Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Katniss Everdeen!” Effie Trinket called out from the stage.

I don’t say anything.

I catch a glimpse of her face as she's dragged up to the stage.

“I volunteer as tribute!” I scream it, it feels awful, unmooring, I heard her name and didn’t say anything, I saw her face twelve, and so young, -so, so scared- and I screamed. Katniss Everdeen wasn’t supposed to be selected in her first reaping, she was going to be a symbol, she was going to make it different.

There is a stunned silence and then I’m brought up to the front. I don’t cry. I hum and smile twisting my old dress around as I sway a little to the tune. I can’t cry, they don’t get to see that. No one says anything, no one does anything -at least the applause is quite-, I’m just a tribute; A volunteer of district twelve but I didn’t do it for family. To everyone else this must look like suicide.

No one sees me off, my family is dead, and friends are hard to make.
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Haymich stares at me, he has a question he’s just burning to ask.

“So, why’d you volunteer?” He’s drunk, very drunk, I don’t think he could’ve asked the question without enough alcohol to drown a better man.

“She was twelve.”

Haymich gave me a strange look. “You’re thirteen.”

“A year can be a long time.” That’s what I say, I don’t speak of the memories of a happier life in a happier world where everything around me is just a story. Of the years I spent living outside of the miserable thirteen here.

Haymich leaves me alone after that focuses on my district partner instead of me, I wish it didn’t hurt. I look at them and I wonder if Haymich thinks my partner has a chance.

The train continues towards the capital. Death was getting closer. It was too late to run.
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“So,” Caesar says, “I’m dying to know, and I’m sure everyone else is too, why did you volunteer? Fame? Glory? A chance at a better life?”

“She was twelve.” I say, it’s a simple answer and I think the stunned silence I get in return says more about this world than anything else I’ve seen up till now.

“And you’re thirteen.” Caesar says, he sounds a little worried, the crowd isn’t as interested anymore, I’m not being fun. “What are we doing now just saying ages?”

“I suppose we are.” I respond coyly, because there’s sweat sticking to my back and I’m nervous and I kind of don’t want to die, I feel so so stupid. All I had to do was let someone else die in my place, I let it happen last year.

“Ahh, I suppose I’ll ask my next, pressing question then.” Caesar says with a laugh. “What was that tune you were humming at the reaping?”

“Oh, um it’s called the hanging tree.” I don’t know if my embarrassment is real or not.

“Well why don’t you sing it for us?” Caesar says, it’s ringing in my head.

“Are you sure, it’s not a pleasant song?” I respond, although I can feel a grin poking its way onto my face.

“Oh yes, sing little bird.” Caesar laughs and I wonder if he knows who wrote it, if he knows who he will anger with this song, if he knows it was banned, I wonder.

I sing and I feel a little bit freer, even if it makes me feel a little less human.
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We're dressed as miners, me and the other boy from district twelve. He didn't get a shirt just a dusting of coal and dark beige pants. I got more coal and a set of overalls, no shirt or bra nothing but slightly loose overalls to protect my modesty. We both get a pickaxe and helmets with lights for accessories.

I don’t smile and I don’t look at the ribs of my district partner. (I pray it’ll be better after the mockingjay. (I pray I haven’t messed it up.(I’m pretty sure my life doesn’t matter.)))
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“You’re thirteen years old.” Caesar says it doesn’t sound like a question.

“Yes?” My response is definitely a question

“What do you hope for? after the games I mean.” Caesar speaks the question like it’s easy, like there aren’t twenty four other tributes who want to go home.

“A nice funeral.” I see the look in Caesar’s eyes, but continue anyway. “You’re invited, by the way. Not the camera just you, I’d appreciate a flower I suppose, I do have a favourite but you’ll have to guess because I’m not telling.” I stop only because Caesar is waving his hand in my face like he’s trying to cover my mouth without touching me.

“I meant,” He coughs and looks worriedly around the room. “What do you hope for if you win?” He’s smiling again it looks fake.

“A nice bed.” I say my smile feels more real. I pause debating, I speak anyway. “You’re not invited to that just so you know.”

Caesar laughs and so does the audience but, the mood is brief.
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I see Johanna Mason, she’s fourteen and small for her age, I wonder briefly if it’s starvation, or genetics. I see Johanna Mason, she looks on the brink of tears and it seems so fake, so I laugh way too loud in her face. She looks a lot like she wants to punch me.

She doesn’t.

I focus on identifying plants for my training, I think the location of the arena will be the woods, that’s where all the plants are from.

I throw knives to demonstrate my skill, the knives were better than I was used to, it was difficult to adjust.

I used knives to hunt, I would hide in trees for hours and drop on turkeys and deer, I didn’t catch things often. I threw knives at birds and squirrels, I was passable at best.

I scored a seven. I wonder if I should’ve aimed lower.
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Caesar asks me about my score.

“I’m good with knives” I say.

He wants me to talk about it more. I laugh. He laughs too. And now we’re talking about my family.

“Papa was a miner.” I say. “Every man is, mama worked for a seamstress.”

Caesar picks up on the tense and doesn’t ask, it’s the kindest thing he’s done for me, and I wonder why he did it.

“Katniss Everdeen?” Caesar says it like a question.

“Yes?” I question back because I’m nothing if I don’t stall.

“Did you know her?” Caesar says it so seriously too, he’s good at that changing tone.

I laugh in his face, I’m doing that a lot.

“I think we met once, I told her I was sorry for her loss, she looked like she wanted to punch me in the face.” I shrug my shoulders, it’s the truth.

“And that made an impression on you?” He asks he sounds interested.

“Not really, a lot of people look like they want to punch me in the face.” I say and Caesar laughs, I think I would’ve liked to meet him outside of the current circumstances.
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I rise out on the platform, I don’t have a trinket. I want to cry, but I smile instead. I sing softly, ‘Pure as the driven snow’, the words flow smoothly as though they weren’t a poison I was using to dam myself.

When the countdown ends, I step calmly off my platform and walk in the opposite direction of the cornucopia I grab three of the survival packs sitting on the edge of the forest that surrounds the clearing with the cornucopia, and then I walk into the woods.

After ten minutes I set the packs down, and look around for the hidden cameras I know are there, I need to make everything a show.
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“So.” I say to pick up the conversation now after everyone was silent. “Caesar, buddy dying to know, favourite tribute.” I continue when I notice he’s about to answer. “Not to win just who you enjoyed talking to most.”

“Oh I couldn’t possibly.” He speaks with a false sense of modesty.

“But you do have a favourite.” It’s a statement not a question

“That’s not what I said” Caesar Flickerman says.

I smile it’s more of a smirk. “But it’s not not what you said.”
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I spot a camera in the eye of a tree and I move the three bags closer. I take a deep breath before starting.

“Hey Chums.” Why did I call them chums? “Today we’re going to be going through three 71st hunger games distributed survival packs.”

“I hope all you folks outside the arena are as excited about this as me!” I spoke with as much excitement as possible given the situation. And yes I was trying to make the hunger games seem like a YouTube video, shut up voices in my head it’s a good idea… no it really isn’t.

Why did I call them “Chums”?
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“You have anyone you’re gonna watch out for?” Caesar asks. “You’re our last contestant out and you’ve seen all the others so… who do you think is going to win?” Caesar speaks like his words aren’t a cold knife through my chest, they’re all so young and I’m young too (but not really, but no one should be old enough for this cruelty).

“Oh, I don’t know.” I say even though, I know who’s going to win, even though I’m pretty sure it’s inevitable. “I couldn’t say, they all look like such great competition, you know?” I send Caesar a sly grin, I hope he notices, I hope he probes, It’ll be funny.

“Nonsense!” Caesar crows. “You have an opinion, you can tell me, I’ll keep it between you, me and the audience. No one’ll know!”

“Johanna Mason. That’s who I think will win.”

There’s a stunned silence, I’m surprised the audience didn’t laugh.
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“And here we have a wild tribute.” I mutter to the camera and hopefully microphone next to me with my best British accent. “As you’ll notice the tribute is not checking above them in the trees, this means they are likely not from a career district or district 7” I could admit in the sanctity of my mind that my David Attenborough impression was terrible, but it might lead to better survival chances, maybe, if you squint.

“If you care to notice the dark hair and signs of long term starvation you might be able to identify his district…” I continued stalking my district partner.

I follow behind him continuing my dull relaxing spiel.

“And here you’ll notice a distinct lack of survival skills as he attempts to take poisonous berries for later consumption.” I snap a branch off the tree I’m hiding next to, and the boy -whose name I refuse to know- freezes, he turns quickly this way and that before dropping the berries and moving away quicker. “Showing a distinct lack of situational awareness he ignores the person stalking him and moves away from the berry bush without his prize.” I refused to show any relief.
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I walk out onto the stage and Caesar is there waiting for me. I take his hand and am guided into my seat opposite him.

“So,” he starts. “The infamous district twelve volunteer.”

“Is that what people are calling me?” I interrupt.

“You don’t like it?” Caesar adapts instantly.

“I don’t love it.” I say. It feels like an insult I don’t say.

“You have anything you’d prefer to be called?” Caesar asks, he sounds intrigued but I can’t really trust that.

“Idiot.” I say

“What?” He sounds caught off guard.

“It’s more honest.” I’m pretty sure that wasn’t why he said ‘what’.

“Not fond of your chances?” Caesar queries.

“I like to think I’m self aware.” I shoot a smile at him.
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I stop trailing my district partner, not only because it’s creepy but also because I need to lure the career tributes away from him.

It’s simple laying false trails in a forest, I’ve never done it before but all it takes is deliberately breaking things and moving in a path.

It’s even easier throwing stones at the career tributes, even though it feels petty and misplaced, when they finally notice I run and climb a tree. I feel hollow.

For the first time I wonder if I have the heart to win.
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Hamish meets me before I go into the waiting room for my Flickerman interview.

“Hey.” He burps, he looks so awkward, even when he’s drunk.

“Sup.” I say raising an eyebrow even though I’m ninety percent sure he’s too drunk to see it, or recognise what the facial cue means.

“You didn’t meet me…” he burps again. “For interview prep.” He slurs the words it’s hard to make them out.

“You didn’t want to see me.” I point out. And then sigh, it’s not his fault I remind myself. “Look after the geese.” I finish, it’s a non-sequitur at least from his point of view.

“what…?” He says as I brush past him, ending the conversation.
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I sit down at my makeshift table and make shift plates upon which sits the two birds I killed cooked on the fire that is a couple meters to my left. I sit and wait for Johanna Mason, I don’t know how I made it this far. Last two tributes

It takes a while but she walks out of the woods covered in blood, I beckon her over. Her stance is a mess she looks ready to swing her axe but also ready to jump out of the way at the same time, it takes her forever to make her way over to the table I’m sitting at.

“Sit.” I tell her.

She doesn’t.

“Is this your big plan?” She asks. “Poison me?”

“It’s not poisoned.” I don’t judge her question it’s fair given the situation. I cut a small slice of the bird with a throwing knife and spear it a needle, there was no cutlery in the cornucopia. I take a bite, swallowing the piece of bird, it’s stringy and not very good. I pick up the makeshift plate balancing the fake cutlery and I switch the plates around.

“Sit.” I tell her once again.

She does.

“Careful of the bones” I say before she takes a bite of the bird.

She glares at me. “I’m not an idiot.” She says.
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“You got a strategy for the games?” Haymitch asks. “Other than die I mean”

“Yeah, I got an idea.” I respond disinterestedly, trying to match his energy.

“Care to share with the rest of us.” Haymitch still refuses to sound interested.

“What’s my district partner planning?” I question curious despite myself.

“He’s trying to win.” There’s bitterness in his voice, I don’t comment.

I snort, “I wish him luck.”

Haymitch gives me another strange look. “Not aiming to win?” He questions.

“I wanna live.” I slur the words together, a strange accent takes my words.

Haymitch lifts an eyebrow. “You chose a piss poor way of going about it.” The comment is scathing.

“I know.” It’s the only thing I can say.
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“You got any family?” I ask Johanna, ending the pleasant small talk of dinner (Who am I kidding it was tense and silent).

She doesn’t respond.

“Snows going to ask things of you, things you might not want to do, he’s going to threaten you.” I say to her because she deserves to know.

“What?” Johanna says

“My advice is to be unappealing but dramatic and fascinating.” I power through her confusion. “Snow follows through.”

“I don’t understand.” Johanna sounds more lost.

“You’re going to be a Victor.” I say, continuing, I’m not going to explain. “But you should know you didn’t win, you lived.”

Johanna starts reaching for her axe.

“Headstart?” I plead, trying not to sound too desperate. She pauses it’s an acknowledgment.

I say the words and they’re cruel and I kind of hate myself. “The capital always wins.”
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“So…” Caesar says. “Katniss Everdeen. People have known that name longer than this year, people have known your name since the seventy first hunger games.”

Katniss hums looking at Cinna pretending the mood change isn’t throwing her off, be honest she reminds herself as her stomach twists a little.

“Ixia.” Caesar speaks the name no one has said to me since I was twelve. “Ixia Appleby, you remember her?” He pauses and he knows I’m not going to answer. “Of course you do how could you forget.” Caesar turns to the audience, holds his hand like he’s confiding in them “We certainly couldn’t!” He yells even though it seemed like he was going to whisper.

Katniss waits for the question her back is tense, it’s hard to see Caesar as a friend.

“Do you know why she volunteered for you?” Caesar asks, and Katniss knew it was coming but she tries so hard to look at Cinna and pretend that’s who she was speaking to.

“No.” Katniss says, because she doesn’t know it, never made any sense.
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I run, I’m not faster than Johanna. The bird sits uncomfortably in my stomach. lurching and pushing at my stomach my chest feels uncomfortable.

I keep running. My legs feel like dead weight even as I keep trying to push out more speed in a desperate attempt to at least make the tree line. To desperately keep going.

She catches me in a stumbling swing with her axe, I fall down onto the ground hard. I turn onto my back, knife in hand ready to desperately defend against the axe.

“The games.” I breathe, just for an extra moment.

Johanna looks confused “What?”

“Just finishing my sentence.” I say and decide I should share my last piece of advice. “In seventy five, try and keep the blonde too.”

“What?!” She seems angry now, she brandishes the axe like it’s a threat and not an inevitability.

“I’m team Everlark.” I shrug and Johanna gives up on me making sense I see it in her eyes. I feel like laughing but that’s inappropriate.

She swings the axe for my neck and my hand goes numb the knife impossible to lift. It’s like giving up. I try to keep my eyes open and my mouth in a smile as the blood pours out and I die, it takes longer than I want.

I don’t know if it’s pity or anger that has Johanna take a second swing. either way I try to gurgle out a “Thanks.”

I don’t think she heard.

I don’t know if I want her to have.

I didn’t want to die.

I wish…

I wish things were better.

I hope they get better.

I…

Chapter Text

I watch as Johanna walks out of the woods covered in blood, I beckon her towards my table. Her stance is a mess she looks ready to swing her axe but also ready to jump out of the way at the same time, it would be easy to kill her; the throwing knife rests on the table ready to be used as cutlery. Johanna is about thirty meters away closing the distance slowly.

A pit grows in my stomach, I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to die. She’s twenty meters away. still shuffling it felt like time was speeding up.

My hand tightened on the throwing knife.

fifteen meters.

I throw the blade in a fluid motion, it’s over in seconds, Johanna doesn’t, can’t dodge. The blade is buried in her throat, and she falls, twitching on the ground. I pick up the needle that was going to be a make-shift fork and grab an impractically large blade from the weapons remaining in the cornucopia. I walk forwards slowly not rushing. Can’t rush (my legs refuse).

Johanna reaches out a hand towards me, I don’t know if it’s a plea or a desperate attack. It doesn’t matter (can’t matter). I drop the pin I don’t need it. I angle the large sword for a single cut with all my power. Time crawls forward, slowly. I swing, her head comes off cleanly, I narrowly miss the knife in her throat. My knife (my throw, my kill). It’s a quick death, close to painless, I hope. It was cruel.

I didn’t want to die. I felt dead.

I walked back to my table, the dinner I was going to share. I sit where she was going to sit. Her cutlery in my hands, I cut into the bird and slice off a piece of meat. The blood that comes bubbling out isn’t real, and I’m not touching it so why does it feel so warm. I stab the meat with my pin, a skewer really, I slide it off into my mouth.

Chew. Swallow. A metallic aftertaste, and a dry mouth.

A sigh.

“It’s raw.” The words slip out softly. Mournfully.

I don’t look at her body, I refuse to hear her cannon. There are no trumpets. And the game maker does not make an announcement!

It’s over but it’s going to last forever. My hands don’t shake and my stomach doesn’t role because this isn’t real, can’t be not anymore.

They call me ‘Victor’ but I know I didn’t win, I’m not even sure I survived.

I was right I don’t have the heart for this.

Chapter Text

Caesar Flickerman doesn’t attend the little girl’s funeral in Twelve; he sends flowers and pretends that will be enough. He sends flowers and pretends that her death doesn’t pull at a heart long since buried. He acts and smiles and laughs, and he will forget her; in four years' time she will be a distant memory, one without these confusing emotions. She won’t be the strange child who made him laugh in joy, the child who made his eyes sting.

He’ll forget about her, but sometimes in the darkest nights he’ll wonder. He’ll wonder why her death felt real. He’ll wonder why it was so hard to celebrate that one. He’ll wonder why watching her run didn’t fill him with that dark amusement, and he’ll pretend to never reach a conclusion.

He will recall her name. He will pretend that’s okay. He’ll know he shouldn’t.
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Haymitch made a mistake. He had made the mistake he promised to stop making. He thought for a moment… well, it didn’t matter because it didn’t happen. So Haymitch did what he always did; he tried to forget while refusing to let go.
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Johanna hated Ixia in a way she hadn’t been able to hate any of her other fellow competitors; Ixia was… nice, but she did it in a cruel way (her pale face as she bled out, a smile on her lips). She said dumb shit that didn’t make sense. She said even dumber shit that did make sense. Johanna didn’t know what Ixia meant when she told her, “You’re going to be a Victor. But you should know you didn’t win; you lived.” But Johanna knew what it meant in that moment standing in District Seven’s graveyard eight months after her games -the 71st were hers now – she stared at the graves of her family and knew she could’ve stopped this (it wasn’t really a choice).

Johanna seethed; she didn’t love her family (her older sister who begged her to come back with tears in her eyes; her little brother smiling and saying he “knows you’ll win” so sweetly; her ma who tried so hard to make sure she knew she was loved; and her dad who thought she was going to die but tried to give her advice anyway, who didn't want the reality). Johanna didn’t like her family, but she was a Victor, and she shouldn’t've had to whore herself out because of that. But what she would have really appreciated was if Snow had the courtesy not to fucking murder her family.

So, Johanna hated Ixia and the cruelty she called kindness (and the smile and whispered “thanks” as she died). So, Johanna hated Ixia (not herself, not for what she did to someone who never fought back). Johanna stared at the graves that represented her last tethers dead in a disproportionate attack. And Johanna plotted because she needed to do something.
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In District Twelve nothing had changed much with the news of Ixia’s death; they knew it was coming. They knew that the little girl who hunted in the forest and bribed Peacekeepers wouldn’t have the heart to kill; those who cared mourned long before her death was televised. They knew the girl -who tried so hard to give extras to those who needed it most- wouldn’t make it back because that child was not meant to live in such a cruel world. They knew she was dead last year when she broke over the tribute of district twelve who she "could've saved" no matter that last year it was a seventeen year-old and she was only twelve. Those who cared enough to mourn dried tears from eyes that no longer let them fall and felt their stomachs rumble a little louder without her and got back to surviving.

Chapter Text

Ixia stared blankly at the sky just as she had for the last four hours since being informed of her father’s death. She’d been alive in this world for seven years and had known where she was since she’d toddled out of her house alone at two years old. But she hadn’t known. Not really. She hadn’t known how quickly things could fall apart.

But here she was, staring at a slowly darkening sky with the knowledge that the last of her family was well and truly gone.

It had started with her grandma. When Ixia was four, her grandma had died with short of breath and blood spilling from her mouth. It was gruesome and sudden—only because no one knew what to look for. Well, Ixia says it started with Grandma, but really it started when she was born. Ixia’s mum died in childbirth. A loss that shocked the family.

After Grandma, though, it was Grandpa. He hadn’t been well since his youth; he had coal miners’ lung—nearly every man who made it as long as he had developed it eventually (and quite a large percentage of females too). Grandpa died a year and a bit after Grandma’s death. After that it was just her and Dad.

But Dad was dead now. A collapsed mine —a story as old as Twelve.

Ixia was alone.
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“Hello.” The blurry giant holding me rumbled. I was pretty sure this was God. “My child,”—most definitely God—“My little Ixia.” What the hell did that mean?
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She was moved to a group home with other orphans immediately afterwards; with no adult to live in her family’s home, it was to be given to someone else with a family who desperately needed it. She wasn’t moved to “the” group home; her family wasn’t important enough for that. She was moved to a little house with four rooms (living/kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms) and expected to stay there with nine other children (four the youngest, seventeen the oldest).

Food was delivered every two weeks; it was a toss-up as to whether you needed to fight for food or if the older kids would take control and ration it. Either way, everyone had a place to hide some amount of food (a loose floorboard, a gap in the walls, or a bag hugged tightly as they slept).

I ate little in the group home and spent most of my time on the edge of the district fence picking edible plants like Grandpa taught me. I ate just enough of just the right things that everything sat uncomfortably in my stomach without coming out. The less disagreeable food sat in an old wooden bowl in the centre of the dining table that was almost never used. It sat there for near a week before someone other than her ate some.
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“Who’s a cutie-patootie?” - A different giant asked, this one with more muted greys and a gravelly voice than the browns of the first, “You are! You are!” I was starting to think this wasn’t heaven or hell, and the giants definitely weren’t God.
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The first time I “hunted” was a year after I moved into the group home. The kids at the group home didn’t get enough protein to escape malnutrition, so instead of looking at their gaunt faces at school, I left early in the morning to go beyond the fence.

The first day was unsuccessful besides the acquisition of six small bird eggs and a broken knife. Two of the eggs went to a patrolling peacekeeper; I gave them to him with a soft smile and a silent shushing gesture.

The knife was an old letter opener; the handle had come loose and fallen off. It was left in the trash of the new mayor of Twelve. I’d picked it up and wrapped the grip with fabric, sharpening the knife with stones like Grandma taught me. Why she knew I had no idea; why she thought it appropriate to teach a three-year-old how to do it, I had less of an idea.
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My sight came back gradually, and my ears with it. As time no longer slipped through my—now chubby—fingers, I started to piece together my surroundings, who I was, and what I was. I was a baby again, reincarnated. I was a girl, and my name was Ixia… The name wasn’t terrible. My dad was a coal miner, and I spent most of my time with my grandparents.

Grandma was always sewing; she never stopped. Papa left early every morning, often before I woke up, to return after my evening nap. Grandpa spent most of his time in the garden, gnarled fingers tending to delicate bushes and flowers. I spent most days outside with Grandpa except the days he had to leave for mulch and dirt and new plants. He wouldn’t take me on those excursions until I was four…
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We had a backyard in our group home; it was mostly dirt and hardy weeds, but it gave me an idea. It took me weeks to put my plan into place. I needed to find scrap wood and nails; I needed to slowly steal dirt.

Setting up the garden was the hardest part; finding the right plants to grow was tedious slowly coaxing them into larger bushes without them strangling others was the work of hours of careful placement and sticks. Finding someone who wanted to learn how to work it was the easiest part; almost all the young kids (ages six to fourteen) in the group home wanted to learn how to look after plants.

Their enthusiasm made teaching fun; it did not make it any quicker than it should have.

I taught them with Grandpa’s notebook and careful instruction. I think he would have enjoyed that.
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Grandpa always sat quietly as he worked on the plants, his eyes scanning carefully, his hands carefully turning dirt as he checked the colour and consistency. His focus was intense as he categorised each individual plant and made notes in an old, dirty notebook about all sorts of different things that Ixia couldn’t understand, much less connect in a coherent way.

“Hey, Grandpa,” I asked, “Who taught you all this?”

Grandpa hummed as he always did before answering. “Your grandma’s aunt, she went to some fancy school before the Civil War when”—and then he put on a strange inflection as though quoting someone—"“social class mobility was easier,” whatever the hell that means.” He scoffed at the end, but his lips curled into a smile.

“Why’d she teach you?” I liked when Grandpa talked.

“‘Cause I was family.” Grandpa exclaimed like it was obvious. “Always teach family what you know. You never know when your time comes to an end.” His attitude sombering at the end.

“But she was Grandma’s aunt?” I asked.

“Yes.” Grandpa said ruefully. “But your grandma’s aunt took me in when I was fourteen.”

“Why?” I said without thinking.

“Erm.” Grandpa bit on his lip. “I was orphaned. A little older than you are now.”

I ask before I could think better of it. “What was that like?”

“Always so many questions…” Grandpa said, turning to ruffle my hair.

“I’ll stop asking then.” I stick my tongue out at him for messing with my hair.

“I didn’t say that—“
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I maintained the bare minimum attendance at the district school. I made sure to show up on event days and test days and meet the minimum requirement for attendance; otherwise, I was in the forest—or literally anywhere else. School in District Twelve was uncomfortable. It focused too heavily on history and mining.

I didn’t want propaganda. I didn’t want horror stories from a civil war that felt—I knew it was coming—like it could erupt again at any moment. None of the facts felt distant; everything felt too close and too real. It made my stomach roil. So I didn’t go unless I had to. And no one seemed to care (I liked to pretend it didn’t hurt).
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When Grandpa was out, I sat next to Grandma as she sewed, never stopping unless she wanted to teach me something; it was a way for Grandma to contribute even as her legs failed her. It was how Grandma desperately clung to life so that she could keep eking out a little bit more for the small family she was leaving behind.

Of three sisters in her generation, to the two sons and three daughters she bore, now only I remained a single grandchild (and my dad a son-in-law)

For the longest time, Grandma played a game with me. She sat three rocks on a pillow and told me to go out to the garden and find one that she judged to be similar enough to the rocks in front of her. And one day, I finally found one that was to her standards.

Grandma hummed. She paused in her sewing. Then she stopped and moved away.

She paused at a draw. From inside she pulled out a stone block and two knives!

She sat me down and taught me how to sharpen them.

Less than three months later, Grandma’s breath grew shorter, and blood came out with deathly coughs, and she died.

That was one of the last full days I spent with her.
_____
I didn’t get comfortable with my success as a hunter and gatherer until I was ten. When I was ten, I could comfortably estimate how many of which species could be killed that wouldn’t have a negative impact on the population next hunting season, and I felt comfortable predicting the habits of my fellow hunters —a little boy, younger than me (all alone), and a man with his daughter (I liked to pretend I didn’t know their names).

I could walk silently through the underbrush and swing carefully through the trees, always moving in circles with the wind blowing towards me and away from my prey. I could gather enough meat and plants to feed my house and bribe the peacekeepers. And that gave me the privilege of the rich: I could give.

It was little things at first; it was extra food for the kids who didn’t have homes or safe places to return to.

Then it was teaching how to gather—I don’t think I could’ve taught hunting, not nearly enough to bribe with—how to leave plants with enough to grow and how to grow them from inedible parts. How to harvest responsibly from the nature around us. I prayed it was enough. Prayed they’d do better.
_____
Grandpa took me out more when Grandma died. He spent less time watching the plants; he started having me take notes he dictated. He started taking me out to find wild plants at the edge of the fence and in the cracks between stones. He taught me how to balance heartiness with nutrition. He taught me how to eat plants that could be dangerous.

He took me beyond the fence.

He took me along the game trails, taught me to climb trees to escape predators, how to find squirrel hordes, and how to pick through the seeds to find potentially viable ones. He taught me so much in the time leading up to Grandma’s death and up to a year later. He kept teaching and kept showing me things I didn’t know. He subtly pointed out the peacekeepers to trust and how to identify someone easily bribable or who was new and would stick to regulation—or didn’t like district trash.
______
I had ignored the reapings until this point. I watched them every year as everyone else did, as was mandated by the Capitol. I watched them with the knowledge that there was nothing I could do to save anyone or help anyone. I watched them and knew as that number slowly grew (as the seventy-fifth slowly approached) that the world was a year closer to the end of the horror.

This time, I was in the back of the reaping crowd, surrounded by familiar children. I stood in that place. A place I had never stood in before.

They called a name I didn’t know. A girl who looked familiar—seventeen, someone I’d probably passed once or twice. She walked forward, tears in her eyes, marching toward death.

I watched. And I think my soul died.

I watched and realised how horrible it was to do nothing as someone died.

I felt complicit in a crime I never committed.

I felt guilty for my place in this cruel world.
______
Grandpa died like Grandma; he took years to deteriorate, years of lung pains, years of not being able to breathe. Grandma’s death was slow. Two years of stillness, the loss of her legs, and then the loss of her breath signalling the end. Grandpa died struggling to sit up, to breathe, and to speak without a death-rattling cough.

Grandpa died knowing he’d die; Grandma died wondering what the final straw would be.

Grandpa knew to make me promise things. Grandma died with unfulfilled promises.

I missed them both. I missed them when Dad was out all day.
______
I met Katniss six days after the tragedy that was the largest coal mine collapse since the civil war of Panem. I said the words to her that I had said to every widow of the tragedy, every daughter and son without a father or mother, every mother and father without their child or children, and every friend I knew of who lost someone.

“My condolences for your loss.” They were simple words, and they didn’t do much, but I said them anyway. Katniss’ father died in the initial explosion that set off the chain reaction that led to the much larger mine collapse; not many people said much to the families of those who died in initial explosion.

She looked about ready to punch my face in.
______
Ixia Appleby was a strange girl. Everyone knew that.

She was never at school, but she aced nearly every test. Ixia was too free with her things; she didn’t know what she needed to keep safe, and she didn’t know the best stashing spots. Alec was certain Ixia was going to die early.

Alec also knew that more people owed that girl debt than any one would care to admit.

Alec owed her for a bundle of berries and half a bird given to him during a time when his family couldn’t support him. He owed her for lessons on gathering and caring for plants too.

Alec also knew (he knew a lot of things) that when Everdeen’s name came out of the lottery, Ixia was done. Ixia was dead. Ixia was going to volunteer because Ixia hated seeing those younger than her suffer.

And it was then that Alec made a decision he was going to do what Ixia did—not volunteer; that was idiotic, and Ixia can keep her stupidity for herself, thank you very much. Alec made the decision that he was going to… share -the thought made him shiver- he was going to look out for those younger than him. He was going to do his best. Because he might think Ixia was an idiot -and she was (like, really, who gives away food?)- but having her in his life was nice -it made it better-, and he wants to be that for someone else.
_____
I wouldn’t call what happened that morning waking so much as it was getting out of bed after a sleepless night. I ignored the others bustling about that early, looking for their cleanest and least ratty clothes. My breakfast was small, no meat, or my stomach would’ve rebelled.

I walked the roads calmly and slowly; it felt different than last year. My second year in the reaping. My second year of praying and dreading. An unknowable guilt warring with a desire for self-preservation.

One foot in front of the other.

Just like last year.

Harden your heart.

You don’t want to die.

…

What are the odds?

Chapter Text

She sits and ignores the crowd, ignores Caesar’s blathering… she stares at the screen, the screen that in just a moment is going to turn on and show her the game.

A flick, Caesar seems annoyed at her lack of reaction the screen clicks on and the anthem of Panem plays.

An hour of the recap was dedicated to the tribute selection, their scores, their costumes, their interviews and clips of training. The whole time things were carefully edited to make it seem as though the capitol always thought she’d win. Her meekness contrasted with the few times she broke character. Ixia’s interview where she said Johanna was one to watch was changed, the audience wasn’t stunned, they smiled like the answer was a conspiracy. Everything carefully laid out in such a way to make the capitol appear smarter than it was and the districts and other tributes easily fooled.

It was cruel it made her stomach twist, it made her feel all the worse looking at faces she killed (she tricked).

After the opening it transitioned to the arena. And the blood bath. People, children, both younger and older than her cut down brutally by each other, laughing the audience is watching and laughing. Her hand clenches deeper on the couch she is sitting on -comfortably sitting on- as she watches those who were reaped -just like her- die. It’s all she can do, not to cry, not to vomit, to be the victor the capitol wants.

It’s mind numbing watching all the death, the murder she participated in the people she can no longer judge, the cruelty of winning the games. She’s alive. She’s going home and, here their lifeless bodies fall, never to awake. Her eyes are glued to the screen but she’s not watching anymore, she’s not listening anymore, if she’s not there, then she can’t see the capitol clap.

It’s jarring one moment glazed, the next full focus, she can’t pull away, can’t stop focusing. Johanna the foolish little girl in the game has an axe.

Twenty minutes before the end of the three hour recap a close up clip of Ixia running and out of breath is played for three seconds. And then it cuts to Johanna charging with her axe at her first kill, it’s more brutal than she remembers. And then her second kill comes the boy is smaller than she remembers and the kill is quick he doesn’t even notice her in the darkness, she jumps out from behind him -another clip of Ixia running plays- she lands and his head is cleaved open.

Her third kill a girl older than her, the darkness of the forest was truly oppressive at the time and they stumbled into each other, the girl took a swing with a knife but Johanna’s axe cut through her arm and followed up with a swift blow to the neck it wasn’t as quick as the other two. The clip of ixia running continued.

Her fourth kill. A girl again. Ixia running.

Her fifth. A boy. Still running

Her sixth. Still running.

Her seventh, Ixia, the clip kept going Ixia fell, she was on her back now her knife was up defensively, the sound of her breathing covered any words she could’ve said -the words Johanna knew she spoke. An axe came from off screen, Johanna’s axe, Ixia’s neck cut, then her second swing comes and she sees Ixia’s mouth move in a silent ‘thanks’.

The video switches to Johanna caked in the blood of all her kills, she looks horrifying, she looks terrifying, she doesn’t look human.

“You skipped the dinner party.” Johanna says faintly the only words that can come out of her mouth. The only thing she can think with the haunting image of Ixia’s death once again fresh in her mind. The smile. The gurgle that sounded horribly like ‘thanks’.

“Dinner party?” Caesar questions a faux frown marring his faux features…

She swallows. “Yes…”-her mouth is dry-“Ixia caught birds and set up a dinner.”

“Before you killed her?” There’s a strange glee colouring his words, it’s sick and Johanna wants to throw up but she can’t, she has an image now -she knows the value of food- she can’t look weak.

“I gave her a head start.” The words come out a weak justification.

Caesar laughs, the audience claps, it’s horrible, Johanna smiles, it pulls at dry lips threatening to tear them open again.

Caesar puts a hand to his ear, listening with concentration. He smiles widely. “We have some footage for everyone to watch if you’d all turn your attention to the screens once again.” The words bang at Johanna’s head and she has barely any time to recognise the mistake she’s just made.

The screen flicks on.

The camera is on the left, Ixia and Johanna are eating in silence. The angle of the camera changes. Ixia brings a hand to her mouth to cover her swallowing.

“So.” Ixia says the word breaking through the quiet sounds of the distant forest and clinking cutlery. “Do you know what a ‘canary in a coal mine’ means?”

“No.” Johanna responds her mouth full of bird.

“It is a phrase that means an early warning of danger.” Ixia pauses in her explanation. “It comes from the use of canaries in coal mines to detect dangerous gas.”

Johanna doesn’t respond just stares.

Ixia gets bored and keeps going. “Do you have anything like that in District Seven?”

“No.” Johanna says, still with her mouth full.

The clip stops.

Caesar smiles. “Why, aren’t you an interesting dinner guest?” His voice is coy and his smile is grating.

Chapter Text

Ixia sits as she often does silently in company of someone who’s not ready for words yet.

“You haven’t left yet?” The boy curled up in the grass next to her mumbles.

“No.” Is all Ixia says.

“It was over hours ago.” The boy says clearly, enunciating his words. “You can leave.”

“You’re still here.” The words come out softly.

“He’s my dad.” The words are broken.

“Colbrey’s worried.” Ixia still refuses to raise her voice.

The boy sniffles. “Then why ain’t he here.”

“You know why.” There’s a soft reproach in her words.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” The boy says, eyes that had only just dried welled with fresh tears.

“I know… He knows too.” She says it with a hum.

The boy blinks clear his eyes. “Then why are you here.” There’s anger in his voice now.

“I want you to know you’re not alone.” Her voice is still soft.

“He was everything!” The boy screams. “He’s gone! I’m alone…” His throat is hoarse and the tears are flowing again.

“Colbrey’s here, Lily’s here, I’m here…” Ixia says. “We might not know but we know.”

“How?” The boy breaths out.

“hmm” Ixia only hums

“How do you keep going?!” The boy grits out.

“One step in-front of the other.” Ixia says, smiling and he can see the cracks, he can see the faded eyes and dying hope and he wishes he couldn’t.

The boy tsks before sighing. “I’m leaving.” He speaks

“Ok.” Ixia says.

“You coming?” He says.

“I need a moment.” She pauses and then says with little thought. “I need to visit some people.”

The boy sighs berating himself. “Don’t get lost.” He takes three steps away before turning around again. “Where’s Corbrey?” He demands.

“Where do you think?” Ixia says silently chastising Alec. Alec grunts making his way towards the gate for an inevitable confrontation with Corbrey and probably lily too.

And Ixia… Ixia stares at the haunting grave of Alec’s Father, with the horrible words that graced nearly every grave in district twelve ‘Coal-miner, Husband, Father, A Loyal citizen’. Alec’s Father was thirty-two, Alec was thirteen, both were too young. She made her way deeper into the graveyard.

The first marker she came across was for her Pa she muttered a silent prayer, then she went further to her grandad’s grave she muttered a soft thank you, briefly reading that inscription again, the one that wasn’t even true, and moved on to grandma.

Grandma was the first of her family to end up in this graveyard, before Mum’s death there had been enough to bury family in the middle class cemetery the one with not personalised but real inscriptions. It was a cruel fool from grace. But it wasn’t important anymore.

Ixia sat, and spoke about her week  pretending that for a moment Grandma hadn’t died. It was peaceful. But it wasn’t real.

When she was finished she stood up and left.

Corbrey was waiting for her by the gate for her.

“You waited.” It slipped out in surprise.

Corbrey just shrugged in response looking uncomfortable. “You ok?”

“Same, same you know?” Ixia says.

“Yeah I know.” Corbrey says. “Thanks by the way, for Alec I know he’s your friend too… but thanks.”

“Since when?” Ixia tilts her head in confusion.

“What?” Corbrey mutters confused.

“I remember you telling me, rather sternly might I add, “he’s my friend he can’t be yours too”” Ixia teases.

“What?! But that was a year ago!” Corbrey sputters. “We live together, you’re practically my little sister, it was weird you being friends with my friends.”

“That’s not true.” Ixia says matter of factly.

“What?” Colbert says in sheer confusion once again.

“I’m obviously your big sister!” Ixia declares forcefully.

“What? But I’m older!” Colbrey yells.

Ixia smirks. “But I’m more mature.” She says calmly. Grabbing onto his arm and beginning to drag him home.

“Are not you liar.” Colbrey retorts. Trying to get Ixia to let go.

“Am too.” Ixia does not let go.

“Are not.” Colbrey gives up trying to make her let go.

“Am too.” The argument does not end.

…