A/N: Just an FYI that I apparently only uploaded a partial draft of my original CH2 - it's now been fixed and completed. Enjoy! :D Also, feedback is always appreciated from anyone who'd like to leave it.
For most people, reaping days were quiet. They were solemn looks across a table. Sunday finest trotted out when few people even utilised Sundays anymore. For Coral, they marked a strange tradition that had begun after Ford's death. Mags Flanagan on their doorstep had been jarring six months after the conclusion of the 63rd games, but what had been more jarring was her request. If Coral should go unnamed in the reaping, would she see to Mag's home in the Victors Village? In the years since, as Mags had aged, gotten ill and grown more reliant on assistance, the request had evolved to bimonthly cleanings. The odd shopping delivery. Mornings of the reaping, Coral's day started by a hike to Mag's home. The village itself was situated at the midpoint of the three subdivisions, clustered around merchant's homes and some of the more affluent stores.
All of it was constructed around the central square, colloquially known as the junction, with a collection of hills affording the wealthiest and luckiest residents a view right down to the ocean. White buildings. White sand. Creeping trees that afforded occasional moments of shade. In another world, the whole thing might even have been beautiful. Instead, there was a superficial air to the junction. It was designed to be desired after. That, in essence, detracted from little charm it might have had.
Kicking off her shoes, Coral plodded the falsified sand path and wove her way between the giant palm trees. Already the sun had begun to rise, hot and unrelenting. By the time she'd reached the top of the hill to the village, the back of her dress was peppered with moisture. Already automobiles had gathered to cart the luggage of the victors down to the railway station. Despite knowing the routine, Coral's body still reacted to the visual. It was the uniforms that did it. White upon white upon white. Laughing. Joking amongst themselves.
Those same uniforms had been the ones who'd dragged her brother from the waiting room too soon. Who had told them to shut up when her mother's sobbing had grown too loud. A guffaw caught her attention, Finnick backing out of one of the other houses with a bag in his arms. Expression darkening, Coral darted around the back of the houses and found her way to Mag's place.
The house easily eclipsed any of the buildings Coral had lived in over the years.
A kitchen her mother would've killed to work out of. Multiple bedrooms on the second floor. The door at the back always remained open the days Coral was due and so she let herself in, cool tiles and an air generator providing instant relief from the heat outside. Shuffling from upstairs told her Mags was finishing up her packing. Though why she bothered was beyond Coral. There was enough money in this place for her to opt to bring nothing and buy as she went. Then again, Mags had never struck her as the type to do that. Finnick, on the other hand.
It didn't cross Coral's mind that she'd just seen him loading up his travel luggage. That was the thing with blind anger. It found ways to support itself. A soft noise had her turning to greet Mags as she descended the stairs, Coral moving towards the woman to help her bridge the final few steps.
"Thank you." Mag's voice was quiet, a stroke two years previous having caused irreparable damage to her ability to speak. Most people wrote the woman off as incomprehensible, but that wasn't the case. Coral knew you just needed the right words.
"Kitchen or living room?" When the former was indicated, Coral helped the woman towards one of the chairs. Throwing a cautious look towards the door, she signed out the word tea? Mags gave a gummy grin in return before nodding. This was their shared secret. Sign Language had once been a given in Four. In the early years, each boat held its own sign language derivative. During storms, with raging winds and screaming seas - hand and light signals were the norm. Otherwise communication broke down altogether.
The Capitol had signed off on the introduction of a basic sign language to the schools. Too many bodies getting swept away on the water meant less workers. Less supplies. The initiative had lasted until the year of the thirty fifth games when a collection of rebels had gathered, their correspondence and planning run entirely in a language that didn't require words or written evidence.
Fighting had lasted three weeks. Twenty-two hundred had died. The signing programs were shut down and restricted only to those on the fishing boats. For every trawler, two peacekeepers were assigned to keep track of new signs. Of potential anarchy. It had been shortly after that when the lottery system had begun to distribute the area's wealth and contracts. A little time later again when the training programmes began. To see anyone utilising signing outside of fishing boats was tantamount to treason.
It was what had made Coral all the more determined to use it.
Mags had been the one to teach her. Once a month over tea and fresh baked bread, they sat at Mag's table and spoke about inane topics to mask what was happening with their hands. It was generally known that most homes were bugged for audio, especially with a minor rebellion already in their past. Video was too expensive, so they employed runners. Spies. The village was one of the few places where Coral could practice without fear of being sold out, but to do so with peacekeepers on the doorstep was asking for trouble. Still, with a reaping in a couple hours, she was struggling to feel scared about it. What were they going to do – kill her?
Will you check in daily?
Yes. Is there anything you need me to do?
More fresh food for my return please. Could you check on the books too. Coral's mouth twitched at the edge. Keeping an eye on the books was Mag's way of offering her free reign to the small study and its contents. Somewhere along the way she had confessed an interest in cooking to Mags, of expanding upon the skills her mother had taught her. Mags had then started to bring back books from the Capitol. Tomes on cooking as big as Coral's arm, chock full of ingredients and items she couldn't even have dreamed of. There was little opportunity to utilise the recipes but even so, she liked to peruse them and find substitutions.
After these games –
If I don't get selected. Mags made a sound of discontent and she laughed.
After these games I'd like you to come back daily. Instead of your mother's stall. I've already asked your mother and she said if you're comfortable with that, she can find someone to fulfil your regular duties.
Coral rarely recalled the audible part of their conversations anymore, focused on the signs that passed between them, but once she'd parsed out the meaning of Mag's words a loud exclamation escaped her.
"What?"
I'll pay you. A fair wage. I cannot cook anywhere near as well as I used to and I like your company. You understand me.
It was strange. To consider a future beyond the next couple of hours. To imagine it was even a possibility. In one way it was cruel of Mags to even ask. Tempting her with a possibility of something more than the fish market and inevitable death. Silence lingered too long and Coral looked, really looked at the woman across the table. She had seen the photographs. Mags Flanagan had never been typically beautiful. Her face too long. Hair too mousey. Death, illness and time had all taken its toll on her features. Curled her body over. Even so, there was a kindness in her eyes that Coral rarely saw elsewhere. Mags was a woman who gave generously, most likely because she could.
It was strange to think this woman had once murdered people in an arena.
The thought was a screeching halt to her visions of warning her own income. Of escaping the monotony of the fish market. There'd been a joke once between her and Aveline that once they'd scraped together enough money, they'd share a house on the beach. Decorate the place with shells and treasures from the sea. An income of her own might actually allow that to happen.
"I need time to think about it."
Mags at least gave her the kindness of not looking disappointed. She changed the subject to what herbs Coral would like to cook with if she could procure them in the Capitol, and the distraction was good enough to pass another hour before she had to make excuses to leave. Both Coral and Mags had the good graces to look sheepish when they opened the door to reveal a team of aggravated peacekeepers still lingering, waiting to ship Mag's items to the train. Before Coral could step off the doorstep, she felt a hand on her wrist to pull her back. Found herself embraced in a tight hug.
"Your brother," It was a soft exhale, Mag's breath warm on her cheek, "Was a good boy." Coral's throat tightened; a small nod of agreement offered in return. The elderly woman released her out and murmured something that might have been - but you're going to be better. Unsettled, Coral left the village and walked back to town, meeting her mother in the junction and handing off the key to Mag's place. If luck worked against her, then someone would still need to check in on the house. Which was a funny thought, Coral realised. Luck had already worked against her.
With three subdivisions, Four required two rounds of preliminary readings to whittle down their kids. Coral was again one of the lucky two hundred who made the final cut for the live show, an irony that was never lost on her. The reduction in numbers filtered out many of those from the training programs but not all. It was a lottery of who actually had the guts to volunteer. The unknown element of it all only added to the drama as far as the Capitol were concerned.
Coral thought of Fords reaping day. Before that year her brother had never made it past the first cull and that year, her first, they both did. When they'd grown nervous, their father had joked that the odds were still in their favour. The largest ever group from the training program had made the cut. Yet when all was said and done and with seventeen of the male career program kids in the final group - not one had called out to volunteer. Part of Coral understood it. Volunteering meant an opening for death. It meant leaving behind everything they'd known on the thin promise of fame and future comforts. Except knowing the truth of the programs made it harder to stomach that not a single boy for that group had put themselves forward.
The training programs selectively preyed on the most poverty stricken. The ones who might benefit most from a combination of training and high rewards. Unlike the careers from districts One and Two, those from Four were kids plucked from the poorest homes. The places where three squares a day and the potential to fight for a better place for their families was a golden ticket.
Ford had been a boy of wealth and good fortune. Well loved. He'd not been a fighter and seventeen boys who had been trained in combat from the time they could walk had simply stood back and led him march to that platform on his own. Without a cheer. Without comfort. Without a volunteer even when Solaris Pinkerton had called for them.
Since her first year, Coral made the cut every time. People crowed about the odds and favours but for her - the odds didn't give a shit about anyone. The odds were a loaded die.
The usual fanfare began. The promotional material speaking to the history of the games. Introductions to Four's former victors. Mags Flanagan. Medea Dancy. Cove Kim. Finally, Finnick walked to the stage, a casual smile and a swagger of his hips that sent a ripple of sighing victims across the crowd. It took an immense amount of strength for Coral not to roll her eyes.
Nails digging into her palm, Coral wondered where the subdued air had vanished to. Excitement was almost palpable around the crowd. Electric. She couldn't have said if it was genuine or panicked. The victor's arrival was the final countdown. Mothers' clung to handkerchiefs and those who couldn't bring themselves to whimper would laugh instead. What else could one do when facing a life clock of maximum three weeks?
Solaris's voice boomed out through the microphone, a hand at Coral's waist snagging her attention as the opening remarks began. A flash of dark hair and a red streaked smile was the signal that Aveline had found her and Coral spoke beneath her breath.
"Smile for the camera."
Aveline shot a wide-eyed innocent look towards the camera that had swung towards them in the second row of girls, the mass of teenagers waiting for the guillotine. As usual, the girl sparkled. This was Aveline's last year. After today, she'd never have to face the chopping block again. Which was good. Though she'd worked as a diver for years now, Aveline's mother being ill had meant that Aveline herself had taken on the role of caretaker for her younger brother and sister alongside her father. It was all that had stopped her participating in the camps. If she'd looked out for herself alone, then Ari and Eos would've been left with nothing but the camps. For all those monstrosities were praised, not a citizen in the entirety of Four willingly signed their name up. It was always for family. For love. To spare another sibling adding their name just to get a single tesserae.
As it stood, Aveline's name was in the original pool upwards of thirty times.
With luck, in the preliminary rounds her name had been drawn only once. Coral hadn't asked. Knowing the true number didn't help. With only six inclusions of her own in the initial draw among the thousands of eligible age kids, Coral knew it just took one to put her here. Everything after that was a kick in the teeth. Five of her slips had made the cut. Sensing her discomfort, Aveline's grip tightened against her.
"Here we go." Solaris was making a spectacle of moving to the tribute bowl. Ladies first. A pin could have dropped in the square the place grew so utterly silent. If Coral strained her ears, she could hear the rustle of paper in the bowl. The clack clack clack of Solaris's high heels on timber. They laid the stage down especially the night before. It covered the high steps into their justice building that was inlaid with carved cherubs and angels. Some garish remnant of a distant past.
"Our female tribute for District Four is -," A breath. Coral's lungs strained with the pressure of staying quiet. She was twelve watching Ford climb his way to the stand. Fourteen, and Finnick's easy smile was a band pulled taut to breaking point. Seventeen. Seventeen.
"-Coral Swan."
An exhale.
Dizzying reality swirled. The white of the cobbles beneath her. Sweat pooling in the small of her back and sticking the cotton of her dress to her skin. Somewhere in the crowd there was a cry. Her mother. Her mother. People parted. There was a direct route between her and the stage and all Coral could see was Finnick Odair and his too taut smile.
Solaris was calling out to her. Beckoning.
Come to me.
Come, Coral.
Such a pretty lamb for the slaughter.
She couldn't hear past the ringing in her ears. Aveline had let her go. She was falling into an abyss. Seconds were centuries and eons and falling civilisations and she, Coral Swan, was going to die.
"WAIT -," Her leg had lifted, heel off the ground. It stalled.
"-I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE. I'LL DO IT. I'LL TAKE HER PLACE."