Chapter Text
“The games will commence in 60 seconds.” King George’s cruel aristocratic voice rumbles out of thin air. “Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour.”
A mechanical beeping rattles between the platforms. The terror is freezing in my bloodstream, I couldn’t move even if I tried. I squint into the blinding light, trying to make out the terrain that I will surely die in, I hope it is beautiful.
The bang of a cannon makes me flinch, signalling the fall of a tribute. Somebody must have stepped off their platform early and got blown to smithereens– the easy way out. A quick, painless death sounds appealing.
Seconds later, a second deafening boom shakes the arena. Then, another, and another, each one closer to me than the previous. It seems like the tributes are dropping dead before the games have even begun.
Another boom goes off right next to me. I realise now that there will be no victor. All of us will die. I am next. There’s nothing I can do, but try to die with grace.
…
I jolt awake. Tears sting my eyes, I wipe them with shaky hands. It was only another nightmare, thank god.
The first rays of the morning sun filters through the tattered, yellowed curtains. I groan to myself. It feels criminal for the sun to shine so brightly on such a dark day as today, and to cast such a warm, comforting glow on the makeshift bedroom.
An ancient piano is nestled in the corner, a box of handwritten sheet music leaning against it. It was once a beautiful rehearsal space. But now, a thin mattress, darkened by the coaldust in the air, rests awkwardly in the middle of the dusty floor. Along with a scratchy blanket sewn from old flour sacks, and Mother’s old pillow.
“Alex, are you up? It’s nearly nine.” My cousin, Peter hovers by the doorway, his gaze darting nervously around the room.
…
We were never exceedingly close. His band used to perform at Fraunces Tavern every night and since I was too young to attend, our interactions were limited to awkward hello’s and small talk when he came to check on Mother. But now he’s the only family I have left. I owe him everything for taking me in. He himself is still a child, hardly fit to raise me, but he is trying his best.
Father, a rich Capitolsman, never wanted anything to do with me, Mother died of yellow fever last winter, and my half-brother, James, was killed in the 98th Hunger Games. I know nothing more than the names of my other relatives, which I read on their gravestones at the hidden cemetery for rebels who lost their lives during the Great War.
There is this insatiable hunger within me to learn more about those who came before me. Why is it that the Capitol wants to end my bloodline? Why is it that those who weren’t killed in the war were later reaped for the Hunger Games? I cannot believe that it’s all a coincidence, despite every adult I've ever asked insisting that it is so. Peter and I are the only living Hamilton’s, someday I will muster up the courage to ask him about the truth.
I am just a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Capitolsman, but Peter is the first to see me as more than a product of my past. Him and I are both drowning in grief, but there’s this quiet understanding that we’re drowning together.
…
“We might be able to cut the mold off the bread, if you’re hungry.” I know that Peter hasn’t eaten properly in days, yet for some reason he’s still offering me our last food.
“I ate last night, you should have it.”
Of course, finances are always a battle in District 12, the Capitol doesn’t care if we live or die, so we’re left to fend for ourselves. I try to help where I can to keep us afloat. Lately I’ve been importing and trading sugarcane and rum all the way from district 4. And while it is technically illegal, it’s better than working in the mines. Luckily for me, corruption courses deep enough in the government’s blood that the peacekeepers will keep quiet if you slip them a bottle or two. Some of my most loyal clients are those who are meant to execute me.
I stand up and a wave of nausea floods over me. I would usually blame it on hunger, but today is the day I wished would never come. I’ve been tormented by nightmares about today for years. And at last, after a lifetime of dread, it has arrived– my first Reaping. Or as we like to call it, Doomsday.
The Reaping. The Capitol calls it a ceremony, as if there’s anything worth honouring. Every year, a district escort arrives at each district to choose two names of children aged twelve to eighteen. They’re sent off to slaughter each other on live television. Their suffering becomes entertainment. Their deaths are tradition. And when it’s over, the Capitol allows a single survivor to become their slave and call it “victory”.
To me, death sounds much more inviting than your fate if you survive. Capitol citizens will spend millions to sleep with a Victor. The money will never heal the scars their uncaring hands leave on you.
According to gossip on the streets, Mother was the first and only Victor from District 12; an especially vicious victory. She was willing to do anything to get home to her son, James. He was barely 11 when she was reaped. Little did she know, she would never see him again. As her body was sold, the years blended together and her mind was slowly stolen from her. Until a rich Capitolsman had done horrible, unspeakable things to her, and she ended up pregnant with me. The Capitol was outraged, not at him, but at Mother, because she dared to mix her inferior blood with superior Capitol genes. They stole away her millions and had her shipped right back to district 12– without a cent to live off.
By the time she had me, she was completely and utterly deranged. She only spoke in riddles and sobs and the haunted look never left her stare. Some days she didn’t even recognise me. I practically had to raise myself, but I never once blamed her. I always knew who the real villain was.
…
As my trembling fingers fumble with my shirt buttons, I study myself in the cracked mirror in front of me. I’m just barely tall enough to see my reflection. I may be twelve years old, but my body doesn’t seem to want to grow. My limbs are still childlike and bony, and I lack the muscle that the boys my age from the other districts have. I have dark bags under my eyes, and my cheeks are still round from childhood. Though my eyes lack the childlike wonder that the children in picture books have. I look like an odd mix of a traumatised child and an optimistic adult. Though there are more pressing matters than my appearance, so I’ve learned to avoid mirrors when I can.
Sometimes, when I catch a quick glimpse of my reflection, I look distinctly like Mother. It’s comforting to see her face again, even if none of it’s real. We both have Olive skin and black hair, but the rest of me seems to have come from Father.
I am the only person in the district with bright blue eyes, apparently it only runs in Capitol blood. I feel disgustingly polluted whenever I see my father, a man I’ve never met, staring back at me through my own eyes in the mirror. The sight makes me want to rip my eyes out of my head, maybe then the district I call home will finally accept me as one of their own.
My breath suddenly catches in my throat– almost like my heart has stopped beating completely. The panic is paralysing. Is this how I will die?
“Alex. Breathe with me. In through your nose and out through your mouth.”
Peter clutches my shaking hands and wipes the rivers of sorrow from my cheeks
“You’ll be alright, Kid. There are thousands of names to choose from, you’ve been too lucky up until now to get reaped.”
He smiles at me, but it doesn’t fully reach his somber eyes. I manage to reciprocate a weak grin.
“I know what’ll take your mind off things,” he says, sliding in behind the piano, “Pretty soon you’ll be old enough to perform with us.”
His fingers find the right keys at an astonishing speed, I instantly recognise the complex melody– This was Mother’s favourite song.
He gives me a pointed look and we begin to sing, our voices settling in a beautiful harmony.
“I may not live to see our glory,
But I will gladly join the fight.
And when our children tell our story
They’ll tell the Story of Tonight.”
…
I give one final attempt to flatten my hair— and as per usual— it goes right back to its messy halo of black curls.
Peter is waiting by the front door, fidgeting nervously with the ring on his middle finger, his fingers running over the gold carved into an intricate treble clef. He’s wearing his elegant, crisp performance suit, reserved only for concerts and reaping days.
We make our way to the town square side by side. His strides are much longer than mine, I’m almost jogging to keep up.
Peter suddenly stops so abruptly that I awkwardly bump into him. A rabble of civilians are scattered around something settled on the ground.
Peter grabs my shoulders and tries to steer me away, but I resist.
The sight before me makes me stop dead in my tracks. A man lies unmoving on the dirt, his eyes unfocused and glassy. His frame is so thin, it looks like the wind could snap him in half.
Starvation isn’t uncommon in District 12– all of us are frail and skinny. Most of us live off stale bread and katniss root soup— yet the sight of the starved man makes my blood run cold. A woman sits by his side, broken, desperate sobs wracking through her body. She looks as if her grief is about to swallow her whole
Peter grabs my arm with such force that I stumble over my own feet.
“I’ve told you a million times to listen to me.” He hisses at me. Before I can apologise, we stand before the entrance of Town Square.
The anxiety I was able to sing away earlier returns in strong destructive waves.
Peter pulls me to the side, “Listen to me, Alex. If I get reaped today, don’t you dare even think about volunteering. The band will take care of you. You have the voice of an angel, Alex, use it. Your mother would be so proud of you.”
He tries to smile, but the desperation in his gaze makes it look choked. His voice fades to a whisper, “The Capitol has it out for us Hamilton’s.”
I have never seen my jokester of a cousin look so serious.
I never even considered that Peter could be reaped today, the thought of it makes me want to scream. I should’ve asked him why the Capitol hates us when I still had the chance. Before I can try to get answers from him, he pulls me into his arms.
“Alexander, do not throw away your shot.” He whispers.
And just like that— he’s gone.
…
I stumble into the registration line with the other 12 year olds. I try to suppress the tremble in my hands so I can tuck in my too-long shirt.
“Name?” A large, red faced man in a peacekeeper's uniform demands.
“Alex.” My voice sounds feeble and hushed.
He rolls his eyes and bends down to my height. “Your full name, halfwit.” His breath reeks of cheap alcohol.
“Alexander Hamilton.” I avoid his fault-finding eyes.
His eyebrow shoots up with a smirk.
Promptly he summons a small black blade and nicks my fingertip.
“What the hell?” I demand, my whole hand tingling. He just grabs me and smears my blood on a sheet of paper, next to my name. Hundreds of other bloodstains are spread across the page.
“May the odds be ever in your favour.” His smile is cruel. Maybe I am imagining it, but there seemed to be a whisper of pity in his gaze.
“Well get going then.” He grumbles at me.
…
I stand off to the side of the square, next to Jacky Washington. He smiles and he looks strikingly like his father, George Washington, an old rebel leader who got murdered by King George III himself. I smile back and give him a reassuring nod. Us orphans tend to stick together.
The sun is hot on my exposed skin. Terrified murmurs reverberate throughout the square. Other than on Reaping Day, the square is dead quiet. We’re not a district who can afford luxuries like celebrations or festivals.
A man struts onto the stage, and everyone is stunned to silence (and not in a good way). He’s wearing a fluorescent yellow jumpsuit with thick padding at the back. I’ve never seen a colour that bright, or that ugly. Bushy false eyelashes, almost as long as my legs, in the same ugly yellow, are stuck onto his eyelids. His voice is nasally and absurdly high pitched when he speaks.
“Hear ye, hear ye! My name is Samuel Seabury— your district escort for the 99th annual Hunger Games!”
His overjoyed voice hangs expectantly in the air, but nobody claps. A couple older boys snicker, a peacekeeper gives them a look that could turn rain into snow.
“Pathetic.” Samuel sneers to the peacekeeper beside him. He nods in agreement and readjusts his grip on his gun.
The rusted speakers in the corners of the square suddenly buzzes to life. King George III clears his throat. His voice sounds exactly like it did in my nightmare. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, I can't help but shudder.
“Citizens of the Districts, do not forget who grants you peace, and who can take it away.
96 years ago, the districts, led by District 13, dared to rise against the Capitol. They wanted to destroy us, to erase the very order that sustained them. After all we had given them! After three long years of war, we were left with no choice but to erase District 13 and put the remaining districts under rightful control . For it became clear that you— feral, ungrateful, and violent— could not be trusted with freedom. From that moment forward, peace was restored, because peace demands obedience.
In honour of the brave Capitol citizens who perished, the Hunger Games were created. Each year, two tributes between the ages of twelve and eighteen are chosen to compete in a carefully created arena. It is a great honour, a chance to serve the Panem, to pay for the crimes of your ancestors, and to remind the world of the consequences of rebellion.
Let this be a reminder: there is no outwitting the superior. You owe us everything, and these Games do not even begin to repay that debt. Yet we are merciful.
There are far worse games that could be played.
Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour.”
The speaker cuts out.
What a bunch of bullshit! There is no way that anybody believes that crap. King George is nothing more than a corrupt dictator. He should be the one paying for the crimes his ancestors committed. I bite back a scowl.
Jacky pulls on my sleeve and whispers, “Keep a smile on your face. Don’t let it falter— otherwise they’ll call you a rebel and kill you.”
Red hot rage is coursing through my veins, I can almost feel the heat burning my body. I know that Jacky means well, he doesn’t want me to die the same way as his father, but it’s all just so unfair.
“Let’s get on with it then!” Samuel Seabury sounds overjoyed.
The smug smirk on his face makes me want to punch him, though I don't think I’ll be able to— I’ve never thrown a punch before.
He sticks his hand into a large vase, filled to the brim with slips of paper. It’s almost absurd to think about the detrimental impact two simple slips of paper will have. Two sealed fates. Two empty graves, itching to be filled.
It feels like the entirety of District 12 is holding their breath as he digs his hand deep into the vase, pulls out a slip and unfolds it.
“Embrey Langston,” he reads, his Capitol accent botching the traditional name, “come on up dearest!”
I feel guilty for the relief that washes over me. The whole district seems to exhale at once, but it’s cut off as a heartwrenching scream rises from the crowd
A desperate mother tries to fight her way into the tributes section, clawing and scratching at the peacekeepers blocking her way.
“No!” The word is torn from her throat with an excruciating sob.
A peacekeeper knocks her down with the butt of his gun.
She lifts her face from the ground, blood pouring from her nose— fury unlike anything I've ever seen before burning in her face.
“I refuse! My son will not be a part of your barbaric games! I refuse to be a slave to the Capitol for a second more. You’re monsters, all of you!”
Before her rant can continue, a deafening bang shoots through the square. She falls to the floor face down, but this time she does not get up. My ears are ringing and a wave of nausea consumes me.
Blood pours from the woman’s temple, making the dirt around it turn into a pool of crimson mud.
She lies just as still as Mother did when she passed away in my arms.
I am struggling to breathe again, I try to ground myself in Peter’s words, and despite his claim, I feel the opposite of lucky.
I am ripped back to the harsh reality by Samuel Seabury clearing his voice into the microphone. A boy, Embrey, is slouched and frozen beside him. He can’t be any older than 14. Much like mine, his frame is light and childlike. His face is pale and twisted with horror. He is so wobbly that I am afraid his legs will collapse under him.
Samuel tugs at an oversized eyelash that’s flopped into his eyes, then he sticks his hand back into the vase.
Everybody is suddenly hyperaware, the absolute tragedy of mere moments ago forgotten.
He pulls out a slip.
The ghost of recognition flickers on his face before he reads:
“Alexander Hamil—”
Before I can even register that my name has been called, that I have been reaped, that my life is guaranteed to be cut short, I hear Peter’s voice cut through the ringing in my ears.
“I volunteer!” He screams, his voice raw with desperation, “I volunteer as a tribute.”