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The one thing that the Victors cannot abandon, no matter how hard they, their District, or the Capitol try, is tradition.
Communication, specifically. Sentiments and feelings simple words cannot turn into reality. Tradition, in its core, is something etched deep into their skin, their bones. Rules engraved so deeply into their subconscious that nothing can take that away.
District Two enforce peer respect in their straight backs and their swift salutes, their curt nods to and between even the most casual of friends.
District Three write comments in their programs only those who understand their language can comprehend.
District Four scan the other ships for the fishermen's gestures; the sea is vast and wide and their voices stop short in the crashing of the waves.
District Five shares their words in a language dead to time, of flashes of light and stretches of darkness.
District Six protects their secrets, their hushed promises and their hurried rushes away from prying eyes. They protect their memories and in turn, their trust.
District Seven gift their friends and loved ones with wooden mementos because the act of giving in itself is the highest form of love.
District Eight weave intricate symbols in between the patterns they sew into their clothes that they have to squint to recognise.
District Nine pass recipes and handpicked ingredients either by loose word of mouth or carefully written measurements, it doesn’t matter — the tongue speaks for itself.
District Ten celebrate sunrises with each passing year of a child’s life. The warmth, the light, the huddle of people they hold close both in heart and in spirit.
District Eleven hum simple tunes while working in the fields, whistle their mornings awake, sing their grief even in the midst of silent funerals.
District Twelve tap each other in the coal mines where their eyes may fail them, warnings and pleadings and apologies, invisible touches only the recipients realise.
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In District One, jewellery holds little sentimental value. Their prized work, all sold to the Capitol for egregious prices only to be replaced by fakes. Gems have meaning they lost through time. Rarity devolves into logistical nightmares.
To a District of cold people and Capitol lapdogs, all that glitters is rusted metal.
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Jawsh slouches during his streams. Even those outside his District know about the straight-backed respect of their soldiers' bravado. This is good, this is him breaking away from the chains of his past life.
(In District Two, straight posture is not only a sign of respect, but a sign of strength as well. This isn’t an uncivilised soldier, this is a child.)
Michael Reeves releases the source code of his Capitol-commissioned programs, and District Three is free to dig through the comments hidden between variables and functions. Only they can find the true sentiments he slips into his comments.
(/*From Mike, to Three: take care.*/, //Will, please look after the trailer., #Mom, Dad, I’m sorry, I couldn’t do anything.)
Wilbur Soot records a video and district four understands when he waves at the camera, when he mock-salutes his computer screen, when he points at a clock behind him, when he nods vigorously at his comments.
(The storm, the waves, the crash of the ship behind his eyes. Back to harbour, back home, please. There’s a storm coming in and he’s stuck in the midst of the carnage.)
Vikkstar has a lamp in his desk that spontaneously flickers whenever he turns on his facecam. It is not broken but he claims it is, turning it into a bit during his streams that his audience can laugh along with ignorantly.
(Three short flashes. Three long beats. Three short flashes. S.O.S. Vik quietly turns off Michael’s contraption when he sees a Peacekeeping mod in his chat.)
Nihachu is never late to any of her scheduled streams. She logs on, laughs with her chat, and sometimes Wilbur Soot appears with her. She opens up to her chat, keeps a small but loyal following who know all about her life.
(Niki keeps no secrets. She tells this to her chat. She keeps no promises she can guarantee. Her chat knows this. There is no truth in her words, there is no trust anywhere but back home.)
Toxxxicsupport builds in-game creations in strange rituals they laugh off as being part of her strange personality. She tears down every oak tree she finds, builds her houses out of spruce and hates them afterwards, and complains about never finding acacia wood.
(There are no gifts she can give, but District Seven realises, anyway. There’s a reason why she so adamantly refuses to acknowledge the existence of birch trees.)
TommyInnit never wears blue in his streams. His in-game character wears red. On Game season, he wears the darkest colours he finds in his dresser and parades that fact as loudly as he possibly can.
(No sky, no freedom — a bleeding dressmaker fighting to meet the deadlines — black, present nowhere but before a headstone. He said it once and he’ll say it forever: he despises pink.)
Pyrocynical keeps a cookbook in the background of his videos. When a viewer asks about it offhandedly, he snatches it up too eagerly and starts talking about his newfound passion for cooking, about the meals he would cook for his floormates. The rant ends up lasting thirty minutes too long.
(One day he’ll release the contents of his cookbook and District Nine will welcome their wayward fox back home, but until then, the secrets of his tributes stays safe and well away from anyone else’s eyes.)
JustAMinx starts her birthday stream with tears in her eyes and a fanged smile between her lips. To the Capitol, she’s rambling about the weather, about the pretty sky, about being a narcissist that so tirelessly shoves her celebrations in their faces.
(To District Ten, she’s asking them for a favour they cannot give. Her family crowds around their porch and watch her sunrise with no words spoken.)
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Somewhere in Floor Four, Smii7y ends his videos with a bright end screen and a catchy tune. Only the farmers, the people he left behind — only they know the underlying message hidden in the last four notes.
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(One day, Jschlatt will start up a stream and find himself tap-tapping his fingers on his left arm. He’ll hope his darnedest that anyone from Twelve is watching.)
(Danger. Collapsed tunnel. Landslide.)
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District One uses words. They use their gilded silvers and their salesmen rhetorics and most importantly, they use the mantras passed from teacher to student, from parent to child, from friend to friend.
District One values strength in repetition, self-made crutches crafted from the simplest utterances.
From trainer to career: Born a Victor, raised to fight, made to win.
From mentor to tribute: Chin up, back straight, smile, millions are watching.
From Technoblade to his viewers at District One. To the starry-eyed kids signing up for the program. To the Careers gearing to volunteer at the mad rush of wrestled honour. To his parents, to his sisters, to his friends. To the world, to let them know just who he is.
A warning, maybe: Technoblade never dies.
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One day District Twelve will see the Capitol’s golden boy press his fingers to his temple.
(An earthquake is coming.)