I, like, really love Clato. Is that bad? ...Honestly, I don't care. So, since I'm home sick, with nothing else to do, here's another oneshot!
Disclaimer: Um, still don't own The Hunger Games.
commence
She is told the tragedy of her parents as a bedtime story. She is forced to watch their deaths over and over, because her grandmother insists that that is the only way for her to know them. So, she watches.
...
press play
...
A boy meets a girl. Or maybe it's the other way around.
...
rewind
...
A girl's mother slaps her and tells her that she will never be good enough for the arena. A boy's mother tells him he looks like his father. Again. They go to the Academy, two lost little children looking for some solid ground, and that is where this begins.
...
fast forward
...
A rock to the head. An arrow to the heart. But the question is, weren't they already just as dead on the inside?
...
rewind
...
The squalling, red faced infant is born in secrecy, hidden, out in the woods that have become her parents' second home, seeing as their first isn't very welcoming. The couple, the young couple, the scared shitless couple, the deadly couple look down at her, so completely unsure of what to do.
Her father fears that if he holds her, he'll break her, because that's what he does. He breaks things. And her mother worries that she doesn't have an ounce of maternal instinct in her, how on earth is this little thing going to survive with such incompetent parents?
...
pause
...
(here's the surprise; she doesn't, not really)
...
press play
...
She grows bigger, grows more vocal, her parents gain a little comfort in knowing that they've managed to keep her alive this long, obviously they have to be doing something right, right?
...
fast forward
...
She is nineteen years old when she goes to District Twelve. It is something she has put off for years, an idea that has haunted her since she was fourteen. The train ride is nerve-wracking.
The walk up the little path to the white painted front door is worse.
...
pause
...
Her heart is racing, at this point. Her blood pressure skyrocketing, her head feeling like it is caving in on itself, her ears ringing. Her fingers are curled tightly into her palm, her nails a millisecond away from drawing blood.
She wonders what she should say, what she could say, because, 'Hi, you watched my mother die and killed my father' just doesn't cut it these days.
...
rewind
...
He gives her a friendly kiss on the cheek. She smirks up at him. Lines blur.
...
press play
...
They are friends, first. They all but run the Academy together (being the best does have certain advantages, doesn't it?). But then, someone kicks the line between friends and lovers to dust, and the change in their relationship is sudden and not at all unwelcome.
The word love, however, is never spoken, just another unspoken rule for them to abide by.
...
fast forward
...
A scream rings through the trees. The blond boy runs towards it, reaching his destination just in time to see the dark haired girl crumple to the ground. The big guy from Eleven yells something at the girl from Twelve before taking off. And then Twelve is gone, but it seems that that doesn't even register with the blond boy.
The word love passes through his lips as he holds her hand.
She whispers the same back, along with a weak, "Take care of her."
Her fingers go limp in his hand.
The cannon fires.
The world will assume that she was requesting the boy to kill the girl from Twelve for her, in her honor, but the little girl sitting on her bed, seven years later, thinks that she knows exactly what the girl meant.
She also knows how the blond boy fails.
...
rewind
...
Reaping day is the day after her first birthday, and her parents kiss her as she babbles happily. She stays with her grandmother, who, in reality, probably should not be trusted with an infant, but the couple has no one else to leave her with for the few hours they will be gone.
The television shows the dark haired girl's name being called, shows her all but dancing onto the stage, graceful and confident. Before they have the chance to pick a boy's name, the blond boy volunteers, and saunters onto the stage with every intention to die in the arena.
...
fast forward
...
They enter the arena with their plan already made. She goes home; he does whatever it takes to make sure that that happens. And if that means getting close to the bimbo from One, then that is what he will do. The dark haired girl, no matter how sure she is of his loyalty, feels sick to her stomach, feels an unknown feeling rise in her, and takes it out on a lizard, imagining Glimmer's face as she does so.
Glimmer giggles at something the blond boy does.
The dark haired girl wonders whether Fire Girl has space in her tree for one more, just for the night.
...
pause
...
The girl feels sick watching the display of affection, no matter how manufactured, on her television screen. But she knows that they will watch the same in school, tomorrow, and she does not want to be caught off guard when this moment comes. So, she forges on.
...
rewind
...
The goodbyes are terrible for these Tributes, seeing as they only have each other, and the little girl they share. The blond boy does not count his mother, his weak, depressed mother who can barely take care of herself, let alone an infant.
The little girl seems to know what is going on, as she latches onto the dark haired girl instantly, screaming bloody murder every time someone tries to detach her. There are no tears, except for hers, and the dark haired girl hugs her, kisses her, promises her that she will be home soon, and finally, gently, disentangles herself and hands the baby over to her grandmother.
The blond boy's goodbye is only slightly less dramatic. The little girl adores him, and, though she does not scream and cry, she silently refuses to be removed from his arms. It takes three people to wrestle her into her grandmother's arms.
Her sobs echo throughout the Justice Building, paining the blond boy, and breaking the dark haired girl's heart.
...
press play
...
The interviews pass quickly, emotionlessly, and there is no mention of the sobbing infant back in District Two, the one that no one can comfort. They will not show weakness. They will intimidate, and she will win.
...
pause
...
Years later, the little girl searches their faces for any sign of missing her. There is none.
She shuts the television off for the night.
(but she knows that she will never be able to shut off the nightmares)
...
fast forward
...
The announcement that there can be two Victors sends them into a celebratory mood. Makes them more vicious, makes them deadlier, bloodthirstier. Gives them hope.
...
pause
...
She has a sinking feeling in her stomach, she knows how this ends (with her orphaned), and she does not think that she can handle watching the dark haired girl that she resembles so much die, does not think that she can stomach watching the blond boy be torn to shreds by the mutts.
So, she doesn't.
She decides to stop the damn cycle, and boxes up the tapes, hides them under her bed, far enough away for her to begin to forget, but close enough for when she wants to remember.
...
fast forward
...
Her grandmother dies when she is fourteen, and, by then, she is used to taking care of them both.
When going through her things, she stumbles upon a box of old photographs. Most are innocuous, pictures of her grandparents' wedding, her grandmother pregnant with her father, photos from weddings and family reunions, photos of her, of course.
She is sitting on her grandmother's bed, shuffling through them, smiling softly, when she notices the envelope with her names printed neatly on the front.
Her hand trembles traitorously as she opens it.
...
fast forward
...
District Two is a district filled with ghosts, after the rebellion. Those left widowed, orphaned, alone turn to drink, turn to drugs of any sort to forget.
She is no different.
The white liquor burns on its journey down her throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste that, no matter what she does, lingers on her tongue. She wonders if the dark haired girl and the blond boy are watching her in fierce disapproval.
She smirks, take another swig, and hopes they are.
...
rewind
...
When she is ten, she asks her grandmother about them. She gets the answer, "Watch the tapes." She did not expect anything different.
...
fast forward
...
Her hands shake as she toys with the gun. She doubts anyone would miss her. As she poises the gun at her temple, her eyes scan the room, her mind screaming for her to STOP.
She draws a breath, hooks her finger around the trigger.
Three.
Two.
One–.
...
pause
...
She spots the envelope of photographs that sits on her dresser, and suddenly, her drunken courage is gone.
...
press play
...
The gun is set on her bedside table. It stays there.
...
fast forward
...
Her hand hesitates at the door, and her breath hitches as she realizes what she's doing. She almost chickens out, but she knows that she has to, to gain any peace of mind. She raps her knuckles against the door quickly, not giving herself a chance to stop.
When no one answers, she takes it as a sign.
...
rewind
...
She brings out the tapes again. This time, she does not watch to know her parents. She watches for answers. There are none.
She buys her ticket to District Twelve twenty minutes after the last tape ends.
...
fast forward
...
The door opens when she's halfway back down the path, already looking forward to going back home to her crate of white liquor.
"Hello?"
She spins around, startled but masking it carefully, and she sees the woman's eyes widen at the sight of her. She knows that all she is seeing is the dark haired girl, maybe a little bit of the blond boy. She knows that the woman is seeing ghosts, like she does when she looks in the mirror.
She approaches her slowly and sticks out her hand.
The woman shakes it cautiously.
"Hi. I'm Bay."
The woman nods, crosses her arms and she continues, "My parents…my parents died in the arena."
Another nod. She takes a breath.
"Did they deserve to?"
The woman frowns thoughtfully and says, "No one did, they were all just–."
"Kids. I know. But…did they deserve to die?"
"No."
She was not expecting this answer. Though, it is the answer she had wanted.
So, she purses her lips and says, "…Thank you."
And that is that.
...
fast forward
...
She is drunk, all but passed out at the bar when she meets Forte Aster. He slides into the seat next to her and asks, "Rough week?"
She glares up at him from where she is resting her head on the slightly sticky bar counter.
"Oh, I get it. Rough life."
More glaring.
He offers his hand and says, "Forte Aster, District Eight."
She stares balefully at his offered hand, and he finally withdraws it.
She grumbles, "Bay. District Two."
"No last name?"
"None that matter."
"Ah, so you're an angry drunk."
"Stuff it, Eight."
"You look familiar…"
"I will slaughter you with this glass. I swear I will."
He sends a slightly worried glance at the glass in her hand, but forges on.
"Anyway, I was just sitting over there," he points to a booth in the corner, "waiting for my train, and I glanced over here and there you were. Drunk and alone, and I thought, hey, I don't like drinking alone, I doubt she does either."
He probably expects a smile in response to his little narrative, but if he's disappointed, he doesn't show it. Instead, he waves down the barman, and requests two of whatever she's been drinking (whiskey, she thinks hazily), and raises his glass.
Never one to turn down free booze, she lifts her head slowly and knocks her glass to his and swallows the liquid in one gulp.
She slurs, "If this is you hitting on me, it's not working."
"You insult me."
"Boo hoo."
"What's your story, Two?"
She swallows the new drink that the bartender has set in front of her and says, "My parents were in the Games."
"Really? You have Victors as parents?"
"I didn't say they came out of the Games." The stupid grin he's been wearing throughout the entire exchange slides off quickly.
"God, that sucks."
"Mhmm."
"Which Games?"
"Seventy-fourth."
He freezes, and asks, "What district did you say you were from, again?"
"Two," she responds, worrying through her drunken haze that she has somehow alienated her newfound drinking buddy in twenty minutes.
In a small voice, Forte says, "My sister was in those Games."
She thinks back, and, though the alcohol makes it difficult to remember (which is, really, the whole reason she drinks), she sees in her mind's eye a girl with curly hair being slaughtered by the dark haired girl.
"Shit, that was your sister?"
She receives a nod as her answer.
There are no words for this.
Her mother killed his sister, someone's son killed her mother, her father killed someone's son, someone's sister killed her father. Vicious cycle, isn't it? They order another round of drinks.
...
fast forward
...
They name their first daughter Clove, their second Arietta, after her mother and his sister, respectively. Their son receives the name Cato.
People whisper that their marriage, that the whole family dynamic can't be healthy, can't be good for the children, not when their grandmother killed their aunt on television, not with how much blood stains their family trees, but it works for them. What happened when they were infants has nothing to do with what they do now.
They never bring the tapes out.
Ever.
...
rewind
...
A boy meets a girl. Or maybe it's the other way around.
...
fast forward
...
A mostly-sober young man sits down next to a drunken young woman.
...
stop
...
eject tape
...
Their children's bedtime stories consist of princes that save their princesses, and damsels who save themselves, and the words Hunger Games never make it past their lips. They know their aunt and grandparents through photographs and stories passed down from parent to child, brother to sister, grandmother to granddaughter.
The story ends.
fin
AU much? I mean, it could be real, but I doubt it, unless I'm, like, psychically connected with Suzanne Collins. Which I doubt I am. But, it was fun to write, and I hope to receive reviews that do not say, 'OMG, WTF?' Make my wish come true? ...Hit the button... ...You know you wanna...