bakerstreet | may the odds be ever in your favor

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may the odds be ever in your favor

warning for adult content and possible triggers:
violence, death, nonconsent and all around questionable situations.

THE HUNGER GAMES MEME

Congratulations, Tribute.

You have been selected to participate in the Hunger Games.

The rules are simple: there can only be one victor.
You have to kill everyone else or die.

The last one standing wins.
May the odds be in your favour.

⚔

OPTIONS FOR THE SCENARIO-MINDED:
1. ENEMIES: in for the kill
The truth is you've been plotting each other's death for a long time. The only thing different about this situation is that everyone else actually wants you to off each other. Who cares if both of you are probably going to die anyway: no one is taking this bastard down except you.

2. ROMANCE: lovers in a dangerous time
What do lovers do when they know they're about to die? Last kiss, last words, last fuck? Maybe you're desperately trying to protect each other from the rest. Maybe you're the last two left alive. What sacrifices are you willing to make? How far will you allow each other to go?

3. ALLIES: set your arms down
It's in both of your best interests to stick together. Two together is more deadly than one, and you can pool supplies and weapons. Of course, this arrangement is most definitely temporary. Maybe it'll fall apart tonight, or tomorrow, or next week. Maybe your alliance has already run its course, and it's about to fall apart...right now.

4. TORTURE: death's not the worst
Sure, the point is to kill them. But why leave it at that? Maybe you've always secretly gotten off on this sort of thing, or maybe you've just cracked under the stress. When everyone is going to die, there's no point in sticking to all those rules society laid down for you any more. You've already incapacitated them; there's no way they can fight back. Might as well have some fun, right?

5. VICTORY: the finish line
You've done it. Last one standing. You've chosen to live, and no one but you knows how much that choice cost you, because they're all dead. At this point there's nothing that will stop you from stepping up to claim victory. You killed every other tribute. Or did you?

6. OTHER: write your own story
Anything and everything you can think of. Maybe you're not a Tribute, but a Capitol citizen at a lavish watching party. Maybe you're a Mentor courting sponsors, or a Stylist getting your Tribute ready for the arena. Or are you a Gamemaker, with even more cruel surprises to shock and awe?
⚔

Let the Games begin.

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[No 2, 4, or 6 please!]

[ Too old to compete, but a definite Mentor (D1). Alternately, a Capitoline Assassin working for Snow. Cross-canon loved, sky's the limit on AU stuff. ]

Edited 2017-09-07 01:30 (UTC)

( tribute from district 7. f/f for 2, no 4 please. )

[Older Victor, prose preferred. No 5, Either Capitol things or Games things]

Edited 2017-09-07 07:17 (UTC)

[Years ago, when the Reaping came, it took two from District 3. Clara Lille and Aiden Pearce went into the Arena. Only Aiden came back out, and he came back changed. He didn't play to Snow's script in the time after his victory. (And when Lena Pearce is killed, her uncle stops trying to pretend anything is fine.) He vanishes after that. Leaves the mentoring to the other Victors.]

[He erases himself as much as he can. Wipes his records from every database he can gain access to. He learns. He adapts. And when the lights flicker, or the electric fences go down long enough to let someone escape the District, the Capitol knows it's him. He's a vigilante, living to stay one step ahead of his enemies and avenge his niece.]

[But even ghosts can be caught after some time. Aiden gets sloppy. (Or maybe he decided he's done with hiding in the shadows forever.) He's caught on a feed in one of the District's factories. He stands by the door, watching the sun set as the workers file out past him. He waits.]

[He knows Snow won't suffer even one troublemaker to live. He knows someone is coming to kill him.]

[And he's ready.]

[From District 3, volunteered when his sister was chosen. He's no fighter, but he's sharp and agile, and wily.]

Edited 2017-09-07 15:45 (UTC)

[former Victor from District 2, now a Mentor; feel free to assume a Quarter Quell if you want to fight him in the Arena (good luck)]

[tribute from district 11. come break my heart.]

Surely this is some sort of terrible nightmare. James is used to nightmares, he is used to seeing Henry in them, Horatio too. All too often they are horrifically realistic, so much so that on waking he has to wake first his husband and his son, just to make sure they're alive, they're safe. Horatio has those nightmares too, and far too frequently.

There's nothing to be done about them, no way to rid themselves of them. They must simply push on through them, survive them and try not to seem haunted by them during the day. The days are better: when there is sunshine and work to be done and Henry playing with the dog.

But those days pass too soon. Henry has grown up, shot up really, smart and quick and brave; all of Horatio's best traits. He has James' impatience too, a quick tongue to go with his wit. Still, he is their son, the most precious thing they have.

And now he's old enough for the Games.

Their son shouldn't be even put forward. They should be exempt from any more suffering. They gave enough all those years ago, they lost parts of themselves that they can never get back. But rage and hurt and worry don't achieve anything.

A week before the Reaping, there's a communication from the Capitol. James prays that it's a reprieve, that Henry will be excluded from the draw, that their son will be saved by some bureaucratic miracle. He's written to as many of their old sponsors as he can, tried to call in favours from those still in power, those who hold any sway at all. None of them have answered his pleas till now.

But it isn't any of his old contacts. It's the Gamemakers.

There is no reprieve for Henry. Nor is there one for James.

District 1 has hardly changed in all the years since he was last here. The town is still the same, grey and cold and despite being in a better state than District 11 the whole place seems distant and unfriendly. Everyone here has trained to kill, is expected to kill, for their District and for Panem. The children don't play with dogs or follow their parents to the fields, or hunt for what wild food there is, but they practise with blades and bows and spears.

One of the children here is going to be entrusted into his care, and he will be expected to hone them into a Victor. The only thing James can hope for is that Henry will be spared in the Reaping, and he will not have to train one of these children to kill his own son.

Edited 2017-09-08 14:16 (UTC)

Henry Horner is well aware that his fathers are the happiest and least happy people he knows. That much has been true since Horatio first returned from the Games. That much had been true since James first hefted him up into his arms and made the world feel safe.

It's just that there are more and more cracks around the edges once he turns 12. It's just that the whole house smells almost permanently of bread once James leaves, called back to District 1 for the first time in ages. It's just that Horatio's features are more and more mask-like as the days count down to the Reaping.

The entire terrible week sit as an odd, uncomfortable thing in the middle of his chest. It lingers over his lungs as he stands with the other boys his own age, staring up at the screens, holding their breath for families they didn't know in places impossibly far away. It rushes up his spine like a shiver to see the face of one father flashing now and then over the screen as the camera pans over District 1; to have to crane his neck to see his other father standing an incredible distance away here in District 11.

Henry is watching, as best as he can, James's face when the names are called through the tinny connection to District 1. There's a calm, a resignation, a stolidness in his father's features that feels almost reassuring, for all he doesn't have a protective hand on his shoulder.

Then Henry Turner's name blares out through the speakers, and he practically feels Horatio's breath catch on the other side of the square.

James eyes close momentarily, a look of pain on his features.

Trust Elizabeth to name her son Henry. A good name, a strong name, the most perfect of names for small, happy, healthy boys. But as the name is called, it pulls at his heart strings, it makes his stomach turn. It's too easy to hear the name as Horner, not Turner. It's too easy to see his own boy forced to come towards the stage.

His eyes open, and there is the young man coming forward. His mother, pale and elegant and as steady as a rock does not wail or scream or beg. Elizabeth Swann doesn't do any of that. Not in public. There won't be a single piece of crockery left whole in her house tonight, but for her son, for her District, she will present the image District 1 women are expected to portray. She is a proud mother of a Career, she is a Career herself, daughter of a long line of fighters.

James has to admire that. He knows that his image has been tailored into that of a warrior, a successful Victor, a fitting mentor to the young. He also knows, as Elizabeth's eyes meet his across the square, that she expects him to keep her son alive. Not trust, not hopes. She expects him to.

And he hopes he can. He hopes it's the only thing he has to worry about.

If he stretches up slightly on his tiptoes, Henry can keep his eyes on Horatio once the cameras flutter on to District 2. His father isn't quite looking at him anymore, lost looking at something Henry is fairly certain doesn't exist apart from in the man's mind.

He spends the next painful minutes of his life watching his father, hoping for some flickering sign of life. He forces himself to stand as tall as he knows how, to shift his weight in time with the boy in front of him in case Horatio glances over.

The coverage has made it to District 7 by the time light comes back into Horatio's eyes. Infinite comfort washes over Henry as the man seems to see him properly again, something soft and affectionate coming into the corners of his lips. This will be difficult. This will be painful. This won't be the end of the world.

The air starts to shift as the last name is called for District 9. There's an uncomfortable buzz in the air, a clear lack of concentration as the names are drawn in District 10. Somehow, the world feels at once static and infinitely in motion as the screens suddenly fill with familiar faces. Horatio's is put in focus briefly, pale and drawn as it's been this last week, before all attention is focused on the full expanse of the stage.

The first name is drawn, and Henry isn't sure if time actually stands still. It had been one thing, horrible and unnerving, to stand with James through the last few Reapings. It had been one thing to imagine that the name of a friend might be pulled; that someone he cared about might suddenly vanish.

The escort pauses over the name inscrutably. The entire courtyard seems frozen in the anticipation that comes before a panic.

"--Henry Horner."

Some piece of Henry's consciousness knows that Horatio is taking a half-step back, the way a man might buckle when punched in the gut. Some piece of him sees that James's face is flashing back onto the screen as well, in parallel with the continued coverage of District 11.

He can't focus on either of those things. He can only focus on remembering how to walk, urged by the half-pushing and half-clutching sensation of other boy's hands against his arms.

All James wants is to see his son and his husband. He knows he should be speaking to Turner, to Elizabeth's boy, who looks pale and frightened despite his upbringing in District 1. But James can't. Not for the moment, not till he knows Henry is safe. He can't relax, even as the huge screens show the other Districts in turn. The waiting would have been easier at home, with Horatio's hand tight in his, with Henry only a few yards away, his dark head only a little taller than the other boys. They could support each other, protect each other, a family.

But Horatio was too far away, separated by miles and by the artificial division of Districts. James couldn't reach out for his hand, couldn't put his other hand on his son's shoulder and pull him into a hug. He couldn't protect them so far away, he could not lean on them for support.

Before he knows it, the familiar square of District 11 is on the screen in front of him. He feels sick, and somewhere in the crowd he knows Barbara and Elizabeth are watching too, breath held. Not held as tight as James', not with their hearts in their throats. Not with pain and fear radiating through every part of their being.

"Henry Horner."

The sound that leaves James' lips is almost a sob, low and horrible, the sound of his heart breaking. He can see Horatio and Henry up on the screen, Horatio reflecting all the pain he feels, and Henry...

Henry is no more than a child. It's hardly been ten years since James first picked him up and held him close to his chest, kissed the top of his head and took him home with Horatio. This can't be happening. It can't. He turns, anger and fear and dread filling him, and his fist slams against the stone building behind him. It hurts, it hurts as much as an axe slicing into his arm, but not enough to take away the pain in his chest.

On the screen above the square, his father's face seems to break.

For a heartbeat, Henry picks up his pace to be closer to the screen. He can't reach through the miles between them to reach for James's hand, to nudge his cheek affectionately against his father's shoulder, to burrow himself in against the man's side while they each took in a deep breath. For a heartbeat, it's enough to be closer to the screen.

His eyes drop, and he catches the slight sway in his father's body.

That's what gets him trotting properly faster to the front of the square. He'll need to stand while the second Tribute is called. He'll need to keep his chin up like James and his features still like Horatio.

But surely, for just a second, he can rush up to his father's side. Surely he's allowed a heartbeat of clinging to the hand of one of the men who raised him, worried gaze flitting back to the screen.

This helps, doesn't it? The fact that he's standing with his father and Pellew must be even the faintest bit of comfort for the man clearly fighting just to breathe so far away.

He hears Horatio's breath come short, the man shifting beside him to give him a slight shove forward. It lets the older man's hand stay on his shoulder.

It stops the nearest Peacekeeper from breaking the two of them apart.

James takes a deep breath. His hand hurts and there's blood on the knuckles, and he can almost hear Barbara's unamused words- no doubt later she'll have something to say.

Positives. There aren't any, but what at least tips the scales in their favour? Horatio and Henry are together. There's Pellew. Matthews is too old to go to the Capitol now, but he'll have advice for them. Henry is quick and bright and James has at least taught him something about swords and how to use them. Horatio has taken him out into the woods and taught him how to trap birds and game. James has saved every penny of the money he received as a Victor, he can use it to get Henry whatever he needs in the arena.

Then there's a noise, some words behind him and he turns, away from the wall and away from the beginnings of a plan, to the face of Henry Turner. He reminds James of Elizabeth, frightened and trying not to show it, when her name had been called. But someone had volunteered in her place.

Neither of these two boys are that lucky.

"I'm sorry sir," The boy says again, and James forces himself to swallow the knot of emotion.

"It isn't your fault Hal. We'll work something out." He promises, a hand on the boy's shoulder. He will work something out, although right now he has no idea of what that can be.

[ A Career tribute, either from District 2 or 4. Considering his whole fishy theme, the latter might be slightly more appropriate, but also weapons. ]

[ Also available as a past victor, or mentor (canon 22 year old version). ]

The image on the screen flicks away to District 12, and something cold and unpleasant seems to settle in the pit of Henry's stomach.

It sticks with him as the escort chitters and fusses. It sticks with him as the world turns into a veritable whirlwind that drags him, before he can catch his breath or collect his thoughts, onto a train hurtling painfully fast away from the only home he's ever known.

The saving grace is that Pellew is there, voice taking the soothing tone Henry half-remembers from his earliest childhood. The only reason not to fall entirely into panic is Horatio's hand constantly on his shoulder; the man's arms hugging him in tight whenever their escort leaves them be for a few moments.

All the stability Henry has comes from having his father to hold him--at least, until the train slows to a stop.

Horatio is guiding him again, fingers protectively tight at the nape of his neck. Pellew is speaking softly to the other Tribute while their escort flits here and there doing something or other inexplicable. Henry tries to breathe deep and simply follow along. He tries to take things in with the quiet reserve he's learned from watching his fathers.

It's just that, as they take their first steps toward the platform, he sees James. His feet can't stop themselves, and Horatio's hand seems unwilling to keep clutching at him.

"--Papa!"

James has been in the Capitol several days- another unfair advantage the District 1 Tributes have. They're so much closer to the Capitol, the train journey hardly takes any time at all. They've had time to settle and get into a routine of training, and James and Barbara have had time to get whatever influence they can, earn favours and bend rules.

That's why James is here. It's a media opportunity, but if that's the price James has to pay to see his husband and his son, he'll pay it a hundred times over. He's not exactly the man they saw off from District 11, sunburnt and with flecks of gold in his hair, in clothes that were worn and serviceable. Now he's shorn and shaved, his clothes crisp and well tailored and there's something stiff to him. Not enough sleep, not enough time, too much worry.

But the frown on his face fades when the train slows to a stop and through the window he catches sight of Henry. Then the door opens and there they are, Henry and Horatio both, tall and alive and the most wonderful thing James has ever set his eyes on.

He steps forwards, arms wrapping tight around Henry and his smile could light the entire Capitol, hugging his son as close to him as he can, trying to impart to him how much he has missed him, how sorry he is. How he wishes none of this was happening.

But James has always found it hard to put those things into words, to voice how much he loves Henry. How precious Henry is to him. Instead, he only says, "Have you been on your best behaviour for Sir Pellew?"

Hopefully, Henry knows what he means.

Henry doesn't notice the rush of others around them, the snapping of cameras and chatter of onlookers. He doesn't notice the unfamiliar polish his father is wrapped in, the odd crispness clinging around the man edges.

All he can see is his father's smile. All he can properly take in is that his father's smile is stepping forward to meet him.

Henry hits James squarely in the chest, burrowing like a much younger child into the instant embrace. He's young enough yet for all the tension to bleed away, held close by one father with the other not far off.

"Yessir." The words are muffled against James's chest, Henry's arms incredibly tight around his father's waist. "And for Dad."

Henry hits him like a train, almost knocking the air out of him but not quite. He can't and won't complain, being away from his family has been like a physical hurt, intense and heavy in his chest.

He keeps one arm wrapped tight around Henry's shoulders, hugging him close as Horatio comes closer, reaching out to him and clutching at his hand. He just wants to have them both close, where he can look after them, where he can keep them safe.

"I'm sure you have. It's actually Sir Pellew we have to keep an eye on." James says, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of Horatio's mouth.

"I'm sorry about the cameras. It was the only way Barbara could get me down here. She wants to see us as soon as possible." He adds in Horatio's ear.

"I've been trusted with taking you to the District 11 apartments. They seem to think I know where they are."

The world has been wrong since James left, like a creeping shadow at the edge of Horatio's gaze that couldn't be shaken. The world has been all but shattered since the Reaping, for all it's incredibly steadying to pull Henry in against his chest.

The world falls, just briefly, back into place at the sight of Henry being lost in James's arms again.

Taking a step forward unsettles everything again, of course. The station is as overwhelming now as it had been the first time Horatio stepped off the train as little more than a child. The flashing bulbs and infinity of eyes are exactly as disorienting as he remembers. At least this time he has his husband's hand to reach out for. At least this time he can pull his fingers through James's and let his hand fall protectively back on the nape of their son's neck.

His lips brush fretfully against James's cheek as the man leans closer. "That's fine."

They can handle the uncomfortable buzz of the Capitol. Hell, they'll probably even force themselves to muster a few smiles before they're allowed to get moving. They can certainly handle a few minutes settling Henry in together. They already know they can handle the careful plans Barbara sets out for them.

"We-- missed you."

James' eyes meet Horatio's, briefly, over the top of Henry's head. It's not fine, that glance says, but it will be. Barbara might be calm and cold, much like Elizabeth Swann, the rage in James' eyes boils just beneath the surface. But right now those embers are banked, waiting for the right breath of wind to send the sparks flying. And then James is going to burn it all down.

Those flashing lights and hungry eyes be damned, James is too relieved to see his family again not to pull them as close as he can. He doesn't want to have to let go either, to have to give either of them up to the Games and an uncertain future. As long as he can make this moment last, they're together. Not home, not safe, not even happy, but at least together.

But there's only so long they can stay here. James knows that, and he has to fight to make his grip on them both relax.

"I missed you more," He replies, hand gently easing from Henry's back to ruffle his hair. No doubt someone on the train spent some time brushing it, but Henry's hair won't stay tamed for long.

"I'm afraid we might have to do some smiling and waving, but no interviews and no talking to them. It'll just make them worse." The instruction is mostly for Henry, who knows nothing of the Capitol. He and Horatio, unfortunately, have been through this before.

It's an odd thing. As many years as they've been together, as far as they've gotten from this moment of their lives, Horatio had never forgotten the hard young man he first met in the Captiol. He remembered the sharp lines that had faded, gently and organically, into the soft affectionate features he had fallen in love with--the gentle face he had married, the comforting arms that had carried their son.

That James is still here. That James--James Horner--is holding his husband's hand and ruffling his son's hair. It's just that, as James pulls back slightly and straightens to his full height, there's a flash of the man James Norrington might have been if they hadn't fallen in love.

"We talked about that on the train." A careful shift helps his fingers look comfortable and affectionate around James, rather than a man clinging for dear life. "I don't think he has to-- say a word until the interview, does he?"

Henry certainly seems content not to say anything. He doesn't squirm from the hand ruffling his hair, simply shifting so that he can stay stuck against James's side when they start moving.

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