CHAPTER 1 - BASAL
Basal stared at his sunken eyes in the dusty bathroom mirror. A shrunken giant, a collapsed tower, or something of the like. He knew if he carried himself differently, life could be different. But he was who he was.
A red pill stared back at him. This was a battle he had every morning. The medication kept his mind contained, at the price of dulling everything good as well. Not that he was working with much these days.
That was usually the logic that won, he didn't have to worry about dampening the good if there was nothing good to experience.
Before Basal could enter warp-speed and progress even faster through his downward spiral, he tossed the pill back and washed it down with tangy tap water. He wondered if the heavy metals in the water even let the pills absorb. But he hadn't 'seen' anything of late, so he supposed they didn't interfere too much.
After his diagnosis last year, life had gotten continuously worse. His parents walked on eggshells, keeping his younger siblings away from him, as if he might crack at any moment. It was easier to ignore a problem than share an emotional burden, right?
It didn't matter.
The purples under his sockets looked especially menacing today. His appearance didn't match his soft personality, but it was better to show up to the Reaping looking scary, than looking scared.
Though Basal cleared six and a half feet, and had the musculature to match, he was so scared it stopped him in his tracks. His muscles spasmed as he tried to go about his normal morning routine, and he could barely hear the words his family spoke to him.
He was eighteen. His name was in the bowl more times than it had ever been. He'd been getting a reputation as 'difficult' around school and work, and feared he would be Reaped because of it.
It didn't make sense, he knew it was random, but a comment his supervisor made stuck out to him. "The Capitol doesn't want to deal with sad, deranged, children. Or sad, deranged adults. Wise up or be prepared to hear your name called."
The supervisor has been fuming when he delivered the message, and Basal figured his intent didn't extend beyond intimidation, but the words stuck with him. They became an intrusive thought every time Basal didn't want to get out of bed, or take his medication, or participate in school or work.
Basal sighed and slammed the mirror closed a little too hard.
Glass splintered and cracked, then fell into the sink in pieces. Basal let out a sigh that might of well be signifying his death. He became angry at himself for the lack of control and dramatic reaction.
"Basal!" His father's angry voice yelled down the hall.
Basal would honestly rather be Reaped than face another lecture from the old man.
…
Basal cursed himself for the thought as his name was read aloud by the escort at the Reaping Ceremony, declaring him the District 7 Male Tribute of the 50th Hunger Games. He thought it served him right, and was glad that- at the very least- a kid who would actually miss his life wasn't Reaped.
He stood tall and stone faced as he approached the stage. It wasn't lost on him how he lumbered over the other children. Maybe if he wasn't who he was, he'd actually have a chance. Not that it mattered now.
The female tribute shrunk under his gaze as he tried to greet her. It made sense though, he was a tall and ugly monster.
As soon as the cameras were off him, he let his posture fall. His eyes were glued to the ground, uncaring of his surroundings. As he was escorted off the stage towards the holding area to say farewell to his family, his mind grew holes.
Portals into memories, into emotions he didn't want to feel. He was suffocating, but he wouldn't show it. Basal didn't meet his family members' eyes as they spoke to him. The only sensation that broke through was a hug from his youngest sister.
When she told him she loved him, he thought she'd be far better off when he was dead. His family could go back to normal.
Basal apologized to his parents. Even his father was at a loss for words.
The peacekeepers collected them.
Basal was on his own.
…
Basal forced himself to sit up straight in the presence of the D7 victors. The shower he'd been allowed to take had done nothing to ease his mind.
The Capitol train car was dotted with luxuries, but it reminded Basal of poisonous reptiles and animals. The more colourful, the more dangerous. It seemed fitting to apply the logic here. He looked at the floor, though his shoulders were respectfully square.
The female tribute chatted with the victors. The words blended together, Basal unable to discern one from another. His mind was on his little sister. He wrung his hands.
"Hi, Basal." The male victor said.
Basal politely raised his eyes and nodded, before a weight pulled them back down to the ground.
"I will be-" The male victor started, before being cut off by the female victor.
Basal should know their names, but he just didn't care about the Hunger Games. Not that he would ever speak the treasonous words aloud.
"Actually, Harlem, I thought I would mentor Basal." The female victor said.
Silence followed. Basal still wasn't looking, but would bet they were having a silent conversation-of-sorts. It seemed strange to him, why either would seek to mentor him, but perhaps the female victor was trying to save her counterpart from the worst of the worst. Maybe they traded off each year. Basal couldn't blame them.
"Of course." Harlem conceded.
"Basal, we'll have our first meeting now." The female victor said. She rose, and Basal followed her from the room.
One they'd settled into another too-lavish car, the female mentor spoke.
"My name's Bliss, but you may recognize me as Burgundy." Bliss said.
Basal was glad for the clarification, because he didn't recognized her by either name.
"Unfortunate first name, but what can you do." Bliss said, when Basal didn't respond.
He wasn't trying to be rude, but seemed unable to hit un-mute on himself. He cleared his throat.
"Me, not you." Bliss said. "The name." She chattered, becoming nervous in his silence.
It wouldn't help to stone-wall.
"I figured." Basal cleared his gravelly throat. "Hi, Bliss. Thank you for mentoring me." He said quietly.
If Bliss was taken aback by the disconnect between his personality and stature, she didn't show it. Basal appreciated it, figuring he would be spoken to sternly and instructed to shape up.
"It's no problem at all." Bliss answered.
"Liar." Basal answered, not sure where his manners went.
"Now we're getting somewhere." Bliss answered, evenly.
"Hmm?" Basal grunted.
"You're being honest." She clarified.
Basal tensed.
"It's a good thing." Bliss said gently. "You can be honest with me, what you say stays between us. I promise."
Basal looked up at Bliss as she delivered the statement, trying to ascertain if she meant it. Piercing blue eyes shrouded by curly black hair stared back at him empathetically.
"I'm scared." Basal whispered.
"You'd be crazy not to be." Bliss said.
"I'm already crazy." Basal replied.
Bliss furrowed her brow. Basal removed a pill bottle from his pocket, a week-long supply he was always instructed to bring to the Reaping Ceremony, for this very situation.
"They let me bring some medication so I can hold it together until the Games begin." Basal said with a heavy sigh.
"What's your diagnosis?" Bliss asked cautiously.
"Undifferentiated schizophrenia." Basal responded.
Bliss seemed taken aback. Basal shrunk into himself.
"I'm sorry, usually I can keep myself in check. It's unprofessional to react. I'm just… It's messed up they Reaped you." Bliss ended the statement whispering.
Basal looked at her curiously. He figured whoever mentored him would be fuming when he revealed his condition, mad they'd have no shot at winning with a defective tribute.
"Thanks for not being mad." Basal said.
"Basal…" Bliss said, sadly. "None of this is your fault."
He'd never heard those words before. Only iterations of 'why can't you try harder?' And 'why can't you just-?'
Basal shrugged.
"We're going to work together, okay? Who knows what the gamemakers have in mind for the Quarter Quell twist? Anything can happen. You're not out of the running. You're not alone." Bliss said.
It was Basal's turn to look at her sadly. "I think we both know I am."
…
Basal didn't participate much in training. He had acceptable survival skills, though, so didn't have to remind himself how to get shelter, food, or water. At home, punishments for his 'undesirable' behaviour had included periods of isolation in the woods behind his home. His father would hand him the camping backpack and tell him how long he was meant to stay away.
After a particularly bad couple weeks, when Basal had begun hallucinating voices and destroyed his room in an effort to get their precipitating voices to quiet, his father had told him he wasn't welcome at home for the next month.
He had no friends to crash with, no food to bring with him, only the voices inside his mind telling him he wasn't good enough in any way. He'd survived by foraging grubs, worms, plants, nuts, berries, and snares to catch small wildlife.
Basal was large, capable of hunting, but could never bring himself to willingly spill the blood of an animal larger than a rabbit. It felt so wrong when his father had forced him to in the past.
There was look in a deer's eyes, when it was wounded, before it was slaughtered, a look of unadulterated fear. It wasn't entertaining to him. He never wanted to see it again. If that meant not taking the life of another tribute and the gamemakers killing him with a flood or something of the like- so be it.
If there was any truth to him being Reaped on purpose, he wouldn't give them the show they wanted. He wouldn't become the mammoth, simple, crazed lunatic that showed the Capitol citizens how superior they were to the districts.
Basal didn't want to hunt the other children. He didn't want to draw fear or blood. There wasn't a place for him here.
The career tributes eyed him throughout the training days. His obvious lack of participation made them wary. They might think he was strategically hiding skills. That was better than them knowing the truth about how pathetic he was. But if not wanting to kill made him pathetic, then so be it.
He was approached by the small D6 boy on the last day of training. The child brought him a cookie and asked if he could join Basal for lunch.
Who was Basal to turn down a treat? When Basal proved to be non-threatening, the D6 boy beckoned over his district-mate. The three ate in silence at first.
Then, the small D6 boy asked Basal if he'd like to join their alliance. It was almost laughable, two twelve or thirteen year-olds asking his large, loner self to join them, but Basal figured the more distractions he had, the better. He would descend into even greater misery without company to keep him afloat.
The kids looked relieved when Basal agreed.
At the end of the day, on the walk back to the elevator, the D6 girl slipped her hand into Basal's and thanked him. Basal's throat closed, so he nodded in acknowledgement.
…
To make Basal's interview was any duller, they'd have to have interviewed a corpse. Enoch Albano, host of the Hunger Games, volleyed him questions and he fell flat each time.
He was going to be dead soon, why put on a show?
Thankfully, the interview as only three minutes.