Originally written for the Jan. 22, 2014 prompt at 31_days on lj: "They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate." Slightly expanded and edited afterward.
General warnings for implications of all the canon-typical stuff (death, violence, alcoholism, etc.) apply. Some slight liberties taken regarding District 5's relationship to the rebellion, because I will be forever wondering why 5, 9, and 10 were not involved during the 75th Games (aside from too many characters for the author to manage).
On the morning of the day of the reaping for the 75th Hunger Game, the four victors of District 5, a perfect unbroken set in the only district where every victor crowned still lived, headed through the midst of the divided crowd up to the stage with Peacekeepers flanking them on either side.
Phebe, the youngest, though far from a child, went first, the only one whose step was entirely unaided. Her red hair blazed out like a trail of fire behind her. Her face was set like stone, her gaze piercing, her mouth tight in a familiar grim line. Externally, she faced this reaping much like all the others. She was intent not to give the Capitol any sort of show like they were undoubtedly doing in all or nearly all the other districts. She had not proved particularly entertaining in any of the arenas her post-Games life had foisted upon her. It was her talent, her protection, to blend into the background. Let them forget her and ask instead for someone else. No Capitolite had paid twice for the pleasure of her company. Even her rarely provoked dismay had been found boring.
And Phebe's fear was not for public consumption anymore. She had tried not to act frightened the first time, but everyone had liked best to see her as a scared little girl- they'd picked out and played again and again the shudder that she'd tried so hard to hide- she wasn't strong enough, they'd told her, to play tough (Shy and Valse, two tiny people, had loomed over-large in her shellshocked mind, telling every tribute doomed into their hands- aside from Hamlet apparently- what to do to lose and not pin more responsibility onto them that would take them away from their afternoon tea). Well, she hadn't won by being a scared little girl and no one would tell her otherwise now. Five's mentors had played a part in her win, but it hadn't been through any strategic advice they'd given. She'd disregarded it almost to the word.
She had no hesitation now in carrying herself fearlessly, but that didn't mean she would go willingly. Was she boring enough to be passed over? They could still call Shy, that pompous biddy. Oldest living female victor- that spot Shy held didn't mean anything to Snow, did it? Well, it didn't earn the old woman anything in Phebe's eyes either. She was a catty, self-interested opportunist. Phebe hoped Shy's name would be chosen. She'd lived long enough. One of them had to go. That part wasn't up for debate.
Phebe took her seat onstage and kept her head up, holding her eyes level above the crowd, though briefly, almost against her will, they brushed over the father of her so-promising tribute from last year. If Ms. Sharp had prevailed in the Games, this wouldn't have been happening. No, oh no. It hit her with a twist of her stomach. If only there had been something else she could've done. If only she had ultimately understood that girl better. This card wouldn't have been picked if the president had not felt his hand forced. The rebels in Eight or Three or wherever would not have risen for her girl. They would not have risen for Cato or Clove, singularly or together. …for the girl or boy from Eleven…that was harder to say. People were angry, but for once, Phebe was really just too worn out to burn like them.
Phebe was sorry for the bereft Mr. Sharp. She was sorrier for herself.
Valse came behind Phebe, maneuvering the best he could with his crutches. He'd had something of a bad fall on the day of the Quarter Quell announcement and had damaged one of the artificial bones in his left foot from the rebuilding it had undergone following his Games. His request to go to a Capitol hospital for surgery to fix it properly had been denied. He didn't understand why. He hadn't hurt himself as some sort of plot to escape the Games.
If Valse's name were called, he was going to go with dignity. He would not ask Hamlet to go in his place. He had lived a long enough life, if not an entirely satisfying one.
Just, his foot. It was hurting him. There would probably not have been time for a full recovery from the surgery before the Games anyway. The best local physician, with the skill, perhaps, but not the nerve (he claimed he didn't have the proper tools), would not operate, but prescribed just enough pain killers and roughly set the bone. With this foot, he would be dead at the Cornucopia (of course, without it, he would probably be dead at the Cornucopia anyway- he had not been particularly spry ever since the original crushing of his foot, as his shuffling that'd been parodied since his Victory Tour with the so-called "Valse Waltz" testified).
One of the Peacekeepers was growing impatient with his pace. They could have carried him or driven him if they had liked, Valse thought. He would not have turned down either option. But for whatever reason, the victors were meant to walk from their homes to the stage on their own as best they could. And Valse was hardly the slowest of them.
…He was not sure whether to hope they called for him or Hamlet. Would it be wrong to let Hamlet go? Age might be a factor to consider, but was what Hamlet did much in the way of living? And he and Shy had not entrusted their junior victors with any inside knowledge of the rebellion (there was not much he was entirely sure of himself- he had a suspicion Beetee and Ios were somehow holding him at arms length in their telling of it). Hamlet's wetted tongue was loose beyond his controlling. Phebe's moods were beyond Valse's trusting. Better a tribute who would drag the Games out longer and buy time- Phebe would play her old hand over again, Hamlet would- well, harder to say. Better for Valse to be out as a mentor, coordinating matters from the control room.
He sighed with relief as he took his seat. He would leave the choice to fate. He would not protest either name.
Shy shuffled third with her cane in hand. People weren't always sure she needed it. She didn't lean on it that heavily. Well, as usual, "people," didn't know anything. She was over eighty years old! She needed the cane just in case! The last thing she needed was to be injured in a fall. Wasn't who she was right enough not to be pestered over things like this?
"Can't you-" the nearest Peacekeeper tried to be kind about it, "Move, you know, a little faster?"
Phebe was already seated on the stage. "I am trying, sir," Shy replied. Valse wasn't all that far ahead. …Hamlet was the one they should be worried about.
People always seemed to think she was holding something back. Well, she wasn't. Not usually. Way back when people had thought she'd faked her illness as a Games tactic, but it had been a real disease that would've killed her if she hadn't been treated afterward in the Capitol. People thought she wasn't doing enough to save their tributes. Well, it wasn't enough most of the time, but it wasn't like she was purposefully holding back. She did what she could. She'd brought back Valse, hadn't she? You couldn't win them all. You couldn't win most of them. It was intended that way and Shy wasn't about to break herself over impossibilities like Pal (earth accept his weary body and sky his weary soul) or Mags (what a lady she was, puttering along with her funny optimism after all these years, she still charmed Shy in her silly way).
If she'd destroyed herself years ago, she wouldn't be here today. There weren't many rebels in Five, but this Quell was going to make more of them. They'd see that arena blow and they'd know what they should do. If she died for this- either in that arena or after, it would be worth it. She would die for a cause instead of for nothing. …though maybe her death could've been expected to stir the cause better if she'd made more of an effort to be liked.
And then, if the arena wasn't blown, she was comfortable in her position as someone not so clearly involved in things as to be unable to deny everything or blame the little misunderstandings on encroaching senility and return to her fairly cushy life. She'd live to fight another day. Valse wouldn't like it if it went that way, but she would convince him. It would hardly be the most difficult thing she'd convinced him of over the years.
The Peacekeeper gave her hand to steady her as she took the stairs.
Were it up to Shy, she'd take whatever line of fire the mentoring position put her in over the arena. Rescue priority would be to the tributes inside over the mentors, but a woman like her would never last to have a chance at rescue. …she still had some hope she might survive this. She had doubly beaten death when she'd survived the Games with her crown and her cure. She had outlived all but one victor before her and another handful after. She would remain calm and collected. She could do this.
Maybe even Phebe could too. …but she doubted it.
Hamlet was last. Whenever they had to go somewhere, Hamlet was last. This was because he was virtually always drunk or hungover or combating a hangover with more drinking. It had to be assumed that the Peacekeepers present had been given orders not to just throw him over someone's shoulder and carry him up to the stage like a stack of the local potatoes because it would have been far more convenient than the occasional pushing and prodding they were currently engaged in to keep him moving and on his feet.
Hamlet didn't know what he'd done to deserve this. Any of this, but this new part most of all. Snow hadn't had to give in to popular pressure and allow that rule change. He could've let them swallow those berries and then pulled out whichever he preferred- the boy, right? that pretty blond boy- and pumped his stomach and filtered his blood and maybe saved him and if not, well, maybe there wouldn't be a victor? Or a boy who wasn't really him could become Peeta. There had been a doppelgänger victor once. Valse had told him. He wasn't sure if it were true though or just a fairy tale (though who would choose to make a fairy tale about the Games with all the infinite fantasy kingdoms and better days past to pick from?), because after that one telling, he'd never heard anyone tell it again. Hamlet wondered who the doppelgänger victor had been. If he'd ever known him or her. …maybe he or she were still alive. Valse's story hadn't been too clear on that part.
…it couldn't have been Haymitch though. There was no way Haymitch wasn't the real Haymitch. The Capitol wouldn't replace someone so rebellious with a fake who was equally so. That was something Hamlet didn't mind too much in the Capitol. He liked seeing Haymitch.
Haymitch was really smart. He was the first one who knew anything about his name, for one thing. "Why'd your parents name you 'Hamlet?'" he'd asked, "Were they just asking for bad things to happen to you? It's a tragedy you know. Hamlet's a troubled guy. Hamlet dies."
"'Cause he was a prince," the youngest victor from Five at the time had answered, "Because everyone in Panem is troubled. Everyone dies. But at least Hamlet was a prince."
A prince was supposed to be noble. His parents had told him. Mum and Da had owned every sanctioned book their salaries at the plant would allow and seemed to have known many other stories besides. He'd never seen "Hamlet" in any of those books.
And now he was going to fulfill the destiny of that name. They were going to throw him back into the arena- going cold turkey on the alcohol would be misery enough, but how could he stop upon learning there was a fifty percent chance he was going back? Valse wasn't going to volunteer for him. He was already sure of that part. Valse was his mentor, but he didn't owe Hamlet that. He was as afraid of the arena (and it was bound to be an even more awful one that usual) as any of them.
Hamlet was going to die this time and it wasn't going to be any special tragedy to nearly anyone. No one would write about him (like all the stories he had never written- his supposed talent poured down the drain even faster than average). Twenty-three victors were going to die, and most, if not all, of them a greater tragedy than him. …but that didn't mean he wasn't going to fight it. Man had free will and he was meant to use it. (oh, but he didn't want to kill though- he didn't want to kill again, but if he had to defend-)
He tripped on the steps and was dragged the rest of the way to his seat.
"Graceful, Ham," Phebe rolled her eyes at him.
"Sorry," he murmured.
District 5's escort, only four years in the position and not particularly familiar with any of the victors, was able to pull the names with glee.
"Hamlet Seff!" and the man in question slumped a little lower in his chair, because the real odds might have been fifty-fifty, but they had felt to him like one hundred percent.
No one urged Hamlet to stand.
"Phebe Burke!" and the woman in question stayed perfectly still, taking it as stoically as she had planned.
The escort had them rise now. It was procedure. Everyone had to get a good look at them (as if they haven't seen them dozens of times before). They had to shake hands.
The older victors did not budge in their seats. It was unpleasant, but they would accept it. No one would rise to rebel for Hamlet or Phebe. There was still hope for their lives, perhaps, if they played their cards correctly. Last until the arena was broken- at that moment, any living victor-tribute would be one of the rebels. In District 13, even the most addled or reluctant would understand.
Hamlet swayed on woozy legs and Phebe was still as a tree on a windless day. They looked at each other as they shook hands, mulling over thoughts they could never have predicted they would be in a place to think. No one went into the Games twice. No one went with someone they had spent almost twenty years mentoring on and off alongside. Hamlet liked Phebe even though she was often cruel. Phebe liked Hamlet though she often hated his uselessness. The rest of the nation was witness as they shared this sad and baffled glance.
They would not be allies in the arena. Phebe's odds were better. She would not waste her time and he would not drag her down. It was every tribute for themselves- and what would their silent elders do for them?