Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I hope the remainder of my story lives up to your high expectations!
Oh yeah. I don't own any of this. Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins, the title of this story belongs to JK Rowling, Caisha702 and be-nice-to-nerds created and continue to expand this particular version of the Hunger Games Universe.
Chapter 2
The world spins and collapses around me. I look around and suddenly I can't even see the Main Square of District 3 anymore. It's as though I am standing in the smoldering ruins of District 13. All around me is the fog of war, and I am its casualty. My life is over.
I feel a squeeze on my hand and my eyes focus to see Mattel staring at me, eyes wide in shock. I realize the crowd is silent and everyone is staring at us. Or rather, me. I have the vague thought that I'm supposed to go up on stage for some reason, and slowly I make my way up to the front. I'm still completely dazed when Verity asks for volunteers. Intel, I think. Intel is supposed to volunteer for me. And then I remember: he can't. For a second I wonder wildly whether Matt would, but just as quickly realize that I absolutely don't want him to.
After a moment of silence, it becomes apparent that no one has volunteered for me, and my mind zones out again so much that I don't even hear the name of the girl tribute. Suddenly, I feel her hand warm in mine and I look up to see a tiny girl with hair so light, it could almost be described as white. She looks to be a year or two younger than me. I realize we're shaking hands and then the national anthem is playing and now we're being marched off the stage and into the Justice Building.
The Peacekeepers put the white-haired girl and me into separate rooms to wait for our loved ones to come and say goodbye. As soon as the door closes, I collapse into a chair and start crying. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm vaguely aware that I'm supposed to appear strong to win the favor of sponsors, but it just doesn't seem very important to me right now. I'm overwhelmed by the injustice of everything – the Games, the Capitol, and all of Panem. I hate the Capitol for controlling our lives. I hate the Districts for rebelling and failing so that the Games were forced on us. And I hate Verity Phillips for picking my name out of a thousand others.
My friends from school come first. They don't stay long, just a couple of "good luck"s and "I'll miss you"s, but it's impossible not to absorb their somber mood. It's not often that you go to a funeral where the dearly departed is still breathing.
Haier is the last of my school friends to come see me. I barely look up when he comes in, so I don't expect it when he grabs me and shakes me. "Max!" He never calls me by my name. I look up at his face in surprise. No smile, no joking. "You've given up already, haven't you?"
"Haier, the odds of my surviving…"
"Screw the odds. They're bad for everyone. As long as you're still breathing, there's a chance and you gotta fight for it!"
I know he has a point, but my fraction of a chance is so small that it's virtually nonexistent. For his sake, though, I promise that I'll try. I don't want to end our friendship on a sour note.
Once Haier leaves, the rest of the allotted hour is given to my family.
It's torturous. My father reflects on all the time we spent working together in the Shop and what a bright and talented kid I am. My mother can't get out more than a few words at a time before bursting into tears, which only makes it easier for me to cry as well.
Matt, my closest friend in the entire world, can't meet my eyes when he says "I'm sorry."
That lights a fire in me. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare be sorry about not taking my place! We had an agreement! I'd never let you die for me!" I stop abruptly, because I realize that I am yelling at my twin brother.
"I'm sorry about that." This is not the way I want to say goodbye to Matt, to have his last memory of me to be my screaming at him. "You know I love you, and I could never stand to see you go in my place."
"I know."
And then it's Intel's turn to apologize needlessly. "I'm sorry I turned nineteen this year. I'm sorry I can't do what I always planned to do and take your place."
"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you more. Maybe I would have had a chance."
"You still do. We're District 3; we win by outsmarting the others. And you are the smartest one in this family, and maybe even the whole district. You just need to figure out something that gives you an advantage. You need to come up with a plan."
Intel is right about how District 3 usually wins. What he neglected to mention is that it's happened precisely four times in seventy-three years of Hunger Games. And each one of those times, the District 3 tribute had something special that set him or her apart from the cannon fodder that our district usually provides. I don't stand a chance. But I can't bear to break my family's hearts with the awful truth. Instead, I tell them that I'll do my best.
"Here." Intel hands me a necklace made out of wire. Attached like a pendant is a broken fragment of a microchip. "This would have been my district token if I had gone to the Games. Will you wear it for me?"
"Of course." I'm grateful to have something so fitting to remind me of the home that I will never see again.
Suddenly the Peacekeepers are at the door and telling us it's time to go. We hurriedly say our last goodbyes, and my father finishes it off with "I'm proud of you, son. I love you." Then he touches his hand to his heart and holds up his palm to me, fingers parted between the middle and fourth fingers – the traditional farewell salute in District 3.
Just like that, they're gone. The Peacekeepers usher the white-haired girl and me into a waiting car, and we drive quickly up the Belt to the train station. When we pass near my house, I can't even bring my eyes to look out the window. We get to the station and board the tribute train amidst a mob of cameras. Everyone in all of Panem will be able to see that I have been crying, but it really doesn't matter. Who cares about impressing people when you know you're going to die in a week?
After what seems like hours of standing in the doorway for photographs – a task that only Verity Phillips finds any enjoyment with – an assistant finally manages to get the door closed and direct us to our rooms while the train gets underway. My room is ten times more elaborate than any that I've ever been in back in District 3, but I barely take notice of the surroundings before I collapse on the gigantic bed and cry myself to sleep.
I awaken several hours later to Verity's knocking and cheerful "Dinner's almost ready!" It's already early evening so I must have slept for most of the afternoon, but I do not feel refreshed. In fact, it's the opposite: I feel even more drained than before I lay down, because of the nightmares. While I slept, my mind brought up all the memories of watching the Hunger Games on television, except that rather than watching the tributes die in agonizing ways, in my nightmares I was the tributes. I dreamt of being skewered with a sword by a Career at the bloodbath, getting eaten by wild dogs, being decapitated and watching the bloody mess of my headless body, freezing to death and dying of thirst. Time after time, I would die only to find myself facing a gruesome death in yet another dream. I've heard of victors haunted by their memories so much that they turned to alcohol or narcotics, but I haven't even stepped foot in the arena yet. If by some miracle I win, I'll probably turn out to be a nutcase like that girl from District Four who won the year almost everyone else drowned. She was in my dream, too; I was the district partner who got beheaded while she watched.
I try to shake off the lingering effects of my nightmares as I clean myself up in the bathroom. A private bathroom. On a train. At home there's one bathroom upstairs that all five of us share. And it's considered luxurious because it has two sinks and usually has hot water.
I look in the mirror and see that I look like a complete mess. My Reaping outfit is wrinkled from my nap and now wet because I ended up splashing water all down the front of my clothes as I cleaned my face. I vaguely remember Verity telling me that there were clothes for me to use in the room, so I randomly open up drawers and find stacks of insanely fine clothing. Even the simple shirt and casual pants that I select are made of better material than my Reaping outfit. The contents of one drawer of clothes are probably worth more than everything my family owns back in District 3. And they just lie around all year, waiting to be used once by a tribute on his way to his death at the hands of the Capitol. It's so unfair.
By the time I make my way to the dining car, I'm the last to arrive and the first course is being served. I quietly sit down as I take in the faces of the other four members of the District 3 "team." Verity Phillips, our escort, who I can't look at for more than a few seconds without my eyes watering from the color of her skin. Our mentors, Wiress and Beetee – I guess this is Arvee's year off. That's too bad. What Arvee did with that old car sixteen years ago was exactly the kind of out-of-the-box thinking that might have given me a sliver of a chance. As for Beetee, years of listening to my mother's rants have conditioned me to be wary of anything that comes out of his mouth. And now I'm going to have to trust him with my life.
The remaining person at the table is my district partner, the white-haired girl whose name I still don't know. I wonder whether I should introduce myself and get to know her, but what's the point? In the best-case scenario, if everything goes miraculously, one of us will have to kill the other in a few weeks in order to win and go home. The worst-case scenario? We'll both be dead in exactly seven days.
Verity Phillips distracts me from my morbid thoughts by telling us to eat. "You two are so tiny! Sponsors don't like underfed tributes!" Now, I don't know about the white-haired girl, but Verity Phillips is completely wrong about me. I may be scrawny, but it certainly isn't due to a lack of food on the dinner table. I've just never needed much to satisfy me before the workshop would take my attention away from food. At Verity's insistence, though, I take a few bites. The food is far richer and more flavorful than anything I've ever tasted, made from seafood and meats and vegetables that we never have in District 3. Even the bread is exquisite: white as snow and perfectly baked with just the right amount of sweetness.
I hate it. I'd give anything to be back at home, eating a meal of preserved meat and canned vegetables, and our trademark bite-sized District 3 rolls. The fancy food is just another reminder of the disparity in wealth between the Capitol and the districts.
My appetite gone, I ignore Verity Phillips' continued attempts to force food down my throat. Instead I turn my attention to our mentors. Wiress is about forty, and Beetee maybe ten years older. They won their respective games long before I was born. Being a Hunger Games victor makes it hard for the regular people in the district to relate to you, so naturally they became really close friends. So close, in fact, that they have a habit of finishing each other's sentences. Right now, they're in a deep conversation about the application of particle physics in the design of sight shields, which are used by the Capitol to keep hovercraft invisible from the tributes during the Games. It's a subject I would normally find quite interesting. If I wasn't on a train being taken to my certain death, of course.
Beetee and Wiress break off their conversation when they realize that I am watching them. Or, rather, we are. Out of the corner of my eye I can see my district partner also looking at our mentors. For a while, they quietly study us – Wiress with her sharp eyes that look capable of seeing right through me; Beetee more thoughtful as he lifts up his glasses and looks under them at us.
Verity Phillips breaks the silence by addressing our mentors cheerily. "What do you think? Are the odds in our favor this year?" I'm awestruck; despite the fact that both mentors are at least a decade older and far smarter than Verity, she's managed to address them in a tone of voice that a teacher might use to talk to young children. I wonder if she talks to everyone like that, or if it's just the non-Capitol people that she sees as childlike.
Wiress speaks with a quiet voice. "You are both so unprepared. Didn't… listen…"
"Yes, you clearly haven't used my lectures to your advantage." Beetee finishes after Wiress trails off. "Regardless, we are here to assist you to the best of our abilities. There are still a few days left to learn."
I sigh. Beetee and his "lectures". The school brings him in at least once every year to share about his experience in the Hunger Games. I've learned all about his famous electrical trap that wiped out five competitors in a single blow – which was probably the last time they ever had anything with that much voltage available at the Cornucopia. Not much you can do with flashlight batteries. Beetee always says the same things about being prepared and using our knowledge to gain an advantage, just in case. Then he invites anyone who is interested in learning more to have dinner at his house in the Victors' Village. The whole district knows that he intends them to be training sessions, which would technically be against the rules, but the Peacekeepers don't bother him about it. After all, Districts 1, 2 and 4 already have Career tributes, who annually demolish the non-Careers or "Others" with ease. Maybe the Peacekeepers are embarrassed enough by our poor showing to allow the handful of kids who listen to train.
The truth of the matter is, despite District 12's reputation, in the past few years, District 3 has been making a serious run at their title of Most Pathetic in the Games. Over that past four years, we have not had a single tribute survive long enough to witness the first night's death recap. Six of the eight died in the Bloodbaths, and a seventh fell off a cliff while fleeing the Cornucopia. The closest we got was two years ago, when a kid by the name of Dolbee was caught by the Career pack a mere ten minutes before the Anthem played. Yes. Live to see the first Death Recap. That's a realistic goal for me.
Because I have never, ever, stepped foot in Beetee's house. Intel went, of course, but Matt and I listened to our mother and avoided him as much as possible. Didn't want our minds to be "polluted by Beetee's nonsense". I am such an idiot.
Beetee asks us if we remember his three principles of preparation. I nod, but the white-haired girl shakes her head, so Beetee goes through them again. "One: know yourself. Know your abilities and your limitations. Two: know your enemy. Know their strengths and weaknesses. Three: know the arena. Once the Games start, learn what the dangers are and what areas you can use to your advantage. Let us start with step one."
Beetee and Wiress quiz us for a while, trying to get to know us and any useful abilities we might have. They seem to genuinely want to help us, even though it soon becomes apparent that neither of us has any survival skills or athletic ability. But the conversation is not a complete waste because it allows me to learn that my district partner's name is Pixelle, though she prefers to be called Pixie. The similarity between her name and those of my family is not lost on me.
After dinner we move to another carriage to watch a recap of the Reapings. Although I've seen them every year, the contrast between the volunteering systems of District 1 and District 2 never ceases to amaze me. District 1 sends two volunteers out of what looks like a stampede of hopefuls, while District 2 has preselected volunteers. This year, however, there's a little bit of confusion; there is no girl volunteer, although the girl who was reaped looks like she may be a well-trained Career. Maybe if a Career's name is called, there's an agreement that he or she gets to go?
District 3 is next, and my ponderings on the mechanics of Career volunteering is wiped from my mind as I watch first myself, then Pixie get chosen. After the first four Career tributes, we look so small and weak that it's clear no one will give us a chance. When we see the size contrast again with the strong and powerful Careers from District 4, the reality hits home. We can't possibly compete against them. There is no hope. We are both going to die. I am going to die.
I descend into a pit of self-despair for the remainder of the program, unable to pay attention to the Reapings. I see the images flickering on the screen, but not one face or one name comes into focus. Occasionally Wiress, Beetee or Verity Phillips makes a comment, but their words are just as incomprehensible to me as the television screen.
A simultaneous exclamation from Wiress, Beetee and Verity, reacting in unison to something happening on the program, finally snaps me back into reality. I blink at the screen, trying to understand what I'm looking at as a dark-haired girl makes her way up to the stage while a younger blonde girl tries to hold her back.
"A volunteer…" says Wiress.
"From District 12," completes Beetee.
A District 12 volunteer. That's got to be the first time in the history of the Hunger Games. At least, as far back as I can remember. What could motivate anyone from the laughingstock of Panem, the district which never ever produces a contender, to volunteer to die?
As if in answer to my unspoken question, the pink-haired escort from District 12 says, "I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?"
She volunteered to save her sister. I stare at her on the television screen, but I don't see her face. I see the face of Intel, my brother. She's doing what Intel would have done for me if he could.
Then despair overwhelms me and my mind is swallowed by the void over which it was so precariously perched.
A/N: BNTN, is that okay? Everyone else, let me know what you think, too! Thanks!
