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Angels Don't Sing Here

Summary:

The Hunger Games. A cruel reminder of how miserably the rebels failed to secede from their overlords. Every year, they’re forced to watch a fight to the death. Every year, one of Waverly’s neighbors is plucked from their homes, never to be seen again.

 

She never expects it to be her. Everyone loves Waverly. Now everyone wants Waverly to die for entertainment. Wynonna can’t do this for her. It’s time for Waverly to grow up, to stand on her own, and repay all the charity her sister has given her over the years. There’s a murder-happy tribute. Her pathetic hometown co-tribute. There’s Nicole Haught, a trident-wielding strategist who can’t stay out of Waverly’s head.

 

She’s going to beat all of them. Waverly Earp is going to fight impossible odds and return home, to her sister. She's not letting anyone get in her way.

Chapter 1

Notes:

A long ass time ago, like legitimately years and YEARS ago, someone commented on my first fic that I should do a Hunger Games AU. At first I was like “haha yeah!” and then one day I woke up with wide eyes and here we are.

I did change a few rules and some of the lore to better fit the environment of Wynonna Earp, and for the sake of giving myself a new world to build (instead of rebuilding someone else's). I also didn’t want to copy and paste the original story by Suzanne Collins. There will be similar events, but I've tried to keep the two stories as unique as possible.

It’s been a moment since I last posted. In truth, I got started on this story back in July. I officially broke the first chapter in August, and didn’t stop until the piece was finished. From top to bottom, this AU is completely edited and ready to go. I plan to upload every Friday until it’s done. I also have a couple other projects I’ll be working on, on the side.

I present to you, my Wynonna Earp/Hunger Games AU.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Forever. She could sit in this moment forever. The light catches so right. Her fingers speak on the paper, capturing this moment for the rest of her life, for as long as she can see. For as long as she will be blessed enough to take this in. The evening sun, dressed in red, orange, and gold, swims in the creek she’s known for years. The creek is one of her very best friends, yet she’s managed to spend years not appreciating this sight. She wonders if it looked different, back then. Before all this separation. Destruction. Starvation.

Maybe she just reads too many books.

“Catch!”

A roll of bread flies in her direction. It knocks the pencil from her hand, the other fumbling to catch the item, a sacred gift. The only other blessing she doesn’t take for granted. It falls from her hands and rolls off her notebook to the dirt at her boots.

“You didn’t catch it!”

Waverly Earp stammers in disbelief. “People are starving! Don’t waste food like that, Wynonna!”

“You’re the wasteful one, dropping food.” Her older sister kneels next to her, the light that formerly aided Waverly’s creation now bouncing off Wynonna’s Earp’s eyes. They sparkle like the diamonds the elite citizens of the Union might be found with. “And I’m one of those starving people, so I can be as offensive as I want.”

“That’s not how that works,” Waverly mumbles.

“Loosen up, kid,” Wynonna says, returning to a stand at her full height. She’s never been much taller than Waverly, but Waverly looks up to her. In more ways than one. Wynonna hands Waverly a bow, wooden and handcrafted with careful hands, and falls serious. “Come on, let’s get going.”

Gingerly, Waverly grabs the bow and collects her things. Her leather satchel slung over her shoulder, an arrow sheath over the next. This is her standard hunting gear. A knife is tucked into her boot for good measure, and her long hair is braided far out of the way.

The sisters go quiet when a small group of rabbits falls into their vision. Wynonna’s jokes and teases and occasional rants about those who live in the Union leave them. It is the woods’ turn to speak to them.

Waverly takes the opportunity to practice her newest trick, and notches two arrows on her bow. Balanced between her fingers in a fashion practiced many times. She figures if she’s going to spend so much time in this place, she might as well have some fun. 

Wynonna lowers her own weapon to watch. It’s no secret Waverly is the better archer. Wynonna always seemed perfectly happy sitting back and letting her superior snares do the work while she naps against a tree, anyway.

Two arrows, two rabbits. The arrows land perfectly through their skulls, preserving the meat. Waverly thinks nothing of it. She’s spent so long practicing, this is the result to be expected. Wynonna nudges her and celebrates.

It isn’t until they closer inspect the meat Wynonna tells her, “Mama would be proud.” She collects their game and adds it to the collection in her own leather bag, and moves them along. “Come on, let’s head back before Willa goes full Willa Mode.”

Wynonna talks of the Union. How she hates them. How they’re all criminals. Waverly can’t quite listen, only drag her muddy boots along. Any time anyone mentions Mama her head seems to swim in a fog. Not that she knew much about her. No one did.

No one knew what happened to Michelle Gibson. Some think she killed their father in the barn fire that took five others—she disappeared the same day. Mama was wild like Wynonna, or so Willa says; they thought she was crazy. Not that anyone would blame her for snuffing out Ward Earp. The only thing Waverly recalled of her father was his cruelty.

Only Wynonna could speak of Mama’s hunting. Wynonna was the only one she ever took, despite Willa being the oldest. Mama never seemed to like Willa. Waverly didn’t blame her. Willa was as cruel as Ward, without the help of drink.

Theories on Mama can wait for next time. She’s taken from her thoughts when they return to town. Return to the farmer’s market, with booths stretching down the main road. This is the routine, though today it’s on the opposite end of the day; night, not morning. 

Sneak past the un-electrified electrified fence, hunt in the woods, hop on the horses, sell to the right shady person at the market, ride home like nothing happened. The woods aren’t legal to hunt in. But when you’re starving, there’s not much else to do. The same thing goes for the mystery meat soup she and Wynonna eat. Doesn’t matter what’s in it, only that it’s edible.

The Old Woman waits for them, ready to trade and ready to make the soup from today’s catch from all her clients. Be it the illegal woods with the fence that doesn’t stop them, or stray animals from around town. On the wide plain, stray animals can be found running through any field. Wynonna’s most common excuse, when she’s stopped by local authorities for hauling a giant bag of carcasses. Not that they’d ever arrest her. They’re hungry just the same. She finds the same officers, waiting by the very same stand.

“Your finest mystery soup, Ol’ Haggie.” Old Woman, Old Hag—the merchant’s name is unknown. She never speaks. No one knows much about her, either. Wynonna is always happy to get creative.

The Peacekeeper near the stand leans against the sturdy wooden pole keeping the whole thing together. His white uniform is stained with dirt, and his red boots have scratch marks all over them. He stares at Wynonna, amused. “You should show me the ropes someday, Earp. A little one on one time never hurt.”

Waverly rolls her eyes at the flirt. Wynonna laughs, “Is the President okay with that? Ask him first for me, Pete.”

Pete scoffs, but remains amused. The way she carelessly speaks ill of the Union is something people quietly admire. The way Wynonna flashes a golden mockingjay pin—a failed creation of the Union’s scientists—tells everyone everything they need to know about Wynonna Earp: she is bold.

Waverly knows her a little better. She’s more than bold, she’s confident and strong. She holds the family together. Other people think she’s crazy and irresponsible like Mama. But Waverly isn’t other people. Other people don’t see, don’t understand. In Waverly’s eyes, Wynonna is a superhero.

“Get yourself something.”

Especially in moments like these. Moments when they’re starving, struggling to get by, Wynonna hunts extra animals to give Waverly some sense of luxury. The Old Woman keeps books, scavenged from the old world. She often lets Waverly borrow them for days until she can officially afford them. They didn’t hunt much today. But then today was different from other days, and the Old Woman liked the sisters. They kept her in business.

They are lucky to have fair skin, too, Waverly knows. Wynonna says it’s a tool of survival, and it reminds Waverly of how cruel surviving can be.

Wynonna nudges her. “Come on, contribute to the local riff raff.”

More like the place that’s kept them alive for years without parents. Both Willa and Wynonna were old enough to convince their superiors Waverly didn’t have to go to a home. Another privilege to be grateful for.

She looks over the collection and chooses a book she’s read dozens of times on loan. A tale centuries old, but reading it was always a pleasure.

Wynonna gathers their soups—rabbit, turkey, and whatever else mixed in—and bids the Old Woman farewell with a grin, placing her free hand on her sister’s back as Waverly stares at the book forever in her possession. The Peacekeeper Pete mocks how she reads so often. Wynonna tells him to shut up.

“Either way,” he adds, louder the farther the sisters get, and despite the soup of mystery meat he shovels in his mouth, “may the odds be ever in your favor tonight, Waverly!”

Waverly considers how long forever might be. She barely notices the book fall from her grasp, or her sister handing it back to her. The hand that rubs her back.

“Come on. Willa would kill us if we brought back cold soup.”

-

Wynonna speaks of it, ill fashioned, the entire ride back home. Even the horse seems to roll his eyes. The Union separating half the country, making one half work to support the lifestyles of the elites within the Capital City. Preaching togetherness, despite this reality. Pumping the country’s children with hate for their fellow humans, so they might one day participate in the Hunger Games, to win and become a “hero of the people” as adults. Yes, kids, from ages 18 to 25, you could kill your peers for glory and money! Fame! For the entertainment of the Union! All of it, to remind the five working Sectors of their failed attempt to secede almost a century ago.

Wynonna finishes her rant to Willa’s goat in the front of their property, a small cabin in the middle of a giant farmland. The stable for their horse is about the size of an outhouse. Come morning, Wynonna will ride them down the road for the woods again, before they work in the fields with dozens of others for a dozen hours. Waverly manages to escape the conversation and runs inside. 

“The only thing these games do is make us want to rebel again! God you smell terrible, you ugly old goat.” Wynonna looks back on the goat as she enters the house. “And you don’t even care. What a friggin’ life.”

Willa isn’t mad. In fact, she’s barely here as she stares out the kitchen window, a mannequin under the evening light. She springs to angry life when Wynonna throws a pebble at her. Understandably.

“Just want to make sure you’re alive,” Wynonna says. She grins wider the more Willa frowns, like the two are opposite ends of a scale. Waverly sits at the table and lets the madness happen. Pete’s words and Wynonna’s rant didn’t help. She doesn’t feel like interacting right now. Barely feels like eating right now.

Despite this, dinner goes by fast. The meal is short, and Waverly thinks it should be savored. Because when the moment is over, it’s time. 

She sits on her bed, staring at the door until Wynonna enters the room and lectures her. Can’t stay up tonight. They’ll all get into trouble. But if someone is here, that’s not their only trouble . . .

“Everybody loves you, baby girl,” Wynonna says, sitting on the bed next to her. “They all call you ‘angel’, like Mama did. Y’know, because you’re a cute little friggin’ angel.”

This makes Waverly feel slightly better. It’s true, the people in their hometown, a place they call “Purgatory”, call her an angel when she makes her way down the road. In the fields. In the treetops, picking fruit. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Wynonna tells her again. She squeezes Waverly’s hand for good measure. 

Ages 18 – 25. The Union’s preferred, perfect age group for the games. She’s 21. She squeezes Wynonna’s hand back before her sister pulls her in for a hug. Then they both take a step back in time. Wynonna tucking her into bed, making sure she’s half asleep before she kisses her forehead and leaves the room.

“Goodnight, baby girl. I love you.”

Waverly falls asleep with a grin, feeling protected. Feeling her sister’s strength.

-

Her first instinct is to panic—Purgatory is not nearly this hot. Then she screams, all her fears at once, all her anxieties and dread. But there’s no time to think, no time to be afraid. She must act. Wynonna would tell her to act, now!

She wakes upright, tied to a stake, sweating profusely as the fire grows. This is an enclosed space, underground. The stake goes all the way up to the rocky ceiling. The restraints loosen suddenly, and she leaps forward before she can be trapped again. The rocks below scrape her knees. She’s wearing the fabric. The one she sees every year and prays and prays she’ll never have to wear: the thin red and white patterned jumpsuit of a tribute.

Someone submitted her name. Another collected details about her life. The citizens of the Union voted on her. They chose her to laugh at as she gets mauled. So much for being likeable little angel Waverly Earp, the girl everyone is happy to see when she passes them by. 

The weapon rack shines at her, aided by the flames. Choices. Whoever’s trying to kill her made sure to leave her with anything but a bow. A long machete and, even more insulting, a wooden stick. A wooden stick’s supposed to save her life. She pockets the stupid thing anyway, pretending to be confident without a bow. Waverly has to keep moving. 

Torches light up, leading straight ahead to a stage. The stage. When she gets here, she will be televised to the public, introduced like a TV character for their precious games. But first, she has to survive the walk. She has to prove she’s worthy of being a toy for them to play with. To bet on. To celebrate. To idolize. To be a hero of the people. Every step forward makes her sick.

Anxious. Nothing’s happened yet. She sees it every year. Under the arena, they fight muttations, genetically modified animals. A gory start to the games. A slaughterhouse for her Sector, often. Is 5 so terribly hopeless, they’d just let her walk on?

She hears it. It forces her to stop. Weapons raise. Eyes and ears, open. In the dark, something screeches, to her left. The animal, she can’t pin. It’s something small, by the sound of it. Fast, likely. Her weapon is small and light—helpful. But she still prefers a bow.

The second she resumes her pace, she hears it. She feels the room, moving. At least, that’s what it feels like. Dozens and dozens of bats, twice the size of normal bats, flock to her at an instant, flying at top speeds. She swings and downs one, but another scratches her arm. The next, her back. Leg. Abdomen. She can’t swing fast enough. There’s too many, she needs a way to—

She bumps into one of the torches. Torches. 

Stick.

Waverly chops down one of the torches before tossing the machete. Lights her stick on fire, sharing heat between the weapons. Swinging over and over at the bats, their shrieks everything she wants to hear. She pushes onward for the stage, onward to the beginning of a new end. For now, it seems less gruesome than being torn apart by giant bats. They disappear the second her boot touches the stage. It’s the first prize she’ll win in these games, if she’s lucky. 

She sees it from here. Four interconnected cave routes. Four tributes from her Sector. 5 has only utilized all four twice in its history. Maybe this is the lucky year!

It isn’t. When the ceremonies finally start, Waverly stands next to a lone boy. Young. He might be barely 18.

She can’t stop panting. She hasn’t moved in minutes, but she just can’t catch her breath. She thinks, until this is all over, she’ll never be able to catch her breath. Who did this to her? Who damned her to this place? This hell?

There’s not much time to think about it. A new tunnel opens behind her and her new associate, and two men enter. One she knows. A dark skinned man, taller despite his slouch, a look of deep dread on his face. This is Xavier Dolls, Sector 5’s only living victor. Second, of all time. He won the 75th Games. This year being number 99. 

The man next to him is odd. She doesn’t recognize him from years past. He isn’t the usual escort from the Union, the babysitter to make sure the tributes aren’t offensive to Union citizens’ uptight stature. He wears a bright purple suit, dark blue undershirt, bright red rose on his chest pocket. A tall and ridiculous looking hat perches his head, brighter than his jacket and pants. His bushy mustache swallows his upper lip and parts of his lower. The rose promises he’s a Union citizen; the president is quite the professional botanist. Still, he isn’t the usual escort. She notes Dolls looks annoyed by him already.

The Union man approaches the microphone center stage and gives a look of disappointment. Half the tributes promised in this year’s entertainment. How very, very sad for the Union. Waverly watches as he fumbles with the mic a moment, the cameras remotely controlled, looking at him from all angles. 

There are noticeably more torches on stage, perfectly capturing the sweat and terror on Waverly’s face. Painting her as a warrior, fresh from battle. This is the propaganda. This is what Wynonna rants into the woods for hours about. Loved ones, snatched in the middle of the night. Nominated by their peers, profiles built on them for the Union citizens to enjoy. To vote, on the one they think would be most entertaining to watch fight for their life. Apparently they thought Waverly would be the perfect show. The quiet little girl who hides behind her loud sister.

She realizes how severe the situation is when she can’t laugh at the Union man as he continues to fumble with the microphone. When he speaks into it, he speaks so loud he frightens himself. 

“I am not the usual escort,” he says, frustrated at this point. He has an odd accent, one different from the strange way the people of the Union speak. He stands a full foot away from the microphone now. “I am Doc Holliday, and I have the fortune of takin’ over this year’s events.”

He performs the usual protocols. Reads the history of the country, Panem. The natural disasters that destroyed the country, formally known as North America. The Dark Days of rebellion against the Union, and the nuclear warfare that made it far worse. The 6 Sectors that lost miserably, one of which left completely obliterated. How the Union can take the young adults right out of their home, right from their families, and send them to fight to the death for entertainment purposes. How they can crush anyone who dare fight back.

The list of victors. Two in history. One alive, on stage. He nudges Dolls, who stares blankly into the caves. He screams when Doc touches him. He won the 75th games. These are the 99th. He’s been in multiple caves before. Every tribute he’s ever met who emerged from this place is now dead. Every tribute he’s ever mentored, is now dead. Waverly can’t blame his mental absence. It’s her first time here, and she can barely keep it together. 

Doc talks about 5’s two tributes, strengthening their profiles for the public to adore them and want them to live. If they’re interesting enough, the public will want them to live. Waverly hopes no one ever found out about her illegal hunting. Who knows what that would mean back home. 

Did they find out? Is that why she’s here? Is this her punishment, for trying to keep herself fed and alive?

No. They paint her as a farmer. She works the fields with her older sister Wynonna, and her oldest sister, Willa uses family knowledge of herbs to heal the sick in their small town. They ride horses and raise cattle. No one knows about the woods. Her bow. The market. Just horses, cattle, lassos and pig wrestling.

“Your female tribute, Miss Waverly Earp!”

She doesn’t smile, wave, act like she’s honored to be here. She was never a liar before. Why start now? Why agree to give them a show?

The boy next to her is 20. Not much younger than her. But he seems so small, so frightened, it ages him down. He is Alexandreus Phaidros, a baker from the big city in Sector 5. Other than his baby face, he looks strong for his age, probably well fed. Waverly doubts he’s ever been hungry in his life. Yet he shakes like a leaf, terrified. Perhaps he’s never known terror or struggle before.

Doc reads the Treaty of Treason in its boring entirety. Waverly looks to her fellow tribute, still shaking, crying miserably to himself at this point. Then she eyes the camera. Back home, Wynonna is watching her. Wynonna is waiting for her. Her brave, pillar of strength. Her superhero. The guardian who kept her from starvation. Who spoiled her with books and notebooks to write and draw her own stories in.

Waverly thinks of her first time in the woods. She whined about how early it was, but Wynonna didn’t care. She shoved a bow in her hand, fresh after Mama’s disappearance, and told her it was time to grow up.

It is time to grow up.

Waverly straightens herself out, standing tall. She wipes her eyes and makes a swear this will be the only time she cries over this. It’s her turn to be strong.

“I present to you, your Sector 5 warriors for the 99th Hunger Games! May they bring honor to their homeland!”

-

The more Doc excitedly gushes about the games, the more Waverly sees why Dolls is annoyed with him. They take a short transport to a new building, where Union artists will take their appearance and make them less warrior-like and more camera ready for the citizens to gawk at. Definitely less bat guts. 

The train is huge for such a small trip, and Waverly and her fellow unfortunate soul are escorted to their rooms right away to bathe before dinner. The servants are Avoxes, forced to do Union labor forever with tongues removed, punishment for anything the Union considers traitorous. Anything that isn’t considered in the name of all; in the name of those left behind after nuclear war and natural disasters ravaged the former North America. They are the survivors! They are one! They are Union! This is bullshit!

Together they are one. Together, they watch the games. Together, they remember the rebels, the idea of separation, and the lengths the Union took to destroy the 6 Sectors daring to lash out, to separate. The cursed, forbidden idea of separation. Together they can build humanity’s future. Keep humanity’s memory alive and flourish, paving the way for future generations.

Waverly avoids total eye contact and quickly enters the room. She is greeted by a huge, clean bed with the softest blankets she’s ever touched. In the center, curiously, sits a box. 

Inside, sits the golden mockingjay pin her sister wears. Tributes are allowed one item from their loved ones. Honestly, she can’t think of anything better. Other than a portal out of here and back to her woods with Wynonna.

Her woods. Wynonna. 

They won’t win. The Union, whoever sent her here, they won’t win. She knows Wynonna is betting on her. She knows Wynonna is waiting for her to come home. For everything Wynonna’s ever done for her; working doubly hard, supporting the house; making sure Waverly is fed, even if it means sacrificing her own meal; risking illegal hunting; making sure Waverly has new books and warm clothes. For everything, Waverly has to make it home. She will return to her. She will win, for Wynonna.

Waverly Earp will be the 99th victor, and no one will stop her.

Notes:

Special thanks to user Lilly23992, who commented on that old fic I should do a Hunger Games AU. I literally never would have considered doing this if I never got that comment.

Super, super special thanks to my Discord group, who have been hyping this story since June. (And fluffing the shit out of my ego.)
Next time, we’ll see Waverly as she navigates Union fashion and spots a certain redhead. As always, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. I appreciate it.

Enjoy your Halloween, AKA the only holiday worth a damn—

If you want, you can locate me on the Twitter I sometimes remember to use @RJAwritesathing. I'm also on Tumblr @stinging-scorpion