A/N: I'm super excited to begin to share this story! Sorry for the super long Author's Note here - I just feel like I wanted to give a bit of information about this fic!
If you follow me on Twitter, you'll know I've been working on this idea for the last month. It's something that I've been extremely passionate about and have tweeted constantly about it. It started out as a project for Camp NaNoWriMo, where I set my goal to write 50, 000 words in 15 days. Not only did I achieve this, but I managed to hit 100, 000 words in just over 20 days. I'm currently just over half way done pre-writing this fic, so I figured it was time to start posting it! I've never written a fic so long before! Similarly, I've never written a fic so fast before. It's something I'm very excited about so I can't wait to share it all!
Now a few notes about the premise and the content of this fanfic...
-It is a Bellarke story, through and through. In saying that, this doesn't ONLY follow Bellarke - it focuses on Clarke's time in the Hunger Games. Of course, majority of her time will include Bellamy, but there is a focus on things without him.
-I will be updating the tags as more chapters are posted. I've tagged as much as I could right now, but I'm still writing multiple chapters of this fic. While I have a plan for how this fic ends, I'm known to constantly change my mind!
-You might need some background knowledge of the Hunger Games to read this fic. I tried to write it so anyone can read - even those who have never seen the movies/read the books. If you're ever confused by anything, please reach out and I'll be happy to provide further clarification.
-This doesn't follow Katniss' story. This is set nearly 30 years before the books take place! Take what you want from that :)
WARNINGS: this fic could be considered dark at times. I've limited the events to similar situations shown in either The Hunger Games or The 100... it will never include topics that weren't touched upon in either show (for example, there will be scenes of violence, but the descriptions will never exceed what was shown on screen in either fandom).
I will try my best to include a list of warnings at the start of each chapter (some will include violence, substance use, language, etc).
If anyone ever has any concerns, please reach out to me. I am more than happy to discuss this further with anybody!
For this reason, I have kept the rating of this fic to be consistent with the rating of both The 100 and The Hunger Games (teen) for now. I'll reconsider once I re-read what I have pre-written. Once again, I'm willing to discuss this with anyone.
I think that covers it all! Sorry again for the extremely long note. I hope you enjoy the chapter. xx
Chapter 1: The Heavy Hand
Clarke tugged on the hem of her grey dress, pulling the skirt lower on her body. Tension hung in the air just like humidity on a hot summer day – it was every where, and it was heavy. She could feel the same tension within herself – her shoulders were tight and her back rigid. She could feel her fingers trembling the slightest and her knees felt weak. Even though she had been expecting this day for the past year, she couldn't help but feel dread hanging over her like a cloud.
She always felt sick when it was time for the reaping – who wouldn't? Each year, two of her community members – her people – would be sent off to be murdered on live television. Each year, she would hear the cries of the families that lost their children. Each year, the friends of the tributes would gather and hold a small ceremony behind the school, paying homage to the children the Capitol refused to acknowledge. Each year, their district would be plunged into a pit of darkness and mourning, but nobody would be able to show their pain. Nobody.
The Capitol did not want families to be seen mourning. They didn't want people to associate the Games with death, nor the intense sadness that followed. They wanted the Games to be seen as a happy occasion – as a celebration of how far they had come as a country since the Dark Days.
Clarke couldn't handle it. Of course the family that lost their child would be filled with grief when their children was forced to fight for their lives. To think otherwise would be irrational; to think a family wouldn't mourn their child – to think their friends wouldn't grieve their lost brother or sister – was a fool's mindset. The Games weren't a celebration – they were a reminder that the districts had lost the war and they had to pay the price. The Games spilled the blood of innocent children; only once 23 children were murdered, would their hunger for revenge be quenched.
Each year, it was the same story.
The reaping was filled with tension, fear, and sometimes screams. Parents sobbed as their children were dragged into the town hall behind the stage. Friends held each other to keep from passing out. Peacekeepers leered at them, almost as if they didn't care someone they knew would be going to fight to the death.
As the children got sent to the Capitol, the district would have to act normal, but there was no way anybody could actually function. Her neighbours would share tense looks as they went to work in the morning. Whispers of condolences would be passed along to the family that lost their child while parents stood in the city centre to watch the Games. Mothers would hold their children that much tighter, scared that if they let them go, they too would be heading to the Capitol.
When the Games were on, that's when things got worse. They would be forced to watch pieces of the Games, no matter how brutal, as a reminder to everyone that that could be them. The Games were a sacrifice for the uprising 45 years prior, the uprising that ended in the destruction of District 13. They held the Games as a reminder to Panem; be grateful that we let you live. If you resist, you'll end up just like them.
Each year, districts gave two tribute to serve as a reminder that any uprising would be punishable by a gruesome death. Failure to bow down to the Capitol would result in their destruction. Like what happened to District 13.
What a twisted world, run by an even more twisted government.
It was rare that a tribute from District 6 would win – after all, they focused on transportation and medication. While other Districts had the opportunity to hone skills that could be used in the arena, they didn't. They couldn't exactly kill an attacking tribute by drafting plans for future railroads, or by checking their vitals. The Victors were few and far in between – and even then, they would usually win by pure luck.
It was the same thing every year.
Over and over.
Reapings and death.
Reapings and death.
Reapings and death.
It was the vicious cycle that never stopped. Clarke didn't imagine the cycle would ever end either. The Capitol was too bloodthirsty and the districts were too scared.
Except, it was different this year.
The tides had turned. The odds weren't in her favor. In fact, she doubted there were any odds at all.
As Clarke was pushed towards the front of the crowd, she stretched her neck around, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of her mother. She hadn't seen her in so long, not since she was ripped from her bed. The Peacekeeper shoved her forward the slightest bit when she slowed down, making her stumble. She caught herself before she could tumble to the ground and kept her eyes straight ahead.
"Keep moving."
Clarke resisted the urge to snap back at him. Instead, she pressed her lips firmly together and kept walking. She learned the hard way that the more she talked back, the more miserable they made her life. Her wrists rubbed painfully against the metal cuffs around her wrists, rubbing away at her already raw skin. The hand clamped firmly on her shoulder seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. She had to fight every urge to throw it off her.
This year, the Games were different. Her life was different.
Before, she had been one of the girls in the crowd. She would stand with her friends, waiting to hear who the unlucky soul was who would be forced to march to their death. She would glance across the town square, locking eyes with her best friend. He would pull a face at her which would make her smile – Wells was the only one to be able to make her smile on such a devastating day. As the young girl who was reaped would walk up to the stage, her friends would let out small sighs of relief. At least it wasn't them.
Then, once it was over, they would go back to their lives. Clarke would meet Wells at the library or at the park. Just last year, they sat under a tree in the park as he helped her cram for her anatomy quiz the next day. They ate fresh bread from the bakery and drank juice from the carton. Life was simple back then. Life made sense.
She could remember the exact events that lead her to this position with such clarity. It almost scared her how many details she remembered. The way her quilt felt against her cheek that morning. The way the house smelt of apple pie after her mother finished baking the day before. How her hip bumped into her side table, spilling her study cards across her bedroom floor. Although, the fact that she had been locked up in isolation for the past year with nothing else to think about could explain that fact. She frequently ran through the events that her life ended.
Last year, her father accidentally discovered a dark secret – one that nobody was ever supposed to find out. He was an engineer for District 6, one of the best. He just got a large grant to continue to develop an unmanned train system to go throughout Panem by using radio waves. His idea made headlines across the country. Government officials came to visit him. They received gifts and money from all sources; the Capitol, the citizens of the Capitol, wealthy citizens across Panem.
That was their downfall.
While working on the long-range radio, Jake Griffin picked up information that the Capitol thought they buried. District 13 was still alive.
Her father had been elated. She clearly remembered how excited he was that he found and contacted living people from a district that had supposedly been burnt to the ground 46 years prior. They made contact with a mother and a daughter living in the district. Clarke never spoke to them, but she heard their voices. They were real. They were human. They were alive.
And the Capitol had lied to them.
They told Panem that District 13 had been destroyed, there were no survivors. They had demolished the district for their part they played in the rebellion. They killed everyone; men, women, and children; mothers, fathers, sons, daughters. They took no mercy on the district. They paid for the crimes they committed.
The Capitol's wrath was what kept the other districts in line. If District 13 had never been destroyed, the Capitol would not hold the power they did. They would've won the rebellion and gotten out from under the thumb of the tyrants. District 13's destruction was what made the Hunger Games. They were a way to sacrifice children to the government, as a way to appease them and thank them for not destroying them like they did to District 13.
It was a lie.
District 13 was alive and well. They were never destroyed, the Capitol never wiped them out. They survived the Dark Days and the had managed to escape the hold the Capitol had on them. They survived, but the Capitol used their destruction to terrify the rest of Panem.
Her dad knew he had to tell the people – he had to protect his neighbours from all around Panem. They were being lied to, manipulated, and slaughtered for nothing. It was time the people knew the truth about District 13.
Her father had always been selfless. He always gave himself to whatever he could; being a good husband, a brilliant engineer, and an even better father. He gave everything for his people.
Even his life.
After she heard the radio with her dad, her family became secretive. He was always whispering to her mother. They were always casting her strange looks. One night, Clarke overheard him discussing the matter with her mother – he wanted to tell their neighbours, but she didn't. She didn't want to catch the Capitols attention. She didn't want to start another uprising, or be accused of doing so. While they hadn't been part of the original uprising, their parents fought that battle. Nobody wanted to see that again.
Later that night, Clarke made the mistake of telling Wells – her closest friend. She was scared of what would happen to their family, regardless of if her father decided to tell Panem. Trusting him was the biggest mistake of her life – later that day, her father was executed for treason and she was imprisoned for attempted treason. She should have never trusted him. After all, he was the son of the mayor.
She had been in lock up for the past year, in complete isolation. She wasn't allowed any visitors. She wasn't allowed to see the stars, or the sun in the sky, or hear the birds sing. She had been trapped in a cell, with Peacekeepers to keep her company. They never spoke to her. They never looked at her. They only shoved her around the facility when she needed to move rooms. That was the only human contact she had for almost a year. Even the light breeze on her skin made her feel like her skin was itching.
Now, she was outside for the first time in 347 days. This was the first time that she had seen the blue sky. This was the first time she had heard the birds chirping. This was the first time she felt the gravel under her feet. This was the first time she had heard human voices. She almost forgot what they sounded like.
The rough hand on her shoulder was completely foreign to her. She hadn't felt the heat of another human in almost a year. The touch was not friendly and it felt sharp on her skin.
She would have to get used to that again. Human voices, human touches. She felt so isolated, even while standing in the middle of a crowd.
She knew she should've been terrified as she walked towards the reaping, she couldn't help but feel excitement growing in her stomach. It almost felt like she was free.
But she knew.
She wasn't stupid. She wasn't naive.
She knew what this reaping meant to her.
The smile slipped off of her face. The icy fingers of death run up her spin, sending her hairs to stand on end.
Clarke knew that they couldn't keep her locked up forever. She would have to stand trial for her crimes as soon as she was an adult – just a few weeks away. They would never have her executed, especially for a crime that they couldn't tell the jury about. They also could never have her walk free – they knew she would speak as soon as she was out.
There was only one other option.
The Games.
Clarke knew this was it. No matter how hard the Capitol assured everyone that the draw was always random, she knew it was a lie. She knew that they could do whatever they wanted in these reapings, and they would always get away with it. Her name would be the only one inside that glass bowl on the stage – written hundreds of times over.
Clarke Griffin.
Clarke Griffin.
Clarke Griffin.
She wouldn't be set free – deep down she knew that. They would never let a criminal like her walk away with a secret as big as the one she held.
She was going to the Games.
"Right here." The Peacekeeper jerked her to a stop at the front of the large crowd. She could hear the whispers from the people around her, already gossiping about her. The Peacekeeper undid her handcuffs and left her alone.
She rubbed her wrists slowly, wincing as her fingers dug into her wrists. She twisted around, trying to catch sight of her mother. She looked for her signature white lab coat, but she couldn't see one. It had been a year since she seen her only family left. She was afraid she would never get to see her again. She doubted the Capitol would allow people to visitor her to say goodbye. She was a traitor. She held a secret that could cause uprisings and she was willing to speak. They would never let anyone speak to her again, fearing she would pass along the secret.
She didn't have too much time to ponder it. It wasn't even one minute after she was placed at the front when the escort for their district stepped onto the stage. Just like many other citizens of the Capitol, her hair and make up was done in an extravagant fashion. She rolled her eyes as the bubbly woman began her long winded speech about how wonderful the Capitol was and how needed the Games were.
What utter garbage.
Not only had she heard this exact same speech dozens of times before, but she also knew every word coming out of her mouth was false. But that was the Capitol for you – their words were as fake as their hair.
As the woman spoke, Clarke glanced around the crowd. Her eyes passed over classmates that she hadn't seen since the night she was arrested, and she could feel her heart in her throat.
She didn't realize how painful it would be to see everyone. They all had their lives ahead of them. They all had the chance to live. They had the chance to go to school, become whatever they wanted, marry who they wanted.
Not her.
Her life had been in the hands of the government as soon as they deemed her dangerous. As soon as she knew their secret, she wasn't a kid anymore – she wasn't a citizen. She was a criminal. She was a threat that had to be exterminated.
She was going to die.
She paused on that thought as the escort kept talking. If she was reaped, there was no way she would be coming home. They wouldn't bring her to the Games, just to let her walk free in a few weeks. If she was going to the Games, it was so the Capitol could assassinate her without any questions asked. That was the only time she would be treated like any other child. She would be lead to the slaughter.
"Now, let's move onto the main event." Those words hung heavily over the crowd. The whole act of the reaping reminded Clarke of poisonous animals – they looked pretty and inviting, but as soon as they drew you in, you would die. The reapings were always filled with the most beautiful people from the Capitol, sweet words would be read out loud, celebrations were to be had. But under it all? It reeked of death.
"Ladies first, hm?"
It was at this exact moment that Clarke's heart nearly stopped. She could feel her stomach turn to lead. The air was caught in her lungs.
She was going to die.
As soon as the lady read out her name from that paper, her life was officially sentenced. The Capitol would have effectively shut her up and eliminated their problem. She would be forced to go fight against people her age, each with stories similar to her own. They were all just children, trying to get home to their families.
And for what?
Clarke knew she would never make it out alive. She knew that the Capitol would never let her live, even if she was set to be the Victor. She held a secret they were desperate to keep.
She watched with baited breath as the escort stuck her hand into the glass bowl. She spun it around a few times with a sick smile on her face, almost as if she was picking candy from a store. This was all a game to her. Watching children die was a game to her – something to celebrate and look forward to.
Finally, her fingers latched onto a piece of parchment paper. She pulled it out of the bowl and stepped towards the microphone.
Even though Clarke hoped it wasn't going to be her, part of her wanted it to be. She knew she would die by the Capitols hands eventually for her crimes – why shouldn't she be sent to the Games? At least this way, she would save someone else from dying. In a way, she would be saving a life.
She kept telling herself this. She would bare this so nobody else would have to. The Capitol would never let her live with the information she had, what was the difference if she was murdered by a Peacekeeper or by a child in the arena? This way, she could be free. She could be out of her cell. She could hear human voices, feel human touches.
In some ways, the Games could be her last taste of freedom.
The lady looked out into the crowd, the same twisted smile plastered on her face. She held the crowd's eyes, drawing suspense. They didn't care. They just wanted to know it wasn't their kid going off to die. They wanted to know who they would mourn this time, so they could get back to their normal lives.
"Clarke Griffin."
Her mouth instantly went dry and her ears began to ring. No matter how prepared she thought she was, nothing measured up to this. She never could have prepared herself for those agonizing seconds of complete and utter silence, as everyone processed what had happened.
She could hear some girls whispering excitedly behind her – no doubt relieved that it wasn't them going to the Games. Clarke wasn't upset by their excitement – she had been in their position before. She was happy they would have the rest of their lives to live. She was happy that she wouldn't have to witness another child go off to the Games, just to return home in a body bag.
Without wasting another minute, she stepped forward.
At least it isn't a far walk to the stage, she told herself dryly. She only had to take ten steps before she was climbing the stairs. Her heart was racing and her palms were sweating as she climbed the stairs to the stage.
She glanced to her side, staring at the crowd one last time.
That's when she saw her.
Her mother.
Her eyes landed on Abby, who stood at the back of the crowd. Her eyes looked hollow – almost like she hadn't slept in weeks. Her hair was pulled back into a braid that hung down the nape of her neck. She looked different than she remembered. Older. Wiser. Broken. She no longer wore her white coat, nor did she have her files in her hands. She was frozen on the spot as she watched her only daughter – her last family member – climb to her death.
Their eyes were locked as she climbed each step. She hadn't seen her in a year, but looking at her eyes seemed to bring her peace and strength. She remembered why she was here – why she was doing this. It was for her father. It was for her family. It was for her people. It was her responsibility. She could see it in Abby's eyes; she was broken as she watched Clarke. Clarke felt it inside her too.
This was the last time she was going to see her mother.
She knew she wouldn't be allowed to say goodbyes – after all, even if she was a tribute, she was still a criminal. They wouldn't grant her any of the luxuries the other tributes would be given. No goodbyes. No training opportunities. Nothing.
Clarke swallowed hard.
She peeled her eyes away from where her mother stood in shock, and continued her journey up to the stage.
I did this for my father. I did this for my family. I did this for my people.
I did this for my people.
For my people.
She kept chanting the mantra in her head, trying to convince herself that this was okay. It would be okay. Even if she was taking her first steps towards her death, things would be okay.
Clarke knew deep down that she would be called to the Games, but she still held onto the sliver of hope that the Capitol wasn't a completely corrupted wasteland. She held onto hope that there were good people out there – people that wouldn't allow them to rig the reaping. Yet here she was. The Capitol was corrupt. They rigged to reaping to ensure she would be sent to her death.
It wasn't a mistake that she was called.
This was her punishment for her crimes.
She stepped towards the woman and reached to shake her hand.
She was in the game now.
Time to start playing.
She turned back out to the rest of the crowed, her eyes sweeping across the many people staring up at her. She didn't let her lips lift into a smile, nor did she laugh at the joke that the escort told. Her face was as stony as the mountains that outlined the Capitol. Her eyes were as cold as the snow that came in the winter. She wasn't a kid anymore. She wasn't just a criminal.
She was a tribute in the 45th Annual Hunger Games.
As she tried to keep her exterior cool and controlled, her mind raced and her heart pounded. This had always been her worst nightmare – standing at the top of the stage, looking out at her district. This was the last time she would see these faces. This was the last time she would hear the constant horns of trains passing in the distance. This was the last time she would smell the distinct scent of fuel burning. She was going to lose her home and everything that came with it; her friends, her family. She was going to lose herself.
She was going to die.
"Now onto the men!" Clarke took a steadying breath. How could someone be so bubbly during a time like this? She was calling children to their deaths. She was ripping families apart.
The escort moved across the stage, to the second glass bowl. Just as she did moments before with Clarke, she stuck her hand in and spun it around. Unlike her own reaping, Clarke had no idea who would be called out. The escort pulled out a name and walked slowly to the microphone.
"Macallan Fr-"
"I volunteer." The voice didn't hold panic or desperation like she imagined people usually held as they spoke those exact words. He sounded calm and collected. He sounded like he had been waiting for that exact moment.
Before the escort could read out the full name of the boy who had been reaped, someone Clarke never wanted to see again had stepped forward. His face was set in determination, refusing to show even a waver of weakness.
They locked eyes.
Suddenly, Clarke wasn't too sure if she could keep up her façade for the Games. While she knew she needed to remain neutral, all she wanted to do was punch him in the jaw.
Wells Jaha stepped forward, pulling away from the crowd of stunned students. A volunteer was rare. As he began to make his way to the stage, his father had jumped up from his seat on the stage. The mayor walked directly up to the Capitol officials sitting across from him, with fire in his eyes.
"No. Not my son." She could barely make out the words he was hissing furiously. She could see it in the way he held himself. He was terrified. As the officials tried to calm him down, he swatted their hands away. "Not my son. You hear me? I refuse to let this happen."
"Mayo-" Seeing he was getting nowhere with the Capitol officials, he stepped towards the escort.
"Who was reaped?" He snatched the slip of paper away from her. She let out a little squeak as he did so. He read the name to himself before turning to the escort again. "I'm sorry, but he will be the tribute. My son is not volunteering." She opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to find the words.
"Dad." Wells stepped onto the stage and pushed lightly against his father's chest. "Go sit down." The crowd had fallen completely silent. The Peacekeepers didn't know what to do. Wells pushed his father again, this time with more force. "Go."
"Wells…" He shook his head, determination set in his jaw and fire in his eyes.
"I mean it, dad. Go. I volunteered." He glanced away from Jaha, making eye contact with Clarke. She broke it instantly. Screw him. "I'm going."
"Good!" The escort jumped in finally, pulling Wells away from Jaha's grasp. Those from the Capitol never seemed to shy away from conflict, even if it was for their best interest. "It looks like we have our male tribute!" As Jaha went to reach for him again, he was pulled to the side by the Capitol officials. A Peacekeeper placed their hand on his shoulder, keeping him securely away from the freshly reaper tributes. Clarke couldn't help but feel mixed emotions. Not even being the major's son could save you from the Games. The Games were cruel like that – it didn't matter if you were rich or poor, privileged or not, sick or healthy, skilled or untrained – they treated you like the same. They weren't kids. They were animals sacrificed to appease the higher powers. "What's your name?"
"Wells Jaha." His voice was strong, unwavering. Clarke was reminded of the time he tried to break apart the conflict on the playground when they were 8. It ended up with him getting a black eye. She hoped these Games didn't end the same way, with Wells suffering. Even though she despised him for what he did, he was her best friend once. It felt like life times ago, but she felt it in her. She cared, even the slightest bit.
Once again, Wells and Clarke made eye contact. It killed Clarke to know she was going to be sent to fight to the death with Wells – her former best friend. Another part of her hated him, not only for volunteering, but for what he did to her father. He was the absolute last person she wanted to spend her final days with.
Screw it.
She didn't care about him. He ruined her life. That feeling she felt inside of her wasn't care for him; it was her mourning the man he used to be. He used to be her best friend. That boy standing beside her on the stage wasn't him. It was a monster.
"Well then, Wells, it looks like you want to be our latest star." She let out a giggle. Clarke wanted to vomit. "We are so looking forward to having two strong tributes, such as yourselves, represent District 6 at the 45th Annual Hunger Games! Good luck to both of you, and may the odds be ever in your favour."
A/N: Thank you for reading. I appreciate everyone who has given me feedback already and encouraged me to post. I hope you know who you are when you read this. The biggest thank you to you all!
I will be posting frequently. I have a tentative schedule of every Tuesday, when The 100 used to air. I will announce changes to this if there are any. To see my latest updates in regards to writing this fic, as well as if I have planned to change my update time, please feel free to check my Twitter (Pawprinter1). I'll be posting many updates regarding writing there.
Thank you for reading. I appreciate any feedback left in reviews and really enjoy seeing other forms of feedback like favourites and follows! Like I said, I'm super nervous about finally posting this fic, so let me know what you're thinking so far.
See you all in a week