Post by strider on Feb 23, 2020 20:10:23 GMT -5
It's a Quarter Quell.
Anyone could be chosen in the Reaping.
Past competitors. Children too young. People who have aged out.
No volunteers.
It's time.
District One
Vernon Barnes & Sherlock Holmes
District Two
Steve Rogers & John Reese
District Three
Noah Czerny & Scope
District Four
Múireann ó Donnabháin & Juuzou Suzuya
District Five
Will Byers & Aled Last
District Six
Newt & Joan Bright
District Seven
Jesse Tuck & Sameen Shaw
District Eight
Crutchie Morris & L Lawliet
District Nine
Klaus Baudelaire & Mace Taylor
District Ten
Frédéric Combeferre & Kelsier
District Eleven
Orpheus & Rue
District Twelve
Nico di Angelo & Ronan Lynch
Anyone could be chosen in the Reaping.
Past competitors. Children too young. People who have aged out.
No volunteers.
It's time.
District One
Vernon Barnes & Sherlock Holmes
District Two
Steve Rogers & John Reese
District Three
Noah Czerny & Scope
District Four
Múireann ó Donnabháin & Juuzou Suzuya
District Five
Will Byers & Aled Last
District Six
Newt & Joan Bright
District Seven
Jesse Tuck & Sameen Shaw
District Eight
Crutchie Morris & L Lawliet
District Nine
Klaus Baudelaire & Mace Taylor
District Ten
Frédéric Combeferre & Kelsier
District Eleven
Orpheus & Rue
District Twelve
Nico di Angelo & Ronan Lynch
Reapings:
District 1: Vernon Barnes
It sounded bad, but Vernon Barnes thought he was safe. There were hundreds of people in District 1, and all of them had their names put in the bowl, as long as they were twelve years or older. His odds of getting drawn were much lower now than they had been any other year. He was sixteen now – all he had to do was make it through this one and then one more, and he’d be safe.
There was, of course, the fact that there were likely hundreds of people who were willing to volunteer as soon as a name was called… though he had heard rumors that nobody was allowed to volunteer this time around. He didn’t knbow if it was true or not. Perhaps it had just been a scare tactic to prevent some of the lesser fighters from volunteering and soaking up all the glory from those that could actually fight. Not that they couldn’t all fight, of course…
Vern’s thoughts were getting away from him. There were too many people, all pressed together, and he thought he smelled something smoky in the air, as though someone had set up a barbecue just a little ways away from the huge crowd of people.
The truth was, there was nobody in the bowl who had been added more than once as tesserae… District 1 didn’t share the same issues that the further away districts seemed to. Vern said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity had given him the good fortune to be born in District 1 rather than anywhere else. That being said, Vern knew his own name was there five times, and that was five times too many for him. He didn’t know for sure how many times names were in there for those who had already technically exceeded the age limit of the Games… it was a Quarter Quell so he didn’t suppose that the Capitol was particularly willing to give out that information.
The Reaping was terrifying. They were all crowded too close together and it was all Vern could do to hold on tight to Iris, who stood beside him as steady and strong as could be. They had asked Iris to be a career, when she was little, and she had said no unless Vern could train with her. Vern hadn’t wanted that, and Iris had given up her opportunity then. At first, Vern had felt bad that she had given up such an opportunity for glory. Now, with the sun beating down on them hot and thick and willing to expose them all for what they were… Vern was grateful he didn’t have to worry about losing Iris to the Games. They both knew that their father was in the reaping, but that didn’t feel real. The adults didn’t feel real.
Vern’s heart was racing. He didn’t know if other tributes were allowed to volunteer or not. Any other year he was afraid because being reaped and then replaced immediately was a reason for shame. It happened every year, and every year the unlucky kids who had been reaped and then had been replaced by volunteers… well, it was a hard year for them. Vern had seen it happen. Then again, he supposed it was better than dying in the arena.
“You’ll be fine,” Iris whispered to him, and he sucked in a deep breath. He was fine. Iris was fine. They were both…
The woman reached her hand into the bowl, and with a flourish produced a name. “Sherlock Holmes!” she read, and Vern felt his hand squeeze tighter around Iris’. It didn’t take long to see that the man who had been reaped – and it was a man – had well aged out of the reaping. And they didn’t ask for volunteers. That was when Vern’s heart started fluttering in earnest.
It wasn’t going to be him. It couldn’t be him. He sucked in a breath. He had never had to feel bad for any of the tributes, at least not from his district. They all very clearly wanted to be there, they all volunteered, they had trained for it their entire lives. But this? Suddenly it could be anyone. Suddenly you didn’t even have to have the training to be faced with fighting a war that you had no chance of winning. Well… plenty of the people around him had a chance at winning.
Vern didn’t even notice the woman reach her hand into the bowl again, and when he heard her speak it didn’t even sound like words, just wind whistling through waves of shock and fear and the repeated vibrations that seemed to form the words.
“Violet Barnes.” That wasn’t him, that wasn’t… Iris wasn’t letting go of his hand even as the crowds parted around him and the sun felt suddenly like a terrible spotlight that was differentiating him from everyone else. He didn’t want to be different from everyone else, he… his words were caught in his throat and he pulled his hand away from Iris’ eventually.
Nobody volunteered. One step in front of the other, feeling like he had been hit over the head with a heavy object. Vernon Barnes was never supposed to be a tribute for District 1, but here he was now, approaching the woman with the strange hat and the other man who had been reaped just moments before. Had it only been moments? It felt like he’d been walking a lifetime.
“My name is Vernon,” he said once he was close enough to the woman. It was weaker than he had anticipated, but the words were out there. His throat was dry.
“Well, Vernon Barnes and Sherlock Holmes… may the odds be ever in your favor!” the woman smiled – it was so fake Vernon almost shuddered at the sight of it. He turned then, to face the stony-faced crowd. The crowd that would have given anything to be in his shoes. To play the role he would give anything to not have to play.
After that… he’d been through the games. And he had won. He had blood on his hands not because he had been aggressive, but because he went after those who had bullied the weaker tributes during training. He had never learned how to stop, so he hadn’t. It was a strategy that had suited him well, landing him a win he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Now, with the entire district piling into the square, Steve didn’t know how to feel. For too long he had been touted as the face of Panem, and then he’d left and he’d been all but forgotten. There were people all around him, many placing bets, but there was no point in that now. No Careers had been designated to volunteer. Anyone could be reaped. Steve dreaded it. He had helped train too many young tributes who had grinned when they’d been chosen to volunteer, so he had stopped. He was tired of watching them die or coming back traumatized, or worse: coming back still smiling without a touch of remorse. He had begun silently defying the Capitol, when he could. His reputation had been ruined, but it wasn’t a reputation worth upholding in the first place.
Once again, his name was in the glass bowl. It was far bigger than Steve had ever seen it before – it wasn’t divided by gender anymore, and it contained the names of every soul who lived in District 2, provided they were above twelve years of age. Thousands of people who had either never trained for the games or who had long since forgotten the way they’d been taught to kill and attack from so young an age. If he hadn’t continued practicing when he couldn’t sleep at night, Steve doubted he would remember either.
Part of Steve was praying that his name would be drawn. He didn’t have many ties left anymore. His boyfriend (or best friend, if the Capitol was asking) had been taken by the Capitol during his own Hunger Games, and Steve hadn’t seen him since. They said he was dead, but Steve wasn’t sure he believed it.
“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,” Bucky had said right before heading off to official training. Something tugged at Steve’s heart. He had wanted to fight so badly, at the beginning. Now he just wanted it all to stop.
The murmuring of the crowd died down as a woman from the Capitol took the stage. Steve thought she said her name, but it drifted away from him just moments after it was voiced. Besides him, a woman was searching desperately for someone – a child probably, as they were the only ones divided by age. It seemed like a mockery, considering the children had no better chance of being drawn than anyone else.
Nonetheless, the children were still the easiest to see. It was easy to tell which of them were Careers. They were larger than the others and were practically buzzing with excitement. Steve forced himself to look away. The Capitol woman had approached the glass bowls and was going through the motions. She said the right words and looked up at the right times, just as they always did year after year.
Finally, he saw a hand reach into the bowl, but heard nothing but static. His eyes were trained on the woman – he really should know her name – as she unfoled the piece of paper.
“Steve Rogers.”
Back into the fray. Everyone knew who he was, but there was a moment of hesitation as everyone waited for the woman to ask if there were any volunteers, but she didn’t. He tightened his jaw and moved forward, shoulders wide and uncowed. If he were going to fight for District 2 again, so be it. The only difference was that this time he wasn’t a kid. There would be the same desperation, but none of the promise if he won. Steve had already done what he could with his winnings last time… helped people, mostly. Nobody knew where his money had gone. Many suspected it was alcohol, though he’d avoided that as much as he could.
The crowd parted around him. One step, then another step, back into the fray. The dread he should have felt the first time piled onto his shoulders. Steve took his place next to the woman, acknowledging the faces of the careers who resented him for this second chance, the frightened but relieved faces of those who hadn’t been reaped, and the sly grins from those who had watched him win years ago. It felt like much longer than it actually had been.
Steve saluted them, just as he had done so many years before. They had never understood him. He was the upstanding one, but he made one hell of a spectacle. He was always willing to risk his own life if it might make someone else’s better, and everyone had always underestimated him. He had won completely on accident.
In dread, he waited for the next tribute to be called. He just hoped it wasn’t a kid. He didn’t know what he would do if it was. Then the words were spoken: “John Reese.” Steve heaved a sigh of relief, then immediately felt bad for it. At least it wasn’t a child. He knew he’d have to face one in the arena eventually, but he knew no matter how desperate or bloodthirsty they were, he wouldn’t be able to raise arms against the children. It wasn’t like training now. He made a vow, then: he would not let them die if he could help it.
District 2: Steve Rogers
Steve remembered many years before, the honor he had felt at being chosen as District 2’s volunteer tribute. He had been chosen for reasons that few understood, then. There was resentment from some of the others, but none of it had mattered. He was a silent rebellion against the Capitol because he refused to be swayed by what they wanted. He was never one to stay in line, to follow something he didn’t believe him, and that was why he had been chosen. Because he wouldn’t bend to the Capitol. Because no matter how many times he was beaten down, he couldn’t help but get back up and keep fighting. After that… he’d been through the games. And he had won. He had blood on his hands not because he had been aggressive, but because he went after those who had bullied the weaker tributes during training. He had never learned how to stop, so he hadn’t. It was a strategy that had suited him well, landing him a win he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Now, with the entire district piling into the square, Steve didn’t know how to feel. For too long he had been touted as the face of Panem, and then he’d left and he’d been all but forgotten. There were people all around him, many placing bets, but there was no point in that now. No Careers had been designated to volunteer. Anyone could be reaped. Steve dreaded it. He had helped train too many young tributes who had grinned when they’d been chosen to volunteer, so he had stopped. He was tired of watching them die or coming back traumatized, or worse: coming back still smiling without a touch of remorse. He had begun silently defying the Capitol, when he could. His reputation had been ruined, but it wasn’t a reputation worth upholding in the first place.
Once again, his name was in the glass bowl. It was far bigger than Steve had ever seen it before – it wasn’t divided by gender anymore, and it contained the names of every soul who lived in District 2, provided they were above twelve years of age. Thousands of people who had either never trained for the games or who had long since forgotten the way they’d been taught to kill and attack from so young an age. If he hadn’t continued practicing when he couldn’t sleep at night, Steve doubted he would remember either.
Part of Steve was praying that his name would be drawn. He didn’t have many ties left anymore. His boyfriend (or best friend, if the Capitol was asking) had been taken by the Capitol during his own Hunger Games, and Steve hadn’t seen him since. They said he was dead, but Steve wasn’t sure he believed it.
“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,” Bucky had said right before heading off to official training. Something tugged at Steve’s heart. He had wanted to fight so badly, at the beginning. Now he just wanted it all to stop.
The murmuring of the crowd died down as a woman from the Capitol took the stage. Steve thought she said her name, but it drifted away from him just moments after it was voiced. Besides him, a woman was searching desperately for someone – a child probably, as they were the only ones divided by age. It seemed like a mockery, considering the children had no better chance of being drawn than anyone else.
Nonetheless, the children were still the easiest to see. It was easy to tell which of them were Careers. They were larger than the others and were practically buzzing with excitement. Steve forced himself to look away. The Capitol woman had approached the glass bowls and was going through the motions. She said the right words and looked up at the right times, just as they always did year after year.
Finally, he saw a hand reach into the bowl, but heard nothing but static. His eyes were trained on the woman – he really should know her name – as she unfoled the piece of paper.
“Steve Rogers.”
Back into the fray. Everyone knew who he was, but there was a moment of hesitation as everyone waited for the woman to ask if there were any volunteers, but she didn’t. He tightened his jaw and moved forward, shoulders wide and uncowed. If he were going to fight for District 2 again, so be it. The only difference was that this time he wasn’t a kid. There would be the same desperation, but none of the promise if he won. Steve had already done what he could with his winnings last time… helped people, mostly. Nobody knew where his money had gone. Many suspected it was alcohol, though he’d avoided that as much as he could.
The crowd parted around him. One step, then another step, back into the fray. The dread he should have felt the first time piled onto his shoulders. Steve took his place next to the woman, acknowledging the faces of the careers who resented him for this second chance, the frightened but relieved faces of those who hadn’t been reaped, and the sly grins from those who had watched him win years ago. It felt like much longer than it actually had been.
Steve saluted them, just as he had done so many years before. They had never understood him. He was the upstanding one, but he made one hell of a spectacle. He was always willing to risk his own life if it might make someone else’s better, and everyone had always underestimated him. He had won completely on accident.
In dread, he waited for the next tribute to be called. He just hoped it wasn’t a kid. He didn’t know what he would do if it was. Then the words were spoken: “John Reese.” Steve heaved a sigh of relief, then immediately felt bad for it. At least it wasn’t a child. He knew he’d have to face one in the arena eventually, but he knew no matter how desperate or bloodthirsty they were, he wouldn’t be able to raise arms against the children. It wasn’t like training now. He made a vow, then: he would not let them die if he could help it.
District 4: Juuzou Suzuya
Juuzou was tired of standing, but there was no room to sit down. There were people everywhere, interesting people, sure, but still. Why couldn’t he sit down?
Today was the day everyone kept talking about. Reaping day. He didn’t get the hype if it was just a bunch of standing around, but then again maybe what came after was the fun part. When you were reaped, you got to fight, and that’s what Juuzou was best at.
His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for the woman he only knew as “mother”. She was watching him, of course, waiting for him to prove what he could do and win her approval in the dance between life and death, and he shot her a wide grin to show how ready he was. He was ready to win this game, because he didn’t lose. Ever.
“This is taking foreeeeeever.” He complained loudly, and a few people shot him alarmed looks and edged away from him. He took that as a chance to sit down, causing more people to edge away. Maybe he should lie down….
Finally, a woman got up on the stage. Juuzou bounced to his feet immediately, because though he saw her every year, she looked so…weird. Her hair was bright and colorful, and her clothes sparkled in the sun. It made him want to tear it apart to see why it was so bright. But he couldn’t do that, because if he did, there was no chance of getting reaped. Mother had been very clear about what he could and could not do in these circumstances.
The woman cleared her throat. Then she reached into the bowl and began to stir the names around, slowly and dramatically taking her time to do it. He watched with hungry eyes, waiting as she at last chose a name and pulled it out, unfolded it, and read it in deafening silence.
“Juuzou Suzuya!”
There was a pause as the crowd went quiet, and eyes went to him. A lot of people knew him, it turned out. Juuzou himself didn’t hesitate, because he wasn’t surprised, he was…
Thrilled.
He grinned at mother again and moved towards the stage, climbed up, and stood beside the colorful woman, who congratulated him. He grinned at her, watching the odd fabric she was wearing move, then watching her hair. Then he turned and did an exaggerated bow to the crowd. “Hello! This is gonna be fun. I can’t wait to show you how easy it is to win this game!”
No one said anything, but that didn’t bother him. He was ready to play.
On the one hand, of course he didn’t want to be reaped. The mere idea of wanting to be reaped disgusted him beyond words. Yes, he picked fights. Yes, most people assumed the kid who had fallen all the way to District 12, and lost his father on the way down, would want to do whatever he could to climb back to the top of fame and fortune as soon as he could. But he didn’t want to kill people, and he definitely didn’t want to kill kids much younger than him, which made him definitely not want to be reaped.
On the other hand, he didn’t want to watch the games, either. Was being in them better? Having never been reaped, he didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out either way.
It also didn’t matter. His name was in the number of times it had to be, and he would deal with what happened, whatever that was. He was good at dealing.
He couldn’t believe he was actually standing here as the Capital woman mounted the stage, beginning her ritual of words and motions, as always. He was moments away from just walking out and letting them do whatever the hell they wanted about it, and he actually took a step backwards.
He bumped into someone and shot them a glare. There was no way out. There were too many people, crowded around waiting for their fate. He glanced back at the front, where the woman stood in front of her huge bowl of names and rambled on and on.
He wasn’t going to be reaped. The odds were definitely in his favor, with names from everyone in the bowl. The chances of it being him were so small it was ridiculous to be worried, so he wasn’t. Not for him, anyway.
The woman moved, and her hand went in the bowl. Ronan watched through narrowed blue eyes as she dramatically unfurled the paper and read it in silence for a long moment. Then she called, in a voice that carried across all of District 12. “Nico di Angelo!”
Ronan blinked. Really? That bastard who had won the games before, who had everything he had wanted? He scowled as the other boy moved, turning his face away from the stage. He was glad, partly, because of all the people here Nico was the one he would mind dying the least.
There were no volunteers.
He realized it a moment too late. The woman was already drawing a second name, reading it in her dramatic as hell way, then speaking in her same carrying voice.
“Ronan Lynch!”
….nothing. He didn’t move. His fingernails dug deep into the palms of his hands. He wouldn’t go up. They would have to ruin their image, because he would cross his arms and he wouldn’t go up on that stage.
Peacekeepers grabbed him from behind and he reacted instinctively, his elbow flying back and hitting the first one in the face. The second one picked him up and he struggled, kicking his heels back and throwing punches and-
Somehow they dragged him to the stage, and threw him roughly down. When he tried to get up they kicked him in the stomach, hard, and he went down, gasping at the woman’s feet. She looked perturbed, like she’d never seen anyone fight before - he hadn’t either - and a bit alarmed that her precious tribute had already gotten himself beat up a little.
He didn’t care. He’d keep fighting anyone who stood in his way. Then he’d be the worst victor the Capital had ever seen, and no one would make him a piece in their games.
Ever.
Everyone had to come every year, of course, but this year everyone felt more crowded in, like the entire world was holding its breath waiting to see which of them was destined to die. Because they were District 12, and the reaping was a death sentence. There was so rarely a year where they won.
Nico had done everything he could to stay alive the year before. He still felt the blood on his hands sometimes when he woke up, screaming. He had the most kills. He hadn’t known until after, and he’d seen the clips of his part in the games. They never showed the full story, only what they thought would be the most entertaining to the Capitol. There was nothing interesting about a boy fighting tooth and nail to stay alive. A bloodthirsty killer from a forgotten district, though? That got them talking. There was no way Nico could share his side of the story when the truth was that he couldn’t even remember which version of events was real. There was one thing he did know for certain, buried in the deepest pits of his cracked heart: he hadn’t wanted to win.
Now he was the scarred, shadowy kid who spoke little and smiled without humor. Some mistook his withdrawal as aloofness, others as superiority. They were wrong. Sure, he had won the respect of his father, but he had lost everything else. Slowly, Nico sucked in a breath. He had forgotten, almost, that he was at the reaping. That whichever pour souls were chosen, he would be dragged along with them and forced to train them. What lessons did he have to pass on? That you win by losing yourself, by pouring every ounce of yourself into the hatred and anger you’ve harbored for years? That you hold onto grudges for dear life because that’s the only way you’re hardened enough to survive? That you win, quite literally, by shattering yourself into millions of pieces that have no hope of being put back together? You win by staring death in the face and spitting in its eye as you scrabble desperately for one more day of sunlight.
Nico was tied to these damn games until he died. At least, he thought dryly, he would never again have to fight in them. He let his eyes snap open.
The woman was taking her sweet time in reaching her hand into the glass bowl, and Nico had almost zoned out entirely. Perhaps, he seemed to figure, if he just let himself believe he was somewhere else, that would be the case. A shuffling around him brought him back to his senses. He could hear people around him whispering, could feel eyes on him from every direction, waiting to see the reaction from District 12’s most recent victor. The woman plucked out a piece of white paper.
The curious around Nico didn’t have long to wait. Finally, breaking through the roaring silence, a name: “Nico di Angelo.”
It had to be a cruel joke. There was no other explanation. Everything around Nico crumbled and the world turned white and soundless. His name was one of thousands, yet this… this third reaping… felt almost inevitable. There was no Bianca to protect him this time, and he was running out of anger to hide behind. He was just tired. And scared. Robotically, he found his legs moving, his thin form pushing wordlessly through the web of whispers and stares that wished to ensnare him. One step, then another. Three reapings had to be some sort of record. Nico smiled grimly at the cruel humor of it, an expression he knew would be seen as something quite different by onlookers. A challenge, perhaps. Or glee, the bloodthirsty child given a chance to kill again. He was past caring what they saw when they looked at him.
Standing on the stage again felt surreal, even as he heard another name spoken. He flinched at it, eyes narrowing as he searched the crowd for Ronan. Of course, the boy who acted jealous of his win. Nico almost laughed, but he saw nobody moving in the crowd.
Finally, fighting against Peacekeepers, Ronan was brought to the front. It was a pathetic display, and a childish one at that. Nobody fought the Peacekeepers, nobody fought when it was their turn in the games. You played your own strategy and you prayed that you didn’t get caught, but you never fought. Nico’s lip curled up into… something, not quite a smile, but not a grimace either, as a solid kick met Ronan’s chest and he went down. He steeled his body against the urge to reach down and help. That was a death sentence, and if he were going to die, he was going to do it on his own terms.
“Get up,” he hissed instead, his expression unreadable. Something was flickering behind his dark eyes, but it was a secret only he was privy to. Fighting was pointless, they both knew it. Yet part of Nico wondered why he had never thought to do it before. Why Ronan, who wanted to fight more than anyone Nico had seen in District 12 before, had been the only one to resist. It was arrogance, Nico decided. That was all.
He pushed the thought out of his head and he turned, facing District 12. His eyes searched for his father. Hades merely nodded, then turned to leave.
District 8: L Lawliet
L stood, hunched awkwardly in the crowd of people that nearly crushed him.
There was no escaping based on age this time, and he suspected there would be no volunteers, because if everyone was eligible it could get messy very quickly. He doubted they wanted to complicate things any more than they already had this year. So whoever was reaped probably was stuck.
He looked up at the stage. What would it be like to stand up there? He didn’t really want to know, but he had to admit he was curious what it would feel like, being chosen out of hundreds of names.
People shifted around him, jostling him uncomfortably, but he didn’t speak to them. There was no point. They were just shapes moving behind him. He knew the chances of him being reaped were astronomically low, but still. He could believe it could happen to him, if it could happen to someone else, because someone had to get chosen, and he wasn’t any less likely than anyone else.
This was way too complicated. L stuck his hands in his pockets, waiting, waiting, still waiting for something to happen. He realized he was hungers and almost stuck his hand out for Watari to hand him something, then realized his friend wasn’t there.
Oh, right.
Watari might get reaped.
“The more people you care about, the more trapped you are.” He muttered to himself, completely ignoring the way a few people started and glanced at him in surprise. He was just thinking out loud, not talking to anyone, after all. And it was true; the more
people you cared about, the higher chance you had of caring about whoever was reaped, and the more twisted up in these games you were. He was sure that hadn’t happened by accident.
L was completely sure that the Capital was acting as cruelly as possible.
Because that was what it did. He was no stranger to it. Maybe he didn’t know it as personally as some, maybe he was even to be counted among the lucky, but he knew enough and he hated it. He didn’t care why they were doing this, he didn’t even care whether they thought they had an excuse, because the things they had done were unforgivable.
So why wasn’t he doing something about it?
“I’m not an army.” He muttered, repeating the words of Watari out loud to make them more real. “I’m one person. Getting myself killed will help no one. I’m not doing nothing, I’m doing everything I can.”
It helped. A little. L still felt a bit like a useless hypocrite, thinking about how awful things were without starting a revolution, but realistically he knew there was nothing he could do at the moment but wait and see what happened. No one would listen to him, he knew that much, and he was lucky no one had overheard him talking without thinking about what came out of his mouth yet. He knew what could happen if he even voiced his thoughts.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew what they did to traitors.
Finally, a woman stepped up on the stage and smiled out at them. She was the same person from last year, he realized, and she was clearly quite thrilled to be back. He curled his lip but kept quiet as she made her announcements, talked about the history of the games, and then finally, finally, began to search for the names.
She pulled a slip of paper from the bowl, and the crowd held its breath, while L didn’t bother. It would be someone he cared about, or it wouldn’t.
It would be him, or it wouldn’t.
She opened the paper and read it. Then, looking up at the crowd, she called out in a sing-song voice.
“L Lawliet!”
….there was a long pause as the people moved around L, as restless as a murmuring stream. He didn’t move, not until the woman cleared her throat and said, a little louder. “Um...L Lawliet?”
Then he breathed out. So this was it. He was going to be in the games, one person against so many others, and he didn’t want to. He didn’t want this. He didn’t-
He slowly came around, as guards dragged him to his feet. He’d fainted, he realized with odd clarity, as they dragged him by both arms to the stage and let go so he could stumble up the steps himself. When he reached the top, there was silence.
He looked out into the crowd.
Who would be next?
This year, though they all felt guilty for it, there was a sense of relief. Perhaps they all had their names in more than once, but this year there were hundreds if not thousands of additional people entered. An adult could be reaped, and their little family would be spared another heartbreak.
Crutchie glanced over at Jack, his eyes drifting down to the way Jack’s hand was entwined with Davey’s. Good. They needed each other. He himself was holding hands with one of the little ones, a boy who was facing his first reaping. Crutchie was good with the little ones, good at making them feel safe and comfortable even when the world was anything but. He remembered someone doing it for him when he was little. When he had a home and parents. Nobody had held his hand once he’d found a home with the newsboys. Nobody had told him he was safe, but he didn’t need them to. They didn’t talk about their pasts, but they would defend each other with their lives.
The woman stepped on the stage, and silence settled over the crowd. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the woman. She didn’t care about them. There was nothing but contempt in her eyes. They were an unnatural color, as was her hair. Crutchie hated her. It wasn’t a word he threw around often, but it was one he felt was warranted now.
The first name picked meant nothing to him. He glanced over the boys around him, letting himself sigh in relief as none of them moved. It could easily have been a name one of them had tried to leave behind. This time, though, it wasn’t. They had all given the Capitol the names they preferred to be called. No surprises this year.
Nobody was approaching the stage. Crutchie glanced around, trying to catch sight of movement in the crowd, but there was nothing. “Are we sure it’s not one of us?” he murmured to Jack, who shook his head. Good.
And then the world came crashing down. He recognized the man they brought up to the stage. He recognized him and this wasn’t fair, because he’d let himself forget. He’d let himself pretend nothing had mattered before, how could he have done that? How could he…
“Crutchie, not now,” the sharp whisper beside him belonged to Race, a reminder that now was not the time to break down. There were no questions about his past, no questions how he knew the man who was now looking out over the crowd. They were both different people now, but there was no chance to say goodbye. No chance to tell him that he remembered, that his death would hurt. He would have to watch his friend from afar. He would have to watch him die.
The woman reached into the bowl again, and Crutchie squeezed the trembling hand of the kid who was holding onto him.
“Crutchie Morris!”
“Morris?” Crutchie heard Albert demand besides him. They didn’t tend to share last names. That was the past, and the past didn’t matter. Yet Crutchie had clung to his with a sort of ferocity even he didn’t quite understand.
“Crutchie, no. No, don’t…”
There was commotion beside him, an uproar from the other newsies, but Crutchie heard none of it. He took one step forward, and then another. He could hear his crutch echo on the ground, though he knew the sound was probably actually being absorbed by the crowd. It was just his imagination.
The child wasn’t letting go of his hand. He heard a cry as the boy was pulled away by one of the other newsies, but he didn’t dare look back. He didn’t want to see the expressions on his friend’s faces. He knew any of them would volunteer for him in a second. He knew he would never let them.
He would say goodbye at a later date. For now… for now he would stand on the stage and not look at L and not dare, even for a second, to let him know he remembered. L had fainted. Crutchie was small and only had one working leg. If they were to ally… they’d be taken out immediately. No, he couldn’t remember. The past was the past, and he just had to survive to the end of the day. And one day… well, he wouldn’t make it that far.
The walk to the stage was painfully long. His cheeks burned at the knowledge that the entire district was staring at him. The entire district would watch him die. Might as well make it worth watching, right?
He didn’t believe that anyone was meant to be reaped. He stared at the stage, anger burning as always behind his hazel eyes. It disgusted him. This reaping was nothing more than an excuse to hurt the districts, to try and cause them as much pain as possible. Kelsier knew there was nothing right or just about this, and he wished to hear no more excuses, because that was what they were. Excuses for the inexcusable. He knew that his brother (not by blood but something stronger) didn’t always agree with the way Kelsier wanted to go about things. He knew Ferre didn’t want to kill anyone, but Kelsier also knew that some people deserved to die, and he knew exactly who those people were. Would he kill them if he could?
He would kill them all, without hesitation. Not everyone was capable of the same things he was. He knew that, and he respected it, but it just meant he needed to do what others couldn’t stomach. For Ferre. For every single victim who had ever and would ever be reaped. He would do it for them, and he would smile when he was finished, because it was the right thing to do and he was capable of doing it.
But not now. Now, he had to stand there and watch as the man from the Capitol prepared to read the names.
He glanced at Ferre. The other man was probably afraid - he’ll, they all were, Kelsier included, though not for himself. Let them call his name. Let them see what happened. He would burn it all to the ground.
He just hoped it wasn’t a child. There was very little he could do about that if it happened and he wasn’t reaped as well. He was more afraid of that than he was of getting reaped, because if he were reaped then he could do something about it. He could fight back.
No. No, he could fight back no matter what happened. He needed to remember that.
The man moved at last. He pulled a name free of the bowl and unfurled it, taking his time to read it and nod and survey the crowd below him.
Just say it.” Kelsier hissed between his teeth, and got a couple of looks thrown his way. Let them stare, edge away from him like he was contaminated because he said the things they were too afraid to even think. He didn’t blame them for it.
He blamed the Capitol. And right now, he blamed the man on the stage.
“Kelsier!” The man called, looking up and around expectantly. Silence filled the air like cotton; choking, suffocating wool. Yet Kelsier breathed.
In, and out.
In, and out,
In.
His eyes narrowed as the Peacekeepers came closer, ready to grab him if he tried to run. He snorted. Like he was going to play the coward. Didn’t they know him at all?
Instead, he walked forward.
The people who knew him by his face were few. He could hear them, near the back, Spook’s anguished cries being hushed by Hammond and Clubs. He swore he could feel Dox’s eyes following him.
Don’t do it, Kel. Don’t you do anything I wouldn’t.
Didn’t they know him at all?
He made it to the stage without incident. The silence was thicker than blood, coating the air in a deadly sheath. He supposed he was just going to have to do something about that.
He smiled.
“Why the long faces?” He asked the crowd, spreading his arms. “I’ll be back in less than a week, with just as much blood on my hands as I have on them today. Do you fear the Capitol? What can they do that they’ve not already done to you?”
Peacekeepers moved forward, one grabbing each arm. The one on his left hissed in his ear, “quiet, or it’ll be worse for you.”
Kelsier’ smile only widened. He bowed to the crowd below him, as best he could when he was so heavily restrained. “Don’t be afraid.” He called, and the
Peacekeeper groaned under his breath, the two of them beginning to drag Kelsier away. “I warned you.” He hissed. Kelsier ignored him, focusing on the crowd, on the place where Mare would be, if she were here, on his crew. On Ferre. “Don’t be afraid.” He said, softer this time, as though speaking only to his brother. “Don’t be afraid.”
Combeferre always prepared a first aid kit for whoever was chosen as a tribute. He knew they wouldn’t be able to take it all the way to the Games, but he didn’t mind. If he could teach the kids a bit of first aid before they left, that would have to be enough for him. He watched the Games religiously, keeping an eye on every kid who was chosen to be sacrificed to an unjust President. He glowed with pride when the kids he’d spoken to managed to bandage a wound properly or helped another. And he mourned. Not just the kids from District 10, but all of them.
This year was different. His ears were ringing and he felt a pressure on his chest he hadn’t felt since he was little. He could be reaped. His friends could be reaped. He shared a glance with Enjolras, keeping his expression steady. If they could do anything against this, they would. The people were too scared, they wouldn’t join them. Not right now.
The first slip of paper was pulled from the bowl, and Combeferre forced himself to breathe. Not a child. Not Enjolras, who spoke so boldly of revolution but who secretly dreaded the possibility of taking a life himself. Not Courfeyrac, who brought their group together with a steady smile and a warm embrace. Not Grantaire, nursing a bottle besides Enjolras - the one day a year none of them gave him grief over it.
Beyond their little group, not Kelsier. Kelsier wouldn’t be afraid, he’d kill the whole Capitol if he had to. He could survive the Games, but at what cost? Combeferre worried over him enough anyway.
His hopes were dashed almost immediately. He felt Enjolras’ hand on his shoulder, and he glanced over, grateful. He wanted to run towards Kelsier, hold him back, beg him not to go. But they were adults now, and Kelsier wouldn’t appreciate it. He knew how his brother thought. He knew he’d be grateful it was him rather than anyone else.
“He’s going to get himself killed,” Combeferre murmured quietly to Enjolras, staring up at Kelsier’s wide smile. He tensed more as the Peacekeepers grabbed Kelsier’s arms. His eyes locked on Kelsier’s and he didn’t shy away. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away. He knew what Kelsier was doing, and he wasn’t going to be afraid.
But the reaping wasn’t over. There were still thousands of names in the bowl.
The man at the podium had managed to reign the crowd in again, and Combeferre sucked in a deep breath. One more person. One more prayer sent to a god he didn’t know if he even believed in. What did he believe in? Peace. Hope. Negotiation, freedom. Freedom, above all.
“Frédéric Combeferre!”
Enjolras’ hand tightened on Combeferre’s shoulder, and Combeferre felt himself freeze. The crowd was silent again. Combeferre could feel his heartbeat echoing in his ears.
Slowly, Combeferre placed his hand on top of Enjolras’ and lightly removed it.
“Mon ami, we knew it was a possibility.” His voice was deadly quiet. “Better me than you, better us both than a child. Lead them well.” The soft murmur died as he stepped forward, back straight and head held high. He would not hurt a soul. Kelsier could kill everyone in the Capitol, but Combeferre would save as many of the tributes as he possibly could.
Before he knew it, Combeferre was standing on the stage next to Kelsier. There were only two people in the world who would be able to read the fear behind his calm expression. One of them stood next to him. The other was blazing with fury in the crowd, moments away from speaking out. Combeferre met Enjolras’ gaze and gave him a tiny shake of his head. Not now.
He turned his head to Kelsier, then reached down and grabbed his brother’s hand. He glanced at every one of his friends, the men who he believed would bring about a new era of peace. He glanced at Kel’s crew, people he didn’t always agree with, but who shared a common goal. Only those fourteen people knew what the two of them stood for. Only those fourteen people knew what they were capable of.
“Mon frère,” Combeferre whispered quietly, “We stand together.” He squeezed Kelsier’s hand, trying to stop the thundering of his heart. If he could have picked any two people in the District… well, they were standing together on that platform. Kelsier would likely survive, but Combeferre had always known he’d be willing to lay down his life to do what was right. The only thing that remained was to figure out how to save the people who would no doubt be vying to kill him. One step at a time.
“Remember,” he murmured, addressing the crowd. He knew they’d be able to hear him, there were plenty of microphones around. “Your freedom is something you mustn’t let them take away.”
If Eurydice were still alive, Orpheus would have been concerned about her, like he had been every year before. She wasn’t here anymore, though, and the old pain still cut deep. She’d been taken by the Capitol, and Orpheus still didn’t know what had happened to her. There was nothing he could do… he should have done something.
Hermes, though. Hermes could be in danger. Orpheus’ fingertips drummed a rhythm on the side of his leg, trying to calm himself down. The fighting was wrong. This was all… wrong. Orpheus felt revulsion building in his throat. How could anyone believe this to be right? How could anyone go into the arena and kill, when they could be working together? Alone, they were all easy to take down. Together… he squeezed his eyes shut, brow furrowing. This was the way it was, what could any of them possibly do about it.
The man from the Capitol had taken the stand and was speaking words that barely reached Orpheus’ ears. He felt as though he was being suffocated, no music to drown out the dread surrounding him. His name was in there. Hermes’ name was in there. How many lives were going to be affected today? He knew many of the faces around him - people he had grown up with, people he barely knew, but saw often… how many of them would lose a loved one to these Games?
The roaring in Orpheus’ ears subsided as he began to hum softly. He didn’t mean to, but the sound came out regardless. He could see some of the people around him glancing at him, noticing, and then relaxing. It was good to know that what calmed him was doing some good for the others around him. It was a quiet song, nothing insurrectionary. Nothing that could get him in trouble. Nobody but him and Hermes even knew the song, anyway. Still, if he were caught humming, he couldn’t imagine the consequences would be pretty.
“Rue!”
The first name called sent a jolt through Orpheus, and he looked up to watch as the young girl stepped up to the stage. No. No, she was young, and this wasn’t fair, and he… his humming grew louder, pushing back against the thoughts the Capitol had forced them all to believe. There was nothing they could do about it. This was how it was, this was how to maintain peace.
How was killing children peace? The world was out of balance, and Orpheus wanted to fix it. He could try, he was writing music that could get him killed if the Capitol found out about it. Would that be enough? How much could one person realistically do? Nonetheless, he had to try. He wouldn’t let himself live through one more reaping. He didn’t have a death wish, just perhaps… a bit of overconfidence.
“Orpheus!” The man was waving the paper in the air with a flourish. Orpheus waited for someone else to step forward. He waited to see who the next victim would be. “Orpheus?” the man repeated, and it wasn’t until then that Orpheus realized that the name belonged to him. Oh. Oh. He took a small step forward, the hum dying in his throat. He couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t he breathe?
No. He wasn’t going to stand there and let this happen. One tiny step forward and a deep breath in. The hum built itself in his throat again, and he forced himself to keep walking forward. He didn’t dare look at Hermes, didn’t feel strong enough to see the expression there. He hoped Hermes wasn’t looking. He hoped Hermes went home and burned the music Orpheus had been working on, because if it was kept in tact… Hermes could be blamed. And killed.
Orpheus made it to the stage, the hum growing louder and louder all the while. Let it be a challenge to the Capitol. Let them shut him up if they wanted to. He met the man’s eyes, trying to find something there. Kindness, maybe? Regret? He saw nothing. He glanced at Rue, breaking his hum for just a moment to give her a small smile. He didn’t want her to feel alone.
“Silence,” one of the Peacekeepers hissed at Orpheus, but he held his head higher and continued humming. The sound was high and fragile, clear and unbroken. Defiance was stupid, but when had Orpheus ever made a good decision? Other than loving Eurydice, other than trying to bring light to the District.
The blow came out of nowhere. Orpheus felt heat on his cheek and he was on the ground moments later, the music dying as he fell. He looked up, meeting the Peacekeeper with large, wounded eyes. He took a moment to process before hesitantly picking himself back up. His fingertips drifted towards his cheek, surprised when they came away red.
This was the way the world was.
District 8: Crutchie Morris
Last year, they had all lost a friend. There weren’t that many children in the district, and not even the newsboys were exempted from the reaping. The boys who had lost families and names, who refused to give their legal ones, but the Capitol didn’t mind. Who cared about the kids who went missing? Who cared which ones showed up the year after bearing a different name and dirt-covered faces? As long as the Capitol got to have their games. Besides, they made money off the ones pushed into working when they were barely old enough to walk across the district. This year, though they all felt guilty for it, there was a sense of relief. Perhaps they all had their names in more than once, but this year there were hundreds if not thousands of additional people entered. An adult could be reaped, and their little family would be spared another heartbreak.
Crutchie glanced over at Jack, his eyes drifting down to the way Jack’s hand was entwined with Davey’s. Good. They needed each other. He himself was holding hands with one of the little ones, a boy who was facing his first reaping. Crutchie was good with the little ones, good at making them feel safe and comfortable even when the world was anything but. He remembered someone doing it for him when he was little. When he had a home and parents. Nobody had held his hand once he’d found a home with the newsboys. Nobody had told him he was safe, but he didn’t need them to. They didn’t talk about their pasts, but they would defend each other with their lives.
The woman stepped on the stage, and silence settled over the crowd. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the woman. She didn’t care about them. There was nothing but contempt in her eyes. They were an unnatural color, as was her hair. Crutchie hated her. It wasn’t a word he threw around often, but it was one he felt was warranted now.
The first name picked meant nothing to him. He glanced over the boys around him, letting himself sigh in relief as none of them moved. It could easily have been a name one of them had tried to leave behind. This time, though, it wasn’t. They had all given the Capitol the names they preferred to be called. No surprises this year.
Nobody was approaching the stage. Crutchie glanced around, trying to catch sight of movement in the crowd, but there was nothing. “Are we sure it’s not one of us?” he murmured to Jack, who shook his head. Good.
And then the world came crashing down. He recognized the man they brought up to the stage. He recognized him and this wasn’t fair, because he’d let himself forget. He’d let himself pretend nothing had mattered before, how could he have done that? How could he…
“Crutchie, not now,” the sharp whisper beside him belonged to Race, a reminder that now was not the time to break down. There were no questions about his past, no questions how he knew the man who was now looking out over the crowd. They were both different people now, but there was no chance to say goodbye. No chance to tell him that he remembered, that his death would hurt. He would have to watch his friend from afar. He would have to watch him die.
The woman reached into the bowl again, and Crutchie squeezed the trembling hand of the kid who was holding onto him.
“Crutchie Morris!”
“Morris?” Crutchie heard Albert demand besides him. They didn’t tend to share last names. That was the past, and the past didn’t matter. Yet Crutchie had clung to his with a sort of ferocity even he didn’t quite understand.
“Crutchie, no. No, don’t…”
There was commotion beside him, an uproar from the other newsies, but Crutchie heard none of it. He took one step forward, and then another. He could hear his crutch echo on the ground, though he knew the sound was probably actually being absorbed by the crowd. It was just his imagination.
The child wasn’t letting go of his hand. He heard a cry as the boy was pulled away by one of the other newsies, but he didn’t dare look back. He didn’t want to see the expressions on his friend’s faces. He knew any of them would volunteer for him in a second. He knew he would never let them.
He would say goodbye at a later date. For now… for now he would stand on the stage and not look at L and not dare, even for a second, to let him know he remembered. L had fainted. Crutchie was small and only had one working leg. If they were to ally… they’d be taken out immediately. No, he couldn’t remember. The past was the past, and he just had to survive to the end of the day. And one day… well, he wouldn’t make it that far.
The walk to the stage was painfully long. His cheeks burned at the knowledge that the entire district was staring at him. The entire district would watch him die. Might as well make it worth watching, right?
District 10: Kelsier
Kelsier didn’t believe in fate. And even if he had, this would have had nothing to do with it. He didn’t believe that anyone was meant to be reaped. He stared at the stage, anger burning as always behind his hazel eyes. It disgusted him. This reaping was nothing more than an excuse to hurt the districts, to try and cause them as much pain as possible. Kelsier knew there was nothing right or just about this, and he wished to hear no more excuses, because that was what they were. Excuses for the inexcusable. He knew that his brother (not by blood but something stronger) didn’t always agree with the way Kelsier wanted to go about things. He knew Ferre didn’t want to kill anyone, but Kelsier also knew that some people deserved to die, and he knew exactly who those people were. Would he kill them if he could?
He would kill them all, without hesitation. Not everyone was capable of the same things he was. He knew that, and he respected it, but it just meant he needed to do what others couldn’t stomach. For Ferre. For every single victim who had ever and would ever be reaped. He would do it for them, and he would smile when he was finished, because it was the right thing to do and he was capable of doing it.
But not now. Now, he had to stand there and watch as the man from the Capitol prepared to read the names.
He glanced at Ferre. The other man was probably afraid - he’ll, they all were, Kelsier included, though not for himself. Let them call his name. Let them see what happened. He would burn it all to the ground.
He just hoped it wasn’t a child. There was very little he could do about that if it happened and he wasn’t reaped as well. He was more afraid of that than he was of getting reaped, because if he were reaped then he could do something about it. He could fight back.
No. No, he could fight back no matter what happened. He needed to remember that.
The man moved at last. He pulled a name free of the bowl and unfurled it, taking his time to read it and nod and survey the crowd below him.
Just say it.” Kelsier hissed between his teeth, and got a couple of looks thrown his way. Let them stare, edge away from him like he was contaminated because he said the things they were too afraid to even think. He didn’t blame them for it.
He blamed the Capitol. And right now, he blamed the man on the stage.
“Kelsier!” The man called, looking up and around expectantly. Silence filled the air like cotton; choking, suffocating wool. Yet Kelsier breathed.
In, and out.
In, and out,
In.
His eyes narrowed as the Peacekeepers came closer, ready to grab him if he tried to run. He snorted. Like he was going to play the coward. Didn’t they know him at all?
Instead, he walked forward.
The people who knew him by his face were few. He could hear them, near the back, Spook’s anguished cries being hushed by Hammond and Clubs. He swore he could feel Dox’s eyes following him.
Don’t do it, Kel. Don’t you do anything I wouldn’t.
Didn’t they know him at all?
He made it to the stage without incident. The silence was thicker than blood, coating the air in a deadly sheath. He supposed he was just going to have to do something about that.
He smiled.
“Why the long faces?” He asked the crowd, spreading his arms. “I’ll be back in less than a week, with just as much blood on my hands as I have on them today. Do you fear the Capitol? What can they do that they’ve not already done to you?”
Peacekeepers moved forward, one grabbing each arm. The one on his left hissed in his ear, “quiet, or it’ll be worse for you.”
Kelsier’ smile only widened. He bowed to the crowd below him, as best he could when he was so heavily restrained. “Don’t be afraid.” He called, and the
Peacekeeper groaned under his breath, the two of them beginning to drag Kelsier away. “I warned you.” He hissed. Kelsier ignored him, focusing on the crowd, on the place where Mare would be, if she were here, on his crew. On Ferre. “Don’t be afraid.” He said, softer this time, as though speaking only to his brother. “Don’t be afraid.”
District 10: Frédéric Combeferre
Reapings always put Combeferre on edge. He was used to watching kids go off to their death, the occasional one returning home. There was the annual rally he, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac organized before the reaping, to let the Capitol know that they weren’t happy with the Games. Combeferre always prepared a first aid kit for whoever was chosen as a tribute. He knew they wouldn’t be able to take it all the way to the Games, but he didn’t mind. If he could teach the kids a bit of first aid before they left, that would have to be enough for him. He watched the Games religiously, keeping an eye on every kid who was chosen to be sacrificed to an unjust President. He glowed with pride when the kids he’d spoken to managed to bandage a wound properly or helped another. And he mourned. Not just the kids from District 10, but all of them.
This year was different. His ears were ringing and he felt a pressure on his chest he hadn’t felt since he was little. He could be reaped. His friends could be reaped. He shared a glance with Enjolras, keeping his expression steady. If they could do anything against this, they would. The people were too scared, they wouldn’t join them. Not right now.
The first slip of paper was pulled from the bowl, and Combeferre forced himself to breathe. Not a child. Not Enjolras, who spoke so boldly of revolution but who secretly dreaded the possibility of taking a life himself. Not Courfeyrac, who brought their group together with a steady smile and a warm embrace. Not Grantaire, nursing a bottle besides Enjolras - the one day a year none of them gave him grief over it.
Beyond their little group, not Kelsier. Kelsier wouldn’t be afraid, he’d kill the whole Capitol if he had to. He could survive the Games, but at what cost? Combeferre worried over him enough anyway.
His hopes were dashed almost immediately. He felt Enjolras’ hand on his shoulder, and he glanced over, grateful. He wanted to run towards Kelsier, hold him back, beg him not to go. But they were adults now, and Kelsier wouldn’t appreciate it. He knew how his brother thought. He knew he’d be grateful it was him rather than anyone else.
“He’s going to get himself killed,” Combeferre murmured quietly to Enjolras, staring up at Kelsier’s wide smile. He tensed more as the Peacekeepers grabbed Kelsier’s arms. His eyes locked on Kelsier’s and he didn’t shy away. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away. He knew what Kelsier was doing, and he wasn’t going to be afraid.
But the reaping wasn’t over. There were still thousands of names in the bowl.
The man at the podium had managed to reign the crowd in again, and Combeferre sucked in a deep breath. One more person. One more prayer sent to a god he didn’t know if he even believed in. What did he believe in? Peace. Hope. Negotiation, freedom. Freedom, above all.
“Frédéric Combeferre!”
Enjolras’ hand tightened on Combeferre’s shoulder, and Combeferre felt himself freeze. The crowd was silent again. Combeferre could feel his heartbeat echoing in his ears.
Slowly, Combeferre placed his hand on top of Enjolras’ and lightly removed it.
“Mon ami, we knew it was a possibility.” His voice was deadly quiet. “Better me than you, better us both than a child. Lead them well.” The soft murmur died as he stepped forward, back straight and head held high. He would not hurt a soul. Kelsier could kill everyone in the Capitol, but Combeferre would save as many of the tributes as he possibly could.
Before he knew it, Combeferre was standing on the stage next to Kelsier. There were only two people in the world who would be able to read the fear behind his calm expression. One of them stood next to him. The other was blazing with fury in the crowd, moments away from speaking out. Combeferre met Enjolras’ gaze and gave him a tiny shake of his head. Not now.
He turned his head to Kelsier, then reached down and grabbed his brother’s hand. He glanced at every one of his friends, the men who he believed would bring about a new era of peace. He glanced at Kel’s crew, people he didn’t always agree with, but who shared a common goal. Only those fourteen people knew what the two of them stood for. Only those fourteen people knew what they were capable of.
“Mon frère,” Combeferre whispered quietly, “We stand together.” He squeezed Kelsier’s hand, trying to stop the thundering of his heart. If he could have picked any two people in the District… well, they were standing together on that platform. Kelsier would likely survive, but Combeferre had always known he’d be willing to lay down his life to do what was right. The only thing that remained was to figure out how to save the people who would no doubt be vying to kill him. One step at a time.
“Remember,” he murmured, addressing the crowd. He knew they’d be able to hear him, there were plenty of microphones around. “Your freedom is something you mustn’t let them take away.”
District 11: Orpheus
Orpheus had never been particularly afraid of being reaped. Yes, as a child he had known that his name was in the bowl an impressive number of times, but he’d never actually believed it could happen to him. It hadn’t been too long ago that his life was on the line every year - he had forgotten what it felt like to be standing there amongst hundreds of other people, all waiting to see who was slated to fight to the death. Last year, his name had been entered too many times to count, though Hermes had tried to stop him. And then, when his name hadn’t been called? Relief. He’d never have to face a reaping again - at least, that was what he had thought. If Eurydice were still alive, Orpheus would have been concerned about her, like he had been every year before. She wasn’t here anymore, though, and the old pain still cut deep. She’d been taken by the Capitol, and Orpheus still didn’t know what had happened to her. There was nothing he could do… he should have done something.
Hermes, though. Hermes could be in danger. Orpheus’ fingertips drummed a rhythm on the side of his leg, trying to calm himself down. The fighting was wrong. This was all… wrong. Orpheus felt revulsion building in his throat. How could anyone believe this to be right? How could anyone go into the arena and kill, when they could be working together? Alone, they were all easy to take down. Together… he squeezed his eyes shut, brow furrowing. This was the way it was, what could any of them possibly do about it.
The man from the Capitol had taken the stand and was speaking words that barely reached Orpheus’ ears. He felt as though he was being suffocated, no music to drown out the dread surrounding him. His name was in there. Hermes’ name was in there. How many lives were going to be affected today? He knew many of the faces around him - people he had grown up with, people he barely knew, but saw often… how many of them would lose a loved one to these Games?
The roaring in Orpheus’ ears subsided as he began to hum softly. He didn’t mean to, but the sound came out regardless. He could see some of the people around him glancing at him, noticing, and then relaxing. It was good to know that what calmed him was doing some good for the others around him. It was a quiet song, nothing insurrectionary. Nothing that could get him in trouble. Nobody but him and Hermes even knew the song, anyway. Still, if he were caught humming, he couldn’t imagine the consequences would be pretty.
“Rue!”
The first name called sent a jolt through Orpheus, and he looked up to watch as the young girl stepped up to the stage. No. No, she was young, and this wasn’t fair, and he… his humming grew louder, pushing back against the thoughts the Capitol had forced them all to believe. There was nothing they could do about it. This was how it was, this was how to maintain peace.
How was killing children peace? The world was out of balance, and Orpheus wanted to fix it. He could try, he was writing music that could get him killed if the Capitol found out about it. Would that be enough? How much could one person realistically do? Nonetheless, he had to try. He wouldn’t let himself live through one more reaping. He didn’t have a death wish, just perhaps… a bit of overconfidence.
“Orpheus!” The man was waving the paper in the air with a flourish. Orpheus waited for someone else to step forward. He waited to see who the next victim would be. “Orpheus?” the man repeated, and it wasn’t until then that Orpheus realized that the name belonged to him. Oh. Oh. He took a small step forward, the hum dying in his throat. He couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t he breathe?
No. He wasn’t going to stand there and let this happen. One tiny step forward and a deep breath in. The hum built itself in his throat again, and he forced himself to keep walking forward. He didn’t dare look at Hermes, didn’t feel strong enough to see the expression there. He hoped Hermes wasn’t looking. He hoped Hermes went home and burned the music Orpheus had been working on, because if it was kept in tact… Hermes could be blamed. And killed.
Orpheus made it to the stage, the hum growing louder and louder all the while. Let it be a challenge to the Capitol. Let them shut him up if they wanted to. He met the man’s eyes, trying to find something there. Kindness, maybe? Regret? He saw nothing. He glanced at Rue, breaking his hum for just a moment to give her a small smile. He didn’t want her to feel alone.
“Silence,” one of the Peacekeepers hissed at Orpheus, but he held his head higher and continued humming. The sound was high and fragile, clear and unbroken. Defiance was stupid, but when had Orpheus ever made a good decision? Other than loving Eurydice, other than trying to bring light to the District.
The blow came out of nowhere. Orpheus felt heat on his cheek and he was on the ground moments later, the music dying as he fell. He looked up, meeting the Peacekeeper with large, wounded eyes. He took a moment to process before hesitantly picking himself back up. His fingertips drifted towards his cheek, surprised when they came away red.
This was the way the world was.
District 12: Ronan Lynch
Ronan Lynch honestly wasn’t sure what he wanted to happen. On the one hand, of course he didn’t want to be reaped. The mere idea of wanting to be reaped disgusted him beyond words. Yes, he picked fights. Yes, most people assumed the kid who had fallen all the way to District 12, and lost his father on the way down, would want to do whatever he could to climb back to the top of fame and fortune as soon as he could. But he didn’t want to kill people, and he definitely didn’t want to kill kids much younger than him, which made him definitely not want to be reaped.
On the other hand, he didn’t want to watch the games, either. Was being in them better? Having never been reaped, he didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out either way.
It also didn’t matter. His name was in the number of times it had to be, and he would deal with what happened, whatever that was. He was good at dealing.
He couldn’t believe he was actually standing here as the Capital woman mounted the stage, beginning her ritual of words and motions, as always. He was moments away from just walking out and letting them do whatever the hell they wanted about it, and he actually took a step backwards.
He bumped into someone and shot them a glare. There was no way out. There were too many people, crowded around waiting for their fate. He glanced back at the front, where the woman stood in front of her huge bowl of names and rambled on and on.
He wasn’t going to be reaped. The odds were definitely in his favor, with names from everyone in the bowl. The chances of it being him were so small it was ridiculous to be worried, so he wasn’t. Not for him, anyway.
The woman moved, and her hand went in the bowl. Ronan watched through narrowed blue eyes as she dramatically unfurled the paper and read it in silence for a long moment. Then she called, in a voice that carried across all of District 12. “Nico di Angelo!”
Ronan blinked. Really? That bastard who had won the games before, who had everything he had wanted? He scowled as the other boy moved, turning his face away from the stage. He was glad, partly, because of all the people here Nico was the one he would mind dying the least.
There were no volunteers.
He realized it a moment too late. The woman was already drawing a second name, reading it in her dramatic as hell way, then speaking in her same carrying voice.
“Ronan Lynch!”
….nothing. He didn’t move. His fingernails dug deep into the palms of his hands. He wouldn’t go up. They would have to ruin their image, because he would cross his arms and he wouldn’t go up on that stage.
Peacekeepers grabbed him from behind and he reacted instinctively, his elbow flying back and hitting the first one in the face. The second one picked him up and he struggled, kicking his heels back and throwing punches and-
Somehow they dragged him to the stage, and threw him roughly down. When he tried to get up they kicked him in the stomach, hard, and he went down, gasping at the woman’s feet. She looked perturbed, like she’d never seen anyone fight before - he hadn’t either - and a bit alarmed that her precious tribute had already gotten himself beat up a little.
He didn’t care. He’d keep fighting anyone who stood in his way. Then he’d be the worst victor the Capital had ever seen, and no one would make him a piece in their games.
Ever.
District 12: Nico di Angelo
Nico closed his eyes. His name was in the bowl only once, just as it had been the first year he had been reaped. Last year his father had requested he enter his name more times than that – they needed food, he said, but Nico knew the truth. It was punishment for Bianca dying the year before. Now, he was a normal citizen. He no longer had his name entered according to his age. Just once… just once for him and everyone else who had thought, for years, that they were safe forever. Everyone had to come every year, of course, but this year everyone felt more crowded in, like the entire world was holding its breath waiting to see which of them was destined to die. Because they were District 12, and the reaping was a death sentence. There was so rarely a year where they won.
Nico had done everything he could to stay alive the year before. He still felt the blood on his hands sometimes when he woke up, screaming. He had the most kills. He hadn’t known until after, and he’d seen the clips of his part in the games. They never showed the full story, only what they thought would be the most entertaining to the Capitol. There was nothing interesting about a boy fighting tooth and nail to stay alive. A bloodthirsty killer from a forgotten district, though? That got them talking. There was no way Nico could share his side of the story when the truth was that he couldn’t even remember which version of events was real. There was one thing he did know for certain, buried in the deepest pits of his cracked heart: he hadn’t wanted to win.
Now he was the scarred, shadowy kid who spoke little and smiled without humor. Some mistook his withdrawal as aloofness, others as superiority. They were wrong. Sure, he had won the respect of his father, but he had lost everything else. Slowly, Nico sucked in a breath. He had forgotten, almost, that he was at the reaping. That whichever pour souls were chosen, he would be dragged along with them and forced to train them. What lessons did he have to pass on? That you win by losing yourself, by pouring every ounce of yourself into the hatred and anger you’ve harbored for years? That you hold onto grudges for dear life because that’s the only way you’re hardened enough to survive? That you win, quite literally, by shattering yourself into millions of pieces that have no hope of being put back together? You win by staring death in the face and spitting in its eye as you scrabble desperately for one more day of sunlight.
Nico was tied to these damn games until he died. At least, he thought dryly, he would never again have to fight in them. He let his eyes snap open.
The woman was taking her sweet time in reaching her hand into the glass bowl, and Nico had almost zoned out entirely. Perhaps, he seemed to figure, if he just let himself believe he was somewhere else, that would be the case. A shuffling around him brought him back to his senses. He could hear people around him whispering, could feel eyes on him from every direction, waiting to see the reaction from District 12’s most recent victor. The woman plucked out a piece of white paper.
The curious around Nico didn’t have long to wait. Finally, breaking through the roaring silence, a name: “Nico di Angelo.”
It had to be a cruel joke. There was no other explanation. Everything around Nico crumbled and the world turned white and soundless. His name was one of thousands, yet this… this third reaping… felt almost inevitable. There was no Bianca to protect him this time, and he was running out of anger to hide behind. He was just tired. And scared. Robotically, he found his legs moving, his thin form pushing wordlessly through the web of whispers and stares that wished to ensnare him. One step, then another. Three reapings had to be some sort of record. Nico smiled grimly at the cruel humor of it, an expression he knew would be seen as something quite different by onlookers. A challenge, perhaps. Or glee, the bloodthirsty child given a chance to kill again. He was past caring what they saw when they looked at him.
Standing on the stage again felt surreal, even as he heard another name spoken. He flinched at it, eyes narrowing as he searched the crowd for Ronan. Of course, the boy who acted jealous of his win. Nico almost laughed, but he saw nobody moving in the crowd.
Finally, fighting against Peacekeepers, Ronan was brought to the front. It was a pathetic display, and a childish one at that. Nobody fought the Peacekeepers, nobody fought when it was their turn in the games. You played your own strategy and you prayed that you didn’t get caught, but you never fought. Nico’s lip curled up into… something, not quite a smile, but not a grimace either, as a solid kick met Ronan’s chest and he went down. He steeled his body against the urge to reach down and help. That was a death sentence, and if he were going to die, he was going to do it on his own terms.
“Get up,” he hissed instead, his expression unreadable. Something was flickering behind his dark eyes, but it was a secret only he was privy to. Fighting was pointless, they both knew it. Yet part of Nico wondered why he had never thought to do it before. Why Ronan, who wanted to fight more than anyone Nico had seen in District 12 before, had been the only one to resist. It was arrogance, Nico decided. That was all.
He pushed the thought out of his head and he turned, facing District 12. His eyes searched for his father. Hades merely nodded, then turned to leave.
Alliances:
TBD
Death Counter:
None yet
TBD
Death Counter:
None yet
