A Switch of Destinies

In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or any of its characters.

A/N: I want to extend my gratitude to those who reviewed, alerted, and favored this fic. It really means a lot. And to the folks in Tumblr who liked and reblogged, too. Here's chap. 1, mates. :)

Chapter 1

Jerome Messiah had grown used to waking up to the deafening sound of silence. Such is a way of life exclusive to those who are incapable of saving anyone but themselves. He was the first and only victor of District 12, and thus, the fate of each succeeding tribute rested on his hands. It was a great responsibility for a man to take in on his own and watching the threads of life slip off one's fingers did not get any easier, but it was the price he had to pay for living, so he carried the load on his shoulders without protest. As he looked out the window onto the empty streets of the Victors' Village, he knew he hadn't done a good job. He heaved a sigh and chanted the name of every child who died under his wing – all sixty-eight of them – starting with the fallen tributes of the 16th Hunger Games up to Myrtle Jenkins and Arthur Douglas, the latest additions to his growing collection of guilt – they were brutally murdered in the 49th Hunger Games by the season's victor, a boy from District 1.

"Don't forget to stick a knife up on the lad's back when he comes parading down the streets of 12, Jerome,"He told himself as he reached for a box of cigarettes and a lighter sitting by the window ledge, beside his stainless steel ashtray.

At fifty, he could already feel the lasting effects of his unhealthful morning routine – he would sometimes cough relentlessly, until he was out of breath – but it was a habit he refused to break. The mentor would start his day remembering the fallen ones, and then light a cigarette. He would inhale the smoke with gusto and let it pervade his already blackened lungs, allowing the vapor to take away his unsaid apologies, and then he would breathe out. The diaphanous smoke would float up to the ceiling and he would think, after the smoke had faded, that his message had been sent to those who were meant to receive it. He would repeat the process until the tiny stick was reduced to a worthless stub. It was all he could do to assuage the feeling of remorse that threatened to render him immobile. The only witness to this sacred morning ritual was the yellowing spot on one of the white, cracked walls – he failed to preserve the former glory of his house, and on rainy nights, the roof would leak, causing tiny rivulets of water to cascade down the painted walls. He did not see the point of cleaning it up, and by some sort of miracle, the tiny stains had formed a face as forlorn as he felt.

The timid 'squeak' of the mice was the only noise he could hear from the kitchen, besides from the steady sound of his footsteps. On the sink was a pile of unwashed utensils and the vinyl floor was covered with grime. He scrunched up his nose in disgust as the rancid aroma of rotting food finally reached his senses, all the while thinking that he should hire someone to tidy up his home (because he could not muster the enthusiasm to do simple household chores). He raided the pantry and the refrigerator but all he found were cobwebs and a wedge of moldy cheese.

"Even a rat wouldn't eat that thing," he sighed as he closed the door of the fridge. "I guess it's time to visit the town."

Jerome walked out of the kitchen, and on his way to the front door, he passed a mirror. He took a moment to inspect himself. What he saw looking back was barely recognizable. His face was gaunt and his complexion pasty; what used to be olive had turned into an unhealthy shade of gray. The bags under his dull charcoal eyes were dark and sagging because of the nights spent in fitful, nightmare-filled slumber. His pointed nose and prominent jaws were his best features as a young man, but with his youth a distant memory, these qualities only made him look uncompromising and unapproachable. His thin lips were curled in a dissatisfied frown as he noticed the lines on his face – too deep for his liking – and the flecks of silver on his short dark hair.

"Well at least my nose hair is trimmed and I don't have a lousy five o'clock shadow," he muttered to himself as he tried to comb his hair with his thin hands. He smoothed the creases on his white cotton shirt and grumbled in irritation as he felt the slight protrusion of his abdomen. "I've really let myself go." After his halfhearted attempt at hygiene, Jerome stepped out of his home, leaving the comfort of the cold marble floor for the hot, parched earth of the outside world - the heat permeated the thick rubber soles of his boots.

As he passed the eerily similar houses at the Victors' Village under the harsh glare of the midmorning sun, Jerome could not help but wonder what his life would have been like if there were other victors who shared the neighborhood with him. Would his gloomy disposition be lifted, or would the screams of his neighbors as they dream of their days in the arena cut through the chilly night air like a knife. He shuddered at the thought. Suddenly, the tiny rocks on the dusty ground seemed much more interesting than the prospect of companionship.

It was the last leg of summer and the children were making the most of it. The merchants' section was abuzz with sounds of playful laughter as a bunch of fair-haired children ran around the streets in their cotton dresses and shirts. Upon seeing a familiar figure approaching, they silenced themselves and made way for the victor of the 15th Hunger Games. They looked at him – different shades of blue shining with fear, admiration, and curiosity – aware that come one day, if the odds would not be in their favor, the same man would take custody of their lives. Jerome nodded at the children's direction in recognition and went on his way.

Jerome was about to enter Caleb Mellark's bakeshop when he felt something small and hard hit his back. He turned around to find a young boy with messy jet-black hair and silver eyes holding a handful of stones. His face was blackened with coal and soot, and beside him were sacks of his tesserae – food provisions for those who agreed to enter their names in the reaping bowl multiple times.

"That used to be Arthur's job," the older man met the boy's angry glare with relative calm. "I suppose the honor has been passed down to you, boy."

"You let my brother die," he growled. "You're a good-for-nothing old man!"

It was in times like this that Jerome hated himself most; seeing the hatred flash behind the family's eyes when he delivered their child's corpse drained him. And though there was no coffin on his side – it was a task he had accomplished upon his return a month, or two ago – the look on the boy's face made him reminiscent of that feeling of profound self-loathing. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone pointed out his inadequacy to him, and he promised to accept the truth with grace.

"That, I am," he whispered with resignation and pushed the bakeshop's door open to enter. He would not apologize because he knew that no amount of apology would ever make up for his inability to save another's life.

The smell of freshly baked goods flooded the air inside the bakeshop and Jerome's stomach could not help but churn. His mouth watered as he wondered how long it had been since he had a decent meal.

"Out of your hole, eh, Jerome," came the friendly voice of Caleb Mellark from behind the counter. Beside him was his 14-year-old son, Sal. The baker was a kind and approachable man who made no enemies. In his youth, he was reasonably good-looking in a boyish sort of way what with his short blond hair, blue eyes, and earnest smile. He contrasted with Jerome's dark and chiseled features. Of course, age and the daily stresses of being human had robbed them of the beauty that could only come from being young and carefree; and among the things they lost was the close friendship that they formed in the old, dusty schoolyard of the only school in 12. The mentor gave the fair-haired inhabitants of the bakeshop a halfhearted smile and went on to look at their selection of bread.

"You got any flatbread, Cal?" he asked when he couldn't find what he was looking for.

Caleb's pained expression was answer enough. "You just missed it," he said. "Someone else bought the remaining batch." The baker was now a short (he had never been particularly tall) and stout man with a belly as round as a cauldron, which he could barely fit into the tiny space between the wall and his worktop. Still, he struggled to get across the gap so that he could help an old friend. Jerome, at 6'4, towered over him.

"You could try the sweetbread, Jerome," he said, dusting the flour off his green apron when he finally managed to pass. "It's really good with tea."

"I don't drink tea."

"Well, there's loads of bread in here," Caleb's arms were wide apart, gesturing at the vast selection of carbohydrate-rich goods waiting to be purchased. "Choose what you find most pleasing." He turned to look at his stocky son. "Could you check on the buns in the oven, see if they're ready." The boy nodded and took his leave. When the baker was sure his son was out of earshot, his good-humored smile turned into an anxious grimace.

"Y'know Jerome," Caleb began, fumbling at the bottom of his apron nervously, "the second quarter quell is less than a year away." His light blue eyes scanned the mentor's features for any sign of unease, but the indifferent look on his friend's face told the baker otherwise. He pressed on. "Must be pretty tough dealin' with all those children's deaths alone."

"Where are you gettin' at, Cal?" Jerome was holding a loaf of bread at arm's length with a pair of tongs, scrutinizing it until he concluded that he was not in the mood for raisins.

"I'm just saying that you don't have to cage yourself inside that rotten house of yours, pal," the baker noted the overpowering scent of cigarette smoke on Jerome's clothes and his eyes watered. "'Tis not healthy, and with the Quarter Quell just around the corner, things must be worse for you."

"I've no face left to show, Cal," Jerome smiled as he reached for the loaf of wheat bread and put it on a tray. "The whole town hates me for letting their kids die."

"No, they don't," Caleb heaved a sigh and took the tray from his friend's hands. He returned behind his counter with some effort, and punched a few numbers on the cash register. "They're just looking for someone to blame."

"You probably would, too," said Jerome as he paid for his purchase, "if I returned to 12 with your only son lying in a wooden coffin." His stern gray eyes met the thoughtful blue ones of the baker. "You don't need to worry about me, Cal. Instead, think of your kid. Sal's a nice boy; the arena's no place for him. You had better hope that his name wouldn't end up in Nessarose's hands this year. There's only so little I can do for the boy, and while I don't know the upcoming year's special surprise, I'm sure it wouldn't be pretty."

He turned his back and was about to open the door when the baker's words made him pause. "I'm still your friend, Jerome; me and the guys from the old days. And if things get too heavy, you know where to find us." Faces flashed before his eyes. Glenn Stork and Greasy Sae from the Seam, and Delbert and Alice Gray whose apothecary shop stood just across the street from Caleb's bakery. He was then reminded of Greasy's younger brother who died under his wing a year after his bitter victory. He nodded and walked out the door with the overhead bell ringing merrily behind him, reminded of why he preferred reclusion to companionship.

In the morning of the Victor's Parade, Jerome found himself looking out the window through slotted blinds. His study – a room that was ironically devoid of books and stationery – was originally situated downstairs adjacent to the kitchen, but when Stella Messiah, his mother and remaining kin, died of a chronic heart ailment he found it best to relocate the study to where the deceased woman used to sleep. It had proved to be a daunting task; Stella was a hoarder and left several of her possessions piled up in the closet and on the shelves, collecting dust. The mentor struggled to empty the old bedroom of her belongings so that he could make room for the massive oak table and the matching bookshelves, while he stuffed her possessions in the old study – he didn't have the heart to throw them out because, as much as he hated to admit it, his mother's tendency to hoard unnecessary objects had been passed down to him – and locked it for good measure; he had no plans to open that room again. So to say, the room adjacent to the kitchen had become nothing but a stockroom full of memories; a haunted area where he kept his ghosts. Jerome did not regret his decision for he liked how the window in his new study had been strategically placed to afford a view of his visitors, which came rarely and unexpectedly, as they stood outside his door. Today, he looked down on a tall, muscular man clad in an all-white warfare uniform, complete with a helmet and a bulletproof armor. Beverly Vega – he preferred to be called 'Buck.' The name was not suitable for a man of his rank, and was a running joke amongst his platoon.

Buck was deployed from District 2 four years ago to become the head peacekeeper of 12. It was said that he was chosen for the job because he was industrious, hardworking, and had a strong sense of justice, but Jerome was yet to see the aforementioned qualities come to play. In fact, the mentor thought that the peacekeeper's re-assignment was a subtle demotion – from an ordinary peacekeeper in the fairly well-off District 2 to a head peacekeeper in the most downtrodden district in all of Panem – because he seemed unable to gain the respect of his comrades. As expected, Buck was vigilant during his first few months as head; rules against poaching and selling illegal items were heavily implemented. But as the moon waxed and waned, he discovered the helplessness of the district's situation. It was difficult to keep the woods barricaded from illegal hunters when the supply of electricity was anything but reliable, and he was starting to long for the taste of meat. Once more, the poachers ran wild and people like Greasy served questionable meals to those who were willing to pay for it, while Buck was reduced to running errands, like driving the escort to the Justice Building on reaping day, or fetching Jerome to meet with this year's victor and his entourage. Those were things his youngest member, Romulus Cray, could do but Buck needed purpose so he did even the most trivial things himself.

"Jerome," the peacekeeper called out as he scanned the windows for any sign of life. "You still there? Mayor Kinney is asking for your presence at the station."

The mentor did not enjoy the annual tradition of shaking hands with the victors on their victory tours and was tempted to let Buck call out to him until his throat was sore and his voice, hoarse. But age had made the old victor passive and resigned so, with a scratch of his head, Jerome went downstairs and, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, opened the door to alert the peacekeeper of his presence.

Together, the two men walked down the deserted streets of the Victors' Village all the way to the station, passing the converging crowd at the square in front of the justice building. There were children and adults alike, standing under the glare of the sun. The merchants and the coal miners stood side by side in their work clothes (aprons and coal-stained nails and over-alls were the common attire), waiting for the arrival of the District 1 victor and his entourage. Their voices mingled in idle conversation as they tried to assuage their children's cries of impatience, or conversed with their fellows to pass the time. Jerome could not help but notice the unmistakable expression of resignation amongst the multitude, and he felt a twinge of guilt and looked away, but not before noticing a girl of about twelve years talking to her father; the bookseller and his daughter. The mentor caught the girl's eye and she smiled and waved at him, her blue eyes shining with the innocence and cheer only a child could possess. He smiled back and turned his attention to Buck, all the while thinking that kids like her should not have to face tribulation – because they did not stand a chance.

A/N: This chapter is pretty short, and yes, has very little to do with Effie. I promise the next chapter is going to be all about Effie. So please bear with me.

Reviews are very much welcome, and I do hope to receive feedback from y'all. Please and thank you. Hope you had fun reading. :)