Disclaimer: Hunger Games is not mine; this story intends no copyright infringement. That being said, reviews would be awesome. Like, totally. Yeah.
The wild thing.
1.
He was drunk and pretty sure it was a hallucination when he came to his front door and there was a little – thing – sitting in front of it. Human, he thought, squinting at it, ratty looking and skinny, probably a girl judging by the length of all that hair. Drenched from the rain and shivering.
"Hey," he said, and nudged it with his foot. Its head came up, grey eyes glaring behind dark lashes. But sluggish, slow. Not fever-bright: hunger, then. He sighed, opened the door, stepped around the thing. Paused. "You coming?"
It stood, unsteady, legs pins. No trust in that face, but no choice, either: it followed him in.
He'd been planning on sleeping the booze off, but whatever, food was a good plan, too. The kitchen was bare of anything fresh – he didn't cook, and didn't let anyone cook for him, but there were cans of food. The thing stood in the doorway and watched him rummage. He opened a can, some kind of stew, stuck a spoon in it, set it on the table. His mother's warning whispered through his brain, years later and after her death: Feed a wild thing and it'll always come 'round, you'll never get rid of it again. Still he nodded at the can and its spoon, said to the thing by the door, "Yours."
Nothing tame ever moved so fast.
So. He mentally upgraded 'hunger' to 'starvation'.
While it ate he got down a few other cans. Some kind of fruit, more stew, vegetables, soup. Considered their relative weight and the thing's thin arms, then dug around for a bag, put all the cans inside. It was watching him around each bite, every swallow, still suspicious but also wide-eyed. Not quite believing the bounty. "Yours," he said again.
Tiny quick-fingered hand darted out, grabbed the bag's handles, dragged the weight to its thin chest, clutched the bulk. Tiny throat gulped around something, maybe a thank you, big eyes stared at him dumbly.
He rolled his eyes. Opened his own dinner up, ate it, cold and slimy and unappetizing. Mid-way through the thing finished swallowing its food, and fidgeted, staring at him. "Don't stick around on my account," he told it, and its gaze flickered from him, to the empty can, to the bag full of food cradled in its arms. As if afraid he'd change his mind, it sidled, careful and slow, until it was out of his sight: and then ran, quick footfalls striking the ground. Strong, then, to run with that weight after being faint and failing just a few minutes ago.
Well, he thought, that's my good deed for the year.
Later the next week he came home to find something else in front of his front door. The bag he'd given, emptied of cans but filled with something else. He carried it inside, to the kitchen table, opened it up. Two squirrel carcasses, gutted and skinned, wrapped in paper: fresh kills.
He mused at them. He'd heard of this. A thing cats will do.
It had been years since he had it, but squirrel meat cooked up like he remembered, tasted the same on his tongue.
oOo
He was drunk for the reaping like he was always drunk for the reaping. His bleary eyes saw the wild thing out in the tiniest crowd: little twelve year old girls. It was with them. Dark hair neatly braided back, wearing ruffles and a skirt, eyes huge. Staring at him.
He didn't know its name but still held his breath when the girl tribute was drawn; thought, Not that one. It wasn't. A different girl. She died the first day. He was drunk, drunk, but it still hurt, it still tore. Chaff's boy died that day, too: they got blitzed together, and tried to make each other laugh.
Time passed. Some unexpected victor came out of that year's game – she could swim better than the rest, which helped when the arena flooded. She trembled on the stage during the recap and not even Flickerman's seasoned experience could keep her steady. The hunger season was over.
He went back. The house was unlit, dishevelled inside, nothing tidied or put away. Like he'd left it. The next day, his random act of kindness had left a squirrel carcass and dandelion salad by his door. Welcome back, he thought he could hear in the gesture. Welcome home.
oOo
When he went to the Hob to restock his supply of liquor, he sometimes saw the wild thing. Wearing a jacket too big for those shoulders. Bartering with the traders, expression fierce, braid swinging out whenever it turned too fast. Twitchy, twitchy, like a cat. It had guardians in Greasy Sae, who kept the predators away, and the slumming peacekeeper Bartemius, who kept the deals honest. He kept an eye out, too, just to be sure, and it paid off one night when Aldrick, who everyone knew was a pedophile but no one had gotten around to dealing with, followed the wild thing out of the building.
He was buzzed, but not drunk, and still not quick enough: when he got there Aldrick was picking it up, just, reaching out and lifting it, the wild thing was so small he could do that, and it was fighting back but panicked. He got – angry.
He was fast over short distances, and strong still. His fist caught Aldrick across the face. Something broke. Aldrick shouted out, and dropped the wild thing, and the wild thing scrambled back. Took off and left a bag full of the day's trading behind. He hauled Aldrick back into the Hob, tossed him in front of Greasy Sae, and told her what he'd tried to do. Aldrick cowered and hid his face. The peacekeepers present politely pretended to pay no attention.
Later when he went out the wild thing's bag was still there. He stared at it, heaved a big sigh. Picked it up.
He left the bag by his front door, heavier with a couple of cans. It was gone in the morning. A turkey, plucked and cleaned, was in its place.