I Should Be Doing Homework But I Wanted to Write Fanfiction Instead - an autobiography by me.
Apologies for this chapter, it's a bit exposition-heavy. Del is a quiet, observation-y kind of guy, plus I wanted to fit in the recap of the reapings, since you're all being so patient waiting for me to bring the other tributes into this story.
Also, one thing I don't think I made clear with Adia's chapter, but it's not guaranteed her family, or Bolt's (Fiddle Kid), or anyone else's is dead. The Peacekeepers didn't specifically target their families, they just started wiping out random people to get their point across. The viewing stations they targeted did happen to be ones were a lot of kids' parents were, but no relations of Adia or Bolt have been confirmed dead. Sorry about that, I have a tendency to sort of vaguely imply things because I can then avoid enormous paragraphs of information, but sometimes it leaves readers super confused. If you've ever got questions on what I've written, please feel free to ask them in a review or a PM, and I will get back to you or post the answer in an A/N. A lot of these tributes have really complex backstories (such as Del, for example), and while that's wonderful, I can't get every detail in without giving you an info overload. Plus I've gotta keep a slight air of mystery to some of these guys. But seriously, if you're confused, let me know, and I will do my best to un-confuse you.
Also, this is long overdo, but thank you all so much for your support for this story! I never would have dreamed I'd get over 100 reviews after posting 9 chapters. You're all absolutely incredible - virtual cookies for all!
Aemilius "Del" Lewellyn, 17, District 5
Now, I'm never one to brag, but I don't lie, either. I know I have a vast array of skills. You want me to solve a logic problem in the blink of an eye? Reroute wires in a generator to maximise the efficiency of the flowing electricity? Withstand verbal and physical pain at the hands of my enemies? Not a problem.
But small talk? Don't even ask. I'm smart enough to know where most people have charisma, I have an unhealthy dose of awkward.
Which makes the first few hours of the train ride incredibly uncomfortable, especially considering my district partner seems to operate in a similar fashion.
That was the term, wasn't it? District partner. Fellow tribute. The female representative of 5.
My adversary in this upcoming death match.
Eyes narrowing ever so slightly, I continue to observe the girl sitting across from me at the dining table; our Capitol escort vanished as soon as dinner finished to "escape the district scum". Whatever—he's of little consequence to my situation.
This girl, however, is a different story entirely. I'm no fool; I know the Capitol would never waste this much money and publicity on a bluff, which means they're actually serious about these Hunger Games. If I ever want to return to 5, or any of the other districts I once called home, I'm going to have to murder children just like me to do it.
A small part of me thinks I shouldn't be this accepting of the task at hand. Small being the key word here. I lived through the war; I've seen death. Hell, I've caused it.
It gets easier to ignore your conscience after that.
Right now, the only life I care about is my own, and is that really such a bad thing? After the war, you'd think even the biggest idiots would understand Panem is a kill-or-be-killed world. I don't make the rules of survival, I simply play the game, and play to win at that.
Noble? Of course not.
Smart? Undeniably so.
It's my turn now, and I'll use all the time I've got to take the steps I need. Starting with the evaluation of my so-called "partner".
She's a simple-looking girl, though I suppose the curly, red hair is somewhat unique. It's about the same length as mine, reaching just past her shoulders, so it won't distract or impede her in any way. Pale skin and freckles indicates she likely burns in the sun easily, but then again, so do I, and who even knows if that will affect us. Though our Capitol escort explained the rules of the Hunger Games thoroughly during the reapings, he had no information to share on exactly where this death match would take place.
"Searching for my weaknesses already? Shame on you for jumping on this Hunger Games bandwagon so quickly."
My neutral expression shifts for a moment, genuinely surprised as my partner lifts her eyes from the silly Capitol magazine she was idly perusing. Despite the teasing smirk playing on her lips, I can see a spark of sharp intelligence in her eyes.
Perhaps I'm not dealing with a run-of-the-mill teenager here.
"Honestly, you could at least be more subtle about it," she continues, laying her palms flat on the table. "Oh, and since you seem so interested, the shaking hands? Not a permanent defect. Just a bit of nerves."
I shrug. "Still a weakness."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps it's weaker still to show no fear. Not getting cocky, are you?"
"Of course not. I don't have enough information about our current situation to warrant any sort of confidence, and I would certainly never overestimate my skills."
She laughs then, confusing me even more. Is this some social cue I've missed? Damn it, this is why I hate talking.
"Oh man." She snorts into her hand. "Jeez, you're the real deal, huh? I mean, I'd heard about the socially awkward genius from just about every district under the sun, but to actually meet you . . . anyone ever told you you sound kind of like a robot?"
"On occasion. And I've only ever been to five districts. Don't let rumours obscure the facts."
"Wouldn't dream of it." She leans forward, her interest piqued. "Still, must have been a hell of a time. I've been stuck in Five my whole life. You were from, what, Two originally? Yeah, had to be Two, with a name like yours. Seriously, Aemilius? Please, tell me you have a nickname."
"Del," I say before I can stop myself. Instantly, I regret it. Sharing trivial facts is hardly dangerous, but any information on my personal life could be used against me.
My district partner frowns. "How do you get 'Del' from 'Aemilius'?"
I can't avoid the question, not without looking suspicious. "Quidel is my middle name," I explain, careful to maintain my stoic expression. "It comes from there."
No need to explain the fact that my mother's family always used the nickname because they were originally from 6 and couldn't get the hang of 2 names either. No need for her to know I haven't been called Del in ages, since they're all either dead or far, far away now.
"Right. Well then, Del, feel free to call me Sam. Or Sammy. Or Samalana-banana." She makes a face. "My sister thought she was hilarious with that one."
"I won't be using any of those."
"Ugh, but Samantha just sounds so formal . . . oh." She stops short, analysing my face carefully, and I curse myself for whatever minute expression I might be showing. This girl is smarter than she lets on. "You're not going to call me anything."
Well, no point in lying. "No."
"What, just going to use 'girl'? Will that really make it easier to kill me?"
"In my experience, killing strangers is a lot easier than killing acquaintances."
"And you've had a lot of experience?"
"Have you?"
She laughs again. "Slamming the ball neatly back into my court. Well done. And no, just for your information, I haven't. My family stayed neutral during the war. We all knew the Capitol was going to win anyways, so why fight an impossible battle?"
Perhaps it would be best not to mention I and a number of my family members were involved in the rebellion.
"But, look," Samantha—the girl says, leaning back in her chair. "We could sit here all night, playing mind games and bouncing observations back and forth, but we're both smart enough to never let the other get anywhere."
"Are we?"
She smiles. "Del, dear, don't even question my intelligence."
So she has an ego. Noted. Though from what I've seen, she also has the skills to back up her arrogance. Also noted.
"So," she continues, "Instead of stumbling around getting nowhere with each other, why don't we do something more productive?"
"What do you have in mind?"
She flips her magazine up for me to see. Amid the glossy images of Capitol actors in ridiculous poses, a large TV guide spans the page.
"They're showing a recap of all the reapings on channel 7 in five minutes. Do remember I am only one of your many enemies in this, Del, as you are mine. Wouldn't you like to see the others?"
Loathe though I am to admit it when faced with that patronising smirk, I would. My district partner is right; whether one of us is more intelligent or not, neither of us are stupid enough to fall prey to the other. Why not analyse the others, scope out the rest of these tributes?
I hope they're not all as perceptive as the girl across from me. Otherwise things may get very difficult.
But, thankfully, as my partner and I move to the living car and turn the TV on, we're rewarded with our first idiot of the night. No sooner have we settled ourselves onto the couch then the announcers finish their little introduction and cut to what I presume is the main square of District 1, where the boys are reaped first and someone . . . volunteers.
"What?" Even Samantha—my district partner can't hide her surprise as a boy with a black eye and shaky legs stumbles his way to the stage. "What the hell? I just—what?"
"Agreed."
Why would someone volunteer for this? They do know this is a fight to the death, right? Sure, I can see how the rewards of riches and fame might appeal to poor, weak-hearted teenagers with overinflated egos, but still. Death. How is that not clear?
"Okay, so safe to say we're the smartest kids in this competition," Samantha—damn it—says as the escort reaps the female tribute.
"We've only seen the one boy. Don't be so quick to make assumptions."
Indeed, we both watch as the reaped girl is found amongst the seventeen-year-olds and shoved towards the stage. Though mind-numbing shock is just about the only emotion registering on her face, as is only normal, I can see the same spark of deadly intelligence in her eyes as I did in Samantha's.
This is quickly becoming more complicated than I'd hoped.
Thankfully District 2 seems more average, at least in the brains department. My heart leaps seeing the familiar Justice Building and surrounding towns as first a twelve-year-old, then some girl who refuses to accept her fate because she's "not a rebel" is picked.
I have to admit, that is interesting. Most people figured these Games were only a punishment for rebels and kids of rebels, a fact only reinforced when I was reaped. But Samantha's neutrality in the war, plus this 2 girl . . . just what is the Capitol playing at, exactly?
It's a little disconcerting, to be honest. I'd figured they'd keep up this Hunger Games until all the rebellious kids were gone and dead, but if they're intent on taking average teens as well . . . what does that mean for Panem's future?
"Ugh."
The groan of disgust pulls me from my thoughts, drawing me back to the District 3 reapings, which Samantha is watching with poorly-concealed revulsion.
"What?"
"Just look at them," she says, gesturing to the screen, where onstage stand the two tributes surrounded by Peacekeepers. The girl is fighting tooth and nail, screaming profanities, but the boy is silent and tearful. "These are the competitors from Three. Jeez, I bet my pinky finger has a higher IQ than both kids combined."
"I take it you have some sort of grudge against Three?" From what I'd seen of 5, it seemed to be a common mentality.
"Of course. Everyone worships them as the smartest district, but again, look at them. Nothing but a bunch of rebellious idiots we got lumped in with. I'll say it again: ugh."
Her displeasure doesn't last long, however. The cocky smirk and laugh are back by the time the scene switches to 4, where a twelve-year-old girl was reaped and someone volunteers.
"Oh my God, honestly? What is with these suicidal idiots?"
"I have absolutely no idea." Words I hate to say, but it's true. What could possibly motivate someone to willingly participate in these Games?
The boy is not without his share of surprises either, despite the fact that he's reaped.
"Arc Malvina," Samantha repeats as the shocked boy stumbles his way to the stage. "Malvina. Didn't we just hear that name?"
Indeed—Lizzy Malvina was the twelve-year-old picked before the older girl volunteered. Huh. Clearly the Capitol wants someone in their family for the arena. Wonder what they did.
I avert my eyes as our reapings come on—I've never been able to stand seeing myself on TV—but Samantha watches them in full, her expression strangely vulnerable.
"That's my sister crying," she whispers as, onscreen, her name is called and a wail erupts over the crowd. "My parents too. They couldn't believe I was picked."
I know. They came to see me during our goodbye sessions. Tears in their eyes, despair in their expressions, but they hadn't shouted, and they hadn't begged. I'd figured the purpose of their visit was to convince me to help they're daughter, and yet all they said was they were sorry for my situation and they'd hoped I would stay safe.
I'd had no words. These people, they had known my safety would mean their daughter's downfall, right? How could they console me with that thought in their minds?
I wonder, does Samantha know of her family's visit?
Thankfully, the awkward melancholy surrounding my district partner disappears as the reapings for 6 comes on. Back is the incredulous laughter and the intelligent sense of superiority as a girl is reaped, and her brother volunteers to protect her, only to have another girl take her place.
Well then.
"Still not sure if we're the smartest of this batch?" Samantha asks with a smirk.
"We are only halfway through." Though I must admit, with the exception of that 1 girl, it is looking more and more likely.
The 7s are nothing special, to me, at least, but Samantha looks up as the boy is reaped.
"I know him."
"What? I thought you'd never been out of Five."
"I thought you were supposed to be smart, Del. Volt Tron? Pretty obviously a Five name."
"So 'Samantha' is what, then? Don't talk to me about naming conventions—your district is far too weird."
"Screw you. My parents like old-fashioned names." She crosses her arms and turns back to the TV. "Anyways, I'm telling you, he's from Five. We used to be in the same classes before the war. Arrogant dick, if I recall. Everyone thought him and his family were dead."
"Why?"
"Apparently they were involved in a plot to blow up the mayor's house for his support to the Capitol. Never happened, of course. The Peacekeepers invaded and stopped the rebels in their tracks. The Trons were never heard from again. I guess they hopped districts."
Interesting—I file the information away for later. Never know when it might come in handy.
I wonder if Samantha is aware of how much help she's giving me.
The 8 girl seems to be another rebel, judging by the way her initial shock morphs into contempt after her name is called. Her partner, however, is booed as he makes his way to the stage. Hmm, definitely a story behind that one. Judging by his neatly brushed hair and his toned but well-fed frame, he's from a rich family that wasn't affected by the war. Still, I doubt class differences and jealousy is the sole reason behind the crowd's reaction.
9 yields a homely, bucktoothed thirteen-year-old and a sly, mischievous eighteen-year-old, both who react with typical expressions of shock, but manage to control their emotions soon after. Impressive, especially for the young girl. Though she has to be pushed out of her section to get going, I make a mental note that she's stronger than her age suggests.
District 10 is where things get . . . interesting. The girl is nothing special, another kid on the verge of tears, but the boy . . .
"Is that a strait jacket?" Samantha asks, eyes wide as Riley Byron is found at the edge of the seventeen-year-old pen, surrounded by a group of Peacekeepers.
"I-I think so." I curse myself for showing weakness, but it's impossible to keep my voice from wavering as the 10 boy glares directly into the camera. Those are the eyes of someone not right in the head. Not to mention he's massive. I'm pretty sure one of his hands could wrap completely around my neck.
Shit. I was so intent on watching for opponents whose intelligence rivals my own, I'd forgotten the physical powerhouses that were possibilities in these Games. Sure, brains wins over brawn every time, but that doesn't change the fact that I wouldn't poke that boy with a twelve-foot pole. He'd probably run me through with it.
Strangling, being skewered—why do gruesome images of my death keep playing on repeat in my head?
The crazies don't stop at 11, though fortunately neither tribute is nearly as intimidating as Riley. Katerina Mossiac is a tall but lean fourteen-year-old who starts screaming the moment her name is called. An understandable reaction considering the circumstances, but still, there's an added hysterical edge to it that makes me think the girl isn't entirely all there.
The boy is more difficult to figure out. His expression is blank, but as the camera zooms in, it becomes clear he's breathing heavily, and there's a panicked, pained look in his eyes that he can't conceal. At his sides, his hands are twitching uncontrollably.
"I don't know about you," Samantha says as Kale Hackberry steps towards the stage, "But I think there's something up with him. Thoughts?"
I shrug; no need to help her, even if she isn't so guarded with her thoughts. "I'm not sure. What are you thinking?"
"Dunno. Could be anywhere from ADHD to kleptomania to pyromania. I've heard the upper districts breed all sorts of crazies."
No doubt they say the same about places such as 5, where cold-hearted and emotionally-retarded nerds are the standard mold for citizens. But I digress.
Onscreen, the girl from 12's name is called, but she doesn't move, even after the camera finds her in the crowd. Only when a kid next to her gently places a hand on her shoulder does she jerk away with a loud cry of, "I can do it myself!"
The fourteen-year-olds move away as she tries to stumble out of the section, but something's not right. She moves so hesitantly for someone so determined, her hands out in front of her, her face angry but her steps slow. The camera closes in on her face, revealing the terrified tears behind the rage.
It hits me and Samantha as soon as we see her clouded, grey eyes.
"Blind," Samantha says slowly. "She's blind."
"She is."
Both of us sit in silence for a bit, and I wonder if my partner's line of thinking is just as bad as mine. Because the thoughts that cross my head are not oh, poor girl or this is so unfair for her. All I can think is, Good. She'll be easy to get out of the way.
Later, I'll feel bad about my ruthlessness. At the moment, however, I can't afford to.
The boy reaped is only a year younger than Tierza. He remains frozen in place, just as she did, until the Peacekeepers start to move towards him. Then he takes off, sprinting like a madman out of his section and towards one of the side streets off of the square.
Frankly, I'm surprised he's the only one who tried to run. Why were the rest of us so willing to accept our fate? Why was I content to walk to my death like a good little boy instead of fighting back?
I suppose because I know that war was long since lost. My fate was sealed no matter what I did, a fact made only more clear as the running thirteen-year-old is caught by the Peacekeepers and dragged to the stage.
There's nothing any of us can do to escape this. We can try to avoid it, we can ignore it, we can deny it, but sooner or later, the Hunger Games will come.