Chapter Text
Florentino runs in the control room so quickly that some papers on the table next to the door fly in Mourinho's assistant’s face.
“Mourinho, tell me that Alves is already dead!” Florentino growls.
“Eh... no, Mr. President, he’s not... dead... yet...” Mourinho says, checking on the screens if his information is up to date.
“Then make sure he is within the next five minutes! If he wins this, it will be a disaster!”
“Why?” Mourinho frowns.
“Because I’ve just spoken to our generals. There is an uprising in Valencia. And guess who is behind it? Alves. If he wins, how do you want me to present him as the winner and show Valencia to the whole La Liga?”
Mourinho gulps.
“Is it serious, sir?”
“Nothing a few bombs and a couple hundred soldiers couldn’t sort out, but I need that man dead. And I need all possible footage from Valencia cut out. And I need the drunk mentor locked up until we know if he knew anything about Alves’ activities. For fuck’s sake, this is supposed to be my propaganda, not Alves’!”
Mourinho nods and looks at the screens. He is giving the tributes four minutes of the five he was given by Florentino. Then he will activate the volcano, no matter if it kills all three at the same time.
*
“No,” Iturraspe says firmly and throws his sword to the ground.
Oh damn, Mourinho thinks.
Koke is literally white, shivering and close to crying.
“I have to,” he says. “I have to go home.”
He makes a step forward, then stops when Iturraspe steps in his way.
“No,” he repeats. “This is just what they want.”
“And just what they have to get,” Diego says calmly.
“And what if we just stand here like this?” Iturraspe asks. “What if we just don’t want to kill anyone else?”
“Then Florentino is going to be pissed and Mourinho will send wild animals on us, for example. I prefer this way. Let that boy go home, Ander.”
Wild animals, why didn’t he think about that?
“I’m not going to let him kill you just like that!”
Diego makes a step towards him, places his hands on his shoulders and then winks at Koke behind Iturraspe’s back.
“Thank you,” he says. “But you have to.”
He grips his shoulders and shoves him away right when Koke throws the spear.
Thanks, boy, I‘ll put an extra gem in your crown.
The trumpets sound from the sky, followed by Mourinho’s voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen! I am pleased to present the Victors of the 50th La Liga Games, Jorge Resurección Merodio and Ander Iturraspe Derteano.”
Koke leans over the Cornucopia, still not quite believing it’s over. Iturraspe is kneeling in the frozen grass, already past the point of caring.
And then the silence is broken by the humming of the hovercraft approaching to take them home.
*
Sara Carbonero falls in Villa‘s arms, sobbing a bit too theatrally, but Villa‘s mood is too good for him to mind. He high-fives Llorente over Sara‘s head and grins.
“Is my mascara alright?” Sara asks then, back in her business mode.
“Yes, it is,” Villa says. “But you have a pimple on your face.”
“What?” Sara yells.
“No, that was a joke, you don’t.”
“Bastard, you scared me to death!” she growls and taps on her pad to contact the reporter who is in Madrid. “Alright, we’ll need some reactions from Madrid.”
“I’m not going to that house again!” the reporter protests. “They’ll send the dog after me again!”
“Shut up and go there!” Sara snaps. “Florentino wants sentimental stuff, I have no idea why. He’s probably gone old and sappy.”
The reporter sighs deeply, then puts on a professional smile and tells the cameraman to start turning. The moment she walks in the house, Saúl, Óliver and Javier jump on her, making her a part of their celebratory dance, while the dog keeps running around them.
“And that’s all from Madrid,” she squeaks.
*
Koke is still convinced that he must be dreaming. There are about five people on board of the hovercraft fretting over him. They remove the tracking device from his arm, clean the wound left by Costa‘s axe and stitch it, wrap him up in a warm blanket, give him some hot drink.
The realization starts creeping in. It‘s over. This is the end. He‘s safe. It‘s over. There‘s no arena anymore. No one trying to kill him. No one he has to kill. Over.
The relief is so big that he can‘t even contain it, he can‘t even feel happy or sad, he wants to cry in one moment and laugh in the next. There are only the final ceremonies left and then he can go home.
He glances to the other side of the hovercraft. There is nothing ecstatic about Iturraspe. Unlike Koke who cursed off even his grandmother, he stayed completely quiet while they were removing the tracking device and taking care of his wounds. Now he‘s sipping on his tea and looking so miserable that Koke would hug him, weren‘t it utterly awkward.
He prefers to look out of the window where the roofs of the Capitol are approaching. He never imagined he would ever see them again. Suddenly he wonders if when they were leaving the Capitol, Álvaro believed he would come back.
And in that moment he understands why Iturraspe feels miserable despite winning the Games.
*
Sara Carbonero is the first person he sees. Not that he took to her in the first stage of the Games, but he figured in the arena that she was behind many things and he sort of missed her “nothing is a problem for Sara Carbonero” attitude. And he’s so happy to see a friendly face right now that he wouldn’t mind if it was a dog greeting him. He hugs Sara and squeezes her in his arms so tight that she squeaks a bit. Koke finally lets go of her and Sara straightens her clothes (she thanks the stylists for choosing a fabric that wouldn’t crumple), checks her hair and wipes away a stray tear.
Villa is the next one to appear, with a smug smile on his lips.
“I missed your soul patch,” Koke breathes out.
“Now, don’t get too sentimental,” Villa chuckles.
They are not even playing for the cameras, but from Sara’s smile they read that they are doing it right. Some assistant approaches them with a tray with glasses of champagne.
“Tell me, which of you sent me that machete?” Koke asks.
“She did!” Villa frowns. “Did it when I was sleeping.”
“Okay, so I don’t know much about weapons,” Sara shrugs. “I’d have sent you a gun, but they are not allowed.”
The escort for Bilbao appears then, dressed in an exquisite dress in the colors of the Basque flag, a crown of red and white roses in her hair. She is smiling proudly. It‘s her second winner in three years.
“Welcome back,” she says.
She kisses Iturraspe on both cheeks and uses the opportunity to whisper to him to show a bit more enthusiasm about winning. Iturraspe smiles and nods.
“Thanks, Ingrid.”
Fernando Llorente walks out of the building and for the first time Iturraspe‘s smile looks genuine. Leaving the escort behind, he runs to the mentor and hugs him. Llorente then pulls away and looks him in the eyes.
“You scared me to death,” he whispers.
“I was scared to death.”
Llorente cracks a smile, then pulls him into a kiss that makes Sara Carbonero drop her microphone and David Villa choke on the champagne he‘s drinking.
In the control room, José Mourinho’s face is sporting a huge grin. This is his final BANG. And for once even he didn‘t expect it.
*
The crowning ceremony takes place a few days after the arrival of the Victors. Capitol doesn’t want to see them half-dead, tired, bruised and still in shock. Some recovery time is needed, even though it’s considerably shorter than when Villa won and they had to practically sew him together, or when Silva returned half mad and it took a week for them to get him to say a word.
Sergio turns up last in the backstage, having decided in the last moment that he would after all attend the ceremony. The stylists are almost ready to leave when he arrives. One of the girls quickly finds at least a better jacket for him, ruffles his hair and powders his face. She ushers him out of the room as she runs to be there for the ceremony in time. Sergio takes his time passing through the backstage. Then, right before taking the turn that will lead him to the box where the mentors had their places, he stops.
Iturraspe is sitting on the stairs leading to the stage, hands pressed to his temples and eyes closed, like the cheering of the crowd and the voice of the host are giving him the worst headache possible. Then he gets up, shakes his head wildly and puts on a smile so bright that hadn’t he just seen the whole scene, Sergio would believe it was genuine. The Games have rules that aren’t written anywhere, and Iturraspe obviously understands that this smile can be the weapon that will save his life.
When the host announces the President, Sergio looks up. Florentino appears on the stage, talks about the courage the two winners showed, about the honor and how proud the Capitol is of them. Then two pretty girls in the jerseys of Atlético Madrid and Athletic Bilbao appear, carrying two golden crowns on velvet pillows. Florentino almost mixes them up and the host jokes about how similar the jerseys are. Sergio is sure the microphones have to catch the sound Iturraspe makes as he screeches his teeth.
Florentino places one crown on Koke’s head, then takes the other one and frowns threateningly at Iturraspe who bends down to accept it. The host takes Koke’s and Iturraspe’s hands and raises them in the air. Sergio remembers the day he was standing there, with the crowd cheering and Jonas swaying on his feet, still drunk. How in that moment, he actually felt happy. The nightmares only came later.
*
Everyone stands up for the anthem. Koke is still smiling brightly, Iturraspe opts for the solemn expression as it’s easier to fake. The host then shows them to two armchairs on the stage and takes the other. The emblem of La Liga appears on the huge screen and then the recapitulation of the Games begins, starting with the reaping and scenes from the parade and interviews, and then with the recapitulations of all the deaths.
It seems like the crowd has their favorite deaths. They sigh appreciatively when Diego Alves tricks Rakitić and poisons him, wipe away stray tears when Iturraspe gives Sergi Roberto the coup de grace (Koke feels a pang of guilt during that one), press their palms to their lips when Iturraspe kills Tomás Pina with nothing but his hands (Koke gives him an unsettled glance as if only now he is realizing who he is sitting next to), they laugh when Luka trips over sleeping Costa. Koke knows what will come next. Álvaro.
It is the first time he sees what really happened to Álvaro. He wants to go back in time, he wants them to never split on that day, wants to kill Costa again and more painfully, wants to be at least the one to hold him instead of Diego Alves. The host clears his throat quietly and discreetly hands him a tissue. Only in that moment Koke realizes that tears are falling from his eyes on the expensive tissue of his pants.
The rest is a blur, watching his fight with Costa seems unreal. It’s like they are not even human, just two wild animals punching, scratching and kicking. What a contrast it makes with Iturraspe’s and Gurpegui’s fight, clean and fair.
The final confrontation at the Cornucopia is shortened a lot, most likely Florentino ordered them to cut out some parts. Koke hangs his head in something close to shame. He felt bad about it before, and in the shortened version he looks even more like a careless, selfish bastard who wants to win, nothing else. Though what else did he actually want?
When it’s all over and he’s back in his room, he curls up under the blanket and just wishes he was already home, wishes it was months from the Games and nobody cared about him anymore, even though it’s unlikely to happen in the next few years at least.
He had definitely thought that being the Victor felt different.
*
Two trains are ready at the Capitol station. One is going to take Koke back to Madrid, the other is heading to Bilbao. The producers are having twice as much work as they have to do everything twice and combine the footage. Sara is accompanying them to Madrid as well as the other escort is going to Bilbao.
“See you on the Victors’ tour,” Iturraspe says.
Koke looks at him, tries to determine whether it was a friendly farewell, a polite way to wrap things up or a reminder that in half a year, he’ll have to look in the other tributes’ friends and families faces. Especially in those of Diego Alves.
“See you.”
Iturraspe nods and gets on the train. Koke turns around to see Sara commanding some employees to take in her two heavy baggages with clothes and counting the boxes with her hats.
“Ready? Are we ready? Let’s go!” she yells.
Koke doesn’t think that he’s ready for anything, but suddenly there’s nobody he could tell.
*
As soon as the train stops and he steps out, three boys run out of the crowd and jump on him.
“You were so shit, oh my God!” Saúl growls in his ear. “I thought you didn’t even want to win!”
“Thank you, Saúl,” Koke grins.
“Man, how could you even think we’d ever clean Costa’s house?” Javier asks. “I would personally put poison in our dinner!”
“Don’t remind me of Costa ever again,” Koke says. “I think I won’t take you two with me to the new house. Just Óliver, because he doesn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, because Óliver didn’t see anything. He was hiding on the roof all the time,” Javier makes a face.
“No, wait, he did watch your non-existent medical skills,” Saúl corrects him.
“Shut up!” Óliver mumbles and he speaks Koke’s mind.
*
In Bilbao, the welcoming is a lot less spontaneous. It’s almost a solemn act. Iturraspe shakes hands with whoever wants to shake hands with him, listens to the major’s speech, accepts some medal they give him. It’s all he ever wanted but suddenly it’s not enough, there’s something missing and he knows it stayed in the arena and will stay there forever because he will never be able to retrieve it.
“Cheer up!” Llorente says as they head to the reception at the major’s house.
“Tell me something to cheer me up,” Iturraspe sighs.
“We’re going to be neighbors now.”
It finally draws a smile from him.
“This was a promise or a threat?”
“No waking up for work at 6 am, no queuing at the bakery, no electricity shortages and hot bath whenever you feel like it, that sounds like a threat to you?”
“No electricity shortages with your terrible music taste, that sounds like a threat.”
Llorente gives him a murderous glare.
“You can choose if I drown you in a hot or a cold bath,” he growls.
*
Sergio closes the door of his house and looks around. It’s the same he left it before the Games, there’s just the scent of some detergent in the air because the woman hired by the Capitol to do the cleaning for him was here before his arrival.
It’s actually better like this. There’s no chance of him to smell any rests of Bojan’s scent that could be left here.
He sits on the sofa and switches on the TV automatically. Sara Carbonero is interviewing Koke while trying to ignore Óliver’s dog that is chewing on the microphone.
Sergio switches the TV off again. He suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his time, what to do with his life. He doesn’t know what he was doing before. But before, there was something he could hold onto, some hope on the horizon, however distant it was, now it is gone and all he can see is darkness.
Walking over to the window he looks towards Jonas’ house. The lights are out and the house looks empty. Sergio frowns but that is all he can do. When people disappear, it is better not to ask about them.
It’s getting dark but he doesn’t switch on the lights. Where he used to live before the Games, they didn’t have electricity and he got used to spending the evenings in the dark. He sits back on the sofa and decides to do just that. Sit there in the dark and wait for something that will never come back.
Epilogue
The Reaping Day comes too soon. It always seems to be so distant and then it’s suddenly just around the corner. Sergio used to fear that day. He doesn’t fear it anymore. He fears nothing anymore.
He stands with the others on Valencia’s main square. When he came back from the last Games, Valencia looked different. They escorted him to the Victors’ Village right away but he did catch glimpses of the streets, of the half-washed graffiti on the walls, holes left after bullets, broken windows and armed Capitol soldiers guarding the streets.
Now everything looks almost normal again. The square has to look normal for the Capitol, at least.
It’s the 51st year. No surprises, no extra participants, nothing unusual. For the next twenty-five years the Games will be the same. If last year Bojan wasn’t picked, he would never be.
Florentino has his usual speech and Sergio can feel the hatred burning inside of him. Florentino always gets what he wants, now he knows it. Last year he was the closest to defeat, when the Games almost didn’t go his way. Almost. But he didn’t really need to worry. He could have been almost sure one of the three remaining tributes would snap finally. The prospect of being one step away from going back home was more than any rebellious thoughts. Not that Sergio doesn’t understand it. He almost doesn’t feel like he belongs here anymore, because Valencia at least tried to fight.
But then, it’s just Valencia. They are the only ones of this spirit. Florentino doesn’t really have to worry.
“After the events of last year’s Games, the rules have been slightly altered,” Florentino says and sips on his pinkish lemonade. “There will be no reaping and no volunteers anymore.”
Sergio knows his heart should start beating faster now. Whatever it means, it’s nothing good. It can mean anything, it can mean even that he could be going back to the arena because if Florentino changed the rules, then the one about the former Victors not being eligible could be simply declared void. Only that his heart beats normally. He simply doesn’t care anymore.
“Instead of the tributes being reaped...” Florentino makes a dramatic pause.
There is a cut and the cameras show the crowds in various districts waiting for the new rules to be announced. Sergio can see the Real Madrid crowd with mostly determined faces, the Barcelona one, looking mostly indifferent. Then the Atlético Madrid appears and Sergio can see the three boys that ran to hug Koke after his victory, now huddled together in the crowd, holding hands tightly like in a silent prayer. Athletic Bilbao look mightily upset about the no-volunteers rule, and slightly curious as well. Then it’s Valencia’s turn. Sergio notices that the crowd looks different this year. Mostly people are plain worried about being picked, or the people they love being picked. This year they look... angry.
Florentino is back in the picture, calming the excited Capitol crowd with gestures that somehow remind Sergio of Cristiano Ronaldo’s signature gesture.
“Instead of the tributes being reaped...” Florentino repeats.
The crowd in the Capitol goes silent.
“The last Victor from the district will choose the two tributes.”
Sergio can feel the hundreds of scared eyes on him, and he wants to throw up.
THE END.