Chapter 1: help with writing the outline!
Notes:
Hi... I'm not sure if I should follow the original storyline of The Hunger Games or switch it up as a Vampire vs. Human theme, like having the Vampires be the Capitol yk to fit the Enhypen mesh. I'll post this as the first chapter; maybe I'll wait a week or a couple of days. If no one responds, I'll proceed with the first chapter I've written, which follows the Hunger Games storyline more closely.
Chapter Text
If y'all want to read the Vampire vs Humans version, respond in the comments!
Chapter 2: The World Has Shifted and I'm Supposed to Explain Why
Summary:
Usually there's a joke, a flourish — something to make waiting feel like entertainment. Today, he reaches straight in.
The glass clicks.
Sharp. Final.
For a second, I think — absurdly — that if he says the name wrong, it won't count.
"Riki."
The sound doesn't make sense. Not at first.
No one moves. Not the crowd. Not Jungwon. Not even Riki.
Then Riki turns.
He looks for me immediately.
Not our mother. Not the stage.
Me.
I take a step forward before anyone tells me not to. My body moves before my thoughts catch up.
He's still not crying. He just looks confused, like the world has shifted and I'm supposed to explain why.
I can't.
Notes:
Guys, here's the first chapter. I tried to get it as close as possible to canon for the Hunger Games series, while also incorporating Sunoos and Nikki's characteristics. Pleaseee let me know if there are any mistakes. I only have my Word document to tell me if there are misspellings or grammar errors :(
Anyway enjoy!
Chapter Text
PART I
"THE TRIBUTES"
Chapter 1.
Reaping mornings, ugh, I always wake up before the sun rises on these days. I reach for Riki out of routine, only to find my hand brushing the rough texture of the mattress instead. He must
have had a bad dream and climbed in with our mother. He's grown taller this year, but that doesn't change his age. And today, age is everything.
I prop myself up on one elbow.
There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little brother, Riki, folded up on her side, cocooned in my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together.
In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten down. As I gaze at her, she slowly stirs awake, must have been woken by my rustling. I avoid her questioning gaze to look at my Riki. He seems too gentle for a name that means strength; his face is bright with childlike innocence, as if the world has yet to reach him.
Curled up at Riki's knees, the world's raggiest dog keeps watch over him with unwavering dedication. His nose scarred, one ear permanently bent, and his eyes are a gloomy black that nearly appears red when the light hits them wrong. Riki decided to call him Bisco, arguing that his fur resembled the cozy hue of freshly baked bread. The dog doesn't trust me. Maybe he never will. I can't blame him—I nearly drove him off the day Riki brought him home, all bones and fleas and need. Another month I couldn't afford. But Riki begged so hard, cried even.
Somehow, he stayed.
My mother got rid of the vermin, and he turned out to be a born mouser. He even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I toss him the entrails. He's stopped barking at me. Entrails. No barking. This is as close as we'll ever come to an agreement.
I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on pants, a shirt, put on a hat to conceal my hair, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect bundle of goat cheese and berries wrapped in basil leaves.
Riki's offering to me on reaping day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside. In our section of District 12, known as the Seam, it is typically bustling with coal miners making their way to the morning shift at this time.
Men and women with stooped postures and swollen knuckles, many of whom have given up on cleaning the coal dust from their chipped nails and the creases of their gaunt faces. Today, the dark, cinder-streets are eerily deserted.
The shutters of the low gray houses are shut tight. The reaping doesn't start until two o'clock. Still, the silence hints at the looming tension and the potential for unrest.
Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. Our home is nearly at the edge of the Seam. I need to pass through a few gates to get to the messy area known as the Meadow. A tall chain-link fence, topped with coils of barbed wire, separates the Meadow from the woods, effectively enclosing all of District 12.
In theory, this fence is supposed to be electrified 24/7 to keep those pesky predators at bay — you know, packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, and bears — the ones that used to make our streets a no-go zone. But lucky us, we only get a measly two or three hours of electricity in the evenings (cue the eye roll), so it's usually safe to touch. Still, I always wait for that telltale hum that lets me know the fence is actually live.
Right now, it's as silent as a rock. Crouched behind some bushes, I'm lying flat on my stomach, sliding under a two-foot section of fence that's been loose for ages. The Capitol really knows how to make you do some embarrassing stuff.
There are a few other weak spots in the fence, but this one is conveniently close to home, where I usually sneak into the woods.
As soon as I'm among the trees, I grab my bow and sheath, my hands once soft and flawless, now accustomed to the tug of the arrow when hunting, and reach for my hidden arrows. Electrified or not, this fence has done a bang-up job of keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 12. Inside the woods, they roam freely, and there are added concerns like vicious snakes, rabid animals, and no absolute paths to follow. But there's also food if you know how to find it. My father knew, and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion.
There was nothing even to bury.
I was eleven then. Five Years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.
Even though wandering through the woods is against the law, I'm way too cute to end up in jail, and poaching? Well, that comes with some serious consequences. But let's be real, more folks would take the plunge if they had some firepower. Most, however, aren't daring enough to head out armed with just a knife. My bow, though? It's a rare gem, handcrafted by my dad, along with a few others that I stash away in the woods, all snug in waterproof covers. My dad could've raked in some serious cash selling them. But if the authorities had caught wind of it, he'd have been executed for stirring up trouble. Most of the Peacekeepers conveniently ignore my hunting escapades.
They're just as desperate for fresh meat as anyone else. Or at least that's the vibe, but their wandering glances tell a different story. They're practically my best customers. But the thought of someone arming the Seam? Yeah, that would never fly. Come fall, a handful of daring souls slip into the woods to snag some apples. But they always stay within sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to dash back to the safety of District 12 if things go south. "District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety," I grumble. Then I quickly check over my shoulder. Even out here, in the middle of nowhere, you can't shake the feeling that someone might be eavesdropping.
When I was younger, I scared my mother to death with the things I said about District 12, about the people who govern our nation, Panem, from the distant city known as the Capitol. How is it that they have stunning individuals working in labor when their talents could be utilized in other ways? Just look at Yeonjun; he remains as handsome as ever. Even though he rarely sings (out of fear of the peacekeepers), his voice is strong; he could likely spark a revolution with it, and I'm not being dramatic.
Eventually, I realized that this path would only lead us to greater peril. So, I learned to keep my mouth shut and to transform my expression into a mask of indifference. The days of my crinkled eye smiles and hearty laughter are gone, replaced by a cold, emotionless facade, so that no one could ever decipher my thoughts. I do my work quietly at school. No more casual conversations, just polite small talk in the public hog. Discuss a little more than trades in the Hob, which
It is the black market where I make most of my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games.
Riki might start to repeat my words, and then where would we be? In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself. Yeonjun. I can feel the muscles on my lips curving up, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a crinkled eye smile. Yeonjun says I never smile except in the woods.
"Hey, Sunny," says Yeonjun. My real name is Sunoo, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I'd said Sunny. Then, when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking at me like I hung the moon, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because it scared off the game. I almost regretted it because he was so cute. But I got a reasonable price for his pelt.
"Look what I shot,"
Yeonjun holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. It's real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations.
I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.
"Mm, still warm," I say.
Yeonjun must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it.
"What did it cost you?"
"Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," he says.
"Even wished me luck."
"You know, I think we all feel a bit more connected today, right?"
I remark, not even attempting to hide my eye roll.
"Riki has left us a cheese." I take it out.
His face lights up at the treat. "Thank you, Ni-ki. We're going to have a real feast."
Suddenly, he adopts a Capitol accent, imitating Yang Jungwon, the overly cheerful man who shows up once a year to announce the names at the reaping.
"I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He picks a few blackberries from the bushes nearby.
"And may the odds —" He throws a berry in a high arc toward me.
I catch it in my mouth and burst the tender skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness floods my tongue. "— Be ever in your favor!" I respond with equal enthusiasm. We have to make jokes about it because the alternative is being terrified out of our minds. Plus, the Capitol accent is so exaggerated that almost anything sounds amusing when spoken in it.
I watch as Yeonjun takes out his knife and cuts the bread. He could easily be my brother. With his straight black hair and fair complexion, we even share the same hazel eyes.
Yet, we aren't related, at least not closely. Many families working in the mines share this resemblance.
That's why my mother and Riki, with their light hair and Green eyes, always seem out of place. They truly are. My mother's parents belonged to the small merchant class that served officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam customer.
They operated an apothecary shop in the more affluent area of District 12. Since nearly no one can afford doctors, apothecaries serve as our healers. My father became acquainted with my mother because, during his hunts, he would sometimes gather medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop for use in brewing remedies. She must have genuinely loved him to leave her home for the Seam. I keep that in mind when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children wasted away. I strive to forgive her for my father's sake.
But honestly, I'm not one to easily forgive.
We nestle into a comfortable spot among the rocks. From here, we remain unnoticed yet enjoy a clear view of the valley, active with the vibrancy of summer, where greens await gathering, roots are ready to be unearthed, and fish shimmer in the sunlight. The day is splendid, adorned with a blue sky and a gentle breeze. The food is satisfying, with cheese melting into warm bread and berries bursting with flavor in our mouths. Everything would be comforting if this were truly a holiday, if a day off meant wandering the mountains with Yeonjun, searching for our dinner. Yet, we'll find ourselves standing in the square at two o'clock, waiting for our names to be announced.
"We could totally pull this off, you know," Yeonjun whispers, all mysterious-like.
"What?" I shoot back, confused.
"We could ditch the district. Just run away. Live off the land. You and me, we could totally make it," he insists.
I'm left speechless. The thought is just so out there.
"If only we didn't have so many kids to think about," he adds in a hurry.
Sure, they're not technically ours, but they could be.
Yeonjun's got two little brothers, and I've got my own little brother, Riki. And let's not forget our moms, because seriously, how would they survive without us? Who's gonna feed those endless mouths always begging for more? Even with both of us out hunting every single day, there are still nights when we have to trade game for lard or shoelaces or wool, and nights when we hit the hay with our stomachs growling like a pack of wolves.
"I never want to have kids," I say.
"I might. If I didn't live here," says Yeonjun.
"But you do," I say, irritated.
"Forget it," he snaps back.
The conversation seems completely off. Leave? How could I possibly leave Riki, the one person in the entire world I know I love? And Yeonjun is so committed to his family. We can't just leave, so what's the point of even discussing it? And even if we did... even if we did... where did this idea about raising kids come from? There has never been anything romantic between Yeonjun and me. When we first met, I was just a skinny twelve-year-old, and even though he was only two years older, he already seemed like a man.
It took a long time for us to even become friends, to stop haggling over every trade and begin helping each other out.
Besides, if he wants kids, Yeonjun won't have any trouble finding a wife. And why go through the trouble of adopting? When he had perfectly fine working body functions. He's good-looking, he's strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous, but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.
"What do you feel like doing?" I ask.
We could go hunting, fishing, or gathering.
"How about we fish at the lake? We can leave our rods and gather some stuff in the woods. Let's get something nice for dinner tonight," he replies.
Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is expected to celebrate. Many do, relieved that their kids have been spared for another year. But at least two families will close their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how to get through the tough weeks ahead.
We do well. The predators leave us alone on a day like this.
On our way home, we make a stop at the Hob, the black market that operates out of an old warehouse that used to store coal. The Hob gradually claimed the space. Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, yet the black market remains quite active.
We easily exchange six of the fish for some quality bread, and the other two for salt. Greasy Sae, the thin elderly woman who sells steaming bowls of soup from a large kettle, takes half of our greens in return for a few chunks of paraffin. We might find slightly better deals elsewhere, but we make it a point to maintain a good relationship with Greasy Sae.
She's the only one who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog.
We don't hunt them on purpose, but if you're attacked and you take out a dog or two, well, meat is meat. "Once
It's in the soup, I'll call it beef," Greasy Sae says with a wink. No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.
When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the Mayor's house to sell half the strawberries, knowing he has a particular fondness for them and can afford our price. The Mayor's son, Jung Hojin opens the door. He's in the same year as me at school. Being the Mayor's son, you'd expect him to be a snob, but he's alright. He keeps to himself. Like me. Since neither of us really has a group of friends, we end up together a lot at school.
Eating lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, and partnering for sports activities. We don't really talk, which suits us both just fine.
Today, his dull school outfit has been replaced by an expensive white suit, and his brown hair is curled. Reaping clothes.
"Nice suit," says Yeonjun.
Hojin shoots him a look, trying to see if it's an honest compliment or if he's just being ironic. It is a nice suit, but he would never wear it ordinarily.
He presses his lips together and then smiles. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"
Now it's Yeonjun's turn to be confused. Does he mean it? Or is he messing with him? I'm assuming the second.
"You won't be going to the Capitol," says Yeonjun coolly.
His eyes land on a small, circular pin that adorns his suit.
Real gold. Beautifully crafted.
It could keep a family in bread for months.
"What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."
"That's not his fault," I say.
"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," says Yeonjun.
Hojin's face has become closed off. He puts the money for the berries in my hand.
"Good luck, Sunoo." "You, too," I say, and the door closes.
We walk toward the Seam in silence. I don't like that
Yeonjun took a dig at Hojin, but he's right, of course. The
reaping system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it.
You become eligible to reap the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility.
However, there is a significant disadvantage.
Imagine being poor and starving as we once were. You have the option to increase the number of times your name is entered in exchange for tesserae.
Each tessera provides a spare year's supply of grain and oil for one individual. This can also be done for each member of your family. Thus, at the age of twelve, my name was entered four times.
Once out of necessity, and three additional times to secure tesserae for grain and oil for myself, Riki, and my mother.
Undoubtedly, I have had to repeat this process every year.
Furthermore, the entries stockpile. Therefore, now at the age of sixteen, my name will appear in the reaping twenty times. Yeonjun, who is eighteen and has been either helping or solely providing for a family of five for seven years, will have his name entered forty-two times.
You can see why someone like Hojin, who has never been at risk of needing a tessera, can trigger him.
But again, it's not his fault, it's no one's, as Yeonjun said...
"cough cough." It could be the Capitol's fault.
Yeonjun knows his bitterness at Hojin is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I've listened to him yell about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause hell in our district.
A way to plant hostility between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper, and thereby assure that we will never trust one
another.
"It's to the Capitol's advantage to have us divided among ourselves."
He might say if there were no ears to hear but mine.
If it wasn't reaping day. If a boy with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I assume he thought was a harmless comment.
As we walk, I glance over at Yeonjun's face, still smoldering underneath his stony expression. His agitation seems pointless to me, although I never say so. It's not that I disagree with him. I do.
But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of the woods?
It doesn't change anything. It doesn't make things fine. It doesn't fill our stomachs.
In fact, it scares off the nearby game.
I let him yell, though. Better that he does it in the woods than in the district.
Yeonjun and I share our bounty, which includes two fish, a few loaves of fresh bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a little money for each of us.
"See you in the square," I tell him.
"Make sure to wear something nice," he replies flatly.
At home, I discover that my mother and brother are prepared to leave. My mother is dressed in a beautiful gown from her days as an apothecary.
Riki is wearing my first reaping outfit, a dress shirt, and some old slacks. They are slightly cuffed at the end for him because of his growth spurt, but my mother has tried to secure the shirt with pins.
Still, she struggles to keep the dress shirt tucked in at the back.
A tub of warm water is ready for me. I wash off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even cleanse my hair. To my surprise, my mother has set out one of her lovely blouses for me.
It's a soft blue with matching shoes.
"Are you sure?" I inquire. I'm trying to overcome my instinct to refuse her help. For a time, I was so upset that I wouldn't let her do anything for me. This is something special. Her clothes from her past hold great value for her.
"Absolutely. Let's do your hair as well," she responds. I allow her to towel-dry my hair and style it into gentle waves.
I can barely recognize myself in the cracked mirror leaning against the wall.
"You look pretty," Riki whispers.
"And not at all like myself," I reply.
I embrace him because I know these next few hours will be difficult for him. It's his first reaping. He's as safe as can be, having only entered once.
I wouldn't let him take out any tesserae. Yet, he's anxious about me. He fears the unimaginable might occur.
I do everything I can to protect Riki, but I feel powerless against the reaping. The pain I always experience when he suffers rises in my chest, threatening to show on my face.
I notice his dress shirt has come untucked from his slacks in the back again, and I force myself to remain calm.
"Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the shirt back into place.
Riki giggles and gives me a small "Quack."
"Quack yourself," I respond with a light laugh, the kind only Riki can elicit from me. "Come on".
The fish and greens simmer in a pot, destined for supper, yet
We choose to reserve the strawberries and bakery bread for tonight's meal, to
make it memorable, we claim.
Instead, we sip milk from Riki's goat, Lady, and consume the coarse bread crafted from the tessera grain, though no one possesses much appetite in any case.
At one o'clock, we make our way to the square. Attendance is required unless you are teetering on the brink of death.
This evening, officials will arrive to verify if this is indeed the situation.
If not, imprisonment awaits.
It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square — one of the few places in District 12 that can be
pleasant. The square's surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it.
But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.
People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well.
Twelve-through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by age, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Riki, toward the back.
Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands.
But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn.
Odds are given on their ages, whether they're Seam or merchant, and if they will break down and weep.
Most refuse to deal with the racketeers, but they do so carefully.
These same people tend to be informers, and who hasn't broken the law?
I could be shot daily for hunting, but the appetites of those in charge protect me.
Not everyone can claim the same.
Anyway, Yeonjun and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, a bullet would be much quicker.
The space becomes tighter and more claustrophobic as people arrive.
The square's quite large, but not enough to hold District 12's population is about eight thousand.
Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.
I find myself standing in a clump of sixteens from the Seam.
We all exchange tense nods, then focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building.
It holds three chairs, a podium, and all our names mixed in one huge glass ball. Twenty of them have Kim Sunoo written on them in careful handwriting.
Two of the three chairs are filled with Hojin's father, the Mayor Undersee, who's a tall, balding man, and Yang Jungwon, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with his scary white grin, redish hair, and a fall navy suit.
They
murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat.
Just as the town clock strikes two, the Mayor recites the history as if it were a prayer he no longer believes in.
Rebellion. Consequence. Sacrifice. The words don't land. No one reacts. We've heard them since we were old enough to stand still. The speech is no longer meant to warn us. It's intended to remind us that nothing has changed.
That's it. Move on.
I don't need the rules explained to me. My hands already know what shaking feels like.
"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks."
intones the Mayor.
Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we had exactly two.
Only one is still alive. Jay Jongseong Park, a somewhat built, mid-twenties man, who at this moment appears hollering
"Oh... Please god help me..." staggers onto the stage and falls into the
third chair.
He's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he's confused and tries to give Yang Jungwon a big hug, which he barely manages to fend off.
The Mayor looks distressed.
Since all of this is being televised, right now, District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it.
He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Yang Jungwon.
Bright and bubbly as ever, although Jungwon's smile comes a second too late, like he had to remember where to put it. The crowd doesn't boo. That's wrong too. That stare, waiting to be told how to feel.
Jungwon's persona comes back as he trots to the podium and gives his signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
His red hair must've been ruffled because his curls have frizzed up slightly and seem off-center since his encounter with Jay.
He goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows he's just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, not drunks who ask
"Where's my hug at?" in front of the entire nation.
Through the crowd, I spot Yeonjun looking back at me with a ghost of a smile.
As reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor.
But suddenly I am thinking of Yeonjun and his forty-two names in that big glass ball, and how the odds are not in his favor.
Not compared to a lot of the kids. And maybe he's thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away.
"But there are still thousands of slips," I wish I could whisper to him.
The square is too bright.
Not cheerful, bright — exposed. The stone reflects the sun until it becomes too intense to look at. There's nowhere for shadows to collect, nowhere to hide anything.
We line up by age. Shoes straight. Hands visible. The crowd presses in close, packed tight, as if closeness could soften what's coming.
It doesn't.
I notice stupid things. A loose thread on my sleeve. The sound of someone breathing too fast behind me. The smell of metal and dust.
Jungwon steps up to the glass balls.
He doesn't pause.
That's the first wrong thing.
Usually there's a joke, a flourish — something to make waiting feel like entertainment. Today, he reaches straight in.
The glass clicks.
Sharp. Final.
For a second, I think — absurdly — that if he says the name wrong, it won't count.
"Riki."
The sound doesn't make sense. Not at first.
No one moves. Not the crowd. Not Jungwon. Not even Riki.
Then Riki turns.
He looks for me immediately.
Not our mother. Not the stage.
Me.
I take a step forward before anyone tells me not to. My body moves before my thoughts catch up.
He's still not crying. He looks confused, like the world has shifted, and I'm supposed to explain why.
I can't.