title: the games
summary: it's only a game until you're playing it.
author's note: just a random little one-shot that popped into my head a while ago, and also my first attempt at fanfiction. basically, this is Katniss and Johanna kind of describing, almost walking you through the Hunger Games together, as if you were a tribute and they were your mentors. i really loved the chemistry and subtle parallels between them, and somehow this is the result.
disclaimer: obviously i do not own any rights to the hunger games whatsoever.
word count: 1,238
important note: the italicized words are Katniss, while the normal is Johanna.
I don't know how I did it. Survive, I mean.
I don't know how anyone does it. The suspense is enough to kill.
You know it, even though you don't want to believe it. One of them — if not both — has to die.
You're wondering who. You? Your best friend?
Your sister?
Sometimes you're chosen. Against your will.
Sometimes you have to volunteer. Because you have no other choice.
Sometimes there's silence. No one dares to speak.
Sometimes your loved ones cry out, calling your name.
Which would you rather have?
Everyone you know and love, begging you to stay with them?
Or no one who truly cares, leaving only the wind to take your place?
You don't want to go.
No one does.
Except the Careers. Who are three times your size and trained for practically anything.
Before you can think clearly, you're up on the stage, and it's time for one more name to be drawn.
Who will accompany you to Death?
Sometimes it's a complete stranger.
Sometimes it's a childhood memory.
Sometimes you don't care who it is.
Sometimes, you do nothing but care.
Saying good-bye is the worst.
You either clutch to your loved ones and pray...
... or sit alone in a room, waiting for the Peacekeepers to take you to the train.
The train. That's the real do-or-die time.
It's when you have to decide: fight, or die.
Luckily, I'm a fighter.
Unfortunately, so is the boy tribute.
More or less.
All you can do is hope and cry.
Crying is a weakness.
But sometimes showing your weakness, at least to yourself, is a strength.
Maybe even showing your weakness to the world is a strength.
Especially if the weakness is fake.
All you can do is think about what's ahead of you and what you left behind.
Nothing. That's what I left behind.
Everything. That's what I left behind.
What's ahead of you, you may not know until you get there.
If you have to wait until you get there, then it's too late.
So who do you go to?
Your mentor.
Sometimes, they might honestly be trying to help.
Sometimes, they're drunk and barely even pay attention to you.
The honest ones are easy.
The drunk ones, not so much.
Just ask for help. They'll give it.
But if asking doesn't work, then try stabbing their hand. In my opinion, that works more effectively.
Sometimes, they'll pour out their heart to you.
Sometimes, they'll just give you one piece of advice.
'Don't argue with your stylist.'
Stylists: don't underestimate them.
But don't overestimate them, either.
You thought the pain would start with the Games?
You don't know the meaning of pain.
Prepare for every square millimeter of hair on your body — except for your head — to be ripped off of your skin.
But still, you don't argue.
Because your drunk mentor told you not to.
Then comes the opening ceremonies.
This is where you wonder if your stylist is insane...
... or just plain stupid.
Possibly both.
Sometimes you clutch on to the chariot, trying not to look like a complete fool.
Sometimes you clutch to the boy tribute's hand, trying not to be burned alive.
But after a while, you lighten up.
You smile and wave, even blowing kisses to the crowd.
The night passes by, quicker than possible.
Then begins the training.
It's the first time you really get a good look at the other tribute's skills.
Some are terrifying. Some are terrified.
What other words of wisdom does your mentor tell you?
'Hide your skills and save them for the private sessions.'
Seems like this whole 'advice' thing is going one step at a time.
But you still do what they say.
Now is the time to show your weakness.
Or, rather, not show your strengths.
Axes.
Bows.
The lethal weapons you're dying to use remained untouched.
But finally, the private session with the Gamemakers arrives.
You show off, but not too much; you still want the others to think you're weak.
Or you might get mad, because they're as drunk as your mentor.
You can perform deadly maneuvers on the dummies around the room.
Or you can shoot an apple out of the mouth of their roast pig.
Impress the hell out of them.
Scare the hell out of them.
Then, the training scores.
Trying not to nibble on your manicured nails, you watch in anticipation of the worst.
An eight. Not bad.
An eleven. Definitely not bad.
But there's still one more thing you'll have to do before the Games.
The interviews.
Don't be too intimidated by Caesar Flickerman's appearance.
He really tries his best to make you shine.
The other interviews flash by, and suddenly it's your turn.
You might have a certain angle to play.
Weak, sniveling, and generally terrified, to bring the other tributes' guard down.
Or you might be completely dependent on your stylist's skills.
Be vague about your training score.
Be vague about yourself. Gush about the Capitol, if you have to.
And then it's over.
Sometimes.
Most times.
Or sometimes your District's boy tribute will confess his love for you, and the Capitol will go absolutely insane.
Not usually.
But there's always a chance.
Well, eventually, you get back to your District's floor.
And you'll get angry at the boy tribute and end up getting his hands cut.
Or you'll just go back to your room, alone.
It doesn't matter, though. The next day is the Games.
Do. Or. Die.
The moment of truth.
Any last words of advice from your mentor?
'Stay alive.'
Time flies by, and before you know it, you're standing on your plate, waiting to lifted up.
You have no idea what the arena will be like.
A desert?
An ocean?
The first thing you see is the Cornucopia, sitting in full glory in the center of the circle of tributes.
A giant golden horn, weapons spilling out of its mouth.
You have 60 seconds to get your bearings and form a strategy.
60 seconds is not enough.
The gong rings.
You either grab the first thing you see and run for your life...
... or grab the first thing you see and start killing whoever gets in your way.
After the bloodbath, you need to find water.
If you don't, you'll die a slow and painful death.
I almost did.
Don't get cornered by Careers, either.
You could always throw a tracker-jacker nest on them...
... or neatly slice their heads off with an axe...
... but there's always a chance you might not come out.
Try not to make allies.
Both of you will know the alliance will not last.
Have you ever watched someone die in your arms?
It's a painful experience.
Still, you move on and continue to survive.
But simply surviving is not enough for the Capitol.
Eventually, it comes down to two.
Only one can survive.
You might rely on your weapons...
... or love.
And somehow, you win.
Sometimes, you're not alone.
Most times, you are.
But the Games are not over yet.
It's cruel, how the Capitol forces you to watch your nightmare over again.
You might have someone to hold on to. Your lifeline.
But most times, all you have is yourself.
Then, you're crowned a winner and sent home.
But you haven't really won. Not really.
No one has ever won.
No one ever will.