Would you ever write a oneshot AU where the rebellion didn't happen and Brutus won the 75th Hunger Games?
I don’t know who you are, anon, but I hope you use your power wisely. If you de-anon I’ll come find you and make you pay for this add you as the gift recipient on AO3.
(In which I was going to reply to this with “probably not, alternate-3QQ AUs make me sad”, and then I wrote six thousand words of one.)
on the bloody morning after (6019 words) by lorata Fandom: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Summary:
The rebellion fails. The wrong person finds out about the Arena plan and it all falls apart: Plutarch Heavensbee and the mentors are arrested, President Coin cuts her losses and retreats to District 13 to plot another day, and the victor-tributes in the Arena are on their own. No lightning, no forcefield, no rescue.
Not that Brutus knows any of this, of course. He’s too busy trying not to die.
Does anyone else ever think about how it was Coin’s fucking superiority complex that ultimately killed her?
And by that I mean she had no protection whatsoever at Snow’s execution. Sure, there were officials, guards, military people, whatever who grabbed Katniss after the assassination and dragged her away, but come on. This is the future. And there exists a little something called forcefields, which we have already seen used for personal protection. The Gamemakers put a forcefield up for Training after Katniss shot the apple from their pig’s mouth. They learned their lesson. But Coin, President of District 13 and front runner/expected next president of Panem, who just lead a fucking rebellion that overthrew a tyrannical government doesn’t have a forcefield up at the public execution of the former president? Because I don’t know, but if you ask me, that’s kind of the sort of place one in her position might expect to get assassinated by some angry Capitolite or woke rebel (like Katniss) who knows she’ll be no better than the one chained to the post. When you are that type of public figure, security is just something you do, you know?
Now, the only reason I can think of for why the fuck Coin didn’t go to better lengths to protect herself is her raging superiority complex. She is too good. She’s above it all. Firstly, the forcefields are Capitol technology. D13 has hovercraft, nuclear weaponry, other fancy weaponry, and the technology of a thriving underground civilization like sunless greenhouses and nice-ass ventilation systems. Coin is too good to use the same technology that the Capitol owned and used to protect their Gamemakers and surround their arenas. Second, she has such an inflated sense of power that she thinks she’s too good to be at risk. She couldn’t even consider a situation where she might want some kind of protection at this event. She’s Coin, of course, the liberater of Panem. Who would want to hurt her, deign to hurt her, or be able to hurt her? She’s better than them.
So ultimately, yeah, on top of being a horrible person, it was her above-it-all attitude that got her killed. How awkward would it have been if Katniss shot at Coin, only to have the arrow bounce off air and clatter on the ground? Pretty awkward for her. Pretty sweet for Coin. But that didn’t happen, because Coin was too cool for a forcefield.
As we approach what used to be the grand entrance, Gale points out something and the whole party slows down. I don’t know what the problem is at first and then I see the ground strewn with fresh pink and red roses. “Don’t touch them!” I yell. “They’re for me!”
The sickeningly sweet smell hits my nose, and my heart begins to hammer against my chest. So I didn’t imagine it. The rose on my dresser. Before me lies Snow’s second delivery. Long-stemmed pink and red beauties, the very flowers that decorated the set where Peeta and I performed our post-victory interview. Flowers not meant for one, but for a pair of lovers.
I explain to the others as best I can. Upon inspection, they appear to be harmless, if genetically enhanced, flowers. Two dozen roses. Slightly wilted. Most likely dropped after the last bombing. A crew in special suits collects them and carts them away. I feel certain they will find nothing extraordinary in them, though. Snow knows exactly what he’s doing to me. It’s like having Cinna beaten to a pulp while I watch from my tribute tube. Designed to unhinge me.
No one will fully understand — how it’s not just a flower, not even just President Snow’s flower, buta promise of revenge — because no one else sat in the study with him when he threatened me before the Victory Tour. Positioned on my dresser, that white-as-snow rose is a personal message to me. It speaks of unfinished business. It whispers, “I can find you. I can read you. Perhaps I am watching you now.”