you beautiful tropical fish (kolms) wrote,
you beautiful tropical fish
kolms

[ ficathon ] the girl on fire

Tags: book: hunger games trilogy, ficathon!
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[Gen], Another year, they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but boulders and sand and scruffy bushes
unnamed district 7 tribute, devils and dust, pg-13? not too gory, but. it is the games, after all. (1/2).

You were hoping for trees. A swamp, perhaps, something dense and groggy, suitable for hiding. You were good at willing yourself invisible at the best of times--as a child, you carved nooks and crannies inside the hollow of trees, curled up inside it until you were folded up small enough to hide. It was your tactic, apparently, your mentor (stoic and, for the most part, unresponsive: she trained you with ease, her hands moving across weapons too fast for you to count, but a word was barely uttered from blood-red painted lips) evaluating you with quick eyes. Declaring, "hide."

You think, of course, but you do not stumble. You do not say a word. You do not go red.

Nobody expects it. The gamemakers would recoil if somebody deemed the arenas predictable, the attacks always carefully crafted and wickedly cruel, but the layout of them usually followed one or two distinct rules. Grass. Water. The Capitol was not fond of watching their tributes die slowly and silently, driven by lack of thirst--they were bloodthirsty creatures. They wanted fights, battles, anarchy.

Your intentions are clear, drilled into your head. Find an axe. You can throw them, lumber district and all. Catch them off guard. Try to return home in a way that does not involve being shipped over in a coffin.


-


Sixty seconds, you hear a voice boom, and you realize a moment too late that you're being pushed up, up, climbing into the light, and you want to throw your arms in front of your face and shout, stop! but the Capitol does not have mercy for crying children. (You know that all too well.)

Then--

And then--

Desert. Rubble and powder-red dust, lined by a few pitiful scraggly bushes, boulders. You find yourself wincing, catching sight of the mountainous Career from One that you had watched at training. His hands are huge, leathery. You wonder how many tributes will face death as the result of the boulders being hurled bodily towards them. Water, you think. There can't be any water--oh, but there must, stupid, there always is--hills slope down, further away, but they are as bare as the land surrounding the Cornucopia, covered in barren desert land.

The Careers must be having an internal field day. No room for their pretty victims to hide from their knives, maces, crushing bones.


-


Some take off running when it sounds, fuzzy and numbed from the static in your ears, charging towards the hills in a desperate attempt, you guess, to find something, anything. One, Two, and Four dart out like feral cats, their hands enclosing shiny new weapons, picking them off easily: the boy from Four is golden skinned and strong, plucking out the stick-like Twelve girl with ease, hands twisting around her neck. You hear the snap a second too late after willing yourself not to listen, but you are running feverishly, because you know that nobody can survive in the desert, you know that you are all damned, they would be lucky to get a victor at all--

(A knife scrapes your side before you can grab your glory and you start sprinting away from the pile of murder equipment, throwing yourself down a crevice in the earth a relatively safe enough distance from the bloodbath, but fuckfuckfuck--you haven't got anything. No axe.)

People have not seen real evil before they watch children forced into insanity, you think. The days blur together: you are plagued with thirst, chanting inside your head facts and figures you have learned in school. Ten days at most, that is all you can survive without it, and that isn't counting the scorching heat.

If you wake up for the next day, you decide, you shall count yourself lucky.

clatos

4 years ago

psycho_llama

4 years ago

Careers, Not with a bang but a whimper
Caesar Flickerman My path made up by their torn bodies / Man to man, soldier to soldier, dust to dust / Call me a coward but I can't take it anymore
YESSS. A+

acupofinsanity

4 years ago

mab_queen

4 years ago

katniss/gale, the sky above us shoots to kill

opal_eyes33

April 6 2012, 03:50:53 UTC 4 years ago Edited:  April 6 2012, 03:58:21 UTC

victor!clove/cato or victor!glimmer/cato, you win or you die, there is no middle ground
victor!glimmer/cato, end of the line 1/2


Hello, District One.” The voice comes from behind her and she can feel his eyes all over her before she even turns. Of course. It’s Boy Two.

She rolls her eyes and lets another arrow fly into the center of the target. Her aim is perfect. It always is.

“Glimmer,” she says, by way of introduction, and it’s to his credit that he doesn’t give a lecherous little laugh and retort “Damn right you do.” (It’s more common than one would expect.)

Instead, he extends a hand and says, simply, “Cato.”

She doesn’t take it. Handshakes are for allies and to be honest, she hasn’t really seen him perform yet; he’s spent much of the morning training session picking fights with other tributes and showing off for the coaches. She spins back around, loads another arrow, and sinks it into the bullseye again.

Cato, then. Good to know.


They take her ring just before she ascends into the arena, and it feels like just another little injustice to add to the mounting pile. The see-through dress. The silly Tribute Parade costumes. Being upstaged by Girl Twelve, damned if she can remember the girl’s name. Being stuck with Marvel the whole time, who is capable enough with a spear but otherwise amounts to conversational dead weight.

She sighs as they confiscate the ring (with which she had planned to kill her districtmate) and swears up and down that she had no idea of its true nature when she put it on. There’s no way they can really punish her. If she doesn’t die in the arena – which she won’t; that simply isn’t a distinct possibility – everyone will love her. They have to.


She hates Cato. She fucking hates him with every cell in her body and yet there they are, in the woods, running with the rest of the pack and she’s giggling at everything he says because that is how you play the game: you giggle and you smile and then you slit their throats. Every time she giggles, Clove rolls her eyes, but fuck her too, she’s bound to trip and fall on her own knife sooner or later.

She is winsome. She is beautiful (even now, with her hair falling out of its braids and blood smeared across her cheekbone from the fray at the Cornucopia). She is deadly as they come.

They kill Girl Eight by her campfire that night, Cato with his sword and Clove with her knife and Glimmer sending an arrow into her heart for good measure, and Lover Boy standing back nervously, offering to finish her off once they’ve moved on. When they brush him off, he runs, and a silver parachute floats down: a gift from District 2.

The bread is still warm and they divide it equally among themselves. Glimmer takes more than her fair share, but Cato doesn’t say anything, just gives her that look. The one that says she’ll be paying him for these mouthfuls of bread later.

She really fucking hates him.


herosquad

4 years ago

opal_eyes33

4 years ago

rosegilmore

4 years ago

I LOVE THIS SONG.

synthrael

4 years ago

any Victor (but kudos for using Finnick or Katniss), I want my innocence back
I sense a pattern here :D

tonks07

4 years ago

sabaceanbabe

4 years ago

tonks07

4 years ago

sabaceanbabe

4 years ago

sabaceanbabe

4 years ago

azelmaroark

4 years ago

sabaceanbabe

4 years ago

prettywitch

4 years ago

sabaceanbabe

4 years ago

johanna/finnick, post-Mockingjay, I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings. There is an empty place within me where my heart was once.
clove, the early days of her training, (alternatively, victor!clove as a mentor) "what do we say to the God of Death?" / "not today"
Taking this. BRB.

w_addams13

4 years ago

opal_eyes33

4 years ago

w_addams13

4 years ago

kolms

4 years ago

w_addams13

4 years ago

century_fox

4 years ago

w_addams13

4 years ago

tonks07

April 6 2012, 04:34:42 UTC 4 years ago Edited:  April 6 2012, 04:36:00 UTC

any, "It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, but for three years I had roses and apologized to nobody."

(bonus points if you go with the semi-obvious choice of President Snow)
johanna (but would love to see this written for glimmer), my mind is my weapon … and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge
haymitch, “there is no creature on earth half so terrifying as a truly just man”
johanna as a mentor, how are you not gonna show your scar? how are you not gonna get high?
enobaria or johanna or enobaria/johanna, i don't believe in love anymore, it's the only thing that keeps my weight to the floor
cato/clove or johanna/finnick, all men must die … but first we’ll live
victors!clove/cato as the faces of the Rebellion, “nothing discourages unwanted questions as much as a flow of pious bleating”
Peeta/Katniss, Stay with me, this is what I need please
gale, peeta, katniss. there's no effort to gender-balance the Games, and Peeta & Gale are both reaped.
Awesome prompt is awesome.
Finnick/Annie, AU- he's the mad one.
Finnick/Annie, Mad Boy's Love Song, PG/PG-13, general Mockingjay spoilers

District 4 used to turn out Career Tributes with the same intensity of 1 and 2. Most of our children still train, but not like they used to, they train by running lines in the schoolyard, by hauling nets with their parents, fencing, wrestling, swimming, not to kill. At some point, District 4 stopped buying the Capitol’s propaganda, while District 2 still believed that they needed the Capitol for their strength and District 1 still believed they needed the Capitol to buy their fine things, District 4 had the sea and the Capitol couldn’t take that away. The truth was they needed us; we could be strong without buying in to their Games.

Our children still grew up strong, but most decided they would rather die at sea than in the arena. That was both a blessing and a curse. The number of volunteers had just about halved since Finnick’s time. He would have been a career, given a few more years. So perhaps it is good that he went when he did, otherwise he wouldn’t be mine.

It’s not that he’s weak, by any stretch of the imagination, he just needs a little help sometimes to remember that it’s over, that he’s safe, if only for now. I think being tortured in the Capitol was harder on him than it was on me. I can endure pain; I am a District 4 woman. He had to face the helplessness. I expect that’s what brought on the fit.

The first thing I do when I arrive in 13 with Johanna and Peeta and Johanna and the others is bathe until my skin is red and raw. Peeta is not in good shape, and the doctors jab needles into his arms, running sugar and sedatives into him like it’s going out of style. Johanna and I are either less either less critical or less important. She watches me scrub, cringing. Soap won’t hide the bruises, but I want to make sure Finnick won’t smell them on me.

When they show me to his room, Finnick is on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest.

“Hey, Finnick,” I say, closing the sliding compartment door behind me.

His head snaps up. He looks at me, through me.

“Get out,” he snatches up a pillow and hurls it at me.

I lift my arms to shield my chest. If the force of the blow is any indication of his failing strength, the first thing I want to do is to get some food in him.

“Get out of my head,” he folds back into himself, shuts his eyes and covers his ears.

“It’s me, Finnick,” I say, sinking to my knees beside the low cot. “It’s me.”

I take his hand and press it to my chest. “I’m real. I’m here.”

His depression is usually more manageable than his violent outbursts. It’s touch that helps the most to bring him back. The reminder that we’ve changed, we’ve gone on. But he’s stronger than I am and I can’t always reach him; he split my lip once in the grip of a nightmare. I don’t think he ever forgave himself.

Finnick begins to relax. I rise and settle down beside him on the thin mattress. I am warm and soft, none of the things he associates with illusions from the arena. He rests his head against my chest and listens for my heartbeat.

“I see you everywhere,” he murmurs against the soft cushion of my breast.

“It’s okay,” I coo. “I’m here now. We’re safe.”

“Please stay,” his fingers grip my waist. “I promise I won’t forget this time. I promise I’ll be better. Please don’t leave.”

I rub circles into his back and shush him gently as he talks himself empty.

“I’ve got you, Finnick,” I whisper. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

magicamethyst80

4 years ago

downbythebay_4

4 years ago

quietbang94

4 years ago

downbythebay_4

4 years ago

sabaceanbabe

4 years ago

downbythebay_4

4 years ago

victor!cato, the crows had feasted on victors and vanquished alike / how much can a crown be worth, when a crow can dine upon a king?
Finnick Odair, my mum - I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day. And I do my best to be brave.
Any, academia in the Capitol
During Games Month, Cordelia holds her breath at night. Domenic says that’s stupid, but Cordelia believes in the kind of magic that comes through the television screens and, anyway, it worked once, two years ago when she held her breath for no school and that year’s Games went on for five whole days into fall term. Games Month brings sticky summer ice cream and afternoons downtown at the big toy store, and sometimes, sometimes it will keep on going and they won’t have to go to school. In the summer, they are allowed to dress themselves, and nobody minds if Cordelia wears socks that don’t match. There are no servants to make her sit very still like a statue at her dresser while they plait gold into her hair before school in the morning.

Cordelia doesn’t like school. She hates wearing the stiff uniforms and always keeping her tie on straight and sitting in the desks instead of running and playing. She hates learning all the names of the President’s cabinet because Cordelia doesn’t have a very good memory, and she hates singing the Anthem in the morning because she doesn’t have a good voice, and Father always says that you should never, ever let anyone see that you’re no good at something. But what she hates most of all is the report cards that come home to Father and Mother every year when the sun gets brighter and the days get longer. She hates how Mother laughs and says that she can always marry money because money doesn’t seem like it would be very nice to marry, not like the princes in her storybooks. She hates how Father’s mouth forms a narrow, upset line when he sees her art scores and his big, grown-up voice that declares “I’m going to call that school immediately and remind them who keeps their doors open!” She hates the words he doesn’t say, too, the ones she can hear in his hands that pat Domenic on the head and his eyes that don’t look at hers, the ones that say, why can’t you be more like your brother?

But after the report cards, then it’s Games Month, and she’s free once again from table-setting class and music-history and the sparkly fabrics that just won’t do what her fingers want them to.

So she huddles under a blanket in a corner of their smaller living room, the one near the servants’ kitchen where no one will see her, with one blue sock underneath her on the chair and one orange sock resting on the coffee table. She eats salted caramel and watches One Girl and Five Boy walk through the rubble Arena the same way they did last night and the night before. And when Father finds her in here and tells her it’s time for bed, she whines for five more minutes and, when five minutes is up, holds her breath on the two flights of stairs to her bedroom. Maybe this will give her another day away from glitter stuck under her nails and books that always tell the same stupid story of the Capitol over and over.

She stops in front of Domenic’s door and sticks out her tongue at him. That night, she dreams of meeting One Girl, of meeting Ivory with her long braid down the middle of her back and her twisted sword in her belt. She never will because her report card will never let her, and Cordelia can’t even begin to hold her breath long enough to change that.

downbythebay_4

4 years ago

girl_wonder

4 years ago

monique_chan

4 years ago

Rue + Prim, Mockingjay, As one final thank you to Katniss, Rue arrives to guide Prim beyond.
omg this prompt. A+++
Victors!Clato, Finnick, Joanna, Welcome to the real world, little babies.
loooove this prompt