Chapter Text
Part I- Snowfall on the Reaping
Chapter I
An artic seal pup was born on the morning of the reaping for the 74th annual Hunger Games.
Katara was awoken before the sunrise by the strained barks and wining's of Annah, a mother seal that had broken away from its pack a few weeks previously to nest on a rock by the waterfront behind Katara’s house. Katara had grown fond of the creature, fond enough to give her a name and the occasional scrap of food when she could spare it.
Katara dragged herself out of bed, pulling on an old fur-lined parka that had once belonged to her mother. She padded barefoot to her backdoor, picking up a scruffy towel and a few scraps of old, worn-down furs before she shoved her feet into her seal-skin boots and headed outside to where Annah was lying with her back to Katara, panting and trembling.
Thanking the spirits the sun had risen just enough for her to see properly without needing to light an expensive blubber lamp, Katara walked calmly over to the artic seal, whose vast white belly was beginning to shake as she pushed. Karata sat down next to her and laid the furs leather-side-down in the snow. She placed her hands very gently on Annah’s stomach, already feeling the faint heartbeat of a cub struggling to come out. Katara moved her hands down Annah’s stomach in slow waves, applying just the lightest amount to pressure, just as Gran Gran had taught her. This continued for a minute or so, Annah straining, Katara rubbing, until she caught sight of the small tail and back fins of the pup.
As delicately as she could, Katara reached for the legs, tugging in time with Annah’s contractions until a whole artic seal pub emerged, grey and slimy but, as far as Katara could tell, entirely healthy. Katara stepped back, allowing Annah to greet her pup in her own time. She watched with satisfaction as Annah nosed at the baby, letting out small barks of happiness.
Katara sat back in the snow, watching the new mother clean and feed her pup. It was unusual for an artic seal to be born this late in the year, when the outer layers of ice and snow were just beginning to melt, and the warmer currents brought fewer schools of fish, but then, it was also unusual for artic seals to give birth away from their packs. Perhaps Annah simply wanted to carve out her own path. It was ironic, Katara thought, that new life should be created on the very same day that so much life was promised to be destroyed. Getting your name called in the reaping in District 11 was as deadly as eating raw polar bear dog liver. As deadly as getting burned by the oil that the citizens of 11 extracted from the ground every day.
Katara sat in the snow, exhausted but too full of adrenaline at the prospect of the day ahead to go back to bed. For now, she was warm in her parka, and content to watch Annah curl around her pup and fall into a deep sleep.
The sun rose in the sky in a blaze of colour, the myriad hues of red, magenta and orange dying the snow around her a light pink. The world felt dream-like, not fully real. In this kind of light, even The Drifts, the place in district 11 where the poorest citizens lived, looked beautiful, the fresh snowfall making it look pure and unblemished, the dilapidation of the surrounding houses covered up by the gleaming snow. For a moment Katara could imagine that she was dreaming, that today wasn't Reaping Day, and that she would wake up in a warm bed in a far-away place where two children weren't about to be taken away from their homes to fight twenty-two other minors in a deadly arena.
Katara’s trance was abruptly broken by a snowball striking her on the back of the head. She whipped round to face her attacker, cold snow dribbling down her back. It was Sokka, her older brother by a year, standing by the back door, grinning mischievously and holding second snowball ready in his gloved hand. Before he could do or say anything, Katara scooped up a handful of snow, melted it quickly into water, and sent it flying back towards Sokka. It hit him square in the mouth, freezing into ice as it made contact, silencing him. He glared angrily over at his sister, who gestured at him to shut up, and pointed at Annah and her cub.
Sokka rolled his eyes and walked over to Katara. He plonked himself down in the snow next to her, gesturing at her to remove the ice from his mouth, which had, admittedly, already stared to melt.
“Fine”, Hissed Katara, mildly annoyed but appreciative of her brother’s attempt to cheer her up. She removed the ice-gag, telling him to “Please be quiet!”
Sokka wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “I’m sorry, okay? But I had to come and get you. Reaping’s in three hours and Gran Gran says you need to start making yourself look pretty.”
Katara rolled her eyes, “And how long will you need to make yourself look pretty Sokka? Six hours? Six days? There’s quite a lot to fix...”
Reaping Day always cast a shadow over their tiny home, but at least Sokka who was seventeen, and Katara, who was sixteen, only had one and two years left before the risk of being entered into the annual Hunger Games would be a threat they could forget. Until then, they coped using humour.
“Ha ha.” Said Sokka flatly, standing up and brushing the snow off himself and pulling Katara up from the ground, “Now come on, Gran gran’s making Bannock for breakfast.”.
He smiled down at his sister, but the grin did not quite reach his eyes. Katara knew that we was, as always, every bit as afraid of getting reaped as she was.
Katara lowered herself into the cast iron tub, the freshly boiled water making her wince slightly as it washed over her body. A chunk of icy dread seemed to have wedged itself in the pit of her stomach, refusing to melt in the heat of the bath water. She tried to tell herself that it was okay, that the odds of Ming Ming, the flamboyant Capitol Representative for district 11, drawing out her name from amongst thousands of others were very, very slim. But never zero.
She rubbed herself vigorously with the hard, yellow cake of soap that had cost Sokka two artic hens at the tiny cosmetics shop in the district centre. The pittance Katara’s father was paid to frack oil from the ground for twelve hours a day, risking burns and poisonous fumes could barely have paid for half this simple item. Ever since Katara’s mom had been executed by the peacekeepers for getting caught illegally fishing, Hakoda had banned his children from hunting, from even so much as touching a harpoon or spear. And that would have been fine, but when Gran Gran was forced to retire from the oil rigs when her arthritic limbs made even walking difficult, the family’s reduced income made starvation a very real threat.
Sokka had been just nine years old at the time, traditionally, he would not have been considered eligible to hunt, but no-one could afford to cling to the old ways anymore. Any pleas of hunger from the families of district 11 fell on the Capitol’s deaf ears. So, the moment Hakoda had collapsed on his bed after his shift, Sokka would sneak out of the house to join a group of seven or so other children and a few adults, all looking to support their families and fend off starvation by hunting.
And so their family had muddled on, Hakoda ignoring the extra meat that appeared on their table every few nights, Gran Gran salting and drying or selling any surplus, Katara using the money to provide other essentials such as flour, oil and furs for the family, donating what she could to the small hospital near their home where she occasionally volunteered, caring for those unable to afford the district doctor. The immensity of the family grief following Kya’s death eased as the years went on as they forced themselves to get on with their lives. You didn't have much choice in district 11, where death was seen as an inevitable risk of simply being alive.
Pulling herself from the bath, Katara trailed into the large room where Gran Gran was waiting for her, a comb and hairpin made from whalebone ready in her hand. She wore a solemn expression, the anxiety of having to watch her grandkids try to survive the reaping for another year etched on her weathered face. Katara was sixteen years old, and had been doing her hair herself every day for at least twelve of those years, except for Reaping Day. She sat down at Gran Gran’s feet, and bent the excess moisture out of her hair, already feeling Gran Gran’s gentle fingers begin to comb and run through her thick, dark locks. It was their little ritual, one that Katara had grown to love not only for the satisfaction of having her hair done, but for the comfort that she knew it brought her grandmother. Later, Katara knew that Sokka would allow the old woman to pull his equally dark, shoulder-length hair into its traditional warrior’s wolf-tail, the hairstyle Sokka had worn since he was a little kid.
Feeling her grandmother’s hands still, Katara made to stand, but was pushed firmly back down.
“Don’t forget this.” Gran Gran said, in the commanding tone that only old ladies have the right to use.
Katara watched as Gran Gran lifted a blue chocker with a carved stone pendant attached to it.
“Mom’s necklace!” Katara gasped, surprised at herself for forgetting to put in on, “Thank you Gran Gran.”
“You're welcome my dear, now, go and look at yourself in the mirror”
The mirror, one of the few decorative features of the room, had belonged to Gran Gran’s family, who had been part of the small merchant class of district 11. Gran Gran’s father had been a cobber who made boots and slippers for the other merchants of the district. Fine, pretty things, brightly stitched with blue and red thread. The business had died with Gran Gran’s father, when wadges on the rigs were higher than whatever money could be made in a shoe shop. If only it had stayed that way.
Katara surveyed herself in the mirror. She looked like her, but slightly cleaner, her hair smoother. Gran Gran had tied her hair in a single braid that fell down Katara’s back. Stands of hair at the front of her face had been looped back into the top of the braid, kept in place by small blue pins. She forced a smile on her face, tried to brighten her eyes, and turned away from her reflection.
“Now go and wake your father up, we need to head into town soon.”
Katara nodded in assent and turned to one of the doors leading off the main room. She knocked gently before pushing the door open. The room was still dark, but she could make out her father’s sleeping form spread across the bed. Reaping Day means a day off work for the rig workers, so most choose to lie in if they can.
Katara sat down gently on the edge of the bed.
“Dad?” She said, tentatively.
A faint groan came from somewhere under the sheets.
“Dad, it's time to get up.”
Another groan, then slowly, Hakoda forced himself into a sitting position.
“Thanks for getting me up, sweetie.” he murmured, then, without properly looking at her, “You look nice.”
“Thank you.” Katara said, unable to put any real emotion in her voice, “Be quick, Sokka and Gran and I are waiting.”
“Okay.”
The Justice Building looked as grey and imposing as ever by the time Katara and her family had made their way to the square surrounded by a cluster of dying merchant shops. Despite the brilliant sunrise that morning, the sky had clouded over and a light, wet snow had begun to fall.
Sokka pulled Katara into a sudden hug before quickly walking over to the roped off where they boys of 11 had gathered. They always reminded Katara of the pen’s the food sellers use to keep livestock in before they were slaughtered for meat. Katara tuned around, expecting to see Gran Gran and her dad nearby, but their faces had melted into the growing crown of adults.
Blinking in hurt shock, Katara walked over and joined the crown of girls on the opposite side of the town square. She was greeted by Niyok and Nutha, two fellow girls from the Drifts who were Katara’s particular friends. The three girls often took shifts together at the makeshift hospital that cared for injured rig workers who couldn't afford anything else. The hospital, as far as Katara knew, was completely illegal, but waiting for the district doctor to see to an injury could take days, even weeks, and many perished before they even had a change of being healed. So instead, hundreds turned to a mid-size, rundown building deep in The Drifts, where a limited number of water-healers and herbalists would try to cure their injuries. Niyok, like Katara, was a water bender, but the two of them lacked the training to know how to heal. Water bending in general was not a pastime the Capitol encouraged. Nutha worked alongside the two girls, helping to nurse their patients. Despite their efforts, the hospital’s success rate, Katara had to admit, was still fairly low.
Katara took Niyok and Nutha’s hands, squeeing them tightly as Ming Ming Monkot took to the stage Infront of the Justice Building. She was swathed in a long, emerald green robe lined with what appeared to be brilliant white polar bear dog fur. Her black hair was streaked with gold and done in a series of elaborate looping buns. She wore a blue headpiece, in acknowledgement of the colours of the district, perhaps. Her skin was ghost-white, making her blend in unnaturally with her snowy surroundings.
She stepped up towards the microphone, taking tiny, measured steps. A broad smile stretched across her face, as if someone was pulling up the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were all but dead.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome to the 74th annual Hunger Games! Reaping Day is truly Panem at its finest!”
Katara looked over at Sokka who, as could be expected, was rolling his eyes at Ming Ming's Capitol-approved words. Ming Ming then continued with the usual spiel about the history of Panem, how once, long ago, the world consisted of four nations; The Northen and Southern Water Tribes, the Air Nation, the Earth Kingdom, and the Fire Nation. The four nations lived together in harmony, but everything changed when the Fire Nation attacked, thus beginning the 100 Years War. Out of the conflict arose the Capitol, a huge shining city that belonged to no one nation. The Capitol brought about peace by conquering the four nations, turning them into 12 districts.
Katara knew that district 11 was once called the Southern Water Tribe, and had almost been completely destroyed by the War, its people left impoverished, unable to get by as they once had done, by fishing and hunting for food. According to Ming Ming, the generous Capitol had bravely taken over the Southern Water Tribe, re-naming it District 11. The Capitol discovered oil wells deep beneath the seabed surrounding the district and built oil rigs for the citizens of 11 to work on, paying them just enough to survive. The Capitol had lifted the savages of the South up and out of their old, brutal ways and customs and into the modern world. The years of peacekeeper brutalities, starvation, sickness and deadly winters that the Capitol failed to assist in were never mentioned.
Then came the part of Ming Ming’s speech where she recalled the creation of the Hunger Games. As punishment for their crimes during the war, and their refusal to bow down to the Capitol's power, every year, the districts are forced to give up two ‘tributes’, one male, one female, to compete in the annual Hunger Games, where the 24 tributes must fight to the death for the Capitol's entertainment. Every year, the last tribute standing is crowed Victor of the Hunger Games and given all the riches of Panem as a reward for giving the Capitol citizens something interesting to watch.
“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks.” Said Ming Ming, stretching her surgically warped features into an expression that is meant to be grave and stately.
Ming Ming then recited the list of past victors from district 11. In 74 years of hunger games there have been exactly three, none of whom are still alive. This poses a problem as each year the tributes are meant to be given a mentor to help them through the games. The mentor must be a past victor.
“So,” Said Ming Ming, back to her usual persona of psychotically enthusiastic about the Hunger Games, “The Capitol have allowed a victor from District 10 to come and be this year’s District 11 mentor! Please welcome the Victor of the 23rd Hunger Games, Master Pakku!”
A short, slender old man with a long white beard stepped onto the stage. He is old but looks sharp, his movements precise and controlled. Scenes from Pakku’s Hunger Games are projected onto screens on either side of the stage.
As she watched Pakku slice an opponent's head clean off with a vicious swipe of ice, Katara noted dazedly that Pakku is a water bender, and a particularly ferocious one at that.
“And now! The moment you have all been waiting for! It is time to announce the tributes! Happy Hunger games! And maybe the odds be ever in your favour!” Ming Ming’s signature line is met with blank stares from the watching crowd. Katara watches as she reaches for the glass bowl containing slips of paper with the names of every boy in district 11 aged 12-18. It differs in every district, but boys are always reaped first in 11, something to do with the ancient rite of superiority men had over women. Evidently, some customs never die out.
Ming Ming’s fingers curl around a sheet of paper and she drew it out.
Thousands of names, Katara thought desperately to herself, there are thousands of names in that bowl, it won’t be Sokka, it won't be Sokka.
“The district 11 male tribute will be…” Ming Ming paused to squint at the paper, “Sokka, son of Hakoda!”
Katara could hardly take in what she was hearing. She had watched friends and siblings of friends get called out for as long as she had been alive, but somehow it had never occurred to her that it would ever, ever happen to her. To her left, Niyok let out a small, soft “No!”, while Nutha hugged Katara hard, as if trying to literally hold her together. Katara felt as though she has been thrown into dark, ice-cold water. She cannot breathe; she cannot speak. Time seemed to speed up, and the next thing Katara knows Sokka is standing up on the stage besides Pakku and Ming Ming is reaching for the bowl of girls’ names.
“And now for the ladies...” Ming Ming said, but Katara barely hears her. Greif has already set in. Katara knows her brother, strong as he is, will not survive a Hunger Games, not against the terrifying fire-bending tributes from districts one, two and three. The odds are never in her family's favour.
This is proven true when Ming Ming announces that the female tribute from district 11 will be Katara.