District Twelve


Seamus Hay — 11:00 PM — Ten hours to the Hunger Games

Seamus doesn't trust his own allies, he realizes as he gazes through the window. But life has taught him to keep his friends close and that, since he doesn't have any of those, he should always keep his enemies closer.

He grins mischievously at the idea of slicing Mercia's throat, contemplating the possibility of doing it during one of his patroling shifts; he even thinks of the possibility of stabbing Celeste to death, her perfect clothes and body drenched in blood and sweat and guts and spit gorging out of her mouth. He has helped his father kill porks and lambs several times, and he knows his way around a knife — they think he's nothing but a little, non-threatening merchant boy from Twelve, but he is just about to prove them very wrong. In fact, he is about to prove every single person in his life wrong — his parents, who always taught him to be the better person; his sister, whose resemblance to their mother, both in her quirks and mannerisms and her wispy blond hair and light skin, irritates Seamus like nothing else quite can. He loathes them all, simply because they've never understood him, and he can't wait to show them that they will never be able to tame him. He wasn't born to be the better person, or to emulate his father's general kindness, and he most definitely cannot wait to show the other tributes how extremely good he is at throwing knives and using them to slit a throat or two as soon as the Games begin.

He smiles, leaning against the wall of his private bedroom. He thinks of Luster and the way they used to have fun together before he was taken away after the Reaping. Not that he has ever minded being "taken away", though — he sees his reaping as a chance of showing everyone what he's worth and, most importantly, the pain that he is capable of inflicting on other people. The Peacekeepers took his knives away before he boarded the Capitol train — which was just about the only thing that bothered him about the whole process, because he felt fairly thrilled about pretty much everything else that happened to him ever since his name came out of the District Twelve escort's mouth — and he misses the feeling of them against the hems of his fingers, playfully tracing shapes against them and even pricking them a little whenever he felt anxious. He is a slightly ill-tempered young man, and the sight of his own blood sprouting out of his fingers reminds him to keep his feelings grounded — the visceral physicality of it all, the way it reminds him of the fact that he is inhabiting a human body with restrictions and limitations, helps him calm down whenever he is feeling a little under the weather. It isn't self-harm, and it isn't irresponsible, like his father had said once — he simply likes to relish on his on mortality, on the way he could end his own life or someone else's if he wished to. It makes him feel powerful, and he misses the possibility of playing with his own drops of blood before going to sleep every night.

Other people might have thought him deranged. In fact, nearly everyone he knows back in District Twelve thinks he is pretty much insane — his parents still try to love him in spite of it all, and his little sister Amber — that little bitch, Seamus grumbles to himself — even seems to love him more because of it, because she seems to think that her big brother is broken and that someone has died and made her boss of what he should do with his life. He has always tried to push her away, but she's like an annoying worm that will never quite leave him alone, and he is glad he has finally gotten rid of her, at least for a while. He cringes at the thought of her sobbing and hugging him tight if he ever makes it back, acting like the perfect sister she thinks she is. God, he just hates her so much.

He looks through the window and leans against its frame, observing the Capitolite life outside. It's Friday evening, and most of the pubs in front of the Training Center are crammed with Capitolites hanging out with their friends and family after a long day at work, wearing their fanciest clothes and holding extravagant cocktails in their hands as they loudly laugh at their friends' anecdotes from the office. They're probably talking about them, too — the twenty-four teenagers who will be getting thrown into the Arena first thing tomorrow, and that they think they have gotten to know fairly well through watching the recordings of their Reapings and interviews over and over again. Seamus can't help but laugh at the naiveness of it all — he himself put on a pitiful façade and nearly cried onstage during his interview, moaning about how he missed his family and his ample group of friends back home. Bullshit. He hates his family, and Luster — a twenty-four-year-old Peacekeeper — is his only friend, or something like that. They both get along fairly well because of their shared pleasure of seeing others suffer — he cackles a little at the memory of the two of them strutting down the Seam and bumping into two children who were playing together, and Luster suddenly forcing the two of them to fight over a stale loaf of bread. The boys had initially refused to fight each other for a piece of bread, but they had changed their mind when Luster threatened to shoot them for disobeying a Peacekeeper, and the two of them had howled in delight at the sight of the scratches and bruises on the loser's face, with his young friend on the verge of tears as he held the loaf of bread in his hands. It's twisted, but it is probably the best memory he keeps from his District.

"Seamus," a voice calls from the corridor. He rolls his eyes when he recognizes his mentor's good-natured, soft tone. Peeta Mellark isn't exactly an imposing man, even at age forty-two. "Don't you think you should go to bed? Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

Like Hell it will be. But Seamus doesn't dare snap back, because he knows that Peeta's wife, Katniss, isn't half as good-natured as he is.

"Yeah, I'm just stretching out a bit before heading to bed," he lies through the door. He doesn't feel like sitting through one of Peeta's insufferably positive pep talks, and so he simply adds, a bit curtly, "Don't worry, I'm fine."

He can almost see the way Peeta's face falls at the idea of not getting to cheer him up before they part ways.

"Oh. All right, then." His mentor's voice is weaker now, and he just sighs and pauses before adding, "Just let me know if you need anything, will you?"

Seamus rolls his eyes again, because he can't quite believe Peeta Mellark's sheer insufferableness.

"All right, Peeta," he mumbles. "Don't worry."

Peeta seems to hesitate for a second, but Seamus eventually hears his footsteps drifting away from his bedroom, probably on his way back to Katniss and their private chambers. Seamus just huffs and takes a seat on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as he quietly wonders how the man even won the Hunger Games to begin with. He's too… good. Katniss must have done most of the killing, he reasons — but he still doesn't quite understand how he managed to make it through his Games without being murdered. He for one knows that he would have killed him in his sleep if a sixteen-year-old Peeta had been anywhere near him in the Arena.

He laughs quietly as he leans back onto his bed, because the idea of slitting Peeta Mellark's throat is absolutely thrilling to him all of a sudden.


Elizabeth Starr — 4:30 AM — Four and a half hours to the Hunger Games

Elizabeth is only fifteen, but she feels as though she has been through more than most people in their entire lifetime.

She knows she doesn't look like the average Slum girl, because her hair is long and blond and her eyes are a pale green, with perfectly white skin and even looking a little chubby on the sides because she just cannot loose her baby fat, apparently, which annoys her to no end. She wants to grow up and look like a woman, a bit like the older female tributes do — she admires Celeste's flawless curves and the sheer beauty of Mercia's face, and there is something effortlessly organic about the way Florence walks around the Training Center with her new friends that makes her wish she could be as naturally graceful as her. Most of the other kids are scrawny and undernourished, but she envies those whose beauty has actively been exploited by their stylists — her own stylist, on the other hand, decided to dress her like a doll, so Elizabeth had ended up choosing her own clothes and wore a black blouse, ripped blue jeans and platform suede sandals for her interview; it made her look a bit more adult than the original dress would have, but it fell flat in comparison to Mercia's stunning blue dress and Celeste's perfect makeup and hairstyle. At least, she reasons, she did manage to offer the Capitol the vibe that she intended to give off — that of a rebellious, tough girl who replied to most of Octavius's questions nonchalantly and noncommittally, even going as far as glaring at the presenter when he mentioned her family. She is sure her lack of interest in what was going on hasn't exactly earned her sponsors, and that her lack of allies will definitely become a handicap once she is in the Arena, but she will figure it all out when the right time comes — she intends to make a run for it right after grabbing an axe, with her stealthiness and quick feet hopefully getting her there before the Careers arrive. She has it all figured out, she likes to think, because she is used to having it all under control at all times and she could never just go into the Hunger Games without a well-thought plan that she could rely on at all times.

The first streaks of sunlight are peering through the clouds, and something tells Elizabeth that it is nearly time to go. Katniss and Peeta aren't up yet — she would have heard Peeta's usual fumbling with the coffee machine if they were — and she doesn't really care whether Seamus has died in his sleep or if he's up and about, so she just stretches a little before changing into her new clothes and leaving her pajamas on the unmade bed. An Avox left her new uniform inside her wardrobe the previous night — she scrutinizes her new uniform carefully before slipping the black leggings on. They're comfortable, but not excessively warm — which means they won't be shipped off to a cold Arena, thank goodness. The shoes are average, impermeable sneakers, so she guesses that it will not be a particularly mountainous area, either — she ties her shoes like a schoolgirl would before heading off to breakfast, and even laughs a little when she realizes that the socks are impermeable and surprisingly comfortable, too. The t-shirt is made of perfect, fluffy black cotton, with soft red stripes along the hem, and the jacket is impermeable like the sneakers but also has a double lining that can be taken out with a zip — which might mean that the Arena will become a little chilly at night, she reasons, but not so much as to include an anorak or a thicker coat as a part of their attire. It is a rather plain uniform overall, which makes Elizabeth think that the weather wherever they are headed to will not be too extreme. It is somewhat reassuring to think so, she reckons as she puts the jacket on, and even smiles at herself in the big, full-size mirror in front of her when she realizes that the uniform looks like it has been made specifically for her — until she realizes it has been made for her, just like everything else that has surrounded her for the past ten days or so.

"Fucking Capitol, man," she mumbles to herself, a half-annoyed, half-pleased smile on her face as she curls her toes inside her sneakers. She is used to wearing her mother's worn, rough around the edges shoes whenever they get passed on to her, and finally getting to wear brand-new clothes does feel kind of refreshing in spite of what is currently at stake.

She touches her hand to her brother's rabbit foot, which was given to her as a token by the ten-year-old right before she left the Justice Building, and smiles when she wonders what Harry might be thinking of it all — she gathers that her little brother would very simply stare in awe at all the luxury and commodities that have been offered to his big sister, and would ramble on about how she is totally going to win the Hunger Games because she's 'the bestest big sister ever', like he has put it in front of their parents more than once. Harry is Elizabeth's weakest spot, and the frailty of some of the younger tributes reminds her of him at times — she wants to toughen herself up and act as though she doesn't care for them, but she knows that she will struggle at hurting them if she happens to bump into little Jonas or scrawny Theodora inside the Arena. She will have to avoid them at all costs, she gathers, and hope that someone kills them off before she absolutely has to.

She tiptoes outside her room, and almost gasps when she bumps into a very tired-looking Katniss Everdeen.

"Katniss," she breathes, perhaps a bit too loudly. She has never really admired anyone aside from her mother and father, but Katniss Everdeen is as close as it gets. Elizabeth has always liked the way she acts around the Capitol and how she is still unable to keep her mouth shut, and being mentored by her has been by far the most exciting thing about the past couple of weeks.

"Hey, I didn't think you'd be up so early." Katniss mumbles, rubbing her eye with her fist. Elizabeth admires the way she still looks fresh and ready to go, in spite of being forty-two years old. She isn't exactly beautiful, not really, but there's something about her dark, Slum-like complexion that feels almost enthralling to Elizabeth in a city of pale-looking, surgically modified people like the Capitol.

"I don't think I've actually slept at all," Elizabeth admits, shrugging her shoulders lightly. She glances at Seamus's door, and almost lets out a relieved sigh when she realizes that it is still firmly shut — meaning that he is either asleep or too caught up in his own sadistic thoughts to care what is going on outside his bedroom. She eyes Katniss again and adds, in her usual quiet tone, "I think I might grab some breakfast before they all get up, too."

Katniss nods. "That's a good idea, kid. Peeta always gets upset if I have breakfast without him, so I think I'm just going to wait for him and Seamus."

Elizabeth frowns. "I thought the two of you would sleep soundly through the night, honestly."

Katniss lets out a small chuckle. "Me? I haven't had a decent night's sleep since I was sixteen, kid."

Elizabeth nods, quietly understanding what her mentor means. She hasn't been through the experience that is fighting her way through the Hunger Games yet, but she now realizes how utterly reckless Katniss's experience must have been — being forced to kill several kids her own age and taking care of a wounded Peeta while at it must not have been exactly easy, and she sometimes even wonders if she is going to be able to pull through it herself. She will not be taking care of anyone, of course, and she doesn't feel too strongly about killing people if she must, but there is still a nasty thought itching at the back of her head, urging her to be the better person and just rot to death as soon as the Games begin, instead of engaging in their viciousness and senseless killing.

"Uh," Elizabeth glances around awkwardly, then feebly looks at her hands and mutters, "Yeah, I'm gonna go get breakfast."

"Hey," Katniss places a gentle hand on Elizabeth's shoulder, which startles the girl like nothing else quite could have. Katniss is the exact opposite of a touchy person — unlike her husband Peeta, who is always kissing her forehead and patting the tributes' shoulder in a friendly manner — and they haven't exactly been close during the past ten days, which makes everything all the more surprising for Elizabeth. "I know you've a baby brother back home. You... you need to do this for him, all right? He'll get you home — my sister was what kept me from going insane while I was in there."

Elizabeth gulps, but nods quietly. She understands the feeling that Katniss has just described — Harry has been pretty much the most important person in her life ever since he was born, and her sole regret about dying in the Games would be never getting to hug him again. She knows she has to do it for him, and that she has to put her morals aside for as long as she can once she enters the Arena.

"I know," she replies softly. "I... I just don't want to die and leave him to pick up the pieces, you know. My family's wretched enough as it is."

Katniss nods. "I understand, kid. Just... try your best, and be brave. Don't become a killing machine like the Careers, but don't hesitate if you're ever in danger, all right? Peeta and I will also try and get you some help over here — I, er, doubt Seamus will get any support from the sponsors, so I suppose we'd better focus on you instead."

"All right," Elizabeth even manages to smile a little, which also happens to be a rather uncommon gesture in her. "Thanks, Katniss. I mean it."

And Katniss smiles too — one of those rare, genuine smiles that she only ever does in private and most likely towards Peeta, which makes the gesture all the more heartwarming.

"Good luck, Elizabeth," she says simply, squeezing the fifteen-year-old's shoulder ever so lightly. "Good luck."

And, if only for a fleeting moment, Elizabeth feels as though she might really have a shot at surviving the Hunger Games. For Harry, for Katniss, for Peeta. For everyone at home who feels as though they are pariahs to the Capitol's lavishness.

She will defeat them all, she decides here and now, and she will enjoy every second of it.


So! That's it for the pre-Games! Teehee I can't believe we've made it this far already! I want to make the Bloodbath as lengthy as possible (5k words or so, I think) so it might be a while till it gets posted, but I'll try my best! In the meantime, please do let me know what you think of this one via review! :)

-s.