Songbirds (Pilot)
Author: verdandil
Pairing/Characters: Kurt/Blaine, Rachel
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,100
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None (for now)
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.
Summary: [Hunger Games AU] They were a team. For now. After all, there could be only one winner.
Author's Note: This piece wasn’t supposed to happen - but then it did. It was written with an experimental mindset (i.e. a pilot); admittedly, it is a little rough and all over the place. I’m slightly rusty, so excuse the poor vocabulary. Unbeta’ed and includes comma/semi-colon abuse. I’m still undecided as to whether or not it should lead to a multi-chaptered fic; tackling the HG ‘verse would be a little out of my comfort zone in terms of writing - I’ve never handled a complex storyline before (or an angst-fest for that matter) - but the idea is so very intriguing I might give it a shot. Also, you may notice a certain lack of background information concerning the main characters; it is intentional. Feel free to leave comments, concrit, and honest feedback; they will be most appreciated. Thank you for reading!
The Hunger Games in a Nutshell: The nation of Panem hosts each year the Hunger Games as a reminder of the Capitol’s oppression over the twelve districts; for the occasion, each district has to offer two tributes - a boy and a girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen - who get paraded and trained before they are thrown into an arena where they must fight to the death until only one remains. The pilot focuses on the first day of training, prior to the Games.
Songbirds - Pilot
Training Center - Day 1
Kurt lifted his eyes from the expert who was evaluating the net he had just finished, and surveyed the gymnasium. The 23 other tributes were scattered across the room, most occupying stations involving weaponry and combat skills. As per usual, the survival skills sections would be left for last by most, and on this morning of the first training day, Kurt and a pair of tributes from District 8, similar in appearance with their black hair, skin tinted with yellow and almond-shaped eyes, who sat a few stations away were their sole visitors.
His gaze traveled across the immense room, and fell on the group of boys and girls who had gathered at the corner on his far right, spread across three stations, and monopolized that particular area of the gym where the deadliest weapons waited. It came to him as no surprise, as every year, the Career tributes banded together; it was a tradition that left players of other districts with a premature disadvantage, for all were aware that each and every Career was fully trained, and their alliance left little doubt that this time again the winner would come from one of the wealthier districts. He watched as the male tribute from District 1 twirled around a spear as if it were a mere toy, while the female tribute from District 4 swung her own at a dummy, successfully happing off its head. Not far from them, the tributes from District 2, partly concealed by wooden racks on which were suspended an array of tools, appeared to be studying a large array of swords.
Then, among the six Careers, Kurt spotted her, next to the other tribute from District 1, a blonde girl, graceful in her silhouette and distinguished in her demeanor, appearing vaguely irritated by the presence of the dark-haired creature standing beside her, gesticulating animatedly and talking at an infuriating speed. He let out an exasperated sigh. Well of course Rachel Berry would choose to hang out with the Careers, of all people. He had expected nothing less from her, naturally, but even Rachel was rational enough to understand that it was most likely a lost cause - that the Careers rarely accepted outsiders. Except, he reconsidered, that this was Rachel Berry, ambition-driven diva extraordinaire, who, with her manic ways, could perhaps find a way in.
As if on cue, the girl turned towards him, smiled, and waved enthusiastically; he raised an eyebrow - because, really, Rachel? For a second, seemingly offended, she scowled, and then shrugged - I know what I’m doing, Kurt. And for an instant, he glanced upward and then at her, lips held in a solid line, disapproving; she fixed him back with the same judgmental he had given her and pointed at him. He tilted his head, inquiring; she started gesturing insistently with her right hand - and what, exactly, are you doing, Mister?
He remembered then, the instructions their mentor had given them a few hours earlier as they prepared to board the elevator that would lead them to the underground training center. “Try to make some friends,” the man had said. “Who knows, one of them might eventually save your life.” It sounded ridiculous and naïve in every way, but was somehow unsurprising coming from Mr. Schue; Kurt could only see such attempts at bonding with their adversaries as futile. After all, putting a name to a face, getting to know others, inevitably getting closer to them, acknowledging them as equals with blood and flesh and similar emotions, did no good when they were all headed for the death row. It would only make the task more ignoble. Yet, Rachel, who had interpreted the situation as an opportunity to uncover the weaknesses of her opponents, had readily seized the suggestion and asked him to tag along for the sake of efficiency. Because they were a team. For now.
At the present, he could hear her voice resounding in his mind, demanding and almost patronizing, lecturing him about wasting time, telling him to hurry up and stick with the plan, because every millisecond was vital. Kurt rolled his eyes and shook his head, putting an end to their silent conversation.
--
“Mercedes Jones, District 11,” Kurt recited. “Knowledgeable about plants and their properties; nothing surprising there.”
They were huddled on their side of the dining table, with Kurt relaying his observations from the past two hours and Rachel scribbling furiously onto a napkin.
“Tina Cohen-Chang, District 8,” he continued. “Nothing in particular, except that she and Mike, her male counterpart, seem rather close. I’m guessing they’re already allies.”
Mercedes and Tina, they were the only two tributes to whom he had spoken prior lunchtime. His contact with the former been completely unintended. He had been examining his wrist after having pulled up his right sleeve to remove some dirt which had slipped inside and noticed the cloth marks indenting his skin when Mercedes had approached him at the camouflage station.
“These outfits are a disaster in every way, don’t you think?” she said.
“Well, if I may say so, you do look like a technicolor zebra,” he answered.
Perhaps it hadn’t been the most clever of replies, but the dark-skinned girl had fortunately taken it with good nature and had retaliated without vice.
“Well, you don’t look too hot in that monstrosity either, white boy.”
They had carried on, reluctant yet casual, conversing on light, superficial subjects like the viscosity of the mud, the food they had had on the train, the Capitol’s ostentatious fashion sense, and parting ways after an hour.
Somehow, he had later found himself at the knot-tying section with Tina, who had kept quiet for the most part, except for a timid “hello, um, mind if I join you?” At one point, their gazes had locked, and she had given him the sweetest smile.
Now, with Rachel at his side, Kurt realized that, unknowingly, he had left his guard down, that he had not been nearly cautious enough. In the short lapse of time he had spent in the company of the two girls and in between the banal exchanges they shared - chuckling over Mercedes’ comments and smiling back at Tina with warmth - an elusive impression of familiarity had tied him to them, a connection that now seemed threatening in contrast to the indifference he had for the other tributes. For a split second, the thought of having to eliminate them on the field made him sick, but he chased away the feeling. He couldn’t afford such sentimentality, not with the knowledge that they would all be after each other’s lives once in the arena.
Rachel eyed the piece of paper, displeased with the absence of valuable content he had brought back, but refrained from any criticism. She nudged him instead, calling his attention to two tributes who were filling their plates at a nearby buffet.
“Over there,” she whispered, and Kurt recognized them as the ones from earlier with the spears.
“Mohawk and Satan,” he said, nodding, and added for good measure, “because of the unfortunate creature on his head in his case; and because it was the only suitable name I could think of in hers.”
“Right,” she replied. “Mohawk and Satan, not friends. She swung her deadly weapon at me when I tried talking to her earlier, and he was laughing. It was terrible, Kurt; I thought she was going to behead me!” And she would’ve had, he thought, if not for the rule that any form of aggressive contact between tributes was forbidden in the training center.
“So they’re a no-go,” Rachel concluded, “but her,” she nodded towards the girl from District 1 eating at the Career’s table, “Quinn Fabray, I think I could convince her to let us in.”
“Wait, what? Let us in what?” Kurt asked - but then the answer itself was evident. “Rachel, you’re seriously considering-”
“Kurt, we’ll have better odds at winning if we actually join the Careers.” She gave him that look again, and it was a look he knew well; it was one of which he had been on the receiving end countless times in the years they had befriended each other; it was one that each time spoke of Rachel’s raging determination when she had a goal set - and Kurt immediately understood that any disincentive on his part would prove to be useless.
“Just be careful,” he conceded, followed by a piercing signal which put an end to their lunch break.
“Leave the Careers to me; you take care of the rest,” she said.
--
The afternoon revealed itself as much more productive for Kurt, but in a way, it had also served to renew his skepticism about the tactic. He had crossed paths with quite a few tributes and new names had been added to a piece of napkin that Rachel had stuffed into his hands. It turned out that for each and every one of them, his efforts had averred to be somewhat pointless and perhaps for good reason; the training center, where tributes acted as to keep their attributes hidden, was not the ideal place to assess their competition. His sheet was mostly blank except for the names of some contenders.
There was Brittany, female tribute from District 3, eccentric in an oddly tranquil manner, whom he had met at the knot-tying station to which he had returned after the break.
“I thought you were a porcelain doll the first time I saw you.”
“Can I hold your hands? They look so soft.”
“You won’t break, will you? Lord Tubbington said I wasn’t allowed to break anyone before the Games, and I don’t want him to get angry at me.”
The girl radiated with a peculiar innocence and a strange optimism that was somewhat endearing; in any other time and place and if not for the clear mindset that he was not to establish new ties, along with Mercedes and Tina, Kurt would have wanted to dote on her. Yet, he knew better than to label her as an easy prey, was intuitively convinced that she was dangerous in her own way.
There was Sam next, from District 7, to whom Kurt had boldly walked up, resulting in an introduction that nearly cost his head as the blond boy had been holding an axe and Kurt had inadvertently taken him by surprise.
“Dude, sorry, but you kind of freaked me out there.”
It had left Sam shocked and Kurt slightly embarrassed, and they had muttered awkward apologies before moving on as if nothing had happened.
There was Artie, from District 3, Mike from District 8, and Jacob from District 5, too.
And then…
With only one hour remaining now, Kurt decided he had had enough and spent the better half of it assembling a shelter with tarps and lanky branches clumsily held together with a sole piece of string. His now calloused fingers were throbbing lightly, raw and used and dirtied by all the ropes and wood he had handled, and he took the time to mourn his once clean and proper skin - soon enough splinters would be the least of his worries.
There was a clatter against the hardwood floor, loosing itself amidst the sound of arrows slithering through the air and blades meeting in an excruciating shriek, but it reached Kurt, who was standing two or three meters away from the neighbouring piece of construction that had just collapsed. He glanced to the side, and his eyes met another’s.
And then, there was him.
Pupils of a rich hazel adorned with specks of golden, curls of ebony that were slicked back, long and dark eyelashes, tan skin, the faintest hint of stubble on a handsomely defined face-
“Hi,” he let out.
“Hello,” the boy replied.
A pleasant voice-
“I’m new to this,” he said, feeling rather foolish.
The boy chuckled, gesturing to the pile of rubble on the ground. “So am I, apparently.”
A charming smile-
“I’m Blaine,” the boy added as he offered his hand.
A number 2 pinned to his shirt.
He shook it. “Kurt.” And his heart fluttered ever so slightly.
--
Later, when Kurt would see Rachel again, he would tell her about each of the names he had noted down - about Brittany and her cat, about Sam and his axe, about Artie and Mike and Jacob - but he would omit to mention his last acquaintance.
In the night, he would toss and turn as he tried to not think about the boy with the bright eyes and the cheerful laughter, to not wonder why at that moment he wasn’t with the other Careers, because under these circumstances, none of it mattered. He would promise himself to have dismissed it all by the next morning, to treat the memory of the encounter as the nebulous recollection of a daydream - distant and illusory. He would tuck away the ephemeral sense of elation he had felt along with the piece of paper and the new name it would hold.
TBC?