven. Children mainly stood in the square, their ages ranged from twelve to eighteen, with each age roped off in sections (oldest in front). A few hundred people stood in their own separate sections behind and to the side of them, mostly concerned family members. And everyone else was connected with the crowd through adjoining streets and alleyways, being forced to watch what was about to happen on giant waterproof screens that were mounted on the sides of buildings.
The people, unfortunately, were obviously not waterproof. So they wore as many layers as possible to stay dry. Only one awning had been set up. It was located in the front of the square, covering an entire stage that had been constructed for this only yesterday.
Five people were exempt from getting wet. The mayor of the district, Deaton, a bald man with dark skin who was somewhere in his mid-forties. The woman from the Capitol, the escort who would be taking two children from the district back with her when she left; her tomato red wig cascading down her back in giant waves. And District 8's past victors. Of the total four, only three remained. And no one ever talked about what happened to the other one.
Two more people would soon join these five. But, unlike these, they'd be soaked to the bone.
Eleven twenty-eight. And of the thousands of anxious children herded to the center of the town, one was, if possible, slightly more anxious than all the rest.
Every kid in the square was looking at a friend or holding a friend's hand or silently hoping their friends weren't going to be picked or hoping they themselves weren't going to be picked. Except for this one boy. He couldn't find his friend.
Every year for the past five years he had walked to the square on May 8th with his father, his best friend, and his friend's mother. It wasn't something they had made a point to always do, it was just something they'd done every year because they wanted to. Because it might be the last time they ever did. But this year the boy had walked to the square with only his father. And it wasn't until he reached the other seventeen year olds that he realized just how different the walk had felt. It was like half of his family had been missing.
"You go ahead with your dad, I'll catch up. I just have to help my mom with something before we leave."
It had seemed like a normal statement and the boy didn't think anything of it while it was being said to him. But now he'd been standing there for twenty minutes and his friend still hadn't shown.
Where is he? He thought, horrible ideas creeping into his head about where he could be, what could have happened.
He's dead. He tried to hide with his mom and the Peacekeepers came by for final searches and found them. They shot her on sight and are waiting for the reaping. If he's not picked, then they'll kill him too.
That seemed to the boy like the most likely scenario. He kept looking though. The rain falling in his eyes, making everything blurry and indistinguishable. The only thing he could clearly identify from a distance was the escort's cherry wig.
He craned his head around to look at the clock tower behind him. It was the tallest structure in District 8. It served to let everyone know what time it was, so no one was late for their shift at the factories. Punctuality was a necessity in 8.
Eleven twenty-nine. It read.
He sighed in frustration and fear, desperate for his friend to show.
"Scott, I swear," he mumbled to himself, still looking at the clock, "if you're not here in two seconds, I'll-"
"You'll what?"
An out of breath voice asked right behind him- or in front of him since it was just his head that was backwards. The boy jumped, letting out a small yell and causing a few heads to turn in their direction. Luckily, the rain muffled it for anyone far away. He whipped his head around and stared daggers at his friend, furious at him for scaring him, angry at his being late, and also immensely relieved that he'd finally shown.
Scott broke into an open mouth grin at the boy's reaction. He hadn't tried to scare him. But he was really glad he did.
"Where the hell have you been?" the boy asked.
"My mom's been sick all week, I was helping her layer up because of the rain." He told him as he tossed his already soaked hood back over his head.
"Really? That took this long?"
"Well, by the time we left, the crowd had already formed. The lines at the sign in were really long and they started pushing people towards the side streets. Mom's on one of those now. I had to run to make it here and see that look on your face." He grinned again but his friend wasn't having it.
"Don't do that again." He said, "I thought you'd both tried to hide and they'd found and shot you or something."
"Seriously?" he said with a lift of an eyebrow. "Dude, they don't shoot you for hiding during the reaping."
"Oh yeah, how could I forget? They just throw your ass in prison!"
"Calm down, man." He was ignored.
"No, wait. They'd throw your mom in prison. They'd send you to the community home."
"Stiles, quit hanging onto this." He laughed. "I'm here, okay. Quit worrying."
A girl next to them gave Scott an icy glance. Like it was a sin he could even think about smiling on such a day.
Stiles noticed it too.
"Wipe that look off your face. No joy is allowed today."
They both straightened and turned their attention back to the stage just at the clock read eleven thirty.
The mayor rose from his chair and walked to the microphone. He then began the decades old speech that was recited every year. Altogether, reapings usually took about twenty-five minutes and the speech was a good fifteen.
Silence was expected during reapings, but Scott and Stiles hadn't abided by that rule for five years. So why start? Besides, Stiles wasn't finished.
"Next year," he grumbled in a whisper. "We are walking together. All four of us."
"Yeah, of course." Scott agreed. "It'll be our last year. And we'll walk home together and throw a freakin' party afterwards. Just the four of us."
Stiles could feel the weight Scott's last statement held. And he knew what it really meant.
"My dad's not allowed."
Stiles knew better than anyone the problems Scott had with his father. And, being a genuine friend, he tried to despise Scott's dad just as much as Scott did.
Scott's father didn't live with him or Scott's mother, Melissa. He wasn't allowed to. Because despite the fact that Peacekeepers constantly had relations with citizens, there was an unspoken rule that they could not marry or live with them. When McCall found out he'd gotten Melissa pregnant, he asked to be transferred back to District 2 where he stayed for a few months. He eventually came back for the birth, but Melissa said she didn't want him around. Scott said they must have had an intense fight because whatever his mom said to him, it kept him in 2 for seven years. Then he came back once every few years on Scott's birthday with some fancy gift that Melissa and Scott immediately sold once he'd left. But, when Scott turned fifteen, he came back to stay. He didn't hang around the two of them a lot. But he did get a good job set up for Scott, working in the Mayor's office. Scott would have loved to say he was too proud to take it. He would have loved to. But he and his mom weren't doing so great financially, so. Scott knew part of the reason his dad got him the job was so they'd be in the same building most of the time. But Scott put effort into avoiding him like the plague. That was where they currently stood.
"Let's just get through this year first." Stiles said, trying to get Scott's attention off of his father.
"Yeah. Yeah, you're right." Scott agreed, his anger retreating. He wanted to change the subject too. But, at that moment, lighter topics weren't really filling his head. "Is your name in eighteen times?" he asked.
"Yeah. You?"
"Same."
However many years you've been in the reaping pool is how many times your name goes in. But, for a year supply of grain and oil for one person, you can add your name in as many times as there are members in your family with each existing vote. Your official family, as in who you live with. Since Stiles and Scott only lived with one other family member, they both had their name in eighteen times.
When they were thirteen, Scott and Stiles suggested to their parents that they get married, making their family larger so the two of them could put their names in more times. The idea was laughed at in the moment, promised to be thought about for the boys' sake, actually contemplated for a few years, then disregarded. Their eligibility was almost up now anyway.
The crowd's silence eventually enveloped the two boys. They remained quiet as Deaton continued with the speech. He just started in on the Dark Days and was droning about the ill-fated uprisings in the thirteen districts, his voice amplified by the speakers placed all around the square, overlapping the steady drum of the rain.
A small prick of a thought entered Stiles' mind. It wasn't the same thought that was in every other kid's mind at the moment. What if it's me? Don't let it be me. That thought eventually overtook him every year. But, for some reason, this year, it was a different idea. And a thousand times stronger.
What if it's Scott?
They'd talked about this before. Of course they had. Every person in Panem had had this talk with someone; what to do at the reaping if someone you love is picked. He and Scott even had a pact. No volunteering. If one of them got picked, that was it. That was how it had to play out. Physically, Scott was a little bit better off than Stiles. He was stronger, faster. He, on several occasions, had tried to convince Stiles he could maybe win a games. It was his way of trying to convince Stiles that it'd be better if Scott volunteered for him. But Stiles just laughed and brushed it off, wanting to avoid the topic altogether. But he knew that when it really came down to it Scott would volunteer for him in a heartbeat. But Stiles could never let that happen.
In his mind, the world needed Scott much more than it needed Stiles. Their parents needed Scott more than Stiles. Scott was there for everybody. He was so loyal it physically hurt. Stiles knew that if he died, Scott and Melissa would take care of his dad. Scott would continue to work at the mayor's office, then pick up shifts at the factories. Scott wouldn't let anybody down. He'd push himself and pull everybody through. Scott would get over Stiles' death because he had to. But Stiles, if Scott died, didn't know how he could make it without his best friend. Stiles didn't think he would be anything without Scott. But he knew that he could protect him. If his name was called.
So, that thought that was running through all the heads around him now ran through Stiles' mind as well.
Don't let it be me. Please don't let it be me. If it has to be one of us, let it be Scott. And I'll volunteer.
I'll volunteer for him.
"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks."
Deaton's speech was over. He began reading the list of District 8's past victors.
Stiles felt his chest tighten at the first name and Scott placed a hand on his shoulder. Then Stiles blinked away the rain from his eyes and the feeling evaporated by the time Deaton spoke the last name.
"And now I introduce District 8's new escort."
Stiles leaned over and whispered to Scott, "What happened to Jennifer Blake?"
"I heard some girls at school talking about it." Scott told him. "Apparently she's been upgraded to District 2."
"Ah, a dream come true." Stiles smirked. He looked at the new escort rising from her chair on one of the screens near him.
She was teetering on heels the same color as her wig and wearing a suit that was the starkest white Stiles had ever seen. He peered around the heads in front of him to catch a glimpse of her on stage. She was practically glowing compared to the grey wash that the rain gave everything else around her.
"What do you think of this one?" Scott asked.
"The same thing I think of everyone from the Capitol." Stiles deadpanned.
"What do you think she thinks of us?"
Stiles thought for a second. "'At least I'm not in District 12.'" He spoke in a high voice, attempting the Capitol's ridiculous accent.
Scott chuckled at the horrible impression.
"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" she said the lines in the exact way Jennifer Blake did every year. The same way all the escorts did.
She was smiling, but it was strained, Stiles observed. It flickered in the corners like she was uncomfortable, sad. And he briefly wondered why she was there, since she didn't seem to be up to the high, peppy standards of the usual Capitol escorts.
"Ladies first! As always!" she tweeted like a trained bird.
She crossed to the glass ball on the left. Not wasting any time, she plucked a slip off the top and was back at the microphone.
Scott and Stiles didn't really have any friends who were girls that they felt they should worry about. But they still held their breath as the faux redhead unfolded the paper.
She called out in a clear voice, making sure to be heard in the back, even over the rain. "Meredith Walker!"
A sharp wail pierced the air. It ripped through the silence like tissue paper, sounding from the section in front of the two boys.
Meredith Walker. Stiles thought about where he knew her from. But she wasn't too hard to place. She was one year older than him and Scott. They had always gone to school with her. When they were thirteen there was an accident in one of the factories. A large piece of machinery malfunctioned and it caused a minor explosion. Several people were killed. Including Meredith's father. Her mother had died giving birth to her. Stiles remembered her as being usually quiet, keeping to herself. She made good grades, had a few friends. But after losing both her parents, she was never the same. They carted her off to the community home, which didn't help. People quit talking to her. She spent every day mumbling to herself in corners, ignoring the world. Now that it was her last year of school, no one knew where she was going to go. Once the kids in the home finished school, they were kicked out. And she hadn't been able to set foot near a factory or mill since her dad died. She'd probably end up living on the streets.
Well, not anymore. Now she was going to die before she turned nineteen.
A few people in front of Scott and Stiles started moving, creating a small space. The cameras landed on her. The two boys looked at the screens. She had collapsed in a pathetic heap on the wet pavement, no one reaching out to help her. She hadn't fainted. They could see her open eyes on the monitors and her lips were moving frantically, mumbling something only she could hear. Three Peacekeepers surged forward. The eighteen year olds parted swiftly for them. They grabbed the poor girl and gruffly pulled her to her feet. She was sobbing uncontrollably, her face twisted with devastation as they half guided, half dragged her to the stage.
They pushed her up the stairs and then she was on her own. She bowled forward and Stiles was sure she'd meet the ground with a thud. But at the last second, the escort was there, helping her regain her balance.
The escort offered the girl a sympathetic smile. And Meredith managed to walk to the right position on the stage, still sobbing, by herself.
Stiles was shocked that the woman didn't look down in disgust at the soaked patches Meredith had put on her pristine outfit. He watched her move in her once white suit, now spotted with grey, to the glass bowl filled with boys' names and his heart began to beat faster. Once again, she grabbed the nearest slip and proceeded back to the microphone.
"The male tribute from District 8 is…"
Stiles expected things to slow down. He thought that was what happened in a moment of sheer panic. The universe took pity on you and gave you a little extra time to deal with what was happening. But the universe had never seemed too fond of Stiles. So he tried to will the world to slow down, just to give him a few more seconds. But in the blink of an eye, she unfolded the paper and prepared to call out a name. The escort opened her mouth and then immediately closed it again. Her brows furrowed, forming a crease and Stiles knew. He knew that only one name could cause such confusion.
The woman on stage just decided to wing it. The only definable letters that came out of her mouth were a 'g,' an 'n,' and an 'm,' all surrounded by various vowel sounds. But she spoke the last name clearly and without hesitation.
"Stilinski."