fanfic: The Hunger Games: untitled
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pineislandTitle: untitled
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters: OC - Paisley Webster; OC - Tartan ???
Word Count: 625
Prompt:fandomocweekly "Rush"
Content notes: Implications of canon-typical violence, suicide (not graphic)
Notes: This is something Katniss references in the first book, a boy who died when he dropped his token and set off the sensor in his starting pad. I wanted to reclaim that as an active choice, a little rebellion against the Capitol in refusing to let them kill him for fun.
Notes 2: I wrote this whole thing in my head one night when I had a migraine and couldn't look at a screen (or tolerate any light at all) but then didn't get around to writing down what I could remember of it so I could squeak in just under the wire to get this posted before the amnesty closed.
Notes 3: (2025/12/01) This fic is depreciated and no longer canon to the "Stadium Love" 'verse because I moved up the timeline; originally, Paisley won the 69th Hunger Games but I wanted her to be older during the Second Rebellion so now she's the 57th Victor.
“I’ve got a plan.”
Tartan and I are sitting on the edge of the bathtub in his room. Aelia and Arachne probably think we’re fooling around but I’m not into Tartan. I’m not into boys. It’s not a big secret back home but Aelia and Arachne don’t care about us as people. We’re fictional characters to them; we play our roles on TV and then, most likely, die. I want to keep some things to myself.
We watched the scores come in on the big screen in the living room between our suites. I got a 8, which isn’t too bad, honestly, considering all I did was climb a rope pretty quick. Tartan got a 2, the lowest score of all of the tributes.
“Like, you faked them out?” I ask. I hate that I hear the affected Capitol accent creeping into my voice. I clear my throat. “You got a low score on purpose?”
Tartan fishes something out from his pocket. It’s a wooden ball, smooth and perfectly round.
“Your token?” I ask, and he nods. I lift up my arm so he can see the red thread bracelet around my wrist to show him mine.
He gestures for me to lean forward and tosses the ball to me. I toss it back. He catches it easily. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“Who am I going to tell?” I ask. I’ll most likely be dead in 48 hours and there's no one here I want to talk to but Tartan or maybe our mentors.
“Weft. Dimity. I don’t know. You can’t tell them until after.” He looks me in the eye for the first time and I’m surprised by the force of his gaze. Tartan is so quiet. He doesn’t belong here.
“After the Games?” I laugh out loud. I don’t mean to be nasty but it comes out that way.
“You never know,” he says with a shrug. “Eight’s not so bad a score. If you get home, you can tell them. But not until then.” He’s still tossing that ball back and forth between his hands. He’s speaking so softly, I can hardly hear him over the rush of bubbles in the bathtub.
Tartan leans forward conspiratorially. I lean in to listen.
“I’m going to -” Suddenly, he flings the ball into the bathtub with a splash. I’m about to grumble about it but then he signs to me. Quittin’ time. A euphemism.
I frown at him. He frowns back.
“Before the gong,” he clarifies. “It has to look like an accident but I wanted you to know. I told Tanner, if I ever got Reaped - I got a two, Paisley, and that was the Gamemakers being nice. I deserved a zero.”
I snort at the idea of the Gamemakers being nice. I want to argue with him but I know he’s right.
“At least I get to go out on my own terms and not wait for some Career to gut me like a fish.”
I flinch, remembering Finnick Odair from a few years ago. I had nightmares about that trident piercing my belly, pinning me down.
Suddenly, I don’t want to be in the water. I swing my feet out from the tub.
“I wanted to warn you,” says Tartan.
I wish I had thought of it first but if we both blow ourselves up before the gong, it will look like we planned it and that could have consequences I can’t risk. It wouldn’t be fair to Tartan and Tanner’s family, for one thing. Maybe that’s why he told me, so I wouldn’t try it - wouldn’t ruin this for him.
“It's not the worst plan I've ever heard,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters: OC - Paisley Webster; OC - Tartan ???
Word Count: 625
Prompt:
fandomocweekly "Rush"Content notes: Implications of canon-typical violence, suicide (not graphic)
Notes: This is something Katniss references in the first book, a boy who died when he dropped his token and set off the sensor in his starting pad. I wanted to reclaim that as an active choice, a little rebellion against the Capitol in refusing to let them kill him for fun.
Notes 2: I wrote this whole thing in my head one night when I had a migraine and couldn't look at a screen (or tolerate any light at all) but then didn't get around to writing down what I could remember of it so I could squeak in just under the wire to get this posted before the amnesty closed.
Notes 3: (2025/12/01) This fic is depreciated and no longer canon to the "Stadium Love" 'verse because I moved up the timeline; originally, Paisley won the 69th Hunger Games but I wanted her to be older during the Second Rebellion so now she's the 57th Victor.
“I’ve got a plan.”
Tartan and I are sitting on the edge of the bathtub in his room. Aelia and Arachne probably think we’re fooling around but I’m not into Tartan. I’m not into boys. It’s not a big secret back home but Aelia and Arachne don’t care about us as people. We’re fictional characters to them; we play our roles on TV and then, most likely, die. I want to keep some things to myself.
We watched the scores come in on the big screen in the living room between our suites. I got a 8, which isn’t too bad, honestly, considering all I did was climb a rope pretty quick. Tartan got a 2, the lowest score of all of the tributes.
“Like, you faked them out?” I ask. I hate that I hear the affected Capitol accent creeping into my voice. I clear my throat. “You got a low score on purpose?”
Tartan fishes something out from his pocket. It’s a wooden ball, smooth and perfectly round.
“Your token?” I ask, and he nods. I lift up my arm so he can see the red thread bracelet around my wrist to show him mine.
He gestures for me to lean forward and tosses the ball to me. I toss it back. He catches it easily. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“Who am I going to tell?” I ask. I’ll most likely be dead in 48 hours and there's no one here I want to talk to but Tartan or maybe our mentors.
“Weft. Dimity. I don’t know. You can’t tell them until after.” He looks me in the eye for the first time and I’m surprised by the force of his gaze. Tartan is so quiet. He doesn’t belong here.
“After the Games?” I laugh out loud. I don’t mean to be nasty but it comes out that way.
“You never know,” he says with a shrug. “Eight’s not so bad a score. If you get home, you can tell them. But not until then.” He’s still tossing that ball back and forth between his hands. He’s speaking so softly, I can hardly hear him over the rush of bubbles in the bathtub.
Tartan leans forward conspiratorially. I lean in to listen.
“I’m going to -” Suddenly, he flings the ball into the bathtub with a splash. I’m about to grumble about it but then he signs to me. Quittin’ time. A euphemism.
I frown at him. He frowns back.
“Before the gong,” he clarifies. “It has to look like an accident but I wanted you to know. I told Tanner, if I ever got Reaped - I got a two, Paisley, and that was the Gamemakers being nice. I deserved a zero.”
I snort at the idea of the Gamemakers being nice. I want to argue with him but I know he’s right.
“At least I get to go out on my own terms and not wait for some Career to gut me like a fish.”
I flinch, remembering Finnick Odair from a few years ago. I had nightmares about that trident piercing my belly, pinning me down.
Suddenly, I don’t want to be in the water. I swing my feet out from the tub.
“I wanted to warn you,” says Tartan.
I wish I had thought of it first but if we both blow ourselves up before the gong, it will look like we planned it and that could have consequences I can’t risk. It wouldn’t be fair to Tartan and Tanner’s family, for one thing. Maybe that’s why he told me, so I wouldn’t try it - wouldn’t ruin this for him.
“It's not the worst plan I've ever heard,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
