As you all know, The Hunger Games were written by Suzanne Collins, obviously. Everything except the characters, quotes, and story background are our original ideas. This fanfic is being co-written by two people, TheColorIsPurple and pineapplegrl77.
Hope you enjoy and don't forget to REVIEW / ALERT / FAVORITE if you do!
Katniss:
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course she did. This is the day of the reaping.
I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Prim's gift to me on reaping day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.
As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log.
In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself. Gale. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Gale says I never smile except in the woods.
Gale:
Just the thought of the Reaping sends panic shooting through me. I've taken tesserae every year since I was twelve, that's a total of 42 entries. But I have to stay calm, or my siblings will mimic me. And we can't have that happen. But it's still early, so I decide I might as well get some hunting in. All the shops are closed, windows to houses shuttered. If we could protect ourselves by hiding, then no kids would ever die. But we can't. And so they just keep dying.
I enter the woods and retrieve a bow from our hiding place in the woods. It took Katniss years to trust me enough to give me one. That's one of the reason why I like her. She doesn't trust people, and for good reasons. Anything you say can be heard anywhere and be reported. The only place we can really talk freely is in the woods. In that way we're almost fortunate.
Not twenty paces into the woods, I see a squirrel. It's an easy shot and I take it down with almost no effort. Katniss is by far the better shooter, I think, as I examine the body. It was a shot through the head, not through the eye like she seems to be able to do automatically.
I glance around, and see the sun has just started to rise, and I get an idea. I pass the fence and then the Seam, enter town, and head straight for the baker's. It's a long shot that he'll even be up, rich people like them don't need to hunt for their food. But when I pass their window, I see Mr. Mellark's burly outline against the big oven that makes up the back wall of the shop. Knocking lightly, I step in.
"Hello, Gale," he says pleasantly, "You're up early."
"Yeah, just doing some hunting," I say absentmindedly. We talk for a while and then I make the trade.
I quickly head back to our meeting place, afraid of making her wait, a broad smile growing on my face as I think of what I'll say. I peek out from between the trees and see her crouching.
"Hey Catnip, look what I shot," I say, coming up on her from behind. I hold up the loaf of bread with the arrow stuck in it, and hear her laugh. She grabs the loaf, pulls out the arrow, and holds the puncture in the crust to her nose. While she's doing that I have the rare opportunity to study her closely. Her hair is up in her usual braid, pulling her hair away from her face. I've never seen her with her hair down, but I like to imagine that maybe it's about halfway down her back and a little wavy from braiding it everyday. Almond-shaped gray eyes reflect the sunlight streaming down between the trees, and her skin almost seems to glow in the muted light. She's relaxed, something I never see except when we're in the woods alone.
"Mm, still warm," she says, practically giddy. "What did it cost you?"
"Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," I say. "Even wished me luck."
"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" she says, not even bothering to roll her eyes. "Prim left us a cheese." She pulls it out from her foraging bag.
My expression brightens at the treat. "Thank you, Prim. We'll have a real feast."
"I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds—" I say with as much verve as I can muster as I toss a berry in a high arc towards her.
She catches it in her mouth and breaks the delicate skin with her teeth. I bite down on my share of the berries and the sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. "— be ever in your favor!" she finishes with equal verve.
We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.
I spread the bread slices with the soft goat cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley, which is teeming with summer life. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze, which makes the food all the more wonderful. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if the entire day off meant I could be roaming the mountains with Katniss, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o'clock waiting for the names to be called out.
But then I start to actually think about the Games—the pointlessness, the hopeless odds and cruelty, and I can't help but get angry. The gears start to turn in my head and before I can stop myself I say, "We could do it, you know,"
"What?" Katniss asks. Sometimes she frustrates me so much. I know she hates life in Twelve, but she doesn't seem to want to do anything about it. When I get angry and yell in the woods, she just listens and doesn't say a word.
"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," I say quietly. Now the words have left my mouth, and there's no calling them back. I can tell I've stunned her, so I quickly add, "If we didn't have so many kids." Vicky, Rory, Posy and Prim. And you may as well throw in our mothers, too, because how would they live without us? Who would fill those mouths that are always asking for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still nights when game has to be swapped for lard or shoelaces or wool, still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs growling.
"I never want to have kids," she says.
"I might. If I didn't live here," I say, not saying who I would want to have them with.
"But you do," she says, clearly irritated.
"Forget it," I snap back. Why can she never see how easy it would be without all this. The Capitol, the Peacekeepers, the starvation and the poverty, none of that exists in the woods. The conversation grinds to a halt and soon we changed topics and finished lunch.
We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries. I found the patch a few years ago, but I had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.
On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market that operates in an abandoned warehouse that once held coal. When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the mayor's house to sell half the strawberries, knowing he has a particular fondness for them and can afford our price.
The mayor's daughter, Madge, opens the door. I think she's in Katniss's year at school. Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an expensive white dress, and her blonde hair is done up with a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.
"Pretty dress." I give the compliment reluctantly. It is a pretty dress, but also ridiculously luxurious. She would never be wearing it ordinarilyI think of the hand-me-downs and repaired-time-and-time-again clothes the other kids would wear compared to her fine raminent.
Madge shoots me a look, trying to see if it's a genuine compliment or if I'm just being ironic. She presses her lips together and then smiles. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"
Now I'm confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing with me? I'm guessing the second. She could actually mean in though, I don't really know. But for some raeson her comment just ticks me
"You won't be going to the Capitol," I say coolly. My eyes land on a small, circular pin that adorns her dress. Real gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a family in bread for months. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."
"That's not her fault," Katniss says, always sticking up for people at the worst possible times. Not that Madge needs to be stuck up for..
"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," I say, struggling not to start screaming. Madge's face has become closed off. She puts the money for the berries in her hand. "Good luck, Katniss."
"You, too," she says, and the door closes.
We walk toward the Seam in silence. I know Katniss is mad at me, and I know its not Madge's fault that she most likely will never go into the Games, know what hunger and desperation feel like. And even though the rules were set up by the Capitol, not the districts, certainly not Madge's family, it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tesserae.
The tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another. Katniss thinks my rants are pointless, maybe they are. But someday, they may be useful, someday we may be able to do something about our lives.
We divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each.
"See you in the square," She says.
"Wear something pretty," I say flatly.
Prim:
I'm trembling and I need to stop. It's half from excitement, but Katniss will misinterpret and start scowling at the world for making me nervous. I pace around the edges of our small room with Buttercup yowling at my heels, demanding attention. Katniss will be here any moment, fresh with her game and trade from the Hob. I take a stuttering breath, my hands shaking a little. This will be my first reaping. I'm not worried about being picked, not at all, but I'm worried for Katniss and Gale and all the others. This will be the first time I am not just sitting with the adults and the children who are too young. This time I am not just the audience.
The door creaks open and I whirl around. It's Katniss, her eyes lighted up with that thrill she always returns with after a good hunt with Gale. She totes a softly bulging bag behind her and immediately my mouth starts to salivate, thinking of how long it's been since we've had a good meat stew.
She sees me and smiles. I smile back and twirl for her, me in my new ruffled blouse and skirt. They're really hers, from her first Reaping, but they fit me well enough. Mother has fastened it with pins, so no loose folds are flapping, or so I hope. At the very least the pins will hold for an hour.
I see Katniss's eyes begin to darken at the thought of today's Reaping and I push her towards the tub, the bathwater still warm from the fire. I sit close by as she scrubs herself, and make faces at her and laugh when she dunks her head down into the water. When she is done, Mother comes into the room and holds out one of her old blue dresses with a timid smile.
I dance around her, delighted with the outfit, and hold out the accompanying shoes. "Look, Katniss! They're practically new and you'll look so pretty!"
Katniss holds back from Mother's offering. "Are you sure?" I nudge Katniss's back not-so-casually and she relents, taking the dress from Mother's waiting hands.
Mother replies, "Let's put your hair up, too." I help her towel-dry Katniss's beautiful black hair and watch intently as Mother deftly braids it with her signature style. When she's finished, I turn Katniss's head towards our cracked mirror.
"You look beautiful," I say in a hushed voice.
"And nothing like myself," she laughs. She hugs me tightly and I know she's scared for me. I squeeze back but my nerves rush back all of a sudden and I feel tiny, so frightened and small. I knew I should be worrying for myself, but that was so silly with Katniss right next to me, with her four years' worth of tesserae and annual slips. It all adds up to 20 slips. Those slips have kept my family alive and I'm grateful for them, but I hate them at this moment. I hate them for giving away Katniss at such a deadly moment. They cause her vulnerability to the Capitol, when by all rights she should be and is a fearless person.
She pulls away from the hug after a while and leans back to get a good look at me. "Tuck your tail in, little duck," she says, and smooths my blouse. I quack softly and we grin together. Katniss replies with another quack and she laughs, that carefree whisper of a giggle that only I can get from her.
Mother has prepared the fish and greens, already cooking in a stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and bakery bread for this evening's meal, to make it special, we say.
Instead we drink the sweet milk from Lady, and eat the rough bread made from the tesserae grain, although no one has much appetite anyway. The next few hours are spent avoiding each others' gazes but huddled close together anyway, for warmth and for comfort and for the reminder of each others' presences.
One o'clock finally rolls around and Katniss is the first to stand from our pod of four, including Buttercup, who is sprawled on my lap. She straightens her dress and looks back at us. There might be tears in her eyes but I'm not sure. I take a deep breath and stand on unsteady legs, suddenly barely able to support Buttercup's weight in my arms. We help Mother up and we walk out of the house, closing the door securely. You never lock things in District Twelve. There's barely anything worth locking, anyways.
I try to slyly sneak my hand into Katniss's for support, and to my surprise, she squeezes back, harder. With my other hand, I reach for Mother's and we walk down the street together, an unbreakable chain of three.
It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square — one of the few places in District 12 that can be pleasant. You can smell the bakery from anywhere in the square and it's always comforting to know that food does exist even when people are starving. The beautifully frosted cakes in the bakery window almost seem like an art display and I love them. The square's surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it.
But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.
Peeta:
"Father! Mother! I'm going ahead!" I call into the shop. The ovens are cool and the air holds only the slightest hint of pastries. Today is the one day that everyone gets a vacation and it has to be the Reaping. I grit my teeth and shove my hands into my trousers pockets and walk out the doors. I turn left and the square is before me, the only sign of color in the entire district, except maybe for the Victors' Village. Everything else is covered with hints of coal dust, as always.
People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve- through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones toward the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, whether they're Seam or merchant, if they will break down and weep. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be informers, and who hasn't broken the law?
I walk silently past those people, heads down, not making eye contact. If I do look up, they'll start judging me—how healthy I look, if my facial features are good, if I might be one of those with countless slips in the ball, if my oddsare good. But its all up to chance. That's all we are, children of chance.
I nod to a few classmates, wave to some friends, and make my way to the cluster of 16-year-olds two rows from the front of the stage. We're sectioned off by a worn clump of braided cloth meant to act as a rope and I grimace, as I do every year, at the obvious sign of our poverty even at such a "festive" event as this once.
The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square's quite large, but not enough to hold District 12's population of about eight thousand. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.
We all exchange terse nods then focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the boys' ball. Only five of them have Peeta Mellark written on them in careful handwriting, but at the moment, that's five too many. I wring my hands in building tension.
Two of the three chairs fill with Madge's father, Mayor Undersee, a tall, balding man, and Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pink hair, and spring green suit. They murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat.
The town clock strikes two, and the entire audience jumps. The mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year.
I fidget more. By now, almost the entire audience is on their toes, looking as if they were facing a bed of burning coals they had to walk over. Except for the gamblers and the bidders. They have an eager look on, a disgusting twist of their bedraggled faces that I want to punch off. Almost as a habit, I search the crowd for her, in this moment of unease I look for her dark hair and gray eyes that aways brought me comfort, or at the very least, reassurance that she was there.
"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.
Katniss:
Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair.
He's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he's confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off. I snort.
The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.
Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Her pink hair must be a wig because her curls have shifted slightly off-center since her encounter with Haymitch. She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she's just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, not drunks who molest you in front of the entire nation.
It's time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, "Ladies first!" and crosses to the glass ball with the girls' names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me.
Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. It's not my name.
"It's Primrose Everdeen."
One time, when I was in a blind in a tree, waiting motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.
That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my skull. Someone is gripping my arm, a boy from the Seam, and I think maybe I started to fall and he caught me.
There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening.
Prim was one slip of paper in thousands! Her chances of being chosen so remote that I'd not even bothered to worry about her. Hadn't I done everything? Taken the tesserae, refused to let her do the same? One slip. One slip in thousands.
The odds had been entirely in her favor. But it hadn't mattered.
Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her skirt. It's this detail, the untucked blouse forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.
"Prim!" The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. "Prim!"
I push through the crowd, some people moving, some not. How could they not realize how important this is? I'm almost to the stage, and I think Effie's noticed words are on my lips, a little voice in the back of my head says it's suicide, but I'd rather me than Prim. I open my mouth to shout when I feel a hand clamp over it. I twist to see who it is, ready to punch anyone, anything, blindly, and then he then barrels into me, effectively knocking us both to the ground, and out of sight of Effie. I struggle violently, panic building in my chest, but he refuses to get off me. I turn my head to catch a glimpse of blond hair and those blue eyes that I never forgot.
It's the boy with the bread.
