Chapter Text
From the Treaty of the Treason: In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public “Reaping.” These Tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the capitol city, and then transferred to a public arena where they will Fight to the Death, until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games…
It’s the last year, she whispered in her mind. You’ll never have to do this again, it’s the last year.
Countless girls were huddled around her, and Riza swallowed thickly at the thought that even when she was old enough to be free from the reaping, most of them would be back again. There would always be another year, another Games, another little girl frozen in fear of hearing her name called.
“There he is!” she heard someone exclaim over the din of the crowd. “Roy!”
Riza couldn’t stop her head from turning to immediately seek out the most famous man in their district. He walked across the stage, nodding at the crowd before taking a place of honor behind the Central escort. His clothes were always impeccable, a seamless blend of Central’s trends and District 4’s traditions. He was their golden boy, the volunteer turned victor, a link between common fishermen and President Bradley himself.
Riza didn’t buy it.
There was something about his showmanship that never felt quite right. His speeches were rousing and charming, but he never said anything new, nor particularly memorable. It was difficult to reconcile the man on stage with the boy who first entered the arena. It was even harder to reconcile him with her long-buried memories.
“He’s never come to a reaping before, has he?”
She didn’t respond until an elbow nudged her side, and Riza realized it was the girl next to her who spoke. She looked young, and it was probably her first year. There was no other explanation for the wide, excited smile that revealed a missing tooth at the side of her mouth.
“I don’t think so, no,” Riza answered.
She supposed it was strange that in the nearly five years since he became a victor, Roy Mustang had never sat on stage among his peers. In all the other districts, the respective victors would join their escort and local officials to watch the reapings, and later they would board the train to Central with their new tributes, either as mentors or guests of honor. Then again, Roy spent so much time in Central, he probably watched the reaping from there, no travel required.
The crowd was filling in quickly and it pushed Riza ahead. The eighteen year olds would be sent to the front, so she put her head down and made her way forward before any Peacekeepers could notice her hesitation. A few familiar faces flitted in and out of her sight, but no one paid her much mind. The previous year, she left school to stay home and take care of her father. It was common enough that no one disparaged her for it, but no one bothered to keep in touch either. Her contact with the rest of the world was limited to weekly trips to the town square market, where one of the vendors would occasionally slip extra food into her basket.
But extra bread wasn’t going to heal Berthold Hawkeye. He had been sick for years, and though he had only recently taken a turn for the worse, Riza couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t ill. It had taken all morning to get him out of bed and ready to leave the house, and even then, she wasn’t sure they would make it. He hobbled along the road with his cane and her arm for support, and eventually she was able to find him a spot to sit and wait. The last thing she needed was for someone to report his absence and get them into trouble. After all, the widower of a victor was a public figure, even if they let him waste away in poverty.
In all her haste, Riza didn’t have as much time to get ready as the other kids. Most of the boys slicked back their hair and fastened their ties with intricate knots, while the girls tried elaborate braids and wore their best dresses. Her hair was short enough that it didn’t need to be styled, so running a brush through it that morning had sufficed. Then she slipped on her cleanest pair of shorts and picked out a blouse from her mother’s trunk. It was nicer than anything she wore on a daily basis, but Reaping Day was treated like a special occasion. The white lace collar itched at her throat, but the flowy sleeves fell pleasantly against her arms. With newly-shined oxfords and her mother’s pearl earrings, Riza looked as nice as she was going to get.
The summer sun beat down harshly, and the crowd of bodies forced together in the square only made the heat worse. Sweat started dripping down her back and sticking hair to her forehead, but the ceremonies seemed to be starting slower than ever. A few more figures ambled around the stage, chatting quietly as if they were the only ones in the world, with no sea of children waiting in dread before them. They paid no mind to the Peacekeepers either, whose white uniforms almost blended in with the striking marble of city hall.
Somewhere on the other side of the city, the large clock rang out to declare the top of the hour. That caught the mayor’s attention and he stood on unsteady legs and approached the microphone. The cameras would be live, Riza realized, and he was only a few feet in front of her. His voice echoed against her ears but she didn’t bother to pay attention. His speech would be the same as every other year, detailing the importance of the Games and how rich their nation’s history was. Amestris survived uprisings and wars and famines and by the time an era of peace came about, the annual Hunger Games was established.
Eventually he returned to his seat and a woman took his place. She wore an outlandish blue wig, with a matching sequined dress and boots with enormous heels. It wasn’t the same escort as any of the years before, so she had to introduce herself as Desma. Riza didn’t listen to her preamble either. It was hot and she was tired and none of Central’s propaganda mattered to her anymore.
“Now, ladies first.”
Riza’s head snapped up. She had to bring herself back into the moment, digging her short nails into her palm to feel something. Desma walked over to the glass bowl and made a show of twirling her hand around before reaching in. She dug around more and Riza just wished she would grab a slip and be done with it. The poor girl’s name would be announced and Riza could go home. But then a little piece of paper was in her hands, pulled tight so Desma could read it clearly. Riza’s chest ached with sudden panic as she silently pleaded not me, not me, not me.
Her father used to explain the Reaping purely in numbers. He explained that even once someone reaches eighteen and their name is entered seven times, they were much less likely to be chosen than anyone who applied for extra entries. He forbade her from doing that, no matter how much she begged and pleaded and promised that they truly needed the food it would buy them. It didn’t matter to Berthold. He wouldn’t listen to any more talk about the Reaping or the Games from her.
Maybe it worked out for the best, she thought. Other girls used to talk about entering their names more to support their large families because they saw no risk in it. Statistically, Riza stood almost no chance of being selected, not with a mere seven entries among tens of thousands. The scientific thinking Berthold taught her clearly promised that she would never be reaped. Someone in the crowd coughed and she almost felt the pain in her chest ease off as she reminded herself to think logically.
“Riza Hawkeye.”
There was silence. There wasn’t even murmuring amongst the crowd, just silence.
“Riza Hawkeye?” Desma repeated. She was looking out toward the edges of the square, oblivious to the girl right in front of her.
Blood roared in her ears and Riza saw lines blurring her vision. She could feel her chest rise as proof that she was still breathing, but nothing else felt real. For a moment she couldn’t see anything and she wondered if she had fainted. Then her foot shifted and she felt the solid ground and everything was real again.
She took one step forward and all eyes were on her. Desma smiled brightly and beckoned her up as an unfamiliar man took Riza’s hand to help her up on stage.
“Lovely, lovely,” Desma continued. “Now, do we have any volunteers?”
Riza’s breath caught in her throat. As anxiety threatened to consume her, she completely forgot that someone could volunteer. Someone would volunteer, they had to. District 4 produced career tributes who trained their whole lives to volunteer and compete in the Games.
“Anyone?”
She looked up again, finally facing the crowd. No one met her eyes. No one said a word. Riza felt her heart pounding again, because as much as she scrambled to think of what else she could have forgotten, what could possibly save her now, there was nothing and no one.
“Well then, onto the boys.”
No! she wanted to scream. Go back. Go back and give them more time, someone will volunteer.
Riza dug her nails into her skin again, this time trying to stop from shaking. The only thing worse than finding herself on that stage would be to break down and cry in front of her entire district and the country that lay beyond it. Central’s citizens would watch and frown at the disappointing tribute, and Riza would not give anyone the satisfaction of looking down upon her.
“Cassian Locke.”
That name didn’t mean anything to Riza. He might be a young boy from a rich city family or an eighteen year old from the outskirts like her, she wasn’t sure. She looked up half heartedly, wondering whether she really wanted to find his face.
“I volunteer!” A new voice rang out, drawing every eye toward the front again.
Before Desma could say anything else, a boy was stepping forward and striding toward the stage.
“Jack Fairview,” he announced. “I volunteer.”
The same man stepped forward again to help him up, and then the boy was right next to Riza. He nodded at her then turned and waved. Her mouth almost fell open at how at ease he looked. Jack was tall and blonde and grinning and Riza knew he looked like a victor already.
“Well, we always love to see this sort of bold character, don’t we?” Desma exclaimed. “Let’s hear a round of applause for our tributes in this 70th Hunger Games!”
The clapping started and Riza couldn’t tell when it stopped. Suddenly the mayor was back at the microphone reciting something else, but she couldn’t even hear the words clearly. She couldn’t think and she couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t until someone took her arm and pulled her back toward the building that Riza came back to herself. She saw Jack being led away to some other room, but the Peacekeeper at her side kept walking them down the long hallway.
“In here,” he ordered.
He pushed open a door and she stepped in, jumping slightly as it slammed behind her. The room was extravagant, like something that belonged in a castle from the old storybooks she found in her father’s library. Riza didn’t know what to do other than sit on the couch and wait.
There was no way to tell time in the room. Riza recalled that the train always left for Central an hour after the reaping ended, but she was so lost in her own mind that she didn’t know how much longer it would be. During that time there were supposed to be goodbyes and family and friends, but she still sat alone.
The knob started to turn and Riza clutched at her sides as she bolted from her seat. She didn’t want to leave yet. She thought maybe no one would ever come to the room and she would spend the rest of her life waiting alone. That feeling was familiar enough, she could accept that as her fate. Purgatory was supposed to be better than hell, wasn’t it?
“There you go, sir.”
As the door fully opened, her father came into view. He was hunched over his cane, but there was someone else at his side leading him in. Roy Mustang.
Their eyes met and Riza saw the recognition. Obviously she knew he hadn’t completely forgotten her or her father, but there was something comforting about the familiarity, the feeling of being seen and known.
“Riza,” Berthold said. “Riza?”
Confusion tainted his gaze, and she wondered if he even knew what was happening. His mind came and went often, but that was on his better days. It was difficult even when they were at home and Riza could make him as comfortable as possible. Now, he was looking at her with almost no comprehension. Had he even been able to make it into city hall himself? Had Roy ventured into the crowd and sought him out so they could say goodbye?
“Here, on the couch,” she directed.
Roy helped Berthold sit, and took his cane to lay it softly against the wall.
She wanted to blame him. She wanted to curse and yell that he put them through so much suffering, denying her the choice to make those extra entries, just for her to end up there anyway. She wanted to remind him of all the times he could have been a father to her, but wasn’t. It would be so easy to let loose, to release every angry thought she ever held back just because it wouldn’t matter anymore.
But if Riza started yelling, she didn’t think she would ever stop. Instead, she took the place next to him again and picked up his hand.
“Father,” she said softly. “It’s me.”
He nodded. Just once, but enough for her to know he understood that much.
“Oh Camelia,” he whispered. “I promised.”
His muttering continued and Riza let go of his hand. Whatever presence of mind he had moments before was gone. Once again, he left her. It didn’t matter that it was the moment she needed him most. She looked up at Roy, who stood a few feet away as he was guarding the door.
“Someone needs to take him home,” she said. “He won’t make it back by himself.”
Roy nodded. “They’ll find someone. I’ll make sure of it.”
Riza nodded back absentmindedly, racking her brain for anything else to say. Those final moments with her father felt so empty, but there was nothing else she could do. Not if he wasn’t really there. She still wasn’t sure if she was really there herself.
“I’m ready to go then,” she announced.
“What?”
“I don’t think there’s anything more to say.” Riza tucked her hands behind her back as she stepped away from the couch. Roy was looking at her in shock, but she already resigned herself. It would only be worse to draw out that lifeless goodbye any longer. She was going off to die, and they all knew it.
“Alright.”
Roy grabbed the cane and moved toward Berthold, but the man suddenly snapped his head up. “I don’t need your help.”
Riza caught some of the swearing under his breath, and she knew he must have recognized Roy. Even saying his name wasn’t allowed in their house, not that she had much occasion to use it anyway. Until that moment, she had nothing to do with victors or the Games or Central, and definitely not Roy Mustang, not anymore.
“Just let him get you back outside, father,” she ordered. Riza didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but she didn’t have the energy to keep up a façade much longer. She spent years as the caring, patient daughter but now she was a tribute. She belonged to Central, not him.
Roy pulled Berthold up again, slowly helping him find his balance. He was looking at her strangely, and she almost looked away. It wasn’t quite pity, Riza realized, but it might as well have been. His eyes seemed sad as they studied her face, but he remained silent. She supposed they would have plenty to talk about later, when he was trying to teach her how to survive and kill, maybe even win. District 4 was hungry for another victor, after all.
They almost made it to the door and Riza figured she would be left alone until the Peacekeepers came to escort her to the train. She sat down again, turning to the windows on the opposite side of the room. Wouldn’t it be easier if she didn’t have to watch the door close and her only remaining family disappear behind it? It would only be a few more moments and her first challenge would be over. She might even be able to convince herself what would follow could be easier.
But temptation won out. Her mind was spinning with thoughts of how much she would regret looking away and how hard it was to focus on anything but their footsteps.
“Goodbye.” Riza wasn’t sure if it came out as a word or just a gasp, but her father must have heard it because he stopped. She saw the hand that gripped his cane shake and she thought he was going to turn by himself. But he didn’t. He stopped shaking and took another step with Roy’s aid, continuing on until they were clear of the room and out of her sight.