AN: Okay then, here goes... I've never written anything for this fandom before, but I've always loved the Hunger Games since back in 2012, when I read them for the first time. As a reader I was captivated by the story, and intrigued by the world Suzanne Collins had created, often asking myself about other games, about the victors of years gone by, of their stories... I used to imagine people who might've won, and how they might've, eventually coming up with some plot ideas and longing to write about them, to tell the stories of these other characters I imagined... now here we are, seven years later, with me writing those stories to share them with other people. I'm aware this might not be entirely canon, as it's my own characters, but a lot of familiar faces are going to make an appearance, so please bear with, and don't hate too much.
To anyone who reads this, I'd like to thank you in advance for reading and say I hope you enjoy it. Please tell me what you think in the comments, and if you fancy reading more, drop me a follow or a favourite, as every bit of feedback is always very much appreciated.
"I knew who I was this morning, but I've changed quite a few times since then."
Lewis Carroll (Alice In Wonderland, 1865)
Reaping days are hardly something to gloat about. It just isn't the way it's done; not here, anyway. Or, at least, not in my family. Not since my mother lost her brother to the Games in the last Quarter Quell. The 50th Hunger Games. When there were twice as many tributes. The odds weren't in my uncle's favour that morning when he woke up. Clearly. They certainly weren't in his favour a week and a bit later when he was murdered by that guy from twelve. A knife slit through his throat and my uncle become nothing more than a corpse on the floor; declared dead by a single shot of a cannon. No gracious last words, no real goodbye to the weeping family back home. Castor Matthews. District Four. That's all. Not that anyone would remember him amongst the sheer number of tributes that year, all of them innocent children herded onto trains to be killed in an arena like lambs to the slaughter.
The same thing will happen today, some seventeen years later. The 67th annual Hunger Games. Happy Hunger Games, may the odds be ever in your favour. Live long and prosper, or at least survive until someone else – or worse, the gamemakers – decides your expiry date is coming early. Then there's the twang of a bow string, the whoosh of a knife flying through the air, the thud as the spear hits its target… then silence. Utter silence and a body on the ground, chest rising, often erratically as the body's systems turn critical. Perhaps a gasp, or a splutter, a scream… but then comes the inevitable silence when those systems fail, and imminent death is unavoidable. Then comes the cannon… game over.
There'll be two of them getting shipped off to an arena this year. Two unfortunates (or, as the Capitol prefers to say, tributes) will have their names drawn from those big glass balls on the stage in a few hours, with a piece of paper pulled out and read to the crowd in the square, and from there they'll both be gone forever. Maybe not forever, perhaps one of them will return, but the odds of that are unlikely. Better to write them off as dead and believe they won't come home. The families will start to mourn soon after, as they – with the stunned friends of the unfortunates – flock to the Justice Building where some hurried goodbyes will be made before a train pulls into the station and that's the end of that.
How do I know so well what happens? I've never been a tribute myself, and nor have any of my immediate family – except my uncle – but he was dead before I was even born. Somehow my friends have slipped the noose of the games. It's just from years of doing what everyone in this damn country does so well… watching. That's all anybody here seems to do. Watch as the peacekeepers crack their whips and force us into their boats, out fishing in the seas. Watch as they lead away anybody who so much as hints at dissent. Watch as the names are drawn on reaping day and an endless number of tributes arrive in the Capitol. Watch as the games go on and on…
"Cassie? You ready?"
I jump up from my bed at that, knowing already what I should be doing. I glance at the clock and feel my heart sink when I notice the time. Ten o'clock. The Reaping starts at half eleven. That gives me an hour and a half to get ready and make my way down to the square with Julius.
My older brother pokes his head around the door then, his ginger curls a mess on his head. "Well, you're a sight for sore eyes this morning, aren't you?" he jokes, walking in and sits down on my bed as I pull the turquoise dress Mother laid out last night from the tiny closet.
"Can't say you look any better yourself, do you J?" I retort with a smile, knowing the words that fall from my lips are lies.
Tall, athletic and stunningly beautiful, it's no wonder my brother has a reputation amongst the district of being an angel. Or for being the district heartthrob. Everyone loves Julius, and I'm no different. He's my big brother and best friend, a constant fountain of optimism on the days where I struggle to find any.
"I – at least – try to look good. Unlike some people…"
He throws the pillow at me then and I can't help but laugh, because try as I might, I have to admit he's right there.
I make zero effort with my appearance, so I have to thank whatever deity is out there for our family genes. Perhaps I'm not as lucky as Julius with my looks, but I'm still what most people would deem as fairly pretty – something that can come in handy when food's running low as it takes very little effort to convince the boys I'm in school with to share what they've got.
I pull the dress over my body, and button up what I can reach. "Make yourself useful, Julius, and do the ones left over."
"Will do…" he replies, and buttons the ones left, moving my own flame red curls out of the way to reach the top button. He then places something around my neck, and steps away.
My hands immediately reach for the pendant dangling just below my collarbone, admiring the bronze fish hanging there. "J, this is beautiful…"
"It wants to be Cass, seeing as it cost me a pretty penny," he begins, but he pauses for a second. "But every penny was worth it."
"Thank you," I whisper, walking past him and gently pulling the drawer beside the bed open.
Me and Julius have always gotten each other a little something on reaping day, often something small and sweet that we could make ourselves due to our lack of funds. But with his recent promotion and increased hours out on the boats, Julius clearly had more money put away to spend this year. Of course he would, now he's eighteen. Today's the last time his name will be in the reaping balls, with nine of those precious paper slips bearing his name. There will be thousands of those things in there, and the chances of Julius being picked are slim. The chances of me getting picked are slimmer than that, with only five in total with my own name written on them in careful print. Realistically, I have nothing to worry about. Or at least, a lot less to worry about than anyone else in the district.
"Here," I say, lifting a box from the drawer and handing it to him.
Gently, he removes the lid, taking the thing inside out.
I have to admit I was pretty proud of my find with my present for Julius. A woven leather bracelet, with a small gold charm, the metal moulded to resemble one of the tridents he uses out on the boats. It cost me everything I had to buy it, but I knew he'd love it when I picked it up.
"This is amazing," he whispers, strapping it around his wrist. I smile when I see how naturally it fits, contrasting perfectly with his tanned complexion.
I turn my gaze towards the clock on the wall and see that it's coming up half ten. That gives us an hour to kill before we need to be in town.
Silently, I make my way towards the dresser, taking a seat and picking up the brush. Julius just watches as I pull the thing through my hair, chuckling when he sees my face screw up in the mirror whenever I hit a tangle.
Somehow, I brush out all of the knots and tangles, leaving my long hair falling in red copper curls. I then start to plait it, picking up the pins and sticking them in where it feels right.
The whole process of sorting my hair takes a good fifteen minutes, until it's all pinned up without a hair out of place – just how I like it.
"Taking your time there, aren't you?"
"No shit," I mutter, stifling a laugh as approaches me and pulls faces in the mirror.
"Hurry up!" he jokes, spinning round. "Why do you care so much today of all days?"
I ponder on this and shrug. "Might be the last time I ever do my hair in front of this mirror, I guess."
"Don't be ridiculous, Cass," he replies, shaking his head so much that his own hair flops over his face. "The odds couldn't be more in your favour if it was us deciding them."
"Don't tempt fate, J," I mutter as I stand up, making my way to the door. There's not long left now, and I wouldn't mind taking a walk by the sea before we head to town.
My father stands in the living room, his back to us, as we walk in. Hearing our footsteps, he looks up, his face devoid of emotion but his eyes brimming with pride.
"My angels," he whispers, as he opens his arms, pulling us both into an embrace. "You both look so, so grown up…"
"As do you, Papa," I joke, breathing in the familiar smell of salt that always seems to follow him around. Maybe it doesn't just follow my father, because it's always about here. Perhaps the salt scent just lingers everywhere in the district, just a constant reminder of who we are, of the purpose we serve. We are, after all, District Four: Fishing.
He takes a step away from us, giving a hoarse laugh, as he inspects our appearances. He nods at mine but takes a step forward, undoing the top button of Julius's shirt.
"There," he says, with a slight smile.
"Will we do, Papa?" Julius asks, and my father merely nods.
"Very nicely," he replies. "Very nicely indeed."
"How was work this morning?" Julius says, noticing the way a silence had started to descend, clearly hoping a discussion about work would divert our attention away from thoughts of the reaping and speculations of what it's outcome could be.
"Work was, well, work. Early finish, as they do every year."
"You're home earlier than usual," I note, and he looks away. "How come?"
Staring at his shoes, he shrugs.
"Papa?" I prompt. "Why did they let you out so soon?"
I knew it was hardly generosity on the peacekeepers' part that brought my father home with time to spare.
"You all know John's boy, don't you? The youngest?"
"Tim?" Julius says. "He started on Mark's boat a few weeks ago. Now he's twelve they let him…"
The tears that form in Papa's eyes draw my brother to a silence.
"What happened Papa?" I ask, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"The boy," he stammers, not quite meeting my eyes, "the boat. In the dockyard. He jumped…"
"He jumped?" Julius repeats, his voice hoarse.
Papa nods, taking a deep breath. "Right from the jetty. Straight down and onto the rocks."
He doesn't need to finish his sentence to confirm what we already know.
Tim Would was dead. Dead by suicide.
"Any idea of why?" Julius demands, but we both already know the answer.
"Nerves about today, I suppose. Especially after what happened to Jasper…"
We all remain in silence when Papa mentions Jasper Would. Neither me nor Julius knew Jasper remarkably well, but we knew enough of him to know who he was. To say hi to him in passing or to leave a message with him in the Would household when Papa had sent us with some news John desperately needed to know. And then came the reaping. Three, maybe four years ago, it was, I think.
And so John lost one son to the Games.
Now, it appears, he has lost another.
"Poor Tim," I whisper, thinking of the boy who – when we were growing up – would often follow me and Julius about when we were down on the beach. "Poor, poor John."
"Was he there?" Julius asks, his voice hollow.
"Who?"
"John," he says.
Papa shakes his head. "No."
"Do you think we should maybe go and see him? To tell him?"
"To tell him what exactly, son?" Papa retorts, looking Julius dead in the eye for the first time since we walked in the room. "To tell John that his only child threw himself off of the docks because he was so terrified of what might happen this afternoon?"
"What's going on in here?" My mother demands, walking through from their room.
"Nothing," Papa says, causing Julius and I to murmur in disagreement.
"Really?" she asks. "Because that doesn't sound like nothing."
"Really," he says, throwing me and Julius a pointed look. "Just a quota lost on the dockyard when a ship went down. Took Tim Would down with it."
"Oh my!" Mother exclaims, the expression on her face not quite matching the shock in her voice. I know the grimace on my face at Papa's obvious lie won't have been missed by her. "How awful! Is that why you're home so early?"
Papa nods. "They needed to clear the docks to salvage what they could and, well, you know."
We do know. They needed the docks clear so they could get down to the rocks and remove the body, thus removing any evidence of Tim Would's suicide. And they'd need to go and tell the boy's family of what happened. Except they won't, not entirely. It won't be recorded as a suicide. That would not look good on any records whatsoever. The cause of death will be force majeure. A terrible tragedy from which the poor boy couldn't be saved. Not suicide. Not something self-inflicted. Not something that might reflect badly on the regime of terror the Capitol holds over our heads, the thing they use to choke us when we find time to breathe in the never-ending cycle of labour and poverty.
Tim Would was twelve. And now he's dead.
When the silence grows too long, nobody makes another attempt at conversation. Instead, Julius just sits on one of the ancient chairs, ignoring the way it creaks at his body wait. Mother takes a seat opposite him, staring out of the window at the waves. Papa just stands frozen, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, his thoughts a million miles away from the lounge he's standing in.
And me? I just walk out the room, opening the front door and stepping out into the fresh air. Taking a deep breath of the salty air, I sigh when I feel the way it stings against my lungs. It always does. That's just how it is, living right by the see.
Following the winding path, I make my way down to the beach, to the quiet cove which – today – remains undisturbed by the teenagers who would normally frequent it as soon as school or shifts on the docks were over. I sit down on the dunes, carefully avoiding the areas where sand gathers, not wanting the inconvenience of the stuff sticking to it and making me uncomfortable for the rest of the day.
The familiar sound of waves crashing against the shore provides a level of comfort until I remember the thoughts I was trying to escape.
Timothy Would; whose final reality would be the sound, the blue, the spray, those waves crashing against those sharp, cold, rocks.
Forcing thoughts of the young boy out of my mind, I allow myself to get lost in the rhythmic sound of the sea, in the fresh smell of the beach, of the breeze in the cove that never seems to subside. Not that I'm complaining, for it's the breeze from the sea that seems to be the only thing that keeps things cool here in Four. Without the breeze, without the sea, I imagine things would be pretty different. There is the obvious, being that our industry probably wouldn't be fishing, but at the same time… it's almost as if that chill from the wind, the calm that nature exudes, it somehow blows away the feelings everyone here has bottled up inside them, stops them from brimming to the surface… clears away the threat of rebellion.
At the thought of rebellion I shiver slightly, knowing that – should the truth about that boy's death ever get out – it would more than likely bring on rebellion. No longer would the hardships my people face evoke fatigue or dissent… instead it would boil up the anger to the point it turns into full on explosion.
And then what would happen?
"You shouldn't think too hard, you know," a voice says behind me, and I can't help but smile at the sound of familiar footsteps approaching me. "It's not a good look on you…"
"And how would you know what looks good on me?" I muse, turning to face none other than Bree.
"Well, I am, after all, your girlfriend," she jokes before leaning in and placing a gentle kiss on my lips, "so I would say I'm very well placed to tell you what looks good."
"I'm insulted," I reply and pull away from her in mock horror. "I for one happen to know intelligence is very attractive."
"Only to me," she says with a grin, pulling me closer to her, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. I immediately mould into the embrace, the comfort of it making me feel the safest I've felt all day. "God Cass, I love you."
Smiling softly, I move just ever so slightly, enough to place my lips on hers. "I love you worlds, Bree," I whisper, feeling her grin grow wider. "Aubrey Jackson," I say, knowing I already have her full attention, "I love you more than you will ever know."
"Well you'll have to help me know," she says, and leans in. Instinctively I lean in, and kiss her, moving myself to get impossibly closer.
I'd have happily stayed there forever if it wasn't for the sound of coughing from behind us.
"Would you two like me to report you for inappropriate behaviour in public places?" my brother declares, frowning at us. "What happened to two feet at any one time, Jackson?"
Bree just laughs, pushing me off her and standing up, offering me her hand. I take it without a second thought.
"What happened to not butting in, Schuman?" she retorts and he holds his hands in the air as a gesture of mock surrender.
"Reaping day, Bree," he replies, and it's as if the mere mention of the thing removes any sense of humour from the situation. "I want to spend some time with my baby sis."
"Your baby sis is otherwise engaged," she says with a smirk and I can't help but giggle.
"Aubrey Jackson," Julius scolds, barely containing his own laughter, "I introduced you to my baby sister, so please don't make me regret it."
"I would never," she replies and he nods.
"So what's happening out here then, other than social misconduct?"
"I just needed to gather my thoughts," I mutter, "then Bree showed up."
"You okay Baby?" she asks, her voice flooding with concern.
"Yeah, I'm good," I lie, because I don't think anybody at all in the entire country of Panem is ever okay on Reaping day. "Just got a bit on my mind at the minute."
"Of course," she says, pulling me into a gentle hug. "I'm always here if you want to talk Cass."
"I know," I reply, relaxing as I feel her arms around me.
"So am I, Cassie," Julius reminds me, and I shoot him a grateful smile.
"Thanks guys."
There's the sound of a horn, and we all tense, all knowing what it means.
"Well," Julius says, "the sooner this is over, the better…"
United, me and Bree walk through the square, holding hands and refusing to part; not even when we need to sign in. Peacekeepers move to try and break us apart, but step back when they see us merely walking towards two desks next to one another.
"Your hand, miss," the woman behind the desk gestures, and I hand her my left hand, keeping my right in Bree's grip. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Julius's ginger curls and watch as my brother makes his way into a pen with all the other eighteen-year olds.
There's a beep, and I barely register the woman's monotonous 'you may progress' as me and Bree follow the throng of young people, noticing all of the familiar faces surrounding us.
We slip into the section marked sixteen, finding a spot next to girls from school. The only time I let go of Bree's hand is to embrace Chloe, my best friend.
Every year, the sheer number of children gathered in the square overwhelms me more and more. I don't know why exactly, but I think it says a lot about how many people live in District Four, and quite possibly makes the injustice of the whole Hunger Games situation a lot more profound. After all, from the hundreds of girls on this side of the square, only one poor girl will be forced to walk up to the stage, offered up to Capitol as a lamb to the slaughter. Same for the boys. Just one. Insignificant, aren't they, in the grand scheme of things? Not to their family, and the small circle of beings they touch in their everyday life, but beyond that… most insignificant. Disposable, even.
I wince when the man on the stage taps the microphone.
"Welcome all," he begins, and both me and Bree snigger at his high pitched voice.
These days, the garish appearance of Ricky Jamais doesn't seem to phase us. He's been the only constant of the Hunger Games for District Four, acting as an escort for the tributes every year for as long as I can remember. With his metallic blue hair, gold tattoos stretching down his face, wacky clothes and platform boots, his appearance this year is most amusing.
As he starts his usual spiel from the Treaty Of Treason I find myself tuning out, my thoughts miles away from the square and the threat of the reaping balls, instead residing on the sand dunes I was sat on just a mere hour ago, thinking of the way Bree's lips felt against mine, longing to feel that way again…
"Cass, look at his nose," Bree whispers, and I stifle a giggle when I see the way his nose rises up as he speaks, making – even from here – the bleached pink nose hairs just visible.
"Now," he says, drawing my attention to the matter at hand, "it is time we select our brave young champions. So… ladies first…"
He approaches the large glass ball, dipping his hand into the sea of names, moving the slips about until he picks one out, drawing the paper out with a flourish.
"And this year, I can tell you the female tribute from District Four is…" there's a brief pause as he unfolds the slip and a collective gasp as he reads the name on the paper.
I almost don't listen to the words and almost don't catch them over the noise of everyone's gasp, but it's the way Bree tenses, and her grip tightens, and the way everyone else's gazes suddenly become fixed on me that fill me with dread.
"Cassandra Schuman?" Ricky stays from the stage, clearly repeating my name. "Come on now, no need to hide."
Gulping, I let go of Bree's hand, apprehensively making my way through the familiar faces, all of them parting as I approach.
"No." Bree mutters. "No. No." She pushes through them, right behind me. "Cass you're not going."
I turn to face her, and feel her grip on my wrist. "Bree, let me go."
"Cass, no."
"Yes."
"I can't let you go there."
"Nor can I let you."
She opens her mouth to shout. "I – "
I cut her off before she can finish. "Don't you fucking dare Bree."
There's something in my voice there, the control perhaps, or the evident frustration that makes her hang her head slightly, letting go of my wrist. I make my way out, allowing the peacekeepers to escort me to the stage.
Getting up there, I let Ricky embrace me, recoiling at the overwhelming odour, or at least heavy perfume, that surrounds him. He says a few sentences in a far too cheery voice before he approaches the ball filled with the boys' names.
I watch how his hand grapples about before pulling one of the slips from the top out, and I feel my stomach sink when he opens the piece of paper, as standing beside him, I see the name on there before it's announced.
I watch as he reads the name, and watch the look of disbelief and horror cross the face of the boy in question as he stands stunned in the crowd. I watch as, like me, he makes his way through a parting crowd of people until he reaches the peacekeepers, letting them guide him towards the stage, his copper curls drooping, hanging over his face.
I vaguely hear the sarcastic comment fall from Ricky's lips about family values, and notice the way the boy's sea green eyes won't meet mine.
There's a brief round of applause from the people gathered in the square, and the only person I watch is Bree, noticing the way her normally tanned complexion has paled remarkably.
I think back to earlier this morning, remembering how I had convinced myself I had nothing to worry about. His odds were slim, and my own even slimmer.
Yet here we are, stood on the stage, my brother and I, both destined for an arena where – at best – only one of us will escape alive.
You see, Julius and I, we're now the tributes representing District Four in the 67th annual Hunger Games…
AN: Thank you to anyone who has read this up to now, and I hope that you enjoyed it. Please tell me what I'm doing right, what I could do better or what you'd like to see by hitting me up in the comments. Don't forget to follow and favourite if you want to be informed on any updates and read the rest of my story as I post!