Chapter Text
Clarke’s knees hurt, throbbing against the cold hard ground, her back aching as it often had over the past few months of sleeping on an uncomfortable, dingy, cot with a moth-eaten blanket that was far too thin to protect against the musty underground draft. She drew absentmindedly, conjuring to life images of trees that she would never smell in the air and water she’d never feel against her skin, using up the last bit of chalk a guard had provided her a few days before. At least she thought it was a few days; she’d lost track of time since her sudden residency in solitary confinement.
She wasn’t a criminal. She didn’t belong there. Anger welled up, threatening to bubble over into the perpetually silent space around her and instead erupted as a dejected sob filled with longing and loneliness and the ever-constant pain of a broken heart. Her father had been killed, and blue eyes still watered at the thought of Jake’s kind smile, dimples creasing his cheeks, dirty blonde hair falling over his forehead and down into sky colored eyes. He hadn’t deserved to die, yet it was his actions that unleashed the events that followed; his murder, and his daughter’s imprisonment.
Clarke thought back, letting her mind draw up the last few moments she had ever spent with her father. She wasn’t supposed to disturb him while he worked, but she had wanted to surprise him, so she’d snuck into his office with his favorite coffee drink in hand. What she stumbled in on was never meant for her ears. Her father was recording a message, speaking into the microphone on his laptop as if his very life depended on it. It was a call to action; inspiring the district leaders to pull together and rekindle the revolution that Katniss Everdeen had started long ago.
He went on to explain a fatal flaw he had found in the Capitol’s defense system, one that could weaken them enough to leave them vulnerable. Clarke knew she should have turned away right then and there, but she was drawn closer, and from over his shoulder she could see the blueprints outlining her father’s plan. It was the scent of coffee in the air that had alerted Jake to her presence, and he whirled around to see his daughter standing there, eyes going wide in fear.
“What did you hear?” he asked her, and she remembered the way his voice cracked wit urgency, but her trembling hands and ghostly expression had told him that she’d heard all of it. “You can’t tell anyone about this, Clarke,” he commanded, turning back to his computer and frantically entering encryptions and firewalls and she watched as the information on the screen was jumbled and deleted.
“Dad?” she gasped, unsure of what to say.
“Thelonious is on his way,” Jake said. “You have to hide, Clarke, and no matter what happens, don’t come out.”
“But, Dad, I—
But it was too late, her sentence had been cut off by a loud pounding at the door. “Hide!” Jake hissed, and Clarke obeyed, scurrying into a nearby closet and shutting the door just enough to obscure her from view, but still open enough so she could see what was happening.
Chancellor Jaha had entered, his expression grim, and his brown eyes sad as Jake urged him to call a meeting of the district leaders. “I have to show them what I know,” her father rambled, waving a hand towards his laptop that was now only accessible by him.
“Jake, listen to what you’re saying!” Jaha had growled, voice angry and teeth gritted. “Thousands of people will die! You will start a war!”
“Listen to me, Thelonious!” she recalled her father saying, letting the memory of his voice consume her, picturing it all as if it had just happened. “This knowledge, these blueprints, could change everything that we know! This could rekindle the revolution Katniss Everdeen started ninety-seven years ago!”
She had listened intently as Jake vaguely described what he’d stumbled upon; the weakness in the Capitol that could bring all of Mount Weather to its knees in one swift blow. After Katniss and the rebel army managed to infiltrate the Capitol of Panem almost a century prior, the leaders of the time decided to move the capitol city to a more secure location, constructing an impregnable metropolis beneath the ground of a mountain, putting hundreds of billions of tons of rock and dirt between them and those that would seek to oppose them.
But what Jake had discovered would allow anyone with enough courage to stand tall and strike at the heart of the fortified city and the oppressive rulers within. He had told Jaha of his plan, but had left out the crucial details of what exactly he found and how to use it. That exact knowledge, Clarke had heard in the message he’d recorded and seen in the blueprints on the screen before Jake encrypted the data. Other than her father, she was the only person who knew that Mount Weather could be destroyed, and how to do it.
Clarke had been proud, overwhelmed at her father’s bravery and intellect as he once more encouraged Jaha to call a summit of leaders of the other twelve districts, bringing them all together so that they may face the Capitol as one united force. But for all Jake’s cunning and ingenuity, it was his naivety that had gotten him killed. She watched from the crack in the closet doorway as Thelonious told Jake his snooping would get them all killed and cause an uprising if the knowledge ever got out; that the balance between the Capitol and the Districts was too fragile to tip; that Jake’s plan would only lead to war and death. She watched, helplessly, as Jaha told Jake he could not allow him to live. The look on her father’s face when the Chancellor pulled his gun was something Clarke had never seen before: fear. He had trusted the information to his leader, his best friend, and Jaha had betrayed him.
Clarke couldn’t hold back the sob that escaped her lips when Thelonious lifted the gun to Jake’s head and pulled the trigger before the engineer could even muster a final word. She remembered the way her father’s body had crumpled to the floor, lifelessly, as if his bones had turned to rubber, no longer able to support his strong frame. The scream that erupted from her chest is what had given her away, and Jaha’s deep brown eyes were sad when he realized that she had witnessed the conversation. Everything after that had happened too quickly, and by the time the shock and devastation of witnessing her father’s murder had worn off, Clarke had found herself alone in a cell. The very same cell that she hadn’t left in months.
She knew they were just waiting for her eighteenth birthday. In District Thirteen, minors who committed a crime were held as prisoners until they came of age when they would then face a trial and be excused of all punishment, released back into society, or charged for their actions and sent to the Capitol. Nobody that was sent to Mount Weather on criminal charges ever returned, and though it was not explicitly stated aloud, everyone knew it was a death sentence. She figured that was the fate that awaited her, though she had never actually committed a crime, but the hole in her heart left behind by the death of her father was a painful reminder that Chancellor Jaha would kill in order to keep what she had seen and heard that day out of the hands of those who could use it.
But there was one other possibility…one that made her blood run cold. It was Katniss Everdeen who had led the failed rebellion ninety-seven years before, and it was the Hunger Games that had sparked her to action. The old tradition would have ended had Katniss and her forces been successful, but it seemed the revolution they had started only added fuel to the fire, and now the Games were more brutal than ever. The old rules still applied, the pool of names for the Reaping drawn from those under the age of eighteen, however, each district governed its Reaping differently. Districts One and Two still hailed Career Tributes, while others still used the lottery method, but District Thirteen reaped it Tributes specifically from those imprisoned for crimes committed. As far as Clarke knew, she was one out of a hundred that called the Cell Block home.
But hadn’t Reaping Day passed already? She couldn’t remember. She had been locked away in solitary for so long, taking her meals through a slot in the door, living in a cell that had no windows and beneath the constant harsh light of the fluorescent bulb overhead that never went off. She didn’t know what time or day it was, hell, she was surprised she hadn’t lost her mind yet. It was the thought of her father’s words, the information he had discovered that grounded her and kept her sane. She knew she would die, but not before she got the word out. If she was going down, she was taking the Capitol, Jaha, and everyone else down with her.
The last bit of her chalk crumbled between her fingers and Clarke let out a heavy sigh, brushing blonde hair back from her face with the palm of her hand and fighting the tears that prickled at the back of her tired blue eyes. Through her door, she heard a commotion down the hallway and maybe she actually was going crazy because she swore that she could hear the voice of her mother. The noise outside grew louder as it got closer, and as her door swung open and a woman rushed in, she realized it was her mother.
Abby Griffin looked as if she’d aged five years in the time Clarke had been stuck in solitary, her normally kind hazel eyes were rimmed in red as if she’d been crying and framed in deep black circles like she hadn’t slept in weeks. Her usually pristine doctor’s attire was wrinkled and untucked and her brown hair was greasy where it was pulled back behind her head, as if she hadn’t had the time to wash it. She was frantic, but her movements stopped as soon as she spotted her daughter, and both women were crying as Abby crashed into Clarke’s arms.
“Mom,” Clarke whispered, her voice hoarse and nearly unrecognizable from months of disuse. Abby was trembling in her arms, sobbing hard into the space between her neck and shoulder and clinging to her tightly enough to draw breath from Clarke’s lungs.
“That’s enough,” the guard spoke from where he stood in the doorway watching them. He looked young for a Peacekeeper, Clarke thought, his brown eyes darting around the room beneath a mop of brown hair as if uncomfortable by the reunion. “Chancellor Jaha says you’re not allowed to speak,” he informed them and she thought she may have recognized his voice, searching her mind as she tried to place it.
Abby pulled away and held Clarke at an arm’s length, scanning her body to see if she was well and unharmed. “You’re okay, sweetie,” Abby said, though her voice was trembling and sounded as if she didn’t even believe her own words. She looked scared, and her grip on Clarke’s shoulders only tightened like she was trying to keep herself from shaking.
“Mom,” Clarke croaked again. “What’s happening?”
“Clarke, I don’t know what your father did or what you know, but Jaha is accusing you of treason against the Capitol! You have to tell me—
“Hey! I said no talking!” the young Peacekeeper snapped again, cutting Abby off mid-thought. “Come on, it’s time to move,” he commanded, stepping aside so the Griffin women could exit the cell. Clarke eyed the gun at his belt and the baton in his hand, idly wondering if he would actually use them, but at the moment she was more distracted by the realization that she was actually getting out of her cell.
She walked forward and tensed slightly as Abby slid her hand into hers, clasping it tight enough to cut off circulation to her fingers. “Where are we going?” she asked, this time directing her question towards the guard.
He glanced at her and sighed, softening slightly, and in the light Clarke could see the splash of freckles across his nose, making him appear even younger. “It’s Reaping Day,” he said, his tone laced with what she thought was sadness.
“Reaping Day?” Clarke repeated, feeling the way her blood chilled in her veins, stinging like shards of ice and suddenly the thought of her cell didn’t seem so bad. She stopped, instinctively, and felt the tug on her arm as she pulled her mother to a halt with her.
“Don’t stop moving,” the guard commanded, but the intimidation was gone from his voice.
Clarke met her mother’s eyes, and the redness of tears behind soft hazel told her all that she needed to know. “They’re going to draw my name,” she whispered, knowing the words were true even as she said them, but the slight nod and the wetness that trailed down Abby’s cheeks was enough to confirm it. “Mom, I can’t—
“You have to be brave, Clarke,” Abby replied, cutting her off and squeezing both of her shoulders tightly. “You have to win.”
“They killed Dad,” she croaked. “They’ll never let me win.”
“The fact that they are letting you compete at all means they have plans for you, Clarke,” her mother hissed, urgently. “They would have simply sentenced you to the Capitol on your eighteenth birthday if they didn’t.”
“I said no talking!” the Peacekeeper snapped, pushing them forward once more. “Dr. Griffin, please,” he spoke softer. “Chancellor Jaha—
“Gave you orders, I know,” Abby shot back, equally as sharp. “What if it was your sister, Bellamy?” she asked, and suddenly Clarke placed the young man; he was Bellamy Blake, brother to Octavia Blake, the longest standing resident of The 100 members of the underground prison station.
Bellamy sighed heavily and glanced behind them; the cellblock was being emptied, prisoners being hurried out to the main courtyard in order to be present for the Reaping Ceremony. There were Peacekeepers all around them, enough present to keep the rowdy teens under control, and on top of that, there were cameras trained on their every move. If not for that, Clarke thought that Bellamy may have given them a moment, but instead, his shoulders fell and he looked at them both with an expression of sorrow.
“I can’t,” he whispered so that only they could hear. “I’m sorry.”
Before Abby could open her mouth to answer, another Peacekeeper was approaching them at speed. He was much older than Bellamy, his white uniform well-worn, and his shoulders stiff as he carried himself with an air of superiority. Clarke recognized him as David Miller, one of the guards who had brought her meals on several occasions, and she knew the dark-skinned man to be an avid supporter of Chancellor Jaha. He came to a stop behind Bellamy and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, startling him as he whirled around.
“Peacekeeper Blake,” David addressed him. “The Chancellor requests that we transport this prisoner to the Reaping Ceremony immediately. Please escort Dr. Griffin out of here,” he said, tone commanding, and it was clearly an order.
“No, wait,” Clarke replied, reaching for her mother once more, dozens of thoughts racing through her mind as she tried desperately to calm her nerves. Her breath was coming out far too quickly and she felt as if her heart was going to explode, an anxiety attack looming in the white bursts popping behind her eyes.
Abby held her at an arm’s length again, placing both hands on her shoulders and holding her daughter’s terrified gaze. “Listen to me, Clarke,” she said, trying to pull her back from the brink. “Whatever you know, use it. Whatever you heard is a bargaining chip. Be brave,” she urged, crashing their bodies together for a solid embrace as the Peacekeepers tried to pry them apart.
“I love you,” Abby said, voice frantic as Bellamy pulled her away, leading her down the hallway in the opposite direction.
Clarke wanted to call back to her, but her voice was buried deep beneath the ball of fear that had tangled itself in her chest. Her entire body was trembling and she hardly registered David’s hand on her elbow as he pulled her towards the cellblock exit. “Relax, Griffin,” he said, his voice sounding far away. “There’s a hundred other names going in with yours, I doubt you’ll be picked.”
The words shook Clarke from her daze and she almost let out a sarcastic burst of laughter at his ignorance. The only thing that was certain was that out of the hundred names going in, hers would be drawn. But she knew it was pointless to say as much, so instead she busied her mind, focusing on one thought at a time to keep from collapsing into a fit of anxiety. Why would they put her into the Games? What purpose would it serve? At any moment, she could reveal the Capitol’s secret on the nationwide broadcast, so why risk the exposure? They wouldn’t. Not unless they had a way to ensure her silence.
So, what did she have that they could use? She had knowledge enough to kill thousands of people in Mount Weather; that was what she had against Wallace, and she assumed that is exactly what he wanted from her. Jaha, however, was a different story. The death of people in the Capitol would have little effect on him other than to cause a newly rekindled revolution. Suddenly it became clear; Jaha was a Capitol loyalist, and Clarke was aware of it. He killed her father to ensure what he knew would not get out, but if the other district leaders knew he’d covered up the truth, they would surely kill him. Or if Clarke managed to make the knowledge public, the citizens of District Thirteen would rise up on their own.
It was obvious then that they had been unable to decode Jake’s encryptions, and they needed her to tell them what he’d found so they could attempt to repair the flaw and ensure that nobody else could ever use it. They’d get what they needed from her, and then they’d kill her in the Games to make sure she stayed quiet. The unrest in Panem had been evident for decades, and she recalled Jake’s words before he’d been killed about getting a message to the other district leaders. A resistance was forming, that much was clear, and President Wallace would use her knowledge to try and stop it once and for all. But how had her father gotten tied up in all of it?
She didn’t have time to work it out, taking in her surroundings as the guard ushered her into the labyrinth of an underground courtyard. The thousands of members of District Thirteen were crammed into the area, a cacophony of voices echoing loudly off the high ceiling as they shouted to be heard over the noise. There were potted trees spread out sparsely, though they had never seen the true light of day, and two giant monitors flashed to life on either side of an enormous white stage. The Mount Weather logo sat prominently on the screens, and every Peacekeeper that called District Thirteen home was present, guns held securely across their chests as they attempted to keep order. The hundred prisoners whose names would be entered in the Reaping were sorted into neat lines in front of the stage, each person wearing a similar expression of fear. Sobs could be heard from around the room and Clarke struggled to pick out whether they were coming from the prisoners or their surrounding family members.
At the front of the stage, Jaha sat stoically, gazing out over the citizens of his district with thoughtful brown eyes that stopped the moment they landed on Clarke. A range of emotions crossed his aged features; a mixture of anger, sorrow, fear, and eventually resignation. He looked as if he’d aged ten years in the time that Clarke had been imprisoned, but any pity or affection she had ever felt towards the man who’d been her father’s best friend died along with Jake. This man was not the man she knew; he was her enemy. And he was here to deliver her death sentence. She read as much when he forced his eyes away, too ashamed to hold her gaze.
Clarke sighed, letting the anger boiling in her heart chase away the fear that tangled itself in her stomach. She would not let the man who murdered her father see her breakdown and crumble beneath a mountain of nerves and terror. Instead, she took in a calming breath and ignored the sounds of sobs and hushed whispers around the cavernous room. She pushed through the crowd in front of the stage, making her way towards the Chancellor as she wove between people like a ghost, unnoticed. She was a few feet from the stage when the ceremony began and the anthem played as the cameras around the room flickered to life and the eyes of Panem were on District Thirteen.
Jaha stepped up to the podium behind the mic as the anthem lilted away and the room fell silent. “Ladies and gentleman of District Thirteen,” he began, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. “Welcome to the 172nd annual Hunger Games. As you well know, the Games serve as a reminder to ALL that rebellion, treason, and revolution will not be tolerated, and they are the price we pay as retribution for the past. You see, in order to ensure the survival of humanity, there must be balance; balance within the districts, and balance within the Capitol. We must coexist for the betterment of all mankind, and we must pay what is due,” he paused for a moment, letting his words sink in as his eyes again landed on Clarke as if he was speaking directly to her.
“That being said,” he continued on after what felt like an eternity of meeting her gaze in challenge. “In District Thirteen, we aim to spare the innocent of an uncertain and dangerous fate. We draw our names for the Reaping from the existing pool of criminals beneath the age of eighteen. For some of you, this is the last time your name will be entered, but for two of you, you will serve as the Tributes for District Thirteen as payment for your own crimes. Let’s begin,” he finished.
Clarke felt her blood run hot as his speech concluded to the sounds of terrified whimpers and angry mutters, the unrest evident in the room. If only the people knew what she knew; that Jaha murdered one of their own to protect a secret that would cripple Mount Weather; he would not be standing there about to sentence two children to death. She watched in disgust as he reached into a bowl full of neatly folded strips of paper and drew a name, pulling the male Tribute first.
“Finn Collins,” the Chancellor annunciated into the microphone.
“No!” she heard a woman’s voice from somewhere towards the back of the room, broken and filled with fear.
She didn’t recall the name and had never met the boy before, but spotted a young man with shaggy brown hair making his way towards the stage, flanked on both sides by two Peacekeepers. He had to have been Clarke’s age, his chin dotted with brown stubble and his already pale face a ghastly shade of white. Other than his pasty complexion and sheen of sweat on his forehead, he showed no outward signs of the terror that Clarke was sure was gripping him, but instead trudged willingly forward without resistance. He was boosted up onto the stage where he gripped Jaha’s hand before coming to a stop at his side and facing the audience. He appeared to be strong, a worthy competitor compared to the bawling twelve-year-old boy whose name had been drawn a year prior.
“Right, now for the ladies,” Jaha continued once the murmurs had settled.
This was it. Clarke stared at the bowl full of folded strips of paper and imagined that every name in it was hers. She was about to be condemned to die a brutal death for the entertainment of others over a crime she did not commit; yet she felt calm. She sucked in a steadying breath, setting the nerves in her stomach to rest as she took a step towards the stage, moving confidently of her own accord. She would die, but she would not give them the show they desired of it, and she would never give them what they wanted. She moved to the side of the stage and began ascending the stairs before Jaha even read her name, holding her spine straight and her chin high in a show of strength and defiance.
“Clarke Griffin,” he read, just as she reached the top of the stairs.
The Chancellor turned to face her and his brown eyes darkened as he reached out to shake her hand, as was the customary tradition. “Why am I not surprised?” Clarke asked, voice seething with rage. She spoke loudly enough to draw attention, but Jaha had turned his mic off so only the two of them and Finn Collins could hear the exchange.
“Just play your part and nobody else has to get hurt, Clarke,” he whispered, the threat evident, his hand still outstretched in the space between them.
Clarke knew that “her part” was to reveal what she knew, and then die in the Games, so the threat could only apply to the one other person that she loved: her mother. She felt the anger flow through her like fire, setting her veins ablaze and rekindling her broken spirit. “You’re wrong,” she growled, gripping his hand with force as her own threat hung in the air.
They clasped hands for a moment longer than necessary, searing brown eyes locked in battle with seething blue, and then Clarke released her grip, moving without a word to stand beside Finn. The boy looked confused at witnessing their brief exchange, but didn’t say anything as Jaha cleared his throat and the microphone clicked back on.
“Ladies and gentleman of District Thirteen, I give you your Tributes for the 172nd annual Hunger Games.”
<-><-><-><->
Lexa breathed in heavily through her nose and let it out in one solid stream, taking in the scent of the forest and morning dew through her open window. It was just after sunrise, the light filtering in in a soft shade of orange, and it was far too early to be awake, but she knew that sleep would not find her again. Not on this day. This was the day she had been training for her entire life. Countless hours drilling in the hot sun, endless lessons on leadership from Titus, and too many wounds to count had led her to this moment. This was her destiny.
The Conclave would begin shortly, where she would emerge victorious, and soon after, the Reaping Ceremony, in which she would claim the honor of Tribute for District One. She just had to get past one opponent and the bundle of nerves twisting like a knife in her abdomen. She absentmindedly ran a rag down the lethal edge of one of her swords, polishing it, as she often did, when she needed to ground herself. Her green eyes caught on the dancing flame of a single candle lit in the corner of her empty room, and her thoughts wandered.
She remembered a few years ago, sitting in this same spot, equally as nervous but not for herself: for Costia. Costia had won her own conclave and had been granted the right to compete in the Hunger Games as District One’s female Tribute. Lexa had been proud up until the moment her former lover was gruesomely decapitated on screen for the entire world to see. Then, she had been devastated. She knew they did not lead normal lives; training in Polis Academy from the time they are children until the time they turn eighteen. They were what the other districts called “Career Tributes”, the Tributes from District One and Two that competed for their spot in the Games and volunteered to take part in the slaughter. To others, their ways may have seemed harsh, but to Lexa, it was how they survived.
District One thrived on the extra rations earned from winning the Games almost every year, and even the Victors themselves were charitable, working to ensure that their people were fed. It was a system that had been in place for 172 years, and for 172 years they hailed the fiercest warriors and strongest competitors. Their biggest competition in District Two seemed to be the only ones that could stand against them. But Lexa took no comfort in the thought of slaughtering scared children from the other districts for the entertainment of the citizens of Mount Weather. It was a practice she aimed to end, but first, she had to win.
Her meditations were interrupted by a gentle knocking at her door, and she offered a brief nod of respect as her mentor entered the room. Anya was a few years older, a battle-hardened Victor and a fierce teacher, but an even fiercer friend. Lexa had known the snarky blonde with impeccably high cheekbones for nearly her entire life, and regarded her as more family than friend. They had grown together, trained together, fought together, faced hardship, and sorrow and heartbreak together, and it was together that they would change the lives of their people.
“Are you ready?” Anya asked, brown eyes surveying the room. Her voice was cold, but not harsh.
“I’ve been ready for years,” Lexa replied, steel in her tone.
Her mentor sighed and stepped forward, placing both hands on her shoulders and meeting her gaze. “This is too important to let your emotions cloud your judgment, Lexa,” the blonde said, urging her to hear the weight of her words. “The people need you to win. Our people need you.”
Lexa rose to her feet and brushed Anya’s hands from her shoulders. “I am more than capable of separating feelings from duty,” she noted, hefting her shoulder armor from the chest at the foot of her bed and weaving it slowly into place.
“I know you are,” Anya answered, again moving towards Lexa and using deft fingers to tie the leather straps across her shoulder and chest. “I’m proud of you.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.” Lexa sat still, letting her mentor help.
“But you will. You’re going to end all of this, Lexa.”
“One thing at a time,” she answered, though her vision was finally in reach. “First I must win my Conclave, and then the Games. Then we’ll deal with Titus.”
Normally she would feel guilt at saying the words aloud, but once they were out in the open, she felt nothing but impatience to see it done. Titus was not a bad leader, but he was a weak one. He had no vision for the future, no ambition; his only ambition had been to create a winner from District One each year. He was a pawn of the Capitol, a slave of President Wallace, yet he didn’t even know it; too blinded by his desire to win to see that his people were suffering. They weren’t as hungry as the other districts, Titus ensured that, but they were over worked, underpaid, abused, and tortured by the people their leader unknowingly served. He was a puppet, but Lexa would sever the strings. She would win the Games and challenge Titus for the position of Commander, as was their custom. And then they would have their revolution.
Anya finished tying her armor into place and handed Lexa her sword in its sheath. “Luna will not surrender easily,” she cautioned.
“I do not expect her to, but I will not lose. Costia died for this. I won’t fail her.”
“Fight for yourself, Lexa,” Anya warned. “The dead are gone.”
“And the living are hungry,” Lexa finished, strapping her sword into place across her back and sweeping towards the doorway as her mentor followed closely.
She didn’t stop for breakfast, too nervous to eat, but she did accept the water Anya provided her as they trudged out into the morning light. The arena was already filling up fast, the stands bustling with people excited to witness the Conclave and the crowning of new Tributes. The wooden stands were built in a circle, surrounding a center ring in which the novitiates would fight, the floor covered in a thin layer of sand. There was a raised platform facing the crowds, atop it was a podium, and to the left and right of the stage, massive screens hung down to project the fight for all to see, and the Reaping Ceremony soon after.
Anya left to join Titus and the other Victors on stage, and Lexa quickly busied herself with warming up her muscles, gently swinging a few different weapons through the air as she felt her body pull and stretch. She was most comfortable with a weapon in hand, as if the swords she carried were merely extensions of her body, and she felt her confidence grow as the crowds began to gather in. She heard the way the people whispered about her, how they revered her prowess in combat; on her other side, she could see the younger novitiates watching her, eying her with admiration. She always put great emphasis on taking the time to teach and mentor the younger kids, her brother, Aden, being one of them, and she was glad now for their support.
If only they knew the plans she had. Again, Lexa’s mind drifted back three years prior, remembering the way she had watched Costia from the very same spot. She had looked like a goddess in the morning sun, her brown skin glowing radiantly beneath caramel eyes as she offered a reassuring smile. She’d easily dispatched the rest of her novitiate class, earning her spot as Tribute, and Lexa had seen no better fighter in her entire seventeen years of existence. Costia had been an artist with a sword, and the only person who had ever been able to best Lexa in the training ring. She should have won the Games.
Lexa felt the way anger boiled in her chest at the memory and the loss, but she shoved it down, locking it away as she had always done. Love was weakness, after all, and a distraction that she couldn’t afford. Instead, she allowed her emotions to go numb, tuning them out so she could focus on the task at hand. Her duty to her people was what mattered most, and she held onto that thought as her opponent made her way into the ring.
Luna was a skilled warrior, having trained at Polis Academy for longer than even Lexa had, but it was her confidence that was her greatest weakness. Her unruly brown hair flowed in bursts down over her shoulders, and she had opted to wear nothing more than training garments as opposed to Lexa’s battle armor. Her shirt was a milky white, cut off so that her bronzed shoulders were bare, and it tucked into tight black pants that disappeared beneath calf-length leather boots. She was a speed fighter, clearly not wanting to be encumbered by any extra gear, but that meant she would have to be fast enough to dodge Lexa’s blows, otherwise the fight would be over rather quickly. Her brown eyes sparkled with confidence and mischief as she offered Lexa a taunting smirk before grabbing a spear and twirling it about her shoulders. Where Lexa’s greatest strength was in using swords, Luna’s had always been with a spear, and she was fierce.
A few minutes later, the stands were bursting with spectators, spilling out to standing room around the fighting circle as hundreds of voices cut sharply through the late morning air. Titus approached the podium, clad in billowing grey and purple robes that flowed down to his ankles, his bald head reflecting the overhead sun. He held up a single hand, bringing the roaring chatter to a steady halt, waiting patiently as the last bit of noise faded away so that he could address the crowd. Lexa fought the urge to roll her eyes at his theatrics, but instead stared straight ahead, honing her emerald gaze on Anya as her mentor offered her a reassuring nod.
Titus cleared his throat and leaned down into the microphone. “There is no greater honor than to fight for your district in the crucible of battle,” he began, his voice demanding attention. “For well over a century, District One has hailed the strongest and bravest Tributes, and has repeatedly claimed victory. We gather here today, as we do each year, to witness the ascension of two new Tributes, one of which, will go on to capture eternal glory,” he explained, the stars visible in his black eyes and Lexa had to choke back her sarcastic scoff of laughter. “Since my ascension as Commander of District One twenty years past, we have seen a Victor return more often than any other district, for in these great victories, our district thrives.”
Lexa’s gaze met Anya’s once more, and an entire conversation ensued in the space between them. Titus was a fool, a pawn, and the whispers of dissent around the arena at his words did not go unnoticed in Lexa’s ears. District One was not thriving, it was suffocating, drowning beneath the weight of supporting the Capitol, just the same as the other twelve districts were. Their victories in the Games provided food and sustenance, but they did not provide warmth, shelter, medicine or protection. The Peacekeepers were violent and often times forceful, drunk on their power, beating, raping, and murdering the innocent, and winning the Games did not spare them of that. But it did, however, train many of them to be warriors; a factor that Lexa intended to use in the very near future. But first she had to win.
“Over the past few weeks, the novitiate class has been narrowed down to four finalists: two boys, and two girls,” Titus continued on, drawing her back in. “Today, they will fight in single combat until two are left standing. Lexa and Luna,” he said, addressing them directly. “You may begin when ready. May the odds be ever in your favor.”
The crowd erupted into cheers at that, the murmurs of discontent replaced by thunderous applause as Lexa and Luna made their way to the center of the ring. They squared off, facing each other as Lexa drew her sword from its sheath across her back while Luna twirled her spear in a few showy flourishes. Their gazes met, challenging one another, as ten years of pent up rivalry built up in the space between them, threatening to explode. Lexa knew it was in her best interest to be patient, to let Luna use her speed and dance around a bit, so she waited.
Luna, ever confident, played into Lexa’s strategy and struck first, lunging left before dipping right and closing the distance between them in two long strides. She jabbed at Lexa like a javelin, but the armored girl quickly parried and side-stepped, batting the spear away before resetting her stance. Luna danced away, twirling her spear about her shoulders as she circled around Lexa like a shark circling its prey, though Lexa remained unfazed. She stood her ground, clutching the hilt of her sword in two hands as Luna brought her spear down towards her head in an overhand arc. Lexa blocked the heavy blow, dropping to one knee and rolling beneath Luna’s next attack before popping up on her other side.
Catching her opponent off balance, Lexa went on the attack, lashing out with her sword in two quick strikes that Luna managed to turn away with the shaft of her weapon. Luna stepped forward quickly, closing the distance between them and rendering both weapons useless as she grabbed a fist full of Lexa’s shirt and crashed her forehead into her nose. Lexa staggered back, feeling blood running down her face into her mouth, and she brought her sleeve up to wipe the sticky substance away. Luna offered her another confident smirk, but retreated quickly as one of Lexa’s expertly aimed swipes just narrowly missed her abdomen.
Lexa went on offense again, hacking three strong blows at Luna in rapid succession, finishing the sequence as she spun and drove her sword downward in a viscous arc that her opponent had to block using two hands on either side of her sword. Luna pushed back with full strength, throwing Lexa’s sword away from the shaft of her spear and sending a well-aimed boot right to Lexa’s chest. She tumbled backwards, her armor clamoring on the ground as she rolled out of the way of the tip of Luna’s spear, the sharp edge connecting with the ground where her head had been a second before. Lexa grunted, hauling herself to her feet and gasping for air as she just barely managed to get her sword up in time to block another oncoming blow.
Luna had her on her heels, retreating backwards towards the edge of the arena as she jumped out of the way and ducked beneath sharp strikes coming in rapid succession. Lexa was out of room, her back pressed to the surrounding crowd and her nose dripping steadily as Luna closed in on her. She had nowhere to go but forward, jumping over a swipe that was aimed to take out her ankles, then diving beneath another blow aimed towards her head, summersaulting forward and rolling to her feet back in the center of the ring. She had underestimated her opponent’s speed, but Luna’s confidence was growing as was her grin, and Lexa spotted the weakness in her defense.
Lexa had chosen to fight with a single sword against Luna’s spear, but her normal weapon of choice was two blades, wielding each with deadly accuracy in both hands. She’d been fighting with the blade in her right hand, or using two hands on the hilt, up until now, and Luna was leaving a space in her guard where Lexa’s other sword should be. Lexa sat back, waiting for her attacker’s next onslaught as she readied her own stance. Luna lunged forward once more, eager to end the fight as she thrust her spear tip towards Lexa’s chest, but Lexa had been anticipating it and batted the strike away. Luna drew her weapon back and swung it side arm this time, missing as Lexa ducked beneath the horizontal swipe and playing right into the armored girl’s trap.
The world seemed to click into slow motion, and Lexa watched as Luna stepped back on her right foot, shifting her weight in anticipation to block a right hand shot from Lexa’s sword. Instead, Lexa rolled to the left, switching her sword hand as she popped back up on the other side of Luna’s guard. In one precise motion, she gripped the spear in her free right hand and ripped it away, using the sword that was now in her left hand to bring the fight to a swift end as she held the blade flush against Luna’s throat. It was not forbidden to kill other novitiates in the Conclave, but Lexa had her opponent beat, and saw no need for pointless bloodshed.
She waited as Luna registered her defeat and held up both hands in surrender. “I yield,” she whispered hoarsely, and the crowd that had been silent in anticipation erupted in applause.
“You fought well,” she replied, though she knew the other girl probably wouldn’t have spared her if their roles were switched. That was what set her apart from the rest; her knowledge of when to take a life, and when to spare one.
Lexa lowered her weapon and held out a hand to grip Luna’s forearm in a show of respect for a worthy opponent, but her mind was racing as her victory put her one step closer to winning the Games, and one step closer to her ultimate goal. She would emerge victorious and challenge Titus for leadership of District One, and then she would unite the thirteen districts and lead the rebellion against Mount Weather. Of that, she was certain.
She released the breath she had been holding, momentary relief flooding through her as she met Anya’s approving eyes up on the platform and made her way towards her mentor. The ecstatic crowd chanted her name and clapped her on the back or brushed her shoulders as she climbed the stairs to stand beside Titus. Her nose was throbbing, but the pain was dulled by the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins, and she barely registered it as Titus announced the second fight of the day in which a male Tribute would be crowned. However, the duel was over quicker than it had started as she watched Gustus obliterate his opponent, and then the anthem began to play, marking the immediate start of the Reaping Ceremony.
When the music finished and the cameras switched on, broadcasting them nationwide, Titus stepped up to the podium once more, Gustus and Lexa flanking him on both sides as he spoke to the hushed crowd. “There is no greater glory than to sacrifice oneself for the good of others,” he began, again trying to stir inspiration though Lexa could see anger instead of awe written on most faces in front of her.
“Earlier this day, we held a competition in which only the strongest and bravest were left standing. It is these two individuals beside me that are worthy of bearing the name of Tribute and representing District One in the 172nd annual Hunger Games. Lexa Woods and Gustus Greene, do you accept this honor?” he asked, feeling the eyes of all of Panem and the Capitol on them.
Lexa and Gustus held their chins high, their spines rigid, their hands folded behind their backs, and their posture commanding, just as they had been taught. Their voices echoed in unison as they each said, “I volunteer as Tribute.”