Chapter Text
"In penance for their uprising, each district -including the people of the Capital- shall offer up three girls and four boys between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public 'reaping' every year. But because of their Victors and because of their rebellion, District 12 and 13 shall offer up another female tribute. These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol and then transferred into a public arena, where they will fight to the death until 24 victors remains. Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as "The Hunger Games."
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It has been approximately 170 years after the rebellion in which The Girl On Fire had participated in - in which she succeeded in overpowering the Capitol. After her death, when age took her, everything went back to being in the Capitol's control.
Jerome Jaha was elected President by the citizens of Panem, and having the power, one of his first proclamations was to bring back the Hunger Games. After his death, his son, Thelonious Jaha, took over as President and continued the proclamation, where the Games carry on.
Now, 100 kids from between the ages of 12 to 18 are chosen through a process called a 'reaping', where they will participate in a televised death match against one another until only twenty-four tributes are alive to be crowned the winners.
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District 2: Clarke Griffin
"Stay still." My mother ordered softly as she brushed the knots out of my hair.
I sighed, allowing her to continue, my eyes trained onto the sketchbook in my hand. "Mom?" I spoke up after a while, my hand frozen in the air with the black chalk held between my index finger and my thumb.
"Hmm?"
"The Games.... do you think I'll get reaped?" I asked, refusing to look up. I knew my mother was watching me through the reflection of the mirror, probably wondering why I would ask her such a thing. I gulped, licking my dried lips. "It's just that, well, my name's already in there five times. In two days, it'll be in there six times. Do you think there'll be a chance that I-"
"No." She interrupted, "You won't. I'm sure of it." She stood up, pushing back the chair as she gently put the brush down in front of me. "I'll go make dinner. Anything you want specifically?"
I shake my head, "No."
"Okay." She kissed the top of my head, before turning around to walk out of my room. I watched her back as she walked away, confused and slightly curious.
She seemed so confident that I wouldn't get reaped, but I knew she was scared. She was scared that she was going to lose me, too.
Ever since Dad's death three years ago, my mother had thrown herself into her work and became a workaholic. She was not home often, and when she was, she often locked herself in her room and cried. But that all changed last year, when she realised that I needed her as well, she realised that if there was a chance that I would get reaped, she needed to spend as much time with me as possible.
She tries, she really does, to connect with me somehow and to try to offer me some type of comfort that I didn't really need. But that's the thing, I didn't need comfort, I just need reassurance that she won't leave my life again.
What happens if I haven't been reaped by the time I'm over 18? Would she forget about me and grieve over Dad again?
"Clarke?" My mother's voice echoed down the hall, snapping me out of my miserable thoughts. "Dinner will be done in a few. You should probably wash your hands before that, though."
My eyes wandered to my hands, where the chalk I held in my palm were crushed into bits.
I didn't even remember closing my fist.
Letting the chalk bits fall through my fingers onto my sketchbook, I headed towards the bathroom to wash up the remainder of the chalk dust left on my hand.
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District 8: Bellamy Blake
"Bellamy?" A trembling voice asked from the doorway, and I immediately knew it was Octavia.
She had a nightmare again.
I instantly opened my arms towards my little sister, and she threw herself into them. She held me tightly, as if she was scared she was going to lose me if she let go.
And maybe that's true.
If my name gets called out in the reaping this year.
If it doesn't, then I'm one of the lucky ones. My name wouldn't be in the Reaping Balls anymore, and I would be free from the possibility of my name being drawn.
But Octavia wouldn't. She wouldn't be free from that possibility, not for three more years anyway.
"O?" I whispered into her hair.
She hummed in question, sniffling slightly.
"You alright?"
Octavia shook her head in return. "No, I'm not 'alright'." She pulled away, wiping furiously at the tears that had rolled down her cheeks. "I hate this. I hate all of this. I hate the Hunger Games, I hate President Jaha, I hate living with the threat that my name could be drawn for reaping this year, or next year or the year after that. Why is this happening? What did any of us do wrong? Why are we forced to live like this? I just- I don't understand!"
I sighed, pulling her back into a hug. "I don't know, Octavia. I don't think any of us understand either." I kissed the crown of her head, "But you need to understand that no matter what, I'll be there to protect you. I promise."
Octavia shook her head, pulling away again. "Bell, what about you? What if you get reaped? What if it's your name that they read out when they draw the male tributes' names?"
I rolled my eyes, forcing a smile on my lips. "My name won't be called. I'm sure of it." I paused, looking at her in the eyes. "And neither will yours."
Whether it's true or false, I'm not sure.
I guess that's why there's a thing called hope.
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District 6: Raven Reyes
His fingers were unusually soft compared to mine, despite the fact that he works with engines everyday.
I was a little jealous, but whenever he kissed the tips of my fingers, I'd feel butterflies and completely forget about everything.
Everything except the Games.
And maybe that should be a good thing; I shouldn't forget about something that's so life-threatening.
But I hate being haunted by the thought of it; the death and gory and fear.
I'm haunted by the fact that I could be part of all of that because of a slip of paper that has my name on it.
I'm haunted by the fact that I could lose everything and everyone if my name gets drawn.
I'm haunted by the fact that if my name doesn't get called, there's still a chance that his name will get called. And I don't want to lose him. Not yet. Not ever.
"Raven?" His voice was husky, and both soothing and exciting. "What're you thinking of in that pretty head of yours?"
"Nothing." I whispered, my breath fanning over his chest as my fingers danced along his abdomen. "Everything."
"By 'everything', do you mean the Hunger Games?"
I almost smiled at the fact that he could read my mind so clearly. "How did you know?"
"It would be weird if your weren't thinking about the Games." Finn gave a fake shudder, a grin forming on his face. "What about the Games were you thinking of?"
"The death." I replied bluntly, sitting up while pulling the sheets up to my bare chest. "How innocent people -no, children- die just like that." I snapped my fingers to prove my point.
Finn chewed on his bottom lip, before lifting himself by his elbows. "We can't do anything about that, though." He moved his head forward, grazing his lips against mine. "Let's just enjoy our moments together while we can."
I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, shaking my head. "Let's not think like that."
He hummed in response, agreeing, before pushing forward and capturing his lips against my own. Finn pulled my down on top of him, our bare chests touching, our tongues dancing.
And for the first time, I forgot.
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District 3: Monty Green
"Harper, what on earth are you doing?" I laughed, staring up at my best friend.
"What do you think, stupid?" She threw down a bright red apple, not even checking if I caught it. I did. "You think we could get arrested for this?"
"Yes." I smirked, taking a bite out of the apple. "You want some?"
"Nah." She replied, grabbing another apple before jumping off the branch, only to fall back as soon as her feet hit the ground.
I stepped towards her, scared that she injured herself, but she just waved me off.
"I'm fine." She pushed herself up, grabbing the apple that she had dropped. "I'm a tough girl, remember?" She winked jokingly at me.
I rolled my eyes in return, spinning around to walk back towards her house. "My mother's going to kill me once she finds out that you sneaked out again."
"I don't really think you can call it 'sneaking out'." Harper snorted, jogging up beside me. "The tree's literally outside the fence, and the branches are hanging over our backyard. I could reach up and snag an apple from the tree."
I snorted, "Yet you chose to climb over the fence -which, let's not forget, is electrified- just so that you can climb that tree for apples." I took another bite of the apple.
Harper nudged her shoulder against mine, "The best and more ripe apples are at the top of the tree, on the other side." She took a bite, the juices squirting slightly when her teeth sunk into the skin. "I had no other choice."
I rolled my eyes again.
"If you say so."
"And anyway..." Harper sighed, staring at the apple. "It might be the last time I eat an apple from my district."
I pursed my lips together, not saying anything, before taking a bite out of the freshly ripe apple.
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The Capitol: Wells Jaha
Nightmares are by far one of the worst experiences that I've faced in my life.
Nightmares where my mother is standing there in front of me one second, and bleeding out on the ground the next. Nightmares where she's singing me a lullaby, and then suddenly gasping for air.
They always end with me waking up in a cold sweat, screaming and crying.
I always expect my mother to rush into my room and calm me, but then I realise she's gone and nobody's coming.
Not even my father.
And that leads to the possibility of an even worst experience; The Hunger Games.
A televised battle between kids of the ages between 12 to 18, where they are forced to kill each other until one person remains standing. Then, that person is crowned the Victor and lives with luxury and fame for the rest of their life.
I wonder if the previous Victors are ever haunted by the deaths of the other tributes, because I know for certain that if I were to be in the games and if I had remained the last person standing, I'd never be able to forgive myself for everybody's death.
I guess, in a way, I can thank my father for that. For the death of thousands of innocent children, and the misery of the remaining tributes.
But I won't blame my father. Not much anyway.
After all, I couldn't blame him for my mother's death. Even if I oh-so-badly wanted to.
But what I can blame my father for is forcing 100 kids into an arena to fight 'till death until only 24 remain.
Like they had said back then and like they say now; may the odds be ever in your favour.