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Frisk watched the view from the train with an interest contrasted by the apathy of everyone they were sharing the compartment with. But Frisk, unlike the others, had never actually taken the traditional train into the Capitol before. Their first time seeing the city had been from a hospital landing pad, and they’d had no time to take in the view.
The games they’d eventually won had been unusual from the start- from the reaping.
“Hello? Chara Dreemurr? Will Chara Dreemurr please step forward!”
The crowd whispered to each other, people craned their necks to look around, but no one moved.
Then, a high-pitched child’s voice called from the ranks of the thirteen-year-boys, one year above Frisk.
“Chara can’t go, they’re sick!”
The child in question was Asriel, the mayor’s son and Chara’s brother. The mayor himself was still standing in shocked silence.
“Is this true?” the head peacekeeper demanded of him, and the mayor visibly pulled himself together.
“It is. My child is very sick, and was unable to leave the house this morning. My wife reported this according to protocol.”
This statement was followed by many more discussions and delays, and Frisk stood in the hot sun and deliberately decided not to be impatient.
Once the reaping did finally commence, they almost wished it hadn’t, because the next name drawn was their own.
Frisk squared their shoulders and marched on stage, and fifteen minutes later they were watching a team of doctors fussing over a slightly older child with a blistered, too-pale face, in a hovercraft on its way to a Capitol facility where they’d have whatever advanced treatments Chara Dreemurr needed.
Once the medical team had declared the older child was in no danger of dying before they arrived, and the child in question had regained consciousness, Frisk was allowed to say hello.
“Where am I?”
“A hovercraft on the way to a hospital. I’m Frisk, it’s nice to meet you.”
“…No, I told Dad I’d be fine. How is he supposed to afford this?” they asked, managing to sound remarkably exasperated for someone who’d been a death’s door half an hour ago.
“It’s free,” Frisk explained. “All treatment for tributes is.”
“Tributes?”
“Yup.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m sorry.”
Chara laughed. And laughed, and laughed, and laughed until a medic sedated them because they weren’t supposed to be exerting themselves, which laughter apparently counted as.
And so Frisk spent their first day at the Capitol in the waiting room of a hospital. A doctor came out to meet them once, introducing himself as Doctor W. D. Gaster and assuring them that Chara would be alright- at least physically, he specified.
“Try and take care of her, won’t you?” he said, and Frisk nodded.
In the evening, they and Chara, now awake and alert in a wheelchair, were handed over to a team of stylists, and Frisk endured being poked and prodded and bathed and scrubbed and plucked, feeling a bit like a chicken being prepared for the cooking pot- which really wasn’t too far off from what was happening.
After that, the two were dressed up for the chariot ride. There was a bit of a fuss at the chariot itself, as it had been designed for two tributes to be standing, which Chara was unable to do unassisted. Frisk ended up doing their best to support Chara, who clung to both them and the chariot with a weak but determined grip and smiled brightly at the audience.
Frisk smiled and waved and struck a few of the flirty poses Mettaton had taught them as the chariot rode past the adoring crowds. Everyone loved a victor, after all.
Their fellow tribute and former mentor stood beside them, waving as well. There was no contact between the two.
That night, sitting in the living room of their training centre quarters while their mentors showed them footage of the other reapings, Chara said, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my family.”
“They said goodbye to you,” Frisk assured them. “Even though you weren’t conscious.”
Chara’s smile, fixed on their face since the chariot ride, softened a bit. Frisk attempted a smile back.
For supper, Frisk had a banquet and Chara got an intravenous drip (parenteral nutrition, Dr Gaster called it) with a pill- medication they were supposed to take twice a day, even once they were able to eat again. Chara was evidently a little envious- up until the moment that Frisk had to throw up. Frisk’s mentor chided them for overdoing it and asked them when they’d last had a proper meal. Apparently the crackers they’d been handed at the hospital didn’t count, nor, for some reason, did the soup they’d had the day before, nor the breakfast breadcrust even though it was a large one, so the answer was a little over three days ago.
Both of them were on a specialised meal plan for four days after that, though at least Frisk was allowed solid foods.
Frisk went to training in the morning, alone. Chara wouldn’t be allowed to for another two days yet, but they were supposed to have made a full recovery by the time the games began. That was all the Capitol really cared about, after all. Frisk wondered how many people in the Districts died of illnesses the Capitol could easily have treated if they had cared.
Frisk paid close attention to everything they were told in training, and recited all they remembered back to Chara once they returned to the apartment. They watched old footage of the games together and discussed strategies over supper. Frisk wanted to stick together. Their mentor was against it, but they were stubborn.
On the second day of training, Chara went down in their wheelchair to watch and take some simple lessons on identifying food, purifying water, building fire and other such survival skills. They weren’t allowed to actually try starting a fire though- too strenuous.
“How am I supposed to train?” Chara asked their mentor that evening.
“Later,” was the response. “It will do you no good to overexert yourself and delay your recovery.”
“Besides, you can use this,” their escort said. “Think of the drama! The brave tribute, recovering after narrowly escaping death before the games have even begun!”
On day three, Chara went for a walk around the training centre, supervised, of course, with a monitor attached to them. Frisk walked with them and listened to their running commentary on everything they came across. In the afternoon, it was time for a private session to demonstrate what they’d learnt to the Gamemakers. Frisk improvised a presentation on survival and strategy. They scored a three. Chara got a one, the lowest score possible.
“Maybe people will take interest out of sheer morbid curiosity,” they joked.
The scores this year were ridiculously good, though perhaps that was to be expected, with victors. Frisk managed a five- not bad. Light and Cashmere from District 1 both got tens, as did Martyn from District 2 and Finnick from District 4. And then there was the couple from District 12, who scored, well, twelve. Each. How? Frisk was pretty sure that was unheard of. They asked their escort, and Mettaton also couldn’t remember any tribute achieving the highest possible score before, let alone two. He theorized it was some sort of deliberate gambit on part of the Gamemakers.
On day four, Chara was allowed to spar, lightly, for a short while. They and Frisk decided to focus on knives- common in the arena, easy to handle, and very versatile. Frisk was decent at it. Chara was good- really good. Frisk wondered what score the Gamemakers would have awarded if Chara had done that during the private session. At least a six or seven, they thought.
Frisk’s mentor no longer objected to their collaboration after that.
On day five, Chara had an extensive early-morning check-up by their doctors and was pronounced to be in acceptable health. Dr Gaster allowed them to stop taking the medication entirely (as they’d been complaining about it even after the dosage was reduced) and eat whatever they liked provided it did not fall into a (very, very long) list of off-limits food they were given. The two children had a feast for breakfast that day. At noon, they took swimming lessons together, and had a four-course lunch afterwards- though neither actually managed to finish their deserts and Chara was sick afterwards. Rather than practice for the upcoming interviews like their escort wanted them to, they returned to the training hall, where Frisk passed a test on edible and poisonous plants with full marks and Chara hit every target with throwing knives. They also picked up an admirer in the form of another twelve-year-old tribute with a cheery disposition and only one arm.
“Remember this, my dears,” their escort said, “for the arena as well as the interviews. There are three things every audience wants: drama, romance, and bloodshed. You’re a little too young for the romance, but master the other two- master the stage -and victory will be yours.”
Frisk and Chara exchanged a glance. Chara rolled their eyes.
On day six, they slept late, ate, and slept some more. Told each other jokes and stories, and requisitioned sleeping pills for the night. Attended the interviews, where Chara told the host how they’d been ill and hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to their family, and told their family through the cameras that they loved them and were sorry for all the distress they must have caused. Frisk did not know what to say when it was their turn- they had no family, after all. The host tried to get them to talk about what they’d do if they went home victorious, but they honestly didn’t know. They left the interview with the impression that they’d completely failed to leave any sort of impression on potential sponsors. For the rest of the evening, they had a late supper with Chara, took a nice long bath, swallowed a pill, and was fast asleep within minutes of being in bed.
The interviews were… dramatic, to say the least. Every recurring tribute seemed to have made it their personal mission to make the Capitol feel bad about sending them back into the arena. Frisk played along, and told the host how they weren’t afraid to die but they felt awful whenever they thought of the Dreemurrs loosing yet another child to the arena. Caesar Flickerman acted sympathetic and agreed. Frisk’s interview won them sympathy, but didn’t make a splash.
A few of the other tributes showed less restraint. Martyn from District 2 thought allowing victors back into the arena went against the spirit of the games, though he phrased it quite inoffensively. Beetee from District 3 straight up questioned the Quarter Quell’s legality. Johanna from District 7 suggested that it could be changed. Seeder and Chaff from District 8 built on that, both saying the president himself could undoubtedly put a stop to it. Peeta from District 12 told them all that his wife, the fellow victor and recurring tribute Katniss, was pregnant, and it was this last thing which truly caused outrage in the audience.
And then there was the hand holding. Johanna took Frisk’s hand and Frisk took their former mentor’s, until all the tributes were standing together, a show of solidarity. And Frisk, for the first time, truly dared to hope that the games could be stopped.
On day seven, Frisk woke up feeling groggy. They had a large breakfast despite not feeling hungry, gave Chara a hug, and went on the second ever hovercraft trip of their life. Destination: the arena.
Frisk looked around as they were sent up on their podium. It was a place of rushing rivers, freezing, boiling and everything in between. Sandy deltas and islands of dark pine forests dotted the landscape. The Cornucopia and the twenty-four podiums surrounding it stood on the largest island, on which only hardy shrubs grew. Foraging here would be difficult.
Standing several tributes away, Chara caught their eye.
And then the games began, and the two ran. As discussed, they picked the middle distance between them and straight away from the Cornucopia. A steaming river blocked their path after a few hundred metres, and Frisk followed Chara’s lead downstream, where it eventually mingled with a cooler one. Chara dipped a finger in and pronounced the temperature acceptable, and they waded across- it went as high as Frisk’s waist, and the current would’ve tugged them off their feet if not for the taller Chara steadying them. Then they were across, running over the next island and leaping over the next stream, on and on until they were both panting for breath and far, far away from the Cornucopia.
They had nothing, but they were alive. For now.
They games were not stopped. Frisk and everyone else went back into the arena that morning, and a bloodbath happened as it did every year. But at least they’d tried.
Night fell dark and cold, and Frisk and Chara crept through the trees and along a riverbank, two little ghosts unnoticed by cameras or tributes. Frisk stole a backpack from a sleeping tribute. Chara stole said tribute’s life.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Frisk said, a safe distance away.
“We will agree to disagree,” said Chara, and that was that.
On day two, Frisk picked berries and boiled water in a pot from the stolen pack. Then they huddled under the torn-up roots of a fallen tree, and slept.
Chara’s shivering woke them both in the evening. It was cold, yes, but Frisk felt alright.
By night, they went out again. Chara called them hunter-gatherers. Frisk gathered, Chara hunted. Frisk kept their disapproval to themselves, but Chara noticed anyway.
“You’re like Asriel,” they said. “He disapproves of killing for any reason, even self-defence.”
“Is this self-defence?” Frisk wanted to know.
“It’s the Hunger Games.”
That night, Frisk was not quiet enough, not quick enough. The girl from District 4 caught them looting supplies from her and the one-armed kid she’d taken under her wing, and went after them with her spears. Frisk grabbed one that had been thrown at them and stayed on the defensive until she got tired, then they dropped the spear and ran.
They and Chara travelled as far as they could that night, just in case she was following them.
The arena was tough. Hunger and thirst plagued them day and night, the water they were able to collect from breaking branches not nearly enough in the hot, humid climate, and each area seemed to have its own unique hazard. Frisk ran for their life from aggressive monkey-like animals, curled up under blood rain, and tried to block out the sound of Asriel’s screams coming from a beaks of a flock of Jabberjays. That last one was the worst of all. They knew it wasn’t real, the sound was synthetised- Mettaton had told them about such things when he’d explained how the doctors had fixed his voice. But it was awful nonetheless.
For the first time, they were glad to be alone. Chara would never have to hear this.
Chara killed two more tributes in the days that followed, slipping away while Frisk was doing something else and leaving them to be startled and concerned by the cannon in their partner’s absence. They lived off what they looted and spied on other tributes from the treetops. Frisk was tired but hypervigilant, ready to run at the slightest sign of a threat. Chara was… not well.
“The doctors did say I mustn’t exert myself too much, lest my sickness return,” they said, wiping the remains of bloody vomit from their mouth. “It doesn’t matter- they can treat me again once I win.”
In the evenings, they watched the broadcasts of the dead tributes and counted down. Fifteen more to go. Then fourteen. Then eleven, eight, seven, four.
One day- they hadn’t kept track of how long they’d been in the arena, but Chara undoubtedly knew, so they didn’t worry -Frisk found themselves running from the one-armed kid, who was wielding a sword. The kid tripped, fell face down, and Chara came out of nowhere with a knife to finish the job.
“Three left,” they said after the cannon had gone off.
Frisk opened their mouth to reply and instead choked on a sudden, sharp pain through their abdomen. They saw the District 4 girl a moment too late, with a truly furious expression on her face and another throwing spear already raised.
Frisk didn’t know how they found the strength to run. Chara grabbed their hand and pulled them on, and Frisk glanced back to see that the girl wasn’t pursuing them, was instead kneeling by the body of the fallen kid. They felt a brief pang of pity.
They didn’t stop until they were well concealed under an overhanging riverbank. Frisk examined their wound as best they could- it was not good. The spear went right through their left side, and probably their gut as well. A death sentence without proper medical care.
“You’ll be alright,” Chara said dismissively, fashioning a makeshift bandage for them that they immediately bled through. “Don’t eat or drink anything.”
Frisk was not alright. Chara was not alright either- they couldn’t keep food down anymore, and spent any time not travelling curled up in quiet agony. But they were determined to see things through, and Frisk would not let them down.
The District 4 girl caught up with them eventually, armed and armoured, uninjured. Frisk had the broken-off spear tip of the one they’d been injured with, and Chara had a few good knives. They should’ve been outmatched.
The fight went on for a long time. Frisk’s mind was empty of anything but pain and dodging and blocking and attempting the occasional feeble counterattack. Chara bared their bloody teeth and fought like a demon. Frisk took a spear to the shoulder, the District 4 girl took a knife to the thigh, then another to the back, though a gap in her armour while she was focused on Frisk. Eventually, though with clear reluctance, she withdrew.
The moment she was a safe distance away Frisk collapsed in the dirt, gasping through the pain. It was as though their entire abdomen was on fire. They didn’t feel like ever moving again.
“Get up,” Chara snarled. “You can’t replace me if you die here, so get up.”
Frisk got up.
They followed Chara up the river, to where the District 4 girl had bandaged her leg and was waiting. And the fight went on.
And eventually, though Frisk did not know how, the girl fell. Frisk was not far behind. They curled up in the mud, and tried to stay awake.
They must’ve failed eventually, because then they woke up, on clean, dry sheets with Dr Gaster sitting next to them.
“Welcome back,” he said. “And congratulations, I suppose.”
Frisk was the youngest ever victor of the Hunger Games.
And Chara?
The Capitol kept Frisk under observation for several days after they were retrieved from the arena. But there was no evidence for any sort of rebel affiliation, so eventually, they let them go home for a while.
Asriel pulled them into a strong hug the moment they stepped off the train.
“I was so worried! They wouldn’t tell us anything after the feed cut out!”
“A few tributes were kidnapped by rebels,” Frisk explained as Toriel and Asgore joined in the hug. “Some were collaborating with them. They had to make sure I wasn’t one before they let me go.”
“At least you’re here now,” Toriel said. She looked so tired, so worried.
They walked home together. Frisk wanted to stop by the graveyard on the way, and of course the others agreed. Asriel ran over to a nearby vendor selling flowers to purchase a bunch- gold, to fit those that grew on the grave.
“I survived again,” Frisk said to the headstone, to empty air. “I didn’t kill anyone. I think you’d be proud of me anyway.”
Of course there was no answer. The dead did not speak.
“You know your partner never intended to win,” Dr Gaster said as Frisk clutched the adoption certificate close to their chest.
“How do you know?” Frisk asked, not bothering to deny it.
“Because I had to treat her for acute poisoning symptoms when she got here.”
Frisk did not know what to say.
“If you value your new family’s lives, you will tell no one else of this,” Dr Gaster said sternly. They nodded.
And then they went home- a word that had never applied to them before. It was what Chara would have wanted, Asgore had written in the letter he’d sent alongside the certificate that had still required Frisk’s signature. Frisk had parents now, and well-off ones at that, ones who accepted them with open arms. They had a brother, Asriel, who never even thought of resenting them for coming home instead of Asriel’s first sibling. They left the Capitol with more than they’d ever dreamt of having before.
But they left without Chara. Chara had gone home ahead of Frisk, in a coffin, their body cleaned and perfumed and with a neutral expression instead of a smile. It was supposed to be peaceful, Asriel had said, but it just didn’t look right.
There was a funeral, with lots of food and lots of flowers, and many days of sitting next to Asgore and listening to his tearful stories, and accepting Toriel’s hugs without mentioning that she was trembling, and holding Asriel while he sobbed in the garden. And eventually, those occurrences grew less and less frequent, though they never went away entirely.
Seven years later, Frisk went back into the games alone, and wondered who would look after the Dreemurrs now. They had no convenient, kind-hearted orphan to replace themselves with, after all.