Author's Note: If you haven't read my other story Roulette, I highly advise you to do so prior to starting A Deck of 24. That way you will have better foundation of my version of Panem and the 61stHunger Games and won't be clueless when I refer back to it.
For those of you that have already read Roulette, welcome back! I'm excited to see you here again. Two things inspired me to write this companion fanfic. The first is my small critique with the way Collins treated her other tributes. While I do realize that the books were in Katniss's POV, they were treated like training dummies rather than human beings. Not one was given a name in the Tribute Guide for Christ's sake! Also Chapter 11 in Roulette motivated me to create this. Writing that chapter gave me so many ideas that I knew I had to expand on the lives of the other tributes. I couldn't limit them to just one paragraph each.
So without further ado, I present to you the first chapter of A Deck of 24.
(Warning: I have a mild obsession with naming District One characters)
Valor Rousseau, District One: Protégé
Place in the 61st Hunger Games: 7th Place
Each boy files into a perfect line, legs locked, shoulders straight, heads high. Thirty of them, sparkling gold uniforms signifying their rank. Second-year trainees, the ones who said yes to a life of eternal fame and fortune. Will represent the first and most luxurious district of Panem in The Hunger Games. The tomorrow of District One. The golden ones.
We tell these lies to each batch of thirteen year olds on their first day of training. Gets them all motivated, pumped, thinking they'll become the next big Victor one day. I like working with them the most, the thirteen year olds. They've all completed the compulsory year each twelve-year-old must attend at The Academy of Physical Wellness and Healthy Living (no one calls the Training Grounds by its real name). But they're gullible, impressionable. Better yet, they actually listen to you. They're young enough to know they aren't hot shit. Once they turn sixteen though, they'll walk around the place like they're the greatest thing to pop out of a woman's vagina.
If they make it to sixteen. Truth be told, most of these boys won't ever go into the Games. Most will drop out before they could be nominated to volunteer, and that's a good thing. The majority are here because the Training Grounds is a way to get out of having a real job. You only have to work five hours out the week instead of the longer shifts a regular citizen have to put in. No school either. Digging for shiny rocks is just a hobby for me now and all the knowledge I need is right here at the Training Grounds.
Then they're the ones in it solely for the popularity. Training to be a Career is the cool thing to do, a way to impress the opposite sex. Nothing wrong with taking a few ladies home with you, I've done it plenty of times, but you gotta put your money where your mouth is and own up to your duties. The attention-seeking ones rarely do.
The ones that piss me off the most are the sissies that stay since their parents think it's the privileged thing to do. Those spoiled brats always leave the minute Maman and Papa finds something else to occupy their meaningless lives with. I make it a point to work them the hardest.
When the interested are separated from the passionate, only a few are left. Still, most won't go in. Many fail at the Expedition Course, where we drop them off in the outskirts of One and they have to survive a week on their own. If they're strong enough to pass that, they fail the Finals, an all-out brawl to see which three boys and three girls will race to the stage at the Reapings. No one ever dies in the Finals. Usually. At the Reapings, a lot of people get cold feet and simply don't volunteer. There's a difference between wanting to go into the Games and actually going into the Games. Kids seem to realize this the moment the escort prepares for the annual volunteers to barge their way to the cameras. The consequences of not running to volunteer are so severe that almost every nominee at least pretends to want to make it first. The ones that lose blame it on faulty shoes or someone cheating when we all know the truth.
The training process is long and difficult, but it's supposed to be that way. We don't want Lazy Larimar or Spoiled Shimmer embarrassing District One. Our tributes are supposed to come back alive. We have a reputation to uphold. We don't have the second-highest number of Victors just cause we're pretty to look at.
Arms folded, I walk back and forth in front of my group, black uniform in perfect condition. Eighteen years old, the highest rank a trainee can be. In the corner sits Burgundy, smoking on his handcrafted pipe, looking on approvingly at my efforts to lead the boys. Technically this is his group and I'm only the assistant, but he's an old Victor who needs a cane to move around with. Nowadays he mostly monitors while I direct.
Inspecting each of their faces, I give my signature sneer and begin. "Remember that speech you were given the first day you decided to continue on with Career Training?" I pause, not really waiting for an answer. "Well it was a lie. All of it. Garbage, just to get you to stay."
The range of emotions is hilarious. Confusion. Terror. Nervousness. Bewilderment. Some boys try to be brave and keep up the blank mask they've put on, so I continue.
"The majority of you will drop out in the next year or two and begin your pathetic lives mining for gemstones or slaving in factories. Others of you will go on to blow your parents' money and live with Maman's tit in your mouth until the day you die. For those of you smart enough, or stupid enough depending on your actions, eventually you will become tributes. Few of you will win. Many of you will die." With that I stop in front of a tall boy, curly blond hair tied back in a small ponytail, fierce blue eyes bearing right into my own daring me to address him. Gloss is his name.
"Do you want to face a horrible death for your family to witness?"
Face set, he answers. "No sir!"
I pat his shoulder and chuckle. "Good. Do any of you want to die in the Arena?"
"No sir!"
I put my hand behind my ear, demanding a louder response. "What was that?"
"No sir!" the boys shout in unison.
They don't call me Bossman for nothing.
"Good. Break up into pairs. I wanna see where you are at hand-to-hand combat." I go around and monitor each match. They're where I expected them to be at, novices. A handful of boys are decent for their age, having the speed but lacking the strength and technique to take down their opponent. Only three are naturals, pinning their weaker sparring partner within seconds. Hand-to-hand combat is one of my specialties. I know a born fighter when I see one.
I'm giving tips to one trainee on how to aim for the legs when a puny boy calls for help across the room. "Valor! My nose is bleeding!" he whines, running over in my direction.
"If you come any closer to complain, a nosebleed will be the last thing you'll have to worry about boy. Suck it up and fight!" I warn and shoot him the most terrifying glare he's probably ever seen in his life. The boy scampers off before I can reach my feet.
The rest of the time goes along smoothly, grunts and shouts from the trainees serving as background noise to Burgundy and I's light conversation about Career Training and life around the district. As old people have a habit of doing, every topic somehow relates to Burgundy's life and forms into this story or that life lesson. I nod and smile politely at each drawn-out speech and soon call the boys' training to a close since I don't think I can take any more of the old man's talking. I call for two boys to spar in front of the group and show me what they've learn. The blond boy from before, Gloss, steps up first. A huskier kid with glasses walks up next, cracking his knuckles.
"Pay attention trainees. Weaponless combat is the foundation to offensive fighting. There may not be nearby weapons to use in the Arena, or any at all," I tell the group and turn my attention to the volunteers. "You have 60 seconds to bring down your opponent and pin him. Use any method you want, just don't kill each other. The infirmary is open in case you ladies break anything." Gulping, the boys don't look so sure of themselves anymore. I blow the whistle and they begin.
Since the husky kid is bigger, he has the strength advantage over Gloss, throwing stronger kicks and punches that look painful. This doesn't stop the slimmer boy from holding his own in the fight, bouncing back from each blow like they're nothing. With his resilience also comes Gloss's skill. While he isn't fast, the blond is impressive for his age, pinpointing the area of his opponent's body that'll hurt the most when hit and delivering them with swift, precise movements. At one point he almost succeeds in breaking the other boy's glasses. Definite potential.
Both boys get equal hits on the other and come to a standstill, walking a circle waiting to see who does what first. The tension in the air is thick, and so is the temperature. I let out a disappointed sigh when Gloss takes the bait and foolishly lunges for the boy. The kid smiles, having him right where he wants him. Taken by the legs, tossed into the air and slammed to the ground, Gloss doesn't know what hit him and before he knows it, the three-second pin is over.
"What did Gloss do wrong?" I immediately ask the group. The bigger boy helps Gloss up and I stop him from stomping off, angry that he embarrassed himself like that.
The puny kid from before raises his hand first. I reluctantly choose him. "He was too hasty and didn't plan ahead?" He stares at me, begging for my approval.
"Surprisingly you're right. Bon," I say. Burgundy motions for me to come over. "Run a few laps around the track guys then we'll work on your shelter building. I'll be back." When I walk over to where he's sitting, Burgundy informs me that Emerald wants to see me. Nervously I walk through the hallways of the main building, pictures and miniature shrines of every District One Victor adorning the walls. I take my time to reach the elaborate, bejeweled doors of the office, going over every single thing I could have done wrong and come up with nothing. Did I push the boys too hard? One of the girls trying to claim sexual harassment again? Taking a deep breath, I open the doors and put on my winning smile.
"Emerald! How nice to see you!"
"Cut the bullshit and sit down you glitterhead," the older man lets out a gruff laugh and pulls me into a hug when I walk in. Emerald is the Head Trainer here, the real Bossman, mandating everything that happens inside the Training Grounds. From programming to financing, nothing goes on without his say-so. Most importantly he gets the final say on who goes into the Arena. He's been doing it for eighteen years and brought back two Victors. Emerald isn't a Victor himself. He never got the chance to be; got sick just days before the Reapings and still has the bad cough decades later. Still, he's treated with the same respect as one, if not more. Fading blond hair, fierce green eyes, bulging muscles, the forty year old looks like he would have been nothing to mess with in the Games. He would've won had he went in. I'm sure of it.
"So how have you been garçon?" Emerald smiles. I'm one of his favorites. He and my father used to work in the same mining unit back in their teenage years, so they've been friends ever since.
"Trying to whip these boys into shape. I tell ya; they get worse each year." We laugh, Emerald nodding his head in agreement. We wind down and enjoy ourselves in the air-conditioned office over fine whiskey we get for free from the brewery across the road, talking and joking around about nothing in particular. Soon the jokes stop and the conversation turns serious.
"Valor," we're both a few drinks in and a little relaxed. Swaying and slurring my words, the man can hold his liquor much better than I can. "You're like family to me. A son. Your father and I have been friends for a long time now."
Closing my eyes, I slouch in my chair, twirling the brown liquid in back and forth in my hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah Bossman. What are ya doing? Going soft on me?"
Emerald lets out a nervous chuckle. "It's just…don't you think it would be better to forget about the Games? They aren't for another five weeks. Become a trainer here and get treated with the same respect as a Victor. You'd have a good future ahead of you."
Eyes flying open, I sit straight up. "Why are you saying this? You don't believe in me, in my ability to win the Games?"
The man starts to cough and I pat him a few times on the back to get him to stop. He goes to fiddling with the several rings on his fingers when he comes to, a nervous habit of his whenever something's bothering him. I wait patiently for his answer but I never get one. Taking a long swig of his drink, Emerald goes to leave, avoiding my eyes the way through.
"You haven't answered me yet," I speak, demanding him to stop and tell me what's wrong. "Why are you questioning me?"
In his expensive silk shirt and fine black slacks, Emerald turns around with a look of deep sorrow, already letting me know what he thinks before he says it to me. "Too many of you have gone into that Arena and never came out. You'd be the sixth Valor, the sixth in your family to die. And with the untimely death of your sister-"
"Don't talk about Grace," I say. Pouring another drink, the whiskey burns away at my throat as I take it in one gulp. The sensation feels good to me, like it's fighting off the emotions for my sake, helping me out when I need it most. I go to pour another from the elixir when Emerald snatches it away. I glare at the wiser man but understand why. Too many people depend on the stuff to get them through the day, having it so readily available since we produce it here in One. 'Having a bad day? A drink or six can heal that!' is what most guys around here believe.
Though I tell myself not to, I think back on my older sister and how awful she was mistreated. Grace went into the Games three years ago. She did so well all throughout. Wowed at the Opening Ceremonies, scored a ten in Training, dazzled the audience in a dress she'd never wear in a million years. She was beautiful and deadly, just what the Capitol loved. Grace trained so hard and did what the Capitol wanted just to be crushed by a boulder. A damn boulder. It's not fair; she didn't even get to die honorably in a fight. She was set up by the Gamemakers like a sorry District Eleven kid. How dare they treat my big sister like trash. A Rousseau deserves better than that.
"But I'm different Emerald," I tell him. He goes to sit down again in his lush green leather chair, staring at me worriedly. "I won't do what Grace did. She must have bored the audience. If it means killing a twelve year old to survive then so be it. I'll give them a show, I promise."
"It's the exact same things she said about your cousin," Emerald shakes his head. "No, no Valor. I don't feel comfortable sending you in."
"Who am I up against for the girls? Cerise, Radiance, or Monet? I can take them all, no problem. I got this Emerald. I can win," I try to convince him. He's still trying to tell me otherwise when a tiny toy car flies across my shoulder and hits him square in the nose. We look around to see where it came from and find the chocolate-haired culprit. Smiling, the little boy strides into the office and toddles his way into the bigger man's arms, laughing as he's twirled in the air. Breathing a sigh of relief, the five year old instantly lightens the mood of the tense conversation. Maybe with him here he'll have a change of heart.
"Bullseye Papa! Bullseye!" he shouts.
"My little Marvel!" Emerald smiles, placing him on his lap. Marvel relaxes his head on his father's broad chest, tossing the little car in the air and catching it each time. Even at his age, he's got a great throwing arm and can catch the smallest of objects. "Now this here Valor, this is a Victor. Am I right mon fils?" Emerald tickles Marvel and I smile at the giggling boy.
Pale green eyes show me the arrogance he already possesses. No doubt he is Emerald's son. "When I get older I'm gonna win and become a big Victor."
"Yeah right," I tousle his short haircut and he lets out another giggle.
"You're gonna lose Valor!" he sticks out his tongue and puts it back in before I can snatch it away. What a little brat. That's Marvel for ya.
"Remember that when I'm training you for the Games," I say, trying to think of everything but losing. I know he's just a kid but no one wants to hear that dreaded word, especially when the Games are so close by. I've already done all the preliminary tasks to become a nominee. I was one of the seven boys to complete the Expedition Course. An abandoned factory was the domain. Capitolites have a way of running their mouths too much and with one purchase of the big city's newspaper, information spreads fast. And I'm healed up from the Finals. Still a little sore from Justice wailing on me though. Damn that redhead.
I think I'm ready. I know I'm ready. But being ready doesn't mean you win.
But I'm different than the rest. Different than Grace. What's the harm if I give it my all?
Sixth time's the charm right?