Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.
Note: Thank you to PuTtHaTcOoKiEDoWn and jakey121 for Hatchet and Clark, respectively, and to RandomTributeAccount for Winnow. Also, a big thank you to everybody who submitted tributes to my sister's story. She finally has enough to get started, and the tribute list is now up on her profile.
District Seven
The Best
Winnow Rathings, 27
Victor of the 65th Hunger Games
She still hadn't made up her mind.
Winnow kicked a rock out of the path as she made her way to the district square. Her younger brother, Linton, opened his mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it. There was nothing to say. Nothing any of them could say. Either she would go back into the Games, or she wouldn't. That was all there was to it.
Except it wasn't.
Winnow clenched her fists tightly, wishing the thought would leave her mind. The thought that maybe it should be her choice, after all. Maybe she should volunteer. Maybe it would be better – for her, for her family, for everyone else – if she went back into the Games.
On the surface, the thought was absurd. But she was used to that. It had been absurd to volunteer the first time, ten years ago. Her little brother had been called to the stage, but a boy had volunteered in his place. Inspired by his courage, Winnow had volunteered for the girl, who hadn't been much older than her own little brother. It had been foolish, perhaps – an idealistic gesture that, by all rights, should have gotten her killed.
But she had survived. She had fought hard for her right to come home. She was here by her own merits, not by the strange quirks of luck or fate that had saved others in the arena. It was absurd to think of going back in.
But what was the other choice?
Winnow shook her head. She knew the other choice. The other choice was Hatchet, who, while still fit and strong for her age, was an old woman nonetheless. Would she really stand a chance in the arena? At least Winnow would have a chance – maybe even a good chance – of coming out again. Wasn't it better, then, for her to take that chance?
And what would their district really be losing? She had entered the Games a hero for saving the life of the younger girl at the reapings, but she had emerged a murderer, a traitor who had turned on her district partner, Nestor – the boy who had saved her own brother – at the best opportunity, who hadn't hesitated to use him as bait for the Careers and had finished him off herself when the Careers hadn't quite been able to finish the job. She would never forget the look on his face.
And neither would anyone in their district.
But was that enough reason to go back in? Some vague chance for redemption? If she saved Hatchet's life now, would that be enough to make up for the lives that she had taken? For Nestor's life?
But, on the other hand, there was nothing to make up for. She had nothing to apologize for – or, at least, she shouldn't. If she hadn't killed Nestor, someone else would have. She'd only done what almost every Victor in the history of the Games had done: killed in order to survive.
She was certainly no different from District Seven's other Victors. Clark, who had won a mere five years after her, had made his share of kills. Even Benton, who had won more by luck than by skill, had killed – although most of his opponents had been weakened by the poisonous snakes that had filled his arena by the time he got to them. And Hatchet, despite her age, had been quite the Victor herself back in her day, totaling five kills before her time in the arena was over, passing her older brother's total by two tributes.
Winnow took a deep breath as she approached the stage. Her fellow Victors stood with their families by the side of the stage, waiting. Waiting for her? Or maybe hoping to simply prolong the inevitable a little longer before taking their places.
Winnow turned to her brother and sister, sharing an awkward embrace before taking her place with her fellow Victors. Clark, too, shared a brief hug with his parents before they, too, disappeared into the crowd. Winnow nodded. He understood. If either of them was going back into the Games, they couldn't afford to seem soft and emotional – at least, not in front of the Capitol audience.
Hatchet didn't seem particularly concerned with that. As she took her place onstage, her family followed – her son, his wife, and her two grandchildren. She took her seat, smirking, and they stood supportively behind her.
Benton, too, was surrounded – and almost completely hidden – by his family as he took the stage. They made a strange group, at first glance. Benton's wife, Savannah, was nearly twice his size, and even his younger daughter, Acacia, who was only nine, was already a head taller than him. Only his older daughter, Azalea, had inherited her father's stature, his stunted legs and stubby arms.
Winnow's stomach turned. Both of District Seven's older Victors were doing their best to put on a brave face, but even from her position offstage, she could see that Benton was shaking. Would chance would he or Hatchet have if they were chosen to go back into the arena? Maybe it should be her and Clark going back in.
But Clark…
District Seven's youngest Victor certainly looked confident as he took the stage, taking a seat next to Benton after shaking the older Victor's trembling hand. Winnow couldn't hear what Clark said, but it was probably "good luck." But wishing each other luck was a formality, at best. Certainly each of them was hoping the other one would be chosen.
She almost wished she could be thinking the same thing.
Last of all, Winnow took the stage, sliding into a chair beside Hatchet, trying not to look at the older woman. But Hatchet smiled knowingly and clapped Winnow firmly on the back. "Good luck, Kiddo."
Winnow nodded. "You, too." But the words were hollow. Even if luck didn't save Hatchet, she could. All she had to do was volunteer – one more time.
Winnow watched silently as District Seven's escort, Humphrey Munger, joined them onstage, shaking everyone's hands and grinning madly. He didn't seem to understand – he never did – that two of them, more likely than not, wouldn't be coming home again. Maybe there were escorts in other districts who grew attached to their Victors and would be sorry to see them go, but not Humphrey. He was practically jumping up and down as he approached the first bowl, which held two names. Hers and Hatchet's. He quickly reached in and snatched up the first slip of paper his fingers found. "Hatchet Ford!"
Winnow's stomach turned. This was it. She could let the older woman die, or…
But, just as she started to stand up and open her mouth, Hatchet burst out laughing. Nearly on her feet, Winnow turned, shocked, as a hand pulled her back down. "Sit down, young lady!" Hatchet demanded between cackles of laughter. "Better me than you, I suppose." She turned her grin to the crowd. "I'm going to die soon, anyway, so why the hell not?"
Humphrey grinned and clapped District Seven's oldest living Victor on the back. "That's the spirit! Why not? What's one more Game?" He almost tripped over himself as he sprinted to the other reaping bowl. Winnow glanced over at Benton and Clark, both of whom were watching intently as Humphrey dipped his hand in the bowl and removed one of the two slips of paper. He practically tore it open, then grinned. "Clark Tierney!"
For a moment, Clark sat there, frozen in his seat. Benton shifted his weight uncomfortably but made no move to volunteer. Of course not. The pair of them were close, but there were limits. Neither of them was about to risk his life for the other.
After a moment, Clark stood, stuffing his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking. He took one step forward, then another, until he was standing beside Hatchet. The corners of his mouth twitched a little, as if he was trying to smile but couldn't quite manage it. Finally, a half-smile settled onto his face as he pulled a hand from his pocket long enough to hold it out to Hatchet, who shook it firmly.
And that was it. Winnow glanced over at Benton, who nodded. They were safe. She was safe. She wouldn't be going back into the Games.
But, somehow, she still couldn't shake the thought that she should be.
One by one, the others' family members made their way off the stage, leaving only the four of them. Two tributes. Two mentors. Winnow turned to Hatchet. "I … I was going to—"
"Save it, sweetie," Hatchet smiled a little. "You don't get to throw your life away for me. You still have work to do."
"Work to do?"
Hatchet chuckled. "Didn't really think about it, did you. If you go into the Games and get yourself killed, and in a few years I'm gone, anyway, just like my big brother, then who's left for the tributes here? This little shrimp?" She ruffled Benton's hair. Benton rolled his eyes and playfully swatted her hand away. "This way, at least, the tributes next year – and the next, and the next – will have two of you. Maybe three." She clapped Clark on the back.
Winnow shook her head. "But not four. It's not fair. I—"
Hatchet smirked. "One round of the Games didn't drill it into your head hard enough, eh? Life isn't fair. The Games aren't fair. Nothing is fair for anyone else, so why should we expect any different?"
"We're Victors. We—"
"—were lucky enough to make it out of the Games once," Benton finished. "And the two of us got lucky again today. That should be enough for you."
Maybe. But it wasn't. It wasn't enough. She was safe, but Clark and Hatchet – and twenty-two Victors in the other districts – were still going to be fighting for their lives. Maybe she wasn't particularly close to most of them, but it still wasn't right.
"Benton's right." Clark's voice caught her off-guard. He was the last person she would have expected to be all right with the situation. Maybe Hatchet didn't have much to lose – not much time left, anyway – but he had his whole life ahead of him. "Maybe it's not fair, but complaining about it isn't going to help anyone – especially us." He nodded to Hatchet, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders as Clark nodded to one of the cameras nearby.
Winnow sighed. Even now, going back to what would probably be his death, Clark was concerned about his image. About how the Capitol would see him. Benton smiled a little, playing along. "That's my boy."
Winnow bit her tongue. Of course Benton would want to mentor Clark. Of course he would want the tribute who actually had a chance of coming back. Hatchet disentangled herself from her younger district partner and approached Winnow. "Looks like it's you and me, then." She chuckled. "Just keep me alive until the Games, and I'll take it from there."
Winnow nodded as Hatchet and Clark headed for the Justice Building. But she couldn't help a twinge of guilt as she watched them go. "You had a fifty-fifty chance, just like them," Benton pointed out, a knowing look in his eyes as the pair of them headed for the train. "We just got lucky. That's all."
Lucky. Maybe. Maybe that was all there was to it. Maybe she didn't have anything to feel guilty about – or, at least, anything she should feel guilty about.
But that didn't make it any better.
Hatchet Ford, 77
Victor of the 13th Hunger Games
Maybe this was better for everyone.
Hatchet held her grandchildren close as they fussed over her one last time. She straightened Jean's tie and wiped the tears from Antoinette's eyes. Of course there were people who would miss her, in the likely event that she didn't make it back. But she'd had a good life. A long life. Longer than most in District Seven could hope for. Longer than she'd had any right to expect all those years ago when she'd entered the Games the first time.
Maybe life didn't owe her any more.
Winnow ruffled her son's hair fondly. Life had never owed her anything, after all. She had never expected anything to be handed to her, and she certainly didn't expect it now. She'd always taken the bad along with the good, the hardships along with the triumphs. There was no reason for that to change now. In some ways, this would be no different than her first time through the Games.
Hatchet chuckled a little. She wasn't fooling anyone – including herself. In some ways, it would be the same, of course, but in other ways – some very important ways – everything had changed. Instead of being roughly her equals, the other tributes this year would almost all be younger, stronger, better suited to the Games. She would have to get lucky – very lucky – in order to have a chance of coming home.
But it wouldn't be the first time she'd gotten lucky. Both her win and her brother's had been a combination of luck and skill. And while her body was older now and her skills were more than a little rusty, her mind was as sharp as ever. And maybe that was even better – even more useful – than the skills some of the other tributes would still possess. Recently, it seemed, half of the Victors had relied mostly on their looks and their physical abilities, while the other half had won by sheer luck. Maybe they would underestimate the kindly old grandmother who wanted to return to her family.
Or maybe not. These were Victors, after all. Everyone in the arena was a threat. Even her. Some of them might be quick to write her off, but some would remember. Some would remember the little girl whose first kill had come while she was proposing an alliance to another boy. The little girl who, in the end, had been even deadlier than her older, stronger brother.
But would they realize she was just as deadly now?
Clark Tierney, 23
Victor of the 70th Hunger Games
Maybe he was the best choice, after all.
Clark took a deep breath as the door closed behind his parents. Five years ago, when he had sat in this same room, no one would have considered him the best choice to go into the Games. He had been shaking like a leaf onstage, and had broken down in tears during his goodbyes. No one had thought he would make it home the first time.
But he had. He wasn't proud of what he'd done to survive, but survive he had. He had fought. He had killed. He had assumed, like so many others, that, once he made it out of the arena alive, everything would be all right.
And maybe everything hadn't been all right, but, for the most part, the last five years had been good. At first, he'd struggled to find a new routine, but, eventually, he had taken a part-time job in the lumberyard. Not because he'd needed the money, of course, but because he'd needed something normal. Something real.
Maybe he'd needed a distraction.
But it was better than spending his days holed up in his house in Victors' Village, as some Victors did. It was better than drinking his memories away or turning to drugs for relief from his problems. Maybe his life wasn't perfect, but whose was? And things had seemed to be getting better. He had made friends at work, his family had always been there for him, and he had gotten to know most of the other Victors – or, at least, the ones who were still mentoring – during his four years as a mentor.
So maybe he was a better choice. Objectively. From an outside perspective. He had his parents, yes, but no children. No one who was depending on him. He was still young, still strong, the memories and skills from his first Games still fresh in his mind. He had a chance. Maybe not a large chance, but the best chance he could ask for.
And he had to take advantage of that.
The others – his district, the other tributes, maybe even the Capitol – would see him as a contender. He could use that – their confidence, their approval. He could build on that. He'd done his best to be the sort of Victor that his district could be proud of. Now he could use that image in his favor. This time, he could be the sort of tribute the Capitol would want to see.
But would that be good enough?
"Pitiful. Can [they] do no better than you as their champion?"
"Probably. I just do the best I can."