WARNING - brief implication of sexual assault attempts.
REAPINGS - DISTRICT 12
Bowie Bluestone, 18, D12M:
What-if
What-if
A thousand What-ifs
If Bowie cared a little more, he could explore them. He could yank at the tendrils drifting around him like smoke, maybe catching glimpses of lives that could have been, lives that he could have out there, the stars could have aligned so that his mother still lived, and then, who knows how he might have turned out. He doesn't remember her, what she was like. She might have been kinder, and he could have grown up softer, kinder, without the jagged edges he ended up with instead.
Although she could have also been crueller.
It's a pity he doesn't care.
Bowie cracks his knuckles, and a pair of icy blue eyes, his, quickly check that a peacekeeper isn't looking as he purposefully bumps into the girl, practically a woman, in front of him in the queue.
She spins around, eyes widening in poorly-concealed fear. Bowie's face forms a scowl, but then again, that seems to be the way his face naturally arranges itself. Hard lines, features permanently set in a scowl, cold eyes set beneath short black hair. It would be nearly impossible to mistake Bowie for a Capitolite, or even as someone from the better-off districts. There's absolutely nothing soft about his appearance. It's much more likely that he could be mistaken for a soldier, if anything. But not by anyone in District 12.
They all know who, or what, he represents.
"Where is it, Wren?" He mutters to her, the words sounding harsh, despite being muted. She's only a few months younger than him, hence the fact that she's unfortunately been lumped in next to him in their age-category as they wait for the escort to come up and officially commence the reaping, but she seems younger. She's a merchant kid, of course, with round cheeks and bright hazel eyes. That's why. She's never gone hungry and it shows, it's glaringly obvious.
She knows what he's talking about as her mouth forms a hard line and she hisses back to him.
"Do we have to do this now?"
"You're already late on the payment. Better to not make it any later." He responds curtly.
He can hear her as she takes a sharp intake of breath. Bowie waits. He knows that, regardless of her protests, Wren will pay up, in the end. She might not know the same hardship experienced by many in District 12 but that doesn't mean she's stupid. She's got a mother and a younger sister to protect, and that means there's far too much at stake for her than to risk war with his people. In addition, she's seen first hand what they're capable of. What Bowie, in particular, is capable of. To say they've got a history would be an understatement.
It's for that same reason that despite the expected tinge of fear glistening in her wide-set eyes, there's something else. raw, poorly concealed, and unmistakable.
Relief.
Bowie recognises it, and, regardless of how much he wants to, he understands it.
She's relieved that, out of anyone, he's the one demanding the payment. That The Shovels didn't send anyone else. She's relieved because unlike some of the other people he associates with, the other people in his gang who go out to collect payments, she knows that Bowie only wants money from her and nothing else.
She's relieved, because they both remember the incident with Horker.
"Fine, here's the payment." Wren eventually breaks the reverie, rolling her eyes as her hand disappears into the depths of her pockets, and, after a brief pause, re-emerges, the contents of her half-closed fist catching the faltering sunlight overhead, flashing golden. She thrusts the handful towards him. "Here. I hope you choke on it."
Bowie's eyes widen.
"Here's the payment, I hope you choke on it."
Bowie stands in the kitchen of a well-off house, barely processing his surroundings. Wren's standing in front of him, but she's younger, and so is he. They're not alone either. Wren's sister, a pale wisp of a thing, is clinging to her older sister, her tiny form trembling and wracked with choking sobs. Despite this, she can't look away.
Her gaze, wide and glistening with pure horror, is fixated on the bloodied corpse of Horker slumped against the wall.
Bowie's still clutching the brick in his hand. Even though it's caked, practically dripping with Horker's blood. So are his hands. And his wrists. And the floor around him. The sickening metallic stench floods his nostrils until he wants to throw up.
Bowie's seen violence before, even inflicted it, Extortion, blackmail and threats are a regular part of errands like this, an inevitability. Never like this. He's never done anything like this before.
Wren's outstretched are shaking, still shocked by the events that have just happened. Horker's utter fixation of getting what he wanted, regardless of Bowie's protests. The way he had lunged at the two sisters like a rabid animal. The way -
Bowie gags. All he had known was that he couldn't let him. He's tough, sure, but deep down, Bowie's not heartless.
"Take it and leave.. please. You've done enough.." Wren's voice catches as she continues to hold the bag of money out. Protection payment. The words feel bitter on Bowie's tongue and so, so ironic. He wants to laugh. The silence is choking.
...
But he does exactly what Wren asks, and takes the bag of coins back to the headquarters of The Shovels gang. They know not to asks questions, but he even he can see the cogs turning in their heads as they note Horker's absence, and piece that together with the bloody fingerprints that he leaves on the bag.
Bowie blinks, sharply, and suddenly he's back in the reaping courtyard. Back, with Wren holding out the money and with the ghost of a knowing look etched on her expression. She's just touched the edges of an open wound, forced Bowie to experience an old, phantom pain, and she knows it.
For principle's sake, he doesn't acknowledge the attempt. Out of the two of them, it's a comfort that he's probably not the one most hung up on it because even now he can feel the unspoken question festering in the air between them.
Why?
Why didn't you just stand by and let it happen?
Bowie doesn't answer it. He remembers, of course. Her sister had to have been the same age as his own younger brother. Young.
So young.
"Good girl." He says instead, with the knowledge that his lack of an answer will cause the curiosity to continue to chafe at her, but not concerned enough to care as he forces any emotion from his tone and takes the coins from her.
For people like him and her, it's a dog-eat-dog world. They do what they have to do to survive.
...
Horker's face appears like a mirage in his memory. He pushes it away.
Mostly.
Rhea Meadowlark, 15, D12F:
"Oi, Meadowlark!"
Rhea's skin stings as she thrusts her small figure through the crowds, older kids towering above her like the walls of a labyrinth. She can hear footsteps behind her, swift and persistent, and her face flushes with frustration as she spins around.
"Stop following me, will you!" Rhea can practically visualise her own grey eyes flashing, like a smoke flare. Duss isn't affected, however. The two bear a resemblance, however much she might resent it, a result of them both being seam kids. He shares both her olive skin and her eyes, although his are dancing with an arrogant confidence that makes her want to punch him.
"Just tell me you'll talk to your siste-"
"Not gonna happen!" She declares, "Trust me, Angie wants nothing to do with you."
"She's doesn't know what she's talking about." Duss inches closer. Rhea steps back in a single sharp movement, making sure that she doesn't show weakness.. "I was hoping you could talk sense to her."
"Keep hoping, it's not going to happen. When he doesn't react, Rhea is reminded of the way her sister's been shuffling around these last few days, eyes permanently moist, completing tasks around the house like a zombie. She adds, tightly, "You're not good for her."
At that, Duss's gaze shifts from something she guesses was intended to be pleading to something cold. He tips his head up.
"Alright then, Trash-digger." He spits out as he weaves back the way he came, leaving her recoiling from the insult.
Her knuckles burn, reminding her of the cause of his name-calling. One of the merchant families had thrown out some plant cuttings from their garden a few days ago. She had been forced to search through their trash for those cuttings, scratching and scraping her skin on the metal edges of the bin with the knowledge that those cuttings were edible and would help feed her family. In addition, her hands had already been marred with the healing scars from a few days earlier, when she had cut them opening one of the tesserae packages that she had signed up for on behalf of her family.
She wants to chase after him, hurling insults as a reaction, but she doesn't. She can see him picking his way through the crowds, probably searching for her sister.
Her sister's not here.
The knowledge bites at Rhea like one of the many bugs or pests that plague District 12 during the summer months.
Not attending the reaping is illegal. Although, in District 12, the peacekeepers don't really run official checks or take names. Besides, Rhea isn't the type of person who feels comfortable 'forcing' people to do anything so it wasn't like she could really do anything about it when her sister was making no moves to get ready this morning. , not that that stops the foreboding feeling hanging over her that it's not going to be fine.
The feelings laps at her senses like waves, quenching only by the sparks of satisfaction that come as she watches, from a distance, at Duss's wild goose hunt, on tiptoes as he surveys the crowd, eyebrows furrowing, displeasure obvious in the way his features are arranged.
Oh- what if he rats Angie out.
She doesn't have time to fully process the thought as it pounces on her like one of the wolves whose baleful yellow eyes can often be seen peering through the barbed fence of the district because- shit, she's not been paying attention- and now the escort has appeared, as if out of nowhere, speaking of wolves- They're wearing unflattering yellow contacts.- Rhea swears they're different colour every year.
Her heart pounds against her chest.
"Ladies first!" The escort intones, with unnecessary dramaticism. The people of the district don't have the patience for it; the air is hot, humid and buzzing with flies, and Rhea can feel their discontentment simmering beneath the surface.
Everyone knows that District 12 has a gang problem. Of course, there's never been a gang fight breaking out at reaping before but, given the current atmosphere hanging over the courtyard like a heavy, dark cloud, Rhea wouldn't be surprised if this year was the first. And of course, the Peacekeepers don't care. They never do. Rhea's resentment runs hot in her blood vessels, but she ignores it. For now.
"Angie Meadowlark."
The floor drops out from under her. Rhea's mind goes blank as she watches eyes scouring the audience, narrowing with suspicion.
Oh shit.
Rhea doesn't think. Her sister's face flashes in her mind.
The reaping is always shown on live television. And if the selected tribute hasn't even shown up to the reaping, Rhea knows, deep down with unshakeable conviction, that the games will be rigged against her.
She'll die.
There's only one way to save this.
One way.
The words stick in her throat. She forces them out, in a tone that even she doesn't recognize, unnaturally steady and certain.
"I volunteer!"
...
Bowie Bluestone, submitted by AlexFalTon
Rhea Meadowlark, submitted by Annabeth777
A/N - AAnd... sorry for the hiatus, y'all. What can I say, no excuse, except a ton of work, other projects, and my own terrible procrastination. Literally, this chapter was three-quarters finished, and then I left it for two months, which is entirely my brain's fault. Fear not, me and it are going to have a little chat. And then convince it to actually write.
However, I can say that the website for this fic is now linked on my profile, and I'm really looking forward to starting the goodbyes next chapter, which will be introducing Districts 2, 10 and 9, not necessarily in that order. Also, given that we're half-way through the introductions now, there's a poll on the profile, because I'm interested to see which tributes people like right now, and I'll do another one for the other 12 tributes yet be to introduced later on.