Chapter Text
I: THE UPROOTING
It starts with a tired memory: a ramshackle house, slats of sunlight illuminating his mother’s damp cheeks. She presses the bottle to her cracked lips: the motion seems to stretch out for infinity, as dreams tend to do. Finally, her hand droops across her lap with all the sorrow of a broken woman, and she begins to weep once more, the sound ricocheting off the walls.
Dream-Merick inches closer to her, painfully slow. His mother pulls him into an embrace, the half-empty bottle of alcohol still firmly in her grasp and her gaze still scanning the rift between illusion and reality. Dream-Merick does not know that this will become a recurring motif in his life.
“I’m sorry,” she wails. “I’m sorry.”
…………………………………………..
Merick snaps out of the dream like the crack of a pistol. Sunlight floods into his eyes. He sits up, and the ill effects of spending the night on the wooden floor immediately make themselves known. His muscles are stiff, his legs cramped. Merick’s mind spins from the dream – or is it a memory?
He brushes off the last dregs of sleep, and gets to his feet. Today is Reaping Day – he’ll be expected to look his best for the pageantry of death that is the Hunger Games. Cursing under his breath, Merick ambles down the attic’s staircase. Harlan – or Uncle Harlan, if he’s feeling up to it – is in the kitchen. He looks up from his newspaper once he hears the creaking steps.
“Sleep well?” Harlan sips a mug of steaming coffee. Merick grunts affirmatively, despite the knot in his back saying otherwise. He isn’t going to take up Harlan’s offer of a bed – this is only a temporary arrangement. Merick walks up and pulls out a chair next to his pseudo-parent.
“Today’s the Reaping,” Harlan comments idly. “Your last one, right?”
“Mhm.” Merick drums his fingers on the table unconsciously.
“You should look your best for your last Reaping.”
“I’ve grown out of my old Reaping clothes,” he replies. It’s a lie, but Merick isn’t particularly interested in playing dress-up.
“Not a problem. I have a few old shirts that should fit you,” Harlan says. His clinic’s the only functional one for miles, meaning Harlan leads a relatively comfortable life.
Merick resists the overwhelming urge to groan, and follows Harlan up to his room to pick out a shirt. He points at whatever’s closest, which turns out to be an olive green button-down. He pulls it on, the coarse material scratching at his skin.
Harlan adjusts his collar with a firm tug, then places his hands on Merick’s shoulders. Merick shrugs them off.
“You look just like your father,” he mutters, the edges of his voice worn. “You must miss him very much.”
Miss implies some sort of knowledge about the person; an innate bond, a connection. Merick might, for example, say that he missed his mother. Even if the only version of her he can ever truly recall is the desolate woman with a bottle of moonshine cradled in the hollow of her callused fingers, now dead along with the spring blooms.
His father, on the other hand, is a void in the shape of a man. Merick thinks he would have preferred it if he’d remained an enigma, a name whisked away by the wind.
Lemon Merick Sr. is anything but. He is the martyr of this backwater town, gilded and immortalised. And for what? For being a rebel, helping those in need? For sticking up for the common man? Not like it did him much good in the end. He was executed when Merick was five.
Harlan shoulders some amount of guilt for this – he and his father were good friends, and Harlan was also very likely involved in the same rebellious acts. Merick doesn’t understand this, but it’s the one thing that kept him and his mother afloat when she wasn’t feeling up to work. It’s what got him the job at the clinic, and it’s what got him a place to live now that he’s officially an orphan. Not for long, though, if Merick can help it.
“You’d best head to the clinic straight after the Reaping,” Harlan wonders out loud, slipping from father figure to boss like a snake shedding its skin. “We should expect more patients – you know how people get around this time.”
Merick does know – Eleven leans more rebellious compared to other districts, and dumping all of them into one dense crowd does no favors for safety. He nods and turns away from the man, marching down the corridor until he strides past a mirror, his own reflection stunning him momentarily. Sunken eyes stare back at him. The muscles in his face seem to have settled into a permanent scowl, not that he has much to be happy about.
Irritation spreads across his skin – he cannot refute the fact that he has grown to resemble his namesake. “Fuck genetics,” Merick curses under his breath to himself. The only feature that’s been spared is his crooked nose, each bend symbolising another fight, another punch to the face. It’s almost a source of pride for him.
…………………………………………..
The square is a warm, writhing throng of people. With the summer’s heat, the air is almost viscous, sweat clinging to Merick like a second layer of skin.
He sneers at the Peacekeeper, stationed at the entrance to the pens like a guard dog, as he holds out his finger. Merick might be imagining it, but the needle seems to sink further into his fingertip than usual. He doesn’t flinch – he won’t give the Peacekeeper that satisfaction.
LEMON MERICK JR., 18, the screen displays. Now it’s the Peacekeeper’s turn to bore holes into Merick’s skull with his newly hardened gaze.
“Don’t tempt fate, son,” he grins, mock sympathy dripping from his words. “You don’t want to end up like poor old Daddy.”
Merick bites back a retort about the Peacekeeper’s own father, but the anger continues to simmer long after the interaction as he navigates the crowd to the eighteen year old section.
The jab at his father is not necessarily what bothers him. What Merick loathes is the fact that the ghost of his father still clings to his life like cigarette smoke. The father he never truly knew, who somehow casts his burdensome shadow over Merick in every sense of the word. As if he is indistinguishable from the legacy of Lemon Merick Sr.
Merick had decided long ago: if his father was a hero, he would be a villain. He would not let himself be reduced to a mere caricature in the eyes of others.
He stands in the pen, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. The excess energy seeps out of his pores steadily. The strain in his shoulders relaxes, and he returns to a comfortable slouch. There’s a discernable air of tension and anticipation, especially this close to the stage – it’s the last Reaping for the eighteen year olds, and yet they also have the highest chances of getting picked.
An elbow digs into his side, sharp as a knife. All of a sudden, the anger is back, pouring into his consciousness and coating his nerves in a familiar fiery sensation. “Hey, dumbass!” Merick snaps. “Watch where you’re fucking going!”
Merick won’t lie – it feels good to have something to direct his rage at.
The hulking kid turns around, and – oh shit, Merick’s in for it now. How the fuck is this guy so big? he wonders even as dread pools in his gut. Don’t they feed us all the same thing?
Merick stands his ground despite the almost comical height difference, folding his arms in a show of defiance.
“What did you say?” the kid growls, pushing away countless others as he storms towards Merick. “You try’na pick a fight with me?”
He eyes the other boy. “What, are your ears as small as your brain? Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Merick fires back without a second thought.
“You’re gonna regret that, punk.” He grabs Merick by his shirt, and thrusts him forward. Merick forces back a gulp from his throat. “You–”
“Merick!”
Of course the Peacekeepers can’t be bothered to step in when there are real problems happening. Instead, it’s Joshua who has to pull the burly boy off of Merick with a saccharine smile. “He doesn’t mean it,” he explains. “Go on, say you’re sorry.” Joshua tilts his head in a way that says do it or you’re toast.
Begrudgingly, Merick murmurs a disgruntled “sorry” to the boy glaring at him with murderous intent.
“Why do you insist on picking on people who are definitely not your size?” Joshua asks exasperatedly, once the boy is out of their earshot.
Merick slumps. “No one here is my size,” he points out bitterly. While Merick is not short by any means, he’s dwarfed by the other, more hale and hearty eighteen year-olds who’ve already started working in the fields. Even Joshua has more than a few inches on him. “And you didn’t need to come to my rescue,” Merick tells Joshua pointedly. “I could have taken him.”
Joshua shrugs. “Fair point.” Merick knows they’re thinking about the same thing: the circumstances in which they first met. A tussle in the schoolyard – he can’t even remember what caused it – that led to both of them nursing identical injuries, although each boy would vehemently maintain that they’d won the fight. Later that day, he would start apprenticing under Harlan at the clinic, and who else would walk in but the kid whose nose he just broke.
It was memorable, no doubt. Harlan made him set Joshua’s nose. Said it “built character.” Joshua wouldn’t stop hounding him after that, and here they are.
We’re not friends, Merick reiterates internally. I simply tolerate him. He isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince.
The ceremony drags on. Under the relentless summer heat, time seems to warp. “War, terrible war,” Joshua mimes along with the video, swooning dramatically. The mayor, a portly man with a bald spot, takes the microphone. He drones on, recycling the same speech he’s been giving for the ten or so years Merick has been old enough to listen to it.
Merick tunes it out. His fingers go back to fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt. One of them breaks free, slipping out of his nervous hands before he can catch it mid-air.
Fuck. That’s Uncle Harlan’s shirt, he chides himself. Merick sighs and bends down to retrieve the button from the dusty ground. He drops it into the breast pocket of his shirt for safekeeping. Maybe he can fix it once the Reaping’s over.
The mere thought of a sewing needle sends a stab of pain at Merick’s gut. It would glint in his mother’s hands, catching the midday sunlight, as she steadily worked her way through the vast expanse of cloth. On her better days, when she didn’t immediately turn to the bottle, Sydney Merick was a damn good seamstress. He remembers her then: warm and caring, her eyes filled with steely resolve instead of the hollow, bottomless pits Merick had grown to recognise them for.
Those better days grew fewer and farther between. Merick watched her deteriorate, waste away under the weight of the alcohol. And then she was gone, her death inevitable as the shifting of the seasons and yet sudden as a bolt of lightning.
Life goes on. Two weeks later, Merick’s standing in the square as the mayor’s monotone voice crackles through the speakers, wondering where the hell everything went wrong. But he supposes he knows already.
Finally, the man retreats to the back of the stage. Joshua smiles wanly at Merick. “I thought he was never going to finish,” he jokes, but the faux-lightness does nothing to disguise the strain in his voice.
Merick grunts, non-committal, and stares vacantly at the escort flouncing up to the microphone.
“Welcome to the Reaping for the 90th Hunger Games! I’m your escort, Ismene Dovecote, and I hope you’re all as excited as I am!” Her cloying cheeriness grates on Merick’s nerves. Stealing a glance at Eleven’s two living Victors, it’s clear that they feel the same way.
Ismene giggles. “Ladies first, as always!” she announces. Merick wonders whether she’s capable of not ending a sentence on a high-pitched exclamation. Ismene dips a delicate satin-gloved hand into the Reaping bowl.
Merick really couldn’t care less about the girls’ Reaping. He drums his fingers on his thigh. Beside him, Joshua is a different story: his hands are clasped together as if in prayer, and his eyes are tightly shut. Merick thinks he either has a sister or a girlfriend, or maybe both, with how fervently he’s staring at the escort.
A slip is pulled out. Ismene unfurls it with excruciating caution.
“Zinnia Greengrass!” she calls out, an absurdly wide grin on her face. There is stillness for a moment, the entire world frozen in place. Then a girl breaks the silence with her shuffling footsteps, emerging from the sixteen year-olds’ section behind them. Zinnia climbs the stage, her lower lip jutting out.
“Lovely!” Ismene comments, to no one in particular. “Zinnia Greengrass, everyone! Give her a big round of applause!”
There is no clapping. Even Merick feels bad for this girl, having to not only fight to the death but also be shown off like prize cattle.
The Head Peacekeeper, standing guard on the stage, levels his rifle at the crowd. Merick wants to say even he wouldn’t resort to gunning down all these people for not clapping, but honestly? He wouldn’t put it past the man.
Scattered applause rings out, discordant. It’s deemed enough by the Head Peacekeeper as his hand returns to his side, a sadistic gleam in his eyes.
Fuck him, Merick curses. Fuck all of them.
Ismene beams. “Now for the boys. Let’s see who will join Miss Greengrass!” Her fingers descend into the glass bowl, fishing out a paper.
This is it. One last Reaping, and Merick is free. Unbound from the shackles of his name, of his father’s life, of his mother’s death, of Harlan’s guilt.
Merick’s breathing comes to a complete halt, his thoughts raging like a tropical storm.
“Lemon Merick Jr.!” she cries.
The first thing Merick hears are the sharp gasps that slither into his ears and strike his fleshy heart.
Before the electricity can jump across his synapses to relay the information, before he can even process it – his legs are moving of their own accord towards the stage. Ice-cold water trickles down his spine. Merick’s mind is elsewhere, as if viewing the scene from outside of his physical body.
The stage reels him in, each footstep vibrating throughout his bones. His face is a stone mask, his hands buried deep into his pockets to hide any signs of nervousness.
Up close, Ismene’s thick coat of makeup is even more garish. Her violet-coloured irises sweep across Merick’s impassive expression. “Well, Lemon, you’re–”
“It’s Merick,” he snaps, the unfamiliar name raking at his eardrums. Lemon may have suited the supposedly sunny demeanour of his father, but the only thing Merick has in common with the fruit is that they’re both sour most of the time. The escort blinks, as if she’d never stopped to consider that Merick could talk. Next to her, he sees his district partner stifle an inhaled breath.
She starts again, slower this time. “Alright. Merick, then. You seem to have some fans already! How amazing!”
Merick grits his teeth, swallowing down the words before they burst out of his mouth.
“Your tributes, everyone!” Ismene exclaims. “Shake hands,” she instructs them. They do, Merick’s gaze never leaving the ground.
Jeers begin to erupt from the crowd. People are raising their fists, calling out things he can’t quite make out. For the life of him, Merick can’t understand why – Eleven’s rebellious, yes, but this is unprecedented even for them.
It’s not until an old man roars, “You can’t take his son, too!” that the realisation sets upon him like a bullet between his eyes. The cries from the masses fade into a muted thrumming at the back of his mind.
Merick’s nerves flare up in rage, the blood in his veins running red-hot. It always goes back to his father, doesn’t it?
He can never escape it. That makes Merick angrier.
When the Peacekeepers push the crowd back with their batons and riot shields, Merick can’t even find it in himself to sympathise with them. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the old man felled with a crack, then dragged away to the back of the building.
It doesn’t stir an ounce of pity in him. It’s not my fault they’re rioting! he screams to himself. They deserve it! Merick can scarcely hear his own thoughts over the noise.
At the same time, Peacekeepers ascend the stage, herding everyone away from the violence. They regard Merick with undisguised hatred, as if he was the one who started all of this. Merick stares back.
One of them grips Merick by the arm, yanking him down the stairs and into the Justice Building. Bitterly, he notices that neither Zinnia nor the Victors are being manhandled like he is. Figures.
For a moment, no one is sure what to do. The sounds of violence rage on outside, muffled by the walls. The Head Peacekeeper enters the room.
“Get on the train,” he instructs curtly.
“B-but don’t we get to see our family one last time?” Zinnia stammers, choked with tears.
“Rebels don’t get that luxury,” he spits out. “On the train. Now!”
They don’t need to be told twice. As the group scrambles through the winding hallways, Merick starts to think that his life really is just one shitshow after another.