MPHFPC ➵ The Hunger Games AU (DISCONTINUED)

Chapter Three

.☆ POV- Millard

My mind hasn't stopped racing from the moment my name was announced, and that was hours ago. Now, I was on the luxurious but somehow terrible train that was to take me to wherever we were going. I was supposed to know where we were going; I was admittedly bright, and I watched the Hunger Games every year in District 5's town central. But my brain felt completely clogged as I tried to remember which plants were edible or poisonous or what all the Districts' industries were or how many stings it takes for a tracker jacker to kill you, but no. Notta, nothing, zip.

The girl who'd been picked to represent our District had disappeared off into her room. I couldn't even place her at this point, and I knew practically everyone I'd met.

I tried to stomach all this unbelievable information. Out of the hundreds, thousands, of names in that glass ball, my story was intertwined with the 51st Hunger Games. Peachy. I chewed on the ends of the pillow I was holding; the others were behind my head. I was on the big, incredibly comfortable bed the Capitol provided all the tributes in the nice rooms.

I tried to think of what my family and friends would be thinking back at home. My mother was long gone... perhaps my father was worrying? I snorted. He didn't give a chuck what happened to me. Matter of fact, he was the one who got me in this spot in the first place. The moment my brother's name came out of the announcer's mouth, reliable Dad was pushing me to the front of the crowd, yelling, "We have a volunteer! Volunteer over here!" and holding my arm up in his firm grip. I had tried to squirm away, but... no. Didn't matter. I was a smart thinker, I'd admit that much. So naturally I knew that if I didn't play the heroic brother act, my father would do who knows what to me. It still hurt, though.

I knew I shouldn't have been mad at my brother; none of this was his fault. He was always nice to me, offering me fruits or meat. My father just... had a favorite, apparently. But I couldn't help the bitter resentment coating my dry tongue.

I felt the soft pillowcase under my fingers as I lightly dragged my lanky hand across the bed.

So. My dad wanted me gone, to die in the arena. He knew double as much as anyone that I was weak and skinny and couldn't hold a big bag of flour if my life depended on it. Which, I suppose, now it did. I felt the sudden urge to vomit, and proceeded to do so in the all-too-clean bathroom. It was like the whole train was saying, "Enjoy yourself while you still can."

I sat on the bathroom floor. I should have been organizing my notes, studying how the victors of previous Games had won, figuring out when we would come to the Capitol and when the Games would start, anything but staring at the wall on the bathroom floor.

And then big fat tears leaked from my eyes and I stared some more. I wasn't leaving anything behind, so why was I sad? And then it hit me: I wasn't leaving anything behind. No friends, no family who wanted me, no one came at all when given an hour to say good-bye. I was going to die, and I would be no one but Millard Nullings, the 16-year-old boy who died in the arena.

After sobbing quietly for a long while, I came out of the bathroom- luckily it was connected to my bedroom- and sat back on the bed. My puffy red eyes were fixated on the off-white, spotless, carpeted floor. A rat scurried across the rug and I screamed, jumping up.

"What the frick?!" I yelped, staggering back further onto the bed.

The brown and white furred rat looked up at me with wide eyes, sniffing its nose cutely.

"Hey!" a male voice was calling in the hall. Suddenly my door burst open- crap, why didn't I lock it?- and a tall man with scars covering most of his face leaped in. He had shoulder-length brown hair tied in a ponytail. "That's my rat, mind you."

An anxious mix of fear, shock, and confusing swept over me. "Your rat? What do- I mean, well, who are you?" I said, trying to clear the uncertainty from my voice.

"My name's Sharon, and that's my rat. You're Millard, right?" He had bent down and was now stuffing the rat into his long cloak.

"Right," I answered, shifting in my spot. "What do you do here? This setup is... fascinating."

"I mostly just help out you newbies," Sharon responded, stroking a rat on his shoulder. "I won the Games when I was your age, but that's mostly thanks to my cousins. They helped me with anythin' and everythin' straight up to this point." His mouth curved into a toothy grin.

"Nice to meet you." I reached out my hand for him to take, but he just chuckled.

"No fancy greetings necessary," he said, causing me to draw my arm back immediately. He just laughed again. "Anxious, ain't you? No big deal, dinner should be ready any minute now."

I really, really wasn't in the mood for dinner, but I knew better than to put that out there. "Sounds good," I agreed quietly, fighting off a shrug.

He sat down next to me, disregarding how the amount of uncomfortableness I was feeling increased by about 340%. I just wanted to be alone.

Before the silence stretched out too long, however, a voice filled the air, traveling in through the half-open door. "Come down for supper!"

I got up and started off down the hall, Sharon on my tail, blabbering on about some boat he sailed or something.

This was going to be a long meal.

.☆ POV- Fiona

I stared at the plate of food set in front of me. The visions of roasted bird and steamed vegetables danced in front of my eyes. It looked good. Very good. Very, very good in comparison to the bits of burnt bread scrapings we poor folk could find in District 12. To us people who had to give up our signed-for tesserae because of constant death threats that this rough time brought.

It made me sick. How could I eat this while people at home starved?

"Won't you eat up?" the man sitting across from me offered, waving his cup of tea as he spoke. I believe that's Mr. Bentham? I wondered.

I hadn't uttered a single word for over 5 years, and I was 16. What was the point of talking, if no one would ever listen? That was what I was trying to get across, though most people just figured I was mute or sick or both. I wasn't giving that up for the Hunger Games, even if it meant getting my throat slit a few days earlier than possible. I just shook my head.

His brow furrowed. "May I ask why?" His tone was geniunely friendly, curious.

I hesitated before shaking my head again.

Bentham frowned. "What is your name, Miss? I daresay I've forgotten. Mind me."

That was a question that required speaking.

I focused on the ground.

"Can you speak, Miss?"

My response to this question was automatic. I shook my head. No.

A heavy silence filled the room for a moment. Then he said uncertainly, "Will you speak?"

I performed my usual answer.

He looked worried. "The Capitol won't like that.... Are you positive?"

Yes.

My whole family was dead. I wasn't going to follow the stupid Capitol's rules. Because those stupid gits killed them. And now every time I looked at a soft blanket, my brother came to mind. Every time I saw two birds, my twin sisters crossed my thoughts. Every time a boat crossed my gaze, I'd see my parents, sailing away on their expedition and never coming back.

Bentham's lips curved into a frown. "No offense, ma'am, but you might want to speak for the sake of getting sponsors."

I could just barely make out his words as my thoughts wish-washed back and forth. Did I really care about winning the Games? No, not particularly. I'd die back at home anyway. Then it hit me. The money. The winnings. The loot. All it would do for the little kids starving in District 12... I needed to win.

I was going to win.