Title: Tomorrow Will Be Kinder
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Pairing: Daryl/Beth (eventual)
Tags: Alternate Universe - The Hunger Games, Canon-Typical Violence, Mentor/Tribute

Notes:

So two things: first, this is the first piece of fanfiction that I have written in a long time (read: years) so I'm one hundred percent certain that it's terrible and I'm really nervous about posting it. Second, this is the first I've ever written for TWD so that might be shaky too. Hopefully by the time this is finished I'll be more comfortable with these characters.

Okay, a third thing: this is un beta'd so all the mistakes are my own. I usually comb through my work pretty obsessively so if there is a mistake left then it definitely just typed itself in while I wasn't looking.

Also, if you want to see the photoset that inspired my crazy attempt at writing this it is on my tumblr page: bee1103.

ONE

There was light hitting her face. It was pressing against her skin, a cruel wake-up call so early in the morning. Another moment, she begged the sun, dragging her wrist over her eyes and burying her face into her sister's shoulder blades. Maggie shifted, rolling over, green eyes opening lazily in the early morning sunlight.

"Hey Bethy," Maggie whispered, careful not wake their father, still sleeping nearby.

"Hi," Beth smiled faintly.

She loved moments like these: too early for the District to be awake, before the day could really settle in on them; as if the world was holding its breath. Before long the sirens would call them all out of bed, breakfast would be made, and then they'd go to the fields. It would be a hard day of peach-picking, of bee stings, of hot summer sun. And then the sun would set, and they would trudge back home to their meagre dinners; fall into bed and wait for the whole thing to start over again.

But not today – today there would be no fields, no fruit, no buzzing insects; today they would have the morning free, as if it was a holiday, until noon when they were to report – as they did every year – to the town square and wait.

Wait, in frightened silence, as two names were drawn – two children chosen to leave the District for the Capitol, for the Games.

Today was Reaping Day.

Everyone in the Districts knew the history. They had been made to listen to the story every year: a century ago, with the world torn apart by chaos and disease, the remaining citizens of what had once been North America banded together to form one Capitol, ringed by thirteen districts. Not long after the formation of this new country, the citizens in the districts grew restless and angry, demanding more authority over their own lives. When the Capitol refused, the districts rebelled. But they were crushed – the thirteenth district completely destroyed by the Capitol's wrath.

As punishment, the Capitol demanded that every year each of the remaining twelve districts send two tributes – one male and one female, children – to participate in the Hunger Games. It was a death match, only one tribute could become victor and they did so by killing every other tribute. It was power – the way for the Capitol to show everyone that there was nothing they could do, that they had demanded freedom and now had nothing.

For twenty three children, it was a death sentence. It was sickening.

Beth chewed on her bottom lip. She was eighteen now; next year she would be too old, this would be her last reaping. Maggie clutched her hand, pulling it up between them, and Beth could see that she was thinking the same thing: one more day, that's all we need – just today.

Maggie had always been lucky. She was twenty-four now, far too old for her name to be in the reaping ball – but she'd gone down to the square every year, same as everyone else, crossing her fingers that it wouldn't be her name read aloud for all the country to hear. Maggie's last year had been Beth's first and so their father had still sat on edge, praying for the safety of his daughters.

So far, his prayers had been answered, but God hadn't always been so kind. Once, her father had been married to a woman named Annette – not Beth's mother, who had died bringing Beth into the world – but another woman who had rekindled the happiness in Hershel Greene's eyes. Annette had her own son, Shawn, who had been the same age as Maggie. But Shawn hadn't been as lucky as Maggie and when he was fifteen his name was pulled from the reaping ball.

He'd died from a blow to the head four days into the Games while they all watched on the tiny, spotty television in their kitchen.

"It'll be fine, Bethy," Maggie hummed, softly, reading her sister's mind. "It won't be you."

Beth nodded. It could be though. She had just as much of a chance as any of them – and more than some of them. Each year the number of times your name went in doubled: when she was twelve, her name had gone in once; now that she was eighteen, her name would be in the reaping ball sixty four times. The odds were not exactly in her favor.

But she had to have faith. If her name was called then there was nothing else she could do but try and survive. She was strong, even though she didn't look it – maybe not in her muscles, but there were other kinds of strength too.

"We should get up," Beth said with a sigh, unwilling to move from the warmth of her bed, where the Games didn't exist and she didn't have to worry about whether she might die in the next few days.

Not that life in District Eleven was a safe haven on any given day either but at least she didn't have twenty-three people clawing for her blood when she walked down the worn streets of the market.

Maggie brushed her hand across Beth's forehead, pushing frizzy strands of blonde hair away from pale skin, and smiled tightly – like she was trying to imprint her sister's face on her memory; like it was the last time they were ever going to wake up like this. With a pang, Beth realized that it might very well be the last time.

"We'll go pick some wildflowers," Maggie mused, "braid 'em into your hair so you look pretty at the Reaping."

Beth nodded. That was another thing about the Games: even though they were a bloodbath for the people in the districts, they were entertainment for the people of the Capitol and as such, everything had to be treated as if it was a great show. The girls had to be pretty, the boys handsome; the tributes became celebrities in the brief days they spent in the city before being shipped to the arena.

The people in District Eleven called the city Terminus – the end of the line.

The sisters pushed themselves out of bed. It was still early, the sun only barely rising above the trees, so they were content to let their father sleep a bit longer. He was growing weary, age and sorrow beginning to sap the spark in his soul. They had lost Annette only a couple of years ago to a virus that had wiped out almost a quarter of the district. Then a horrifying accident in the orchards had crushed the lower half of his right leg and the doctor had been forced to amputate just below his knee.

Maggie had spent the day crying while Beth had spent the day cutting the right leg of all his pairs of pants so that he might wear them properly when he got back on his feet. One of the market vendors, David, had managed to fashion a metal replacement for him but he'd never quite gotten back to the way he'd been before.

Now, as Beth pulled on her faded pants and a loose sweater, she could see the lines of her father's face standing out more sharply against his skin. She didn't want to die but more than that, she didn't want to die knowing that her father would be heartbroken as he was forced to watch.

Behind the rows of houses where the people of District Eleven lived, there was a meadow that ran along the length of the tall fence that marked the edge of the district. When they were younger, she and Maggie would sneak out of the house and run out to the field to play in the wildflowers. They would sit for hours, making crowns and pretending to be beautiful brides, or fairies, dancing through the sunlight and singing songs that made the birds laugh.

Today they wandered through the long grass, gathering flowers here and there, but there were no crowns and no songs. Today had a melancholy air.

"Would you mind if we stopped at the market?" Maggie asked, a hesitant tone to her voice, as if she felt badly asking.

Beth stopped playing with the piece of grass between her fingers and looked up at her sister. "Of course we can, why would I mind?"

Maggie shrugged one shoulder, "Well, today is your day, Bethy. I don't want to do something if you don't."

What she meant was today could be your last day but Beth didn't mention that. Besides, she knew why Maggie wanted to go to the market; the market was where Glenn worked. She could still remember the first day she'd realized that Maggie and Glenn were sweet on each other. It had made her giggle and blush, like a much younger child. Now it just made her happy to see the bright smile that would bloom on Maggie's face every time Glenn was around.

She didn't think there was any way she'd rather spend her last day than walking through the market with Maggie and Glenn.

By the time they reached the market street it was already buzzing with people. But despite the atmosphere of chaos there was something heavy in the air, the same weight as every year on Reaping Day. Still, as Maggie scurried ahead of her, weaving through the crowd into Glenn's arms, Beth felt her fear fade into the back of her mind.

As the three of them walked through the street, pausing occasionally to look at some item none of them could afford, Beth tried to imagine what tomorrow might be like. If her name wasn't called then she would be here again, most likely, with Maggie and Glenn. They would be shopping for food though, before the workday began when Maggie would disappear into the orchards and Glenn would take his place behind the counter of his stall. And Beth would head home to her father.

She thought she might like to be a teacher at the school; she would get a job there during the day and come home to her father and sister in the evenings. Eventually, Maggie and Glenn would get married and be given their own little house and then it would just be Beth and her father.

She glanced at Maggie and Glenn walking beside her, hands clasped so tightly Beth wasn't sure where one of them ended and the other began. It was as if they'd always been two halves of one person and they'd found each other. There was something so beautiful about that.

But Beth had never wanted it for herself. There was too much risk, too much at stake. If she fell in love, got married – if she had a child, that child would someday have sixty-four pieces of paper with his or her name on it in the reaping ball. It wasn't fair to the child, to bring them unwillingly into this world and then condemn this fate. She wouldn't do it.

It hadn't stopped boys from asking her though. She knew she was pretty – all blonde hair, big blue eyes and pale skin – and she was certain that they took her patient rejection as some sort of coy effort to keep them interested, but she had steeled herself against even entertaining the possibility of that kind of life.

Even now, as she watched her sister – so happily in love – and knowing that tomorrow she might be on the train to Terminus, she didn't regret never letting herself want those things. Imagine how his heart would break if it was her name called; or her heart, if it was his.

No, she was glad she'd remained alone.

It was nearing ten o'clock when Glenn suggested that they head back the house and the rest of District Eleven seemed be thinking the same way as people began to filter out of the market back toward their homes. They would all be required at the Reaping Ceremony, whether they were eligible or not.

Glenn walked the sisters to their door, giving Maggie a quick kiss and squeezing Beth into a tight hug before stepping off their rickety porch and disappearing down the row of houses toward his own.

Hershel was waiting, a breakfast of wild berries and warm buttery bread – far more expensive than they could normally afford – set out on the table. It was a feast and Beth was oddly happy sharing such a meal with her two favorite people, in spite of the ominous feeling in her chest.

She threaded her fingers through her still damp hair, trying to pull the tangles out as she perched on the edge of her bed. She was stuck on a particularly nasty knot when Maggie came into the room, something pale blue folded in her arms.

"Oh, hang on, Bethy!" She said, dropping the blue bundle onto the bed and pulling Beth's hair into her own hands. "You'll end up with none left if you do it like that."

With the practiced ease of someone who had been doing so for years, Maggie gently combed her way through Beth's mess of hair, freeing the knots and pulling it into a gentle ponytail that draped over her shoulder – single braid woven in among the loose strands – wildflowers delicately tucked here and there.

"Beautiful," Maggie hummed after a time. Then, as if suddenly remembering, "Oh, I brought you somethin' to wear." And she pulled the blue bundle back into her lap and Beth realized that it was a dress.

"Wow, Maggie, where'd you get this?" She gingerly let her fingers run along the fabric. It was softer than anything she'd ever owned before.

"It was Mom's," Maggie replied. "I've been keepin' it since I was little – I think I was hopin' I'd have some reason to wear it one day but you're shaped more like Mom than me anyway."

Beth retracted her fingers quickly, gaze jumping up to meet her sister's eyes. "Oh, Maggie, I can't wear this; it's yours."

"I want you to have it. Trust me, Bethy, it'll bring you luck." Maggie's voice was sure, so absolutely certain that Beth couldn't say no. She couldn't say anything really so she just wrapped her arms around Maggie's shoulders and hugged her tight.

At least she'd look beautiful on her way to slaughter.

"Now, we'll be just over there, all right, Bethy?" her father said, hands gripping her elbows. "You'll be able to see us the whole time." She knew he was trying to reassure himself more than her – trying to tell himself that if he just kept his eyes on her, she'd be safe.

She smiled at him, hoping that it would help, but the fear was creeping back in and her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. Beside them, Maggie was gripping Glenn's hand so hard Beth thought he might have lost circulation in it, but he didn't let go and Beth was eternally grateful for his strength. Her family would need it. When Hershel stepped back, Maggie leapt forward, throwing her arms around Beth's neck and crushing her to her chest. She was muttering something that sounded like everything's gonna be fine but Beth wasn't sure and frankly she didn't really trust her voice so she didn't ask. Instead, she pressed her face into Maggie's neck and bit her lip to keep from crying.

"I gotta go check in," she finally said, pulling back from her sister. She tried for another reassuring smile then stepped into the tide of children moving toward the middle of the center square.

The whole place had been dressed up for the occasion with great banners draped across the buildings, the country's seal on every visible surface. At the head of the square stood the Town Hall where they'd erected a grand stage for the district officials to sit. The Reaping Balls – two great, glass jars, both nearly full up with tiny pieces of paper – stood on either side of a single microphone.

And there, wearing a garish magenta outfit and pale purple wig, her face powdered white and features redrawn, was the escort for District Eleven, Rowan Abernathy. Every year, when the cameras came and the banners were put up, Rowan Abernathy would come out from the Capitol – new ridiculous outfit to show off – to this stage in the center square and read the names of those children damned to the train bound for Terminus.

Everyone knew she was desperate to get a better assignment than District Eleven – this was a place that made corpses, not victors. In fact, there had only ever been one victor from District Eleven and he had just wandered onto the stage in front of the crowd.

Daryl Dixon was cold, mean and unsocial. He lived alone in Victor's Village, the fancy houses built for the winners on the far edge of the district, but Beth was certain he actually spent very little time there.

She could remember, years ago, she had slipped out of the house one morning just before dawn to pick some winter roses as a birthday present for Maggie, when she had first seen him, walking through the snow on the other side of the fence. He'd been heading back toward the district, as if he'd spent the night out in the woods.

In the years since that morning, she'd occasionally seen him out in the shadows of the trees – but only during the early morning or just before dark – although she'd never mentioned it to anyone. It didn't feel like her business, telling people what Daryl Dixon did with his time.

Now she watched him carefully as he slumped into the chair with his name on it. He looked hung-over, a state she recognized from the few infrequent occasions that her father had fallen off the wagon during her life. Had her fear not been crowding out all other emotions she might have felt bad for him.

Then his dark eyes swept over her and she felt something icy shiver down her spine. He was appraising them, she realized sharply, assessing strengths and weaknesses – calculating which of them were likely to live or die. She quickly ducked her head. She didn't need to know what he thought when he looked at her.

Besides, if her name was called they'd be spending plenty of time together over the next few days. That was one of joys of being a victor: you got to be a mentor to all the tributes who came after you. For Daryl that meant watching as a bunch of children were slaughtered. It was no wonder he drank.

As the noon bell rang, the Mayor of District Eleven shuffled onto the stage and pulled out a worn, folded piece of paper. It was the same one he'd read every year since he'd first stepped up to the microphone: about the rebellion and districts and the Capitol's mercy. Beth tuned it out and found Maggie and her father in the crowd. She gave them an encouraging half smile, tried to show that she wasn't scared, everything's gonna be fine.

Then Rowan Abernathy took over, clearly trying to make up for the Mayor's monotone with her own enthusiasm.

"Happy Hunger Games," she crowed, "and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Even the tense mood of the crowd would not deter her. District Eleven might have been the worst assignment she could have ever gotten but she was certainly going to make the best of it, regardless of whether she had to do it herself.

"Shall we begin?" She sauntered over to one of the great glass jars. "As always: ladies first!" With one claw-like gloved hand, she reached into the globe, swirling her fingers around for a few suspenseful moments before whipping her hand into the air again, a single slip of paper clutched there.

Beth held her breath and bit down so hard on her bottom lip she could taste the faint copper of her blood. Her hands were slick with sweat and she was certain she'd grown paler in the last few minutes.

It won't be me. It won't be me.

The crowd drew a collective breath.

It wasn't her.

"Sophia Peletier!"

Additional Notes:

Fourth thing: I'm pretty sure everybody will make an appearance in this story although it might not be for awhile. Furthermore, the romance aspect is going to be subtle (hopefully, if I can manage) so if you're not into longing stares and silence conveying love then I wouldn't suggest this story.

Finally, yes, this is a Hunger Games alternate universe so I'm also trying to pay homage to that but, that being said, I don't plan on just pasting Beth into Katniss' shoes and rewriting the novel. If you do start to notice that, please tell me! And I have no idea how frequently this is going to be updated - probably not very quickly - so there's that.

I'll stop now, I think I have more notes than actual words in the chapter...