Chapter Text
Vi wakes up - bruised, battered and beaten - to a cold and empty bed.
The warmth of sleep leaves fading footsteps, teasingly trekking an impossible journey across uneven stitches and scratchy blanket folds for her to follow. Tired, confused and drunk on the last remnants of a half-decent rest, her fingers stumble after the lingering warmth.
But the cold nags at her. Something about it - something -
She turns over quickly - and yeah, regrets it.
No better killer of drowsiness than good old pain. Her hip hurts like hell from where one of Deckard’s loonies slammed the butt of a pickaxe into it yesterday afternoon. Her jaw throbs - and the gap where a tooth used to be stings as she gasps in cold air.
She grits her teeth and hauls her ass out the bottom bunk anyway.
Powder is curled up on the battered sofa. She stares at the spitting light from their crappy TV like it’s her lifeline today, instead of luck.
There’s no more rocking or pulling of her hair, but drained of any of the energy that made Powder - Powder - it feels wrong. Excited energy, angry energy, even nervous energy - without it, the room feels as dry as their rusty bathtub.
“...and the group calling themselves ‘Zaunites’ have boycotted the Reaping-”
She scowls at the TV. Bastards. While they could run away and hide deep in the fissures, the rest of them had to stick around and take the punch.
She swipes a hairbrush from under scattered parts on the floor, and slowly makes her way over to Powder.
“...after their assassination of the President’s son last year using indoctrinated children-”
Vi always slept in Powder’s bed the night before the Reaping.
More than any other day of the year, Powder had too twitching nervousness that she needed to burn. Sometimes it was running in the scrap heap with Ekko until dark. Sometimes it was returning Mylo’s jabs with swinging fists instead of sneers.
Yesterday, it had been Vi listening to Powder explain the mechanisms behind her latest invention, Mowser - and then all her old inventions too, before finally, blue hair still against her cheeks, slack with sleep, Vi had pulled the blanket over the both of them and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
Mylo always gave Powder so much shit for their night-before-Reaping ritual.
“It’s not even YOUR name in there-” He’d scoff, throwing his hands dangerously close to Powder’s face. “Like you’ve got any reason to be nervous!”
It was such a stupid ass argument.
Was it technically valid? Yes.
Until this year.
“Anything interesting?” Vi eyes Powder for any reaction as she plonks herself on the couch. She pulls up a leg and twists to face her, gathering her sister’s delicate hair in her bruised hands.
No matter what she did, Powder’s hair always felt too dry. Too thin. Too many split ends. The longer Powder grew her hair out, the worse the ends got. Pricking at Vi’s fingers, the sensation bore an uncanny resemblance to the hay that stuffed the very couch they were sitting on.
“...And the reaping celebrations are kicking off bright and early across all twelve districts! Here’s District 1 and the Kiramman family arriving at the main square-”
“What if they take you away?”
All the bedtime knots are brushed out before Powder talks.
“They won’t.” Vi promises, while dividing Powder’s hair into three locks. “Focus on yourself this time, ok?”
“But you’ve got your name in so many times!” She shoots back.
True that. Vi’s got her name in that goddamn jar forty-two fucking times. Six because at seventeen, she has to, and seven times for each tesserae - Powder, Mylo, Claggor, Ekko, Benzo, Vander and herself.
Vander hated it. She did it anyway.
“They won’t be able to keep me away. Besides, if - if - I do get picked, those snotty careers are in for some surprise.”
She twists the hair tie, decorated with stiff metal, to secure her careful work in place.
“Imagine the looks on everybody’s faces when a girl from District 12 beats all their pampered asses and wins the games - when was the last time anyone from here won? We’re long overdue -”
“But the odds -”
“Uh-uh.” She nudges her knee gently into Powder’s side. “We play that game later, remember? Anyway, all done here.”
Letting go of the braid, she squeezes her sister’s skinny shoulder and smiles reassuringly.
Powder doesn’t look convinced.
“You gotta promise.”
“Huh?”
“Promise you’ll win if you get picked.” A blue eye glares up at Vi from underneath the tangled mess of arms hugging skinny knees.
Figures.
“Of course, Pow-Pow. Of course.”
She wraps her in a fierce hug.
She fucking hates the way her sister’s ribs dig into her sides. Too short. Too scrawny. Too smart. Too young.
Powder’s smart, but at least she’s still too young to recognise that Vi is lying through her teeth. Or - thanks to that bastard Deckard - through the gaping hole where one of her back teeth used to be.
Powder finally unwraps her arms from her knees to squeeze Vi back, tight and strangling.
“...At least in the Capitol they can give you a proper makeover.”
“What was that?” Vi gasps, pulling away with a frown.
Powder breaks out into giggles. “You need it!” She scrambles away from Vi’s lazy attempt at a teasing swat, swinging over the back of the sofa.
“I do not! Get back here!”
“Maybe they can finally do something about your hair!”
“What’s wrong with my hair??”
Pow has the cheek to throw a disgusted look at Vi’s hair - and the gall to dodge the pillow thrown right back at her. “What’s not wrong with your hair?”
“You - you little monkey ! Go wake Claggor and Mylo up!” Vi hollers as Powder clambers up the rickety stairs, pulling faces and laughing her head off the whole way.
The door slams shut, and Vi sinks into the sofa, tugging at the longer side of her hair.
Maybe the side-shave mullet was a bad idea.
Screw it. Guess it made ‘dressing up’ for the Reaping a whole lot easier. No need to put effort into looking good when it’s a lost cause anyway.
***
Mylo and Claggor agree with Vi’s opinion on tidying up.
Mylo’s hair sticks up like dead fly wings from a rogue turd found on the street. Claggor’s goggles are about as clean as Vi’s criminal record.
Vi fusses over Powder’s blue dress - salvaged from the scrap heap - and her hair clips - repurposed paper clips . Fusses over wiping away all the traces of coal dust and dirt she could find.
And the whole damn time - at like, five second intervals - Mylo coughs from the doorway - dramatically checking his watch and throwing pompously annoyed glances at the two of them.
Vi shoves past him when they leave. And just forgets to mention his pants were unzipped.
The moment they’re all out the door - their game begins.
“The odds a giant infestation of giant sump-beetles swarms the train and derails it before it reaches Twelve.”
“That’s stupid… do they come here afterward?”
“Ugh…the odds that they do.”
“I’ll take my chances with the bugs over the Reaping.”
“Yeah, who wouldn’t - ok, Claggor?”
“Uhm…the odds it rains?”
“Bo- ring. ”
They’re all walking down the streets towards the town centre. The lanes are flooded with moving people, which is something that only happens on Reaping days - the only time sumprats are forced to be somewhere. So dirty nails and oily hair and scuffed boots are dragged all the way from the dark, forgotten cracks of the mining fissures to the only part of town that at least looks like it escapes the mining dust. Because the Capitol needs a place presentable enough for the cameras.
Every year, Vi finds some dark amusement seeing the white cobblestones coated in coal or ash or dust from everyone’s mining boots - before the Capitol cameras even start rolling.
Most people are somber, silent. Holding tightly onto their children’s hands, praying it’s not for the last time.
Vi holds tight onto Powder’s hand, but they’re not silent at all.
“Vi?”
“The odds a flash flood comes and soaks all the papers.”
“You’re basically stealing my idea!”
“Uh no - yours could be played anytime of the year. Anyway, flash flood - nobody would be able to read what’s written on all the slips and - “ She shrugs. “ - no tributes from District 12. ”
“Yeah sure, no tributes, but you know what’s even better? The look on the presenter’s face. There’s water falling from the sky and I’m not in my fancy Capitol shower with a million controls and a TV? GASP. ”
“There’s a face behind all that makeup?”
“We’ll know after the flood, won’t we?”
“Well, we all needed a shower anyway.” Claggor supplies, a bit distracted. He wouldn’t admit it within an inch of his life - and Vi wouldn’t admit that made her proud - but he was still definitely nervous.
“Shower? More on like a full-on fucking bath .”
Vi looks over her shoulder to glare at Mylo.
“What? Oh, I’m sorry, there’s children around. A - ‘ proper bath, ladies and gentlemen.’ ” He imitates the Capitol accent, which has them all snorting. “Oh - wait - but we aren’t children anymore, because we’re all in the -”
Vi glares at Mylo. Again.
It shuts him up, but then the depressing silence crowds in from around them.
“Powder? It’s your go.” She prompts Powder.
“I - don’t really want to play, Vi.”
Well, fuck.
This game of theirs - ‘The odds’, Vi calls it, but only in her head, because they’ve never officially named it - is another ritual they’ve adopted for the Reaping.
It goes something like this - one of them would say ‘The odds the presenter pulls their own name out from the jar!”
Then someone would say “Oh yeah, she would totally faint - the odds her wig would fly off during the process.”
And someone else would say “No - the odds they pull the PRESIDENT’S name!”
And it got weirder and weirder until they were all laughing.
It’s their own way of coping with the soul-sucking silence. It cheers Powder up - and no matter how nervous, she always has the wackiest scenarios and even wackier additions to everyone else’s.
Usually.
But what did I expect?
It’s understandable, even if it is depressing. Everybody knows how scary the first Reaping is. It shows - the front line of kids is always the quietest, and from kid-to-kid they swing dramatically between bouncing up and down like a boxer, to being as still as a dead body.
“Oh, come on! We play this every year, all of us. What - finally scared? ”
Vi glares at Mylo. Again . Even Claggor grumbles. If the two of them weren’t behind her, Vi would have socked Mylo in the face.
They all know how scary the first Reaping is - just some asshole brothers just like to rub it in.
“Quit it, Mylo.” Ignoring his “I’m just saying!”, she turns to Powder. “It’s alright, Pow. But feel free to chime in wherever, ok?”
Powder squeezes her hand.
“Who’s turn is it?”
“Mylo’s.”
“ Ahem, the odds - “ Vi makes sure to give him the look before he says any more shit . “ - uhhh, the odds the presenter kisses Vander on the cheek again.”
“Ew, gross. ”
“Hah! I’d pay money to see that again.”
“Uh, Vi? What money?”
***
By some miracle, they all make it to the town centre together.
Even if it takes Vi clutching onto Powder’s hand hard enough to bruise, and looking over her shoulder a million times during the walk from the Last Drop to the Town Centre to check if Mylo and Claggor weren’t secretly swiping people’s pockets or throwing a glance just a bit too funny for the Peacekeepers - who were, as always, herding kids into lines for registration.
It doesn’t matter how much Vi’s shitty haircut and Mylo’s unzipped pants blend into the crowd of dirty people - if there’s one time the Peacekeepers look for trouble to smack down, it’s now.
Ok - that’s a lie.
They were always looking for a sumprat to smack down or throw into prison.
But if Vi would let any of them take a single chance to piss them off - well, none of them would probably be still here.
Every twitch of a Peacekeeper’s glove, Vi sees. And every impatient shuffle of their boots. And every arrogant glare of light reflected off their shiny-ass rifles. Probably new. Figures. Funny where the budget goes, right?
They weren’t exactly early to the Reaping - so it’s already suffocating when they get past registration and move towards their designated areas. The air’s not supposed to be so bad, this far from the mines, but it seems like the people from the worse-off areas brought the stale, poisonous air from the fissures with them.
“The odds Powder pisses her pants.”
Right, that’s it.
Vi’s fist finally connects with Mylo’s shoulder.
“Ow, geez, okay! Just tryna lighten the mood. See ya for lunch - and Powder - try not to jinx the whole thing.”
He sees his escape and takes it, hurrying over to the boys section before Vi can smack the shit out of him. Claggor follows Mylo, muttering “See you for lunch.”
Vi forces herself to wipe the Mylo-induced scowl off her face as she looks down at Powder.
“Hey, we need to go different ways soon, ok?”
Powder nods mutely, but tightens her grip on Vi’s hand anyway.
Vi throws a quick glance around - the steady waves of teens block them from any of the Peacekeepers’ sights.
“Hey, Pow Pow.” She stops and kneels down in front of Powder, ignoring the dirty looks from the kids behind them. “Hey, look at me. You’re ready, ok?”
Powder scowls, dull eyes still looking out at the crowd. “Yeah, right. Mylo thinks I’m ready to ‘piss my pants.’”
Well -
What was Vi supposed to say to that? She couldn’t reassure Powder with ‘Oh, it’s ok, Mylo pissed his pants before HIS first Reaping.’, because he didn’t - and she couldn’t say ‘I know you won’t.’ because then how would Powder feel if she did?
And now she had waited too long and she had to say something, anything-
“The odds that we go to the arcade after this.” She blurts out.
“That dump ?”
“Oh, you’re too good for it now, huh? Reached your highest score on the shooting game?”
“Never.” Powder replies - weakly, but at least her eyes dart back to Vi’s with a spark of energy.
There’s Peacekeepers approaching. Pompously marching over at the tiniest commotion - as always. Because when have they ever granted their family a moment of peace?
Powder notices them too.
Vi stands up. “Ok, time to go. See you soon.” She tightens her hand on Powder’s grip before finally letting go.
“See you soon, Vi.”
Vi walks away before the Peacekeepers reach them - and forces herself not to look back at the owner of those last, shaky words.
With her head ducked, she slots herself in with the other kids her age. Most of them she recognises, but she hasn’t seen since eighth grade, when education was still compulsory - and not even free. The rest of the kids, she’s either seen at the opposite ends of alleyways, or at the opposite end of her fist.
She looks up at the podium.
There’s Vander, already there - as he always has to be.
Early. Sitting like a leashed dog.
His jaw is clenched tightly, and Vi can see his hand discreetly running over his armband - like he always does when something puts him on edge.
Why does he always have to be summoned at the beck and call of the Capitol, and it’s fucking messed up festivities?
Actually - how can he sit up there at all, while Vi died of humiliation, just having to stand watching it from the sidelines?
“Ahem - scREEEEEEEE!”
Vi clutches at her ears. The microphone wails and screeches, followed by the rest of the assembled crowd - although the people make less of a fuss about it. The fluffy looking presenter, this year, dressed in a poofy skirt and a sequined top - ew, is THAT what’s in fashion in the Capitol?? - tries to pretend there wasn’t a problem at all.
“ Welcome, District 12!” She announces. “I think it's quite a fine day for our annual Reaping! I also dare to think it’s so lovely to see everyone gathered here together again!”
Vi thinks she’d seen quite finer outfits outside Babette’s.
Vi also dares to think that posh accent never fails to piss her off.
They ramble on in the usual fashion, something dark history, something something war and death and the usual ‘ the Capitol winning the war’ and ‘uniting the people through the division of twelve different districts under the Capitol banner’. Then a video plays on the big screen, along the same crazy rails as the speech.
This part is the worst.
Capitol supremacy rubbed in their faces? Check. Long boring speech to fluff up the ceremony? Double check. Looming death flipping them off from inside those fat jars? Triple check.
She might as well check up on Powder.
She leans to the side, trying to see around the forest of heads and bodies in front of her -
There’s a flash of movement - white - from the other side.
Little Man.
Vi watches as he bounces up and down slightly. He must be nervous - it’s his first Reaping too.
Honestly? Ekko has little to be nervous about. Mylo was an absolute ass about it - but he’s right.
Forty-two slips for Vi. Three for Mylo. Three for Claggor.
One slip for Ekko.
One slip for Powder.
One chance in literal thousands.
The odds -
She shoves the thought away, hard, and for good measure, runs away from it. She’s already had this conversation, and it didn’t help much at all.
Mylo and Claggor - and now Ekko? If they get reaped, what am I supposed to do? Even Powder! I can protect her, but only for one year, no matter what happens to me - don’t bullshit me with that look, I know what a volunteer is! And you can’t stop me from doing it!
She looks up at the podium. Behind the frills of the presenter, Vander sits stock still, save for the almost mechanical movement of his left hand up and down his armband.
I want things to change. I won’t sit down, leave it all to chance and - and play by their fucking rules all my life - like you do!
The odds Vander just tells the whole of the District to make a run for the woods? The odds they’d listen to him - yeah, they totally would - but at what cost?
Vi, up there? On that podium? I’m protecting the whole District. Down there, you protect our family.
The odds Vi just steals the jars and runs away before Powder or Ekko or Mylo or Claggor can be reaped. The Peacekeepers are too fat on their idea of ‘peace’ anyway, they won’t be able to catch her.
There’s some things in life we just can’t control. We face what they throw at us and stick together.
The odds Vi volunteers and then murders the President when she gets to the Capitol.
It’s in how we choose to live and die that we can fight, kiddo.
The sudden silence slaps her in the face.
The presenter has moved away from the mic - and it’s like Vi is back in eighth grade again, staring down the envelope containing her report card, and being torn between thinking Janna, FINALLY and can I just - open it later? Maybe never? Please and thank you?
The jars seem to grow and swell in size - the table suddenly doesn’t look sturdy enough to hold the weight of thousands of lives.
“Ladies first!”
The report card is being ripped open for her.
Suddenly the focus of the light of several cameras, the right jar winks at them all - just before long nails plunge deep into the jar. All those slips of paper look like shoals of white fish, desperately fleeing from the grasp of a fat hand.
And then stillness.
The hand fishes out one slip of paper, which is held up for the crowd to see, twisting and struggling in the light breeze, trapped between painted nails. Then it is pulled apart.
“Powder L-”
“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!”
Huh?
That’s my voice?
It’s so steady. Huh?
Move. She has to move.
NO!
She can’t move. Her body won’t obey her. Won’t lift a finger to throw the first punch and defend itself. She can’t -
NO! NO!
Someone’s screaming.
VI!
Her throat is raw. The ice around her heart erupts into inwardly stabbing spikes.
It’s always been the pain that drives her muscles forward.
Her arms shove past the bodies that loom over her. Her legs coil and propel her stiff, freezing body forward in a set of uncoordinated lunges and her boots scrape against the ground and leave black sooty footsteps and then - somehow - she’s in the open.
Bony ribs dig into her stomach.
“Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, Vi, please, don’t go.”
“Let go, Powder.”
Something far away is telling her she has to go - and every inch of her flesh and every drop of her blood is screaming danger . That means Powder can’t go. Powder has to stay here.
“No - Vi, please, please.”
Thin arms tighten against her waist.
“Please, Violet, I need you, I need you -”
“LET GO!”
Splash.
Red drips onto the white pavement.
Ting!
Blue hair spills free over the floor. A red streak drips from a buttoned nose. It mixes with some pale liquid as it trickles down round cheeks. Wide blue eyes stare up at Vi from the ground, dirtied with blood.
Her palm stings. She stares down at her filthy wraps. Blood. That’s blood.
She’d - she just -
“Hey! Get off me!”
“Vi!” Powder shrieks, scrambling to get up. “Let her GO!”
“I can walk myself!” Of course the damn Peacekeepers wouldn’t even let her go like a normal human. Vi throws off the white-clad arms attempting to march her to the podium, and stomps away. Right. She has to get up on that podium, stand next to those damned jars and that frilly presenter.
Clink.
She looks down in confusion and lifts her boot.
She barely glimpses the shine of metal on a sort of band - then she’s shoved painfully from the back.
“I said, I can walk myself, damn it!” She repeats, snarling behind her at the black masks - and around them, she sees Powder struggling, in Claggor’s arms.
Thank Janna.
At least it’s not the Peacekeepers.
“NO! DON’T GO! VIOLET!”
She wrenches her head away. Her feet clamber up stairs, and she pointedly avoids looking at the short row of people sitting on the podium as she turns to look out over the mass of people.
She doesn’t give a flying fuck about whatever the presenter is yapping about now.
It sounds different, on stage. The words seem to blur together and she can’t grasp onto any of them without a struggle. She doesn’t bother.
She’s turning her head to Vi. Is she talking to her?
Vi just stares.
Vi can see the crusts of her makeup, near the hairline of her wig. Around her mouth. Up close, the sheer excess of the cosmetics is so clear.
That fat, clawed hand is rifling around a glass jar. Again.
She doesn’t catch the name that’s read out.
But she does see the boy that mounts the stairs. Stringy blonde hair and a skinny frame just shy of nineteen. Bony hands clench and unclench nervously. Yesterday they gripped the pickaxe that nearly spilled her guts out.
That’s one relief, at least.
Vi is guilty of a lot of things. Right now, feeling guilty is not one of them.
“Deckard Hyde, uh, Violet…Lanes? I have to presume? - shake hands!”
Deckard turns to her, mouth twisted in a monstrous scowl. Vi sticks out her hand and glares right back.
Break my hand. I dare you.
It’s a weak and quick handshake.
Looking out at the crowd is like looking at some demented art exhibit - sculptures and sculptures of people - carved out of stone.
She wishes someone would clap.
There’s nothing to cover the sound of her sister howling for her, between heaving sobs and hysteric screams as she writhes and throws elbows into Claggor’s gut. Claggor is fighting to spit out mouthfuls of hair and to stay upright, but he doesn’t let go of his sister.
She finds Mylo in the crowd. Frozen, mouth agape and staring at her in sheer disbelief. Like this couldn’t be happening. Like it couldn’t happen to them. This was the stuff of their silly games. This was the stuff of the odds they laughed about.
White hair zooms in between the statues and screeches to a halt at Powder’s side. But Little Man doesn’t know what to do, his hands constantly moving to hover in the space where her flailing limbs just were.
Powder. Claggor. Mylo. Ekko.
Vi looks over her shoulder.
Blue eyes meet hers. Then -
Her own dad turns his face away.
“District 12! Your tributes, for the 51st Hunger Games!”