@aroace-get-out-of-my-face I’ve known about your hunger games AU for less than 24 hours and it’s taken over my life. I hope you’re proud of yourself. I did have things I wanted to do today. But you and your contagious brain worms.
Anyway, I took a few liberties for stuff I wasn’t sure of. So take that as you will. Heres the reaping scene from Disrtict 4, I had to get it out of my system
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Stanford Pines didn’t want to die.
That was the first thought that ran through his mind when his name was called, then nothing. Distantly, he can hear his mother sobbing. Other than that, the crowd is quiet and still as death. He allows himself a moment for his eyes to wander. Every face he’s lived with growing up stare at him now. Some of them, the wolves, as he and Stan had called them growing up, are giving him vicious smiles, as if they’re imagining seeing him ripped apart already. But most of them simply watch him warily, expressions more relieved than anything else.
At least it’s not me. At least it’s not my loved one.
Ford can’t find it in himself to blame them for that.
The only eyes he can make out that are totally absent of relief are Shermie’s. His own child is too young to get reaped, and he himself is too old. Ford meets his older brother's eyes. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Shermie so scared. The eldest Pines brother usually does a very good job of keeping a stone face in front of the capital cameras, but today his expression is crumpled in horror. In mourning. Because Ford is going to die.
Ford doesn’t feel as horrified as Shermie looks. Or at least, his own horror is distant. Far away from here. He can’t feel it as he steps out of the crowd. He can’t feel it as a peacekeeper grabs his arm to make sure he doesn’t get any funny ideas about running. Where would he even go? Trying to run would only make his death come faster, and he doesn’t want to die.
He’s flanked by peacekeepers as he’s walked onto the stage. Rico, the capital envoy who draws their names each year, gives him a smile before turning back to the audience.
“Now then. Before we move on, do we have any volunteers?”
Ford blinks. He’d nearly forgotten that part. In spite of himself, a wave of relief courses through him. Because Crampelter, as much of a nightmare as he made Ford’s whole childhood, had been telling everyone from the moment he could speak that one day he was gonna win the hunger games. He was born and bred to do it. Raised and honed into a true career. Ford may hate Crampelter, but…
but…
“Anyone?” Rico probes. No one responds. Ford’s brow furrows.
His eyes search the audience and find Crampelters with no trouble at all, as he stands at least a head above most of the people around him. Ford expects a cruel smirk. Maybe a taunting hateful glare. He doesn’t see that. Instead he sees fear. And almost a sort of regret. The small fragile relief Ford had dared allowed to bloom wilts. That expression tells him everything he needs to know: Crampelter won’t be volunteering today. Ford wants nothing more than to hate him for that. For backing out at the last second, but he can’t. He can’t blame Crampelter. Not for this. After all, who in their right mind would willingly enter the games? Even the victors in four always returned with ghosts in their eyes for anyone who bothered to look close enough to see them. Crampelter looks away from Ford’s gaze. Even from all the way back here Ford can see Crampelters father grab his shoulder in a too tight grip, and mutter something. The boy wilts, but still stays silent. Ford turns his eyes back front. None of that concerns him. He lets the cloud of nothingness fall back into place as Rico claps his hands, and turns an appraising eye to Ford. Something in his eyes would make Ford uncomfortable if he wasn’t busy disconnecting himself from reality. The moment passes, and Rico turns his winning smile back to the audience.
“Alright then. Stanford Pines it is. Let’s-“
Before he can finish preparing to move on and draw the girls tribute name, there’s a scuffle from somewhere on the outskirts of the crowd. Someone stepping out of line. A few peacekeepers move to handle the insurgence. All heads turn as they come away with a figure, who squirms and kicks as they hold him with his hands behind his back. If the dissenter is lucky, he’ll be thrown in jail for causing a scene. If he’s unlucky he’ll be executed. Ford won’t be around to see it either way. But before he can block the world out again, the dissenter speaks, making Ford’s eyes widen.
“Stop! Let me go, let- I volunteer. I volunteer.” The figure shouts. The peacekeepers freeze, and loosen their hold enough that the figure can shake free. He does so, but doesn’t move, doesn’t flee. Instead he turns to face the stage. His voice is resolved, unwavering. “I volunteer as tribute.”
Ford freezes. He knows that voice. He can’t know that voice. Beside him, Rico lights up, evidently pleased with the drama.
“Oh! Hey, bring that young man up here. I think we have a volunteer!” He flicks a dismissive hand towards a peacekeeper, ordering them to come drag Ford off the stage. Ford, in a daze, lets them, even as he strains his neck to try and catch a glimpse of that face. His face. It can’t be his face.
The dissenter who he can’t know doesn’t resist the peacekeepers. He keeps his head high as he is frog marched over to the stage. Ford keeps straining to see even as the peacekeeper shoves him along, all but shoving him down the steps before finally releasing him back into the crowd and returning to his post. Ford immediately whips his head back to the stage and meets the eyes of the figure he can’t know just as they arrive at the base of the stairs.
Ford does know him. Of course he does. It’s Stanley.
Stanley who he hasn't seen in almost a year. Who he was so mad at. Who had wrecked his project. Who protected him their whole childhood against the kids who were trained to be careers. He was never going to win against Crampelter, but he fought him for Ford. Stanley who was there on that stage…to take Ford's place.
To lie in Ford’s grave.
Just as suddenly as reality left him, it’s all right back. Too real. Why did he let them drag him off that stage? Away from Stanley. He couldn’t let them do that.
He can’t let them do this. Not to Stan.
“Stan, don’t.” It’s not too late. Stan can take it back. He has to take it back. The protest sounds loud in his own head, but he can’t be heard over the murmurs of district 4 quietly discussing the turn of events. The Pines weren’t meant to be their champions. The Pines weren’t meant to be in the games.
Ford is hardly conscious of moving, but he must be because he crashed hard into the man in front of him, who turns to glare at him before his face shifts into surprise then sympathy. Ford shoves him aside and all but shrieks up to his brother.
“No! Stan don’t!”
This time Stan hears him. He turns at the commotion. He seems…surprised. Surprised at what? That Ford is protesting this? He doesn’t try to run. Doesn’t ask Rico if he can take it back and return to the safe anonymity of the crowd. Instead he simply tilts his head, and gives Ford a smile. The same way he did back when Ford had nightmares before reaping day.
“It was me.” Ford had fretted, way back when they were twelve. Their first reaping. Neither of them had slept so well. Shermie had only just aged out, and now all their anxiety about him rebounded back onto them. All that fear had come to roost in Ford's mind in the night, and it was his name they read.
“That’ll never happen, Sixer.” Stan had assured. “You know the big bad careers want in. For glory, and all. They’d never let it be you.”
“But what if it was?”
“It won’t be.” Stanley had assured. And that had comforted Ford because it sounded so true when he said it. Like an absolute fact of the universe.
Because it was. It always had been true. If it had ever been Ford, it would’ve been Stanley. Why hadn’t Ford realized that sooner?
This was worse. How had this scenario never been one that haunted his nightmares? If Ford going into the games was terrifying, Stan going into the games was…unthinkable. Unimaginable.
He can practically feel all the cameras swivel to him as he tries to claw against the crowd to get to that stage. To get to Stan, to do something. Anything. In his peripheral, he can see peacekeepers moving to intercept him, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.
But before he can break through it all, grab Stan and get far away, there’s a pair of arms grabbing him around the waist from behind, and lifting his feet off the ground. Ford keeps thrashing and kicking and screaming and scratching at the arms to force them to let him go. Let him get to Stanley.
“Let go! I can’t let him do this.”
“Stop.” A familiar voice begs, close to his ear. “Ford please. I can’t lose you both.”
And Ford slows. Shermie. If it were anyone else he might’ve kept fighting. Got himself shot. But with the way Shermie is clinging to him, not letting go, he’s just as likely to get Shermie killed with him if he continues to cause a scene. From somewhere far away he can hear Rico’s light chuckle, remarking on what a touching scene that was.
“Wow.” He muses. “Lot of emotions are flowing today. It’s delicious! And look at you!” He turns all his attention to Stanley, eyeing him the way one might do with a particularly fine cut of meat. “Well, you’re damn near identical. Incredible! Why switch at all, you’re basically the same person.” He takes a minute chuckle at her own joke before addressing Stan. “Now, what’s your name, stud?”
Ford’s eyes refocus on the scene just in time to see Stan flash a smile that looks so real, except for a blankness in the eyes. “You can call me whatever you want. But my name’s Stan. Stanley Pines.”
“Oh! So cheeky.” Rico bats his arm playfully. Ford wants to tear the man’s arm out of his socket as he continues talking. “Well, Stanley Pines, you must tell us what just happened. I’ll bet that was your brother back there. Twins?”
Stan’s facade of cool flickers. “Yeah…”
He seems to try and force the front back into place, and say something witty, but ends up just biting the inside of his cheek and staying quiet, turning his eyes down to the ground rather than towards the people he’s lived with his whole life. The people he’ll probably never see again. Ford thinks he’s gonna be sick. Rico tsks and pats Stan’s cheek in a horribly condescending way that he flinches back from. Rico doesn’t seem to notice.
“Aren’t you sweet? Everyone, give it up for Stanley Pines, Our district 4 male tribute.”
Stan seems to shrink on himself as a scattered, confused applause rings. Ford bites back a snarl. It’s more lackluster than usual, this applause. They all knew it was supposed to be Dennis Crampelter. Since he could walk he’d been trained for this. Since he could talk he’d been telling anyone who would listen that one day he would be a victor. He was born to be a victor. It was his honor to be addressed by only their family name, so that when he won everyone would know to whom the glory belonged. But he hadn’t volunteered. Stanley had. And Stanley hadn’t done any of that training.
He couldn’t find it in himself to blame Crampelter for not volunteering for Ford. But he can sure as hell blame him for forcing Stanley into the arena.
“Well, that was fun.” Rico’s boots clack across the stage as he heads for the other bowl. “And now, the girl.”
He reaches deep into the bowl, and draws out a card, taking his sweet time opening it and strolling back center stage. He clears his throat.
“Susan We-”
He doesn’t finish reading the name before a small form shoves to the front of the crowd, causing quite a bit of grumbling.
“I volunteer.” A shrill childish voice nearly snarls. Rico pauses, glancing over the edge of the stage.
“I haven't even announced the chosen tribute.” He says, a bit bemused. Ford tears his eyes away from Stan to see Darlene Crampelter. Only twelve years old. Just like her brother, she’d also been telling anyone who would listen that she was destined to win the games from the moment she could talk. But…twelve year olds didn’t win the games. Ever. Even career twelve year olds always found themselves outmatched. She was supposed to win when she was eighteen. Sixteen at the earliest. Not now. But here she was, volunteering. Ford casts his eyes a bit further in the audience to see Crampelter paler than he’s ever seen him before. There’s a horror in his eyes that feels similar to Ford’s own, even though that thought makes him want to gouge both their eyes out. Darlene crosses her arms and glares up at the man on the stage.
“Fine then.” She bites out. “Finish reading it, and then I’ll volunteer.”
For a second, the whole reaping freezes as Rico seems to debate what to do with this break in protocol. But after a moment, he merely chuckles.
“My my. Someone’s enthusiastic. Come on up here, darling. What’s your name?”
A peacekeeper goes to guide Darlene over to the stairs, but she brushes them off, and vaults straight up onto the stage, striding to the center where Rico and Stan wait. She walks with the confidence of a victor. She comes to a stop about a foot away and eyes the man expectantly. Rico has to crouch to properly hold the mic near Darlene’s face.
“I’m Darlene Crampelter.” The girl declares.
“Charmed.” Rico said with a little amused smirk. “And what led you to volunteer, Darlene?”
Darlene gives the audience a smile that’s like baring her teeth. “I’m gonna win.” She vows. “I’m gonna bring victory to district 4. I’m gonna show them all that Crampelters are no cowards.” She bites out that last word and glares straight at her brother in the audience. Rico tries to draw the mic away, but Darlene grabs his wrist and pulls it back. “And he’s sure as hell not gonna win anything.” She says, jabbing a finger in Stan’s direction, who raises an eyebrow as she keeps going. “And no one else had the guts, so I’m gonna do it.”
That gets a few cheers, which makes Darlene beam with pride. Rico smiles too, finally wrestling the microphone back as he rises.
“Oh, your confidence is precious!” He coos, causing Darlene to tear her eyes away from the audience to glare daggers at him. Rico pays that no mind as he gives the crowd a million dollar smile. Literally. You can see every Botox filled wrinkle and artificially whitened tooth. That face must’ve cost the same as an entire districts tessarae.
“Well, there you have it, folks! What an exciting reaping, right? So many twists and turns. But here they are! Your tributes; Darlene Crampelter and Stanley Pines! May the odds be ever in their favor!”
The applause is much louder this time. It’s very clearly not for Stan. Many people are cheering Darlene’s name. She preens and waves out at them, which makes them cheer more, before turning, head held high, and marching off in the direction Rico indicated. Stan doesn’t pay the crowd any mind, dead focused on Ford and Shermie. He gives another small resigned smile and stands perfectly still watching them, as if drinking in the sight of his brothers until a peacekeeper grabs his arm and drags him off behind the curtain.
Ford strains against Shermies arms again as Stan vanishes behind the curtain, but his older brother holds fast.
“Ford, you can’t. I’m sorry.”
Ford opens his mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a sob. He doesn’t want to cry about this. It feels like admitting that Stanley is…
He turns away from where Stan disappeared, closing his eyes so he can’t see the crowds who are probably watching him. Shermie adjusts his hold so it’s less like a restraint and more like holding him together.
“It was me.” Ford chokes out. “It was supposed to be me. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t supposed to do this.”
“I’m so sorry.” Shermies normally stoic, but lightly teasing tone is replaced with a grave, sad voice that breaks in the middle. He holds Ford closer like he’s afraid another reaping might come and take him away. Ford lets himself be held as he thinks.
He could be sad. He could feel its siren call, like a weight trying to drag him down. He could mourn. If it were himself being sent to the arena he probably already would be, but this is Stan. There’s no universe where he can mourn Stan. Not like this. Not so young. Not torn away by the capitol.
He can’t mourn. Which means Stan can’t die.
“Pines family?”
Shermie and Stan look up in tandem to see a peacekeeper about a foot away. Ma and Pa are already behind him. “I’ve come to bring you in for the goodbyes.”
He speaks with absolutely no emotion in his voice. Reluctantly, Ford lets go of Shermie, to more effectively glare at the peacekeeper.
“Let’s go.” He practically spits. The peacekeeper turns away, unaffected by his vitriol. He doesn’t make sure they follow him. If they don’t keep up, the punishment is the loss of their goodbye.
Goodbye…
This will not be goodbye. Ford will not let this be goodbye. Stan will win. He’ll find a way to win. He’ll come home. These people will not kill Stan, he’s a fighter. And if the born and raised careers wind up better than him?
He’ll survive it. At least until Ford can burn the world down to get him out.
———
Good stuff. Really, every part of this AU is phenomenal!!
