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+1. Shiro is fifteen when he’s taken away from District Twelve.
Shiro is fifteen when his name is pulled out of the glass jar, one unlucky scrap of paper among all the others. It’s one out of four, this year: the Quarter Quell means the Capitol has the right to be twice as nasty, twice as brutal.
Four Tributes from each District are called, Reaped, forced to walk down the silent crowds of families and friends to the podium in front of the Justice Building. To stand beside three others all headed for the same fate. The other male tribute is younger than Shiro; the two girls split the difference. They’re it. They’re this year’s ‘chosen ones.’
Shiro stands next to his fellow Tributes and refuses to cry.
10. Shiro’s allowed to say goodbye to his friends and the adults in his life who care about him.
He doesn’t have a family, per se, but his aunt comes. A few of his favorite teachers visit. Keith.
Keith.
Keith is the only real friend who comes to visit him in those final few moments in the Justice Building. Keith who still hasn’t fully hit his growth spurt yet, Keith who clings to Shiro like the world is ending - and, honestly, it might be. Shiro wraps his arms tightly around Keith and buries his face in Keith’s scrawny shoulder - too thin, too thin - and, for a blessed heartbeat of minutes, holds on.
“You have to come back,” Keith urges, when they’ve pulled away. At fifteen Shiro’s gained at least some semblance of height; at thirteen, Keith hasn’t. Keith’s gaze up at him is earnest, sincere and so worried. “Promise me, Takashi. You have to come back.”
“I’ll try,” Shiro says. The use of his first name is jarring; he and Keith aren’t like this, usually. The task ahead is too daunting. Shiro’s not going to cry. “But Keith - ”
“Do better than try,” Keith insists. He’s too thin, not yet hit his growth spurt, and all Shiro can think about is who’s going to take care of Keith now that Shiro isn’t there. Keith’s eyes flash, hard and focused. “Win.”
Winning means killing three others. No; forty-seven. The odds aren’t good.
“Keith,” Shiro manages.
“I brought you something,” Keith says, pulling away to dig in his pocket. “Here.”
A thin beam of sunlight breaks through the window, glinting weakly off the small copper object in Keith’s hand.
“Keith,” Shiro says again, his breath caught in his throat. He cups his hands beneath Keith’s; the little rusted key dangles on the string between Keith’s fingers, between their hands. “I can’t take that from you, that’s - that goes to your father’s - ”
“The shack’s a dump and we both know it,” Keith says, before Shiro can. His eyes shimmer, but his chin is set firm. “I need you to take it.”
“I can’t,” Shiro breathes. He can’t take his eyes off Keith. “Keith, that’s all you have.”
“No, you’re all I have,” Keith corrects, and pushes the key into Shiro’s right hand. Pushes until Shiro’s forced to take it or drop it; pushes until Shiro wraps his fingers around the little rusted key, and Keith can wrap his hand around Shiro’s, holding fast. “I’m sorry it’s not a pin or something you can wear. But you’re allowed one Token, and I want you to take this.”
There’s a lump in Shiro’s throat, thick and cloying. The little key warms in his hand. In both their hands.
“When I come back,” Shiro promises, the words tripping heavy off his tongue. He brings his other hand up and lays his left palm over Keith’s hand; wraps their hands together, squeezing tight. A bright flicker of a smile spreads across Keith’s face. Shiro drinks that in, memorizing this moment. The way Keith’s bangs fall almost into his eyes, dark and mesmerizing. The way the light from the window catches in his half-smile just right. The way Keith looks at him, earnest and sincere and hopeful and scared and so, so. “We won’t need this key. We’ll have a house in Victor’s Village.”
“You’ll have a house,” Keith repeats, quiet.
“And you’re coming with me,” Shiro says, squeezing Keith’s hands again. “I promised you once I wouldn’t leave you. This is temporary.”
“Keep that promise, Takashi Shirogane,” Keith says, fire-fierce. There’s a blaze in his eyes and a sincerity to his words and Shiro desperately drinks this in, too. “I’ll be watching you. Every minute you’re in that arena, I’m here. I’m watching. Come home.”
“Don’t forget to sleep,” Shiro jokes. It’s weak.
“I’ll sleep when you’re home,” Keith corrects, and pulls his left arm free as Shiro does so they can embrace one desperate, final time - Keith’s token tucked tight in their clasped hands, between them.
08. So much happens at lightning speed.
07. Shiro is fifteen when he’s taken away from District Twelve.
They’re whisked to the Capitol via train, via faster-than-anything-he’s-ever-seen-technology. There’s as much to see inside the train as there is outside, with plush purple chairs and glistening metal surfaces and gleaming mahogany tables piled high with food. There is so much splendor and grandeur and so much good, wonderful food - meat and potatoes and fresh apples and candied treats and bread. He nearly eats himself sick. The two younger Tributes do. Shiro can’t blame them. This is more food than he’s seen in a cumulative month.
Too much, and no way to send any of it home.
Stepping off the train into the Capitol City is worse. There are so many species here - Olkari, Taujeerians, even an Arusian or two - and Shiro’s eyes nearly fall out of his head from staring. All types of races and beings walk the streets here, clad in extravagant clothes and dyes and hairstyles and it’s so much color, so much vibrancy, that he doesn’t know where to look. Most prevalent of all are the Galra, towering tall over all but a handful of Olkari. The streets are crowded with them: the street corners, the shops, the ads flashing on towering buildings that Shiro and his fellow Tributes are driven past.
It’s shocking, but it shouldn’t be. Shiro paid attention in history class. The Galra made these streets, just as the Galra made the train that brought him here. The Galra run this city, just as the Galra run the Games. The Galra run the entire nation, because - as history says - that’s their right to. They won the war.
Shiro cannot forget.
06. Shiro is fifteen when he and the other three Tributes from District Twelve meet their mentor.
He’s older, and has not aged well. He looks over the gathered four with glazed eyes and beckons them to follow via a simple jerk of his head. Their mentor doesn’t initiate conversation (though the escort from District Twelve does enough of that to talk Shiro’s ear near off). Nor does their mentor even respond to conversation; the girls try, but taper off rather quick. His interactions leave a sour taste in Shiro’s mouth, a sinking deep in the pit of his stomach. Their mentor is supposed to help them. He’s supposed to be in charge. He’s supposed to make sure they survive.
Instead, their mentor disappears for long periods of time, usually with a mumbled excuse that none of them quite manage to catch. When he returns it’s always with that glazed look in his eyes, a careless nonchalance in his slumped posture and weary motions. This ‘mentor’ is, supposedly, the only thing standing between Shiro and certain death, and this mentor is next to nonexistent.
Shiro shuts the door to his rooms - his opulent, lavish, overflowing-with-luxury rooms provided by the Capitol for its Tributes - and leans against the door, struggling. Panic seizes him, digs its fingers into his chest. There’s two days left before the Games and Shiro can’t breathe.
There’s a system here. Shiro knows that. There’s a system, there are rules, and in theory there have to be ways around the rules but Shiro doesn’t know what they are. The system’s been in place as long as the Games have. The system says Mentor. The system says that without one, without someone to guide him and the others, he and the rest of the Tributes from District Twelve are, in essence, doomed.
Keith, Shiro thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. Keith.
05. Their mentor’s incompetence is how Shiro ends up on the outskirts of one of the whirlwind parties, holding a glass full of too-bright red liquid and staring into the extravagant crowd.
The rest of his team - his friends - his, what even should he call them? - the rest of those from his District are in the crowd somewhere; the two girls are chatting up - or chatting at - a handful of overdressed, near-costumed Galra, who listen with polite interest to whatever Shiro’s friends are saying. The boy from his District, Vence, hangs out at Shiro’s side, close and silent.
“You boys alone?” says a voice by Shiro’s side.
Vence jumps, surprised; Shiro turns to face the speaker. The speaker is a tall man as human as they are, with grey curling hair and rectangular glasses. It’s a friendly face, or at least, Shiro hopes so.
“We’re not,” Shiro answers. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the thump of the music. The lights of the party flash overhead, bright and blinding. “Thank you, sir.”
“Mm,” the man says. Shiro can barely hear him. “Having fun?”
“We’re just waiting for the rest of our group,” Vence says, making a face.
The man’s eyes narrow behind his glasses.
“Waiting,” he repeats, “Have you - sorry, but did the two of you talk to anybody? Are you already sponsored?”
“Are we what?” Shiro asks, politely.
The man’s face hardens at once into a frown Shiro can’t quite place. Their stranger pulls back a step, looking the two of them over, still in the strange outfits the stylist dressed them in for that Parade. Self-consciousness flutters in Shiro’s stomach.
“What District are you from?” the man asks.
“Twelve,” Vence supplies, before Shiro can.
Shiro braces himself - for what, he’s not exactly sure - but the judgement or derision he’s expecting doesn’t come.
“I should have known,” the man says, with a frustrated exhale. “That rotten - where is your mentor?”
“In the washroom,” Shiro says, at the same time Vence says “gone.”
“I’ll bet he is,” the man grumbles, under his breath. “Listen. Come with me, I’m going to introduce you to a few folks.”
“You don’t have to,” Shiro starts.
“Someone does,” the man says, firm. “I’m Sam, Sam Holt. I can’t help you every night, but I can tonight. Where’s the rest of your group?”
04. The rest of the events leading up to the Games are a bit of a blur.
Once Shiro understands the purpose of things, the parties are a little easier. It’s easy enough to smile; easy enough to act like this is a great honor. The parties are easy. The Parade is something he’d rather forget entirely.
He’d also rather forget the Training tests.
The grading system is one thing their mentor manages to explain to them with some clarity. It’s a room full of weapons, of skill stations; it’s a room where it’s important to get a good number. It’s a room where those who have less training than the Careers, currently showing off at the weapons station, can at least try to catch up.
It’s a room and it’s another way for the Capitol to claim that everyone gets a fair shot.
“We should split up,” Shiro says, low to his group after their mentor drops them off. “Vence, if you spend time at the - edible plants station - ”
“I’m not learning about plants,” Vence says, in mild disgust.
“I’ll learn,” the littlest of their group, Pren, pipes up.
“You learn plants, then,” Shiro says, relieved. “Vence, pick something that interests you. I know something about knot-tying, so I’ll start there.”
“You think survival skills are going to help us?” Aza retorts. “I’m headed for the weapons.”
Her voice is sharp, but there’s a dangerous wobble underneath her words. Shiro went to school with her. Shiro knows her better than this. “If we each learn something different, we can share our knowledge,” Shiro tries. “And if we stick together, that increases - “
“It’s not going to matter, Shiro,” Aza says, weary, haughty. “Not all of us grew up climbing under fences.”
She turns on her heel and marches away towards a station set up across the room, where an attendant is demonstrating how to use a short sword.
“Shiro?” Pren asks, nervously. “Do you really think…?”
Shiro swallows.
“Our chances are better if we stick together,” he says, firmly, and leads the two little ones across the room.
03. Sticking together or not, the Judging where the numbers are assigned is done alone.
Shiro stands in the room, the floor empty of all but him, and runs through what he knows. Up above, the observation room is full of Galra, mingling, talking. A few are watching, but not many. Most are eating from the tables set up behind them, except one. One Galra, however, studiously watches Shiro’s entire ‘performance’. His golden eyes never waver.
By the time Shiro finishes and can look up again, the Galra in question has turned away, speaking to a second Galra with the more distinctive tufted ears and fur. Shiro’s Galra - the first Galra - doesn’t have those. His ears are more pointed; his fur is lighter; the tufts of his head-fur are geometric and white.
Shiro doesn’t realize he’s staring until the first Galra - Shiro’s Galra - turns back towards him. Blinks. Shiro blinks too, startled and self-conscious.
“You’re dismissed,” the voice says over the loudspeaker at that moment, and Shiro scrambles out of the room and away.
He doesn’t think about the strange Galra again.
02. Time is a commodity Shiro doesn’t have.
None of them do.
Aza caves and shows them what she learned in the Training sessions. Shiro sits back and watches as Aza coaches Pren and Vence through some basic sword-and-spear work using improvised materials from their assigned quarters. Their mentor, as usual, is nowhere to be seen.
None of them talk about tomorrow.
Eventually the four of them run out of things to teach; Pren is nervous and didn’t remember much. They drift to their respective rooms, and Shiro closes the door behind him and stares out the window.
The window can be set to so many things. It’s the skyline of the city; it’s a forest, deep and lush. It’s a meadow, wide and bright. Shiro dims the settings with the remote until nighttime falls over the field, the moon rising in a quiet twilight hush.
Keith, Shiro thinks, staring out at it. Logically he knows the moon is fake; he knows it’s a projection, knows that the quiet coo of turtledoves and hum of crickets and frogs is synthesized, and not real. But he and Keith have snuck out so many times after curfew, hunting in the woods at night - trying to get enough to feed themselves, just themselves, and a little extra to sell - that if Shiro doesn’t think too hard, maybe he could be back there. Maybe Keith’s just running late, maybe he’s waiting for the moon to rise fully before picking his way through the trees by the moon’s fragile, silver light. Keith might be late; Keith might be anywhere. Keith might be home, waiting for him. Keith is home, waiting.
That thought - hurts.
You’re all I have, Keith had said. Shiro grips at the key hanging around his neck. He has a chain for it, now, thanks to Sam. Sam, who’s already done so much more than Shiro’s own mentor even could have. Even will, probably. When Shiro goes into that Arena tomorrow, he’s on his own.
I’m going to try, Keith, Shiro vows, I’m going to try.
01. Little things stand out with sharp, sickening clarity.
The roar of the helicopter in his ears as Shiro stands in the hangar with the three other Tributes from District Twelve, saying goodbye to a useless mentor. The air brushes past his face, lifts his bangs. It’s busy. It’s bitter. It’s not reassuring.
Boarding the helicopter. The clank of metal stairs beneath the soles of his broken-in, uniform boots.
The straps of the seat digging in to his shoulders. Pren in the seat next to Shiro, pale as a ghost. She isn’t crying, though her chin wobbles. Later Shiro will remember being viciously proud of her. Remembers pressing a hand to grip her knee.
The sting of the needle pushing against his arm, injecting the Tracker so he can’t get lost. It burns under his skin for a moment. It’s heavy. It subsides.
He can still feel it.
The cold breeze of recycled air in the last room before the arena, small and dark. Vence and Ava and Pren were shuffled off in different directions as soon as the helicopter landed. Except for his stylist, Shiro is alone.
The stylist reaching out to tug at the chain of Shiro’s token, pulling the chain out from under Shiro’s collar so that the rusted key lays on top, visible and raw.
“I don’t want them to see,” Shiro protests. His words come to him distantly, as if through suffocating water. His hands are shaking.
“It’s alright,” his stylist soothes him. She’s smiling gently; how can she be smiling? Shiro’s not confident at all. “Let them know you have something to fight for.”
The quiet tap of his feet as he steps onto the platform, reluctant, trapped. The seal of the glass, locking him in.
The weight of that little key against his chest, still. Small. Sure.
The hum of the tube as it rises. The dark of the tunnel.
The bright blur of sunlight overhead, breaking through as the top of the tube opens and Shiro squints against the sudden light as he is pushed into the chill rush of air and up into the arena,
up into a world where the sun gleams off of grey-white stone, off stone and dirt and the absolute ruins of a city left abandoned. Of stone towers rising behind and above him with their turrets crumbled and broken, ruined buildings at ground level with the wind whistling through empty broken doors, fluttering ragged fabric, with streets stretching off to right and left and everywhere in a grid that might make sense if he could see, if he could get out, but here he cannot see, there’s no time, Shiro’s in the middle of the arena in an enormous plaza, maybe, and as soon as he steps down he’ll be on stone and there’s so many others to his right and to his left, and he can’t find Vence or Pren or Ava in the slew of Tributes all around - all forty-eight of them, all curving in a circle around the giant metallic horn of the Cornucopia that’s stoked full of weapons and bags and boxes and survival and death and not enough time.
The ticking clock above the Cornucopia.
Counting down.
00. The announcement:
“Let the fiftieth Hunger Games begin - and may the odds be ever in your favor.”
Yes, some things Shiro remembers.