Chapter Text
It’s almost two o’clock.
John takes a deep breath, grabs his sister’s hand, and leads them towards the square.
“Don’t worry Harry,” he says, sounding a lot more calm than he actually feels. “You won’t get picked.”
It’s her first time. Her name’s in once. She won’t get picked.
He, on the other hand, does not have the odds in his favour. Five times for his age, then fifteen for the tesserae. It’s a cruel system, where each number of tesserae applications is added to the previous. When he was twelve, he started out with three for tesserae. But then the next year was six, then nine… And now fifteen. Despite the fact that he and his family only get just enough grain to survive a year. He wants to tear his eyes out every time he sees those stupid Capitol posters: ‘I have plenty to eat thanks to my tesserae!’ He’d have plenty to eat if all the food made by the districts wasn’t sent to the Capitol just to be wasted. But that’s the system, and he can’t change it.
Harry, being the youngest, is pushed to the back of the roped areas, and he is put near the front, with only the other seventeen and eighteen year olds in front of him.
He looks up to the Mayor, who has just stepped forwards. The sunshine hurts his eyes, and he finds it hard to look at the Mayor, but he forces himself not to look away. Now’s not the time to get in trouble for disobedience or whatever the Peacekeepers can cook up.
The Mayor starts to read the history of the Hunger Games the moment the clock in the town square strikes two. He then reads the list of previous district eight winners. The list is not long, but it’s not short either. In fact, one of the hardest parts of watching the Reapings is hearing the list of two district twelve winners, and watching the remaining one collapse about the stage, completely smashed. Everyone knows that the Hunger Games is basically a slaughter house for district twelve. Of course, it’s a slaughter for everyone, but district twelve more than most, them being the poorest, weakest and least trained of all the districts. Poor things almost never even survive the first five minutes. Possibly the one advantage John can see to living in district twelve, is that they apparently have the most laid back Peacekeepers. He’s even heard that some of the Peacekeepers there know about the fact that some of the citizens sneak out to the woods surrounding it to hunt, and more than that, buy food from them! He holds back a snort, imagining him trying to sell illegal food to one of their Peacekeepers. It’d be a death sentence.
He’s so lost in thought that he almost doesn’t hear their escort, Trill Glamour, announce happily, “Ladies first!” With a jolt, he focuses on her hand, the two inch long shocking pink nails getting in the way of her attempt to choose a pig for the slaughter.
Don’t be Harry, don’t be Harry…
“Sarah Sawyer!” she cries with a grin, finally pulling out a slip of paper and reading it.
Guilt washes through his body as he feels only relief for Harry.
Trill’s blinding white teeth flash as she smiles. There’s a collective moan that runs through the audience. It’s always a sad occasion when a twelve year old gets picked. The odds were not in her favour: her name can’t have been in more than a handful of times. Worse still, the poor thing is making her way up to the stage, shaking like a leaf. Trill throws an arm around her, and laughs.
“Bet you’re just raring to go!” she comments ignorantly, and John feels the whole of district eight hold back a hiss. “But we have to find your partner first!”
She reaches back into the bowl and John clenches his firsts.
What are his odds? They’re not great, but equally they’re not bad. Then again, what does the number of times his name is in really matter? Sarah had her name in less than five times, and there were perhaps more than a thousand other names to choose from, yet she still got picked. But he has to hope that he has a chance. A chance for him and Harry to get through this alive.
“John Watson!”
John blinks, and waits for the boy to come forward. He frowns and looks to his left and right and sees no one moving. Strange.
Then he hears a scream. Dimly, he recognises it as Harry’s. He looks up at the stage to see Trill grinning down at him.
The realisation hits him like a freight train. It takes a monumental amount of self-control to stop himself from collapsing to the ground, which he does by clenching his fists even tighter. He thinks his fingernails might be biting to hard into the flesh of his palms, because blood trickles through his fingers.
He will not faint. He refuses to show such weakness in front of all the watching districts. Like a robot on autopilot, he makes his way up to the stage.
Trill makes another vapid comment, but John’s not listening. He’s watching Harry, who’s screaming and crying and being held back by a couple of other twelve year olds. They’re looking at each other nervously, scared that Harry won’t shut up before the Peacekeepers come and make her. Harry rakes her nails down one girl’s arm, but to her credit, the girl grits her teeth and doesn’t let go. He focuses on the struggle so that he doesn’t have to think of anything else.
District eight is an unlikely win. Not impossible, but not likely. And he can kill, he knows that.
But will he?
He sneaks a glance at Sarah and feels his stomach twist uncomfortably. If he comes face to face with Sarah, even for Harry, he’s not sure he’d be able to murder a twelve year old girl. And there are bound to be others, from other districts, children he will have to murder. It’s too much to hope that he can hide out till the end. So yes, he can kill. But murder is another category entirely. He’s not so sure he can murder.
*****
After the whole ceremony’s done, he’s lead to a rich, velvet room. He would spend more time enjoying it if it wasn’t a reminder that he’s likely never to touch the stuff again. Huh. No more making fabrics for those stupid Capitol sheep. He barks a laugh. Perhaps there is an upside to this dying thing.
Harry bursts into the room and, tears streaming down her face, throws herself into John’s lap. They don’t say anything for most of the time. There’s nothing to say. He’s received a death sentence, and nothing they say can make them forget it.
When there’s about five minutes left, he pulls Harry to her feet and makes her look him in the eye.
“Make sure to help dad out, while I’m gone, okay? You gotta make sure someone’s taking my place at his side, okay?”
Harry nods and sniffs, wiping her nose across the back of her hand.
“And Harry…” John pauses, wary of his next words. “Harry, I know how most family members go in our district.” He grabs her arm, and holds it tightly. “Don’t go onto Morphling.” Harry averts her eyes, but he drags her face back to his. “Harry I need you to promise me. It’s especially important because you’ll have access to it, when you help dad. Please, Harry,” he begs.
“My brother’s going to die, what do you expect me to do!” she snaps. “You know I’ve never been good at keeping clear of stuff that’s dangerous for me, and now looks like the perfect excuse!”
She sounds a lot older than she should. Jesus this has hit her hard.
“Nice to know you have such faith in me!” John growls.
Harry sags, the fight leaving her. She suddenly looks her age again.
“John,” she sighs. “I wanna believe you’re coming back but… We’re district eight. Textiles. What have you got going for you that means you can outdo the other tributes? I mean, district seven, lumber, those guys have been throwing axes since they were toddlers. District four, been working with hooks and baits and spears all their lives. District three, can do wonders with electronics, kill people with it.” She gently removes her arm from his grasp. “I can’t help but think that the only people you’ve got something on is district twelve.”
She sniffs again, and pulls his right arm towards her, palm facing upwards. She unties the strip of fabric wrapped around her wrist, and reties it around John’s wrist. John takes in the lettering across it in shock: ‘To Harry, from Clara, xx’. She seems to sense his protest, and shushes him.
“It can be your token. Maybe now it can used for something other than mourning.”
He looks at it in silence, and swallows around the lump in his throat.
Eventually, when it feels like he won’t start crying, he says, “I’ve got herbs, and medicines, Harry. Maybe I can hide out till it all blows over.” Harry snorts. He continues over her, “Even if that’s not the case, I’ve been tending to bodies all my life. I know the right places to stick a knife, or strike a blow.”
“But can you actually do it?” she whispers, echoing his earlier worries.
He twists the fabric on his wrist with his hand, worried. After a pause, he says, “I’m not helpless. And that’s enough.”
*****
He feels a little queasy by the time the train’s set off, but it’s not really the speed that’s bothering him. It’s the hungry eyes of all the journalists and reporters at the station, a sharp and jarring reminder that they’re tracking his final days, and that he has worse to come; the unnerving eyes of the Capitol sheep.
He looks over to Sarah, who’s staring out of the window, but it looks like she’s not really taking it in. John feels rather the same. But he forces himself to stop wallowing in misery, because honestly, he can’t afford to waste time doing that, when these are likely to be among his last days. He mutters to Sarah that he’s going to take a shower, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.
When he gets to the shower, he’s surprised to see that there is hot water readily available. In hindsight, he shouldn’t be really, but he’s unused to all this luxury around him that he can actually touch without it being quickly ripped away. The scalding water feels good on his skin, although strange given his usual lack of it, and when he’s finished, he changes into some clothes that he finds outside the door. They’re richer even than his Reaping day outfit. He changes into it, feeling slightly uncomfortable in clothes that are worth enough to buy food for every member of district eight for a week.
When he returns to the dining car, Sarah, Trill and two mentors are sitting at the table. Sarah is no longer unfocussed, but is glaring at the air in front of her. Personally, he can see where she’s coming from.
But he forgets that at the sight of food in front of him. Enough food to last him a month, given to him for one meal. He fights the urge to cram everything down his throat, and instead calmly sits down, and takes a slice of chicken and puts it on his plate. He ignores the gravy, it looking a little too rich for his feeble stomach. He takes almost half of the fruits they put in front of him. His stomach hurts so bad from holding back the desire to just shove everything into his mouth at once, but he knows that his stomach can’t handle it. He has to take things really, really slow.
Trill nods her approval. “Last pair tried too much, too fast and threw up all over the place.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Such lack of manners. My dress was ruined.”
If John spears his chicken a little too hard after she says that, no one says anything.
“… Are you not eating anything?” John asks Sarah, noticing that she hasn’t taken anything. It takes her so long to reply that John had begun to think she hadn’t heard his question.
“Not hungry.”
It’s obvious that she’s lying, but he knows what she means.
“That doesn’t matter,” John replies. “We need to build up our strength as much as possible in the short time we have.”
“Maybe I don’t want to get my stomach unused to being hungry. Might help in the games.”
John sees her point, but disagrees with her privately. But if that’s the way she wants to go, who is he to stop her?
They’re lead to the next compartment along when John is done, to watch the Reapings. He doesn’t take note of all of them. There’s a woman from one who looks like she’s right where she wants to be, and she looks slightly cocky, her eyes glittering. The man with her looks like he’s itching to start already, and John makes a mental note to stay far away from him. No one from two is particularly interesting; they just look like strong, trained kids, but not as dangerous as the guy from one. Three’s girl is nothing special. Three’s guy…
John’s heart jumps into his throat. It’s strange, because the man looks innocent as can be, with big brown puppy dog eyes, but John senses something dangerous about him. Maybe it’s the way he’s smiling, which is odd enough on its own, especially since the girl next to him looks like she’s trying not to cry, but the smile looks kinda like the smile of a wolf who’s just worked out how to unlatch the sheep’s pen. John makes another mental note to never turn his back on that guy. He’d be stabbed in a heartbeat.
He missed four’s, but focuses in time to catch five’s second tribute. A tall, thin, dark haired man. He looks surprisingly relaxed about the whole thing. Not in the way that John imagines he looked, like he’s forcing himself to look relaxed to put off the competition, but the man looks… well, if John had to put a name to it, he’d say ‘bored’. John thinks he almost recognises him.
No one else catches his attention until seven, where there’s an angry looking woman who, almost unnoticeably, has one of her fingers in the hand of the guy next to her, who is wearing a similar expression of discontent. It looks like they might be friends. John grimaces for them. However they go down will be painful. One will either kill the other, or will end up dead by another hand, leaving the other to mourn for their fallen friendship.
Then there’s the couple from eleven. The girl is a mousy thing, looking younger than John thinks she actually is. She looks very much like she’s trying not to let her emotions get the better of her, and to be fair to her, she isn’t crying. The man has his arm around her, looking out at the audience worriedly. John thinks it’s fair to say they’re probably going to form an alliance.
After that, there’s nothing more to do, and he heads to bed. The luxury and softness of the sheets is uncomfortable, but the gentle rocking of the train as it speeds across Panem isn’t.
*****
The one piece of advice he gets from his mentor before the train pulls in is, ‘Don’t squirm, and let the prep team and stylist do whatever they need to.’ Huh. He can’t even remember her name, and he’s meant to be taking advice from her that could save his life.
The Capitol’s people rush to the windows when they recognise the tribute train. John, fighting back bile, smiles and waves cheerily. Maybe not smart, since he doesn’t know his angle for the interviews yet, but perhaps he can pull a few sponsors from this in case his opening and training score go south.
He takes his mentor’s advice, and lets the prep team rip the hairs from his body, and scrub him till his skin’s raw without a word of complaint. He tries very hard to ignore their constant chatter as they hop excitedly, like little birds, around him. Their Capitol accents are so ridiculous, sounding like everything’s a question, and he has to stop himself from imitating them. That probably wouldn’t go down well with them, and then he might end up like one of those poor district twelves from one year, where they were wearing nothing but coal dust.
His costume is disappointingly nothing exciting. The same old sort of thing: a silk peacekeeper’s uniform. He’s irrationally angry, because this is his first shot at getting the stupid citizens to sponsor him, which could be the difference between food and starvation, life and death, and he’s stuck with a stupid piece of material that’s going to make their eyes glide over him and onto greener pastures. Even being naked and covered in coal dust is better than this. At least then he would get noticed.
When he’s dressed, he meets Sarah down at the chariots on the lowest level of the Remake centre. He’s glad to see that she looks about as pissed off as he feels. He nudges her gently.
“Hey, we still have the interviews.”
It doesn’t cheer her up, but he’s really not surprised.
“We might as well be in district fucking twelve,” she spits. He widens his eyes at her language.
“Wow, didn’t expect that from a girl who was shaking when she got called up to the stage.”
He half expects her to turn on him, snap at him, or something, but instead she deflates.
“I’m just feeling so hopeless about the whole thing that I’ve kinda… Become very aggressive,” she admits.
“I didn’t notice,” John says with a small smile. She manages to return it.
She takes a deep breath and says, “Perhaps everyone else will be so drab that we won’t look so… plain.”
They glance at each other, and they’re both aware that it’s highly unlikely. Even if most of the districts are in the same boat as them, district one will always attract attention with their flashy jewels and strong tributes. As they climb onto the chariot, John holds back a groan as he catches sight of district four, their clothes sleek and tight, and made of reflective blues and greens and silvers that imitate the scales of a fish, and they look fantastic. He and Sarah are going to die.
He pauses for a second, feeling someone’s harsh gaze on him, and he turns to see who it is. He forces himself not to recoil as he catches sight of the tribute from district three staring at him, those child-like brown eyes focused on him momentarily. The bastard looks fantastic as well, in a black suit that’s criss-crossed with blue lines that look like a circuit. At least, John thinks that’s what it is, as he’s never seen one up close. The blue parts are crackling with electricity, lighting up his face with a soft blue. It should make him look innocent, but his eyes have been accented with gold eyeliner, which glints in the light and makes it look like his eyes are flashing dangerously.
At least, that’s what John hopes it is.
When they get on the chariot, John knows it’s over. He and Sarah smile and wave and blow kisses to the screaming audience, but the screams are not for them. They’re for the other tributes, the beautiful ones with glimmering costumes. But he’s going to try and get their attention, make them think they’re special. He winks at some of the citizens, presses a finger to his lips like he knows something that he’s decided to share only with them and grins. Some eyes do follow him as he passes, and that’s good enough for him.
When the chariots reach President Snow’s mansion, the horses slow to a stop. Despite himself, John can’t help but watch the screen, which flicks through the districts’ tributes. He is unsurprised to see that once the cameras have flicked through each tribute once, they return to the jaw-dropping ones. The woman from one, wearing a long, floaty dress, which flickers through red, blue, green, orange, with a pattern that looks like light refracting through a gem. The striking man from five, his tight shirt lit up like a light bulb, casting shadows on his face that highlight his cheekbones. And finally, the camera holds on the man from three, the one sparking with electricity, who’s grinning wickedly like this is the most fun he’s had all year.
It disturbs John because, granted everyone expects this to some extent from the careers, but this man is from district three, which isn’t one of the worst off districts, but it’s among the poorest and it’s not a likely win.
Though it is likelier than him.
President Snow finishes his speech, and the horses pull away suddenly. John manages to balance himself in time so as not to fall on his face. That definitely would not give any future sponsors a good impression.
He’s glad that the opening ceremony is over. Mostly because once he gets to floor eight, he can eat. The elevator ride takes longer than he likes and before he’s even properly seated, he starts to pile food onto his plate. Beef first, then peas, then sweet corn, then some food he doesn’t know the name of. The others watch on in silence, except for Sarah who is doing the same as him. As he starts to eat, he thinks that the stylists and mentors are talking, formulating plans, but he doesn’t pay attention. All he can focus on in that moment is eating, and eating well.
It seems that no one settled on a good plan, as when he looks up, done with his meal, they don’t tell him anything. Dessert is brought in, and he is tempted, but again he is wary because he’s not sure his stomach can handle something that it’s so unused to. Sarah seems to make the same decision as him, as they both request to be excused at the same time.
They head to their separate rooms in silence, and he and Sarah bid each other goodnight warily when the corridor splits and they go their separate ways. It’s late, and back in his district, he’d be asleep by now, but instead he paces up and down his room. That day was not a great success, and tomorrow was training. He’s not so sure that’s going to go well.
After half an hour, he stops pacing, crawls into bed and falls into a restless sleep.
*****
“What skills do you have?”
John and Sarah stare blankly at their mentors.
“If you have a skill that you’re unwilling to share with the other, we can ask you separately,” the woman says after a moment.
“No,” John says quietly. “I just don’t really have anything that I think is important.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” the man comments.
John sneaks a glance at Sarah, and then says, “I worked with my father for years at healing; I know all of the medicinal plants that grow in district eight, and a lot that don’t. I know various poisonous and edible plants that can be found in district eight, but I don’t know of any that are found outside. I know a few places on a human body that can kill instantly, and I know a few that will stun. I’m also very good at climbing, and though I haven’t had much practice with trees, I imagine it can’t be more difficult than climbing buildings. I can also shoot a bow and arrow, but I haven’t had much practice that requires steady aim, so I don’t know if I can shoot to kill, and I don’t know if I can catch food with it.”
“That doesn’t seem like nothing,” the woman points out.
“Maybe, but there’s a lot more that I don’t know. I can’t prepare snares, or use spears. I’ve no idea how to fish. District eight has no forests, so I know nothing about them, or how to survive in them. I can’t build a fire. I could go on.”
The woman nods absentmindedly, and John can tell that while he has some redeeming qualities, his drawbacks are numerous, and she probably doesn’t think he’ll survive. The mentors turn to Sarah, and wait for her to speak.
“I… I also know many medicinal plants and herbs that grow in district eight, but I don’t know any that grow outside of it. I don’t know any poisonous or edible plants, other than one or two. I’m very good at using a knife, mainly throwing them, but I’ve only ever killed animals with it, not people. I also know a few fighting techniques that… um… they date from before the foundation of Panem.”
The mentors raise their eyebrows, impressed.
Well shit. Now they think Sarah’s the survivor.
Sarah adds quickly, “But I have the same drawbacks as John. I don’t know how to fish, and I know nothing about forests and I can’t build a fire. I’ve never had to use snares so I don’t know about them either.”
The woman draws a deep breath and says, “Well, it’s better than what we’ve sometimes had to work with before.”
“Okay, when it comes to training, focus on what you don’t know, rather than on what you do.” The man looks at John and says, “You, when you get down there, find out whether your aim with a bow and arrow is good. If it isn’t, work on it. It’s easier to improve on that than start messing around learning how to throw a spear.” He turns to Sarah. “You, learn some more plants that grow outside of district eight, edible and poisonous. You never know what information you might need to use in the Games. Both of you, learn how to build a fire, check out the snares table as well. Don’t bother about fishing; there’s no training for it down there and frankly it’s a waste of your time when you both seem to be able to find other sources of food. Worst comes to worst, it’s likely that we can send you something from your sponsors.”
“When you finish eating you can go down,” the woman says. “Just remember: feel free to show off one of your mediocre to good talents, that’ll keep the careers and such of your back, but keep your special skill for yourself and your private session. Focus on what you need to learn though, rather than scaring off opponents at this stage. Chances are that if you scare them too much, they’ll knock you out at the beginning so they don’t have to face you later.”
He and Sarah head down after eating a full breakfast, in an attempt to prepare themselves. They wait patiently as someone pins a cloth square to each of their backs with their district number on, listening as the head trainer explains the rules to them, and how the training session works. When she’s finished, Sarah and John part ways, as is normal, their mentors having given them no instructions about sticking together.
John, despite his mentors’ wishes, heads not to the wilderness survival or bow and arrow stations, but heads to the plants section. Sarah it seems has taken their instructions more seriously, and is already learning how to build a fire at the survival stations. He knows that it may not be advisable, but he’s very worried about the fact that his knowledge of poisonous and edible plants only extends to those that reside in district eight. Even in the slim, almost infinitesimal chance that they are not planted in a forest like the ones that are outside or in most other districts, that still means that he’s at a disadvantage, or at least doesn’t have the upper hand, because he doesn’t know the plants of deserts, jungles and the like. On top of that, if it turns out he can’t aim for shit, he won’t be able to catch any meat, leaving plants as his only dependable food source. He needs to have good solid knowledge of them then. So he spends a while getting to grips with a few more useful plants, feeling the stares of the Gamemakers on him. He doesn’t think they’re impressed.
After an hour or so at that station, he finally works up the courage to head over to the bows and arrows. He takes his time choosing a bow. Of the little that he remembers of his mother, he can clearly hear her say that you must never underestimate the importance of choosing the correct bow. A bad bow means a bad shot.
He finally gets one he likes and lines up his shots. He doesn’t aim at the dummys, choosing the targets instead for a better idea of his skill. His first arrow misses the board, but does stick in the wall behind it. He’s sure he hears the sniggers of some career tributes, but he ignores them, draws in a deep breath, and tries again. This time he hits the white, and he definitely hears a snort from somewhere. He closes his eyes to calm himself, then opens them and slowly turns around. None of the careers are watching him now, but he knows that one of them was the culprit. It doesn’t really matter, but it kind of pisses him off. But at least they won’t see him as a threat now.
John suddenly frowns, feeling someone’s gaze on him. In the corner, over by the plants station where he was earlier, the tall, thin bloke from district five is watching him carefully, eyes narrowed. John still feels that there is something familiar about him, but he can’t place it. He doesn’t like that, and he looks away. John’s eyes travel across to the next station, snares, where—
John jerks back. If the man from five is observing him, the eerily beautiful man from three is dissecting him. He turns away, feeling too much like a butterfly pinned down on a sheet under his watch. He still feels uncomfortable, but it’s diminished now that he can’t see the man.
John looks to his bow and sighs. He pulls back his bowstring and tries again. This time, he hits black.
By the end of the day, he is hitting the central yellow ring, consistently.