The footage of the reaping in District 1 for The Eighth Annual Hunger Games is hard to find, and even harder to watch. The town square where the citizens gather for the yearly reaping is idyllic, with frothing fountains and colourful bunting – and to the untrained eye, it's paradise.
But for those that know where to look, the separation and resentment among the people there is clear, even in the grainy recording.
A silent, righteous rage emanates from the grim-faced working class. They're the seamstresses and gem-setters and warehouse operatives - plebes, that's what everyone calls them, so it's what they call themselves. Oh, the wealthy are there, too, the bourgeois, in their immaculate suits and iron-pressed sundresses. The odds of their being picked are astronomical, and so they grit their teeth and wait to be dismissed. There'll be punch and canapes in the Pavilion, once this is all done.
After the mayor is finished with his preliminary speeches, the Capitol escort steps in. He trills out the selected tributes' names, and two plebeian children stumble to the stage. They're both tiny, sad things, with pipe-cleaner limbs that poke out of second-hand clothes. They don't react strongly to their being chosen, and neither does the crowd. It's nothing more than what they've come to expect, after all.
The escort makes the obligatory call for volunteers, already motioning for the Peacekeepers to take the latest pair away, when there's a sudden movement in the crowd.
A lone figure emerges from the throng, sapphire eyes burning with determination. He raises his voice, allowing it to echo across the quiet courtyard.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
The reaction is instantaneous. A tidal wave of confusion crashes over the square because in seven years of Hunger Games, this has never happened before.
On the reaping stage, there are scenes of panic. The district escort is aghast, spluttering out a jumble of undignified sounds into the microphone as he tries (and fails) to form a coherent sentence. He looks imploringly to the mayor, who gives him a terse nod.
The escort interprets this as approval to continue. "Well, what an exciting turn of events!" he squeaks. "A volunteer - why don't you come on up, handsome?"
The young man strides up to ascend the platform, and the cameramen waste no time. They pounce forward like panthers, getting the best shots of him from every possible angle. He's dressed plainly, his clothes layered in the dirt and dust of the Tenements, but physically, he's the epitome of District 1 perfection.
Having gushed and made crass jokes about him, the commentators reporting from the Capitol just can't wrap their heads around why he's done it. Through surgically enlarged lips, they rapidly dissect the potential motives behind his actions, the hypothetical list growing ever more ludicrous with each incorrect guess.
The thing is, they say, while the concept has been in print from the start, active volunteering is unprecedented. Yes, it's technically allowed, and yes, there are protocols to carry out should the situation arise, but frankly, they didn't think they would ever need them. Of course, volunteering is an act that should be treated with the utmost reverence – President Thorn himself had decreed so - but why would somebody actually do it?
The Capitol escort asks the volunteer his name.
"Garland," he says firmly. "Garland Gatsby."
And now there's a shift in the crowd, a flicker of familiarity, because they've heard this name before.
Descended from the First Families, the Gatsby house traced their lineage back to men and women of Capitol blood that had assimilated into District 1 long before the war. They went on to befriend and marry local nobility, fusing old money with trade expertise to create an untouchable inner circle that held a firm grip on land and law for decades.
Garland was born into their world of affluence and power, the only son and heir to an empire of wineries. As a child, he attended an endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches. His earliest memories were of high, ringing laughter and clinking crystal flutes, all singing along to a chorus of the Gatsby family motto: Following Our Destiny!
Garland was born to inherit the family business. As such, each day was an education in how to lead the Gatsbys into the next generation. The preservation of their family's success, through business and honor and character, was – with the exception of loyalty to the Capitol – their single biggest priority. More than that, it was a promise.
In the Justice Building, Garland's father reminds him of this. "You have to win, son," he says, taking Garland's face in his hands. His wrinkled features are twisted by a strange mixture of pride and grief. "None of the others will want it - need it - as much as you do. As we do. Show them what it means to be a Gatsby."
As the tribute train hurtles him towards the Capitol, Garland only half-listens to his glum-faced mentor nattering quietly away. Instead, he chooses to focus on his father's final (no, not final, they can't be final) words to him. He savors them, clings to them, not only for comfort but because his very life depends on it.
Garland looks wistfully out the window and watches the unsung beauties of the district rush by; its boundless prairies, imposing peaks, cascading streams.
The scenic view is interrupted by the catering team, who wheel out lunch for the District 1 entourage. Once Garland sees the spread, his jaw drops. It's a boastful arrangement of fatty poultry, tart sauces and steamed vegetables - the kind of extravagant buffet that he hasn't seen for years. Not since before the war started.
Garland picks up a silver spoon and stares at it, mesmerized, as he's transported to another time.
Before they'd lost everything, Garland's future had been all planned out for him. Once he turned eighteen, he'd take control of Gatsby Wines. He'd overseeing the management and running of the family vineyards, warehouses and high street stores. His parents would retreat to the coastlines of District 4 for an early retirement, Garland would marry and produce an heir of his own, and the Gatsby cycle of success would begin again in all its glorious certainty and strength.
Of course, that's not how it happened, Garland thinks bitterly. That was before everything went to hell.
The Dark Days hit the Gatsbys hard. The First Families had misused their power and influence for too long. Within days, the poor had risen out of their slums and taken to the streets in violent protest. The rebels of the First Rebellion barely lifted a finger, looking on feebly as the small folk did their dirty work for them.
A baying mob had marched on Summerhouse, the Gatsby's ancestral home. Garland's family had fled the estate in the pitch-black darkness, disguised in common garb. Garland didn't like wearing it, complainig about how itchy it was. A frightened governess lost her temper, slapping him across the face with a stinging blow.
"Shut up!" she hissed. "Do you want them to find us?"
She had struck him. Too stunned to cry, Garland looked to his parents, expecting them to dismiss her instantly. But instead, they slumped their shoulders and looked the other way. Garland stared at them blankly, their radiance hidden under ugly cloaks, and he understood… things had changed forever.
That night, Summerhouse burned.
Garland and his family spent the next three years flitting from one safe house to another, each time under a different alias. Garland hated mixing with the lower city boys. They were barbaric, scratching and biting and jeering at him. But after a hundred beatings and thefts, he started to fight back. In the beginning, he lost a lot more than he won, crawling into bed at night with sore limbs and split lips. It didn't stay that way, though, and when Garland stood up for himself, people respected him more - not because of who he was, but because he'd earned it.
When peacetime finally came, the Gatsby goldmines had almost run dry. Garland's father managed to scrape up enough denares to secure a matchbox flat in the Tenements. From here, they tried to rebuild their lives and their legacy.
Unfortunately, it wasn't that easy. The fences had gone up across the country, separating the districts and cutting the Gatsbys off from their former suppliers. With only a good name as collateral, their value had dribbled down to less than nothing. Friends and business partners, people they used to host and wine and dine, made polite excuses and quickly turned their backs on them.
For years, Garland's parents did what they could; they begged and cajoled, extracting loan after loan, favor after favor - anything to claw their way out of rock bottom. None of it worked, and his father and mother were forced to take jobs in the factories to pay off their debts.
Late at night, from his room in the Tenements, Garland stood awake. He'd find himself gazing up at the knoll where Summerhouse had once stood. The manor was long gone now. Only its skeleton remained, a charred and ruined husk. A memory of magnificence. Garland had wasted countless hours dreaming it back to life.
It was time to make it a reality.
Gold taps Garland on the shoulder, stirring him from his thoughts.
"We're almost there," he says gently.
As the great city looms into view, Garland can hear the thrumming, babbling sound of a gathered crowd waiting on the station platform. He isn't sure what to expect, and tries to keep an open mind as he steps out to meet them.
It's pandemonium.
The Capitol loves Garland. They love him, and he barely makes it to the tribute quarters alive. The shrieking press sticks cameras and microphones in his face. Crying fans grab and paw and weep, desperate for his attention - a look, a touch, anything at all. They just want a piece of him, this volunteer from District 1, because he's courageous and handsome and a shining example of everything a good tribute should be.
In the lead up to the Games, the other competitors' presence is all but obliterated. Garland is the only person that the Capitol is talking about. He's the undisputed star of the show, and the media can barely keep up with the outcry of public interest. Online bloggers create steamy artwork and prose about him. Journalists gush like schoolgirls about him in their op-eds. Fashion designers proclaim him as their muse.
Everyone wants to know why Garland volunteered and when they put the question to him he answers with the truth. He tells them of his family, and how the rebel's war stole their lives from them. He explains that he's going to use his victory to save them, and to make his district proud. The story is a hit, and the Capitol praises him for his patriotism and familial devotion.
Garland's supporters demand to know how they can support him in the Games. After facing increasing public pressure for an answer, Head Gamemaker Bottleby releases a statement in response. In a diplomatic and measured speech, he iterates that the Games must ensure fairness and equitable treatment for all of the tributes. The people are predictably disappointed, but behind the scenes, the plans for a bona fide sponsorship system are already in motion.
Garland's popularity is not lost on his competitors, and he can feel their angry and envious eyes burning into him during training. They isolate him from the get-go, but it's the hardened young man from 4 and his sidekick, the weaselly boy from 9, that go out of their way to antagonize and intimidate him. It doesn't work. Garland flatly ignores their threats and focuses on his knife practice.
The climactic day arrives, and the tributes are lifted up into the arena. It's a frozen maze of snow banks and glacial walls that conceals a mass of white-furred beasts.
Garland is shivering on his pedestal, watching his breath as it escapes in wisps of fog. The clock is counting down, and he's sorely tempted to make the run to the heart of the silver Cornucopia. It looks so close, so tangible, and it's overflowing with an abundance of useful supplies. It seems like the right thing to do, but there's a nagging feeling in Garland's gut, an instinct that makes him grab the nearest weapon - a small rondel dagger - and run as fast as he can.
Garland's caution saves his life. He's pursued by Four and Nine, who ally together almost instantly. With the advantage of speed, Garland melts into the icy labyrinth and outpaces them. It's a long cat and mouse chase but, after an hour of twists and turns, Garland finally runs himself into a dead end with no escape.
When they track him down, Four points his sword at Garland.
"Hey there, lapdog," he sneers. Even before the war, the other districts hate the Capitol's favourites. "Not feeling so smug now, are you?"
Garland says nothing, responding only with a contemptuous look of his own.
"Not one for chatter?" smirks Nine, licking his lips. "Don't worry, pretty boy. This won't take long."
It doesn't. Two against one, and neither of them lasts five minutes. Honed from years of self-defense and surviving on the streets of the Tenements, Garland's hand-to-hand combat skills are better than anyone expected. Taken by surprise, the boy from 4 is disarmed with a punch to the throat. The follow-through buries a knife in his head, right up to the hilt.
The lad from District 9 turns on his heels to flee, but Garland is too fast for him. He launches himself at the boy's back, tackling him to the ground. There's a tussle, and then a sharp snap. Nine goes limp, and the crowd's cheering swells to an unbearable pulse of noise.
The Gamemakers set a group of arctic foxes on Garland to lead him back to the Cornucopia, where he meets his final opponent. The male tribute from District 6 is a huge beast of a man and wields a large hammer covered in gore.
Garland takes a deep breath, nervously swiveling the dagger in his hand.
"Following our destiny," he whispers, and then the fight begins in earnest.
It's a battle of raw physical power versus agility and control, and the Capitol audience is beside themselves with excitement. Garland delivers some shallow cuts and abrasions to Six, who tirelessly throws his hammer around as if it were a toy.
Garland does his best, dodging slug after punch after wallop, but after a while, he starts to lose evasion. Eventually, his luck runs out, and with an almighty crack, Six lands a direct hit. Garland feels the bones in his arm shatter into a thousand pieces and he hits the ground like a sack of rocks, wailing in pain.
Six moves in for the kill, and he's smiling - not because he's cruel, or because he likes this, but because he knows he's going home.
And in this moment, with a shadow of death looming over him, Garland suddenly realizes that he's going to lose. He's not just losing the Games, not just losing his life, but everything he's fought for and survived and worked towards will all have been for nothing.
With a guttural scream, Garland takes his dagger and sinks it into Six's foot. The boy lets out a shriek of rage and indignation, but the momentary distraction is all Garland needs to force himself to his feet.
There's a flash of silver, and the glinting steel arcs and slashes through the air - it comes down into Six's chest, his neck, his head, over and over and over until he stops moving completely.
The boy dies, the trumpets blare, and Garland collapses into the red snow, weeping with joy.
In the Capitol, the celebration is unlike any before. The parties don't stop for days, and Garland's life is a blur as he poses for photoshoots, is invited on to talk shows and does personal appearances. He poses for so many fan pictures and signs so many autographs that by the end of each day, his cheek and hand muscles start to ache and spasm. He's so sought-after that the Capitol extends his stay in the hopes that the fans don't riot.
Before his departure, Garland is invited to partake in what has fast become a victory tradition: an afternoon lunch with President Thorn. The entire affair is nerve-wracking, and Garland does his best to be mannerly and engaging. If the President finds him dull or overrated, he doesn't show it, and is affable and attentive from start to finish. He goes out of his way to express his gratitude for Garland's volunteering, and what he's done for his district and the Games.
"It doesn't stop here, Mr. Gatsby," Tigellinus tells him with an encouraging smile.
And if the President's affirmation is positive, it's nothing compared to the homecoming Garland receives. The crème de la crème of District 1 come out in their droves to see him and offer congratulations. The guild masters and traders and socialites, who had previously abandoned the Gatsbys to the Tenements, are now eager to put the past behind them and start anew. Garland has an urge to tell them where they can shove their fake apologies, but he resists. Instead, he forces his lips into a forgiving smile and plays the role of the ever-amicable gentleman.
Garland's Victor's salary restores the Gatsby empire to its former glory. Within a year, their local wineries are busy and thriving. Summerhouse is rebuilt, a phoenix from the ashes. And best of all, for the first time in over a decade, Garland's family are able to sit back and enjoy the luxuries they had missed out on for so many years. His father enjoys expensive cigars and high-shelf brandy. His mother dazzles in ensembles of silk and ermine and diamond. Whatever they need, they get - the best that money can buy. The Gatsbys are never denied anything they want ever again.
As for Garland… he's happy, too. Truly. When he's not running his business, he's at the forefront of district society. There's always a speech to be made, an event to attend. Galas, masquerades, banquets, he's invited to them all. Truthfully, it isn't very fun, because no matter the occasion, Garland encounters the usual sycophantic faces, the same idle chatter. Still, he knows that it's his job to keep other people happy, and so he does it.
Garland never complains. Not once. He doesn't talk about the insomnia, or the nightmares that plague him when he does manage to sleep. He doesn't raise the issue when his social schedule has him pawn tributes off on Gold year after year, and he doesn't whinge about the things he has to do to compensate for it.
If Garland ever feels a shred of annoyance, or if thoughts of protest begin to cluster in his mind, he's swiftly reminded of his place. Sometimes, it's by his adoring public. Occasionally, it's the expectant President. But mostly, it's the clip of his eighteen-year-old self, stepping out of the crowd to eagerly volunteer his life away.
He got everything he wanted, everything he asked for, and that's what's important.
It was all worth it. In the end.
A/N: So, it's been three years. Suffice to say, I had a lot going on, but I'm excited to be able to get Champion back on track. If you've stuck with this since the start, or are only just joining in now, I appreciate it a lot. The next chapter shouldn't take as long!