Chapter Text
The forest is on fire. Sergio can smell the burning wood, he can feel the air around him grow hot and heavy. He runs without knowing where, just away from the fire. A fire ball hits a tree on his right and he changes the direction. He almost can’t breathe and wonders if he will die of asphyxia before the flames get to him. He sort of hopes he does.
Suddenly a wall of fire appears in front of him and he stops. He turns back but there is nothing but fire and more fire. The flames are closing around him and there is nowhere to run now. He curls up on the ground, just waiting for the blackness to swallow him.
“Sergio!” a familiar voice breaks through the walls of fire and makes them disappear. “Sergio, wake up!”
He sits up abruptly, gulping the fresh air of his bedroom. Then he looks at the familiar face next to him. Bojan looks worried a little bit, but there’s some understanding in it as well.
“Bojan?” Sergio asks breathily. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Eredivisie.”
“I was, but they called me back,” Bojan shrugs. “I don’t know why.”
He hands Sergio a bottle of chilled water. Sergio unscrews the cap and drinks half of it.
“Again the nightmares?” Bojan asks.
“Yes,” Sergio nods. “The fire ones again. They come back stronger at this time of the year.”
“You know they can’t send you back,” Bojan says quietly. “The victors can’t go back. It’s in the rules.”
“I know,” Sergio sighs. “I’ll still have to go to the Capitol and watch two other people from here die, most likely. That’s bad enough.”
Bojan nods. He knows he will never understand Sergio’s fear, his nightmares, the way he has to feel. He watched the 47th La Liga Games, watched Sergio kill other people in order to survive, feared for his life, he remembers the fire that’s been haunting Sergio’s dreams for almost three years. He saw Sergio go almost insane, saw him cry over the body of the other Valencia tribute, saw him avenge his friend’s death and saw him win. But watching the games is different than competing in them.
He will never know what it is like. As he was sent abroad by the La Liga government, he is exempted from the reaping. It’s a certain privilege, a way La Liga compensates it to him. It’s different from the other eight districts who are exempted because they are practically slaves to the Capitol. The Capitol don’t even regard them worthy of competing in the Games. They obviously have no idea how happy those districts are about it.
“I’ll wait for you here and when it’s over...” he starts.
“It’s never over, Bojan,” Sergio whispers. “When you exit the arena, it’s not the end. More like the beginning.”
Bojan can sense that he isn’t talking just about the Victory Tour and mentoring other tributes. He remembers all the times Sergio had to go to the Capitol for the annual tour and returned with expensive things and a strange, absent look in his eyes. He never had the courage to ask him about it.
“The president will announce the rules of the Games tomorrow,” Sergio says, getting up from the bed. “It’s the 50th year.”
“Yes,” Bojan says.
He feels uneasy talking about something that means so much to Sergio and so little to him.
“50th year means something special,” Sergio continues. “I just hope it’s not going to be more of the tributes.”
“We can watch it together if you want,” Bojan offers.
Sergio nods absent-mindedly. Bojan hugs him and kisses him, but knows well that he will never be able to kiss Sergio’s fears away. The Games built a wall between them and he can’t tear it down.
*
The next day they sit on the couch in Sergio’s house in the Victors’ Village in Valencia. Everything in the house still looks new because Sergio never learned to really use it. He grew up in the poor part of the district, before the Games he was almost dying of hunger. Having a luxurious house and enough food is something he never imagined he could have.
They switch on the TV and sit close to each other. Bojan can sense the different feelings they have. Sergio is nervous, afraid even, Bojan is only mildly curious.
La Liga anthem sounds from the TV and the badges of all twelve major districts appear on the screen. Then President Florentino Pérez walks out on a balcony under which the people of Capitol are waiting to hear the rules of the 50th La Liga Games.
“This is the 50th year of La Liga Games!” he announces and the crowd starts cheering. “This year, we will have twenty-six tributes instead of twenty-four. The two extra tributes will be reaped from those citizens of La Liga who had to spend time abroad, to show them that they still belong in La Liga and that they are still welcome here.”
Bojan thinks that his heart stopped beating. His hand finds Sergio’s.
“Those tributes can have a mentor of their choice, of the former victors or not.”
Florentino drinks a bit of something that looks like pink lemonade and smiles widely.
“The tributes will be reaped now by a special escort here in Capitol and they will join the others after the usual reaping. This will give them enough time to find mentors of their own.”
The cameras find a young woman, unmistakeably from the Capitol. She is standing close to a glass ball full of small papers.
Bojan feels sick when he realizes that his name is in the ball. Sergio’s hand in his is slack and when he turns his head to him, he can see that his eyes are closed and his lips are shaking.
The escort reaches in the ball, picks a name and walks over to the microphone in the middle of the stage she’s on. She looks slightly nervous. It’s probably her first time being an escort and she is now on one stage with the President.
“Gerard Deulofeu!” she reads and smiles proudly that she pronounced it right.
The crowd claps their hands as Gerard’s picture appears on the big screens around the square. Without a doubt they took it from his official file because he looks terrible on it.
The escort picks the second name and unfolds the paper.
Sergio whimpers and bites his lip. Bojan squeezes his hand.
“It’s fine, they’re not going to pick me,” he whispers. “There are hundreds of names, they’re not going to pick me, it’s not going to be-”
“Bojan... Krkić!”
The escort blushes at her stuttering with his last name but the clapping of the crowd gets her out of her misery.
Bojan blinks a few times, hoping the image will go away, but it’s still there. He is looking at his picture on the screen.
*
When he finds Sergio again, he is in the garden of his house, hiding behind the bushes, rocking back and forth, mumbling something. Bojan feels like he is about to go insane himself, so he can’t allow Sergio to go insane as well.
Crouching next to him, he collects him in his arms.
“Sergio!” he says. “Sergio, please, stop!”
Sergio gives him a frightened look.
“You have to go!” he whispers. “You have to run away!”
“Where to?” Bojan shakes his head. “Nobody can run away from La Liga.”
Sergio’s lips tremble.
“Listen to me,” Bojan says with the last remnants of sanity. “I want you to be my mentor.”
“What?” Sergio whispers. “No, Bojan, I can’t... you have to find someone who knows...”
“How to survive?” Bojan smiles. “You do know that, you survived. I trust you, Sergio. You and no one else. Will you do it for me?”
Sergio just keeps looking at him for a long time. Then he closes his eyes.
“Alright,” he whispers. “I will.”
*
The train taking them to the Capitol is the most luxurious thing Bojan has ever seen. It is decorated like a palace and there is a table full of food waiting for them.
However, Sergio doesn’t look like he could eat anything and Bojan also doesn’t really think about food.
They switch on the TV in one of the carriages to watch the replay of the reaping. They will see the other tributes in the Capitol, but Sergio insists that the sooner they know them, the better.
The escort for Real Madrid, Pilar Rubio, is well known even outside the Games, same as the escorts for Barcelona and Atlético Madrid. They are celebrities simply because they are escorts for the best districts. On the other hand, nobody ever knows who the escorts for Granada or Getafe are.
“Welcome, welcome!” Pilar smiles when the cameras turn to her. “It’s time for us to select two courageous young men to represent Real Madrid in the 50th La Liga Games!”
She approaches the glass ball and lets her hand circle above the papers with names for a good while before picking one and walking back to the microphone. She unfolds it slowly and pauses for a moment like she has to say the name in her mind before speaking it out loud.
“Luka Modrić!”
It takes a while for the tribute to walk up to the stage and to Pilar’s displeasure he looks like he wants to be anywhere else but there. From Real Madrid she is used to seeing more enthusiasm, she’s already escorted big champions, names such as Cristiano Ronaldo or Iker Casillas are all a part of her portfolio. This reaping is too quiet and awkward.
To save the moment, she walks over to the bowl again and draws another name. Unfolding the paper, she smiles and looks over the crowd.
“Álvaro Morata!” she announces.
The crowd stirs a little bit, but nothing else happens. Pilar resists the urge to frown.
“Where are you, darling?” she coos. “Don’t be shy!”
When Álvaro finally steps out of the crowd, he indeed looks more shy than afraid. Pilar smiles encouragingly.
“Very well,” she says, trying to think about other things to say to break the embarrassing silence. “It’s a great honor. Won’t you give your tributes a round of applause?”
A half-hearted clapping sounds from the crowd when the two tributes shake hands. Pilar smiles widely for the cameras and it’s all they see before the badge of Real Madrid appears on the screen again.
“Well, these don’t look that hard to beat, do they?” Bojan asks.
“Because they didn’t want to be reaped?” Sergio frowns. “That doesn’t mean they are not tough and won’t fight for their lives.”
“Of course, everyone will, but I mean... they are not Careers.”
“No. But they’ll have Ronaldo and Casillas as mentors,” Sergio sighs. “And those two know how to survive.”
The stage in Barcelona is decorated with the blaugrana flags. The escort is Shakira, famous even outside La Liga. She’s wearing a red sequined dress that is shining in the sun and platform shoes to make her taller. Despite her appearance being no different from the other escorts from the Capitol, at least she looks somewhat more solemn and respectful than Pilar.
When she reaches in the ball, she digs deep in the papers, picking one almost from the bottom.
“Sergi Roberto!” she announces.
She doesn’t have to look for the tribute for too long as he is standing in the first line. He walks the stairs surprisingly calmly. At least judging by his appearance nobody would expect him to be one of the proud and courageous ones.
“You don’t look very surprised,” Shakira notes.
“How could I,” Sergi says bluntly. “My name was there eighty times.”
Shakira smiles at him sympathetically and goes back to the bowl. Picking a paper from the top this time, she unfolds it and reads the name.
“Pedro Rodríguez.”
Pedro walks up to the stage and shakes hands with Sergi.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Barcelona tributes, Sergi Roberto and Pedro Rodríguez!” Shakira announces. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”
Bojan looks at Sergio who looks half worried, half distressed.
“Another one like that,” he sighs.
“Like what?” Bojan asks.
“Like me.”
Bojan bows his head. He knows Sergio’s story, knows how many times his name was in the reaping the year he had to go to the Games. Before he can say something, the Atlético Madrid badge appears on the screen and he lifts his head again.
Sara Carbonero, the escort for Atlético Madrid, is another celebrity. There is one special thing about her – she is dating a former victor from Real Madrid, Iker Casillas, who will also be one of the mentors.
She doesn’t beat about things as much as Pilar, but also doesn’t show any sympathy like Shakira. She is purely professional.
“Diego Costa!” she announces after drawing the first name.
A man in the second row smirks and walks up to the stage. He looks like someone who would calmly volunteer if he felt like it, but was too lazy to do it. Sara gives him an appreciative smile and reaches in the bowl again.
“Jorge Resurección!”
This time she has to wait longer as the tribute is standing quite far from the stage and also has to free himself from the grip of the man standing next to him. When the cameras focus on his face, he looks like he doesn’t yet fully understand what is happening. When Costa shakes his hand and smirks at him, he just looks at him with a stern face.
“Looking at you, gentlemen,” Sara says contentedly. “I believe in an Atlético Madrid victor this year.”
“Well,” Sergio says. “She may be right.”
“That Costa looks like he would kill his own mother to win the Games,” Bojan nods.
The escort for Athletic Bilbao appears on the stage in an exquisite green dress. She puts all her effort into creating a solemn atmosphere, and it doesn’t even take much effort here. It’s what makes the reaping easier for her. Before she can reach into the ball, a man steps out of the crowd.
“I volunteer as tribute!” he announces.
The escort smiles contentedly and spreads her arms.
“Come up, then!” she bellows and waits for him to walk up to the stage. “What’s your name?”
“Carlos Gurpegui.”
“Very well, Carlos,” the escort says and turns back to the bowl. “And now...”
“I also volunteer,” another voice sounds from the crowd and another man steps out.
It almost takes the escort by surprise, but she composes herself and motions for him to come up.
“And your name?”
“Ander Iturraspe.”
“Brilliant!” the escort’s smile gets wider. “Ladies and gentlemen, our tributes for the 50th La Liga Games, Carlos Gurpegui and Ander Iturraspe. Shake hands, please!”
The two shake hands in a friendly way, suggesting that they knew all along that they would end up there together and that they are only going to become opponents later on in the arena. Taking them around the shoulders, the escort gives the cameras a perfectly practiced smile.
“I just love Bilbao!” she states.
“They almost looked happy to go there,” Bojan whispers.
“The two probably waited for years for this opportunity,” Sergio says. “Bilbao are fierce, it’s a matter of honor to fight in the Games for them. They know what they’re doing.”
“So I should watch out for them.”
“Definitely.”
“So far you told me to watch out for everybody!” Bojan objects.
“That’s right,” Sergio nods. “Because you have to watch out for everybody. But I’m putting up a special warning on these two.”
The next few teams are a blur. Nothing exceptional happens in Villarreal, where Bruno Soriano and Tomás Pina are selected. Soriano looks indifferent and Pina is somewhat cheerful, thought nobody can be sure if it’s not just a game he plays for the cameras. Real Sociedad select Haris Seferović and Rubén Pardo, for Sevilla the tributes are Diogo Figueiras and Ivan Rakitić. Sergio points out that he expects Modrić and Rakitić to become allies later on, but it’s just a deduction. Levante select Juanfran and Nagore, Espanyol Kiko Casilla and Felipe Mattioni. Then the Valencia badge appears on the screen and Sergio tenses.
The escort looks a lot less enthusiastic than the ones from the first four teams. She reaches in the ball and reads the name on the paper.
“Paco Alcácer!”
“No, no, not Paco!” Sergio whispers. “His life is shit even without the Games!”
The tribute makes his way through the crowd slowly. He looks like he is about to faint any moment.
“I volunteer.”
All heads snap towards the place where the voice came from. The man walks out of the crowd, lays a hand on Paco’s shoulder and then walks up the stairs.
“Well,” the escorts says, taken aback – volunteers are not a common thing in Valencia. “What is your name?”
“Diego Alves.”
“I suppose you are... related somehow?”
“No,” Diego says dryly. “Does it matter?”
The escort smiles awkwardly and reaches for the other paper.
“Joao Pereira!”
Joao looks like someone hit him in the face at first, but composes himself and joins Diego on the stage. After the escort cheerfully says “May the odds be ever in your favor!”, Joao just shakes his head and looks at Diego.
“Yeah, they totally will be,” Diego smirks.
Bojan looks at Sergio shyly. He knows that to survive, he has to kill also these two tributes. People Sergio apparently knows. He doesn’t know how on Earth he is going to do it. Probably he will have to hope for someone else to kill them so that if the odds get crazy and he by some miracle survives, he will not be ashamed to look Sergio in the eyes.
Nothing interesting happens in Granada where Yacine Brahimi and Francisco Medina, called by Brahimi “Piti”, are selected. Getafe select Miguel Ángel Moyá and Alexis Ruano. Alexis actually has quite some attitude for someone from a district like Getafe, but as Sergio doesn’t really warn Bojan about him, Bojan doesn’t pay a lot of attention to him.
The emission ends with the La Liga anthem. Sergio switches off the TV and looks out of the window of the train.
Bojan watches him for a moment, biting his nails nervously.
“Sergio?” he asks then.
“What?”
“That Diego... why did he volunteer?”
“He’s just like that,” Sergio says curtly.
“And...”
“You better get ready,” Sergio says. “We’ll be in the Capitol soon.”
Bojan sighs deeply. He understands that Sergio has feelings, but this definitely isn’t the mentoring he imagined. Taking a piece of meat from the table, he retreats in his compartment and bangs the door behind him.