Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.
Note: Here we are, back after a bit of an absence! Got busy in my offline life and had a bit of writer's block, but here we are once again with another victor! Introducing Pasture, the holder of the kill record and possibly the title of the craziest victor… oh, who am I kidding, she's not the craziest. Maybe in the top ten? Point is, I had a ton of fun writing about this wild hillbilly and I hope you guys will have fun reading about her. Let it be known now, only mess with the traditions of a daughter of a shepherd at your own peril…
It was a moment before Katniss and Peeta spoke. Pasture had a habit of letting her actions speak louder than words, even after she was gone from the mortal world. What was there to really say about her that hadn't been said on all the Hunger Games recaps over the years since her victory?
"I would've expected the holder of the kill record to be some vicious career from Two," Katniss said, her expression neutral. "Not a crazy hillbilly from Ten."
"I guess the Games are just full of surprises," Peeta replied. "Imagine if she had lived past the bloodbath in the Quell."
"She'd have been either a great ally or a deadly opponent, and I have no idea which," Katniss said, slightly shuddering. "I saw a replay once… I saw how she died."
"…How?" Peeta asked, slowly.
"The four careers had to gang up on her at once. Even Brutus was terrified of her," Katniss said, shaking her head slightly. "Not hard to figure out why, of course."
"True," Peeta agreed, gazing down at the legendary hillbilly's imprinted face. "It takes a rare sort of tribute to kill twelve people with a shoe. Can't blame anybody for fearing that."
59th Annual Hunger Games
Name: Pasture Gallows
Gender: Female
District: 10
Age: 17
Kills: 12
District Ten hadn't changed much in the years since its first ever victor, Stallion March, managed to run through miles of filth and somehow come out clean on the other side. Still numerous fields, still lots of ranches, still a slow paced and fairly poor sort of life for its residents.
Still a smell only the locals can truly get used to.
All that had really changed since then was Lammy Phyronix emerging as the unlikely victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games… well, unlikely to those outside of anybody who knew her. Those who did know her had been aware the Games were already over from the moment she escaped the cornucopia,
But for the most part everything remained the same and neither lifestyles nor traditions particularly changed as decades went by.
This suited Pasture just fine as tradition was such a vital thing for her family.
One would be forgiven for having to stop, stare and question if Pasture's family weren't just a hallucination bought on by a concussion. They were quite unlike anything else in Panem when all was said and done. Even Dollar's zombie survivalist family seemed to be at least a few steps behind them when it came to sheer kookiness.
Having come to Panem from the 'old country' shortly before the Dark Days, the Gallows clan had bought along a particularly large brand of bizarre traditions with them, each one seemingly more ridiculous than the last.
Clams were considered to be fine pets despite the notable lack of them in District Ten.
The motto of the family was 'The soil knows all'.
It was socially acceptable to eat grass.
Barbers were the manliest and most respected of people.
Unicycles were to be ridden before bikes.
Meat of various types and qualities was hung around at Capitolmas.
Eels being stuffed down one's pants was a sign of forgiveness.
All of this together inevitably meant that most people in Ten would make a solid effort to avoid dealing with Pasture and her family. Their grand farmland, though well cared for and fairly successful all things considered, was simply deemed to be a land of madness.
Pasture didn't really care what other people thought of her. Just so long as they didn't insult her family's honour the teenaged hillbilly was perfectly content with the way things were. Why wouldn't she be? Her name had never been pulled from the reaping bowl, she'd never had to go hungry in her life, her family were all close knit and loyal to each other, the delivery boy and mail girl were really cute and sweet any time they stopped to talk to her and she was even the boulder tossing champion of her side of Ten.
Being fairly tall and exceptionally muscular would give a girl that kind of power after all. This and her untamed mane of red hair made Pasture somebody anybody could recognise on sight. Well, that and her rather quirky attitude.
She was, for one thing, known for putting potatoes in her ears to aid in fertilising them and occasionally dressing in what could only be described as a sea cucumber costume.
Apparently it was worn in loving memory of her ancestors.
Pasture stood in the seventeen year old girls' area of the reaping square on the morning of the Fifty Ninth reaping. Unlike those around her she wasn't looking scared as all, merely whistling a soft tune as she waited for the event to be over. Why worry over what you cannot control? Either her name would be pulled, or it wouldn't. She wasn't going to volunteer, and she knew nobody would do so for her either.
She didn't need a volunteer.
The other girls were amazed that the 'crazy hillbilly' wasn't afraid. Only two tributes from Ten had ever come home, putting them in joint last place overall with District Twelve. Being reaped was a death sentence, it was only a matter of time. It was why most of the girls, even the older ones, were sobbing.
Pasture gave those around her a comforting sort of look as the escort – obviously dressed in a President Snow cosplay, the latest fashion craze – reached her hand into the girl's reaping bowl.
"Come on girls, tough faces. Brave tributes always last longer," Pasture said to the other girls, supportive as could be. She flexed for them. "Come on, strong faces! You're all tough, you just gotta show it off."
Alas, her words of comfort did little good.
"Pasture Gallows!"
"Right here!" Pasture exclaimed, raising her hand and puffing out her chest. "On my way she-who-lives-little escort girl!"
The escort was stunned into a silence, unsure what to say as Pasture mounted the stage to stand beside her. The girl looked wild and strong, a real contender for sure, but what she had just said… was she going to be another of those tributes?
"Farewell they-who-cry girls and boys!" Pasture announced, so loud she didn't need a microphone to be heard. "Don't worry about me because I, the Daughter of a Shepherd, shall peel the onions of the careers and make them cry! I've got this under control."
She was certainly one of those tributes. The escort could only sigh, wondering when she'd be promoted to a better district than this one.
A small scattering of awkward applause was given to Pasture, along with a triple bugle horn ensemble from her family off to the side. It was tradition after all.
The escort hurriedly reaped a boy – somebody who looked completely average by all accounts, a sixteen year old known as Horton Olas – and had the pair shake hands to finish things off.
As anybody could've seen coming Pasture's rough and excitable handshake almost broke Horton's fingers. He limped into the judgement building with Pasture proudly marching behind him while the escort could only sigh.
She hated this district.
Stallion and Lammy, meanwhile, wondered if they might have some kind of a contender at last. Pasture certainly looked powerful and fearless if nothing else.
But, was she too crazy?
Crazy didn't seem to even begin to describe Pasture when all was said and done.
Things started out normally enough, Pasture willingly changing out of her farmer get-up and into something more casual and even watching the reapings like a typical tribute might.
That was about all the time she had to spare for doing things the expected way. After that the 'traditions' began and sent the escort four fifths of the way to a nervous breakdown. Stallion and Lammy decided it was better to just watch quietly and not say anything until Pasture got it out of her system.
Horton just went off to his room, not wanting to get stuck in the middle of any craziness from the Gallows girl.
By the time the train reached the Capitol the escort ran out the doorway screaming and flailing her arms, her fake beard coming loose in the process. In retrospect it was hard to blame her for this.
In the long train ride Pasture had sang a loud folk song about 'Grimmelheid the Turnip Witch', hung up garlic scented shrunken heads to ward off 'evil goblins', sang another loud song known only as 'That's My Horse', thrown out all the combs on board the train for being allegedly untrustworthy and even baked some particularly repulsive fish balls for breakfast.
Pasture remained oblivious to the stares she was receiving from those who thought she was mad, merely waving to the colourful crowd and pounding her chest. The time was now to show she was a strong contender after all.
"Hello-hello, they-who-cheer feather people!" Pasture exclaimed, flexing as she waved to the cheering crowd. "Who is ready for action!? Let me hear those cheers!"
The crowd cheered all the louder, starting to look past the girl's craziness. If she was going to bring a huge, bloody amount of violence with her then who were they to complain?
Stallion led Horton out, trying to get some eyes on his tribute. Lammy shyly waved to the crowd as she bought up the rear, feeling for the first time in the decade that she had a serious fighter under her care.
Risky as it was to have hope for anything in Panem, she regardless had hope this year might be Ten's year.
The parade had gone off without a hitch for District Ten. Horton was able to hold back any signs of fear as he smiled and waved, while Pasture… she'd been a natural. Dressed up in what could only be described as a 'butcher bikini' and with blood coloured war paint marked across her face and abs Pasture looked ferocious.
She'd played to the crowd with ease, flexing and waving for the whole parade. The Capitol was rarely in favour of District Ten winning, but this year was clearly the exception to the normal rule. The careers had plenty of fans, sure, but Pasture's name was easily able to be heard being chanted by the colourful crowd.
The careers certainly didn't miss how Pasture had stolen so much of the spotlight. Neither did most of the other tributes, many among them glaring at Pasture in envy.
Pasture hardly even noticed them, merely beaming at the thought of how proud her family would be and how she was the first of the family in over forty generations to ride in a chariot. How very fancy!
Pasture took to the training centre just as well as she took to farming. Being so damn strong it was easy for her to run laps, power lift with the weights, throw fairly heavy metal balls over fifteen feet away and easily overpower trainers in hand to hand combat sparring sessions.
Many outliers such as those from Three, Four, Seven and the boy from Eleven watched her with envy and more than a bit of anger. The careers always had the lion's share of sponsors with the rest having to share out the bottom dregs… dregs they would get none of because Pasture was so damn strong!
She remained oblivious to their anger, merely working out with a smile on her face and a fond whistle passing through her lips. As far as she was concerned this was a fine way to spend her day.
It was after lunchtime – in itself an odd event due to Pasture somehow eating over twenty pounds of meat all by herself – when the careers finally approached her. They didn't come baring threats nor insults, but rather an offer to join their alliance.
"No thanks," Pasture replied, midway through a power lifting session. "I shan't be needing anybody's help, snake-in-the-grass career tributes."
"Snake?" the boy from One repeated, annoyed.
"Yes, snake. Long creatures without limbs or much aspirations. Scaly and plenty rotten. Snakes," Pasture gestured to some weights left unused on the ground. "More weight, please?"
The boy from One shrugged, doing as he was asked. The boy from Two, Tandarick, wasn't pleased with Pasture's answer and made this particularly clear.
"Uh, do you know who you are talking to? We're the career pack, we're the strongest tributes in the Games," Tandarick moved closer to Pasture, nothing but malice within his eyes. "Do you really think telling us 'no' is a good idea? If you aren't with us the only place to be is against us."
"That would end up being true anyway once the alliance crumbles he-who-complains," Pasture replied, not having ceased powerlifting while the conversation went on. "I'll be just fine by myself. The daughter of a shepherd shan't need help."
"Just keep telling yourself that. None of the other tributes seem to like you very much. Think you can take on the four of us? Try the twenty three people here besides yourself," Tandarick scowled, turning to leave. "C'mon guys, she had her chance. Let it not be said we didn't try to extend an olive branch."
"Some people just don't know what's best for themselves," the girl from Two, Yaxlee, agreed.
"Do ya'll know? Did you, or did you not, volunteer for a twenty three in twenty four chance of dying, fool hardly career boys… and girls?" Pasture asked, a cheeky smirk on her face.
The careers left without another word. They resumed training, all four of them focused on specialised weapons such as bolas, a kusarigama, bladed boomerangs and a double sided halberd. All were confident with their weapons and focused on nothing else.
Pasture paid the 'snake-in-the-grass careers' little mind. The other outliers got a little more of her attention. It was just as Tandarick had said, they clearly did not like her. With the exception of Horton and the tiny boy from Nine they all took a moment to glare at her here and there.
They all looked away whenever they noticed Pasture was looking back at them.
Pasture wasn't bothered by people not liking her. She was self-aware enough to understand her family weren't exactly popular back home in Ten. Even so, she didn't want these kids to fill their hearts with hate in what was likely to be their final days. What good did hate ever do for anybody?
After another twenty minutes of power lifting the daughter of a shepherd came up with the perfect plan.
It was lunchtime the next day when all of the tributes were met with quite the surprise. They entered the canteen to see that Pasture was already there, having gotten the staff to cook up a special sort of food as a peace offering.
Admittedly the staff only agreed because they thought the reactions of the other tributes would be funny.
After all, it was some rather suspicious looking sea cucumber balls that were on the menu.
"What the hell is this?" Tandarick asked, lost.
"I was hoping for pork chops," the girl from Twelve mumbled, already looking depressed.
"Feh, cast pork chops out of your mind go-go miner girl," Pasture replied, casually walking around the large canteen to lay down a plate of sea cucumber balls in front of each of the tributes. "Let the feast of the peace balls commence!"
"Peace balls?" the drug runner boy from Six asked.
"Yes, peace balls. A tradition of the Gallows clan he-who-smokes-fumes. After a dispute has been recognised the peace balls made of imported sea cucumbers are offered as a sign of sorriness," Pasture casually took a bite of one of the balls left for herself. "Mmmm, crunchy! Feast away, friends locked into shared misery, and let us move on from the parade!"
Some of the more tactful tributes – or those who didn't want to make the muscular hillbilly mad – sucked it up and began to eat the rather gross sea cucumber balls. Alas, this really meant that only Horton, the boy from Nine, the girl from Eight and the girl from Three did so. The other nineteen tributes had no such tact nor care for offending the hillbilly's customs.
This was made apparent when Tandarick bet his allies he could get Pasture exactly between the eyes and took aim. The squishy ball hurtled through the air, splatting right on target in Pasture's face. With the leader of the careers having done this it was only a moment before the other careers did the same.
Naturally, nobody wanted to stick out to the careers as pro-Pasture after that and the outliers, many of them still sore at Pasture even with the offering of peace, pelted Pasture with the pickled produce. Pretty painful!
Pasture was rooted to the spot, the remnants of the rather odorous sea cucumber balls dropping off of her face, hair and clothes. She appeared to be genuinely heartbroken that her offer of peace had been so callously rejected.
The instant that the careers began to lead the outliers who threw the food in a sort of jeering schoolyard chant was the instant the war truly began.
Mainly as Pasture flipped a table over like it weighed nothing and flash stepped right up to Tandarick's face. She glared at him with the fire of a thousand supernova's, her death glare soon meeting the eyes of all the other food throwers.
"You dare… you DARE offend the honour of the daughter of a shepherd's ancestors and traditions?!" Pasture screeched, loud enough to almost have several ears bleeding. "You threw the sacred offering, you sang the Melody of Mockery… and now you have the absolute gaul to not provide me with the cupcakes of sorriness?! YOU HAVE MADE A GRAVE MISTAKE!"
By now several outliers were looking scared, Horton looked embarrassed and even the careers, sans Tandarick, were looking a little unnerved.
"Fuck off hillbilly," Tandarick spat, very much unimpressed.
"No, it shall be you who 'fucks off' snake-in-the-grass career boy! You offended my customs. This requires that I respond in only one way. The shoe of power!" Pasture narrowed her eyes, her hands upon her hips. "Only then can my family's honour be reclaimed."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Come back from crazy land when you feel ready to play the Games like a normal human being," Tandarick said, getting up to leave.
"Don't you dare turn your back on me. You have no idea what awaits you if you do," Pasture whispered, almost sounding like she was on some level trying to reason with Tandarick.
"Or what?" the career boy asked, dull.
"The duel of reckoning will await you," Pasture warned.
Tandarick just laughed and kept his back turned as he left the lunchroom. The other tributes soon followed him out, not wanting to stay close to the crazy country girl any longer.
"…You brought this upon yourselves, hearts-in-the-dirt tributes," Pasture said, her fists clenching.
The fire within Pasture had been lit and she declared she was no longer going to hold anything back.
The other tributes didn't care at first, seeing the girl as just another blowhard in the Games. Not the first nor the last. However, Pasture's absolute rampage in the private training session ended up with her being the first tribute in the history of Ten – and the only one who ever did come the end of the Games – who managed to score an eleven. Even Tandarick had only scored a ten.
The careers were not worried, mainly due to their number advantage and how they hadn't seen any evidence of Pasture having any skills with ranged weapons. Indeed, they'd not seen her train with any of the weapons provided.
Pasture didn't say a word about what she did in that training centre, only that she hoped her ancestors were not further shamed by her failure to score a twelve.
The interview was expected to be an incredibly spectacle to really highlight Pasture's craziness, but to the surprise of many she was rather subdued. She answered Caesar's questions with a calm, stern and almost reserved sort of tone. She wasn't happy, she wasn't furious… she just sounded upset in a professional sort of way.
"What's wrong Pasture?" Caesar asked towards the end of the interview.
"My family's honour has been tarnished by the terrible tomfoolery of the tributes. I aim to reclaim it within the arena," Pasture said, taking a deep breath. "It won't be easy. Tradition mandates a high price on those whose failure to bring peace results in lost honour to the Gallows clan. But, it's a price I am willing to pay no matter how hard if it means my family's honour comes back. I would never be able to wear the title of 'daughter of a shepherd' if I wouldn't."
Caesar wished Pasture all the best with her honour and she left the stage to thunderous applause. The nation found her quirkiness endearing and Caesar was the sort to understand the importance of a family name being upheld. He genuinely wished her the best in reclaiming what honour was missing.
All the same, per his vow and his own little bit of rebellion, he could not only help Pasture. He would do his best to give each tribute a wonderful interview and the next tribute to receive that blessing was Horton.
Truthfully, however, Horton had already gotten a blessing in a roundabout sort of way.
He hadn't thrown the sea cucumber ball and was safe from Pasture's looming rampage. He and a scant few others were spared the worst of the worst.
The rest had no idea what awaited them.
Even Tandarick would've been worried if only he had known what his actions had ensured would befall him…
When the tributes got their first look at the arena they didn't react much, aside the normal excitement or terror they would feel year after year.
When the nation got their first look at the arena the response was a small sense of relief in several districts and whiny complaints of boredom in the Capitol.
This year the arena was truly nothing special or deadly at a glance. It was just a wide grass field, ten square miles in its overall size. The tributes would be able to see each other from miles away due to the absolute lack of any hiding places aside from the silver cornucopia.
The cornucopia itself gained a mixed reaction from the audience. One weapon only Games always did, especially with how the two prior to this one had been disasters. This year the gamemakers had only supplied metal gauntlets for the tributes to fight with. Some were smooth and featureless, others were golden and had one of two tiny spikes attached.
All of them were built to hurt the person on the receiving end.
The countdown ticked solely towards zero. Slow enough that Pasture had plenty of time to casually take off her thick, heavy leather boots and clutch one in her right hand like it were a lifeline.
Most were puzzled by this action. Some just laughed at this just being another example of the bumpkin being crazy. Her family braced themselves, knowing exactly what was about to happen.
Ancient tradition was very specific about it after all.
The gong rang and the tributes ran into the fray. It was only moments before the annual carnage began. It was exactly as long before it became clear that, as a matter of fact, beating people to death – gauntlets or not – is a slow process.
Several fights broke out with punches and kicks being exchanged. The pair from One didn't bother with the gauntlets at all and simply used their fists, feet and the launch plates to smash the life out of the girls from Eight and Nine. The girl from Two was content to repeatedly bash the little boy from Three into the Cornucopia until his skull was cracked and pouring blood.
Tandarick laughed as he stomped on the terrified face of the girl from Three, grinding his boot right into her for maximum suffering to be achieved. This was what it was all about. This was what he had trained for!
He paused, turning sharply when a shrill cry filled the air. Even with all the fights going by he had to stop and stare at what he was seeing.
Pasture had managed to knock the boys from Five and Six down to the ground and was rapidly pummelling them with the large shoe in her hand. Their howls and cries were quickly becoming quiet, the force of the shoe enough to have quickly induced concussions and make blood leak from their facial orifices.
Tandarick shook away his feelings of bewilderment and ran for Pasture, intending to murder her with his bare hands alone. He was intercepted along the way by the boy from Eight tackling him over, intending to take out the big threat early due to the lack of any real weaponry in the arena.
Tandarick was able to gain the advantage and snap his opponent's neck, but by that point Pasture had finished off the boys she'd been attacking and had ran for the girl from Eleven next. A few well placed shoe smacks to the thin girl's neck were all it took for her to collapse in death and defeat.
"Guys, kill her!" Tandarick roared, leaping up to his feet.
The girl from One tried, truly she did, but her overspecialisation with bolas had left her subpar at hand to hand combat, especially in comparison to Pasture. It was all too easy for Pasture to grab hold of the girl and start beating her down with the heavy, bloodstained shoe.
The remaining outliers had cleared out by now, their forms visible even as they got increasingly far from the cornucopia, but the lack of chaos didn't mean the other careers could simply move in and save their ally.
It was hard to do that when she was being used as a meat shield by Pasture, the shoe smacks not ceasing for a moment as Pasture scooped up a decent backpack over her shoulder and got by the careers.
"We will meet again snake-in-the-grass careers!" Pasture yelled. "The honour of my clan will be restored!"
With one final nasty smack of the shoe upon the girl from One's neck Pasture took off into a sprint, pursuing the distant form of the boy from Four. The girl from One, meanwhile, fell to the ground with her neck now bent at a horrible angle.
Nine cannons fired as the three surviving careers were left to sort through the supplies at the horn of plenty. Only when the last one faded away did they notice a rather concerning fact.
They'd only gotten five kills amongst themselves, a lower than average number. Pasture, meanwhile, had managed four and hadn't needed a real weapon or even a pair of the gauntlets on offer to do so.
She'd only needed a shoe.
"Tandarick, I think this girl is gonna be more of a problem than we thought," the boy from One, Torchwick, noted.
"What was your first clue, Sherlock?" the girl from Two, Yaxlee, grumbled.
"It doesn't matter," Tandarick snorted, sorting through the supplies in search of a bottle of water. "Three of us, one of her. If we can catch up to her we can kill her. We can literally see the outliers right now, we can just go and kill her while she's sleeping tonight. No problem."
Tandarick and his allies may have felt reassured that there was nothing to worry about, but there was one little problem with this conclusion they had arrived at.
It was completely wrong. There was a problem!
For starters, Pasture was able to take quick half hour power naps and get herself back into action, an ability the careers lacked. That was when Tandarick suggested they just let the lunatic tire herself out first.
As with the original plan, there were many holes in this idea…
Pasture had managed to catch up with the boy from Four before the sun had set. It hadn't been much of a fight at all. One quick scuffle and the bumpkin had the upper hand. From there it was just a matter of how many times it would take the shoe smacking the boy on his head for him to die.
It took two hundred and fifty six smacks.
The cannon fired and Pasture quickly left behind the boy's body behind, save for the meagre supplies she looted from the tiny pack he'd been carrying. She had bigger objectives.
Per tradition she was required to use the shoe of justice to exact righteous vengeance on those that spat upon her family's sacred traditions. It was meant to be hard to accomplish; after all, what's a shoe when put against a knife or a gun?
The lack of any real weapons made Pasture's task a little easier than she thought it was going to be, but she wasn't complaining. She still had many more offenders she had to take on until her honour was restored.
If she failed her family would feel the shame until the end of time.
Pasture walked on under the setting sun for quite a while, gradually making her way towards the girl from Five. She didn't know it, but all eyes of the nation were on her. All watched her muscular build, the sunlight upon her mane of red hair, the way drops of blood slowly dripped off of the shoe in her hand.
She looked like a true warrior.
Shoe sales in the Capitol quintupled in a mere period of two hours.
By the time the anthem was close Pasture had finally caught up to the girl from Five. She-who-cried put up a particularly desperate, scrappy effort but it was all too easy for Pasture to knock her out cold with the shoe and start bringing it down onto the girl's windpipe over and over again.
The cannon boomed right as the shoe connected for the twenty fifth time. What Pasture did not know was that something had changed in the arena from the moment the girl from Five had died.
Something had changed for every single tribute that had died already since the gong first rang.
The forcefield had been shrinking. With ten tributes now dead the size of the arena had gone from ten square miles down to seven square miles.
Pasture wasn't finding the Games to be a particularly hard experience by any means. The lack of dangerous weapons available to her opponents combined with the particularly simple terrain made for one of the overall easiest hunting trips she had ever been on.
No matter the vicious insults send her way or how some tributes tried to weaponize sharp rocks the end result was the same. She'd close in, easily overpower the tribute until they were on the ground, would recite some strange creed from 'the old country' and conclude by walloping them with her shoe.
There was some debate that started on the fourth day and continued for decades afterwards over if Pasture technically had a thirteenth kill or not. The forcefield had shrunk once again right as she landed the final smack upon the girl from Six. Specifically, it had shrunk half a mile… just enough to make contact with the boy from One and kill him instantly. His allies from Two had reacted with alarm and, upon realising the danger of the forcefield, took off running the other way.
It was officially ruled that Pasture's lack of knowledge of the force field shrinking and how she'd never laid a hand upon Torchwick meant this kill was not hers. It was deemed a gamemaker trap kill. All the same, a certain portion of the audience would forever insist Pasture's final kill count was wrong.
Pasture knew none of this. She wandered along through the arena, drinking deeply from a sponsored bottle of refreshing water and telling the audience a grand folk story.
It was, of course, the story of a beast from the old country known only as 'The Scratchless One'. The audience were on the edge of their seats as Pasture wiped her lips to continue the tale.
"There stood Leland the Unfettered, gazing into the eyes of the Scratchless One as it stared at him, unblinking from its den of poison ivy. Despite the ghastly plants that covered it, the scratchless one did not itch. It did not scratch. Not one bit!" Pasture threw up her arms for effect. "It was pure witchcraft it was!"
Quite without any intent behind it, Pasture had become the clear favourite of the audience by this point – that is, outside of the families of the nine tributes she had hunted down and shoe'd to death so far – with her crazy charm, fearless wit and strong looks. Nobody appeared to look more like a victor than she did.
So strong was she that the audience weren't paying much mind to the Twos as they worked together to tear Horton apart. Despite all the effort and cruelty they put into the kill to make it 'special' and get sponsor eyes back onto themselves they were quickly being left behind. With Tandarick on three kills and Yaxlee on two they were vastly falling behind in comparison to Pasture.
With only about a day of food and water left between them they made their move. The other outliers could wait, Pasture had to die soon. They couldn't simply let her wear herself down first when it was so clear that she was not going to cease her actions.
They set off towards the dot on the horizon that they thought may have been Pasture. The hillbilly, meanwhile, had spared the boy from Nine. He was not among those who had offended her honour after all.
"What about the ones who died before you could get them back?" the boy asked, edging away from Pasture. "Can you reclaim honour if they have died?"
"The rules as written state that, should the reaper collect them as bounty before my shoe can meet their heads, the debt is deemed paid. The grim reaper is worth much the same as a shoe," Pasture replied, cracking her knuckles absently. "But above all else he-who-talks-shit must die by my hand. Only by besting him can the Gallows clan restore their honour."
"…Who are you talking about?" the boy from Nine asked, wary.
"The boy from Two! Do you live in a cave?" Pasture asked. "Oh, I have something special planned for him. A very special tradition indeed."
The boy from Nine left not long after that, knowing it was bad for his continued existence to spend too long beside Pasture. Pasture, meanwhile, kept wandering around in search of any of those who had offended her traditions and family. Taking them down in shoe combat was her cross to bare and one she would bare without complaint.
She didn't complain when the anthem that night showed that, after her defeat of the girl from Seven, it was just her, the boy from Nine and the pair from Two left.
She smirked.
It was only a few minutes after they'd easily slaughtered the boy from Nine when the careers were jumped by Pasture. Literally, that is. She'd been charging at them from a mile away and they at her, only to be taken off guard when she jumped up and bought the shoe down upon Yaxlee's head. While the career girl staggered in a daze Tandarick took the chance to try and throw a hard punch at the hillbilly's throat.
He thought his weighty metal gauntlet would do the job just fine.
He was wrong.
Pasture reacted fast, catching his fist before it could make any contact to her. Tandarick shouted and roared as Pasture tightened her hold on his fist, almost enough for the bones under the gauntlet to start cracking.
"How are you so strong? Fuck, fuck, fuck!" the career screeched, trying to swing his other hand at Pasture's skull.
Pasture caught that punch too and started to force Tandarick backwards, one step at a time.
"I have the strength of a thousand generations behind me! I've worked hard every day of my life! I eat plenty of meat!" Pasture grinned, a fire blazing in her eyes. "I'm-"
"A daughter of a shepherd?" Tandarick scoffed, desperately trying to gain an upper hand.
"No! Are you slow in the upstairs, he-who-cries? I am THE daughter of a shepherd!" Pasture bellowed.
At that moment she finally bought Tandarick to the ground and swiftly knocked him out with several heavy strikes of the shoe. Moments later she tackled Yaxlee down, the career girl helpless against the mighty bumpkin's hold.
"Prepare for a merciless thrashing from my shoe!" Pasture yelled.
Yaxlee shrieked and yelled in furious protest as Pasture smacked the boot onto her face.
"Oh, so you feel all tough like a fine howdy do? Is one shoe not enough?" Pasture smirked, yanking off one of Yaxlee's own shoes. "How about a two shoe beating!?"
With a shoe in both hands Pasture gave Yaxlee one hell of a walloping, but even after a two dozen shoe smacks the career was still alive and semi-concious.
"Is this a test?!" Pasture screeched. She scowled… only to smirk as she took Yaxlee's other shoe off, holding it in her teeth. "Alright then, she-who-scowls, prepare yourself… for the ALMIGHTY THREE SHOE BEATING!"
Seventy eight smacks later and the cannon boomed, leaving only Pasture and Tanarick in the arena. With Tandarick unconscious it looked like the Games were over and District Ten would get their third victor. How could Pasture possibly lose at this point?
The Capitol were left stumped when Pasture finally set down her bloodsoaked shoe and stepped back from her knocked out foe. Was she showing him mercy? It made no sense to anybody.
"Send me a shovel!" Pasture exclaimed. "Only with a shovel of sorrow may I reclaim the Gallows Clan's lost honour!"
The shovel was sent down right away and the audience watched with baited breath, expecting that Pasture was going to simply smash Tandarick to death with it.
She didn't. She started to dig.
The audience could only watch, utterly stumped, as hour ticked by with Pasture digging a massive pit. Any time Tandarick began to groan and wake up a solid smack from the shoe would send him right back into dreamland all over again.
It took so long that the head gamemaker ended up ordering some reporters to go and ask Pasture's family what the hell this crazy girl was doing. If she was only wasting time then it wasn't too late for a few nasty mutts to be sent in to gnaw off her hands.
When answers were sent back about what the pit was for the head gamemaker told her underlings to let things play out. The end result was going to be more than worth the wait!
Two days passed until Tandarick was able to wake up and not instantly get smacked by a shoe. He staggered to his feet, dazed and confused with feelings of hunger and thirst making their way through him.
Simply put, he felt like shit.
"Eat!"
Tandarick had food and a bottle of water practically forced into his hands. So desperate was he that he drank and ate all of it before he could even consider if any of it was poisonous.
Then he noticed Pasture looming over him, shoe in hand. Right after that he realised his weapons were all gone.
"Oh shit!"
Tandarick had no chance to jump up and run. Pasture simply grabbed him by his leg and dragged him towards the pit she had dug over the past few days. The pit was, by bow, ten meters deep and ten meters across. As if that wasn't enough a large tree had been sponsored in to serve as a bridge from one side of the pit to the other.
The duel arena was ready!
Tandarick was dragged to the middle of the tree before he was finally released. He scrambled up, having no idea what the hell was going on. He only knew that things were looking pretty damn bad.
"You have offended my honour, my customs, my family and you dared singing the Melody of Mockery! Only by besting you in a duel such as this may my honour be reclaimed," Pasture was red in the face, snarling vengefully. "Choose your weapon!"
Pasture picked up a chest from behind her – also sponsored by the viewers – and opened it for Tandarick to look at. The career boy had hoped for a sword or even some knives, but he was left disappointed.
The only weapons on offer were shoes.
"…More shoes?" Tandarick said, trying not to vomit.
"CHOOSE!" Pasture roared.
Knowing it would be much worse if he did not humour the hillbilly's traditions, Tandarick picked out a fairly large high heel. No sooner had he done so Pasture tossed the chest over the side of the pit and grasped her trusty bloodied boot.
Vicious storm clouds began to move in overhead, the gamemakers having the time of their lives adding to the atmosphere of the duel. It was sure to be an exciting, if perhaps likely to be one sided, finale.
"Shit, shit, shit…" Tandarick muttered. "Pasture, lighten up! It was just a bit of fun, it wasn't anything serious! I'm sorry, ok?"
Pasture regarded Tandarick with doubt, flexing her muscles.
"If that's indeed the truth, do you possess the cupcakes of sorriness for me? Hand them over and we can end this," Pasture said, looking expectant.
A tense silence followed these words.
"Um… no?" Tandarick mumbled, knowing that things were about to get really sucky.
BAM! Pasture struck first with the boot, the first hit alone sending Tandarick reeling. One wallop after another was delivered, all of them staggering the career and making him see numerous stars. He was barely able to put up a fight against the mighty yokel.
Ten watched in sheer awe at what they were seeing, Two watched in complete and utter disgust, the Capitol were cheering and shadow boxing along to the action they were seeing unfold onscreen and Pasture's family could only stand proud and with beaming smiles at the actions of their not-so-little girl.
Their honour was being restored.
Eventually Pasture ceased her assault on Tandarick. Somehow the ghastly brute had been able to bare the shoe beating for over five constant minutes and, in spite of how bruised and bloodied he was, hadn't passed out yet. He swayed to and fro, utterly dazed and dizzy.
Pasture glared at him, placing her hands upon her hips as he looked him right in his eyes. She looked distinctly unimpressed.
"This is a duel boy-who-cries," Pasture said, practically pouting. "In a duel two contestants must fight! Duel, two. Two, duel. It's not hard to understand, or are you that slow in the upstairs department? Why are you not hitting me?"
Tandarick only managed to garble out something that barely counted as human speech, his eyes staring in separate directions and a vacuous groan passing his lips.
"Well?!" Pasture exclaimed, waving her boot at Tandarick threateningly.
"…Is it my turn?" Tandarick slurred.
"HIT ME!" Pasture screeched.
Tandarick weakly tried to strike Pasture in the neck, but the effort was all for naught. With one mighty smack of the boot Pasture struck Tandarick right off of the tree and down into the abyss below. His screams filled the air for several long moments.
A grand total of two seconds before he hit the base of the pit headfirst and broke his neck.
The storm clouds were instantly withdrawn and a sunny sky took their place. The final cannon fired and the trumpets sounded as Pasture was declared as the victor.
Pasture just smiled. Gone was her rage and fury. Instead, she smiled in a way full of pep and genuine friendliness. She held up her bloodied shoe high in the air, ever so proud and triumphant.,
"The honour of my ancestors and family has been avenged once and for all!" Pasture declared, a gleeful grin plastered on her face. It was like she'd become a whole different person. "Thank you."
Pasture casually walked off of the tree, all anger in her heart soothed and forgotten. The hovercraft began to descend to take her home and out of the arena while she stood, basking in the beautiful morning sunlight.
It felt good having redeemed her honour so effectively.
Many, many miles away in the mentoring room Lammy and Stallion were given a polite applause by several of the other victors. Lammy especially, for Pasture had been the tribute she'd mentored… not that Pasture had needed much help in the end.
The pair of victors welcomed the applause and certainly felt glad that they'd managed to save one of the two children in their care this year. However, there was a bittersweet element to the whole thing.
Not the tragic death of Horton.
Not the steadily failing health of their good friend Mizar.
It was the fact Pasture, the new holder of the kill record, was going to be their neighbour.
"What do we do?" Lammy whispered, her voice almost cracking from anxiety. "What if we offend her customs? What if we get the shoe treatment next?!"
"Already on it," Stallion said, a gentle hand laid upon Lammy's shoulder. "Her family will be moving into the victor village as well, right? I'll just approach them nice and polite, take part in whatever ritual they ask of me and ask for a copy of their traditions. We can read and prepare ourselves."
"Good thinking," Lammy said, trying to calm down. "Anything to avoid a shoe to the face…"
Pasture returned home victorious and with the honour of her family restored. She'd go down as, perhaps, the most formidable of all victors up to that point and ever since then as well.
This made her a target of the careers in the quell.
Not out of hatred or jealousy of Pasture's power. It was out of genuine fear. All of the careers of the quell knew what Pasture was capable of. They saw the way she smashed her shoe against the training dummies. They recalled what she'd done to the twelve tributes she'd taken down years prior.
They knew that, for their own sakes of survival, they had to take her down and all do it at the same time. One on one was only going to end up going badly.
That was why, towards the end of the bloodbath, the four of them cornered her by the cornucopia and moved in for the kill. Pasture showed no fear at all, even laughing at their desperation and remarking that, win or lose, she was content. If she won she won and if she lost she'd be taking her place at the table of shepherds with her ancestors.
Pasture died when Brutus managed to stab her right in the chest, though not before she had smashed him ever so hard on his shoulder with the spiky cleat she'd been wielding. It had been a hard enough blow to spike through his clothing and right into his skin.
Brutus insisted the blood was only barely tingling and nothing to worry about… oh how very wrong the career tribute was.
He was practically family to the victors from Two, but he knew very little about the victor friendships from other districts. He had never known that Pasture and Laurel had been close friends ever since the horrible nightmare that was the Sixty Eighth Games where both lost family in the arena. He had not known both had been given select details about the rebellion, even if not the whole picture.
He did not know Laurel had slipped some of her famous poison brew to Pasture and that Pasture had coated the cleat in it while hiding at the back of the cornucopia.
He only realised something was very wrong when, on the third day of the Quell, his strength began to fail him and a sickness spread from his head to his feet. A sickness that gave a certain Peeta Mellark the ability to overpower him in combat and, after a struggle, break his neck.
In that final moment before the inevitable crack Brutus thought he saw the ghost of Pasture looking down at him with a cheeky grin.
The ghost smacked a shoe to her palm and let out a loud 'YEE-HAW!'.
"Rest in peace you crazy old country girl," Katniss said, managing to faintly smile.
"Keep on smacking people with those shoes in the beyond… or, you know, try not to," Peeta added, awkwardly smiling as well.
After a moment of silence the couple kept walking down the street. A few moments passed by before they arrived at the sixtieth face imprinted into the ground. The sight of the face had both Katniss and Peeta looking forlorn.
"I still can't get that moment out of my head. You know, when she was practically torn away from her children," Katniss said, looking upset.
"It was a terrible time," Peeta said, looking down at his feet. "At least that part of history is behind us. It'll never happen again."
"I sure hope you're right," Katniss replied.
The face imprinted into the ground was one of several whom they could never forget. The person looking back at them had wavy, almost glossy hair that went down smoothly past her shoulders. She had a motherly sort of expression, especially in her eyes, and seemed to be of a slightly skinny build.
It was Cecelia.
Hope you guys enjoyed that! I'll be real, the first mention of Pasture back in Hot Water was only ever intended as a one off gag, so I didn't factor in at the time just how ridiculous the idea of a person winning by using a shoe as a weapon would be. But now, having had to work out details like the bare arena, the metal gauntlets and the shrinking forcefield, I'm glad for making the joke as I think it made for an interesting set-up and a fairly enjoyable protagonist (well, for a given definition of the word 'protagonist'). I certainly liked writing Pasture's wacky mannerisms that only made sense to herself and the understandably baffled reactions of those around her. I think she ended up as a tad more than a 'female version of Rolf' and might be one of the overall best victors, but do you guys agree? Feel free to let me know in a review if so inclined. Almost done with this decade, just one more to go… so now the question must be asked, what sort of story does a motherly person like Cecelia have? Oh, she has one alright, one that's simply flaming with drama and practically burning with desire to be told…
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), Yohan Fairbane (58th 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), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)
District 6: Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th 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), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)
District 10: Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th 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)