Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.
Note: Back to District Six for the first time in basically ages. They sure can't seem to get the hang of this thing called a 'winning streak', huh? …Or can they? We shall see! In any case, the male morphling is somebody I've kinda had an odd attachment to. Can't explain it, aside perhaps the fact he was one of those in on the rebels plans despite being a druggie and thus was clearly trusted to some notably degree. In short, he's somebody who I felt had a story to be told… and let me tell you guys, if you came looking for a Hunger Games fic starring a white rapper then you came to the right place! Enjoy~!
"So, rapping… dare I ask what that even is?" Peeta asked, more than a little lost.
"Honestly I have no idea either. I think I heard some new rapper on the radio the other day and I still don't know what it is," Katniss admitted. "I just know that it's seriously not for me."
"Was it really that bad?" Peeta asked, curious.
"Yes, it seriously was," Katniss replied, deadly serious. "Just picture this… a vague sort of rhythm and lyrics about grooslings and bullets."
Peeta couldn't help but shudder.
54th Annual Hunger Games
Name: Bentley Corduroy
Gender: Male
District: 6
Age: 16
Kills: 3
Much of District Six is filled with slums, gang warfare, drug dealing, pollution and the worst of crimes one can commit upon another human happening daily in dark alleys. If you're lucky enough to avoid all of those dreadful things it probably means you're either wealthy enough to live at the uptown garages, or have skills that grant you a job that area.
Bentley was one of the latter group. A true natural with anything relating to cars, especially their engines, he'd easily gotten himself a well-paying job working on broken cars that the Capitol demanded be fixed for its citizens. It made him enough money to have his own place to live and even his own motorbike of somewhat questionable quality.
It didn't make Bentley happy though. His head was often in the clouds as he worked, more or less on autopilot. He wasn't happy to just work on cars day in, day out.
He had much bigger dreams than that.
"Back to work Corduroy!" his boss, a man most only referred to as Roar, would often, well, roar at him. "If you keep our clients waiting you're out of here!"
"Yes Boss," Bentley would always reply, meek and anxious.
Roar was much like all who spent any amount of time around Bentley, up to and including his family. He and they had no idea as to why Bentley was often daydreaming and wishing for more. It wasn't a sign of the boy being stupid or ungrateful, merely that he was unfulfilled.
Bentley wanted to be a rapper. He just assumed, correctly at that, people would tell him it was a stupid ambition and to forget all about it, perhaps in a way far more severe and filled with swearing.
By day Bentley would work quick, quietly and often be caught daydreaming while he worked.
By night Bentley would sneak out for as long as he could get away with and, while wearing his masked costume, would do his best to get his act out there.
Dressed in a sparkling jacket and shiny pants with a gas mask placed over his face, nobody could forget the unique appearance of DJ-CONCORD-Z. They could never forget his rap songs either.
Contrary to what one might expect this was because the raps were all catchy and actually well performed. Bentley wrote them all himself and never performed anything aside the best work possible.
Even the peacekeepers would simply stand back and not intervene as DJ-CONCORD-Z performed for the crowds. Well, at least not until some sort of drunken shenanigans happened and, this being rap, they always would.
Them being peacekeepers, however, they were fine to let DJ-CONCORD-Z go free provided he give them a monetary bribe.
It was the night before the reaping for the Fifty Fourth Games when Bentley, as he often did, had gotten into costume to perform for his fans. None of them knew who he was behind the gas mask, not even those who had mocked and belittled him in his day job.
None of them knew that the garage worker with a spacey attitude had written up an all new song to perform.
"What is up with ya'll tonight!?" Bentley yelled, quickly getting into character as DJ-CONCORD-Z. "Is my peoples having a good time?!"
The crowd screamed their approval and, of course, that they were having a good time. DJ-CONCORD-Z cupped his ear, as if to say he hadn't quite heard them. He smirked, giving a double thumbs up as he heard the cheering get even louder.
"There be the sound I love!" DJ-CONCORD-Z exclaimed, raising his arms up and clapping loudly. He took out his microphone, tapping a finger against it to check it was working fine. "Is all ya'll ready for music most grand?!"
With a scream of eagerness and, to some degree, desperation for escapism from the typical cruelty of life in District Six, DJ-CONCORD-Z kicked a pair of particularly aged boom boxes into life and began to rap his heart out.
It was an all-new song he'd come up with just a day prior while watching a mandatory broadcast of some terrible moments in past Games, all recapped for the Capitol to fondly recall and the districts to watch in terror.
Fear and misery always did seem to give him plenty of inspiration.
There's a day when all hearts will be broken
When a shadow will cast out the light
And our eyes cry a million tears
Help won't arrive
This was as far as DJ-CONCORD-Z got with his rapping before one member of the crowd, tipsy from the pre-show warmup, threw a bottle at one of the others in the crowd. That guy, in turn, punched the first. In moments a brawl had broken out in the crowd that was only getting worse, thus forcing the peacekeepers to move in and quickly resort to police brutality.
In a word, the performance was ruined.
"I guess imma have to sing the rest of the song another time," DJ-CONCORD-Z said with a heavy sort of heart. "Peace out for all of ya'll and good luck at the reaping my mans and womans!"
With that being said DJ-CONCORD-Z sped off into the night, the loud brawl fading away into a gradual silence behind him. It was always a shame when that sort of thing happened and his newest rap was cut-off midway.
It was alright, really. He could always just try again in a night or two. Maybe even fine tune the lyrics a bit to make the next performance even better. Perhaps get a few extra Caps more than he usually did.
The reaping ruined all of his plans when the escort pulled his name out of the reaping bowl the very next morning.
It was clear from the start that Bentley was not going to be among the strongest of tributes, whether from Six or Panem as a whole. In fact, he was likely in the bottom quarter. Fixing up cars was unlikely to be of any use in the arena and the only particular skill Bentley possessed was being able to run pretty fast.
The escort deemed him as a useless tribute in under ten minutes and apologised for pulling out a 'lousy reaping slip'.
Bentley did, however, have one other card to play. He wasn't a fighter nor a thinker, but he was certainly a performer. The showbiz aspect of the Games was something he knew he could play into. He was, after all, the famous DJ-CONCORD-Z!
Too bad nobody else seemed to believe him.
"That's impossible. You look nothing like him," his district partner choked out, already on withdrawal from morphling.
"Technically nobody knows what he looks like because of the gas mask," Chassis added, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe if we could put a gas mask on him we'd know for sure?"
"Oh, honestly. Bentley is pathetic and useless, a true fool amongst fools already amongst idiots. How could he be a rapper so talented that even the Capitol has a few people taking notice?" the escort asked, shaking her head. "Oh, no offense Bentley."
"None taken, I guess," Bentley replied. "But seriously, I am DJ-CONCORD-Z! I could do a rap to prove it right now."
The escort did not listen, simply calling Bentley a liar who would stoop low enough to rip off the raps of a hard working young man. She dragged Chassis and the female tribute, Violetta, out of the carriage to start off the mentoring process away from the 'liar'.
Bentley could only sigh to himself. While performing in a costume had sounded like a fun gimmick at the time, he was starting to see the fact he'd never shown his face was pretty damn stupid.
"Well shit."
Training was not much fun.
Bentley loved to be the centre of attention, but only if the attention was good. Cheering and a grand applause was what he lived for. Not so much to be mocked and belittled for days on end. The career pack had heard him trying to convince the pair from Seven that he was a famous rapper, simply out of costume.
They zeroed in on him right away, all laughing and mocking him. Whether it was insults over rapping in general or taunting him for trying to take credit for somebody else's fame it all wrapped back to the exact same thing.
Bentley was being pushed to the edge and not getting much time at all to focus on training. All he could really display was how he was a really fast runner. Other than that the most he could do was haphazardly try to swing a knife around.
He offered to perform a rap for the gamemakers. They refused on the grounds that, whether it ended up being good or bad, it was not a skill their score system was capable of judging. Bentley had to settle for running laps, poorly displaying knife fighting and scoring twenty seven percent on an edible plants test.
Only barely enough for a score of four.
Violetta had managed a score of nine, a shockingly high score for a tribute from Six, and thus was who the escort practically ordered Chassis to place his attention towards saving. She was the only logical candidate they had, drug withdrawal or not.
Chassis watched the escort talking with Violetta about tactics of a rather ambiguous value and glanced over to where Bentley was sitting. The boy sat hunched over on the sofa, thoroughly miserable. Chassis made his way over before Bentley could reach for a half empty wine bottle left on the table beside the sofa.
"You won't be able to prove to anybody that you're DJ-CONCORD-Z if you get yourself wasted," Chassis said, taking the bottle away.
"Wait, you believe me?" Bentley asked, his eyes slightly widening.
"I'm not sure either way, but we could still get you some sponsors out of it. Either you're honest and get tons of sponsors, or lying and still get a sponsor or two. No downside for us to run with this idea," Chassis said, a sly sort of smirk crossing his face. "Don't give up yet. I never did and look at me now. Know what I am?"
"Uh… kind of mad?" Bentley guessed, shrugging uncertainly.
"Obviously, but I'm also alive," Chassis declared. "You can be to if-."
"Chassis, get over here!" the escort screeched. "Your potential victor needs some mentoring! Do I have to do all the work for your team?"
Chassis promised to resume the talk with Bentley later on and made his way over to help Violetta with whatever it was that she needed. He wasn't going to neglect one tribute to favour the other; he was all about giving both tributes under his mentorship an equal, fair chance.
It was what Abe always did, even when he was such a different man back when he started mentoring during the First Games.
Chassis glanced at the portrait of his late mentor placed grandly upon the wall of the District Six apartment. He'd make him proud and bring home a victor!
One day he would. One day…
Chassis had told Bentley that his best chance to gain support and sponsors was to blow the crowd away with an excellent interview. To that end there was really just one thing he had to focus on doing.
Proving to the nation, without the aid of his iconic costume, that he was DJ-CONCORD-Z.
He was the twelfth to be interviewed, just as every single male from Six had been in the previous fifty three years of the Hunger Games. He recalled everything Chassis had told him, everything about how to properly drop a bombshell and lead the audience on by sheer fun and charisma.
Bentley stammered for a brief moment and went all in, declaring himself to be the famous rapper.
Caesar was willing to give him the chance to prove himself, costume or not. He got the audience to quieten down and let Bentley perform a few raps. Having written them to begin with Bentley rapped away a few lines of songs about cars, caffeine, mutts and destiny.
Of course, the problem was quickly apparent. Several of those in the audience claimed that Bentley could simply have memorised the songs, practised to make his voice sound somewhat similar and then used that to fake the identity of the masked rapper.
"So, how should I prove that I really am DJ-CONCORD-Z?" Bentley asked, slightly desperate.
"Why not free style a few lines for us?" Caesar suggested. "You still have two minutes."
Bentley was more than up for the challenge. Finally feeling in his element he leapt up, assumed a 'street' sort of pose and began to rap out a few lines for the nation to listen to.
May I have your attention please?
I'm not afraid (I'm not afraid)
To learn to fly,to learn to fly,
Everybody, everybody
Come take my leg, come take my leg
We'll walk through Panem together, through the storm
Whatever weather, cold or warm
His eyes are mighty, hands vicious, ears are rough
There's food on his jeans already, mother's stew
He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready to learn to fly,
But he keeps on forgetting what he wrote down
Bentley took a bow and retook his seat. Some of the audience still clearly thought he was lying, some were muttering and whispering out of uncertainty… and some were smiling broadly, having been convinced that Bentley truly was the rapper of legend.
That or they just liked the freestyle rap of the 'liar'. Either way it seemed like Bentley had managed to get a few sponsors on his side for the Games ahead. For one wonderful moment Bentley felt on top of the world!
The moment ended swiftly when the boy from One, who had hung back to watch the outlier's interviews, gave him a terrible leer and drew a finger past his throat.
"See you in the morning," the boy said, sneering. "Sweet dreams Six."
Bentley had dreams that night, but they were anything but sweet.
Bentley shivered from more than just fear when he was launched into the arena the next morning. Indeed, he couldn't help but wrap his arms around himself and shudder quite visibly.
After all, it was a fairly cold arena that year. Perhaps little in comparison to the horrible arena of the Fifty Seventh Games but cold nonetheless.
It was a snowy tundra that the gamemakers had thrown the tributes into that year, complete with a massive looming mountain and a sunset that would never end. The snowy landscape stretched on for miles with snowfall that just wouldn't quit. The youngest of the tributes were already sneezing and chattering their teeth from the cold as the countdown ticked closer to zero.
Bentley took the time to wave to the cameras, trying to play himself up for the audience a bit. To them it was all 'just a show' after all. Maybe it would get them to sponsor him an extra layer of clothing, just maybe.
Bentley was so faraway into the clouds with thoughts of fear, whimsical lyrics for future raps and even wondering how everybody back home was faring that he didn't realise the gong had gone off. Not until three precious seconds had gone by.
Bentley ran into the fray, hoping to be able to grab something for himself in all of the chaos going on. He'd even settle for a small box of matches or a few slices of bread.
Instead Bentley misjudged his footing halfway to the horn and fell over to the ground. A scream filled the air, louder than the other screams going on, right before he felt something drop onto him. He remained perfectly still as the object on his back went still and heavy.
He didn't dare move when he felt sticky blood starting to leak from the object – a human corpse – down into his thick cargo pants.
He didn't move even when he started to wonder if something more than just blood had gotten around his leg. He didn't want to think about what it may have been.
He hardly dared to breath when somebody moved right next to him, dragging a large scythe along behind them. If his face hadn't been pressed against the snow he might have been unable to hold back a sob.
Somehow the boy from One was right beside him and had not noticed he was alive. He had, however, clearly noticed another tribute. One swing, one short scream and suddenly something else fell on top of Bentley.
More blood soaked into his pants.
Eventually the battled stopped raging on and the last of the shouts, cries and screams faded away until only the howl of the frosty wind remained. Bentley lay frozen in fear – and, admittedly, the cold – as the careers exchanged high fives and fist bumps. All four of them had survived the opening bloodbath.
As Bentley lay still as the corpses upon him the cannons began to fire. Overall twelve tributes had not managed to survive the bloodbath.
It occurred to him that he'd not quite done so yet either. He was still at the heart of what was going to be the career pack's main base.
"That was awesome!" the boy from One exclaimed.
"Got that right! Okay, how many did we get?" the girl from Two asked. "I killed three."
"Same," the boy from One added proudly.
"Just two," the girl from One grunted.
"Same here," the boy from Two muttered. "Guess that means the other two were killed by outliers."
"Shame I couldn't kill the stupid rapper," the boy from One grunted. "Fucking kill stealers."
Bentley fought against the urge to piss his pants from terror. Twelve cannons had fired, but that meant an extra body whose owner was not dead… himself. All it would take would be the careers taking note of this and driving a blade into each body to be sure they killed the last one.
Bentley lay in agonising fear for the longest hour of his life, terrified that each second that went by would be the one when the careers realised there was an extra corpse laying around than there should be.
The time never came to pass. The careers sorted through a bunch of the supplies, geared themselves up to go hunting through the tundra and, after a long argument that led to the rat faced girl from Two being assigned to guard duty, set off to hunt down the other tributes.
Having only one career to deal with was better than having all four, or even more in some years, but Bentley still knew he had no chance in a fight against the girl from Two. He had no clue what to do aside hope she didn't start to come for him.
Or, worse, wonder why the hovercraft was not coming in for the bodies.
Bentley was weak, but had luck on his side just this one time.
The girl from Two had been up for a lot of the night, too excited to sleep before the Games she'd been training for throughout the past decade, and had nodded off from fatigue. Bentley heard her snoring, but didn't dare get up.
Not until a few minutes of snoring passed by, proof enough that she was sleeping.
He almost instantly tripped down from the intestines of the girl from Twelve that were tangled around his left leg. Somehow he held back a sickened scream and got his bearings as he surveyed the carnage.
It was like a butcher shop. He could see eleven corpses littering the ground, the white snow now a terrible shade of crimson. No deaths had been pretty, all of the fallen had clearly suffered terribly before they passed away.
Bentley wondered who amongst them had been butchered by the sleeping girl from Two.
He didn't waste any time. The stringy haired boy crept past the girl from Two and began to scoop up supplies from within the cornucopia (in the process finding the missing twelfth corpse, Violetta's, right at the back of the horn). Bentley hardly paid any time to what he was stuffing inside the thick burlap sack, only that he filled it quickly. Before long he crept out of the silver horn once again, a sleeping bag over one shoulder, the sack over the other and a dagger in each hand.
Bentley observed the sleeping girl from Two, wondering if he should place both daggers in her throat.
With a shake of his head Bentley turned and walked away from the horn of plenty. His walk turned into a frantic run once he was out of the immediate vicinity. It was just as he'd said in the eighth rap he'd ever written.
DJ-CONCORD-Z was not a murderer.
In fact, as he wandered aimlessly away into the snowy wasteland he began to rap about it.
No killer, no killer, I ain't-ain't a killer
Take my hand, view the land, what-what not a killer
As Bentley continued to run and rap towards what he hoped was safety several of those watching began to think that maybe, just maybe, Bentley really was who he said he was.
So much so that, three hours later, he was sponsored a pair of shiny purple pants, just like the ones he wore in his performances back home.
Just like them, except snow proof. This and the fact they had no blood soaked into them at all had Bentley quick to change into them. Just wearing them made him feel almost like he was a step closer to home. To the life he'd been taken from.
With the endless sunset it was near impossible to tell how much time went by except by counting how many times the anthem had been displayed. By day five nine tributes were still alive and Bentley was amazed by his luck.
The careers hadn't found him yet.
They had to have known he hadn't died – he'd not been in the first anthem after all – but he had a feeling the boy from One would be trying extra hard to hunt for him. He spent his days hiding away in tunnels dug down into the snow, huddling in his sleeping bag for warmth with the holes covered by a hasty covering of snowy slush.
Each day Bentley would rise from his previous den to find a new place to hide, never wanting to linger around lest somebody find him. He sincerely doubted he could win a fight and so resolved to just find some way to survive without needing to fight people.
Technically Lammy had done this, so perhaps he could too…?
Still, doing nothing was ironically against the admittedly few rules. Only Pliny had ever gotten away with that plan. That was why Bentley played towards the showbiz side of the Hunger Games and would perform a rap each day that he was in the arena, so long as the coast was clear.
On the first day it was about blood.
It dripped, it dropped, it messed up the shop!
On the second day it was about mutts.
The teeth bruise me, their eyes use me, they just wanna abuse me!
On the third day it was about war.
In the sun or in the rain, the pain goes on again and again!
On the fourth day it was about clowns.
Red nose, wanna leave her, big shoes, rather date a beaver!
And on the fifth day it was about survival.
Live, breath, it's all in the mind! Don't get cocky, it's gonna get rocky!
Bentley's rap was interrupted when a brief flicker of movement caught his eye atop a nearby snow hill. He practically dove into his latest borrow, hastily covering up the entrance with slush and hoping he'd not been seen.
The multiple sets of footsteps and the raised voices told him the obvious. It was the careers. They'd not seen him, but all it would take for them to find him would be to step upon his burrow or listen for his panicked breathing.
"The footsteps end here," the girl from one said.
Bentley froze, metaphorically of course. Various curse words flooded his mind.
"End? How? What, did somebody die here and the hovercraft took them?" the boy from One asked, doubtful.
"Well, the ground looks disturbed. Maybe?" the girl from One replied, shrugging.
Before anything more could be said a howl had filled the air. Snow wolves, that year's most vicious variety of mutts, had arrived and were all growling hatefully.
"Look alive guys!" the boy from Two yelled, eager for a fight.
Bentley could only cower in his snow den as he listened to the battle raging on above him. The screams of human and mutt, the clangs of metal blades and a few dying whimpers were all he could focus on.
A cannon boomed throughout the arena.
Eventually the growling faded and with it so did the footsteps of the career pack. Even so, Bentley did not come out of hiding for over twenty minutes. Only when he was certain the pack, both of them actually, were gone did he emerge from his snowy burrow.
He was greeted by a sight of blood and sacrifice. Eight dead snow wolves and the girl from Two, dead eyes staring at nothing and horrible bite marks all over her body.
"Shit," Bentley muttered, a wince filling his face. "Maybe stabbing her when she was snoozing would've been a better fate?"
With nothing else to do Bentley quickly took all of the useful gear from the career girl's corpse and ran off in the opposite direction that the trio of human footprints – alongside the seven sets of wolf footprints – led, eager to evade any potential combat.
Bentley did not know it at the time, but his rapping had been really enjoyed by the Capitol and the gamemakers had thusly decided to keep him around a little longer. If unleashing some wolves would spare him and doom one of the four careers then so be it.
Why would they lose the outlier bringing in the most ratings and money?
Bentley spent the night huddled away in a cave. He was miserable, but not quite out of it yet.
The fact he'd been sponsored a snow proof version of his fancy, shiny DJ-CONCORD-Z jacket from outside the arena had kept his spirits from reaching rock bottom.
More people appeared ready to believe that Bentley was, in fact, the famous rapper.
By the time a week had gone by and day eight was nearing its end only six tributes were still alive. Bentley, the three careers and the girls from Five and Eight. With both of the latter tributes being unusually bulky and well fed before the Games it had Bentley feeling like defeat and death were certain.
The best he could do, he thought, was to delay the inevitable slightly.
Climbing up the snowy mountain seemed like a good way to go about accomplishing that.
It was a day of climbing and three raps before he had even gotten halfway up. His snow proof outfit held away the worst of the cold and kept his energy high, but it was tempting to just give up. So very tempting.
The memories of the bloodbath, the blood on his legs that was not his own, the intestines and all the horrors after the first few hours wouldn't leave him alone.
Bentley paused to take a break at the base of a cliffside midway up the mountain, panting hard. His breath was fully visible to the naked eye.
"Cold, cold, cold…" Bentley muttered, shaking a bit. "…I can do this. I can still do this. No blood on my hands yet."
What happened next was often shown on any typical broadcast of a 'top ten funniest Hunger Games moments' sort of show. The girl from Five had been trying to ambush Bentley and carefully climb down the cliffside to slit his throat.
Instead, she slipped and fell down to the ground headfirst. She broke her neck not even two feet from where Bentley had been sitting.
"Whoa! What the actual fuck?!" Bentley yelled, recoiling from the body beside him.
District Five wailed, Bentley tried not to cry then and there, the Capitol laughed and in moments – after taking the girl's supplies of course – the rapper was quickly on his way higher up the mountain, unwilling to sit with a dead body.
He began a freestyle rap to try and take his mind away from what had just happened.
Gravity's harsh, wouldn't wanna rage her
She gots a big temper, you gotta evade her
Falling hard, wicked fast
No escape, you can't last
Bentley had nowhere near the same level of sponsor money that the careers did, but from the mentor control room Chassis noticed that he almost had enough to send Bentley a few more items.
Items that would complete him.
He just needed to hold on and keep living through the nightmare for another day or two.
Bentley reached the highest parts of the mountain two days later, all worn out. A nap in his sleeping bag didn't help much.
Mainly because he thought he was officially done for.
The girl from One had been killed – unknown to him it had been from mutts – but this still left the career boys and the bulky girl from Eight. All three were on the mountain by this point. They were lower down, but it wouldn't be long now until they would start to narrow the gap and close in on him, up to the moment he could no longer run away.
Bentley sat in silence upon the peak for a while, scared and alone.
Three hours passed before he finally stood up. He paced a little before he gazed up at the sky, hoping a camera was focusing on him.
"Hey, Chassis? …Let's be honest here, I don't think I'm going to make it. The others are too strong and I'm… just me. Just Bentley," he sighed, almost in acceptance. "I guess I did good to make it so far when everybody called me a fool and a liar, one with his head in the clouds."
Bentley started to pace as he spoke. He didn't know just how many people were focusing their gave upon him.
"I only have one request left. I mean, besides my parents not forgetting about me," Bentley came to a stop and looked up towards the sky. "I wrote this new song before coming here, but I never got to perform it in full. Think you could send me a microphone? I want to let everybody hear how it was going to end before I'm gone."
Truthfully Bentley did not expect anything in response. He assumed he'd just have to sit down and wait for death to take him, whether it was a tribute catching up to him or a horrible mutt.
His iris' slightly shrunk when the sonar of sponsor parachute began to chime. Bentley could only stare in sheer awe as a microphone descended into his hands and a pair of boom boxes landed down, one on either side of him.
"Whoa," Bentley remarked. His amazement only grew when he saw the final parachute coming in behind the rest. "Oh my… he really got it… YES!"
From above the parachute came down right into Bentley's outstretched hands. To Bentley it was a priceless treasure.
It was a gas mask, just like the one he always performed in back home.
Bentley wasted no time in switching on the boom boxes, turning the microphone on to maximum and putting on the gas mask. The music began to play, loud and proud, while the nation collectively came to one stunning realisation.
Bentley had been telling the truth all along.
He really was the legendary DJ-CONCORD-Z all along!
There's a day when all hearts will be broken
When a shadow will cast out the light
And our eyes cry a million tears
Help won't arrive
There's a day when all courage collapses
And our friends turn and leave us behind
Creatures of darkness will triumph
The sun won't rise
Bentley jumped around from heel to heel as he sang the lyrics in his own speed rap style. The boomboxes practically jumped along with him from the sheer volume they were blasting music at.
When we've lost all hope
And succumb to fear
As the skies rain blood
And the end draws near
I may fall
But not like this -it won't be by your hand
I may fall
Not this place, not today
I may fall
Bring it all-it's not enough to take me down
I may fall
Bentley marched left and right, fist pumping along to the beat. In spite of the fact this was a child killing deathmatch all of District Six couldn't help but stomp to the beat and fist bump along with Bentley as his performance continued.
The mountain began to rumble. Bentley remained oblivious.
There's a place where we'll stand outnumbered
Where the wolves and the soulless will rise
In the time of our final moments
Every dream dies
There's a place where our shields will lay shattered
And the fear's all that's left in our hearts
Strength and our courage have run out
We fall apart
By now the Capitol crowds were screaming and roaring their approval, each and every single one of them cheering for Bentley and clapping along to the beat. They began to notice the rumbling of the mountain while Bentley began to dance in a sort of stomping circle for the nation to see.
He was so caught up in his act that he had practically forgotten he was in the arena and this was his 'last stand' in a sense.
When we lose our faith
And forsake our friends
When the moon is gone
And we reach our end
There's a moment that changes a life when
We do something that no one else can
And the path that we've taken will lead us
One final stand
Bentley began to sing and rap louder and louder. The rumbling was starting to get dangerously loud. The careers and the girl from Eight ceased their bloody battle further down the mountain, listening in bewilderment to what was going on a mile above them.
There's a moment we make a decision
Not to cower and crash to the ground
The moment we face our worst demons
Our courage found
When we stand with friends
And we won't retreat
As we stare down death
Then the taste is sweet
The whole mountain was practically looking ready to explode from the power of rap. The boom boxes were bouncing out of control and Bentley was now roaring the lyrics with a fire that had not been seen in weeks. It was DJ-CONCORD-Z's finest moment and nothing was going to change that!
I may fall
But not like this – it won't be by your hand
I may fall
Not this place, not today
I may fall
Bring it all – it's not enough to take me down
I MAY FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL!
Bentley screamed the final line with everything he had, almost enough to outright burn his vocal cords. As he continued to bellow out the last word the power of rap and song finally hit the arena full force.
A gigantic avalanche was formed by the sound waves dislodging gigantic amounts of snow. The avalanche rapidly cascaded down the mountain with all the force and majesty expected of nature.
The careers and the girl from Eight never stood a chance.
Bentley finished off the song by tossing the microphone into the air, spinning around and striking a pose as he caught it. As he panted and gasped from such an incredible performance he suddenly realised something.
A cannon was firing. Another cannon fired as well. A third cannon also went off.
Trumpets began to sound across the arena.
"What… I… did I…" Bentley trailed off, slowly removing his gas mask. He was hardly able to believe it.
"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the victor of the Fifty Fourth Annual Hunger Games!" the announcer, Claudius Templesmith began. "Bentley Corduroy from District Six… AKA DJ-CONCORD-Z!"
Bentley was stunned speechless as the hovercraft descended to rescue him from his frosty prison. He'd done it. He'd done what only one other boy from District Six had ever been able to do. Win the Hunger Games.
Unlike Chassis, however, he'd won with the power of rap and nothing more.
There was only one thing to say, really.
"Cowabunga!" Bentley cheered, overcome with glee. "I won! I frickin' won! No kills! Yeah!"
Alas, he was wrong.
Bentley was amazingly chipper for a short while after the Games, all things considered. He was just glad to be alive and going home at all. The fact he was getting the fame he'd dreamed of for so long also helped.
Things got much harder and his mood plummeted after the post-Games interview. It was there that he learnt he had, in fact, three kills to his name.
All were accidental, but the fact remained that his rap had still been the direct cause of the avalanche that killed three teenagers. It was something that broke him.
The guilt was overpowering and made it far, far easier for the nightmares to become frequent. The trauma was set and cemented, always filling him up with thoughts of the terrible mutts, the horrific bloodbath, the miserable final moments of those three he ended up killing and all the rest of it.
Every victor killed other tributes and some handled it differently. Bentley handled it the worst out of almost all the victors. It was part of why he tried to adopt a pacifism message in some of his raps, not that the Capitol would ever listen to it.
The only thing that made the guilt go away and stop feeling like it was going to tear him into atoms was morphling. The drug was bad. Bentley knew it was bad… but without it he was unable to cope with the pain. Unable to cope with the knowledge of being a killer.
Unable to forget the way the parents of his kills had looked at him during his victory tour.
He could still rap, drugged or not, but it was clear over time he'd really fallen into addiction. It was the only escape. He genuinely believed it was the only way to be.
That is, until he met a fan of his who adored him for his work, his rap message and who he was at heart. A girl whose own love of rap, constant comforting presence and genuine friendship finally managed to help Bentley forgive himself.
But that's another story…
"Rest in peace Bentley," Katniss said, her voice soft. "Keep rapping in the great unknown."
After a further moment of silence Katniss and Peeta continued to walk down the street. In only a few moments they reached the next face imprinted into the sidewalk.
A surly, rather bitter boy stared back at them. His expression was full of anger and a sort of dismal dourness at the world around him. With messy hair, thick glasses and a rather chubby sort of face he didn't look like a very happy person at all.
"Wattzon Holmes," Peeta read. "Hmm, happy fellow isn't he."
"About as happy as a tribute who just got bit by a mutt," Katniss added.
There we go, another canon victor given their own backstory! Like I said, Bentley – or, rather, the male morphling – always held my interest and I wanted to do him some justice here. It all clicked into place one moment shortly after I woke up one day… a modest boy longing to be a rapper and filled with moral anguish over his kills. In canon Haymitch said the morphlings 'basically hid until everybody was dead' and I believe accidently killing three people by a rap induced avalanche fits within the parameters of this description. Was the chapter a bit silly? Perhaps. Was it fun to write? Hell yes! Like I've said, any time D6 wins they win BIG and this certainly was a hell of a win. Hope you all liked reading the rise of DJ-CONCORD-Z! But what of his #1 fan mentioned at the end? Well… keep reading and perhaps you'll eventually find out. Until then, time for another non-canon and this time it's a submission from a very good friend of mine. Stay tuned!
Stats
District 1: Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)
District 2: Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)
District 3: Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)
District 4: Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)
District 5: Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games)
District 6: Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games)
District 7: Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games)
District 8: Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)
District 9: Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)
District 10: Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)
District 11: Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)
District 12: Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)