Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.
Note: Since several people have mentioned it ... Yes, I'm aware that, in canon, Peacekeepers can't have children. I'm choosing to ignore that. I also chose to ignore the fact that, in canon, Finnick is the youngest Victor, so Hazel shouldn't have won at twelve. I also chose not to include Woof as a District Eight victor, which should probably have happened by now. I also chose to make Mags' Games the 8th, even though that puts her at 82, not 80, during the 75th Games. Finally, most blatantly, I chose to change the Quarter Quell twist.
As you've probably noticed, I'm not going to be shy about bending canon if it serves the story. The fact that Elaine's father is a Peacekeeper isn't the first instance, and it won't be the last. Just figured I should put that out there as fair warning.
Anyway, on to District Two. Thank you to blurry cornrow, SomeDays, and Munamana for Simone, Dewan, and Adrian, respectively.
District Two Reaping
Justified
Talitha Cadence, 28
Victor of the 12th Hunger Games
Vester was holding up surprisingly well.
Talitha slipped a hand into her mentor's, giving a gentle squeeze and forcing a smile, for his sake. The smile he returned was weary, heavy, and just as forced. But at least he was here. And he was sober.
Talitha hadn't actually seen him drunk since Mortimer's victory four years ago, but she suspected he drank during the Games, while she and Mortimer were away. Not that she blamed him; the Games sometimes made her want to drink herself into a stupor, as well. But she had a job to do. And, this year, so did he.
The Quell announcement had come only two days ago, giving the three of them little time to take in the news. Vester had muttered something about them wanting him there for "one last moment in the spotlight" and resigned himself to one last year of mentoring, something he had sworn off four years ago, leaving Talitha and Mortimer as the regular mentors. And Talitha had never begrudged him that. He'd served as a mentor for twenty years – eleven of them alone. He'd earned his retirement.
But the Capitol, apparently, just couldn't leave him in peace.
He was still taking the news better than Mortimer, however. District Two's first Career victor was glaring at the cameras, furious that his hand-picked volunteers would never get their chance. "This is what we get for being too strong," he had reasoned when he'd first heard the news. "Careers have won three out of the last four Games – and the other was a Career ally for a while. So they're trying to take it out on us."
Talitha hadn't said anything. But that didn't strike her as the right explanation. After all, next year would be back to normal – and the year after that, and the year after that. If the Capitol was really upset with the Careers' winning streak, they could outlaw the academies, or make the no-volunteering rule a permanent change.
No, this wasn't a punishment. It was a reminder. A reminder that even here – even in the Career districts – no one was ever truly safe.
Because that was the only good thing about the Career system, in the end. The only bright side to the fact that hundreds of the district's children were now being trained to brutally murder other teenagers. It meant that the rest of them were safe. That anyone who didn't want to risk their lives in the Games could simply sit back and let someone else take their place.
Was it worth the price? Worth brainwashing hundreds of children into believing that killing was simply another sport, another trophy to win? Was it worth turning them into monsters, so that others could live in peace?
She knew Vester's answer: no. He'd made that quite clear when Mortimer had asked him to serve as an instructor at the academy. Several of Vester's fellow war veterans had joined Mortimer, eager to share their skills, but Vester held firm. Under no circumstances would he condone training children to kill and to die merely for sport and entertainment.
But, despite his disapproval – and despite her silence – the Career movement had only grown. Hundreds of teenagers were eager to volunteer. The competition for this year's spots, she knew, had been fierce.
And, ultimately, futile.
Mortimer was still glaring as their escort, Boris Dexeter, approached the reaping bowl. All of his hard work this past year – all for nothing, unless the odds were, in fact, in his favor…
"Dewan Rutledge!"
The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark grey button-down shirt and black dress pants. He was about average in height and build, with a few muscles and a surprising amount of confidence as he put on his best smile and ran up to the stage, his ice blue eyes giving off an impression of eagerness. Whether he was actually excited or simply copying District Two's tributes in recent years, Talitha wasn't sure.
She glanced over at Mortimer, hoping for some hint as to whether or not this was one of his students, but his expression was unreadable. The boy's face, however, seemed to be an open book as he turned his confident smile towards the audience, waiting for the names of his district partners.
"Adrian Mors!"
The eighteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a dark blue worker's uniform. He was tall, brown-haired, and muscular, with broad shoulders and an athletic build, but a snort from Mortimer's direction told her this wasn't one of his students. The boy, as well, seemed to be almost holding back a chuckle as he took the stage, his bright hazel eyes fixed defiantly on Mortimer as he took his place next to the other boy.
But when he turned towards the audience, the hint of a smile faded, as if the reality of the situation had just dawned on him. Emotions flickered on his face – anger, fear, shock – before confidence and determination settled in once more, and he joined the other boy in watching the escort, waiting for the third name.
"Simone Lorance!"
The eighteen-year-old section parted once more, this time for a girl in a grey, sleeveless dress, black tights, and black shoes. For a moment, she simply stood there, shocked. Motionless. Staring, wide-eyed, muttering something under her breath. Talitha squeezed Vester's hand a little tighter. She knew the feeling. She'd been there herself – terrified, in denial, hoping that if she stood still long enough, they would call some other name. Any other name.
But, at last, the girl began to move, stepping slowly out of her section and towards the stage. Trying to look calm. Trying to appear as confident as her district partners. She was about as short as the younger boy, pale and slender, with long, dark blonde hair and blue eyes. The younger boy smiled at her, holding out his hand. The girl hesitated for a moment, but then shook it. Then the two boys shook hands, and, lastly, the two eighteen-year-olds.
Talitha squeezed Vester's hand as the three tributes were led away. Once the crowd was gone, she turned to Mortimer. "What was that all about? Did you know the boy?"
Mortimer shrugged. "Both of the boys, actually. They were at the academy – but not very long."
"What happened?"
"They decided they wanted to live," Vester muttered.
Mortimer decided to ignore that. "Dewan was pretty good when he applied himself – but he just didn't want to, after a while. It was a fad – a popular one – and he was never really that interested."
Talitha nodded. "And Adrian…"
Mortimer shrugged. "Flunked out."
That finally warranted a chuckle from Vester. "What was the matter? Got queasy when he realized that he could actually be killing a person instead of fighting your dummies?"
Mortimer shook his head. "Couldn't take orders. Training requires discipline – and he didn't have any. It was my first year, and we simply didn't have the resources to deal with him when there were other willing candidates who were willing to do what they were told."
Vester nodded. "I suppose he wouldn't want to work with you, then."
Mortimer shook his head. "Probably not. I'll take Dewan."
"I'll take the girl, then," Vester offered.
Mortimer cocked an eyebrow, but Talitha understood. Even if he'd been booted out, Adrian had wanted to train for the Games. And Vester didn't want any part of that. "I'll take Adrian, then," she nodded as Mortimer headed off. She turned to Vester. "Are you all right?"
Vester nodded weakly. "I just … never thought I'd be doing this again."
Talitha nodded. "It's just one more. Then you're done with the Games – for good."
Vester sighed. "One more. One last moment in the spotlight. One last bow. But you know better than that, Talitha. We all do." He shook his head.
"No one is ever done with the Games."
Dewan Rutledge, 15
He'd never wanted to kill anyone.
Dewan tried not to look at his parents. It had been his father's suggestion that he start training, and Dewan had always suspected that he had been disappointed when he'd decided to quit. But it just hadn't been for him. Sure, he could throw a knife at a target about as well as the others, but, after a while, it had stopped being fun. It had stopped being exciting. He just didn't have the drive that some of the others had. He didn't want to kill.
And, if he was being honest, he didn't want to die, either.
The kids at the training center didn't really seem to understand that – the idea that they might die. They were all so confident, so sure that they would win. Even when two of them were chosen to volunteer, it didn't seem to occur to them that at least one of them would die. At least one of them would have to, in order for the other to come home. He had never understood how they could just ignore that.
But now he would have to pretend to be one of them.
Dewan took a deep breath. He could do it. He'd spent enough time among the Careers. He could imitate their attitude, their confidence – even if he didn't really feel it. But that would only get him so far. Attitude wasn't everything. Sooner or later, he had to have the skills to back it up.
But did he?
Dewan shook the thought from his head. It wasn't as if anyone else this year would have training, either. No volunteers meant the other tributes from One, Two, and Four would probably be just like him – maybe a little training, but nowhere near the usual amount. That would give him an advantage.
Probably.
Maybe.
Dewan ruffled his little brother's hair, putting on his best confident smile. "Take care of them until I'm back, all right, Jason?"
Until I'm back. He was surprised by how easy it was to say the words. To play the part. Jason nodded along, hearing what he wanted to hear: that his brother would be back. Even their mother and father were nodding, trying to smile, trying to look like they believed it.
Maybe that would be enough.
Simone Lorance, 18
She'd never wanted to kill anyone.
Simone shook her head as her father left. She'd never even thought about the Games – not recently, at least. Ever since Mortimer's victory four years ago, volunteers were a certainty at the reaping. She'd always been safe. Safe to live her own life without having to worry about the Games.
So she hadn't trained. Hadn't even considered it, really. She had no intention of volunteering – no intention of risking her life – so why train? Why waste her life on something she wasn't really interested in?
Then again, she had never been quite sure what she was interested in. Not like Leila. Her sister seemed to have her entire life mapped out for her. Leila shared – or at least pretended to share – their mother's interest in politics. When her parents had split, Leila had spent more and more time with their mother, even moving in with her when she became the mayor. Simone, on the other hand, was left with their father. The leftovers who didn't fit into the shiny world of prestige and politics.
Simone looked up as the door opened. Leila entered, followed by their mother. "This is why it's important that we have Careers," their mother fussed. "Any other year, there would have been someone to take your place."
Simone cringed. Supporting the newly founded Career Academy was part of what had finally landed her mother the position of mayor. And she had a point. Any other year, someone would have stepped in and saved Simone's life before she had a chance to realize that it was in danger.
But not this year.
Simone shook her head. Just her luck. They couldn't have called her name last year, or the year before – when it wouldn't have mattered. It just had to be this year. Her last year.
After several moments of awkward silence, Leila and her mother left. Simone did nothing to stop them. She'd barely seen the two of them in the last couple years; they wouldn't notice that she was gone. Her father would move on. He'd already lost his wife and Leila. Why should he care if she left, too? Simone stared at the closed door as it finally hit her.
What did she have to come back to?
Adrian Mors, 18
He'd never wanted to kill anyone.
Adrian gave the wall another kick. He wasn't supposed to be here. He'd never wanted to be here – not really. Even when he'd applied to the training academy, it hadn't been because he wanted to kill. He'd been looking for something better to do than spend his days working, trying to get by. The Games had seemed like a way out. Win, and all your troubles were gone. Lose and … well, all your troubles were gone, anyway.
But they'd said no. Tossed him out after only a few days. For a long time, he'd resented them for that. Envied the ones who were given an opportunity to succeed while he spent his days hauling rocks for building and his nights gambling with Lucky Jack. But he'd gotten over it. In a way, they'd stopped him from throwing his life away. Not that his life was amazing, but it was something. And it was all he had.
But now he was here, anyway. Without any training. With only his strength, only his own experience, only his own desire to survive.
Maybe that would be enough.
Maybe he didn't have much to come back to. His mother would survive. His friends would move on. They could learn to live without him.
Maybe he wasn't leaving much, but that also meant something else: he didn't have anything to lose. No friendships that would fall apart if he came back changed. No family or loved ones to distract him, to occupy his thoughts during the Games. He could focus on saving himself.
Adrian clenched his fists, trying to force his mind back a few years. To channel some of the drive he'd felt then. To win – not because he wanted to kill, not because he wanted to make his mother proud, but because he wanted something better for himself. Because he wanted to come home. Because he wanted to survive.
All his life, he'd wanted to be someone. To be more than the kid on the street. More than the young worker, more than the gambler who occasionally ended up on the wrong side of the law. There was a time when he'd wanted to make something of himself. And now that he had the chance, one thing was certain.
Win or lose, they would never forget him.
"There's only one truth about war: People die … We can't deny it. We can only live with it and hope the reasons for doing it are justified."
