Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men or The Hunger Games
Note: Thank you to Cheive, MornieGalad Baggins, li'l fat necrosis, jakey121, and Heartwood98 for Ben, Tariq, Monet, Piper, and Cyrene, respectively, and for being so patient as you waited to see your tributes.
I've determined that if I do another one of these (whoa, Elim, hold up, you just made it through the reapings), I'm definitely finding a different format for the reapings. Because although this worked - mostly - a few contestants, I feel, fell victim to what I'll call the Fundamental Problem of Reapings. That is, it's hard to tell much about a character when you're only seeing them at their most confused and frightened. I generally deal with this problem via a goodbye scene, but with the reapings and the goodbyes sort of lumped into one here - along with the lack of train rides and the necessity of adequately explaining each contestant's power - I think I'm going to try something else next time. Whether that's some sort of pre-reaping chapter, longer reapings, adding a plane ride chapter, or something else entirely, I'm not sure yet. Just food for thought. Suggestions/constructive criticism/opinions in general are appreciated, as this is my first foray into a non-Panem Hunger Games.
Anyway.
Since that concludes our collection chapters, if you have any suggestions for allies, that would be fantastic. If you'd like to hold off until you see a little more of the contestants, that's fine, but any input now would be appreciated. Since there are no train rides, we'll move right into training next chapter, and that's usually when alliances start to form. I'm currently planning on six training chapters - two for each day - but that could change if I come up with something I like better. After training, there will be some sort of parade/interview/celebration, the exact nature of which ... I haven't decided yet. I'm starting to see why a lot of modern day AU SYOTs fizzle. A lot of the structure that a normal SYOT has - reapings, train rides, chariot rides, training, training scores, interviews - is just ... gone, and I'll admit I'm making a lot of this up as I go. More than usual. The lack of structure is fun - just a bit jarring. But don't worry - the story will be completed. A Lannister always finishes his stories ... er, wrong fandom.
Anyway, I'll stop babbling now. Here are our last five contestants.
Define Our Fate
Dr. Hans Brenner, 74
06:37 EST
He was getting too old for this.
Hans sighed as he got off the bus. It was this time of year when he wouldn't mind trading his native city of Dubuque, Iowa for the Miami streets he found himself on now. Not because of the size of the city – which was almost mind-boggling – but because of the temperature. He'd been in favor of the Games, but still didn't quite understand why Lillian had insisted they should take place in Alaska.
But he knew better than to say so. Knew better than to stick his nose into his fellow scientists' specialties. Creating the perfect climate for their study was Lillian's area of expertise. Her study of mutant behavior was what had caught his eye in the first place, after Nicholas had coaxed him out of retirement. It was Lillian who had been tasked with creating the perfect environment for their test. His experience lay elsewhere.
In fact, his real task had little to do with the Games themselves. The Games were only a means to and end. And that end was control. Mutants needed to be controlled, if any real progress was going to be made.
Real progress. People had different ideas, of course, about what 'real progress' meant with regard to the mutant problem. The Games weren't a permanent solution. Killing twenty-nine mutant children – that wouldn't solve anything. Nor, in fact, would killing every known mutant, because there were non-mutants who carried the mutant gene, which they could pass to their children, or their grandchildren, and so on. No, killing wasn't the answer. It wasn't a permanent solution. The real answer lay in the ability to reverse mutations themselves.
They were a long way from that, of course. The collars Francine had created could inhibit mutants' powers, but they had yet to determine how long that effect would last. And the collars did nothing to change the mutants' genetic structure. They were still mutants. They would still pass along the mutant gene. As long as they wore their collars, their powers could be kept in check, but collaring an entire portion of the population wasn't the answer, either. There had to be a better solution. A more permanent solution.
But if they were to have any hope of finding it, they needed more research. And in order to accomplish that research, they needed to study mutants in a controlled setting without the danger of backlash from the public. The Games could accomplish that – or at least acclimate people to the idea that the mutant problem needed careful study and observation, not just blind fear and intolerance. It wasn't the mutants' fault, after all, that they'd simply been born into the wrong group. It wasn't their fault that their very existence threatened the human race.
Despite the fact that it wasn't their fault, however, it was a fact that humanity was being threatened. If the mutant population kept growing, the history of evolution pointed to only one end: the extinction of the human race. Survival of the fittest. And, for the moment, at least, mutants were the fitter race.
So they would have to find a way to change that.
Bennett Lyons, 19
Miami, FL
06:43 EST
It was way too early for this.
Ben groaned a little, rolling over slowly in his bed as the knocking continued. Who would be knocking before seven on a Saturday? In the back of his mind, he managed to register a little relief that at least he'd remembered to lock the door to his room the night before. So whoever was knocking, at least they hadn't been able to just walk right in.
Ben slowly rolled out of bed, directing a little more warmth into the heating pad around his chest before slipping on a shirt, wincing at his bruised ribs. He should never have let his Michael and Patrick talk him into goofing around last night. Sure, it had only been a game of ultimate frisbee, but he'd gotten too competitive and taken a dive he shouldn't have. At least it had happened in the off-season; he'd have plenty of time to heal before football practice started in the summer. But, still, it was a nuisance.
Slowly, Ben made his way to the door to his dorm room, muttering a little under his breath. When he opened the door, however, he was surprised to find an older man in a suit, rather than a few of his friends. "Can I help you?" Ben asked suspiciously. Maybe the man had gotten lost on his way to visit his … grandchildren, maybe? He certainly looked old enough to have grandchildren in college.
"Bennett Lyons?" the man asked.
"Ben." Only his parents called him Bennett. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm Dr. Hans Brenner. I'm with the Mutant Affairs Advisory Board. I'd like to ask you a few questions. Can you come with me?"
A few questions. Ben tensed. Did they know? Or were they just conducting a survey or something? Getting people's opinions about mutants on campus? Better to keep it cool. "Sure." He slipped on his shoes and followed Dr. Brenner out of the dorm.
As soon as he stepped outside, however, he could see that Dr. Brenner was lying. If he'd just wanted to ask a few questions, he wouldn't have brought three Sentinels. The few students who were out on the campus lawn this early on a Saturday were staring at the giant robots in shock. Ben clenched his fists, glancing over at Dr. Brenner, who nodded to the Sentinels.
That was all the information Ben needed. Immediately, he raised his hands, sending a stream of heat towards the Sentinels before taking off in the other direction. The heat, however, didn't even slow the robots down. Ben clenched his fists tightly as he ran, fighting the pain in his chest. What did they want with him?
Okay. Okay, just think. But he didn't have time to think. As soon as he ducked behind the library building, trying to catch his breath, the Sentinels caught up to him. One of them reached out, a giant hand closing around Ben's waist. Ben couldn't help a shout as its grip tightened on his broken ribs. He concentrated, trying to melt the robot's skin, but he couldn't think clearly enough. Something snapped around his neck. Everything was growing dark. Ben closed his eyes.
Why couldn't they just leave him alone?
Tariq Qasim, 22
Richmond, VA
09:20 EST
It was too early for Yara to be knocking.
Tariq glanced at the clock as the knocking continued. It was later than he'd thought. He'd begun his morning meditation more than two hours ago. But everything had been so peaceful. The stillness and quiet was always so inviting. It would be so easy to stay there, motionless, for hours. Days. Once, he'd slipped into a completely motionless state for more than a week. His family had assumed he was dead.
Most of them still thought he was.
Tariq shook the thought from his head as he rose to answer the door. Someday, he would find the rest of them and tell them. His father was the only one who knew he was still alive, and he had forbidden Tariq from returning home, assuming he was a ghost. Then again, they had buried him, after all…
Tariq opened the door cautiously, revealing an old man in a suit. "Tariq Qasim?" the man asked.
Tariq nodded. "May I help you?"
"I'm Dr. Hans Brenner. I'm a member of the Mutant Affairs Advisory Board. I need to ask you a few questions."
"Have I done something wrong, sir?" He'd figured out a while ago that his lapses into a deep meditative state – so deep that his heart rate and breathing were undetectable – were the result of his mutation, but surely the government had more important mutants to worry about. More dangerous powers to contend with. As far as his own safety was concerned, his power was a mixed bag. It had saved his life during a firefight back in Syria, but it had also gotten him buried alive. But he couldn't imagine it being a danger to others.
Dr. Brenner shook his head. "Not at all. Just a few questions, a quick test – nothing to be worried about."
Tariq hesitated. Something was off. Something about the man's tone of voice – or maybe the Sentinel standing behind him. But he hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't hurt anyone. Whatever they wanted to ask him, he had nothing to hide. Finally, he nodded. "What sort of test?"
"Completely harmless," the doctor assured him. "We're simply interested in the extent of your mutation – and how mutants interact with each other."
Tariq perked up a little. The idea of meeting others like him – other mutants – was certainly an inviting one. He'd always wanted to meet others, but it wasn't exactly socially acceptable to simply ask someone else if they were a mutant. But if the government was bringing mutants together, maybe they had a plan. Maybe they were hoping to form some sort of group. A gathering place where mutants could meet each other and interact freely – without having to contend with the public's judgment and persecution. If he could be part of something like that, it would certainly be a worthwhile endeavor. Tariq smiled a little as he followed the man down the street.
"What more can you tell me?"
Monet Amit, 23
Wilmington, DE
10:13 EST
What had they done wrong?
Monet couldn't help staring when they saw the Sentinels outside the dance studio. They'd seen Sentinels from a distance, but only in the city – and then only from a distance. This was different. A shiver crept down their spine as the door opened and a man stepped into the studio. "Monet Amit?"
Monet froze. Everyone was looking at them, making it pretty obvious to the man who he was looking for. It would be easy to run – out the back door and down the street – but they'd seen the news lately. Mutants who ran from the Sentinels – it didn't end well. Better not to make a fuss. Besides, the man clearly already knew who they were. It wouldn't take him long to find them.
Monet took a step forward. "Can I help you?"
"My name is Dr. Hans Brenner. I'm with the—"
"Mutant Affairs Advisory Board?" Monet finished. Their best friend Haven was a political junkie and could probably name every member of every board in the country by heart.
The man smiled a little. "Then you already know."
"Know what?"
The man gestured to the door. "Walk with me." Hesitantly, Monet followed. "We're doing a documentary on mutants, and your name came up. We're going to show mutants living their lives – going about their everyday activities – in an effort to educate the public. To show them that there's no need to fear the mutant population as a whole, if you will."
Monet's eyes lit up. "And you want me to…"
"Participate, yes. I know it's difficult – coming forward as a mutant in front of the whole country. But if we can get a few young, talented people such as yourself to step up and share their stories, then I believe it would do a lot of good for mutants as a whole. What do you say?"
Monet stared, shocked. Haven was always going on about how the MAAB was out to get mutants, how the media was determined to paint them in a bad light. But this – this was the chance of a lifetime. And not just for them – for all mutants. Since they'd discovered their power, they'd been trying to hide it. But this … this was a chance to come forward. To be who they were without shame or fear. Wasn't that worth it?
Monet smiled. "What do you need me to do?"
"We start filming next week. I know it's short notice, but if you could come to Alaska with me…"
Alaska! Monet nodded excitedly. "That sounds great! Just let me go home and pack a few things—"
"That won't be necessary. I assure you, we'll have everything you need."
Monet hesitated. That sounded a little fishy. But if the man had wanted to harm them, he could have. There was a Sentinel standing right there. The robot hadn't made a move against them. He wasn't forcing them to come; he was asking. Monet smiled.
"When do we leave?"
Piper Galligan, 17
Fall River, MA
11:47 EST
It was never too hard when there weren't any distractions.
Piper concentrated, her eyes on the clock above the stove, as time slowed down. The clock stayed fixed at 11:47:07, but a blurrier version counted forward. One second. Then another. A blurry version of her parents kept eating their lunch. Nothing she couldn't ignore well enough to keep her power going.
Suddenly, the door opened. A man stepped in. Behind him was the outline of a giant robot. A Sentinel. The blurry outline of her father leapt up. Started arguing with the man, while her mother stepped between the man and a blurry version of Piper. Her father threw a punch. The Sentinel reached in and knocked her mother aside. Then it reached for her—
Piper let out a startled shout as the vision snapped. "What is it?" her mother asked.
But Piper was already hurrying towards the door. Without a word, she opened it, revealing an old man in a suit. Piper held up her hands, her voice shaky. "I'll come. I'll do it – I'll come. Just leave my family alone."
Her parents were already standing up from the table, her father striding towards the man in the suit, her mother moving to protect her. "What do you mean?" her mother asked. "Where does he want you to go?"
Piper swallowed hard. She didn't know. She couldn't see that far – only a few seconds at a time. Sometimes a minute or two. She couldn't see what was going to happen to her. But she knew what would happen to them if they tried to interfere.
So she stepped quickly between her father and the man in the suit. "Please. Don't do anything…" She trailed off.
"Don't do anything what?" her father insisted. "Piper, what's going on?"
Piper shook her head, fighting back the tears in her eyes as she threw her arms around her father one last time and kissed her mother on the cheek. "Don't do anything that'll get you hurt." And before they could say another word, she was making her way out the door.
"I'm Dr. Brenner," the man offered as they made their way down the street towards a parked car. "And you must be Piper."
Piper barely managed a nod. Where was he taking her? She wanted desperately to know, but, at the same time, she didn't dare ask. Because the Sentinel in her vision had been willing to hurt her parents in order to get to her. Which meant that, whatever they wanted her for, they hadn't expected her to come quietly. Chances were, she didn't want to know.
Piper clenched her fists tightly as they walked. She could run. Maybe. Maybe she would be able to get away. But only for a little while. And where would she go? No matter where she went – no matter who she took shelter with – she would be putting people in danger. No. It was better for everyone else if she simply went quietly.
But was it better for her?
Piper swallowed hard. It didn't matter what was better for her – not right now. Once she was safely away from her family, then she could worry about what was going to happen to her. Right now, it was enough to know that they would be safe. But one thought wouldn't leave the back of her mind.
If it weren't for her, they wouldn't have been danger in the first place.
Cyrene Lykovski, 16
Boston, MA
12:16 EST
It was too early for her parents to be home.
Cyrene made her way hesitantly to the door as the knocking continued. Who would be knocking? Her parents wouldn't knock; they would just come in. Myranda wouldn't knock; she would just text to say she was coming over. Maybe it was someone who wanted to talk to one of her parents, but surely anyone who knew them knew they wouldn't be home…
Cyrene glanced out the peephole, only to take a step back as a giant hand ripped the door away. Cyrene couldn't help a scream, and, immediately, her fear-clone appeared. "Distract it!" Cyrene called as she raced for the back door. But, even as she did, she could see her fear-clone cowering in a corner.
That wasn't going to do any good. She flung the back door open, only to find a second Sentinel. "Damn it!" Cyrene muttered. "Help me!" Her rage-clone, Rana, appeared, immediately hurling profanities at the Sentinels as Cyrene ran. But the screaming did nothing to stop the Sentinels. One of them reached down and grabbed Rana.
For a moment, Cyrene panicked. Ever since she'd realized that she could summon clones of herself, she'd been careful. She'd never put them in any real danger before. What would happen if the Sentinel crushed one of her clones? Where was her fear-clone? Was it already gone? No. No, she could still feel it inside the house, cowering from the Sentinels. Why didn't it do something useful?
But she only had a moment to wonder, because the Sentinel reached down again, snatching her up before she had a chance to get any farther. Cyrene wriggled in the Sentinel's grasp, and she could see that Rana was doing the same. But neither of them could escape the giant robots.
Just then, to her relief, the first Sentinel came into view, clutching her fear-clone tightly in its hand. A man stood beside the Sentinel, smiling a little, satisfied. "Impressive," he admitted. "When I read your file, I wasn't sure if your clones just appeared randomly, or if you could actually summon them. Nice to see that you have some control over when they appear – even if you don't seem to have much control over what they do once they're here."
Cyrene clenched her fists. "Why do you care? What do you want?"
The man shook his head. "Right now, what I want is simple. I just want you to absorb your clones again so we can get going."
"Why?"
The man shrugged. "Because the car's almost full as it is, and the airplane's small. Two extra clones means less legroom for the rest of you."
"The rest of who? What's going on?"
"Absorb your clones again, and I'll explain."
Cyrene shook her head. "I have to be able to touch them in order to—"
The man nodded at the Sentinel. The robot held her closer to Rana, who was still shouting uselessly at the Sentinels. Cyrene reached out to touch Rana, absorbing her back into herself, then did the same with her fear-clone. "All right. Explain."
But the man simply shook his head as the Sentinel lowered her closer. Then he snapped a collar around her neck and nodded to the robot.
"Let's go."
Dr. Hans Brenner, 74
March 16th, 03:34 AKST
It was way too early in the morning.
Hans shook his head as he made his way outside again into the brisk night air. Morning air. Whatever sort of air it technically was, it was way too cold. But the last of the planes had finally arrived, and Nicholas had wanted them all present in person for a meeting.
Hans breathed a sigh of relief as the five of them – Alvin and the four mutants he had been tasked with retrieving – made their way off the plane, accompanied by a rather large dog. The four children were looking around sleepily, bewildered by their surroundings. Alvin gave the others a tired wave before showing the children to their rooms.
Their rooms. "Cells" might have been a more accurate description, but Mack kept insisting that they call them rooms. That was his job, of course. To make everything sound right. To make what they were doing sound at least a little more acceptable. But Hans was too tired for pleasantries.
So were the others, but they followed Nicholas to the meeting room and sat down around the table, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. "I'll keep this short," Nicholas promised when Alvin finally joined them. "Any difficulties?"
"Aside from some of us being utterly unable to keep to a schedule and failing to check in when ordered to?" Judah grumbled.
Nicholas smiled wearily. "Yes. Aside from that."
"And aside from an angry dog?" Alvin offered.
"An angry dog that you still saw fit to bring along," Nicholas pointed out. "Can't have been too vicious."
"My arm disagrees with you, but thanks for the concern." Alvin yawned. "Other than that, I think everything's proceeding according to plan – if not necessarily according to schedule."
Nicholas nodded. "Speaking of schedules, our three coaches have worked out a tentative training schedule for the next few days. They wanted to have some time to work with our contestants one-on-one and to let them train together in groups. Here's what they proposed; you can have a look over it once you're a bit more awake."
Hans nodded, glanced over it, and tucked it in his bag. What the mutants did over the next few days wasn't really his concern. Any sort of training they did now – it wasn't really going to help them once they were in the arena. It was just for show. To give them a sense of security, the illusion that they were prepared for what was coming.
It was a lie. They weren't prepared. How could they be? But if giving them a little training kept them – and their coaches – under control, then so be it.
It was Francine who spoke up. "What are all these numbers?"
"We gave them all numbers," Nicholas explained. "Easier to keep track of that way. The same numbers that are on their collars."
Alvin cocked an eyebrow. "These collars?" He produced four collars from inside his coat and tossed them on the table.
Judah rolled his eyes. "You didn't even use them?"
Alvin shrugged. "You gave them to us in case we needed them. I didn't."
"No wonder you got attacked by a dog," Lillian scoffed.
Hans shook his head. "This won't do. The other mutants could see those four and think they're getting special treatment. Either all of them wear the collars, or none of them do."
"That's absurd," Alvin muttered.
Nicholas shook his head. "In order for the experiment to be fair, the conditions must be the same for—"
Alvin chuckled a little. "Oh, please. Don't pretend you're interested in fairness. If you wanted everything to be fair, you would have sent the Sentinels after all thirty of them, instead of sending seven different people with seven different methods, seven different motives, seven different attitudes. This isn't about fairness; it's about control."
Hans opened his mouth to object, but Nicholas held up a hand. "No. You're right, Alvin. It is about control. And they need to know that we can control all of them. So if you won't do it, then I will." He picked up the four discarded collars, then glanced around at the rest of the group. "Anything else?"
No one spoke. Alvin yawned, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. Nicholas shook his head. "All right, then. Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."
One by one, the others filed out of the room. Once they were alone, Hans turned to Alvin. "If you have something to say about the Games—"
"Nothing that I haven't already said."
"Then just do as you're told. It'll be over soon enough."
But even as he said it, he knew that wasn't true. If the Games went as planned, yes, they would be over. But they would be back. Year after year. Group after group of mutants, until they had the control they needed. It was a terrible price to pay, but if it ended up securing the safety and future of the human race, then it was worth it.
Wasn't it?
"Countless choices define our fate."
