A/N: I know you guys probably thought I'd abandoned this; real life intervened and sucked all the desire I'd had for writing this story for a while. Without going into detail, one of my close family members was diagnosed with/underwent treatment for cancer, so that took over my life for a while. Things are finally somewhat back to normal, and my drive to work on this has returned a bit as well. The 9,000-word updates are likely a thing of the past (although once I get into the heart of this story, who knows what will happen?). I can't promise not to go dry again, but I do promise to try.
Haymitch slouched in his worn vinyl seat, sprawling out to take advantage of the fact that nobody from District 12 wanted to head off to war seated next to Mentor Abernathy. Not that this social slight hurt Haymitch's feelings; in fact, he couldn't say that he blamed any of the Seam people who filled the seedy train car for not wanting to share his delightful company.
His eyes roamed the car in a seemingly nonchalant manner; most of the passengers stared blankly ahead, their minds occupied with thoughts of their families, sweethearts, and other people they would likely never see again. A few, however…
Basic training, War Games, and combat itself notwithstanding, this train ride could derail all our plans before they truly begin. If even just one person recognizes the sullen Seam girl sitting behind me and decides to tattle to a Peacekeeper, we could all reach the end of the line before we reach our station.
Nobody who had shown any signs of recognition made any move to expose Katniss, however; ol' Mal Maynard even gave him a slight wink that he disguised as an eye tic.
With as many of those crazy Maynards as there are in the Seam, Snow coulda ended this war long ago if he'da found a way to send 'em all to the border at the same time. Of course, that would require Snow to actually know something about District 12, which is about as likely to happen as Snow parading through the Seam and tossing money to the starving.
Haymitch's thoughts returned to the girl sitting behind him. Last time he had checked, "Fletcher" had slouched as far down in the seat as "he" could, had tightly crossed his arms, and had leaned his head against the window in the worst fake sleep pose Haymitch had ever seen. He couldn't blame the girl for taking the back seat of this train car; she struck him as the type of girl who always wanted to know what was at her back—a strategy he understood and appreciated.
The boy, on the other hand, practically shimmered with anger and defiance. Haymitch assumed he was going for "hulking protector," but all he was succeeding in doing was drawing attention to himself—and thus to the girl sitting next to him.
I guess I'll have to have a talk with Snare Boy; I expected someone with his level of cunning to show a bit more discretion. This is what happens when young love enters the picture; at least he's getting it outta his system now when nobody cares rather than when the real games begin. Damn, I'm bored; too bad this isn't a shiny Mentor train filled with food, booze, and gaudy décor.
As if summoned by his bored musings, the door at the front of the train car opened to reveal a Peacekeeper with a finger-pricker and some pieces of paper. Haymitch knew the drill; the Capitol never bothered to change cheap methods that worked—especially in the higher-numbered districts. Apprehension coiled in his gut despite Plutarch's assurances that he had arranged everything the best he could.
We could end up in different companies, or in a company that is part of a large encampment full of people who might recognize Katniss. This finger-pricker might detect something wrong with the blood. Gale –or Sweetheart, for that matter—could do something stupid. A District 12 guy who recognizes Katniss could be our Wild Card.
His thoughts continued to race as the Peacekeeper matter-of-factly took Haymitch's blood sample and handed him a piece of paper with the number 13 written on it. He mentally exhaled in relief; the number was a code established by Plutarch to mean safety. Katniss and Gale exchanged muted congratulations on being in the same unit; they did not stand out since everyone else was comparing numbers, too. Haymitch knew the kids sitting behind him had staged the conversation to reassure him; he was torn between appreciation and exasperation.
Do I look like some softie that needs comforting on something? I'm in charge of this thing, kids. I know everything. Well, except for the identity of the Wild Card.
Haymitch nearly rolled his eyes at the thought of the Capitol's dramatic name for such a simple concept as balancing out a company. Since the Capitol wanted each company to be made up of 24 soldiers and for each unit to be made up of 12 soldiers, they added an extra man to each company with the understanding that one guy—often a 12-year-old who would be considered cannon fodder anyway—would be a group medic. The Wild Card could be drawn from any district; since he was serving as Mentor for this company, he could only hope that the powers that be would not want to put an extra guy from District 12 into his company.
The scenery rolled by, changing from the mountainous, wooded terrain of District 12 to flatter, more open country. Haymitch didn't pay much attention to it; he'd traveled this railway often enough to no longer care about a bunch of trees, hills, and fields that belonged to no one but the Capitol. He could see the first stop of many on this western ride coming up, and apprehension pooled in his belly even though he knew that they still had a dozen more stops to make.
Twelve stops; twelve districts.
Multiple people got off at this stop, leading Haymitch to assume that this was a large encampment. Not that he could understand why any rational leader would want to stick a small company of 25 men and a few other warm bodies out in the middle of nowhere by themselves, but nobody had ever accused Snow of being a military genius.
At least nobody who meant it. But the Capitol must have its War Games…
The troop disembarkment stations rolled by between ever-changing vistas, each stop winding Haymitch tighter and tighter like the strings on his grandpa's fiddle. All of the things that could go wrong played over and over in his head, discordant symphonies that in no way resembled the rollicking tunes his grandpa had played when he could get away with it—and before he'd died in one of Snow's wars in years gone by.
At last, the tribute train pulled up to Station 13; a Peacekeeper inclined his head at the three of them as they stepped off of the train and onto the platform. To Haymitch's immense relief, nobody followed them off the train from their car. He began to follow the Peacekeeper when he heard a noise that filled him with dread. Never had the sound of a tribute train car opening caused him such terror—including his first time departing before his first War Games.
Haymitch turned his head in what felt like slow motion, looking in dread-filled anticipation at the figure emerging from the train car in front of theirs. The unmistakable blond hair of a Merchant confirmed Haymitch's fears as he could almost visually see their plans falling down around their ears. Vile oaths involving Plutarch, President Snow, and unsavory activities with a hideous muttation filled his mind as their group turned to face the new-comer.
Peeta saw only three people standing on the station platform next to a Peacekeeper, so he assumed that this must be a two-company encampment. He began to reevaluate this assessment when he got closer to the group and recognized the unmistakable profile of Haymitch Abernathy, who did not seem to be too happy to see Peeta.
He looks like I gave him an éclair stuffed with pig slop or something. What did I…?
If Haymitch's profile was unmistakable, than the grey eyes in front of him were…His mind momentarily blanked as he tried to accept the eyes and face of Katniss Everdeen paired with the body of a…His eyes widened, and the unsuccessfully hidden looks of panic on everyone else's faces told him a lot in a short amount of time. Peeta's reaction to the panic in Katniss's eyes was visceral; he didn't know what, exactly, was going on, but he intuitively knew at a gut level that he would do anything, anything at all, to protect Katniss.
"Mentor Abernathy," Peeta said, holding out his hand. "I'm Peeta Mellark."
Haymitch reluctantly extended his hand, clearly wary of Peeta's motives and intentions.
Not that I really have any beyond protecting Katniss…
"Hawthorne," Peeta said, shaking hands with the glowering Seam boy.
"Everdeen," Peeta said, holding out his hand and managing to not inject a questioning tone into his address.
To his immense relief, Katniss inclined her (his?) head and shook hands, giving a rough grunt that could have meant anything from "Hello" to "I hope you electrocute yourself on a district fence."
An awkward silence descended on the group; Peeta could sense that the Peacekeeper who was leading them through the sprawling station—not to mention the Peacekeepers stationed throughout the complex—were paying them more attention than was healthy. A plan began to form, but Peeta knew he didn't have the time to craft a diabolical plot.
This is either the best idea I've ever had or the worst idea; I just hope this doesn't earn me a trip to the doctor before training's even begun.
Peeta enthusiastically threw his arms around Hawthorne and…Everdeen's shoulders, grinning madly at both of them. They both flinched and subtly tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, hoping they'd play along.
"It's great to see you guys!" Peeta gushed. "I'm sorry I acted so awkward just now; I just couldn't believe we were all here together—with Mentor Abernathy, no less! If I have to go to war, at least I get to go with my friends, right?"
Please, please, please…
"Er…right," Katniss grunted, gracing him with a grimace-smile.
"It's good to have someone else from home," Gale said, sounding only slightly more sincere than Katniss. "Isn't that right, Fletcher?"
Katniss grunted again in confirmation, and Peeta irrationally felt his heart swell. He could tell that neither of them wanted him there, but at least they were making an effort to include him in their plans. Granted, they were likely trying to save their own necks—not to mention those of their families—but he was glad that they had at least accepted him as someone who would not betray them—at least not right away.
"So, Fletcher," Peeta said, looking to his left and smiling at the…guy? Girl? under his arm. "It's been awhile, hasn't it? What have you been up to?"
"I been sick," Katniss said in that low, somewhat raspy voice. "Lost m'whole fam'ly. Haven't seen hardly no one in sev'ral months."
"I'm really sorry to hear that, Fletcher," Peeta said, deciding to take yet another chance. "Have you moved in with Sage and his mom?"
"Yeah. Didn' want Sage to fight cuz he's so young; they're kin, and they been good to me."
Peeta marveled at Katniss's new accent and was struck by the cleverness of speaking in such a way that the little she had to say could be said in a mumble. He had no idea how she'd pulled off the "Seam boy" look so well, but he was unsurprised to learn that she'd done all this to protect Sage.
"I'm glad you were able to protect Sage…and that you now have an extra friend from District 12 to help protect you."
"Don' need protectin'…but thanks."
"As heartwarming as this all is, we'd best save the heart-to-hearts for when we're not about to meet the other members of our company," Haymitch said, irritation and relief vying for the upper hand in his tone.
Peeta removed his arms from around his companions' shoulders as they reached the end of a long, white corridor and stood before a set of double doors. Their designated Peacekeeper pushed a button, causing the doors to whoosh open. A hovercraft sat on a concrete pad, awaiting the boarding of its final four passengers. He squared his shoulders and stepped through the door, keeping stride with the others—especially Katniss.
He boarded the hovercraft behind Katniss, his eyes taking a few seconds to adjust to the relatively dim interior. A Peacekeeper directed him to take a seat beside a dark-skinned, muscular boy from what he assumed was District 11, so he sat down in the firm metal bucket seat with what he hoped was a friendly grin. The boy didn't so much as twitch his lips, but Peeta acted as if the boy had smiled back.
Katniss was having a much better time, Peeta noticed. She had been directed to a seat next to a similarly dark-skinned boy who had the largest, most open brown eyes Peeta had ever seen. He smiled sweetly up at Katniss, who reluctantly smiled back.
"My name's Roux," he said. "R-O-U-X, after one of my grandmama's favorite dishes."
Peeta saw the protective light flare in her eyes as she looked down on the boy, and he was completely unsurprised to feel similar emotions tightening his own chest. He realized a few simple truths as he watched Katniss interact with this boy who was far too young to go off to war.
I accepted the inevitability of my own death before I even got my physical, but I will do anything to make sure that Katniss—Fletcher—makes it out of this alive. I hated my mother for sending me here and the Capitol for forcing me to fight, but at least this way, my death will have some small bit of meaning.
Gale scowled at the others as they disembarked from the hovercraft. Not that they had done anything to make him upset in particular; he just didn't feel like he had anything to smile about.
What, exactly, is supposed to make me happy? Catnip dressed like a man and all of us in danger because of it? Peeta Mellark showing up as the Wild Card? Impending war after making fools of ourselves in the War Games? Big McLargeHuge from District 2 strutting around like he owns the place? Camp life?
The barracks were definitely not Capitol-quality, but they were still better than what he'd had back in District 12. Even the bed—though small and hard—was better than his, and he was looking forward to having it all to himself. The beds were bunked; Gale had insisted that Katniss take the top bunk so that anyone coming after her would have to get close to him first. He almost hoped someone tried.
He had noticed Katniss observing the other guys like Haymitch had asked her to early on in the hovercraft flight, but that little boy—was he even 12?—had distracted her. Gale was not happy about that distraction; in this game they were playing, even the smallest lack of concentration could prove fatal.
I understand that the boy reminds Katniss of Sage, but he has "camp medic casualty" written all over him. There's no way he's going to survive this war, and any friendship Katniss has with him is only going to cause her pain.
His eyes drifted towards the other end of the barracks where the Careers were bunked. Cato and the guy from 1—who is named "Marvel," of all things, which matches "Cato" perfectly as a tough yet snooty Career name—each had hand-held electronic devices of some kind and were showing each other something.
"Wow, man! She is hot!" Marvel said. "In that 'lushly lethal' kind of way, I mean."
"Yeah, Clove's awesome," Cato agreed. "Your girl's hot, too; she has that 'All-Panem Blonde' thing going. Does she 'Glimmer' all over?"
Marvel good-naturedly punched Cato on the arm as they both laughed.
Gale rolled his eyes.
We're probably all going to die in a few weeks or months and they're over there comparing girlfriends. Typical Careers. Of course, they do stand a better chance of living through this than we do since the Capitol actually lets the Careers train for combat and bring personal weapons with them. I'll bet Cato prefers a sword; he looks like the type who would feel the need to compensate.
Ignoring the immaturity of the Careers, Gale focused instead on the other members of his unit. There was a young, curly-haired boy from 3 that wouldn't last long; the boy from 4 didn't strike Gale as anything special, either. He almost wrote off the red-headed boy from District 5, but the hunter in Gale recognized the flashes of cunning he could see in the boy's angular face.
Gale's nape hairs prickled as he realized something that he was appalled he hadn't noticed before now: half of the unit was made up of people from the poorest districts. The odds of he, Peeta, and Katniss making the same unit were absurdly low, but Gale had chalked that up to the interference of Haymitch's friends. Could there be something else going on, though? How did both Roux and Thresh from District 11 end up in their unit? Was this due to Haymitch's influence or was there another agenda at work?
Roux was nice but largely useless—although Gale wasn't stupid enough to write him off entirely.
After all, Fletcher isn't what he seems to be, either.
The other boy, a large, strong-looking guy named Thresh, looked like he'd be good in a fight, but Gale knew that size wasn't everything. After all, Katniss had won her fair share of their sparring matches. The tributes from Districts 7 and 10 who rounded out their unit were both older men than him, one in what looked to be his mid-thirties and the other in what was likely his mid-to-late fifties, respectively. Would age give these men more wisdom that could be useful to the three of them or would it make them more perceptive and thus more dangerous?
The noise coming from the rest of the unit surrounding Cato and Marvel interrupted Gale's musings. He moved closer, wanting to hear what all the noise was about.
Not that I think it's likely going to be anything intelligent…
Katniss sensed Gale coming up behind her and knew that he was likely not going to appreciate the stupidity on display.
"No way, man! Glimmer is way hotter than Clove. I mean, that flawless pale skin! The shimmery blond hair! The way she 'Marvels' at my strength!"
"But Clove! C'mon, man! That tan! Her dark hair and mysterious brown eyes! Hell, she doesn't just adore my battle scars—she's given me some herself!"
"I really didn't need to know that, Cato."
"You're just jealous…what do you guys think? Who's hotter?"
"Neither one of them really does it for me, guys," Thresh surprised everyone by saying.
Cato sneered and said, "That's a good thing, because they're both way out of your league, 11."
"I don't care much about what a woman wears or how pretty her hair is; I care more about who she is on the inside, about what she can do. I mean, what good is a pretty girl who can't even cook?"
Some general comments for and against Thresh's words rang out in the quarters, each guy voicing his opinion at once.
"What do you know about it, 3?" Marvel said. "You can't even shave yet."
"Neither can you from the looks of it," the boy from District 4 said.
"You young pups don't know anything about a girl worth fighting for," the middle-aged man from District 10 said.
"What do you think, District 12?" Cato asked, swaggering towards Katniss and the guys, who had instinctively—and somewhat annoyingly—stepped out slightly in front of her.
Gale surprised Katniss by answering first.
"I guess my ideal woman would look more like Clove than Glimmer. I want a fierce woman who knows how to fight, how to survive. While I want her to appreciate my manly ways, I don't want her to lie to me about my faults. She would be my equal in every way."
"Gale's right," Peeta said from Katniss's other side. "I want a woman I can talk to, who enjoys talking to me, but I also want a woman who can bring me squirrels for dinner or fight by my side if that's what she wants to do."
"I'll bet you're a real lady-killer, Mellark," Gale said, rolling his eyes.
"We can't all be king o' the slag heap like you, Gale," Katniss drawled.
"Very funny, Fletcher. What about you? What do you want most in a woman?"
Well, for starters, I don't actually want a woman…
"How 'bout a girl who's gotta brain and who always speaks her mind?"
Dead silence greeted her question as, to her surprise, the other guys actually considered her suggestion.
"Y'know, Everdeen," Cato finally said, "That's not as dumb an answer as I thought at first. I mean, I'm not going to be the one to tell Clove she's not smart—and I doubt Marvel here would want to say that to Glimmer, either."
"Got that right," Marvel muttered.
"So what do you kids think is the most important trait a girl worth fighting for can have?" the man from District 7 asked.
"Boobies!" Cato and Marvel exclaimed together.
Now I understand why we've never conquered the North but do not understand how we're even still a viable country.
Additional A/Ns:
Mal Maynard is a hat tip to the Maynard family from Wollaston's excellent fic "Alone in a Crowded Room."
My male version of Rue is named "Roux," after the classic Cajun sauce/thickening agent for numerous Cajun dishes. Since District 11 is pretty much what's left of the Deep South, I figured that some dishes from various Southern cooking traditions would have survived through war and the rising of the Capitol's regime. Roux's parents would, of course, have been thinking of the darker Roux used for gumbo when naming him.
"Big McLargeHuge" comes from an MST3K riff of Space Mutiny during which Mike and the bots make fun of an overly muscular character's physique and mannerisms.
This last scene is based on the song from the Disney version of Mulan called "A Girl Worth Fighting For," which is, of course, the namesake for the title of this fic.