AN: Remember kids, this is pretty much an AU fic, meaning that many of the Victors, even some of those who die in the books, are still alive. Why? Because it's cool and it makes the story flow better, I really just felt like including some of them.
Also, next chapter all items on the sponsorship list will rise in price by 10 pts, so get buying now!
And just to add to the craziness, there is a ten point bonus for each canon victor you can spot in this chapter, so get looking.
The Dead Tributes Society:
Where dead tributes come to die.
"Day One has left a heavy toll on the tributes of this years Hunger Games, leaving five dead and unleashing an even greater threat upon the remaining nineteen, their own predecessors!
But what about the dead? Those five sorry souls who perished in the Bloodbath and the first day? Well, while their lives may have ended their stories have not, so let us follow them to their Districts to see their friends and family give a last goodbye.
ALEW FEROVE (Age 12):
They had all known that Alew was doomed. Right from the moment his name had been pulled out. Sure he had pretended, they had pretended, to try and make it better, but they had known from the start.
Lisa's eyes hurt as she stares down into the coffin through bleary eyes, looking into the restored face of her younger brother. He looks so peaceful, she thinks, so natural, despite the numerous scars running across his face and the regraphted skin that had been attached over the parts that couldn't be restored. The Capitol had payed for the burial. The body reconstruction, the service at their area's finest (and only) undertakers, the casket. Even the clothes that the mourners now wear have been payed for with Senate money. It hadn't cost them a dime.
And that is what makes Lisa sick to the back teeth. They just throw money at the Districts every time a tribute dies and then pretend that that tribute never existed. Like somehow paying for it makes the death all better. It's disgusting. True Alew hadn't died with grace or in anyway particularly special. True he had had more importance in the world over these past few days than many would argue he would have had otherwise, but that isn't to say that they can just forget him! He is- was- her little brother, not their personal play thing! The Capitol have no right to pay for any of this!
Lisa grinds her teeth, shaking uncontrollably as tears run down her face. They must be enjoying this in the Capitol, watching a teenage girl crying and pretending that they have helped to ease her hard time. Acting as though the death had been inescapable.
But she doesn't care about their showy little parades. She would gladly trade all of the treasures of one thousand Panem's just to have the chance to see her brother again. To hold him in her arms and to cry and cry and tell him that he was safe. She balls up her hands into burning fists and turns to the escort of District Eight. She wants to drive her fist into the tall, crow-like, woman's stomach, to rip her to pieces and to track down every last person in Panem and destroy them. But there's nothing she can do. She falls to her knees and begins blubbering into her closed fists, praying to whatever force is up there to protect little Alew. She feels a hand on her shoulder and looks up into the face of one of the mentors from her District. A thin, wiry old man with a rather frazzled and distant expression on his face.
"There, there, dear." The man growls, his voice barely more than a whisper, "You wouldn't have wanted him to win. 'E's better dead"
Lisa blinks the tears out of her eyes and, for the second time, feels like hitting someone. How dare he say that! Alew shouldn't be dead, he should be allowed to live, he should have been allowed to win.
But then there would still be Twenty Three unhappy families, Lisa realises with a start.
And her precious little brother would have murdered them all for a sick nations amusement.
She would never have been able to look at him again. He would be a monster. She sniffs and gets to her feet. The old man smiles, patting her on the back as he leads her away.
"Better to be a dead man than a live monster," The deaf victor of the Twenty Fifth Hunger Games mutters, "I should know. I learnt that lesson a whole eighty five years ago."
QUENTIN RAPIDO (17):
"WILL SOMEONE PLEASE REMIND ME HOW MANY TIMES THIS DISTRICT HAS WON?" Heartford Rapido roars as pieces of fine china and cushions are sent whirling around the room in a deadly barrage.
The answer is five, of which only three remain, but no one dares say it. The three victors in question stand at the entrance of the room. They mill about and try to avoid eye contact as they watch the Mayor's man servants scurry around, trying to catch the more valuable projectiles. He does this every time District Five is knocked out, but it's not usually this vicious. "I KNEW THE DAMN GIRL WOULD BE OUT EARLY," The man booms, "BUT THIS IS TOO MUCH!"
The victors look at each other with hollow eyes. He hadn't been watching? He thought it had been the girl who had died. There is a tussle to exit the room which is promptly lost by a drunk man who staggers into a wall, allowing the older woman and the eccentrically dressed man to flee the building. The Drunk Victor turns to the fuming Mayor, groaning as he clutches his liver. Sometimes being a victor is just no fun.
"Actually, Meester Rapido," The man groans, tripping and staggering into a shelf, "Eet ees your son who was the unlucky one."
There is a long, uncomfortable pause.
"Say that again."
"Seeer..." The Victor gulps. The mayor was scary, even to the man who had gouged out a girl's eyes with his bare hands and thrown her into a well.
"Say. It."
"Your son ees dead." The man gulps, before immediately slipping out of the room, his soberness returning to him for just long enough to rescue him from the ensuing slaughter. No arena Panem had ever built could prepare you to tell Mayor Heartford Rapido that his oldest son is dead. Not just his oldest son, even, but Quentin Rapido, the Career of District Five. That had been Heartford's one chance to prove to the world that District Five is not weak. That he is not weak. That just because a District breeds your Mutts and hunts your beasts, literally builds the creatures that kill them every year, does not make that District weak. He had screwed up big time, and now District Five was going to go right back to being the laughing stock of Panem. The Drunk Victor groans as he steps to his feet, tottering out of the house and off down the road, trying not to make eye contact with the younger boys and girls who sit on the stairs above him. The Mayor's children. All five surviving ones at least. The five children of the Mayor of District Five. Looks like their gonna have a rough night with their dad all mourning and roaring his head off. The Drunk Victor smiles as he is joined by the other two Victors. A Capitol announcer is probably making a joke about five children in the Mayor of District Five's family. The Drunk Victor snarls, if they are it's not funny. It's a fact of life that in District Five it pays to have a lot of children.
District Five is, after all, the Cursed District.
The Drunk Victor wraps his long coat around his mouth to protect from the cold as he stumbles through the snowy streets of their District, supported by the two other Victors.
Quentin is just the newest addition to a long line of misfortune that makes District Five a laughing stock.
The revolution of the Districts had never helped them really. If anything it has made life worse. After all, a Muttanation factory wasn't much use to the more self-sufficient District's and District Five didn't really have anything they needed, so most of the factories were shut down. Thousands had lost their jobs, the Drunk Victor included. Sure, the same had happened in District One, but then again, District One had a sunny climate and the respect of the other Districts. District Five didn't. They adapted to just growing food. District Five couldn't. First came famine, then came remorse, then hatred. And when Old Panem rebelled, well, District Five had been standing right next to them. The only Non-Career District who had done so.
The Drunk Victor's eyes roll back in his head as he takes in the other two. He supposes he should be feeling something. Another of District Five's best and brightest has been snuffed out by the Capitol. He should feel sorry, but he doesn't. It is hard to feel sorry for the Mayor's son when your own life is such crap. It's District Five winter after all. Even the rich get cold.
"Outta a' th' veectors een all the world," The Drunk Victor slurs as he is helped to his mansion by the other two, "I get stuck with ya, hic. They got Careers an' 'eroes and all, an' all we got is us three." The woman smiles down at him. She can't really tell what he's feeling, but she guesses he isn't happy.
"Don't worry." the youngest of the three, a man in his early thirties dressed in an outlandish assortment of colorful clothes and hats, says, not very convincingly. "We'll do better next year, you know it."
"Yeah, sure," The Drunk Victor groans, "An' that's a good theeng, right?" He spits on the floor and passes out. The Drunk Victor. That's all he'll ever be.
What good is wealth when you can't even remember your own name.
ESSENCE CRAYMAKER (15):
Glamor runs a hand across the girl's cheek, his face set, no emotion in his eyes. She looks beautiful, he thinks, even though he can still see the seam which connects her head to her body. He smiles sadly, his face pale and clammy as he looks down at her. He hears crying from behind him and gives way so that her family can see her. Her parents and her sister and brother need to be with her now far more than he does. He stomps away as the cameras focus out from him and back to the grieving family.
Glamor looks back at them over his shoulder. They're crying. Why? Didn't they see their daughter fighting? She was brilliant, Glamor thought. Utterly astounding. He smiles as he remembers it. The subtle parries that had confounded that boy from District Two, the devastating blows she had dealt to the Muttanation, the beautiful, moody expression which is now set on her face. As though she will not even stay trapped in death. He knows that the expression has been changed from the look of sheer terror that had stretched, unbecomingly, onto her face when that savage District Nine girl had run her through, but that hardly matters to Glamor. She is a phoenix waiting to burst forth. Everything about her was so beautiful. So why were they crying? He looks back at the family and catches the eye of Pure, Essence's twin. The boy raises an eyebrow and stares at Glamor, a look of whithering, undiluted hate on his dark face.
Realisation dawns. They aren't Careers. Not one of Essence's family is trained to volunteer. They can't appreciate Essence's beauty with her darts. Not for one second. They cry because they just don't get what there is to be happy about. And he had Volunteered her. A girl of only fifteen years old. As far as they are concerned he has not helped her unlock her true potential. He has condemned her. And they hate him for that.
She had been brilliant, beautiful and deadly. More powerful than he ever could have imagined. An angel of death whom he had realised and helped to grow.
Why couldn't they see that he had just been trying to help?
After all, 'It's better to die in combat than to die old and alone, unsure of when the Reaper will come for you. Certainty of victory or certainty of death.'
That is the first rule of the creed of a District One Career. He and Essence had recited that every day, until they could recite the entire creed backwards. It is the most important idea a Career has and, over the seven years since he had joined the Careers, it has become all that Glamor knows. All that any Career knows. He looks back at Essence's twin, who is still staring at him, eyes dark. How can anyone feel bad about such an honorable death. The alternative is just as bad, to die and have no one who remembers your name. Maybe they are just sad because he isn't, Glamor thinks. Maybe if he acts all remorseful they'll stop making such a thing out of it. They'll admit that she died well.
He looks down, his stomach churning. He tries to cry. Tries to feel sorry for his actions. Really he does. But it is impossible. And it makes him sick. She was his friend. His sparring partner. Maybe she could even have meant more to him. Should he be sad? But she had died so beautifully, the best way a Career could hope to go. Why doesn't someone tell him how he is supposed to feel? Why doesn't he already know how to feel for that matter?
Glamor growls in frustration, drawing several disapproving glares as he marches off down the street. Fighting is all a Career knows. Whole District One families have nobly sacrificed themselves year after year for the prospect of everlasting honour. So why is everyone so miserable?
It happens every year.
ARIXO VARSITY (17):
Rillion shudders as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. The satisfied hiss his little girl makes as she brings the sword swinging down, the glimmer in the eye of the large boy as he rolls out the way, the savagery in both faces. Rillon looks away as the clash of metal rings through the square. The crowd oohs and ahhs, cheering the girl who has so bravely taken on the Career pack as she ducks and weaves, throwing blows at the District One boy who dares to face her.
Rillion can't watch though. To them it is just another tribute, albeit a very skilled tribute, embroiled in a fight for her life against another of those District One thugs. For him it's quite different. That's not just a tribute, that's his daughter. He peeks back at the screen as he once again hears a pause in the clashing metal. She's chasing him now, disappearing into the forest, her face set hard in one of those Death Glares, which she has become so famous for. His mouth runs dry and he stares at his boots.
"How can I look at her?" Rillion whispers, too quietly for his wife to hear, "How can I even look at her?" He smiles sadly. But she has what it takes to win, doesn't she? She's tough, determined and a great fighter. And he should have faith in her. He's her father for goodness sake! Everyone else seems to have faith in her, after all. He looks around, staring up from his boots just long enough to take in the crowd. Daron, his oldest son, can be seen on the outskirt of the square, clapping enthusiastically, flashing confident smiles to his many friends and co-workers as he does so. Nearer the front of the crowd is the youngest of Rillion's children, Jake. The large teen is leaping up and down in excitement, cheering his sister's name every time she gets a hit on the Career. Arixo's best friend Zalley is whooping and jumping about in excitement and even Rillion's wife is smiling confidently. The meek man stops and thinks for a minute. What is he worrying about? She won't going to lose. He knows that she won't. He raises his head and opens his mouth, preparing to say something inspiring. Even if she can't hear it, he smiles, it will give her the push she needs to sail into the spot of Victor.
And then he hears the cannon, and tears well up in his eyes.
Rillion has never really been much for having his feelings hurt, a child turning up their nose at an unwanted birthday present had often sent him into depression. He pales as he watches the corpse of his only daughter tumble into the pond, Claudius Templesmith narrating feverishly. He spends hours sitting there, on the sidelines. The rest of the day is absorbed by crying, friends and the relatives of precious tributes sharing their commiserations and, more regularly than he would have generally liked, vomiting. Rillion sits there until his wife finally comes out for him once the sun has disappeared. Teary eyed, he lets her escort her back to their house.
Why had he chosen that moment to finally have faith in his little girl? It was all his fault.
APRIL CONNOLLY (15):
Ebony Raven, the mentor of District Four, watches as the short girl is pulled from the bottom of The Cornucopia, half eaten remains still clutched by the battered body of the Mutt that had severed it's head.
Her Mutt, Ebony groans. The one with her DNA. It makes her sick to think that.
She looks over at District Ten's escort, Thebes Horrors. He too seems rather red eyed, wringing his hands as the girl is loaded onto the hovercraft next to them.
"I'm glad you decided to come." Ebony mutters to him and he nods sullenly, but says nothing. "I mean, I only came along to pick up my Mutt." The woman lies, awkwardly shuffling her feet. She looks over at the Escort, who is still looking at his feet and crying into a purple and orange handkerchief which perfectly matches his hair, or fur, to be more precise. She opens her mouth and tries to make conversation
"You have a daughter named April, right?" Another nod, and still no sound can be prised from the escorts lips. "I'm sorry." The man looks up.
"You shouldn't be." He croaks, tears in his eyes "I barely knew her. Just reminded me of my little girl, that's all." He gulps and Ebony pats him on the back.
"Do you remember my Games?" Ebony asks, tossing her hair as she talks. Trying to hide the tears that are running down her own face.
"Sure..." Thebes mutters, somewhat put out by the question. Ebony smiles, she thought he wouldn't. No one ever had, and it really embarrassed her sometimes, made her feel as terrible as she thought Finnick must feel.
"Do you remember how I got into the final eight?"
"That boy from Ten?" Thebes gulps, this subject always made him twitchy, "I hear that you two are still quite popular. Uncensored versions of that particular Games are very... err... risque..." The driver glares at Thebes with the sort of look that says 'Drop it or I'm crashing this thing into a mountain'. The 78th Hunger Games always made people's skin crawl. It wasn't the sort of thing that people liked to bring up in decent conversation.
And no one had ever known, not even after 16 years. No one except her closest friends knew that she had left that particular Games with more than just the prizes the Capitol had bestowed upon her.
"It was a horrible way to die." Thebes mutters under his breath, trying as best he can to steer the conversation back into the area of reasonable conversation. It didn't pay to talk with Ms Raven about the past that had almost forced her to become the next Finnick Odair despite her relatively normal appearance. Especially not when you are standing next to Saliana Freight, Thebes' assistant and Panem's final word on good taste. "I was just asking myself 'Can you imagine what it would be like if your daughter died like that, despite doing nothing to deserve it?'"
"Mine just did." Ebony mutters, and Thebes' raises a single waxed eyebrow. He looks over at April and Ebony nods slowly. Saliana covers her mouth.
"You can't mean..."
"April was the month she was born." Ebony mutters, trying to keep the tears from flowing, "Connolly Crow was her father's name. The boy from District Ten who..." Ebony trails off, blushing, before trying to continue through a newfound spring of tears, "'Crow and Raven' they called us. Panem had a field day. I knew no one would remember his first name so, the first year I came to the Victor's meeting, I dropped her off with that wide mouthed jerk Chattle. You know, the Bloody Benefactor of the 61st Hunger Games." Thebes rolls his eyes, so that's why April had grown up in the ditches outside the Victor's Village in District Ten. Thebes nods.
"And no one knew?" He asks, astounded.
"You can hide most things if you pretend hard enough." Ebony smiles, the tears still streaming, she grabs Thebes shoulder and pretends to sob into it, whispering to him as she does so, so that no one can hear "My theory is that Ms President, her or Thorn, found out."
"You think someone rigged the Reaping?" Thebes whispers, putting his hand to his mouth so that his assistants can't read his lips.
"I stepped out of line." Ebony smiles, "We were planning to bring down the Capitol."
Thebes recoils. He wants to hit her. He wants to throw her out of the craft. It's what a Capitol man should do, he reckons. But he doesn't. He realises with a start that he has cried every year, imagining his children dying in the Games. He agrees with her. And that scares him.
"Why did you keep it a secret?" He asks, his bottom lip wobbling as they touchdown and the other Victors of Four, the Odair's and their children, help the grieving pair down, rolling their eyes at each other.
"I didn't want a Capitol girl." Ebony sniffs, "I didn't want a child who grew up thinking that the Games were OK and relishing the opportunity to kill her best friend." She pauses, "I didn't want someone like me."
"So that's the dead! As for the others? Tomorrow will only get tougher, as the remaining nineteen battle for survival against all comers, in which only one will stand victorious. Will tomorrow be the day that decides it?"
Arcticmist: 95
A type of Wallflower: 35 +small pack
SilverDagger: 10
Freedom of Thought: 50
Haley: 10
dudleyson: 10
akatrixie: 65 + medium pack & 10 arrows
Ereader64: 70
Son of X: 30
Fuzzybubny: 10
booksarecool: 10
Meiveva Sirenice: 75 + small knife
Ginny Weasley23: 90 + small axe
Narcissa Weasly: 110
HelloPoppet123: 40 + longbow
MySoulToReap: 85 + claws & large pack
Beware of the Nargles: 80
.with.: 20
skgirl4ever: 90
wildone97: 50 +Large pack
pianoette: 30
MyRedPheonix: 70
CoolOw: 10
J.F x Kalieoki: 30
kuhse: 50
The Other Packman: 10
A/N: On a personal note I would like to add that both Arixo and Quentin were two of my favorite tributes, and I simply killed them because I felt that they had to die when they did, for the good of carrying on the plot. Sorry.