jesse hatfield / d10 / (fin)

It’s like flies on honey. It’s like ants on candy.

That’s the southern flavor, baby! And he’s every inch of it. See, he was born sweet, or at least that’s what his momma tells him. Born polite, yes ma’am, and howdy sir. Born good, yeah he’ll help you pick up the hay. Born kind, that’s carrot’s a 10% off for ya and sure, I’ll give you an extra! Born all bright-toothed smiles, perfect for one of ‘em college brochures that read ‘Hey! Ten’s best youth, right her’!’

He was born right.

But, still, he was common. Tended to the sheep, fed cows, and raked grass. Picked fruits, made jam, and made momma and poppa a jelly sandwich from it. Flirted with the belles by the riverside and smiled at all the other blokes. Farmed, laughed, lived. Jesse has begun to make peace that there would be nothing beyond these sepia-toned fields. That he would be nothing beyond a meager farmhand. The reaping was supposed to be his grab at glory. He knew it was foolish, ya’, a farmhand from District Ten beating all of ‘em trained careers and nurtured killers enough to snatch that crown? Like he said, foolish. Even someone as daft as him can understand.

But, man, he got heart and the gusto. He got these guns on his arms, yeah they’re all polished and he kisses them daily, and he can take a good pounding from all the work in the fields, he won’t fall when he’s tackled down. Should be enough, ya’ know? Should be good enough.

But, heck, it doesn’t matter. Jesse aged up a year ago, an occasion most would celebrate but he sorta’ mourns.

He doesn’t tell the others that though, no—that night, him and all of his friends went out for a round of cold ones, laughed until their ribs hurt, and vowed that they’re going to start living now. Truly living. Not the sort of reckless, cheap-thrills living someone does when they know they could die every year, but the sort of living real people do. The sort of living, Jesse discovers that night, he knows he would be sick of. His destiny seems mapped out now, he can see it. A young belle maybe, one of his middle school sweethearts, kinda’ girl they tell ya’ would make a good housewife. They’ll have a couple kids, tend to the farm together, try at love, and whether that succeeds or not, live the rest of their lives out together into obscurity. He’ll go from hometown treasure to hometown man, to hometown nothing.

Jesse didn’t go home that night. Nah, he puked in vases, ran through District Ten, screamed at the moon, and tried everything to distract himself from the fact that this little rural glory he got would fade, fade, and fade. He thought himself a furious sun, yet he was merely a mere flame on the last few inches of his wicker.

But, fate says otherwise.

Fate comes one day, knocking sharp on his door, and says, ‘Hey, Jess’, bud! Some rich folk wants you! Jess’ you’re being offered a big thing, boy!’

Nerve, they called the program. Said they seen him cajoling ‘round the district, seen him at the fun fairs where he’d take a big hammer and score top marks on the game where they smash the thing real hard all the numbers skyrocket. Said they seen him, and considers him to be a perfect candidate. Jesse Hatfield from Ten, all southern flavor. They are going to love you there, kid.

And gosh, Jesse wants to be loved.

Maybe he was born sweet but he was born starved too, hungry for everything beyond his pastures and fields. Jesse dreamt of big events and bright lights and all the best food he can munch on. He dreams of shiny things – heck yes, he loves shiny things – and of living life without fear of what he needa’ do to get food on the table that day. Fate promises him a life he’s seen only those victor folk got going on, full of sparkly things and luxury.

A life where all the callouses on his hand would undo themselves and the skin there grow soft again.

And, well, who is Jesse Hatfield to deny fate of himself?