Chapter Text
The darkness was something Luca was well accustomed to. The cold, too. They had been his constant companions for however long he’d been locked up, after all – by now, they were as familiar to him as the sea was to a fish. Maybe the cells for Capital-born prisoners were more comfortable, but for someone born in the districts, luxury was a pipe dream, no matter how well off you were.
Luca had long since stopped caring about his miserable conditions though. What use was there in moping, when his grim sentence would eventually free him anyway? Not that he’d accepted his death, mind you – but what was there to do about it? The Capital prison may have been dingy and drab, but it was sturdy. Inescapable. He’d tried.
Besides, it wasn’t like he had anything to live for. Not that he knew of. The incident that had killed his mentor stole most of his memory as well, leaving him devoid of passion and purpose, and there certainly hadn’t been any messages from distraught family, mourning friends or weeping lovers. There was only one conclusion to draw from it all, and eventually Luca had begun to wonder; why fight for a life without meaning?
Resignation, however, did not erase the anxiety. The nauseating fear of death inherent in every sentient being. His date of execution was uncertain. Why would people who sent twenty-three youths to die each year for their own entertainment bother to be so humane as to tell him which sunrise would be his last?
The cell door rattled open. Luca didn’t move to sit up from where he was sprawled across his tiny cot; he didn’t even bother to look at his visitor. Instead, he laughed, the mirthless sound echoing around the stone chamber. “So, it’s time, then?”
A beat of silence, then a low chuckle. Taken off guard, Luca finally wrenched his gaze upwards to look at the figure standing in the doorway. The dim lighting cast most of his slender figure into shadow, but Luca could still pick out a few details of the man’s suit, enough to know that it was very archaic in style. Most Capital-born people wouldn’t be caught dead wearing last season’s fashions, let alone something so many years out of style. In fact, the only person he knew of that dressed like that was–
“Not quite, Balsa. Though, I expect that day will come soon. Very soon. Unless, of course, you accept my… proposition.”
The President. The President himself was standing in front of him, offering what sounded suspiciously like a chance at salvation. But why? That was the question Luca couldn’t even begin to fathom an answer to.
“A proposition?” His confusion had to be evident in his tone. “What proposition, sir?”
“The Hunger Games are upcoming,” the President explained, as casual as though they were talking about the weather. “In fact, the Reaping is to take place tomorrow.” Well, at least that gave him an idea of how long he’d been locked up. Two months. It was amazing that Luca had lived this long. Or maybe it wasn’t. Execution protocol was not something he’d ever bothered to study, at least as far as his admittedly tenuous memories went.
“Happy Hunger Games,” Luca offered, giving the President a toothy smile. What else was he supposed to do? He knew the Games were entertainment for the Capital folk, and figured the President would be no different.
“Happy Hunger Games indeed.” A touch of amusement filtered into the President’s tone. “In fact, it could be an overjoyous occasion for you. You see, Luca Balsa, my proposition for your execution is that… you participate in the Hunger Games. Voluntarily, as a District Three tribute. If you die, well, your sentence will have been carried out. But should you live…” It was hard to tell, but Luca swore he saw the other man smile – or perhaps smirk. “If you should live, your charges will be dropped and your criminal record wiped clean. You would be free to continue your life in luxury.”
Luca paused. He was being offered a chance to live, if twenty-three people died in his place. Hadn’t he been musing on the meaninglessness of his life mere moments ago? What would be the point of staining his hands in so much innocent blood just to grasp his freedom? He would have to be insane to accept the President’s proposal.
“Alright, sounds good. I accept your offer, sir, and volunteer as tribute.”
Then again, Luca had never claimed to be entirely sane. Madness and greatness could often share a face, after all.
The house was silent, as one would expect at this time. A light breeze drifted into the study through the open window. Aesop was hunched over the desk, carefully grinding minerals and flowers into powders by candlelight. It wasn’t unusual for the young embalmer to be up before the sun; in fact, it was an almost daily occurrence, Aesop finding more comfort in his work than in anything else. His devotion to his craft got him many scared and distrustful looks on the streets, but Aesop honestly didn’t mind. He wasn’t a ‘people person’ by any stretch of the imagination, so their avoidance suited him just fine.
“Aesop?” The sleep-addled voice of his mentor caused the silver-haired man to freeze, shoulders tensing. “What are you doing awake? It’s Reaping Day – you should be sleeping in, not working yourself to the bone.”
Reaping Day. How could Aesop forget? It was his mentor’s favorite holiday. He, like so many others in District Two, was excited by the carnage – perhaps even more so. Aesop couldn’t say he shared that sentiment. Then again, he didn’t really have strong opinions on the Games either way. As long as he wasn’t Reaped, that was enough for him.
“The dead don’t wait,” Aesop replied quietly. Rather than getting his mentor to leave him alone, it caused the older man to burst out in uproarious laughter.
“Nonsense, my boy. Now run upstairs and get some rest, and I will take care of choosing a nice outfit for you. You want to look your best for the cameras, after all! Imagine how wonderful it would be if you were to be Reaped.”
Aesop didn’t try to argue further. Though his mentor seemed pleasant enough, he knew from experience that the man’s demeanour could turn sour in an instant. Mumbling an acquiescence, Aesop grabbed his makeup case and scrambled upstairs to his room.
He didn’t end up getting much more sleep. That wasn’t altogether too surprising, and his restlessness had only been enhanced by the threat of being Reaped looming over his head. Still, his mentor had requested (re: ordered) that he rested, and Aesop was far too afraid of the consequences to deny him.
An outfit had been laid over the solitary armchair in his room during one of his moments of fitful slumber. Examining it, Aesop felt his gut twist. There was nothing wrong with the clothes themselves – in fact, they were quite fetching, and suited him well. A soft yellow shirt and elegant white coat with a gold collar and fingerless gloves. Black-and-white, pinstriped pants that hugged his form and sleek knee-high boots. Still, he knew this to be one of his mentor’s favorite outfits. “You look like an exorcist, cleansing this world of the weak and unworthy,” he had told Aesop one night, firelight illuminating his twisted smile as he stood over a fresh corpse, bloody scalpel in hand.
Aesop allowed himself a single shudder. Took a deep breath, and with shaking hands, donned the ensemble.
His mentor gave a beaming smile as he emerged downstairs, dismissing his apprentice’s downcast gaze and hunched shoulders. “Well, don’t you look positively fit for the occasion! Should you have the honor of standing upon that stage, the other tributes will gaze upon you, and they will know that Death incarnate has come to claim their pitiful souls. You are perfect, young Aesop, as I knew you would be the moment I laid eyes on you. Now, are you ready?”
Ready? How could he be? His mentor’s words chilled Aesop to the bone. He was no harbinger of death. Instead, he saw himself more as a spirit guide, helping the deceased to their final destination. He didn’t dare tell his mentor this, of course. Instead, he gave a single nod, grateful for the spiked mask that covered his grimace.
His mentor talked animatedly as they walked to the plaza, but Aesop had tuned him out. It was the same conversations every year, after all, and Aesop would never anticipate the Reaping with anything but dread and, in the hopeful future, complete apathy.
Instead, he engaged in his own Reaping Day custom; namely, praying to every deity he could think of that he would be spared another year. Perhaps in some far-off universe, only children were Reaped, but that wasn’t the way things worked here. You became eligible for the Hunger Games at the tender age of twelve, and remained as such until you turned thirty. At age twenty-one, Aesop was still in danger for another nine years. It didn’t help that with each year that passed, his name was entered an additional time. This year, his name was entered ten times. Realistically, he knew that his odds were favorable compared to some less fortunate, those who had to sign up for tesserae, but even so, he couldn’t help but worry.
The plaza was swarming with people, as it always was on Reaping Day. Attendance was mandatory, and the rule was strictly enforced. After signing in, Aesop’s mentor shoved him towards the area cordoned off for potential tributes, where he was swallowed up by the crowd. This was when Aesop’s mind began to fade into numbness, a single thought drowning out the din of the environment. Please not me, please not me, please not me.
An eternity (or so it felt) later, a hush fell over the plaza as a tall, slender woman stepped up to the stage. Aesop recognized her; everyone did. Her name was Ann, District Two’s most famous living victor. A black cat trotted at her heels. She was dressed in a delicate red-and-white dress, and her smile was so meek and shy compared to the scowl of the Capital representative she sat next to – Yidhra – that Aesop could almost forget how many lives she had taken. Almost.
Ann’s arrival signalled the proper beginning of the Reaping. The mayor cleared his throat and stepped forward, beginning to drawl his way through the long history of Panem and the Hunger Games. Aesop wasn’t listening. In fact, all he could hear at that moment was the thunderous roar of his own heartbeat.
Soon, much too soon, Yidhra stepped forwards to the podium, tossing her hair over her shoulder haughtily. “As always, it’s a pleasure to be here,” she purred, sickening smirk baring her very unnatural fangs. “Happy Hunger Games. And, of course, may the odds be ever in your favor.”
Yidhra was never one to waste time on ceremony, striding over to the leftmost of the two glass bowls on the stage. Aesop’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the thousands of slips tumble around. The odds were in his favor, weren’t they? They had to be. The notion didn’t stop his body from freezing up as Yidhra withdrew a slip and gleefully called out the name of the first tribute.
“Aesop Carl!”
“Chloe Nair.”
Chloe was no stranger to seeing her own name as a curse. This, though? This was different. In the past, her name had been a grim portent of mediocrity, unwelcome eccentricity, inferiority.
This? This was a death sentence. It had been one for Vera. Why would the savagery that had stolen away her beloved sister spare her, the less loved twin? The imperfect child?
Tears dripped down Chloe’s cheeks as she lay curled up beneath her bedsheets. Grief paralyzed the girl, too young and too frail to cope with the gruesome scene burned into her brain.
Blood. There had been so much blood, staining the pure white snow a somber crimson. It would have been a horrid, traumatizing sight no matter the victim, but Chloe knew her, better than anyone else in all of Panem.
“Vera,” Chloe whimpered, voice weak and cracked. She recalled the tall, broad-shouldered man standing over the lifeless body of her twin sister, bloody mace in hand and disdain in his eyes, and shivered. “Vera!” she cried.
Silence answered her. Chloe’s room was almost stifling in its warmth, heaters on full blast, yet an inescapable chill still gripped the frightened young girl. Heartbreak, maybe, if one’s heart could shatter from lost familial love. Chloe’s parents had never told her as much, but then again, there were many things they’d never bothered to teach her. How to cope with grief, for instance, too busy praising their perfect child, Vera, and drowning themselves in bottles of liquor.
Abandoned by her parents, Vera had been the only person who had ever truly loved Chloe. With her gone, how was Chloe supposed to survive? If only she’d died instead. If only–
The deafening roar of applause and cheers from the crowd drew Chloe from her memories. Excitement. Of course. What else had she been expecting from the filth of District One? They all viewed being Reaped as the greatest honor conceivable. Only she saw it for the horrific abomination it actually was.
Chloe gritted her teeth and straightened her shoulders. The people wanted a show? Fine. She’d give them one. Head held high, she strutted to the stage, throwing in an extra sway of her hips for good measure. The crowd went wild, practically screaming; Percy, the Capital representative, peered at her stoically as she took her position. Galatea, one of their past victors, gave her a sweet smile. Chloe ignored them. As far as she was concerned, they were both just mindless cogs in the reprehensible machine known as the Hunger Games.
“Volunteers?” Percy monotoned. A few young upstarts shifted as though to do exactly that, though a stare from Chloe quickly changed their minds. She was going to win these Games and avenge Vera. No one would steal that from her.
The matter settled, Percy wasted no time in drawing the next name. “Maple Valden.”
Maple Valden turned out to be a small girl, much smaller than one would expect from a nineteen-year-old. Reddish-brown curls flowed down her back, tears pouring from leaf green eyes and spilling down rosy cheeks. Delicate fingers clutched at the skirt of her innocent white dress as she trembled. Maple was fragile, physically and emotionally, and all Chloe could think was that she was easy prey.
Percy paused. Only for a moment. “Vol-”
“I volunteer.” A young man barely older than Maple pushed to the front of the crowd. A ribbon held his brown curls back in a ponytail, and he wore a white blouse with gold trim and gloves. Black shorts highlighted a supple behind, or they would if Chloe had bothered to take notice. Instead, she was focused on his eyes – pretty blue, like the sky above, and blazing with a thinly veiled fire.
“Name?” Percy seemed entirely unaffected by the turn of events, as he always was.
The man smirked, proud and confident. “Edgar Valden. Maple’s older brother.”
“You don’t have to worry about being Reaped!” Chloe snarled at her twin, knuckles white as she dug her fingers into the baby blue fabric of her dress. “Even if you were, people would be falling over themselves to volunteer.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Chloe!” Vera growled back. “People like you as well. They’d volunteer for you too – they’d volunteer for anyone.”
Chloe gritted her teeth, roving her gaze over Vera’s outfit. A pretty purple, frillier than anything Chloe had seen before in her life, and adorned with cute little butterflies. Even in picking their Reaping clothes, the twins’ parents’ favoritism was obvious. This, along with the scornful whispers of the district folk when she passed by, lingered on Chloe’s mind as she scoffed, “Not me. Never me.”
Vera pressed her lips together. Chloe rolled her eyes, waited for the snap-
And waited.
And waited.
…
It never came. Instead, Vera sighed. Closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. “There’s no point in fighting about this. Let’s just head to the plaza.” She paused, hesitating, before adding in a quieter voice, “Besides, even if nobody else would volunteer for you, I would.”
Chloe froze. She wanted to dismiss the claim in her anger but – true sincerity shone in her sister’s eyes. Her rage began to fizzle. Swallowing thickly, she barely managed to reply, “Fine. Let’s go.”
…
“Vera Nair.”
Chloe could only stare as Percy called her twin sister to the stage. The crowd went wild all around her, a deafening cacophony of cheers, yet the only thought on Chloe’s mind was – what? That couldn’t be right, could it?
The shock hadn’t even begun to subside when Vera reached her position next to the other District One tribute, a jeweler’s son by the name of Anthony Matthews.
“Volunteers?” Percy droned, and Chloe straightened, waiting. When no one stepped forwards, a horrible, bone-chilling realization dawned upon her. Everyone loved Vera; she was pretty much District One’s collective idol, which meant-
“Oh, gods,” Chloe whispered to herself. “They’re all certain she’ll win. They’re… They’re basically sacrificing her.”
Vera’s eyes found Chloe’s amongst the crowd. In contrast to the rest of the district, Vera was trembling, her fear, desperation and helplessness evident. Her words from earlier rang in Chloe’s mind.
“Even if nobody else would volunteer for you, I would.”
Chloe swallowed and lowered her gaze.
Chloe hated Edgar. It was all she could think as the mayor warbled through the Treaty of Treason, white-hot irritation roiling in her gut and bleeding throughout her body. Had the gods sent him to mock her for her weakness? Surely they must have.
They were forced to shake hands. Chloe squeezed tighter than necessary. I’ll kill you, Valden, she promised with her eyes.
Edgar only smirked. I’d like to see you try, Nair, he replied.
Chloe knew she hated Edgar.
It was as though time itself was holding its breath. Aesop’s mind screeched to a halt even as his heart kicked into overdrive. That was… that was his name. He’d been selected as a District Two tribute. That couldn’t be true. Death was his constant companion, his best friend even, but he didn’t know how to fight – how to survive. He’d be crushed in an instant. Killed by those stronger, more resourceful than him within a matter of days. Even if he did somehow survive the wrath of the other tributes, the arena itself promised a slow, painstaking death by starvation, thirst, or sickness. No, his victory was simply impossible.
Yidhra clicked her tongue, pulling Aesop from the depths of his mind. “Aesop Carl,” she repeated harshly, displeasure written across her face. All at once, every eye in the crowd seemed to fall upon Aesop. Of course. Everyone knew him – the embalmer’s strange, young apprentice. Everyone knew him, and nobody liked him.
Nobody would save him.
The crowd parted for him without a word as he took trembling steps towards the stage. Aesop’s thoughts had completely blanked by this point, the apathetic numbness likely the only thing keeping his legs from giving out completely as he took his place beside Yidhra. He caught Ann’s eye, and though the former victor said nothing, she offered him a sad, sympathetic smile, pity clear in her eyes. The cat curled in her lap gave a single, solemn meow.
Silence. No cheers, no applause, no deafening din of enthusiastic volunteers wanting the glory for themselves. The plaza was dead quiet, very uncharacteristic of District Two’s usual fervor when it came to the Reaping.
Yidhra cleared her throat, thought it barely made a dent in the tense atmosphere. “Now then, would anyone like to volunteer?”
Still, no one moved a muscle. As uncomfortable as it made Aesop, he knew why; this was a way to get rid of him. Why interfere with a process that would rid them of the scary, unnerving embalmer once and for all? Grey eyes drifted to the ground as Aesop became lost in his thoughts again. They’d get their wish; that much he knew for certain.
He almost missed Yidhra calling out the name of the second tribute. “Andrew Kreiss!”
Andrew Kreiss? Without thinking, Aesop’s gaze flickered up from the stage, searching. That was a name he knew, after all. The church’s gravekeeper was the closest thing he had to a friend; their work caused their paths to cross regularly enough even if they rarely spoke. Andrew seemed amenable enough to him at least, compared to most the district folk who reviled him and whispered of him with fear. It seemed that taking Aesop’s life was not enough for cruel fate; it wished also to pit him against the one person Aesop could imagine himself caring for, under different circumstances.
The assembled crowd remained quiet as Andrew joined him on the stage. The albino’s expression was completely blank, the way his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles turned white the only indication he felt anything at all. He was like Aesop then, or so he assumed. He was definitely a private person from what the embalmer had seen; Aesop could respect that. Perhaps a kindred spirit could be found within the gravekeeper. Whatever the case, Aesop found himself wishing for Andrew’s survival. Despite his lanky looks, Andrew was strong, most likely as a result of his work. Aesop stood no chance of winning the Games, but Andrew? Andrew just might.
Yidhra called for volunteers. Once again, there were none. That wasn’t District Two’s custom; normally, people would be falling over themselves for the chance to volunteer. Aesop didn’t know if his Reaping had simply killed the mood, or if Andrew was just as frowned upon as he was. It could’ve easily been either, though a voice in the back of his head whispered to him that it had to be the former. He was a curse upon these people, after all. While some may have leapt at the chance to slit his throat, avoiding him altogether was surely a far more appealing option.
The mayor stepped forward to the podium, beginning to read out the Treaty of Treason as he did every year. It was long and dull, but Aesop usually listened; this year, he found himself stealing glances at Andrew. Pink eyes stared off into the distance, suggesting that he perhaps wasn’t entirely mentally present. Well, neither was Aesop. His mind felt blanketed by a thick fog, and sound was muffled to him, as though his ears were stuffed with cotton. Time seemed to have slowed to a crawl, yet it seemed to somehow be simultaneously skipping every other second.
The fog in Aesop’s mind grew more and more oppressive by the moment, and soon he found himself drifting, too out of it to grasp onto any coherent thought. Andrew shook his hand at some point, as was the custom, but Aesop was too far gone for even that touch to ground him. He could only guess how long it had been when he felt a rough hand suddenly grasp his shoulder, jerking in surprise and looking up into the worn face of a stern Peacekeeper. “Get going,” he growled, pushing Aesop none-too-gently in the direction of the Justice Building, and Aesop went without a word.
His death approached.