Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Note: Thank you to optimisms and HumanWiki for Christina and Rook, respectively.


District Six
The Only Thing


Duke Ballard, 24
Victor of the 47th Hunger Games

The crowd felt different this year.

Duke glanced over at Lana as the pair made their way to the stage. She nodded silently. She felt it, too – a quiet energy to the crowd, and a different energy than the usual anticipation and dread of a reaping ceremony. The crowd was still anxious, of course – nothing would change that – but this year was different. He'd felt a change when they'd returned from the Victory Tour in Thirteen, but the strange watchful silence was even more noticeable now.

Now that Nicodemus was gone.

Duke scanned the crowd again, taking in their expressions, their stance. They weren't relaxed – never would be relaxed at a reaping – but they were less tense, and maybe that amounted to the same thing. It wasn't fair, really. As a whole, Nicodemus was undeniably a positive influence on the district. He was kind. He was gentle. He cared – often more than he should, and for people the rest of the district didn't give a damn about. People like Duke. People like Lana. He was good.

But he was also a reminder. A reminder of something that most of the district would rather forget. Duke's gaze flickered unbidden from the bare stage to the wheels that hung above it. Nicodemus was a reminder of what happened when people broke the rules.

The big rules, of course. Duke had broken plenty of rules in his time, after all. Hell, before the Games, he and his gang had made a career out of it. Sometimes they'd gotten away with it. Sometimes they'd gotten a lashing in the square for their trouble. But he'd never really been worried that it would get him killed.

Not until the Games. And even then, his rough past had been more of an asset than a burden. The Capitol liked tributes with a bit of a shady history – as long as that history didn't include rebellion. And that was the irony, really. He'd never been rebellious. All of the people his gang had stolen from, intimidated, or tricked – they'd all been district citizens. He'd never been dumb enough to go after a Peacekeeper or a rare visiting Capitolite – at least not knowingly. He'd known better. And so the district he'd harmed had welcomed him back from the Games with open arms, because now that he had no reason to steal, he wasn't a danger to them. He wasn't a rebel. But Nicodemus…

Duke shook his head as he tore his gaze away from the wheels, his peg leg thumping on the ramp as he made his way to his seat. Nicodemus wasn't a rebel, but he had stood up to the Peacekeepers – and by extension, the Capitol. He hadn't meant to defy the Capitol, but that didn't matter. Intentions didn't matter to the Capitol; what mattered was how things looked. And to the Peacekeepers in the moment – and to President Snow – Nicodemus' act of mercy had looked too much like rebellion.

President Grisom had disagreed, and had stepped in to save Nicodemus' life once Snow was dead. And President Brand, Duke knew, understood that Nicodemus wasn't a rebel, and had even trusted him enough to appoint him to District Thirteen – albeit with Harakuise alongside. But Six … well, it looked like there was a portion of them who didn't want to think about it, who were glad that Nicodemus was out of the picture for a little while.

Out of their picture, at least. Duke would see him again soon enough. And Nicodmus would be good for Thirteen. Duke just hoped Thirteen would be good for Nicodemus.

Duke leaned back in his chair as Vernon stumbled up the ramp to join them onstage, just ahead of their new escort, who had probably gone to fetch him. A steady stream of escorts had come and gone in District Six ever since the 42nd Games. Duke had always chalked it up to what had happened during the 41st Games, but the other districts whose tributes had participated in the rebellion didn't seem to have the same trouble holding onto escorts.

Not that it really mattered to Duke; he hadn't really cared for any of their escorts anyway. This one looked quite young, although it was often hard to tell with Capitolites. "Hello, District Six!" he boomed into the microphone. "I'm Leontes Wolfe, your new escort! What a pleasure to be here!"

Duke saw Lana rolling her eyes, and had to fight to keep from doing the same. They both preferred it when escorts didn't bother trying to lie. At worst, they despised District Six. At best, they tolerated it. It certainly wasn't a pleasure, and it never would be. Even he didn't particularly like District Six; it was just where he happened to live. Where he'd happened to be born. It wasn't somewhere he would have chosen, but that wasn't something anyone got to choose.

At least Leontes didn't seem interested in wasting everyone's time, and quickly made his way to the first reaping bowl, swished the papers around for the look of the thing, and drew a slip. "And our first lucky tribute is … Christina Kimetto!"

There was silence for a moment, but the sixteen-year-old section finally parted around a girl in a black leather jacket, dark overalls, and sturdy black boots. For a long moment, she simply stood there, staring at the stage, too shocked even to move. But when one of the Peacekeepers started heading towards her, she finally took a few steps towards the stage. Then a few more. Up the ramp. Onto the stage.

She was tall and trim, with dark skin and short black hair cut close to the scalp. Her gaze finally found the audience, but her expression didn't change from one of blank incomprehension. Her brown eyes were wide, but with confusion rather than terror, as if she didn't quite understand what was going on.

Maybe she didn't. Sometimes it took a while for it to hit people. And at least shocked silence was better than crying or shouting. Duke turned his attention to Leontes, who was already reaching into the second bowl. "Rook Jubilee!"

This time, it was the twelve-year-old section that parted around a small boy in a grubby white shirt, black vest, well-worn grey pants, and tattered shoes. He was shaking as he took a tiny step forward, and then another, and another. Slowly, he shuffled his way to the stage, his eyes fixed on the ground, one of his hands clenching and unclenching almost rhythmically. The other hand was tucked inside his pocket, grasping something.

Finally, he made his way over beside Christina. He was shorter than her and quite thin, with pale skin, straight brown hair, and soft hazel eyes that finally looked up from the ground long enough to glance at Christina, and then immediately flick back to the ground again. "Shake hands!" Leontes prompted with an exaggerated grin.

Rook held out a trembling hand, the other still tucked inside his pocket. Christina shook it quickly, and they were both led away without any fuss. "Coulda been worse," Duke mumbled once they were out of earshot. "I'll take the girl."

Lana didn't argue, although it was clear she wanted to. It was his year to pick first. He'd let her have first choice her first year, and they'd alternated since then. Of course, choosing the older tribute wasn't a guarantee that they would last longer. Both of their tributes had died in the bloodbath last year. Tiffany had been thirteen, while Rod had been seventeen. Technically, Tiffany had even placed higher, but placing 21st rather than 24th didn't really seem like much of an accomplishment.

"Could've been worse," Lana agreed reluctantly. "Don't know what I thought I was expecting, really."

Duke shrugged. "Don't judge 'em by a reaping, Lana. Not everyone is going to have your flair."

Lana scoffed and shook her head. "I wasn't expecting volunteers, but they could at least have done something. You didn't volunteer, but at least you pretended to want to be there. These two–"

"Give 'em time."

"They don't have time," Lana growled. "Not much, at least. You know that."

He did. Of course he did. And he understood her frustration. Not counting Lana, District Six's placements for the last few years had been rather pitiful. Only one had made it past the first day. That wasn't Lana's fault, of course, just like it wasn't his. And it certainly wasn't the tributes' fault they'd been outmatched, outplayed, and overpowered. Lana had been hoping for something better this year, and she'd gotten…

And that was the thing. Neither of them could know just yet exactly what they'd gotten. You couldn't tell, really, from a few moments of seeing someone put on the spot at their most frightened. And if he was being honest, they'd already done better than some. Neither of them had cried. Neither had tried to run or fight the Peacekeepers. Neither had done anything particularly remarkable, but neither of them had made a bad impression, either.

Sometimes, the only thing you could do was nothing.


Christina Rae Kimetto, 16

They'd just taken the one thing that mattered most.

Christina wrapped her arms around Terra, who was shaking uncontrollably no matter how hard Christina held on. "It's my fault," the younger girl gasped through tears. "It's all my fault. I'm the one they want. They want to get back at me. But I'm not old enough, so they chose you, and–"

"Shhhh," Christina whispered. "It's okay. It's not your fault. Really. It's just bad luck. Really. That's all. It's not your fault."

It wasn't. It wasn't anyone's fault. Just bad luck. Okay, really bad luck. Her name was only in the reaping bowl five times. She'd never taken tesserae. She'd never needed to. She'd been left on her own after her mother had died, but she'd never taken tesserae. She'd found another way. A better way.

She'd seen some of the older teens doing it – hopping on one of the trains headed out of District Six, seeking their fortune on the rails, smuggling common goods from one district to be sold in another where they were rarer. She'd met Terra during one of her stops, all alone and frightened after her family had been killed. Christina had brought her back to Six with her and left her at the orphanage with Misty. Terra was too young to survive on the rails, but Christina had made a life for herself out there. She and Naomi–

Naomi. Christina's mind froze, although she was aware of her voice going on without her, whispering to Terra that it would all be okay. It wouldn't. She wouldn't even get to say goodbye to Naomi. Her girlfriend would be back in Eight for the reaping. By the time she found out Christina had even been reaped, it would be too late. She would never get to say goodbye. Unless she won.

But even if she won…

Even if she won, she would never be free again – never really free. The freedom of just picking a train and riding wherever it took her, beyond rules and responsibilities, beyond where anyone would think to look for her. That was all gone, no matter what happened now.

Christina barely heard the door creak open again, barely registered Misty's face amid the tears. "I'll take care of her," Misty promised, gently prying Terra from Christina's grip. Christina nodded. It was the only thing she could do. If she tried to speak now, she wasn't sure what would come out.

Once Misty and Terra were gone, Christina sank to the floor, leaned against the door, and tucked her knees to her chest, sobbing hard. No one else was coming. No one else in District Six really even knew her anymore. District Six wasn't her home – not really. It was just where she'd happened to be born. Where she had to come back for the reapings and the Victory Tours. That was it. In the last few years, she'd never really come back for more than a few days every six months. Long enough to check in with Misty and Terra, to pass along some of her earnings and gather a few supplies. Aside from Misty and Terra, District Six was just another place.

Christina closed her eyes, gathering her breath, wiping away some of her tears. Maybe the Capitol was just another place, then. None of the rail kids ever tried to board one of the trains heading to the Capitol, of course. She could blend in easily enough in Three or Ten, and could even pass for a common laborer in places like One or Two. But the Capitol? She'd be spotted instantly.

Not that she'd never been spotted, of course. But she had contacts. They all did. Others in the black market in the other districts who knew them. Peacekeepers who would turn a blind eye if you slipped them a few coins. After all, it wasn't as if they were hurting anyone. She was providing goods, and if she charged less than the Capitol would, it was a win-win. She and Naomi were doing pretty well for themselves.

Christina leaned her head against the door. It wasn't about the money – not really. The only thing that mattered about the money was that it was enough to keep her fed and clothed, and she hadn't needed to worry about that for quite a while. Anything more than that was just icing on the cake. She didn't want money. She just wanted to be free. And if she wanted that again…

But she could never have that again. It was almost funny, really. For most tributes, life as a Victor would be an improvement. Hell, that was why some people volunteered – for the chance at a better life. But her life didn't need improving. Her life was good. She'd had everything she wanted, and now it was gone. Already gone. Even if she won, the best part would still be gone.

But winning was still better than losing. Still better than dying. Life trapped in Victors' Village would be better than no life at all.

Wouldn't it?

Christina ran her fingers along her bracelet. She and Naomi had made them for each other from some fabric they'd stolen in Eight. That had been their first sale together. Christina took a deep breath. Maybe District Six didn't matter, but people did. Terra. Misty. Naomi. They were a reason to come back.

And that was the only thing she needed.


Rook Jubilee, 12

He just needed to hold it together.

Rook closed his eyes and turned the plastic rook over and over in his hands. It was smooth. Comforting. Familiar. Something that was certain in a world that seemed to be falling apart. Rook leaned back against the door, hoping no one else would come. His mother had already come and gone. Who else might be coming?

Slowly, Rook felt his breathing returning to normal. It was easier to think here, in this bare, quiet room. There was so much less going on. No one looking at him. No one wanting answers – answers he didn't have. No one wanting to know what he was going to do next.

Except him. He sure wanted to know what he was going to do next, but that was nothing new. Ever since his father died, his mother had been determined that he would 'make it.' His father had almost made it, whatever 'it' was. He had been smart – a strategist, a planner, a tactician. He could have been a champion if–

If this wasn't District Six. Playing chess didn't pay for food. And so his father had gone to work in a factory like everyone else, then gotten sick and died like so many people did in District Six. No one would ever know how great he could have been. His mother didn't want things to turn out the same way for Rook. His father had been just another factory worker. If he died in the Games, Rook would be just another tribute. He would never amount to anything. He would never make it.

Whatever 'it' was.

What did 'making it' even look like somewhere like District Six? He'd never been able to work that one out. What did they expect him to do? What did his mother expect him to do? He did love chess, but that wasn't a job. Not here. Not in District Six.

But he wasn't going to be in District Six much longer.

He was going to be in the Capitol. And then in the Games. He was good at games.

But not this sort of game.

Maybe there wasn't that much of a difference.

Maybe there was.

Breathe.

Rook shook his head, rocking slowly from side to side. He needed more time. More time to think. But it was time he wasn't going to get. Soon he would be on his way to the Capitol. Three days of training. A session with the Gamemakers. Interviews. And then the Games. That was it. Not enough time to plan. Not enough time to think of everything.

But it would have to be enough. He was used to making do. He was used to holding it together. He'd even managed not to cry onstage. Now that he thought of it, he still hadn't cried. He wanted to, but the tears just hadn't come yet. It was still too much. Too many thoughts. Too many questions. Too many expectations.

Too much pressure.

And it was only going to get worse.

Rook clenched and unclenched his fist, letting the small rook leave an imprint in his palm. A rook. Not the strongest piece on the board, but a sturdy one. Its movement was simple and straightforward, its possible moves easy to visualize. He wished he could see his own moves as easily. He wished there were more possibilities.

But the possibilities depended on the other pieces.

He needed to know how the other pieces would move.

Okay. Okay, that made sense. Yes, he could think of it like that. Figure out how the other pieces moved, work out their possible moves, and then figure out his own. Rook took a deep breath, and then another. Hold it together. Maybe it wasn't much of a strategy, but it was the best he had right now. It would have to do until he could think of a better one.

Because that was the thing, really. No matter how good of a strategy you started with, that strategy would have to change as the game went on and your opponent started to figure out how to respond to it. You could anticipate, yes, but you couldn't know – not really know for certain – what an opponent was going to do until they did it. You could prepare for different possibilities, but not for every potential move. Sometimes, you had to wait and see what the other person would do.

Wait and see. For now, at least. Rook stood up slowly, turning the rook around a few more times before tucking it back in his pocket. He opened his eyes, watching the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Okay. He would wait.

Right now, it was the only thing he could do.


"Reasons don't matter. Results are the only thing."