Fic: Winning (The Hunger Games)
A gift for trovia
Title: Winning
Characters: Beetee, ensemble (Gen)
Rating: PG
Warnings: unbeta'd (sorry)
Summary: For trovia's prompt at the odds are never in our favor ficaton: Beetee, " "Of course, I won the Games; I'm a genius."
Beetee evaluates the field. Strike, stay, or run away. Only three options, and the ever-shifting odds.
D8F is easy to take out; she started with almost no assets and nothing she’s trained for has prepared her for this. He strikes as soon as the odds look favorable. It only takes a few moments, then he’s away with what little she had.
D2M and D2F come in with greater advantages and are playing aggressively. It’s not time to engage them, yet. But there’s only so long Beetee can stay alive without making a move; eventually his resources will deplete, and he’ll be subject to the whims of chance.
Fortunately D12M isn’t playing to his full capability. He achieved some early victories, knocking out D7M and D10M, but he’s allowing himself to be controlled by emotion. Beetee keeps himself even by running the calculations over and over in his head. He’s reviewed so many games, taken them apart move by move, and found there is always a moment someone with his skill set can turn to his advantage, if he stays calm and hangs on long enough for the odds to turn.
At the moment of maximum advantage, Beetee strikes. The move puts him all in. He’s either won the encounter or gone. D12M counters and-
“Oh, no, boy, you’re not doing it again?”
All heads at the table turn to take in Mags and Woof as they enter the lounge. Mags looks as though she might chastise Beetee, if only she could gain control over her lips, which keep trying to twitch up into a smile. Woof is making no effort to hide his full grin, clearly unconcerned about the morality of the situation.
Lyme places her cards face-down on the table, shifting from frustrated to suspicious in an instant. “What do you mean?”
“He’s counting cards, you cotton-heads,” Woof exclaims before dissolving into laughter.
“Oh, for the love of a dead canary.” Haymitch tosses his cards at the table and shoves his chair back.
The Twos still look confused, and Mags takes pity on them.
“Beetee has been mentally keeping track of all the discarded cards. Based on that, and what the dealer shows, he can make the odds on what you’re holding.” She takes in the pile of notes in front of Beetee, and shoots him a disapproving look. “It doesn’t work in every situation, but it gives him a significant advantage.”
Brutus is nothing short of scandalized; Mags may as well have announced that Beetee eats puppies for breakfast. Mags’ shocked disapprobation can give him a pang of conscience but seeing the same look on one as young and enormous as Brutus is so incongruous Beetee has to fight the urge to smile.
“It’s not against the rules,” he offers, trying to soothe the young man’s upset (they’re going to spend the next fifty years sitting next to each other). “And really, Mags. We could have gone at least two more games before they refused to play.”
“Don’t feel bad, kid,” Woof says, finally recovering his breath. “Everybody lost a pile to him before we figured it out. Now he’s forced to wait about five years or so between games, before he has enough fresh victors to take for a ride.”
This does nothing to make Brutus look less offended. Definitely time for strategic retreat. Beetee gathers the notes, neatly folding and slipping them behind the plastic pocket protector that makes everyone think he’s the easy mark.
Beetee crosses the lounge to the spot where last year’s victor (his light, his exultation, his miracle) is sprawled on the carpet, so intent on her book she’s oblivious to the commotion. He wants to buy her something obscenely expensive, just to watch the joy on her face as she takes it apart. He kneels in front of the book and slowly slides his open hands to the edge, into her field of vision, and waits for Wiress to look up.
After only a moment, she tilts her head to meet his gaze. “Is it time to go?”
He slides a note between the pages to mark her place, shuts the book, and gains his feet. “If you like, I thought we could go to the electronics store.”
Mild curiosity is replaced by brilliant illumination, and Beetee offers his hand to help her up. He’s beset by the urge to press a kiss to her forehead or pull her into a hug, to confirm the thrum of life, life, life flowing through her, and only the knowledge that they have an audience keeps him from an indecorous display of affection.
Instead, Beetee picks up the book and hands it to Wiress, who’s taking in the cards and the table and the collection of victors with expressions ranging from amused to irritated to-yes, still scandalized-and seems to just be remembering that they came here with a purpose.
“Did you win the game?” she asks, eyes lit with anticipation.
Overcome by the joy of finally, truly winning, he can’t help the smile that takes over his face. “Of course I won the game; I’m a genius.”