Chapter Text
And that’s all it takes.
Will isn’t even conscious of his feet moving under him, and yet he can hear his own footsteps. His own footsteps and the screams of his friends, and that is it. There is no other sound. The crowd is silent.
It always is, when a twelve-year-old is Reaped. Every life lost is a sorrow, yes, but there is a different kind of grief that comes in losing one so young. Supposedly, the tributes of the Hunger Games are adolescents, old enough to fight and to stand a chance at survival, but it is plain for anyone to see that Will Byers is still very much a child.
In every home in the Capitol, citizens sigh in disappointment when they see the young boy, already sure that his death will be heartbreaking. In the Tribute Center, which is still seeing its final preparations for the arrival of the tributes, two stylists discuss their plans. In the President’s Mansion, Gamemakers and politicians alike write off that district for yet another year in a row.
In the town square of District Twelve, in the crowd of children who were not Reaped this year, both of the mayor’s children cry for their best friends, and a boy from the Seam stands frozen as his brother reaches the stage. In the town square of District Twelve, in the crowd of parents and children too young to be Reaped, two mothers and a father cry out in grief, and a Booker Boy prepares to take bets against his own son. In the town square of District Twelve, on the stage, the district’s lone victor recognizes the name of an old friend’s child, and silently accepts yet another loss.
Will Byers should accept his death. When he hears his name, he should know what that means. When he reaches the stage and is greeted by Murray Bauman, he should understand that to a Capitol citizen like him, he is little more than a pig being sent to slaughter, or at best one of many actors in a particularly interesting play. And Will does understand that. Really, he does. He knows that in a week’s time, he will be sent to an arena where he will compete against twenty-three other kids for his survival. He knows that most, if not all, of the other kids will be older and better than him. He knows that his chances are slim to none.
Still.
Still, he can’t accept that he’s going to die. As he faces the cameras and thus the rest of Hawkins, he cannot accept that so many strangers will watch him lose his life. Jonathan taught him when he was very young that it was okay to be weak, but people would judge him for it if he wasn’t careful about who saw. On national television, there’s no controlling who sees, which means people will judge him no matter what, unless he shows no weakness. Unless he is strong enough to survive.
Peacekeepers lead him and Barb into the Justice Building, into separate rooms where they will be allowed visitors before they leave. The rooms are nice, nicer than anything either tribute has seen before, with furniture and wallpaper and decorations that are clearly more expensive than even the mayor’s house. Will sits on the velvet couch, only half sure he’s allowed to touch it. Barb paces her room, waiting to see her friends and family.
Friends are let in first, so that the last people from their district that the tributes speak to may be their own families. Lucas and Dustin rush into Will’s room the instant they are able. Mike would be there, too, they tell him, but his mother held him and Nancy back for a moment to talk to them.
Lucas tells Will his parents will miss him almost as much as he will. For the past few months or so, he’s had something like an internship at their bakery, helping decorate cookies and sometimes cakes with far more skill than Lucas or Erica. The Sinclairs say he has a natural artist’s eye, and pay him in spare change whenever they have it. Lucas says they’ll try to keep that up, supporting his family in whatever way they can.
Dustin says he has a chance if he runs away from the Cornucopia during the bloodbath at the beginning, since that’s when the most tributes die, statistically. If he can just last a day or two, Dustin tells him, he might get the attention of some sponsors, and then he’ll really have a shot at surviving. “Don’t risk making any allies, though. They’ll just backstab you later on, and then you’ll be dead.”
Will takes note of his friend’s advice, assuming it’s all he’s going to get. District Twelve’s only previous victor, Hopper, will probably be of no help as a mentor, given what Will has heard from Jonathan. Hell, if Will gets any sponsor gifts, he’ll be lucky if Hopper even accepts them.
Joyce Byers isn’t willing to risk that, though. She knows how Hopper is, and she also knows she isn’t letting go of her son that easily. After Peacekeepers guide her and Jonathan into the odd waiting room in the Justice Building, she fakes needing to use the restroom and finds Hopper in some old, dusty room that probably hasn’t been used in ages. Already, he’s nursing a bottle of something she doesn’t care to identify. Before he can react, she rips it from his hand.
“None of that,” she admonishes, “No drinking, not this year.”
Hopper stares at her, hand still wrapped around a phantom bottle. “Jo—Mrs. Byers. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Oh, don’t do that. Don’t ‘Mrs. Byers’ me. You and I used to be friends, you know? Back before—”
“Don’t.”
She wasn’t going to. Using Sarah against him, even now, would be cruel. It’s completely understandable that they fell out of touch after that little girl’s death, especially knowing how close it came to killing Hopper, too. Joyce doesn’t hold that against him. But—
“I’m sorry. I know how much it hurt to lose her. But you have another chance now, Hop! If you can—”
“I can’t.”
“If you can save Will, maybe it’ll be like you’re making up for what happened to Sarah.”
At his sides, Hopper’s hands clench into fists, seemingly unintentionally. He turns away from Joyce and crosses the room, approaching a dust-streaked window. Outside, the crowd gathered for the Reaping begins to diminish, around half of it streaming towards the train station to see the tributes off while the other half goes back home.
“He’s twelve years old, Joyce.”
“I know my own son’s age.”
“Then you know he won’t stand a chance. I mean, if he were seventeen or eighteen, maybe, maybe there would be something I could do. But even then, the Careers would be stronger, faster, better trained and better fed. His odds would be fifty to one.”
Joyce joins him at the window. How many of those people even knew her son’s name before today? Most of them would’ve seen him around town, what with how often he and his friends tend to run around and get into trouble, but how many of them really knew him? How many of them will even notice his absence? “Bad odds are still odds.”
She’s not getting it. Hopper shakes his head. “But it wouldn’t be fifty to one, Joyce. He’s a little kid. Every single other tribute in that arena will be bigger than him, which means they’ll be stronger and faster, too. They’ll be seen as better shots, which means they’ll be more liked in the Capitol, which means they’ll get more sponsors. His chance of survival won’t be fifty to one, or a hundred to one, or even a thousand to one. You understand that, don’t you? The odds of someone like Will winning the Games are a million to one.”
She has to know that, right? She has to understand that, no matter what he does, her son is not going to survive. Sarah wasn’t going to, either. Kids like them never do.
But Joyce knows her son. She knows her baby boy. “And what if he’s the one?”
“What?”
Will is stronger than Hopper understands. Joyce knows that. He’s stronger than those other kids, stronger than any tribute District Twelve has seen for some time. “If the odds are a million to one, there has to be a one. One kid who can win despite everything. What if that’s Will?”
“Joyce—”
“You can’t just write him off, Hop. We both know everyone else already has, but you can’t. Don’t you understand? You can’t let him die, just because you think he will. Train him. Teach him how to survive. And—and maybe he won’t, and he’ll just be another of the million. But maybe he’ll be the one.”
She’s wrong. Hopper knows she’s wrong. Sarah Hopper wasn’t the one in a million, and Will Byers won’t be. But, “I’ll do what I can.”
However little that is.
However small the chance that Mike will see his best friend again, it is a chance he is holding onto. Right now, he has about five minutes to say all that he wants to, and after that he will not get to see Will until after the Games.
Nancy knows she will never see her best friend again. Right now, she has about five minutes to say her goodbyes, and after that she will only ever see Barb on TV screens, broadcast from the Capitol or the arena.
Both siblings enter the rooms when the Peacekeepers allow them to. The doors shut behind them. Will jumps up from the couch and Barb flies across the room, each hugging their respective Wheelers.
“Will, you have to win, okay? You have to try. I can’t lose you.”
“You’re better than them, Barb. You’re kinder, and more caring, and stronger than any of them could ever hope to be. You have to show them that, okay?
“I know, Mike. I promise I’ll try. I won’t go down without a fight.”
“Don’t worry, Nance. I’ll make sure they all know who I am. I won’t let them ignore me.”
Will and Mike sit down on the expensive sofa. Mike grabs Will’s hands to stop him from fidgeting with his sleeves like he always does. His hands linger, like they always do. “How are you feeling?”
If he were a little less freaked out, Will would probably laugh. “I don’t know. I think… everything is finally starting to hit me.”
“You’re gonna be fine,” Mike assures him, “I mean, you get to go to the Capitol for a week, and stay in a really fancy room with all sorts of cool things that we don’t get here, and… and servants that make sure you don’t have to do any chores or anything, and you get to dress up in fancy clothes, and it’ll all be super cool.”
“And then I have to fight twenty-three other kids to the death,” Will reminds him.
Mike frowns. He’s trying not to think about that part. “Well, yeah, but you don’t really have to fight them! Just make sure you have food and water and a good hiding spot, and then you can just hide and let everyone else take each other out. That’s kind of what the girl who won a few years ago did.”
“Well, yeah, but she also killed, like, three people in the end. What if I can’t do that?”
Though he doesn’t want to kill anyone, Will knows that might be the only way. What he’s really asking is whether or not he’ll be able to win a fight, if it comes to that. He’s not sure he will be.
“Of course you can,” Mike decides, after a moment of silent deliberation, “You may not be big or strong like some of the other tributes will be, but you’re smart, Will. And clever. That’s really important in the Games, I think. You may not be able to win a physical fight, but you can definitely outwit the other tributes! And you’re, like, the fastest runner in all of Twelve, so if it comes down to it, you can just run away until they get tired.”
Will is a pretty fast runner. Probably not the fastest in the district, but maybe the fastest in their age group. When they do races for fun at school, he wins more often than not. It’s a skill that will probably help him sooner or later in the arena.
“I know you can win, Will. If anyone can, it’s you.”
For a long moment, Mike holds Will’s gaze, just long enough for it to feel like there’s something there between them. It’s broken when Mike remembers the thing in his pocket, a good-luck charm he keeps on him more often than not. As he tells Will, he’d meant to use it as his token in the unlikely event he got Reaped, but now Will has been Reaped instead and he deserves to have something that reminds him of home.
“Mike, I couldn't—”
“I want you to have it. Besides, it's technically me, so it’ll be like you have me there with you, and then you’ll never be alone.”
Even as Mike holds out the token for Will to take, Will hesitates. “But… it's yours, and… what if I can’t give it back?”
Mike has already thought of that. “You don’t have to give it back, if you don't want to. Even once you come home. It's yours now. Consider it, like, a really late birthday present.”
“You already got me a birthday present,” Will objects, but Mike dismisses that immediately.
“And this is another one. I can give you multiple birthday presents if I want. Besides, it's kind of a gift for me, too. I'll feel a lot better if—if you have something of mine with you, in the arena. It'll be like I'm protecting you.”
For as long as they've been friends, since the first day of kindergarten, Mike has been Will’s protector. At first, it was little things, comforting him when he scraped his knee or distracting the bullies at recess. Over time, though, it got bigger, more intentional. Giving Will half his lunch on the days he didn't have any, threatening the wrath of the Mayor on anyone who dared to look at Will the wrong way. Mike has always done it without asking or being told, and Will has always accepted the help gratefully.
Mike will not be there to help Will in the arena.
Will allows him to take his hand and presses the small token into his palm. It's a figurine, one of the ones they use for a board game they play with Dustin and Lucas. Each of them has one of these figurines, which represent their characters who, in turn, represent themselves. Will’s character is Will the Wise and this one, Mike’s, is Mike the Brave. It’s probably for the best, really, that this is the one he’ll take with him. In the Hunger Games, he’ll need more than just wisdom to survive.
A knock on the door alerts them that it’s going to open momentarily. Before Will can move, Mike is hugging him tight, murmuring, “You’re gonna win, Will. I know you are.”
Will hugs him right back and Mike, before he can lose the nerve, presses a kiss to Will’s cheek. It’s just for a second, just a peck, but it’s a little more than friendly and Mike couldn’t risk never getting the chance to do it. He just hopes Will doesn’t hate him when he comes back.
The door opens and a Peacekeeper ushers Mike out. He calls back to Will, “I’ll see you in a few weeks, okay?” and just barely sees Will nod, bewildered, before the door closes again. On his way back to the waiting room, Mike passes by Jonathan and Mrs. Byers on their way to see Will.
The first thing Jonathan does when he sees his baby brother is hug him. He’s close to crying already, but Will seems to still be in a state of shock and Jonathan needs to be strong for him now. Their mother joins the hug and for a moment it feels like everything is fine and normal, and not at all like one of them is being sent to their death the second they leave this room.
The moment is broken when Joyce crouches down to her younger son’s level and tells him Hopper is going to do everything in his power to keep him alive, so he has to fight to make that worth it, even before he gets to the arena. Will nods. The Games won’t begin for a week, and most of the time between now and then is dedicated to training. He’ll have to train hard with all sorts of different weapons if he wants to stand a chance.
Maybe not with all the weapons, Jonathan tells him. He already knows how to shoot, and he has shockingly good aim. Jonathan has only been able to teach him how to use their father’s shotgun, but if he can get his hands on a bow or a blowgun or anything of the sort, he might have a decent chance. And if there’s any sort of survival training available—starting a fire or finding water or identifying safe food—he should go for that first. His good aim will be of no use if he dies of dehydration.
Or starvation, or hypothermia, or illness or infection or heat stroke or any of the other natural causes that have killed off dozens of tributes over the years. Young tributes, normally. The ones who can barely fend for themselves at home, let alone in the arena. The ones like Will. God, Jonathan should’ve done something. Should’ve—should’ve caused a scene or, or volunteered. Yes, he should’ve volunteered. It hasn’t been done in Twelve in years, longer than he’s been alive at least, but he could’ve done it. He could’ve taken Will’s place.
But he didn’t think of that until it was too late, and now he’s watching his little brother board a train that will lead him to his death.
“He’ll be okay,” Joyce tells her remaining son, though she might be assuring herself more than him. “He’s a strong kid. If anyone can win those Games, it’s him.”
Jonathan isn’t sure how much he believes that, but right now it’s what he needs to hear, so he lets himself pretend.
Mike isn’t pretending when he says that District Twelve is going to have a victor this year, and Nancy can’t bear to disillusion him of that notion. He’s trying to comfort her and, really, it should be helping, because she knows Barb would have what it takes to win if she really wanted to. That’s the thing, though. She doesn’t want to win, and Nancy knows it. They talked about it a little during Nancy’s allotted visiting time. The both of them hate the Capitol with just about every fiber of their being, and they’d long since agreed they would never be its pawns. Even if Barb makes it long enough in the Games to have a chance at winning, she’ll gladly die before ever becoming a victor. In fact, she said her strategy might be to look after her younger district partner and sacrifice herself for him if they make it to the end.
Hopper is a little bit shocked when she tells him that, on the train during dinner (an absurd amount of food, an absolute waste, in his opinion), but he doesn’t hate the idea. If the girl doesn’t want to win, that’s one less person for him to worry about, and one more person to keep the boy alive. After dinner, when the children—tributes, he has to think of them as tributes, that should’ve gotten easier by now—have both gone to their rooms for the night, Murray even suggests that the boy might have a chance, with the combined efforts of all three of them and maybe a small miracle.
He might be right. Will Byers might have a shot at winning. From what Hopper has seen so far, he’s a tough kid, gentle on the surface but familiar enough with pain to have a strong layer of armor underneath. It’ll be a long shot, maybe the longest he’s ever taken, but he promised Joyce he’d try. And try he will.
He hopes the girl is doing alright. Not Barb—she seems fairly resigned to her fate already—but El, back in Twelve. He only found her over winter, right around the time of the last victor’s Victory Tour. She only moved in (unofficially, of course, she still comes and goes as she pleases) in early spring, and he’s never been gone for longer than a full day before. Sure, he told her what to expect, but explaining something to a twelve-year-old kid is very different from making them actually deal with it. Especially one who’s been, apparently, tortured and experimented on all her life. Not that she’s ever said that, but Hopper’s seen enough mistreated kids in Twelve to know what it means when one shows up in the woods in a hospital gown.
At least she has real clothes now, so if she decides to venture farther into the district like he’s told her not to, she won’t look completely out of place. Well, mostly. The short hair and girl’s clothes might still confuse people.
Or maybe it’ll be the fact that those are a rich girl’s clothes, and she’s wandering the depths of the Seam. Dustin thinks it’s a she, at least. The clothes, and how comfortable the kid seems to be in them, suggest that it’s a she, though the short hair might imply otherwise. It’s not shaved, exactly, seems more like it was shaved months ago and has grown out since then. It’s fucking confusing, is what it is. Dustin doesn’t understand this kid, or what she(?) is doing here, considering she looks lost and he’s definitely never seen her before.
Because he has nothing better to do (besides preemptively mourning his friend, but that’s not fun or enjoyable and also he really doesn’t want to think about that yet), he marches right up to her and asks for her name.
She whirls around, takes one look at him with eyes wide as an owl’s, and bolts.