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31_days2014-01-22 09:33 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2014-01-22 09:33 pm
[Jan. 22] [THG] Fractured
Title: Fractured
Day/Theme: Jan. 22, 2014 "They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate."
Series: Hunger Games trilogy
Character/Pairing: District 5 victors
Rating: PG
Author's comment: a la various other writings of mine, D5's Shy, Valse, Hamlet, and Phebe on the day of the reaping for the 75th Games
The four victors of District 5, a perfect unbroken set in the only district where every victor crowned still lived, headed through the midst of the divided crowd up to the stage with Peacekeepers flanking them on either side.
Phebe, the youngest, though far from a child, went first, the only one whose step was entirely unaided. Her red hair blazed out like a trail of fire behind her. Her face was set like stone, her gaze piercing, her mouth tight in a familiar grim line. Externally, she faced this reaping much like all the others. She was intent not to give the Capitol any sort of show like they were undoubtedly doing in all or nearly all the other districts. Phebe's fear was not for public consumption anymore. She had tried to act scared before, but everyone had liked best to see her as a scared little girl- she wasn't strong enough, they'd told her, to play tough. Well, she hadn't won by being a scared little girl and no one would tell her otherwise now.
But that didn't mean she would go willingly. They could still call Shy, that pompous biddy. Oldest living female victor- that spot Shy held didn't mean anything to Snow, did it? Well, it didn't earn the old woman anything in Phebe's eyes either. She was a catty, self-interested opportunist. Phebe hoped Shy's name would be chosen. She'd lived long enough. One of that had to go. That part wasn't up for debate.
Phebe took her seat onstage and kept her head up, holding her eyes level above the crowd, though briefly, almost against her will, they brushed over the father of her so-promising tribute from last year. If Ms. Sharp had prevailed in the Games, this wouldn't have been happening. No, oh no. It hit her with a twist of her stomach. If only there had been something else she could've done. If only she had ultimately understood that girl better. This card wouldn't have been picked in the president had not felt his hand forced. The rebels would not have risen for her girl. They would not have risen for Cato or Clove, singularly or together. …for the girl or boy from Eleven…that was harder to say.
Phebe was sorry for the bereft Mr. Sharp. She was sorrier for herself.
Valse came behind Phebe, maneuvering the best he could with his crutches. He'd had something of a bad fall on the day of the Quarter Quell announcement and had damaged one of the artificial bones in his left foot from the rebuilding it had undergone following his Games. His request to go to a Capitol hospital for surgery to fix it properly had been denied. He didn't understand why. He hadn't hurt himself as some sort of plot to escape the Games.
If Valse's name were called, he was going to go with dignity. He would not ask Hamlet to go in his place. He had lived a long enough life, if not an entirely satisfying one.
Just, his foot. It was hurting him. There would probably not have been time for a full recovery from the surgery before the Games anyway. The best local physician, with the skill perhaps, but not the nerve (he claimed he didn't have the proper tools), would not operate, but prescribed just enough pain killers and roughly set the bone. With this foot, he would be dead at the Cornucopia (of course, without it, he would probably be dead at the Cornucopia anyway- he had not been particularly spry ever since the original crushing of his foot).
One of the Peacekeepers was growing impatient with his pace. They could have carried him or driven him if they had liked, Valse thought. He would not have turned down either option. But for whatever reason, the victors were meant to walk from their homes to the stage on their own as best they could. And Valse was hardly the slowest of them.
…He was not sure whether to hope they called for him or Hamlet. Would it be wrong to let Hamlet go? Age might be a factor to consider, but was what Hamlet did much in the way of living? And he and Shy had not entrusted their junior victors with knowledge of the rebellion. Better a tribute who would drag the Games out longer and buy time. Better for Valse to be out as a mentor, coordinating matters from the control room.
He sighed with relief as he took his seat. He would leave the choice to fate. He would not protest either name.
Shy shuffled third with her cane in hand. People weren't always sure she needed it. She didn't lean on it that heavily. Well, as usual, "people," didn't know anything. She was over eighty years old! She needed the cane just in case! Wasn't who she was right enough not to be pestered over things like this?
"Can't you-" the nearest Peacekeeper tried to be kind about it, "Move, you know, a little faster?"
Phebe was already seated on the stage. "I am trying, sir," Shy replied. Valse wasn't all that far ahead. …Hamlet was the one they should be worried about.
People always seemed to think she was holding something back. Well, she wasn't. Not usually. Way back when people had thought she'd faked her illness as a Games tactic, but it had been a real disease that would've killed her if she hadn't been treated afterward in the Capitol. People thought she wasn't doing enough to save their tributes. Well, it wasn't enough most of the time, but it wasn't like she was purposefully holding back. She did what she could. She'd brought back Valse, hadn't she? You couldn't win them all. You couldn't win most of them. It was intended that way and Shy wasn't about to break herself over impossibilities like Pal (earth accept his weary body and sky his weary soul) or Mags (what a lady she was, puttering along with her funny optimism after all these years).
If she'd destroyed herself years ago, she wouldn't be here today. There weren't many rebels in Five, but this quell was going to make more of them. If she died for this- either in that arena or after, it would be worth it. She would die for a cause instead of for nothing. …though maybe her death could've been expected to stir the cause better if she'd made more of an effort to be liked.
The Peacekeeper gave her hand to steady her as she took the stairs.
Were it up to Shy, she'd take whatever line of fire the mentoring position put her in over the arena. Rescue priority would be to the tributes inside, but a woman like her would never last to have a chance at rescue. …she still had some hope she might survive this. She had doubly beaten death when she survived the Games. She had outlived all but one victor before her and another handful after. She would remain calm and collected. She could do this.
Maybe even Phebe could too. …but she doubted it.
Hamlet was last. Whenever they had to go somewhere, Hamlet was last. This was because he was virtually always drunk or hungover or combating a hangover with more drinking. It had to be assumed that the Peacekeepers present had been given orders not to just throw him over someone's shoulder and carry him up to the stage like a stack of the local potatoes because it would have been far more convenient than the occasional pushing and prodding they were currently engaged in to keep him moving and on his feet.
Hamlet didn't know what he'd done to deserve this. Any of this, but this new part most of all. Snow hadn't had to give in to popular pressure and allow that rule change. He could've let them swallow those berries and then pulled out whichever he preferred- the boy, right? that pretty blond boy- and pumped his stomach and filtered his blood and maybe saved him and if not, well, maybe there wouldn't be a victor? Or a boy who wasn't really him could become Peeta. There had been a doppelgänger victor once. Valse had told him. He wasn't sure if it were true though or just a fairy tale (though who would choose to make a fairy tale about the Games with all the infinite fantasy kingdoms and better days past to pick from?), because after that one telling, he'd never heard anyone tell it again. Hamlet wondered who the doppelgänger victor had been. If he'd ever known him or her. …maybe he or she were still alive. Valse's story hadn't been too clear on that part.
…it couldn't have been Haymitch though. There was no way Haymitch wasn't the real Haymitch. The Capitol wouldn't replace someone so rebellious with a fake who was equally so. That was something Hamlet didn't mind too much in the Capitol. He liked seeing Haymitch.
Haymitch was really smart. He was the first one who knew anything about his name, for one thing. "Why'd your parents name you 'Hamlet?'" he'd asked, "Were they just asking for bad things to happen to you? It's a tragedy you know. Hamlet's a troubled guy. Hamlet dies."
"'Cause he was a prince," the youngest victor from Five at the time had answered, "Because everyone in Panem is troubled. Everyone dies. But at least Hamlet was a prince."
And now he was going to fulfill the destiny of that name. They were going to throw him back into the arena- going cold turkey on the alcohol would be misery enough, but how could he stop upon learning there was a fifty percent chance he was going back? Valse wasn't going to volunteer for him. He was already sure of that part. Valse was his mentor, but he didn't owe Hamlet that. He was as afraid of the arena (and it was bound to be an even more awful one that usual) as any of them.
Hamlet was going to die this time and it wasn't going to be any special tragedy to nearly anyone. Twenty-three victors were going to die, and most, if not all, of them a greater tragedy than him. …but that didn't mean he wasn't going to fight it. Man had free will and he was meant to use it. (oh, but he didn't want to kill though- he didn't want to kill again, but if he had to defend-)
He tripped on the steps and was dragged the rest of the way to his seat.
"Graceful, Ham," Phebe rolled her eyes at him.
"Sorry," he murmured.
District 5's escort, only four years in the position and not particularly familiar with any of the victors, is able to pull the names with glee.
"Hamlet Seff!" and the man in question slumped a little lower in his chair, because the real odds might have been fifty-fifty, but they had felt to him like one hundred percent.
No one urged Hamlet to stand.
"Phebe Burke!" and the woman in question stayed perfectly still, taking it as stoically as she had planned.
The escort had them rise now. It was procedure. Everyone had to get a good look at them (as if they haven't seen them dozens of times before). They had to shake hands.
The older victors did not budge in their seats. It was unpleasant, but they would accept it.
Hamlet swayed on woozy legs and Phebe was still as a tree on a windless day. They looked at each other as they shook hands, mulling over thoughts they could never have predicted they would be in a place to think. No one went into the Games twice. No one went with someone they had spent around twenty years mentoring on and off alongside. Hamlet liked Phebe even though she was often cruel. Phebe liked Hamlet though she often hated his uselessness. The rest of the nation was witness as they shared this sad and baffled glance.
They would not be allies in the arena. Phebe's odds were better. She would not waste her time and he would not drag her down. It was every tribute for themselves- and what would their silent elders do for them?
---
additional comments:
- "Ms. Sharp" was Foxface, of course (I have never given her a definite first name at this point, though Hamlet once thought it was something along the lines of 'Sofi' or Sovi')
- Hamlet, I have to say, I've always felt for as the poor drunk who gets killed first. Just the tiny bit of differentiation from the other nameless victor-tributes was enough to make me take note of him.
Day/Theme: Jan. 22, 2014 "They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate."
Series: Hunger Games trilogy
Character/Pairing: District 5 victors
Rating: PG
Author's comment: a la various other writings of mine, D5's Shy, Valse, Hamlet, and Phebe on the day of the reaping for the 75th Games
The four victors of District 5, a perfect unbroken set in the only district where every victor crowned still lived, headed through the midst of the divided crowd up to the stage with Peacekeepers flanking them on either side.
Phebe, the youngest, though far from a child, went first, the only one whose step was entirely unaided. Her red hair blazed out like a trail of fire behind her. Her face was set like stone, her gaze piercing, her mouth tight in a familiar grim line. Externally, she faced this reaping much like all the others. She was intent not to give the Capitol any sort of show like they were undoubtedly doing in all or nearly all the other districts. Phebe's fear was not for public consumption anymore. She had tried to act scared before, but everyone had liked best to see her as a scared little girl- she wasn't strong enough, they'd told her, to play tough. Well, she hadn't won by being a scared little girl and no one would tell her otherwise now.
But that didn't mean she would go willingly. They could still call Shy, that pompous biddy. Oldest living female victor- that spot Shy held didn't mean anything to Snow, did it? Well, it didn't earn the old woman anything in Phebe's eyes either. She was a catty, self-interested opportunist. Phebe hoped Shy's name would be chosen. She'd lived long enough. One of that had to go. That part wasn't up for debate.
Phebe took her seat onstage and kept her head up, holding her eyes level above the crowd, though briefly, almost against her will, they brushed over the father of her so-promising tribute from last year. If Ms. Sharp had prevailed in the Games, this wouldn't have been happening. No, oh no. It hit her with a twist of her stomach. If only there had been something else she could've done. If only she had ultimately understood that girl better. This card wouldn't have been picked in the president had not felt his hand forced. The rebels would not have risen for her girl. They would not have risen for Cato or Clove, singularly or together. …for the girl or boy from Eleven…that was harder to say.
Phebe was sorry for the bereft Mr. Sharp. She was sorrier for herself.
Valse came behind Phebe, maneuvering the best he could with his crutches. He'd had something of a bad fall on the day of the Quarter Quell announcement and had damaged one of the artificial bones in his left foot from the rebuilding it had undergone following his Games. His request to go to a Capitol hospital for surgery to fix it properly had been denied. He didn't understand why. He hadn't hurt himself as some sort of plot to escape the Games.
If Valse's name were called, he was going to go with dignity. He would not ask Hamlet to go in his place. He had lived a long enough life, if not an entirely satisfying one.
Just, his foot. It was hurting him. There would probably not have been time for a full recovery from the surgery before the Games anyway. The best local physician, with the skill perhaps, but not the nerve (he claimed he didn't have the proper tools), would not operate, but prescribed just enough pain killers and roughly set the bone. With this foot, he would be dead at the Cornucopia (of course, without it, he would probably be dead at the Cornucopia anyway- he had not been particularly spry ever since the original crushing of his foot).
One of the Peacekeepers was growing impatient with his pace. They could have carried him or driven him if they had liked, Valse thought. He would not have turned down either option. But for whatever reason, the victors were meant to walk from their homes to the stage on their own as best they could. And Valse was hardly the slowest of them.
…He was not sure whether to hope they called for him or Hamlet. Would it be wrong to let Hamlet go? Age might be a factor to consider, but was what Hamlet did much in the way of living? And he and Shy had not entrusted their junior victors with knowledge of the rebellion. Better a tribute who would drag the Games out longer and buy time. Better for Valse to be out as a mentor, coordinating matters from the control room.
He sighed with relief as he took his seat. He would leave the choice to fate. He would not protest either name.
Shy shuffled third with her cane in hand. People weren't always sure she needed it. She didn't lean on it that heavily. Well, as usual, "people," didn't know anything. She was over eighty years old! She needed the cane just in case! Wasn't who she was right enough not to be pestered over things like this?
"Can't you-" the nearest Peacekeeper tried to be kind about it, "Move, you know, a little faster?"
Phebe was already seated on the stage. "I am trying, sir," Shy replied. Valse wasn't all that far ahead. …Hamlet was the one they should be worried about.
People always seemed to think she was holding something back. Well, she wasn't. Not usually. Way back when people had thought she'd faked her illness as a Games tactic, but it had been a real disease that would've killed her if she hadn't been treated afterward in the Capitol. People thought she wasn't doing enough to save their tributes. Well, it wasn't enough most of the time, but it wasn't like she was purposefully holding back. She did what she could. She'd brought back Valse, hadn't she? You couldn't win them all. You couldn't win most of them. It was intended that way and Shy wasn't about to break herself over impossibilities like Pal (earth accept his weary body and sky his weary soul) or Mags (what a lady she was, puttering along with her funny optimism after all these years).
If she'd destroyed herself years ago, she wouldn't be here today. There weren't many rebels in Five, but this quell was going to make more of them. If she died for this- either in that arena or after, it would be worth it. She would die for a cause instead of for nothing. …though maybe her death could've been expected to stir the cause better if she'd made more of an effort to be liked.
The Peacekeeper gave her hand to steady her as she took the stairs.
Were it up to Shy, she'd take whatever line of fire the mentoring position put her in over the arena. Rescue priority would be to the tributes inside, but a woman like her would never last to have a chance at rescue. …she still had some hope she might survive this. She had doubly beaten death when she survived the Games. She had outlived all but one victor before her and another handful after. She would remain calm and collected. She could do this.
Maybe even Phebe could too. …but she doubted it.
Hamlet was last. Whenever they had to go somewhere, Hamlet was last. This was because he was virtually always drunk or hungover or combating a hangover with more drinking. It had to be assumed that the Peacekeepers present had been given orders not to just throw him over someone's shoulder and carry him up to the stage like a stack of the local potatoes because it would have been far more convenient than the occasional pushing and prodding they were currently engaged in to keep him moving and on his feet.
Hamlet didn't know what he'd done to deserve this. Any of this, but this new part most of all. Snow hadn't had to give in to popular pressure and allow that rule change. He could've let them swallow those berries and then pulled out whichever he preferred- the boy, right? that pretty blond boy- and pumped his stomach and filtered his blood and maybe saved him and if not, well, maybe there wouldn't be a victor? Or a boy who wasn't really him could become Peeta. There had been a doppelgänger victor once. Valse had told him. He wasn't sure if it were true though or just a fairy tale (though who would choose to make a fairy tale about the Games with all the infinite fantasy kingdoms and better days past to pick from?), because after that one telling, he'd never heard anyone tell it again. Hamlet wondered who the doppelgänger victor had been. If he'd ever known him or her. …maybe he or she were still alive. Valse's story hadn't been too clear on that part.
…it couldn't have been Haymitch though. There was no way Haymitch wasn't the real Haymitch. The Capitol wouldn't replace someone so rebellious with a fake who was equally so. That was something Hamlet didn't mind too much in the Capitol. He liked seeing Haymitch.
Haymitch was really smart. He was the first one who knew anything about his name, for one thing. "Why'd your parents name you 'Hamlet?'" he'd asked, "Were they just asking for bad things to happen to you? It's a tragedy you know. Hamlet's a troubled guy. Hamlet dies."
"'Cause he was a prince," the youngest victor from Five at the time had answered, "Because everyone in Panem is troubled. Everyone dies. But at least Hamlet was a prince."
And now he was going to fulfill the destiny of that name. They were going to throw him back into the arena- going cold turkey on the alcohol would be misery enough, but how could he stop upon learning there was a fifty percent chance he was going back? Valse wasn't going to volunteer for him. He was already sure of that part. Valse was his mentor, but he didn't owe Hamlet that. He was as afraid of the arena (and it was bound to be an even more awful one that usual) as any of them.
Hamlet was going to die this time and it wasn't going to be any special tragedy to nearly anyone. Twenty-three victors were going to die, and most, if not all, of them a greater tragedy than him. …but that didn't mean he wasn't going to fight it. Man had free will and he was meant to use it. (oh, but he didn't want to kill though- he didn't want to kill again, but if he had to defend-)
He tripped on the steps and was dragged the rest of the way to his seat.
"Graceful, Ham," Phebe rolled her eyes at him.
"Sorry," he murmured.
District 5's escort, only four years in the position and not particularly familiar with any of the victors, is able to pull the names with glee.
"Hamlet Seff!" and the man in question slumped a little lower in his chair, because the real odds might have been fifty-fifty, but they had felt to him like one hundred percent.
No one urged Hamlet to stand.
"Phebe Burke!" and the woman in question stayed perfectly still, taking it as stoically as she had planned.
The escort had them rise now. It was procedure. Everyone had to get a good look at them (as if they haven't seen them dozens of times before). They had to shake hands.
The older victors did not budge in their seats. It was unpleasant, but they would accept it.
Hamlet swayed on woozy legs and Phebe was still as a tree on a windless day. They looked at each other as they shook hands, mulling over thoughts they could never have predicted they would be in a place to think. No one went into the Games twice. No one went with someone they had spent around twenty years mentoring on and off alongside. Hamlet liked Phebe even though she was often cruel. Phebe liked Hamlet though she often hated his uselessness. The rest of the nation was witness as they shared this sad and baffled glance.
They would not be allies in the arena. Phebe's odds were better. She would not waste her time and he would not drag her down. It was every tribute for themselves- and what would their silent elders do for them?
---
additional comments:
- "Ms. Sharp" was Foxface, of course (I have never given her a definite first name at this point, though Hamlet once thought it was something along the lines of 'Sofi' or Sovi')
- Hamlet, I have to say, I've always felt for as the poor drunk who gets killed first. Just the tiny bit of differentiation from the other nameless victor-tributes was enough to make me take note of him.