Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.
Note: Well, are email notifications working again? Who knows. Not me. I guess we'll find out. If this one does send, just a heads-up for those of you also following What You Fight Against that there's been an update you may not have gotten an email about.
Thank you to Sarivoy and Dreadfulsorrow for Edwina and Diyon, respectively.
District Eight
Do the Math
Carolina Katzung, 63
Victor of the 10th Hunger Games
She hated that it made sense.
Carolina glanced around at the crowd as she, Lander, and Kit headed for the square. Nothing had changed – at least not for the better. She had hoped, briefly, after the Capitol's victory over Thirteen, that Eldred's promise of improvements would extend to all the districts, regardless of whether their Victors had helped with his plan or not, but it hadn't taken long for it to become clear that this wasn't the case. Only a few weeks after Thirteen's surrender, Head Peacekeeper Rowan had cracked down on even the most trivial of infractions, and several people had died.
Maybe the timing had been a coincidence. Maybe not. Marcius Rowan had always been rather fanatical, convinced that the poorer inhabitants of Eight – which was most of them – were nothing but a bunch of hotheaded rebels just waiting for their chance to strike. Of course, the families of the victims hadn't helped that image by immediately staging a protest that had quickly turned into a riot. The Peacekeepers had put a stop to the mob, of course, but not before more people were dead – including Marcius himself, although there were rumors that he hadn't in fact been killed by the mob, but that he had taken his own life or even been killed by his subordinates who'd had enough of his leadership.
In any case, the mob had turned their attention to his family, torching his house and badly injuring his daughter before they had finally been subdued. More deaths followed. More needless bloodshed. Exactly the sort of thing that Eldred always claimed he was trying to stop, and that had apparently become less and less common in some of the other districts.
Some of them. The ones whose Victors had cooperated. The ones who had been helpful. Who had been loyal. Carolina's gaze strayed to Lander. No, loyal probably wasn't the right word for him – or for her, if it came to that. The two of them had never had any love for the Capitol. They both knew better than to say so out loud, of course, but they had probably never come across as Capitol-supporters either. And Kit…
Eldred had cast quite a wide net when looking for Victors to include in his plan, but he had stopped short of inviting anyone who had been actively rebellious – anyone he couldn't really trust with what he was planning. And that meant Kit and Avery – and by extension, Districts Eight and Three. There would have been no way to include her or Lander without involving Kit, and the same was true of Avery in Three. They were too close, too dependent on each other in a way that some of the other groups of Victors weren't. And while that was good on a personal level because it meant more support, especially during the Games, it had kept her and Lander from getting involved.
Or was that just an excuse?
Carolina gave Lander's hand a squeeze as the three of them took their places onstage. Given the chance to help with Eldred's plan without risking getting Kit involved, would she have taken the offer? Would he? Would either of them have been willing to help condemn an entire district to the Capitol's rule if it meant sparing their own district some of the nastiness that had followed?
Except that … that wouldn't really have been the choice, would it? Once it was clear that Eldred had a good chance of success, the choice wouldn't really be saving Thirteen or condemning them. It would only be whether their district helped or not. Whether they got some share in the rewards from the Capitol's inevitable victory. Cooperating would have been the logical choice, and both she and Lander could do that kind of math. Given the chance, they probably would have gone along with the plan.
But they hadn't been given the chance. District Eight hadn't been given the chance. And now here they were, almost a year later, and nothing had changed. Nothing had improved. Maybe it hadn't gotten markedly worse – the Peacekeepers had been rather strict even before the last year – but things certainly hadn't gotten any better.
Carolina felt Lander squeeze her hand reassuringly as District Eight's escort, Samarin Lanair, took the stage. Despite the Capitol's penchant for looking young as long as possible, she had to admit that he was starting to look older. Carolina held back a smile as she realized he was probably thinking the same thing about them – or about her and Lander, at least. It had been forty-five years now since he had drawn her name from the reaping bowl – and Lander's four years before that. Carolina shuddered as the thought struck her – fifty-five years of the Games.
And it wasn't going to stop anytime soon.
Carolina braced herself as Samarin reached into the first reaping bowl and drew a slip of paper. "Edwina Rowan!"
Silence filled the crowd as the sixteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a simple white shirt and light grey dress pants. Carolina's eyes flicked over to Lander, and he gave the barest hint of a nod. Rowan. It wasn't that a very common surname in Eight, and he'd had a daughter. Two daughters, actually, if she remembered correctly. One was too old, but the other…
The other was slowly making her way towards the stage, wide-eyed and shaky, but at least moving on her own. She was slight and pale, with an oval face and short, dark hair. Every now and then, she glanced around the crowd, but she didn't seem to be looking for anything in particular – just watching to see what they would do.
What they would do, it turned out, was nothing. To Carolina's relief, there was no taunting, no jeering, no apparent satisfaction that their old Head Peacekeeper's daughter had been chosen. The mob had probably gotten that out of their system months ago, and the girl in front of them now … well, she looked nothing like her father. Nothing like a threat.
Carolina shook that thought from her head as Edwina took her place onstage. She probably hadn't looked like much of a threat at the reaping herself. Neither had Lander or Kit, for that matter. And yet here they were, the three of them, sitting onstage as Victors. Sometimes not looking like a threat could be an advantage.
Samarin, meanwhile, had turned his attention back to the other reaping bowl. He quickly drew another slip and unfolded it. "Otto Tweed!"
The fifteen-year-old section had barely parted, however, before a voice called out, "I volunteer!" The voice had come from the eighteen-year-old section. Not loud, not desperate, but confident. The crowd parted to make way for a boy in a simple tan shirt and brown pants. He quickly made his way to the stage without so much as a glance back at the younger boy who had been chosen. Not a family member or a friend, then. So what was he doing?
For his part, Samarin wasn't fazed as the boy joined them onstage; this wasn't District Eight's first volunteer. He waited until the boy was standing next to Edwina before asking the question. "And what's your name, lad?"
"Diyon Mendis," the boy answered, turning to face the crowd and giving a friendly wave. He was taller than Edwina and slim, with brown skin, wavy black hair that fell past his ears, and dark brown eyes. After giving the crowd a moment to take in the turn of events, he turned back to Samarin. "It's my honor to represent District Eight in this year's Games – and beyond." Then he turned to Edwina and held out his hand. After only a moment's hesitation, she shook it.
Samarin grinned and turned to the crowd. "District Eight, let's hear it for this year's tributes – Edwina and Diyon!"
No one clapped. Of course they didn't. The cameras clicked off without any more fuss, but before the Peacekeepers could lead the tributes away, Lander turned to Diyon. "All right, kid. What's your game?"
Diyon shook his head. "No game. I meant what I said. I want to represent District Eight. I want to lead District Eight. I think we can all agree we could use some better leadership."
Lander didn't argue. Maybe he didn't disagree, or maybe he just didn't care. It was Carolina and Kit's turn to mentor, after all. Carolina was about to open her mouth to volunteer to take him, but Kit spoke first. "I'll take him. I think … I think I understand what he means."
Diyon nodded. "I was hoping you might. That is, as long as Miss Rowan doesn't mind."
Edwina winced at the formality. "Just Edwina is fine."
Diyon raised an eyebrow. "Not proud of your last name?" he asked, his tone leaving Carolina unsure whether he was teasing or not.
If he was, Edwina didn't take the bait. "Let's just say I think you're right about needing better leadership," she said quietly.
Carolina eyed Edwina curiously. Did she mean that, or was she simply smart enough to play along? Either way, that was something she could work with. She nodded at Kit. "I'll take Edwina, then." Only once the tributes were safely out of earshot did she ask, "Are you sure?"
Kit nodded. "I'm sure. I can handle it."
Carolina knew better than to press the matter. Kit wasn't a little kid anymore. He could handle someone like Diyon. And if Diyon wanted him as a mentor, all the better. Well, probably all the better, depending on why he wanted Kit. But he hadn't struck Carolina as a rebel. There hadn't been anger in what he'd said about needing better leadership. It had been a simple statement of fact – nothing more.
And rebels … well, they weren't usually too big on facts, because the facts were so often against them. They relied on emotions, on persuasion, on convincing people to agree with them not with facts, but with passion and drive and fire. She'd seen that, and that wasn't what was going on here. What was going on here was more simple, more straightforward, than that.
But she couldn't help wondering if that would also make it more complicated.
Diyon Mendis, 18
This was where things got more complicated.
Diyon leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes to think as the door closed behind the last of his friends. Well, not friends exactly. Acquaintances. Allies. A scattered few who believed what he did: that the future of the district depended on the move they made now, while the iron was still hot. While the Capitol was still rejoicing in their Victory over Thirteen, there was room to spread some of the spoils around. There was space for loyal, helpful districts to share in that prosperity.
Of course, "loyal and helpful" certainly didn't describe District Eight right now. But ever since Thirteen's fall, there had been rumors. Whispers of what was being accomplished in the other districts. Right now, it was small steps – a garden, a library, better wages, shorter hours. But the fact that the Capitol was allowing even that much was unthinkable somewhere like Eight, where they had no reason to.
Unless he gave them one.
All they needed was a leader. In the other districts, the Victors were filling that role, but here … no. Lander, Carolina, Kit – none of them had stepped up to show the district the rewards of loyalty. Maybe they genuinely hadn't been in a position to. Maybe they weren't interested. Maybe they simply didn't realize how much they stood to gain by cooperating. Maybe they just couldn't do the math.
But he could. It was simple. Or at least, the principle was simple. He could be the leader, the symbol, that they weren't. It would be too late, of course, to claim that he'd had some hand in bringing down Thirteen, but surely there would be other opportunities for Victors to show their loyalty. Yes, the theory was simple, but now it was about to get more complicated. Because in order to do any of that, in order to be any of that, he had to win the Games first.
Diyon's eyes blinked open as the door creaked open a little. He hadn't been expecting anyone else. He didn't have anyone else. His family was gone, killed in the violence that had erupted nearly a year ago. They hadn't been in the mob – or supporting the Peacekeepers, for that matter. They'd just been passing the area, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Killed pointlessly, senselessly, because people had no idea how to keep the peace.
So he would show them how.
Slowly, the door creaked open farther, revealing a boy and a pair of adults he didn't recognize. But there was only one answer that made sense. Diyon stood and held out his hand. "And you must be Otto."
The boy stared at the hand for a moment, then shook it, still trembling. "I just wanted to say thank you. I thought … I thought I was going to die. I was so scared. But now–"
"Now you don't have to be," Diyon finished. He hadn't been expecting this, but he could certainly use it. "Now you can live the rest of your life." He laid his other hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "And when I get back, I'm going to do everything I can to make that life an even better one."
The woman behind Otto shook her head. "Look, we appreciate what you did, but life here is what it is. Even a Victor can't do anything about that."
Because they haven't tried. But he didn't say that – couldn't say that – because even if they hadn't done anything particularly useful for the district, most of the people in Eight liked and respected Lander and Carolina, at least. So he substituted. "Things are changing, Mrs. Tweed – changing for the better. Maybe not here – not yet. But they can."
He smiled faintly. "But it's okay if you don't believe that yet. After all, why should you listen to me? Right now, I'm just a kid who saved some other kid's life today. But when I'm back, you won't have to take my word for it. I'll show you."
The woman said nothing, but her husband took a step forward and held out a hand. "I hope you're right."
Diyon shook his hand firmly. Hope. He didn't believe it, though – not yet. But that was all right. A few minutes ago, he'd never even met the man, and now, he was hoping that Diyon was right. Belief was more complicated. Belief was something he would have to earn, but he was ready to do that. Diyon smiled to himself as the little family left the room.
Things were falling into place already.
Edwina Rowan, 16
Her mother was already falling apart.
Edwina clenched her fists tightly, trying not to cry as her mother went on. "That must be it. That damn mob – that's the only explanation. They somehow figured out how to rig the reaping bowl. That has to be it. Your name was only in five times. Five. Do you know how many thousands of slips are in there! It can't be a coincidence."
Edwina said nothing. That was usually best, when her mother was in one of these moods. If you agreed, that only made it worse. If you argued, then she kept going because she just had to convince you. Edwina glanced silently at her older sister Aquila, who shook her head. Sometimes things just happened. Besides, how would an angry mob be able to rig the reaping bowl? That didn't make any sense. Now, one of the Peacekeepers…
Stop it. That wasn't going to help. Besides, it was only slightly less ridiculous than her mother's theory. Some of the other Peacekeepers hadn't been fond of her father, it was true, and in fact, he'd been officially removed from his position hours before his death. But he was dead now. They wouldn't take it out on the rest of the family – not the way the mob had. They'd done everything they could to stop the mob.
But it hadn't been enough.
Edwina had taken a blow to the head and come away with brain damage. Her friend Tania who had come to warn her about the mob – she had been killed. And her mother … physically, she was fine, but she hadn't been the same since then. Maybe none of them had.
She certainly hadn't.
"Edwina." Her brother Cartwright's hand on her arm shook her out of her thoughts. She followed his gaze down to her hands, where her fingernails had been digging into her palms. Damn. She unclenched her fists and pressed her hands against her legs, trying to hide the blood. Her mother was panicking enough already. Besides, it wasn't a lot of blood. Not a lot of pain. Nothing seemed like a lot of pain anymore.
Pain asymbolia – that was what the doctors had called it. The best doctors they could find in District Eight, which had come at quite a cost – a fact that her mother seemed intent on pointing out at every opportunity. That was the word they had used, but what it meant … well, it meant that it just didn't seem like pain mattered anymore. It was still there, but it didn't seem to hurt – or at least, it didn't seem to hurt her. It felt like … well, like it was hurting someone else.
Which was all well and good until … well, something like this. She hadn't even noticed her nails digging into her palm until Cartwright had pointed it out. If something like that happened in the Games…
Well, at least it wouldn't hurt.
The thought caught her by surprise. But it made sense. What was the worst that could happen? She could die. But she had almost died a year ago. At least this time, it wouldn't hurt. And if she won…
If she won, it wouldn't fix everything, but it would be a start. They would have more than enough to take care of all of them again. The fact that they'd had to rebuild their home, the money they'd spent on doctors over the last year – none of that would be a problem anymore. Physically, they would be back where they had started.
But only physically.
Edwina shook her head. She couldn't do anything about the rest. About the fact that her father was gone. About the fact that a large part of the district hated them. She couldn't bring Tania back. She couldn't make things go back to normal. But at least if she won, she could do something. And something – anything – was better than nothing. That was simple. That was math.
If only real life was that simple. Edwina flinched as the Peacekeepers knocked on the door, letting them know their time was up. She hugged her mother, then Cartwright, then Aquila. As the door closed behind them, she sank back into her chair, staring at her palms. They had already stopped bleeding, but the sides of her pants were dotted with red. Great. Well, there would probably be a change of clothes on the train. Maybe something darker this time.
Edwina chuckled at the thought. Fashion comments, at a time like this? It wasn't as if anyone who was bothering to watch them on their way to the train was going to be squeamish about a little blood. This was the Hunger Games. Soon enough, there would be more blood than they knew what to do with.
She just hoped she would know what to do.
"I guess my biggest problem is I've been cursed with the ability to do the math."
