Chapter Text
Wren’s hands still as she brings them up to her mess of curls, silently debating whether she should attempt to run a comb through them or not. Usually, she just lets them hang free, but today is different. Today is different in a lot of ways. Ways she doesn’t want to think about, or else her heart might slow its irritatingly fast-paced beating. Not that she’d be necessarily opposed to such a thing, but she can’t let the shop go untended. Shaking her head to clear those kinds of thoughts, Wren picks up the visibly beaten up comb next to her mirror, bringing it to her hair with only a brief moment of hesitation. It’s missing a few teeth, but it gets the job done, and it’s not like she can just go out and get a new one, she’s barely making enough to eat as it is. Subsequently lost in thought about how this year's business will go, she doesn’t notice when the comb gets caught on a tangle and she curses as a sharp, sudden pain shoots up her head from the jolting movement. Yanking it out of her hair, Wren slams the comb back down on the table, staring at her cracked reflection in the mirror with a frustrated snarl.
“This is your last year, Wren. Pull yourself together. They’re not going to pick you, you’ve avoided it for the past 18 years. Get through today, and then you’ll be free,” she whispers to herself, urging her hands to stop shaking. You can’t break down today, of all days. Tomorrow she can cry and muffle her screams into her ratty pillows and grip her necklaces so tight they leave red imprints in her hands. Not today. Never today. After she finally manages to recompose herself, Wren finishes brushing out her hair and moves a few strands of the tight curls out of her eyes before lacing up her mud-encrusted boots. Quickly glancing up at the clock above her bed, she curses again at the fact that she only has a few minutes to get to the town square and runs down the stairs into the shop below her closet-sized room. She gives the dark, plant filled space a once-over, momentarily reassured that everything's in its proper place before exiting and locking up behind her.
Tucking the key into her pocket of her pants, Wren practically sprints down the dirt road to the town square, only slowing down once she can slip in with the other district children as they approach the peacekeepers for their blood to be drawn. She keeps her head down, letting her feet follow the swarm of people around her, trying not to draw any attention towards herself. Just get through today. Just get through today. She repeats the same phrase over and over inside her head, holding tight to it like it’s the only lifeline she has left in this grey, gloomy, dust filled town.
She doesn’t startle like the younger kids on the other side of her section do when the high-tech lights turn on, illuminating the square in an unnatural way. Wren knows the cameras have turned on by now, but she doesn’t want to look up in fear of getting noticed by someone. Anything to decrease her odds. It should be any minute now… Suddenly, a loud, screeching tap of the mic echoes across the space, amplified by the speakers as District 12’s escort stands in front of it on the stage. Wren forces herself to end her staring contest with the grimy floor, wincing slightly at Effie Trinket's blinding smile. Seriously, who needs those massive, looming light fixtures with that woman's teeth looking down at them? Or maybe with those reflective panels on her dress, she practically looks like a walking rhinestone-studded mirror, and the way the light is bouncing off makes Wren’s eyes hurt.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the 72nd Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!” Effie exclaims, her lilting accent and overflowing enthusiasm a sharp contrast against the bleak, washed out appearances of the children below her. She doesn’t seem to notice though, or if she does, she’s an expert at ignoring it. Wren zones out while the usual video clip over President Snow’s voice plays, she practically has the whole monologue memorized at this point. She absentmindedly wonders if they’ll ever record a new one, or if they’re all fated to be stuck watching the same thing every year until the day they die.
“-adies first!” Effie's ear-splitting voice cuts in, breaking through the haze in Wren's mind, grabbing her attention immediately. Shit, she didn’t mean to not pay attention for that long, she could have missed the actual reaping. She swallows nervously, urging her heart to stop trying to escape her rib-cage, there’s no reason to panic. She’s 18 years old, she’s never broken the rules,— nothing they’ve caught, anyway —there’s no reason she of all people will be picked. It’s like the entire District holds their breath as Effie reaches into the glass bowl, such a seemingly normal object, not looking at all like it holds the fate of one unlucky young girl. Just get through today. Just get through today. The whole square is unnaturally quiet as the escort makes her way back to the mic with a tiny slip of paper, everyone whose name is inside that bowl praying it won’t be theirs. Just get through today, just get through today, just get thro-
“Wren Nightshade!” the Capitol woman calls, pronouncing every syllable clearly, the name echoing out in the absence of any noise. There is a dead silence that presses down on her, practically suffocating Wren as she stares up at the stage in disbelief. No. No. No no no no no , she can’t have called her name, there’s a mistake, she heard wrong, this is a dream, a nightmare, it’s not real, it-
“Well, which fine young woman is Wren Nightshade?” Effie asks, her eyes scanning the tens of girls in front of her, trying to locate the tribute she just named. The people around Wren part, and she finds herself with hundreds of eyes upon her, and the only thing she can solidly think of is who is going to run the shop now? She can’t have hallucinated it because Effie just repeated her name, and it seems her fate really is sealed. The escort beckons for her to walk up to the stage, and that certainly snaps Wren out of her haze of shock because she knows if she doesn’t obey, the peacekeepers will get involved. So she digs her nails into her palms, so hard she thinks she may have drawn blood, and she forces herself to hold her head up high as she slowly climbs up the stairs, and suddenly there is a timer ticking inside her head and she is drawing closer to its end.
Effie guides her next to the microphone with a hand on her shoulder, and Wren nearly startles at the soft touch. It’s been a while since anyone has touched her, even such a simple thing as placing a hand on her shoulder, and she forgot how nice it can be. Even when the woman doing such a thing is a Capitol-born, escort of the weakest District who just doomed any hope of her living past eighteen. She’s so lost in thought she barely notices what's happening around her, not listening when Effie calls out a name for the male tribute. It’s only when she’s nudged to shake hands with him that she snaps back into reality, her face steeling as she turns to look him in the eye.
Wren’s never met him before, but she can tell he’s younger than her, maybe fifteen, and by the way he’s scowling so intensely she doesn’t think he’s going to be easy to work with. Not that she’s convinced she has any chance of walking out of the games alive, not when there are people as vicious as the careers in it. She offers her hand, and finally, he shakes it in a brief, hesitant gesture, and it’s only when Wren drops his does she remember her nails drawing blood as she glimpses the dried red on her palms. She’s off to a great start. She only manages to take one last glimpse at the town square full of people relieved they weren’t picked or that their children weren’t chosen before the boy and her are escorted off the stage and into the hall. Wren was unable to meet the eyes of anyone she knows, like her cousins or the blonde-haired woman her father was friends with whose eyes always seem to be filled with a silent grief.
She’s led inside a room and separated from the other tribute, and she realizes with a stab of her heart that this is when family is supposed to say goodbye. Clenching her teeth, she stops herself from digging her nails into her hands again, and looks around her temporary prison to distract herself. The room is clearly under disrepair as the lights above flicker every few seconds, and the paint is peeling off the walls that aren’t covered in old, dust filled bookshelves. Across from the door, there’s a single, small, obviously uncleaned window that looks out at the lands beyond District 12, except she can barely make anything out due to its pitiful state. A part of her wonders how many frightened too-young girls have stood where she is, looking outside for some last glimmer of hope before being taken to their deaths.
Only one person has ever won the games from her district, Haymitch Abernathy, and based on the state he’s always in, Wren isn’t sure if it’s even worth it to survive. She realizes suddenly that this means she’ll have to meet him as he’s to be her mentor, and she doesn’t know how to feel about that particular piece of information. Sighing, she wraps her arms around herself, wishing they could just get on the train already. It’s not like she has any family to say goodbye to…not anymore, at least. Maybe it’s better that way, she muses, that way there won’t be anyone once she dies who’ll mourn her, who’ll miss her. She can just… die peacefully—or, as peacefully as you can in a fight to the death. The sudden creaking of floorboards and then the noise of the beaten up door behind her opening startles her out of her thoughts, and she whirls around in confusion.
Before her stands her neighbor, Eliza, probably one of the only people who Wren actually talks to on occasion. It’s not that she purposely avoids people per say, but things changed when her parents died. She changed too. She barely even talks to her cousins on her fathers side, especially not after her financial situation dropped. Wren knows that when she was a child, when her parents were still breathing, they were considered to be on the wealthier side of District 12, but that's no longer true. Once that happened, her cousins, who are definitely rich for their District, didn't want to be associated with her much in public. Besides, she doesn’t have many friends anymore, not after she threw herself into managing the store after her parents… well anyways, long story short she’d like to consider Eliza as one.
“Eliza- I… why are you here?” she finally questions, hesitantly taking a few steps to stand in front of the slightly older woman. Eliza sighs, then smiles bitter-sweetly at Wren, reaching out and grasping her hands tightly.
“Wren, I’m so sorry. You were so close…” She trails off, her unspoken words hanging in the air before she clears her throat and continues, this time unable to meet Wren's dark brown eyes.
“They said family could go in and say goodbye to you two, and, well- I just… I mean, I didn’t want you to be alone before- because you don’t have-” Eliza stumbles over her words, evidently uncertain on what to say to make the situation better. Wren sighs, and draws Eliza closer into a comforting yet slightly awkward hug. Even though she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, it feels… nice. After a few seconds, she pulls back, and manages to offer a slight, grateful smile to her friend.
“Thank you, truly. That-that means a lot,” Wren says, and then she remembers something very important. Her eyes widen at the fact that it slipped her mind, and she reaches into her pocket and fishes out the keys to her shop.
“Here, these are the keys to the apothecary. I know you don’t know anything about plants, and I’m sorry if it’s too much to ask but… can you please take care of it for me? You don’t have to sell anything just- just water the plants with the supplies I left and make sure no one destroys it, please,” she pleads, a desperate tone to her voice as she holds out the keys to her neighbor. Eliza blinks twice, processing her request before nodding shakily as she takes the keys from Wren, holding onto them tightly.
“It’s no problem at all, Wren. I… I know how much that shop means to you. I’ll take good care of it, I promise,” Eliza responds, touching Wren's shoulder gently to reassure her. She hesitates before speaking again, looking at Wren with a small glint of hope in her eyes.
“If you can… stay alive,” she urges, despite knowing how futile it is. Wren is about to speak when the door opens again, two peacekeepers coming in and gesturing for Eliza to come with them. It’s time to go. Wren locks eyes with her friend, giving her a small nod as she watches her friend be taken out of the visiting room. After a few minutes, they come back, and take her to the train, nudging her inside before she can even get a final glimpse of her home. The doors shut automatically behind her, and she suddenly feels trapped, confined inside a box with no ways to escape.
She snorts, a dry sort of amusement at the comparison. Of course the Capitol would want its “esteemed tributes” to be stuck in a room filled with illusions of luxury and comfort, as if teasing them with things they’ll never be able to truly have. Wren glances around the compartment, taking in the extravagant crystals, pristine polished wood, and most of all, piles upon piles of foods she’s never seen before in her life. She takes a step closer to the nearest table, staring with amazement at all the delicately crafted pastries coated in layers of finely powdered sugar. So this is what the Capitol has been keeping from its Districts, this is the life of riches that makes those bastards in the government hold tight to their power. She can almost understand why, but it simultaneously sickens her, and Wren takes a sharp step backwards, putting distance between herself and the food covered tables, until she bumps into something behind her. Wait. Not someone. That felt like… a person? Wren spins around, and finds herself staring back at no other than Haymitch Abernathy.
“Might want to watch where you’re going, sweetheart,”